So by now most of you have seen the previous post in which I disclosed that I was losing my job and joining the ranks of the country's burgeoning class of unemployed workers. First, I want to thank everyone for their concern. Because this blog was always intended to be anonymous, there is a very short list of those who are alerted to new posts. Other passers-by in cyberspace may stop in and of course they are welcome but I'm still hopeful that they have no idea who I am. Basically, if you're on that list I'm fond of you. Got it?
But here's the thing. If someone tells you they've just been laid off, you're allowed to be shocked but I'm not sure it's helpful to register the extent of how stunned you are. Why? Because I am trying to stay calm, people! And when you freak the fuck out, it freaks me out even more. It's like when a toddler skins his knee, if you play it down, they get over it but if you scream bloody murder at the site of his blood, he may really lose his shit.
And so here, are the true responses some of my lovely friends sent. They have not been edited and if you recognize one as your own, know this. I ain't mad at ya, but your sensitivity chip may need some fine-tuning.
1. Are you going to look for another job??
(umm, no, I was planning on living under the Westside Highway, it's so lovely this time of year.)
2. So what's going on????
(were 4 question marks necessary? and the answer is in the blog entry.)
3. Are you going to be OK?
(You're supposed to TELL me that, not ask. Hello? I'm losing my job in the worst economic downturn since the Great Depression.)
I know. I'm a bitch but I'm bitter. I worked my ass of for a full year on a shift that deprived me of a social life because I was repeatedly told I was building something. And I'm grateful for the experience but I'm pissed that I was loyal to a job when I could have found a better one with better hours. But on a brighter note, I want to say that even my girls in the aforementioned list are very caring people and their questions, while rhetorical, redundant, or retarded.. not in that order, were well-intentioned.
I guess I'm catty. But that's why I'm very good at landing on my feet, just like a cat. And I'm also catty in the sense that I have nine lives. And now, I am going to go watch "The Wire" because McNulty is hot and he makes me forget that I'm about to be unemployed.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
Monday, February 02, 2009
The Love Pariah Gives Way to the Recessionista
I have good news and bad news. I'm going to lead with the good news. You're looking at it. I'm reigniting the blog. The reason for that is the bad news. After months of covering the recession, I have officially become a victim of it. I'm surprisingly calm about the idea of being unemployed at a time when it's easier to find Manolo Blahniks on sale than a job. But when I found out several weeks ago, I was, well let's just say I wasn't so zen about it all.
Like millions of employees in workplaces across the country, I was summoned to my boss' office with an email that appeared to casually ask, "Can we chat?" I knew better. Instantly, I broke into a cold sweat. "Fuck," I said staring at my computer. "What?" my office mate asked with the same dread assuming that the story we were working on together had taken an ugly turn that would require him to cancel dinner plans with his wife.. again. I told him our boss wanted to chat. That can't be good, I noted, stating the obvious. My coworker smiled half-heartedly. "Not necessarily," he offered.
I really like my boss. He gets me. He gets that I'm a good writer and very protective of my scripts, and that I get bent out of shape and yell when shit goes wrong during the wee hours of the morning before the story goes to air. He likes that. And for the most part, even though my altercations with editors and graphics artists over the past year have probably given him a few more gray hairs, he likes me. But the ripple effect of Wall Street's indiscretions was spreading more like a dam bursting than a "trickle" and suddenly yours truly was forced to rethink that Tory Burch trench coat she was eyeing.
The irony was twofold. For weeks, while working Christmas eve, Christmas Day and New Year's Day, I had been saying aloud how lucky I was to have a job. Secondly, I had been doing at least two lead stories on the recession a week and shaking my head at the poor schmuck who got canned after starting a new wing on his home. And in case I wasn't completely freaked out, my superiors were insensitive enough (post-layoff announcement) to keep assigning me those stories. Over and over again, I heard tape of a laid off PR guy, "I felt so undervalued and dispensible" Or the internet ad maven, "I had no savings, what was I going to do?" WHAT THE FUCK WAS I GOING TO DO?!
Fortunately, my parents were in DC when this news came crashing down and came up to New York to see me. My dad attempted to alleviate my anxiety. "You can come work for me," he said. "I will pay you $2,000 a month," he announced proudly. The idea of having my income cut to a fraction of what it was coupled with going back to Texas made me cry harder and my mother asked my dad to stop making it worse. "Then she should just get married," my dad said in defeat. He wasn't done dispensing advice though. The next morning he told me that I could collect unemployment. "The government will pay you for staying home." I remembered my sister had said the same thing and I felt a surge of hope.
And that's kind of where I've stayed. That plane where hope and unemployment insurance intersect. I have four more days at my job and I keep hearing whispers that someone is going to pull a miracle out of a hat saving me from the uncertainty that awaits me. But at this point, I think that I might be disappointed if my job is rescued. I mean where's the glory in that? At least a spell of unemployment will enable me to have some empathy for my fellow American. A recessionista battling it out in the big, gritty city. Doing her own nails, blowing out her own hair and recycling last season's fashions. There's a certain nobility to it. And if my back's not against the wall, how will I be forced to do my next documentary short? GASP! Dear reader, I just had a surge of inspiration for my next film. Stay tuned...
Monday, November 24, 2008
The Accidental Foodie
Euphymisms aren't always good. Well, obviously. Let me just waste some more of your time by stating the obvious. Rain is wet. Mud is dirty. But, back to the point at hand and reason for the outrage that has resulted in this new post.
A couple of coworkers and I were discussing travel and the subject of sweet bread came up. "I've had sweetbread," I announced at which point one of my editors literally recoiled. Then the question I should have pondered prior to this culinary experience popped up- way to go, lightning speed intellect- what exactly is sweet bread?. My editor laughed. My other coworker shook her head in dismay. "Something gross," she offered. So with more than a little dread, I googled it.
Sweetbreads are the thymus glands of lamb, beef, or pork. There are two different connected glands; one set in the neck and the other near the heart. Although both are edible, the heart thymus gland is generally favored because of its delicate flavor and texture, and is thus more expensive. Typically sweetbreads are soaked in salt water, then poached in milk after which an outer membrane is removed. Once dry and chilled, they're often breaded and fried until crisp. It is also popular to use them as a stuffing or in pâtés.
GASP! It's one thing to consume parts of an animal typically discarded as waste but to eat the scraps of an animal who doesn't have the sense to disregard its own feces (ala Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction) disgusts me to an almost unprecedented degree. I say almost because when I lived in Corpus Christi, I made the mistake of ordering lengua at a Mexican fast food place. When I asked the cashier what it was she pointed at her tongue and genius thought she meant it was spicy. It wasn't until I bit into it and realized some cow's tongue was on top of mine that I made the connection. If there's a Darwin award for food dummies, I'm a top contender.
A couple of coworkers and I were discussing travel and the subject of sweet bread came up. "I've had sweetbread," I announced at which point one of my editors literally recoiled. Then the question I should have pondered prior to this culinary experience popped up- way to go, lightning speed intellect- what exactly is sweet bread?. My editor laughed. My other coworker shook her head in dismay. "Something gross," she offered. So with more than a little dread, I googled it.
Sweetbreads are the thymus glands of lamb, beef, or pork. There are two different connected glands; one set in the neck and the other near the heart. Although both are edible, the heart thymus gland is generally favored because of its delicate flavor and texture, and is thus more expensive. Typically sweetbreads are soaked in salt water, then poached in milk after which an outer membrane is removed. Once dry and chilled, they're often breaded and fried until crisp. It is also popular to use them as a stuffing or in pâtés.
GASP! It's one thing to consume parts of an animal typically discarded as waste but to eat the scraps of an animal who doesn't have the sense to disregard its own feces (ala Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction) disgusts me to an almost unprecedented degree. I say almost because when I lived in Corpus Christi, I made the mistake of ordering lengua at a Mexican fast food place. When I asked the cashier what it was she pointed at her tongue and genius thought she meant it was spicy. It wasn't until I bit into it and realized some cow's tongue was on top of mine that I made the connection. If there's a Darwin award for food dummies, I'm a top contender.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Put on Your Thinking Caps!
