11: 45 AM Two European-looking guys with large suitcases also waiting (or loitering) give me hope. “Looks like their waiting for the bus too,” says my father. I see the same trepidation in their eyes, confirmed when one approaches me, “You waiting for the bus to LA?” he asks, in an Italian accent. “Yep.” I reply. “Where is it? It should be here, no?” “I don’t know any more than you, sorry. We still have 15 minutes before it’s scheduled to arrive.” He retreats impatiently. Still, I am comforted by his presence. At the very least, I’m not the only idiot who buys cheap bus tickets online.

11:50 AM “I keep them at bay,” my father says, gesturing wildly freely with his cane. “Dad! You’re going to hit someone with that thing!” I admonish. My father had not planned on waiting with me. Yet I’m glad he is. His cane only adds to the eccentric-crotchety-old-man look he’s been rocking since about the time I left for college. A street corner in downtown San Francisco, it goes without saying that it is crawling with characters: drifters, possible junkies, bums. Honestly, I’m scarred for life: when I was 15 I had a homeless man grab my face and kiss my forehead. Nobody tries that when your daddy’s standing next to you.

11:55 AM A small crowd of people with suitcases has gathered in front of Carl’s Junior. Some of them look bored, and seeing no hint of worry as I glance at their faces, I deduce they’ve done this before. So the bus must be coming, but where is it? My phone buzzes. It’s my mother telling me she has an errand to run for work in the neighborhood I am in! Coincidence? I think not. Someone misses me already. She’s biking over (my family doesn’t own a car), should be 10 minutes. That’s five minutes after my bus’ ETA. It’s a race between bike and bus.

12 PM On the dot, Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” blasts through the air, music carrying to all corners of the intersection. In the plaza across the street, a group of 25 people dressed all in black begin a choreographed dance routine. It’s a flash mob. A homeless man routing through the trashcan next to me tries to sing along. The sun peaks through the morning fog, completing the scene. I grin. This is San Francisco. What a perfect way to spend my last moments in my beloved hometown.

12:05 PM My mother pulls up on her bicycle. She beats the bus, but only by about 90 seconds. This five minutes is a blur. Hugs, worrying about my mother leaving her bike unattended, kisses, getting my suitcase on the bus,  good-byes.

12:10 PM I’m on the bus. It pulls away from Carl’s Junior and I’m speeding away from my family, away from the city that will always have part of my heart.

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I just spent several weeks in the city by the bay, the city of my youth. I don’t see myself moving back there anytime soon, but San Francisco is my first love. Before New York, there was San Francisco.

This is the start of the new series: “New York Cliché as San Francisco Cliché”. Stay tuned!

It’s time to announce the winners of my V-Day give-away!

Runner up is Larissa from Papa is a Preacher and the grand prize winner…. Adelaide from Oui, Je Suis!

Congrats ladies! Email me your mailing address and I will get your goodies in the mail. (newyorkcliche@yahoo.com)

THANK YOU to all who entered and to everyone who stops by newyorkcliche.com!

This New York cliché photo-op pretty much sums up my feelings for you all ♥

]]> http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/02/19/v-day-give-away-winner/feed/ 0 newyorkcliche Love http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/02/14/3-men-bought-me-flowers-a-v-day-give-away/ http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/02/14/3-men-bought-me-flowers-a-v-day-give-away/#comments Wed, 15 Feb 2012 00:44:31 +0000 newyorkcliche http://newyorkcliche.com/?p=1828 ]]> I can count on one hand the number of times men have bought me flowers. (No, one of them is not my father.)

1. Cute Theatre Boy bought me flowers. They were a thank-you for doing him a favor. He had to run to an audition but his laundry was still soggy in the drier at the laundromat. I am an awesome girlfriend and told him I would take care of it. He returned to folded laundry and handed me a bouquet of orchids, the kind that sit in blue water so the petals turn blue. “I didn’t know what kind of flowers you’d like, so I bought you my favorite.” This is not the right thing to say to the woman who just folded your t-shirts. She wants to hear, “I got these because they reminded me of you” or “because I thought you’d like them” or “because they’re so fun and colorful, like you”. Perhaps this is why men never get me flowers, but is it too much to ask that you get me something you think I would like instead of something you like? Perhaps my lack of enthusiasm is why he dumped me before those orchids had even wilted.

