Anyone who lives within any sort of proximity to NYC knows intimately the trials and tribulations of oh-so-inevitable house guests. The closer to the island your couch is, the more desirable a vacation destination it is. Now the majority of these guests have agendas- conferences, events- specific things that bring them to the city- as well as other New Yorkers they need to see. Their days are supposed to be crammed with activities which include treating you, the couch provider, to a meal and enabling you to spend your day off looking at New York through fresh eyes.
Being a good house guest is an art, a delicate balance, the mastery of which is essential to avoiding the riffs and ruined friendships which are easily the spoils of a miss calculated couch crash. It’s tough living with someone who’s in vacation mode, waking up early to spend the day sightseeing while you’re off to the daily grind where the only sight is your asshole of a boss.
So how long can I stay? she asks me via cross-coastal phone conversation. And so it begins. The delicate art of answering this question- I say too short and I’m a bitch, too long and I’ll start hating her. “Four Days.” I reply. That’s a direct quote. Four days is a bit of a stretch, but I tell her as long as she realizes I can’t take off work, that I will try to fit in time with her into my schedule, but I can’t make any promises. As long as all that is clear, my aerobed is her aerobed.
And it’s fun. We go to restaurants I’ve wanted to try, see Avenue Q which I’ve wanted to see since 2003, do some good walking explorations, and complain about the East Coast Cold as only two California girls can. She’s on the needy side. She’s just visiting for no real reason, she doesn’t know anyone else in the city, but that’s alright for four days. Having a friend visit provides a great reminder of how awesome the city is, a fact which sometimes slips my mind now that it’s been my home for several months. Good times.
Then the bomb drops.
My mom actually booked my flight for ten days. But I’m going to try for stand by on Tuesday.
WHAT? Excuse me? TEN DAYS? When I said FOUR? How does that make sense? I can understand being economical or whatever, but not when it’s on my dime! My time dime! I already made plans for Sunday, the day you’re SUPPOSED to be leaving. I have a date with Cute Theatre Boy– our fifth date in fact, well past the cliché third. If I have to come home and sleep in the same room as you when I’d rather be“sleeping”in the same room as him, I will come home a frustrated cranky-pants.
My decision: Sunday, the fourth day, I relinquish any “host duties”. She can sleep on my floor, she has no where else to stay that doesn’t cost boat loads of money and if I asked her to go to a hotel I know the friendship would end right there, but I’m done entertaining her. She’s on her own. There’s guilt in this decision- am I being a shit friend? And perhaps I am because shortly following this decision, karma delivers me a sounding blow to the head (and I do mean that in the most literal way possible), the story of which you can read in my next post!
So we see Gypsy and both more or less (him more, me less) hate it. “Not my kind of theatre,” I say and he agrees. Which is fortunate- can anything happen between two actors who have completely different theatrical tastes? (I’ll let you non-theatre types in on a little not-well-kept secret- the average actor is grotesquely obsessed with “their craft” and therefore )I’m thinking no. But who cares! Clearly with our mutual dislike I don’t have to worry about that now! Anyway the date can only get better as we walk away from the theater discussing our disappointment (too presentational, didn’t believe it, blahblahblah- we are both in full on snob mode and I like it) and find ourselves in the heart of Times Square. It’s Friday night and it’s in full shows letting out, swarming tourists, traffic jam form. “Want to go for a drink?” Heehee! look at me on a date that’s going well!The subtext of my “Yes.” response. “I don’t really know a good place to go around here.” ” Well we could always just go to Toys R Us and ride the Ferris Wheel.” I say, being cute, prompted by the iridescent seven-year-old’s paradise looming in front of us.
“Let’s do it.” This plan absolutely adorable, even romantic, in theory. But as we make our way down the escalator of the store, actuality with its long lines of screaming spoiled brat children and insanely overpriced tickets make us decide the idea is better left in theory. Better left in lue of beverage.
