Beating the Winter Blues

How do I like living New York City? I love walking every where, every day sites on the streets, street fairs, Central Park, warm nights, roof top bars, biking along the river, slightly experimental fashion, side walk cafes… Sensing a theme here? I LOVE living in New York. In the summer (and the months surrounding summer). The other 5 months of the year…well, “love” is a strong word.

This is my 6th East Coast winter. Do they ever get easier? While in college I managed to avoid a huge chunk of January, extending my Winter Break, home in San Francisco, well into the late teens. Since graduation my winter res pit has been short indeed- five little days home for Christmas. I suppose I shouldn’t complain, many people get no glimmer of warm weather for the whole season, never have. Really makes me wonder why they put Christmas in December. That’s just the beginning of winter! After Christmas there’s little to look forward too, the magic is gone, and it only gets colder. We cling to the stupid winter holidays: Groundhog’s Day (did you hear about the controversy yesterday? I’m on Team Chuck, and you should be too), Valentine’s Day and Saint Patrick’s Day, which really provide little comfort unless you’re a groundhog, part of a couple, or Irish/alcoholic. The cold, lack of color, fierce wind, and freezing temperatures do their best to wreck havoc on my spirit (and my skin). So what’s a California Girl to do? Fight back. I’ve built up an arsenal against the Winter Blues.

My mother doesn’t usually worry about me (openly anyway). She knows I’m a big girl with 23 years of gathering street smarts. The only time I ever got “I’m worried about you in big New York City” phone calls was last winter. It’s a huge New York cliché that everyone here wears black, and nothing but. It’s a cliché I must defy when it’s already colorless outside. My mother worried I’d get mugged due to my vibrant show of color in a sea of black; my winter coat for my first 5 winters was bright pink.

The only way anyone recognized me around  my college campus was because of this coat. It was “my thing” and there was no way I was retiring “my thing” to join the sea of black. Mom. It’s “my thing”. No one’s going to mug me because of my coat! Really! But by the end first February in NYC I was faced with a good news/bad news situation. The good news: I had not so much as witnessed a mugging.   Bad news: my coat was nearing unwearable. It was showing signs of being loved too much the 5 years of wear, becoming threadbare in key places. Then the front zipper broke, the last straw . To my chagrin and my mother’s pleasure, I retired my little pink coat. Unable to find a bright color coat I liked, I settled for a gray replacement. I found it at a thrift store, the fit was great, and it was really cheap compared to retail coats I only kinda liked anyway. Some compromise had to be made and so I gave in to gray.

Out on the streets in my new coat I was protected against the cold but the gray threatened to swallow me up. Without my little pink coat I lost my first line of defense against the bleakness. I tried to replace it with little pink gloves and a little pink hat but I was still missing something. Fortunately the colors of spring arrived soon enough and made everything right, putting the issue off until this winter, when colorlessness took over the city again and I was once again lost in the gray.

Until I found this bag.

Embroidered with bright, colorful flowers this bag just screams “Fuck you winter! You can’t bring me down!” I love it like I love New York in the summer. I carry it like a badge, a shield against the Winter Blues (gray really). So far Winter Blues: 0, Me: 1!

Upcoming: Eats to keep your insides warm!

 

Bad Date

One would think when you’re on a bad date, you’re aware of it.  Right? While I can see misinterpreting an Okay Date as a Good Date- I’ll admit that has happened to me on both ends- it’s a much harder stretch from Bad Date to Okay Date. I’m lucky to claim I’ve been on a small number of Bad Dates. None of them horror stories. I’m well aware when I’m on them and I make it pretty obvious (though never in a mean or rude way, I’d like to think) that there will be no future there. Like the time I fell asleep on a first date (yes, during a movie, but still- FELL ASLEEP). It could be argued that was rude, but it was completely out of my control and a very good indication of how I felt about the whole situation (zzzz).

You know you’re on a Bad Date when you’re not having fun- conversation is strained, you are just not connecting with the person you’re with. At best. At worst you’re repulsed, offended, nauseous, questioning your sexual orientation etc. You know. Another way to know you’re on a bad date? You’re sitting at the bar and the woman seated near you is getting up to leave. As she puts on her coat she taps your shoulder and says Is this yours? indicating the floor area between your chair and hers. You turn towards her, looking at the floor, thinking your scarf or other cold-weather-accessory has fallen from your chair. Before you fully realize nothing has fallen, she hisses in your ear Honey, it’s not going anywhere. Leave now. This guy is just going to bore you all night. You stare at her with bewilderment and amazement, she gives you a knowing look, her eyes speaking the wisdom of the decade of experience she has on you.

She leaves and you continue the charade she started, still hunting for a phantom scarf thinking “Aaaw fuck, did the guy hear that? Agh this is Awkward with a capital A.” Though you’re 90% sure he heard the whole thing, (he says “What was that about? Was I boring her?”)  you pretend it didn’t happen. You’re probably not convincing, but damn it if you didn’t try. Instead of using this perfect exit “Yeah, actually she’s right, I’m gonna go”, turns out you’re an actress who hates conflict more than she loves dramatic exits (something you didn’t realize until this very second). You end up staying 1/2 hr more so no one goes home with their self esteem in shreds.  You’ve always been bad at ending things. You’ve always been too nice? Due to lack of wisdom and experience? Maybe, but you’re okay with it. Better Too Nice than Too Jaded. At 23 anyway.

