Romance, Missed Connections, and Sophie Blackall

NYC has an unquestionable romantic allure. This is the city of carriage rides in Central Park, the top of the Empire State Building, and ice skating in Rockefeller Center. I confess I am a romantic, perhaps even of “hopeless” classification. Yet I, and every other single woman (person?) in New York, has considered the chance that romance in Manhattan is dead. Maybe it moved to Brooklyn? No one writes love letters any more and forget about the grand gestures in tales of yore (and by that I mean the romantic comedies of the ’80s and 90’s: see here). These days I consider it a grand gesture if a man calls me instead of texting. It is that bleak.

Who has time for romance in this city? Everyone is so busy. We spend infinitely more time paying attention to our phones than we ever could a significant other. Modern love is dependent on technology, is it not? Constant communication. Now we can even track our love’s whereabouts through the GPS of our phones! Maybe I’m an old soul, but I find nothing about technology romantic. Craigslist’s Missed Connections may be the one exception to that rule. It is the place in cyberspace where the ~~crazies~~ romantics of NYC flock.

Screen shot 2013-02-20 at 4.48.50 PM — http://craigslist.org

This page of the “Personals” section is both notorious and celebrated, a combination not uncommon in Gotham City. It is comprised of fleeting glances, of shared smiles, of conversations that ended abruptly. That cute blonde you passed in the street who you didn’t quite have the balls to speak to? Maybe she’ll read your missed connection post and contact you. The posts are full of opposing forces: hope and regret, romance and lasciviousness, bravery and cowardess.

I have never contributed a missed connection, though I once strongly considered it. Instead I turned off my laptop and went out into the real world to find him. You may remember this wild goose chase as I chronicled it in detail here. But something changed last week. Now I wish I had written a missed connection for every stranger I ever felt the slightest inkling towards. What changed? I discovered Sophie Blackall’s blog Missed Connections.

You may not recognize her name, but if you’ve traveled by subway in the past year, you recognize her art.

mta poster sophie Blackall — The details of this drawing are fantastic. Click the image to go to the artist’s blog where she has close ups of all the characters. [credit: mta.info]

Every year the MTA (Metropolitan Transit Authority) commissions two artists to create a poster for display in New York subways. This public art brings light and inspiration to the dark tunnels of the subway system. It is a tradition that began in 2000 with one artist and expanded to two the year I moved to NYC. You can view all these posters here. Since then I have had the pleasure of viewing each piece on countless subway rides. Sophie Blackall’s is by far my favorite. How could it not be? It is unique, creative, quirky, cute, colorful, insightful, humorous, and every bit a New York cliché! The first time I saw it, I grinned from ear to ear. I could relate it so much to my little blog here.

When I googled “Sophie Blackall” I was thrilled to discover she is an avid blogger! In 2009 she began to illustrate the missed connections of New York City. Already famous in the world of children’s books, now the grown up world of New York became entranced with her illustrations. Several of them are even featured in her subway art.

Sophie Blackall missed connections — Yes, someone wrote these exact words as a missed connection!
[credit: Sophie’s Etsy shop]

When I heard Ms. Blackall was giving a talk on her Missed Connection Project and MTA poster, I knew I had to be there. That the event was to take at Grand Central Terminal on Valentine’s Day was icing on the cake. Local beers from Brooklyn Brewery, heart-shaped cookies from Zaro’s, the picturesque setting, and the more heartfelt & hilarious stories of missed connections; it was a great way to spend a single February 14th.

Grand Central vday — New York Transit Museum’s “Grand By Design” exhibition, celebration Grand Central Station’s 100th anniversary, was a feature and the backdrop of the event.

Sophie Blackall signing books and posters under the lights of Vanderbilt Hall.

