I waited until the apartment was clear. Mom had stepped out for a couple hours and Dad wasn't supposed to be home until 6-ish. My sister was too young to even know what I was doing. The preverbal coast, was clear.
I calmly walked over to the large couch that sat in our small New York City living room. Mom had amassed a ridiculously large collection of books which she stacked (sometimes three deep) on shelves that lined the walls of the apartment. These books ranged in topic from the large stack of 1980's National Geographic magazines to the several versions of Tolkien's "Lord of the Rings." Exploring the shelves for good books to read has always been a past-time of mine. And, generally, I'd discover something fun that Mom had already read and would give me a short review, usually boiling down to "That's one you'll like" or "It was okay, had some fun bits."
This time, however, I was going for the small section of romance novels that Mom kept behind the couch. The part of the shelves that the public couldn't see. I have very vivid memories of Mom eating pieces of chocolate while sitting propped up on a mound of pillows and reading a maroon covered paperback on Sunday afternoons. After devouring the novel, it would get shelved with the rest of them in the shadowy regions of the book collection behind the furniture, to get covered in dust and be largely forgotten about.
That is, until I found them...
I wasn't looking for them, I was just trying to find an object I had accidentally dropped behind the couch one day and discovered a treasure trove of "Fabio" covered paper-backs. Knowing that I couldn't get away with picking one of them off the shelves and reading it before dinner while everyone was home, I had to wait for the right time to steal one of them and read (what I hoped would be) some deliciously filthy sex scenes.
I knew. Oh, I knew what was in those books. Some of my friends at school had talked about Porn. Some talked about sex. And some talked about the Romance Novels. The ones you can buy at the grocery store. Those books, with the scantily clad ladies being seduced on a white horse while Fabio runs his hand over their thigh; were the ones with the raunchy chapters. The trick was you had to find the desired pages without reading the boring parts.
That afternoon, I found what I was looking for. I opened one of the books and, as luck would have it, I turned right to a really graphic part where Romeo was really giving it to Juliet. I read all 10 pages of the "Roll in the Hay" before getting stranded on a boring part (I don't care about Juliet's dead father or the will that needs to be executed or whatever. Jesus. I just want to read about how she's getting diddled by the Farm Hand, okay?) After finishing the steamy section I put the book down for a minute and wiped some sweat off my brow, my 12 year old self humming with new feelings and urges. So, adults do this stuff? I'd never even kissed a boy at that point and these buxom brunettes in the tale were getting it in the tail. Wooh!
I only allowed myself one more chapter before carefully placing the book back among the others and walking back to my bedroom to reorganize my Barbie's shoe collection. I picked up one of my favorite dolls and stared at her rock hard triple-D tits. Then, I picked up a Ken doll and tried to reenact the scene I had just read (and really only understood about half of). I didn't get the same rush of jittery excitement like I did when I was reading from the romance novel. I felt filthy, like I had done something wrong and then perverted my dolls with my dirty mind tricks as well.
My younger sister wandered into the room, and seeing that I had already started playing with Barbie she promptly plopped herself down next to me and started up a game. I wondered then about how different we were at that moment. To her, the Barbie was just a doll. To me... well. I knew that that thing between my legs could have some really crazy sounding stuff done to it, just like Brunhilda had experienced when Alexander took her over a barrel of salt pork out behind the washing rooms in the story I just read. Barbie has had a TON of sex with Ken! Oh my god! I can make my own dirty soft porn stories! I have all the ingredients at my finger tips and a sister that thinks boys have cooties! She'd probably not even get what I was doing!
I had entered a new chapter of awareness, and I wasn't going back. Instead, I made a deal with myself to go and read those delicious fuck-a-thon chapters again, as soon as possible! I needed to school Barbie with some tips I was going to pick up. She wouldn't know what was about to hit her. I wasn't filthy! I was on a new page of awareness and I craved more information.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Friday, March 29, 2013
Dominos Returns
I got down to the station. A big black guy wearing an MTA vest with a bored look on his face waved in my direction. "No Trains" he said. I stare at him dumbly. "No 7 Train." He repeats. "No 7 train?" I repeat. "No 7 Train." Right! No "7" train! OKAY!! I'll just wait on the "N" train platform for the next "N" train to take me to queens and then transfer for the "7" out there. A simple obstacle.
The platform for the "N" is packed. I play Plants VS Zombies on my phone, killing bosses with my flower pots. It's a nice escape from the ever growing number of people streaming down the steps at 1am to get to the "Plan B" of the Un-Lucky number 7. I try not to get too upset. I'll be home in no time.
An "N" pulls in across the platform and, like the sheep I was trying very hard not to feel like, I pushed onto the car. I sat and continued to kill nasty Zombies until the game finally beat me. I look up from the "Game Over" flashing across the screen and take in the now packed car. Everyone looked tired, staring off into the middle distance, not making eye contact. I felt exhausted, too. I scanned the faces.
Wait a minute.
I know that face. But, from where? Wait. Do I know that face? No. Yes. No. Yes. Noooo! That's DOMINOS!
Oh my god. It's been over a year since I saw that guy! He lives not too far from me in Queens, but we've never seen each other since I broke it off with him. Cray-zee.
