To Whom It May Concern:
I suffer from SEH. SEH is a TLA for Small Ear Holes. (TLA is a TLA for Three Letter Acronym).
I thought the iPod ear buds were kind of big. Like, big for everyone. As they often do, those ear buds totally broke, so I bought some $20 JVC melon-colored ear phones. What the H? They are too big for my SEH, too! I hate being mid-crunch, mid-jam, mid-jog, mid-... well, mid-anything, really and having those things fall out of my ears.
Come on, people. Let's have some consideration for those of us who do not have huge, gaping ear canals (H,GEC). Do I have to start a group on Facebook to bring attention to this matter? I'm quite confident that I am not the only one afflicted with this condition. Yeah, I know Bose sells some small ear phones, but they are about a million U.S. dollars. How about some affordable yet comfortable, sweet-sounding ear phones? What has two thumbs and needs better ear phones? What? Aren't you paying attention? THIS GIRL!!
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Deleted Scene
Well, it finally happened. I had played this scenario out in my head countless times over the past 2 1/2 years. I'm only surprised now that it didn't happen sooner.
November 19, 2008.
I stepped mindlessly off of the 5 train onto the platform at Union Square. Some guy in a business suit, who was still seated on the train, kept his eyes glued to my ass until I had cleared the door. I attempted to sport some tights with a stretchy skirt today and neglected to calculate the clingy factor, that must be it. Or, maybe I had money hanging out of my coat pocket. Probably, he was just an asshole.
50% of the time, people begin to step onto the train while I am trying to step off. On this particular day, they waited for me to clear the door before scrambling on. That was nice.
I started my trek down the platform toward the stairs. I happened to notice the 6 train unloading. He'd be transferring from the 6 to the 5, naturally. No one in their right mind would take a local train all the way uptown. This shit plays out in my mind completely on its own. I have spent too many hours of my life simply considering him and his existence, which apparently has made it impossible for me to find the off button for this subconscious, auto-pilot obsession.
My iPod was playing. It had switched to "No Air" by Jordan Sparks, a guilty-pleasure iTunes purchase that I had played into the ground at the beginning of the summer.
Then, right in front of me, I recognized his coat. In nano-seconds, I assessed his height, gait, and jeans. They all checked out. There had been false alarms before, but this was not one of them. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was three steps directly behind him. This is really happening? He stepped onto the 5 train. I must have stopped or was moving without direction, because the short man coming toward me had to do a football-style juke to get around me. I was frozen, yet at the same time completely determined to know for sure whether or not it was really him. I kept my head turned to look at him as I passed. All I could see was his back. He began to turn his face. At first, I thought no. But his head continued to turn, and I saw his trademark sideburns. Unmistakable. I assume that he was looking back to see if anyone else was coming onto the train after him, but he was looking up, over where any heads would be. My instinct was to look away. Immediately. I turned straight ahead toward the stairs before there was even the slightest chance that we could make eye contact.
As I made my way up the stairs, and as I became aware that my legs had turned to jelly, the movie scenarios began to play in my head. Would he jump off of the train, run after me, yell my name, and tell me that he was sorry for all that he had done? Would we lock knowing eyes as his train passed by me? Would I ultimately stand defeated on the platform for the L train only to receive an unexpected tap on the shoulder? No. To all of the above, no. It took 5 or so minutes for me to regain stability in my legs. My shaky hands took longer.
Life is really funny that way. 3 years ago - almost to the day - we sat next to each other at a Mexican restaurant in Reston Town Center sharing Negra Modelos and tortilla chips, and he told me that he loved me for the first time. Present day, this happens. 3 years ago we longed to be in the same city, in the same room, in the same bed. Present day, those feelings are mere memories. He had bought a small glass bowl as a gift for my mom. We made one hell of a paddle ball team, even in sub-zero temperatures. He had called me at work on Valentine's Day, and simply said, "Jeannie." The single happiest moment of my life.
If love is a roller coaster, this is the part where you are in your car on the way home from the amusement park, stuck in traffic.
It's emotional purgatory.
Wait, I've got a better one. This is a deleted scene that is included in the bonus features of the DVD of your favorite movie. It seems out of place and unnecessary. It doesn't fit the story. Why didn't the director realize this before wasting the actors' time? There was a beginning, middle, and end; why does this need to be dragged out further? What business do the characters have left that hasn't been addressed already? Is this what passes for an alternate ending these days? Why am I watching this, anyway?
Much like a deleted scene, there is no grand meaning to extract from the chance non-encounter. The fact is, we both spend most of our time on the same, tiny island called Manhattan. We were bound to almost run into each other at some point. In the scenarios that I had played out in my head, though, he always saw me and not the other way around. In real life, I saw him, and I decided to just keep moving.
Is that a Carrie Bradshaw-style ending or what?
November 19, 2008.
I stepped mindlessly off of the 5 train onto the platform at Union Square. Some guy in a business suit, who was still seated on the train, kept his eyes glued to my ass until I had cleared the door. I attempted to sport some tights with a stretchy skirt today and neglected to calculate the clingy factor, that must be it. Or, maybe I had money hanging out of my coat pocket. Probably, he was just an asshole.
50% of the time, people begin to step onto the train while I am trying to step off. On this particular day, they waited for me to clear the door before scrambling on. That was nice.
I started my trek down the platform toward the stairs. I happened to notice the 6 train unloading. He'd be transferring from the 6 to the 5, naturally. No one in their right mind would take a local train all the way uptown. This shit plays out in my mind completely on its own. I have spent too many hours of my life simply considering him and his existence, which apparently has made it impossible for me to find the off button for this subconscious, auto-pilot obsession.
My iPod was playing. It had switched to "No Air" by Jordan Sparks, a guilty-pleasure iTunes purchase that I had played into the ground at the beginning of the summer.
Then, right in front of me, I recognized his coat. In nano-seconds, I assessed his height, gait, and jeans. They all checked out. There had been false alarms before, but this was not one of them. My mouth dropped open in disbelief. I was three steps directly behind him. This is really happening? He stepped onto the 5 train. I must have stopped or was moving without direction, because the short man coming toward me had to do a football-style juke to get around me. I was frozen, yet at the same time completely determined to know for sure whether or not it was really him. I kept my head turned to look at him as I passed. All I could see was his back. He began to turn his face. At first, I thought no. But his head continued to turn, and I saw his trademark sideburns. Unmistakable. I assume that he was looking back to see if anyone else was coming onto the train after him, but he was looking up, over where any heads would be. My instinct was to look away. Immediately. I turned straight ahead toward the stairs before there was even the slightest chance that we could make eye contact.
As I made my way up the stairs, and as I became aware that my legs had turned to jelly, the movie scenarios began to play in my head. Would he jump off of the train, run after me, yell my name, and tell me that he was sorry for all that he had done? Would we lock knowing eyes as his train passed by me? Would I ultimately stand defeated on the platform for the L train only to receive an unexpected tap on the shoulder? No. To all of the above, no. It took 5 or so minutes for me to regain stability in my legs. My shaky hands took longer.
Life is really funny that way. 3 years ago - almost to the day - we sat next to each other at a Mexican restaurant in Reston Town Center sharing Negra Modelos and tortilla chips, and he told me that he loved me for the first time. Present day, this happens. 3 years ago we longed to be in the same city, in the same room, in the same bed. Present day, those feelings are mere memories. He had bought a small glass bowl as a gift for my mom. We made one hell of a paddle ball team, even in sub-zero temperatures. He had called me at work on Valentine's Day, and simply said, "Jeannie." The single happiest moment of my life.
If love is a roller coaster, this is the part where you are in your car on the way home from the amusement park, stuck in traffic.
It's emotional purgatory.
Wait, I've got a better one. This is a deleted scene that is included in the bonus features of the DVD of your favorite movie. It seems out of place and unnecessary. It doesn't fit the story. Why didn't the director realize this before wasting the actors' time? There was a beginning, middle, and end; why does this need to be dragged out further? What business do the characters have left that hasn't been addressed already? Is this what passes for an alternate ending these days? Why am I watching this, anyway?
Much like a deleted scene, there is no grand meaning to extract from the chance non-encounter. The fact is, we both spend most of our time on the same, tiny island called Manhattan. We were bound to almost run into each other at some point. In the scenarios that I had played out in my head, though, he always saw me and not the other way around. In real life, I saw him, and I decided to just keep moving.
Is that a Carrie Bradshaw-style ending or what?
Monday, November 3, 2008
JAVahhhh!
I love The Coffee Shop. I don't know what I'd do without it. It's warm. It's welcoming. Sure, it's expensive... but no one can make me feel more "at home" than say the Uro Cafe in Greenpoint. Or the Beaner Bar in Williamsburg... or Starbucks in Manhattan. Unless we're talking about my mom in CA. But you guys! The coffee shop! How great is it? Sure I could make my own coffee at home and save myself loads of money... but it wouldn't be the same.
I love having things made for me. And I love when those things only cost me $2.25 and give me more joy than... heck, than a new pony. I love racks of free newspapers and magazines... mags that I would NEVER subscribe to because A. they're too expensive B. they're too alternative or C. I've never heard of them before. I love stacks of pretty brochures and postcards. Postcards for events that are A. too obscure B. too mundane or C. bullshit. And I love seeing artwork on the walls that I normally would have A. never seen before B. never noticed before (unless I had to wait 10 minutes for my freaking Americano!) or C. could not afford (obv)... But still, I love looking at the pretty colors.