Apparently some New Yorkers see it as their Civic Duty to inform you when you’re on a Bad Date.

My response in retrospect? 90% a guenine New York: “Who the fuck asked you?” 10%: “Thank You Phantom Scarf Lady”.

 

Let’s Talk Shop

They say New York is a shopper’s paradise. We’ve got the shops. It’s an image you think of when you think of NYC, women strolling down the sidewalks, lux (string handles, no plastic) shopping bags adorning her arms.

After my post featuring a little piece of consumerism (proclaiming I “NEED”ed it no less) it may come as no surprise that I rather like shopping. Fashion interests me for some reason. I’ve put thought into what to wear since the tender age of 5. I was the kid who refused to wear pants (haha, thus this was inevitable) and would only leave the house in a skirt or dress. I really developed my own signature style when from age 9-10 I demanded my hair be put into braids every day. Yes, claiming to have had a sense of style when my mother was still in charge of buying my clothes may seem silly, but I swear it’s true.  Now, after an awkward adolescence- I was one of those kids who struggled to fit in a mold that I just didn’t belong in- of androgynous clothes and dying my hair pink or navy blue depending on my mood, I’m back to my roots. My hair is back to blonde, magenta and purple are easily my favorite colors, and skirts/dresses make up the majority of my wardrobe. Though some things, like my preference for bunnies! and kitties! adorning my chest, I’ve left in the past (phew).

So am I like a kid in a candy shop here in this “shopper’s paradise”, Fashion Capitol USA? I’m I spending my weekends arms adorned in colorful cute bags? Not quite. While I do love the gorgeously detailed window displays of Bergdorf Goodman, I’m too intimidated to actually enter the store. Someday I’ll put on dark sunglasses and just go in, I promise. While I’d love to witness some part of fashion week, I don’t own the key or have the connections to grant me access to the Bryant Park tents. While I’d love to buy pretty clothes, everything in NYC is insanely expensive and I’m a starving artist. It’s always something in this city, isn’t it? I’m too broke to even go bargain hunting in this city, that’s how bad it is.

Granted, I am extremely spoiled. The thrift and vintage stores I grew up in are unique to San Francisco. That’s my shoppers paradise. In New York “vintage” is synonymous with “special”, “one of a kind”, “expensive”. “Trendy”. Yep, vintage has been fashionable for a while. Especially in the recession. Thank god. The huge majority of my wardrobe, over 2/3 I’d venture, once belonged to someone else. The change in attitude towards second-hand changed my life. I went from kinda lame to kinda stylish almost overnight. My specialty is the $5 skirt and the $10 (or less) dress. Yes, I’m one of those people who takes pride that her entire outfit cost less than your pants. Yes, I have frugality ingrained into my being.

So what’s such a person to do in Expensive Capitol USA? For starters, I’ve embraced the yearly shopping spree. Most people do this in September, I’m forced to spree for my self when everyone normal is buying gifts for others- ie when I go home for Christmas. It’s a system that’s served me well for two years. It turns out there are cheap things to do in NYC if you look hard enough.

MyOpenBar.com

Lists all open bars in the city on any given night. Open bar=free alcohol. When not abused, one of the few things that helps nurse the wallet wounds cause by the typical $8 + cocktail price of most any Manhattan bar.

Having a Student ID

Pretending I’m still a student is my key to cheap fun in NY. I still look like a student and my ID says NOTHING about the time period I attended college. As a result I can go to plays, opera, museums, you name it, for a student price. This is the only way Broadway is affordable. Off Broadway for less than a movie 59E59 Theatres, any live performance for less than a movie at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, $200 Metropolitain Opera seats for $25

Metropolitan Opera

There’s an even better opera deal- $20 orchestra seats. You don’t need any kind of ID, just extra hours to wait in a line as they’re in HIGH demand.

Broadway Shows

Most have some sort of cheap deal- Standing Room Only (SRO), Student Rush, Ticket Lottery, I never pay more than $30 for a ticket, you don’t have to either.

HipTix

Roundabout Theatre Company produces quite a few Broadway shows. If you’re 18-35 you can join their HipTix program (for free) and get $20 tix in advance.

Public Library

Sometimes I forget how awesome the library is. I think most New Yorkers do. Free access to any CD, DVD, book, exhibits, sheet music, etc etc THE LIBRARY IS AMAZING.

Having Friends

Connections: hands down the best way ever to get free stuff. I do have a couple of these, and the number is only going to grow.

I know I’m missing loads of things. The Met, Natural History Museum, and many others are pay-what-you-wish, which is awesome if you don’t mind dirty looks. Lot’s of museums have Free Days, but that makes them annoyingly crowded. This list is sure to expand. Especially in the summer (Shakespeare in the Park!! PARKS IN GENERAL!)…winter is harder for the frugal and free skating in Bryant Park ends January 24th.

 

Time is of the Essense: East vs. West

About once a week some one will say to me:
Oh you’re from San Francisco? What’s the difference between the East Coast and West Coast?

Presently my answer is to yell “I don’t want to talk about it!” wrap my down parka tighter around myself, pulling my scarf up to my eyes. A gesture to illustrate the most obvious answer (WINTER) and deter the speaker from continuing such banal small talk.