“Have you been to the bar on the top of the Marriott? No? Okay, that’s where we’re going. It’s one of those revolving restaurants and the view’s amazing.” So goes Adorable Idea in Theory #2. Have I stumbled across the last hopeless romantic New York? Is that, contrary to popular belief, not an oximoron?
After a struggle with elevators and coat checks we discover that Theory #2 is also better left in theory- 45 minute waits and double digit cover charges (surprise- romance is easier achieved with a wad of bills) are not my style, nor his. O-m-g we just have so much in common! Third time’s the charm and we settle down at the bar on the third floor of the hotel at a window seat that is conveniently vacated just when we want it to be, overlooking uptown Broadway (it’s a great view here too), sipping wine (him red, me white…maybe we don’t have as much in common as I thought…), talking about same sex summer camp experiences, Maine, singing, being only children (haha! Nevermind yes we do!) and I am genuinely having a good time with Cute Theatre Boy and it’s really nice.
It’s almost one when we leave the bar and walk over to Grand Central (we both take the Lexington line, this was clearly ment to be). I’m searching the sky for the moon which I know is somewhere in the sky as I saw it rising on my way to meet him.
“Wow, look at the moon.”
I point straight up above our heads as we stand on the street waiting for the light to change. It’s a full moon, big and bright, not obscured by building or cloud. The hopeless romantic in me- who has been stirred from her usual dormant state by the night’s proceedings- is looking up at the moon and looking at the boy next to her and wanting a first kiss in the crosswalk of Madison Ave, surrounded by whizzing cabs and smoking manhole covers (what kind of cliche would I be if I didn’t want a kiss under the moon?) But I’m an old fashioned girl (what kind of cliche would I be if I wasn’t an old fashioned girl?) who waits for first kisses and so the light changes and we journey on sans lip action. We go inside Grand Central and again are staring up at the stars, this time the golden constellations of the painted art deco ceiling of the Grand Concourse.
“Did you know they restored this whole thing not all that long ago? It was a mess. If you look over there, they left a square of what the whole this looked like,” he says and points to a small black square in the north west corner. Wow I can not imagine this whole view blackened. He takes my hand and we star gaze, identifying constellations and zodiac signs (he’s a Scorpio which after thorough searching we discover is not represented in this sky though my sign Cancer is. Whatever that means. Good thing I’m not into astrology.) A man aproaches us, he’s at some level of intoxication but not messy, “You guys from around here??” he slurs. “No, we’re just visiting for the weekend from Montreal,” responds Cute Theatre Boy. “Oh New York’s a great city,” says Drunky. “Yeah we went to the Statue of Liberty today, it was swell.” This continues on for several minutes. “Well you kids have a good night,” and lonely drunky stumbles off. I give my date a look that prompts “Don’t worry, I only lie about things that don’t matter. It’s fun to mess around with strangers.” I decide to believe him. After all he is an actor, an affliction I must sympathize with. He squeezes my hand and pulls me in and we’re kissing in the middle of the terminal, under the stars, total New York Cliche, and it’s lovely.
There’s a cute boy in my theatre company. Okay, there are a lot of cute boys in my theatre company. That goes with the territory. But there is one in particular.
It all started right before Christmas. I had one week left before flying back to San Francisco and even though I was only looking at two weeks away from NYC it felt very final, so much so that I was ticking things off in my head in the very collegiate way of “17 papers, 12 finals, 55 power point presentations left until FREEDOM”- that’s always how the last week before winter break felt. Post college it’s more “last weekend in NY of 2008, last late shift at work 2008, last theatre company meeting until 2009…”
This last meeting can be divided approximately in two: one part theater, one part flirting with Cute Theatre Boy. It wasn’t purposeful flirting (I hadn’t quite pronounced myself 100% recovered from being dumped) and I didn’t think much about it, though I did find myself pleasantly surprised when after the meeting we just so happened to be walking to the same subway station. We end up on the platform, me waiting for the express and him waiting for the local, which of course came first. I see it arriving and in those 30 seconds-doors opening/people getting off/getting on/”THE DOORS ARE CLOSING. PLEASE STAND CLEAR OF THE DOORS.”- my mind is fraught with Hmm how do I say this goodbye? Wave? Is a hug too much? I mean, I don’t know him that well, but-. Fortunately my buzzing brain is interrupted by his hug and “Bye! Have fun at home, see you next year!” and as he does this I am completely overwhelmed by a strange, weirdly severe urge to kiss him. If my buzzing, overactive brain didn’t crowd out my instincts, as it so often does, I would have kissed him. Instead I’m left alone on the platform buzzing Well, there goes a guy I’m not going to see for three weeks. Damn. Oh well!
