It’s Raining Gay Boyfriends

There are certain things you just know, beyond the benefit of a Google search, originated in New York City. Examples: 24 hour delis, jaywalking, drunk brunch, sample sales, and gay boyfriends. In a city where there are 600,000 more single women than men (yes, that’s the statistic; yes, it terrifies me), it’s no surprise we’ve come up with some alternatives to the typical boyfriend-girlfriend hetero standard. A gay boyfriend (GBF) is there when you need a date for your company fundraiser; he’ll bring you soup when you’re sick (and you don’t have to worry you look like shit); he’ll properly acknowledge the fierceness of your Carlos Miele  jumpsuit. Where would Grace be without Will?

Or Carrie without Stanford?

My gay-boyfriend is nothing like Stanford Blatch. (He’s waaaay hotter.) We actually have a fairly conventional relationship by New York standards. For starters, we aren’t exclusive. I know he sees other women, in fact he lives with one (she honestly has more right to call him her gay-boyfriend but whatever).  Second, we never had the “relationship defining talk”. I just started calling him my gay-boyfriend (in a Valentine’s Day post here) because, well, because I felt like it. “I’m so glad I get that title,” he said, rolling his eyes. I love you, too! I said, ignoring the obvious sarcasm and thinking to myself, He loves it. He just doesn’t want to admit it!

I haven’t called anyone else my boyfriend in quite sometime. Not since Cute Theater Boy. Surprisingly, this doesn’t mean boys’ don’t call me their girlfriend. Safa Boy referred to me as his girlfriend in his diary (which made his infidelities all the more inexcusable). Though he shrugged off our breakup with a “We aren’t even really dating”, I know Banjo Guy calls me his ex-girlfriend. He ran into one of my co-workers at a bar and I was brought up in conversation via”My ex-girlfriend works there.” (Co-worker to me the next day: “I ran into your ex yesterday.” Me: What? Who? Co-worker: “‘Banjo Guy.'” Me: What? Did he say that? We casually dated. He was never ever my boyfriend. Co-worker: “Oh good. He seemed weird. Border-line creepy.” Me: Yep, he is!) Trader Joe’s Boy I have slightly less concrete proof: “girlfriend” was never said or written to my explicit knowledge. However, upon returning from a trip home to North (or South? I can never remember) Carolina, he presented me with a gift: earrings from his grandmother. If he told his grandmother I was just some girl he was sleeping with and not his girlfriend, I will break my Macbook up into little pieces and eat it (and you know what my laptop means to me).

Clearly I know, first-hand, exactly how weird it is to be titled “girlfriend” when the point has yet to be established. Yet, it certainly didn’t stop me from titling my GBF. Yep, I’m a hypocrite. No, I’m not reconsidering. The title stays…unless he breaks up with me. (I am leaving my bike, my baby of sorts, in his care this summer. I might not do that if he dumps me…If you’re reading GBF, that is as it looks. A threat. Xoxo!) But I don’t think he will dump me (despite the abusive/manipulative nature of that last parenthesis). Our relationship just got more serious than any other I’ve had recently. I met a parent.

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I have mentioned my love of free/cheap theatre before. Honestly, I probably love it more than my GBF (sorry babe). I recently discovered an amazing website: www.studentrush.org and its Will Call Club. Sign up, they don’t send spam, and you get access to $5 Broadway (and Off-Broadway) tickets. (I just went on to make sure I had my details right, and saw they had $5 tickets for Arcadia! Seeing it tomorrow! SCORE.) They often pop up last-minute and may be for inconvenient matinees, but for my lifestyle and spontaneous nature, it’s perfect. That said, I’ll buy $5 tickets with mad abandon. I am prone to buy 2-3 and just assume I’ll be able to find people who want to go. So far I have seen Baby, It’s You and That Championship Season. Neither are productions I would exactly choose to see on my own (Arcadia is!) but well worth the cost of a Subway sandwich or a round trip subway ride. In addition, the feeling of paying a negligible sum and then sitting next to people who paid over a hundred dollars is nothing short of magical. Need I say more? If you live in New York, or are planning a visit, sign up!

