Thursday night, Citrine held PRE, their after work happy hour launch party. They were serving complimentary specialty cocktails from 6-8pm so I invited Reba and Cate to join me for some girlie free drinking.
My date, who had yet to touch my elbow, two dates in was meeting me there post work.
While the girls were getting refills, a group of three guys with suspiciously fake names sidled up to me and make conversation. Forbes, the cutest and friendliest of the group, complimented my smile while Basil and Davien mostly mocked me--perhaps a negging attempt?
Over the course of the evening Forbes and I made faces at each other across the bar and found excuses to bump into one another. My date's arrival altered nothing.
As I craftily walked over to the edge of the bar where Forbes stood to get my last refill, my date close behind me, Forbes put his arm around my waist and asked if he could give me his number. I pointed to his charging blackberry and said I was amenable to giving him mine. My date, at this point, feigned ignorance and went back to stand far from the bar and chat with Cate.
F came by to say bye before he left the place. Shortly thereafter my date and I headed to Slate for a few drinks he paid for--surprising since shortly thereafter he explained to me that he was cheap citing as an example his frequent arguments with his roomie/older bro for purchasing groceries that go bad. I frowned but tried to keep a judgement free face. Next up he name dropped his mom half a dozen times. I had long begun ignoring his similarities to Shiv (except Shiv is NOT cheap) but his mannerisms and expressions in conjunction with Mommy Love pushed it over the edge. I knew then and there I couldn't see him again.
As I was about to lament this reality, I was the happy recipient of texts from Forbes. His persistence and flirtexting were a pleasant salve to the death of this non-relationship. Took two dates but best to know it's not going anywhere before he actually tried to touch my elbow. Sigh.
May 31, 2009
Sandal Scandal
A few weeks ago, Z and I were headed to watch the 1 man show by Those Indian Guys at the Soho Playhouse when as I crossed 6th Avenue, my sandal broke. It literally fell apart.
I blocked the scene from Sex and the City when Charlotte meets Trey and focused instead on all the times I'd been crossing the street alone and sandals had threatened to break but held on.
I hobbled and he slowly, calmly accompanied me across the street to a deli/convenience store of sorts whence I purchased duct tape. We borrowed scissors from the confused Chinese owner and he proceeded to fix my shoe for me. In that moment, I was a total damsel in distress. Not my MO. But he totally came to my rescue.
The original fix didn't hold, so he gave it another go and used up almost 1/4 of the roll of tape to ensure the sandal would last through the night.
The serendipity of being across thes street from a venue purveying duct tape--that American panacea--cannot be fully expressed.
We stumbled into a small cheese shop run by a Bangladeshi man who opened his locked store as I stood outside the glass door pouting. He even gave me a gratis hunk of cheese and a roll for free. Z had to pay for his enormous sandwich--the snack that turned into dinner. We talked to the kindly owner for a while as he prepared the sandwich. He'd recently opened and business was very tough in these economic times.
I just threw those sandals away after letting them sit beside my door and eyeing them with Z gratitude for getting me home shoefully. It was another unexpected turn with my favorite non-date.
He's just back from Tunisia so WCC should pick back up next week. Maybe a free outdoor movie is in our future.
I blocked the scene from Sex and the City when Charlotte meets Trey and focused instead on all the times I'd been crossing the street alone and sandals had threatened to break but held on.
I hobbled and he slowly, calmly accompanied me across the street to a deli/convenience store of sorts whence I purchased duct tape. We borrowed scissors from the confused Chinese owner and he proceeded to fix my shoe for me. In that moment, I was a total damsel in distress. Not my MO. But he totally came to my rescue.
The original fix didn't hold, so he gave it another go and used up almost 1/4 of the roll of tape to ensure the sandal would last through the night.
The serendipity of being across thes street from a venue purveying duct tape--that American panacea--cannot be fully expressed.
We stumbled into a small cheese shop run by a Bangladeshi man who opened his locked store as I stood outside the glass door pouting. He even gave me a gratis hunk of cheese and a roll for free. Z had to pay for his enormous sandwich--the snack that turned into dinner. We talked to the kindly owner for a while as he prepared the sandwich. He'd recently opened and business was very tough in these economic times.
I just threw those sandals away after letting them sit beside my door and eyeing them with Z gratitude for getting me home shoefully. It was another unexpected turn with my favorite non-date.
He's just back from Tunisia so WCC should pick back up next week. Maybe a free outdoor movie is in our future.
May 21, 2009
The Instructors
Last night after work at 10pm, I went to Rogue on 6th Avenue with three instructors who teach at the test prep center I spend my evenings at--working!
They self labeled themselves the bi-guy, the pothead, and the dork. So, as you can imagine, the bi-guy looks like an Abercrombie model and gesticulates wildly while giggling occassionally. The pothead bemoans the pitfalls of failed marriage and waxes poetic on the manliness of manual labor. And the dork, oh the dork, articulates his penchant for women who can hang with men and OCD tendencies verging on extremism!
As I sat among them, the warmth of Jack aside, I felt such pride in inhabitating a personal space with men as diverse as these. To the naked eye, a group of Ivy educated, 20something white men is what you'd see but beneath the surface they were each artists in unique ways. The bi-guy wanders the globe in search of culture and experience--an adventuer. The pothead is a musician. The dork creates commissioned works of paint, sculpture, and experimental furniture.
While my dream of serving as someone's muse still remains unrealized this view into the inner sanctum of the intelligent, entrepreneurial, surviving artists!
They self labeled themselves the bi-guy, the pothead, and the dork. So, as you can imagine, the bi-guy looks like an Abercrombie model and gesticulates wildly while giggling occassionally. The pothead bemoans the pitfalls of failed marriage and waxes poetic on the manliness of manual labor. And the dork, oh the dork, articulates his penchant for women who can hang with men and OCD tendencies verging on extremism!
As I sat among them, the warmth of Jack aside, I felt such pride in inhabitating a personal space with men as diverse as these. To the naked eye, a group of Ivy educated, 20something white men is what you'd see but beneath the surface they were each artists in unique ways. The bi-guy wanders the globe in search of culture and experience--an adventuer. The pothead is a musician. The dork creates commissioned works of paint, sculpture, and experimental furniture.
While my dream of serving as someone's muse still remains unrealized this view into the inner sanctum of the intelligent, entrepreneurial, surviving artists!
May 12, 2009
After Darwin
On Friday night, Z and I went to see a play. We'd originally wanted to see D'Arranged Marriage by Those Indian Guys but it was sold out. I've secured tickets for this Friday--review to follow.
After attempting many other Off-Off Broadway shows he secured tickets for After Darwin. It was a terrific show. It pays to attend without expectations. The tiny theater was packed with friends and family. We were the clear non-auto fans present which was affirmed with a girl with a Flip interviewed US for the review.