That was a bit harsh. I imagine I wouldn’t dislike this question so much if I had a good answer for it. Any answer I think of is vague, which isn’t surprising because so is the initial question. Let’s be honest, when a New Yorker says “East Coast” he means “New York City”. To give a logical answer requires detail, out of the range of small talk. Maybe if I just outline it here, I’ll have the perfect answer: “You can read all about it on my blog!” (Confession: I have actually used this phrase in real life. The reaction is always “…” which forces me to then recount the story written here in a much less witty and insightful manner. Sigh.)

So the most obvious difference I notice in my daily routine? A trivial change in vernacular. West coasters wait “in” line. They only go “online” to use the internet. East coasters (and by that I mean New Yorkers) spend a lot more time “on” lines than West coasters do “in” lines- any relation to the lingo? Maybe…

New Yorkers are obsessed with time. We’re always too busy. There never enough hours in a day.  Despite our many 24/7 locations, the subway that never stops running, and bars that never closes before 4AM. Hold up a New Yorker- walk too slow, chat with a cashier, stand on the wrong side of an escalator, delay a subway- and they will, at the very least, give you a dirty look. More often than not they’ll say something dirty to your face. Myself included (I favor loud sighs and muttering to myself, though admittedly I have lapsed into crazy ranting after waiting 20 + minutes for a subway.) Similarly, being late for an appointment in NY is often a deal breaker. My habitual 10 minutes tardiness? Unacceptable.

In San Francisco no one thinks twice if you’re 5 minutes late. You can literally, because the temperate climate always for year-round blooms, take the time to smell the roses. San Franciscans value time as much as New Yorkers, but they aren’t obsessed with it. Each city has a tangible energy that is hard to describe. Going home for Christmas from NY, SF felt relaxed, calm, carefree. Lazy even. Perfect for a vacation.

At this point in my life, I think I prefer hustle and bustle and constant stimulation.

In (East coast) college we would have “Who Is Busier” contests all the time. Student 1: “Omg I have two 15 page papers, one 5 pager, 1 lab and 3 tests all due on Friday!” Student 2: “Well I have three 16 page papers, two 4 pagers, 3 tests, and 5 scenes all due on Friday” Student 1 & 2: “OMG I’m sooo stressed out!” I hated these contests.  I thought they’d stop with college. Wishful thinking. I still have friends give me run downs of their lives where the subtext just reeks of “I am sooo much busier than you! My time is so much more valuable so you’re even lucky I’m talking to you right now!” Ok really, we’re ALL busy so I don’t need to hear it. Similar to when someone you’re dating feeds you “I’m really busy these days.” line. As ego bruising as it would be, I truly would prefer “I’m not really interested.” This is a little pet peeve of mine. I’m beginning to fear this may just be human nature an I shant escape it with maturity.

Another huge difference between New York and San Francisco? Minimum wage. San Francisco’s is a respectable $9.79. One might almost-sorta-not-really be able to live on that. New York’s is $7.25. Insane considering how inflated everything is here. As they say, time is money- it only makes sense New Yorkers treat it like a precious commodity.

 

Get It?

Will someone please buy me this necklace? Don't you agree I NEED it?

After Trader Joe’s Boy revealed that he’d read my blog, he looked deep into my eyes and said with nothing but sincerity: “You are not a cliché. You are a unique wonderful person. Little self esteem issue, huh? Trust me. I know people who are clichés. You are not one of them.” I had no idea how to react to this. Had I not just broken up with him, I think that declaration would’ve been enough to seal the deal.

Another reason to need the above necklace, I can wear it on a first date and find out immediately if they have a prayer of “getting it”. (Ha ha double entendre!)

I’ve never had someone “not get me” so completely. Well, not to my knowledge. My humor is often dry as toast (other times it tries too hard- I’m aware). I’d venture as far as saying most of my friends have had a moment “Wait, stop, are you joking? I can’t tell!” I say credit goes to my Theatre BA and natural feminine mystique (“Wait, are you kidding? I can’t tell!”).

If you’re reading this, I imagine there’s a good chance you get it. I thank you for that. As a little token of thanks, I’m going to give you more frequent reading material (maybe you noticed this is my 3rd post this week!) Given that you “get it” I especially value your opinion. Therefore I ask: Do you appreciate small posts such as this? I’m conflicted with quality (as in sporadic but quality stories) vs. quantity (more posts…likely ranging in quality). I’m so accustomed to 1,000 worders, brevity feels weird to me. I’m also afraid to write meaningless tripe. Guess that makes me a non-cliché blogger.

I’ve changed the appearance around here a bit too. Like I said, I value your opinion, so tell me what you think. Really, I just want to make sure everyone’s met the “Leave a Comment” tab. Hey, maybe I do have plenty “cliché blogger” in me after all!

 

Get Outta My Pants!

In college I liked to joke about how I had three homes. My Dorm ( senior year my very own oh-so-upperclassman apartment), San Francisco, and the Theatre Center. Since moving to New York the joke has changed to My Apartment, San Francisco, and the Subway. Up until very recently (I moved recently! To the Manhattan proper!) an unnerving amount of my time was spent on the subway. And waiting for the subway. And fuming, sometimes even muttering to myself that the subway FUCKING SUCKS wasn’t running properly. Using my mediocre math skills (it’s a Theatre BA cliché), if I wanted to I could calculate how much of my last year was spent aboard a subway. However I fear that figure will upset me- we’re looking at over a month of my life.

