Even the New York Times Misses

 

For medicinal purposes

 

 

There are creative people and then there are those touched people that come up with ideas like “Blanche Survives Katrina in a FEMA Trailer Named Desire”. I mean, seriously. I was lucky enough to see a very early reading of this show almost two years ago. Two weeks ago, it opened off-Broadway at the Soho Playhouse. 

Check out my hard-hitting interview and go see this show. Now.

Shout Out to Ciaran Tully

I came across the I Love You Van on a freezing Saturday afternoon. Wandering aimlessly, crying, steaming up my glasses with the knowledge that, in that moment, calling anyone or doing anything wasn’t going to help. Sometimes it’s just about you and God. And, my thought is always, pay now or pay later, but those tears are coming out.  Be it now, in 20 years or in your next lifetime, they’re coming. So, I wandered and cried, restraining myself from hopping on the 4 train and heading down to No. 6 Store (my new favorite shop) to buy the black shearling clogs I’d been obsessively obsessing over (I caved the next day. No regrets.) I shuffled through Union Square– and there she was: the van, in all her glory. I immediately had the overwhelming sense that God had graffitied this van just for me– and that a lovely Irishman called Ciaran Tully had brilliantly captured God’s tag. I love you.

Heartache. Pork chops. It’s all the same.

I feel like a butter-flied pork chop. Split open. On display. That’s what going through a break-up feels like. Just how long is it appropriate to say: “I’m going through a break-up”? On one hand, the actual break-up doesn’t technically take very long. Ultimately there’s one final conversation from which that conclusion is drawn. A specific moment from whence you agree to no longer call yourself boyfriend/girlfriend, husband/wife, health-care plan partner, whatever.  Perhaps “going through a break-up” more accurately describes the time leading up to the culmination of things. The mounting events– the unraveling of dishonesties, disagreeable indiscretions, irreconcilable conflict, contentious truths– those are the things break-ups are made of. Though somehow, “going through a break-up” is more frequently used for what might better be described as the wreckage. The aftermath. That categorical soul shredding, gut-wrenching pain produced only by the process of separation. Mourning. Anger. Remorse. Doubt. Then comes the aching for that fantasy with the ending you wanted. Until the rude reminder that it was the death of that very fantasy that got you here in the first place. This of course leads to freedom, the kind born of accepting reality, and the grace and dignity that comes from letting someone be exactly who they are. Empowerment. Peace. Hope. And then, no joke– You’ve Got to Hide Your Love begins to fall from the ceiling, filling your entire being, spinning your insides up and out. And you think, “Fuck freedom and grace. I want the fantasy back.” The Beatles won’t relent. And through a radiant veil of snot and hot tears, you look Leon the barista dead in the eye, and without apology, order a grande soy chai tea misto with two teabags– and extra soy, please. Open. Splayed. Guts out in all their glory. A butter-flied pork chop I tell you. 

Correction.

On occasion I’m wrong, and on even further occasion, I’ll admit it.  While I was seemingly on point with the season’s top trend in Halloween costumes, my assertion that bumble bees were not, or could not, be sexy, was in fact very wrong as evidenced below. So popular was this trend that (in addition to the 10 plus sexy bees I saw in a brief 15 minute period on 14th street between 5th & 6th Avenues) I saw an unsuspecting and equally undeserving terrier dressed as a bee (not that sexy). Unfortunately, I was unable to digitally capture aforementioned victim. Enjoy.

No Thanks on the Pumpkin Latte

Ahhh. All Hallows Eve- one of my very favorite days, second only to the real deal. I’ll admit, Halloween brings out the curmudgeonly battle ax in me. I’ve never been particularly fond of the day. Surprising, since my mom really hated Halloween. The root of her aversion? Something about refined sugar, corn syrup and the rousing of evil spirits.

My reasons for hating the tacky celebration date back to October 1980. I was in Kindergarten at Woods Road School. As part of the festivities, the school presented a big glass jar filled with jelly beans. We ventured guesses. The prize? An enormous pumpkin with a spectacularly wondrous Halloween scene painted on it. Yep, I was the winner. Somehow I nailed the number. I get home with my giant pumpkin and set it proudly on the front porch. What’s not to love about Halloween?! Candy, costumes, trick-or-treat! On a Saturday no less. The next morning I’m fired up, I suit up to collect my candy, not even the rain can’t get me down. But the sight of my beautiful pumpkin prize smashed to a million pieces, guts and seeds and string and all, splattered all over the street, the rain, washing the painting down Camden Road can.

