That Big Allegorical Thing in the Room

My writers block is not due to having nothing to write about; but rather way too much to write about and not a clear idea as to how to describe the thoughts which are whizzing around my brain.

I guess the best shot I can take is through allegory.

Imagine: a beating, hot, passionate, scary thing in a big space. One can't really look too closely at the thing, but it's there, almost like a burning sun. It's indescribable because it can be so many things. When I try to take it in I am reminded of a prism for light: one thought goes in and a million fragments of rainbow come out. Then BIG words come in to focus:

I see: Love. Marriage. Forever.
And
I see: Failure. Sadness. Regret.

...And all the different shades of those thoughts bouncing off into the distance.

I don't trust where I am in this allegorical place. I've been in this room, but I've never been in this situation before. In the past, I come to a place like this, and there is another person who enters as well. I know they are here with me because they just came in, invited, through a door labeled: "romantic interest" or "class-mate" or "the friend of a friend" and I look at that thing in between us and I see the millions of possibilities, but never the big words like I described before. Generally, like in the case of Kismet or Cutie or Dominoes

I see: Laughter. Flirtation. Sex.
And
I see: Annoyance. Longing. Disappointment.

But, those are the words and feelings I see with most people.

Now, I am in this place where that multifaceted sun-like-gem-like-passion-thing-y is staring me in the face and the person I am in the room with is as well, except he came in through a weird side door called "the best friend" door. And the two of us are dancing around this big thing and there is a question hanging in the air that makes me wonder: "Could we make this work?" and I then see those BIG words I described before and I get scared.

Our friendship is important to me. In fact, one of the most important aspects of my life. And I see Failure fly through that thing in the center and all the images of a relationship destroyed are brought to mind. And then, the opposite: Love and we fall passionately into something really strong, and the images of a life-long commitment to each other are brought to mind.

Oy.

A lot to ponder and think about. And the two allegorical avatars of "us" in that room continue to dance, on and on, getting closer and closer...to...what? And does a decision need to be made now? I don't know. But that thing in between us is getting harder to ignore.

The Greeks

Ahh! Cat-lin! We were just talking about you! Which do you prefer: Michelangelo or Picasso? I don't like Picasso, I think it is too simple, too boring. I look at it in one second and I am bored. Michelangelo! Ah! That is a master! I can look at his work for hours and am not bored! 

We were standing outside the Greek restaurant waiting for the two beautiful Greek sisters to finish their cigarettes before heading in to feast on what they described as "good" Greek food. These were Women who were talking; their dark hair, heavy eye-liner, strong european accents and stiff backs reminding me that beauty truly lives in confidence. I was up for anything: when I invited myself along for the dinner with the two Sisters (my sister Caitie knew from the cafe she worked at) I was willing to let the night push me in any direction it wanted to. 

We sat down for a full dinner of wine, fish, appetizers, deserts, pepper grinders three feet long, waiters that were dressed in bow ties and, eventually, bawdy conversations about the different kinds of men we'd all slept with at one point. I'd never been out with another pair of sisters before, but I was loving it. I felt balanced as the conversations roved and roiled and rolled with each cup of wine being re-filled by our server and another delicious dish of greek food was placed on the table. By the time we stumbled out of the restaurant, the place had closed. 

Nat-A-lie? Have you been to Cafe Noir? Oh it is so good! The best! would you girls like to come? Cat-lin? Come! Yes! Let's have a drink!

The Sisters whisked us down to SoHo where a band playing covers of famous Latin dance music was strumming away. I ordered a single malt scotch and sipped as the dark bar began to spin with drunken dancers. One of the Greek Sisters got up and began to dance: arms in the air, hips swaying, hair flapping and hands clapping. After a while, the band stopped, wishing everyone a good night and the entire bar screamed its dissent. KEEP PLAYING! I screamed with the rest, as the scotch had made its way into my own hips, pushing me onto the dance floor and moving me around to the beat of the flamenco guitar. It was a riot! The band members got back onto their instruments and played for another 20 minutes. 

I was pulled on by one of the Greek sisters. She grabbed me by the waist and held me close as she swung me around the floor in a fast samba. You dance so good! Nat-A-Lie! She praised as I felt her hips move mine. I laughed. It felt so good to dance with someone who could look me in the eye, feel my body move, and at the end of the night; not want to sleep with me. 

The four of us wound up outside the bar after the music stopped. It was midnight. I felt full and drunk. 