I love the "coffee-shop people". I love that there are dudes there that don't seem to have any job what-so-ever and can live every day just looking up blog after blog. And I love the older, middle-aged woman. You know, the one who is friends with the owner and comments on my coat.... and I especially love that 75 year old man who comes in for two lattes! Two! I mean, COME ON! What is greater than that? I mean... any functioning person wouldn't be able to resist conjuring up images for his possible recipient.*
I love having three different milk choices. I love wooden stools and bright orange espresso machines. I love open patios in the summer and warm, gas fires in the winter. I love all of the lame, inside jokes and comic strips that are taped onto the cash machines. I get it! If I don't tip I'm a terrorist!!! Ahh!
Thanks Friends with your Central Perk, orange couches, and bad, live music. And thanks Seattle with your "shop-on-every-corner," fresh Top Pot Doughnuts, and intellectual novels in every crevice. Mom! I realize I would save hundreds a year if I could just make my coffee at home or wait for my coffee at work... But I would lose a friend. A therapist. A home. And it's not worth the loss!
I love the coffee shop! It's something to look forward to on my day off. And a treat on my day of work. It's a lifestyle. It's a neighbor. It's a friend. And if this recession hurts anything, it better NOT touch my coffee shop... or else it's gonna have to... or else I'll make sure to... well, I guess I'll just go to Dunkin' Donuts.
*Possible recipients:
1. Lucille
2. Nancy
3. Jess
4. Mason
5. Millifred
6. Bill
I love having things made for me. And I love when those things only cost me $2.25 and give me more joy than... heck, than a new pony. I love racks of free newspapers and magazines... mags that I would NEVER subscribe to because A. they're too expensive B. they're too alternative or C. I've never heard of them before. I love stacks of pretty brochures and postcards. Postcards for events that are A. too obscure B. too mundane or C. bullshit. And I love seeing artwork on the walls that I normally would have A. never seen before B. never noticed before (unless I had to wait 10 minutes for my freaking Americano!) or C. could not afford (obv)... But still, I love looking at the pretty colors.
I love the "coffee-shop people". I love that there are dudes there that don't seem to have any job what-so-ever and can live every day just looking up blog after blog. And I love the older, middle-aged woman. You know, the one who is friends with the owner and comments on my coat.... and I especially love that 75 year old man who comes in for two lattes! Two! I mean, COME ON! What is greater than that? I mean... any functioning person wouldn't be able to resist conjuring up images for his possible recipient.*
I love having three different milk choices. I love wooden stools and bright orange espresso machines. I love open patios in the summer and warm, gas fires in the winter. I love all of the lame, inside jokes and comic strips that are taped onto the cash machines. I get it! If I don't tip I'm a terrorist!!! Ahh!
Thanks Friends with your Central Perk, orange couches, and bad, live music. And thanks Seattle with your "shop-on-every-corner," fresh Top Pot Doughnuts, and intellectual novels in every crevice. Mom! I realize I would save hundreds a year if I could just make my coffee at home or wait for my coffee at work... But I would lose a friend. A therapist. A home. And it's not worth the loss!
I love the coffee shop! It's something to look forward to on my day off. And a treat on my day of work. It's a lifestyle. It's a neighbor. It's a friend. And if this recession hurts anything, it better NOT touch my coffee shop... or else it's gonna have to... or else I'll make sure to... well, I guess I'll just go to Dunkin' Donuts.
*Possible recipients:
1. Lucille
2. Nancy
3. Jess
4. Mason
5. Millifred
6. Bill
Friday, October 31, 2008
Halloween?
A friend of mine, who we'll just call Ringo, always makes a big deal out of this day. He thinks about his costume months ahead of time and puts together the most intricate designs, often including several friends for award-winning "group costumes." This year, however, he forgot all about it. There are several reasons for this but mostly because he's been really busy. Earlier this week he ran into some friends he hadn't seen in awhile. They invited him to their party on Friday and Ringo replied, "Oh cool, is there a theme to this party? I mean, is it like.. dressy?" His friends just stared at him, concerned. I thought it would have been appropriate if the friends had said, "Yes Ringo, the theme is "Halloween" and you can dress up as anything you'd like!"
The reason I tell this story is because I always forget Halloween. Even if I've been planning it all week and I wake up in the morning and say to myself, "It's Halloween!" I will still be confused when I see Gonzos and Jokers walking up the subway stairwell or a bored, sexy Beelzebub waiting for an appointment in her real estate office. Today I saw a parade of toddlers dressed as cows (with udders), astronauts, Hello Kitties, and my favorite, a tiny African-American boy dressed in a smart, blue suit. He was walking down the street kicking and chopping and a father of another child said, "Oh! You're a karate-chopping Barack Obama!"
My point is, how fabulous is this day!? Who could be unhappy on a day like today? It has nothing to do with paganism and it has nothing to do with worshiping the devil.... it has everything to do with FUN!
p.s. I spoke with Tyler who is in Costa Rica today and I asked him if it is Halloween there too... he said that it is and that so far he's seen hookers, crocodiles, and hummingbirds! Hummingbirds!? Let me tell you - they are A LOT more creative there than they are here!
The reason I tell this story is because I always forget Halloween. Even if I've been planning it all week and I wake up in the morning and say to myself, "It's Halloween!" I will still be confused when I see Gonzos and Jokers walking up the subway stairwell or a bored, sexy Beelzebub waiting for an appointment in her real estate office. Today I saw a parade of toddlers dressed as cows (with udders), astronauts, Hello Kitties, and my favorite, a tiny African-American boy dressed in a smart, blue suit. He was walking down the street kicking and chopping and a father of another child said, "Oh! You're a karate-chopping Barack Obama!"
My point is, how fabulous is this day!? Who could be unhappy on a day like today? It has nothing to do with paganism and it has nothing to do with worshiping the devil.... it has everything to do with FUN!
p.s. I spoke with Tyler who is in Costa Rica today and I asked him if it is Halloween there too... he said that it is and that so far he's seen hookers, crocodiles, and hummingbirds! Hummingbirds!? Let me tell you - they are A LOT more creative there than they are here!
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The Halloween Costumes I Can remember (w a little help from my mother and scanned photos)
1981:---
1982
:
1983: Clown
1984: Clown (again!)
1985: Red Crayon
1986: Ballerina
1987: Indian Warrior
1988:---
1989: Pioneer Lady (complete w hat!)
1990: Beautiful Genie
1991: Big Baby (complete w teddy bear)
1992: Hobo
1993: Catholic School Girl
1994:Elly May Clampett (from The Beverly Hillbillies)
1995: Homie (w a paper sack that said, "Yo")
1996:---
1997:---
1998:---
1999:---
2000: Farrah Fawcett
2001:---
2002: Another Teenage Dirtbag
2003:---
2004:---
2005:---
2006:---
2007:---
2008:---
1981:---
1982
:1983: Clown
1984: Clown (again!)
1985: Red Crayon
1986: Ballerina
1987: Indian Warrior
1988:---
1989: Pioneer Lady (complete w hat!)
1990: Beautiful Genie
1991: Big Baby (complete w teddy bear)
1992: Hobo
1993: Catholic School Girl
1994:Elly May Clampett (from The Beverly Hillbillies)
1995: Homie (w a paper sack that said, "Yo")
1996:---
1997:---
1998:---
1999:---
2000: Farrah Fawcett
2001:---
2002: Another Teenage Dirtbag
2003:---
2004:---
2005:---
2006:---
2007:---
2008:---
Monday, October 27, 2008
Really Interesting
A list of every Halloween costume that I can remember (all home-made):
1981 - nothing
1982 - probably nothing
1983 - don't know
1984 - baseball player
1985 - panda bear mask
1986 - Little Bo Peep
1987 - rock star
1988 - princess
1989 - gypsy
1990 -
1991 -
1992 - Native American
1993 - 50's girl
1994 - mad scientist (I wore a white wig)
1995 - sleeping person (aka a teenager wearing pajamas)
1996 -
1997 -
1998 - Tinkerbell
1999 - 80's girl
2000 -Greek Goddess
2001 -
2002 - Avril Lavigne
2003 - Nothing
2004 - Geisha
2005 - Sexy Republican
2006 - Laverne (of Laverne and Shirely)
2007 - a regular person wearing butterfly wings
2008 - No costume (?)
1981 - nothing
1982 - probably nothing
1983 - don't know
1984 - baseball player
1985 - panda bear mask
1986 - Little Bo Peep
1987 - rock star
1988 - princess
1989 - gypsy
1990 -
1991 -
1992 - Native American
1993 - 50's girl
1994 - mad scientist (I wore a white wig)
1995 - sleeping person (aka a teenager wearing pajamas)
1996 -
1997 -
1998 - Tinkerbell
1999 - 80's girl
2000 -Greek Goddess
2001 -
2002 - Avril Lavigne
2003 - Nothing
2004 - Geisha
2005 - Sexy Republican
2006 - Laverne (of Laverne and Shirely)
2007 - a regular person wearing butterfly wings
2008 - No costume (?)
Saturday, October 18, 2008
Dance, Dance the Night Away
This reporter wants to know: what makes dancing so irresistibly fun?