It's a play within a play. And like most of these, the play within the play was less interesting than the play itself. The premise is a struggling production company in the UK putting up a production of Darwin's voyage to South America with a particular focus on the original evolutionsist's relationship with Captain FitzRoy, the religious fundamentalist steerer of the vessel. The nuances of the young gay actor who played Darwin's desire to act in film as observed and chastized by the seasoned older theater actor's desire to give this production his all in order to ressurect his failing career created an interesting layer to modern notions of propriety and place. Additionally a brewing love affair between the Bulgarian film director who misrepresented her experience to get the job and the older actor plays into ideas of gender, ethnicity, and ex-patriotism. The final character is an academic African-American writer who apparently wrote the play within the play. His multi-purpose soliloquoy showcases the differences across cultures that unite us in place.
They packed a lot of abstract ideas into the 100-minute play. We sipped with enjoyment the cheap glass of room-temperature white wine our $18 tickets afforded us as we took in the unchanging set of ever changing characters played by two highly competent actors.
Z and I hit up Congee Village on Bowery for dinner post show. Lychee martinis were drunk. Food was greatly enjoyed.
I dragged him to my future mentor's 39th b'day party at The Edge. He, as always, was a beacon of social cheer and kept up all the way through Connect Four tournaments and discussions about detaching retinas--specifically mine.
Another WCC non-date lived large and continues to prosper in my memory.
After attempting many other Off-Off Broadway shows he secured tickets for After Darwin. It was a terrific show. It pays to attend without expectations. The tiny theater was packed with friends and family. We were the clear non-auto fans present which was affirmed with a girl with a Flip interviewed US for the review.
It's a play within a play. And like most of these, the play within the play was less interesting than the play itself. The premise is a struggling production company in the UK putting up a production of Darwin's voyage to South America with a particular focus on the original evolutionsist's relationship with Captain FitzRoy, the religious fundamentalist steerer of the vessel. The nuances of the young gay actor who played Darwin's desire to act in film as observed and chastized by the seasoned older theater actor's desire to give this production his all in order to ressurect his failing career created an interesting layer to modern notions of propriety and place. Additionally a brewing love affair between the Bulgarian film director who misrepresented her experience to get the job and the older actor plays into ideas of gender, ethnicity, and ex-patriotism. The final character is an academic African-American writer who apparently wrote the play within the play. His multi-purpose soliloquoy showcases the differences across cultures that unite us in place.
They packed a lot of abstract ideas into the 100-minute play. We sipped with enjoyment the cheap glass of room-temperature white wine our $18 tickets afforded us as we took in the unchanging set of ever changing characters played by two highly competent actors.
Z and I hit up Congee Village on Bowery for dinner post show. Lychee martinis were drunk. Food was greatly enjoyed.
I dragged him to my future mentor's 39th b'day party at The Edge. He, as always, was a beacon of social cheer and kept up all the way through Connect Four tournaments and discussions about detaching retinas--specifically mine.
Another WCC non-date lived large and continues to prosper in my memory.
Witness
I woke up at 6:15am this morning to D'Souza's phone alarm followed by my 6:30am alarm blaring me back to consciousness. After a lot of snoozing I crawled out of bed, found Luckey huddled on the couch, readied myself to move my car from it's 8:30-10am parking restricted spot on E. 111 near 2Ave.
I decided to drive down to 141 Warren Street to bear witness to Karen and Jed's civil ceremony. However it was 141 Worth Street and I wasn't about to give up my prime street spot a la Muni Meter on Murray Street...all $1 worth of safety.
Lauren and her hubby-to-be (18 days!) were picking up their certificate as they will be having the signing and witnessing at the actual ceremony. Kar couldn't do the same since Jed's visa expires tomorrow which will make him an illegal alien for the next two months prior to their departure to London where he will take on a post at the German Bank at which I once worked. Additionally, she is getting married at a French chateau in FRANCE.
After the ceremony in the East Chapel at 141 Worth Street, I was able to drive the two brides and grooms to Le Park Meridien for brunch at Norma's. Thankfully I managed to secure Muni Meter parking on W. 57th for a mere $3. Yay. The parking Gods beamed upon me today. I just got home in time for the 11:30-1pm restriction to lift and found a choice spot on E. 102 up a block from my abode.
So yeah, I was a witness at someone's official NYC authorized wedding. Me, who beds complete strangers yet goes predictably back to ex-boyfriends for non-dating and non-mating. Me, who was a precocious child and mature teen. Me, who is an immature, fiscally irresponsible adult. Yay!
I decided to drive down to 141 Warren Street to bear witness to Karen and Jed's civil ceremony. However it was 141 Worth Street and I wasn't about to give up my prime street spot a la Muni Meter on Murray Street...all $1 worth of safety.
Lauren and her hubby-to-be (18 days!) were picking up their certificate as they will be having the signing and witnessing at the actual ceremony. Kar couldn't do the same since Jed's visa expires tomorrow which will make him an illegal alien for the next two months prior to their departure to London where he will take on a post at the German Bank at which I once worked. Additionally, she is getting married at a French chateau in FRANCE.
After the ceremony in the East Chapel at 141 Worth Street, I was able to drive the two brides and grooms to Le Park Meridien for brunch at Norma's. Thankfully I managed to secure Muni Meter parking on W. 57th for a mere $3. Yay. The parking Gods beamed upon me today. I just got home in time for the 11:30-1pm restriction to lift and found a choice spot on E. 102 up a block from my abode.
So yeah, I was a witness at someone's official NYC authorized wedding. Me, who beds complete strangers yet goes predictably back to ex-boyfriends for non-dating and non-mating. Me, who was a precocious child and mature teen. Me, who is an immature, fiscally irresponsible adult. Yay!
May 8, 2009
How Do You Sleep?
Anyone that's had the pleasure of living with me knows that I'm one of THOSE people who listens to a song on repeat in the hopes that it will make me nauseous and I'll be the HELL over it. But with the songs I truly love that never seems to happen, but I do thankfully move on to the next ditty that catches my ear.
Currently that song is How do you Sleep? by Jesse McCartney featuring Ludacris. Yes. I'm just as stunned that my two fave boys from different sides of the musical universe can come together--uniting to bring me much auditory delight.
JESSE
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep.
I tried my best at moving on have yet to find a girl like you
I see things that I didn't before and I'm wishing I had more time with you,
How do you stay awake knowing all I do is think of you
All the things we thought about that never will happen again if I could just see you
If I had my way I'll come and get you girl
In your favorite car with the missing top
man around my way where we used to park
and did all those things to steal your heart
(Chorus 2x)
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep.
Baby all that I hear from my friends again and again and again (they come and ask about you) (they say) we saw your girl at the game and damn we gotta say a big mistake by you.
Not only does your body bang but I miss the conversation too
Tell me that you couldn't sleep can't think can't eat till I come see you
If I had my way I'll come and get you girl
In your favorite car with the missing top
man around my way where we used to park
and did all those things to steal your heart
LUDACRIS
Look, now it’s been about a year,
And im trying to figure out how could you?
Forget about the one who loves you most why would you?
Heal my heart, heal my brain,
Oh how I wish you could feel my pain,
Cause I couldnt get you off of my mind if I tried,
24-7 (3-6-5) and my nights so cold,
Days so long, they say you don’t know what you got
Til’ its gone, well it’s gone and im trippin about how much I Miss it and you steady walkin round like I never exsited,
And its hard to understand, you got another plan,
Trying to play hard and you got another man,
But you’ll never find another like muah,
Like how you riding ’round in a drop top car,
Baby you a star and its time that you know it,
So much love and its time that we show it, LUDA!