I felt really weird. That guy and I saw each other a couple times. I liked him alright, albeit I thought he was just a "filler." But, like, I knew him. And, like, we avoided each other. I didn't look up again. I didn't want to. What do I say? "Hello. Hi. How are you? Um. Wow. You look... good. I'm good. The trains suck. Remember that time we had sex? haha! The end."
The "N" pulled into Queensboro and I filed off, carful to look like I was concentrating really hard on remembering how to walk so I wouldn't look behind me.
The Un-lucky "7" took another 20 minutes to arrive at the packed station and pick up the couple thousand people shivering on the platform. I felt incredibly small. Dominos and I are still friends on Facebook for crying out loud. Why? And, why was getting home taking so long!? And I felt lonely! And I felt angry! And cold! And I blamed New York for all my problems and I blamed the MTA for being single and I cursed whatever "god" there is or isn't and I muttered to myself about all that was wrong in my life, including how badly my toes were starting to hurt in my new shoes.
Where's the big black guy in my life who can wave at me and not-so-patiently tell me there are no trains running? Except, the trains would be a metaphor for all the dead end guys I've dated. I need a "Take this train. It's the G train. G for 'Great', 'G-spot', and 'Gravy'" announcement. Oh man, if I got that announcement I would totally know how to get to where I needed to go. Yes. I need a big, stern looking, authoritative, government employee of life to direct me to the Gravy Train. That'd be sweet. And when I boarded, there'd be no Dominos or Mr. Kiss or Kismet or Cutie, there'd be... something better. I just don't really know what.
The "7" finally pulled in, and for the second time that evening I felt like a sheep. I wondered how Dominos felt. Maybe I was his Dominos and he was thinking about how glad he was to see me engrossed in killing zombies on my phone so we wouldn't have to talk to each other: "Um. Hi. Hello. You look... good. Remember that time when we--? Oh you do. Haha. Funny. Another delayed train, huh? This blows. Takes me forever to get where I want to go."
Yup.
The platform for the "N" is packed. I play Plants VS Zombies on my phone, killing bosses with my flower pots. It's a nice escape from the ever growing number of people streaming down the steps at 1am to get to the "Plan B" of the Un-Lucky number 7. I try not to get too upset. I'll be home in no time.
An "N" pulls in across the platform and, like the sheep I was trying very hard not to feel like, I pushed onto the car. I sat and continued to kill nasty Zombies until the game finally beat me. I look up from the "Game Over" flashing across the screen and take in the now packed car. Everyone looked tired, staring off into the middle distance, not making eye contact. I felt exhausted, too. I scanned the faces.
Wait a minute.
I know that face. But, from where? Wait. Do I know that face? No. Yes. No. Yes. Noooo! That's DOMINOS!
Oh my god. It's been over a year since I saw that guy! He lives not too far from me in Queens, but we've never seen each other since I broke it off with him. Cray-zee.
I felt really weird. That guy and I saw each other a couple times. I liked him alright, albeit I thought he was just a "filler." But, like, I knew him. And, like, we avoided each other. I didn't look up again. I didn't want to. What do I say? "Hello. Hi. How are you? Um. Wow. You look... good. I'm good. The trains suck. Remember that time we had sex? haha! The end."
The "N" pulled into Queensboro and I filed off, carful to look like I was concentrating really hard on remembering how to walk so I wouldn't look behind me.
The Un-lucky "7" took another 20 minutes to arrive at the packed station and pick up the couple thousand people shivering on the platform. I felt incredibly small. Dominos and I are still friends on Facebook for crying out loud. Why? And, why was getting home taking so long!? And I felt lonely! And I felt angry! And cold! And I blamed New York for all my problems and I blamed the MTA for being single and I cursed whatever "god" there is or isn't and I muttered to myself about all that was wrong in my life, including how badly my toes were starting to hurt in my new shoes.
Where's the big black guy in my life who can wave at me and not-so-patiently tell me there are no trains running? Except, the trains would be a metaphor for all the dead end guys I've dated. I need a "Take this train. It's the G train. G for 'Great', 'G-spot', and 'Gravy'" announcement. Oh man, if I got that announcement I would totally know how to get to where I needed to go. Yes. I need a big, stern looking, authoritative, government employee of life to direct me to the Gravy Train. That'd be sweet. And when I boarded, there'd be no Dominos or Mr. Kiss or Kismet or Cutie, there'd be... something better. I just don't really know what.
The "7" finally pulled in, and for the second time that evening I felt like a sheep. I wondered how Dominos felt. Maybe I was his Dominos and he was thinking about how glad he was to see me engrossed in killing zombies on my phone so we wouldn't have to talk to each other: "Um. Hi. Hello. You look... good. Remember that time when we--? Oh you do. Haha. Funny. Another delayed train, huh? This blows. Takes me forever to get where I want to go."
Yup.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Subway Flirt
Me. New Haircut. Feeling cute and flirty (I hate the adjectives cute and flirty, but I feel like them despite myself.)
"N" train platform. Me. Walking down the edge with a little bounce in my step. Running my hands through my shorter and lighter hair.
Him. On the platform edge. He's looking out for an oncoming train. He has big white headphones on, cargo pants and a sweatshirt. Hello baby blue eyes.
Me. Hi. But, with my eyes.
Him.
...
Me. I'll just stand over here, in your periphery, and surreptitiously make eye contact with you.