Sophie was as charming and clever as you would expect from her illustrations. She gave insight on her inspirations, sharing stories of reactions to her work, and even showed a picture sent to her by the actual man in the bear suit. After the presentation, she was available to meet and sign books (that is what her blog grew into!). She was so sweet and friendly, happily chatting with all her fans. When my turn came and went, over in but a fleeting moment. I didn’t even get to tell her my name! I did tell her about my blog as I complemented her poster. I figure the chance she reads this blog is about on par with the chance that a missed connection becomes a found one…

Missed Connections Book Signing at Grand Central w4w
You were the brilliant and successful illustrator, I was the aspiring blogger. I wore bright pink tights and carried a red coat. You signed my book, the one you wrote, and I told you I didn’t know who to address it to as I was planning to give it away to one of the readers of my blog. You wrote “For you” and then signed your name. It was perfect. Maybe we can read each other’s blogs someday? Maybe I’ll just admire you from afar. Thank you for being inspiring.

Should I post this on craigslist? We know she reads them!

I wasn’t kidding about giving away her book! One of you lucky readers will receive Missed Connections: Love, Lost & Found signed by the author!

Missed Connections Book Sophie Blackall — The cover and signed page of the book that could be yours! It is filled with dozens of full color illustrations, including the bear one up above.

To enter:

Leave a comment on this post (bonus karma points if it’s a good comment)
Follow this blog in some fashion: Facebook, Twitter, Bloglovin’, WordPress, or e-mail subscription

That’s it!

For an extra entry (doubles your chances!) share newyorkcliche.com on your Facebook or Twitter (mention you did in the comment.)

Thanks and good luck! Winner will be chosen (by random.org) and announced on March 1st and must contact me to collect their prize within 48 hours.
Good luck!

One Giant Leap Towards Cat Lady Cliché

Her appearance is disheveled. There is but one brush in this home and all inhabitants share it. Her person (and the entire contents of her apartment) is covered in a fine layer of hair. Grains of litter constantly stick betwixt her toes. Her kitchen reeks of kibble and tuna. She must tread cautiously. The floor is minefield of toy balls, plastic mice, one slip and she’ll come crashing to the floor. No man has touched her in months, perhaps years, but she has no shortage of bedfellows. Her many roommates all purr as she coos, “Hello, Muffin! Who’s a pretty kitty, Tiger? You’re precious, Princesss!”

This is the Crazy Cat Lady cliché. This may very well be my future. Last week my roommates and I acquired the most vital part of such a transformation. His name is Phillip. We call him Pip.

Pip the Cat — Or Pipsqueak. Or Pipster (when he demands 100% organic, pure meat cat food). Or Silly Philly (when he’s funny). Or Pipalicious (when we’re silly).

I have longed for a cat since age five. Knowing my parents would never get one, I wrote letters to Santa. It seemed a modest request compared to other little girls asking for ponies. By age nine, after years kitten-less Christmases, I was old enough to realize Santa’s view on cats and that of my parents was one and the same. No one was ever going to get me a cat. Still, I clung to the dream. I imagined finding a lost kitten, my mother agreeing to let it in our home only until we found his rightful owner. By the time it came clear he’d been abandoned, my parents would have grown so fond of him they would agree to let him stay! With this hope, I would hallucinate kittens: hearing them in the rustling of leaves, seeing them curled on the sidewalk until I got close enough to see instead, a piece of kitten-sized garbage. I never found a real one; my family never owned a cat.

Many New York apartments do not allow pets. This was precisely the case for all places I lived my first four years in the city. When I moved in October, each piece of furniture the movers hauled upstairs was accompanied by a cacophony of barking from behind the closed doors of several neighbors. There was no question, my building allows pets. On top of that? None of my roommates are allergic and beyond that, they both like cats. It was only a matter of time.

Cat Lady Chic [credit: indulgy.com] — Crazy Cat Lady meets New York chic. Will this be me in ten years? [credit: indulgy.com]

Cages were stacked upon cages at the “Cat Castle” of Animal Care & Control. Their inhabitants varied greatly. Some sleeping, some cowering under blankets, others alert and eager at the slightest hint of attention. They were all given names, most likely what ever was next on a list. I asked the attendant to open the cage of “Liberty”, a 3 year-old female who was positively begging for a petting. April was across the room with “Carla”.
“I think she has a kitty cold.” April said, “Are you under the weather, pretty girl?”
“This is silly, we want a boy and we’re both with girls right now.” I said, as Liberty paced back and forth in front of her cage, mewing and sending brown cat hair flying with every pet of my hand.
“I know, but she looks so sweet and sad!”

