The Look of Love

Sometimes I look around and see couples canoodling and holding hands and sharing "moments" and it leaves me with a sad emptiness. There I am, juggling my wallet to get the right change for a single shot espresso at a table for one, and there they are in a love seat holding hands with a Smitten Mitten sharing a fondue for two.

But nothing has left me feeling as lonely as this portrait of true love. Love's ideal; the Gibran poem in the Hummel figurine world:

Taking the Cooperative out of the Co-Op

Having returned to Brooklyn from a gloriously sunny Thanksgiving in Guatemala, I felt thankful to be living in a country where I don't have to worry about driving at night, taking the bus, or being a single white female in an urban area. I also returned to an empty refrigerator, so I decided to head to the Park Slope Food Co-Op for healthy provisions. A steady diet of fried plantains and red wine not an un-puffy girl make.

The moment I crossed the threshold, I knew I was in trouble. The patina of my holiday started to fade the moment I heard the screech of a child followed by the dulcet tones of a mother trying to reason with a 3 year old. I just thought to myself "In Guatemala, I never once saw a child misbehaving...not even at the airport..." Granted, I also saw a lot of children doing a lot of manual labor, but still!

I went to the bulk goods section in search of oats and coffee. I laughed to myself thinking of how my cart sometimes looked like a hobo's shopping list as I approached the free trade coffee bins. In mid-dispense action, a cart clipped my ankle and I yelped in pain. The woman driving the cart looked at me and without a flicker of apology or embarrassment said "I need to get over there." I looked at her for a moment, took in her floor length poncho that probably cost a small fortune in a Woodstock boutique, and replied "So simply say, I beg your pardon, may I make my way past you. It's quite easy. Let me know I am in your way, and chances are very high I will accommodate your wish." She just grunted and whacked me again with her cart.

My mind raced through the whole week I was away and did not encounter one rude person. In fact, everyone I dealt with the entire time in Guatemala was incredibly friendly. At first I thought it was because they knew I was a foreigner, but it wasn't just in the service industry, it was everywhere. On the street, at the airport, at the local bar...Maybe I was deluding myself and maybe it was because I am not from the region. But the intense irony of buying Guatemalan coffee in a store where common courtesy is out the window struck me. In fact, I am sure that poncho could have been woven by the nimble hands of any one of the young women I saw in Antigua, Guatemala. They have very little, but they smiled. Why can't the privileged wearer of such do the same?

Italian Goth Candy

Whilst buying Smartwater before my brickoven yoga class, I stood in line at Walgreen's in the candy aisle waiting for the next surly cashier to ring me up. There, in this aisle of discount Hallowe'en candy, I set eyes on what I thought to be an illusion. It was a box of Dots candy with one of the signature gumdrops depicted as a mini lumpy vampire- with wings and and a menacing look in its eye. Excitedly, I picked up the box because I figured "FINALLY! A pure licorice box of Dots. Hurrah!!!" But on closer inspection I saw that they are in fact blood orange flavor. WHA?! HOW HOW HOW did the candy gods come up with this one? Does the Tootsie company have an office in southern Italy? (I make this association because the first time I set eyes on a blood orange I was skiing in the Italian Alps with a bunch of Germans. Don't judge. I was 18.) I was afraid of trying them. Not for fear of them being vile, but what if they are THAT GOOD? I took my chances and at first I was a bit put off by the bitterness of them, and deemed them "acrylic painty" in flavor, but then I let the box breathe, like a fine wine, and the second blood orange bat Dot was tasty. I am in awe. Not too sweet, just tart enough, with the perfect signature soft gumdrop Dot texture. A trick for the eye, and a treat on the tongue.

Washington Irving's Tea Bag Quote

Oh come ON!
I finally get a temp assignment and yes, everyone is nice, the commute is a breeze (I don't even have to go above ground- i wikkid heart Rock Center sometimes), the environment is lovely, breaky and lunch are provided, yet...no access to private email! As Squeezannah put it, “It's like the olden tymes!”

It’s not even 2:00 p.m. and I have caught up on all my news, even a bit in German. (Showy offy, you might say, but really, does reading about Amy Weinhaus really count?)

All in all it is kinda nice to have structure in my day. Ask me again in two weeks.

I like the warm glow in the elevator bank. As I wait for the lift down, I marvel at how there is something about cherry wood walls coupled with 60 watt bulbs behind faux deco glass that makes me feel like a professional. Then I make my way to the cafeteria and see not only a spread of fruit and yogurt, but coffee buffet complete with sachets of Swiss Miss cocoa. Gone is the patina of professionalism and all I can think is “Imma gonna make a poor man’s mocha! Woot Woooooot!”

I refrained from concocting this gluttonous bachelorette drink, and instead opted for cherry herbal tea. Once I sat down at my corner desk, I noted the quote: “Great minds have purposes, other have wishes.”

Dude, I wish I had made that low brow mocha.

Trashy Ideas

Nobody likes a hobo joke as much as I do, but this line of bedding makes me uncomfortable (IRONY!). I am saddened and irritated that the company who produces these linens is called Dutch by Design. Put down the hashpipe and pick up your checkbook to make a donation to your local homeless shelter. Though 30% of the cost goes to support a homeless organization in the U.K. it seems like a bit of of unnecessary exercise in tongue-in-cheek economics. What's next, a Smeg refrigerator made to look like a NYC garbage can?

Think, Bitches, THINK!

so, i have been waiting for a package from UPS all morning. i went out to do laundry, and the truck was out front, so i waited inside. waited. waited. then i went outside again CHOMPING AT THE BIT to do laundry, and see the truck about 1/2 block away. i find the driver and ask if he has a package for 555 president street. he asks my name. then i say, apt. number. he shows me the package and says "yeah, i didn't know what this was, so i couldn't deliver it". i just looked at him and said "so you what would have happened to this package had i not tracked you down?" it would have gone back to the center with a MORE INFO request.

this is how the address was written out on the package:

TO: A9

Jessica van Campen

555 President Street

Brooklyn

are you fucking kidding me? perhaps he recognized A9 as his IQ score. i can see where that could get confusing.

Summer of Love

Summer is winding down, my tan is fading and I have incorporated the scarf back into heavy rotation as part of my uniform. Not much happened in the way of news for me, but I had two crushes. Dear reader, I present you with both of them:

This is Roscoe. He has a mohawk and no yap.

This is an apple on a picnic blanket. Note the perfect little red blush on its brow. It looks great on tartan.

And that was my summer, folks!

Capital(istic) Punishment

I cried on the train today. I was on my way to an early yoga class, and finishing up a piece on Todd Willingham, the man who was sentenced to death for killing his three children in a terrible fire. With mounting sadness and frustration, I read the excruciating story that further reinforced my belief that the death penalty is wrong. Towards the end of the horrific tale, tragedy befalls the one person outside of his mother and father who visited and supported him through his period of incarceration. She believed in him, and on the day of his execution, she was in a car accident that left her paralyzed from the waist down. It was at this moment that on the Q train between Canal Street and Union Square that I cried in public. The stinging burning cry that comes out of nowhere, the kind of silent tears that are borne of anger and sadness. Wrong, wrong, wrong. The deputy fire inspector was wrong, the jury was wrong, Willingham's ex-wife was wrong. All because of ego and the need to have a pat answer.

This is where I don't understand the "superior" minds of the law. How do you make a decision like this, sending a rippled effect into the lives of the community and the world, and live with yourself? Despite study and intellect, how can a person be granted this much power? Is it about money? Is it about power and pride? Or is it just ego? I can't really wrap my head around it. I don't know how people move on after this sort of tragedy in their lives, when all I could do was try not to cry in public.

Ladies' Luncheon

Yesterday was meant to be just a simple museum/lunch day with my friend James.

After a little walk-around at the Met, we ventured to Del Frisco's (in a TERRIBLE cab ride, I should mention. One of those that leaves you shaken and nauseous). We we ushered to the V.I.P. table in the main floor dining room, where we were given the V.I.P. cocktail to calm our nerves. This cocktail is basically a pineapple martini. Just vodka, just pineapple. Pineapple infused vodka. It is delicious. Then we chose a wine, well, James chose a wine with the help of our sommelier.

What followed is a blur, but it involves the following:

Ceasar Salad/King Crab Gnocchi/Wine/Creamed Spinach/Sauteed Mushrooms/Wine/20 oz. Lobster/Butter Urns/Wine/Six Layer Lemon Cake/Wine/Ice Cream/Wine

So much for simple ladies' luncheon. But it was divine.

i think he hates me.

Bikram to the Bronx - A day in the life

The day started in a hot steamy room and ended with a wild ziggurat of plantain, garlic and pork belly stuffed with garlicky shrimp.

