Always one to take things to the extreme, I went to see not one but two movies by myself at the same theater, a few hours spaced apart yesterday.
The Regal Loewes in Union Square saw me in the late afternoon for Pirates of the Carribean and again at 12:55am for The Break-Up. Both movies were far from packed, but there was a mouse in the theater during the second, more desolate, show. I had Chickpea in had and swore my bag began rustling half-way through the movie. I moved seats twice for fear of a mouse for a companion.
No one noticed solo me at Pirates, but the ticket taker commented on a girl alone at the late showing for The Break-Up. He was sympathetic, saying he'd seen it alone himself. I wasn't expecting to be affected by Jennifer Aniston or Vince Vaughn and indeed Vince did not affect me, but Jennifer's rendition of weeping in a bedroom really struck a chord. I found myself crying as she cried and gasping as she gasped and as embarrassed as she was over the whole thing. Was that art imitating life or life imitating art?
July 15, 2006
Meeting Strangers
Every so often, I go a spree to collect new faces and enlarge my quickly shrinking circle. This week, I met Melanie--a fellow knitter at Knit Cafe--whence we chatted and shot the shit, making for a stitch and bitch duo. We walked over to Whole Foods afterwards so I could serve up some more of their curry and brown basmati rice and she could buy dried guavas. I knew we would become friends when she broke open her package on the spot and handed me not one, not two, but three pieces of the 10 piece pack she had just bought. She was also a veritable font of knowledge on where to buy yarn on sale...every knitters holy grial. Melanie's ease and quiet grace immediately calmed me. Her Berkeley pedigree coupled with her West Coast zen made for a cathartic evening with needles and wool.
Yesterday I met Tristen, a lovely midwestern chickie who is finding her niche in the big city. She was sweet and serene, she reminded me of my friend Amy who will soon be moving to San Diego with her HUSBAND. Another one lost to marriage. It was Tristen's friend Helena that won me over with her Brazilian wit and city savvy, she reminds me of a younger me--jaded but still hopeful. We hit some of my fave spots--Karma, Cooper 35, Il Cantinero, and I left as they entered the Dark Room
Yesterday I met Tristen, a lovely midwestern chickie who is finding her niche in the big city. She was sweet and serene, she reminded me of my friend Amy who will soon be moving to San Diego with her HUSBAND. Another one lost to marriage. It was Tristen's friend Helena that won me over with her Brazilian wit and city savvy, she reminds me of a younger me--jaded but still hopeful. We hit some of my fave spots--Karma, Cooper 35, Il Cantinero, and I left as they entered the Dark Room
July 11, 2006
Another One Bites the Dust
Another day another job...
I quit today. Yes, another job--had and left. Another job that missed the year mark by a few months.
Most people are gripped by fear/anxiety/stress/discomfort etc. when faced with the end of one job, be it by choice or circumstance. All I feel when I quit jobs is relief. A sense of calm washes over me and it can only compare marginally with the high of getting a new job. I am professionally happiest in those moments. At the very beginning, before the job starts, or the very end, when I know the job is over.
Mind you, I also always quit one job before even looking for the next one. That's right, I am unstable and most comfortable in these life-altering moments of flailing in a state of complete chaos. So, I have not so much as put out any resumes or looked to see if jobs exist outside this one.
Job security is apparently my enemy.
This cannot be normal. Is it?
I quit today. Yes, another job--had and left. Another job that missed the year mark by a few months.
Most people are gripped by fear/anxiety/stress/discomfort etc. when faced with the end of one job, be it by choice or circumstance. All I feel when I quit jobs is relief. A sense of calm washes over me and it can only compare marginally with the high of getting a new job. I am professionally happiest in those moments. At the very beginning, before the job starts, or the very end, when I know the job is over.
Mind you, I also always quit one job before even looking for the next one. That's right, I am unstable and most comfortable in these life-altering moments of flailing in a state of complete chaos. So, I have not so much as put out any resumes or looked to see if jobs exist outside this one.
Job security is apparently my enemy.
This cannot be normal. Is it?
Type
I used to believe any guy I liked had a good chance of liking me back. Mind you, this is less a healthy self-confidence and more that I like men that most women wouldn't find all that attractive. However, as I get older more and more women start to like my type of guy.
Kinda dorky
Really smart
Socially-awkward/shy
Not funny but capable of getting my jokes
Sweet and Sincere
These are the guys girls marry. It's sad because I've always gone for this guy...since I was 12 and started liking boys. Most girls went through the bad boys, the assholes, the rebels, the gangstas--not me. I stayed true to the good guy--arguably the nice guy. He never finished last with me. Yet he eludes me now--now when the dumb girls, the pretty girls, and the ready-to-marry girls have come around to him...his allegiance wavers and I'm left alone in the Land of Sweet being Vicious.