Him. Looking over. Catching my eyes. Awkwardly turning away. Checking his phone.
Me. "I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and fine! And I pity, and girl who isn't me tonight. La la la la..."
Train. Pulls in. Oh, look at that! The door fit perfectly between the two of us. We enter. I stand by the door. I need the next stop.
Him. In the car. Checking his phone. (For what?) Me. Leaning against the door. Train starts to pull into station. He walks over to me by the door. I look him dead in the face.
Him.
...
Me. Still looking him full on. He diverts his gaze. Uh oh. I feel stupid.
"Sorry. You look familiar to me." I say.
"What's that?" He responds, blushing deeply and pulling off his headphones.
"I said, you look familiar. That's why I was staring at you." I say, feeling my own face get hot.
"Oh." He says, going even more red. He puts on his headphones again. Checks his phone.
Train pulls in to station. We get off. We stand apart on the platform as we each wait for the transfer.
I feel less mysterious.
I look up for Him. He's still on the platform, but is now just another body waiting for the train.
Me. On the platform for the "7" train. Another guy catches my eye.
I check my phone instead.
"N" train platform. Me. Walking down the edge with a little bounce in my step. Running my hands through my shorter and lighter hair.
Him. On the platform edge. He's looking out for an oncoming train. He has big white headphones on, cargo pants and a sweatshirt. Hello baby blue eyes.
Me. Hi. But, with my eyes.
Him.
...
Me. I'll just stand over here, in your periphery, and surreptitiously make eye contact with you.
Him. Looking over. Catching my eyes. Awkwardly turning away. Checking his phone.
Me. "I feel pretty! Oh so pretty! I feel pretty and witty and fine! And I pity, and girl who isn't me tonight. La la la la..."
Train. Pulls in. Oh, look at that! The door fit perfectly between the two of us. We enter. I stand by the door. I need the next stop.
Him. In the car. Checking his phone. (For what?) Me. Leaning against the door. Train starts to pull into station. He walks over to me by the door. I look him dead in the face.
Him.
...
Me. Still looking him full on. He diverts his gaze. Uh oh. I feel stupid.
"Sorry. You look familiar to me." I say.
"What's that?" He responds, blushing deeply and pulling off his headphones.
"I said, you look familiar. That's why I was staring at you." I say, feeling my own face get hot.
"Oh." He says, going even more red. He puts on his headphones again. Checks his phone.
Train pulls in to station. We get off. We stand apart on the platform as we each wait for the transfer.
I feel less mysterious.
I look up for Him. He's still on the platform, but is now just another body waiting for the train.
Me. On the platform for the "7" train. Another guy catches my eye.
I check my phone instead.
Monday, March 25, 2013
Jealousy
JEALOUSY [Jel-Low-See]: Jealousy is a normal human emotion that we all experience. But, when bouts of anger and seething hatred escalate into Jealousy attacks, it may be a real problem and strain on healthy mental functioning. Jealousy attacks include: envy, guilt, frustration, irritation, and jealous fits of tearful drunken sobbing. There is excellent treatment for Jealousy, and well as Envy, including chocolate and long conversations about how ugly that bitch is on the inside, anyway.
SYMPTOMS: Are Jealousy and Envy interfering with your everyday life? Have you had a Jealousy attack? These paragraphs should help you sort out the symptoms in yourself and in your inner child.
This sad, hopeless feeling just can't go on. It's affecting your job, your life. It seems like irritation, but could it be something more?
Many people with Jealousy also experience some degree of anger - anger that goes beyond the typical tension we experience when we normally see someone we just don't like. For people suffering from Jealousy, the overwhelming wish to do that evil bastard in is constant - with obsessive thoughts, feelings of frothy irritation, trouble concentrating, gurgling guts, hot flashes, and fantasies of writing their phone number on a bar bathroom stall with the words "Free Sex Here" written above it.
Jealousy attacks are intense periods of self abuse and feelings of doom developing over a short period of time and are associated with at least four of the following:
- Thinking: "She's so much prettier than me."
- Wondering what their sex must have been like.
- Obsessing over why he never called, then making up reasons about a better person taking your place.
- Feeling clumsy and deranged
- Feeling ugly
- Wanting to change everything about yourself
- Obsessing over having not had a "second chance"
- Ignoring compliments
- Wishing you had what they had
- Hating his/her laugh because they sound so much happier than you feel
- Feeling less talented
COMMON TREATMENT: Considering how to help ease symptoms of Jealousy? Below is a list of common procedures and treatments used to treat Jealousy.
- Breathe, Damnit!
- You know? She probably feels the same way about you.
- Their sex is terrible, just like it was when you did it, remember?
- Talk to a supportive friend
- Reflect on your own accomplishments
- Is this a real problem with them? or is something else going on that is making you feel insecure?
- You're insecure.
- Work out
- Stop eating really sugary processed food that makes your mood swing
- Take a hot shower and then draw on the mirror in your bathroom
- Go poop
- Meditate
Remember, Jealousy is a common feeling and affects millions of people daily. It's important to know that only YOU can be the very unique you and no one else, no matter how hard you think you can morph into that hot body that other person has.
Inner peace can be the simplest cure to Jealousy.
(And also remembering that you're wayyyyy funnier than that annoying guy in the office. Like, way, way funnier. Don't be jealous of him! Nothing but "Free Sex Here!" He's a dick.)
