American-Hyphenated

"So, you're saying that if we, hypothetically, decided to move to New Zealand and I became a citizen there, I'd still have to pay taxes to the US on what I earned in another country?" I asked in total shock.

Jackson scrutinized his phone and re-read the BBC article again. "Yeah, I think that's what they're saying." He answered, looking up at me. "And if I get my citizenship here, I'll have to as well."

I fumed as I leaned back into the couch. Do other countries do that? Or just Amurricah?

Jackson glanced at his phone again before musing: "How many Americans have passports? According to the article over 1,100 people gave up their citizenship due to the new tax laws."

Huh? How can you be born here in the U.S., live somewhere else, then decide that legally you don't want to be a citizen anymore? My mind blew apart with the idea. "Give up your citizenship? Just like that!?" I cried. "I was born and raised here in New York. I am American to the marrow of my bones, and in this day and age, I can move to another country and renounce my citizenship!? What the very fuck!?" Crazy!

Jackson looked at me with amusement, then said "Guess how many U.S. citizens have a passport? 115 million!" I chewed over the idea. Only a third of Americans have their passport...

"How many New Zealanders have theirs?" I asked.

"75%." Jackson responded. "Oh! And there are more Americans living abroad than there are New Zealanders in the whole world." Jackson laughed. "6 million Americans are living abroad and 4.5 million New Zealanders exist."

My mind was still reeling. "I could give up American citizenship if I am a citizen of New Zealand. I could say: 'I am no longer an American.' Even though: I am no matter what. How? How does that work? That's like saying I am no longer a white woman. I am. I will always be, even if I lived in another country for 30 years, I'd still be an American!" Jackson nodded. You'll always be a New Zealander no matter what. I thought, looking at my boyfriend and then thinking back to the conversation I had the night before with a buddy of mine. We were walking and talking about accents.

"My girlfriend's sister has lived in London for years and has a bastardized American-British accent and as much as she denies she's taken on the local accent, she kinda' has. But, she'll never be a fully accented local, she'll always have her American-isms. Also like British-Mike. He's been here for years, but still talks with an English lilt." My friend said. "No matter what, you'll never be full-on local. You'd be American-hyphenated."

I'd be American-hyphenated no matter what I did with my passport. "More things to think about if we decided to move." I told Jackson. He nodded.

"It's amazing to me that we're still defining ourselves by country." He responded. "People move around so much and will continue to do so. The concept will start to make less and less sense. "

Yeah... what about all the dual citizen babies out there? All the kids that will be born in the next ten years. How many of them will be dual or tri-citizens? How do you define where they are from!? That's an interesting idea. Maybe the concept of country vs. country will start to dissolve in the next few generations. I mean, Europe is already doing it. There are certain rules that the EU as a whole must abide by and there are still separate countries with separate rules, but the EU passport gets you mobility anywhere there. Why shouldn't the international community eventually adopt that idea? In which case, I guess the idea of taxes might be more universal? Or maybe more of a fair ideal? Who knows.

"Right you are." I said with as much of a New Zealand inflection as I could.

Miley Cyrus

My jaw dropped. Out came Miley, slinking her way down a giant teddy bear, wearing a one piece teddy-tard (instead of leotard) with a bear's face that looked like he'd just swallowed acid and was tripping balls. Miley didn't look too far behind, wagging tongue and rolling her eyes as she bounced around on stage at the MTV Video Music Awads (VMA's) screaming: "Let me hear you make some noise!" I wanted to make noise, but couldn't find words to express the sickening feeling in my gut.

What must have been millions of dollars, months of work, hundreds of people coordinating, and years of talent and experience (I'm talking the back-up dancers and stage managers who managed to pull this off) seemed to fizzle into the obnoxious gyrating of a buttless, entitled, 20 year old. I felt totally sorry for the people who were paid vast sums of money (yet not nearly as much as Miley must have gotten) who were there to witness the tacky and tasteless spectacle of a song-we've-already-heard-a-million-times get played yet again by a now even more naked Miley who ripped off the weird teddy-tard and opted for a tight, gold, spandex, bathing suit.

Then: as if the performance couldn't get more ridiculously stupid, another artist came on in a 70's style black and white suit, singing out of key, only to have the now nearly naked Cyrus bend over and rub her tiny butt on his balls. Oh yeah: fluffy, forgettable, entertainment at its styrofoam peak.

I stared at the screen long after the clip was done, wondering what I should think about all of what I just saw. My feminist side was screaming: "That just set us back by 20 years!"

My intellectual side screamed: "That whole thing said nothing but a 'big booty-big booty' song and a back-with-buns white chick just humped a man twice her age; where's the originality!?"

My young, 20-something side said: "Can't wait to see how Buzz-Feed will rip her a new asshole for that piece of hot, steamy trash"

More than anything, though, I felt deeply confused. Every year we've got songs, movies, ads and messages passed around about how to promote education, equality, respect for other humans, etc. Then, as if hurling a massive hot turd in the face of all of that, a Disney created princess (Miley Cyrus was originally a teeny-bopper 'you-go-girl!' chick back in the early 2000's) turns into a bleached, garlic-knot-haired, sex fiend whose sole purpose is to suck on the balls of trashy pop and give clearly misguided advice to young women about how to dance with the guy singing badly behind you while performing at a concert.

