From The Streets of New York City

For your viewing and reading pleasure.

 

How Often Do You Go To The Doctor?

I was in the city on Friday for two doctor's appointments. I've been lazy to find local ones, so once a year I go in to see 'the doctors'.

My boyfriend thinks that I'm obsessed with going to the doctor. No, I have a father who was/is neurotic and obsessed with going to the doctor. His thinking is, if you have the insurance, then get your money’s worth. I do have an army of doctors. General practitioner, Gynecologist, Dermatologist, Ophthalmologist, Dentist, and Physical therapist, although that one doesn't really count.

I see the following less frequently but they’re on my speed dial. Urologist, Rheumatologist, plastic surgeon, Orthopedic surgeon, Neurologist, Acupuncturist, thinning hair doctor, and podiatrist. I had a bunionectomy awhile back. Nothing says old jew like a bunion.

I parked my car and walked to the subway, only to see the R train pulling in to the station. I excitedly hopped on. You know why the train was just pulling in? Because it was the downtown train and I needed the uptown. I rode it to 34th, got off, walked over to the uptown platform and marveled at how after so many years, that I could still be getting on the wrong trains.

My yearly check up was first. The nurse called me into the room, told me to pee in a cup (if you’ve been playing at home, you know that I’ve gotten very adept at this (see why) and then that bitch weighed me fully clothed. Are you crazy? She didn't even offer to subtract any pounds for the clothes. I didn't say anything, because I'd already weighed myself that morning, completely naked (I even took my hair clip out) so I knew what the truth was.

And she didn't measure me. I've Pilates'd (sp) my brains out and I’m convinced that I've grown. She left the room so I could get into my paper towel gown (from the waist up) and I laid on the table, waiting for her return.

She came back in and started hooking me up for an EKG test. Man, she ripped that gown open, exposing my supple bosoms, and started sticking patches all over my chest. She totally rushed through it, like she had a train to catch. No sweet talk, nothing.

The rest of the exam was boring. It took all of 10 minutes. So worth the drive in.

Here's a little advice for anyone planning to visit NYC or who lives there. Please don’t walk more than two people across on the sidewalk, when there’s oncoming pedestrians. And if you can, single file that shit up. There were people walking 4 and 5 across. The friggin streets aren't big enough. Please be considerate.

I still don't know how women walk the streets in heels. I'm going to be seeing you in my Pilates classes! http://talkingismybusiness.blogspot.com/2007/09/no-sex-please.html

I have a male gynecologist, and I always wonder how they don’t get excited examining their patients (I know they’re professionals, but they’re also human) especially if a fresh and sexy 20 something, with a rack that rivals any VS model walks into the office. Hell, I'd get excited.

Is it wrong to greet my doctor with a hug? A part of me thinks it is but I don’t know if that’s the uptight part of me, who’s constantly searching for the right and wrong in situations.

I laid on the table, this time naked from the waist down, cooter slightly exposed (those paper towel gowns don’t cover squat) waiting for my doctor to get the hermetically sealed instruments out of their package. Awkward.

The exam commences, and the exam ends. Then he says that he sees a lot of Pilates Instructor's with tight pelvic floors, who have painful sex. Wait. Is he saying I have a tight pelvic floor? Is that bad? But I don’t have painful sex. AHHH! Check please!!!! Stop! I don’t want to talk about sex with you, painful or otherwise! I get it, I’m a Pilates instructor, we’re all about the pelvic floor, tight or otherwise, you’re bonding with me, but please stop talking and let me get dressed.

He finally leaves, but not before we kiss each other good-bye on the cheek, like I do with my girlfriends. I’m so confused.

30 Minutes in New York

One thing goes wrong, and then everything that follows will just suck.

Take my Saturday morning for example. I went down to the parking garage in my apartment building to retrieve my car and it was nowhere to be found. Not only did I call the night before, but I marked down the time I needed it on a ginormous dry erase board set up in the garage, and yet, there I was, waiting. Normally, I wouldn’t care because, let’s face it, where am I going in such a hurry? But on this particular Saturday I had to get to Brooklyn for an eight hour training session, and now my car was buried four deep.

Fifteen minutes later, I hopped in and couldn’t find the keys. Usually they’re on the front tire, driver’s seat or on the floor. Not today. I reiterate, if I wasn’t in a hurry, I would have laughed as I played hide and seek with my car keys, but now I was going to be late and I hate being late. The parking attendant walked towards me. I looked at him helplessly and might’ve shown a little ‘pissed off-ness’. And then my eyes lowered to the front panel above the radio and there was the key. Why? Why play hide and seek with my car key to begin with? Is it too much to ask to be consistent with the key placement? Am I asking for the moon?

I’d planned on a car wash on my way to Brooklyn because when I can’t see out the back window, even I know that it’s time to de-grime. Let’s see; the first warm day in New York in over three months, tourists, the Intrepid and The Circle Line. That just screams crowds, traffic and playing chicken with out-of-towners who feel the need to cross the street whenever the spirit moves them. Traffic lights be damned.

