Other NYCs: My New Roommate

So I know it’s only been a few weeks…but uh…want to look for a place together? I recently had this conversation last night. This conversation has a slight level of awkwardness no matter who you are talking with. This conversation had a level 2 awkwardness- friend level. See, I’m not being an idiot, I wasn’t talking to a man. I learned enough from a certain South African to know when (and if I ever) live with a man it will be a long, drawn out, carefully considered conversation. No, this conversation was with my new roommate. See, the place I’m living now is only a temporary sublet. Yes, I went through all that trouble of moving just to live here for two months. It beats being homeless. Now the move continues for November. But this time I’m not alone, this time if the movers are 4 hours late, I’ll be waiting with my new roommate who is awesome.

We met acting at a renaissance fair together. She is the chillest person ever, which means a lot considering how many San Franciscans I know. She’s hilarious and adorable all in an interesting, mellow way, with a little bit of an edge. Like a fine wine? I wish I could just sit on a porch, drink PBR, and shoot the sh*t with her forever that’s basically what we did all summer. We avoided beer bellies by running to the nearby lake during the day. We would reach the lake, admire the view, jump in, and run back. It’s the perfect way to exercise. In a beer drinking contest, Rose can drink me under the table (she’s from Baltimore, it’s not fair), but running and gabbing- we’re perfectly matched. Rose is the perfect person to ease my pain of not living with Miranda anymore (don’t worry, nothing happened, she can just afford the rent increase and I decided I couldn’t). She is also the person to bring back my Other New York Clichés Feature! Meet my new roommate:

Name/prefered pseudonym: Rose

Borough and neighborhood: Currently I live in Manhattan (Harlem), but I am waiting eagerly the day I can afford to move back to Brooklyn.

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An Ode to New York City Streets

Eleven years ago, I had yet to call New York City home. I can only imagine, hearing the stories of those whose skyline, life line, changed forever on September 11th. The ghost town of ash, the browning core of the Big Apple, the city that never sleeps in a coma-like state. I pray I never know that NYC. Today I reflect and rejoice in the vibrant, revitalized neighborhoods that I call home. The streets that burst with inspiration, hope, and strength.

Streets that are an artist’s canvas. That embrace color, that compose love poems and foreign messages sent over seas.

This artist was commissioned by a man in Spain to create this work in chalk, a love letter to his girlfriend (wife?) for their anniversary.

Streets that are a sanctuary. That create community, that foster acceptance, that raise voices in song.

Hare Krishna members chanting and singing. They can often be found in Union Square.

Streets that are a playground. That leave you jumping for joy, that welcome all who want to join the game. Read More

Clowning Around Union Square

I was walking down Madison Avenue with a friend (actually, it might have been a date…gray area…but that’s another story) this weekend discussing irrational fears. My personal contribution was minimal. I once had a fear of needles though it never reached phobia-level; health issues that required repeated needling of my throat forced me to over come it. Now I’m just afraid of boring, rational stuff like vulnerability and failure. He on the other hand, revealed a fear of clowns. Clowns! This is a man who rates relatively high on the masculine scale: he isn’t afraid of blood infections (he’s had multiple) or spending the night in a pitch dark woods, not of skydiving (he’s been twice), nor of climbing buildings while somewhat inebriated (no comment). Yet, he’s afraid of circus performers, child entertainers. The poor guy revealed to me his biggest fear and me? I laughed. I’m a jerk.

I know it is a fairly common fear, technically called coulrophobia. If you yourself suffer from it, I apologize, and you may hate this post.

What can I say? I like clowns. In part thanks to witnessing expert clowning by Bill Irwin and Lorenzo Pisoni (my latest stage crush). I like clowns so much, if I hear a clown parade is taking place in Manhattan…I’m there.

The New York Clown Theatre Festival began this weekend. Festivities kicked off with an opening day parade at 5:30PM in Union Square. Apparently, clowns like to arrive fashionable late, like all New Yorkers. When I arrived at 5:25PM, I could count five funny looking people: two of them were goth teenagers and three of them had slightly worried, painted faces. “What if no one else shows up?” their expressions read, “I’m going to look like an idiot!”

