In the Bridget Jones sequel, The Edge of Reason, Bridget bad mouths her ex Mark Darcy to fellow inmates in a prison in Thailand and then experiences an epiphany.
He treat you bad?
Yeah, actually, he did.
My boyfriend treat me bad too.
- Me too.
- [girl] Mine as well.
[girl] Me too.
Then you know all about it.
You think you've found the right man, but then there's so much wrong with him and he finds there's so much wrong with you and it all just falls apart.
Don't tell me. My boyfriend, he seem really nice. Then he start to hit me.
Make me work on street.
My boyfriend, he say he love me.
But he do no work,
and make me work hour a day.
Then he make me take heroin drug.
What about you, Bijjit?
What your bad boyfriend do?
Well, er,......he really didn't stick up for me
at this lawyers' supper,...
and, um, then he would fold his...
[chuckles]
Oh, same sort of thing, really.
Hitting me and making me take drugs.
Stealing all my money and stuff.
[Bridget] Oh, God.
I've been the world's biggest fool.
As Have I. Pining away for men who, if they yielded, would quickly be transformed from the object of my affection to the bane of my existence. Yesterday, I had a serious meltdown at work. After an acerbic email exchange, I went to the bathroom and sobbed. The red eyes and puffy cheeks were blamed on allergies which my coworkers believed because I'm usually pretty open with what's happening in my life. In this case, I was so perplexed by the waterworks, I couldn't explain it to myself much less others. I pulled it together just in time to go visit the Yenta from Hell.
That's in the next post. Yet another thread pulled in the sweater of my existence.
Monday, March 19, 2007
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Nice legs and other Memories...
The married fly boy is still emailing me. I’m on the train back to New York from D.C. A University of Richmond lacrosse player is sitting next to me. She’s blond and beautiful. And she’s really nice. Whore.
I’m kidding; she’s lovely, as I once was at the ripe old age of 20. I had killer legs my senior year in college. Seriously. I had just come out of my first relationship, broken up with my first boyfriend, my first love, my first everything. I think that relationship set a terrible precedent. I did everything wrong and still got the guy. The guy I would often lock eyes with across a crowded room and my knees would get weak.
Here’s what I did that should have gotten me kicked to the curb but instead resulted in a two year relationship. The first night we hooked up, I had 25 Jell-O shots. I shit you not. I was hungry. And stupid. This story is what urban legends are made of. The buck oh five girl who took 25 Jell-O shots in less than an hour. In the spirit of accuracy, the shots were made in those paper cups you fill with ketchup at McDonald’s. But still, that’s a lot of Everclear.
This feat of reckless indulgence started at a pre-party in his apartment. Then we went to a bar on Sixth Street called El Chino’s. This wasn’t a fusion restaurant. Rather one that took pride in serving both Chinese and Mexican food as well as alcohol to underage college kids. There, we drank more and were approached by a sailor who started complimenting my girlfriend on how attractive she was. She was from India, had a dark complexion, with a sparkling smile and unbelievable cheek bones. My soon to be boyfriend was in love with her and we all knew it. For some reason, people always wanted to compare us. Maybe because we were always together.
“Are you girls from India?” the sailor asked. I explained that I was actually from a neighboring country. “I’ve been to India and it’s beautiful,” he remarked, “as are you.” This was directed to my friend who politely thanked him. Then for reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, the asshole looked at me and said, “I mean you’re pretty, but she’s beautiful!” What the fuck?! This happens enough for me to wonder if I have a sign on my forehead that says: I’m better looking. I don’t. In fact, some would successfully argue that I don’t think enough of myself.
You can imagine the tailspin this remark triggered. My future boyfriend thought this would be a good time to buy me another amaretto sour. This was my choice drink sophomore year in college. (I graduated to Jagermeister and Goldschlager my senior year.) “I know she’s prettier,” I slurred. There, there, he said stroking my hair. “Both of you are pretty girls.” We ended up making out. Then, even though he was in active pursuit of my girlfriend, I gave chase. My girlfriend had complicated feelings for him. She had so many vying for her attention that she wasn’t inclined to give him the time of day. But I was. Boy, was I ever. We would hook up. He would come back and tell me he was physically attracted to me but emotionally attracted to her. I never backed off and she kept telling me she had zero interest in him. I didn’t play it cool. I was open about how I felt. I was sincere for the love of God!
Finally, something happened where he had to choose between being her friend and being my boyfriend. The details are fuzzy. But in the end, he and I became exclusive driving a wedge in my friendship with her. Before you judge me for picking a boy over a girlfriend, let me add that after he decided to date me she called him and told him she was “confused” about her feelings for him. This was after she had endorsed my pursuit. So when our coupling became a foregone conclusion, she threatened to derail everything to satisfy her own ego. I don’t blame her completely. Back then, he was all that. Today, he’s a balding, Buddha-belly-having, drug-abusing doctor. But back then, he was a hottie.
The point of this drawn-out story is that the only man I have ever really loved, I ended up with by not playing a single fucking game. And I know he’s never been in love like that either. I say that with the utmost confidence. I know how he was with me and I’m actually friendly with the girls who dated him after we broke up. They’ve told me things. He changed after us. That’s kind of sad.
So this stroll down memory lane was prompted by a reference to my killer legs. After we broke up, I was a mess. I lost so much weight that my size 0 jeans were baggy. My journalism professor pulled me aside with tears in his eyes and told me to get help or at least start eating. “A break-up in college can be as agonizing as a divorce,” he said. And having been through both, I agree with him whole-heartedly. My ex was mean and bitter. I broke up with him and once he got over it, he moved on- fast. I saw him on campus with his new girlfriend and something clicked.
The Stairmaster became the one constant in my life. I was transformed from a waif to a babe. One day well into my workout regimen, a cameraman at the TV station where I interned told me I had “nice legs.” No one had ever told me that before. If you saw them today, you’d be puzzled. On the few occasions I have worn a mini-skirt, I’ve resembled an umbrella with two handles causing more than one male coworker to ask, “What’d you do with the rest of the chicken?”
I’m kidding; she’s lovely, as I once was at the ripe old age of 20. I had killer legs my senior year in college. Seriously. I had just come out of my first relationship, broken up with my first boyfriend, my first love, my first everything. I think that relationship set a terrible precedent. I did everything wrong and still got the guy. The guy I would often lock eyes with across a crowded room and my knees would get weak.
Here’s what I did that should have gotten me kicked to the curb but instead resulted in a two year relationship. The first night we hooked up, I had 25 Jell-O shots. I shit you not. I was hungry. And stupid. This story is what urban legends are made of. The buck oh five girl who took 25 Jell-O shots in less than an hour. In the spirit of accuracy, the shots were made in those paper cups you fill with ketchup at McDonald’s. But still, that’s a lot of Everclear.
This feat of reckless indulgence started at a pre-party in his apartment. Then we went to a bar on Sixth Street called El Chino’s. This wasn’t a fusion restaurant. Rather one that took pride in serving both Chinese and Mexican food as well as alcohol to underage college kids. There, we drank more and were approached by a sailor who started complimenting my girlfriend on how attractive she was. She was from India, had a dark complexion, with a sparkling smile and unbelievable cheek bones. My soon to be boyfriend was in love with her and we all knew it. For some reason, people always wanted to compare us. Maybe because we were always together.
“Are you girls from India?” the sailor asked. I explained that I was actually from a neighboring country. “I’ve been to India and it’s beautiful,” he remarked, “as are you.” This was directed to my friend who politely thanked him. Then for reasons that remain a mystery to me to this day, the asshole looked at me and said, “I mean you’re pretty, but she’s beautiful!” What the fuck?! This happens enough for me to wonder if I have a sign on my forehead that says: I’m better looking. I don’t. In fact, some would successfully argue that I don’t think enough of myself.
You can imagine the tailspin this remark triggered. My future boyfriend thought this would be a good time to buy me another amaretto sour. This was my choice drink sophomore year in college. (I graduated to Jagermeister and Goldschlager my senior year.) “I know she’s prettier,” I slurred. There, there, he said stroking my hair. “Both of you are pretty girls.” We ended up making out. Then, even though he was in active pursuit of my girlfriend, I gave chase. My girlfriend had complicated feelings for him. She had so many vying for her attention that she wasn’t inclined to give him the time of day. But I was. Boy, was I ever. We would hook up. He would come back and tell me he was physically attracted to me but emotionally attracted to her. I never backed off and she kept telling me she had zero interest in him. I didn’t play it cool. I was open about how I felt. I was sincere for the love of God!
Finally, something happened where he had to choose between being her friend and being my boyfriend. The details are fuzzy. But in the end, he and I became exclusive driving a wedge in my friendship with her. Before you judge me for picking a boy over a girlfriend, let me add that after he decided to date me she called him and told him she was “confused” about her feelings for him. This was after she had endorsed my pursuit. So when our coupling became a foregone conclusion, she threatened to derail everything to satisfy her own ego. I don’t blame her completely. Back then, he was all that. Today, he’s a balding, Buddha-belly-having, drug-abusing doctor. But back then, he was a hottie.
The point of this drawn-out story is that the only man I have ever really loved, I ended up with by not playing a single fucking game. And I know he’s never been in love like that either. I say that with the utmost confidence. I know how he was with me and I’m actually friendly with the girls who dated him after we broke up. They’ve told me things. He changed after us. That’s kind of sad.