If there is one show on Broadway that I would never, in a million years pay more that $5 for, it is Rain:A Tribute to The Beatles. Like any theater snob, I often turn up my nose at “jukebox musicals” (Jersey Boys succeeded where almost all fail). Though I love The Beatles (who doesn’t?), this picture alone was a turn off:

The shows tag line is “The Next Best Thing to seeing the Beatles!” Another turn off. Both scream “WE ARE TRYING SO HARD TO BE JUST LIKE THE BEATLES!” Which is going to be a loosing battle, no question. Plus, you don’t move to New York to see the next best thing! Regardless, when it popped up on StudentRush I snagged 3 tickets. As I said, who doesn’t love The Beatles? I figured it would at least be a cheap night of million dollar scenery and great music.

I ended up going with my GBF and his father. A man who’s lived in the state of NY his entire life, with hair swept up in a not-quite-long-enough-but-it’s-trying ponytail (GBF:”Dad, it makes you look like a lesbian.”), and not the most easy person to get along with (much like my own father). By the end of night I’d charmed him. He may not have thought I was as great as the show (which he loved, GBF was indifferent to, and I hated but didn’t tell anyone), but he gave me a hug at the end of the night. Though I wouldn’t go so far as to say I’d eat my laptop if proved wrong, I strongly suspect he is not  a “hugger”.

“My dad LOVED you,” my GBF reported the next day, “He thought you were so bubbly and sweet. ‘I hope she makes it big!’ he said.” I smiled. I know I’m good with parents. Being an only child, it was a necessity. Hopefully someday I’ll meet parents I really need to impress. I’m much more confident in my abilities at making parents fall in love with me than making men fall in love with me. (Sigh.) If you ever need to pretend you have a girlfriend, I said, knowing he had yet to come out to his father, I totally volunteer. I figured it was only polite (and funny) to offer. “I was planning on telling him at dinner that night,” he said. It was originally supposed to be just him and his dad at dinner the night we saw Rain, but after I’d got them tickets, I was invited along. “What?” I wasn’t sure I understood. “If it was just the two of us, I was going to come out to my dad at dinner.” I stopped you from coming out to your dad!? I shrieked. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll do it next time.”

Clearly I am causing more harm than good in this relationship.

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The Ridiculous Survival Jobs of a Struggling Actress

I suppose if I was at the maximum for a New York cliché, I would be waiting tables. It’s the ultimate clichéd day job. Thing is, I’m a bit of a klutz and would more than likely spill things. I can’t stand working behind a desk, as you may have read about once or twice. While I’ve recently been making some money acting (don’t worry, I’ll tell you all about it in a following post), that does not happen all the time. So how do I pay my bills? I’ll give you 11 examples:

1 The circus came to Queens. Wanting to take advantage of the fact kids beg their parents for things, I was sent to Highland Park on a lovely sunny day where it was my job to make as many kids as possible look like this→→→→

2 The insane world of bridal that I never before had need to entertain. That is until I promoted a low-calorie yogurt at the New York Bridal Expo. Went home with cases of artificially sweetened strawberry and key-lime yogurt. Not to mention for dinner I ate nothing but naturally sweetened cake samples. Wedding cake is the best.

3 Some events you get paid an inflated amount to just stand around and look friendly. If I was a Nicki Minaj fan, this would have been the best job ever: I promoted a camera at one of her concerts and ended up watching most of the concert because no one wanted to look at cameras while she was performing.

4 Occasionally my day ends at 3AM. When one promotion asked me START my day at 3AM I couldn’t imagine what it was for (often a job is posted with very little detail- like the brand you’ll be promoting). Turns out it was for the Royal Wedding. I was on the job at 4AM handing out free snuggies to the first 50 people to show up for the biggest viewing party in North America. I did very little actual work and basically got paid to watch the Royal Wedding, which I enjoyed far more than I expected to.

5 I may or may not (I signed a contract so I have to say that) be involved in this:

6 Same goes for this:

7 Some events you get paid an inflated amount to just stand around and look friendly. If I was a Nicki Minaj fan, this would have been the best job ever: I promoted a camera at one of her concerts and ended up watching most of the concert because no one wanted to look at cameras while she was performing.

8 The Academy Awards have fallen pray to decreased ratings. As a result, they had a massive promotion this year. The main hook was a photo-op to take a picture of yourself holding an actual Oscar. Some people were beyond enthusiastic about this, dressing up in tuxedos and ball gowns for their one snapshot in the spot light.