It took another 15 minutes to get to the entrance of the car wash, and when I did, a police officer raced (well, waddled really) across the street, yelling and waving his hands wildly. It seems that all of us dirty car people were blocking an entire lane thus causing a terrific traffic jam. I didn’t know, I couldn’t see out the back of my car.

I pulled into the car wash, where four very eager washing attendants grabbed their vacuum hoses and practically dragged me from the car. I got my ticket and walked inside to the register but not before I found myself behind the slowest walking man on the planet. It’s not like he was aged or anything, he just wanted to do a little window shopping along the row of car accessories. Oh, my god, he was killing me with his sauntering. I had to get out from behind him. He slowed (even more) in front of the Chamois and Little Tree Air Freshener, so I passed him on the right, and sprinted to the cash register.

I got into my clean car, made a U-turn and headed south down to Brooklyn. As I said, it was a gorgeous day and I had to put the top down. At the first red light, the top began its smooth 14 second descent. And then a warning light came on, accompanied by an ear piercing sound, alerting me that the top was unable to complete its descent. I turned around only to see the back glass window cockeyed, and frozen in mid air. Fuck.

Ever since my parent’s bought a bright orange Fiat Spider when I was a kid, I’ve loved convertibles. There’s something about a convertible that makes me feel so very cool and oh, so special. Maybe it’s because you’re out there in the open, blowing in the wind, for all to see. It’s an attention getter, as am I. So when the J walking tourists and stream of cars pointed and snickered at my cockeyed glass, I was hit in the face with a sack of humility, which made me feel incredibly uncool and Special ed like.

I quickly reversed the direction of the top. Oh, great, I broke the car. I pulled off the West side highway into the NY Waterway parking lot on 39th Street to check the damage.

I got out of the car, walked around to the trunk and opened it. There it was. The culprit. An extra large red funnel. I bought it so I could replenish my windshield wiper fluid. There’s a certain amount of pleasure, an instant gratification if you will, pouring the fluid down that funnel, and watching the thingy under the hood fill up. In any case, the funnel was laying where it wasn’t supposed to be. I tossed it aside and I was ready to go, again. I got back in the car and the top was down 14 seconds later.

The only problem now was how to get out of the parking lot. I had parked in the TAXI ONLY lane and was surrounded by cabs. I tried to back up and go around them but the parking lot backs up to the bike path and every time I inched backwards, cyclists and rollerbladers shot me looks that I could feel in my ass. I didn’t see any way out, so I laid on my horn, hoping that a cabbie might take pity on me, and let me out. One did and I was back on the West side highway, but not before running a red light (didn’t see it Officer) and cutting off a Waterway bus in the process.

Several miles later, I was in line at the Battery Tunnel. Lane closed? Are you kidding me? Why is it so difficult to get to Brooklyn this morning? I backed up, avoiding oncoming traffic and passed through an open toll lane. A few hundred feet past the toll plaza, I was stopped at a light underneath the highway overpass. This was a very popular place for those adorable and clean New York City pigeons to perch. As I looked up, eyeing the birds’ underbellies, I was convinced that it was just a matter of time before pigeon poo rained down on my head, and my spanking clean car, or both. I begged for the light to turn green. “Now. Now. Go. Go. C’mon. Now. Go.” The more I begged, the longer it seemed to take the light to change. Finally, green light, no crap, and off I went.

I was about two miles away from my destination and I thought I was home free. Uh, oh, why does the sky look so dark? Are those storm clouds? Oh, fuck it. At the next red light, the top was up and I was back in my metal bubble. Well, that was a relaxing morning. Here’s to the afternoon.

Reading is Fundamental

Saturday, March 7, 2009

I was up early this morning to meet my 9am Pilates client on the upper east side (96th and Lexington to be exact). I hopped on the 6 train and just for the record, getting on the subway during the morning rush hour is like the running of the bulls. You can easily get gorged in the ass if you’re not careful. I sat down across from a boy who must’ve been 11 or 12 years old. He was reading, The Doomsday Conspiracy by Sidney Sheldon, a twisting plot of a worldwide government conspiracy that could lead to the end of the world. I thought it was an odd reading choice for an eleven year old. Not that I know what your average, less than average or above average, eleven year old is reading these days, because I don’t.

What I do know is that Mr. Sheldon created the television masterpieces, Hart to Hart (1979–84) and I Dream of Jeannie (1965-70) The way I see it, Christina Aguilera owes Sidney big time (I’m a Genie in a Bottle-1999) Like she thought of that by herself. Sidney didn’t start writing books until after he turned 50. Whew, I still have several years to crank one out. Okay, so now I’m comparing myself to Sidney Sheldon?!

I couldn’t imagine how an eleven year old boy found his way to Sidney Sheldon, but I admired this pint sized rebel. It reminded me of myself. I stepped out of my fifth grade reading curriculum by studying and memorizing Judy Blume’s, Forever (thanks to my neighbor and Yonkers street gang member, Stacy Dominguez). Forever was the story of Katherine and Michael’s first time having sex. That book was my sex education. God knows my parent’s never sat me down and explained anything. Either they were in denial or hung over. That’s what the World Book Encyclopedia was for.

