Monday, December 8, 2014

Periods

I wrote this last week but am posting it today, because it's still true... 

One of the hardest and least successful things to try to do, is explain or recreate an improv scene to someone who wasn't there when it happened.

However, I'm gonna challenge the odds and do just that.

Seemingly 100 years ago I went to see a friends two man improv set at The Playground theatre in Chicago- their old space-- so small dark and crappy seats for those of you who need a visual. The only thing separating the "stage" from the lobby and flimsy door leading to the street was a curtain. A torn and stained curtain, that I’m pretty sure was taken from someone’s apartment. I got there late and had to stand at the back, which if my memory isn't making things up was a fence covered brick wall. Their set was maybe 15 minutes max. One of the vignettes they did was the scene that I remember easily 10 years later. Both guys were playing women and I don't remember if they were getting ready to go out or had just gotten home but they were summing up their day and my friend's character started crying about what a terrible day she had had. Listing various trivial slights - a run in her stockings, no snacks in the vending machine, lost her favorite lipstick and the culminating offense was "and then I got my period".

The realness and vulnerability that my friend played this turmoil filled women, was so honest that the audience erupted in laughter because they could all relate.


I am having that woman's day today. Nothing major happened - work was frustrating, my dog barked at the mailman, an old man pushed me on the train - but nothing really worth crying over. I'm tired and feeling like NYC is just being a bully and I'd very much like to curl up on the couch with my best friend and eat ranch flavored popcorn lamenting about our periods. 

Wednesday, November 12, 2014

Expiration Dates

My dad used to save sunscreen well past it's "best used by" date. 

My sister and I would give him such a hard time about it, but he just could not understand why he should throw something away when it "was still perfectly good". Not sure SPF 50 is supposed to be yellow and run like the water that comes out of a mustard bottle if you don't shake it before opening it, but his devotion to not being wasteful never wavered.  He kept all of the bottles in a gallon sized zip-loc, and anytime we'd go somewhere sunny he'd pull it out from under the bathroom sink - excited for us to use it.  I'm not positive but I'm pretty sure my mother secretly started swapping out the old with new just so she wouldn't have to smell them. 

I no longer have a leg to stand on in my judgement of him. 


I just found a jam in my refrigerator that expired in june of 2012. Just for reference it is November of 2014. 

Which means that for the last two years and six months, I have been eating expired peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.  

Thanks Pop. 

Friday, November 7, 2014

"The Creep Collection"

I just perused a blog post about how men lash out at women online when they feel they've been slighted.  You can have a look, here.  It is horrifying.  Because it's true.

Now that I'm back among the interweb's romantic match-making I am baffled by how often I find messages like these in my in-box.

I learned in high school how to take a hint.  I learned how to recognize disinterest and I learned how to save face in the face of rejection.  Now maybe I just got rejected more than most during my formative years - (having a look thru my old school photos this is 100% justifiable - especially grades 6,7, 9 and 10.... eeeesh), maybe I was a quick learner, or maybe I figured out that for every guy who wasn't interested in me, there was a guy who was that I wasn't into.  It balances out, I guess.

So now I am forced to wonder why these men have not learned this skill.  Just because I'm dating online doesn't mean I'm desperate.  Just because we answered the same questions the same way doesn't mean we're "destined to be together" or "a perfect match".  I realize that I'm no spring chicken here, but I also still have standards.  I will occasionally respond to an exceptionally sweet or charming or funny messages to say "thanks, but no thanks", but for the most part, when I'm not interested, I just delete them.  It is incredible how many times men who messaged will see that I read their note, looked at their profile and not responded and send me ANOTHER note asking why I didn't reply.

First dick-bag, I sometimes check my profile during the day while I'm working and I don't have time to reply immediately. Second, sometimes I think about my replies for a while to make sure they strike the right tone, so I don't reply right away.  And third, in what world does chastising someones character garner a positive response?

Why do these men not get that?  Why didn't they ever learn how to take a hint?  Get it together idiots or you shall be doomed forever.


Wednesday, October 29, 2014

Horse head

Yesterday I saw a man walking up 5th Avenue with a giant bronze horse head.  Just casually strolling along.  No one even gave him a second look.

In New York, it seems you can literally get away with any kind of non-violent behavior or dress-code, and the local passers by will not even notice.  I actually spent time trying to think of objects that would attract attention if carried on the street, but aside from livestock, I came up short.

