Reply hazy; try again

I’m constantly seeking out answers to life’s questions.  -- As soon as you read that sentence you may be inclined to believe that I’m some sort of scholarly individual – curious in all the right ways and actively pursuing knowledge to elevate humanity and better myself…like a swami or a rabbi or some other robe-wearing, deep-thinker.  I do love a robe on a Sunday morning as much as the next priest, but if I led you to a conclusion that suggests I have any morally redeemable reasons for my search, I apologize.  My pursuit is much less noble.  In fact, it’s downright selfish. 

I’ve convinced myself that there has to be a justified answer to every conundrum thrown my way, and I'm determined to find it.   However- my methods haven't proven all too results driven. Why am I on a first name basis with ChaCha, yet she writes back a terse, “I’m not sure” when I ask what the hunky Aussie I’ve been seeing means exactly when he says he has to cancel our date for personal reasons?  Google isn’t much better at decoding the psychological tendencies of other friends and family.

For a "what's next??" approach, my horoscope is at times useful; today it says that someone will come into my life looking for an honest opinion and I should express it constructively.  I’ve obviously interpreted this to mean a wealthy stock broker with a soft spot for good literature and a swimmer’s body will come into my life and I should express my interested opinion by jumping him…constructively.

 In times of real turmoil I’ve even turned to tea leaves.  This requires consuming as few leaves as possible while holding the cup in your non-dominant hand as you quiet your mind and focus on the question you’d like clarity on.  Since I have self-diagnosed ADD and a left hand as useful as an amputee’s, I usually bend those rules, cut open the tea bag, and suck down a grande Starbucks China Green as usual while listening to a Justin Timberlake song and pondering what shade of black to wear to happy hour – hoping that I see an angel or a duck at the bottom of my cup before I give up trying to find “blob” in the tea readers’ dictionary. 

My HopStop app tells me where to go, why can’t there be a similar invention that unveils the areas of my life that get me just as lost as the subways do?  I even refuse to believe that the saying “when lightning strikes” is only used metaphorically, and I wouldn’t put it past myself in a moment of desperation to stand outside in an electrical storm with a rod.  I believe in signs, I believe in vibes, I’ve apparently been frying under the California sun for 4 years too many.  Some may find my need-to-know attitude somewhat desperate…but ya know, sometimes you’re just too hurt or too busy or too ashamed to figure things out on your own, and you need a smack from the universe…or a search engine…to hit you with the facts. 

Damsel in Yogurtland

There's an old saying "you don't choose who you love" that I used to find so romantic and whimsical.  Like the second you meet someone you're sucked into an inescapable pink vortex of cuddles and overwhelming emotion; like it's meant to be. But if I've learned one thing in roughly a decade of mistake-ridden romances (starting with my butterflies at the sight of Brendan Brody in the sax section at band rehearsals in middle school and extending to my half-year on again/off again series of romantic misdemeanors with a certain hipster ginger) it's that you can choose.  In fact you should.

Telling yourself you didn't choose this love many times means accepting him for all his wrong-doings.  Lord knows I forgave my beloved Brendan when he made fun of my braces and frizzy hair because I was convinced that my heart had closed the final chapter and there was no rewrite to my middle school melodrama.  And although my mouth is no longer full of metal and I like to think of myself as a savvy woman, I still decide to forgive the men in my life who have used my heart as a soccer ball.  But guess what?  We're not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or Snow White.  We're women who wish our hair looked half as good as those damsels, but we're also women who save ourselves.  We're women who pack 3 suitcases for a long weekend because we need outfit options, who layer 7 toppings on our fat-free fro-yo, and who go through every filter on Instagram before posting.  We can't survive without choices!  So why is love any different?

There are too many options in this world to settle for a relationship that's sub-par or flat or downright disrespectful.  I choose to be happy.  And if love comes along as a perk?  Well then I'll consider giving him a bite of my 8 ounces of self-serve frozen yogurt.

like a lady. a ravenous lady.

Last night I decided to be a grown up and attend an exhibition opening at MoMA.  I was trying, I really was - I even did all the necessary grown up prep-work.  I washed my face in the bathroom sink at work –blotting it dry with paper towels like any normal self-respecting employee, put on my LBD in a stall, applied my red lipstick painstakingly in a Starbucks sugar dispenser, and arrived fashionably late after a rather graphic transition from flats to heels on the subway.  Did I mention I had a date meeting me?  I told the lady at the door my name and she checked me off on her iPad guest list like I was somebody.  I mean...she didn't have to know my dress was from American Eagle clearance rack and I paid for my hair pins in change 15 minutes earlier at the drugstore...I was now among an elite modern art crowd and I was determined to soak it all in.