I finally started my three month unlimited gift certificate to Bikram yoga. I think it is important to mention that I decided to do this on the hottest day of the summer so far. I went through all the stages one might expect when doing yoga in a steamy room kept at 105 degrees Fahrenheit. First excitement, then elation, then a resounding this is bullshit, then i am a fat weakling, then maybe there is something to this, then why won't the instructor let me touch my water, to this is awesome, to wow, I cannot wait to do this again.

I had just enough time to run home (sweating), shower again and join a journalist friend on a trip to Sonia Sotomayor's old stomping grounds. Walking around the Bronxdale projects where she grew up was fascinating. One couldn't help to think, "OK, this isn't that bad." But then one must consider the late '70's and '80's when most of New York City was a bit of a dump. The surrounding area is a bit run down, but I was amazed at the incredibly high tech, modern playground jungle gyms that were scattered throughout the area. The Bronxdale Community Center has a large indoor basketball court and a jungle gym that boasts of a sort of Mobius strip ladder AND a climbing wall.

After a little tour around the neighborhood, we stopped in at Joe's Place where we met with Joe himself. He seemed a bit standoffish at first, but soon warmed up and was buying us Mojitos and Margaritas and telling us about the neighborhood back in the day. After a while we sat down for dinner which is when I decided to try mofongo. It is here that I should warn you that mofongo is not a light snack by any means. It is fried plantains that are then mashed with garlic and pork fat and then shaped into an impossible sort of brick. No, it doesn't sound appetizing, but with a red sauce and garlic shrimp it somehow works.

Riding back home on the train with 3/4 of a starch tower, mildly intoxicated from the Mojito and exhausted from the morning yogics, I thought a lot about what it would be like to live in the Bronx in the '70's. Even worse, what it would be like growing up in the Bronx during the crack years, hoping and working hard to get out of that environment. It made me wonder once again if our generation is just too soft. I don't know anyone from a troubled or turbulent background. I don't know anyone who had to strive to get past racial and gender barriers

Myself included. The toughest part of my day was doing a sweaty yoga class without passing out. Joe of Joe's Place spoke of how things were better for his kids; my generation. But is it really better? In the name of progress, we get a bit lazy, and this does worry me a bit.

Hot Weather Injuries

Walking my bicycle (the most frustrating sensation on the planet) to the bike shop proved to be quite painful yesterday. I was feeling fresh and bonny and blithe in my summer frock and comfortable, albeit strappy, sandals. Within minutes the bottoms of my feet burned and the horrendous affliction known as "chub rub" was crippling me. I slowed my gait, but it only made things worse.

Bring on crisp cool autumn.

Final Countdown

Tomorrow is D-day--I start Bikram yoga. I have mixed feelings about starting hot sweaty athletics during hot sweaty times. My (twisted) logic leads me to believe that it will be soothing to do this now as when I leave class it will seem cool outside. Much like the notion of drinking hot coffee in the desert. Then again, I loathe the idea of walking outside and instantly feeling like I need to shower again. My sweat fu manchu appears instantly, and if I am wearing a skirt or dress, the chub rub begins. It's the unsexiest time of the year. So why not pile into a steamy room with scantily clad strangers and feel the burn. Why not, I ask?

Friday Funtimes

I woke up and new it was gonna be a scorcher.  I also had it in my mind to see a midday film at the Film Forum as a) I hadn't been in a long time and b) it was gonna be hot.  I think b) was a bit more of an excuse, a means of justifying midday movie watching.  There is little more satisfying than sitting in a cool dark room with a bunch of strangers watching a film, if it is black and white, all the better.  If it stars Humphrey Bogart, I consider it a slice of heaven.

The train was slow, so I wound up having to dash to the counter just a minute before the movie time.  It was at that moment that I realized what my first spoken sentence of the day was going to be.  When I got to the ticket window I gulped, tried to put on a brave face, and said in a clear, hopefully toneless voice "One for "In a Lonely Place", please."  

Gunjumpin' Saturday

Today was the sort of day that I had to force myself outside, and when I did, I knew it was not going to be fruitful or productive.

I packed up my things, ready to hit Prospect Park and decided for a number of strange reasons, the primary one being laziness, to take the train.  I waited for about 20 minutes (could have walked to the park by then) and when the train finally arrived, it was virtually full.  I sat down in the last remaining seat and immediately worried why it was still available.  It didn't smell bad, no vomit on the bench, so I sat and started reading my book.  It was one stop later when I realized the object moving in the corner of my eye was much closer than I had initially thought.  I slowly turned my head to the right, and found myself staring into the eyes of an iguana who was perched on my neighbor's shoulder.  It's tail was threatening to touch my shoulder.   It was just a few seconds later that the doors between the cars opened and a man with one leg propelled himself into our car and started rattling his change cup.  The noise distracted me only slightly from the pain--the guy had rolled over my right foot.  I looked up suddenly and surely gasped a bit when it happened.  The man just looked at me in disgust, told me to watch my feet, shook his cup full of coins, and rolled on.  If anything I should have gotten a bit of cash, but no, he's in the wheelchair. fine.

I walked around a bit, overheard weird conversations about the farmer's market "Yeah, of course they have food...it's a market" and realized I needed to get to the sanctuary of home. STAT.

Let's Name Him "Four Legged Joke"

Sometimes I hate it when people go on and on about the expression in their dogs eyes.  To me, a typical dog's emotional range is "happy to have food" to "happy to eat you as if you were food".  They always seem kinda dumb and overeager to me, which is why I like cats because even though they are dumb sometimes, they don't show it.  

This myth was dispelled the other day when I found this "canine model".  Look at his face.  That look is humiliation.  I sincerely hope it turned to "I hate you" and he took care of his stylist.

--More:  I just stared at this again for a little while and realized that not only are the front legs all messed up in this photo, but that display window looks like a yellow ball.  The result is that this poor beast looks like a seal with a big tongue.  Even the tongue looks superimposed.  OF COURSE he is panting!  You just wrapped a furry creature in rubber.  It's hot in there.  

Culinary Anthropology

My good friend Stacey was an exhibitor at the 55th Annual Fancy Food show this year, and being the little doll she is, she got me a pass for the final day.  I have never been to the fancy food show, but it sounded fun and why not?  I would get to see Stacey and there is the added bonus that I would get to hang out with her live in boyfriend for a bit - he happens to be my little brother.  Yesterday was one was of those urban summer days that starts off hot and humid and you can't help but to think that even the concrete is inconvenienced by the heat.  Worst yet, I had to do that dreaded walk to the Javits Center which is like walking through another city--a crappy one, at that.  They shouldn't even call that corner New York City.  It should just sort of be something else.  For now I shall call it "Javitstown".  Sorry Jacob, your town kinda sucks a little.

Alas, once I got there I was happy I made the effort.  Nice cool open spaces full of delicacies from around the world. Nice nice nice...now how to find the Promise Me Chocolate booth?  Whilst consulting the vendor tome trying to make sense of it all, a plate of truffled triple cream brie and mini toasts with an onion marmalade was thrust under my nose.  A perky cheese monger with a grey bob I immediately coveted was plying her wares.  What the hell? I was hungry and a bit hungover, and it isn't as though I sought her out, she came to me.  Thank you wonderful breakfast delivery lady!   Happily licking my fingers free of crumbs and cheese, I headed towards booth 5400 with resolve and determination.  

After a few moments of greetings and congratulations, I took some time to walk through the enormous space and check out what people were trying to pass off onto the rest of the world.  I was in the New York State section, where everything was very colorful and the exhibitors were quite eager to give samples and talk about their products.  I tried blueberry pesto, pomegranate Greek style yogurt, pineapple coconut water, and whole wheat pasta shaped like a dinosaur in the first 20 minutes.   At the next row things got a bit weirder with crunchy corn snacks whose packaging boasted of "fire" flavor (Asia), apple gummy candies and a spicy paneer masala that came in a tiny box.  Finally, I decided to head upstairs the Mediterranean section.  The stark contrast was incredible.  Clean white modern booths with rows and rows of oil and brined goods stood on shelves with a small tray of bread cubes and tiny bowls of their goods.   Most booths had tiny cafe tables and well dressed men (and a very few women) sat with leather binders and Mont Blancs and talked to one another.  It looked like everyone was having a business meeting, and they were, but the difference was that the rest of us could just walk on by without a glance.  At first it was nice to be able to amble along at my own pace and pick and choose what I wanted to taste or inspect.  But after about an hour I sort of missed the chatting and being persuaded to try new things.  I felt intimidated by my lack of knowledge in the canned sardine realm.  I wanted to go back to where I was wanted.  I wanted to go back to where I belonged - in the New York aisle.  Mostly, I wanted more Greek style pomegranate yogurt, from New York.