The subway is many New Yorkers’ 3rd home, even 2nd home. It shows. We sleep on the subway, eat on the subway, put make up on, make out, make money, change babies, finish novels, puke, etc (guess which ones on this list I haven’t done!). Ask most anyone who lives in New York, they likely have a harrowing story about something inappropriate/gross/bizarre/hilarious that they saw on the subway.

This past weekend I decided to take my pants off on the subway.

Yes, you read that right. Yes, I’m fully serious.

No, I’m not original.

Sunday was the 9th Annual No Pants Subway Ride.

No doubt you’ve heard of it but in case you missed the memo on this world-wide phenomenon (people participated in 41 countries!) here’s some press The event was started in NYC by our resident troupe Improv Everywhere (check out their website, it’s fun) whose mission statement is to “cause scenes of chaos and joy in public places” like spontaneous musicals and throwing surprise wedding receptions.

Really, this news segment can give you the perfect 3 minute summary (that’s what they do best after all, I’m much better at wordy blog posts.)

See me? I’m in that crowd! (I don’t think I made the video though, I can’t find me)

Riders on the subway weren’t too fazed. It was a little disappointing. NY subway riders are so jaded they don’t even blink when hundreds of people pull down their pants.  Plus the pants-less easily out numbered the pant-wearing. When we got off the subway in Union Square there was a moment of “am I really going to go outside with no pants?” Answer: YES. It wasn’t as cold as I thought it would be. Organizers of the event met us with pamphlets COULD PANTS BE RIGHT FOR YOU? ARE YOU READY TO ACCEPT PANTS INTO YOUR LIFE? MISSING SOMETHING? ASK ME ABOUT PANTS!

The outside reactions were much better. Strangers on the street, easily tourists, “So how did you find out about this event? Why aren’t you wearing pants?” Oh you know, don’t you ever have those days where you wake up and just don’t really feel like putting on pants?

We brought our pants-lessness to a neighborhood bar where there were a whole bunch of fratty people watching the playoffs. The “Um okay….?” uttered by a girl clearly upset that her cleavage was being rivaled made it hard for me to keep a straight face. A man wearing pants sits next to me as we are just about to leave. “Ok. So tell me why you aren’t wearing pants? What’s the deal?” Oh my God! I forgot my pants, ok? Why do people keep mentioning it! I was hoping no one would notice! This is so embarrassing! With that I get up from my seat, grab my friends, and leave the bar. I love dramatic exits.

Why did I decide to take my pants off on the subway? Come on, if there’s something that society forbids you to do but on one day allows,  you do it! I knew it would be a funny experience. I also love the feeling  of being united towards a goal. The group events I go to usually have the goal to create change. Races, protests, even parades. The No Pants Subway Ride had all the comradery that’s amazing at Gay Pride or the AIDS Walk but there was no element of sadness, of fighting the fight. This was pure, unadulterated silliness.

Or maybe I did it to protest winter. Running around Union Square in my little pink underwear, laughing in the face of the teen degree weather I felt like I can beat the winter blues. That the days of running around in a bikini bottom (very similar to underwear, see?) aren’t all that far away. That’s life-blood to my chapped lips, scarf encased face, numb hands.

Or maybe I did it because, as we all know, I not so secretly aspire to be Carrie Bradshaw.

And if you’re really missing warm weather and want more pants-less inspiration (and more Sex and the City), this one’s for you (full effect starts at 1:06).

 

Resolutions and the Unresolved

I am pretty good at keeping New Year’s Resolutions. Which might come as a surprise. I can’t make deadlines (senior year 80% of my papers were turned in late, the most impressive tardiness: 3 months after the original due date), I’ll probably be 10 minutes late to my own wedding (should it ever occur), I always say “I should keep my room cleaner” and never do. But some how I can make one resolve at the beginning of the year and generally stick to it. Perhaps it’s because my resolutions are usually vague, like “Take More Risks” (totally rocked that one). Or they involve goals that only have no other option but moving forward- “Floss more” (considering 22 years previous of…pretty much never flossing this was hard not to achieve). This year I intend to improve my posture and stop touching my face so much (2 high incentives: looking better and not getting sick. One week into 2010 and so far so good.

Dating resolutions on the other hand…. Remember that time I said “no more actors” shortly followed by the resolve to “cease the virtual and focus solely on reality” (both direct quotes!)? Yeah…about those.

It was the night of our Company Holiday Party (CHP). Just that sentence makes you think “Uh oh….what did you do…?” Every December issue of any women’s magazine I have ever picked up has at least one article, more likely several- What to Wear, Do’s and Don’t, Embarrassing Stories sent in by readers- about this annual, fraught with danger, “fun”, event. While I had read these articles for years (I must explain myself: Trashy mags were in a free flowing supply at the gym in college. I went to the gym a lot in an effort to shed the cliché Freshman 15. Ergo, I did more trashy than academic reading  as an undergrad.) this was my first experience actually attending a CHP. Grumbling slightly because going to a party “like it’s my job” is weird, I borrowed the advised “flattering, fun, but not too sexy dress” from my roommate, put on the only pair of boots I own that make me understand why so many women have love affairs with shoes, and with the resolve to not get too drunk I headed downtown.