The thing is just as he is my type out of some degree of "I can't do betterness"--I'm no longer his type because now he can do better. He can finally get that cheerleader or dancer or aspiring actress--and the truth about men is they'll go for that girl every time. I mean, till she cheats on him or leaves him to pursue her career as a gymnast. I like to think that's why older guys go for me...but I'm sure any late 30something single lady will tell me that's it more the bloom on this rose than the quality of her perfume. Sigh.
I quit on white boys a long time ago. I haven't had a white boyfriend since high school and much of the reason for that is that I learned a valuable lesson, relatively early--a white guy will never get serious with this brown girl. Mind you, white guys get serious with brown girls all the time...the Ditha girls. But if a white guy is going to get serious with a girl like me, she'll be a white. It's sad and it's true and I thought I'd come to terms with it--but I haven't. Every now and again I'll meet a white guy who catches my fancy and I'll be reminded of how quickly this mocha frap would be dismissed for some white cocoa (is there such a thing?)...sniffle. Why is that?
Kinda dorky
Really smart
Socially-awkward/shy
Not funny but capable of getting my jokes
Sweet and Sincere
These are the guys girls marry. It's sad because I've always gone for this guy...since I was 12 and started liking boys. Most girls went through the bad boys, the assholes, the rebels, the gangstas--not me. I stayed true to the good guy--arguably the nice guy. He never finished last with me. Yet he eludes me now--now when the dumb girls, the pretty girls, and the ready-to-marry girls have come around to him...his allegiance wavers and I'm left alone in the Land of Sweet being Vicious.
The thing is just as he is my type out of some degree of "I can't do betterness"--I'm no longer his type because now he can do better. He can finally get that cheerleader or dancer or aspiring actress--and the truth about men is they'll go for that girl every time. I mean, till she cheats on him or leaves him to pursue her career as a gymnast. I like to think that's why older guys go for me...but I'm sure any late 30something single lady will tell me that's it more the bloom on this rose than the quality of her perfume. Sigh.
I quit on white boys a long time ago. I haven't had a white boyfriend since high school and much of the reason for that is that I learned a valuable lesson, relatively early--a white guy will never get serious with this brown girl. Mind you, white guys get serious with brown girls all the time...the Ditha girls. But if a white guy is going to get serious with a girl like me, she'll be a white. It's sad and it's true and I thought I'd come to terms with it--but I haven't. Every now and again I'll meet a white guy who catches my fancy and I'll be reminded of how quickly this mocha frap would be dismissed for some white cocoa (is there such a thing?)...sniffle. Why is that?
Cap Loewe Doppelganger
Tracey had a big crush on our AP English teacher...by big, I mean BIG--she gives new meaning to school girl crush. No, it wasn't like that creepy movie with Jeremy Irons and Alicia Silverstone--but it had its Lolita-esque moments. In turn, he was the paragon of adult good behavior; we all knew her love wasn't unrequited--he just wasn't in a position to do anything about it. Ah...Mr. Cap Loewe.
Yesterday, my Emit Mag reporter gal pal and tea girl extraordinaire invited me to her gum-maker bf's best friend's book reading. This best friend/writer guy was an iteration of Cap right down to his jacket, pointy ET fingers, and minor stoop (tall guys NEVER stand upright, why is that?). I got chills and quickly pointed this out to Lauren, my high school friend and knower of the Cap-Tracey effect. I'm eager to introduce Trace to her future husband--as per my calculations anyway.
Unfortunately, there were a bevy of scantily clad white girls fluttering around him like bees buzzing on a flower pre-pollination. If he met Trace, he'd love her. I know it. She's kooky, cute, and just his type. Of course, I don't know him at all--but I feel it in my bones.
He was reading from his book "Diamonds: The Heartless Stone". In the wake of a broken engagement he embarked on a voyage to destroy DeBeers--the propogaters: the devil who sells dreams--via multiple trips to the Central African Republic he learned of the heinous conditions under which diamond mines are run as well as the meager money handed down to the miners themselves.
My only question to him was, "Does this mean you'll never buy another diamond?" His obvious answer was, "Never." Apparently diamonds aren't forever. I couldn't help feeling this was more hurt over what ended than anything else, but I hasten not to make this judgement since I don't know him AT ALL. That's when I knew--he was PURR-fect for Trace. She doesn't believe in precious stones either, of course her reasons have little to do with the the miners and everything to do with the value assigned to rocks. Strange given the value she assigns to Prada, but what's life without contradictions?