JESSE
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep
Currently that song is How do you Sleep? by Jesse McCartney featuring Ludacris. Yes. I'm just as stunned that my two fave boys from different sides of the musical universe can come together--uniting to bring me much auditory delight.
JESSE
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep.
I tried my best at moving on have yet to find a girl like you
I see things that I didn't before and I'm wishing I had more time with you,
How do you stay awake knowing all I do is think of you
All the things we thought about that never will happen again if I could just see you
If I had my way I'll come and get you girl
In your favorite car with the missing top
man around my way where we used to park
and did all those things to steal your heart
(Chorus 2x)
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep.
Baby all that I hear from my friends again and again and again (they come and ask about you) (they say) we saw your girl at the game and damn we gotta say a big mistake by you.
Not only does your body bang but I miss the conversation too
Tell me that you couldn't sleep can't think can't eat till I come see you
If I had my way I'll come and get you girl
In your favorite car with the missing top
man around my way where we used to park
and did all those things to steal your heart
LUDACRIS
Look, now it’s been about a year,
And im trying to figure out how could you?
Forget about the one who loves you most why would you?
Heal my heart, heal my brain,
Oh how I wish you could feel my pain,
Cause I couldnt get you off of my mind if I tried,
24-7 (3-6-5) and my nights so cold,
Days so long, they say you don’t know what you got
Til’ its gone, well it’s gone and im trippin about how much I Miss it and you steady walkin round like I never exsited,
And its hard to understand, you got another plan,
Trying to play hard and you got another man,
But you’ll never find another like muah,
Like how you riding ’round in a drop top car,
Baby you a star and its time that you know it,
So much love and its time that we show it, LUDA!
JESSE
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep
It's been about a year now
ain't seen or heard from you
I've been missing you crazy
how do you, how do you sleep
I found the letter you wrote me
it still smells just like you
damn those sweet memories
How do you, how do you sleep, how do you sleep
Apparently my only Dress!
Some pictures from the partay in SF.
On the left we have Sully and me
On the right that's the Brit with me
That first one is of Rahul and I...
May 7, 2009
San Fran-fucking-cisco
I was away last weekend--visiting the glorious state of CA--specifically San Francisco.
To say I had a good time would be an understatement. The excitement began when I landed and ended after take-off. Li was working so he directed me to BART it to Embarcadero (DT SF) which was a short 30mins away. Once I gathered that you had to insert the money before selecting the destination and a ticket printing itself I was golden. Yay BART.
We went to two very different happy hours and one of the best Thai dinners I've ever had. All the while I'm rolling my little black carry-on and donning a suit jacket I'd feared packing for wrinkling disasters. The first post work drinkery was actually an upscale steakhouse right on the water with a suited 35+ crowd. The second was a much younger crowd of recession special seeking, jean-clad Asians and the Caucasians who love them. Li's high school gal pal--Rei--joined us for the second happy hour and dinner. Yay Rei! Her lovely Lexus SUV took us home at the end of the night.
I had planned to venture out into SF solo for a day of visitor fun but instead I just tootled around Li's neighborhood--Inner Sunset. Which was actually incredibly adorably with a Citibank, Starbucks, Jamba Juice, two liquor stores, four shops with clothes, and three curry joints within 4 blocks. AMAZING. I don't even live that close to so much useful, Sweet-lovin' stuff. It was misty and I knew that the house party in honor of Li's 29 years on this Earth would require all the energy I could muster later that night. I'm glad I saved up the reserves and rested myself for one of the best nights of my life.
The party was a BLAST. It started with Special K arriving promptly at 6:30pm to marvel at my New Yorky attire--I'll post pics of my brightly colored/peacock reminiscent garb--
Shortly thereafter Li's foreign colleagues Tuffy (the Aussie) and Win (the Kiwi) appeared. They happily buckled to my one-woman peer pressure to shoot Jack, even K relented after the second or third shot. Slowly but steadily people streamed in over the course of the evening. I'd been unsure whether Rahul would show since his parents were visiting from India during my brief sojourn. He did. He showed with a six pack of Heffeweizen--the only beer I actually enjoy--no way he could have known since I didn't even start drinking beer till a year after graduation and I haven't seen him since graduation.
His first words to me, "So, catch me up on the last seven years." Yeah. Tall order. We stood next to the stove and talked. We talked and talked and talked. Talked like there were no other people pressing against our space in that crowded kitchen. He's the same guy and when I'm around him I'm the same girl...but we're as different as we've always been. He's looking two steps ahead at the future and I'm rooted in the present with occassional backward glances.
His college gf turned recent ex (8 years later) showed up with a gal pal of hers--backup, Li called it--and I instinctively made myself scarce. I don't know how or why but I just did. It was interesting to experience instinct outweigh inebriation.
My peace offering didn't go wasted. Shortly after I bowed out, an enormous Asian entered my life. He's 6'5", half-white, a nuclear engineer and adorable. Those gangly limbs sticking out of a loose t-shirt over ratty jeans will get me every time. I'm a sucker for the boy-man. And boy oh boy was he a boy-man.
We ended up talking and flirting and hugging and kissing....
The next morning as I panicked about my interview at Berkeley he made light of it. "They accepted me you know, so you're in great shape," he murmured as he filled a large plastic cup with what was left of the bottle of red wine. "You're taking a roadie on your bike, really?" I questioned. He was. A roadie in the rain in the city of hills of a large white bicycle.
He stood on the stoop with his helmet firmly secured, red cup against red windbreaker and laid a gentle parting kiss on my suited Sweet lips. I swooned.
With that kind of confidence boost, I walked proud into The Wright Insitute. Li was kind enough to drag his puking carcass out of bed for the trek. I think it went well. Dr. S-- and I talked for an hour about me and my goals. I asked two coherent questions as the pounding in my head became indomitable.
Racing back to the car to shed my clown costume, Li laughed at my eagerness to shed all vestiges of adulthood at lightening speed. We drove to the local Chaat House and scarfed down sustenance. Bad idea for me because the drive back to SF was uncomfortable till I finally yakked on the tree in front of his apartment. Relief.
We wiled the day away in napping. He woke up to clean his pad. I was not so useful. We hit up our fave restaurant--Burma Superstar--for his b'day dinner. Four ladies and Li. Yay. While we waited the hour to get seated we imbibed $4.50 Long Islands at Pizza Orgasmica down the street. We were too tired by midnight when dinner ended, so we home to rest up for Sonoma the next day.
My Happa texted me to check on the status of my Berkeley interview. Right after I texted back my phone died. Sad. So I missed the few texts that followed which may have led to a reunion. Just as well. The last thing I need is to start liking a kid out West...
Sunday was spent in Sonoma with K, Li, and a lovely British fellow Li met in Belize whilst traveling. The Brit and I took barbs at one another but all in good fun. Jolly good fun, t'was. We even stopped at the general store to pick up some meat, cheese, and a large baguette. We feasted as we sipped some recently purchased Rose in an idyllic garden at the last winery of the day. It was just lovely.
