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• How My Bike Got Its Name or My Huge Crush on a Safa

Posted in Relationships & Dating, tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 11, 2011 | 1 Comment »

[This is Part One of The Safa Boy Series: click for Introduction] 

Are you growing a beard? I ask him playfully.

I ask this question far too often. In my mind growing a beard means one of two things: you’re a college student or an actor. Therefore when I ask the question I expect an interesting answer: “Yeah, I’m so consumed with work on my thesis on [pretentious topic although it could make the world a better place], shaving seems trivial. Plus I think a beard will make me look intellectual.” or “Yes, I just got cast as Henry V.” In my mind Are you growing a beard is a conversation starter.  In reality it’s far more often a conversation dead-end: “No, I’m not  growing a beard, just lazy.” Ah, lazy, that’s attractive. (Like I should talk. I’m currently in major Fuck Shaving Legs Til Spring mode. But that’s not “written all over my face” so to speak.)

No trouble with attractiveness here, scruff or no scruff. Nor is there trouble with my potential conversation killer; he turns it into the conversation starter I always hope it to be. “I wish I could grow a beard! It’s too sparse, won’t grow properly. Look, I have a patch under my chin that just won’t grow. It’s completely smooth. Feel.”

Yes, I am at a bar with a guy who can’t grow a beard. Yes, that means he’s under 21. No, it’s not my first date with the under 21 set. (Remember Trader Joe’s Guy?) Yes, that means I did not learn my lesson. Yes, I touch his face and yes, moments later we’re kissing. I haven’t had a real crush since Sideburns Guy, and that was totally unrequited. I almost forgot how awesome it is to kiss your crush.

_______________________________________________________________

It had been a long weekend. Of working and flirting. Being in the theatre world means working weekends. Fortunately 8 hours of promoting goes by fast when you have a big ol’ crush on a guy promoting not 10 feet away from you. In between sales pitches we play the Get To Know You Game. He’s a “working traveler”, hailing from South Africa, on a trip around the world. So far he’s been all over Europe, now he’s in New York for 6 weeks, next stop Barbados. So you’re a drifter. I say.

During visits to the MOMA in the past 3 years, there is one photograph that struck me more than any other. I don’t remember the photographer, or the title, or even what it looked like exactly. I remember the description: “unknown drifter”. I fell in love with that description and the hazy memory of the image.  Ever since the word and concept of a “drifter” became heavily romanticized in my mind. “Moon River” featured in both “Breakfast at Tiffany’s” and “Sex and the City” only adds to that.

Get To Know You Game continues for about a week. He’s a drifter, world traveler, just my physical type, intelligent, makes me laugh, and has a lovely South African accent.  I’m even more of a goner than I was before. At this point nothing can squash my level of crush and the prospect of a whirlwind fling. Not even when the game reveals he’s NINETEEN. That’s okay, I think to myself. He may be too young to drink, but that’s only in America. He’s not from America so it doesn’t count! Besides, I won’t get too attached, it’ll make the 6 week expiration date easy. This is I HAVE A HUGE CRUSH rational.

On Sunday night, the end of my week, he still hasn’t asked for my phone number. I hand him my phone and tell him I want his. Then I head off to a rehearsal. On the bike ride there my mind is buzzing: I’m not going to see my Safa (that’s slang for South African) until Thursday due to how our work schedules match up.  I have his phone number, I could take a risk here. It would likely be fun, what’s the worst that could happen? Finally a quick debate of passive vs. proactive. All that in the 7 minute ride to rehearsal.

Of course I texted him: Hope your day got better [it was a slow day for sales], if not I want to buy you a drink. Say yes. Apparently having a huge crush leads me to encourage underage drinking… He says yes. I speed bike home and scream at my roommate I’m meeting a hot South African for a drink in 15 minutes, I need something cute to wear but I don’t want it to look like I came home to change! He’s only ever seen me bundled up in a coat! Having a huge crush puts me Silly School Girl Mode, but you already knew that.

You know where this is going: two Stellas and some conversation later, I’m touching his face and we’re making out. Crush still intact. As two drinks in my limit these days (not to make Patti Stanger proud but because I have the lowest tolerance ever and I’m through puking on subway platforms), I’m about  ready to leave.