Did she win, however? She got me riled enough to write a post about her crotch-grabbingly bad performance. Isn't that the point, after all? Bad press is still good press, when you need views and can get people watching. And talent doesn't have to be present in the performer: all the hundreds of people it took to make Miley the lead are the real winners, having created a show so bad it'll be talked about for weeks; maybe even making its debut in a SNL sketch.

I just hope, sincerely, that my generation can watch something that atrocious and think: "Hilarious! Stupid! Can't wait to make fun of that hot bag of garbage!"

Instead of: "Where can I get a gold bikini like that? And that guy need to get his tiny penis right in between my sweet buns."

Gross.

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

Guilty Thoughts

Why is guilt an emotion humans have to grapple with? It seems to unfair to me when I think about all the energy I must expend in a day trying to talk myself out of the self flagellation that is my inner guilt-track. 

Are women more prone to it than men? Or, are men just better at dismissing the guilt and thinking about other things?

Guilt can be everywhere, too! I feel guilty about eating too much, or forgetting to email someone, or sleeping in to late in the morning, or not going to the gym, or not being completely honest with someone or not writing a blog post everyday! 

I like to imagine what life would be like if, somehow, the process the brain goes through in order to create guilt were disabled. We'd all be super-humans; We'd all be super-villians, too. 

If I had no guilt (and I'd like to clarify, here: guilt is different from remorse. I'm using "guilt" to describe the lesser-evils than, say, the feeling a healthy individual would feel if they decided to kill someone.) I would do all the things I normally do in my day, but I wouldn't spend a second thought on how I could have accomplished the 24 hours "better." I mean, guilt is just comparing what I do with an image of what I think I could have done or should have done and then beating myself up over it. Would I feel lighter, the burden of guilt being lifted from my conscious? 

What if we could all see guilt? What if it was a thing that popped up on our faces, clear as day, and was therefore transparent? Like, if I walked in late to work because I decided to buy an ice cream cone before coming in and I feel guilty that A) I'm late. B) I ate something I think I shouldn't of. C) I then lie and say that the train was shitty, so as to illicit the sympathies of my boss. But, rather than the guilt going unnoticed to the outside world, it would turn my whole body purple. Then, my boss would understand that I am probably not feeling really good about a couple choices I've made in the last 20 minutes. Maybe I'd get a hug because they have turned purple as well over a couple choices they've made.

I hate guilt. I hate the "gremlin" inside my head that tells me that I'm This or That because of a few choices I've made. I think, honestly, it's one of the reasons many people don't reach their full potential. And, hell, if we all turned purple and then gave ourselves hugs with maybe a whispered: "It's all OK, you're not a bad person." in the ear as the embrace happened, we'd all be a lot happier. 

Fuck off, Guilt. 

Handling Loss and Change

Handling loss is part of what makes us all unique. I think every person has a list of several past experiences that have formed them and prepared them for dealing with a major life change, like loss. I wrote about the "emotional self"and how if one were to physicalize that self one would see all the scars and burns and hurts that have been inflicted over the course of a lifetime to make that self look like it does. That body of emotion moves a certain way and reacts a certain way because of those wounds.

Recently I have been dealing with a loss at work. My Work Husband no longer works there and I have been grappling with the anxiety of what that means for me. I feel like the Husband of a family very suddenly and without warning left the house and, as the wife, I am now in charge of informing everyone that the guy left and I don't have answers and I am very upset and I don't know what I will do about it, and yes: times are changing; and yes: we all loved him, etc, etc. Life's unfair: I keep telling myself that. Things will be OK: I also keep telling myself that.

We worked together for 2 years 3-4 days a week, 7-8 hour shifts. That's a lot of time to spend with one person, and the fact that we were able to do so without too much drama or annoyance or complication is, I think, one of the most miraculous things about my life up until this point.

I stared down my fears about him leaving yesterday while on the phone with my career coach. I had guilt about staying at the job, anger, confusion, worry, and dread; all terrible emotions to have to carry and think about before going in to a shift at your day job. My coach was a rock-star. She really helped me level out the "boat" of my life and get me back to solid ground. And now, I am trying to roll with the punches and not live up to the expectation that, I think, some of my co-workers were expecting. I've laid out a couple of scenarios I think many of them might have been expecting.

Scenario #1:
Natalie blasts into the restaurant, hair on fire, shattering the doors of the entrance as she walks in. "WHO IS RESPONSIBLE!?" she booms and all tremble in fear. "I WANT DEATH!" she screams grabbing all responsible and crushing them as she cackles a terrible laugh.

Scenario #2:
Natalie slowly walks into the restaurant, head hung low. She has been crying for what looks like days. She cannot speak. She is inconsolable. She vomits on the floor when asked how she is feeling. She cries every 2 minutes and is finally sent home.

Scenario #3:
Natalie just doesn't give a fuck. Fuck you! Fuck you! Lemme tell you what I think of you! You suck! You suck! You suckity suck suck fuck puck bluck slut!! She throws a bunch of napkins on the floor and spits on them. "I'm now telling you every deep dark secret I have ever felt and then I'm going to shit on those napkins!"She announces to an appalled staff.