2. A blind date brought me a single red rose once. It was sweet but by the end of the date, my favorite thing about him was that he bought me a rose and dinner. There was no chemistry. No chemistry and the fact that he ordered lobster, didn’t know how to eat it, didn’t ask for help, and ended up wasting an unforgivable amount of precious lobster meat: these are deal breakers. I walked home from that date and left his rose on a picnic table in Lincoln Square. I hope someone picked it up and it made their night a little brighter.

3. My friend George bought me a pink rose once. The man was smitten/lusted after me for the nearly two years we did theater together. Normally I would never have agreed to meeting him for a drink, but I had heard he was dating a mutual friend of ours. I thought we could finally have a friendly drink, catch up, and maybe I’d get some good gossip. I walked in the bar and he greeted me with a rose. The rest of the night he tried to get me drunk, only succeeding at this endeavor for himself. Completely hammered, he told me how he wanted our mutual friend to be his girlfriend but she was not interested in being exclusive. It became painfully obvious I was his attempt to not be exclusive either. Apparently pink roses mean “I wanna get with you to prove to the girl that I really like that I don’t really like her.”

♥

Today is Valentine’s Day. From all my experience, I know I can’t count on men to buy me flowers. But what do I spend every Valentine’s Day hoping for? A man who will buy me flowers. So what’s a single gal to do? Get productive? Join several online dating sites? Try speed dating? Ask everyone I know to set me up with eligible bachelors?

Too much margin for error. I bought myself flowers this Valentine’s Day. They are lovely pink spray roses. They suit me perfectly. I’m a spray rose kind of girl: quirky, cute, not perfect or artificially colored, and nice smelling. It was not the Best Valentine’s Day of the Millennium, but it was a good day.

Instead of kissing someone this Valentine’s Day, I spent my day giving people free lipstick. I promoted Covergirl today, and guess what that means? I got free stuff! You know what that means! Valentine’s Day giveaway!

One grand prize winner will receive every thing pictured (except the roses, someone who loves me very much got those for ME): a black canvas bag, “liquiline blast” eyeliner pencil, “lashblast 24HR” mascara in black, “intense shadowblast” eyeshadow, “eyeenhancers” eyeshadow in “golden sunrise”, “lip perfection” lipstick in “delish” “euphoria” and “spellbound”. One other winner will receive the “euphoria” lipstick and “lastblast” mascara.

To enter please follow this blog in some fashion (like on Facebook, follow on Twitter, subscribe via email/Wordpress) leave a comment on this post about a time you received flowers. Winner will be announced on Sunday February 19th; you have until that announcement to enter!

♥

Good Luck & Happy Valentine‘s Day!

Too bad it’s difficult to capture on film, especially with 12 Megapixels, but that doesn’t stop me from trying.

This was my walk home the other night. The moon was my escort and accompanied me to my door. I needed companionship and strangely, the glow of a celestial orb 240,000 miles away was preferable to punching in numbers on my phone and getting a friend’s voice mail.

Last night I saw “How I Learned to Drive” at Second Stage Theatre. It’s a play I read nearly three years ago when I was commuting 2+ hours and thus reading a play a day. That summer I attempted to read all Pulitzer Prize winning plays. “How I Learned to Drive” received the honor in 1998, especially remarkable as one of the few winning plays written by a woman (yeah Paula Vogel!)  When I saw the play in Second Stage’s 2011-2012 Season, I knew I wanted to see it. I remembered the plot, more or less.  I remembered it being extremely captivating and well crafted. I remembered the two main characters and their monstrously complex relationship. I certainly remembered the theme: plays involving pedophilia are hard to forget.

On paper (on screen?), it appears I remembered a lot. In my mind I thought I remembered a lot. In reality, sitting by myself is the darkened theater and watching the actors on stage, I was surprised by how much I’d forgotten. I forgot the structure of the play, a series of childhood memories. I forgot the jarring, uncomfortable finale that had the woman seated next gasping and clutching her blouse. Only after watching it did I remember visceral feeling I’d felt from simply reading the play. Needless to say, that same feeling was exponentially magnified after seeing the play.