Let's be honest with ourselves and finally admit that dancing is the most fun activity ever invented. Praise Jesus. The only reason I enjoy weddings is for the dancing. The only reason that I'm friends with you is for the dancing. The reason our teenage years were so frustrating is because all we really wanted to do was dance, but we didn't yet know that everybody else felt that way, too. Okay. Time to be honest again; what do weddings, my friendship with you, and dance parties really have in common? Totally awesome beats? Possibly. Joyous party-going-ness? Well, yes! But the hard truth is, though dancing is such a gift on its own, God also bestowed alcohol on us for a little lubrication. The ultimate time of your life is going to be a room full of willing and able-bodied friendly folk, a DJ with the knowledge to drop only the most luscious and glee-inducing sound waves, and of course a trickle of maybe a Brooklyn Lager or a couple gin and tonies. It's actually a recipe that I obtained from the back of a box of Kix when I was ten years old. Sure, everything in moderation, but once the dance party is alive and kicking, I physically can't remove myself from it. You know what I'm talking about. It's 2:30 AM. Your B.F.F for F. leans over mid O.P.P and shouts, "I'm leaving!" You look at them, and they just know: you won't be going anywhere. You're not moving until the bartender forces the DJ to quite literally pull the plug on the sound system. It's at that point that you (and by "you", I mean "me") finally notice that you don't recognize a single soul left on the floor; or the rest of the bar for that matter. I'd call it an addiction, but I don't think I've yet harmed friends or family, and I don't think my work is suffering because of it. If anything, I have a greater appreciation for every soul that exists on this planet. All because of the dancing.
An abbreviated version of this piece can be found in Third Place: the magazine (issue no.1). Let me know if you want to subscribe to this literary gold nugget.
Let's be honest with ourselves and finally admit that dancing is the most fun activity ever invented. Praise Jesus. The only reason I enjoy weddings is for the dancing. The only reason that I'm friends with you is for the dancing. The reason our teenage years were so frustrating is because all we really wanted to do was dance, but we didn't yet know that everybody else felt that way, too. Okay. Time to be honest again; what do weddings, my friendship with you, and dance parties really have in common? Totally awesome beats? Possibly. Joyous party-going-ness? Well, yes! But the hard truth is, though dancing is such a gift on its own, God also bestowed alcohol on us for a little lubrication. The ultimate time of your life is going to be a room full of willing and able-bodied friendly folk, a DJ with the knowledge to drop only the most luscious and glee-inducing sound waves, and of course a trickle of maybe a Brooklyn Lager or a couple gin and tonies. It's actually a recipe that I obtained from the back of a box of Kix when I was ten years old. Sure, everything in moderation, but once the dance party is alive and kicking, I physically can't remove myself from it. You know what I'm talking about. It's 2:30 AM. Your B.F.F for F. leans over mid O.P.P and shouts, "I'm leaving!" You look at them, and they just know: you won't be going anywhere. You're not moving until the bartender forces the DJ to quite literally pull the plug on the sound system. It's at that point that you (and by "you", I mean "me") finally notice that you don't recognize a single soul left on the floor; or the rest of the bar for that matter. I'd call it an addiction, but I don't think I've yet harmed friends or family, and I don't think my work is suffering because of it. If anything, I have a greater appreciation for every soul that exists on this planet. All because of the dancing.
An abbreviated version of this piece can be found in Third Place: the magazine (issue no.1). Let me know if you want to subscribe to this literary gold nugget.
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
New Friend
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
don't run away.
Lonely legs search for holes,
Blue pools hope for meaning,
Why can't we be friends...?
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
now run away.
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
don't run away.
Lonely legs search for holes,
Blue pools hope for meaning,
Why can't we be friends...?
I know someone who lives in wood,
he is small.
See you every day at noon,
now run away.
Friday, May 23, 2008
The First Rule of Blogging
The first rule of blogging is don't talk about your blog.
Just kidding.
Back in March, I went back to Fairfax to visit some former co-workers. They asked me a lot of questions about my life in New York. What celebrities have I seen? Do I have a car? Is life really like Sex and the City? One question that I thought to be particularly humorous was if I bought produce and carried them down the street in a paper bag. Apparently, every movie that is based in New York City has at least one scene where a character carries a paper bag with celery stalks and a baguette sticking out of the top. No wonder I'm not a real New Yorker yet!
Just kidding.
Back in March, I went back to Fairfax to visit some former co-workers. They asked me a lot of questions about my life in New York. What celebrities have I seen? Do I have a car? Is life really like Sex and the City? One question that I thought to be particularly humorous was if I bought produce and carried them down the street in a paper bag. Apparently, every movie that is based in New York City has at least one scene where a character carries a paper bag with celery stalks and a baguette sticking out of the top. No wonder I'm not a real New Yorker yet!
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Product Placement
I certainly am not the first person to write about this, but I feel that I need to admit that I am affected by it. Knowing that the American Idol finale was going to be an hour and a half too long last night, I intentionally waited to tune in until 9:30 PM. I was pleased to catch a performance by Carrie Underwood and only one group performance consisting of the top 12. The group sang two George Michael songs back-to-back, and I was thinking to myself, “Man, I love those songs. I think I’ll download them when this is over. Where is George Michael these days, anyway?” Wouldn’t you know it? It did seem like they were doing an extended version of “Freedom” as they kept singing well past the last “Freedom” in the song; and then, “Ladies and gentleman: George Michael!” And there he was! He definitely looks old, but I was surprised that he even sounded old. His has a pretty distinct voice, especially when he hits the higher notes, but I didn’t hear George Michael’s voice coming from that old man. Two things were explained when Ryan Seacrest came onto the stage after George Michael’s song was over: 1) George Michael has a cold, so that’s why he didn’t sound so hot and 2) George Michael will be touring this summer for the first time in 17 years. THAT is why he was there. As it turns out, it wasn’t a recognition of George Michael and his place in pop music history; rather, American Idol and all of its sponsors and affiliates are trying to get America to remember how much they liked George Michael so that they’ll buy tickets to his tour. It’s pretty disgusting. I mean, yes, I understand it: the same record label to which David Cook will be signed just wants to promote some of its other artists. But I feel cheated! I thought I was simply being treated to some old skool George Michael, because he was once a great pop singer, but no, they want me to BUY something! I read in the paper this morning that they also want me to see that new Mike Myers movie, AND they want me to drink Coke! In addition to the shameless promotion of it own kind by American Idol, I nearly barfed this morning when I opened up CNN.com, and the news told me what movies I should see this summer. (Hmm, is CNN an affiliate of the companies that are releasing the best movies of the summer?) It wasn’t just a blip on the homepage with a link to the entertainment section; it was a huge block on the upper-left corner, which is usually reserved for terrorists, natural disasters, and sex scandals. Are you kidding me, CNN? I was planning to see Sex and the City anyway, but now that you told me to, well, you've stolen my joy! Don't make me throw my Jimmy Choos at you! It’s fucking gross. Anyway, yes, I did buy two George Michael songs off of iTunes before I went to sleep.
"These bands are bottles of bleach. It's beer and lifestyle music. It's like the next world war's gonna be sponsored by ... I don't know, I mean, what?" - Singles
"These bands are bottles of bleach. It's beer and lifestyle music. It's like the next world war's gonna be sponsored by ... I don't know, I mean, what?" - Singles
Friday, April 4, 2008
The Best Intentions
A few months ago I was asked by an debatably respected website for women to pen a "career advice" column. I was as surprised as anyone. Serisouly, I get paid shit. Anyway, the first topic was "Workplace Fuckups". I wrote a total of three pieces. The first was turned down. The second was just bad. The third was dropped into the abyss of the Internet and I have no idea what will happen with it. But, I still stand by it. So, for the loyal readers of Apartment 3R (all five of you. Right?) Here it is : A BusinessWomen Special. For Business Women: On the Job, Fucking Things Up
Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.
Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.
What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.
Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.
Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.
Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.
It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.
Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.
Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.
It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.
Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.
My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.
The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.
There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?
It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.
Jerome Kerviel is a former SocGen (French stock market) trader who, in January 2008, committed possibly the largest fraud in the history of banking. Basically, he started making fictitious trades, first very small and unnoticeable and then big and, apparently, very noticeable. He cost the market 40 billion dollars, the biggest loss in the financial world since the September 11th attacks.
Several things are interesting about Jerome. His personality. He is described as a very unassuming man. He was a computer whiz, quietly handsome, well remunerated and by all appearances seemed to have a long, steady career ahead of him. Some people said that he was a scapegoat, practically blameless, and whatever had happened under his watch was simply a mistake. Others said that he was back-room genius, a scam-artist professional, an expert locksmith who could not help but use his expertise to openly rob people blind.
What makes a story like this so delicious to me is that don’t you kind of get it? Don’t you kind of understand the impulse to fuck things up so terribly at work that when you make some hapless mistake, deep down, even you wonder if it might be intentional? It’s like what cutters do when they scrape themselves silly. They do it to feel alive.
Lately, I’ve been cataloging my own mistakes. I’m not too surprised to learn that they are frequent. Part of the reason for this, I think, is that I am very accountable. At least that is what they say on my performance reviews. I admit to them almost right away.
Oh me! It’s me! Me over here! I’m the one who misfiled the million dollar contract/leaked the top secret information to press/mistyped a number resulting in a myriad of excruciating conversations with people who thought they would now be rich.
Several women I spoke to agree with me. Everyone seems to be extremely good at admitting their mistakes. Guess who still won’t? Jerome Kerviel and oh my god, I’m sure that list is long. It is also pretty much understood that Kerviel could not have done this alone. He had someone to help.
It all makes me think about men and women and the mistakes we make. Witness this, in amplified form, at the now-legendary Christmas Party of 2005. My company had had a very good year. 2004 has been scary, our profit margins were in the toilet, and then, almost miraculously we turned it around. The graph titled upwards, steeply, and we were all getting bonus. The holiday season rolled around and our notoriously frugal corporate parents decided to splurge. A club was rented, sushi platters were brought out and every member of the company, from the highest to the lowest, was given full access to a complete and absolutely dazzling open bar. I remember walking into the brightly lit up scene, waiters were passing around unnamable things on sticks, the grumpy, dowdy secretaries had put on sparkly shirts, the mailroom guys were grinning, and the mighty and intimidating wove their way through the crowd, pumping everyone with handshakes. It was almost charming. Like some member of a fascist regime, I can remember actually swelling with pride. These people were my people, they are complicated and fascinating and we spend each and every day together working towards a common goal, a common good. The music played, people ate and talked and they drank. Oh, how they drank.