Suckage

Today sucked.  There, I said it.   But really, it sucked a lot.   I woke up and immediately knew things were not gonna go well.  Before I went to bed I broke my kitchen light ON.  Like, the pull string snapped and now it is permanently ON.  So the morning was spent waiting for an electrician.  Finally, I grew impatient so I went to the library.  Nothing terrible occurred on my way there, but walking through the Botanic Garden on my way back was when I heard that a certain "something" was ending.  Via text message.   DOUCHENOZZLEDOM!

By the time I got home Farrah Fawcett had died.  I tried to doze and watched Chaplin.  A real pick me up.  Talk about tears of a fucking clown.  Yeesh!  That guy's life sucked.

 I cooked collard greens.

And then Michael Jackson died.

Not the best Thursday...no....

Two Tickets, Please!

and pack your bags tonight.

MTA rates have increased and nobody is happy about it.  I recommend they try to keep up with the competition when it comes to destinations.

The Stick

There are times when I really wonder about life, the whys and whatfors,  and from time to time the cosmic and nihilistic "what is the point of it all?!" crosses my mind.  During these times I rarely come to any great conclusion, but I usually think it is to create.  Whether it be for the good of mankind and progress, or simply for the grandeur of mankind.   Be it art or science, human beings need to thrive for the next best thing.  I think we can all be thankful for penicillin, modern laser surgery, and developments in cancer research.  Many can praise those who have made advancements in the realms of vision and hearing, some dole out accolades to the scientists who have brought us viagra and silicone implants.  I am thrilled to be writing this from my kitchen table while I boil eggs (this recipe is killer).  However, a new item has come into my life which has altered my existence instantaneously, and I have no idea how to thank the creator enough.  Ladies and Germs, I introduce you to the Dirt Devil StickVac.

If you live in a city apartment smaller than 800 square feet with hard wood floors, area rugs and lots of pre-war molding, this is the must have item of the season.  Make that year.  It is 4 pounds of plugged in power.  Not only can it cover rugs and bare floors, but it converts to a stick for the hard to reach crevices that some half rate contractor figured would just fill in with grime.  THEN, it can be a hand vac, which is great for small dark corners and terrifying your cat when he is trying to eat.

All this action for less than 25 bucklngs.  I had my doubts, but they were sucked up and chucked away along with the large grey wig I managed to collect in the bagless canister.  Life altering, my friends.  Life altering.

A little bit ironic...

Among the many fantastic experiences of my German wine tour was the opportunity to visit a giant bath house. The town where I stayed was a bit rough around the edges, but the BÄDERHAUS was a veritable oasis. Multiple saunas at varying temperatures and levels of humidity surround a large pool where people can just bob around and soak in the relaxing vibe. Ideal, right? But for me the record scratches at "co-ed" and "nude". I admit I am an outgoing person in most ways, but I am exceptionally shy, and the thought of lounging (and sweating) next to droves of German men did not appeal to me. Lying the in the Turkish Hamam room, I talked myself down and realized that a number of things were on my side

1) I will never see any of these people again
2) Most of these people are older-by about 30 years
3) None of these men are really attractive really, so who cares?

By the second visit I was confident that I was invisible and thought nothing of tossing off my bathrobe and running into the Ice Grotto (basically a giant Snoopy Sno-Cone machine made to look like a cave with ice shavings. Quite incredible after baking in the 90 degree Celsius dry tank). In fact, there were a few times when I thought that the robe was just a pain in the ass, and I would just wear it like a cape to the next station on my circuit. Like a boxer stepping into the ring if a boxer wore white waffled cotton robes.

So increased was my comfort in this situation, that when sitting in the whirlpool, I actually beckoned the tall young male employee in little white short shorts over to ask when the whirling would begin again. I was in the pool with my travel partner looking up at the bespectacled German youth who was quite animatedly explaining the schedule, when suddenly I realized with horror that he was actually quite handsome. Looking up into his aquamarine eyes (they could have been grey, but simply reflecting the blue of the unwhirling water I was in), I took in his perfect features-tan toned arms, smooth skin marred only by a small wispy moustache that was the same sunshiney blonde of his hair. Had I not just emerged from the lavender room (60 degrees Celsius) he would have surely seen me blush. It was the most vulnerable I had felt in at least a decade, and it was not fun. Luckily, seconds after this happened, the water started to roil and froth and we joked and laughed and he walked away so I could slowly dunk my head under the water and scream.

Bridget Jonesin'

I just finished packing for a 25 degree temperature variable (that is just daytime temps, night time is more like 50 degrees). I am sure everything in my case will be cast aside for one great outfit/uniform that I will wear all 7 days.

Jennie and I have decided to buy a bottle of something refreshing in Duty Free and one of those giant Toblerones for the flight. Which reminds me, the title of Bridget Jones's Diary auf Deutsch is Schokolade zum Frühstück (Chocolate for Breakfast). How very quaint. And hilarious. And mildly depressing...

Shark Sandwich

It's 6:21 a.m., and I have a huge list of things to do before I pick up Jenniekins and head to the airport. Sadly, I am rendered immobile with the crushing discovery that while in flight with Icelandair no meal will be provided, but instead we are offered "Food for Purchase". There is nothing savory about that phrase. To me it translates to "If You Are Hungry You COULD Buy This, Though, If You Look Around You, Nobody Else Has--Except That Creepy Guy With A Neon Green Baseball Cap Advertising "Hot Doug's House of Tube Meats".

If it were Air France I would feel confident in the fact that perhaps a baguette avec jambon and brie is available-shrinkwrapped and made three days ago, sure, but it is a cute sandwich in theory. Whereas a fermented shark hoagie or Hangikjöt is never cute. This begs the question: Does the plane have a smoke room? Will my air hostess talk in a high pitched voice and beg me to not step on my flight fairy? I am suddenly getting a bit anxious. What were we thinking?! Three months ago the chance to stopover in Reykjavik was compelling (not to mention cheap), but now it looms ahead like a dormant volcano spewing weird green gases! Why why why?!

On the flip side, after we endure a flight of crackers and cheese and slightly mashed grapes (lap picnic!), we make our way to our adorable hotel in the lovely town of Bad Kreuznach. I don't know if Jennie realizes this yet, but the name of the street we are staying on is Eiermarkt - Egg Market. We are just a few kilometers from a duck emporium/restaurant and need I remind anyone that it is all about spas spas and more spas in this town. Ima gonna take a Roman bath, a Turkish bath, a bath bath, then I am gonna rinse it all off with thermal healing waters. When I return I will be unrecognizable, and not because I was on a steady diet of quark and marizipan, but because I will have spent a week soaking in these waters. Also because I avoided the shark sandwich.

Kenneth Cole's Reaction

As you may recall, I posted a world wide web log about an unsavory experience at Kenneth Cole (See "What to Expect When You Are Not Expecting - 4/10/09). I am sure my readership has been resting on tenterhooks waiting to know the next chapter of this heartbreaking tale. Here is a bit of a follow-up:

On April 20th I sent an email to Kenneth Cole expressing my dissatisfaction with his ad campaign and more importantly, the less than stellar customer service. When I was writing this letter a good friend asked why I even bother and what I expect from it. Quite honestly, I expected nothing but the satisfaction of conveying my feelings. There is something wholly gratifying about saying something that not only gets the point across, but also stirs enough in the receiver of such information to react. The moment I sent the email, I felt confident that I would never get a reply. Why would Kenneth write back to someone who had a minor annoying customer service experience? So I hit send, thought about it a bit, then carried on with my life. Much to my dismay, I got a response from the CEO of Kenneth Cole expressing her apologies. Shortly thereafter, I was contacted by the director of customer service. She and I wound up having a lengthy chat about everything from customer service to fashion to travel and then to type A personalities. Finally, just now I signed for a FedEx envelope in which is a gift card which will grant me with a few new pieces for my Autumn wardrobe.

Not bad for expecting nothing, and not expecting. I'll drink to that (because I can...)

Discoteca

Second to last night...so so very sad. so sad.

On my way to the disco last night, several police motorcycles were driving by and I heard an Italian say °Ecco Chips°

Someone in 2009 made a Chips reference. In Rome. This town gets better and better.

We found a very bizarre alternative market in Testacchio today. It was in an old slaughterhouse area which was crazy, but somehow worked. We all bought delicious goat cheese from an old man who had made up for his lack of English skills with gap toothed smiles and cheese samples. The only way to describe the area we are in aside from a combo of Beruit and Sao Paolo is with the panoramic video I took. Uploading to follow in two days. WEEP!!!