I left the theater in a daze. My throat was closed up, my stomach in knots, I felt emotionally spent. This is why I love theater. It is the rare performance that has a full-body affect on me, lingering sometimes for hours. When that happens it is utter magic.  Now there are different kinds of magic, as any reader of Harry Potter (or any fantasy book really) knows. When the curtain closes and your mind feels like it’s been rung out like a wet towel, it is decidedly of theVoldermort/black magic variety.

Norbert Leo Butz and Elizabeth Reaser give wonderfully believable and nuanced performances. Kate Whoriskey directs this stylized Off-Broadway play with the perfect balance of nostalgia and brash realism. It is the strength of production that left my out on the street feeling as though I was the witness of a traumatic event. I would highly recommend this play (so does the Times review) but with a disclaimer: DO NOT SEE IT ALONE. It is an unlikely mistake, as few people go to the theater alone. However I am one of those few people; I usually like seeing plays and movies by myself. But “How I Learned to Drive” is a play you will need and want to talk about at its conclusion. I lagged behind, eavesdropping on the fellow audience members conversations, hoping for closure. It wasn’t enough. Writing this post about does the trick, but if you see this play send me a message or comment.

I walked home in my theater-agitated state, taking solace in the moon. White magic, ”Order of the Phoenix” magic. The man in the moon, like most men in my life, comes and goes. He disappears for days at a time but he’s never gone for long. You can always count on the moon.

It’s Fashion Week in my neighborhood. That circus is back in town, along with the thrill of knowing a concentration of crazy famous people is just two blocks away. The constant buzz of excitement, and literal buzz from the generators heard all along Amsterdam. I captured this picture of the moon over the tents and the back, less glamorous side, of Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week. As I pressed the button to capture the image, I heard someone shout my name. It was my roommate. Together the three of us- me, Miranda, and the moon- walked the final two blocks home.

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How about you? Have you ever seen a play or movie that completely affected you mental state? Any mutual moon-lovers out there?

“30 before 30,” he says earnestly, “That’s the goal.”

I look at him in disbelief, “Oh really?” I laugh.

“Yep,” he sighs, “But it’s looking like that’s not going to happen,” he says and makes a heart wrenching sad-face. Walter is a master of making faces. If we were sitting at a bar in ancient Greece, sculptors and mask creators would swarm us, all hoping to model their art from Walter’s visage. Alas, it is 2012. Thus Walter is an actor/bartender, like nearly everyone at this bar.

I grab his shoulders, look him in the eye. My face the picture of (faux) sincerity, “Don’t you say that, buddy!” I mock, my voice laden with sarcasm, “You can do anything if you put your mind to it! I believe in you.”

I’m usually an incredibly supportive friend, I swear.

◊

It is a blogging cliché, a meme you have likely seen bogging down the blogosphere or your Facebook wall:

30 before 30!

1. Give up soda to fit back into high school jeans and run a marathon while wearing them

2. Explore Africa and get a to-scale tattoo mapping out travel route on ass (butt crack = the Nile)

3. Learn French and read the complete works of Shakespeare in French translation (Être ou ne pas être, c’est la question.)

And so on and so forth, a list of 30 things the author hopes to accomplish by age 30, to be crossed off and dated upon completion.

4. Break agency rules, go on internet, and update blog while temping at a consulting firm in the middle of Times Square. 2/8/12

I do not know if Walter has a blog (that said, he doesn’t know I have one), but it wouldn’t surprise me. We met working at a renaissance faire. He devotes hours to video games and subscribes to gamer magazines. When I work a video game promotion,  he’s the only one of my friends who appreciates the swag. He created scavenger hunts for my past two birthdays. His hobby is juggling clubs, rings, you name it. He was the fat kid on the playground (I’ve seen pictures). It’s easy to describe him as a total geek.