So this stroll down memory lane was prompted by a reference to my killer legs. After we broke up, I was a mess. I lost so much weight that my size 0 jeans were baggy. My journalism professor pulled me aside with tears in his eyes and told me to get help or at least start eating. “A break-up in college can be as agonizing as a divorce,” he said. And having been through both, I agree with him whole-heartedly. My ex was mean and bitter. I broke up with him and once he got over it, he moved on- fast. I saw him on campus with his new girlfriend and something clicked.
The Stairmaster became the one constant in my life. I was transformed from a waif to a babe. One day well into my workout regimen, a cameraman at the TV station where I interned told me I had “nice legs.” No one had ever told me that before. If you saw them today, you’d be puzzled. On the few occasions I have worn a mini-skirt, I’ve resembled an umbrella with two handles causing more than one male coworker to ask, “What’d you do with the rest of the chicken?”
Friday, March 16, 2007
Kinky Kong
If my friend John follows through on his intent to read this blog when he's bored, he's in for a rude awakening. He begged me not to blog about this but you can't retroactively make something off the record. As the communication director of an NGO, this is something he should already know or learn the hard way.
Last night, we were watching The Daily Show and all of a sudden a message popped up on the bottom left hand corner of the screen. "Cancun Sexcapade will begin recording now, would you like to switch to that channel?" I looked at John. He laughed, attempting to appear bewildered, "What the hell?" Whatever, John, perv. One hour later, another reminder: Kinky Kong will begin recording now... "JOHN!" I yelled. His face flushed bright red. "What?" he asked sheepishly. All I could do is laugh. Silly boys.
Today I interviewed a couple of attorneys who work for the American Immigration Lawyers Assoc. It felt good to be part of a project where people are trying to rectify the injustices imposed under the Patriot Act. But throughout the interview, I was a dripping faucet, this cold is kicking my ass. In between interviews, I checked my blackberry and had received a message from DSG that said: "You should do a story on this" with a link. As my crew adjusted the lighting for our next subject, I tapped back, "In the middle of a shoot, need details." He responded with: "these imams that got kicked off a plane because they were praying.... do it. i can only make fun of it, but you can pitch a real story." I was intrigued. After the interview wrapped, I clicked on the link.
Indeed, this was a disturbing occurrence. I mean take a look at the lead: Six imams were removed from a commercial airline flight in Minnesota for what they said was nothing more than trying to say evening prayers. I couldn't believe this wasn't being covered and was just about to send an email to CNN when I glanced at the dateline. No fucking wonder. It happened on November 6, 2006. I updated DSG who was surprised then amused I almost pitched a six month old story. Yeah, how funny would it have been for me to commit professionally suicide at CNN? Not funny, not at all. I'm gonna need DSG to stick to acting and leave the reporting to me.
Last night, we were watching The Daily Show and all of a sudden a message popped up on the bottom left hand corner of the screen. "Cancun Sexcapade will begin recording now, would you like to switch to that channel?" I looked at John. He laughed, attempting to appear bewildered, "What the hell?" Whatever, John, perv. One hour later, another reminder: Kinky Kong will begin recording now... "JOHN!" I yelled. His face flushed bright red. "What?" he asked sheepishly. All I could do is laugh. Silly boys.Today I interviewed a couple of attorneys who work for the American Immigration Lawyers Assoc. It felt good to be part of a project where people are trying to rectify the injustices imposed under the Patriot Act. But throughout the interview, I was a dripping faucet, this cold is kicking my ass. In between interviews, I checked my blackberry and had received a message from DSG that said: "You should do a story on this" with a link. As my crew adjusted the lighting for our next subject, I tapped back, "In the middle of a shoot, need details." He responded with: "these imams that got kicked off a plane because they were praying.... do it. i can only make fun of it, but you can pitch a real story." I was intrigued. After the interview wrapped, I clicked on the link.
Indeed, this was a disturbing occurrence. I mean take a look at the lead: Six imams were removed from a commercial airline flight in Minnesota for what they said was nothing more than trying to say evening prayers. I couldn't believe this wasn't being covered and was just about to send an email to CNN when I glanced at the dateline. No fucking wonder. It happened on November 6, 2006. I updated DSG who was surprised then amused I almost pitched a six month old story. Yeah, how funny would it have been for me to commit professionally suicide at CNN? Not funny, not at all. I'm gonna need DSG to stick to acting and leave the reporting to me.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Creating Negative Energy
So I'm in D.C. on a shoot for a client tomorrow on the Hill. I opted to come in tonight instead of taking the early train. Plus, my friend John just bought a house here and I wanted to see his new digs.
He picked me up at Union Station and we went to a hole in the wall noodle hut in Chinatown. Over dinner I shared a recent epiphany: I do hate myself. Faced with this allegation from a series of men I had pushed away or turned off, I was reluctant to accept this reality. But I cornered my therapist into confirming this theory and was feeling pretty shitty about it. John was surprised, citing my assertive nature and confidence I exude professionally. But I told him that personally, I was a mess. Frankly, I wondered how someone who had seen me unravel in Africa when Murphy's Law manifested itself at every juncture, would question how I might be a bit "off." Still, he was skeptical until we got into the cab.
A few days of glorious Spring like weather was simply a tease before a fucking Nor'easter reminded us that we lived on the East Coast. Temperatures plummeted and as the cold rain fell, we scrambled for a cab and found one. In D.C., cab drivers typically pick up various unrelated passengers and so when one stopped with a guy already in the back, I hopped in the front and John sat next to the stranger. As we made our way to his new house in Northeast section of the city, John asked if I had done any on-air work. I relayed the story of the murder-suicide I had covered in New Jersey where a mom had used a hatchet to kill her daughter then jumped in a creek and offed herself. "It was in Somerset County, John, million dollar homes- no crime," I said. The cab driver who was black and possibly Nigerian looked at me and asked, "Are you saying that rich people aren't crazy?" Here we go. "No, I'm just saying that it's surprising when it happens in a wealthy community because those people, if they're crazy, have access to psychiatric care." John murmured in agreement saying something about affording therapy. But the cabbie was poised for a debate. "Rich people are just as crazy as poor people. Crazy is crazy," he insisted. I said that yes but it wasn't as shocking when crime happened in an impoverished area due to the fact that drugs and consequently crime was more common there. He countered again and I cut him off. "Do you want to argue with me because I've had a really long day?" That was the end of that. Until we got out of the cab.
John, who is very mild-mannered blew a gasket. "Why did you go off on him like that? He was just asking you a question!" I said no, clearly his tone and the nature of his question implied he was challenging me and baiting me into an argument. "No, he wasn't and even if he was, you don't have to be such a bitch. You create negative energy that way," he concluded. This is true. I was trying to avoid an argument but in the process flippantly dismissed the opinion of a cab driver. That's not a capital crime (no pun intended) but there's something to creating negative energy. I fear I'm going to have to completely disassemble my personality and rewire my way of thinking. Why don't you just ask me to find a cure for cancer, that's probably easier.
He picked me up at Union Station and we went to a hole in the wall noodle hut in Chinatown. Over dinner I shared a recent epiphany: I do hate myself. Faced with this allegation from a series of men I had pushed away or turned off, I was reluctant to accept this reality. But I cornered my therapist into confirming this theory and was feeling pretty shitty about it. John was surprised, citing my assertive nature and confidence I exude professionally. But I told him that personally, I was a mess. Frankly, I wondered how someone who had seen me unravel in Africa when Murphy's Law manifested itself at every juncture, would question how I might be a bit "off." Still, he was skeptical until we got into the cab.
A few days of glorious Spring like weather was simply a tease before a fucking Nor'easter reminded us that we lived on the East Coast. Temperatures plummeted and as the cold rain fell, we scrambled for a cab and found one. In D.C., cab drivers typically pick up various unrelated passengers and so when one stopped with a guy already in the back, I hopped in the front and John sat next to the stranger. As we made our way to his new house in Northeast section of the city, John asked if I had done any on-air work. I relayed the story of the murder-suicide I had covered in New Jersey where a mom had used a hatchet to kill her daughter then jumped in a creek and offed herself. "It was in Somerset County, John, million dollar homes- no crime," I said. The cab driver who was black and possibly Nigerian looked at me and asked, "Are you saying that rich people aren't crazy?" Here we go. "No, I'm just saying that it's surprising when it happens in a wealthy community because those people, if they're crazy, have access to psychiatric care." John murmured in agreement saying something about affording therapy. But the cabbie was poised for a debate. "Rich people are just as crazy as poor people. Crazy is crazy," he insisted. I said that yes but it wasn't as shocking when crime happened in an impoverished area due to the fact that drugs and consequently crime was more common there. He countered again and I cut him off. "Do you want to argue with me because I've had a really long day?" That was the end of that. Until we got out of the cab.
John, who is very mild-mannered blew a gasket. "Why did you go off on him like that? He was just asking you a question!" I said no, clearly his tone and the nature of his question implied he was challenging me and baiting me into an argument. "No, he wasn't and even if he was, you don't have to be such a bitch. You create negative energy that way," he concluded. This is true. I was trying to avoid an argument but in the process flippantly dismissed the opinion of a cab driver. That's not a capital crime (no pun intended) but there's something to creating negative energy. I fear I'm going to have to completely disassemble my personality and rewire my way of thinking. Why don't you just ask me to find a cure for cancer, that's probably easier.