I arrive on the early side, (ie no one is there ) still 10 minutes later than the time I was told to arrive. I’ve been at this job about 3 weeks, I’m still in the ‘they say jump, I jump” phase. I take off my coat and find myself face to face with the bar. The open bar. The I-can-order-ANYTHING-regardless-of-cost bar. This is beyond exciting. And dangerous. My frugality generally keeps me sober which in turn generally keeps my tolerance low. It all works out very nicely. Until I’m faced with an open bar or benefactor(s). Then it becomes much harder to count drinks,  then I stop caring about counting, and before long I stop caring about anything.

For a while I’m fine. Great in fact. I’m mingling like a champ, introducing myself and being charming with small talk. I’m even doing some networking as I meet a fellow employee who is also an actor. I think I’ve made a friend in him, he’s easy to come back to when I find myself in a awkward stand still conversation lull with some one else. He mentions he has a plus-one showing up. Ugh couples. Lame. He then mentions his plus one is his roommate- figured he’d share the open bar/free food bounty. Not so lame.

When his roommate actually shows up my “not so lame” turns into “totally awesome!” See, new work buddy failed to mention that him roommate is ridiculously cute. He’s got quite a few inches on me in spite of my heals,  gorgeous blue eyes that show sweetness and intelligence, and side burns that make you want to touch his face not rip them off of it. And it’s not just that he’s cute. Let’s be honest. It’s not his eyes that tell me he’s sweet and intelligent, it’s more that after he showed up I ceased my mingling. I spend the rest of the night pretty much just talking to him. Oops. That’s breaking Company Party Rule #4 but I don’t care. He and his roommate tell me about how they met- a summer theatre production of Anne of Green Gables. He’s an actor. Of course he is. My cousin was right when she said half the men I meet here will be actors. I give up. There’s no way I staying clear of actors. It’s silly to even try.

By the end of the night he’s touched my arm several times, the kind of touches that mean nothing coming from most people, but when there’s chemistry their memory lingers in your arm hair that’s standing on end. We’re pillaging the dessert tray, bantering about cannolis, and unless some how my inebriated memory has betrays me, I feed him one. After another round of champagne and engaging conversation that’s it. I want him to be my Gilbert Blithe. Stat. Everything about the night has the distinct feeling of “really hitting it off with someone”.

Then suddenly, without warning, he’s leaving. What? No! “It was great to meet you, I hope I see you again sometime. Friend me on facebook or something?” No! I’ve sworn off the virtual! I don’t want to do such a passive form of contact, screw that- Actually, I kind of want you number. Ha, “kind of” my cannoli, but I’m not used to asking adorable boys for their phone numbers. Cut me some slack. “Okay” he says, and enters it into my phone. I’m sure a huge smile plastered itself across my face. Not sure I even made an attempt to hide it, and if I has any success.

So there I am, giddy with champagne bubbles and prospect. He didn’t ask for my number, but so what? I send him a cute witty “was nice to meet you” text so that he has it. His response is prompt and encouraging.

And then? Then I went home for the holidays. I’m sitting in JFK, awaiting my flight back to San Francisco, fighting boredom with JetBlue free wireless my thoughts drift to my crush. And then, because it was right in front of me? Because I wanted to be proactive? Because I wanted to see pictures of sideburns? Because I couldn’t not? Because I’m lame? I think you can guess what I did. I friended him on Facebook.

Idiot. This should be my New Years Resolution 2010. Do not friend people you are interested on Facebook! It causes more harm than good! And this isn’t just me. As the New York Times article I just read thoroughly discusses, Facebook creates ridiculous romantic complications. My predicament? Facebook says he’s In A Relationship. FACEBOOK SAYS. He never said! He never implied! Nothing! But because Facebook fucking says it, I give pause, give doubt to everything. My original ballsy plan to call him when I get back from San Francisco? Out the window. All because Facebook says.

I’m torn on this. On the one hand, he probably does have a girlfriend. On the other hand, just because Facebook says so, does not mean it’s true. Cute Theatre Boy is a good example- Facebook labeled him as “Single” the whole time we were dating and continued to do so through 2 girlfriends after me. I asked him about it the other day (we are still friends if you’ve missed my previous mention of it) and his answer was “I don’t want people to see when I change it, ask questions, blah blah blah.” I decided to leave the ball in my crush’s court. He could contact me. Lame, passive, but I really don’t care to chase the unavailable.

Fortunately it was Christmas, New Years. Both very happy and spent with people I love. Perfect devises to forget about a crush. And I did too. Of course the minute I forget him, he writes on my facebook wall. Teasing me about my profile picture. Great, now I’m back where I started.

What stupid, virtual (ie NOT REAL) predicaments the decade presents.

 

Christmas Time in the City

After enduring a month of unsettlingly pre-mature cheer, it’s finally allowed to be Christmas.

October 18: I walked into Duane Reade and gasped at the Christmas isle all set up and ready to go. Why do companies think this it the way to go?