We closed their cages and continued looking. We were hoping for a boy kitten, less than a year old. “Gino” was a beautiful orange, spunky and displaying alpha male characteristics. “Ralph” was black with white spots and the face of a cranky old man. And then we saw him. Mostly white with splotches of tortoise-shell on his top and calico on his tip, “Emilio” was smaller than all the other cats we’d seen. The paperwork on his cage told us he was estimated at one year old, a stray picked up on Valentine Avenue in the Bronx. He was curled in a ball but rose quickly as we stood in front of his cage. Curious and criminally cute, affectionate but not needy, we knew he was top contender even from behind bars. Once the attendant opened the latch and he allowed us to pick him up, sitting perfectly content in our arms, we hoped he’d be ours. “He’s perfect,” April whispered as he purred.

Prince Phillip in his "Elizabethan Collar- that's what the Brits call the cone! — Prince Phillip in his “Elizabethan collar”.
That’s how the Brits refer to the “cone of shame”.

Soon to be perfect anyway. When we met him, he had two major flaws: his name (“Emilio” is not a good name for any cat) and his reproductive status. Fortunately unlike their human counterparts, you can change a male cat. We signed adoption papers, scheduled his neutering for the next morning, and knew we change his name as soon as we got to know him a little better.

That is how our little white cat came into our lives. We brought him home the evening after his neutering, a day of unparalleled change. After over an hour of discussion, a trial name that didn’t quite work, we all agreed he was “Pip”. He stood in our living room utterly bewildered. Already emasculated, we added insult to injury as we snapped a purple “cone of shame” around his neck. Then the three of us showered love upon him, such as he hadn’t seen in over two weeks.

Pip has 3 mommies — Pip has three mommies.

I’m the over-protective mom. The one who searched “neuter surgery recovery” and checked all nutritional facts to get the best cat food. Now our little guy sits, de-coned and content. He’s a big cuddle bug, a purr-machine, and he even likes when you rub his belly (rare with cats). Sweet as pie and now that he is almost fully recovered, beginning to reveal a playful side. He’s made all my childhood dreams come true. He’s made me more cliché.

I’d love to hear about your cat, if you’ve ever had one. All readers who aren’t “cat people”- fear not! This is the first and final post I devote to subject. This will never be “Crazy Cat Lady Cliché!

February 15, 2013October 23, 2014

A Vicarious Valentine’s Day

vintage valentine — The ones with groan-inducing puns are the best.

For the past several Valentine’s Days, I spread the love. Not having a “special someone”, I chose to express my feelings to all those who held a special place in my heart. In college, I baked cookies for all my friends. Last year I gave strangers free lipstick and shared the love with you, dear readers. The year before, not wanting to think of my recent vomitrocious breakup, I mailed out silly cards modeled after vintage Valentines.

This year I did nothing. I put nothing in the mail, nothing in the oven. I didn’t buy a round for Miranda and Charlotte when we celebrated “Galentine’s Day” on the 13th. I sent no texts nor even Facebook messages. I didn’t even call my parents on Valentine’s Day- I called them at 12:13 AM on February 15th. (Before you call me an ungrateful daughter, remember it was still February 14th for them on the west coast!) I could say I bought flowers for the apartment- they sit in the kitchen for all to enjoy. But honestly I bought them selfishly for myself. I always dreamed someone would get me Valentine’s Day flowers. After years of this never becoming reality, I realized I could get them for myself. They make me happy. It’s my chronically single tradition.

I can’t complain that no one got me anything for V-day. You can’t put out no effort and expect anything in return. I am no one’s Valentine and it’s entirely my own fault. Yes, it makes me a little sad. I am so lucky to have people in my life who love me and whom I love back. I should acknowledge them more. Yes, I know I don’t need a Hallmark holiday to do that, but it is nice.