"I had so much fun with you guys." I said, trying to sound poignant. 

We must do this again. Said one of the sisters. On a Saturday, we must go salsa dancing! 

I laughed: hard. I didn't know what was funny. It wasn't really. Maybe it was that one of the sisters wasn't wearing a coat in the January night and was smoking a cigarette, maybe it was the comment made a few minutes earlier (When I danced with that latino... oh my god. I thought I would cum. Seriously! His knee was right in my... you know!), maybe it was the band mates offering to buy us more drinks while unzipping our coats as we tried to leave for the 4th time. All I did know was that I felt good. I felt incredibly happy to be spending a night with women only: with Sisters. 

What a change! What a chance to feel something stronger than sexual tension! I feel like I'm healing and growing more than I thought I ever could with women!

Play on, band! Play on!

Cutie Returns

What's this? A text? at 2am? On Saturday? Who's... Cutie?

Ohhhhhhh. Jeeze, haven't heard from that guy since October. Wonder what he has to say.

WHAT THE FUCK!?


Oh, Cutie. Whyyyyyyy?

I've heard about guys sending pictures of their hard-on's, but have never had first hand experience with it and it's so... weird! Don't send girls pictures of your junk, guys. Please. Like, what am I supposed to say back? In your weird little head, what the hell do you think I would respond with?

Me: Hey! I was just sitting here alone and sad and you just made my day! You look great! Wanna hang on Tuesday?

Or

Me: WHERE ARE YOU!? I'm in bed. Get here right now.

Or

Me: After we stopped seeing each other, I decided I was gay. But, now that I've seen this, I know better. I'm nothing without your... assets, and I want you. I don't care that you're drunk. Just make me the woman I should be!

Instead, I stared at my phone for a minute, processing my life, and then set the phone down without a response. It's been 3 months since I last thought of that guy. Why was he sending me this photo? And was it only to me? Maybe he was machine gunning every girl in his phone book, hoping to hit a target. Where's the self respect? I just feel really alienated and grossed out that I ever even knew him now. I mean, Cutie, if you ever wanted to see me again, why not send me a text that was a simple: "Hey, how are you?"

The caption to the photo he sent was: "I'm drunk and stupid."

Yeah. You are. And you've now landed the impressive new role of "That guy who sent me a photo of his hard on" for the rest of my life. Epic fail, dude!

Chocolate, Amen.

I sat at my kitchen window, staring out at what looked like a very pretty day and trying to find any kind of motivation to get the hell out of the apartment. I thought about running, or going to the gym. Maybe I could take a small walk around the neighborhood... It seemed like each idea I had was just another reason for me to fall back into aimlessly searching for pictures of couches I would never buy for a living room that is still sitting unused and full of detritus.

My new room mate, Nina, came home with a buddy and began to chat with me a bit. I suddenly had a mission. "I need chocolate, Nina!" I stated.

"Why don't you come out with me to Duane Reade and you can get yourself some!" she responded. Great idea.

After getting the 10 dollar Russell Stover red heart full 'o assorted chocolates, I walked back toward my apartment feeling triumphant. I didn't even wait to get in the door: out in the street I ripped open the red wrapping and pulled out a piece of butter cream dark chocolate and ate it in two bites feeling a big stupid grin rip across my face.

No man? No sex? Got a period that'll never end? Feeling Fat? Feeling lazy? Feeling yucky and sorry for yourself?

Chocolate. Chocolate will make it all better.

Amen.

Sorry, Not Interested.

What? I can't hear you over the music! My friends are over there, yeah. I'm not alone... What was that? Sorry. I need to go and pretend like I've got an important question my friends want me to answer. I don't care about what whisky you're drinking. Byeeee.

One Magners please. Um, I see you staring at my butt. Uh huh. You want to know all about me, huh? Like my interests and stuff? Oh and you're only over here because you want to say hi because you got a promotion today!? Wow. That's sooooo great. And that's your brother over there? Yeah, he's... he looks nice in that stained Devil's jersey. Ok, I need to go and wander over to the other side of the bar now.

Hey, bartender? I need another Magne-- Oh no. Not you again. Yup, butt's still attached to me. And I'm still not interested. I am going home alone tonight. Gotta' go.

I'm really enjoying myself! This party is fun! I'm getting buzzed. This hard cider is yummy. Woah. You're pretty drunk. Your eyes are lingering on me a bit too long. Isn't your girlfriend here? I'll check my phone even though I know I have no new texts and the only phone call I had today was from my Dad.