Dirty Whore-tini's and Other Discoveries
Someone came out of the closet last night. Remember Clare, my nemesis who was leaving unsympathetic comments on my blog? Yes, she was a he. I promised I wouldn't disclose who it was but he confessed his ruse that drew my unexpected ire. So there's no Clare which makes me feel a lot better about my gender and our ability to be compassionate. It's also nice to know that I didn't really lose any fans by admonishing the rogue readers. And here's where I'm like my dad.
My dad gets all riled up about stupid shit. Once a friend called the house and my dad, who has zero phone etiquette, simply said, "No" when asked, "May I speak to LP?" Confused, my friend queried further and my dad exploded, "It's none of your business!" I think he may have used profanity, too, but I've tried to block the humiliating episode from my memory. In contrast, when something happens that warrants a meltdown, he's eerily calm. Like the time I totalled his Lexus because I was talking on my cell phone. "At least I wrecked the old car," I offered as he sadly surveyed the damage. "The new one has comprehensive insurance. This one has none," he said through gritted teeth. So when confronted with the knowledge of this unscrupulous transgression, posing as various commentators, I was more impressed and surprised than angry. Go figure.
The other night, I got an unexpected email from a Navy jet pilot I had a brief fling with several years ago.
FlyBoy: Hey you, I can't believe I found you on the internet! Hope all is well.
Me: Omg! That's insanity! (Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry after two too many martinis)
FlyBoy: Where are you, seems like yesterday...what happened to your hair?
You've changed, man...
I responded last night after I had recovered from my hangover. I asked him where he was, what he was doing, was he married and whether he had any kids. The response makes me grateful for being single:
FlyBoy: I googled you out of memory. Yes married with 3 boys (4,2, and 5 mo.). Very fertile, good thing we were careful
Me: Stop flirting with strange women on the Internet.
I mean his wife just gave birth to his third son less than six months ago! Is this the marital bliss I've been pining for?
Initially I was excited to get his random email. To think that ten years after our tryst he would choose to google me was a bit flattering. And the haze of alcohol that night probably added to my delight. Oh yeah, that. Some people have noted my propensity for drinking lately. I'm hardly on the same road fun Bobby once took but the hangover I had on Tuesday has definitely given me pause.
It started with a happy hour that I had organized for a group of journalists at a midtown bar. One of them emailed me before the gathering requesting ten minutes to garner interest for an Indian man in New Jersey who was being detained by INS without justification. I explained that a networking event was not the forum. Then he sent me a few more emails, each one doing its part to further expose the author's dementia. One was a blatant rant against Jews and the accumulation then abuse of power they weilded. Despite my firm refusal to give him a platform, he showed up anyway. He was annoying and cornered every colleague of mine who unwittingly made even fleeting eye contact. Every single person subjected to his rant walked away from the conversation ready for another drink. I was well on my way to numbing my senses.
"I'll have a dirty martini, extra olives, please," I said. The bartender suggested another drink that had stuffed olives in it. Sure, I was hungry, too. "So one whore-tini?" she confirmed. "That's dirty whore," my roommate, who had shown up for moral support, offered. Three whore-tini's later I'm in another bar, The Carnegie Club, with some other friends. My wing woman is my friend Git. Spunky, smart and sexy, she's quite the spitfire and a shitload of fun. We had been drinking since happy hour, it was getting late and we didn't have dinner. After devouring a plate of cheese and cured meats, Git, a recently corrupted vegetarian who had gone back to her carnivore ways, had an intense carb craving.
"Can I have some crackers?" she asked the waitress. The waitress wearing fake pearls and pumps from Payless looked as if we had just ordered wild boar on a rotisserie. "Umm, we don't just serve.. crackers," she stammered. Git looked at her like the idiot she was and said, "You don't have crackers?" The waitress shook her head no and looked oddly uncomfortable. What's her deal? Git even offered to pay for them but the waitress said they had to be ordered with something. This is not uncommon in New York. Often the wait staff is far more pretentious than any Bergdorff Blond. "Forget it," Git pouted, "I'll just go home." This struck me as very funny and I laughed, a little too much, causing everyone to look at me with that, "She's hammered" glance. I hate that glance. It's so dismissive. It reminds me of people who aren't secure enough to know it's OK to be slap happy and stupid sometimes so they just look at you and say in their boring way, "O-kaaay..."
So I went to bed without water or Advil and my disheveled appearance the next morning caused more than one coworker to observe, "Long night, huh?" Long night indeed.
My dad gets all riled up about stupid shit. Once a friend called the house and my dad, who has zero phone etiquette, simply said, "No" when asked, "May I speak to LP?" Confused, my friend queried further and my dad exploded, "It's none of your business!" I think he may have used profanity, too, but I've tried to block the humiliating episode from my memory. In contrast, when something happens that warrants a meltdown, he's eerily calm. Like the time I totalled his Lexus because I was talking on my cell phone. "At least I wrecked the old car," I offered as he sadly surveyed the damage. "The new one has comprehensive insurance. This one has none," he said through gritted teeth. So when confronted with the knowledge of this unscrupulous transgression, posing as various commentators, I was more impressed and surprised than angry. Go figure.
The other night, I got an unexpected email from a Navy jet pilot I had a brief fling with several years ago.
FlyBoy: Hey you, I can't believe I found you on the internet! Hope all is well.
Me: Omg! That's insanity! (Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry after two too many martinis)
FlyBoy: Where are you, seems like yesterday...what happened to your hair?
You've changed, man...
I responded last night after I had recovered from my hangover. I asked him where he was, what he was doing, was he married and whether he had any kids. The response makes me grateful for being single:
FlyBoy: I googled you out of memory. Yes married with 3 boys (4,2, and 5 mo.). Very fertile, good thing we were careful
Me: Stop flirting with strange women on the Internet.
I mean his wife just gave birth to his third son less than six months ago! Is this the marital bliss I've been pining for?
Initially I was excited to get his random email. To think that ten years after our tryst he would choose to google me was a bit flattering. And the haze of alcohol that night probably added to my delight. Oh yeah, that. Some people have noted my propensity for drinking lately. I'm hardly on the same road fun Bobby once took but the hangover I had on Tuesday has definitely given me pause.
It started with a happy hour that I had organized for a group of journalists at a midtown bar. One of them emailed me before the gathering requesting ten minutes to garner interest for an Indian man in New Jersey who was being detained by INS without justification. I explained that a networking event was not the forum. Then he sent me a few more emails, each one doing its part to further expose the author's dementia. One was a blatant rant against Jews and the accumulation then abuse of power they weilded. Despite my firm refusal to give him a platform, he showed up anyway. He was annoying and cornered every colleague of mine who unwittingly made even fleeting eye contact. Every single person subjected to his rant walked away from the conversation ready for another drink. I was well on my way to numbing my senses.
"I'll have a dirty martini, extra olives, please," I said. The bartender suggested another drink that had stuffed olives in it. Sure, I was hungry, too. "So one whore-tini?" she confirmed. "That's dirty whore," my roommate, who had shown up for moral support, offered. Three whore-tini's later I'm in another bar, The Carnegie Club, with some other friends. My wing woman is my friend Git. Spunky, smart and sexy, she's quite the spitfire and a shitload of fun. We had been drinking since happy hour, it was getting late and we didn't have dinner. After devouring a plate of cheese and cured meats, Git, a recently corrupted vegetarian who had gone back to her carnivore ways, had an intense carb craving.
"Can I have some crackers?" she asked the waitress. The waitress wearing fake pearls and pumps from Payless looked as if we had just ordered wild boar on a rotisserie. "Umm, we don't just serve.. crackers," she stammered. Git looked at her like the idiot she was and said, "You don't have crackers?" The waitress shook her head no and looked oddly uncomfortable. What's her deal? Git even offered to pay for them but the waitress said they had to be ordered with something. This is not uncommon in New York. Often the wait staff is far more pretentious than any Bergdorff Blond. "Forget it," Git pouted, "I'll just go home." This struck me as very funny and I laughed, a little too much, causing everyone to look at me with that, "She's hammered" glance. I hate that glance. It's so dismissive. It reminds me of people who aren't secure enough to know it's OK to be slap happy and stupid sometimes so they just look at you and say in their boring way, "O-kaaay..."
So I went to bed without water or Advil and my disheveled appearance the next morning caused more than one coworker to observe, "Long night, huh?" Long night indeed.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Home Sweet Home
Sort of. I'm in Tampa visiting my maternal relatives. My mom's here, too, in from Texas. It's 82 degrees which is a nice respite from winter's last gasp in Manhattan. My flight was a bit delayed and the 2 year-old behind me on the plane kept screaming and kicking my seat. At the end of the flight, I heard her dad tell her what a "good girl" she had been. Yeah, positive affirmation for bad behavior, that'll explain her teenage tantrums. Trust me, I know.
I got into Tampa anticipating a nice, home-cooked meal. As usual, even my moderate expectations were too high. "We're going out to dinner," my cousin announced as I tossed my carry-on bag into the SUV at passenger pick-up. We looked like a scene out of "Little Miss Sunshine" as I dove into the moving vehicle. Traffic was horrendous and a cop was yelling at us to keep moving. "Why? Where?" I asked. "Because you're here. We were thinking Chili's." Yeah, that's exactly what I had in mind. Why not go to a white trash watering hole in New Port Richey where they serve frozen food lukewarm? I resisted the urge to be candid. My mom once told me that people should be happy when you arrive and sad when you leave on family visits, not the other way around.