However, it’s also easy to describe him as a total frat boy. He pledged ΦΩζ his freshman year. We became friends doing push-ups. It took weeks of constant berating, but I finally got him to stop calling them “girl push ups”. He takes his liquor seriously and can drink more than any one I know. I finally learned to stop having drunken heart-to-hearts with the guy because he has no memory of them come morning. Now I get him to tell stories: of his frat-boy college days, of the time he slept with three girls in one 24 hour period, of how he wants to multiply that number by ten before her hits the big 3-0. Stories of how that prospect is so close, but so far. There is one obstacle thwarting Walter’s plan. The poor guy has a triple threat of a girlfriend: actress/dancer/model. Smart/beautiful/great-sense-of-humor. She’s a dream killer!

Two sides of the same coin: Comedy and Tragedy. Frat Boy and Geek.

Walter’s “30 before 30″ is the stuff chick-flicks are made of. The stuff of frat boy fist bumps.  The stuff of drunk-at-an-open-bar conversations. The stuff of cliché (I told you men come to Manhattan for 2 Fs! Food and Fucking!)

But it’s also the stuff of fat-twelve-year-old boy-who-pretty-girls-won’t-look-twice-at dreams. Wally’s very lucky to have that boy in his past. He’s grown up to be a well-rounded, attractive man who walks the line between charm and douche like an incredibly skilled tightrope walker. I feel lucky to have him as a friend. There’s no one else with whom I could have a similar conversation (“I want to fuck 30 bitches!”) and feel the same.

◊

“Wally,” I say poignantly, “If it is the night before your thirtieth birthday and you are 29 for 30″, I pause dramatically, “I will be there for you.”  It’s never going to happen, but hey, I told you I’m an incredibly supportive friend!

I watched him as he struggled to parallel park the car, always a challenge on a San Francisco hill. I was nervous. This was the culmination of seven weeks of  communication complicated by a separation of 3,000 miles. This was real life. The last moments of anticipation: a straightening of wheels, a gear shift, a door open and I would finally be faced to face with the boy I hadn’t seen since he was the hot lead singer of a band and I was the artsy weird girl in glasses. My hands were sweaty, and not just because I’d been sitting in the California sun for the last hour. Can you enjoy talking to someone on the phone but hate them in person? What if he still has cooties?

The lock on the car door clicked and he stepped out. “New York Cliché,” he said, grinning. No one can say your name the way someone you went to grade school with can; someone you knew before really understanding what last names were. The friendliness lacking from our last encounter was now present by tenfold. He grabbed me and pulled me in for a hug. As my Elementary School Nemesis, if we’d touched each other it was with malice- a hair pull, a pinch. We’d certainly never hugged. Turns out he gives good hugs. I smiled, enjoying the feeling of his strong, I-live-on-a-ship arms. There was no question: he’d outgrown cooties.

In kindergarten we all drew pictures of what we wanted to be when we grew up. I drew a tightrope walker (a trip to the circus left me infatuated with the shiny pink costumes of the performers). I have no idea what Nemesis drew, probably and astronaut or something. Does anyone follow through on their kindergarten dreams? By fifth grade my answer had changed. I remember clearly filling out a 5th grade graduation questionnaire: What do you want to when you grow up? I carefully wrote “Actor” on the line provided. Again, I don’t recall what Nemesis but it wouldn’t surprise me if he filled the blank with “Writer”. If that is the case, we’re both pursuing our ten year-old dreams. My fill-in-the-blank remains the same. His fill-in-the-blank is now considerably more specific. He’s a communications specialist. That means he’s employed by the United States Navy. That means my Elementary School Nemesis grew up to be a sailor boy.

You all know how us ladies feel about sailors. Just walk through Times Square during Fleet Week and watch how many female heads turn.

Last week I went on a date with my elementary school nemesis.

You could say it was a date 2 months in the making. You could say it was a date 20 years in the making.

You could say it started with a Facebook message. You could say it started with a playground game of “Farmer in the Dell“.

When he picked me up for our date, my first glimpse of him was through the windshield of his brand-new BMW. It was the first time I’d seen him in almost a decade. The last time we’d seen each other was in high school, an interaction so brief he doesn’t even remember it. I, however, have a memory like the sticky traps most city dwellers place in the crack behind their refrigerators. It doesn’t just catch the big mouse-sized memories; it catches dust, hair, any small particle. Besides, it’s hard to forget when someone makes you feel like shit.