There was an overwhelming response to my rather lame post in which I toyed with the idea of firing up the blog again. Thank you for your comments. However, one friend suggested changing the name of the blog and hence "changing my destiny." It's a notion that's surfaced before. Is the self-proclaimed title of Love Pariah, actually a self-fulfilling prophecy? But changing the name of the blog would be breaking the thread of posts, erasing that history and starting from a clean slate. Wait. That's not really a con is it?
I know we're all sick of hearing about polls after a protracted presidential campaign, but if you could indulge me here... What should a new blog be named? Something reflective of its content but perhaps not so... doomed.
Here are some options, feel free to weigh in with your own ideas.
Cautiously Optimistic
The Sun Will Come Out
Getting Real
Jurassic Journalist
OK, the last one is a bit obtuse. After nearly failing my science requirement in college, I decided to shift from Chemistry to Geology for the 9 credits I needed to graduate. I still don't get why a journalism major even needs a science requirement. Unless, you want to work for Popular Science in which case you're a big nerd clearly overqualified for our field of study and should just over-achieve ass straight to Nat Geo! Anyway, I figured licking rocks was easier than memorizing formulas. But I still had to memorize. In geology it was the geologic periods. I employed a mnemonic device to help me. So Jurassic was someone asking me for directions.. "Your asking" (Jurassic) the wrong person, "Try asking" (Triassic) Cretaceous. I know, dumb but it worked!
How do I figure Jurassic Journalist? Well, first off you probably noticed the alliteration. But I like what Jurassic represents. According to wiki:
Jurassic Period did not witness any major extinction event. The start and end of the period are defined by carefully selected locations; the uncertainty in dating arises from trying to date these horizons.
Don't you just love it?! Nobody dates my horizons, you got that fruitcake? Damn straight. What? Tell me. I'm standing by....
I know we're all sick of hearing about polls after a protracted presidential campaign, but if you could indulge me here... What should a new blog be named? Something reflective of its content but perhaps not so... doomed.
Here are some options, feel free to weigh in with your own ideas.
Cautiously Optimistic
The Sun Will Come Out
Getting Real
Jurassic Journalist
OK, the last one is a bit obtuse. After nearly failing my science requirement in college, I decided to shift from Chemistry to Geology for the 9 credits I needed to graduate. I still don't get why a journalism major even needs a science requirement. Unless, you want to work for Popular Science in which case you're a big nerd clearly overqualified for our field of study and should just over-achieve ass straight to Nat Geo! Anyway, I figured licking rocks was easier than memorizing formulas. But I still had to memorize. In geology it was the geologic periods. I employed a mnemonic device to help me. So Jurassic was someone asking me for directions.. "Your asking" (Jurassic) the wrong person, "Try asking" (Triassic) Cretaceous. I know, dumb but it worked!
How do I figure Jurassic Journalist? Well, first off you probably noticed the alliteration. But I like what Jurassic represents. According to wiki:
Jurassic Period did not witness any major extinction event. The start and end of the period are defined by carefully selected locations; the uncertainty in dating arises from trying to date these horizons.
Don't you just love it?! Nobody dates my horizons, you got that fruitcake? Damn straight. What? Tell me. I'm standing by....
Monday, November 10, 2008
Just a random post
I'm hooked on this new HBO series called True Blood. It's not just something I enjoy watching, it's literally the highlight of my week. That's more a testament to how empty my life is than the show. Seriously, whenever I get really down about the fact that Dan and I couldn't make things work the tenth time we tried, he actually says to me, "Why don't you go home tonight and watch True Blood?" The really sad part is that it momentarily lifts me from my funk. The only time it doesn't work is if it's Monday and I'm caught up on all the shows. Now I have to wait a whole week before I can rely on it for my silver lining.
Last night, I got to watch two in a row, an embarrassment of riches. I had to fire my personal trainer when I moved because I didn't have a gym where I could work out with him anymore. We tried to work out in the park, on the pier, etc. But it wasn't the same and I hated the idea of working out in my old building where I might run into my ex-roommate. She gave me 7 weeks to find a new place to live after she decided to play mistress to a married colleague from work. We lived together for almost three years and she told me in an email. But I think it was for the best because I'm really too old to be living with a roommate even if it is in the Trump Building.
That's all for now. Someone made a recent comment and it prompted me back to this blog. Since I've been toying with the idea of writing a book, I thought I should at least exercise this creative muscle. Before it becomes all flabby like the other ones. I'm channeling Eeyore at the moment but I'm about to go join the gym nearby and then I'll be all buffed and shit... and then I can channel G.I. Jane.
Last night, I got to watch two in a row, an embarrassment of riches. I had to fire my personal trainer when I moved because I didn't have a gym where I could work out with him anymore. We tried to work out in the park, on the pier, etc. But it wasn't the same and I hated the idea of working out in my old building where I might run into my ex-roommate. She gave me 7 weeks to find a new place to live after she decided to play mistress to a married colleague from work. We lived together for almost three years and she told me in an email. But I think it was for the best because I'm really too old to be living with a roommate even if it is in the Trump Building.
That's all for now. Someone made a recent comment and it prompted me back to this blog. Since I've been toying with the idea of writing a book, I thought I should at least exercise this creative muscle. Before it becomes all flabby like the other ones. I'm channeling Eeyore at the moment but I'm about to go join the gym nearby and then I'll be all buffed and shit... and then I can channel G.I. Jane.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
Hello Again
My head hurts. It’s this fragrance that’s somehow taken up residence on my person. It’s not my perfume. Because after I wear a scent for a while, I stop smelling it, savoring only the praise it elicits from others. OK, that was cheesy, but cut me some slack. I’m rusty at blogging. I was looking over the last few posts and having difficulty understanding why they had any entertainment value.
HPG sent me an email recently saying he missed the blog. Funny, I don’t. When I think of the blog in its hey day I’m reminded of DSG and how mean he was and how bad I felt about myself whenever he would berate me or my daily diatribes. And beyond him there were the other train wrecks, ahem relationships, along the way. I stopped writing around the time I met the man who has been in my life since last August.
We see each other, and then we don’t. Then we have a falling out, then we end up talking or rather me talking. Him into. Seeing me. But the thing about him is he gets me and that’s not even the deal breaker. The deal breaker is the fact that he’s younger and not ready. My friend Beth once said, “When a guy tells you he’s not ready for a relationship, BELIEVE him.” And I do but I also hope. I hope a lot. I hope his feelings for me will outweigh his fear of intimacy, commitment, permanency. And even as I write this, I know that it’s those same fears that have me spinning my wheels with someone I know I can’t have. In other words, the commitment phobe in me is pursuing the man I can’t have so I don’t have to put myself out there for someone who really does want all those things I claim to want. How’s that for self-analysis?
Last night, I was leaving work. I work at a network now as a producer. Anyway, on my way out, I heard the security guard say something to no one in particular about inner peace being the key to happiness. I stopped in my tracks. It was 1:30 in the morning and I was tired but I was also intrigued. “Show me how,” I said moving towards him. He opened the door for me and we stepped into the chilly night air. The street was quiet.
“Humans have five basic needs,” he began in a deep, soothing voice. “Food, clothing, shelter, love and…” he stopped trying to remember the fifth. “Good health?” I offered. He shook his head. “No, but anyway, once a person’s basic needs are met, the key to happiness comes only from within. You have to find inner peace, find the joy in the world. You must seek it, it cannot find you.” He went on to quote Gandhi and how we all as civilized humans had an obligation of “non-cooperation with evil.” I forgot that my coat was too thin for how low the temperature had dropped. I forgot that I wanted to watch “Dancing with the Stars” on tivo. I just stood and listened to this accidental soothsayer who had crossed my path.
Today when I woke up, I felt refreshed and alive. I reminded myself of earlier epiphanies that had urged me to start living my life instead of waiting for it to start. And now, as I sit here, wondering if and when I’ll get asked out by anyone again, I’m forcing myself to revisit that moment on the sidewalk, where I met an immigrant from Guyana who worked the nightshift as a security guard and couldn’t stop smiling about how glorious life is.