I didn't do any of those... Promise.

I will continue as normally as I can, because that's what my emotional self is programed to do, like a life dance, and maybe this whole thing is a "wake-up" and I need to really focus on building my career now, and not be so comfortable in my day job.

Whiney The Poo

There are many types of people in the world: The Pessimist, The Optimist, The Realist, The Asshole, etc. Being that I am an incredibly opinionated person with a penchant for quick judgement, I am especially annoyed by: The Guy Who Has No Time For Anything, Ever. I'll call him the TGWHNTFAE or, for short: Whiney the Poo.

Whiney the Poo is quite the entertainer with all his stories of just how busy he is. He even made a joke when we sat down for dinner about how long it took for him to even get this evening free. He loves to talk about his job, and the funny cat posters that adorn his office walls. He'll list off all the emails he answered today and go into details, that are far too gory, regarding the strange looking stain he spotted on his boss' tie. Oh, Whiney the Poo just loves to pontificate on all the important strides he's making toward his career. He's even picked up a new hobby on his new iPhone were he flicks a digital paper ball into a digital garbage can whenever he's waiting for an especially large PDF file to get sent to the "big wigs in London."

Whiney the Poo hates his mother, feels like he never got enough love. He's totally paranoid that his outfit doesn't fit right because Jeremy, at work, got a new power suit that makes Whiney the Poo feel like Poo-Poo. Boo Hoo. Poor Poo.

Whiney insists on paying for dinner after he's finished off his third Tanqueray and Tonic and polished off the last of my bourbon after ordering the 2nd round I didn't want. He's all about being the big guy! However, as soon as Whiney the Poo steps out of the overly decorated, tasteless restaurant somewhere in midtown that we paid way too much to eat in, he'll whip out his fancy phone and, after staring at it for a couple minutes too long, declare that he can't believe the idiots running his office when he's not there.

So, so sorry! He'll say when he realizes that I really meant it when I said I needed to head home. Couldn't he just walk me to the subway that also happens to be in front of his apartment building? It's only 18 block away? And when I insist that, oh, I really super duper have to wake up at 4am after all, he'll lament. Why are the girls in New York so hard to date? Why Why Why? Why can't I get what I want!? I work so hard and all I want is a nice girl I can see! Couldn't you be that nice girl for me? I do everything for everybody all the time and I just want a break! C'mon. Gimme a piece. Gimme a break of that fine, sweet, pus-pers-personality!

To which, I stare, confirming my deep, deep dislike of the work-a-holic, whiney, self conflicted, lost souls who feel they can shove around a couple hours in order to schedule a time to get laid and say: "I have to go. Thanks for dinner. And the stain on your boss' tie sounds like it was butternut squash soup." And I'll turn on my heel and walk away. Fuggetaboutit, Whiney the Poo, you're just full of Shit.

Cool Hand Luke

I felt his hand pat my butt. "When you get a chance; could we get the check, sweetheart?" I froze. Get your filthy hand off of my butt!!! My mind screamed. I smiled a weak, passive smile and moved away from him. I heard his drunk wife's shrill voice behind us: "Did he just touch her ass!?" to the other 4 drunken people at the table. I wanted to die. LEAVE. Just, leave right now, please. Get the fuck out, ALL of you!! I tallied their bill and slid it in front of Mr. Cool Hand Luke who was now standing on the opposite side of my bar. "Thanks so much, you did a really great job." He said as he jotted down the total, tipping me an extra 25 bucks on top of the already included gratuity. I took the check back without a word and watched as he joined his group.

I felt like a victim for about 30 seconds; and then I felt really irritated. As much as I tell myself that we live in a world that's moving more toward equality of the genders, the races, the sexual orientations and the classes; I am still reminded that we have a long way to go.

I tried to picture doing anything to a guy that would make them feel like a piece of meat, but all I could think about was maybe patting them on the head and being really patronizing. I felt frustrated. I could raise a stink about this, I could call that guy out, have his wife feel more ashamed and embarrassed than she probably already feels (Hell, she has to go home with that slime-ball at the end of the night...) I could tell my manager what happened and have her throw those people out... I mused over the scenario of all 6 of those loud-mouthed drunks getting tossed out of the restaurant. Eh, not worth all that fuss.

Unfortunately, this is not a new problem. I am a 25 year old waitress in a dark room with a lot of drunk people on the weekends who are out to have a good time. The benefits of being young, pretty and single are certainly fun and plentiful, but the down side is really gross. I'll get texts from older men who want to "see what I'm up to tonight" and cat-calls on the street. Sometimes, all I want to do is throw a burka on in order to avoid the salacious stares and whistles from construction workers. This problem is not only mine, I see it happen to other girls, too. I see girls just trying to get from point A to point B, not wearing anything overly sexual, getting all sorts of nasty comments thrown at them.

To all you you sad, lusty, sexually frustrated, bored, men who feel, I dunno, trapped? And look at me and think I'd be a nice roll in the hay: go fuck yourselves. And then figure out how to get yourself a therapist to get you to a place where you can be happy, balanced, and not feel like you need to take a quick swipe at a girl's butt in order to give you a thrill.