Pazzo Roadkilla

I have been in Roma less than a week, but feels like months-in a spectacularly good way. Today is meant to be a lazy day of sorts, local churches and museums and I am going to drag Kate to a discoteque.

Many things are striking and wonderful about this trip, but the one image that sticks in my head right now is that of a strange mess I saw on the narrow cobbled street near our apartment. It was a bit of animal gore with a glittery silver glint to it. Upon closer inspection I realized it was a fish. A sardine lost its life trying to cross a backstreet in Trastevere. Kate did not believe me (by the way, I cannot find the apostrophe key so no contracted words today, thanks) so I had to drag her back to inspect it. Meh, that was that. Until Eddie came in from fetching olive oil and said, Guys, look at this crazy roadkill and showed us a picture on his iPhone. I laughed and looked and then realized something was askew--it was in fact a different fish. Kate confirmed, yep, a different fish.

It still makes me giggle. Maybe it is the wine, maybe it is the jetlag, maybe it is just general happiness at being in a beautiful place with incredible apricots that taste like the sun or where everyone is gorgeous. Or maybe it is just hilarious.

That Sweet Lollapalooza

Overnight flights are great because you go to sleep on a big flying boat and wake up in a completely foreign place. However, someone who is an incessant planner and the fastidious packer, it also allows for a full day of anxiety. Planning, packing, re-packing, re-tying up loose ends and this is all by 1:24 p.m.

Syd was packed into his pet carrier and taken to his gracious Aunt D's place last night. Having never dropped him off for a few weeks of vacation, I was astounded to feel a lump in my throat as stumbled down the stairs with my furbaby his food and toys in tow. I have gone soft, friends. Soft.
Returning to an empty apartment took a lot of effort, but I managed. Sleep was minimal, but I woke at 6:00 a.m. to the sounds of pigeons trying to break into my bedroom window. I am convinced I will return to a sky rat family living in my a/c.

The day proceeded to sour a bit--stood up by a lunch date, chipped nail on brand new manicure (not the date's benefit, but for Roma--they like nice hands, I bet, those Romans.) Worse than anything was this mounting anxiety which morphed quickly into a feeling of melancholy. Even my favorite Thursday night line-up on Hulu didn't put a dent in my ennui. Let's chalk it up to the anticipation of a great trip to a wonderful city, not to mention the amazing company I will be keeping. Soon the image of me fighting tears on the Q train will be a distant memory.

Sometimes a bit of cosmic boredom culminates into something wonderful and I have chosen to revel in that notion. In particular, my new favorite video. As long as it doesn't become an anthem I am sure I will be just fine.

Spring Handmade Snorefest

Despite my ever shrinking bank account, I met up with a pal to hit the greatly anticipated Spring Handmade Calvalcade at The Bell House in Brooklyn. I was wary as I really don't need any new items and my gift list is pretty empty right now, but I was lured in by the incessant email updates with the pretty graphic (how did I get on this mailing list, anyway?...). With the gentle nudging of a friend, I faced the clammy day and headed off towards the Gowanus bracing myself for temptation.

The first thing that struck me was how few vendors made up this "cavalcade". It was more like a craft circle. Jewelry- some with stones, some with brass castings of bird wings (yawn), some pretty, all of it quaint. The first table one sees upon entry was covered with beaded necklaces wrapped in material which was a big thing about 3 years ago. Does someone still dedicate their time to finding gauzy materials to wrap and knot around cheap plastic beads? A resounding yes. There were some felted yarn bags the size of a Croque Madame (I had skipped breakfast) and then some cute plates with local imagery- water towers, the parachute jump from Coney Island. My favorite items were recycled cotton material napkins and placemats which were sturdy and well constructed, but I'll be damned if every one of them didn't have an animal printed onto them. The only truly interesting vendor had printed images from old Japanese science texts onto t-shirts, which was a splendid idea. I would like to think that she chose to use cheaper non-American Apparel t-shirts to print on in order to bring costs down so she could sell them for under $30.

In short, the only tempting thing that met me was the urge to yell "Turn on the damn lights!" The interior of the Bell House was poorly lit and the colored gels on the stage lights didn't help when determining if something was white or pink. A big deal if you are buying your fiance a t-shirt. Perhaps they kept the lights low when they collectively realized that the wares were not the most exciting things on display. I ask the universe this, and please please PLEASE universe, provide me with an answer: When will the day of simple outlines of woodland creatures and common household appliances applied to totes and body hugging t-shirts be over? I long for a time when I can buy a nicely fitting top without antlers or a bird or a broken typewriter strategically placed over my spleen or left boob. This fascination with deer and sparrows has left me cold from the beginning. To walk down a concrete path punctuated with a few anemic looking trees in Brooklyn and be surrounded by two dimensional images of nature strikes me as incredibly sad. It cries out "YES, I live in the city, but I like nature, too. See? SEE!!!" In a balanced world would I find a farmer wearing a barn coat adorned with an adorable silk screen of a Kryptonite chain lock, or maybe the ubiquitous post storm broken umbrella?

Cutesy silhouettes of bicycles, birds, knitting needles and water towers are now warning symbols to me. They are the craft equivalent of a running man with an arrow, interlocking semi-circles indicating radiation or a skull and crossbo-Oh wait!!! lest we forget how mainstream the symbol of skull and crossbones has become. Weave that imagery into a scarf or put it on a onesie and you've got yourself irony a la craft.

Speaking of irony, The Bell House is located next door to a big industrial signs shop with an enormous neon letters above it spelling S I G N S. Nice and straightforward. I long for the email alert about their sample sale.

Swinus Infection

I have managed to not get too caught up in the panic blitz around the Swine Flu. However, last night I caught myself sniffling quite a bit and a bit of anxiety creeped in. I looked at the person across from me and thought "You gave me this. You just got off a plane. An infected, poxy ridden plane. You bitch!" Then snapped out of my reverie, took a sip of my drink and thought the medicinal powers of ginger, lemon and rum would make it all go away. This is precisely why I could never be a doctor.

The Mighty Tulip

Why Why Why and How How How?

I am about to embark on a mini vacation to meet up with an old college chum and some San Francisco alumni. All I need for my trip is a decent pair of cotton pyjamas, the kind that are suitable for going into our rented apartment kitchen to make coffee without feeling like a scumbag or a whore. Simple. Cotton pantaloons, simple top. So why so difficult?

I tried the go-to spots- Target offered lots of things with birds and stripes with color schemes that smacked of Freshman Year. I couldn't get through the door of Old Navy without my sinuses being assaulted by the chemicals coming off the freshly unpacked spring line. It's generally a bad sign if you can smell the color of your clothing. Where else? Where do people buy pyjamas?

May Day

To celebrate this rite of Spring, perhaps I will go to Ikea in Red Hook, get myself a plate of Swedish meatballs and set up camp in the kitchen area and watch couples debate the merits of FÖRHÖJA versus STENSTORP.

If you ever feel bad about being single, go to Ikea on a Saturday and watch the aggravation and despair mount between young lovers. I am surprised there isn't a couples counselor room on location. Perhaps even a space where one could renew vows. Nothing can wear down a relationship more than shopping for living room furniture. The minutia of picking the ideal wine glasses--Classic? Squared? Color? It's hard enough to choose things on ones own, but throw someone else into the mix and it could become easier, or just exponentially more difficult. The thing about opinion is that when someone you love and admire disagrees with you, suddenly your tastes are in question. It's hard not to feel judged. Mix in some stale air and a lot of squawking kids running around, and explanations become clipped. The end result is suddenly the person you want to nest with has excrutiatingly poor taste. How can you not question this life altering decision?

Show me a couple that agrees on everything in IKEA and I will take it all back. But not my meatballs. I am gonna keep the meatballs.

I've Been Away--Obsessing

I was sick, then hungover, then just tired, but this is my new obsession. Just wanted you all (all 4 of you) to know

Morning Becomes Spastic

I was just awoken by what sounded like a squeaky wheel. It took me several moments to actually wake up and realize it was a bird outside my window. Presumably the chicken of discontent or the wren of clumsiness.

A squeaky wheel bird. Insane. Thanks, nature, but no thanks.

R.I.P. Samsung t219

The most spectacular of phone deaths occurred last night.

Whilst walking to meet a friend in the driving rain
my phone slipped from my gloved hand
hit the sidewalk
split in two
one half landed in a puddle
where it was immediately run over by a delivery truck
(important to note is that this also created a fabulous arc of dirty puddle water which made it's way to my jacket, tights, skirt...I just can't clean up nice, it seems.)