Unsurprisgly, this glowing moment soon devolved into a shit show of epic proporitions. Goodwill was tossed out the window, restraint slipped out the back door and tact took a permanent smoking break. Over the course of three or four hours, toxic amounts of alcohol amplified every petty argument, brought up old, contemptuous histories and emboldened the meek to finally, finally take matters into their own hands. A girl I hardly knew grabbed me by the shoulders and screamed at me that I was standoffish and mean and she just knew I was conniving to get every man in the office to bend to my will.
Rank and file, humiliation knew no bounds. My cheek was wet with the slobber of the CFO. A high-ranking member of the executive board whispered to me looking to set up his own shop. Affairs were revealed, affairs began. Hardly an innocent myself, I noticed a married member of the art department eyeing me sideways in line for the bathroom. I pounced. I have no excuse except for experiencing some unrestrained, wild joy at hearing Queen begin to play and in those moments, propriety vanishes. (Yeah. Also. My Queen phase was about 15 years too late). After the club kicked us out, everyone went to a bar where the bacchanal continued, unabated, until the wee hours.
It’s a fucking miracle that nobody died.
Then, it was the next morning. We had to go back. The sun rose boldly on our shame and the whole building seem to yawn in response. Very few people called in sick. That would too obvious, it was a matter of pride, and besides we weren’t that drunk and 3 AM wasn’t that late. As everyone sat limply at their computers, I began to notice the girls of the office skulk down the hallways, lean into doorways and balance themselves in cubicles. They were apologizing. Apologizing profusely. Apologizing all OVER the place. They apologized for their kick lines, their wayward vomit, secret confessions or inserting their wagging tongues down every willing throat.
My office then had about a 40/50 ration of males to females. However, in retrospect, I can’t help but think that even in places where our presence is dominant, the attitude is not. Women, I find, work very hard to squeeze themselves into a model of working life that is, in reality, very male. So when we bring more female attributes to this model-built-for-male, sometimes, things don’t work right. Every single guy in that office, no matter the magnitudes of their sins, sat at their desks, sipped their coffee and then went out at lunch to rehash the evening with each other. They felt fine.
The girls paired off in two’s or three’s. We drew a line in the sand and in the end, as conscious as we were of our indiscretions, we were even more conscious of each others. Who was the bigger mess, the bigger whore, the one msot certain to feel some repruscussions from their stupidity and lapses in judgement. There was no camaraderie, no shared sense of what was. We lashed ourselves in silence, quietly convinced that whatever we had built for ourselves, would come crumbling down like a house of cards. We probably felt the type of shame that should only be reserved for the likes of Lynddie England (and, face it, only a few of us will ever even be faced with an opportunity to strip naked, bind and gag war prisoners. You know, glass houses. ) and look at how she was dragged over the coals and denigrated so thoroughly for playing her own (yes, entirely disgusting) part in the boys club.
There is no girls club. And, trust me, if there were a girls club, I’d be the last one to join. God knows it would take three lunches before someone would start to talk about Pink Lady jackets or something and um, that would really undermine every female cause ever thought of, okay?
It is worthy to rail against the status quo, to fight for fair maternity leave and equal pay and workplaces free of discrimination and blatant sexual harassment. In the meantime, though, and in workplaces everywhere, we keep squeezing ourselves into models and into ways of life that don’t even work for us. And as we try to get comfortable and as we lift up our leg, or put our hand behind our ears to make for some more room for ourselves, look at what you really might be fucking up. Or fucking over. Not your job. The girl next to you, smushed helplessly to the side , and about to break apart.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Danny Grinberg finally had his housewarming party at 415 Leonard St. What a treat! He has a beautiful new 1 bedroom with a balcony, a gourmet kitchen, and a view of the city.
At the party we not only enjoyed good company, we also enjoyed good music, gouda cheese, and a great pair of sunglasses. Wow those sunglasses got around.
Above you will see how each person looked in said sunglasses (you may see some VIPs in there twice), as well as the whiteness of Danny's walls.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Are You My Mother?
There is a new blog out there that I wish I had thought of. Check it out!
http://postcardsfromyomomma.tumblr.com/
In similar spirit, here are some emails from my Mom from over the past year or so:
On Children:
I never like it when people talk a lot about their kids ( I mean, who gives?) so I actually don't talk a lot about you guys. For example, my co-workers know you live in Brooklyn and do something with books, but they don't know about your new job or anything. Also, what is your brand of mascara? I really liked the look.
On Haircuts:
Well, I’m very very happy for you, Laura. I know you’ve been feeling like Job, though you have always been beautiful. Who cut the bangs shorter, you or your friend? Do you curl them, or keep them very straight?
I can’t believe you actually took my fashion advice on ANYTHING! I’m proud of myself.
On Romance:
You are f****** gorgeous and f******* funny and f****** out of his league.
On Faith:
Your sister is a little atheist these days. She cracks me up.
On Money:
Well, she started at 50, so I assumed she was well over 60 by now. You will catch up and then some, and you’ll be in an industry that’s interesting.
I know Michael got another raise- I bet he’s about 55 now.
I know Geoff got another raise. He went in to the boss’ office to resign and they threw a LOT OF MONEY at him. He must be making buckets.
Let’s see… who else can I mention to make you feel bad today? I don’t have any idea how much Emily makes; I know she despises her job. John Bonner doesn’t make much. I don’t make much. Mary doesn’t make much. Dad does.
You lucky dog!
On Hope (and the audacity, thereof. Thanks BARACK):
Faith, faith, faith, just a little bit of faith. Old song, but wise.
The faith is not in the job you have or don't have, or even the relationship you have or don't have, but that you yourself have a meaningful life that is blessed to yourself and to those around you. You are probably, for now, where you are physically supposed to be. That might change in a single day, but I have a sneaky suspicion you are in the right place for today.
Do you think there's something you're not doing that you should be doing? Then do it. Otherwise, let the day be the day that it is, and know that good is coming.
http://postcardsfromyomomma.tumblr.com/
In similar spirit, here are some emails from my Mom from over the past year or so:
On Children:
I never like it when people talk a lot about their kids ( I mean, who gives?) so I actually don't talk a lot about you guys. For example, my co-workers know you live in Brooklyn and do something with books, but they don't know about your new job or anything. Also, what is your brand of mascara? I really liked the look.
On Haircuts:
Well, I’m very very happy for you, Laura. I know you’ve been feeling like Job, though you have always been beautiful. Who cut the bangs shorter, you or your friend? Do you curl them, or keep them very straight?
I can’t believe you actually took my fashion advice on ANYTHING! I’m proud of myself.
On Romance:
You are f****** gorgeous and f******* funny and f****** out of his league.
On Faith:
Your sister is a little atheist these days. She cracks me up.
On Money:
Well, she started at 50, so I assumed she was well over 60 by now. You will catch up and then some, and you’ll be in an industry that’s interesting.
I know Michael got another raise- I bet he’s about 55 now.
I know Geoff got another raise. He went in to the boss’ office to resign and they threw a LOT OF MONEY at him. He must be making buckets.
Let’s see… who else can I mention to make you feel bad today? I don’t have any idea how much Emily makes; I know she despises her job. John Bonner doesn’t make much. I don’t make much. Mary doesn’t make much. Dad does.
You lucky dog!
On Hope (and the audacity, thereof. Thanks BARACK):
Faith, faith, faith, just a little bit of faith. Old song, but wise.
The faith is not in the job you have or don't have, or even the relationship you have or don't have, but that you yourself have a meaningful life that is blessed to yourself and to those around you. You are probably, for now, where you are physically supposed to be. That might change in a single day, but I have a sneaky suspicion you are in the right place for today.
Do you think there's something you're not doing that you should be doing? Then do it. Otherwise, let the day be the day that it is, and know that good is coming.
I Have a Skin Complaint
If you search for ‘rash’ in a thesaurus, it provides ‘skin complaint’ as an alternative. Oops. I didn’t mean to start this web log (aka ‘blog’) as most high school students begin their history essays (“Webster’s Dictionary defines ‘tyranny’ as …”). I’m just saying that ‘skin complaint’ and ‘rash’ have essentially the same definition, but one word will start rumors and the other probably doesn’t elicit any response at all.
I have a skin complaint on my legs. I have a skin complaint about my legs? I’m pretty sure it’s just a wicked case of razor burn, but as the bumps don’t seem to be going away, I finally decided to make an appointment for a professional opinion.
In my place of business, there are no secrets. In the spirit of Bloomberg’s bullpen, the office is set up so that everyone sits in the same open space within eyesight and earshot of everyone else. The walls of the cubes that surround our desks hit at about bridge-of-nose level. If you’ve ever been to a public restroom where the stall door only rises to about your chest when you stand up, it’s a similar concept with a similar feeling; you won’t do anything naughty if everyone can see and hear your business and you feel, well, exposed. While this setup took some getting used to, most of the time I’m fine with it. As far as business is concerned, I’ve got nothing to hide. However, when I’m breaking up with my boyfriend or when I have to call someone about a … um … skin complaint, I’d like some privacy, ok?