The bill comes and we bicker about it. I have no cash, he only has a $20.  I said I was buying you a drink. I’m a woman of my word, I say putting my debit card on the table. He hands me the $20, tries to slip it in my pocket, I refuse to take it. No means no! “Fine.” He plunks the $20 on the bar and says to the bartender, “Mate, you better thank her. You just got a huge tip thanks to her being a stubborn arse.” If an American called me a stubborn ass I’d probably get upset. When a South African calls me that, it’s adorable. Also adorable: how this bill got paid (in my mind anyway).

Our adorableness is confirmed by a woman standing outside the bar. A couple kisses standing next to my bike and instead of the standard “Get a room.” she says “I’m sorry, you guys are totally adorable.” She was probably drunk but that doesn’t change the fact.

I unlock my bike and he tells me how awesome it is. Yes, it is! He asks if it has a name. No, it doesn’t. Which is surprising coming from a girl who named her butt cheeks (Hank and Melvin; I was 15). No name has seemed right thus far. “You should call it Jabulani“, he says, “That means ‘Happiness’ in Zulu.” Did I mention the boy is fluent in English, Italian, and Afrikaans? Against all odds the name stuck. I still call my bike Jabulani.

Jabulani pretty much describes my feelings. Happy, tipsy, wheeling my bike with one-handed so I can hold my crush’s in the other. There’s a moment of “So what do we do now?” and it’s pretty obvious what he wants to do. It’s a first date, every other time I send the guy home with a good night kiss if he’s lucky. Tonight I do something I’ve never done before. I invite him back to my place. Got his phone number, made a date, got drinks, brought him back to my apartment- all in less than 6 hours. Apparently when I have a huge crush on a someone who is leaving the country in 6 weeks, this is how I roll.

[To continue The Safa Boy Series, click for Part Two]

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• Tonight Marks Two Years (part 2)

Posted in Single and Fabulous, tagged , , , , , , , , , , on June 7, 2010 | Leave a Comment »

New York: the city that never sleeps.

At any given moment during the day or night there are thousands of events and things to do. This means at any moment as a resident on New York, you are constantly missing out on thousands of opportunities. It’s a common conundrum: lounging on the futon with your favorite roommates, half a bottle of wine a piece, and half a season of Sex and the City may sound like the perfect evening after a long week. Until you make the mistake of thinking about all the things you could be doing and why live in NYC anyway if you’re just going to do something you could do anywhere else in the world and what if I’m I wasting my youth?! Then I try to focus on the fact I pay about $25 a day for space to keep said futon and wine and DVDs (and sleep) and it makes me feel better about wasting my life staying in.

When I was working my desk job I took my 8:30 am start time pretty seriously. No guys, sorry, I can’t go out to the bar now. No, I have work tomorrow. No, not even for one drink. I can’t! Stop harassing me! My Debby-Downer-ness pains me more than it pains you! were phrases far too common in my everyday speech. In my month of vacation unemployment I have reclaimed the night. With an enthusiasm I never had previously.  (Consequently I now understand the pangs of a serious hangover- an affliction I never faced in college- go figure.)

So instead of calling it a night at 11:30 pm, after multiple hours of running around in silly white pants and busing cocktail glasses, I decide the night has just begun. This needs to be the low point, all up hill henceforth. I’m surrounded by people who are on the inside of New York’s liquor industry. If there was ever a night to go out, it’s tonight. Unfortunately, this realization did not cross my mind earlier.  When deciding on an outfit today, my thoughts were: I’m wearing a provided “cocktail dress” at the party and What is easy to take off in a room full of other people? Thus the previously mentioned beat up Vans and checkered button-up. Fortunately after a 3 hours in a white belly-baring “Thai” cocktail “dress” I have mastered the “Fuck it, I don’t care” attitude. I’ll rock my 90′s grunge outfit where ever the night may take me.

My roommate is appropriately dressed having not been home since the work day at her fashionable-business-casual-advertising-agency job. But because she hasn’t been home in over 17 hours, in which time she worked two jobs, she is laden with stuff. Three bags full of it. “I’m only coming out if you carry one of these for me.” She doesn’t need to ask me twice.