November 3rd: I was cold and went into Starbucks for a hot cocoa. (It’s impossible to avoid Starbucks in NYC, they are literally on ever corner- fortunate because they are essentially the New Yorker’s Public Restroom, internet hot spot, and place to take cover from inclement weather. Often I go into a Starbucks, do any of those aforementioned, and purchase nothing. They’re the man. But when I have a chocolate hankering that needs quenching, I purchase the Kid’s Hot Cocoa. Usually they don’t question my kid-less-ness, it is the perfect size, and the cheapest thing on the menu.) They were playing Christmas music. My poor barista, searching for some shred of logic, actually said this to me: “Tell me, does Christmas music this early make you want to buy things?” No. It makes me want to die. Or at least boycott places that play it. Want me to write to someone?

November 7th: A gigantic Christmas tree assaults me in the plaza outside work. It already looks a bit bedraggled as they set it up, woe to what it will look like when it’s actually near Christmas.

The morning after Halloween most every retail window I passed had magically changed over night to obtrusive HOLIDAY!! GIFTS!! I walked into Banana Republic and immediately turned around and walked out when high volume Christmas music bombarded my ears. This was on a 63 degree day. I can’t handle “Let it snow!” in warm sunny weather. Not on the east coast. I turned around, got an ice cream cone and ate it while strolling through the color changing leaves of Central Park.

Why aren’t consumers allowed to have Fall any more? Thanksgiving is completely forgotten, and I’m still mourning the loss of summer when Christmas assault us. Yes, I feel assaulted. It’s horrible. I can’t appreciate the pretty lights, snow flakes, decorations- nothing. If they pop up before Thanksgiving all I can think is STOP MOVING SO FAST! I’M NOT READY FOR THIS YET! 

Has it always been like this? I remember that post-Halloween was always Christmas-y because that was when we started learning the music in chorus, but I have no recollection of the rest of the world reflecting the season as well. Have they pushed “The Holiday Season” as early as possible this year in a hope to increase spending? Also, is this a New York phenomenon or were you graced with Santa hats and wrapping paper before you even put on your Halloween costume?

Fortunately I am only a Scrooge before actual Christmas time (and given that, “Scrooge” isn’t even really an appropriate term- ah well). The morning after Thanksgiving I embraced the cheer. I was finally able to see the charm in the bedraggled Christmas tree outside my work, even. Yes, I spent “Black Friday” (don’t get me started on that consumer ridiculousness) working. Really I spent all Thanksgiving weekend working. Which was less than fun. But when I wasn’t working, I was Christmas caroling! See, I wasn’t kidding when I said I embraced the cheer. Embraced it and spread it. I went out with my roommates for maybe 4 hours and we ended up with over $250 in our hat. I suppose that makes me a professional cheer-spreader? Christmas caroling is so fun, it’s nice to have fun AND make money for a change!

 

Break It Down (Now)

Last Halloween, my first in NYC, was spent all by myself. As alone as one can be surrounded by thousands of strangers, I had no friends to go out with. Which is why I was even more excited than usual for Halloween this year.

My roommates and I plan to go down to the village, combine forces of all our individual friends, and have a great night of watching the Halloween Parade, drinking, not being sick, and dancing in the streets. I am pumped.  Talking to my Trader Joe’s Crush about Halloween I learn he has no plans for the evening… and he asks if he can “tag along” with me and my friends…While I was very much looking forward to a night with just friends, I know how lonely Halloween alone is. I make the compromise: Well after the parade we’re planning to go do 21-year-old things, so be warned: we’ll probably ditch you. But yeah, you’re welcome to join for the parade!

My roommate and I dress up as Gay Cheerleaders for Halloween. Uh What? My roommate’s co-worker was dying to have someone, anyone wear her old cheerleading outfit so that she could tell her mother that yes there is actually a reason for having a bag of things she hasn’t used in 10+ years taking up storage space. When asked if she “wanted to be a cheerleader for Halloween?” my roommate showed mild interest and was immediately handed a green and gold duffle bag filled with 2 full outfits (home and visitor apparently), a track jacket, pom poms, and palpable **team spirit**. She came home that day, showed me her loot, we may or may not have played dress up in a way that would rival 5 year olds, and we knew on Halloween we were wearing these costumes. To simply be cheerleaders seemed too boring, too easy. Zombie Cheerleaders? Vampire Cheerleaders? Too predictable. Too much makeup. Having just watched the cult classic But I’m a Cheerleader we decide to be Gay Cheerleaders. No, it didn’t exactly make sense, (I  wish I was as creative with costumes as my cousin,) but we had fun accessorizing excessively with rainbows, glitters, writing GO GAY! on our arms, coming up with political cheers GO GO FIGHT FIGHT WE DESERVE MARRIAGE RIGHTS! and worrying we’d offend actual gays (we so didn’t, quite the opposite actually.)

It was surprisingly warm Halloween evening, as we head down to Greenwich Village for a pre-parade drink. The Halloween Parade is a Thing To Do in NY. It’s composed of anyone who shows up at the proper location at the proper time properly costumed. The best thing about Halloween, when you’re at a place in life where it is not socially acceptable to peak in the homes of people who then give you candy, is people watching. Thus this parade is perfect.