Wine drunk and winding down, I grabbed my bag from Li's and hopped in K's car for my final night on her couch. I fell asleep almost immediately upon arrival at 10pm. We rose at 5am the next day and she delivered me to the airport...she was catching a flight to San Diego for a site visit so it was all too convenient. Yay K.
As I boarded the plane to Chicago, I looked down over the misty/foggy bay and knew that this weekend had sealed the deal. I'd be back. Back to stay...
To say I had a good time would be an understatement. The excitement began when I landed and ended after take-off. Li was working so he directed me to BART it to Embarcadero (DT SF) which was a short 30mins away. Once I gathered that you had to insert the money before selecting the destination and a ticket printing itself I was golden. Yay BART.
We went to two very different happy hours and one of the best Thai dinners I've ever had. All the while I'm rolling my little black carry-on and donning a suit jacket I'd feared packing for wrinkling disasters. The first post work drinkery was actually an upscale steakhouse right on the water with a suited 35+ crowd. The second was a much younger crowd of recession special seeking, jean-clad Asians and the Caucasians who love them. Li's high school gal pal--Rei--joined us for the second happy hour and dinner. Yay Rei! Her lovely Lexus SUV took us home at the end of the night.
I had planned to venture out into SF solo for a day of visitor fun but instead I just tootled around Li's neighborhood--Inner Sunset. Which was actually incredibly adorably with a Citibank, Starbucks, Jamba Juice, two liquor stores, four shops with clothes, and three curry joints within 4 blocks. AMAZING. I don't even live that close to so much useful, Sweet-lovin' stuff. It was misty and I knew that the house party in honor of Li's 29 years on this Earth would require all the energy I could muster later that night. I'm glad I saved up the reserves and rested myself for one of the best nights of my life.
The party was a BLAST. It started with Special K arriving promptly at 6:30pm to marvel at my New Yorky attire--I'll post pics of my brightly colored/peacock reminiscent garb--
Shortly thereafter Li's foreign colleagues Tuffy (the Aussie) and Win (the Kiwi) appeared. They happily buckled to my one-woman peer pressure to shoot Jack, even K relented after the second or third shot. Slowly but steadily people streamed in over the course of the evening. I'd been unsure whether Rahul would show since his parents were visiting from India during my brief sojourn. He did. He showed with a six pack of Heffeweizen--the only beer I actually enjoy--no way he could have known since I didn't even start drinking beer till a year after graduation and I haven't seen him since graduation.
His first words to me, "So, catch me up on the last seven years." Yeah. Tall order. We stood next to the stove and talked. We talked and talked and talked. Talked like there were no other people pressing against our space in that crowded kitchen. He's the same guy and when I'm around him I'm the same girl...but we're as different as we've always been. He's looking two steps ahead at the future and I'm rooted in the present with occassional backward glances.
His college gf turned recent ex (8 years later) showed up with a gal pal of hers--backup, Li called it--and I instinctively made myself scarce. I don't know how or why but I just did. It was interesting to experience instinct outweigh inebriation.
My peace offering didn't go wasted. Shortly after I bowed out, an enormous Asian entered my life. He's 6'5", half-white, a nuclear engineer and adorable. Those gangly limbs sticking out of a loose t-shirt over ratty jeans will get me every time. I'm a sucker for the boy-man. And boy oh boy was he a boy-man.
We ended up talking and flirting and hugging and kissing....
The next morning as I panicked about my interview at Berkeley he made light of it. "They accepted me you know, so you're in great shape," he murmured as he filled a large plastic cup with what was left of the bottle of red wine. "You're taking a roadie on your bike, really?" I questioned. He was. A roadie in the rain in the city of hills of a large white bicycle.
He stood on the stoop with his helmet firmly secured, red cup against red windbreaker and laid a gentle parting kiss on my suited Sweet lips. I swooned.
With that kind of confidence boost, I walked proud into The Wright Insitute. Li was kind enough to drag his puking carcass out of bed for the trek. I think it went well. Dr. S-- and I talked for an hour about me and my goals. I asked two coherent questions as the pounding in my head became indomitable.
Racing back to the car to shed my clown costume, Li laughed at my eagerness to shed all vestiges of adulthood at lightening speed. We drove to the local Chaat House and scarfed down sustenance. Bad idea for me because the drive back to SF was uncomfortable till I finally yakked on the tree in front of his apartment. Relief.
We wiled the day away in napping. He woke up to clean his pad. I was not so useful. We hit up our fave restaurant--Burma Superstar--for his b'day dinner. Four ladies and Li. Yay. While we waited the hour to get seated we imbibed $4.50 Long Islands at Pizza Orgasmica down the street. We were too tired by midnight when dinner ended, so we home to rest up for Sonoma the next day.
My Happa texted me to check on the status of my Berkeley interview. Right after I texted back my phone died. Sad. So I missed the few texts that followed which may have led to a reunion. Just as well. The last thing I need is to start liking a kid out West...
Sunday was spent in Sonoma with K, Li, and a lovely British fellow Li met in Belize whilst traveling. The Brit and I took barbs at one another but all in good fun. Jolly good fun, t'was. We even stopped at the general store to pick up some meat, cheese, and a large baguette. We feasted as we sipped some recently purchased Rose in an idyllic garden at the last winery of the day. It was just lovely.
Wine drunk and winding down, I grabbed my bag from Li's and hopped in K's car for my final night on her couch. I fell asleep almost immediately upon arrival at 10pm. We rose at 5am the next day and she delivered me to the airport...she was catching a flight to San Diego for a site visit so it was all too convenient. Yay K.
As I boarded the plane to Chicago, I looked down over the misty/foggy bay and knew that this weekend had sealed the deal. I'd be back. Back to stay...
April 28, 2009
April 26, 2009
300 Warming
Last night, I went to Z's housewarming party at 300 with my co-worker who has been lusting for his 4-bedroom apartment in the building with the rooftop pool. After he gave her the tour and me a glass of wine, she left.
While I am a social Sally, I had a moment of uncertainity because I don't actually KNOW any of his friends and certainly did not want to monopolize his attention at a party of this nature/scale. But before I could panic, he gently moved me over to former co-workers and left me to tend to them as he mingled. They were charming and cheesy and I felt immediately at ease. He came back to check in but I was well on my way to the comfort zone. Before my time with them could come to a halt, one of his friends whom I'd never met but remains a staple of many events he attends approached me, "You must be Mili," she said. I smiled and seamlessly transitioned into another clique for cocktails and conversation.
It never ceases to amaze me that his friends would be people I would be friends with. No I won't friend poach, but these are people who could easily be characterized at the salt of this Earth. Smart, humble, friendly, attractive but not in an intimidating way, and that specific mix of metropolitan that transitions a transplant to a New Yorker. As we talked and drank wine and dusk dimmed into night-time I knew it was important to take my leave. This was not a party I wanted to be the last ex standing at...especially since a more current ex had arrived to duly fulfill the ratio of exes to potential future exes.