SYMPTOMS: Are Jealousy and Envy interfering with your everyday life? Have you had a Jealousy attack? These paragraphs should help you sort out the symptoms in yourself and in your inner child.
This sad, hopeless feeling just can't go on. It's affecting your job, your life. It seems like irritation, but could it be something more?
Many people with Jealousy also experience some degree of anger - anger that goes beyond the typical tension we experience when we normally see someone we just don't like. For people suffering from Jealousy, the overwhelming wish to do that evil bastard in is constant - with obsessive thoughts, feelings of frothy irritation, trouble concentrating, gurgling guts, hot flashes, and fantasies of writing their phone number on a bar bathroom stall with the words "Free Sex Here" written above it.
Jealousy attacks are intense periods of self abuse and feelings of doom developing over a short period of time and are associated with at least four of the following:
- Thinking: "She's so much prettier than me."
- Wondering what their sex must have been like.
- Obsessing over why he never called, then making up reasons about a better person taking your place.
- Feeling clumsy and deranged
- Feeling ugly
- Wanting to change everything about yourself
- Obsessing over having not had a "second chance"
- Ignoring compliments
- Wishing you had what they had
- Hating his/her laugh because they sound so much happier than you feel
- Feeling less talented
COMMON TREATMENT: Considering how to help ease symptoms of Jealousy? Below is a list of common procedures and treatments used to treat Jealousy.
- Breathe, Damnit!
- You know? She probably feels the same way about you.
- Their sex is terrible, just like it was when you did it, remember?
- Talk to a supportive friend
- Reflect on your own accomplishments
- Is this a real problem with them? or is something else going on that is making you feel insecure?
- You're insecure.
- Work out
- Stop eating really sugary processed food that makes your mood swing
- Take a hot shower and then draw on the mirror in your bathroom
- Go poop
- Meditate
Remember, Jealousy is a common feeling and affects millions of people daily. It's important to know that only YOU can be the very unique you and no one else, no matter how hard you think you can morph into that hot body that other person has.
Inner peace can be the simplest cure to Jealousy.
(And also remembering that you're wayyyyy funnier than that annoying guy in the office. Like, way, way funnier. Don't be jealous of him! Nothing but "Free Sex Here!" He's a dick.)
Friday, March 22, 2013
Bending the Rules
The small benefits to working the "system" in my favor make my toes curl in delight. I know a couple people who can conjure a first class airline ticket out of thin air, who can walk into a concert at Carnegie Hall and pick whatever seat they wish to sit in, and the person who can decide that they will not wait in line, but just saunter past all the other saps and enter wherever they want to go at their own time. I have never considered myself one of those people, but I really admire their pluck.
I guess, to call it "cheating" would be wrong, I think the best name to call these people would be "entrepreneurs". These people look at the lines on a grid and decide they don't want to follow them. Then, after quickly summing up the possible pros and cons of doing what everyone else is doing and doing what they want to do, they decide to not waste their time by getting in line with the rest of the dopes. They find a curve, a loophole, and then exploit it.
One of the first times I realized that the "system" we live in is all a construct of laws that "should" be followed, my mind was blown. But, that didn't mean I had the balls to be a rogue player. I was raised to believe that those who are patient: win. My buddy was telling me a story of how he walked into a hockey game, the cheapest ticket he could purchase in his pocket (just to get him in the door) and then proceeded to pick out the box seats by the front of the rink and sit in them throughout the whole game, unmolested. After the game was done, his first class dinner ordered and eaten, he got up, walked out and went home. No one questioned him. No one asked him for his seat. He did it over and over.
I have another buddy who told me that for eleven years in a row he got first class round trip tickets to go back and visit home on the West Coast because he hand wrote a letter to the airline he was flying every year and told them a stewardess "accidentally" spilled some coffee on his pants. The airline, totally apologetic, would then issue him a sorry letter along with a free first class ticket. The only reason my buddy stopped getting that deal was because the airline merged with another and he didn't have the same way to contact anyone like he used to.
What's involved with bending the rules? Is it a straight face? A squaring of the shoulders? If I looked confident and uninterested in what was going on around me, would anyone think to question my motives? My problem is, I blush bright red and laugh really loud when I'm nervous. Plus, I have a terrible "Keep it Cool" face. My "Keep it Cool" face looks like I'm trying not to fart. Because I probably am. How could that face make someone think I'm up to no good?
I do have an advantage in being a pretty white girl, though. There have been times when a group of friends and I have been pulled over by a cop and all I had to do was flash my smile and bat my eyes and then get off scotch free for the obvious speeding we were clearly guilty of. So, I'm not totally without cunning. But, what a skill. To be able to find a loophole and use it. To skip the line. To create something that works out of nothing. Is that why there are CEO's and Presidents and Famous people? Those who are patient can win. Yes. Those who walk through barriers and take big risks can fail, epically, but those who can do it successfully end up running the rules, no?
I guess, to call it "cheating" would be wrong, I think the best name to call these people would be "entrepreneurs". These people look at the lines on a grid and decide they don't want to follow them. Then, after quickly summing up the possible pros and cons of doing what everyone else is doing and doing what they want to do, they decide to not waste their time by getting in line with the rest of the dopes. They find a curve, a loophole, and then exploit it.