I underlined the dirty parts in Forever, or what I thought were the dirty parts, and I brought the book to school to share with my friends, because I’m a giver and a sharer. My friends and I gathered on the black top at recess, and being the public speaker that I was (read: attention monger) I read the dirty parts out loud with the confidence of a prepubescent Tracy Lords.

“Then he was on top of me and I felt Ralph, hard, against my thigh.”

In the book, the Michael character named his penis Ralph and ever since then, whenever I hear the name Ralph, I think cock. Ralph Lauren, Cock Lauren. Cock Machio. Cock Waldo Emerson.

“Just when I thought, Oh God…we’re really and truly going to do it, Michael groaned and said, “Oh, no…no…I’m sorry…I’m so sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I came.”

That Judy knew her stuff. My friend Jennifer, okay, that’s a lie. I don’t have a friend Jennifer. I was trying to protect the innocent but it makes me feel like I’m making this shit up. My friend Leslie (sorry Leslie) wanted to borrow the book. The following day in school I was called into the nurse’s office. Leslie, Leslie’s mom, my mom, and the school nurse were all staring at me, as if I’d started a fire in the library. Leslie’s mom was so pissed. She was appalled that her daughter was reading a book about sex. Clearly she hadn’t had a sit down with Leslie either. I was such a smart ass at the time, and thought the whole incident was funny. I’m sure the expression on my face said, “Bite me.”

The nurse looked at me and said, “Forever is inappropriate reading for someone your age.”

I looked at her. “Inappropriate? My parents roll joints before family car trips, and my dad wears Speedos, and carries a man bag. I think we have different definitions of inappropriate.”

They all looked at my mom, waiting for her to say something parental. All she could say was, “I’m just glad she can read.”

After reading Forever I did wonder what my first sexual experience would be like. And when I was two months shy of my 16th birthday, I found out. Scott and I met on a teen tour the summer after sophomore year in high school. The tour was like high school; only we traveled from coast-to-coast in a deluxe bus for 40 days, all under the watchful eyes of a few 18- and 19-year-old counselors. Scott and I fell in love in the back of an ultra-modern, air-conditioned, restroom equipped motor coach.

As soon as we got off the road, and back to our separate high school lives, Scott and I made plans to meet in New York City. We met at Pier 84 to see The Clash and The English Beat in concert. I’ll always be grateful to Scott for introducing me to punk rock. At the time my musical tastes consisted of Broadway musicals and Cher. Who am I kidding. Nothing’s changed. During the song, London Calling, a thunderstorm blew in. I’d just bought a pair of cream colored leather boots (with fringe) a week earlier and they weren’t the least bit broken in, or water proof. Ow.

We strolled (I limped) to Penn Station, and took a train back to Scott’s house on Long Island. I’m pretty sure I knew where this train was headed (wink wink) and I was excited. And where the hell did I tell my parents I was going? As liberal and lax as they were, I don’t think they would’ve been down with my going to my boyfriends’ parents house to get laid for the first time. My ankles were killing me but I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want my new love to think that I whined, even though the pain warranted a whine or four. It definitely warranted a cab.

When we got to his house, we immediately went up to his bedroom (and where the hell were his parents) I took off my boots, and not only were my ankles bleeding (from the hardened leather rubbing against them of course) but my ankle blood had penetrated the leather, and stained the outside of the boot. Classy. And yet, I still kept quiet. I wish I could say that I would never walk in bloody boots again to look good for a man, but I can’t.

I timidly asked for a couple of Band-aids. It’s a miracle I was able to do that much. I didn’t want to cause a fuss, but I thought it would be more humiliating if I’d left a mark on his sheets. When he handed me the Band-aids, he looked at my bleeding ankles concerned.

“Are you okay? What happened?”

I was mortified. “I guess it was from the boots.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

Why? If I knew that...

Then I panicked. I wondered if he’d be turned off by my bloody ankles and wouldn’t want to have sex. That was adorable of me.

We climbed under the black polyester blanket of his twin bed and started making out. All I remember is that it started slow and tender, and then before I knew what was happening, it was over. Seriously, Judy knew her shit. The thing is, I didn’t care. We loved each other, and I knew we’d be doing it again.

I went into the bathroom afterwards to check things out; you know to see if I looked any different, and to see if a Mariachi Band was playing in my vagina. C’mon, I read that first timers can have very dramatic responses and feelings. And yes, I usually believe everything I read. There wasn’t a band but I did find the condom still inside of me. Ah! I wasn’t so sure that that wasn’t supposed to happen because, as I said, my sex education consisted of Judy Blume books. Judy never wrote about this sort of thing happening, so I was at a loss. The only naked body I’d seen up to that point was the redheaded naked girl holding an airplane on the cover of my parent’s Blind Faith album. I still cringe when I see redheaded naked girls.