Instead of taking a minute to make a personal call (on a cell phone) from the comfort of our own desks, we’re forced to either go out into the hallway (that we share with another company) or go into one of the conference rooms (that have transparent glass walls anyway). There is no option for complete privacy. When making my doctor’s appointment this morning, I elected for the hallway. Everything was going fine until she asked for my insurance ID number. Shit. I left it at my desk. I kept the receptionist on the line while I walked all the way back inside the office and then back to my desk to retrieve my insurance card from my wallet. No big deal; people probably assumed I was ordering a sweater over the phone or something. “What is the purpose of the visit?” Shit. If I had thought that she might have had a thesaurus handy, I would have said, “I have a skin complaint.” Instead, I asked her to hold on another minute while I walked back out into the hallway to tell her, “I have a rash on my legs.” Despite my best efforts, I was still in earshot of a co-worker who was on his way back from the bathroom. While I’m sure he really doesn’t care enough about my skin complaint to mention it to someone else, I simply wouldn’t be surprised if someone else asks me if my condition is improving.
Thanks a lot, Bloomberg.
I have a skin complaint on my legs. I have a skin complaint about my legs? I’m pretty sure it’s just a wicked case of razor burn, but as the bumps don’t seem to be going away, I finally decided to make an appointment for a professional opinion.
In my place of business, there are no secrets. In the spirit of Bloomberg’s bullpen, the office is set up so that everyone sits in the same open space within eyesight and earshot of everyone else. The walls of the cubes that surround our desks hit at about bridge-of-nose level. If you’ve ever been to a public restroom where the stall door only rises to about your chest when you stand up, it’s a similar concept with a similar feeling; you won’t do anything naughty if everyone can see and hear your business and you feel, well, exposed. While this setup took some getting used to, most of the time I’m fine with it. As far as business is concerned, I’ve got nothing to hide. However, when I’m breaking up with my boyfriend or when I have to call someone about a … um … skin complaint, I’d like some privacy, ok?
Instead of taking a minute to make a personal call (on a cell phone) from the comfort of our own desks, we’re forced to either go out into the hallway (that we share with another company) or go into one of the conference rooms (that have transparent glass walls anyway). There is no option for complete privacy. When making my doctor’s appointment this morning, I elected for the hallway. Everything was going fine until she asked for my insurance ID number. Shit. I left it at my desk. I kept the receptionist on the line while I walked all the way back inside the office and then back to my desk to retrieve my insurance card from my wallet. No big deal; people probably assumed I was ordering a sweater over the phone or something. “What is the purpose of the visit?” Shit. If I had thought that she might have had a thesaurus handy, I would have said, “I have a skin complaint.” Instead, I asked her to hold on another minute while I walked back out into the hallway to tell her, “I have a rash on my legs.” Despite my best efforts, I was still in earshot of a co-worker who was on his way back from the bathroom. While I’m sure he really doesn’t care enough about my skin complaint to mention it to someone else, I simply wouldn’t be surprised if someone else asks me if my condition is improving.
Thanks a lot, Bloomberg.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The Girl Who Couldn't Blog
HI! Whoa. Is this thing on?
Well, Stephanie and Laura have been blogging for some time now, so I guess it is time for me to enter my first blog.
First let me write blog one more time. Ok. On your mark, get ready … BLOG!
The weird thing is, I used to have all of these random thoughts in college, but there wasn’t really an outlet to share them. I tried to use “away messages” through AIM to share funny thoughts, and well, I guess that kind of worked. However, I had longer, more luxurious weird thoughts that didn’t quite fit into the AIM character limit. Instead of writing them down, I merely shared them with Karen, one of my college roommates. For example, I thought a good idea for a movie would be a romantic comedy that was pretty standard in plot and characters, except they could also fly. There would be no mention of this ability; it would simply be something people could do along with walking down the street and buying groceries. Anyway, my point is that now that blogs exist, I have nothing left to say.
I’ve been walking around New York City since the creation of Apartment 3R, just waiting for something blog-worthy to happen. Turns out, things are pretty normal around here. Two weeks ago I was riding the subway to work in the morning on a relatively empty L train (Empty L train? I know! Weird!), and I chose to stand near the doors, leaning against the metal bars with my gym bag at my feet. A middle-aged man in business attire got on the train and stood right in front of me. As most straphangers know (look at THAT term! I’m a real New Yorker!), if someone stands face-to-face with you when your back is at the door, it usually means that A) the train is crowded B) that person is your significant other, or C) that person plans to exit the train at the next stop. None of those things were true. This guy basically had me cornered, the train was practically empty, I was not dating him, and he didn’t exit the train at the next stop or any of the next 4 stops. I should have said something rude to him or just moved, but I decided to stand there since gathering my gym bag would have been a difficult maneuver at that point. Instead, I opened my copy of Metro (look! Another thing REAL New Yorkers do!) in his face. I had my arms fully extended with the paper fully open, creating a barrier from face to just above the crotch region. If this didn’t give him the message that he was being an asshole, I’m not sure what would have. Still, in this city, that’s not such an outrageous story, and I’m not sure someone would want to read about it in a blog.
Before I moved to The City, I lived in the suburbs of The District. There, subway rides and riders are a little tamer. Sure, the NYC subway is relatively quiet during the morning commute, but it doesn’t really compare to the silence on the DC Metro during rush hour. No one speaks. No one looks up. Therefore, if anyone makes any sort of noise or movement that doesn’t resemble reading the Express, listening to music through earphones, or sleeping, it upsets the herd. For example, I’ll never forget the time this old, Asian man got on the train when we were at West Falls Church on the Orange Line heading toward DC during the morning rush hour commute. I had seen this guy before. He liked to share his love for Jesus through song, especially during the holidays. I found it rather obnoxious, because his singing made it difficult for me to listen to my iPod. However, this one time he got on the train, and the guy sitting in front of me (the seats on the subway trains are different in DC, don’t you understand? The seating is like that which you would find on a bus or Amtrak train) was not having it. The Asian man stood near the door and began singing a song about loving Jesus, and the guy in front of me yelled very loudly. His message was something like, “DO I HAVE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO THIS! WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP!?” I guess I was a little surprised that the Asian man was not fazed in the least by this yelling. I mean, this guy was really yelling. At this point, I was getting irritated because the singing and now the YELLING was really drowning out my iPod. Come on, people! Pipe down! This is DC! We’re all dressed in black, navy blue, or khaki; can’t we get along? The guy in front of me continued to yell, and then this woman across the aisle got up and told the guy in front of me to be quiet. “Let him sing his song!” She felt so strongly (I think about Jesus) that she got up and stood behind the Asian man trying to sing along with him from him book of hymns. I was nervous that the guy in front of me would start throwing punches. Random people were yelling at both the Asian guy and the yelling guy to shut up. I think the Asian guy and the woman (and possibly others on the train) really felt like they did something for Jesus that day. A real triumph for Christianity, if you will.
You see, in NY, the Asian guy would have been singing his song, but life on the train would have continued on as usual. Meaning, girls on their way to high school would continue to talk loudly about whom they plan to beat up and whom they plan to fuck (you can replace high school with middle or elementary school as well). The homeless guy or gal on the train would have continued to panhandle. The hipsters would have continued to read Nietzsche and generally look and feel ironic. No cause for agitation or hard feelings. Nothing unusual.
Anyway, so I’ll continue to look for things to blog about, but when the weird and unusual is standard, it’s like WHAT DO I BLOG ABOUT, you guys?
Well, Stephanie and Laura have been blogging for some time now, so I guess it is time for me to enter my first blog.
First let me write blog one more time. Ok. On your mark, get ready … BLOG!
The weird thing is, I used to have all of these random thoughts in college, but there wasn’t really an outlet to share them. I tried to use “away messages” through AIM to share funny thoughts, and well, I guess that kind of worked. However, I had longer, more luxurious weird thoughts that didn’t quite fit into the AIM character limit. Instead of writing them down, I merely shared them with Karen, one of my college roommates. For example, I thought a good idea for a movie would be a romantic comedy that was pretty standard in plot and characters, except they could also fly. There would be no mention of this ability; it would simply be something people could do along with walking down the street and buying groceries. Anyway, my point is that now that blogs exist, I have nothing left to say.
I’ve been walking around New York City since the creation of Apartment 3R, just waiting for something blog-worthy to happen. Turns out, things are pretty normal around here. Two weeks ago I was riding the subway to work in the morning on a relatively empty L train (Empty L train? I know! Weird!), and I chose to stand near the doors, leaning against the metal bars with my gym bag at my feet. A middle-aged man in business attire got on the train and stood right in front of me. As most straphangers know (look at THAT term! I’m a real New Yorker!), if someone stands face-to-face with you when your back is at the door, it usually means that A) the train is crowded B) that person is your significant other, or C) that person plans to exit the train at the next stop. None of those things were true. This guy basically had me cornered, the train was practically empty, I was not dating him, and he didn’t exit the train at the next stop or any of the next 4 stops. I should have said something rude to him or just moved, but I decided to stand there since gathering my gym bag would have been a difficult maneuver at that point. Instead, I opened my copy of Metro (look! Another thing REAL New Yorkers do!) in his face. I had my arms fully extended with the paper fully open, creating a barrier from face to just above the crotch region. If this didn’t give him the message that he was being an asshole, I’m not sure what would have. Still, in this city, that’s not such an outrageous story, and I’m not sure someone would want to read about it in a blog.