Our mini “parade” headed to the parade includes two Gay Cheerleaders (duh), Audrey Hepburn, Alex from A Clockwork Orange, a Hick, a Chef, a Vampire, and Eloise. Later we are joined by a Zombie, an Asian Tourist, a Toilet, and a Plunger. Such a contrast to the loneliness of last year. Our crew is all assembled save my Trader Joe’s Crush who is coming from Brooklyn (and has an annoying habit of being habitually 30+ minutes late). Before he arrives, before we get to the parade, before the night’s really begun the humidity gets the better of the night and it starts to rain.

Somehow I’ve gotten through 22 Halloweens (for the early ones I don’t remember, pictures give proof) without rain. This seems like near impossible luck. Sure, there were near misses- rain during the day that cleared up by night. (Which I remember because I was part of a Towel Man/Washcloth Boy duo- think me and my friend tying a towel/washcloth around our necks, knowing we were hilarious, and having an awesome time running around “Obliterating Puddles!!!” I might note we were 15/16♥.)  I never had to make an umbrella part of my costume. Nor had said costume fall apart due to sogginess. Up until now, I’ve been severely spoiled by Halloween weather. So I know I can’t complain too much when our parade plans are spoiled. It’s not much of a set back as we planned to explore area bars after the parade anyway. The rain just speeds that up. Except now I’ll have a 20-year-old in tow, a 20-year-old I was counting on ditching when the “PERSONS UNDER 21 NOT ADMITTED” portion of the evening began. Well, that plan is now down the toilet (and I don’t mean my friend dressed up as one).

When my 20-year-old finally shows up he’s outfitted as a Nerd. Let me give anyone who’s ever considered this costume a hint- if ”Nerd” hits close too home (really, in any vicinity of home) to your actual personality, you may want to re-think your choice. Now Trader Joe’s Crush isn’t really a nerd, but tonight I honestly can’t tell if he’s getting too into the spirit of his costume or just being awkward around me and my friends.  I think it’s the former but I’m not sure. What I do become sure of, after a series of awkward silences I make no attempt to fill: It’s not working; I can’t do it any more. I spend the rest of the night madly conflicted between having an awesome time with my friends and knowing I have to break up with my boy.

The timing is horrid. I can’t break up with him tonight, on Halloween (can I? “No. You can’t,” my friends assure me) and I can’t do it in the next few days because his 21st birthday falls not even a week after Halloween. I may be flattering myself to think I’d have such an effect, but there is no way I will risk ruining anyone’s birthday, especially the big 2-1. So I’m stuck for a few days, which gives me time to formulate a plan: attempt  to foreshadow the impending end up until after the birthday, then take him out to dinner and end it. Seems simple enough- but as someone who’s used to being the dumpee and been hurt as such, I agonized over it. I’m a firm believer in “do unto others as you would have others do unto you” and hope to do this as nicely as possible.

As Halloween winds down, I know he’s expecting to come home with me- he even mentions something about it to my roommate, creating a mildly awkward situation. In my own personal belief, I’ve been horrible to him all night- distant, paying more attention to my friends, disengaging, kissing my roommate rather than him (“I’m gay tonight” the easy excuse). I’m not exactly mean to him, but I’m certainly not being nice, and certainly not behaving in a way that should make him want to go home with me (unless the kissing-my-roommate thing…backfired…shit.)

I’m in a weird mood…I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to come back to my place.

The actor in me is enthralled by the drastic, immediate effect this statement has on him. From the happy and friendly face I’m used to, to disappointment and concern that is almost a different person. “I understand,” he says, “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” You can stop being so nice to me! Stop liking me! Save yourself! I kiss him goodbye, (feeling bad that I know it’s our last kiss when he doesn’t,) and he gets off the subway, while I continue home- minus one boy but plus my friends. The Asian Tourist berates me, “That’s a great way to get him the message. He’s really going to see this coming with you making out with him.” I burst into tears. Shut up! What was I supposed to do? Not kiss him? I don’t know what I’m doing! This sucks! Mascara forms streams down my made-up face, glitter pooling in zigzags. I imagine the sight through the eyes of the anonymous  passengers on the subway and smile through tears. What a sight I am- a cheerleader crying over a boy. What a cliché.

In the days following I carry out my BreakUp Plan to a tee. Staying distant, excusing myself from the actual birthday, taking him out the day after. We end up sitting in a park afterward. I know it’s show time. I’ve thought out what I need to say, anticipated possible reactions, but as soon as I open my mouth my “script” dissolves into Real Life Improv. It takes mild prompting from him, “So, what’s up?” to make me deliver my monologue.

As I conclude: I’m not feeling what I need to feel to be in a relationship with someone. I hold my breath and look at him. My worst case scenario anticipation: tears. There are none. Second worst: anger. Nope, not there either. In fact the look on his face is less devastating than the aforementioned one on Halloween. “Yeah, I kinda saw this coming. Especially after Halloween.” Yeah. I reply and pat myself on the back. He saw it coming! I avoided the shock-and-awe-surprise-breakup-attack! He then says, “I just want to ask you one thing.” Sure, breakup clarifications- typical, anticipated. I brace myself as possible questions whiz through my mind. Of course. You can ask me anything you want.

“What are you going to write about this in your blog?”

I stare at him flabbergasted. Dumbfounded.