One early-arriver waits anxiously, not yet putting on her shoes incase she needs to flee the scene.
Another feels a little tight around the collar and tries to hide behind a trash can.
But this one said, “So I’m the first clown at the party, so what! I can entertain these kids all by myself!”

But show up they did. By 5:45PM Union Square was crawling with people in colorful clothes, red noses, and silly faces. Read More

Labor Day Weekend as an American Cliché

When we last left our hero (me), she was attempting a move uptown but evil villain movers were thwarting her plan.  After a battle with an armoire, a screaming match with the a-hole moving company owner, a perilous ride in the front seat of a truck smooshed between 3 grown men, and the aid of my darling friend Walter, I emerged victorious. More or less. Everything got moved and that’s all that matters. A week later, it feels like home. From where I stand, there was only one moving casualty. It always has to be something.

I woke up Tuesday, the day after Labor Day, refreshed and ready to get back to work. I was going to be a good little blogger, write about my weekend in the timeliest of fashions, including dozens of pictures, it was going to be great. And then I couldn’t find my camera USB connector. Buzz buzz! I ripped my newly organized room apart in search of the thing. To no avail. I racked my brain, called friends whose apartments I had recently visited. To no avail. I ransacked my room again, double checking every nook and cranny. Nowhere. That’s how I spent my week in the greatest city on earth. Is there a worse feeling? When you have a plan and then forces beyond your control thwart it? Just like my movers. It’s always something. Yesterday I gave up and went to Best Buy and purchased a universal USB connector. Today I write this belated post. Without further ado:

Governor’s Island, swimming distance (if swimming were allowed/advisable) from the southern tip of Manhattan, is a fantastical place. A former military base, only accessible by a five-minute ferry ride from Manhattan, populated only with abandoned buildings and summer attractions. It is open only on weekends from May 26-September 30. “Governors Island offers a diverse array of arts, cultural and recreational activities for visitors of all ages to enjoy.” say’s their website. I have been meaning to go for years, but again, it was always something: I was away for the summer, it’s a whole ferry ride away, I work weekends, I’m a lazy excuse-spewing American cliché. Nothing motivates an American cliché like money, which is exactly what finally brought me to Governor’s Island. I booked a job for Labor Day weekend working an event called “Pig Island”. Read More

Get A Move On

I’m moving today. Right now in fact. As I type, I sit in my leisure chair, in the lobby of my building, surrounded by all my worldly possessions. At the last 15 minutes of the two hour window my movers were scheduled to arrive, I brought all things I could manage on my own- everything but my mattress and armoire- downstairs. I was scheduled to work this afternoon and thought I would expedite the process. Here I sit, an hour later, and no movers have arrived. So much for getting to work. Now in the addition to the $150 it costs to move, I’m not making any money today. I’m not happy. The cliché is moving in New York sucks and I made the mistake of not planning for the worst. Let this be a lesson: trust clichés.

So I spend the last hour that I can call the Upper West Side my home camped out like the homeless who line the border of Central Park at 1AM. All I need is a shopping cart and to lose the laptop at my fingers and the look would be complete. Though it’s not dropping to the level of bum, my status is about to significantly change. I’ve seen the look on people’s faces when I tell them I live on West 64th Street. Looks that say “she must do well to afford that area” or “I bet her parents help pay the rent” (they don’t). For three years I have lived in a highly desirable neighborhood thanks to a lease signed in the depths of the recession and a housing project which occupies the same block.

I once had a police officer acquaintance insist I allow him to outfit me with mace when he heard where I live. Perhaps the police reports speak differently, but I have never had a problem with any of the people on my block, not even the guys who loiter by the park next door until 3AM.

Two nights ago, I was walking home at 10:30PM. I crossed the street and a handsome young black fellow said to me, “Don’t worry.” “Why would I be worried?” I  replied.
“Most people get scared when they walk this block,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, amused, “I live on this block.”
“I got you,” and then barely a beat, “Well, you’re beautiful.” He stated, no intention in his tone. “Have a good night.” He said and veered off into the park.
“Thanks.” I said, over my shoulder. He wasn’t a man fleeing the scene, embarrassed by his words. He had spoke them with full confidence. Nor was he a man using a compliment hoping to gain affection. It felt strangely innocent, pure. I walked the rest of the way home with a smile on my face.