So we went to Chili's for dinner. My mom's brother who's visiting from Karachi nodded in the direction of a Bubba who was about to tear into an onion blossom. What is that? He wanted to know. "It's a big deep friend onion in the shape of a flower," I offered. Then he was appalled to see a menu item called "Baby back ribs." My uncle got his M.B.A. at the University of Houston so I wasn't sure why he was acting like such an alien. "They're pork ribs," I said. "How do you know they're not beef?" he countered. "I just do." But why are they called baby back ribs? Anyone?
Tomorrow we're going to another suburban mecca. The mall. I like to refer to such outings, especially the ones in the South, as anthropological surveys. I'm sure you're anxious for me to share my observations. However, unlike this post, I'll make sure they're either interesting or amusing before I do. Afterwards, we're supposed to see a Bollywood flick and then have dinner at some doctor's house. The dinner, too, is because I'm visiting. I should be flattered but, instead, I'm already bored. I get to be peppered with questions about why I'm not on CNN or married in tandem. Good times.
I got into Tampa anticipating a nice, home-cooked meal. As usual, even my moderate expectations were too high. "We're going out to dinner," my cousin announced as I tossed my carry-on bag into the SUV at passenger pick-up. We looked like a scene out of "Little Miss Sunshine" as I dove into the moving vehicle. Traffic was horrendous and a cop was yelling at us to keep moving. "Why? Where?" I asked. "Because you're here. We were thinking Chili's." Yeah, that's exactly what I had in mind. Why not go to a white trash watering hole in New Port Richey where they serve frozen food lukewarm? I resisted the urge to be candid. My mom once told me that people should be happy when you arrive and sad when you leave on family visits, not the other way around.
So we went to Chili's for dinner. My mom's brother who's visiting from Karachi nodded in the direction of a Bubba who was about to tear into an onion blossom. What is that? He wanted to know. "It's a big deep friend onion in the shape of a flower," I offered. Then he was appalled to see a menu item called "Baby back ribs." My uncle got his M.B.A. at the University of Houston so I wasn't sure why he was acting like such an alien. "They're pork ribs," I said. "How do you know they're not beef?" he countered. "I just do." But why are they called baby back ribs? Anyone? Tomorrow we're going to another suburban mecca. The mall. I like to refer to such outings, especially the ones in the South, as anthropological surveys. I'm sure you're anxious for me to share my observations. However, unlike this post, I'll make sure they're either interesting or amusing before I do. Afterwards, we're supposed to see a Bollywood flick and then have dinner at some doctor's house. The dinner, too, is because I'm visiting. I should be flattered but, instead, I'm already bored. I get to be peppered with questions about why I'm not on CNN or married in tandem. Good times.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Unprofessionalism At Its Best
Contrary to the prolific blogging, I'm pretty busy right now. In fact, I have a list of monster scripts I must tackle before I see my therapist at 2:30 today. I just couldn't miss the opportunity to blog about the appalling conversation that transpired near my desk.
One of my coworkers announced that he had to get a hair cut at 12:30. "It's a pubic haircut so it won't take long," he said. I choked on my jam and toast. Encouraged by my reaction, he continued. "Do you think when our generation gets old, you know when we're like Larry's age, we'll still be trimming the bush?" These are the pressing questions that pervade my work environment. By the way, Larry isn't old. Evan just likes referring to him as "the old man" because he has premature gray. And Evan is young and thinks himself a modern Adonis. God's gift to Mankind. (nope, not a typo.)
One of my coworkers announced that he had to get a hair cut at 12:30. "It's a pubic haircut so it won't take long," he said. I choked on my jam and toast. Encouraged by my reaction, he continued. "Do you think when our generation gets old, you know when we're like Larry's age, we'll still be trimming the bush?" These are the pressing questions that pervade my work environment. By the way, Larry isn't old. Evan just likes referring to him as "the old man" because he has premature gray. And Evan is young and thinks himself a modern Adonis. God's gift to Mankind. (nope, not a typo.)
Fun Bobby
I'm having an ethical dilemma at the present time. If someone who has wronged you, really made you feel like shit about yourself, your choices, and the fact that you're not in a relationship wants to come back into your life when they're feeling incredibly sad and vulnerable, do you let them in?
Fun Bobby has been relentless in his pursuit of a friendship since our most recent falling out in December. I won't get into what he said and did in our last encounter but those who know me, and him, and us together, know that he's proven to be a destructive force. But now, he's at another crossroads in his recovery. We've been here before. For some reason, he's decided that he wants to rekindle our friendship for the umpteenth time. I've resisted. I've been firm about my reasons why. And then I get this:
Hello you.
Just wanted to reach out to you and see how you are.
I seem to be doing ok if you are interested. Doing my step 4 which involves a "fearless moral inventory of myself".
So far I am doing my horrible childhood which makes me very sad.
I still have the adult stuff to come which I imagine will make me extremely ashamed too.
But once I have faced my demons I can move on.
Hope you are well.
Hxx
The thing about Fun Bobby is that he's an amazing man. Tall, handsome, brilliant and funny as hell. Plus, he's British so he's got that accent going for him. And even from across the pond he can tug at my heart strings. But I have to decide if I'm really as forgiving as I claim or simply a glutton for punishment.
Fun Bobby has been relentless in his pursuit of a friendship since our most recent falling out in December. I won't get into what he said and did in our last encounter but those who know me, and him, and us together, know that he's proven to be a destructive force. But now, he's at another crossroads in his recovery. We've been here before. For some reason, he's decided that he wants to rekindle our friendship for the umpteenth time. I've resisted. I've been firm about my reasons why. And then I get this:
Hello you.
Just wanted to reach out to you and see how you are.
I seem to be doing ok if you are interested. Doing my step 4 which involves a "fearless moral inventory of myself".
So far I am doing my horrible childhood which makes me very sad.
I still have the adult stuff to come which I imagine will make me extremely ashamed too.
But once I have faced my demons I can move on.
Hope you are well.
Hxx
The thing about Fun Bobby is that he's an amazing man. Tall, handsome, brilliant and funny as hell. Plus, he's British so he's got that accent going for him. And even from across the pond he can tug at my heart strings. But I have to decide if I'm really as forgiving as I claim or simply a glutton for punishment.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Exorcising Eeyore
Could it be colder outside? I'm sorry about always blogging about the weather but I'm turning into a New Yorker and that's what we do. We talk about the weather, a lot. Right now, I'm being very cognizant of bouts of pessimism that possess me almost like a poltergeist. It's as if Eeyore and I swap souls like it's "Freaky Friday." So somewhere in Winnie the Pooh land, there's an edgy sarcastic Eeyore telling Tigger to have a warm glass of shut the hell up.The Neiman Marcus gown I spent way too much money on for a gala last fall is about to be donned for the third time. Last week at a banquet where I met my idol, and again this Thursday at Tavern on the Green. I'm not so anxious to attend this gathering but I've yet to see this legendary restaurant that I pass whenever I cross Central Park in a cab.
It will definitely produce blog fodder. For one thing, there's a good chance that a woman I used to work for will be there. She fired me. It's the only job I've ever been fired from. I've come close, mind you. It's my propensity to challenge authority when I don't respect it. In this case, I laughed at her when she slammed her fist on her desk and demanded that I "be professional!" No, I didn't show up to work in a tutu, but thanks for the vote of confidence. Her shrill rebuke was prompted by my observation that her latest efforts in damage control with a client required me to abdicate my integrity which I wasn't inclined to do. Anyway, by the end of the day, I was fired. As I was leaving, I put a sticker on her door that said, "Mean People Suck." But that was my ego. It's probably the best thing that happened to me because it sent me straight back to journalism full-time. Until now. Down, Eeyore.
Speaking of Eeyore, what about me trudging along waiting for the sky to fall? My friend from New Orleans says she and her husband marvel at my life in the city. "The fun never stops," she said. Really? Because I'm not even sure when it starts. But just looking at a weekly calendar is enough to make me question my plight as a so-called Love Pariah. My date the other night who works for one of the most prestigious baseball clubs in the country is all about me. He's really all about me. It's flattering and disconcerting at once.
When he came over, I was making notes on a rough cut of a fantastic documentary one of my friends just produced. It's about 80+ year-old men who play in amateur hockey leagues. He was all psyched because he loves hockey almost as much as baseball. In fact, he had just been on the ice with Tim Robbins earlier that day. He helped me with some of my production notes and then we went to a kitschy place in Harlem for dinner. It was BYOB and the wait was horrendous. But it was fun because we found a place called the Ding Dong Lounge down the street and I kicked his ass at Ms.PacMan. I love that game, although my successful performance left my hand aching and me wondering if I had arthritis. I know. Eeyore keeps trying to channel through me but I'm resisting. Anyway, we're supposed to go out again when he returns from Spring training. So far, I haven't been required to be up to speed on any MLB facts. This is good. I'm not a fan.
And there's another prospect. He's one of the Iraqi journalists I met last night. He's hot and he's following a path that will lead to increased awareness about injustice in the world. That's sexy. And, he's got this European accent with which to tell war stories. Again. Hot. Stay tuned.
Monday, March 05, 2007
Gaining Perspective
The snow that fell in New York today looked like a whirlwind of dandruff. They weren't quite flurries, just bits of white stuff that dissolved before reaching the ground. And that wind, it was brutal. But enough about the weather.