9 Some couples choose to have their wedding pictures taken in Times Square. I do not understand why you want to celebrate your union with the backdrop of consumerism. I especially don’t understand these pictures after spending hours wearing a wedding dress myself. An Off-Broadway show decked me out in a full gown and veil and stuck me with fliers by the Mariott Marquee. The result: a horrendously dirty wedding dress (the bottom was grey after mere hours) and my picture in many people’s “Trip to NYC” scrapbooks.

10 New Years Day, 6 hours after puking on Safa Boy’s pants, I hauled my hung-over butt out of bed and took a 90 minute subway ride. From 9am to 3pm in 30° weather, I stood on the boardwalk and passed out samples of lotion to participants of the Coney Island Polar Bear Plunge. Yes, I tried to save the skin of people choosing to jump into frigid water. I was a ridiculous event, fortunately the participants were colorful enough to distract me from nausea.

11 Can’t forget to the events I’ve previously devoted entire posts to: the time I promoted with models, Fashion Week promotions, working at ComicCon, liquor promos (which are the best and best paying), and my original Times Square experience promoting Mary Poppins.

What can I say? I never get bored!

Farewell Tonsils: I Survive Tonsillectomy Surgery

If you make it sunny tomorrow, I’ll give you a hundred kisses! 

This is the last time I remember praying to God. I was six years old, lying in bed, so pumped with excitement about the next day’s trip to “Marine World”, that I could not fall asleep. The trip would be canceled in the event rain and I couldn’t let that happen. So I made a bargain with God. Lying in bed , I put my hand to my lips, counting each one, and blew 100 kisses to the ceiling of my bedroom. The next day was beautiful and sunny. My prayers had been answered, my kisses accepted.

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Sitting outside the operating room, I was over come with the urge to pray. I longed to put my hands together and beg for my life. Blow kisses to an all-knowing parental figure. Be able to connect with someone, something. I sat alone in my hospital gown, the blue cap encasing my hair and transforming me from an individual to a patient.  Hospital workers passed me, outfitted in scrubs, acknowledging me as they went in and out the sliding doors with purpose. “How’re you doing?” Oh, I’ve been better, I chirped, smiling weakly. “Who’s your doctor?” Dr. Shin. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.” I know. It doesn’t stop my own hands from sweating. I clasped them tightly. My foot tapped involuntarily, with rigorous speed, up and down. My heart pounded in my chest. My whole body was a bundle of nerves. At least I wasn’t crying. My whole being was focused on “keeping it together” and I succeeded in maintaining a certain semblance of this.

As a 20-something, New York cliché hailing from else-where (that is to say, not Jewish), I am devoutly agnostic. Praying to a god I haven’t exactly believed in for the last decade felt cowardly, cheap. An orderly passed me, “We’re just cleaning up the room, just a few more minutes.” He had a large blue garbage bag in his hands. It was full. Full of what? I thought. What are they cleaning up in there? Are there pieces of the last patient in that bag!?  I realized I’d been holding my breath. Stop. Just stop. I closed my eyes, Powers that be, grant me peace. I opened my mouth, took a breath, and did something I wouldn’t physically be able to do for the next two weeks. I sang a song. Dona Nobis Pachem. Grant us peace. I may have also said aloud, to myself, I’m a big girl. I can do this.

Finally I was lead into the operating room. “Are you ok?” asked the nurse. I realized I was holding the bottom of my gown between my clenched hands. I imagine I was approximately the color of the walls of the room: white. I’m ok. Just trying not to freak out. I’ve never had surgery before, never gone under anesthesia. I’m nervous. It’s just fear of the unknown. I’ll be fine. I know. I rambled on, cherishing the sound of my own voice. “You’re in good hands, we won’t do anything here without letting you know.” Well I’m letting you know I have small veins. Don’t do so well with needles, I said as I watched her wheel over the IV. I hate IVs. My surgeon came over, said some reassuring words. Reminded me about the painful tonsillectomy recovery. Told me side effects: possible bleeding and I should expect to lose 5-10 pounds. He chuckled, “But maybe that’s a perk, not a side effect.” I stared at him. I’d left my sense of humor with my clothes and personal belongings. Then it was the anesthesiologist turn. I don’t even remember what he said. He numbed my hand, stuck in the IV, put the mask on my face, and I was out. The fear and anticipation were finally over.