One of the first times I realized that the "system" we live in is all a construct of laws that "should" be followed, my mind was blown. But, that didn't mean I had the balls to be a rogue player. I was raised to believe that those who are patient: win. My buddy was telling me a story of how he walked into a hockey game, the cheapest ticket he could purchase in his pocket (just to get him in the door) and then proceeded to pick out the box seats by the front of the rink and sit in them throughout the whole game, unmolested. After the game was done, his first class dinner ordered and eaten, he got up, walked out and went home. No one questioned him. No one asked him for his seat. He did it over and over.
I have another buddy who told me that for eleven years in a row he got first class round trip tickets to go back and visit home on the West Coast because he hand wrote a letter to the airline he was flying every year and told them a stewardess "accidentally" spilled some coffee on his pants. The airline, totally apologetic, would then issue him a sorry letter along with a free first class ticket. The only reason my buddy stopped getting that deal was because the airline merged with another and he didn't have the same way to contact anyone like he used to.
What's involved with bending the rules? Is it a straight face? A squaring of the shoulders? If I looked confident and uninterested in what was going on around me, would anyone think to question my motives? My problem is, I blush bright red and laugh really loud when I'm nervous. Plus, I have a terrible "Keep it Cool" face. My "Keep it Cool" face looks like I'm trying not to fart. Because I probably am. How could that face make someone think I'm up to no good?
I do have an advantage in being a pretty white girl, though. There have been times when a group of friends and I have been pulled over by a cop and all I had to do was flash my smile and bat my eyes and then get off scotch free for the obvious speeding we were clearly guilty of. So, I'm not totally without cunning. But, what a skill. To be able to find a loophole and use it. To skip the line. To create something that works out of nothing. Is that why there are CEO's and Presidents and Famous people? Those who are patient can win. Yes. Those who walk through barriers and take big risks can fail, epically, but those who can do it successfully end up running the rules, no?
Monday, March 18, 2013
Ode to Starucks
Oh, Starbucks.
Without you, where would us poor New Yorker's be? Really. Where would the poor New Yorkers be? Because they are all in your stores, using your bathrooms and napping on your tables. And who can blame them, really? I am no different; I buy my coffee, I sit in a corner (preferably with an outlet) and type away on my expensive laptop, occasionally getting up to pee in the bathrooms provided. Starbucks, you are an oasis from the busyness of the city; a place for everyone with your free Wi-Fi network and no-brainer music. New York City seems to have missed the necessity of public restrooms, and as a result: the Starbucks houses have become, unofficially, New York's pooping grounds.
Indeed, as I sip my brown, hot liquid, and stare at the line that wraps around the circumference of the store: I am in awe that there is even a place for these people to go! If you didn't open your cold glass doors with open arms would all these people pee in the street? And where else could one see the diversity of social and economic classes all in one place? A line for the restroom at a Starbucks can have the head honcho of a major business in her power suit from Armani, and right behind her, there'd be a really dirty looking homeless person muttering to themselves. It's a beautiful thing, those bathroom lines, everyone has to pee regardless of class or upbringing!
And, don't think I am not grateful for saying this, but your loos sure live up to every stereotype a public restroom could have! The rolls of wet toilet paper on the floor, the urine sprayed on, around and all over the toilet (and sometimes the sink!), the sometimes flickering fluorescent light that makes me feel like I walked onto the set of an amateur porn film, and the ever necessary "Life's a Cunt" carved into the wall above the mirror (if there even is a mirror). Indeed, I am now so accustomed to the wave of nausea I get when I open one of your Water Closet doors, that when I don't get a plume of hot poop smell in the face, I consider myself lucky.
I don't blame you as a chain for your rancid smelling restrooms, Starbucks. Seriously, I love you guys. You're everywhere! You're in alley ways, on busy corners, in cellars and lofts! You're on college campuses and in bookstores! If ever I'm out and about and need to wee, I think: Starbucks! They won't ask! They won't judge! Bathroom? Why, right over there, Miss! And, with a grin of excitement I stomp over to the lavatory and pinch my nose and squat (because if I sit on that toilet I may pick up a strain of Hepatitis) and praise your name as I release all of the pressures of life.
If I could, I would get New York City to open public restrooms. I would open a whole branch of the sanitation department whose sole purpose would be to clean these crap-houses. I would have a public restroom every other block, with ample signs to indicate where the next one was. My only worry, Starbucks, is that you'd lose the precious patronage of all the saps that need to be sapped for cash to buy a Caramel Macchiato from you. I don't wish you ill. I only wish, that since we don't live in a Utopian society full of flushing toilets everywhere, you'd take more pity on us poor New Yorkers and keep those bathrooms cleaner. Until then, I will continue to buy my weight in lattes from you, and continue to pee my caffeine investment in to your lavatories, albeit with a shirt over my face.
Your "Number 1" fan,
Natalie
Without you, where would us poor New Yorker's be? Really. Where would the poor New Yorkers be? Because they are all in your stores, using your bathrooms and napping on your tables. And who can blame them, really? I am no different; I buy my coffee, I sit in a corner (preferably with an outlet) and type away on my expensive laptop, occasionally getting up to pee in the bathrooms provided. Starbucks, you are an oasis from the busyness of the city; a place for everyone with your free Wi-Fi network and no-brainer music. New York City seems to have missed the necessity of public restrooms, and as a result: the Starbucks houses have become, unofficially, New York's pooping grounds.