The following day I’m back at the theater putting in work hours painting the dressing room. I had systematically removed all costumes knowing they must be returned to proper places and remain paint free and was getting kinda lonely kneeling on the floor, paint brush clutched in paint covered hands, having deja vues of summer when I had to paint my entire apartment before we could move in, when who shows up but Cute Theatre Boy. Who just so happens to be putting in work hours as well. I hand him a paint brush. We quickly discover we have quite a few things in common. A mutual love of Edward Albee, two musicals most theatre snobs hate, Maine, used books (which he claims to have an addiction to, where as I’m just a bargain hunter/frugal/green/”Asian”), and that we’re both leaving NYC to go home for the holidays on the same day. We end up painting two coats which we deem “totally necessary” (total lie) and before I know it I’m done with my last theatre work hours of 2008! And faced with another good-bye situation. This time however my choice is clear, limited by the circumstance of the presence of other company members. So I just hug everyone “bye” (though perhaps him a little tighter).
Then I’m gone, down the stairs, out of the theater, walking to the subway in the drizzling rain thinking Shit. Totally have a crush on Cute Theatre Boy. Hmm…I’m almost a block away when I hear someone shout my name. I turn around and he’s running down the street toward me. In the 30 seconds before he catches up to me, romantic Hollywood cliches of passionate, 360 degree kisses in the rain flash through my head.
(Surprise, it also made me think of a Sex and the City moment)
ARVE Error: no id set
Then he’s reached me and: “We forgot to put the clothes back in the dressing room.” All romantic thoughts flee from my mind and HI REALITY! PPBBT! I’m the only one who knows the proper place for the costumes. Great. I’m stuck going back to the theater. Great. great. great. (grumble). And we’re walking back. And then Cute Theatre says “Want to see a movie or something before we leave?” Yes!! Although I’m not a fan of movie dates…so “How about a play? Have you seen Gypsy?” “Sunday?” “No good, Friday?” “Ok!” “Great!” So this is what happens when two actors date- scenes like this and Friday nights spent on Broadway watching Patti LuPone do what she does best. As we walk down the rest of the block, some of the romantic thoughts begin to peak out from their place of hiding. I’m not a jaded New Yorker, I’m a New Yorker with a date!
Sometimes when I’m surrounded by the silicone preserved bodies of the exhibition I now work at. Sometimes when it’s 22 degrees out and it’s been raining all day. Sometimes when I make some trivial mistake and my boss makes me feel like a five year old little girl. Times like these make me miss the warm, sunny days of standing among swarming tourists in humid as hell Times Square. These days I spend a lot of time alone with my thoughts and my cadaver pals. It gets boring, and I a girl who strives to avoid boredom at all costs. In Times Square, thousands of people past me everyday. It’s hard to be bored in that environment, even if only 1 in 1,000 interact with you. A few of my favorites who beat those odds:
The Woman Who Hated Mary Poppins
I’m standing outside the Times Square subway station, passing out fans par usual. Ok, let’s spill. They are Mary Poppins fans. I spent the summer working for Disney. Now you know the full truth. Anyway, this woman in full Obama regalia- buttons, hat, t-shirt- is walking past me. I offer her a fan a KABLAMO she explodes MARY POPPINS IS RACIST! YOU THINK YOU CAN JUST GIVE A WHITE LADY A UMBRELLA AND SHE’LL KNOW HOW TO TAKE CARE OF KIDS! ALL THE PEOPLE I KNOW WHO TAKE CARE OF KIDS ARE BLACK! THAT SHOW IS RACIST AND FASCIST AND YOU’RE RACIST AND FASCIST! FUCK YOU! Before I can even open my mouth she disappears down the subway stairs. Lucky she did this to me and not some undecided or Republican voter, I know there are people who would have condemned Obama by association.