I didn’t know what to do with the condom. Do I flush it? What if it backs up the toilet? I was so responsible even then. Do I throw it in the trash? What if his mom finds it? I was too embarrassed to ask Scott, so I pulled it out, tied it off, brought it home and hung it upside down in my closet to dry. Then I pressed it in my scrapbook next to my autographed photo of Doug Henning. But because I’m into telling the truth, I left it in the corner of the bathtub and never said a word about it.

I went home the following morning and later that day Scott called. We decided to be mature, de-virginized adults and avoid the elephant in the room. Instead we planned our next rendezvous. Why can’t innocence like that last forever.

On the road again... geographically & professionally

Thursday, February 26, 2009

I was a white girl in a white jacket on the E train to Queens. I was going to catch the Air Train to JFK. Just once I’d like to get on the subway and not see a hot steamy pile of throw up on the floor, and have to shuffle off to Buffalo to avoid stepping in it. Now I’m on the plane headed to Oakland, California to visit my friend. I’m flying JetBlue and I’m about to start my fourth hour of Law & Order: SVU. Life is good.

A few weeks ago I started teaching Pilates... It’s crazy because I don’t know what I’m doing. I started training in October, and I hear myself explaining and instructing but I have no idea if I’m making it up or not. Why do people assume that I know more than I do? I don’t. Trust me. I’m teaching both at a studio in Brooklyn as well as a gym on the upper east side.

I gave one client a private session in her upper west side apartment last week because she said she had her own reformer (Pilates piece of equipment). The reformer was from 1994, and she bought it off of the TV. It looked like a Medieval torture machine; metal against metal, frayed and knotted ropes and a foot bar that was a steel pipe. Oh, goody. When she pulled it out, the look on my face said it all. It was a piece of shit and I didn’t want to work on it.

When she asked me what I thought. I said that her reformer was like the Bronx and the ones that I work on in the studio are like Aruba. What? It just came out. I didn’t even know this woman and here I am talking to her like she was my best friend. She said, “Well, the Bronx isn’t so bad.” I choked on the foot that was lodged in my throat. “Oh, no, yeah, right. I know. My family is from the Bronx.” What a great first impression. I see a bright future ahead.

And the insults continue.

I called another client a load, indirectly of course, while she was laying down on the reformer. I was explaining the springs on the machine, in relation to their resistance, and said, “This is a load.” I was referring to the machine not her. Of course she HAD to be a wee overweight. As it was coming out of my mouth I knew I was going to have to tap dance my way out of it. But the more I talked, the more I sounded like an idiot. I eventually dropped it.

During the session, I said something (one sentence max) in a British accent, just for fun. Sometimes I forget where I am or what I’m doing and act too familiar too soon. We chatted after the session and she said, “You know what it’s like to be creative, being an actress and all.” Huh? How the hell did she know? For a split second I felt like a celebrity. I was sure, or rather hoped, that she’d seen my short film online or my 30 seconds of air time on the Sci-Fi pilot, UFO Hunters. “How did you know that I was a ‘performer’. I still can’t own the title Actor. She said,”Because you did a British accent.” Not for nothing but can’t everyone do a British accent? Whatev.

Another client was a sweet 71 year old woman. I am in no position to work on an overweight, (larger than the load lady) 71 year old. Who the hell do I think I am. I was scared. I stood by the reformer and held my breath as I watched her crawl onto the machine. I didn’t know if she would fit. I kept thinking, what am I going to say if she doesn’t fit and her thighs and waist are hanging off of the sides of the machine? This wasn’t covered in my classes. But she did fit and every time I gave her words of encouragement, she’d say, “God bless you.” Meanwhile, anytime I did something like drop a strap or miscalculate the amount of springs to use, I was all, “Oh, dear lord”, or “Oh, my God.” It’s not quite taking the lord’s name in vain, like if I’d said, “Jesus fucking Christ”, which I sadly enough I often do, but I still felt like I was dissing her religious beliefs.

I knew it was bound to happen but no one can really prepare you for it. And it’s not something that’s covered in class either. One of my client’s had some kind of hoo-hoo odor going on. The thing is, Pilates includes a lot of laying down, and for some movements, legs are spread eagle. It was a first, and I’m hoping it’ll be the last. Clients are also either barefoot, or wearing socks. I’m seeing some of the gnarliest feet this side of the Mississippi. And ladies, please, if you wear work out pants that show your legs, have some compassion and shave. Save the nature girl routine or the European shit for someone else. I saw a woman in one of the group classes at the studio and I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. She had the longest, darkest and fullest armpit hair I had ever seen... and that includes the chimps in the zoo. And while we’re on the subject. I’d prefer it if women spot check before they come see me and pluck that one stray black chin hair... or put it in a scrunchy. I don’t need to be training Foo Man Chu. How can you not see that?

Not only do I have a fear of hurting someone but what happens if I train a male client and they get hard? I’m not tooting my own horn, it’s just that I touch when I work with a client, and, well, what do I do? Do I ignore the hard on? Do I look at the hard on and chuckle knowingly? Or do I run screaming from the room?

Switching gears... good time for a bathroom break.