Yeah I LOVE doing that thing that you said you love to do! Oh wow. We have so much in common! I'm going to touch my chest and fluff my hair a lot as I talk to you. I'll even put my hands on my hips and try and look a little vulnerable and shy so you don't feel threatened in your manliness. Fuck. I feel fake. I'm going to trail off in a sentence and wander away.

I'm done. I'm pretty buzzed. I'm in a cab now, going home alone. No new texts, no weird drunk messages. Just me. I'd rather be honest and comfortable in my single-ness, than fake, uncomfortable and weird with someone I don't really like or know.

See you soon, bar scene.

Mr. No Call No Show

We meet at a function of some sort, we hit it off (or at least, I think we hit it off), numbers are swapped, and then I go home with a smile on my face about the excitement over meeting this cool new dude. 

He seems fun the more I know about him! He knows some of my friends, we've got similar interests, and when asked, mutual friends have nothing but great things to say. Awesome. 

He sets up a date. Great! Let's meet on that day we said we were both free! Ok! See ya!

That day comes around and, whoops... his grandma died, so he is really busy. Could you reschedule?

No problem. I'm patient, and grandmas dropping dead are a big deal. I understand. 

He said he'll let me know when he's free, like, really soon. Then, we'll both go on a wonderful date and hit it off and then start dating and get married (in a beautiful country setting with a stone house and a farm in the background) and then the kids we will have will be beautiful and when they are old enough we'll will tell them how we met. How romantic!

A few days go by....

Then a few more.

Um... hmm. Hey? Is your grandma still dead? You free any time this week?

No response. 

Wait a minute. 

Oh no. I just met a Mr. No Call No Show, didn't I?

Fuck. 

What a waste! Dammit! Your grandma isn't dead, is she!?! NOOOO!! I believed you! 

Argh! Mr. No Call No Show's are so annoying because there is no sign around their neck that indicate their flake-fest! Damn! Where's the warning label? 

Whatever. I'm fine. Just, for my own good, Mr. No Call No Show, please don't text me in a month and ask to hang.... 'Cause I might say yes despite myself, and that's really a thought I don't want to think about. Then the sign around my neck will say: "Little Miss Sucker" and you'd be able to read that loud and clear.

-Natalie

Modesty

I was walking back to the 42nd street subway stop from an improv show. It was midnight and I felt tired having just spent a lot of energy in my own improv rehearsal and then watching a show. I hunched into my jacket and felt the familiar sense of false safety from having a big winter jacket on. The way I figure it, if I have a big winter jacket on, a large hat that covers my hair, and a scarf that takes care of everything but the face, I should avoid the looks and jeers of most horny guys I pass on the street, right? Because, as far as I know, some religious practices dictate that women wear this kind of stuff all the time in order to avoid any salacious comments, and that it is absolutely necessary if you wish to live a more modest (and therefore pious and good?) life.

I disagree.

Try being a woman in her 20's, walking up 8th avenue at midnight, wearing full winter regalia and still getting snapped out of a thought from a guy banging on his store window in order to catch your eye as he winks at you. Or, getting the very perceptive comment of "Nice hat, beautiful," followed up by: "Can I buy you breakfast?"

I'm flattered that these human beings feel the need to express themselves and let me know how attractive I am to them, but, really? I'm wearing a big puffy jacket, smeared make-up, and bags under my eyes. I'm staring off into space (like I normally do when I walk the streets on New York) and am totally comfortable being in my own world until someone snaps me out of a thought with a comment about my physical appearance. I'm not even looking at them! I didn't make eye contact or accidentally drop my bag and cry for help. These guys, noticed me walking by: big coat and all.

I'm not mad; I'm more amused than irritated. Does it really matter what I'm wearing? Summer has me in shorts, flip-flops, and a tank top and I get the same comments that I get in the winter. The real hypocrisy to me is that modesty has been defined by what a woman clothes her body in. I'm finding that is stinking with a lot of bull shit. I saw a photo of a young woman wearing nothing but her birthday suit and written across her naked chest a statement that says: "Still not asking for it." Damn right.  A woman is beautiful, no matter how many layers she can throw on herself, and any man with an eyeball to look out of will comment regardless.