New York Lameness

"I feel like I'm eating cereal without milk with this guy." I said to my friend on the phone tonight. "Like, the crunchiness is good, and I really like cereal, but it's lacking a really important ingredient." I thought about the words coming out of my mouth. I've said these before, except more like in terms of Pizza. Dominos pizza. Oh my god, I've landed myself in a bowl of milk-less cereal with Cutie.

I sat down in my living room and joined my sister in her youtubing, internet surfing binge and thought about my life choices recently. Today, in the park where I had lunch with a couple of improv class mates, we discussed dating in New York. The brunette in our trio lamented her frustrations with finding reliably not-crazy men in this city and how even the not crazy ones are not in it for the long haul, or even the several week haul for that matter, it seems more like if something is amiss in even the slightest way, you just throw off the cloak of that person and pick out another hottie to start dating, because Lord knows there are a whooooole lot of hotties parading around this city all the time. I fought back a bit, using my logical answer of "As soon as I stopped caring, I found guys to start dating." Which has worked for me the last few months.

But, do I not care? I texted Cutie tonight to see if he was free and got a "Sorry I'm working late" response which I took to the next level of "Let's just call it here." I wished him luck with that late night project and then settled in to believing I'll never hear from him again. Jeesh, this cereal is crunchy and dry. And, I feel a little let down ...I thought I didn't really care!

Is everyone here in New York to be the best at their careers and just screw each other with no real emphasis on anything solid? I couldn't even tell you Cutie's favorite meal or any of the names of his siblings, and I've seen this guy a couple times. I do know he works hard, and that seems to be the real common denominator for everyone here. No one has free time. Hell, I don't have free time and I have a LOT of free time! But, not for hanging out. I have free time to surf the web and get a mani-pedi and do yoga and walk around aimlessly for hours, but for a trip to a hottie hot-spot? Nope. Too tired. Too busy. Even as I write this entry I think about how I could have stayed at the theatre I just watched improv at, and maybe struck up a couple of conversations with some hotties I saw walking in as I walked out.

Especially with this whole epidemic of weddings and babies I feel almost like I somehow got left behind a grade in the school of life. I don't feel old, nor do I feel as if all my good years are "Passing me by" but, I can now start to spill over onto my other hand with the number of people I know getting married and the number of people I know having babies is starting to rise as well.

I look at the "dry cereals" that walk the streets of this city and try not to become brittle and hard and cynical like so many of my girlfriends seem to be becoming as another less-than-great guy lets them down.

I need a vacation. New York is really great for a whole lot of things, but when it comes to dating, it can be pretty lame. Maybe I'll visit Chicago. Although, I hear Portland and Seattle have nothing but girl-starved guys. I have nothing but cereal over here! Let's get some substance into this meal and have a real breakfast!!

The "Uh Oh" List

I thought about other people I would really not want to run in to: there weren't many. Usually I don't mind seeing someone I know out in public, and usually I get along with most everyone I meet, so thankfully there isn't an army of humans that would make me run for the hills if I saw them. However, I'm sure we all have those 5 or 6 people that would be at the top of the "Please Don't Be Where I Am Right Now, Ever" list.

I went invisible last night. I used my mundane superpower by holding my breath, sucking on my lower lip, looking down at the floor and slowing my pace. I did NOT want the person I had spotted coming toward me to stop and talk to me, or see me or even think about me. I sent a silent prayer to whomever was listening at the moment and begged them to let him walk past me. He did. I don't know for sure if he saw me, I don't want to know, but I did find it funny that we happened to be on the same street at the same time (2am, by the way. What the hell?)

I find it amazing that someone I saw romantically and physically for a while, someone that I devoted a lot of time and energy toward could walk past me on a busy New York street and we could just miss each other. In fact, I wanted him to keep going! That chapter is so done, dude.

I giggled nervously after he passed and allowed myself to become visible again. I took a deep breath and marveled at the power of thought. I'd been thinking about him a lot lately, actually. He'd been coming up in conversations and memories and I wondered if I had conjured him, and that the person I saw walking toward me was just a ghost. I recalled his features: he looked pissed off, annoyed, or concentrating on some big thought. Maybe the ghost of the guy was frustrated that I had woken him up and demanded that he be on the street so late at night.

I am awed by the way events unfold and history loops and people come back into our lives for different reasons. Seeing Him last night made me wonder if I'll run in to other people I really don't want to see, and that by running in to them I'd have some kind of closure, as if, maybe I was the ghost stuck in purgatory and seeing a few people on my "Uh-Oh" list would help me come out of my limbo. I have one or two guys that I am very curious about running in to, even though they are still on my "Come Not Near Me!" side. If I did see them coming toward me, I wonder who would be more freaked? Them or Me? Maybe we'd both become invisible...

Quitting Facebook

What would it be like if everyone had a "Burn Book" they kept as a constant reminder that they did indeed make incredibly dumb choices in their lives involving other people? This Burn Book would be a photo album of sorts, kept up to speed with every guy (or girl) ever kissed or fooled around with or dated. There would be photos and notes taken and each page would be devoted to one person (and maybe if that person were in your life for a while, they'd get another page, or something).