After teetering into the center of the cavernous lobby on my 5 inch heels, I hit the open bar to wait for my date.  I snacked on bacon strips ravenously....like a lady.  A ravenous lady.  I was hit on by an older Frenchman in real estate while I briefly imagined our life together in a Soho loft with a walk-in closet of bought love.  I quickly realized as I did the math on our age difference that as much as I’d love to be a gold-digger, I don’t have the stomach to take care of my bedpan-clad husband when I’m rounding my 34^th birthday – even if I’m doing it Louboutins.  I cursed morals.  I almost spilled my wine.  I gnawed on another 3 strips of bacon.

The exhibition itself included various portrayals of hamburgers, one in bean bag chair form, and I left the gallery starved for beef and with a deep-seeded desire to fall asleep on a LoveSac. Burgers.  That reminded me! I missed Bob’s Burgers this past Sunday.  I checked Hulu on my phone to see if there was a new episode. I think I sent a snap chat.  I verbally expressed each free floating thought (I blame the smell of modern art in the air) -- and yet my date stuck it out.  I even changed out of my sexy pumps into my grandma flats in the middle of the street…And he still agreed to follow me to a random gastropub in the middle of the worst part of Midtown where I proceeded to order my craved sliders and talk incessantly about nothing at all. 

Living in a city may nudge you closer to cultural experiences, but it’s other pastime is to ensure emotional isolation.  You’ve never felt more alone than when you are smushed against 8.2 million strangers on your way to life. In the meantime you get very up close and personal with yourself.  I’ve embraced this with a vigor, apparently, and I’m slowly morphing into a blatant carnivore as well as the little old lady who hits people with her cane in grocery stores (except I’m not nearly as endearing; I think the identifier for it at my age is “menace to society” or “psycho bitch”).  To top it all off I left one black Calvin Klein pump at the bar a la a very brunette, tipsier Cinderella - for the record it fell out my bag, but in New York it’s not at all uncommon to find yourself en route home on the G train at 3 AM wondering why your barefoot is wet before realizing you lost your sandal 5 blocks and one transfer ago.

Dating is exhausting. Living in the city is absolutely depleting.  Put them together and it’s amazing I can stand.  I’ve come to the conclusion that in all instances, being inexcusably yourself is the only way to avoid going absolutely insane or collapsing from sensory overload.  So I’m going to eat an inappropriate amount of bacon in an art gallery because I’m hungry.  And I really love bacon.  And I’ll sure as hell wear whichever shoes don’t make my toes want to fall off on a date despite the fact they make my legs look like stumps.  And these are things that the 8.2 million people around me are just going to have to deal with.

Sexy Excel

I can personally attest that New York City will make you crazy.  You wonder why there are grown men dressed in overgrown ratty Elmo costumes wandering around Times Square assaulting innocent bystanders with $15 hugs?  You wonder why the man in the handicap seat on your morning commute is always muttering about banana peels and sexy legs?  You ever scratch your head as to why assless chaps and a cowboy hat is a completely acceptable ensemble at most parades and all McDonald’s in the 5 boroughs??  Well I will tell you. 

You too will crack eventually under this city’s constant pressure.  You may not resort to a homeless lifestyle or moonlighting (and daylighting) as Hello Kitty, but little by little you’ll feel its effects.   Here’s a brief list of facts that are slowly leading to my personal demise:

 

1.        Everyone is gay.  Don’t get me wrong…I love all humans- gay straight blue green omnivores or NASCAR fans, but the ladies need some love too.  That well-dressed, perfectly coiffed man you’re desperately trying to make eye contact with on the 7 platform?  He has no interest in your parts, my dear girl. When I first moved to New York I was convinced I had found a utopian wonderland of men and I proceeded to fall in love 8 times a day on average.  Silly, naive me.  Then I noticed that these gorgeous creatures weren’t smiling at me…they were smiling at the dude to my left.  Now I’m sure I’ll never find anyone in this town because all the good men are gay, and all the straight good men I will pass off as gay and miss out on….BECAUSE EVERYONE IS GAY.