Before I moved to The City, I lived in the suburbs of The District. There, subway rides and riders are a little tamer. Sure, the NYC subway is relatively quiet during the morning commute, but it doesn’t really compare to the silence on the DC Metro during rush hour. No one speaks. No one looks up. Therefore, if anyone makes any sort of noise or movement that doesn’t resemble reading the Express, listening to music through earphones, or sleeping, it upsets the herd. For example, I’ll never forget the time this old, Asian man got on the train when we were at West Falls Church on the Orange Line heading toward DC during the morning rush hour commute. I had seen this guy before. He liked to share his love for Jesus through song, especially during the holidays. I found it rather obnoxious, because his singing made it difficult for me to listen to my iPod. However, this one time he got on the train, and the guy sitting in front of me (the seats on the subway trains are different in DC, don’t you understand? The seating is like that which you would find on a bus or Amtrak train) was not having it. The Asian man stood near the door and began singing a song about loving Jesus, and the guy in front of me yelled very loudly. His message was something like, “DO I HAVE TO SIT HERE AND LISTEN TO THIS! WHY DON’T YOU SHUT UP!?” I guess I was a little surprised that the Asian man was not fazed in the least by this yelling. I mean, this guy was really yelling. At this point, I was getting irritated because the singing and now the YELLING was really drowning out my iPod. Come on, people! Pipe down! This is DC! We’re all dressed in black, navy blue, or khaki; can’t we get along? The guy in front of me continued to yell, and then this woman across the aisle got up and told the guy in front of me to be quiet. “Let him sing his song!” She felt so strongly (I think about Jesus) that she got up and stood behind the Asian man trying to sing along with him from him book of hymns. I was nervous that the guy in front of me would start throwing punches. Random people were yelling at both the Asian guy and the yelling guy to shut up. I think the Asian guy and the woman (and possibly others on the train) really felt like they did something for Jesus that day. A real triumph for Christianity, if you will.
You see, in NY, the Asian guy would have been singing his song, but life on the train would have continued on as usual. Meaning, girls on their way to high school would continue to talk loudly about whom they plan to beat up and whom they plan to fuck (you can replace high school with middle or elementary school as well). The homeless guy or gal on the train would have continued to panhandle. The hipsters would have continued to read Nietzsche and generally look and feel ironic. No cause for agitation or hard feelings. Nothing unusual.
Anyway, so I’ll continue to look for things to blog about, but when the weird and unusual is standard, it’s like WHAT DO I BLOG ABOUT, you guys?
Monday, March 24, 2008
Causes of Eye Twitching via The Internet
Corneal irritation or injury
Stress
Lack of sleep
Fatigue
Prolonged staring or eye strain
Neurological disorders
Possibly Hereditary
I'm keeping my fingers crossed for Neurological disorders. I mean, March is SO boring. A hot neurological disorder could really shake things up for all of us.
Stress
Lack of sleep
Fatigue
Prolonged staring or eye strain
Neurological disorders
Possibly Hereditary
I'm keeping my fingers crossed for Neurological disorders. I mean, March is SO boring. A hot neurological disorder could really shake things up for all of us.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Sounds of the City (as you can see, I like lists)
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You actually DO hear these sounds living in the city... just like in the movies!
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sirens
breaking glass on the sidewalk around two a.m.
honking
screeching trains on rusty tracks
honking
neighborhood ladies yelling at each other from across the street
sirens
loud whistles, "HEY", and "Ooooo, BABY YOU BE PACKIN!" shouted in my ear when I'm simply trying to cross the street.
Buses, trucks, and big engines racing onto the expressway, shaking my apartment's foundation
bike messenger bells
neighborhood ladies strolling down the street saying, "I need to go upstairs to get my pennies if were gonna play poker!"
Jack hammers and construction
Italian cousins in the grocery store going on and on about the Yankees.... or the Giants... or the Knicks (very rarely the Knicks).
honking
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Sounds I miss from the suburbs and small towns...
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marching band practice vibrating off neighboring houses
morning birds
silence
distant dogs barking at each other at dusk
squirrels playing in the gutter
silence
turn table playing Joni, wind whistling in through open windows, leaves rustling from the yard
delivery trucks slowly wheeling by - looking for an address
baby children happily discussing their latest thrill while digging in the sidewalk cracks for a rolly-polly
silence?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
You actually DO hear these sounds living in the city... just like in the movies!
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
sirens
breaking glass on the sidewalk around two a.m.
honking
screeching trains on rusty tracks
honking
neighborhood ladies yelling at each other from across the street
sirens
loud whistles, "HEY", and "Ooooo, BABY YOU BE PACKIN!" shouted in my ear when I'm simply trying to cross the street.
Buses, trucks, and big engines racing onto the expressway, shaking my apartment's foundation
bike messenger bells
neighborhood ladies strolling down the street saying, "I need to go upstairs to get my pennies if were gonna play poker!"
Jack hammers and construction
Italian cousins in the grocery store going on and on about the Yankees.... or the Giants... or the Knicks (very rarely the Knicks).
honking
-----------------------------------------------------------
Sounds I miss from the suburbs and small towns...
-----------------------------------------------------------
marching band practice vibrating off neighboring houses
morning birds
silence
distant dogs barking at each other at dusk
squirrels playing in the gutter
silence
turn table playing Joni, wind whistling in through open windows, leaves rustling from the yard
delivery trucks slowly wheeling by - looking for an address
baby children happily discussing their latest thrill while digging in the sidewalk cracks for a rolly-polly
silence?
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, March 17, 2008
Notice Me! Giving My Notice!
I quit my job yesterday.
It feels very, uh, anti-climactic.
I've barely been here a year. I haven't gotten to know people all that well. So WHY do I want them to start crying and roundly embrace me as I tell them, sorry, I'm SO sorry, but I just can't be your collegue any longer?
What a strange sensation! It's not like I'm some attention monger, hell-bent on getting the world to notice me and I'm only truly content if I'm being discussed in some way... and it doesn't even have to be in a flattering way ....because when are impactful people ever universally liked? Never.
Quick seque. Do you notice that as time goes on you truly DO care less and less what people think of you? I do. I mean I don't. I mean, I don't care what you think! Okay, SOCIETY? Let me wear blue tights and red skirts SANS judgement. And so what if Iwant to start smoking cloves and listening to Queen? Much like the multiplication tables, I somehow missed that phase. I am beholden to no man nor child. The world is my oyster and I'm going to suck it up. (You know, like an oyster.)
So, my jorb. I'm leaving my jorb. And even though there is nothing in me that thinks this is anything less than a GOOD, WISE and eventually PROSPEROUS move.....I guess there is still some feeling of loss, some shreds of regret, some pangs of doubt.
It probably goes to show that moving away from ANYTHING no matter how terrible, or boring or innocuous...there is still come cause for mourning.
So, dress up my martini in black, recite a litany to office emphera, shove my memories into the creamator....... and I'll keep them in a pretty vase.
Also, I'm a sucker and gave four weeks notice. So! I'll probably be bringing this up again!
It feels very, uh, anti-climactic.
I've barely been here a year. I haven't gotten to know people all that well. So WHY do I want them to start crying and roundly embrace me as I tell them, sorry, I'm SO sorry, but I just can't be your collegue any longer?
What a strange sensation! It's not like I'm some attention monger, hell-bent on getting the world to notice me and I'm only truly content if I'm being discussed in some way... and it doesn't even have to be in a flattering way ....because when are impactful people ever universally liked? Never.
Quick seque. Do you notice that as time goes on you truly DO care less and less what people think of you? I do. I mean I don't. I mean, I don't care what you think! Okay, SOCIETY? Let me wear blue tights and red skirts SANS judgement. And so what if Iwant to start smoking cloves and listening to Queen? Much like the multiplication tables, I somehow missed that phase. I am beholden to no man nor child. The world is my oyster and I'm going to suck it up. (You know, like an oyster.)
So, my jorb. I'm leaving my jorb. And even though there is nothing in me that thinks this is anything less than a GOOD, WISE and eventually PROSPEROUS move.....I guess there is still some feeling of loss, some shreds of regret, some pangs of doubt.
It probably goes to show that moving away from ANYTHING no matter how terrible, or boring or innocuous...there is still come cause for mourning.
So, dress up my martini in black, recite a litany to office emphera, shove my memories into the creamator....... and I'll keep them in a pretty vase.
Also, I'm a sucker and gave four weeks notice. So! I'll probably be bringing this up again!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Short Ideas on Me... and This City... and LiiiiiiFE!
-I almost asked a cute hipster couple coming out of this Italian restaurant if it was any good because I'd only seen Italian people there and didn't feel like I belonged. They turned out to be an Italian Hipster Couple.
-I like when 9 or 10 year old boys are the same height as their short mothers.
-Sometimes I get scared when I'm underground and there's a train rolling over me and a train rolling toward me... these tunnels were built by man which is... essentially me.. and I'm not even able to carry a few ice buckets at work without complaining.
-I fall in love every day on the train. And every day the train doesn't just stop because, I don't know, the universe WANTS us to be together... my heart breaks.
-Last night I glared at my whiskey... and it glared right back at me.
-Hey! Dudes with the free A.M. and METRO newspapers... why are you so happy? Do you get paid lots and lots? Do you have some sort of a competition going on for the "Happiest Free- Newspaper-Dude in New York City"? Naw... I don't want one of those.
-My soles are worn down from walking all over this city. I aint got no car.
-"I would rather wear out the soles of my feet than the soul of this Earth."... I just made that up... but it sounds like something someone dumb might say. Yeah! It's cool to make fun of people who care!
-Every once in awhile there comes upon me a quiet contentment. Then I ruin it... by reveling in it too much.
-Last night I ate dry cereal out of a box because it was all I had to eat. I spilled most of it on the floor because it... was... dry.... cereal.
-I have hope for the future of me. Thank goodness!
-I don't like cave drawings. They're sooooooooooo boring!
-When I fly over the West Coast... my heart knows it's home. Why does it KNOW that? Maybe the dry air sucks out all of the blood and says, "There. You were born here, Fuuucker."