These hypothetical Burn Books are getting closer and closer to reality when I go on Facebook and check out someone of interest. I feel almost dirty looking at old photos of people I just became friends with. I don't know this person, and suddenly I can see all the way back to 2006 when they were dressed as a green frog at their university's halloween party, and then two clicks later they look like they might have hooked up with half a dozen freshmen also at the party. Um... gross? That looks like 5 or 6 pages of your burn book, my friend. Here! I'll make it for you! All I need is right here, right down to the link leading me to the page of each one of the people you hooked up with and who they are dating and/or married to right now! Ahhhhh!!

I am in constant debate with myself as to whether I should get the hell off Facebook. Really. Talk about unplugging. It's just, the idea that all these thousands of pictures are available by just clicking a link makes me feel naked. I look at other people's photos and judge them, why shouldn't they do the same to me? Whenever I meet someone who is not on Facebook I feel like I've had a sighting of BigFoot to report. The person not on Facebook is so rare now, that I often wonder what their lives must be like when they didn't get the invitation to that party, or when they can't see all the cool footage from that stupid wedding, etc. It's amazing. There are babies now who have Facebook pages! There will be a whole generation of humans whose entire lives will be documented on this website. Oh my god. The amount of information one could gather on a person in 5 or 10 years is staggering to think about.

Then again, would anyone have predicted LIFE magazine flopping in its heyday? or could anyone have suspected that Woolworth's would have gone under when it was on top? Maybe Facebook will also have it's Roman Empire collapse as well? Nothing is too big to fall. History has taught us that over and over, and I think that very much applies to the virtual world.

Burn Books would be deleted and maybe we'd all have to figure each other out again and take someone's word when they say they've been to Spain (even if we can't go online to see the pictures to prove it). Ugh. I don't know. Facebook is: EveryOneLookAtMyBook and who can argue with that? I am totally that person, too. Until whatever happens, Facebook really is in its full swing of its own version of being the conquerer Alexander the Great. In fact, Facebook has more of a population united under one flag than any other empire in the history of the world, ever... Revolutions are planned using Facebook! Burn Books for countries! Epic. Epic. Epic. How can one walk away from that kind of power and draw? Until I can find the courage to do that, I'll never really know.

Feeling Stoopy

Crowded subway. It's rush hour. I'm still groggy from the nap I woke up from. I think I dragged my butt in to work in just about the slowest "get-ready-and-go" I have ever done in 15 minutes. At least, I felt slow when I reached for the conditioner for a second time in the shower and only after lathering it in realized I had already done that step. D'oh!

So, anyway, crowded subway... I'm too "stoopy" [Stoopy: (Stoo-py) A word used to describe the groggy or, in cases of Natalie's family, utter lack of brain function when awaking from a long nap.] to take out my book or put on my head phones and listen to Maroon 5 again, so I let my eyes wander.

Oh, the crotches one sees on the subway. Have we all noticed this and not said anything? Am I coming into an awakening I've never had before? Sitting on a train in New York directly positions the person sitting to have their face almost exactly at the same height as the crotch of the person standing. I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I tried to dart my eyes down and instead found them resting on the package on an enormous Pakistani man sitting across from me wearing jeans that were far too small for him, so his incredible girth was spilling out and over the confines of the denim, revealing a very dark and hairy under belly that I cringed to look at. I glanced up and noticed he had noticed I was staring. I quickly feigned boredom and picked at my nails.

Cut to: crowded passageway on my walk from the 7 to the BDFM trains that span the length of an avenue block in New York. It's a nice tunnel, well lit, there are murals on the walls, and every now and then there are weird quotes that don't seem to really make a whole lot of sense to me. Every time I walk past "Gutta Cavat Lapidem" I repeat the mantra to myself like it's a secret code only I know. So, I'm walking down the passageway and again, my eyes begin to wander. There are so many people in that passage! Everyone is tall and short and fat and thin and male and female all at once! Sometimes, I need to look at my hands to remind myself that I am indeed a human and not a sheep, because falling in line with the throng makes me lose all sense of individuality (I guess this is why I am always listening to music when going to work). I start to analyze what everyone is wearing: "Nice boots, I'd wear those!" and "Terrible shirt" and "Is that a man? or a woman?" Yet, as each person passes me and goes on  their way, there is a short moment of eye contact, and then we both look away.

Ahhh... There is it: Eye contact! The only way to not have that walk become a triviality and mind-numbing parade of faceless humans. But, watching all these people watch me made me feel like I was suddenly held together by a bunch of blocks of wood. What am I wearing? I feel so stupid in these pants, I feel like everyone behind me is getting a good look at my butt and everyone passing me can see the shape of my boobs and I feel like I could scream! I took deep calming breathes. I even made up a poem in my head.

It's times like these when I really need to stand in a field of wide openness and just let the wind pull back my hair and the sun burn my arms and the grass tickle my feet.

"Gutta Cavat Lapidem:" A water drop hollows a stone.

Who is getting hollowed? Me? Or the City?

I need another nap.

Not Feeling It

When one has to convince themselves that the person they are on a date with is really wonderful and attractive, one needs to take a step back from the situation and assess the real meaning of "I'm convincing myself that this is true!" ...when actually, it really isn't.