It was one of the few house parties I went to in high school, some friend of a friend’s sweet sixteen. With probably fifty teenagers in attendance, this was not a rager but still a great party from my not-a-cool-kid perspective. While the birthday girl’s parents cut the cake, a live ska band played in the front room. The front man was about 6’2, still with the same fiery hair and cocky attitude he’d had since age 5. I had not seen him post-puberty but I recognized him immediately as my Elementary School Nemesis. He looked remarkably the same and yet so different… The little boy who had given me constant cause for cootie shots was now grown up, and inextricably attractive.

I was unrecognizable from my elementary school self. My signature blonde pigtails replaced with an androgynous shaggy bob, so abused by home dye-jobs it looked like the worst-case-scenerio of a tye-dye shirt: when all the colors blend together and you’re left with something you’ll never wear. The adorable pink dresses that defined my K-5 signature style replaced by my teenaged signature style: best described as part punk-rock part creeps-leave-me-alone-if-I-wear-shapeless-clothing. The know-it-all nature I was known for in fourth grade had morphed into the awkward insecurity of a teenaged girl.

I was a cross between the weird girl in "The Breakfast Club" (but I wasn't that weird) and pre-makeover Rachel Leigh Cook in "She's All That" (but I wasn't that hot).

I wasn’t the kind of girl who approached the lead singer of a band (as you know) or any kind of attractive teenaged boy (which might explain my recent travesty with just such a nineteen year-old). It was no small thing that I squeaked his name inquisitively as he walked right by me, “Nemesis?” He turned, “Yeah?” I could see no look of recollection in his eyes, instead I saw the glaring sentiment: Girls like you don’t usually talk to boys like me. I swallowed, “New York Cliché, remember me?” He looked at me in disbelief, “New York Cliché? No way,” he scoffed. Then he laughed, that cruel way only attractive teenage boys can, “New York Cliché… do you still tell on every one all the time?” There was no friendliness in his voice. I do not recall my reply, I know I refrained from running away to cry in the bathroom. That was the last time I saw or heard from my Elementary School Nemesis until about two months ago.

How did we get from there to actually going on a date? Stay Tuned.

]]> http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/01/24/my-date-with-my-elementary-school-nemesis-the-background/feed/ 3 newyorkcliche BfastClubSAT http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/01/19/fancy-food-for-me-you/ http://newyorkcliche.com/2012/01/19/fancy-food-for-me-you/#comments Thu, 19 Jan 2012 22:39:12 +0000 newyorkcliche http://newyorkcliche.com/?p=1690 ]]> If my New Years Resolutions had been diet-centric in any way (it is a resolution cliché after all), I would have already failed miserably.

What’s your vice? Cheese? Chocolate? Alcohol? You name it and that is what I spent my week eating. How could I say no? I was surrounded by the top gourmet food from all over the WORLD. I was lucky enough to get a job, and thus a virtual All-Access Pass, at the food industry’s most exclusive and largest showcase of the season.

The Fancy Food Show. Imagine a huge conversion center filled to capacity with 1,300 exhibitors representing over 50 countries. Isle after isle of booths featuring their tastiest products, some so new they are only available for pre-order. The competition is fierce; convention attendees are looking for products for their specialty stores, restaurants, hotels, etc. Exhibitors are all vying for those sales. Then there is me. Absolutely no connection to the food industry except what I put in my stomach. But I’m an actor and easily play the part of “Interested Buyer”. Every chance I got I let those exhibitors do their best to impress me.

There were so many cheese makers, from all over Europe primarily, with cheese aged to perfection. I didn’t come close to trying them all, even in three days. Most of the cheese I eat is from Trader Joe’s, I’m lucky if it’s aged a year. I never, ever eat cheese this good.

Then there were sweets, of all kinds. I have a sweet tooth and I indulged it, like the cliché kid in the candy  store. I just went the dentist and learned I have two cavities. I should cut back on sugar, I really should, but how do you say no when you have glass cases of gorgeous looking pastries and truffles staring at you, with bakers begging you to take a sample?