Earlier in the day, I had asked my boss if I could go home and just work half a day. "Yes but only if it's to do something constructive," was her conditional response. Knowing that I would likely just go back to bed, I simply wasn't ready for Monday especially since I worked on Sunday, I opted to stay and earn my keep. Plus, I had an event at the Overseas Press Club that I knew I'd skip if I didn't stay at work. Three Iraqi Journalists were speaking about their respective experiences covering the war that was ravaging their native country.
Yesterday's local news experience coupled with the lack of any exciting projects on the horizon had put me in a professional lethargy I was loathe to endure. These guys really put things in perspective. This blog pales in comparison to the harrowing accounts of what's happening in Iraq as shown in this blog. The author, a former dentist turned war correspondent and now a prolific blogger pulls no punches in his reporting of the atrocities he's privy to. A warning to the faint of heart. There are very disturbing images and videos on this blog. It's a bit like "Faces of Death" if you're old enough to remember those morbid videos from the 80's.
All three journalists had turned their experiences into a quest to expose the ground realities. And all of them did so at their own peril. A second journalist, a freelancer after my own heart, was once a physician who says he learned early on after the American invasion that he could be of more use to his country illuminating the injustices and inconsistencies of the "liberators" than he ever was attempting to practice medicine without the tools or drugs he required. They spoke of journalism as a noble calling and one that had tangible results.
It was the first time in a long time that I actually felt good about the career path I've chosen. Perhaps I'm currently sidetracked but there are stories out there worth telling and, for better or for worse, I'm destined to help tell them.
-30-
Earlier in the day, I had asked my boss if I could go home and just work half a day. "Yes but only if it's to do something constructive," was her conditional response. Knowing that I would likely just go back to bed, I simply wasn't ready for Monday especially since I worked on Sunday, I opted to stay and earn my keep. Plus, I had an event at the Overseas Press Club that I knew I'd skip if I didn't stay at work. Three Iraqi Journalists were speaking about their respective experiences covering the war that was ravaging their native country.
Yesterday's local news experience coupled with the lack of any exciting projects on the horizon had put me in a professional lethargy I was loathe to endure. These guys really put things in perspective. This blog pales in comparison to the harrowing accounts of what's happening in Iraq as shown in this blog. The author, a former dentist turned war correspondent and now a prolific blogger pulls no punches in his reporting of the atrocities he's privy to. A warning to the faint of heart. There are very disturbing images and videos on this blog. It's a bit like "Faces of Death" if you're old enough to remember those morbid videos from the 80's.
All three journalists had turned their experiences into a quest to expose the ground realities. And all of them did so at their own peril. A second journalist, a freelancer after my own heart, was once a physician who says he learned early on after the American invasion that he could be of more use to his country illuminating the injustices and inconsistencies of the "liberators" than he ever was attempting to practice medicine without the tools or drugs he required. They spoke of journalism as a noble calling and one that had tangible results. It was the first time in a long time that I actually felt good about the career path I've chosen. Perhaps I'm currently sidetracked but there are stories out there worth telling and, for better or for worse, I'm destined to help tell them.
-30-
Reporting LIVE...from the newsroom
That's not even a real live shot but it's the only shot I got tonight to get my mug on TV. I dread my local news assignments but they're a necessary evil if I want to continue to wear my TV reporter hat. It had been a few months since I had worked for this local news station and I knew it was going to suck. I know, The Secret mandates that this attitude was prophetic and guess what? It was.
Working nightside has its ups and downs. On one hand, I don't have to report to duty until 1:30pm, however, the pickings are slim and we're typically screwed if there's no breaking news. But I was determined to be resourceful so I managed to line up sources willing to be on camera and meet me on a Sunday. The story wasn't earth shattering but it was newsworthy by even the most conservative standards. FEMA had finally coughed up the money to bail out residents in a flood prone area. Don't yawn, that's rude and plus, it was the first buyout of its kind. Just as I was wrapping up the story, I got a call from my producer. "Vo-Sot this story, we need you to cover a murder-suicide," she said. For those unfamiliar with TV jargon, Vo-Sot stands for voice-over, sound on tape. Aren't you glad I cleared that up?
The story was awful. A 21 year-old girl had been found by her father, she was stabbed to death. It gets worse. The person responsible was her own mother who had later killed herself by drowning in a nearby creek. However, all we had was the police report. This happened in a very affluent neighborhood and I felt like fucking Geraldo Rivera knocking on neighbors' doors in search of a "reaction." "They were quiet, they kept to themselves," said one. "It's a tragedy," said another but of course no one was willing to say it on camera. I get it but what I don't get is why people act surprised when a reporter accompanied by a cameraman and news van wants their quote on camera. So other than feeling like a fucking vulture, I had to subject myself to the condescending answers of a 4'10" County Prosecutor who clearly had a Napoleon complex. "Of course it was shocking," he replied when I asked him to frame the gruesome crime in the context of his 30 year law enforcement career.
We get back to the station at 8 o'clock and I need to have my two stories written, approved, edited and be in full make-up for my newsroom live shot. Oh, and you're my lead story, my producer reminded me. Just then the assignment editor tells me she's found the victim's picture on a MySpace page. But who to confirm that the girl in the profile is the murder victim? I called the prosecutor who didn't have a clue. The CSI guys had seen her butchered body, Christ, the mother had used a hatchet, but they were unavailable. Someone suggested contacting her friends on MySpace so I unwittingly sent an email from my account asking them to confirm her identity by calling the newsroom hotline. An hour later one of them called. It was awkward.
Asshole Reporter: Hi, you got my email.
MySpacer: Yeah.
A.R.: Well, we just wanted to confirm that it was Sara before we used the image on television.
MySpacer: You can't use the picture. Her dad doesn't want you to use it.
A.R.: OK, well it is public domain and we're reporting the story.
MySpacer: You better not fucking use it, bitch!
A.R.: OK, thanks.
A decision was made not to use the picture even though we were well within our legal rights. But then I started getting really hostile messages on MySpace. I replied with, "I'm so sorry for your loss but I was just trying to do my job. We have decided to honor her father's wishes and NOT use the photo." The friend wrote again and basically told me to go fuck myself which wasn't completely uncalled for.
But this is the world of broadcast news. A heinous crime in an affluent community that warrants the media spotlight. Then the lofty task of balancing sensitivity with the pursuit of the elements required for your story. It sucks. It's hard. It's demoralizing and it makes me feel like a slime ball. At least with my broadcast PR firm, there's some integrity because we all admit we're working for the man. We are prostituting ourselves, at least I am, to assist corporate America in brand recognition, etc. No one is pretending to be providing some sort of community service. On a lighter note, HPG watched me on TV and said I looked good. So there you go, positive affirmation from my former crush. I knew I'd find the silver lining... eventually.
Working nightside has its ups and downs. On one hand, I don't have to report to duty until 1:30pm, however, the pickings are slim and we're typically screwed if there's no breaking news. But I was determined to be resourceful so I managed to line up sources willing to be on camera and meet me on a Sunday. The story wasn't earth shattering but it was newsworthy by even the most conservative standards. FEMA had finally coughed up the money to bail out residents in a flood prone area. Don't yawn, that's rude and plus, it was the first buyout of its kind. Just as I was wrapping up the story, I got a call from my producer. "Vo-Sot this story, we need you to cover a murder-suicide," she said. For those unfamiliar with TV jargon, Vo-Sot stands for voice-over, sound on tape. Aren't you glad I cleared that up?
The story was awful. A 21 year-old girl had been found by her father, she was stabbed to death. It gets worse. The person responsible was her own mother who had later killed herself by drowning in a nearby creek. However, all we had was the police report. This happened in a very affluent neighborhood and I felt like fucking Geraldo Rivera knocking on neighbors' doors in search of a "reaction." "They were quiet, they kept to themselves," said one. "It's a tragedy," said another but of course no one was willing to say it on camera. I get it but what I don't get is why people act surprised when a reporter accompanied by a cameraman and news van wants their quote on camera. So other than feeling like a fucking vulture, I had to subject myself to the condescending answers of a 4'10" County Prosecutor who clearly had a Napoleon complex. "Of course it was shocking," he replied when I asked him to frame the gruesome crime in the context of his 30 year law enforcement career. We get back to the station at 8 o'clock and I need to have my two stories written, approved, edited and be in full make-up for my newsroom live shot. Oh, and you're my lead story, my producer reminded me. Just then the assignment editor tells me she's found the victim's picture on a MySpace page. But who to confirm that the girl in the profile is the murder victim? I called the prosecutor who didn't have a clue. The CSI guys had seen her butchered body, Christ, the mother had used a hatchet, but they were unavailable. Someone suggested contacting her friends on MySpace so I unwittingly sent an email from my account asking them to confirm her identity by calling the newsroom hotline. An hour later one of them called. It was awkward.
Asshole Reporter: Hi, you got my email.
MySpacer: Yeah.
A.R.: Well, we just wanted to confirm that it was Sara before we used the image on television.
MySpacer: You can't use the picture. Her dad doesn't want you to use it.
A.R.: OK, well it is public domain and we're reporting the story.
MySpacer: You better not fucking use it, bitch!
A.R.: OK, thanks.
A decision was made not to use the picture even though we were well within our legal rights. But then I started getting really hostile messages on MySpace. I replied with, "I'm so sorry for your loss but I was just trying to do my job. We have decided to honor her father's wishes and NOT use the photo." The friend wrote again and basically told me to go fuck myself which wasn't completely uncalled for.