In improv, a big lesson I've learned is that sarcasm is not translatable to an audience member and sometimes a scene partner as well, therefore it can be a killer to a scene. Say what you feel, and mean it, rather than making the other actor on stage do some guess work as to what your character really means when they are using certain inflections in their voice. So In Improv: So In Life. Look at the situation, and take what the real meaning of the inflections are, and go with that; dancing around a subject only makes the mystery of that subject bigger than anything you could possibly hope to name later on. *The Name the Noun blog post I wrote a while back really addressed this with more clarity*

I went on my second date with the Camera Man (Hot European guy posed with a camera in his Facebook photo) today and felt as if I was laughing a little too loud, talking a little too much, feeling a little too tired out around him. Then, the real kicker: sitting in probably one of the most romantically secluded parks in the city (literally 2 couples came in and made out while we were sitting there) and wanting to pull out my iPhone to play scrabble instead of sit next to him and tempt his lips toward mine.

*Cue the sound of a buzzer*
"...and will someone show our contestant off the stage? Stay tuned for a brief commercial break as we pull on another volunteer from the audience, folks!"

Roll the credits, thank the producers of this wonderful two-part date-a-thon, and... move on.

I walked back home after watching some more improv as a way to get my mind off of the flat-lining heart alarm that seemed to be whining in my brain. It seems I really can be super picky about the types I wind up falling for... or am I? I drew up a list of qualities I am looking for and on closer inspection I really don't think I am asking for too much! Right?

Wanted:
- Straight Male
- Blue, grey, green or hazel eyes a MUST
- Tall
- Nerdy
- In decent shape physically
- Practices good hygiene
- Passionate
- Must love their family
- Can't be ignorant about basic social functions (i.e. talking really loud in a public place, like a deli or something, when no one is laughing nor even paying attention to the idiocy coming out of your mouth... that's SO embarrassing to be the girl on the arm of that guy.)
- Must have a strong friend group
- Must have a steady job and living situation
- A decent wardrobe (meaning: seeing you in the same t-shirt every time I see you is cute at first, and then I wonder what the hell you're wearing when you wash that. Or do you wash that? Ew.)

The Make-Out

I found myself staring at my cellphone and wondering what the hell to say back to his statement. How does one respond to a statement? I wished you well with what you had planned for the day, and you responded, a few hours later, with a statement. So... Ball's in my court and I feel like it didn't even get the power needed for that ball to bounce up and let me hit it back to you. *Cue sound of a tire going flat as the budding seeds of a could-be hook-up crinkle and waste away* pffffrrrrttt!!

Oh well. I was pretty drunk when we wound up sucking face at the bar in Williamsburg and then drunkenly swapped numbers.

More than anything, getting the affirmation that I could look at a guy, chat with him for an hour in a crowded, hopping, jazz-playing, trendy bar full of other good looking 20-somethings and then wind up making-out with him, feels pretty good. My friends gave me a big high five and I eagerly goggled at my phone the entirety of the next day in anticipation of a fulfillment of an inebriated promise to text me. "Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But, here's my number... Call me, maybe?"

My roommates are both currently in very new, committed relationships and I am in full swing of singledom and not feeling sorry for myself one bit. I feel like I have come a long way from the 23 year old self who would have looked at the happy couples and wanted to bury my head in the sand. The only irritation is not having a private bedroom for entertainment (sharing a room with my sister) Womp Womp. But, even with that road-block, I feel exuberant. I've been working out like crazy and New York seems to have noticed. I can't walk down the street to get a coffee without a comment. "Um, Ew, thanks, but, no thanks."

I'll be 25 in a couple days and I feel very excited about what the next "Year of Natalie" will have in store. What I really want: more fun-filled socializing and autumnal explorations of the 20-something males who seem, just as suddenly as the 10,000 babies, to be cropping up like spring daisies.

And, Oh, Boy do they smell super sweet....

Megawatt Smile

This bar is fun. Cheap food, great friends here... Oh. Wait. What and Who is that?

Hi gorgeous.

You've got a megawatt smile.

Oh. Your girlfriend lives in Yakutsk... How... interesting.

Do you see each other often?

No? Only once every 2 years? Oh, I see. That makes total sense.

Haha! You were a fat kid!? I don't believe that!! You're so effin pretty now! I mean, you've got a great look for the camera. I'll bet you're super talented. I'll bet you land all sorts of really great commercials. You worked with such and such and so and so? Really? Wow. Great. You know, I... uh huh. Yep. You're probably very talented, I'm sure. Siblings? Yeah? I have siblings too! We have so much in common! You lived in Boringsville, USA? I've been there! That's so... cool.

So, what the hell can I talk to you about other than yourself? You know, this is really funny: the other day I saw a clown on the subway and...

Yeah, I guess it is getting late, huh?

Silence doesn't suit us.

I'll just mosey back over to my side of the bar and pretend that I don't want to stick my head in an oven.

Ugh. Beautiful people: Sounds like I'll have more luck scoring one of the New York versions if I move to Siberia.

Soaked

I was soaked. Drenched, sopping, dripping, filthy and carrying twenty pounds of groceries.