He walked me to the door, charming and hospitable as always. I appreciated the ease of his actions. Some people are naturally warm and while I wouldn't say Zayan exudes warmth he is effortless when he is warm. It's all too often that you feel people force warmth, it's ineffectual--you may not be able to put your finger on it, but you will know that something just isn't right. As I stood in his doorway slipping my flip flops back on, his hip shot stance and slight lean in reminded me again of just how many times and in how many ways we had thus parted.
I felt the weight of nostalgia and I was glad. Glad that we have this still--whatever this might actually be because despite being overwhelmingly platonic one mustn't ignore the romanitc underpinnings in whose veil this all began. Glad that we got here, finally. Glad that despite my best efforts to etch him into yesterday; he remains firmly planted in today.
I'm hopeful that tomorrow we will be just as we are today or at least that there will be a tomorrow from which we can look back warmly at today.
While I am a social Sally, I had a moment of uncertainity because I don't actually KNOW any of his friends and certainly did not want to monopolize his attention at a party of this nature/scale. But before I could panic, he gently moved me over to former co-workers and left me to tend to them as he mingled. They were charming and cheesy and I felt immediately at ease. He came back to check in but I was well on my way to the comfort zone. Before my time with them could come to a halt, one of his friends whom I'd never met but remains a staple of many events he attends approached me, "You must be Mili," she said. I smiled and seamlessly transitioned into another clique for cocktails and conversation.
It never ceases to amaze me that his friends would be people I would be friends with. No I won't friend poach, but these are people who could easily be characterized at the salt of this Earth. Smart, humble, friendly, attractive but not in an intimidating way, and that specific mix of metropolitan that transitions a transplant to a New Yorker. As we talked and drank wine and dusk dimmed into night-time I knew it was important to take my leave. This was not a party I wanted to be the last ex standing at...especially since a more current ex had arrived to duly fulfill the ratio of exes to potential future exes.
He walked me to the door, charming and hospitable as always. I appreciated the ease of his actions. Some people are naturally warm and while I wouldn't say Zayan exudes warmth he is effortless when he is warm. It's all too often that you feel people force warmth, it's ineffectual--you may not be able to put your finger on it, but you will know that something just isn't right. As I stood in his doorway slipping my flip flops back on, his hip shot stance and slight lean in reminded me again of just how many times and in how many ways we had thus parted.
I felt the weight of nostalgia and I was glad. Glad that we have this still--whatever this might actually be because despite being overwhelmingly platonic one mustn't ignore the romanitc underpinnings in whose veil this all began. Glad that we got here, finally. Glad that despite my best efforts to etch him into yesterday; he remains firmly planted in today.
I'm hopeful that tomorrow we will be just as we are today or at least that there will be a tomorrow from which we can look back warmly at today.
April 25, 2009
Talk Cry Talk
The thing that I do that I hate the most is that when a boy calls--a boy with the potential of bo-ing bo-ing--I will drop everything. I absolutely LOATHE this aspect of myself and despite many efforts to curb this natural tendency I fail.
Last night was a classic example of why doing said dropping was BAD.
I was at Chelsea Market in the Wine Vault at a tasting with my band of merry co-workers. DRINKING on the company dime--albeit $20pp--when D'Souza texts me to say he's not going to meet up with me afterwards because he's done with work and he might as well go home instead of waiting around.
I race out of the place and lo and behold he is standing right outside waiting for me. I am that predictable. RACING.
We amble around meatpacking aimlessly till he suggests Continental. Who am I to argue with the alco lube? We hop in a cab and jet across Manhattan. The small talk is neither as painful nor as lame as I recall but then again I have learned to set very, very low expectations.
I'm hyper aware of how firm his body is under his perfectly fitted shirt tucked into Euro styled trousers and how minty his breath smells and how dark his skin is against the fresh-pressed white of his shirt and brightness of his eyes. Yeah, it's been almost 3 months people...don't judge ME.
As we exit the cab, I know he needs to eat. It's this weird primal knowledge. I just know. No eat=Puking on the street. So we pop into Tahini--formely Chickpea--he eats what he calls a snack and I refer to as two meals. We stop so he can withdraw cash at the ATM when I run into Yules and Bry...busted.
You see, I have the good sense to keep my ex-habits covert. Running into friends of friends who know the ex as the ex does not help. Not that anyone cares enough about my social life to talk about it, but now the jig is up. But I write it off as entirely worth it as the prospect of ex-sex looms large.
We meander into Continental. Share 10 shots of Jack for $20 in 30 minutes. He keeps looking at his watch. I start to get annoyed. Apparently he has to catch the 9:30pm train to LI. He insists on walking me to the 6 train.
I whine. I stamp my feet. I'm generally annoyed. He relents. We go to Sin Sin.
He orderes me a Jack neat to which I request a splash of diet. He switches to Corona. I assume I'm getting liquored up for a reason. Under the dim lights in the sparsely populated red room we start making out. I mean, where else was this story going?
But then the TWIST. He pulls back and looks me straight in the face, "I need someone to talk to right now. Did you think we were just going to meet up and have sex? Am I just good for that?"
Of course, the statement wrenches my heart. You know I'm a sucker for talk. So we talk. We sit. He talks. We are friends?
After his second beer, he asks me not to get mad because he has to go. He has to catch the 10:30pm train and he has to get back. Something about boys night. Something about not being able to park his car at the station overnight because it will get towed. Something about wanting me but the timing of now being off. Something about tomorrow--today, now--or Sunday or anytime before I head to Berkeley.
But I've stopped listening. It's not happening. I only know that it's not happening. That we are sitting in a bar with low lights, drinking, and making out but we're not going home together.
This time he knows better. He doesn't wait for me to finish or try to walk me anywhere. He closes out his tab and briskly walks out of the bar without a backward glance. Much like a GI Joe programmed to march at a certain speed in a certain direction at a certain time. Mission complete.
I sit another minute. Take a swig of my drink. Leave half of it on the bar undrunk, sigh, and walk out of Sin Sin. No chance of sinning despite my best effort.
As I walk toward Third Avenue, I feel the familiar flutter of rejection and unmet expectation; equal parts loneliness and disappointment co-mingling into a cocktail of self-pity. I start to cry. It's quiet at first: slowed breathing with tears rolling down my cheeks but over time it expands like a balloon of melancholy throbbing and rattling, noisy and unpretty.
I drunk dial V. I drunk dial Z. I cry. I tell them I already regret calling them and I'm sorry about this message but I need them to tell me I'm good at more than listening. I need to believe that talking to me while great is not the single most valuable element of me that keeps them coming back.
Why does everyone want to talk to me so they can figure it out because when I listen it makes more sense? I don't say much. I don't know much. I'm a captive audience. I DO genuinely want it to be alright. I listen--I guess that's the point.
I cry harder. I walk faster. I get sadder. It's the alcohol...mostly. It's the same bad decision. Knowing better doesn't yeild better results. This is the lesson I learn and relearn yet never apply. Theories I get right away, in practice I fail everyday.
I'm crossing action-oriented off my resume, along with problem solver and good decision-making skills.
Last night was a classic example of why doing said dropping was BAD.