The Jesus Freak Searching for His Disney Princess Soul Mate
It’s late afternoon and approaching the end of my shift. I have a bunch of fans in my bag that I’m not going to finish passing out in the next five minutes and I’m a couple of blocks from the office so I decide to pack up and go back a little early. Cue me being a klutz and spilling dozens of fans all over the ground. Great. Few things feel tackier than hunching over to gather little blue fans of the sidewalk, knowing the dirty little secret that they are not going in the trash but will instead go back in the bag and later be passed out to the unsuspecting public. I’m picking up fans. Cue someone stopping to help me. What? I’m in New York. This must be some tourist from Say-hello-to-everyone-in-town-help-your-neighbor-with-his-gutters-ville. New Yorkers don’t stop on the street to help klutzes. That’s the opposite of the cliche. Unless they happen to think the klutz is a pretty girl…Shit.
He’s short, extremely Italian, and promptly introduces himself to me as Vinny. The street is clear and I thank him for helping me and damnit just as I feared, the guy does not continue on his way, but instead starts to make small talk. Aw damnit, I’m a pretty girl. Have you accepted Jesus into your heart? Cue small talk veering in an extremely atypical direction. Great, Jesus freak. Well at least that makes him more or less benign. In theory anyway. Nope Vinny, I’m what you call agnostic. Not into the organized religion thing. Jesus loves you. He’s the way to eternal salvation….Yawn. I’m walking down the street trying to escape this as indirectly as possible, I’m representing Disney = I’m technically employed to be nice and cheerful and not a bitch, but Vinny’s walking along with me and yammering away with completely stereotypical Jesus Spiel until I want to get to know you, maybe we could do something together sometime? Ugh. Vinny, I have a boyfriend (total lie, but it often gets the job done). That’s okay. I don’t believe in boyfriends and girlfriends. I only believe in soul mates. Jesus has been showing me visions of my soul mate. In the vision she’s a Disney princess. And today when I saw you on the street, blonde hair, blue eyes, your Disney shirt- I think Jesus lead me to you. Well Vinny, you certainly win points for the most original, unlikely to be duplicated EVER pickup line. Wow. I managed to shake free fromVinny by promising I would friend him on myspace. I remembered the url long enough to look it up and have a laugh. http://www.myspace.com/vinnyao. Pretty much what you’d expect from a Jesus Freak I guess. Can you believe his name really is Vinny?
He’s sprawled out on the bed wearing only his cornflower blue boxer briefs (his description, not mine… In the time we’ve dated he’s switched from boxers to boxer briefs which must be a milestone- from boyhood tighty whities to adolescent boxers to, finally, adult male boxer briefs?- because he’s made a big deal about it. To the point of identifying the exact shade of his underwear. Yeah. Definitely one of those kinda cute in the beginning, kinda weird by the end things. Also as something so uncharacteristic of straight males, it did, in vulnerable moments following this story, make me want to condemn him to stereotype: Gay! even though I know he’s not.) In the back of my mind where the lessons of my liberal arts education and the wisdoms of my best friend (a self-described feminist who minored in gender studies) lie I consider the machismo nature of his pose, the male dominance his body language is begging me to acknowledge. He’s looking at me.
I can’t do this anymore.
I listen to the phrases fall out of his mouth, aware I’m responding to several but I am completely not in this scene. I am having an out of body experience where I’m watching myself in a poorly written, badly acted, made-for-tv movie:
It’s not you, I think you’re great.