So this Valentine’s Day I looked to other New Yorkers. To live vicariously through them. To be inspired by their gestures of love. There is nothing like walking the streets of New York, taking the train, and seeing so many with arms full flowers, balloons bouncing around their heads, stuffed bears peaking from shopping bags. I like to imagine their stories.

I made my way home last night after a very enjoyable event in Grand Central Station, a celebration of art sprung from Craig’s List’s infamous missed connections (more on that in a later post). I stood on the subway platform and desperately wanted to photograph all the tokens of St. Valentine that surrounded me. Emboldened by the two glasses of wine I had consumed at the event, I approached several. “Can I take your photograph? I’m a blogger, just doing a little piece for Valentine’s Day.” I only asked four people, but they all said yes. In fact, it was a joy to watch their faces lighten up from typical-New-Yorker where-the-f*ck-is-the-train expression.

This is Caleb, the first person I approached. He looked friendly and I was struck by the beautiful, full bouquet of flowers he held in his hand. This was not a sad, generic looking bunch from a bodega. He had clearly put some effort into the assortment. “Who is your Valentine?” I asked him, and all others I approached. He replied simply, “My girlfriend.” I imagined her an adorable hipster-type, with ironic glasses and patterned tights. I like to think she made him dinner, a mix CD, and cupcakes spelling out I L-O-V-E Y-O-U for dessert. That she opened the door to greet him, squealed with delight at his bouquet, and flung her arms around his neck, “Happy Valentine’s Day, sweetie!”

This is Tasha and Kevin, whom I approached at Columbus Circle, obviously. The sheer number of balloons she carried was impressive, I only wished I could have seen them outside dancing in the wind. I interrupted their conversation to beg a picture and began to ask, “Is he your Val-?” Mid-sentence I rephrased myself, knowing how often I make situations awkward with such assumptions. “Who is your Valentine?” seemed safer.
“Him, unfortunately,” Tasha giggled.
“Good job with the balloons, man. That number shows a lot of love,” I said to Kevin.
“Thank you,” he said, “At least some one appreciated them,” he said, and grinned at his beloved.
I imagined them a couple who had been together on and off for years, only recently realizing they can’t live with out each other. They’d grow old together, and in 30 years, be that bickering old couple who makes your heart melt.

This man was in a hurry. Not waiting for the train, but coming off of one. I hesitated to ask for his picture, but did anyway, snapping this slightly blurry shot. I didn’t get his name, only asked who his Valentine was. “My wife,” he responded. I thanked him for stopping and he wished me a happy Valentine’s Day before quickly ascended the stairs. I imagined him rushing home to the love of his life, a woman who has stuck by him through thick and thin. I pictured him a man of few words, perhaps not one to always express himself. That gigantic balloon heart speaks volumes.

This is Ramon. I was a bit intimidated to approach him as he seemed standoffish, but the moment I opened my mouth his demeanor transformed to friendly and open. I was intrigued because Ramon appeared to be carrying a great number- at least five- bouquets of different flowers. His Valentine is “Devon”, a deliciously unisex name that left me unable to guess Ramon’s orientation. “And are all these flowers for Devon?” I queried.
“No,” Ramon stammered, clearly humoring me but a little out of his comfort zone with talking to strangers, “We are going to a group dinner, with my sister, some friends.”
“And your bringing flowers for everyone?”
“Yes, I don’t want anyone to be left out.” he replied.
My heart swelled a little, “That is so sweet. I’m sure you are going to make them very happy. Thank you for sharing that with me.”
I imagined this dinner party at a hip tapas restaurant in Chelsea. All Ramon’s friends there, stylish young professionals. I couldn’t imagine “Devon”, but I did imagine Ramon’s sisters face as it lit up with love for her kind and generous brother.

With these interactions, I was reminded of my love for this city. I suppose I did have a Valentine this year, the fabulous NYC. Cliché you say? That’s me!

Hope you all had a lovely Valentine’s Day! I’ve told you how mine was, I’d love to hear about yours!