Next thing I know I’m in the back of a SUV surrounded by Scottish people. My boss, who is awesome and the most awesomely chill boss, is at the wheel (it’s his car). The Scottish people are talking, which delights me to an embarrassing extent (me=sucker for accents- this fact may come up again). Bridget and Thomas they are, and Thomas works/worked (this was unclear) at a bar on the LES (Lower East Side) which is our destination.

This LES bar is packed with people this Thursday late night. A constant “Excuse me, I need to get through.” The ambiance is exceptional, the theme of the bar is something of a chemists lab paired with the romance of an old apothecary shop. Large test tubes and vials decorate the bar and all bar tenders are wearing white lab coats. This is clearly a place that prides itself on its signature cocktail concoctions. Part of me feels stupid ordering a beer, the other part is terrified as to the cost of anything.

It’s a fight to get to the bar as it’s so crowded, a fight I’m loosing. Quite lucky because it turns out Thomas has procured drinks for everyone. It’s quite a collection: orange blueberry, lemon and other flavors I can’t figure out, one that tastes like Orangina, then there’s one garnished with cilantro and the drink itself tastes exactly like cilantro. I stare tentatively at the one in my hand, it is green in color and garnished with a green bell pepper. A sip confirms the theory- the drink tastes exactly like bell pepper. They’re all remarkable in their flavor, but I’m not enjoying the taste as much as I think I should if it’s a damn expensive specialty cocktail. But each masks its alcohol content spectacularly (dangerous) and everything tastes better when it’s free so it’s not as if I’m not going to drink them.

There’s really only so much standing, being shoved, and shouting at people (the only way to be heard) that I can take, and this packed bar is nearing my quota. Eric, my boss’s old college roommate (equals stamp of approval from my boss), suggests we transfer to a club in the Meatpacking District where he knows the owner. With cilantro and bell pepper clouding our wits, the roommate and I say sure why not!

Which brings us to the cab ride of the previous entry. Where Eric realizes I may not get in to his buddy’s exclusive club. Great Eric. Couldn’t we have thought this through pre-cab ride? Are you trying to ditch me so you can get with my roommate? Cause that is not going to work (due to her love for me more…and her boyfriend).

Everyone promises not to go if I can’t get in. Thanks guys. This would be a sorry result- not the kind of night ender I’m looking for, so I do myself to make myself velvet rope worthy. I trade my button up for my roommate’s blazer with only my bra underneath. Vans replaced by the gold high heels I (conveniently) needed for the party I worked. My skirt is rather short and I have rather awesome legs (if I do say so myself) so I think I just may slide through. And I do. There’s no confrontation at the door, not even a snotty remark, Eric’s connection lets us cut the line and get in past the bouncer.

It’s 2:30 am, I usually leave clubs at this time. At the latest. Because things get crazy at this time. And in Kiss and Fly they are just that: crazy. Armando, our connection, immediately hands us all drinks. This is turning into a trend. Before we can even finish them, he hands out a champagne toast. Oh My God I Can NOT refuse free drinks!! There is house music blasting, strobe lights flashing, hundreds of people dancing. Periodically dry ice is blasted in a cloud of cold smoke from vents in the ceiling.

Eric had said he would never come to this place with out girls, and now a see why. We are bombarded with drinks from Armando, taken into the dj booth, introduced to the djs, generally shown off. This is not either of our scenes and neither of us is particularly impressed. We’re both just amused. Really? This is what we’re doing at 3am Friday morning? This is what 3am on Friday morning even looks like? I keep giggling because of the ridiculous of the situation (and the over flow of free drinks.)

The novelty soon where’s off. “I’m ready to go when you are.” We tell Eric we’re leaving. He does not take it well- he sulks. Armando thrust drinks in our hands before we can form the word “Bye” and we’re “stuck” staying for another drink. Second try we’re really leaving- neither of us is really having fun any more, feeling slightly guilty we’re ditching Eric-who has been extremely nice and generous and (I find this rather odd) has not put any kind of move on either of us- isn’t reason enough to stay. It’s 3:20, we could stay til 4 when the place closes and hitch a cab ride back but fuck that, we want to leave now.