It’s almost been a year since I’ve cut my hair. I want to see how long it gets but right now the ends feel like the Scarecrow’s ass. I sit at my desk and cut the split ends when I’m supposed to be writing, or studying and space out. I’m thinking that if I keep it up, I’ll eventually give myself a haircut.

I saw a woman in the subway the other day that was dressed to the nine’s. It was an odd visual. If you can afford a Louis Vuitton bag, a Burberry coat and scarf, Chanel ballet flats, bling bling on your fingers and in your ears, and you’re pregnant, why in the name of all things good and holy, are you taking the subway? I have to, but you. I find it hard to believe that you take the subway because you can’t get enough of the march of the city rats and the sweet aroma of eau de ass.

I went to a party at a restaurant Saturday night and met a couple of women writers. One of the women is a sometime dancer/performer and freelance journalist. How come she gets to have both? Hate her. She’s also a published author. Hate her even more. She wrote a book about relationships. I dislike those advice books. Most of the time the women who write them are either in dysfunctional relationships or not in any relationship at all, and I’m supposed to take their advice? The fact is, nobody knows anything about relationships, the opposite sex or what movies will be a hit at the box office. I told one of the women writers that I was working on a nonfiction humor memoir and she asked me what the title was.

“Right now it’s called, An American Broad, Abroad.” She said she liked it, shaking her bobble head approvingly. Another party guest joined us and the topic of book titles came up and bobble head took it upon herself to blurt out my title as, “A Broad Abroad.”

To which I replied, “No, that’s not it. It’s An American Broad Abroad.”

She continued, “Oh, but A Broad Abroad is so much snappier and catchier.”

I sneered at her.

“Okay, whatever. That one works too.”

Who the fuck asked you. Then I made the mistake of asking her if she’d ever been in a book club. I’m always interested to hear how other writer’s work. She literally turned her nose up and rolled her eyes.

“Wow, you didn’t have to turn your nose up.”

“Really, I didn’t think I turned my nose up.”

“Well, when you’re head tilts back and I can see your brain through your nostrils, I’m kind of thinking that your nose is turned up.”

The conversation, if you can call it that, ended with an annoying giggle. Hers, not mine.

Six straight hours of SVU. Not a record but respectable.

Another actor sighting, another asinine encounter averted

Sunday, February 15, 2009

A dear friend of mine told me that by blogging, I had found my forum. If I had a dollar every time I heard that one. She said this to me after reading my first installment, where I attend a party and embarrassment quickly ensues. I whined back, “Oh, great, now I have to leave my apartment to have something to write about.” To which she replied, “Not necessarily.” 

I thought about it and tried to come up with something that I could write about that didn’t entail having to leave my apartment (I don’t need that kind of pressure) or rather, not going to an event, or partaking in some grand activity.

A few minutes later, I wrote her back. “Oh, you mean I could write about how I've spent the last three hours (and two hours last night) scheduling my new Pilates clients into three different calendars, and two different address books?! Can you say OC-fucking D! Or maybe you're referring to the hissy fit that I almost pitched at Chase Bank today because I wasn't getting my way, so I kicked the door like a fucking two year old on my way out. You mean that kind of stuff?”

That being said, I had to leave my apartment yesterday, and I ran into yet another actor while waiting for the Q train, bound for Brooklyn, where I’m currently teacher training for Pilates certification. This is coming off the heels of my embarrassing encounter with the SVU actor. 

Tony Plana, from Ugly Betty, was pacing the subway platform. I was this close to walking up to him, introducing myself, and what? Regaling him with my adorable tale of how I know him? Well, yes, because this sort of thing puffs me up and gently strokes my ego. Hey, look at me, I know famous people?

Instead, I showed restraint and let him pass me by. Just for shits and giggles, let’s pretend I did accost Tony Plana. This is how I imagine the exchange would’ve gone down.

I walked up to Tony Plana and asked him if he was Tony Plana (knowing full well that he was) but I think this approach is less ‘stalky-like’. He said that he was Tony, and I was off. I told him that almost 15 years ago, I worked for a manager in Los Angeles, at an agency that represented him. He asked me who the manager was and when I told him, he smiled knowingly. But before he could say anything, I continued my introduction by telling him that four years ago, I worked for the same manager, at a different company, that currently represents him. I told him it was the last job I had in Los Angeles, before I moved. 

“I know. I couldn’t believe it either. After 20 years in the business, I was answering phones again. I spoke to you and your wife many times.”

He didn’t seem to remember but smiled nonetheless. I continued.

“Yeah, you’d think I would’ve climbed a little farther up the food chain in all of those years, but instead I was calling you with audition times and emailing you your sides. Oh, and sometimes I replenished your headshots in the files, after stapling them to your resumes of course.”

His face took on a, “That’s pathetic” grimace. Of course I could’ve been imagining it. “That job, well, let’s just say that a monkey from one of the shows on The Animal Planet could’ve done it. Blindfolded. But what are you going to do? I was between jobs and Robert offered me the position, so I really had no choice. Oh, and don’t get me started on the pittance that they paid me. I rollerbladed or biked to work, to save on gas money.”