Luckily, a shiny new T-Mobile store just moved in around the corner from my home. I went in today, got an upgrade and they found it in their hearts to give me a new phone at my 100% discount as my plan was coming to an end in July. When gazing lovingly at my new phone, I exclaimed, "It's so fancy!" to which the youth behind the counter said "Ummm...not really."

Earlier he described to me his busy lifestyle in a laconic monotone reserved for those under 30 years old.

His attitude made me giddier than usual, and I think by the end of our transaction I had acquired a bit of a southern lilt to my voice and I started looking at all the techy things with wide eyed wonderment. "Goodbye now, y'all hear!"

T.G.I.Amex

Last night after a boozy Easter bruncheon in Brooklyn Heights, I thought it best to check my American Express account online as I hadn't done so in about 4 days. These are the things that go through my head when wine is involved.

I was shocked to see the high balance, so I turned the volume on my new fancy speakers I just bought a few weeks ago and took a closer look at my recent card activity. Smack dab in the middle of the usual charges was evidence of some foul play.

Target Store: $971.58
T.G.I.F.: $55.43
UA Sheepshead Bay: $23.00
UA Sheepshead Bay: $9.50

Amazing date with baby momma: Priceless (Lit'rally, cuz it was on MY credit card, bitches!)

What to Say When You are Not Expecting*

Friday I woke up with two certainties: I needed to sort out the pain in my right shoulder and I needed new clothes. Tackling the shoulder pain was easy, I just made my way to my favorite Tui Na place in midtown. The latter was another issue as a) I hate shopping sometimes and b) I am on a bit of a budget. On a whim I stopped in at Kenneth Cole at Grand Central and spying a young sales woman whose outfit I admired, I asked that she throw some things together for me and start a dressing room. She sized me up then started right away, picking and choosing items without consulting me on color or design, but going by what she thought would be the best fit-in all arenas. I was thrilled. I tried on about 12 things and chose 4. While in the changing room I got an invite to a preview of 9 to 5: The Musical including a Q & A with Dolly Parton (yeeeehaw!). This change of events required and justified my walking out of KC in one of my new splash outfits.

My personal shopper assured me that I could just cut the tags off at the register and walk out as such. While waiting at the register, another salesperson (male) walked by and told me that my new tunic looked smashing and he gave me a thumbs up. The new ensemble was like anything I have ever worn, but I loved it. This is why people like shopping, I mused, and handed my lil' green credit card to the man behind the register. As he handed it back to me, he looked at me and said "How far along are you?" I froze. I had just been thinking about which lipstick color to go for and how I planned on wearing jeans more often and this question snapped me out of my revery like a rubberband on the eyelid. I paused, glanced to the clerk who had raved about my new look, but he was crimson and looking through an invisible pile of things, then I glanced back at the man who'd just done damage to my credit card, looked him in the eye and quite soberly said "I am not pregnant". At this he looked down, exhaled an apology, and hurried along with printing the receipt. I chuckled half heartedly and said "Are you mortified? Because I am." He didn't reply, but just said, "How about a do-over" which made little sense to me so I collected my packages and walked away.

Strangely, I didn't want to change back into my old outfit. I liked what I was wearing, and quite frankly, I thought it was flattering and I felt comfortable and good. But what I did regret was that I didn't react in a more extravagant fashion. Following are a few options I fantacized about on my way to 9 to 5:

At "How far along are you?" I wish I had:

A) Looked at the guy dismayed, then said "FUCK, I am pregnant?! NOT AGAIN!!!"
B) Punched my stomach repeatedly and yelled, "Get it out of me!"
C) Shrugged my shoulders and replied "10 months, it just won't come out. Can you believe that?"
D) Picked up the scissors next to me and started cutting off all my clothes and then just walked out.

It's a tricky thing, mentioning a strangers delicate condition, which is why I don't do it. I recommend the same for people in clothing sales.

*Thanks to L.A.B. for the working title.

Baby Jesus Made Me Do It

As I exited my building yesterday, I opened the door and knocked someone off the top step of the entrance into her colleague, thus causing a sort of domino effect of old ladies. Luckily, nobody actually tipped over onto the ground, but there was a lot of physical comedy to prevent a full-on face plant. I felt horrible, but I had to stifle a laugh. The two women who looked to be in their 60's were dressed in their Sunday best, hats and all. One was wearing varying shades of navy blue, a ladies skirt suit circa 1970 with a blouse, a blue velvety hat and her dark stockinged feet were packed into prim navy shoes. The other woman who I had knocked over with the door was wearing a light brown color, not unlike that of a teddy bear, and almost of the same material. She was also wearing a skirt/jacket/blouse combo, and her hat matched perfectly, but it was not as structured as the one her navy friend was wearing.

Following is the dialogue that took place:

Me: I am so sorry! Are you o.k.?
This was said in a rather high pitched voice, as I was really afraid I almost killed a stranger. It was accompanied by my reaching out for the woman's hand and steadying her. This hand she held onto with her soft, warm, pillowy hand during the entire exchange.
Lady in Brown: Why yeees, I am fine. But you startled me so. "Are you o.k.?", she asked the her friend.
To my relief, everyone was fine.
Me: I just didn't see you through the door window, I am so very sorry.
Lady in Brown: Are you saying I am short?
Me: No, I am just saying that when you stand-
Lady in Brown: You are! You are saying we are short! Well, how do you like that? (chuckle chuckle)
Me: Yes, o.k. You are short. It's true.
Lady in Brown: WHAT?! You've got nerve. Come on, girl, you wanna go?
Me: Yes, I do wanna go. I hate it when short people stand around my building.
Lady in Brown: Come on then, let's take this outside.
Me: We are outside!
Lady in Brown: O.K. then, which apartment are you?
Me: H4
Lady in Brown: I just rang that apartment!
Me: I know, I came down to tell you short people to get away from my building!

Me, Lady in Brown, Lady in Navy: LAUGHTER, oh, we laughed and laughed.

Again, throughout this entire exchange my left hand (yes, the one less a fraction of a finger) was safe and warm in her left hand, while she patted my arm with her right. It was all very familiar and nice, but steeped in jocularity reserved for neighbors who have known each other for decades.

Finally, she released my hand, bade me a bless day, and handed me an invitation to the Kingdom Hall of Jehovah's Witnesses. If our five minute exchange represents what happens down at the Kingdom Hall, I just might have to go.

Forced Intermission

Whilst chopping cilantro destined to be added to a batch of guacamole for today's Campfire Women picnic, I inadvertently sliced off about a 1/8 of an inch of my left index finger, nail and all. Luckily, my hands were really cold and I could staunch the blood flow for a bit. I called a friend for an adrenalin talk down, then fashioned a band aid out of a cotton square and packing tape. When I had it re-dressed by another friend later that morning, she laughed at the hobo-esque quality of my bandage, but was gracious enough to wrap it up in gauze and surgical tape. She is a real adult with an actual First Aid kit. I am in awe.

It hurts to type.

All the Pretty Horse Whisperers

Today I was reminded ONCE AGAIN of my inadequacies when it comes to the realm of cool.

I was emailing back and forth with my lovely James Hetfield lovin', Greek goddess friend who is based in London (weep!), and we started discussing how I really needed to somehow acquaint myself with James Franco. We mused, as we often do in tangential form, about how I would just happen to position myself on NYU campus, and what I would just happen to be wearing (a t-shirt with a shark eating a kitten, maybe, but like, really tight), but then the tricky part of starting a conversation came up. What makes me a rather terrible New Yorker in many ways is that I am somewhat shy when it comes to initiating dialogue. That said, I am a great New Yorker in that I can ignore anyone. However, I shall not be ignoring James.

I dislike the notion of striking up a conversation with a celebrity by starting with their "work". The thought alone makes me cringe with embarrassment. I think there is a Dutch term for embarrassment felt for someone else in a cringe-worthy situation. (Pipe in any Dutch readers out there.) So, Greek Goddess and I were running through IMDB with all the possible film references I could make to James, and then exhausted and overwhelmed I suggested "I thought you were great in Batman."

And then I didn't hear from my friend for a spell. Dead silence. Crickets.

Finally, she broke with silence with "Apologies for the condescending geek that I am but it's Spider-Man if you're referring to Franco. Oh I hang my head in shame at correcting you. Besides there is only one James that earns the right to giant, bold font and that is The Mighty Het."

Bless.

Magical Inwood

I left the house at 7:00 a.m. today armed with a messenger bag, snacks, and a wad of cash and headed to Inwood to check out a new bicyclette. After an hour spent with strangers whose sour breath matched their dispositions, I alighted at 181st street station and it took no time to realize that I was in another world. People were, how do I put this, friendly. I headed to the address of the woman who was selling the bike, and realized that I was going the wrong way. When someone who was sweeping outside the building saw me looking at a piece of paper with the address, he approached me and asked if I needed help. He advised me to climb up a long flight of concrete stairs (that's what the elevator in the station was all about!!!) and I would find the building there.