Even a camel walking on the street isn't unheard of.  The camels used in the Rockette's Christmas Show are walked every morning at 6am around Rockefeller Center.  That actually happens.  But in NYC? No biggee.

 

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Zombie chase.

I’ve been watching a lot of crime dramas lately.  Really dark, life is ending kind of tv. Considering I don’t read books if a character I like is killed off and I never intentionally see movies that I expect will make me cry, I don’t know why I like these shows, but I can’t get enough.

However, I think my subconscious can.  And has.

I woke up the other morning convinced I needed to prep for a zombie apocalypse. I looked down at my tiny dog – who was snuggled in next to me, and I thought “if the zombies were after me and I was starving, could I kill and eat you to survive?”

Sadly, I’m 98% sure that the answer would be no.

I mean, if the world ends as some of these shows say it will, we are all fucked. 

I am confident in my ability to survive. I’m smart, savvy, fit and a creative thinker. I was the outdoor living skills specialist for three summers in a row.  I can build fire, sleep anywhere and travel light.  I know first-aid, some edible plants and once intentionally went 16 days without a shower.  I could survive without power or technology.

However, my little dog cannot.  She would be my kryptonite.   

Because of the damage to her heart caused by heartworms she got while living on the streets, she doesn’t move very fast. In fact, she might be the slowest four-legged dog I will ever meet. 

Because of her life as a stray, she is terrified of everything.  Lately, that fear manifests itself in barking. Loud quick louder than her size should allow barking.  I appreciate those barks, mostly because when we’re home alone she is quiet as a mouse.  I love that no man will ever enter my apartment unannounced, and no one will ever creep up on me in the street.  But, in a “stay quiet and hidden or you’ll die” scenario – we’d be screwed. 

Also she is hungry all the time.  Like a toddler, she gets very weird and grumpy when it’s time to eat, and there’d be no promise of food in the World After….

My take away from that morning’s musings are two-fold.  One, I need to watch less tv. And two, I need to get a back-pack to carry her in so we can escape on foot.  Zombies be damned, I'm saving my dog.


Friday, October 10, 2014

Names

I went out with a guy last night, whose name was WizzRan.  On his profile he seemed hip and fun and handsome.  We met at this shee-shee bar uptown, where the cocktails are $18 each.

I knew immediately that he and I were not going to work out.  However, I settled in with my  watermelon flavored distilled-milk liquor (super gross btw - but if you're going to charge $18 for a drink then I'm gonna order the most ridiculous one available) and proceeded to get to try to get to know my date.

Curious about his name, I asked him what his parents names were.  Seemingly aghast, his reply was "well, that's a personal question..."

Is it?  To me, that question is totally game and very middle of the road.
"What's the worst thing you've ever done?"
"Tell me about your hopes and dreams."
" How did you lose your virginity?"

Those are personal questions.

However, undeterred I explained to him that having one of the most generic names of all time, I'm always interested in names that are even a little bit different.  That seemed to placate him a little.  He agreed about the boring-ness of my name and said "yeah - well at least your name isn't Jane."

Ha ha. Good one.

My middle name is Jane.

I drank my drink as quickly as possible without vomiting and hopped in a cab to go home.  We will not be seeing each other a second time.

Thursday, September 25, 2014

Tinder

I'm dating again, and I just signed up for Tinder. 

It is the worst slash best dating invention of all time. In my estimation it is essentially the grinder for straight people. A friend calls it her pooping game. And that's exactly what it is - a game. A game I am certain to lose.

Tinder, for my mother's reference is a dating app.  If you see someone you like you swipe right on their profile.  If you don't like them - you swipe left.  If they have swiped right for you, you "match" and can start Tinder-texting.  It is genius and horrible. 

The men who use GGG in their limited profile or who have any other sexual references get an immediate swipe to the left from me. I realize that probably defeats the purpose of the App, but if I'm gonna risk getting syphilis from a one night stand, I sure as hell am not selecting him from a pool of shirtless men making duck faces at themselves in a mirror. Bad enough to know that those men exist and wake up next to one of them - way worse if you have pictorial proof with shady messages back and forth. No, thank you.

Tinder offers such an immediate gratification dating experience that it seems to be impossible to match with anyone you'd a) actually end up meeting in real time or b) finding someone with whom you have anything in common. It’s like a slot machine for questionably eligible bachelors.  You get five photos and a few sentences to sum up the details of "you". Most men just list their height- and all of them lie about it.