We come from too (two?) different places.
We want different things.
And I think I’m the New York cliché?
Had he said “It’s not you, it’s me.” I would’ve laughed uproariously in his face. But he didn’t say that so it didn’t end in peals of laughter, it just ended. The finale of my Central Park Guy saga. It was a fun episode for the most part, an interesting introduction into the perils of dating in Manhattan. “No shame, no regret”. Those aren’t my words, those are the words the guy has tattooed, one phrase on each forearm. Insignias he did not have when I first met him in the park. Now they are permanently etched in his flesh and in my memory, a trivia fact that makes a brilliant ending to his story arch.
It really came down to “We want different things” – the only line that didn’t raise my bullshit! flags. Yep, like so many of the men and women of New York, we wanted different things.
If you’ve seen the Sex and the City movie, you know women come to New York looking for two L’s: Labels and Love.
I came to New York not looking for the labels I knew I couldn’t afford and not looking for love but rather to figure out what the hell I wanted. Well it’s six months later and after this Central Park Guy experience, I have a much better idea of what I want. Carrie Bradshaw had it right all along. Yes, here I am- single, fabulous (exclamation point), lusting over a pair of Chanel eyeglasses (I tried them on at Lenscrafters just for fun- big mistake), and looking for love in the big city (and apparently in danger of becoming the cover sleeve blurb of a chick lit novel. Still, it beats “It’s not you, I think you’re great”).
Now the problem as I see it, and Carrie neglected to say this, is that while women come to New York for those two L’s, men come for two F’s: Food and Fucking. Both of which are available on many a street corner for a price far below any kind of designer duds. Even the most decadent meal and a high class hooker? Still cheaper than one high end handbag. (And yet men make more money than women? WTF)
We want different things.
And so the task is to find someone whose wants match up with mine (and whose weirdnesses mesh with mine annnnd about 100+ other things). The odds are against me, but when aren’t they in this city and when isn’t that half the fun?
Opera has at least as many clichés as New York City, namely this one:
When you ask someone under 30, maybe even 40 what they think of opera the average response? A “yuck” face or “I’d rather listen to the screeching of subway breaks” or “haha yeah right I’m not breaking the bank to go see that”.
Well my night at the opera contained no “yuck” faces, no fat ladies, no viking horns, not even a maxed out credit card.
It was quite an affair. We’re talking the Metropolitan Opera. This “is the most widely heard and known opera company in the world” (source: http://metropolitanopera.com/). 4,000 seating capacity and it is packed on a Thursday. World class. La creme de la creme. This is it.
I walk up the steps of Lincoln Center at 7:40, perfectly early, and get swept up in the droves of people entering the sparkling building. While the average age is probably close to 50, there is representation across the board from children to college students, young couples, little old ladies, other couples who have probably had season tickets for all 50 years of their marriage, gossipy party girls in tight cocktail dresses, gay men in jeans, tourists touting fanny packs, four matching fur coats it alarming succession, overdressed ladies in princess-esque ballgowns. Needless to say I don’t feel out of place but I wonder how the hell am I going to find my date among the masses? Oh right, it is the 21st century, cell phones exist. Duh. Though it’s easy to forget that when you step through the glass doors of the Met. There is such a feeling of tradition and nostalgic romance. The structure feels as though it has changed very little over its 125 years with lavish red carpeting, sweeping staircases, towering ceilings, gold elevator doors, and polished wood bars where beverages are served in actual glass or ceramic.
I have no trouble finding my roommate, my opera-virgin Met partner in crime, and together we make our way to the entrance where ushers scan our tickets (ah another reminder that it’s 2008) and direct us “to the left, four floors up.” Four floors up. We tackle the stairs which is the only way to go when you’re on a teeny tiny budget that doesn’t include a gym membership. And yet this same budget allows for opera tickets? Come again? It happens to be one of the best deals in the city, on par with the other Met (the Metropolitan Opera and the Metropolitan Museum of Art share this shorthand, which can be confusing) with its “suggested donation” where one can view four floors of world class art for the cost of pocket change, a sneer from ticket sales, and a little guilt that you only paid 73 cents (yes, it’s been done) when $20 is suggested. Here at this Met one can view four floors of opera for 15 bucks. There are movie tickets that cost more.