HPG sent me an email recently saying he missed the blog. Funny, I don’t. When I think of the blog in its hey day I’m reminded of DSG and how mean he was and how bad I felt about myself whenever he would berate me or my daily diatribes. And beyond him there were the other train wrecks, ahem relationships, along the way. I stopped writing around the time I met the man who has been in my life since last August.
We see each other, and then we don’t. Then we have a falling out, then we end up talking or rather me talking. Him into. Seeing me. But the thing about him is he gets me and that’s not even the deal breaker. The deal breaker is the fact that he’s younger and not ready. My friend Beth once said, “When a guy tells you he’s not ready for a relationship, BELIEVE him.” And I do but I also hope. I hope a lot. I hope his feelings for me will outweigh his fear of intimacy, commitment, permanency. And even as I write this, I know that it’s those same fears that have me spinning my wheels with someone I know I can’t have. In other words, the commitment phobe in me is pursuing the man I can’t have so I don’t have to put myself out there for someone who really does want all those things I claim to want. How’s that for self-analysis?
Last night, I was leaving work. I work at a network now as a producer. Anyway, on my way out, I heard the security guard say something to no one in particular about inner peace being the key to happiness. I stopped in my tracks. It was 1:30 in the morning and I was tired but I was also intrigued. “Show me how,” I said moving towards him. He opened the door for me and we stepped into the chilly night air. The street was quiet.
“Humans have five basic needs,” he began in a deep, soothing voice. “Food, clothing, shelter, love and…” he stopped trying to remember the fifth. “Good health?” I offered. He shook his head. “No, but anyway, once a person’s basic needs are met, the key to happiness comes only from within. You have to find inner peace, find the joy in the world. You must seek it, it cannot find you.” He went on to quote Gandhi and how we all as civilized humans had an obligation of “non-cooperation with evil.” I forgot that my coat was too thin for how low the temperature had dropped. I forgot that I wanted to watch “Dancing with the Stars” on tivo. I just stood and listened to this accidental soothsayer who had crossed my path.
Today when I woke up, I felt refreshed and alive. I reminded myself of earlier epiphanies that had urged me to start living my life instead of waiting for it to start. And now, as I sit here, wondering if and when I’ll get asked out by anyone again, I’m forcing myself to revisit that moment on the sidewalk, where I met an immigrant from Guyana who worked the nightshift as a security guard and couldn’t stop smiling about how glorious life is.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The City Bar
I recently ended things with someone I had been dating since August. I'm sorry you weren't privy to that but I think it may have contributed to the success of the relationship. No offense, but this blog has a tendency to validate my neuroses. When it wasn't humored, it didn't have the attention it needed to flourish. However, things went to hell in a hand basket anyway. I was breaking up with him every week so I'm not sure why I was so torn up when we put the final nail in the coffin. He was a good egg, though. (I'm not absolutely certain what that saying means but it felt right.)
The last conversation we had was very painful as those dreaded discussions often are. My roommate used to grumble that my now ex and I were like "two girls in a relationship" because we were equally melodramatic. But I digress. I returned to my desk at work to see that while I was ending this relationship another guy I dated back in March had IMed asking me to dinner tonight. What luck! I mean it was as if the universe was showing me that where one door closes, another one opens. Granted, this guy was a creep and didn't deserve my company but it was flattering nonetheless and might take my mind off what's-his-name.
But the schmuck never followed through even though our last exchange was:
ME: Don't bail, I'm not in a good place right now.
HIM: I'm sorry you're not in a happy place but we'll see if I can't make you smile tomorrow.
Honestly, I wasn't really fazed by it and my friend, a law professor, had invited me out. He, too, had sent me an IM asking me to swing by the city bar where he would be meeting with some lawyers. Lawyers, he said, who would all be good contacts for promoting my new documentary.
After work, a coworker said she was going shopping at the Christmas shops at Bryant Park. "That's where I'm meeting my friend and some of his lawyer buddies, why don't you come with me?" Jessica, who is also attempting to play the field was game. We walked to 44th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues and upon arrival, started surveying the block for the aforementioned venue. We stopped and asked a hotel doorman if he knew where the "city bar" was. No, he said squinting as he searched his memory for any evidence of its existence. Then I googled it. Nothing. Jessica called 411- nada. I left my friend an agitated message: "We're on 44th between 5th and 6th and there is no City Bar. We've asked people, googled and even called 411. I'm not sure where this is but it's not here," I said as I hung up the phone. Then I decided to check my gmail chat to make sure I hadn't missed anything:
"I am going to be speaking to a group of lawyers at the city bar tonight. It's on 44th between 5th and 6th Avenues." Oh my. I looked at Jessica and then looked up at a conspicuous, giant blue flag waving above us.
"He's speaking to the city bar," I said conclusively. Jessica had yet to arrive at the same conclusion. "I know! Where is it?" she said, looking around. "He's speaking TO the city bar," I said looking up at the flag for the NEW YORK CITY BAR. What had finally dawned on me was that the watering hole I was searching for was in fact the bar association of New York City whose headquarters dominate the block we were standing in. I shuddered as I recalled the ignoramous voicemail my friend would surely hear and laugh. And that he did, rather loudly, over a beer later that evening.
The last conversation we had was very painful as those dreaded discussions often are. My roommate used to grumble that my now ex and I were like "two girls in a relationship" because we were equally melodramatic. But I digress. I returned to my desk at work to see that while I was ending this relationship another guy I dated back in March had IMed asking me to dinner tonight. What luck! I mean it was as if the universe was showing me that where one door closes, another one opens. Granted, this guy was a creep and didn't deserve my company but it was flattering nonetheless and might take my mind off what's-his-name.
But the schmuck never followed through even though our last exchange was:
ME: Don't bail, I'm not in a good place right now.
HIM: I'm sorry you're not in a happy place but we'll see if I can't make you smile tomorrow.
Honestly, I wasn't really fazed by it and my friend, a law professor, had invited me out. He, too, had sent me an IM asking me to swing by the city bar where he would be meeting with some lawyers. Lawyers, he said, who would all be good contacts for promoting my new documentary.
After work, a coworker said she was going shopping at the Christmas shops at Bryant Park. "That's where I'm meeting my friend and some of his lawyer buddies, why don't you come with me?" Jessica, who is also attempting to play the field was game. We walked to 44th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues and upon arrival, started surveying the block for the aforementioned venue. We stopped and asked a hotel doorman if he knew where the "city bar" was. No, he said squinting as he searched his memory for any evidence of its existence. Then I googled it. Nothing. Jessica called 411- nada. I left my friend an agitated message: "We're on 44th between 5th and 6th and there is no City Bar. We've asked people, googled and even called 411. I'm not sure where this is but it's not here," I said as I hung up the phone. Then I decided to check my gmail chat to make sure I hadn't missed anything:
"I am going to be speaking to a group of lawyers at the city bar tonight. It's on 44th between 5th and 6th Avenues." Oh my. I looked at Jessica and then looked up at a conspicuous, giant blue flag waving above us.
"He's speaking to the city bar," I said conclusively. Jessica had yet to arrive at the same conclusion. "I know! Where is it?" she said, looking around. "He's speaking TO the city bar," I said looking up at the flag for the NEW YORK CITY BAR. What had finally dawned on me was that the watering hole I was searching for was in fact the bar association of New York City whose headquarters dominate the block we were standing in. I shuddered as I recalled the ignoramous voicemail my friend would surely hear and laugh. And that he did, rather loudly, over a beer later that evening.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Back in the Saddle!
The number of celeb sightings in my building coupled with my workflow coming to an abrupt halt is responsible for this blog entry. I won't bore you with the reasons why I haven't been blogging regularly but rather simply pick up where I left off. OK, it's been established that I become socially retarded when I spot someone famous. It doesn't matter if their A-list or D-list, yours truly has a tendency to embarass herself or worse, whoever has the misfortune to be with me at the time. I'm proud to tell you that the longer I live in New York, the more this touristy behavior diminishes.
This week, for instance, I've had a number of stars cross my path in my gym. I live in a Trump building so it's no surprise that celebrities live here but some of them I've never seen. Since I fired my therapist I've been seeing my personal trainer more often. I figured I might as well get toned physically while I continue to deteriorate mentally. I see Montel Williams in the gym all the time and quite frankly, it doesn't faze me because he's a pompous ass. I feel like telling him that his show sucks and his wife is a butter face but whatever.