I'm sorry to say I, like the masses, buy into that marketing campaign from the 1930s. Unlike all the girls shouting "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" I'll take my Luckey over a diamond any day. But don't go down on one knee in front of me sans 3-carat rock and a firm forever, foreva-eva.
Yesterday, my Emit Mag reporter gal pal and tea girl extraordinaire invited me to her gum-maker bf's best friend's book reading. This best friend/writer guy was an iteration of Cap right down to his jacket, pointy ET fingers, and minor stoop (tall guys NEVER stand upright, why is that?). I got chills and quickly pointed this out to Lauren, my high school friend and knower of the Cap-Tracey effect. I'm eager to introduce Trace to her future husband--as per my calculations anyway.
Unfortunately, there were a bevy of scantily clad white girls fluttering around him like bees buzzing on a flower pre-pollination. If he met Trace, he'd love her. I know it. She's kooky, cute, and just his type. Of course, I don't know him at all--but I feel it in my bones.
He was reading from his book "Diamonds: The Heartless Stone". In the wake of a broken engagement he embarked on a voyage to destroy DeBeers--the propogaters: the devil who sells dreams--via multiple trips to the Central African Republic he learned of the heinous conditions under which diamond mines are run as well as the meager money handed down to the miners themselves.
My only question to him was, "Does this mean you'll never buy another diamond?" His obvious answer was, "Never." Apparently diamonds aren't forever. I couldn't help feeling this was more hurt over what ended than anything else, but I hasten not to make this judgement since I don't know him AT ALL. That's when I knew--he was PURR-fect for Trace. She doesn't believe in precious stones either, of course her reasons have little to do with the the miners and everything to do with the value assigned to rocks. Strange given the value she assigns to Prada, but what's life without contradictions?
I'm sorry to say I, like the masses, buy into that marketing campaign from the 1930s. Unlike all the girls shouting "Diamonds are a girl's best friend" I'll take my Luckey over a diamond any day. But don't go down on one knee in front of me sans 3-carat rock and a firm forever, foreva-eva.
July 10, 2006
Personal Best
This is the best photo I have ever taken!
Tommy claims to have found this photographic opportunity--he did not. He stopped to photograph this tent roof but he had no interest in capturing the gaping hole in it!
Hamptons Photos
Wine tasting at Duckwalk Winery on Saturday (left) followed by a wild and crazy party at Surf Club later that night (right).
Before and After
I desperately want to title the After: "Afterlife". I have no title for the before, so pet peeve aside, I would call it simply "Untitled". The reason the skull appeals to me is that it reminds me of "Summer Days" by Georgia O'Keefe hanging on the top floor of the Whitney in their permanent collection. The first time I saw that painting it resonated with me deeply and I have to fight not to call it "Afterlife"--it spoke to me.
Of course, her oil on canvas from 1936 is art--no doubt about it. My amateur photography is inspired by it...rooted in it.
July 7, 2006
Intermediate Tennis
I've finally accepted that I need to move up a level and not bask in the glow of being the best in my beginner league--having played for a better part of a decade, I'm actually a poor player but I enjoy being the best in class.
I've signed up for an Intermeidate Tennis Clinic! It keeps me hitting on Mondays once my Beginner class ends on July 24.
Here's the racket I want! I've been playing with the same Prince for the last 8 years...well, four of those he was on the shelf but he was my high school racket.
I've signed up for an Intermeidate Tennis Clinic! It keeps me hitting on Mondays once my Beginner class ends on July 24.
Here's the racket I want! I've been playing with the same Prince for the last 8 years...well, four of those he was on the shelf but he was my high school racket.
Epi
I bought this guitar yesterday. His name is Epi. (Yeah, real creative!) He came with a carrying case, electric tuner, three picks, a CD, and some manuals.
While I gawked at the hundreds of guitars at The Guitar Center, I realized that music has never been as big a part of my life as I would like it to be. I've signed up for Absolute Beginner Lessons on Tuesdays at 8pm starting July 18.
Tommy is going to take advanced beginner lessons since he can already play a few songs--songs he's recorded on his laptop. He's given me his intro book and assigned me the task of playing Ode to Joy come Sunday...I've been ASSIGNED!
Folding Socks
Whilst I was folding socks after my semi-annual laundry day....
(I do about 6 loads of "unmentionables" every 4-6 months. Some find it gross but I find it most efficient and effective. I've always been a believer in doing a lot in a short period of time so I can do NOTHING (or next to it) the rest of the time. Yes, I have that much underwear--mind you after the 4-month mark we venture into granny panty land--but since no one sees my underwear but Luckey, it's really no big deal.) Since this entry isn't about how infrequently I do laundry, let me get to the point.