So we leave, head to the subway, drunk but not messy, tired. I declare I can’t walk to the subway in my “stupid heels” so I sit down on a bench and switch heels for my slip-on Vans. While sitting, an attractive man approaches. “You’re gorgeous, darling. Isn’t she gorgeous?” He slurs at me in an Australian accent. “Are you from England?” I ask, mistaking the accent. “No. Australia. You’re gorgeous. I just want to kiss you.” Ha Ha I laugh at the ridiculousness. But no, this guy is serious. In fact he is assaulting my face with his mouth. Uh no! That’s ok! I pry him off me. Were I of sound mind I would probably be pissed and yelled a “You can’t treat women that way!” tirade. But I’m sloshed and find the whole encounter utterly amusing and easy to walk away from. Australian Face-Assaulter is unfortunately tanked but harmless.

On the subway ride home I banter with Rupert, and actual English bloke who’s trying to get to Times Square. What a night of accents. Scottish, Australian, English. He doesn’t assault my face. Which is probably why I decide I like him. He gets of at Times Square and we wave to each other as the subway pulls away from the station. I’ll never see his again.

New York gives me the feeling that anything can happen at anytime. Large or small, wonderful or awful. There is no ordinary, so things out of the ordinary are what is happening all the time. I love New York. It’s been two great years that I wouldn’t change for anything. Here’s to many more.

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• It’s a Small Island (Part 2)

Posted in Theatre & Performance, tagged , , , , on July 11, 2008 | 2 Comments »

Being in the theatre world is such an advantage/disadvantage paradox. On the one hand I have automatic community, automatic camaraderie, automatic sympathy with a large group of New Yorkers when I admit “I’m an aspiring actor.” I’ve been lucky to land a job where this makes perfect sense to all my coworkers. When I’m in the city I almost  interact with people to whom this makes sense. Where it makes sense I’ll work a shitty unfulfilled failing hundreds of times to land the job I really want. I’m a New York cliche and New Yorkers understand that. Outside the city, I’m a freak, a derelict, a slacker, a stupid, naive, damsel in distress. A ”what if you could get a better job?”, a “don’t you realise the odds are mad/wicked/hella stacked against you?”-  the perfect ”don’t you realise you won’t be a movie star? let me save you from your silly delusion. And as that’s the case why the hell would anyone want to be an actor?”

Because I can’t not be. I can’t explain it better than that.

Thank god I can be in a bubble where that makes sense.

Of course this bubble is relatively small. They say the theatre world is a small one. And it is, as all accounts of my previous post attest.

And yet the island has proved surprisingly small even outside my bubble. Let’s journey from the semi-theatre related (because let’s face it, it’s hard for me to break away) to totally non-theatre related through this series of ”It’s a Small Island” posts.

On the same rained out night where I was mistaken for Lauren Ambrose, I was making my way over to a house party in Brooklyn (and if I lived in the apartment where said party took place, my cliche-ness would be complete. The perfect cliche Brooklyn residence complete with view.) The premature ending of the show left me with a couple hours to kill, which was no problem- two hours after leaving the theater I’m down 70+ blocks trying to catch the L. And there standing next to me are two people who had tried to see the show that night. Who had stayed until the final announcement after one hours wait in the rain and one soaking to the skin. I had admired their perserverance and “eh, it’s ust water, I’m too cool for an umbrella anyway attitude.” And they were both around my age and kinda cute and ok, which didn’t hurt my remembering them 70+ blocks and 2 hours later.

So we’re standing on the platform and I do something very out of character. I approach them, I chat them up. It was a victory in my ongoing battle against my insufferable “I make people come to me” nature. They were from Canada. Now residing in Brooklyn. I learned the key differences in American and Canadian dialects (we say “roof” they say “ruff”) and that in Canada every Walmart has a McDonald’s in it (eeeeeew), and the most valuable lesson: if you want to go up and talk to someone, just fucking do it.

in the works: NYPride (Mika you should give me access to pictures so I can post them), I got a new (totally cliche) job, Scottish con men, Central Park Guy update, Bronxville and moving out of it

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• It’s a Small Island (Part 1)

Posted in Theatre & Performance, tagged , , , , , , , on June 28, 2008 | 5 Comments »

According to wikipedia there are 8,274,527 people who call New York City home. According to facebook I know 29 of them. Neither figure is from an exactly sitable source, but I more or less know 0.00003% of the city. Give or take. Math makes me feel like I am a tiny person in a gigantic world. And yet my month of living here has made me feel like the world is undeniably small. I keep running into people I know.