So...no work really until January and this just happens to occur after the completion of my documentary. So I went from juggling a momentous project with client obligations to watching daytime TV. Why must my life function in extremes? Anyhoo, were it not for my unemployment, ahem, daytime availability, I wouldn't have this antecdotal evidence of my improved behavior.
Tuesday, I was working out with Joe, my trainer, at the same time as Bryant Gumbel and his wife. I was nonplussed. Then today, we were working out and a cute little woman walked in. Literally, little. She was about three and a half feet tall and pretty old. Joe gave her some lip about getting her butt in the gym more often. Joe knows everyone who works out as most of his clients live in my building. "You know I only come in on Thursdays," she retorted good-naturedly in a high-pitched voice. "Oh my gosh, how cute is that little old woman?" I said when she had left. "Two more," Joe said pushing the weight to make it heavier. "She's a munchkin," he said when I was done. I told him that wasn't very nice. "No, she's really a munchkin! She was one of the munchkins in The Wizard of Oz," he insisted and then to my horror he began marching in place and singing, "We represent the Lollipop Guild, The Lollipop Guild.." Stop that! I said knocking his marching fist down. "She can see you!" I hissed indicating the mirrored wall he was facing. "Really?" Joe said sarcastically. "She can barely see over her stairmaster." He was right. Her arms were fully extended as she peered up at the monitor and marched in place just like Joe had been doing moments before.
Five minutes later, a woman walks in who looks familiar. "Hello, Joe," she purrs. Jessica Rabbit! I'd know that voice anywhere! It was Kathleen Turner. "She has not aged well," I whisper to Joe as she mounts the stationary bike. Joe tells me she's sick and her medication makes her bloated. Then I felt as tall as the munchkin.
This week, for instance, I've had a number of stars cross my path in my gym. I live in a Trump building so it's no surprise that celebrities live here but some of them I've never seen. Since I fired my therapist I've been seeing my personal trainer more often. I figured I might as well get toned physically while I continue to deteriorate mentally. I see Montel Williams in the gym all the time and quite frankly, it doesn't faze me because he's a pompous ass. I feel like telling him that his show sucks and his wife is a butter face but whatever.
So...no work really until January and this just happens to occur after the completion of my documentary. So I went from juggling a momentous project with client obligations to watching daytime TV. Why must my life function in extremes? Anyhoo, were it not for my unemployment, ahem, daytime availability, I wouldn't have this antecdotal evidence of my improved behavior.
Tuesday, I was working out with Joe, my trainer, at the same time as Bryant Gumbel and his wife. I was nonplussed. Then today, we were working out and a cute little woman walked in. Literally, little. She was about three and a half feet tall and pretty old. Joe gave her some lip about getting her butt in the gym more often. Joe knows everyone who works out as most of his clients live in my building. "You know I only come in on Thursdays," she retorted good-naturedly in a high-pitched voice. "Oh my gosh, how cute is that little old woman?" I said when she had left. "Two more," Joe said pushing the weight to make it heavier. "She's a munchkin," he said when I was done. I told him that wasn't very nice. "No, she's really a munchkin! She was one of the munchkins in The Wizard of Oz," he insisted and then to my horror he began marching in place and singing, "We represent the Lollipop Guild, The Lollipop Guild.." Stop that! I said knocking his marching fist down. "She can see you!" I hissed indicating the mirrored wall he was facing. "Really?" Joe said sarcastically. "She can barely see over her stairmaster." He was right. Her arms were fully extended as she peered up at the monitor and marched in place just like Joe had been doing moments before.
Five minutes later, a woman walks in who looks familiar. "Hello, Joe," she purrs. Jessica Rabbit! I'd know that voice anywhere! It was Kathleen Turner. "She has not aged well," I whisper to Joe as she mounts the stationary bike. Joe tells me she's sick and her medication makes her bloated. Then I felt as tall as the munchkin.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Whine Country
Portland, Oregon has a secret. Tucked away in this part of the Pacific Northwest are valleys and plateaus that are the granola version of wine country. But pinot noirs, aside, I've found the rain-drenched city of proud non-conformists to be the perfect backdrop for the general malaise that's overtaken my own spirits these days.
I'm so broken up about being away from my beloved New York during one of my favorite months of the year- due to both weather and the proximity to my birthday- that my crew in Portland has accused me of being the Queen of my own "Whine" Country.
What I find particularly perturbing during my sentence- ahem, assignment- in Portland is the repeated claims by everyone I complain to that they love this part of the country. The lush trees, lakes, gorges, waterfalls and mountains that make up the landscape of God's Country is something I have yet to appreciate because work and weather hasn't exactly paved the way. I thought fellow East Coasters would get it. They don't. My gmail chat says "In Portland" to which I have received a slew of responses like, "Portland Rocks!" and "I love that part of the country!" WHAT?! WHY?
In its defense, let me illuminate the circumstances that brought me here and which surround me. I'm working on a federal initiative. That's all I can say other than it's supposed to make our country safer. OK, that's really all I can say. I'm staying at a major hotel at THE AIRPORT. Did I mention I'm here for three freaking weeks? And the airport, as it is in many other large cities, is far removed from the hustle bustle of the city. But that hustle is confined to coffee runs. And the only bustle I've seen is a barista bristling when my friend, a native New Yorker, attempted to order a decaf latte. You're a coffee shop- decaf isn't a tall- or vente- order. Oh, and I don't have a rental car. Actually, I have one starting tonight but that's after a week of "carpooling"- a term that I've come to equate with piling into the subway during rush hour. So I've been forced to essentially bum rides and rely on a lot of room service for dinner. At one point, I started getting creative with the room service menu but were I to elaborate, you'd get bored. And then you would feel like this city makes me feel. BORED.
Last weekend, when another reporter said he was driving home to Seattle, I leaped at the chance to get out of Dodge. Big mistake. HUGE. (yes, I loved Pretty Woman, too) It rained nonstop. I know it's Seattle! But even by local standards it was a bit much and extraordinary. I got to see glimpses between the showers and clouds but neither myself nor my lovely host were particularly inspired or motivated to site see. He's lived there for 15 years. Schlepping around Seattle with Thermos (his real nickname) is like walking into Cheers with Norm. Everywhere we went he knew someone. We'd be walking into a coffee shop (what else) and someone would stop dead in their tracks and stare. "What's up, man?!" and a stream of updates would ensue while I smiled and pretended the weather hadn't soured my already surly disposition.
But I will say I had some of the best Oaxacan food of my life. Granted, it was the only food from Oaxaca I've ever had but that's not the point. That was in Ballard- I think. So if you're ever in Seattle and you end up in that hood, brave the wait because it's worth it. Look at me. I'm actually ending on a positive note.
I'm so broken up about being away from my beloved New York during one of my favorite months of the year- due to both weather and the proximity to my birthday- that my crew in Portland has accused me of being the Queen of my own "Whine" Country.
What I find particularly perturbing during my sentence- ahem, assignment- in Portland is the repeated claims by everyone I complain to that they love this part of the country. The lush trees, lakes, gorges, waterfalls and mountains that make up the landscape of God's Country is something I have yet to appreciate because work and weather hasn't exactly paved the way. I thought fellow East Coasters would get it. They don't. My gmail chat says "In Portland" to which I have received a slew of responses like, "Portland Rocks!" and "I love that part of the country!" WHAT?! WHY?
In its defense, let me illuminate the circumstances that brought me here and which surround me. I'm working on a federal initiative. That's all I can say other than it's supposed to make our country safer. OK, that's really all I can say. I'm staying at a major hotel at THE AIRPORT. Did I mention I'm here for three freaking weeks? And the airport, as it is in many other large cities, is far removed from the hustle bustle of the city. But that hustle is confined to coffee runs. And the only bustle I've seen is a barista bristling when my friend, a native New Yorker, attempted to order a decaf latte. You're a coffee shop- decaf isn't a tall- or vente- order. Oh, and I don't have a rental car. Actually, I have one starting tonight but that's after a week of "carpooling"- a term that I've come to equate with piling into the subway during rush hour. So I've been forced to essentially bum rides and rely on a lot of room service for dinner. At one point, I started getting creative with the room service menu but were I to elaborate, you'd get bored. And then you would feel like this city makes me feel. BORED.