But this is the world of broadcast news. A heinous crime in an affluent community that warrants the media spotlight. Then the lofty task of balancing sensitivity with the pursuit of the elements required for your story. It sucks. It's hard. It's demoralizing and it makes me feel like a slime ball. At least with my broadcast PR firm, there's some integrity because we all admit we're working for the man. We are prostituting ourselves, at least I am, to assist corporate America in brand recognition, etc. No one is pretending to be providing some sort of community service. On a lighter note, HPG watched me on TV and said I looked good. So there you go, positive affirmation from my former crush. I knew I'd find the silver lining... eventually.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Focus Factor
It's missing. Call it the X factor but I can't focus. It's maddening. Today I was in an edit and my editor rewinds the tape and plays a soundbite. In the few seconds it took him to perform this minor task, I had moved on to Jamaica. Ocho Rios to be exact where I was plotting my next escape. "Is this the bite you wanted?!" he yelled waking me from my daydream. "Uh, I don't know," I stammered. "Play it again." He turned and gave me a death stare. "Come on, dude, this will move faster if you fucking pay attention." I love Ben. He's the grouchy smurf of the office. Frequently, while editing a self-serving corporate video, he'll casually confess, "I fucking hate my job and I don't care who knows it." This incites glee on my part because I find his candor so refreshing. He likes me but today I was working his last nerve.
I was working my own last nerve. Have you ever gotten on your own nerves? I would start one script, then search for fares on Kayak, then my boss would call and remind me to get crackin'. A high maintenance client kept asking us to remove footage of minority babies for an FDA approval piece I was producing. First it was a suggestion to use another "Caucasian baby" which I found pretty transparent in its racism but obliged. Then today they asked that we remove another black baby because she appeared to be older than 18 months, she was 15. In addition to this minutiae, I was supposed to correct language in the script which I neglected to do accurately because my mind had wandered yet again. It was one thing after another today signalling the necessity for Ritalin.
My propensity for self-medicating has been documented before and I'm headed there again. As yet another deadline loomed and I scrambled for a tape that was literally in front of my dumb face, I told my coworkers that I needed Ritalin. "Try wellbutrin," one of them suggested adding, "it's worked wonders for me. I don't let things get to me, my thoughts aren't racing like they used to." I suppressed a guffaw because I had witnessed him have no less than three minor meltdowns in just the last week. This is why I love this place, all of us are delusional.
Anyway, last night I went to a scholarship banquet for minority journalists and came face to face with my idol, CNN Chief Correspondent Christiane Amanpour. I didn't know if it would happen. I figured she'd have a swarm of obsequious fans clamoring for her attention. But fate intervened and it was as if the crowded parted when I saw her. I walked over and introduced myself. Then I reminded her of when we first met.. sort of. I was an intern at CNN in D.C. when The Washington Post published an article called "The Amanpour Factor."
The story was about how her reporting was making such an impact on public opinion around the world that military and political leaders were actually factoring her into their strategy in Bosnia. She smiled remembering the article and our subsequent email exchange. Then we talked about Iran where she's from and I was born. But even though I was having an insightful discussion with my idol in a professional way, I was acutely aware of the magnitude of this moment. This is a woman I've admired for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS! And so my body betrayed my composed facade and I began to sweat profusely. It was embarrassing. Here I was having this amazing conversation and I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Mortified at the thought of them actually trickling down my face (I'm not a sweater, mind you), I opted to wrap things up. "I don't want to monopolize your time," I suggested. "But it's an honor to meet you." She was very gracious and after two pictures ("one for safety"- a TV term) we parted ways.
I was working my own last nerve. Have you ever gotten on your own nerves? I would start one script, then search for fares on Kayak, then my boss would call and remind me to get crackin'. A high maintenance client kept asking us to remove footage of minority babies for an FDA approval piece I was producing. First it was a suggestion to use another "Caucasian baby" which I found pretty transparent in its racism but obliged. Then today they asked that we remove another black baby because she appeared to be older than 18 months, she was 15. In addition to this minutiae, I was supposed to correct language in the script which I neglected to do accurately because my mind had wandered yet again. It was one thing after another today signalling the necessity for Ritalin.
My propensity for self-medicating has been documented before and I'm headed there again. As yet another deadline loomed and I scrambled for a tape that was literally in front of my dumb face, I told my coworkers that I needed Ritalin. "Try wellbutrin," one of them suggested adding, "it's worked wonders for me. I don't let things get to me, my thoughts aren't racing like they used to." I suppressed a guffaw because I had witnessed him have no less than three minor meltdowns in just the last week. This is why I love this place, all of us are delusional.
Anyway, last night I went to a scholarship banquet for minority journalists and came face to face with my idol, CNN Chief Correspondent Christiane Amanpour. I didn't know if it would happen. I figured she'd have a swarm of obsequious fans clamoring for her attention. But fate intervened and it was as if the crowded parted when I saw her. I walked over and introduced myself. Then I reminded her of when we first met.. sort of. I was an intern at CNN in D.C. when The Washington Post published an article called "The Amanpour Factor."
The story was about how her reporting was making such an impact on public opinion around the world that military and political leaders were actually factoring her into their strategy in Bosnia. She smiled remembering the article and our subsequent email exchange. Then we talked about Iran where she's from and I was born. But even though I was having an insightful discussion with my idol in a professional way, I was acutely aware of the magnitude of this moment. This is a woman I've admired for twelve years. TWELVE YEARS! And so my body betrayed my composed facade and I began to sweat profusely. It was embarrassing. Here I was having this amazing conversation and I could feel the beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Mortified at the thought of them actually trickling down my face (I'm not a sweater, mind you), I opted to wrap things up. "I don't want to monopolize your time," I suggested. "But it's an honor to meet you." She was very gracious and after two pictures ("one for safety"- a TV term) we parted ways.
Thursday, March 01, 2007
attribution
In the post titled "Fair and Balanced" I employed a line I heard in a great play DSG recommended called "The Vertical Hour." The line is in the final scene and comes from a disgruntled student who tells Julianne Moore's character that she is in fact pissed off at the world because she just found out her boyfriend has taken up with a girl who "looks like she eats shit with a dirty spoon."
In my entry, I liken a pointless exchange with DSG to: "washing your hands before eating shit with a dirty spoon." I don't equate that with plagiarism but in the interest of honesty, it wasn't entirely my brain child.
In my entry, I liken a pointless exchange with DSG to: "washing your hands before eating shit with a dirty spoon." I don't equate that with plagiarism but in the interest of honesty, it wasn't entirely my brain child.
An Olive Branch for the Peanut Gallery
I just want to apologize to the folks in the peanut gallery who I admonished. That is, if they're still reading. A friend recently awakened me to the idea that I was being really immature about it all and I have to say I agree.
I'll admit the negative observations can be annoying but they are just that- observations. As a reporter, I'm supposed to cultivate sources so I can gain more insight. It's a bit ironic that I'm so adamantly opposed to feedback when it's directed at me in such a public forum.
So make your comments, take a few jabs here and there. After all, if I didn't want people to judge, I probably should have just stuck with my journal.
I'll admit the negative observations can be annoying but they are just that- observations. As a reporter, I'm supposed to cultivate sources so I can gain more insight. It's a bit ironic that I'm so adamantly opposed to feedback when it's directed at me in such a public forum.
So make your comments, take a few jabs here and there. After all, if I didn't want people to judge, I probably should have just stuck with my journal.
Fair and Balanced
What does it say about you when your boss insists you see your therapist? Today I was juggling a few projects after falling behind and I called my boss to tell her that I wouldn't be leaving the office for my afternoon appointment after all. "No," she said, "you should go." My PMS symptoms were beginning to reach water cooler status. And so I went. I was in rare form. I was pissed off.Beverly noted the intensity of my anger and said as much. "Why the fuck are women such bitches to each other?" I demanded. This was prompted by two readers who after seeing that I was at a low point, decided to kick me while I was down. This is how women differ from the other sex. If a guy blogged about how a woman he had feelings for had rebuffed him enough times to tear at his self-esteem and force him to take a step back, his guy friends would be like, "Fuck her, man." But what do we do? "You are what you eat." "Maybe he resents you." I mean what the fuck is that?
HPG saw my venomous response and responded with, "WHOA!!" telling me I was too harsh and I would turn off my readership. But that only fueled my fury. I'm not vying for readers! It's not like I'm profiting from how many hits this exploration in self-indulgent public whining is getting. So for those of you who don't know the rules of this blogger, allow me to enlighten you. One- tell me what you think. Feel free to call me on my shit. But don't fucking expect me to publish caustic observations made without any basis in fact. Until now, I've published everything because, unlike Fox News, I believe in being fair and balanced which means total transparency. That said, I don't have to publicize your animus towards me, so don't be an asshole. Two.. there's not really another rule. Don't be an asshole just about covers it.
DSG. Dear, wonderfully engaging, maddeningly resistant DSG. He likes the caustic comments. He loves it when my feathers are ruffled. Today we had a lengthy IM exchange in our 115th attempt to clear the air. The whole process is like washing your hands before eating shit with a dirty spoon. Pointless and disingenuous to boot. I can't wrap my head around what may ultimately prove to be my core truth. I'm not in a relationship because I'm the one who is afraid of intimacy. Nah, that's not right. Anyone who really knows me, knows that I'm generous, affectionate and...neurotic and.. needy...and demanding. All within reason, of course.
