Mr. No Call No Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few days go by....

Then a few more.

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

No response. 

Wait a minute. 

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

Fuck. 

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

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

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

-Natalie

Modesty

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

I disagree.

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

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

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

A New York State of Mind

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

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

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

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

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


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

When I First Got Stitched Up

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

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

La la la la I hate Math.

WAMMMMM

White out!

Wh-Wh-What just happened?

I feel funny.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Worst Case Scenario Make-Out

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

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

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

I was a make-out kisser's nightmare.

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

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

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

I need a good date.

New Bedroom

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I move my bedroom furniture into it this weekend.

The Birth of a New Apartment

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

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

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

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

It's 2013 now; out with the old.