Let's rewind. An hour beforehand my sister and I decided that we needed to do some grocery shopping, except: we needed to go to it at the Super Stop & Shop that was a ten minute walk from my apartment. Leaving the house with our umbrellas in hand, we made our way down the hill of 48th street, under the trestle of the Long Island Rail Road, past the Home Depot Parking Lot to the entrance of the supermarket. To say that the rain pissing down on us was anything less than biblical, would be a gross understatement. Torrents of rain! Buckets of rain! Rain so thick and strong that when the wind blew the visibility fell to only a few feet. The lightening was striking mighty close as well! Each flash in the sky would immediately answer back with a loud chest exploding boom and crack, setting off car alarms and shaking the ants my sister and I had become, sending us scurrying and screaming and laughing.

I wore my flip-flops, knowing full well as we first set off that the sky would most likely open up and we'd get drenched. We went shopping, imagining in our ignorance that once done the rain would let up and we'd walk home in much cooler temperatures. We stepped out of the store and saw bedlam before us. It seemed that in the course of 40 minutes the entire street by the entrance to the Home Depot parking lot flooded with feet of water. Cars sat submerged in 4-5 feet of dirty, muddy, trash-filled destruction. The traffic was halted as everyone in their cars stared with a dumbfounded expression at the Noah's-Ark-worthy flood that had stopped up 48th street.

My first thought was: Oh Shit. I've never seen a flood before. I grew up in New York City and have seen plenty of houses floating away on boulevards covered in a free flowing river on CNN, I've seen waterfalls in the subways, and really, really big puddles on Broadway. But this: This sight before me was a new experience. Cars that had been parked on the street were nose deep, the sidewalk was completely lost, and small waves splashed up against the side of the buildings as cars stuck their toes into the water before deciding that the river was too deep to forge, and then turned around.

I looked at my sister. "We have no choice, we have to go through it."
"Are you sure?!" She asked looking slightly worried and thrilled.
"We have no other choice! This is the only way to get back to the apartment. It's this way or we have to walk about 40 minutes in another direction!"
We stood there in dumbfounded silence as we watched a brave soul forge the river. She was the first human we'd seen on the street. The tiny asian woman was wearing a garbage bag and was pushing a wire mesh cart. The water, at its deepest, came up to her hips. She soldiered on, clinging to the side of the chain-link fence like a subway rat to keep from being carried away until eventually reaching the shallows under the trestle on the other shore and then disappearing into the rain.
"If she can do it, we can." I said, determined. "Let's go."

To say that swimming through that river was just about the filthiest thing I have ever done, would be correct. There were leaves, grass, branches, McDonalds wrappers, greasy oil slicks, and most likely the dead bodies of discarded mob hits floating at the unseen bottom. I felt the floor with my flip-flops praying that the cheap $2 pair of thongs wouldn't snap in the water leaving me wet and shoe-less. The water got up to my mid thigh before it finally began to recede. I held the groceries up to my chest as I balanced the umbrella on my shoulder probably looking completely ironic and silly with an umbrella protecting my head from the rain while the rest of me was submerged in a flood.

I moved slowly up the hill from the disaster. Cars and trucks on the other side of the water looked on at the two of us as if we were the swamp things coming up out of the muck. One idiot decided that he'd drive on the sidewalk and crept past us in his white 4xNothing SUV. My Sister called out that he should turn around, but her voice got lost in the pouring of the rain and I secretly hoped that car would get swallowed up in the torrent.

I was so angry! Why why why was this happening to me!? WHY did we have to go shopping at that grocery store!? I felt the frustration of breaking up, coming back from vacation, changing plans, the pressure of turning 25 and bunking up with my sibling all bubble up, as if wading through that filthy refuse had unstuck all of that and floated it up to my conscious surface. A huge clap of thunder boomed and I screamed. I set down my groceries and took a couple of deep breaths. The rain poured and poured. My sister stopped walking and watched me appraisingly, as if waiting for a signal in which way to proceed. Is Natalie going to fall apart? Is she alright? I felt the water run down my back and closed my eyes. I felt like screaming more, so I did.

The thunder echoed in response. My sister, ahead of me, put down her bags of groceries. She analyzed my voice and body language, and: seeing that my response to our current circumstance was not directed at her, she breathed deep and walked on. "It's behind us now, Natty." She said matter-of-factly. "In fact, that was kinda' fun."

I looked at my soaked clothing and shook the wet hair out of my face before picking up the groceries. I felt better for screaming really loud. I felt like less of a victim and felt less sorry for myself with each step. I took another breath. Actually, as much as that sucked, it was kinda' fun, actually.

An Altercation Over An Alteration Of An Article Of Clothing

Things are going really well. I'll get a phone call that asks me to explain the relationship status, then I'll blithely begin to chatter away about the improv I am doing, and maybe divulge how much money I recently spent on some clothes. Life will bump along at an amazing little clip until: an altercation.

My altercation: sitting on a sharp spring poking up through my seat at a theatre and having the said spring chew up the brand new just-wore-them-today-for-the-first-time jeans I bought yesterday.

It's interesting how my "off center" moments now seem to revolve around the fact that my brand spankin new jeans are now good as a salt shaker.

I was seething mad.

I wanted a pound of flesh and a pint of blood.