At the time there was no answer for this question except You read my blog!? and If you don’t want me to write about it, I won’t. Now, however, I have the answer. You just read it. And I have no doubt he’s read it too.

Post Script

From the look he gave me when I was at Trader Joe’s the other day (I have to buy food! I can’t avoid it!), I am inclined to believe he hates what I wrote in here. It seems the most likely explanation for the uncharacteristic harrowing look.  I long ago decided not to censor my blog for people who *might* read it, not even my mother. That was a big decision. Of course had he said anything along the lines of  “I do not want you writing about this“, I  certainly would have honored the request. But he said nothing of the sort.

In this day and age don’t we all expect people to write blogs about us? I try to aim for anonymity and respect (and of course humor), but do I succeed? Do I go to far? When I step over the line into Too Personal, do I always know it? If I don’t know it, will my readers tell me? Where should the lines of what I can and cannot, should and shouldn’t write about be drawn?

 

Break It Up (Into Beats)

When I first met you, I had doubts. You’re homeless, you’re an actor. I was afraid the age difference would be a problem. But I couldn’t dismiss you just on that, I had to actually get to know you. And I’m so glad I did because you’re truly one of the sweetest, kindest people I’ve met. Ever. But.. we’re at really different places in our lives. Which is a grossly cliché thing to say, but it’s true. I’m not feeling what I need to feel to be in a relationship with someone.

I have lines again? Yep. A monologue in fact, from my one night only performance of a little theatrical piece called “The First Time I Ever Initiated a Breakup Myself.”

Deliberate, premeditated, perhaps painstakingly planned: I imagine most breakups of this “it’s just not working” sort sound scripted, peppered with vague to blatant clichés. (We’re not a good fit. We want different things. It’s not you, I think you’re great.)

“Uh…last time I checked, you went on half a date with him,” I see you thinking, “Why all the drama? Actresses.“

If only it were that simple (she says, dramatically). Let me catch you up.

Two roads converged on a New  York night and I? I took the one less traveled by.  Yep, I gave my 20 Year Old, Actor, Trader Joe’s Crush a chance. I realized I couldn’t write him off without actually getting to know him- beyond the labels- first. And so that first date we did go bowling. Turned our backs on The Gutter’s nostalgic charm and vintage prices in favor of a typical animated screens, dozens of lanes, non-carding, bowling alley. And had a lot of fun. And I solidly kicked his ass all three games. Which he didn’t seem to hold against me because at the end of the date he made plans to see me again. And I was pleased. He’s my crush after all.

This continued for the next several weeks. A movie here, a meal there, a few long romantic strolls. I met some of his friends. (Surprisingly a huge confidence boost. I never met any of Cute Theatre Boy or Central Park Guy’s friends- truth be told they didn’t have many. Trader Joe’s Crush’s friends showered me with complements. I was called pretty, stunning, witty, adorable, and told I had awesome dimples. All by men who were obviously not trying to get in my pants. Ha, I was “approved”, fun date.) My roommates gave their blessing (“He seems cute, goofy, and super sweet. I like him.”)

We’d only been on a handful of dates when I got terribly sick. Your cliché New York guy (hell, any cliché guy) would respond to such sickness along these lines: “I’m so sorry you’re feeling like shit, but um.. we haven’t dated enough for me to want to see you like that, so…give me a call when you feel better?” Not Trader Joe’s Crush. He took care of me, brought over soup and movies, told me stories- filling my silence when I couldn’t talk, kissed my possibly infectious lips, and cuddled with me when I couldn’t sleep. It was without a doubt the nicest thing a guy has ever done for me. Top 5 nicest things anyone (who’s not my parent) has ever done for me.

Seems like I have a pattern, doesn’t it? Some traumatic health issue befalls me in the early stages of a romance and accelerates the relationship to a place where it really isn’t ready to go yet (I’m talking about my Cute Theatre Boy episode, of course). Was I thinking this? No. This is pure hindsight. I was thinking how nice it was to have a distraction from the intense pain in my throat. Was I thinking about what it must mean that he was being so nice to me? No. I was thinking how safe it feels to have someone share your bed when you are bedridden.

They say in relationships, timing is everything. They are right.

Before I got anywhere near better, he was gone. On vacation to visit family in the sorta-South for 2.5 weeks. Which confines all communication to the phone, very hard when your throat is so inflamed you can’t talk. Every phone call is basically the same on my end, a slow progression: mmhm ouch, still can’t talk;  it’s getting a little better; well my voice still sounds like shit; yeah, still hurts but not too bad?; Yay, I can talk! While he is all talk of Home this, My-Mom’s-New-Kitty’s-So-Cute that, Brothers! Sisters! Nephews! Childhood Friends!

I got to know him a little better in these 2.5 weeks apart. No visa versa. I got to know his entire family knew about me. Got to know that he really missed me and wanted me to know that. Began to suspect we were not on the same page. Didn’t know,  but strongly suspected. Until he came back. Then I knew. Knew he was much more into everything than I was. Realized I didn’t like that. Knew that when I had missed him it was for all the wrong reasons. Began to suspect the end was swift approaching and I would be the one to end it. Didn’t know, but suspected.

Then came Halloween.

(to be continued. It’s taking me forever to finish this entry! But it wont be 2 weeks again, promise!)