I know kid, dry your eyes. And, I did, but the following years weren’t much of an improvement. Every October 31st my brother and sisters and I feverishly collected candy, got home, laboriously divvied it up while shoving as much into our little mouths as possible. The next morning we were asked to select a few top choices and the rest was sent to the office with dad. (note to Mom: If you’re reading, I’m sure you’re feeling bad about now. I’ve 100 percent, for sure, worked this shit out in therapy. This is purely for the purposes of entertainment).

Without the help of a sewing machine costumes were tough. Average household items yield the following:

1. A Hobo (like we’d ever seen a hobo in 1980’s Central New Jersey)
2. A Flamenco dancing duck (Recycled dance recital costumes DO NOT COUNT)
3. A “baseball” player (my own Sergio Valente jeans, Jamie Machut’s Phillie’s cap, my brother’s baseball bat, and a white t-shirt, which I decorated with magic markers. There is a team called “The Hawks”, right?)
4. Punk rocker (Halloween ‘85. Greatest day of my 5th grade life.)
5. A lumber jack (The perfect costume for a high school senior who is WAY beyond wanting to dress up but needs to a party at Corey Sibal’s house on a school night. And who doesn’t look cute in a flannel shirt?)

You get the idea. In college, one year I was the third member of the teenage rap duo, Kris Kross. Another, I was recently informed, I went as a housewife in a Germinsky classic– a bathrobe and a broom. Fortunately, I was in a blackout.

Personal tragedy aside, Halloween is just a hyped-up excuse to get wasted and be slutty. Do we really need costumes for that? I’m not saying I’m above it. One year I was a sexy pregnant battered wife. See, it is a classless holiday. All I’m saying is, it’s gotten out of hand. I get it- the slutty nurse, the slutty parole officer, slutty Sandy from Grease (Hello? Who wouldn’t want to look like she does on the Shake Shack?). There’s the so obvious it might be original again sexy French maid, sexy Sarah Palin, not just in her government-issued business suit or Miss Alaska sash, but in camo hot pants toting an AK 47. Hey, and I love a slutty cab driver and give me a sexy pirate, but I draw the line at sexy bumble bee? A sexy bumble bee?! Has it really come to that? Could we please leave the bees for the children? Frankly, I can’t decide which is worse. Horny bee girl or a middle-aged overweight woman in a homemade bee costume made of black tights (unfortunately not really opaque), a black turtleneck with yellow construction paper stripes, and a headband with bobbling pipecleaners walking to her office down 57th street. Let’s just agree that if no one is monitoring your candy or booze intake these days, there’s really no good reason for you to be in costume.

This Is Exactly What I Was Afraid Of

I knew this was going to happen. One. Two. Thirty days would pass and I wouldn’t be able to start again. #37 on my endless list of reasons why I never wanted to blog. It’s just like when you owe someone a phone call, and for whatever reason, you can’t seem to pick up the damn phone. Time passes and the thought of calling only becomes more insurmountable. Well, this joyful outlet for uncensored creativity is no different.

The pressure builds. Too much time passes. What will I say? That I still intensely and with unwavering dedication hate Sarah Palin? Sure, I could let everyone know that, but I’m fairly certain I clearly communicate that in even my most casual conversations. OK, we can talk about that toxic liar if you want. I could let you know that, shockingly, I have no problem with her $150,000 wardrobe. Not exactly my taste, but I don’t take issue with it. Who cares? Frankly, it’s wildly sexist to even question the whole thing. Has anyone in the history of American politics questioned a man about his wardrobe? “Oh, excuse me Mr. Mondale, who are you wearing this evening?” Yeah, I didn’t think so. I’ll also tell you, that if I’m ever headed to the world stage (for what reason I don’t know), it’s not going to be in a Walmart black label pantsuit. However, I do take issue with the sudden reactionary wardrobe change. While admittedly super shallow, I have but one complaint– that consignment jacket is ugs.