One of the last times I ever walked that walk home.

I’ve completed this post and my movers still haven’t arrived but I’m a little happier. I’ll be even happier once I’ve settled into my new place in Upper Manhattan: Hamilton Heights, West 150th Street. I’ll fit right in, it’s an area crawling with actors and artists. I have perhaps a dozen friends who will now be my neighbors. Still, it is Harlem and I said I should trust clichés… If I ever see my police officer friend again, I may accept his mace offer.

The Man I Met at Goodwill

I go to thrift stores in search of designer dresses priced by people who think Betsey Johnson makes pre-packaged desserts. I go to find garments that are almost too hip for me to pull of- like a blue suede tunic with fringe around the plunging neck line. I do not go thrifting to meet men. But if anyone in New York City is going to get picked up in a Goodwill, of course it’s going to be me.

I earn my living by being friendly and approachable. Sometimes I forget to turn this off. Therefore I am often asked for directions, drawn into random conversations, and asked for my opinions in dressing rooms. The last one is the weirdest. Does the overweight woman really think I’m going to tell her the truth (that she should go up a size) when she asks me what I think of the dress she’s tried on? Maybe she asks me because she knows I will lie: “Perfect for a wedding.” Does the middle-aged woman really think I have a valid opinion on the beige sweater she is trying on? “Looks cozy,” I say aloud, leaving my true thought, “and shapeless” to myself.

One Sunday morning I’m browsing the racks of the Goodwill on the Upper West Side when I hear a man’s voice, “What do you think of this jacket?”
I turn to see a guy around my age wearing a bright blue jacket with the name STEVE embroidered on the breast pocket. “Is your name ‘Steve’?” I ask.
“No. It’s Peter,” he replies.
“Well, it would be cool if your name was actually STEVE.” Were he a woman my reply would have most likely been, “Looks great!” but since he’s a man…in Goodwill…asking a pretty girl for fashion advice…I feel invited to be something of a sassy-pants. Besides, my true thought is it’s a dorky looking jacket.
steve-name-patch-with-merrow-border-red-white

While I’m not a fan of dorky jackets, the same is not so true of dorky men. Especially when they’re kind of cute, which Peter is. Besides, there’s something bizarre but intriguing about a man who makes a move at Goodwill. Shortly after, “So I told you my name, you should tell me yours”, a conversation about grad school, and a confession that he’s about to move to the neighborhood, Peter leaves Goodwill. He’s purchased the dorky jacket and procured my phone number. He’s been told if he wears the jacket on a date, I’ll immediately walk out. He thinks I’m kidding.

Alas, the moral of this story is “Don’t meet men at Goodwill.” Shocking, I know. Peter asks me out to a movie. My least favorite first date option. On the plus side, he doesn’t wear the jacket. We meet at the theater, with barely enough time for a conversation before we are sitting in silence in front of the big screen. This is not how you get to know someone. In the middle of the movie, Peter puts his hand on my leg. This is not how you get to know someone, and it’s certainly not how you attract someone. I remove his hand and think, At least he paid for the movie.

Perhaps I should have left right after the movie, but then I wouldn’t have a great ending to the story. I give him some benefit of the doubt, he didn’t persist being handsy, and we go get coffee. Over a chai latte it becomes more and more clear we have little in common. He’s dull. My wit may attract him (doubtful, probably just my legs) but it leaves him in the dust. I’m now looking for my exit.

throwing trash basketballHe finishes his drink and aims his cup at the garbage can by the door. “Do you think I can make the shot?” he asks.
“Do you play basketball?” I counter.
“No.”
“Hm, no. I don’t think you’ll make it.”
“Well let’s make this interesting,” he says, “If I make it, you give me a kiss.”
“Ok,” I say, hedging my bets, “And if you don’t make it, I leave.”
“High stakes.”
“Go big or go home.”

He didn’t make the shot. True to my word, I walked out of the café. Perfect exit. I never saw him again.