I was at Chelsea Market in the Wine Vault at a tasting with my band of merry co-workers. DRINKING on the company dime--albeit $20pp--when D'Souza texts me to say he's not going to meet up with me afterwards because he's done with work and he might as well go home instead of waiting around.
I race out of the place and lo and behold he is standing right outside waiting for me. I am that predictable. RACING.
We amble around meatpacking aimlessly till he suggests Continental. Who am I to argue with the alco lube? We hop in a cab and jet across Manhattan. The small talk is neither as painful nor as lame as I recall but then again I have learned to set very, very low expectations.
I'm hyper aware of how firm his body is under his perfectly fitted shirt tucked into Euro styled trousers and how minty his breath smells and how dark his skin is against the fresh-pressed white of his shirt and brightness of his eyes. Yeah, it's been almost 3 months people...don't judge ME.
As we exit the cab, I know he needs to eat. It's this weird primal knowledge. I just know. No eat=Puking on the street. So we pop into Tahini--formely Chickpea--he eats what he calls a snack and I refer to as two meals. We stop so he can withdraw cash at the ATM when I run into Yules and Bry...busted.
You see, I have the good sense to keep my ex-habits covert. Running into friends of friends who know the ex as the ex does not help. Not that anyone cares enough about my social life to talk about it, but now the jig is up. But I write it off as entirely worth it as the prospect of ex-sex looms large.
We meander into Continental. Share 10 shots of Jack for $20 in 30 minutes. He keeps looking at his watch. I start to get annoyed. Apparently he has to catch the 9:30pm train to LI. He insists on walking me to the 6 train.
I whine. I stamp my feet. I'm generally annoyed. He relents. We go to Sin Sin.
He orderes me a Jack neat to which I request a splash of diet. He switches to Corona. I assume I'm getting liquored up for a reason. Under the dim lights in the sparsely populated red room we start making out. I mean, where else was this story going?
But then the TWIST. He pulls back and looks me straight in the face, "I need someone to talk to right now. Did you think we were just going to meet up and have sex? Am I just good for that?"
Of course, the statement wrenches my heart. You know I'm a sucker for talk. So we talk. We sit. He talks. We are friends?
After his second beer, he asks me not to get mad because he has to go. He has to catch the 10:30pm train and he has to get back. Something about boys night. Something about not being able to park his car at the station overnight because it will get towed. Something about wanting me but the timing of now being off. Something about tomorrow--today, now--or Sunday or anytime before I head to Berkeley.
But I've stopped listening. It's not happening. I only know that it's not happening. That we are sitting in a bar with low lights, drinking, and making out but we're not going home together.
This time he knows better. He doesn't wait for me to finish or try to walk me anywhere. He closes out his tab and briskly walks out of the bar without a backward glance. Much like a GI Joe programmed to march at a certain speed in a certain direction at a certain time. Mission complete.
I sit another minute. Take a swig of my drink. Leave half of it on the bar undrunk, sigh, and walk out of Sin Sin. No chance of sinning despite my best effort.
As I walk toward Third Avenue, I feel the familiar flutter of rejection and unmet expectation; equal parts loneliness and disappointment co-mingling into a cocktail of self-pity. I start to cry. It's quiet at first: slowed breathing with tears rolling down my cheeks but over time it expands like a balloon of melancholy throbbing and rattling, noisy and unpretty.
I drunk dial V. I drunk dial Z. I cry. I tell them I already regret calling them and I'm sorry about this message but I need them to tell me I'm good at more than listening. I need to believe that talking to me while great is not the single most valuable element of me that keeps them coming back.
Why does everyone want to talk to me so they can figure it out because when I listen it makes more sense? I don't say much. I don't know much. I'm a captive audience. I DO genuinely want it to be alright. I listen--I guess that's the point.
I cry harder. I walk faster. I get sadder. It's the alcohol...mostly. It's the same bad decision. Knowing better doesn't yeild better results. This is the lesson I learn and relearn yet never apply. Theories I get right away, in practice I fail everyday.
I'm crossing action-oriented off my resume, along with problem solver and good decision-making skills.
April 24, 2009
Sprung
So gentle readers, it's been some time since I got any. Unlike the average single girl who freely prowls the streets for fresh man meat, I go the other extreme. Celibacy till proven monogamous...
With Spring upon us, it is becoming exceedingly difficult to hold onto morality, though I know my personal CDC will not let me experience new and potentially diseased people so it's that time again to break open the vault. With two out of four exes getting married and one my perpetual platonic savior, that just leaves Lucifer himself as my carnal gratifier. Lord help me.
Forgive me Father for I'm off to sin.
With Spring upon us, it is becoming exceedingly difficult to hold onto morality, though I know my personal CDC will not let me experience new and potentially diseased people so it's that time again to break open the vault. With two out of four exes getting married and one my perpetual platonic savior, that just leaves Lucifer himself as my carnal gratifier. Lord help me.
Forgive me Father for I'm off to sin.
April 23, 2009
Denver Dilemma
So, the unthinkable has occurred.
Alright, that's a wee bit dramatic, but I just learned that The Wright Institute in Berkeley is still accepting MA students for their Couseling program. How I learned of this is not relevant. What is relevant is that I promptly mailed out my application and expect my letters of recommendation to go out tomorrow from the CEO at work (yay test prep), Tracey (my bff and teacher of God's favorite children), and the Director of the CMPS where I'm taking my Into to Modern Psychoanalysis class.
Since I'll be in San Francisco next weekend, I've e-mailed them to see if I can speed up the process and interview out there next Friday if I qualify so I can save on airfare the second time around. Fingers crossed.
So, Denver despite the snow (perhaps due to it) is quickly dropping from my ideal as a very far second to my darling San Francisco. Ah, San Fran-cisco. Real San Franciscans never call it San Fran, you see.
Oh dear. Oh me. Oh my. Do I dare to dream?
Alright, that's a wee bit dramatic, but I just learned that The Wright Institute in Berkeley is still accepting MA students for their Couseling program. How I learned of this is not relevant. What is relevant is that I promptly mailed out my application and expect my letters of recommendation to go out tomorrow from the CEO at work (yay test prep), Tracey (my bff and teacher of God's favorite children), and the Director of the CMPS where I'm taking my Into to Modern Psychoanalysis class.
Since I'll be in San Francisco next weekend, I've e-mailed them to see if I can speed up the process and interview out there next Friday if I qualify so I can save on airfare the second time around. Fingers crossed.
So, Denver despite the snow (perhaps due to it) is quickly dropping from my ideal as a very far second to my darling San Francisco. Ah, San Fran-cisco. Real San Franciscans never call it San Fran, you see.
Oh dear. Oh me. Oh my. Do I dare to dream?
April 22, 2009
The Emperor's New Clothes
Last night, Z and I went to The Film Forum for a screening of Valentino: The Last Emperor. His idea, not mine.
The theater was packed so we sat separately, right aisle seats one row apart. It was that or sitting in the very first row craning our necks back to reduce the effect of being waaaaay too close.