-I still get confused between the difference of the literary Heart and the anatomical Heart. Ugh, my cereal is called: "Heart to Heart."
-What could possibly be better than spring blossoms, white wine, sweet friends, and a bowl of cheese puffs? Nothing. That's what.
-I don't believe in Cherry Ferries. Probably because they don't exist.
-Japanese would be a hard language to learn. Unless you're Japanese.
-I like when 9 or 10 year old boys are the same height as their short mothers.
-Sometimes I get scared when I'm underground and there's a train rolling over me and a train rolling toward me... these tunnels were built by man which is... essentially me.. and I'm not even able to carry a few ice buckets at work without complaining.
-I fall in love every day on the train. And every day the train doesn't just stop because, I don't know, the universe WANTS us to be together... my heart breaks.
-Last night I glared at my whiskey... and it glared right back at me.
-Hey! Dudes with the free A.M. and METRO newspapers... why are you so happy? Do you get paid lots and lots? Do you have some sort of a competition going on for the "Happiest Free- Newspaper-Dude in New York City"? Naw... I don't want one of those.
-My soles are worn down from walking all over this city. I aint got no car.
-"I would rather wear out the soles of my feet than the soul of this Earth."... I just made that up... but it sounds like something someone dumb might say. Yeah! It's cool to make fun of people who care!
-Every once in awhile there comes upon me a quiet contentment. Then I ruin it... by reveling in it too much.
-Last night I ate dry cereal out of a box because it was all I had to eat. I spilled most of it on the floor because it... was... dry.... cereal.
-I have hope for the future of me. Thank goodness!
-I don't like cave drawings. They're sooooooooooo boring!
-When I fly over the West Coast... my heart knows it's home. Why does it KNOW that? Maybe the dry air sucks out all of the blood and says, "There. You were born here, Fuuucker."
-I still get confused between the difference of the literary Heart and the anatomical Heart. Ugh, my cereal is called: "Heart to Heart."
-What could possibly be better than spring blossoms, white wine, sweet friends, and a bowl of cheese puffs? Nothing. That's what.
-I don't believe in Cherry Ferries. Probably because they don't exist.
-Japanese would be a hard language to learn. Unless you're Japanese.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Super Girls
Sure! Girls do football. They just do it weird.On Super Bowl Sunday, 2008 the girls of Apartment 3R decided to have some friends over to watch the New York Giants battle it out against the 14-0, New England Patriots.
In preparation, Jean and I went to the grocery store to buy snacks and ended up bringing home several grocery bags as well as a frosted GIANTS cake. Laura later met up with us to do some beverage shopping and at around 6:30 pm, outfits were picked out, hair was curled, the food table had been rearranged 3 times (by each of us), and the TV antennae had never worked so beautifully.
Yes, I said TV antennae. It's not that we hadn't thought about hooking up cable and/or buying a new, flat screen TV... Jean even spent several minutes looking at bestbuy.com and almost shelled out the $60 for expedited shipping! But when it came down to it - it just wasn't worth the hassle.
In the end, we had a terribly good time. The game was riveting and we didn't even notice the melted candle wax on the screen.
To justify my desire to write this entry, here are a few fun conversations that were had between the girls of Apartment 3R and their friends during this wonderful "Super Sunday" (p.s. some material may be exaggerated for humor's sake):
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Laura: "Is Joe Buck his real name? Isn't that a character from Midnight Cowboy? Isn't it a generic term people use in the South when referring to a simple guy? You know, 'He's just a regular ol' Joe Buck'?"
Courtney Sullivan: "I don't know... but he has a reeeeally weird face."
Jean: "Yeah, I don't like his face."
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Laura: (seemingly out of the blue... but while eating blue chips and homemade guacamole), "Did you hear about that lady that grew into her couch? Like she got so fat she BECAME her own couch?"
Jean: "Steph, you should probably be writing these down."
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(While watching the New York Giants starting line-up)
Jean: "Oh yes, another top name for the NY Giants is Plaxico Burress."
Stephanie: "Yeah, he's a bad ass. He is one crispy [n-word]."
Jean/Laura: shocked silence
(except I really used the n-word. Without even thinking. My only excuse is I lived with a major New York sports fan for 4 years... and I suppose he rubbed off on me). Sorry Plaxico.. I meant it lovingly.
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Laura: "Who do you like better, Tom Brady? or Eli Manning?"
Jean: "Eli Manning"
Stephanie: "Tom Brady."
-LATER-
Stephanie: "Actually, I love Payton."
Jean: "You just love him because he's funny."
Stephanie (under her breath): "Well, yeah."
-Later-
Laura: "Wait, who's that?"
Stephanie/Jean: "That's Eli!!!"
Laura: "Oh, I like him."
-Later-
Jean: "Weeeell, I guess since Gisele is dating Tom Brady and I totally trust her taste - I'll go with Tom Brady."
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(While watching a commercial, I guess)
Becky: "Which came first the double popsicle or the double guitar?"
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Stephanie: "Isn't it interesting that both of the teams are Red, White, and Blue... just in different ways? I wonder if that's ever happened before!?"
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(After some boys had arrived at Apartment 3R to watch the game)
Jean: "Wait, did they just get a touchback?"
Stephanie, "No. That was a safety. A touchback is when the ball is ruled dead on or behind a team's own goal line, generally after a kickoff, punt, interception, or fumble. While a Safety can mean one of two things:
A: A two-point score by the defense that occurs when one of its players tackles an opponent in possession of the ball in his own end zone.
or
B: A defensive player who lines up in the secondary between, but generally deeper than the cornerbacks.
In this case it was the second example. Right guys?"
Jean and Stephanie exchange dirty looks. Males continue to watch game without noticing.
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Laura: "How old do you think Tom Petty is?!"
Courtney Sullivan: "62!"Jean: "65!"
Becky: "67!"
Stephanie: "Oh... he's gotta be 70 by now!"
Laura (after checking the internet): "You guys, he's only 57."
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Laura: "Quick, how old do you think Richard Simmons is!?"
Jean: "Dead!"
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Thursday, January 17, 2008
Scary Sadshaw
Carrie Bradshaw ruined everything. She ruined cosmopolitans, New York City, and Saturday night with your girlfriends. She ruined brunch and fashion. She ruined high heeled shoes and careers in journalism. She ruined casual sex, she ruined committed sex, she ruined every pun known to man. She ruined newspaper and magazines. She ruined the experience of ever dating a banker, a carpenter, a bartender, a painter, a addict, a writer, a lawyer, a actor, a musician, a doctor, a politician and a man. Carrie Bradshaw ruined fun.
I know this is not a real person.
I also know that somehow this show seeped into our brains, our hearts, our very landscape. I believe that even the water and the soil were not spared. Nothing we can ever do has novelty left. She has already done it.
Do you know how many times a day a thought like the following occurs to me? :
"Is it true that men are really looking for carbon copies of their mother? Could we be suffering from a epidemic of Copy-Me-Mommies?"
Or some lazy shit thought like that. Then, I think: Fuck Me. That sounds like her. Again. There is no escape.
The show has been dead for almost four years. But, it plays on and on. An endless reel of witticisms, criticisms and name-plate necklaces play out behind our experience, coloring every thing we see.
Cavemen used to sit around the fire and tell each other stories. Who was the bravest hunter? Who ran from the gazelle and found water in the ground? They acted it out again and again until the tales became truth, until everyone knew how to kill, how to drink or how run away. They informed, they entertained, they re-lived the stories of their lives to bring each other together.
So what is this pink sequined monstrosity telling us?
Being part of this particular (mostly urban, white, educated) tribe is no comfort to me. I have to think that my experiences "looking for love" (what a phrase!) is and will be as idiosyncratic and weird and unexpected as love itself. People are too strange to have it otherwise.
On that note, I'm have to have a cosmopolitan.
I know this is not a real person.
I also know that somehow this show seeped into our brains, our hearts, our very landscape. I believe that even the water and the soil were not spared. Nothing we can ever do has novelty left. She has already done it.
Do you know how many times a day a thought like the following occurs to me? :
"Is it true that men are really looking for carbon copies of their mother? Could we be suffering from a epidemic of Copy-Me-Mommies?"
Or some lazy shit thought like that. Then, I think: Fuck Me. That sounds like her. Again. There is no escape.
The show has been dead for almost four years. But, it plays on and on. An endless reel of witticisms, criticisms and name-plate necklaces play out behind our experience, coloring every thing we see.
Cavemen used to sit around the fire and tell each other stories. Who was the bravest hunter? Who ran from the gazelle and found water in the ground? They acted it out again and again until the tales became truth, until everyone knew how to kill, how to drink or how run away. They informed, they entertained, they re-lived the stories of their lives to bring each other together.
So what is this pink sequined monstrosity telling us?
Being part of this particular (mostly urban, white, educated) tribe is no comfort to me. I have to think that my experiences "looking for love" (what a phrase!) is and will be as idiosyncratic and weird and unexpected as love itself. People are too strange to have it otherwise.
On that note, I'm have to have a cosmopolitan.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
8:05 am
Early morning auditions are treacherous. I swear, they only have them this early in the morning to weed out the lazy or the weak of heart... or the people that actually need more than a couple of hours a sleep a night. I mean, I hate to sound pretentious and proud but... we actors are like modern day Gladiators. Right? Same thing? No?
However, these early morning time slots do allow us to understand how the other half lives! Since auditions are usually held in Midtown, we too can push through morning rush hour clutching our $4 lattes, dressed in our pressed pencil skirts, forcing our way into crowded intersections, "Excuse me! I have somewhere very important to be! Hey lady, you may be making a living for your children back in New Milford, Conn... but take a look at my flawless, stress-free figure!" Right? Am I right here?