Answer: you don’t! I can cut back on sugar tomorrow, this was an opportunity not to be wasted.

I had to walk by the Haribo booth every time I went to the bathroom. Haribo is something I can buy myself, at Walgreens…but..but..it was so visually appealing! Plus I love gummy candy! They had bowls full of absolutely every kind, making it so hard NOT to help yourself to a piece. It was too hard to resist.

Fortunately, many companies had packaged samples. Many people left this convention with several bags, full to bursting of samples. On the last day, I myself came home with a sizable bag. “It looks like Halloween trick-or-treating,” my mother remarked. More on that later. I did pretty well, considering my only time to walk around was on my half hour lunch break when my main priority was to eat lunch.

I could have filled up on cheese and sweets alone, but there were endless possibilities for more meal-like sampling:

Pasta and sauces from Italy, made and served by people from the country.

Surprisingly authentic frozen entrées from India.

Things you’d never seen before from Japan.

Endless tapenades made of my positively favorite things to eat: tomatoes, garlic, basil, onions, and artichokes. That one under the bread sticks was probably my favorite thing out of the entire show.

So what was I doing the rest of my day, when I wasn’t on lunch break? I was wearing a gorgeous red velvet dress. I don’t think I have ever gotten so many complements in my life. One man said to me “You look like a New York model.” (Note: this event was in San Francisco.) I grinned and thought, Ha. I could tell you a story that would make that compliment seem like an insult! Aloud I said, “Aw, thanks!”

Alas, they did not let me keep the red velvet dress that perfectly matched the Red Velvet Martinis I was promoting. The product won’t be on the shelves before Valentine’s day, which is truly a shame. It really did taste exactly like red velvet cake, pretty remarkable. It is very sweet, just like the cake, but I was strictly forbidden from saying those words. “‘Very sweet’ comes off as negative!” said the owner of the company, “Say, ‘Very flavorful.’” For the three days of the convention I slung those “very flavorful” martinis, from 10am to 5pm. Not exactly the kind of drink I would want anytime before dinner, let alone around brunch, but you’d be surprised by how many people tried them (and some people certainly thought they were too sweet). Just goes to show my charm as a promo model and the power of a fancy dress.

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Has all this talk of food made you hungry? Are you jealous I get paid to wear a fancy dress AND have access to all this amazing stuff? Don’t worry, I anticipated that! I filled my bag with samples with you in mind! I just stuffed a Priority Mail package box full of (nonperishable, sorry no cheese,) samples I got at this show and I am sending it to one lucky person who comments on this post!

That’s right, it’s a give-away! To win this box of goodies, please subscribe to this blog in some way (follow it on WordPress, follow on Twitter, Like on Facebook, subscribe via e-mail: any one of those is great) and then leave a comment on this post! Winner will be selected (by random.org) on Tuesday January 24th and then they need to e-mail me their address by Wednesday January 25th. Good luck & thanks, always, for reading!

There’s the people watching, the fresh air, the chance of meeting a handsome stranger. There’s also the chance you’ll see something quite out of the ordinary. Something you’d never see anywhere else.

I was walking through Columbus Circle the other day when I happened upon this unbelievable sight:

A couple doing very intricate ballet on the street.

They sashayed all over the circle, sometimes on pointe, doing twirls, even lifts:

Even the most jaded New Yorker had to turn his head (it didn’t hurt that the ballerina was gorgeous).

I was convinced it was some kind of street performance. It’s the recession! Ballet dancers are forced to take to the street!. However, when they finished, they just ran off. Swiftly departed without even a bow and certainly no putting out a hat. That, and a snippet of conversation I overheard from them, makes me believe they were simple rehearsing for a performance. Instead of renting a huge rehearsal space, they chose to take it to the streets. And why not? They would never have made any one’s day in the confines of a rehearsal space, but out under the sunshine they did just that.

Random Street Ballet Couple, thank you for making my day. I doubt I was alone in that. New York City streets, thank you for always being fabulous.