The pain afterwards required multiple doses of codeine but it was nothing compared to the agony I’d been in the night before. I sat alone at a Thai restaurant, trying to distract myself by stuffing my face with a huge plate of noodles (my last meal of solid food for a while). My surgery had been pushed back to late afternoon, making it harder to find someone to pick me up. After numerous phone calls, descending the list from “I’m totally comfortable with you picking me up” to “you’ll do if I’m desperate” my most positive response was “I’m busy, but if you really need me there, I can cancel things.” For the first time in ages, I bemoaned my single status. I just wanted a boyfriend who would drop everything and come and sit by my bedside. Who would kiss it and make it all better. Who would bring me soup and snuggle me to sleep.

Before entering the operating room, I look enviously at the Orthodox family who had joined me in waiting. Whose presence made me stop singing to myself. A young man my age was outfitted in the same attire as I, looking nervous. Four members of his family joined him. They spoke in yiddish, I have no idea what they said. They had each other and they had God, and I was as green as hospital scrubs with envy.

It’s an amazing feeling waking up from anesthesia. It’s all over, you’re alive, and on drugs. I felt surprisingly lucid but immensely groggy and weak. I knew I was okay when the nurse brought me some juice and a blueberry muffin. I took one look at that muffin and smiled at its ridiculousness. I’ve just had a tonsillectomy and you bring me a MUFFIN? I can barely swallow water! I was told no solid food for a week and you bring me a MUFFIN?! Are you out of pudding cups? Jello delivery not come today? What is wrong with this hospital?! Unable to voice my thoughts, I considered throwing the muffin at the nurse to get my point across. I refrained. I forced down some juice and stared out the hospital window. A picture-perfect view of the Empire State Building. As I looked, the clouds actually parted and the sun came out. I knew I was going to be ok.

See those tonsils on the sides? They don’t exist anymore! They’re in some scary blue trash bag somewhere. (This is my actual mouth. Sorry if that’s gross.)

Ten days later, my recovery isn’t complete. It still hurts when I swallow. But aside from that, it’s been very smooth. No bleeding, no complications. I did it. My tonsils are gone forever. Never again will I have a tonsil catastrophe episode again. I went through surgery all by myself (my dear friend Shayna picked me up from the hospital, she’s the best). I’m a big girl. I don’t need boys. A milestone of independence.

When I Wasn’t A Wallflower

“Where are you going?” my roommate asked me at 9:40 on a Thursday night. More than occupied with my twice-daily struggle to get my bike out of my closet-sized room, it took me a moment to respond. When both wheels emerged out the door and I stood triumphant, Brooklyn I replied, Brian has a band thing. “Ah, that’s why you look so cute,” she said. Whenever I go to Brooklyn, I feel like I have to dress for Brooklyn. That’s partially the reason I am bringing my bike: it’s my hippest accessory. That and I’m running late! I said wheeling my bike out of the apartment in a single, swift movement, See you later!

Something about Manhattan has always felt like home to me. Something about Brooklyn never has. Whenever I step on the L Train (which connects Manhattan to Williamsburg, Brooklyn) I feel ever so slightly like an outsider. Maybe it’s that too many people own cars in Brooklyn or that the buildings don’t block out the sun. Maybe it’s because my bike isn’t a fixie. I don’t look out of place in Brooklyn, and really, my cliché as a struggling actress is lacking because I don’t live there. But it just doesn’t feel like home.

Home on one side of the river, Brooklyn on the other.

Maybe it’s because I don’t spend enough time there. Going to Brooklyn is a trip for a Manhattanite. Going to Manhattan for a Brooklynite is routine. Tonight I am making the trip to see my buddy’s band, Snake’s Say Hiss. This was something I’d been putting off for months. If it wasn’t one thing it was another: I was working, none of our mutual friends were going, “It’s such a late show and it’s in Brooklyn.” Like I recently posted, I’m tired of excuses. So I was going to this show, in spite of the fact none of our mutual friends were going, his band wasn’t going to be on until about 11pm, and it was in Brooklyn.