Last weekend, when another reporter said he was driving home to Seattle, I leaped at the chance to get out of Dodge. Big mistake. HUGE. (yes, I loved Pretty Woman, too) It rained nonstop. I know it's Seattle! But even by local standards it was a bit much and extraordinary. I got to see glimpses between the showers and clouds but neither myself nor my lovely host were particularly inspired or motivated to site see. He's lived there for 15 years. Schlepping around Seattle with Thermos (his real nickname) is like walking into Cheers with Norm. Everywhere we went he knew someone. We'd be walking into a coffee shop (what else) and someone would stop dead in their tracks and stare. "What's up, man?!" and a stream of updates would ensue while I smiled and pretended the weather hadn't soured my already surly disposition.
But I will say I had some of the best Oaxacan food of my life. Granted, it was the only food from Oaxaca I've ever had but that's not the point. That was in Ballard- I think. So if you're ever in Seattle and you end up in that hood, brave the wait because it's worth it. Look at me. I'm actually ending on a positive note.
Monday, August 27, 2007
Question
How many times can you be stood up in one weekend? Oh, I don't know. I guess it really depends on how the stars align, the personality types of the people in your life, the way-- FOUR! Four times I was dissed this weekend!
Shall we? First on deck was the perfect on paper guy I've made an online connection with but whom I have yet to meet face to face. (We'll call him POP- don't make me spell it out.) This is maddening in its own rite but for now we'll focus on all the bad karma I cashed in this weekend.
He's busy. I get it. He's important. I can tell. So when another week passes and our schedules don't jive, I'm told to wait until the weekend. But as the weekend gets closer, I'm informed that there's a chance he may have to go to Europe last minute for a client. I keep my weekend plans and watch in mild awe as everything goes to hell in a hand basket. He hasn't called and it's beginning to dawn on me that pop is too busy to update me on his travel plans.
Saturday morning, I text my girlfriend who works overnights to call me when she wakes up. There's a reggae fest in Brooklyn and we're supposed to go. Late afternoon she tells me she's at the reggae fest. Strike one.
So I spend the day going back and forth to JFK. This is my new past time on the weekends. Oh, it's so underrated, the A train to the Airtrain, so lovely this time of year. Every time one of my relatives has an extended layover, I'm expected to keep them company in the international terminal. Two things: my relatives travel often and JFK has the most uncomfortable transit lounge in the country.
Saturday's a bust except for my friend who's in as much as a funk and we commiserate on her rooftop with the help of some choice organic materials that take the edge off.
Sunday I have to schlep to Queens to interview an exiled Pakistani journalist. My AP and I make the trek from Manhattan only to find out that he's not home. Repeated attempts to reach his cell are thwarted by his wife who's hard of hearing and projecting her impairment as she screams into the phone, "What?! WHO?!" Strike two.
And Pop sends an evasive email regarding his disappearing act which raises more questions than it answers. In more ways than one, that is strike three.
But all is not lost as a girlfriend has made dinner plans with me. I send her a text at 6:30 and receive a response about two hours later that she forgot/already ate/didn't hear from me... at this point, does the reason really matter? It's painfully obvious that the Gods of Follow Through were angry with me this weekend and I was reminded that more often than not "tentative" really means flaky.
Shall we? First on deck was the perfect on paper guy I've made an online connection with but whom I have yet to meet face to face. (We'll call him POP- don't make me spell it out.) This is maddening in its own rite but for now we'll focus on all the bad karma I cashed in this weekend.
He's busy. I get it. He's important. I can tell. So when another week passes and our schedules don't jive, I'm told to wait until the weekend. But as the weekend gets closer, I'm informed that there's a chance he may have to go to Europe last minute for a client. I keep my weekend plans and watch in mild awe as everything goes to hell in a hand basket. He hasn't called and it's beginning to dawn on me that pop is too busy to update me on his travel plans.
Saturday morning, I text my girlfriend who works overnights to call me when she wakes up. There's a reggae fest in Brooklyn and we're supposed to go. Late afternoon she tells me she's at the reggae fest. Strike one.
So I spend the day going back and forth to JFK. This is my new past time on the weekends. Oh, it's so underrated, the A train to the Airtrain, so lovely this time of year. Every time one of my relatives has an extended layover, I'm expected to keep them company in the international terminal. Two things: my relatives travel often and JFK has the most uncomfortable transit lounge in the country.
Saturday's a bust except for my friend who's in as much as a funk and we commiserate on her rooftop with the help of some choice organic materials that take the edge off.
Sunday I have to schlep to Queens to interview an exiled Pakistani journalist. My AP and I make the trek from Manhattan only to find out that he's not home. Repeated attempts to reach his cell are thwarted by his wife who's hard of hearing and projecting her impairment as she screams into the phone, "What?! WHO?!" Strike two.
And Pop sends an evasive email regarding his disappearing act which raises more questions than it answers. In more ways than one, that is strike three.
But all is not lost as a girlfriend has made dinner plans with me. I send her a text at 6:30 and receive a response about two hours later that she forgot/already ate/didn't hear from me... at this point, does the reason really matter? It's painfully obvious that the Gods of Follow Through were angry with me this weekend and I was reminded that more often than not "tentative" really means flaky.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Dead End -ands
You know what dead end "ands" are? One night stands- those are usually headed no where fast, hence the name. And then there are one man bands. This is the TV term for reporters who shoot and report their own stories without the advantage of a professional photographer- or videographer as people outside of the TV business are quick to point out. We call them photogs even though they shoot video.Anyhoo, I spent much of my so-called vacation in the homeland working. Every day I was off to get interviews and footage for a documentary I'm producing on my own. A lofty task but even more ambitious when you decide that you're going to shoot everything on your own. Usually, I shell out for a local crew but this time I opted to go the more expensive route of purchasing my own camera and equipment so I could pose as a tourist as I covered a controversial story on media censorship.
I've been back for about three weeks and even though I was pitching the documentary, I wasn't making any headway in terms of the creative process. A part of me wondered why I was reluctant to start logging the video and transcribing the interviews. Now I know why. I'm not a cameraman! There's a time/date stamp on half my footage which would be great if it were the correct time and date. It's off by 12 hours- at least. But even worse than that is the journalist who gave an incredible interview only to have it taped over by yours truly. When I ejected the tape and realized the irreversible error, I wanted to throw myself into oncoming traffic. In the homeland, that's almost certain and instant death. If only...
I'm probably being too harsh but I really sense that I've gone out on a limb and there's some apprehension about whether it will all pay off. If it does, more people will be aware of the challenges faced by reporters in an emerging democracy. If not, well, if not, then this blog entry about one man bands being a dead end will have been accurate. And you thought I didn't know how to look for the silver lining?
Monday, July 23, 2007
Gut Check
Stop me if you've heard this one: it's raining freaking sideways. WTF? We went from a gorgeous weekend with low humidity to relentless rainfall and 60 degrees. I'm trying to make the best of it, namely by scouring opentable.com for several meals this week. It's restaurant week when fine dining establishments scale down their menus and offer it to the proletariat class at prix fixe, that's French for, "Now you can eat here."
So tonight I'm having dinner at China Grill, then lunch at a Daniel Boulad restaurant tomorrow and at least two more meals will be at participating pretentious places if I have anything to say about it. All this fine dining is hardly the path to leaner pastures. I've gained back all the weight I lost after my trip to the homeland. It was so nice to not have to suck in my gut and imagine what a flatter stomach looked like. Now it's back as an ugly reminder of what happens when I give in to carb cravings.
So tonight I'm having dinner at China Grill, then lunch at a Daniel Boulad restaurant tomorrow and at least two more meals will be at participating pretentious places if I have anything to say about it. All this fine dining is hardly the path to leaner pastures. I've gained back all the weight I lost after my trip to the homeland. It was so nice to not have to suck in my gut and imagine what a flatter stomach looked like. Now it's back as an ugly reminder of what happens when I give in to carb cravings.