Well, thank you, you sassy Maverick for helping me break my blogging dry spell.

Gimme Gimme

The truth is, I’m always looking to get mine. Not a pretty thing to admit but its true. My little mind is always operating. What’s in it for me? Is there enough for me? Why does she have the bigger piece of pizza? When will I get this? When will I get that? Oh, I’m so happy for you, but what about me?!!

I realized this ugly bit of humanness about a year ago. My brother was telling me about a mutual friend’s recent engagement. As he’s telling me, I watch my mind wander: Will she be moving in with her fiancé? Because, if so, maybe I can rent (at an obscenely gauche rate) her nice 2-bedroom family-owned apartment on Park and 70-something…. What?!! I awake to the absurdity of my reverie and laugh at the silly notion of me (a friend slash acquaintance) renting her family’s apartment on the UES. Slowly my mind returns to the congratulations in order.

So, in yet another act of selfishness, I’m taking the 29-day Giving Challenge. 29 gifts Why? Because I want more gratitude.

I stumbled across the 29-day site looking for work on Craigslist. There was an ad asking for personal essay submissions. Now, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong at all with finding work, wanting to get ahead in the world, make a name for yourself, buy a country house and amass more cashmere, for these are all things to which I aspire. However, sometimes my aspirations get in the way, bog me down. In fact, my aspirations likely keep me from actually getting more, because somehow more is never enough.

So in the spirit of “If you want more, desire less”, I’m going to focus on giving for the next 29 days and see what happens. Can I forget about myself for 45 seconds? I know I give in many ways on daily basis but for 29 days I’m going to really give with intent and get creative in the ways I give. I’m even going to try to give away something I feel like I can’t live without. Sounds great in theory- will be another thing leaving my sticky little mitts. Cami Walker founder of 29 gifts is asking for 2000 people to accept the challenge by midnight tonight, should you care to join. 

I’m Hot For Campbell Brown

Because she’s kicking serious ass.

And Katie, Bravo! Was Palin even speaking English?? You get a free pass for life.

And, Tea Leoni, for a hilarious performance in ‘Ghost Town’, aging gracefully, and well, she could probably use a little love right about now.

I’m still not sure if this blog is going to take some specific direction, but I’m totally into recognizing women actually worthy of recognition – not just those little role models who “forget” to wear underwear then get into a car with their legs wide open…

Hey! I Don’t Have to Play This Game Anymore

That’s exactly what I said to myself as I slithered (as best one can slither across wall-to-wall carpeting) from a purple foam square with a drum set on it to a red triangle piece of foam with a monkey on it. Sitting safely on the monkey’s face, I wait for the next set of instructions from the electronic lady’s voice, “Hop to a…. tangerine!”, she says. Determined to win the game, the name of which I do not know, I’m guessing it’s something like “Hopapalooza”, I make my move. Mid-air I see that my opponent, my boyfriend’s sweet 3 year old nephew, is leaping toward the same space. Fine. You win.

I spent last weekend with lots of kids – all under the age of 5 and none of them mine own. I don’t have any kids but I’m at an age where pregnancy doesn’t exactly ignite scandal. When I was younger I certainly imagined I’d be a mom by now. And, until 6 months ago, the thought of my aging eggs brought me to a sweaty shallow-breathed panic. Then one day it hit me: I’m not ready to have kids. I’d never really asked myself that. So what if I thought I was supposed to by now? So what if I’m an East Coast statistic? A modern day cliche?! There’s nothing I can do, I’m just not ready.

The truth is, I’m selfish. I like doing what I want when I want to. Sometimes I like to do that by myself or with my girlfriends or at midnight or without pants on or at the spur of the moment or on Sunday, around noon. No, not sex. WHATEVER I WANT. And, word on the street is, once you have a kid, your life is no longer yours. I don’t believe that’s entirely true but you can’t just hop on the ferry to Fire Island or have a phone conversation without playing “Let’s Make a Deal”. But that’s OK too, because honestly, how often have I ‘hopped’ on a ferry at a moments notice? Exactly zero times. Nonetheless, I’d like to keep my options open.