Tony shuffled his feet, trying to end the conversation. I think I was making him nervous.

“Well, I just wanted to say hi and to congratulate you on the success of the show. It’s fun to see people from the old days making it. Hey, you know I grew up with one of your co-stars, Vanessa Williams. Is she down here with you? I’d love to say hello.”

Perfectly Reasonable

Friday, February 13, 2009

Here’s some backstory so the following tale will make sense. Hopefully.

I moved back to New York three years ago from L.A., via Prague (whole other story-stay tuned) moved into a building along the Hudson River, befriended a guy who I met in the elevator on my first night in the building, who then promptly set me up with his friend a month later. 

I dated his friend, who I will now refer to as the man, for over a year and a half. It then took us another 10 months to officially break up. I was (and still might be) in love with the man. Ours was a passionate, loving and in the end, highly charged and loaded relationship. I had never felt this way about anyone. Tragic. Oh, so terribly tragic.

(The why’s and the how’s will follow in the coming months) Since we stopped seeing one another, he has never left my mind nor my heart. And even though, according to family and friends, I should be over him, I’m clearly not.

See below.

I emailed my friend last night (the one from above backstory) about having a Match.com session at his place. This consists of sitting in front of his computer with a bottle of wine, searching for someone that we BOTH like for him to date. And when we do find someone, I help him write funny-ass emails; the likes of which are Nobel worthy, if I do say so myself. It’s a lot easier to take chances when you don’t care if the person responds or not. They’re sarcastic, off the cuff, and pretty out there. I’m not sure if my friend shares my philosophy but he keeps letting me browse with him. 

These days, sadly enough, Match.com, is my prized entertainment. The emails usually illicit crazy, gutturul fits of laughter, that either has me running to the bathroom so I don’t pee my pants or an abdominal work out that rivals any at the gym. Or both.

But on this particular night, my friend couldn't play in the reindeer games because he was going out with the boys. I know the boys could mean any number of boys but I was convinced that one of the boys had to be the man. Oh, crap. Does this mean he’s in the building? In my presence, figuratively speaking. I reeled for a moment or two and in that moment.

I visited jealousy. Was he going to talk to strange women when the boys went out? Was he going to get someone’s number? Envy. I wish I had ‘girls’ to go out with. How come I don’t know enough girls to have a girls night out? And a whole host of other, borderline pyschotic, feelings. So what do I, the supposed grown up, do? I did what any self respecting grown-up woman would do.

I got dressed (it was nine o’clock and I was already in my jammies) and went looking for the boys. I put on lipstick, and gloss, and decided that now was a perfect time to go to the corner drugstore (what am I in Mayberry) to pick up the rest of my meds (shocking I take meds) I’m such a cliche. Meds are so 2001 but whatever. 

I was hoping, of course, that I'd run into the man and yet, I was petrified of the idea. Did I really want to run into him? After all this time, I still don’t think I’d know what to say. Even in my pretend encounters I have with him in my head, I get tongue tied. There was definitely a push-pull thing happening. I wasn't sure what I wanted, but my body was victorious and it pushed me out the door. Oh, and I also put on my super cute jeans and slutty boots, because if I did run into the man, I didn’t want to be in sneakers. They’re too daytime and casual and I wanted to look like I was going ‘out’ and all sexy like. The boots look better with the jeans anyway.

From the time I stepped into the elevator, to the time I reached CVS, my eyes were in constant motion. Looking, seeking, darting, roving. Nothing. I walked into CVS and the pharmacy was closed. Am I in New York or podunk bumfunk?! What’s the point in living in the city that never sleeps if the pharmacy sleeps. Great. Thanks a lot CVS.

I wasn’t ready to go back home, because it was early and there was still a chance that I’d run into the boys. I decided that it was imperative that I go to the food store, a block away from CVS, to get my desperately needed bag of organic raw sugar (I forgot to pick it up when I was at Fairway yesterday) I knew putting it on my list was futile because I'd actually have to look at the list and I never do.

Food Emporium, the dirty hell hole that it is, didn't have my brand. I left dirty little Food Emporium, dejected and well, feeling dirty. I swear, there’s something about that store that makes you want to shower and shed a layer of skin.

On my walk back home, twice my heart nearly leapt into my throat when I thought I saw the man. It’s a good thing I’m over the man eh. I walked slowly, lingering really, thinking that maybe... I didn’t want to look like I was just strolling aimlessly on a Tuesday night (like I was looking for them) just in case I did run into them, so I played with my cell phone, appearing to be engrossed in a very important task. 

While I was at CVS, Verizon was kind enough to text me that I was at 80% capacity in my text inbox. Ironic, no? Perfect. As I walked, I deleted. Now I looked busy and with purpose.

When I got back to the building, I took stock at my behavior and well, I’d like to say that I was embarrassed and went right upstairs. But I can’t. I made a pit stop in the mailroom. What was I expecting to find? What? If the boys were in fact in the building, my friend is going to say to the man, “Hey, dude, I know it’s 9:30p and the bars and women are waiting, but can I get my mail first?” I went into the mailroom and got my mail anyway.