Friday, July 20, 2007
It's Been A While...
Since I've blogged. It's something I was inspired to do sometimes a few times a day. But in the last couple of months, it's lost its appeal. And, quite frankly, I wondered if I had anything worthwhile to add to the blogosphere.
But to update you, things are pretty much status quo. No fame, no man and consequently, no mayhem to speak of. I went back to the homeland which is partly to blame for my hiatus. Electricity would go out without warning often when I was in mid-email. Composing. That was kind of irritating and the idea of perpetuating my annoyance by losing blog entries wasn't helping my reluctance to put pen to typepad.
I bought my cousin a Gucci wallet for his high school graduation gift... from Chinatown. Of course it wasn't real! But he's 17 and I figured, what the hell. But I wasn't expecting the reaction I got. Bless his still-in-the-closet gay heart if he didn't literally jump for joy and start running around the house with fake Gucci in hand exclaiming, "It's real! It's a real Gucci!" I of course was mortified. I mean I guess I should have figured as much but it made me feel guilty to be a fake gift-giver. Then, to my horror, the wallet started to fall apart during my visit. Morose and stricken at the sight of his beautiful bounty going bad, my cousin came into the bedroom as I was attempting to recuperate in the AC from the stifling heat I had endured by just walking downstairs. He sat down on the bed next to me and put his head on my shoulder. "I don't know what I did but the leather is coming apart," he said, sighing. Again, me: mortified. So I did what any honest person with an ounce of integrity would do, I feigned indignance.
"Let me see that! I can't believe they have the nerve to sell such an expensive wallet with such shoddy craftsmanship!" I went on for a few minutes expressing outrage at my extravagant purchase falling apart. But before you judge me, let me add that I brought the wallet home to "exchange" it on his behalf. And I intend on replacing it with an authentic wallet. It's called paying the stupid tax and I do it often.
But to update you, things are pretty much status quo. No fame, no man and consequently, no mayhem to speak of. I went back to the homeland which is partly to blame for my hiatus. Electricity would go out without warning often when I was in mid-email. Composing. That was kind of irritating and the idea of perpetuating my annoyance by losing blog entries wasn't helping my reluctance to put pen to typepad.
I bought my cousin a Gucci wallet for his high school graduation gift... from Chinatown. Of course it wasn't real! But he's 17 and I figured, what the hell. But I wasn't expecting the reaction I got. Bless his still-in-the-closet gay heart if he didn't literally jump for joy and start running around the house with fake Gucci in hand exclaiming, "It's real! It's a real Gucci!" I of course was mortified. I mean I guess I should have figured as much but it made me feel guilty to be a fake gift-giver. Then, to my horror, the wallet started to fall apart during my visit. Morose and stricken at the sight of his beautiful bounty going bad, my cousin came into the bedroom as I was attempting to recuperate in the AC from the stifling heat I had endured by just walking downstairs. He sat down on the bed next to me and put his head on my shoulder. "I don't know what I did but the leather is coming apart," he said, sighing. Again, me: mortified. So I did what any honest person with an ounce of integrity would do, I feigned indignance.
"Let me see that! I can't believe they have the nerve to sell such an expensive wallet with such shoddy craftsmanship!" I went on for a few minutes expressing outrage at my extravagant purchase falling apart. But before you judge me, let me add that I brought the wallet home to "exchange" it on his behalf. And I intend on replacing it with an authentic wallet. It's called paying the stupid tax and I do it often.
Sunday, June 10, 2007
The Absent Blogger
There have been some questions regarding my sudden hiatus from blogging. My trip back to Texas last week gave me an abundance of material. In fact, I wrote an entry about a heated exchange with my dad regarding his self-aggrandizing political fundraising. But I find that in light of everything that's happened since I started this public journey towards self-awareness or self-flagellation (you pick), I'm beginning to do something I promised I wouldn't: self-censor. I think we all know why and if you've forgotten, you can mine the previous entries for the answer. Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy the writing and the creativity it nurtures but I'm weary of having some of my more revealing musings enter the immortal webosphere. Hence the absence.
Here's the other thing. I'm tired. Exhausted, really. After everything I've seen and done and left undone or overdone, I'm fucking wiped out. I'm still angry and not really that much closer to reaching that elusive nirvana that every self help guru calls the prerequisite to happiness: self love. But my therapist says there's progress to be applauded. Namely, my instincts for self-preservation that I found conspicuously absent. Maddeningly lacking, to be honest. I mean how many times do you have to get punched in the face by the same people before you realize you shouldn't be handing them brass knuckles and leaning towards them awaiting the next blow? These newfound instincts manifested themselves just last week.
My day had started with an intense workout with my personal trainer at 6:45am. After work, I hit the AllState (an underground watering hole frequented by longtime Upper West Siders for no frills burgers and beer). By the time I got home and got off a late night conference call, it was 10pm. Boston was in town, the filmmaker who had dissed me last December after my successful sabotage of our budding romance. He had wanted to get together but our schedules weren't aligning. I was surprised to get a text saying: "headed uptown now." Where, I asked. As it turns out, to my apartment. My roommate had registered outrage when I told her he may come by. "Do you not ever, ever, ever EVER learn?!" she screamed to both my surprise and her friend Kelly's. I reasoned that we were just friends and if anything more transpired, I was due for some loving so she should shut her trap.
So when Boston arrived and we sat talking in my living room, I wasn't completely shocked when he made his move. We had been catching up while he downed some Yellow Tail wine, he had been over for about an hour, maybe longer. He pounced on the opportunity, so to speak, and at first, I was game. But then it occurred to me that I wasn't on the same page namely because I simply couldn't stop thinking. "Stop thinking," he said sensing my reluctance. I can't I replied. He stopped. "There's something in me that just shuts down," I attempted to explain. After all, this was a foreign concept to me as well. I had never been one to think before I acted especially when it came to matters of the heart. He was surprised. "But we've been through so much," he said in an effort to bring me back to the same page he was on. But no. I said no and I meant it. I just didn't see the point in investing any more energy or emotion, no matter how fleeting, in someone or something that had proven fruitless. I also wasn't inclined to go along for the ride (no pun intended) just because it was easier. I wasn't and I didn't. And it was this revelation that almost knocked my therapist out of her chair. She was simultaneously proud and shocked. This new regard for myself, I think I'll call it my own personal campaign of shock and awe. Even if the only one who registers those two reactions to this new concept of self-preservation is yours truly.
Here's the other thing. I'm tired. Exhausted, really. After everything I've seen and done and left undone or overdone, I'm fucking wiped out. I'm still angry and not really that much closer to reaching that elusive nirvana that every self help guru calls the prerequisite to happiness: self love. But my therapist says there's progress to be applauded. Namely, my instincts for self-preservation that I found conspicuously absent. Maddeningly lacking, to be honest. I mean how many times do you have to get punched in the face by the same people before you realize you shouldn't be handing them brass knuckles and leaning towards them awaiting the next blow? These newfound instincts manifested themselves just last week.
My day had started with an intense workout with my personal trainer at 6:45am. After work, I hit the AllState (an underground watering hole frequented by longtime Upper West Siders for no frills burgers and beer). By the time I got home and got off a late night conference call, it was 10pm. Boston was in town, the filmmaker who had dissed me last December after my successful sabotage of our budding romance. He had wanted to get together but our schedules weren't aligning. I was surprised to get a text saying: "headed uptown now." Where, I asked. As it turns out, to my apartment. My roommate had registered outrage when I told her he may come by. "Do you not ever, ever, ever EVER learn?!" she screamed to both my surprise and her friend Kelly's. I reasoned that we were just friends and if anything more transpired, I was due for some loving so she should shut her trap.