I wanted to scream at someone and belittle them and make them think I was some powerfully awful bitch by saying things like:

"Do you know who I AM? My Dad's uncle is best friends with a state attorney (bullshit) who is going to sue the hell out of you and this roach infested cesspool you call a theatre! I just spent a shit load of money on these jeans! Probably more than you make in a week! I want you to give me all the money I just spent on these as a compensation and then I want you to Seppuku yourself right in front of me for the horrible dishonor I have been dealt because I sat on a fucking chair that decided to chew my new jeans to shreds! The guilt you should feel should make a Catholic blush! I want you to beg forgiveness! Cry unto the heavens and beg solace from the the almighty because the chair I just sat on poked some holes in my denim! O say naught but Woe for that shall be thou name, Thou foul, detestable, boil of a creature! DIIIIIEEEE!!!!" Then a lightning bolt will fall from the sky and strike the person dead. *Scene*

Ok, so I won't go Shakespearean... I'll only blog about it and all the poor interns who work at the theatre I was just at should send a little prayer of thankfulness my way for not following through on that rant and eventual death.

Chewed up jeans aside, if this is the only thing that can throw my mood, I'm a very lucky person. Ok, fates. I learned my lesson: Don't EVER wear anything expensive or anything with an emotional attachment to a show. Let's just keep the theatre and comedy to grunge and sweatpants for the time being. 'K. Got it.

*Scene*

A Quick Lesson

Me: (Walking down 34th Avenue in Queens toward Astoria, listening to music) La la la la, I'm hot shit, la la la. Music is nice. It's such a pretty day. Wow, look at the blue sky. Gonna meet an old friend and mentor from college and we'll work on developing my Solo Show. Hmm. I wonder what time it is. (Pulls out cell phone to check) Oh, I'm right on time-

Time Slows. The World pauses as I get airborne. The concrete raised it's ugly head and grabbed my left foot forcing me into a full on sprawl that left me kissing the pavement in the middle of the street. I got up very quickly, not even assessing the damage, instead I look around to see if there were any witnesses to the magical pavement monster that just tripped me.

No one had even batted an eyelash.

Me: (now walking quickly away from the scene of the attack) Ow. Ow ow ow ow. My foot hurts. That was really stupid. I was just the a typical brunette white girl wearing her designer footwear, rocking her designer sunglasses and pulling out her iPhone 4 to check some information and because I was't paying any attention to the world around me, the pavement monster just tripped me. (laughing hysterically). This is the second fall I've had this week! I fell on the stairs on my way out of the train station. I have a huge bruise on my left arm and right knee to prove it. except that wasn't even caused by a lack of attention, just plain clumsiness. I'll just keep showing up to work with more bruises and the excuses are pretty funny. Like, what a battered wife would say when she shows up all damaged. "No, really, I fell down the stairs" and "yeah, I did really trip in the street"

Laughing it off made the hurt stop. Laughter really is the best medicine. Oh, and I'll try hard not to zone out from the world around me next time I decide to go for a walk. Ok, lesson learned. I don't need to trip again.

The Double Entendre

I've eaten my fair share of Domino's pizza.

In College, my friends and I would stay up to the wee hours of the morning sitting in someone's living room, smoking a bowl and eating 5 dollar pizza pies covered in pepperoni or jalepenos or mushrooms. I always considered myself somewhat of a pizza snob, but what else could one possibly hope to get when it's 11:30pm and all else is closed except the Dominos? So: the somewhat steamy, usually overcooked, badly hashed out execution of our preferred pizza toppings would show up at our door with a rather pissed looking delivery boy and my friends and I would eat until we were stuffed.

But, that type of culinary sacrifice was something I left behind to be locked in the sepia tones of college memories. However: life has an Ironic way of repeating itself.

I can't remember which comedian I heard describe sex like Pizza. The gist of what the joke was was that even if the sex is terrible: Hey, it's still sex, right? just like Pizza. Pizza is still pizza. To which a friend of mine joking acknowledged: "Yeah, but sometimes you can still get food poisoning from pizza, too." Touché.

Let's say that my life the last few weeks has been a college feeding frenzy of "Dominos pizza"...

Granted: I've certainly had some of the world's best pizza. (No double meaning here) In Florence, my sister would march me across the city to go to a tiny restaurant where an award winning chef would send out personal masterpieces of italian style pizzas. In New York City, I've sampled some of the freshest steaming pies, covered in the pride of a local displaying their prowess in the greatest city on earth. Hell: Even in Louisville, KY I had some damn fine flaky, crusty, greasy, delicious slices of good, cheap pizza. I thought the days of Dominos at midnight were behind me.

I guess, however, in life: when all else is closed, you're in a room full of broke, hungry college students... And one looks around at the situation before them: Dominos can be a pretty tempting option. Even for aficionados of Pizza.

I gorged a couple of times the last few weeks. Now I'm pretty satiated. And, I don't need to eat more. Time to go back to the Zagat rated "Pizza" choices. Except now I'm not the desperately hungry ruffian I was a few weeks ago. I definitely don't need to go back to the menu and sample the "Chef Specials" that were being cooked up for me by OKCupid and Match.com. Ew. Food poisoning...

Now, Hypothetically, it's 8pm on a Friday night and I am ready to go to a 5 star dinner of the finest pie I can find. I'm not desperate for a meal. More in the market for an experience of the senses. What a great place to be. See ya later, Dominos.