I thought about it, and I was this close to doing it, but I stopped short at going down to the garage to see if I saw the man’s car. That's progress, isn’t it? And then, and only then, did I make my way back upstairs to my apartment, where I took off my slutty boots, super cute jeans, put my jammies back on and did Sudoku before falling asleep.

Music In the Subway Sounds good to me… or does it?

I had an appointment on the upper west side yesterday, (that’s code for therapy), and I got on the wrong subway. I’m not always paying attention, especially when I’m reading a book and thinking about what parent I can blame for what during my therapy session. 

I accidentally got on the E, instead of the C. It didn’t hit me until 53rd and Fifth Avenue, that if I didn’t get off at the next stop, I’d find myself in Queens. I don’t have anything against Queens, even though my ex-husband lives there, I just wasn’t in the mood for another borough.

It wasn’t the first time I got on the wrong train. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be my last. While I zigzagged through the subway labyrinthine, I came across a couple of subway musicians. 

I saw the first one at the Port Authority station where I boarded the E instead of the C. I see this man every time I’m in that subway station and yesterday it dawned on me that each time I see him, he’s singing the same song. To say that his repertoire is grossly limited is a gross understatement.

But it got me thinking about getting myself out there and performing. I’ve got a guitar and I could sing the only song that I know how to play, which is an original that I wrote called, Tom Cruise’s Braces. Sure it’s a bit dated (Tom had braces in 2002) and most people aren’t even aware of this little factoid but if the 42nd St. troubadour can sing his oldie (I believe it was from the Bob Marley collection), then why couldn’t I? 

I fantasized about the exposure that I would get. There must be a million people passing through the subways on any given day. If I could play and draw a crowd around me, it would certainly be a lot cooler than performing for five drunks at open mic night. Why not do a subway gig? I’ve tried everything else to get some desperately needed attention. 

I spend so much time in the subway getting lost, I might as well make a few bucks while I’m down there. My brother once suggested that I sing in the subway. Of course he also suggested that I bring my picture and resume to the ABC offices and, “Just tell them you want to be on television.”

Then again, not everyone wants to hear subway musicians. People are tired, hot, or frost bitten, cursing the subway delays and just want to get home without getting sneezed on by a homeless woman. Or they want to get to their office without being pushed onto the tracks by the rush hour crowds that slowly edge them over the yellow line. 

But most importantly, the majority of the crowd that would be forming around me wouldn’t be inebriated, like they are in the comedy clubs. (pause) Forget it. I’m sticking to above ground establishments. 

The second musician I encountered was at the B train at Rockefeller Station. I listened to the violinist and frankly I could’ve done a better job, and I’ve never even held a violin. All I’m saying is that a little practice goes a long way. Sure you’re playing on a smelly stage, competing with screeching trains in the bowels of New York City, but that’s no excuse for sounding like you just picked up the violin for the first time. It’s a competitive world, even below street level. 

The subway musician Susan Cagle was discovered at Penn Station, after years of practice, and she recently released an album on Sony BMG. She has a song called, Dear Oprah, which she got to sing to Oprah on Oprah. 

This got me thinking again. Maybe I should take my guitar out of its case and sing Tom Cruise’s Braces in the subway. Who knows, maybe I’ll get discovered and then be asked to serenade Tom, Katie and Suri at a party at the Church of Scientology Celebrity Center.

Less Talk, More Walk: Surviving NYC one lesson at a time

A couple of weekends ago I was feeling very anti New York City. Everything and everyone annoyed me. According to the locals, this was normal. The fact that I live at the mouth of the Lincoln Tunnel, surrounded by the calming sounds of jack hammers and cranes, and that I’m often tripping over hordes of tourists sprinting to secure their place on the Circle Line, does not help my mood. Let’s just say that I do not live in an ideal location. 

I’m several long blocks from the nearest subway station, which happens to be the luxurious and fragrant Port Authority bus terminal on the infamous 42nd Street. Just once I’d like to walk to the subway and not have to step over the man with no right foot, who’s sprawled out in the middle of the sidewalk, or inhale an odoriferous bouquet of urine and roasted peanuts. Is that too much to ask? But you say, “That’s the city. It’s gritty and alive”. No. No, it’s not. It’s gross.

My relentless bemoaning of my decision to move back to the Big Apple during this particular weekend drove me into the arms of my loyal and trusted friend, Ms. Laptop. I decided to go to my off-site office, Starwich, a lovely café a couple of blocks from my apartment. They offered free Wi-Fi and everyone knew my name. 

I walked in and saw that every single chair was occupied. It was standing room only. I had never seen it so packed. I threw up my hands and stormed out. Now where? I didn’t know where because there wasn’t anywhere else in my stupid neighborhood to go! I walked around the block and decided on a park along the West Side Highway that had a few tables and a respectable amount of lawn. But as I walked west, the streets became more and more crowded with people (read tourists). I couldn’t deal. I needed real estate that wasn’t occupied by camera toting, Birkenstock wearing (with socks), fanny pack holding, foreigners.