Four floors up means height.
Our seats are in the section Parisians call “Paradise” due to its proximity to the heavens and Americans call “the Nose Bleed Section” due to their lack of poetry and love of violence and gore. We’re looking down at it all- no neck strain from craning to see the glittering crystal chandeliers or the dozens of boxes that line the sides.
Later I overhear a man pointing at our section say knowingly to his companion, “Those are the best seats in the house. The acoustics are fabulous.” He’s right. The sound bounces off the ceiling right down to us and the listening experience is unlike any other theater I’ve ever been in. I can hear the whispers between the people next to me as clearly as if I was meant to be part of the conversation, shuffling and murmurs four rows in front, and every single cough anyone in the audience makes during pianissimo moments. Which might be annoying but I find it really cool, incredible even. The house is gigantic yet nothing is mic’ed. Opera stars, for that you undeniably put Broadway to shame.
The lights go down, the orchestra tunes, and the personalized subtitle screen in front of each seat (another notable change from 1883) reads For English, press button, for German press again, for… Button pressed. La Traviata Act I. The gold curtain rises on a gorgeously detailed 19th century drawing room. Performers enter and I feel like I’m looking inside a doll house or a museum diorama.
The altitude means details are lost, faces are blurred, and I’m already planning to steal a pair of binoculars from my mother (who, as an avid birdwatcher and opera enthusiast, has multiple sets) when I’m home for Christmas. But in spite of this miniature quality I still greatly enjoy the show. It’s a classic opera, Boy loves Girl, Girl has terminal disease so she won’t allow herself to love, Boy wins Girl over, obstacle keeps Boy and Girl apart and in the end when all is resolved and they could live happily ever after she instead dies of TB in his arms (and unlike in Rent there is no ridiculous resurrection). The music is breathtaking, moving and brings me back to my high school days where I was a “chorus girl”, a singer much more than an actor, and the several music classes I took in college. I still may not listen to classical music in my free time but I most definitely appreciate it.
Two intermissions, numerous arias, and one tragic finale later the curtain closes. The audience irrupts into applause and bravas! as confetti (the 21st century’s pathetic substitute for roses) rains down on the singers taking bows. Wow, what a night and wow do I feel cultured.
We travel down the staircases, out into the chilly November air, and head for the subway. It’s been a long day and opera demands active listening, so we are both exhausted and greatly looking forward to sleep as we board the subway. 35 minutes later the end is insight, we’ve got one stop to go. My roommate’s preparing for the outside cold by putting on extra socks and the man sitting across from us is adjusting his pants. Maybe you know where this is going, but it takes me a lot longer: “Haha, subway riders are funny. We put on make up, we change socks, we shed layers. We tuck our shirts in. Which this guy across from us seems to be having trouble accomplishing..Wait..no…NO..NO HE CANNOT DOING THAT! FUCK! HIS PANTS ARE AT HIS ANKLES! FUCK! FUCK! COULD SUDDEN MOVES BE DANGEROUS? FUCK!” We dash to the next car EW EW EW hoping the train is about to stop and doors open quickly. Fortunately that series of events pans out and the other scenario- where the big scary man chases after us, his pants around his ankles, penis in hand- is left to haunt me only in nightmares. Well the night just went from awesome/beautiful to disgusting/can’t get any worse, and thank god it doesn’t. Our other roommate has just gotten off work and he picks us up with in moments. We recount our tale of woe and his reply is, “Well yeah, you live in New York City and take the subway. It was gonna happen sometime.” And through the disgust and violation I can’t yet wipe off my face (major “yuck” face) or shake from my body, I laugh. Could the night have been anymore contrasting and New York cliché?