But if I'm really, really honest about this (deep breath) it boils down to the fact that I've really only been in love once in my life. That's not easy to admit especially when you consider that I've been engaged twice. Not to mention Mo with whom I broke up before he officially proposed. But even my husband, I didn't really love. I loved the idea of him. And my first fiance was an angel who adored me but I remember constantly complaining about being afflicted with S.A.D.D. (sexual attention deficit disorder). That's not an actual condition, at least not one I'm aware of, it's more of a description of my tendency to question if we were out of milk or bread while we were..he was.. well let's not make me break my rule of abstaining from discussing my sex life in detail. My point is that I'm either settling for men who don't stimulate me or am simply afraid of the ones who do. Does that make sense?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
The Brink
There are moments when one teeters on the edge. The edge of reason, the edge of madness, or simply the incomprehensible inclination towards masochism. That's where I'm currently residing. It's familiar territory. This visit was triggered by a horrible bout of PMS that has yet to subside. My physician friend suggested a hot bath and aromatherapy. Perhaps.Were it not for the general malaise I'm experiencing, I could laugh at how this latest exploration in self-induced sadness has derailed my grandiose plans of falling madly, deeply in love with myself. This morning my boss suggested I go back to my network field producing job if I was going to continue to undermine the philosophy behind "The Secret." She was kidding, of course, but it only added to my depression. This morning, I forced myself to smile as I looked in the mirror and thought, "Today is the first day of the rest of your life." It helped momentarily until I noticed a gray hair in my eyebrow. Not getting any younger, that's for damn sure.
I talked to Boston last night. He's back on the East Coast for a couple of weeks. We haven't seen each other since our ill-fated romance shriveled in the light of reality. And I've been pretty shallow and self-absorbed when it comes to salvaging any sort of friendship with him. He's actually a really nice guy and I shouldn't resent him just because he didn't measure up to the man I wanted/expected/felt entitled to. But, he's smart. For one thing, he doesn't read this blog. That's probably wise given my frenetic impulses to wax poetic about compatibility one week and lament the end of yet another get-rich quick love scheme the next.
And finally, allow me to bring you up to speed on DSG. There have been some inquiries. As you know, he resisted the idea of dating. There were a multitude of explanations given for his reluctance and I listened intently to all of them hoping to hear something, anything that made me feel better about any of it. In the end, his knee-jerk decision coupled with his sporadic but mostly consistent tendency to be incredibly insensitive pushed me away. Imagine that. Someone succeeding in pushing me away. It's usually the other way around. I hope that in time my ego will recover from the beating it suffered when repeatedly reminded that I wasn't girlfriend material. Then, I'll be able to be a real friend to DSG as opposed to the sad little girl constantly vying for his attention or worse, listening for any verbal cues that may indicate a change of heart on his part. Pathetic.
I think about the men who have expressed interest in me. They're still waiting in the wings. I'm so quick to dismiss them for a myriad of reasons: he's not my type (yes, hobbits with abandonment issues only, please); I'm not attracted to him (because he's not playing hard to get); or he's trying too hard (he's consistent). And, yet, this commitment phobic behavior belies my quest for a meaningful relationship. DSG says I invent drama when there isn't any to consume me. I don't think that's true. If that were the case, I'd continue to engage in this self-deprecating friendship. The kind where I'm instructed to Man up and be his friend one moment but be true to myself the next. (deep self-indulgent sigh) So this Friday I'm going on a date. No time like the present to change course. Onwards and upwards!
Monday, February 26, 2007
The Peanut Gallery
People are having conversations in the comment section of my blog. I think that's weird. It's not a forum. I don't necessarily object to the discourse. After all, I am the moderator and can choose to reject the comments entirely but it's still strange. Especially since Brooklyn is home to Junior's which is famous for its cheesecake. So then why is that so clever and witty?
I'm in a really foul mood today. My day started with an email on my blackberry from a stupid client before I even got into work. That triggered a downward spiral that culminated in a burst of tears this evening. Yes, I'm having my period but it doesn't negate the fact that people are assholes. Why did I say that? The law of attraction will now mandate that more negativity clouds my universe. Shit.
My baby cousin, who's only 21 years old had a baby today. He's really cute even for a newborn. I find most newborns to be soft and cuddly but not always cute. After a week or so, once they've recovered from being pushed out, their face takes shape but at the hospital, I focus on their hands and feet. I've been fortunate that all the babies of my close relatives have been cute enough not to warrant that awkward moment immortalized on Seinfeld. But this birth underscored both my old age (I changed the mom's diapers!) and the increasingly deafening ticking of my own biological clock. Tomorrow I'm going to see The Vertical Hour on Broadway and I'm pretty excited about that. Tomorrow will be a good day. How's that for manifesting positive energy?
I'm in a really foul mood today. My day started with an email on my blackberry from a stupid client before I even got into work. That triggered a downward spiral that culminated in a burst of tears this evening. Yes, I'm having my period but it doesn't negate the fact that people are assholes. Why did I say that? The law of attraction will now mandate that more negativity clouds my universe. Shit.
My baby cousin, who's only 21 years old had a baby today. He's really cute even for a newborn. I find most newborns to be soft and cuddly but not always cute. After a week or so, once they've recovered from being pushed out, their face takes shape but at the hospital, I focus on their hands and feet. I've been fortunate that all the babies of my close relatives have been cute enough not to warrant that awkward moment immortalized on Seinfeld. But this birth underscored both my old age (I changed the mom's diapers!) and the increasingly deafening ticking of my own biological clock. Tomorrow I'm going to see The Vertical Hour on Broadway and I'm pretty excited about that. Tomorrow will be a good day. How's that for manifesting positive energy?
Sunday, February 25, 2007
Brooklyn Dodgers
Calm down, HPG. I know you're a huge baseball fan but I'm referring to those of us who avoid the outer boroughs of Manhattan like the plague. I am a Brooklyn dodger. I have a handful of friends who reside in this lovely part of New York just a stone's throw away from the East Village and yet, I've only ventured out when I've either had to edit in a Brooklyn studio or the half a dozen times I committed to the commute for a friend's party.
Tonight my good friend John, who witnessed no less than three nervous breakdowns I had in the throes of Malaria during my African adventure, had his going away party. To me going away parties are sacred, I mean the person is leaving the vicinity for Pete's sake, do them the honor. However, I must really love this man because getting out to Crooklyn SUCKED.
First of all, I was exhausted because I had to show up at the UN this morning and wait in the freezing cold while the other film festival judges decided to mosey over for our security clearance. Then I was locked in a room for 8 hours while we watched countless documentaries. I get that it's an honor to be a judge but it felt like a chore. And even though we were asked to keep in mind limited budgets that may be reflected in the quality of the films, it was still aggravating to see 10 minutes of b-roll of NGO workers in a board meeting. You don't need a big budget to know that that shit is like watching paint dry.
I finally got home around 7 p.m. only to shower and change so I could meet my friend for sushi before he accompanied me on my trek to Ft. Greene in Brooklyn. It's a damn good thing I figured out that John lived in Ft. Greene and not Ft. Lee as I had originally advertised. No one bit and then when someone asked me why I kept promoting parties in New Jersey, it occurred to me that he lived in Brooklyn. Even with my new dark do, I'm still suffering from blond moments.
Construction and the bullshit weekend schedule made the already long ride from the Upper West Side even longer. I had relied on a website I recently discovered called hopstop.com for directions. It used to be my favorite because you type in your start and end locations and voila, it tells you what subway line is the most efficient. Note the past tense. Tonight hopstop was hopped up on dipshit directions. My friend appeared to be in good spirits about everything until I started bitching about how cold it was. "Let me tell you one thing only," he advised in his mock Indian accent. "This is your friend's party and you'll shut it up right now."
When we finally arrived at the party, alcohol was flowing freely and the drunks were in full bloom. I know he'll never see it but I want to send some good vibes in the direction of the white man on the dance floor. His moves straight from the Elaine Benes School of Choreography brought me unbridled joy and amusement. But when I've been drinking (in this case, I had sake at dinner and a ginger ale spiked with vodka at the party) I have a tendency to laugh freely as in, in people's faces. My friend figured this out the hard way.
A really cute girl introduced herself and began talking to us about our respective careers. I was full of questions for her as well as I thought I was being a good wing woman. Almost abruptly, the girl says, "I should introduce you to my boyfriend," and walks away. I looked at my friend who just shrugged, resigned to his fate of going home alone without any digits.
But what she returns with is perplexing to say the least. This Indian guy who looked like he was a once normal sized man who had inexplicably survived being flattened by a steamroller. His body frame was oddly angular with thin shoulders, a noticeable flat torso that looked to be only a few inches thick in width. He was wearing a black turtleneck with chinos that had defied their wrinkle-free characteristic. I know this is mean but I just started laughing and I couldn't stop. And she was all giddy because apparently this cartoonish man, who we later learned she met online, was someone she really liked. "This is Amrit..or," she looked at him and giggled,"Dr.Amrit?" He smiled, embarrassed that his girlfriend would emphasize his Ph.D. in economics. Meanwhile my friend is staring at me in disbelief because I can't keep my shit together. Fortunately, the man who deserves to be cast as the lead in "White Men Can't Dance" started to strut his stuff to Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" so I was able to blame my laughter on the other freakshow in the room.