8:05 am, arrive at fancy office building and check in with fancy doorman. 9:05 am, arrive back on 8th avenue smack down in front of Burger King. Dejected, rejected, and still jobless.
(Pause)
Thank God I accomplished another audition. Maybe he'll give me a call. I have to get in a nap before lunch. It's been a long day already... and I still have my GD laundry to do.
However, these early morning time slots do allow us to understand how the other half lives! Since auditions are usually held in Midtown, we too can push through morning rush hour clutching our $4 lattes, dressed in our pressed pencil skirts, forcing our way into crowded intersections, "Excuse me! I have somewhere very important to be! Hey lady, you may be making a living for your children back in New Milford, Conn... but take a look at my flawless, stress-free figure!" Right? Am I right here?
8:05 am, arrive at fancy office building and check in with fancy doorman. 9:05 am, arrive back on 8th avenue smack down in front of Burger King. Dejected, rejected, and still jobless.
(Pause)
Thank God I accomplished another audition. Maybe he'll give me a call. I have to get in a nap before lunch. It's been a long day already... and I still have my GD laundry to do.
If there is an Eternity, I am Damned in it
This is exactly what Ted Hughes said when he found his wife, Sylvia Path, with her head in the oven.
I was crossing the street this morning and coming towards me was a woman in a wheelchair-not an automatic-she was slowly, struggling to get to the sidewalk. Of course, my impulse was to run behind her, grab the handles and push her to safety. But I didn't. I didn't do a thing. I let the poor crippled lady wheel right pass me and I kept on walking. I did turn around to see another 20-something grab the wheelchair and push her all the way to the sidewalk. Good for her.
I only had a split second to Do The Right Thing. And I didn't do it. On purpose.
I wanted coffee, I was late, I was wearing heels, my nose was running and..... what if the Nazi's caught me?
See? The stakes didn't even have to be that high. You get the idea.
Sometimes, when I hate my pointless job so much, I think about doing something rash. Like selling everything I own and going to a country to hold AIDS babies and wipe the mouths of the poor and the destitute. Then, I remember. I am not a particularly good person.
Perhaps somewhere between Dick Cheney and Jenna Bush. Not overtly wicked, but more of a passive bystander or silent witness..... with some awfully nice clothes.
There was an insane man on the subway. I haven't seen one like him in awhile. Paraphrasing, he said something like this:
"White women look so beautiful! But you are all steak asses! You all sit on the toilet and shit. All of you. White or black. You all shit on the toilet. That's what God says. I'll probably outlive all of your steak asses. Do you think you can bring your clothes with you when you die? Do you think they will come? White women with your steak asses. Why don't you all be lesbians?"
So the whole ride I'm dying of curiosity. Just what is a steak ass?
Think about it.
In the meantime, THIS steak ass will get back to work.
I was crossing the street this morning and coming towards me was a woman in a wheelchair-not an automatic-she was slowly, struggling to get to the sidewalk. Of course, my impulse was to run behind her, grab the handles and push her to safety. But I didn't. I didn't do a thing. I let the poor crippled lady wheel right pass me and I kept on walking. I did turn around to see another 20-something grab the wheelchair and push her all the way to the sidewalk. Good for her.
I only had a split second to Do The Right Thing. And I didn't do it. On purpose.
I wanted coffee, I was late, I was wearing heels, my nose was running and..... what if the Nazi's caught me?
See? The stakes didn't even have to be that high. You get the idea.
Sometimes, when I hate my pointless job so much, I think about doing something rash. Like selling everything I own and going to a country to hold AIDS babies and wipe the mouths of the poor and the destitute. Then, I remember. I am not a particularly good person.
Perhaps somewhere between Dick Cheney and Jenna Bush. Not overtly wicked, but more of a passive bystander or silent witness..... with some awfully nice clothes.
There was an insane man on the subway. I haven't seen one like him in awhile. Paraphrasing, he said something like this:
"White women look so beautiful! But you are all steak asses! You all sit on the toilet and shit. All of you. White or black. You all shit on the toilet. That's what God says. I'll probably outlive all of your steak asses. Do you think you can bring your clothes with you when you die? Do you think they will come? White women with your steak asses. Why don't you all be lesbians?"
So the whole ride I'm dying of curiosity. Just what is a steak ass?
Think about it.
In the meantime, THIS steak ass will get back to work.
Monday, January 14, 2008
A Star is Born
Jean Marie Walters was born on January 14th, 1981. I think this happened somewhere in Texas. I am sure her mother was in a lot of pain, because Jean is very tall. She probably thought "Good God! Will this baby ever END?"
I like to think that the world breathed a collective sigh of relief when her toes were finally cleared. Finally, it sighed to itself, Jean was here.
Over the years, Jean learned how to tie her shoes, ride a bike , kiss a boy and find bras that fit. A year and a half ago she packed all of her stuff into an Enterprise Rent-A-Van and moved to Brooklyn, New York where we now share a few small symmetrical squares of space. Most of this space is covered in hair because we both lose a lot of hair. A LOT! I vacuumed this weekend and the vacuum choked and sputtered until I pulled out something that look like a dead cat. (it wasn't).
In April, we blew up an air mattress, plopped onto our living room floor and said "Stephanie! Why don't you sleep here?" Stephanie is blond and makes creepy things like linoleum, tinfoil and plastic mattresses somehow pretty and not so bad after all.
After a few months, God or Fate or that book THE SECRET decided that Stephanie should live downstairs, one floor below us.
The three of us have known each other since we were 14. We have pictures to prove it. Our eyebrows were massive back then. I , for one, was a little afraid of tweezers.
Sure, we're best friends. BFFs, as popular culture might deem. But really, words fail us when pressed to describe. I think it may fall somewhere between "sister" and "lover." Only because sisters hate each other more and Stephanie once had that dream about Jean in the shower.
Several times, we've made the highly conceited statement that the three of us have ruined men for other women. The combination of our humor, our hair or just the alchemy of our dynamic is staggering to men who may have thought that women are boring, or stupid, or think bowel movements aren't interesting. But I think we may have also ruined other women for ourselves. So, we're stuck.
I use this instance of a birthday to usher in a new project. Being who we are, grasping at our upper twenties, kicking off the remnants of girlhood, our brains rattle madly inside our heads. We are itchy and twitchy and we wait something to begin.
In the midst of this, though, things do happen. They happen slowly, or suddenly. All at once , or bit by bit. The world changes, people come and go, what was once true turns out to be false. Thoughts, opinions, experiences, fly out our mouths, into our ears and then fall away. At Apartment 3R we can capture them, right before we forget, before we move on yet again.
Here, the personal can meet the political! Exterior lives can meet interior lives! Ambition comes face to face with lethargy. Sentimentality meets irony. Immeasurable love meets untended disgust. Cynicism. Defeat. Joy. Songs. Menstruation. Jesus. Anger. Babies. Death. Burritos.
Lightning in a bottle.
A record of our time.
In the words of Walt Whitman "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes."
And, so do we.
Jean, Happy Birthday sweet girl.
Start now.
I like to think that the world breathed a collective sigh of relief when her toes were finally cleared. Finally, it sighed to itself, Jean was here.
Over the years, Jean learned how to tie her shoes, ride a bike , kiss a boy and find bras that fit. A year and a half ago she packed all of her stuff into an Enterprise Rent-A-Van and moved to Brooklyn, New York where we now share a few small symmetrical squares of space. Most of this space is covered in hair because we both lose a lot of hair. A LOT! I vacuumed this weekend and the vacuum choked and sputtered until I pulled out something that look like a dead cat. (it wasn't).
In April, we blew up an air mattress, plopped onto our living room floor and said "Stephanie! Why don't you sleep here?" Stephanie is blond and makes creepy things like linoleum, tinfoil and plastic mattresses somehow pretty and not so bad after all.
After a few months, God or Fate or that book THE SECRET decided that Stephanie should live downstairs, one floor below us.
The three of us have known each other since we were 14. We have pictures to prove it. Our eyebrows were massive back then. I , for one, was a little afraid of tweezers.
Sure, we're best friends. BFFs, as popular culture might deem. But really, words fail us when pressed to describe. I think it may fall somewhere between "sister" and "lover." Only because sisters hate each other more and Stephanie once had that dream about Jean in the shower.
Several times, we've made the highly conceited statement that the three of us have ruined men for other women. The combination of our humor, our hair or just the alchemy of our dynamic is staggering to men who may have thought that women are boring, or stupid, or think bowel movements aren't interesting. But I think we may have also ruined other women for ourselves. So, we're stuck.
I use this instance of a birthday to usher in a new project. Being who we are, grasping at our upper twenties, kicking off the remnants of girlhood, our brains rattle madly inside our heads. We are itchy and twitchy and we wait something to begin.
In the midst of this, though, things do happen. They happen slowly, or suddenly. All at once , or bit by bit. The world changes, people come and go, what was once true turns out to be false. Thoughts, opinions, experiences, fly out our mouths, into our ears and then fall away. At Apartment 3R we can capture them, right before we forget, before we move on yet again.
Here, the personal can meet the political! Exterior lives can meet interior lives! Ambition comes face to face with lethargy. Sentimentality meets irony. Immeasurable love meets untended disgust. Cynicism. Defeat. Joy. Songs. Menstruation. Jesus. Anger. Babies. Death. Burritos.
Lightning in a bottle.
A record of our time.
In the words of Walt Whitman "Do I contradict myself? Very well then, I contradict myself. I am large. I contain multitudes."
And, so do we.
Jean, Happy Birthday sweet girl.
Start now.
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