I find that I swipe right so rarely that it always surprises me when it happens. I made so many concessions in my last relationship that I have zero desire to start things off in my pretend dating world with someone who is able to offend or disgust or disinterest me in just five pictures and two sentences.

If I don't actually find you attractive in more than half your pictures? Left swipe.
If you don't smile showing teeth? I assume you don't have any teeth at all and swipe to the left.
If you have kids or a cat? Lefty left for you.
If you give off an aura of thinking you're better than everyone? Left.
If you look like you're gonna murder me in a parking lot. Left.
If you have crazy eyes or are short? Left.
If you have a misspelled word in your "bio"? Left.

Who remains then you ask? Sadly, only a few.

However, I have hope that somehow - someway - one of these remaining men will be interesting and together and an actual grown-up (no more baby men for me- those are the worst) and someone who won't kill me in my sleep. That will be really nice. 

In the interim I shall meet up for drinks with strangers and continue to compile my list of hilarious and awkward and uncomfortable stories to last a lifetime.


Friday, September 19, 2014

Music

My college boyfriend lives in Brooklyn now. I say that to help illustrate the kind of person he is. At the time, in school, I would have called him emo- he was artsy, kind of dark and bleak. Today? He's called a hipster. 

He was an English major. He played guitar. He smoked. He had amazing hair and a hardened family life. He was also by far, the most handsome guy I'd ever seen. I was crazy in love with him. We were doomed from the start I think, but that didn't stop us from trying. 

He loved this band called Belle and Sebastian and I hated them. But I loved him, so i did what every 20 year old girl would do and I pretended. I pretended to enjoy that whiney sad for the sake of sad music. Out of all the bands he loved Belle and Sebastian were the most commercial and the least irritating so i glommed onto them with all my might to avoid having to listen to anything else with him. What is the point of music you cannot hum along with? I will never understand. 

This weekend I lost my iPod. Now, it was one of the original Shuffles so it is long past time to get an upgrade- but losing it without and prep-time for replacement sucks. I ordered another, but it won't arrive until tomorrow. So this morning I dug out my ancient mp3 player (that, for the record I saved for this exact "just in case" reason) and went for a run. Listening to music that mattered to me 12 years ago is like running thru a time warp. While I will never be sorry to hear Hootie and the Blowfish - the B+S songs caught me off guard a bit. They shouldn't - its been a lifetime since those songs meant anything to me - but they did none the less. It also doesn't help the mood that I run at 5am - everything is more thought provoking when you're still half asleep. 

I do find it an interesting thought that the music I loved then I still liked this morning. Not all of it- I mean, there's only so many times you can listen to Pink's "get it Started" before you want to leap out a window... But in all the ways that I have grown and matured in the last decade - my taste for what I like in music has stayed the same. Is that a bad thing? I'm not sure. I've clearly always been a little adverse to change so It shouldn't e a surprise that that includes my music. 

I read a book a couple years ago called The Happiness Project and the author said something that I hope to never forget. When trying to find your personal happiness she said "you can choose what you do but you cannot choose what you like to do". 

So no more Belle and Sebastian for me thanks. That ship has sailed- I'll stick with poppy fluff music thank you very much.  And show tunes.  Lots of show tunes. 

Monday, September 15, 2014

Train Privacy

Living in Chicago, I learned the hard lesson that if you don't want someone to sit next to you on a train you have to do one of three things:

1. Be crazy. Openly unabashedly bonkers.
2. Smell. Like feces and vomit and BO all mixed together. Or you can just reek of dehydrated urine. That works too.
3. Cry.

In Chicago no one will intentionally sit near a weeping woman. They give you space. They leave you alone. Once or twice I was offered napkins but mostly they leave you be. In New York, that is not the case. 

I was on the 6 line heading to a show one Friday night, feeling exceptionally down and was actively trying to hide my tears.

I am all about the fashion choice of giant sun glasses. Not only are they really flattering to my long face and big nose, but I love them.

When I moved to the big apple, one of my mothers friends advise me to "always wear sun glasses in the subway. It will save you from making eye contacts with the pimps". While that is also true it is a story for another day.

On this night, I was wearing them for privacy - not fashion.  So here I was crying behind my giant shades on a crowded rush hour subway car and some dear old man gets up in my face to ask if I'm okay. 

Of course my initial reaction is to say yes, I'm fine. But I'm not fine. I'm ugly crying on a 6 train. But lovely old man, what are you gonna do about it?  Just let me cry in peace. 

I miss Chicago.