February 12, 2013October 23, 2014

Snow is a Four Letter Word

Friday afternoon I found myself outside in the midst of the storm. Determined, I pointed my paisley printed umbrella down Delancey Street. Cowering behind its cheerful swirling colors, I cursed myself. Why had I left the comfort of my warm apartment? Why wasn’t I snuggled under a comforter, sipping cocoa? Were it not for my five extra pounds of “winter weight”, the unrelenting gusts of wind would have blown me down the block- no question. The wind combined with the slush starting to freeze on the sidewalk made forward movement slow and scary. I soldiered on, finally descending the subway stairs. Underground and out of the wind, I closed my umbrella, feeling like Xena Warrior Princess sheathing her sword. Nemo could rain sleet and snow on NYC all night; others stronger than I would slip and fall on the battle field. I was going to take my crazy Californian ass home and remain there until the sun emerged.

snowsunstreet — And emerge it did, the very next day! Snow on my street, so pretty when it’s fresh!

This is my ninth east coast winter. I’ve mastered the winter wardrobe: dozen adorable hats, four coats ranging from “cute and kinda warm” to “who cares how I look I’m WARM”, and long underwear for every day of the week. The sight of my own skin in February no longer elicits an instinctual, “EEK! GHOST!” I accept lack of color and quality fresh fruit from November-March (however much it hurts). These have all become routine, simply the way of life. But snow? Snow still brings wonder and awe when my California-grown eyes behold it.

Before I moved to Massachusetts for college, I could count my experiences with snow on one hand. I’ll never forget the first time I experienced snow. It made quite the impression.

tree snow — Not a cloud in the sky, yet it takes me a minute to realize it’s melting snow and not rain.

I was three years old and on a family vacation in Yosemite. I remember nothing else about this vacation, it is a single moment frozen in time. May 1990. In the mountains of California, Yosemite still has lingering snow patches in late spring, even if the outside temperature is in the 60s-70s. My parents, both born and raised in the tri-state area, were excited to introduce their little girl to snow. At the first sign of a significant patch, they pulled the car over to the side of the road. My mother zipped up my coat and attempted to put shoes on my feet. I refused to let her. Road trips meant no shoes! They meant running around at rest stops, barefoot in grass! No pavement, no reason to hinder my toesies! NO! NO SHOES!

The pile of white stuff outside looked fluffy and shiny. It was completely foreign to my four-year-old eyes. The only thing I could compare it to was sand, and what doofus wears shoes in sand? Another mother would have forced shoes upon my kicking feet as screams of “NO SHOES!!” echoed through the trees of the national park. My mother just shrugged and said, “Ok, if that’s your choice. No shoes. Let me know when you change your mind.” I jumped out of the car, my bare feet relishing the grassy landing, and ran to the pile of snow. One moment I was all smiles, sticking my toes into white. What was this!? It was cold! And wet! It felt awful! I burst into tears, the next second I was running back to the car begging my mom to put my shoes on. I never learned a lesson so fast and so effectively.

I now have two pairs of boots, both warm and reasonably waterproof, so my feet may never come in contact with snow again. With this weekend’s blizzard past, these are especially important, as street corners turn into soupy, deep puddles. There is nothing worse than wet, cold feet. I love snow as it falls, when I can catch it on my tongue. When it lands pristine and white. I hate when it gathers in dirty piles, when it makes my clothes and extremities soggy. That brings back bad 4-year-old memories. Winter and I, we have a love-hate relationship.

Dirty, gray snow- nothing in Manhattan stays white for long!(There is a reason for the signature black.) — Dirty, gray snow- nothing in Manhattan stays white for long!
(There is a reason for the signature black.)

What is your first memory of snow? Did Nemo blow you over this weekend?

February 1, 2013October 23, 2014

Other NYCs: My Summer Fling That Never Was (Thank God)

Before I even arrived at my first summer theater job, the whole cast knew me as The Girl Who Couldn’t Figure Out How to Get Here. I sent out an e-mail to the entire contact list that read along the lines of: Hello people I’ll be living and working with for the next 3 months! I don’t have a car! I can’t figure out public transportation! Someone help me! I got several responses via e-mail, and then a call from an unknown number. I answered the phone.