So when Boston arrived and we sat talking in my living room, I wasn't completely shocked when he made his move. We had been catching up while he downed some Yellow Tail wine, he had been over for about an hour, maybe longer. He pounced on the opportunity, so to speak, and at first, I was game. But then it occurred to me that I wasn't on the same page namely because I simply couldn't stop thinking. "Stop thinking," he said sensing my reluctance. I can't I replied. He stopped. "There's something in me that just shuts down," I attempted to explain. After all, this was a foreign concept to me as well. I had never been one to think before I acted especially when it came to matters of the heart. He was surprised. "But we've been through so much," he said in an effort to bring me back to the same page he was on. But no. I said no and I meant it. I just didn't see the point in investing any more energy or emotion, no matter how fleeting, in someone or something that had proven fruitless. I also wasn't inclined to go along for the ride (no pun intended) just because it was easier. I wasn't and I didn't. And it was this revelation that almost knocked my therapist out of her chair. She was simultaneously proud and shocked. This new regard for myself, I think I'll call it my own personal campaign of shock and awe. Even if the only one who registers those two reactions to this new concept of self-preservation is yours truly.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Jetsetter
In the last 48 hours I've been in three cities, three timezones and two continents. Were it not for the fact that the airlines treated me like the other cattle in the herd, I would indeed be the quintessential jetsetter.
From my miserable trip to London back to New York yesterday afternoon and then Houston tonight, I seriously questioned why I'm drawn like a moth to a flame to the idea of travel when I'm repeatedly disrespected, denied and demoralized by airport personnel. Surprisingly, London had the nicest airport employees. This anomaly was eclipsed by the two hour, inexcusable line through immigration at Gatwick. I wouldn't have been so stressed if fun Bobby hadn't been waiting impatiently outside. But there he was in his PF Flyers and leather jacket as I merged through the gates of hell.
It took us two hours to get from the airport to Mayfair where my roommate's hotel, expensed to her hedge fund, was. On the way, I got a lecture on how I needed to embark on a 12 step program of my own. Not because I was an alcoholic like fun Bobby but because I lacked the fortitude and insight to carve out a happy life for myself. "The hardest thing you have to learn is that it's absolutely none of your business what other people think of you," he said. But that's the only thing about other people that IS my business! Tsk, tsk, he clicked his tongue in dismay at how far I needed to go before reaching the nirvana he had embraced. Whatever. This from the man who should have his picture next to the word selfish in the dictionary. Still, I had high hopes for this reunion despite every signal that history would repeat itself.
But a series of emails preceding my visit had convinced me that maybe this time would be different. I realize that repeating the same behavior in the hopes of a different outcome is the definition of insanity but I've never pretended to strive for sanity, just love or something resembling a comfort zone that lulls you into thinking it's OK to settle. Anyhoo, he kept insisting that I have brunch with him on Sunday. Every email: I'll pick you up from the airport on Saturday morning and we'll have a lovely lunch on Sunday. Every single one. So I was locked in to these plans. But when he insisted I give him the shoes I had bought from New York because everything is cheaper here than the UK, I was skeptical. He was a bit evasive but I didn't think anything of it. Maybe he's just playing it cool and really wants his shoes. When Sunday rolled around, I got a text message saying he had a bunch of errands including a meeting with his sponsor for another "moral inventory" that he had been putting off and didn't appear to have time. I was too sleepy to care at first until my roommate pointed out how shitty this was. She had a family engagement she couldn't miss and both of us thought I'd be hanging with him. So I spent the day in Harrod's by myself. Just like I had the last trip to London when he was in the throes of a terrible and sudden bout of depression. When my roommate met me in the Louis Vuitton section of the store that afternoon, my eyes brimmed with tears.
There's nothing worse than the moment you realize that you've allowed yourself to hope in vain for something as ill-fated as my romance with fun Bobby. And nobody who's been privy to this roller coaster of a relationship gets it. But now I've seen him in every climate: drunk, recovering, depressed, sober, and what I thought was at last sober/normal. But what I finally get is normal is selfish for some people. Or maybe he's the king of self-sabotage. Who knows? What I know for sure is that nothing good can come from this union, our countless second chances have proven that once and for all.
From my miserable trip to London back to New York yesterday afternoon and then Houston tonight, I seriously questioned why I'm drawn like a moth to a flame to the idea of travel when I'm repeatedly disrespected, denied and demoralized by airport personnel. Surprisingly, London had the nicest airport employees. This anomaly was eclipsed by the two hour, inexcusable line through immigration at Gatwick. I wouldn't have been so stressed if fun Bobby hadn't been waiting impatiently outside. But there he was in his PF Flyers and leather jacket as I merged through the gates of hell.
It took us two hours to get from the airport to Mayfair where my roommate's hotel, expensed to her hedge fund, was. On the way, I got a lecture on how I needed to embark on a 12 step program of my own. Not because I was an alcoholic like fun Bobby but because I lacked the fortitude and insight to carve out a happy life for myself. "The hardest thing you have to learn is that it's absolutely none of your business what other people think of you," he said. But that's the only thing about other people that IS my business! Tsk, tsk, he clicked his tongue in dismay at how far I needed to go before reaching the nirvana he had embraced. Whatever. This from the man who should have his picture next to the word selfish in the dictionary. Still, I had high hopes for this reunion despite every signal that history would repeat itself.
But a series of emails preceding my visit had convinced me that maybe this time would be different. I realize that repeating the same behavior in the hopes of a different outcome is the definition of insanity but I've never pretended to strive for sanity, just love or something resembling a comfort zone that lulls you into thinking it's OK to settle. Anyhoo, he kept insisting that I have brunch with him on Sunday. Every email: I'll pick you up from the airport on Saturday morning and we'll have a lovely lunch on Sunday. Every single one. So I was locked in to these plans. But when he insisted I give him the shoes I had bought from New York because everything is cheaper here than the UK, I was skeptical. He was a bit evasive but I didn't think anything of it. Maybe he's just playing it cool and really wants his shoes. When Sunday rolled around, I got a text message saying he had a bunch of errands including a meeting with his sponsor for another "moral inventory" that he had been putting off and didn't appear to have time. I was too sleepy to care at first until my roommate pointed out how shitty this was. She had a family engagement she couldn't miss and both of us thought I'd be hanging with him. So I spent the day in Harrod's by myself. Just like I had the last trip to London when he was in the throes of a terrible and sudden bout of depression. When my roommate met me in the Louis Vuitton section of the store that afternoon, my eyes brimmed with tears.
There's nothing worse than the moment you realize that you've allowed yourself to hope in vain for something as ill-fated as my romance with fun Bobby. And nobody who's been privy to this roller coaster of a relationship gets it. But now I've seen him in every climate: drunk, recovering, depressed, sober, and what I thought was at last sober/normal. But what I finally get is normal is selfish for some people. Or maybe he's the king of self-sabotage. Who knows? What I know for sure is that nothing good can come from this union, our countless second chances have proven that once and for all.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Emotional Rollercoaster
I'm on it. It's brutal and relentless. Relentless in its brutality to be more precise. This has got to be the longest bout of PMS I've ever had. My ex-boyfriend who I'll see in London this weekend has been privy to the emotional outbursts and both of us have been praying for its end. Not since a pregnancy scare in college have I been more obsessed with starting. For the boy readers, I'm sorry for the TMI but keep reading and soon you'll be reveling in my misery. Or not. SEE IF I FUCKING CARE YOU INSENSITIVE PRICKS! OK, see what I mean? My ex does. In an email yesterday he likened the wait to "watching for smoke at the Vatican." Seriously.
For those of you blessed with the disposition or chemical make-up that insulates you from this nightmare, let me spell it out for you. IT SUCKS. I am nothing short of a complete basket case. Last week, I broke down in tears to Vani when she called before drinks in the West Village. "I shouldn't be getting ready to go out," I wailed, "I should be tucking my kids in!" The sweater that represents my emotional equilibrium has been slowly unravelling since then.
More than ever, perception is reality, and I have no perspective right now. Before my roommate left for London I yelled at her for fast forwarding the DVR too much. "It's a commercial," she reasoned. "I LIKE that fucking commercial!" Needless to say, she couldn't wait to get on the plane. Last night, I wept, WEPT as I watched one reality show after another. First as Jordin sang "This is my Now" which I rewound so I could cry again- all aboard the crazy train! Then, I bawled when I watched the Dancing With Stars finale as they replayed the waltz Laila Ali dedicated to her father. OK, those are arguably sentimental examples but here's one that's not: The Lot. It's the new reality show were budding filmmakers get their shot at a job at DreamWorks. This was the pilot episode. When a young Muslim filmmaker choked during his first pitch to Hollywood elite and cried, so did yours truly.