Indeed, as I sip my brown, hot liquid, and stare at the line that wraps around the circumference of the store: I am in awe that there is even a place for these people to go! If you didn't open your cold glass doors with open arms would all these people pee in the street? And where else could one see the diversity of social and economic classes all in one place? A line for the restroom at a Starbucks can have the head honcho of a major business in her power suit from Armani, and right behind her, there'd be a really dirty looking homeless person muttering to themselves. It's a beautiful thing, those bathroom lines, everyone has to pee regardless of class or upbringing!
And, don't think I am not grateful for saying this, but your loos sure live up to every stereotype a public restroom could have! The rolls of wet toilet paper on the floor, the urine sprayed on, around and all over the toilet (and sometimes the sink!), the sometimes flickering fluorescent light that makes me feel like I walked onto the set of an amateur porn film, and the ever necessary "Life's a Cunt" carved into the wall above the mirror (if there even is a mirror). Indeed, I am now so accustomed to the wave of nausea I get when I open one of your Water Closet doors, that when I don't get a plume of hot poop smell in the face, I consider myself lucky.
I don't blame you as a chain for your rancid smelling restrooms, Starbucks. Seriously, I love you guys. You're everywhere! You're in alley ways, on busy corners, in cellars and lofts! You're on college campuses and in bookstores! If ever I'm out and about and need to wee, I think: Starbucks! They won't ask! They won't judge! Bathroom? Why, right over there, Miss! And, with a grin of excitement I stomp over to the lavatory and pinch my nose and squat (because if I sit on that toilet I may pick up a strain of Hepatitis) and praise your name as I release all of the pressures of life.
If I could, I would get New York City to open public restrooms. I would open a whole branch of the sanitation department whose sole purpose would be to clean these crap-houses. I would have a public restroom every other block, with ample signs to indicate where the next one was. My only worry, Starbucks, is that you'd lose the precious patronage of all the saps that need to be sapped for cash to buy a Caramel Macchiato from you. I don't wish you ill. I only wish, that since we don't live in a Utopian society full of flushing toilets everywhere, you'd take more pity on us poor New Yorkers and keep those bathrooms cleaner. Until then, I will continue to buy my weight in lattes from you, and continue to pee my caffeine investment in to your lavatories, albeit with a shirt over my face.
Your "Number 1" fan,
Natalie
Saturday, March 16, 2013
Coming in to Sound
I took the E train into Manhattan this morning. I usually have to take this train as an alternative to the more convenient 7 that is useless on the weekends in the winter (ya' know, construction and stuff). I was really sleepy from the night before which consisted of a lot of restlessness. The train was usually quiet. Like, a storm was coming and everyone was waiting for it to hit with bated breath. Small children who would normally squeal and wriggle around were patient, calmly staring out of the windows or up at the ads that ring the subway cars. Teenagers were quiet, talking in muted voices and whispers. No one else seemed capable of making noise. It was so quiet I could hear the subway cars closing on the other half of the train after my subway car doors had closed. I felt like even the squeak of the wheels of the train were lesser.
I didn't feel uneasy about it, just more curious at how muffled all of these actions were. Was I muffled? I didn't even put on my head phones or pull out my book to read. I just sat in quiet awe at the silence. I felt like even breathing was too loud.
When the train pulled into my stop I got off and the subway doors swooshed close behind me and rolled off into the tunnel, neatly leaving a quieter and quieter station behind. Even the emergency exit door I pushed open to get out of 23rd St. station didn't fire up an alarm.
My mind wasn't buzzing either. A girl in front of me glanced back in surprise when I walked through the emergency exit, as if, she too was expecting a loud clanging alarm. I followed her up and out of the station depths to the street where New York was being covered by wet, fat drops of melting snow. I knew, without thinking too hard, that this pretty girl who was in the station with me was going to the improv summit I was walking toward. So, without thought, I let her lead me to where I needed to be.
When I walked into the theatre I thought: I'm going brain dead, my boots thumping down the carpeted steps to the basement. And as soon as my pretty guide opened the doors, I was greeted by the loud, boisterous, joyful crowd of young improvisers squirming in their seats, biting their nails, laughing loudly, gossiping, and clanging their soda cans. The lights on the stage flickered on, brighter, as I felt my own mind do the same when I took my squeaky seat next to two old classmates of mine and opened my mouth to let the quiet, "stupid" of March melt off my tongue in the hot vitality of the room I was in. I sighed, breathing loudly, and raised my voice so as to be heard over the din.
I didn't feel uneasy about it, just more curious at how muffled all of these actions were. Was I muffled? I didn't even put on my head phones or pull out my book to read. I just sat in quiet awe at the silence. I felt like even breathing was too loud.
When the train pulled into my stop I got off and the subway doors swooshed close behind me and rolled off into the tunnel, neatly leaving a quieter and quieter station behind. Even the emergency exit door I pushed open to get out of 23rd St. station didn't fire up an alarm.
My mind wasn't buzzing either. A girl in front of me glanced back in surprise when I walked through the emergency exit, as if, she too was expecting a loud clanging alarm. I followed her up and out of the station depths to the street where New York was being covered by wet, fat drops of melting snow. I knew, without thinking too hard, that this pretty girl who was in the station with me was going to the improv summit I was walking toward. So, without thought, I let her lead me to where I needed to be.