I’ll still look for love in Goodwill, but only in the shoe selection.

No One Talks About Friendship Break Ups

There is a theory (propagated by Sex and the City) that says it takes approximately half the time one was in a relationship to get over said relationship. By that logic, I will be fully recovered in…three years. A strange claim coming from someone who has never been in a “serious relationship”? Allow me to explain.

I am in the midst of the most difficult break up of my life. I was dumped by my best friend. The person whose shoulder I normally cry on is now the person causing the pain. 

No one talks about friendship break-ups. This leads me to believe they are rare. Sure, friendships fade, we lose touch. I don’t cry every time some one “unfriends” me on Facebook, chances are I don’t even notice. But when someone you love cuts you out of their life- someone who knows your secrets, dreams and fears-how can you not feel heartbroken?

There is no inciting incident I can pinpoint. It didn’t end with a blow out- no cliché betrayal, no boyfriend-stealing. I was subjected to the slow fade: the anti-confrontation, the coward’s break-up. It’s left me hurt and confused- what went wrong? Was it me? Cosmopolitan magazine a source no one should trust says the number one reason people break up is because they fall out of love. Does this only apply to romantic relationships? I’m an only child, my concept of “loving someone like a sister” can never be exact. Where did the love go?

annoyed friennd

Cosmo (how much respect am I losing by referencing this rag?) says the number two reason people break up is cheating. Perhaps this is where our problem lies.We never had an exclusive best friendship. She was always my best friend- from college. Throughout the four years (and three years post college) we both maintained best friends- from home. Maybe this feeling of not being the one and only, the best best, is the cause of our ultimate demise. Was she my best friend soul mate? No. She wasn’t. (That’s Miranda.) I’ve always believed in having several best friends. A saving grace. A break-up with one of my best friends is difficult enough. The pain of a falling out with my one-and-only, best of the best, soulmate, is unimaginable.

In a romantic relationship, you consider that possibility. That someday one of you will wake up and say “Um, I’m over this.” In a friendship, do we ever consider that? My best friend has held my hair back as I’ve puked and I knew she still loved me. She saw my face red and puffy from tears, laughed with me to the point of almost peeing our pants, witnessed horrible decisions with no judgments, cheered me on through bouts of self-doubt, held my hand at the ER. We have seen each other at our best and worst. Did the worse out way the best? Was that the deal breaker? With a best friend does one ever think “Does this have any future?” or “Where is this going?”.

You never consider a future with your best friend, you take it for granted.

The third reason people break up, again, according to the worst source ever Cosmo, is because someone lied about something and trust was difficult to regain. I did lie to her once. I remember it vividly because the reason I lied was because I was judging myself. Does that diffuse the lie? As someone looking on the situation older and wiser eyes, I would say yes, somewhat.

What was the lie, you wonder? I lied to her about loosing my virginity.

A thing that was not exactly any of her business and in every way my own secret to choose to tell. But when she asked, I lied. I told her I hadn’t when in fact I had. A month later I would end up telling her the truth, when I was finally comfortable with it myself. The fact that I had not trusted her did cause a rift in our friendship that took some fixing. In my eyes, I repaired the trust without much difficulty. Now, I look back on that lie and wonder if it was the beginning of the end, an unraveling that began years before the ultimate demise.

I will likely never know exactly what went wrong. We haven’t spoken to each other in over six months, aside from painfully awkward “hellos” at the gatherings of mutual friends. I tried to save the friendship once by confronting her, talking things out and it worked for a while. Then she stopped returning my calls. Again. That was the last straw: “Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice shame on me” goes the cliché. I live in New York, I’m no fool. “Time heals all wounds” goes another cliché. In three years I won’t give it a second thought. Until that time comes, I will avoid two things:

  1. Thinking thoughts of “If my best friend doesn’t love me, who will?”
  2. Reading Cosmo articles along the lines of How to Get Over A Break Up or Break Up Survival Guide. Let me amend that to: Avoid reading any Cosmo article ever. At age 26, I think that’s a good choice to make.
Have you experienced a friendship break-up? Any words of advice? I’d love to hear about it!