This started my very first day here, my very first day on the job, my very first viewing of the play when everything was new and fresh, before I could recite monologues or pet peeve about actors’ decisions that really don’t make any sense if you think about them. I’m sitting there watching and all I can think of is That guy looks so familiar. Who is he? I’m I just doing that thing like when you go to college for the first time and everyone reminds you of some one from home? Perusing the program after the show does not answer all my questions until BAM. He’s a guy from the theatre program I did last summer. We used to go running together every other day. He had to create a stage name for union reasons. Sure enough, I approach him the next day and it all comes out. I know someone in the show I’m working for? Crazy.

It gets better.

I go through the same thing about the guy who’s doing props for the show. He looks so familiar, I swear I know him from somewhere– holy shit. He’s been in my apartment. Yes he has. See, the lovely luxurious huge apartment that I lived in my senior year of college was pretty much perfect for throwing parties. Among the many fetes held over the course of the year was the cast party for the spring play The Good Woman of Setzuan. The debauchery that went down at that party is another story and a moot point because it all happened after our director and his friends who had come to see the show that night stopped by. In my tipsy-omg-this-may-be-my-last-show-in-college (fortunately it wasn’t) haze I remember talking with them about plans after graduation and how I was probably moving to NYC, and that one of the friends was moving too. Little did we know then we’d be working at the same theater.

It’s always a little risky with these people. You’re 95% sure they are the person you think they are, but the 5% of doubt makes it scary. I approach Props Guy thinking If he is not who I think he is, he will think I’m fucking crazy. Hi, are you Rich Vibrose’s (sudonym, but it captures the gist of the actual) friend? I love watching people’s faces change from Why the fuck are you talking to me to Oh hey! which was exactly the reaction this question received followed by the cast party story in conversation form.

I have yet to embarrass myself. I have successfully identified four people I went to high school with who I haven’t seen in 4+ years, several other people from the theatre summer program, as well as the golden couple of the theatre department my freshman year who are still together 3 years later. Other people have not been so lucky. I’ve been waved at by total strangers (he was clearly an international  tourist and perhaps it was a come on, and no it was not to some person in back of me) and been questioned, Are you from Alabama? and been stared in these eyes and told I looked really familiar (and I’m 95% sure she wasn’t hitting on me). But my absolute favorite misidentification happened on a night the show got rained out.

When the show gets rained out that means we ushers get to stand in the rain for probably an hour-roughly the time it takes to decide the storm isn’t just going to blow over. We aren’t allowed umbrellas, only clear ponchos. Thus this is the only place in the city where plastic ponchos do not automatically mark you as TOURIST, MUG ME.I don’t have an umbrella with me, and it’s still storming as I leave the theater and after weighing the options (wear the poncho, don’t get wet, risk getting mugged vs. don’t wear the poncho, get soaked, get raped because I look like a wet t-shirt contestant) I decide to wear the poncho out. I am shrouded in clear plastic as I walk out of the park.  There are two paths to exit the theater, and I see two of the actors from the play leaving the path which means I will pass in front of them and they’ll be right in back of me on the main path out of the park. Yay, I bet I’ll get to overhear some of their conversation!

Which was true, but not as exciting as I hoped until my absolute favorite actor in the play who has the best voice ever says to his companion Is that Lauren up there? That looks like Lauren! Hey, Lauren! he yells Lauren! I know there is no one in between me and them, and the only person infront of me is a fat lady HOLY SHIT, HE’S YELLING AT ME! THEY THINK I’M LAUREN AMBROSE! Eeee! What do I do?? Quick! I turn around No I’m not Lauren, but I’ll take the mistake as a complement, and can I pay you a complement? You have the best voice I’ve ever heard and I’m an usher so I loved watching your performance every night. Response? Oh you are so sweet. And just like that, I’m in. For the next 2 blocks I am in. Introductions and brought into the conversation and I even get called adorable. It was awesome. Icing on the cake of looking like Lauren Ambrose…at least from the back and shrouded in plastic!

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