A New York State of Mind

I'm free for these twenty minutes on these three days this month, but you'll have to check with me on the day of, because I always double book and I may have something more important going on than hanging with you, so I may cancel, and therefore it is important for you to double book your dates as well so that you're not left without any plans if our plans fall through. Follow?

Holy crap. We need to find a time to get several of us together!? As in, more than three New Yorkers are going to attempt the all-but-impossible task of balancing our precious hours between work, sleep, eating, commuting, and pooping in order to collectively meet up and rehearse. Good. God. It's totally understandable if everyone can't be there. In fact, we need to plan on the fact that people will miss this time set aside, so it's ok if you can't be there all the time. I won't be there all the time either. Why? because I have so many important things to do in my life! Who doesn't in this city!?

Friends? What friends? I just have names in a phone that pop up when I get a text.

Heyyy! I haven't seen you in Forever! How have you been? I've been super duper busy. Just, busy busy busy alllll the time. Oh, gosh, it's like I don't even have time to breathe, you know? Yeah! Let's hang! I'm free for 15 minute next tuesday between this bull-shit thing and this other crap thing I have to do. So, let's meet then? Great. I won't call you and maybe we'll both collectively forget that we made that plan and then not see each other and then at the next big party we can make plans to not see each other again! 'k bye! I love you, too, bestie!

I'm BORED! Oh man, there is nothing to do in this stupid city. I could call so-and-so, but I don't want to. I could go to such-and-such, but I don't have the time, really. I have a whole lot of this of crap I haven't done yet because I've been too busy. But, because I've been so busy I just need this time to myself. And I can't relax because it's so weird to have nothing to do... I should call up my friend, but instead, I'll phone that dude I met recently.


Hey, Dude I met recently! I'm free whenever! Text me any time! I'm just twiddling my thumbs over here. I'm one of those rare people who is involved with everything, but, like, has time for everything, you know? It's cause I'm so laid back.

When I First Got Stitched Up

The first time I ever needed stitches, I was 13 and I was standing outside the door of my math class, feeling a little sorry for myself (because I sucked at Pre-Calculus). The other 8th graders were filing out of the room: some I knew, many I didn't. I stared off into the middle distance, clutching my heavy textbooks to my chest when, out of the complete blue, an object hit my left eyebrow and I saw white.

Funny how getting injured is such a visceral experience. I don't necessarily remember the thoughts going through my head, it was more like my memory created words to translate what my body was going through. For instance:

La la la la I hate Math.

WAMMMMM

White out!

Wh-Wh-What just happened?

I feel funny.

The hallway stopped. The kids coming out of the room stopped. Someone screamed. Maybe that someone was me? I hit the wall next to the entrance for support and dropped my books. Something warm was running down my face. I reached up and gingerly felt the left eyebrow. My assessment: That can't be pee. I don't pee up there.

The series of events after that were also a haze. I walked into the math class, my teacher, Mr. Donnely, a goofy bearded man with thick round glasses, looked up over his frames to greet us and his jaw dropped. "What happened to your face, Natalie!?!"

So, as a kid (and really as I always will be, I guess) I can kinda, sorta' keep it together if no one asks me how I am or what happened to me recently if I am going through a traumatic event.  For instance: If I just got terrible news of a death, I'll soldier through the day and make believe that I'm stronger than I look for the sake of the people around me. But, the minute an authoritative person asks me "What the fuck happened to you?! You look like something bad happened! What's wrong?" My house-of-cards facade goes down in a puff of wind and I wind up blubbering like a baby (even though I HATE crying in public).

I suppose what I was trying to do was act totally normal, because I didn't want to start crying. And there I was, a 13 year old version of me, with a gash in my head, blood streaming down my face and onto my shirt, walking into Mr. Donnely's math class with a stupid smile on my face. I'll bet I even said "Hi, Mr. Donnely!" in as chipper a voice as I could.

Crying like a baby, I was rushed to the principal's office, they called home, Mom was sent to pick me up, and I was taken to a doctor for stitches.

But, what hit me in the face? No one else had any weird objects thrown at them with enough velocity to cause stitches! It wasn't big, like a building beam or a brick. But, it must have been thrown really hard.

When the bleeding was staved with gauze in the office, I was escorted to my homeroom (which also happened to be the math classroom) to pick up my coat. As I walked in to the room I stepped on a heavy plastic Chess Piece. For whatever reason, I bent down, picked it up and KNEW that was the culprit. I had been slingshotted, in the face, with a Queen.