When I walked into the theatre I thought: I'm going brain dead, my boots thumping down the carpeted steps to the basement. And as soon as my pretty guide opened the doors, I was greeted by the loud, boisterous, joyful crowd of young improvisers squirming in their seats, biting their nails, laughing loudly, gossiping, and clanging their soda cans. The lights on the stage flickered on, brighter, as I felt my own mind do the same when I took my squeaky seat next to two old classmates of mine and opened my mouth to let the quiet, "stupid" of March melt off my tongue in the hot vitality of the room I was in. I sighed, breathing loudly, and raised my voice so as to be heard over the din.
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
Getting On With What's Next!
I'll be out of here, soon. I repeated to myself, over and over, as the night marched on. I felt the heaviness of being at work working its way into my shoulders, circling my neck and stepping on my chest. I felt like a sunflower being put in the closet again.
The problem is not that I hate my day-job. More that I hate having to have a day job. As I scroll through the newsfeed on my Facebook and read inspirational flowery quotes from Rumi about pursuing one's desire in life, I am constantly reminded that in order to achieve the high that the person in the photoshopped photo of birds circling a dude flying through a clear blue sky with the words "FLY TO YOUR DREAMS" written under it; is that I need money to get where I want to go. Or, at least get me started. Otherwise, my life is awesome! Whenever I am not going into work for someone else's time, I am filling my time with stuff I love to do!
Let's face it, dreaming is not where I am lacking. I am lacking in moolah! If I had 10,000 bucks right now, I'd piss off on a world-wind adventure to Australia and not come back for a year. I'm planning on doing just that next year, but until then, I have to go cross-eyed at the big white smiles of crinkly Japanese men who are laughing over a caption that says something like: "Live Your life, Friend." Well, thanks, useless photo, I AM living my life. I, however, am actively trying to live it even better! Fuller! with more experience! So, if you have a game plan and itinerary and can get me in contact with an A.D. at an improv theatre in Melbourne THAT would be a great help in getting me closer to "Living My Life." Now, however, you are just a weird, happy, white-toothed, Japanese man who probably doesn't know his face has gone viral on social media sites around the globe. But I digress...
My day job is where I feel I spend a whole lot of time griping about the woes of having to sell my precious time to a boss I feel under values me and work for a place that, in the grand scheme of my life, is really just a stepping stone. I have to drag my sorry butt in there a couple times a week, though, smile through the whole thing, and then, at the end of the night, count out my tips and salt away what I can with the real inspirational photos going through my brain. In my head's newsfeed I see: Me, standing at the top of a sand dune, an ocean in the background, and underneath the photo is a caption saying: "Here You Are Doing Something Scary And Different."
I've been using Improv as my sunshine. It helps feed me and expand me. I want to go and coach improv in another country. I want to combine my love of creative expression through improv and writing, and my love of travel into one ridiculously awesome new chapter of my life. I've now spent over three years in New York since I got back from college and post-college activities and I feel like it's time to take the next phase of my life into my own hands and go somewhere new. Scary. But, it makes me light up, so that even when I'm back in that closet of a day-job the tiny sunshine of my dreams makes me keep working.
"I'LL BE OUT OF HERE SOON." Is the caption of the current inspirational photo which consists of me scrubbing the hard wax off of a table top. Almost there...
The problem is not that I hate my day-job. More that I hate having to have a day job. As I scroll through the newsfeed on my Facebook and read inspirational flowery quotes from Rumi about pursuing one's desire in life, I am constantly reminded that in order to achieve the high that the person in the photoshopped photo of birds circling a dude flying through a clear blue sky with the words "FLY TO YOUR DREAMS" written under it; is that I need money to get where I want to go. Or, at least get me started. Otherwise, my life is awesome! Whenever I am not going into work for someone else's time, I am filling my time with stuff I love to do!
Let's face it, dreaming is not where I am lacking. I am lacking in moolah! If I had 10,000 bucks right now, I'd piss off on a world-wind adventure to Australia and not come back for a year. I'm planning on doing just that next year, but until then, I have to go cross-eyed at the big white smiles of crinkly Japanese men who are laughing over a caption that says something like: "Live Your life, Friend." Well, thanks, useless photo, I AM living my life. I, however, am actively trying to live it even better! Fuller! with more experience! So, if you have a game plan and itinerary and can get me in contact with an A.D. at an improv theatre in Melbourne THAT would be a great help in getting me closer to "Living My Life." Now, however, you are just a weird, happy, white-toothed, Japanese man who probably doesn't know his face has gone viral on social media sites around the globe. But I digress...
My day job is where I feel I spend a whole lot of time griping about the woes of having to sell my precious time to a boss I feel under values me and work for a place that, in the grand scheme of my life, is really just a stepping stone. I have to drag my sorry butt in there a couple times a week, though, smile through the whole thing, and then, at the end of the night, count out my tips and salt away what I can with the real inspirational photos going through my brain. In my head's newsfeed I see: Me, standing at the top of a sand dune, an ocean in the background, and underneath the photo is a caption saying: "Here You Are Doing Something Scary And Different."