While I appreciated the icnonic fashion in the documentary, it was largely wasted on me. I respected the work and vision invested in each dress, but I still wouldn't pay that kind of money for AN outfit. I reiterate that after seeing all that goes into creating these individual pieces I understand why they do cost what they do, but the entire enterprise is a bit too steeped in frivolty and vanity for me to indulge myself. But who knows if I had a ga-gillion dollars, who knows.
What wasn't wasted on me was the strength and depth of the relationship between Valentino and Giancarlo, V's business manager. They've been together 45 years as friends, lovers, business partners. Two attractive, successful Italian men in fashion beating the odds. There were moments of tension even in the two years of constant camera following it took to make this film but underneath it all there was love, trust, and mutual respect.
As if I needed to be any more in favor of gay marriage, but this movie made me want to run out and marry happy gay couples everywhere.
Z and I grabbed a drink at XR Bar which was so empty that it was much like being in our private living room with a fully stocked bar and requisite bartender on hand. It was so chill--the perfect place to sit on a rainy New York spring-impending day.
For once he beat me to asking what I thought of the movie and this very break from our norm left me tongue-tied. I was still processing the depth and breadth of two people spending 45 years together with only a sum of roughly 2 months in that time apart from one another. I haven't even spent that much time with MYSELF yet. It's still blowing my mind a bit...
The theater was packed so we sat separately, right aisle seats one row apart. It was that or sitting in the very first row craning our necks back to reduce the effect of being waaaaay too close.
While I appreciated the icnonic fashion in the documentary, it was largely wasted on me. I respected the work and vision invested in each dress, but I still wouldn't pay that kind of money for AN outfit. I reiterate that after seeing all that goes into creating these individual pieces I understand why they do cost what they do, but the entire enterprise is a bit too steeped in frivolty and vanity for me to indulge myself. But who knows if I had a ga-gillion dollars, who knows.
What wasn't wasted on me was the strength and depth of the relationship between Valentino and Giancarlo, V's business manager. They've been together 45 years as friends, lovers, business partners. Two attractive, successful Italian men in fashion beating the odds. There were moments of tension even in the two years of constant camera following it took to make this film but underneath it all there was love, trust, and mutual respect.
As if I needed to be any more in favor of gay marriage, but this movie made me want to run out and marry happy gay couples everywhere.
Z and I grabbed a drink at XR Bar which was so empty that it was much like being in our private living room with a fully stocked bar and requisite bartender on hand. It was so chill--the perfect place to sit on a rainy New York spring-impending day.
For once he beat me to asking what I thought of the movie and this very break from our norm left me tongue-tied. I was still processing the depth and breadth of two people spending 45 years together with only a sum of roughly 2 months in that time apart from one another. I haven't even spent that much time with MYSELF yet. It's still blowing my mind a bit...
April 20, 2009
36-hour Crush
I had a crush that lasted 36 hours. I'm usually not so fickle.
Yesterday, a boy who came to my half-birthday party whom I work with, become the object of my first crush of 2009. NO spring fling was had.
Thanks to my Facebook stalking powers, I unearthed a common friend who was Tommy's ex gf who is now married and lives in Florida. She informed me that he was as genuinely sweet, smart, and good as he seemed. She also insisted he was straight and single.
Shortly after he sublte probe she reported that he had recently begun seeing someone. Now, I'm convinced this was a very gentle manner of handling disinterest...not entirely certain if it was his idea or hers to couch it in these terms but even if it is not the case it really doesn't matter.
My crush crushed me in record time.
Wow, the shelf life of a crush has been dramatically reduced since the last time I did this crushing thing. WAIL.
Yesterday, a boy who came to my half-birthday party whom I work with, become the object of my first crush of 2009. NO spring fling was had.
Thanks to my Facebook stalking powers, I unearthed a common friend who was Tommy's ex gf who is now married and lives in Florida. She informed me that he was as genuinely sweet, smart, and good as he seemed. She also insisted he was straight and single.
Shortly after he sublte probe she reported that he had recently begun seeing someone. Now, I'm convinced this was a very gentle manner of handling disinterest...not entirely certain if it was his idea or hers to couch it in these terms but even if it is not the case it really doesn't matter.
My crush crushed me in record time.
Wow, the shelf life of a crush has been dramatically reduced since the last time I did this crushing thing. WAIL.
April 19, 2009
How I Spent My Half Birthday!
9:30am Woke up earlier than planned sans blaring alarm.
10:55am Began walking Luckey across town to 1047 Amsterdam Avenue.
11:41am Arrived at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine with Luckey. Stuffed him into oversized handbag.
12:04pm Jo, Will, Luckey and I went on an architecturally amazing tour of the biggest cathedral in the United States. We went up the north side stairs--the equivalent of 12 flights of stairs: a dark, winding, spiral of stone.
124 feet high and 601 feet long. Pictures to follow.
1:15pm To our sadness the tour ended but not without mad camera snapping by Will and Jo--Luckey and I were happy to be targets!
2:30pm After Jo scored a Hungarian pastry from the Hungarian Pastry Shop across the street, we sat for a while in the garden beside the church and people watched.
2:45pm Will stopped in his apartment to pick up his Talk to Me sign and we headed up to the Columbia campus to sit on portable seats in the hopes that people would talk to us.
3:30pm A rousing game of Who will more people talk to? ended. Jo & I vs. Will & Jason--the girls won of course but the guys had longer, arguably more interesting, conversations. Jo and I hopped the 1 train to Chelsea to check out art.
4:15pm We arrived at the Paula Cooper Gallery on W. 21st Street to view Sophie Calle's exhibit entitled Take Care of Yourself. Her quest for closure from a bad break up led to her asking 107 specific women to interpret/perform the break-up e-mail. I especially liked that the letter was signed X!
4:45pm Failed to hail a cab on 9th Avenue despite our best efforts. Boo!
5:35pm Arrived very late to my own half-birthday party only to be told that the bar I had chosen for BEING dog friendly was in fact NOT. Frazzled dash down the block revealed Hop Devil--a bar previously visited with Indra post dirty laundry reading in late March. Yay!
6:00pm Finally relaxed after sending mass texts to everyone I had invited to ensure they were aware where the had moved so they and their dogs could come through.
11:45pm After many, many Jack & Diets as well as random birthday shots, Luckey and I crawled homeward.
Amazing weather. Great friends. No food all day. Loads of drinking. All of this made the walk from A to Astor feel like a 2 minute endeavor even with a bagful of puppy--
10:55am Began walking Luckey across town to 1047 Amsterdam Avenue.
11:41am Arrived at The Cathedral of St. John the Divine with Luckey. Stuffed him into oversized handbag.
12:04pm Jo, Will, Luckey and I went on an architecturally amazing tour of the biggest cathedral in the United States. We went up the north side stairs--the equivalent of 12 flights of stairs: a dark, winding, spiral of stone.
124 feet high and 601 feet long. Pictures to follow.
1:15pm To our sadness the tour ended but not without mad camera snapping by Will and Jo--Luckey and I were happy to be targets!
2:30pm After Jo scored a Hungarian pastry from the Hungarian Pastry Shop across the street, we sat for a while in the garden beside the church and people watched.