2.       Every day you rise out of bed, put on your gross flats, stuff your pretty pumps in your bag and head out to battle.  Getting anywhere in the city is a pain in the ass, but getting to work during rush hour is inhuman.  I use that word purposefully as there are any number of animal metaphors that can be used to describe the stages.  Climbing the stairs to your connecting train like a cow in a cattle chute.  Walking the 5 blocks from Times Square to Herald Square area like a salmon swimming upstream…except instead of fighting a current of water you’re fighting a current of under-caffeinated, late New Yorkers.  I’d take sub-zero water temperatures 7 times out of 10.  You get home at 8 PM wondering, "Where did my energy go???" …well you elbowed 3 finance  guys in the briefcase at a stop light, got gouged in the eye with an oncoming umbrella, was squeezed mercilessly by the closing subway doors (come onnn MTA, would motion sensors kill you?? Because the lack of them is literally killing me), and overall you walked about 3 miles total throughout the day. 

3.       There is always an asshole wearing a backpack standing in front of you on the crowded subway smothering your face.  Coming in at 5’3’, I’ve been besieged by any kind of backpack you can imagine: Patagonia, LL Bean, leather, hipster fabric, Pikachu.  Of course the owner of such a destructive piece of luggage is usually around 6’2” and completely unaware the havoc he’s reeking to my face behind him.  PS- I haven’t worn a backpack since middle school. Unless you’re 12, get a grown up satchel or remove the thing before boarding my G train.

4.       Speaking of backpacks, living in the city means that you are at all times carrying at least half of what you own on you at any given moment while out and about.  I live in Brooklyn.  I work in midtown Manhattan.  These locations might as well be Sri Lanka and Alabama.  There is no quick trip home to grab your gym clothes, and who knows when you might need your toothbrush, 3 types of face wash, rain boots, and a box of Goldfish snack crackers?? They don’t call it the concrete jungle for nothin’, kids.  Come prepared.  Coming prepared means being a human pack mule.   I don’t think I’ve ever walked through my apartment doors at the end of the day with less than 70% of my weight in necessities hanging off my 110 lb. frame.

 

Even just WRITING this entry has exhausted me.  Instead of rounding off the list to a socially acceptable 5 reasons, I’m capping this bitch at 4…because I’m a New Yorker and I really just don’t care.  But ya know something?? I wouldn’t trade this lifestyle for anything.  New York is a concentrated dose of humanity…anything you want to believe about people is on display right outside your stoop.  The good the bad the horrific the questionable smelling – we’ve got it all.  You can keep your well-rested, vanilla life.  I have giant bags under my eyes and the greatest city in the world.

Hypnagogia

I’m drowsy and confused in the early morning light as my brain struggles to piece together where I am and why I’m burning alive and my sheets are turquoise.  I remember it’s my birthday.  I turn to fully take in my human space heater in all his still slumbering mystique.  Sleep separates.  We may be in our most vulnerable state, but sleep creates an impenetrable boundary.  I’m never more aware of my aloneness in this world than when I’m next to a sleeping person; so wholly themselves, but so unreachable to me.  What’s even more isolating is that when those eyes open, the ocean between us won’t close.  As I study his copper hair and large nose and begin to subconsciously memorize the wrinkles in his neck, I realize there’s nothing obviously beautiful about this man.  His physical pieces on their own don’t suggest beauty at all in fact…but I’m taken with him. 

The alarm sounds and I pretend to stir awake in time with him as though I wrote the book on new-lover morning etiquette.   Notice me.  He pulls me to him and I’ve won.  I’m groggy and ready for anything, but his face decidedly presses against my chest and he hugs me like his life depends on breathing me in.  And there we lay until the snooze runs out on his alarm; a far too short eternity during which my feelings suddenly shift.  You know that moment when you fall off a cliff you never saw coming and suddenly you are attached to this half conscious man in your bed.  It was fun, it was light and then suddenly someone inhales and exhales on your sternum and your world is upside down.  It’s such a pity we don’t have more control over these moments- a say in the matter - but the juxtaposition of his selfish sleep and the illusion that he somehow needed me was too much for my easily duped emotions.

None of it matters now, and I’ve moved onto futures of many similar moments with new someones, but these little fleeting events in life that wake you…metaphorically or literally (and in my case both) - they’re so golden.  Even if one giant misinterpretation – it’s so worth it to be reminded that you CAN feel; that things won’t always be just fun and light. That your emotions  (though easily duped) are still a functioning part of you.  You’re human, you’re alive, and you are going to be just fine.