It’s the little, everyday things that make me love living in New York. The little freebies that don’t leave me cursing my working-artist-day-job paycheck. If time is money, I may spend more to smell the roses than I do on rent (unbelievable statement? Yet it’s true.) And the mundane in NYC is so much more exciting than anywhere else. How can I complain about my commute when I have the art deco splendor of Grand Central or the beauty of the Brooklyn Bridge framed by the East River to welcome me off the subway? Why does coffee taste so much better when you’re strolling up the lower east side, pre-9am, and drinking out an “iconic ‘We Are Happy To Serve You’ paper coffee cup” (to quote the MoMa Store!)? It actually makes it worth the dollar+ more we pay than any other coffee drinker in the world.
Even horrible errand like surrendering my baby -my laptop- to the geeks of The Geek Squad is fun in NYC because I feel like Carrie Bradshaw. This comparison only grew stronger when Ben (the Geek) let me know my baby does not in fact have a virus as I thought. In hindsight hoped. Nope, its’ motherboard is what’s fucked up. And here my Sex and the City comparison deviates. On the one hand unlike Carrie I back up my work- though these days “my work” mostly consists of the chapters of this blog and you all know how well I’ve been attending to that… On the other hand (that hand that sucks balls) unlike Carrie I do not have a boyfriend who will buy me a brand new macbook (and let me assure you, I wouldn’t complain if it looked like a purse, or a hamburger for that matter). So there I am standing in Best Buy with all these thoughts running through my head and I realize I have two major problems. The first one: I compare my life to Sex and the City way to much.
It’s ridiculous. Then I start to wonder if this is a problem for other people. I bet it is. Maybe it will get serious enough and a clinical study on the Sex and the City obsessed will become necessary and than I can get PAID for my problem! Yes, that was my train of thought. This is when you realize you have no money- when you start to fantasize about having diseases which would allow you to be part of paid clinical trials/studies. I find myself browsing craigslist and wishing I had ADHD, depression, sleeping disorders, premature ejaculation, SOMETHING, ANYTHING that someone will pay me money to study. Which leads to problem number two (though after my clinical trial fantasy confession do you actually believe I only have two problems?), which is kinda a two-parter: I HAVE NO MONEY AND NO COMPUTER.
So here I am stuck without a computer. I am more or less Amish. Now do you understand my lack of updates? There are only so many times (right now for instance) that I can steal my roommate’s without feeling like a leech.
Now not surprisingly, a lot has happened in this computer-less, blog-update-less month. And not just little things, big ones too. Both summer jobs ended. No more fans on the streets, no more ushering and celeb sightings. I had two fun weeks of unemployment where I explored the city, visited relatives, traveled to the Alma Mater. That was weird, let me tell you, going back to college when you really don’t belong there anymore. Don’t want to belong there anymore, which was nice to have confirmed. Sure, I do miss my friends but college seems a world away, a world I look back at fondly but absolutely do not miss. Especially after another big thing of the past month- I had a successful audition! I’m part of a theater company now! Which is a different outcome from your average audition where you get offered a specific part, so I’m not clear on details yet (hopefully they’ll revealed at the orientation this week) but it is awesome to be part of the NY theater scene in an acting capacity! Yay!
You’ll never guess my new job is. It’s weirder than the streets. I’m working guest services at a science museum that’s devoted to the human body. The real human body- everything in the exhibit comes from an actual corpse. Or is an actual corpse. Yep, I go to work and am surrounded by dead bodies. Which isn’t as creepy as you might think, and I’m fine with it for now, but I don’t plan on staying for too long (I’m looking at craigslist for more reasons than possible clinical studies).
And the last bit of big news- I started seeing Central Park Guy again (again? yes, there was a period when I wasn’t) and in the past month we’ve become exclusive. Isn’t that funny, that something’s become of this guy I met my first day in New York? Who’da thunk.
That’s the summary of the big things. Specific stories to come (I never want to neglect my sweet little blog again).