The venue was about a mile away from the subway stop (another reason I usually would have opted out of going) and that’s why I brought my bike. (Yes, I’m that girl who brings her bike on the subway. Don’t give me dirty looks, it’s perfectly legal and it takes up less space and makes way less noise than a stroller.) I’d never biked in Brooklyn before, except in Prospect Park, and riding on the streets gave me a new perspective. It’s a biker’s paradise, the majority of streets have bike lanes. Sailing along the deserted roads, the cool May air flapped through my jean jacket. “La lune!” I over heard a group of obviously french people, which prompted me to take my eyes off the road. A cresent moon was rising above the Manhattan skyline. Glorious. Maybe Brooklyn deserved a second chance.

I arrived at the venue and pulled out my wallet to pay the entrance fee when my buddy came bounding up,”You’re on the list!” My teenage-self would have been so jealous. Even more so of the drink I promptly ordered at the bar. A 16 oz. can of Rolling Rock for $4? Brooklyn definitely deserved a second chance.

I wasn’t at this show alone. You could argue I was far from that status- I was a friend of the band! But my buddy had other friends to attend to, band mates, and a looming set. I was a Single Entity and I didn’t want to be the kind who needs babysitting.

Every time I host an event, I always invite a couple “Single Entities”- people I am friends with, but we have no mutual friends. Or “Single Entity by Circumstance”- we have mutual friends, but none of them show up. The Single Entity Situation can go one of two ways: they mingle beautifully, you don’t even realize they came alone, and you can’t wait to invite them to your next party OR they don’t talk to anyone, force you to keep checking in so they aren’t awkwardly alone in a corner (I call this “babysitting”), and get written of your party guest list forever. Tonight I was a Single Entity by Circumstance and I vowed, with my whole being, to avoid a need for babysitting.

Besides, I owed it to my teenaged-self not to be a wallflower. Show such as this have a male to female ratio that is rare in my life , 60:40 to my advantage. Yet, it was just like high school, none of them approached me. I knew my proximety to my band buddy wasn’t helping. He’s a tall, good-looking guy (I can now say that because he finally shaved his gross, full-on mountain man beard to reveal a handsome face) who I’ve never so much as kissed. I distanced myself from him during the opening band’s set. Also during the openers set, the awkward head bobbing of the eligible bachlers gave me further insight into why they weren’t approaching me. I sighed.

Along with the head bobbing, something else had caught my eye during the opening song. The lead singer/guitarist on stage was wearing a San Francisco Giants shirt. He was also cute, an attribute which a guitar in hand usually enhances. Not to mention the obvious passion for music. I wondered if he was from San Francisco. I wondered if I could strike up a conversation with a lead singer from a band. This would have seemed entirely unthinkable in high school- no way. But now? Let’s see…

I got my opportunity as the second band of the night finished their set and Snakes Say Hiss was setting up. I touched his shoulder, I liked your set, I said. Easiest pick-up line ever. He turned around, looked as me, and a smile lit up his face. I’m always a sucker for smiles. “What did you say?” he replied, loudly. Even between band sets, the DJ kept the space full of loud music. I said I liked your set! I yelled. “Thanks!” he grinned. My first impression was he was genuine, completely free of cockiness. Are you a Giants fan? I questioned. “What? No. Why?” He answered, bemused. Your shirt. I gestured, Guess you’re not from San Francisco then. “Oh,” he said, still smiling, “Nope, I’m from Florida. I got this shirt cause the guy has the same name as me.” Acceptable answer. We yelled at each other some more until the headlining band started to play.

Well I did it, I thought to myself, I approach a guy, made his entire face light up with a smile, and carried on a mildly flirtatious conversation. My teenage-self would be so proud, and likely agog. During the set he yelled several things in my ear. I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember how his shoulder-length hair (which was clean and suited to him) smelled, how close his mouth was to my ear, and at one point he put his hand on the small of my back. The set ended and he bolted, “I’m up next to DJ!” he said, and disappeared behind the set-up in the corner.

And I was left on the floor all alone. My buddy was packing up his equipment, my prospect plugging in his laptop, plus I was sobering up. I stood vaguely missing my girlfriends. And then just decided to dance. So what I’m alone. I am a Single Entity and I rock it. My prospect was playing great music, the kind my friends would have on a playlist: Michael Jackson, Journey, Mariah, Beyonce. Classics along with recent hits. Nothing you would steriotypically expect out of a Brooklyn band guy. So I danced and people danced with me. Brooklyn Band Guy emerged on the dance floor told me, “This song’s long enough for me to dance to for a minute!” and showed me his dance moves. Which were adorable and so not-trying-to-be-cool that they were cool. He made me smile and loose track of time.