Boob grazes.

Tonight I went clubbing.  And it was awful.  On more than one occasion I had a random Russian man approach to buy me a vodka drink.  I don't actually know if these men were Russian and I'm sure if I had requested tequila they'd have been more than obliging, but in any case I wasn't in the mood to be "accidentally" boob grazed by a stranger as they handed me my skinny marg.  I'm actually never in the mood for a boob graze as it just reminds me how little there is to graze.  I think anyone being honest with themselves would agree that  between "the club" and a dump in North Dakota in February, the club is the bigger wasteland of the two.

Despite the drunk white boys attempting to dance and the $12 cocktails, my evening ended on a positive.  In the cab ride home we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and I experienced that brief interim between Manhattan and Brooklyn. In this limbo over the East River I had the opportunity to look back on the city that never sleeps and rarely forgives, and had an epiphany.  We all have lofty dreams of what our lives could be...and yet for some reason most of us settle for the easiest route.  We let love or love lost or authority or self-doubt control our destiny.  Looking back on Manhattan tonight I realized how much possibility lies behind those lights.  I was reminded of how much I want to do...for myself.  There will always be negative energy and things will go wrong and you'll feel insignificant and powerless against the surge of the city.  But your journey is still important and you have to fight for it because no one else will...not your love or your love lost or the person telling you what's right or your inner voice telling you what's wrong.

Sometimes it takes being in the in-between somewhere above the East River to really see the big picture.  Sometimes the move to the big city isn't the risk.  The real risk lies in what you do once you're there.

time for the sun to finally set, Twilight.

Here with the comfort and anonymity this computer screen affords, I will admit to you all that in a galaxy not so far away known as high school circa 2007, I read the first installment of Twilight.  Not only was I hooked, but in all my 17 year old wisdom, I was convinced that Edward was my soulmate.  Nevermind that he was cold as stone and wanted to suck my blood.  It only made him more appealing.  The uninspired prose egged me on, and I read all 4 books by the time junior prom rolled around with  David Peeler.  Despite being quite dreamy, David's body temperature lingered at a consistent and boring 98.7 degrees.  Fast-forward to present day, and the woman behind this keyboard will look you in the eye and deny any and all Twilight affiliation.  No Twifiliation to speak of here. However, for the purpose of this review, I will whip out my secret Twilight expertise to deliver you a short list of reasons why you should not waste your time with such a dumb set of films.

1.  Kristen Stewart cannot act.  Kristen shows up on set in dire need of a laxative and manages to mug her way through scene after scene.  Sometimes while watching her I actually feel a little plugged up myself.  It infuriates me that this clumsy, talentless chick was welcomed aboard such a lucrative project.  With my thespian background as reindeer number 4 in the 2nd grade Christmas production, I'm very confident in my ability to make out with Robert Pattinson 1,000 times better than she.

2.  They decided to split Breaking Dawn into 2 movies so that you go to the theater for part 1 in 2011 ready for demon baby action, and you spend the $37 on your ticket and nachos and small diet Pepsi and NOTHING HAPPENS in the film.  It's one big Twilight conspiracy to rip off 13 year old screaming girls in Taylor Lautner t-shirts.  ...and the occasional 23 year old sophisticate with the box of wine and Dixie cups tucked in her handbag.

3.  Things get WEIRD in Breaking Dawn.  Kristen Stewart gets knocked up by her vampire husband.  Yes, kids, you TOO can have an evil spawn growing inside you, but just make sure you marry the fictional monster baby-daddy first.  Hello.  It's only ethical.  I haven't seen the latest movies, but in the book she starts bruising from the inside and her soul starts getting like sucked out of her or something.  The whole time you're like bitch, it's time to abort this mission...but then the thing pops out like a little angel.  The morality metaphors are flyin.

4.  Finally, for being such a highly anticipated film for reasons unknown to myself, the graphics are laughable. It's like they forgot to install the latest update to their CGI, made 4 movies and then were like OOOPS!

My advice?  Read the series in a foreign country, on a Kindle, saved under the pseudonym "Moby Dick" so at least you are exercising your literacy and being discreet about getting all hot and bothered by a werewolf.  You're a self-respecting grown up, for God's sake.