As I matched each sock with its pair, I found myself equating sock pairing to couples pairing off. Some socks end up close to one another in the wash, others never find a match, yet others you make do with a match based on color or similar material...some you match off temporarily only to find their exact match in the stack of solo socks you hold on to from the previous laundry doing. The parallels abound. I found it fascinating to consider these elements of matching--both in socks and across people. It turned a menial task into one that stimulated my imagination. Of course, in typical fashion it got me wondering...what kind of sock was I?
Am I a sock that will never find a match? For all my skepticism, I don't buy this.
Am I a sock that was close to my match but being human didn't match up? I'm still convinced on some level that not making it work with V is a crime punishable by a lifetime of loneliness.
Am I sock who will get matched up with a sock only to find the perfect match later? Thankfully, no one will be arranging my marriage so this is extremely unlikely.
Am I a sock that will make do with a match? I'm young enough not to settle but not naive enough to think it will never happen to me.
As I put all my socks away, I did what I've never done before...I threw away all the single socks. Instead of hoarding socks that had no pair--keeping them captive in a dark sock drawer alone while all the paired socks snuggled into one another, I set my single socks free. I hope that good karma comes back around to me. I won't say it was an act of setting myself free, but it certainly felt good not to hold onto those socks any more.
(I do about 6 loads of "unmentionables" every 4-6 months. Some find it gross but I find it most efficient and effective. I've always been a believer in doing a lot in a short period of time so I can do NOTHING (or next to it) the rest of the time. Yes, I have that much underwear--mind you after the 4-month mark we venture into granny panty land--but since no one sees my underwear but Luckey, it's really no big deal.) Since this entry isn't about how infrequently I do laundry, let me get to the point.
As I matched each sock with its pair, I found myself equating sock pairing to couples pairing off. Some socks end up close to one another in the wash, others never find a match, yet others you make do with a match based on color or similar material...some you match off temporarily only to find their exact match in the stack of solo socks you hold on to from the previous laundry doing. The parallels abound. I found it fascinating to consider these elements of matching--both in socks and across people. It turned a menial task into one that stimulated my imagination. Of course, in typical fashion it got me wondering...what kind of sock was I?
Am I a sock that will never find a match? For all my skepticism, I don't buy this.
Am I a sock that was close to my match but being human didn't match up? I'm still convinced on some level that not making it work with V is a crime punishable by a lifetime of loneliness.
Am I sock who will get matched up with a sock only to find the perfect match later? Thankfully, no one will be arranging my marriage so this is extremely unlikely.
Am I a sock that will make do with a match? I'm young enough not to settle but not naive enough to think it will never happen to me.
As I put all my socks away, I did what I've never done before...I threw away all the single socks. Instead of hoarding socks that had no pair--keeping them captive in a dark sock drawer alone while all the paired socks snuggled into one another, I set my single socks free. I hope that good karma comes back around to me. I won't say it was an act of setting myself free, but it certainly felt good not to hold onto those socks any more.
July 5, 2006
Empty--MT
It occurred to me that my initials (MT) spoken as words are empty.
I wasn't quite sure what to make of it or where to go with this..but during a rushed drive over the weekend in suburban--bordering on rural--New Jersey, this realization hit me. It was as gentle as a small bump on a smooth road, palpable but hardly notable.
I wasn't quite sure what to make of it or where to go with this..but during a rushed drive over the weekend in suburban--bordering on rural--New Jersey, this realization hit me. It was as gentle as a small bump on a smooth road, palpable but hardly notable.
Gain DeGraw
Sunday evening at Terra Blues in the Village, Li Chen, Tommy, my cousin--Asha, and I stumbled upon Gavin DeGraw performing to a near-empty house with a divine Blues Band.
His table was directly behind ours and much to my surprise he was not surrounded by doting fans, female or male. Tommy's chair was pretty much back to back to Gavin's and none of us expressed squeals of interest or intrigue. Asha had never even heard of him--but she's from Texas, so go figure.
Mr. and Mrs. Winters
The Jewish-Indian Christian wedding took place at Jacksonville Chapel in Wayne, NJ.
The Rabbi, Jew for Jesus, performing the ceremony was 6'6", easily a foot taller than most of the attending Indian guests.
This shot of my mom and stepdad exiting the church with me in tow to bubbles was taken by my own Tracey Lord-photographer extraordinaire.
The Blushing Bride
Doesn't my mom look like she belongs on top of a wedding cake?
She was the tiniest, cutest little, Indian Pixie bride!
That's me demurely holding her train in the background--good little Indian Me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