Really? C'mon. Who in the world gets hit with a chess piece?!

I don't have a very prominent scar, in fact, I can barely see where that chess piece hit me. Being a testament to the age I grew up in (you know, those crazy 90's!) I was in class the next day and not one teacher said a word about terrorism or guns or my purple, green, and pink face. Guns are scary. Chess pieces are, too.

The Worst Case Scenario Make-Out

I popped another pepto-bismal and chewed on the hard, pink, chalky tablets on my way to my improv show. The pink gunk stuck to my back teeth and I tried to pry it loose with my tongue as I walked down the busy sidewalk. Suddenly, the image of what I must look like as I comically try to wiggle nasty pepto from my teeth walking through midtown struck me as funny: so I started to laugh. And then, because I was laughing, I laughed harder, inhaled, and caught a piece of the pink anti-farting chalk in my throat which threw me into a foamy pink coughing fit.

I was an iPod head phone wearing, pink mouthed, laughing/hacking idiot walking down the street.

Once I calmed down a bit, I thought about making out with someone. What if I didn't tell them I had just chewed up some pepto because I was having major gas pains? Oh, and the really crucial detail I'm leaving out was that the gas pains were from the garlicky pizza I scarfed down before heading to the theatre. I'm pretty sure I had some mushroom still stuck in my teeth.

I was a make-out kisser's nightmare.

But, like, seriously, what if I didn't tell someone? I'd just hold my breath so they somehow wouldn't know. And, like, what if, for some reason, once I got to the theatre I drank a cup of red wine so my lips were stained? Oh, and I would have to spill some on my shirt, too! No problem! I do that all the time!

...Nah, no make-outs. I wouldn't even be able to enjoy it because I would probably be trying to concentrate on not farting.

These are the thoughts that filter into my subconscious, and, ultimately, to you.

I need a good date.

New Bedroom

I painted an entire room the last two days. I did it almost exclusively by myself. I had about 15 minutes of help from my sister's friends who came to help clean the apartment, but, otherwise: the project was done by me.

When I first walked in to the 11x11' space I knew I had a large task ahead of me. I didn't know the last time that room had be thoroughly cleaned (I mean, it was pretty dusty, dirty and full of negative energy) and I still felt like it was the previous roommates' place. When I looked at the poorly done paint job my ex-roomie had done I could still see the graffiti that had been drawn in with sharpies a few years ago as it bled through the new white paint. I rolled up my sleeves and dug in.

Two days later, that room has never been cleaner. I've literally touched every corner, from floor to ceiling, that that room has. I've painted, cleaned, wiped and caressed all of the dust balls, paint chips, and leaves I could find out of there.

My arms ache from holding my hands above my head, but man, that room's a thing of beauty. I even painted the doors.

As I worked I thought: Mine. Mine. Mine. I claim this room!

I could have peed on the floor... and I would have if I didn't think that was a little gross.

When the "rejuvenate" green was finally dried on the walls, I looked at what I had done: and I saw that it was good.

I said: This Room is Mine! May it be full of smiles!

I move my bedroom furniture into it this weekend.

The Birth of a New Apartment

New Year: Big changes. My room mates are moving today. It's a pretty strange experience for me. My room is pretty much unchanged, and then the minute I step out my door the apartment looks nothing like it did a few weeks ago. 

I'm at the birth of a new era, and am currently experiencing the labor pains. 

I wrote a blog post about feeling like I was the only female in a sea of testosterone. That was a while ago. Since that post, and really in the last few weeks, I have gone from being in a sea of men to a sea of women. I'm now going to be living with women, I work with a woman at work, and I have a more female friends. Interesting. 

As I watched the now ex-roommates pack their stuff and go, I stood in the middle of the changed living room and took in the bare walls and blank floors. The lone mirror that sat propped against the pile of stuff my sister and I have showed my reflection. I made a "Rosie The Riveter" fist. We Can Do It! I then noticed, above one of the door frame to the bedrooms, a "MEN" restroom sign was still stuck to the wall. When that sign was first put up I jokingly cut out paper and created a "WO-MEN" sign instead so as to feel more included. The sign was just the MEN again, glinting with the distant window's reflection, and reminding me of a bar-room toilet. I looked at it for a moment. Then, I reached up and without hesitation ripped the sign from the wall, throwing it on the pile of stuff the boys need to take. 

It's 2013 now; out with the old.