Are you bored? Tough shit, there's more. Tonight at dinner, I got choked up again as I told my friend who is NOT a fan of American Idol about Jordin's song. To make matters worse, I've got a looming deadline to judge I don't know how many fucking entries for the New York Press Club awards. And one of the categories I'm judging are the News Specials. I wailed, no I'm not exaggerating, as I watched a story about Christmas in Iraq and another entry on The Spirit of New York. The former is self-explanatory- soldiers away from families. The latter was a series of reports about the five year anniversary of 9/11. Children who lost fathers and parents who lost children triggered a deluge of tears. I'm exhausted. I'm an emotionally drained histrionic woman who needs a straight jacket or that new pill the FDA just approved. Or maybe I'll just let the Methodists kill me (reference to pic Sanky sent).
I'm going to cry myself to sleep now for no particular reason.
For those of you blessed with the disposition or chemical make-up that insulates you from this nightmare, let me spell it out for you. IT SUCKS. I am nothing short of a complete basket case. Last week, I broke down in tears to Vani when she called before drinks in the West Village. "I shouldn't be getting ready to go out," I wailed, "I should be tucking my kids in!" The sweater that represents my emotional equilibrium has been slowly unravelling since then.
More than ever, perception is reality, and I have no perspective right now. Before my roommate left for London I yelled at her for fast forwarding the DVR too much. "It's a commercial," she reasoned. "I LIKE that fucking commercial!" Needless to say, she couldn't wait to get on the plane. Last night, I wept, WEPT as I watched one reality show after another. First as Jordin sang "This is my Now" which I rewound so I could cry again- all aboard the crazy train! Then, I bawled when I watched the Dancing With Stars finale as they replayed the waltz Laila Ali dedicated to her father. OK, those are arguably sentimental examples but here's one that's not: The Lot. It's the new reality show were budding filmmakers get their shot at a job at DreamWorks. This was the pilot episode. When a young Muslim filmmaker choked during his first pitch to Hollywood elite and cried, so did yours truly.
Are you bored? Tough shit, there's more. Tonight at dinner, I got choked up again as I told my friend who is NOT a fan of American Idol about Jordin's song. To make matters worse, I've got a looming deadline to judge I don't know how many fucking entries for the New York Press Club awards. And one of the categories I'm judging are the News Specials. I wailed, no I'm not exaggerating, as I watched a story about Christmas in Iraq and another entry on The Spirit of New York. The former is self-explanatory- soldiers away from families. The latter was a series of reports about the five year anniversary of 9/11. Children who lost fathers and parents who lost children triggered a deluge of tears. I'm exhausted. I'm an emotionally drained histrionic woman who needs a straight jacket or that new pill the FDA just approved. Or maybe I'll just let the Methodists kill me (reference to pic Sanky sent).
I'm going to cry myself to sleep now for no particular reason.
Speechless
I don't have time. No time to pee, no time for lunch. Plus, I have the tell tale signs of a horrid sinus infection because I've allowed my allergies to wreak havoc. But I have to make a record of this.
Have you ever gotten so mad that the ability to articulate obscenities eludes you? My friend Kelley once called someone a "shit ball" which amused me to no end. But I think that was just topped by my boss who was so consumed with hatred for a PR manager, that her face contorted in hate as she attempted to express herself. After sending a giant attachment of pointless "message points" and having us embark on a script outline, she sent us everything we needed in one succinct document. She called me into her office. "This, this FUCK BITCH just sent what you needed!" I'm still laughing.
Have you ever gotten so mad that the ability to articulate obscenities eludes you? My friend Kelley once called someone a "shit ball" which amused me to no end. But I think that was just topped by my boss who was so consumed with hatred for a PR manager, that her face contorted in hate as she attempted to express herself. After sending a giant attachment of pointless "message points" and having us embark on a script outline, she sent us everything we needed in one succinct document. She called me into her office. "This, this FUCK BITCH just sent what you needed!" I'm still laughing.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Pretty Feet
I used to think this was an oxymoron. Feet to me are usually unattractive. The expression, "My dogs are barking" in reference to aching feet makes complete sense to me. But what prompted this post was my friend's comment on the last one that I had nice legs but my feet were a different story.
Growing up, my older brother was so repulsed by the site of my feet that he would throw something over them if I dared prop them on the coffee table. Or worse, he would pretend to gag if he sat down next to me with a bowl of cereal and happened to glance down. Yep, my older brother was a gem. He could have effortlessly authored a book on cruelty to sisters. I find it fitting that his wife grows her toenails as long as her fingernails and files them to a point. And they bear a striking resemblance to mine. Poetic justice.
All of this had the same effect on me as the chicken leg comments. I didn't wear flip-flops or open toe shoes until after college. My toes didn't see the light of day until they made their debut on New Year's Eve, got stepped on and eventually became part of a bimonthly ritual of being buffed and polished by small Asian women. Ever since I've recovered from the cruel judgments about my peds, I've gotten nothing but random compliments about them. "You have pretty feet," friends will note while shoe-shopping. Who'da thunk it? But in the interest of fairness, I'll put those harbingers of pedestrian confidence on display for you to judge. I'm gonna ask you to refrain from telling me what you think.
Growing up, my older brother was so repulsed by the site of my feet that he would throw something over them if I dared prop them on the coffee table. Or worse, he would pretend to gag if he sat down next to me with a bowl of cereal and happened to glance down. Yep, my older brother was a gem. He could have effortlessly authored a book on cruelty to sisters. I find it fitting that his wife grows her toenails as long as her fingernails and files them to a point. And they bear a striking resemblance to mine. Poetic justice.
All of this had the same effect on me as the chicken leg comments. I didn't wear flip-flops or open toe shoes until after college. My toes didn't see the light of day until they made their debut on New Year's Eve, got stepped on and eventually became part of a bimonthly ritual of being buffed and polished by small Asian women. Ever since I've recovered from the cruel judgments about my peds, I've gotten nothing but random compliments about them. "You have pretty feet," friends will note while shoe-shopping. Who'da thunk it? But in the interest of fairness, I'll put those harbingers of pedestrian confidence on display for you to judge. I'm gonna ask you to refrain from telling me what you think.
It was a good lunch day
My friend Nicole sent me this Ecard on the left. The entire collection of cards they have are hilarious in a Pulp Fictionesque/disturbing kind of way. I was going to withhold the site name but you guys are smart cookies so I'll save you the trouble. See them here. Guess who I want to send the one below to?
And BINGO was his name-o! I'm happy to report that I had a very satisfying lunch today. And from the most unlikeliest of places- McDonald's. I got their new southwest chicken salad. It's actually some of the best tex-mex food I've had in New York, a sad testament to Mexican cuisine in a city known for its culinary feats of grandeur.
I'm wearing a dress today. While that may not sound like a big deal, it is. I haven't worn a dress to work since 1999, at least. I've mentioned before that my skinny legs are the reason why. I remember one of my male coworkers asking me what I did with the rest of the chicken back in 1998. Just after college, as I was graduating from a voice-training class, our sadistic teacher had the bright idea to have us admit our first impressions of other classmates. I know, recipe for disaster. I'll never forget the big-boned black chic who looked at me with disdain and said, "You were wearing shorts and I couldn't figure out why someone with such skinny legs would choose to show them off." Because it was hot, bitch! Anyway, this was enough to give me significant pause (uh, almost a decade's worth) before I donned a dress to work again.
But last week, I couldn't resist a Diane Von Furstenberg silk shirt dress I scored for half price at Barney's. It fit me perfectly. This morning my trainer, a former minor league baseball player who looks and sounds like Michael Rappaport, told me I was crazy when I told him I don't wear dresses and why. "I would never think that if I saw your legs. Now if you had cankles, my heart would go out to you." He's a nice guy unlike many of his cohorts from Bensonhurst. It makes me feel feminine and men are noticing me more than they usually do. But that may be because I forgot to wear a slip.
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