After trudging up about 100 steps, I was amazed at what stood before me. Just regular old buildings, I guess, built around the turn of the 20th century, but they were very different from my part of town. It took me a minute to realize that the difference was that they were clean. Things were tidy and clean! Order! AND, best of all--a view of the Hudson.

Still a bit in awe of what I was seeing, I met up with the seller of said bike, and she immediately offered a cup of tea. Then we sat and chatted for about three quarters of an hour and it was fantastic. I just couldn't help thinking that if she were not leaving, she would be someone I would like to know. We discussed the seedier side to non-profits and how somehow people often just self aggrandize when they work for them, thus becoming worse than the corporate machine. We finally looked at the bike, discussed why she had never ridden it (fear of mean streets), its travels with her (D.C. to Sydney to Inwood) and how she was going to spend the cash (Botox).

An hour later I left her building with bike in tow (I lurves it, I do!!!) and because I hadn't made any adjustments to the seat or anything, I chose to not ride it. This did not go unnoticed. The people of Inwood are fastidious and astute. One minute into my journey, a woman exiting her building called out to me, "Now, that's a good idea! A bike ride." She caught me up and we discussed the forecast. She then bid me a glorious day and turned down a nicely groomed street. I headed to the park near the subway station (Bike Seller gave me detailed directions on the ideal route back) where I was met by an older gentleman pushing a toddler in a stroller. The toddler wouldn't stop smiling. It was the happiest baby I have ever seen. Showing off it's two little Tic Tac teeth, it grinned and his courier said "That's a nice idea, taking the bike for a stroll are we?" I laughed (even my laugh sounds different in Inwood. It sounded lighthearted and gay, like that of a 50's starlet) and pointed out the need to set it up accordingly. Without missing a beat he retorted "Too right, you don't want to hurt your tush." TUSH. THEY SAY TUSH IN INWOOD!!!

The chatter didn't stop there. I got to the train and was heckled by a pack of MTA employees about taking the train. "Girl, you can't ride that?" "Look who's taking the bike for a ride...on the train." "That's gonna cost you extra!" It was all gentle ribbing and good fun. People were smiling. We laughed. Oh, how we laughed... It was bizarrely Utopian in feel, without the dullness and space age clothing. Birds were louder and more melodious. Colors were brighter. People on the train apologized to me for being in the way.

However, all good things must come to a screeching halt. As soon as I got to the Franklin Avenue shuttle station, the sky turned gray and overcast. No more smiles. Despite the fear of overwhelming dead hobo smell that seems to permeate every elevator on the MTA, I tried to take it to the top platform. Alas, I waited for several minutes, but nothing happened. So I hauled new bike up the stairs (thankfully, it's DX, which means "lite" in bikeese). Two people commented on the fact that I should just use the elevator, but their advice was cut short by a gruff man in an orange vest saying it was out of order. My easy morning was quickly morphing into a difficult afternoon. But things started to look up again when I pedaled up to my courtyard (that sounds so much nicer than it actually is. It's a slab of stone painted gray, littered with donut wrappers and fliers.) I have a new bike, and it rides like a dream.

Thanks, Inwood!

The Sting

My brother may have a different take on our upbringing, but I don't recall a particularly affectionate family. Naturally, I have no choice but to think of this a bit as an adult and especially as an adult who dates. Aside from all the other wonderful nuances of meeting someone I would like to spend time with, issues come to the surface, like, say intimacy. (Case in point, I just sat here for several minutes looking at those italicized letters kind of trying not to throw up in my mouth.)

I know I am tough to deal with from time to time. I have been called numerous things, my favorite nicknames can't be said on television before 9:00 p.m. My personality can be prickly, my views on things harsh, but can I blame this on being raised by a bunch of WASPs who reveled in public displays of rejection? I think this is just me. When I see my younger siblings hanging out with their friends or each other, they are quite adorable and all hugglesworth and things I never was. I kinda sit back and envy it a bit, but not enough to participate. That is them, and this, my friends, is moi.

This lack of affection doesn't mean that I am not sensitive. A deodorant commercial could set me off on a crying jag. Watching old people walk around alone at night scares the shit out of me (for their sake, they don't frighten me. I could totally take on an octogenarian.) I might not be approachable, but I sometimes I do fancy myself a fair maiden trying to negotiate a path with a few pebbles on it. So, I may appear to live up to my Chinese astrological sing (Ox), but that doesn't mean that I don't have any feelings. Spare me the kid gloves, but don't be an ass.

2 Girls for Five Bucks

As a belated birthday present, my dear friend S___ took me to a show at Ars Nova, "New York’s premier hub for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music, producing provocative and affordable live entertainment." Quite a lofty summation, but five minutes after the show started I was thinking, "Wow, this is a great venue for emerging artists and new work in theater, comedy and music..."

From the very beginning I was taken in by the 2 Girls. Sat right up front, I had the fantastic vantage point of not just the stage, but I was able to look back at the small audience. Any time I did (which was rare as the ladies were captivating) the rest of the crowd looked equally enthralled.

I am not about to give a rundown of the production, but I will say that it was wonderfully refreshing to see a show with women who talk about dating without coming across as manbashers or simpering girls who "just can't seem to find the one". It's a delicate thing to discuss dating in New York without at some juncture pointing blame. When it isn't the blame card, one falls into a pattern of stereotypes. "Guys are douchebags; Women are clingy" 2 Girls are definitely quirky, often neurotic, gals about town, but they are also incredibly unique. They don't fill any sort of stereotype, they merely exhibit tendencies. It's theater, but it's not false and that is what makes it such a great show. Everything about 2 Girls for 5 Bucks feels familiar, but it doesn't leave you feeling "I could have done that", but instead you feel "Yes, Yes, Yes!"

OH, and one of the best elements was the band, The Ten Dollar Heartbreakers. Superb and ingenious, not to mention adorable.

Hurrazzles!!!

Checking my bank account has been something I try not to do too often these days. Alas, in a moment of early morning bravado, I did and discovered that my appeal to the Department of Labor for a weekly unemployment increase was approved. This means $129 more per week. Drink is on me! That's right, drink singular.

I am amazed at how quickly it all happened, and have a new sense of faith in the system. Good timing as the string pull thingy on my kitchen light broke and the lights have been on since 6:00 a.m.

Der Vorleser

A few weeks ago I went to a small Brooklyn theater to see The Reader. I opted for a 7:00 p.m. show with the belief that most young couples on a date would go to the later viewing. What I didn't bargain for was that 7:00 p.m. show was for the AARP crowd. Firstly, it smelled vaguely of camphor and death, which lends itself to a film taking place around WWII (sehr authentico). Secondly, have you ever noticed how loud old people chew? It was like surround sound in my neighbors mouth. I don't even think he was eating popcorn. It was probably a bag of marshmallows, but somehow he managed to turn up the volume.

What struck me most was that at the pinnacle moment in the film when young love turned old was about to be revealed, just at the point when my eyes were brimming with saline, I realized that I felt like I was surrounded by people who lived through WWII. That was why they didn't get upset and teary eyed, because they have been through so much worse. There I was reveling in the tragedy and lost love in a roomful of strangers. Compounding that was the thought that nobody would ever love me that much, which set me off to cry a bit more, borderline sobbing. Yet, when I looked up, those around me looked almost bored. I dare say I saw a pair of rheumy eyes roll.

Walking out of the film I felt something I haven't felt in Brooklyn in a very long time: young. It was nice and refreshing, and it gave me a bit of hope. Until I run into a pack of 20-somethings hoggin' all the bar space, that is.

Not Yet Available, Sorry...

After getting the pink slip from my last post, I sighed with relief, but in the back of my mind job search dread lingered. It has been one month now, and I have done little to find a new place to store my corporate shoe collection. However, quite amazingly, a few opportunities have come my way and I really don't know what to make of it all. Granted, none of the roles are ideal, but I am slightly amazed at the way this is all happening. Ideal isn't the right word, really. Nothing appeals to me at the moment, except perhaps the opportunity to name nail polish shades, or to test yogurt flavors or something. Maybe even to work on some sort of film review type of thing, but at my leisure. Deadlines and low hemlines are not my forte at the moment. I feel I need to sit this out a bit and revel a bit more in ultimate relaxation. Unfortunately, I think the nothingness has caused a migraine of epic proportions to creep its way up the base of my skull.