On the other line was a guy from the cast who had worked the job the year before. He knew first hand how to take Greyhound and then transfer to a local bus line. He was oh so friendly and helpful and even though we had never met, we easily chatted for thirty minutes. His name was Tyson Savoretti, his first name he told me over the phone, his last I saw on the cast list. I pictured a man with a gorgeous mix of ethnicity- half black, half Italian. When I hung up the phone I knew two things: exactly how I was going to take the bus and who I wanted for my summer fling. (These are two important considerations when working summer stock.)

When we met face to face I learned white people can be named “Tyson” too. So I had been wrong about that. Still, he was still attractive and charming and spontaneous and funny, just the right amount of goofy and….into my roommate. At the time I was disappointed but now I look back and see fortune smiling down on us. It was a gigantic boon. While he and said roommate had a great summer fling, now they no longer speak. Whereas Tyson and I became friends that summer and now he is one of the best buddies in NYC. Still as charismatic and hilarious as he was when I met him, he is this week’s Other New York cliché!

Name/prefered pseudonym: Tyson Allen Savoretti, my gamer-tag/handle has always been Spee 2000.

Borough and neighborhood: Manhattan/ Hamilton Heights! But I always say North Harlem. Historically, it is near Hamilton Grange, which is what I wish it was called. Alexander Hamilton, hero, once had a farm and a home here, which still resides 12 blocks south of where I am sitting now. I love American history but hate American politics.

How are you a New York cliché?

Welp, I think it depends on who you ask…If you ask certain people, I am like Mr. Big, the charming dark-and-twisty type. Yet to others, I am Aiden Shaw, and my big heart gets broken easily…And if you ask me how I know those names, I will deny this blog post.

Actually though, I think my clicheness (which if you spell-check you get; Chilliness, Cheesiness, Chicness) is that I came to NYC with big dreams of doing SOMETHING in entertainment. But the more I learned about the reality of it, I realized I do not have the gut to put up with the people and the lifestyle required to be successful. I may have the talents necessary, but to pursue a passion is to know its dark side. Plus, people change as they get older. I found out what I want from life and from success and so I turned 90 degrees and am now kicking ass in Nursing school. I think I may actually be a Renaissance Man.

They say no one who lives in New York is actually from New York. Where are you from? Safety Harbor, FL, near Tampa. It is a good ass place to live, even though Florida is always in the news for something horrible or ridiculous. I do not apologize for Florida, I adore it. I miss the sunshine, I miss the winters there, but I truly think that I could be happy living almost anywhere. Like Pumba said, “Home is where the rump rests!”

Bloomberg is banishing you from NYC. You have 24 hours before you have to pack up and leave for ever. How do you spend them?
Well I know I would have a party. I could call in quite a few favors from the past five years or so and have rager, and I am certain it would be easy to get people motivated for THAT one. Before the horse-drawn jail-cell came to ride me across the George Washington Bridge, I would probably take one last “whiskey walk” from the Bunker (my home) to the Battery. I love taking goodbye-walks, love-walks, and whiskey-walks (although they are not mutually exclusive).

He also likes cigar walks and walks across the Brooklyn Bridge.

What restaurant/bar you keep going back to, even though you’ve been meaning to try a dozen others?
Blossom Cafe on 82nd-ish and Columbus. It is a vegan place and I have had the whole menu like twice. I used to go there with my beloved on every occasion, and still find reasons to go back now. The only place I have really EVER been a regular.

TyPizza — A feast back in omnivore days of yore, this is Tyson before he got his V-card.

Favorite pizza place?
It WAS Amore right off the South exit of the W4 subway station. Me and my buddy Justin would eat there every time we were drunk in the area (once or twice), but since I became a card-carrying vegan, I really don’t eat much pizza. Two Boots, however, does a very nice veggie pizza called the Earth Mother, and a less amazing fake cheese vegan pizza called the V for Vegan…which, if you let your non-vegan friends try, they will feel VERY assured of their omnivorousness.