I've been using Improv as my sunshine. It helps feed me and expand me. I want to go and coach improv in another country. I want to combine my love of creative expression through improv and writing, and my love of travel into one ridiculously awesome new chapter of my life. I've now spent over three years in New York since I got back from college and post-college activities and I feel like it's time to take the next phase of my life into my own hands and go somewhere new. Scary. But, it makes me light up, so that even when I'm back in that closet of a day-job the tiny sunshine of my dreams makes me keep working.
"I'LL BE OUT OF HERE SOON." Is the caption of the current inspirational photo which consists of me scrubbing the hard wax off of a table top. Almost there...
Monday, March 11, 2013
Remember Me?
"You look familiar." He said, his brown eyes looking at me out of their corners. He stood leaning against the half-wall that divides the Cabaret I work in. I could tell he was trying to look casual and suave, but the wrinkled collar on his teal colored polo shirt, the rigidness of running his hand through his hair, and the way he fidgeted with a piece of paper gave him away as a total timid wreck. I smiled, trying to give him the "green light" to talk to me.
"Do I?" I laughed. I'm flirting with you, OK? I tried to place his face, which didn't ring a bell to my memory at all, although he looked pretty confident about recognizing me.
"Um. Did you grow up in Manhattan?"
"Yes."
"Where did you go to High School?"
"Beacon."
"Ah." He said, opening and closing his eyes and nodding his head. "I thought so."
Shit. He recognizes me and I have NO idea who this guy is. I tried to pry open the dusty tome of faces in my memory bank and place his, but my mind was turning up with nothing. "I was class of '05" I said, trying to place him. "Were you in the Theatre department?"
"Yes. You were in 'Hair', right?"
"Yeah! I was! That was sophomore year! You were in that!?"
"No, I did the light and sound, though."
I felt flat out stupid. He was looking at me square on now, the confidence at having placed me making him bolder. He was cute, sorta', in a really sweet and dorky way. If he asks for my number, I'd give it to him, I thought. Hell, this guy can remember me from 10 years ago, I think he deserves a coffee with me.
I nodded and smiled again. This was the second guy to come up and remember me from decades ago. The first guy asking if I remembered him from Miss Cruz's 2nd grade class. Back in 1993. Um. No. And c'mon: you remember me!?!? What the fuck?
"It's nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, shaking my hand. I agreed, still not remembering him at all. Was it the pounds of pot I smoked in college? Or was I kinda' tuned out in High School? Who else am I going to meet in the future that will remember me and totally confound me when they reintroduce themselves?
I chatted with the High School guy for a few more minutes. He spent the last 4 years in Japan as a translator and came back to the states to pursue something different. I found him interesting, but far too timid to take very seriously. At the end of our conversation we nodded at each other. "Well, it was nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, holding out his hand. I shook it. He then looked at our hands interlocked and quickly pulled his away. "I can't believe I just shook your hand!" He exclaimed under his breathe as he walked toward the exit. I laughed.
"How do you say goodbye in Japan?" I asked. He smiled and took a small bow. I bowed back. "That's better!" I said and waved as he walked out the door. I turned to my co-worker and shrugged.
"Who was that?" She asked.
"I have no clue." I answered.
"Do I?" I laughed. I'm flirting with you, OK? I tried to place his face, which didn't ring a bell to my memory at all, although he looked pretty confident about recognizing me.
"Um. Did you grow up in Manhattan?"
"Yes."
"Where did you go to High School?"
"Beacon."
"Ah." He said, opening and closing his eyes and nodding his head. "I thought so."
Shit. He recognizes me and I have NO idea who this guy is. I tried to pry open the dusty tome of faces in my memory bank and place his, but my mind was turning up with nothing. "I was class of '05" I said, trying to place him. "Were you in the Theatre department?"
"Yes. You were in 'Hair', right?"
"Yeah! I was! That was sophomore year! You were in that!?"
"No, I did the light and sound, though."
I felt flat out stupid. He was looking at me square on now, the confidence at having placed me making him bolder. He was cute, sorta', in a really sweet and dorky way. If he asks for my number, I'd give it to him, I thought. Hell, this guy can remember me from 10 years ago, I think he deserves a coffee with me.
I nodded and smiled again. This was the second guy to come up and remember me from decades ago. The first guy asking if I remembered him from Miss Cruz's 2nd grade class. Back in 1993. Um. No. And c'mon: you remember me!?!? What the fuck?
"It's nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, shaking my hand. I agreed, still not remembering him at all. Was it the pounds of pot I smoked in college? Or was I kinda' tuned out in High School? Who else am I going to meet in the future that will remember me and totally confound me when they reintroduce themselves?
I chatted with the High School guy for a few more minutes. He spent the last 4 years in Japan as a translator and came back to the states to pursue something different. I found him interesting, but far too timid to take very seriously. At the end of our conversation we nodded at each other. "Well, it was nice to see you again, Natalie." He said, holding out his hand. I shook it. He then looked at our hands interlocked and quickly pulled his away. "I can't believe I just shook your hand!" He exclaimed under his breathe as he walked toward the exit. I laughed.
"How do you say goodbye in Japan?" I asked. He smiled and took a small bow. I bowed back. "That's better!" I said and waved as he walked out the door. I turned to my co-worker and shrugged.
"Who was that?" She asked.
"I have no clue." I answered.
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