African Burial Grounds

Central Park + Cachaça = Bikram Yoga

After a morning of recovering from the aforementioned weekend with some old chums from abroad, I cleaned myself up and made my way to 110th street for a charity event sponsored by the Central Park Conservancy. From the second my foot hit the highly polished floor, I knew two things: I was glad I went to the event alone and I was definitely not going to blend in with the crowd. For the next two hours I rubbed shoulders with a flock of people I can safely assume I will never see again. It was a room full of perfect smiles and angles clad in the latest Fifth Avenue offered. After emptying my first plastic cup of some delicious passion fruit laced Cachaça elixer, I attempted a bit of a mingle in the small room, and landed in the corner where I could look out over the Blandana Republic. I made my way to the cocktail table again, this time opting for a strawberry and prosecco laced drink, and then slowly worked my way around the room again, this time in a counter clockwise direction. (I really know how to shake things up.) It was during this journey that I passed the silent auction table. Regarding the "prizes", I noticed that not only were the bids low, but they were virtually non-existant. Slightly buzzed and feeling heady with the thrill of being on the water (does the Harlem Meer count?), I decided that bikram yoga would be a good thing for me AND what were the chances that any of the attendees of this event really went as far south as 14th street on any given day, much less to sweat their asses off. So, I jotted down my bid, the second on the list, and worked my way over to someone I had been introduced to a month prior.
Cocktail, round snack, round snack, cocktail, oval snack.
The silent auction ended, and it was to my astonishment that I had placed the highest bid. I was now the proud owner of a 3 month membership to hot yoga town. Joke is on them cuz this gal can go EVERY DAY AT ANY TIME. Even so, I was quite pleased with my win and decided to cast aside any fear that I had about group classes, much less hot steamy ones that I had never taken before. Now I just have to start...

Goodbye, Farewell

This past weekend was one long-winded pub crawl interspersed with snippets of sleep, food and idle banter, and peppered with lots of laughs. Entertaining out of town guests is always fun, and I welcome the challenge of finding great venues for cocktails and victuals, great walks and views. If the opportunity for entertainment in a more cultural form comes along, even better.

The best part of having someone stay in my apartment is when they finally leave. Strangely enough, it is often also the worst part. Once the wheelie case makes it down the hall, my small one bedroom starts to close in on me a bit, and even my cat looks at me as though I will never have any hope of keeping anyone in the place for longer than a week. It makes me wonder, too, if I really could ever live with anyone again. I used to long for a time I could share everything I had, including space and possessions, but now I am realizing that it may not be the best way to go about things. Living with someone creates intimacy and closeness, but it also manages to expose habits and nuances that I don't know if I want exposed to anyone. The exhaustion I feel after having a friend from out of town is not so much showing them around and playing tour guide, but also a sort of pent up anxiety about them seeing how I live. The cat, the dusty windowsill, the refrigerator bereft of greens, but brimming with booze. My lifestyle may almost appear Jonesian in a certain light, and I fear this glimpse, this view. The only way to avoid it is going out into the wild and returning when it is dark and we are all too buzzed to see it.

day after sick

Monday was a sick day.
Tuesday was a day of recovery.
Wednesday was spent marveling at the glories of being well. There is nothing like the first day of being well again. I could sit up straight for 20 minutes straight without taxing my body. Making instant oatmeal didn't cause me to break out in a sweat. My hands didn't ache after peeling an orange. Carbonation from gingerale didn't hurt my face. I can get the mail! Glorious day!!!

Nice Box

Yesterday I awoke promptly at 8:00 a.m. to discover that some sort of bug had entered my system and wanted nothing to do with food or liquids. This battle went on all day. A day riddled with feverish dreams, chicken broth, 3 cans of gingerale, less chicken broth, even less gingerale, then Cadbury mini eggs (the only thing my body didn't reject) and then more weird nightmares.

Today I woke up feeling marginally better, able to consume 8 ounces of liquid and retain an even 8 ounces of liquid. I also feel comfortable sitting up, though I have some dream hangovers to deal with (one involving a very frustrating flight to Somewhereville). I was going to do laundry, but I don't want to push myself too much. Instead, I have spent a good part of the afternoon watching a self help video (homework) and covering a cardboard box in plywood patterned contact paper. This amazing creation now houses all those pesky cords under my computer. THIS very station where I write weblogs and search for boys and write inspirational prose to my mother and some friends. I have decorated the epi center of thoughts in my apartment.

Don't tell me I don't do nothin'.

Therein lies the paradox

Whilst taking part in this little social experiment I call "Dating", I have encountered a wide array of some of this city's finest menfolk. Overall, I haven't had a terrible experience. The odd anecdote here, the random frustration there, and very little heartache, for the most part. I consider myself lucky in that last department. Naturally, most stories stem from some sort of mystifying occurrence or more likely an incredibly uncomfortable experience.

One major problem I have with dating is that I could talk to anyone for at least an hour. Anyone. I find it fascinating and rarely have trouble finding a topic to discuss, even (sometimes especially) if we have differing viewpoints. This may not seem terrible, but it does leave me wondering sometimes after a meeting "Was that a good date or just good banter?" Sure, some would ask if I felt a spark. Please don't get me on that spark business. Another time, perhaps.

However, the singularly most uncomfortable situation that can occur during a date is in regards to money. I hate talking about money with strangers, especially male strangers, and even more especially with male strangers I may want to have intimate relations with. It makes my skin crawl. I despise the song and dance once a bill arrives. The pause, the me slowly reaching towards my bag, the meek "No, don't worry about it!" followed by a simpering "Really? Are you sure?" YUCK! It is all so very false. Listen, if a guy invites me to his favorite Japanese restaurant on the edge of town on a rainy night, he better pay for the shark cartilage snack I had to chew for several hours that night. It was his invitation, his idea, ALLLL his doing. Likewise, if I recommend my favorite tapas place, I will expect to pay. I invited you. Get it? It's common courtesy. If these guys don't want to shell out for a meal with someone of incredible awesomeness, then don't suggest meeting at a fancy place. A ramen place, will do. I don't even expect dinner on a first date. I was wowed at the suggestion, but it was marred by the post date insights. That's right, folks, this fine young chap took me out for a fun time on the town, and then when I didn't appeal to his sensibilities, he took no time in telling me how wrong I was not to offer. Perhaps I should have run through the above mentioned drill, I will do so next time. My favorite part of all this is that now Mr. Decorum for the Modern Woman (he actually did say "the modern woman" twice in his email) Don't believe me? See below:)

"one thing I can tell you about dating is that you should offer to share the bill on a first date. most guys (myself included) will insist on paying it anyway, but it's polite to offer. and you should certainly always thank someone for paying. not a major deal, but I definitely noticed. " (I definitely thanked him, twice in fact. The first time he was checking his blackberry. I pointed this out to him and he said I should have said it again!)

"secondly, while technically it's true, I'd say our date was pretty neutral in terms of who asked who out. it's not like we met at a part and I came over and asked you to dinner. we met on a dating site. where the entire point is to date. if I hadn't said anything, I'm sure you would've eventually. but really, even this is besides the point." (This point is very confusing. Does he mean to infer that an internet related date is not a real date?)

"lastly, this doesn't at all speak to the point I was making. this talks about who should pay. I don't recall saying that you should've paid or even that we should've slit it. I obviously agree that I should've paid, because.....I did. what I'm saying is that it's gracious and modern for a woman to offer. it's one of those little etiquette dances that people do and I think shows class. the man goes for the bill, the woman offers graciously to contribute, the many politely insists on paying. the woman thanks the man, then and there. that to me is polite, appropriate, and modern."

has inadvertently made himself to look like a real prat by pointing out the deficiencies of someone else, thereby rendering all gentlemanliness null and void. Well done, young man. NEXT! Oh no, but there is more... He goes on to say that times were great despite my not being a modern woman, but he would have liked to make adult funtimes anyway.

"so I guess I'll just say that I had a good time on Friday night too. you are funny and easy to hang out with. but I guess I didn't feel that "spark" or something. sure that sounds rosey, but I'm sure you know what I mean. and while it probably would've been fun to go back to your place or something (not assuming at all that you would), I sort of liked you too much to do that, as weird as that might sound."

Way to raise the bar, tote le douche.

The Greatest

There is a new person in my world who I call "Life Coach". Life Coach sent me a form to fill out which involved a lot of goal making. Then, LC and I went over the form together. I quickly realized my goals were actually very easily attainable, and I hadn't once mentioned anything like a dream goal. This struck me as very telling. I distinctly recall a childhood full of sweeping proclamations. In fact, just saying any of them aloud is almost embarrassing at this point. What if someone hears me say "I want to be rich!" or "I want to be an architect!" Perhaps shooting for the moon in some ways, but certainly not crazy. Somewhere along the line I was told that these things weren't possible and now I have to unlearn. I cannot believe it is happening; all those little tidbits that self help books have been extolling about unlearning is all true. Brain habits. I need to break some brain habits.