So you live in NYC, but what’s one super-touristy thing you secretly love?
Every stupid thing I LOVE; I still like going to the Dinos at the American Museum of Natural History, I love to see the weird shit at the MoMA, I love to take the Staten Island booze cruise and see the Statue. And I couldn’t possibly love the Radio City Christmas Spectacular more. I watched the video of it I PURCHASED on Christmas Eve. Most of all, Central Park. I mentioned how much I love walks, and there are still new things to see. Last year I finally found Shakespeare Garden for the first time. SIIIIIGGGGH I was in so much love then…this questionnaire is now making me sad.

Ever had a run-in with a celebrity (A-D List)?
I have served a few celebrities in my bartending work throughout the past five years, but no one REALLY cool until Philip Seymour Hoffman sat at a table in my front section at Broome Street Bar in SoHo. He ordered a fatty sandwich and played Ski Safari the whole time and did not look up. Tipped 20%.

You totally saw something weird on the subway or street today (you may not have registered it was weird because you are jaded), what did you see?
Today. I saw a young black man giving change to a homeless man. The the homeless man asked for more, and the young black man looked really depressed about the situation and walked away.

TysSubway — Demonstrating that he might be a weird thing people see on the subway as well.

What is your favorite fictionalized New York? How does it compare with reality?
Ghostbusters. I think it is a fair assessment of how New Yorkers actually are, it isn’t rude about it, or trying to be really funny about how they portray the vibe of the city. I am happy when I see that.

My favorite Future New York is The Fifth Element, and I still sort of want to paint orange circles on my wall and have a KEEP CLEAR zone. Also the idea that the Asian noodles guy would just pull his hovercart up to your window is BITCHEN.

Plug something! Be it something you are involved in, your significant other/roommate/cat is involved in, or just something you think is extra-special going on in NYC.
I would like to plug my friend’s blog, I love the writing style and how non-self-indulgent it is, and I laugh every time she writes anything. I would definitely buy a coffee table book from her. Check her out here – http://newyorkcliche.com/ – I am a big fan!

Thanks, Tyson for being part of my Other New York clichés feature! And for plugging my blog- you’re the sweetest! Next movie night we are watching The Fifth Element- you sold me (sorry I balked at the idea last time)!

What do you think of this series? Love it so much you want featured? Fabulous! Email NewYorkCliche@yahoo.com.

January 31, 2013October 23, 2014

California Dreamin’ on Such a Winter’s Day

Last night I was awakened at 4AM by the sound of wind and sleet pounding upon my window. I shivered, put the pillow over my head, and tried to go back to sleep. Oh New York winter, you are a beast!
Today I’m working a promotion in Bryant Park. I’ve worked outdoor events in January before and it is brutal! Fortunately for this event, I’ll be in an enclosed dome with heat lamps. However, the door is always open to invite people in. The wind is going to whip through and make me shiver in my uniform mandated sneakers.
My solution? Think back to exactly one month ago when I was strolling through sunny, colorful California. We can all escape winter for a moment and live vicariously through the memories.

Walking through the succulent garden of the San Francisco Botanical Garden. The sky was so blue! The sun was so warm! The earth was so green!

January 29, 2013October 23, 2014

Thousands, Including Love Interest, Show Interest in Blog

The day I got a (imaginary) boyfriend my whole (online) world exploded. As an actor, creating characters is my bread and butter. I suppose I shouldn’t be so surprised that my darling, completely fabricated “Joe” caused such a stir.

My last post, “I’ll Make Up a Biker Boyfriend If It Makes Life Easier” was Freshly Pressed. Every day Wordpress (my blog host!) selects 10 blog posts to feature on their home page. Says WordPress: “Freshly Pressed posts can be about anything, but they all have a few things in common: they enlighten us, inspire us, entertain us, and get us talking.” This is the “big break” of the blogosphere.

The day after I was featured, newyorkcliche.com received more views than it usually receives in an entire month. I’m still basking in a radiant glow of overwhelming and exciting. Thousands of people (can you believe it? Thousands!) read my words- it’s my blogging dream’s come true. Y’all left incredibly insightful comments which I vow to respond to (in the next day or so)! It is truly incredible to receive so much positive feedback. Thank you ever so much.