2:45pm Will stopped in his apartment to pick up his Talk to Me sign and we headed up to the Columbia campus to sit on portable seats in the hopes that people would talk to us.
3:30pm A rousing game of Who will more people talk to? ended. Jo & I vs. Will & Jason--the girls won of course but the guys had longer, arguably more interesting, conversations. Jo and I hopped the 1 train to Chelsea to check out art.
4:15pm We arrived at the Paula Cooper Gallery on W. 21st Street to view Sophie Calle's exhibit entitled Take Care of Yourself. Her quest for closure from a bad break up led to her asking 107 specific women to interpret/perform the break-up e-mail. I especially liked that the letter was signed X!
4:45pm Failed to hail a cab on 9th Avenue despite our best efforts. Boo!
5:35pm Arrived very late to my own half-birthday party only to be told that the bar I had chosen for BEING dog friendly was in fact NOT. Frazzled dash down the block revealed Hop Devil--a bar previously visited with Indra post dirty laundry reading in late March. Yay!
6:00pm Finally relaxed after sending mass texts to everyone I had invited to ensure they were aware where the had moved so they and their dogs could come through.
11:45pm After many, many Jack & Diets as well as random birthday shots, Luckey and I crawled homeward.
Amazing weather. Great friends. No food all day. Loads of drinking. All of this made the walk from A to Astor feel like a 2 minute endeavor even with a bagful of puppy--
April 17, 2009
Mean People Suck
Alright, so after the skirt incident earlier this week I figured NYC had given me the finger enough for me to be safe till next week...but NO.
Post arty party free booze hop with Zayan, we snarfed down some food at Don Giovannni's on 10th Avenue and I insisted we go to Shake Shack since he'd never been there and it was only 9pm on a fabulous Friday evening. Of course, we pass a Mister Softee truck and he can't resist so when we get to the obscene line neither of us wants to stand it despite the possibility of more drinking--so we wrap our legs around the narrow wooden bench on the outskirts of Shake Shack territory facing Seward standing guard of the southwestern edge of Madison Square Park.
As we look out, there is a gaggle of men standing around chatting animatedly. He dares me to find out who they are...my curiosity didn't require a dare but never one to back down from a challenge I swagger over and inquire with first one then another and finally a third group within the larger group of guys asking politely what the hub hub was about.
The first mini group insists that I guess...I come up with speed dating? They don't seem offended but they don't give me an answer and pawn me off to group two. Now being a sorority girl I get how rush works, so I quickly grow weary of the buck being passed in an evaulative context and hearing a range of explanations from we're here to rob a bank on Park Ave. to we're scientologists and finally we're an avator meetup who all adore Britney Spears.
As I walk away I can't shake the playground feeling of utter defeat and mass rejection, I start to cry. Violently--I've said this before, I am not beautiful when I cry--it's actually pretty ugly...I wail and my invisible ribs rattle. Poor Z. A fun errand has managed to sour itself passed the point of redemption.
I'm inconsolable. I kept repeating, "They were just so mean to me. I don't understand why they were so mean to me. No one would tell me." Finally, he just wraps his gangly arms around me and I whimper hopelessly into his puffy vest. It's that moment when words fail and only the simple action of holding someone will suffice--I was held and it sufficed. Once I got over the outburst, I relayed the utter dejection of not unearthing why they were thus gathered.
One of them--the lone Indian, who was passably gay--told me I looked like his aunt. HURTFUL. Another one asked of Z was my bf. A third queried if I thought they were all gay if it would be acceptable for one of them to hit on me. A fourth told me to send Z over instead of trying to figure it out myself. It was a classic and very real case of othering. Not that I haven't experienced being an "other" in a primary group but there was something vicious about the covert way this seemed to play out.
Z's guess was that they were gamers. Which I took to mean boys with poor social skills who play video games, but what he meant were d-bags who subscribe to THE GAME--that awful book that teaches men to get women--
I wanted to believe this because it would have comforted me greatly, but if this was true why were the being mean to THE ONE girl that approached the enormity of their group gathered in a public space. Wasn't that the point?
Z pointed out that they might have been "negging" me. Apparently a method of back handed complimenting that breeds insecurity in the party being "complimented" but sustains their interest. I have to tell you it sustained nothing. The very real playground metaphor was NOT lost on me but didn't keep me from crying any less when I got back to my friend on the bench. WAIL.
Post arty party free booze hop with Zayan, we snarfed down some food at Don Giovannni's on 10th Avenue and I insisted we go to Shake Shack since he'd never been there and it was only 9pm on a fabulous Friday evening. Of course, we pass a Mister Softee truck and he can't resist so when we get to the obscene line neither of us wants to stand it despite the possibility of more drinking--so we wrap our legs around the narrow wooden bench on the outskirts of Shake Shack territory facing Seward standing guard of the southwestern edge of Madison Square Park.
As we look out, there is a gaggle of men standing around chatting animatedly. He dares me to find out who they are...my curiosity didn't require a dare but never one to back down from a challenge I swagger over and inquire with first one then another and finally a third group within the larger group of guys asking politely what the hub hub was about.
The first mini group insists that I guess...I come up with speed dating? They don't seem offended but they don't give me an answer and pawn me off to group two. Now being a sorority girl I get how rush works, so I quickly grow weary of the buck being passed in an evaulative context and hearing a range of explanations from we're here to rob a bank on Park Ave. to we're scientologists and finally we're an avator meetup who all adore Britney Spears.
As I walk away I can't shake the playground feeling of utter defeat and mass rejection, I start to cry. Violently--I've said this before, I am not beautiful when I cry--it's actually pretty ugly...I wail and my invisible ribs rattle. Poor Z. A fun errand has managed to sour itself passed the point of redemption.
I'm inconsolable. I kept repeating, "They were just so mean to me. I don't understand why they were so mean to me. No one would tell me." Finally, he just wraps his gangly arms around me and I whimper hopelessly into his puffy vest. It's that moment when words fail and only the simple action of holding someone will suffice--I was held and it sufficed. Once I got over the outburst, I relayed the utter dejection of not unearthing why they were thus gathered.
One of them--the lone Indian, who was passably gay--told me I looked like his aunt. HURTFUL. Another one asked of Z was my bf. A third queried if I thought they were all gay if it would be acceptable for one of them to hit on me. A fourth told me to send Z over instead of trying to figure it out myself. It was a classic and very real case of othering. Not that I haven't experienced being an "other" in a primary group but there was something vicious about the covert way this seemed to play out.
Z's guess was that they were gamers. Which I took to mean boys with poor social skills who play video games, but what he meant were d-bags who subscribe to THE GAME--that awful book that teaches men to get women--
I wanted to believe this because it would have comforted me greatly, but if this was true why were the being mean to THE ONE girl that approached the enormity of their group gathered in a public space. Wasn't that the point?
Z pointed out that they might have been "negging" me. Apparently a method of back handed complimenting that breeds insecurity in the party being "complimented" but sustains their interest. I have to tell you it sustained nothing. The very real playground metaphor was NOT lost on me but didn't keep me from crying any less when I got back to my friend on the bench. WAIL.
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