Shut up the baby

One of the most fascinating aspects of being at home during the day is the opportunity to learn more about my neighbors. Once upon a time, my life was disrupted by a large black dog with a murderous bark. That dog has disappeared, and though I hated it with every fiber of my being, I hope that it is in a happy place.

I had an inkling of an idea that my downstairs neighbor was a babysitter during the day, but those suspicions have been confirmed with the sounds of 8:30 a.m. chatter in the hallway, followed by the shutting of a door and wails of a child. I never liked my neighbor much. She once called the police at 7:00 a.m. because I was "walking around with shoes on". When the coppers came to my door and told me of her complaint, I was so taken aback all I could manage to say was "Are you going to arrest my shoes?" They disliked her and now I was making their lives difficult, but I would like to think in a cute, punchy way. I likened myself to a wise-crackin' 20-something sassy gal about town in an early '80's sitcom. Kind of like the white neighbor in Good Times. Sure, I may look like the privileged white girl in the 'hood, but my life was full of trials and tribulations. During a more somber episode, perhaps, insights into my troubled childhood, or an abusive relationship would be exposed, making the neighbors love and appreciate me that much more.

But I digress. My point was to say, there is a baby crying downstairs. Please shut up the baby. I am trying to weblog, people!

Serendipity

One of the first books I remember becoming mildly obsessed with as a child was 'Serendipity', by Stephen Cosgrove. It could be very well that it was just because it was a story about the trials and tribulations of an adorable monster, or it could be that I just liked that word: Serendipity. When I finally realized what it meant, I grew more fond of it. My childhood was good in many ways, but I remember feeling a great deal of frustration. Learning that there is such a thing as perfect timing, a happy accident in the cosmos thrilled me.

It had been a long time since I'd last thought about serendipity when I walked through the L'Oreal Academy doors on Saturday morning. After getting the obligatory forms signing away hair freedom, I looked up and saw none other than my friend from San Francisco. Apprehension isn't generally a feeling I get in regards to haircuts and things, but I certainly knew I was in good hands when I saw Amita. Any tension I had dissipated, and it was lovely just to sit around, flip through magazines, talk hair, or simply listen to others talk about hair. Something about it was incredibly soothing, like a 2009 version of the salon the ladies have in Steel Magnolias. Though I am quite pleased with the recent turn of umployment events, I still feel a bit of apprehension now and then. It has only been a week, so ask me again in a month. Seeing Amita, chatting up a storm and having my look transformed by someone I trust was incredibly soothing. And FUN! I expected one thing and got quite another; perfect timing.

Prep

This tableau strikes me as lovely and hilarious. I mentioned to a friend the fact that the cover of this book makes everything in my apartment look different, and I don't think he believed me. I am not judging the book, mind you, but it is certainly changing things in my immediate world. Even better is that I started to take the picture and Mr. Furpants jumped into the frame, ready for action.

Movin' On Up - Sort of...

One great thing about not working during the day is the ability to get things done. Unless a book or an endless chain of Youtube cats doing zany things catches my eye. A huge misnomer about being unemployed is that I have nothing to do. Au contraire people, I am busier than ever! Sometimes I will even go as far as to help others. On Wednesday, I volunteered to help a dear friend move. I knew it wouldn't entail lifting anything over 5 pounds (as was stipulated in our verbal agreement), but I did want to help in some very small way.

It was a rather painless move, except that when we got to the new apartment, parking was scarce and I was asked to sit in the box truck to avoid a ticket. That was how I found myself on a Wednesday at noon sitting in the driver's seat of a moving truck in the cold while the movers shlepped boxes up 4 flights of stairs. I felt a little guilty about this, but soon became absorbed in an article about Bernie Madoff. Then I became furious. The tale of broken trust and enormous swindle is maddening enough, but taking in the full account whilst freezing, breathing in exhaust, checking on my unemployment status was just too much to bear. Something about dialing a number where I was told to call back due to excessive call volume (read: overwhelming unemployment claims) with a picture of a man who sits in a 24 room mansion on the Atlantic Ocean under "house arrest" on my lap struck me as incredibly unjust. For an instance I felt a wave of anger and frustration akin to what I can only imagine an 19th century peasant may have felt.

Needless to say, I became incredibly grumpy. Fortunately, an hour later I was sipping a fantastic Riesling and discussing this very blog entry. (META!)

First Interview

Against my better judgment, I met with a recruiter at one of those cattle ranch firms specializing in corporate placement. It has a name that smacks of 80's success, a play on words which is meant to appear business savvy and tongue in cheek, when really it was probably the result of a coke fueled evening after a Stray Cats concert.

I had no intention of going back to work right away, but felt that it would be a lot better to meet someone right away than in 4 months time. So I went armed with a fresh copy of my curriculum vitae (all in past tense) and my hair shaped into a execu-bob. Full of hope, I was not, but I practiced my smile all the way into the city on the train.

The moment I stepped out of the elevator I knew I made the wrong decision. Several women (and one man) were stationed in their little laminate cubicles, heads just appearing over the walls. Some typing, some hunched reading whatever virus was sent their way...everyone looked miserable. Though it may be the color of the season, the IT color gray was not helping matters. Here is who looks good in gray: people who smile.

I filled out the form in ant sized font and awaited my fate. It came in the form of a 4'2" woman with glasses that engulfed her entire face. She was insane looking, but she was kind. After a run through of my current situation, a debriefing of my past and small pleasantries, she introduced me to her colleague. Fortunately, she was in the cube directly behind her. I could have wheeled my chair over whilst remaining seated, but see above on my positive state of mind. I was going to stand and walk one step. I was going to prove myself!

The moment I got there (total travel time: 1.8 seconds), I knew I was doomed. The woman I met was in the unfortunate category of "very un-cute". It struck me how though I am hardly a "looker" in the city of gorgeous people, it must be a greater cross to bear to be an un-cute Asian woman in New York City. I mean, they are all pretty and adorable in some way! I can handle being a plain looking Caucasian, because it is expected. She didn't help matters by wearing an over sized black jacket with a Nehru collar and not putting product in her hair. The overall effect was a space orphan who happened to be a Beatles fan. She looked at my resume, set it down, then started typing a one sentence email, stopped mid-sentence, told me to hang on for a minute because she "really needed to get this email out the door". Yes, the door. The one sentence email. I think it was a request for a better fitting jacket from her superiors.

After slapping the Enter key, she picked up my resume again and just shook her head back and forth. Sputtering her indignation at my having moved around so much over the past 7 years, she just asked "Why? Why would you do this?" It was then that I took in the personal memorabilia on her "walls". Several professional photographs of presumably her family all in white, the youngest balancing the 4th rung of a ladder lined her work station. Four kids? This drone has a husband and four children? All of them posing on a ladder in front of an enormous roll of white paper. White on white, their tiny smiling heads popping off the page. They looked happy. Why couldn't she? After berating me for my not sticking with the same dead-end job for more than five years, she told me the company she worked with was very conservative. She even commented on my suit saying it was "lovely, but they liked pin-stripes". I sat there quietly, listened to what she had to say, took in the first woman I met defending my background, then I just said, "Honestly, that is not the kind of company I want to work for anyway. Are we done here?" I thanked her, she didn't look up from her computer (One sentence emails are oft the most difficult), and made my way to the elevator. I was never so happy to be outside in midtown Manhattan.

33 Weeks

On Wednesday, February 18, at approximately 3:23 p.m., I was told my services were no longer affordable at my place of employment. I got the "it's not you, it's us" speech, was led to my office, packed up my books and several pairs of shoes, and made my way out the door. I was never extremely happy about that place, but it was sad and shocking. My eyes may have leaked a bit, watching other eyes get red and wet made it even worse. I made my way outside and called some people who may want to share my shock. Then I went home, changed into something less corporate, turned on my computer and filed for unemployment. I have done this once before, about two years ago, and though it wasn't the best feeling, it was comfortable. Like return to a hobo camp, with the same 55 gallon drum fireplace, shiv hidden under my pile of stolen blankets...there I was again, living off the gubment.

There are two major differences this time: As of March 1, 2009, the weekly payments increased by $25. Fantastic!!! Mani/pedi paid! The other difference was that legislation was passed to increase the length of benefits to 33 weeks. THIRTY-THREE WEEKS. It was at this point I realized I was gonna be o.k. More than o.k., 33 is my number. My talisman, the numerical equivalent to a rabbit's foot WITH a horse shoe. I was gonna be more than o.k., I was going to succeed. In what, I have no idea, but if there is a prize for unemploed-ness, I was going to win it.