I have an amazing full life right now. And I love that after a weekend full of kids and games and crying and bargaining and screaming and snot and dirt, I can go home, sit on my couch, eat Caramel Cone ice cream out of the container and watch Mad Men (the 2nd best TV show of all time). When I go to bed and take a moment to enjoy the absolute silence because I know that one day, probably sooner than later, I’m not going to sleep through the night after playing countless rounds of Hopapalooza and watching Dora the Explorer. Can someone please explain to me Dora the Explorer?

So for all the women out there in a so-called panic, ask yourselves right now, what doyou really want? Not what you think you should want or what your grandmother wants or the 12 year old version of yourself. Right now. Maybe you’ll find out that you’re not ready and that you actually enjoy your life just the way it is. You’re freaking out for no reason, so enjoy your freedom. But if you do want kids right now, you should seriously get to work on getting knocked up cuz times a tickin’.

In Loving Memory

It’s been 1 year since I’ve smoked. 365 days without a cigarette. Today is nothing short of a miracle. I was a real smoker- a serious wild dirty disgusting sexy smoker. If I could’ve eaten cigarettes, I would have. I love to smoke.

I thought I’d never quit. Of course, it doesn’t start out that way. You think you can quit. Whenever you want. You come home reeking of cigarettes on a Sunday after working the day shift at the local I-Hop. Your Dad tells you, “You’ll be sorry one day.” You tell him not to worry because you just smoke on break, that you’re not addicted; you can quit anytime you want. You tell him that not because you’re lying but because you actually believe it. You really think you can quit. Whenever you want. You can’t fathom that another 17 years will pass before you can put those sticks down for good.

The first time I ever really tried to quit was from November 7th 2005 until sometime in the middle of May 2006. During that time I had 2 minor offenses: A few drags of a Marlboro Red and contemplating a pack of Phillie Cigarellos, which by the grace of God, or the disapproving look on the CVS clerk’s face, I didn’t buy. Obviously, I started smoking over a guy.

Said, guy, my boyfriend and the inspiration behind my relapse is also a smoker, but of the weirdo variety that can smoke 1 cigarette a day. This is truly of no real interest to me but I decide I’m going to be like him (and its better than not smoking at all). I too, will enjoy 1 American Spirit cigarette in the evening like a dignified smoker.

So, I don’t smoke all day. And it sucks. I want to smoke. I just want the whole day to be over, whatever I’m doing, I want it to end so I can get home and smoke. I just want to be alone and smoke. Well aware of my pitiable willpower, I decide only to purchase cigarettes within one block of my apartment. I arrive at home; nothing dignified follows. The door flies open, I throw my things down, tear open the cellophane and run to the bathroom before I pee in my pants. I light up on the way. Ah, yes, smoking on the toilet. It really doesn’t get more dignified than that. The great thing about American Spirits is that they take about 25 minutes to smoke. I make it to the couch and finish my 1 cigarette. Well, that was nice. I smoke 9 more and go to bed.

I continue this routine for a while, telling everyone I’m smoking like 1 or 2 a day, just like my boyfriend. But the truth was, I’d become the worst kind of smoker – a closet smoker. And, since I’d rather die than be a closet smoker, I revert to smoking like I used to – all the time and everywhere for everyone to see.

But this time around it’s no fun. I feel like I’m 87 years old every morning. Peter Jennings. I develop a smoker’s cough. How cliché. My boyfriend starts calling me Smokey. Peter Jennings. My skin is a new shade of grey. The hacking. Peter Jennings. If I live long enough I’ll eventually have thousands of hideous little lines around my mouth. I can’t clear my throat. Something’s got to give.

I get a prescription for Wellbutrin to help me quit but I completely fail to cut back or follow any of the instructions. I just keep on smoking. They taste dreadful and I’m no longer getting the desired effects. I still smoke. I’m an addict- Strep throat, FAA regulations, stage 4 cancer will not deter me.

And then, exactly one year ago today, my friend Molly and I went to a party for the premiere of Gossip Girl. (Brilliant show. Terrible party.) We do a quick lap and decide we’ll likely have more fun at the Village Den diner. And we did, we had a lovely time. I think I had chicken rice soup and toast. And Molly was wearing a beautiful pale blue scarf. We talked and laughed. We left the restaurant and I immediately lit up the lone cigarette its the pack. We walked home and I smoked my last cigarette. Just like that.