Wait, my building has a sundeck on the third floor that overlooks the Hudson River. That didn’t sound so bad. When I got to the sundeck, I had the whole place to myself. Ahhh. That’s what I wanted, a little piece and quiet away from humanity. I booted up my computer and started creating.

A few minutes later I was interrupted by the sounds of a cheering crowd. I walked over to the edge of the sundeck and saw a sea of pink in the park along the West Side Highway. There must have been hundreds of people wearing pink t-shirts and pink baseball hats. A banner read, “Avon Breast Cancer Walk”. It was the closing ceremonies to the two-day, 39-mile cancer walk. 

I sat back down and as I listened to the President of the organization thank the walkers for their hard work, and tireless efforts, I thought about the bitching session that I had partaken in over the weekend. Bitching! I should’ve been walking! I could’ve bitched while I walked, and then at least I would’ve been doing something productive.

I felt ashamed especially after listening to a few breast cancer survivors tell the throngs of people uplifting and inspirational stories. It felt as if they were speaking directly to me. “Thank you for taking action and not wallowing in self pity like that Dani girl. If we had to wait until she stopped complaining about icky New York City, we might never have walked today, and as a result, wouldn’t have raised enough money to find a cure.” 

The event was over but I wanted to support the women in pink. I wanted to do something in deference to their struggles, so I lay back on my chaise, slipped my hand under my shirt, and gave myself a breast exam on my sundeck. 

Ghosts of Blogging Past

I am linking up with Mommy 2 Cents and Chosen Chaos for a Ghosts of Blogging Past party. All the cool kids will be attending, and they’ll be linking up one of their earliest posts.

 http://www.mommytwocents.com/

Here's mine:



NO MORE SEX
Before anyone reads the title of this article and thinks that I’m refusing sex, let me explain. 

I love sex. I mean I really love sex, and as much as I’d like to write about the sex that I love, I’m actually talking about Sex and the City, the movie, that’s currently filming on the streets of Danitown. Someone apparently asked for this movie because Sex is back.

Sweet baby Jesus people, I do not need nor want to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha, now in their 40’s, and do I dare say it out loud, 50’s, still kvetching about their high class problems, and glorifying women as materialistic, Martini chugging, bed-hopping sex addicts, in Manolo Blahniks. And my feelings have nothing to do with the fact that I don’t know a Blahnik from a Choo. Unless you’re talking about the Beatles song, I am The Walrus, coo coo ca choo.

We had eight seasons, 94 episodes, a jump in Cosmo sales at bars throughout the world, and Kim Catrall’s books, educating novices about sexual intelligence, and the female orgasm. Isn’t that enough? I’m not sure that I see the point in a SATC movie. Then again, I don’t see the point in showering everyday either. 

The movie was supposed to begin filming right after the series ended in 1998, but since the money wasn’t talking, some of the ladies went walking. And I’m embarrassed that I know that.

According to the website I found chronicling the New York City shoot, fans have been chomping at the bit for a SATC movie. Really, because when I logged on, there were only three different postings expressing dire love and devotion for Carrie and the crew. 

There are some set photos of the ladies on the website as well, and from what I can see, the Annie Hall look just might be coming back to haunt us, complete with vest, loose tie and button down shirts.

And the shoe on those bitches? Let me tell you something, I can’t walk outside my building and to the bus stop, a hundred feet away, in anything higher than sneakers, let alone traipsing along Fifth avenue in stilettos. Who does that? It’s not like I wouldn’t want the sexy high end fuck me pumps, but with my bunions, it’s a nice Merrell walking sandal for me. I marvel at the SATC gals and those like them, who are able to clickity clack around New York City without falling and breaking something.

It’s been three years since last we saw our ladies and according to reports, the movie will not be picking up where the series left off in 2004 because of the slight aging of the actresses. Slight aging? I’ll tell you what slight aging has meant to me in the last three years. 

That pesky little thing called gravity is a f’in she-bitch. It attacked me from above and from behind. And just when I thought I’d be able to get away with five simple Botox injections twice a year, my nasolabial fold now needs filling. Note to self: make an appointment with Dr. Gottlieb. But that’s just me. I’m curious to see what slight aging has meant to the gals.

So, do these characters now or have they ever represented a cross section of contemporary women? No. Although in the movie version Jennifer Hudson, a woman of color, will be playing Carrie’s assistant. I hope that she’ll be a singing assistant, because that sista’s got pipes.

The SATC way of life was never my way of life- mainly because the last time I lived in NYC I was in my 20’s. But now that I’ve moved back and I’m in my early 40’s, which is the new 30’s, and in a relationship, maybe, just maybe, I’ll finally be able to relate to the SATC ladies. 

And maybe, just maybe, I will get myself a pair of wood Flaminia brown strap pumps, a black Filth Mart floral print dress, a black Club Monaco saddle bag, and sashay my ass over to the bus stop. A girl can dream.