And then there was one, one in a thousand, for whom my words brought waves of dread, confusion, hopelessness and fear.

When I wrote about my imaginary biker boyfriend, I had no idea any of this would happen. I wrote it with no regard to whom would read it. I thought it was funny and would make an enjoyable read. Period. Never in my wildest dreams did I consider WordPress editors would read it. I did consider however, that the real, live, anything-but-imaginary dude I’m dating might read it. But that didn’t stop me from mentioning him outright- the fella seemingly interested in labeling himself my boyfriend. Yeah, he could read it, I thought to myself, but he probably won’t. And if he does, I didn’t say anything bad about him. I dismissed the idea without a second thought.

“Of course I read it,” he said not long after, “I mean…you used the word ‘boyfriend’ in the title, how could I not?”

“Attention grabbing title: check.” I replied, trying to ignore where this conversation was about to go.

“I dunno who this guy is suppose to be, but I’ma gonna fight him,” he said, adding a smiley emoticon at the end of the sentence.

My internal monologue churned: Does he know I was talking about him? Maybe he doesn’t! This is so awkward! Why didn’t I actually consider what it would be like if he read this? Me and my big blog! I wish I hadn’t written it- no that’s not true! I’m so glad I wrote it! I’ve always wanted to be Freshly Pressed! AH I’M CONFLICTED.

Betraying none of this, to him I said, “You’re going to fight my imaginary boyfriend?”

“No, not him, I don’t think I would win that one,” he responded. I smiled. I had made “Joe”, the epitome of biker badass, a formidable foe. “I mean the dude at the end, who ever it is, I think I stand a chance.”

I couldn’t help but imagine the Fight Club scenario, “Haha, that’s a fight I’d like to see,” I mused and quickly tried to change the subject.

He didn’t want to change the subject and pressed on,”I can safely say that you’re not making it up. The last part in that post.”

The last part of that post? This had been an attempt at denial- “Maybe he’s not [interested in being my boyfriend]! He hasn’t exactly said as much…I’m probably making it up!” I did not want to deal with the reality of the situation. I wasn’t ready. I was a coward. But now it was inevitable. I pulled a blanket up to my chin, a little girl seeking comfort, wanting to hide from decisions, feelings, and uncertainty. “That’s not safe! It’s scary!” I replied, my throat tightening. “We’re not having this conversation, are we? Warning: I might start crying. I feel strangely on the edge of tears right now.”

A strange cocktail of fear, anxiety and hormones brought the tears to my eyes. “Here’s a guy who likes you!” Said my brain to my heart, “He is a good guy! We’re trying to pick a good guy for ONCE! Why can’t you just make this easy? And you do like him, I know you do!”
“But I don’t know!” wailed my heart, “Do I like him enough? I’m not sure! Shouldn’t I be sure? And, and, I’m scared of getting vomited on again!”
“JUST HAVE A BABY!” Cackled my pre-menstral besieged uterus, “You know I’m going to attack you with mind-numbing cramps and hormonal rampages for as long as you deny me!”
“And did you see that gorgeous specimen of manhood we passed on 5th Avenue today?” giggled the area slightly below my uterus, “You’re gonna give up the chance you might kiss someone new tomorrow?”

After this ridiculous conversation between parts of my body, the conversation with the boy wasn’t so bad. Still, I really didn’t want to have it. But I knew he did. The reason I was avoiding it was fear, never a good reason. “How many times have you called yourself brave?” I asked myself, “You suck it up and you have this conversation, young lady! Dread, confusion, and fear, all those things you’re feeling now? He had all those feelings whilst reading that post you wrote. Karma, baby!”

And I was honest. I’m not ready to be a girlfriend. Maybe I will someday soon. Maybe I won’t. I did cry and he handled it perfectly supportive and understanding. No judgment, no coddling, no getting “weirded out”. We talked for over two hours. At the end nothing had changed on paper or Facebook status. We’re still just casually dating. Yet, things have changed. A level of trust like never before. Support. Ease in honesty. Hope- this could be something…special.

I just have to wait and see, and thus so must you, dear readers.