And speaking of Indian guys, may I take a moment to shamelessly plug the amazing blog of one of my favorite South Asian males? Yes? You're too kind. It's a fantastic website for any neophyte (myself included) who wishes to broaden their cultural horizons. I hate the name of the site but all the losers who can't write their way out of a wet paper bag had taken the better ones. Anyway, it's really well-written and you may like it even if you're an ethnocentric a-hole who doesn't care about enlightening yourself. http://www.desimusic4ever.blogspot.com/
Tonight my good friend John, who witnessed no less than three nervous breakdowns I had in the throes of Malaria during my African adventure, had his going away party. To me going away parties are sacred, I mean the person is leaving the vicinity for Pete's sake, do them the honor. However, I must really love this man because getting out to Crooklyn SUCKED.
First of all, I was exhausted because I had to show up at the UN this morning and wait in the freezing cold while the other film festival judges decided to mosey over for our security clearance. Then I was locked in a room for 8 hours while we watched countless documentaries. I get that it's an honor to be a judge but it felt like a chore. And even though we were asked to keep in mind limited budgets that may be reflected in the quality of the films, it was still aggravating to see 10 minutes of b-roll of NGO workers in a board meeting. You don't need a big budget to know that that shit is like watching paint dry.
I finally got home around 7 p.m. only to shower and change so I could meet my friend for sushi before he accompanied me on my trek to Ft. Greene in Brooklyn. It's a damn good thing I figured out that John lived in Ft. Greene and not Ft. Lee as I had originally advertised. No one bit and then when someone asked me why I kept promoting parties in New Jersey, it occurred to me that he lived in Brooklyn. Even with my new dark do, I'm still suffering from blond moments.
Construction and the bullshit weekend schedule made the already long ride from the Upper West Side even longer. I had relied on a website I recently discovered called hopstop.com for directions. It used to be my favorite because you type in your start and end locations and voila, it tells you what subway line is the most efficient. Note the past tense. Tonight hopstop was hopped up on dipshit directions. My friend appeared to be in good spirits about everything until I started bitching about how cold it was. "Let me tell you one thing only," he advised in his mock Indian accent. "This is your friend's party and you'll shut it up right now."
When we finally arrived at the party, alcohol was flowing freely and the drunks were in full bloom. I know he'll never see it but I want to send some good vibes in the direction of the white man on the dance floor. His moves straight from the Elaine Benes School of Choreography brought me unbridled joy and amusement. But when I've been drinking (in this case, I had sake at dinner and a ginger ale spiked with vodka at the party) I have a tendency to laugh freely as in, in people's faces. My friend figured this out the hard way.
A really cute girl introduced herself and began talking to us about our respective careers. I was full of questions for her as well as I thought I was being a good wing woman. Almost abruptly, the girl says, "I should introduce you to my boyfriend," and walks away. I looked at my friend who just shrugged, resigned to his fate of going home alone without any digits.
But what she returns with is perplexing to say the least. This Indian guy who looked like he was a once normal sized man who had inexplicably survived being flattened by a steamroller. His body frame was oddly angular with thin shoulders, a noticeable flat torso that looked to be only a few inches thick in width. He was wearing a black turtleneck with chinos that had defied their wrinkle-free characteristic. I know this is mean but I just started laughing and I couldn't stop. And she was all giddy because apparently this cartoonish man, who we later learned she met online, was someone she really liked. "This is Amrit..or," she looked at him and giggled,"Dr.Amrit?" He smiled, embarrassed that his girlfriend would emphasize his Ph.D. in economics. Meanwhile my friend is staring at me in disbelief because I can't keep my shit together. Fortunately, the man who deserves to be cast as the lead in "White Men Can't Dance" started to strut his stuff to Shakira's "Hips Don't Lie" so I was able to blame my laughter on the other freakshow in the room. And speaking of Indian guys, may I take a moment to shamelessly plug the amazing blog of one of my favorite South Asian males? Yes? You're too kind. It's a fantastic website for any neophyte (myself included) who wishes to broaden their cultural horizons. I hate the name of the site but all the losers who can't write their way out of a wet paper bag had taken the better ones. Anyway, it's really well-written and you may like it even if you're an ethnocentric a-hole who doesn't care about enlightening yourself. http://www.desimusic4ever.blogspot.com/
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Returning to My Roots
I'm being literal. I have literally gone back to my roots, as in my natural hair color. My natural hair color looks fake because it's so freaking dark. I feel like Samara from "The Ring" or, possibly worse, Wednesday Addams. Why did I do it? I guess it was prompted by DSG asking about my highlights. As in, why do you have blond in your hair? I explained that on-air, my thick, dark hair resembles a hair helmet and the highlights give my hair some "texture" on camera. But it's more expensive to get foil put in my hair and who am I kidding with the natural highlights? There's no such thing as a woman of my ethnicity having warm shades of caramel and honey in their hair. Then the other day Larry noted how many colors were in my hair. But my colorist was booked so I opted to go to another salon on the Upper West Side. The Filipino woman assigned my hair didn't exactly instill a surge of confidence in me. In broken English she demanded that I "Sit here!" and asked me what I wanted. I told her I wanted a single process, dark- like my roots. I warned her that my gray was stubborn and she nodded barely concealing her disdain at the split ends and rainbow of brassy highlights I had allowed to deteriorate with neglect. Two hours later, as she blow dried my hair the end result was revealed. I couldn't believe it. Elvira minus the obscene cleavage and vamp make-up. Christ. "It's dark," I remarked. "Yes, it's very dark. I don't like but you say natural color," she said. Whore.
But there are worse things than looking incredibly unimaginative and Goth-like with your hair color. For instance, you could have a cellular bill that exceeds $600! I was wandering midtown west in search of good eats with Larry today when I got the email from Verizon. Your automatic payment of $605 is scheduled for March 1, 2007. "Holy shit!" I yelled and everyone in line at Wendy's turned and looked at me. "Language," Larry said. "My fucking phone bill is $605!" I exclaimed loud enough for people to turn again. This public disclosure preceded a hasty exit, whatever the line was way too long for fucking Wendy's. Once outside I warned Larry that if I called Verizon and they stood by this invoice, he was going to witness a meltdown. Larry's eyes lit up in anticipation of this promising exhibition of consumer outrage. When I finally called, the customer service rep. patiently went through my whole bill and explained that my new blackberry, its charges, my texting (NO MORE TEXTS!) and my new broadband card together with various taxes and activation fees amounted to the price of new Jimmy Choo heels. Where the fuck are my priorities?!
The Bain of Her Existence
Not mine. My therapist's. Not me, the fucking Secret. Yesterday, I went to see her and as I started telling her about the latest Oprah-backed social phenomenon, I heard an exasperated sigh. "It's bullshit, right?" I said, lifting my head off the couch and turning to look at her. "You're the third one today," she said. Apparently, psychotherapists are being bombarded with queries from patients who want to know if they can actually will goodness into their lives simply by believing. "It's unrealistic to think people can banish all their negative thoughts all the time," she noted. Confession: I bought the program for $5 and watched it online. Yes, this was after I ranted about it here. But, as a journalist, I thought it would behoove me to fully investigate the DVD before poo-pooing it. On some level it did resonate with me. The whole law of attraction theory is grounded in some truth. But after the spell wore off, I was struck by really irrational, idealistic, and Stepford-esque components to the best-selling panacea.
The various "experts" in the "movie" ranged from medical doctors to quantum physicists and self-proclaimed philosophers. A few of them used the inoculation theory to undermine skeptics. One example was a fruity life coach, originally from Houston to my dismay, who said that many people question how everyone can have everything they want. Won't the overwhelming demand of humanity's desires deplete the supply of the universe? No, he said condescendingly, because the universe is abundant and not everyone wants a BMW. The latter part of the phrase was illustrated with images of impoverished people in Africa. Yeah, they don't know what a fucking BMW is, they just want clean drinking water, asshole.
Another annoying soothsayer suggested that people who spend their time and effort fighting injustice, disease or rallying against war are in fact perpetuating those things. "You should have a pro-peace rally instead of an anti-war rally." Is this a life strategy or simply semantics? I strongly disagree with the law of attraction regarding this. Case in point would be the filmmaker I partnered with in Africa when we were covering the famine. He had spent a few years of his life chronicling the efforts of people all over the world who defied monster governments and powerful corporations simply by demonstrating against them. This was evidenced in Venezuela, South Africa, Palestine and even at the WTO meeting in Seattle. That inspiring documentary is available on DVD, by the way, and it's called "The Fourth World War" (www.bignoisefilms.org).
The above notwithstanding, it should be noted that I am willing to curb the negativity that pervades my existence. My therapist asked me not to refer to myself as an idiot or a moron, at least for a while. She agreed that it sounded more interesting to simply declare that I was a loser rather than take the time to explain, "I don't think I made the wisest decision at that moment in time and now I have some regret about my actions." But by putting that out there, I was in fact empowering others to do the same. Enter DSG. This man has been the source of amusement and self-doubt from the get go. I don't like it. I'm moving on. We're still friends though so it's all good. And, I've decided that I'm going to take the advice of friends and blog-readers and finally fucking write a book. In fact, I just signed up for a class on how to write a book proposal. The original plan was that my blog would be leaked to a senior editor at a top publishing house and they would come looking for me. But that pipe dream is about as realistic as my longstanding fantasy to strike oil at the altar (read: not gonna happen).
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