I couldn’t find my buddy anywhere. He had said he was packing up equipment ages ago. Finally I called him on my dying cell phone. He picked up, Where are you? I demanded. “What? I’m home!” he replied. WHAT? I exploded, You’re home? You left with out telling me!?  “I thought you had left!” I would NEVER leave without saying goodbye! “Sorry!” He apologized, profusely, and I proceeded to yell at him for five more minutes. This is the difference between men and women, right here. A girl friend would never EVER in a MILLION years leave a place you had been together without telling you. NEVER. It goes against any Girl Code ever written. But a guy? Yes, I guess he would. I was livid. I am independent, I knew I’d be fine on my own, but it was the principle of the thing. Needless to say, my buddy will never do anything like that again.

I went back inside to have a drink of water. And figure out how to leave. I liked the though of seeing this Brooklyn Band Guy again. As I approached I saw him talking to another girl and my heart sank. Looks like he’s just polite to every one. It’s not like he’s been coming on to me strong, maybe he’s just friendly. I almost left then and there. That’s what I would have done 5 years ago. But then I though Hell, why not say good-bye. It’s polite. So I said good-bye and he looked sad to see me go. Then he said “We should hang out sometime” and we exchanged numbers. There was a moment where we almost kissed but didn’t.

I left Brooklyn at a very late hour that night with butterflies in my stomach.

When I Was A Wallflower

December 12, 2003 I received an abysmally thin envelope embossed OBERLIN COLLEGE in the left hand corner. My heart pounded in my ears as I ripped it open: Just cause it’s thin doesn’t necessarily mean… I extracted the single sheet of paper where the phrases Unfortunately and We regret and Wish you all the best accosted me. That was it, it was all over. I didn’t get into my first choice college, the one my heart was so set on I applied early decision. I felt numb and captured my feelings of hopelessness in a one sentence entry in my high school blog: “I want to get super fucking drunk and pass out.” A normal 17 year-old girl would have called and cried to her friends. But I had, still have, loner tendencies (along with academically inclined friends, most of whom would later get into Oberlin but go to Columbia or Yale instead).

LIVE 105, a local radio station, was having its holiday “NOT SO SILENT NIGHT” concert that night, featuring Rancid, Jane’s Addiction, and my favorite band at the time The Offspring. I put on my Chucks, Dickies, my Amoeba Music shirt (which I still own and am in fact currently wearing) and told my parents I was meeting friends. Lies. I was in a “Fuck the world, I don’t have any friends” mood. And at the time I didn’t own a cell phone, so it might as well have been true. I walked the Bill Graham Civic Auditorium in San Francisco, the same building my high school graduation would be held 6 months later, determined to drown out feelings of failure with music that would leave my ears ringing ’til the wee hours of the morning.

A block from the venue I met a large intimidating man, “You going to Not So Silent Night?” he barked at me. I nodded, not making eye contact. “Sold out.” he informed me. I fought back tears. Was I doomed to fail at everything in life? Now what was I going to do? The man pulled out 3 tickets from his pocket, “How many do you need?” Just one, I squeaked. “$100.” More than double the door price. I only have two $20s, I said. He grunted “Fine.” Handed me the ticket, took my cash. I smiled at my good fortune. It wasn’t until I was in line to have my ticket scanned that I considered the possibility of being scammed. Knowing my luck…I held my breath as they scanned my ticket and let it out as the security guard waved me in.

I spent the night wandering around the huge event space as a wallflower, hoping someone would talk to me. There was no chance I’d approach someone, their rejection on top of Oberlin’s would have left me huddled in a corner in a fetal position.   Nearly everyone was over 21 if not a full decades older than me. Iggy Pop was in the line up. I looked like a little lost child, shuffling around in my oversized red sweatshirt, my hair pulled back in an asexual sloppy bun. The effect was androgynous, not in a sexy high fashion way but in a this-stops-creeps-from-hitting-on-me-way. It was so affective creeps didn’t even notice me, but neither did anyone else.

I flung myself into a mosh pit of sweaty men that night, many of whom weighed at least twice my standing 125lbs. That was the only human contact I was so desperate for. The pain of hurling myself against other bodies was exhilarating and made me forget my disappointments. I admired the bruises that popped up all over my arms the next day. They were my battle scars. I went to a lot of shows by myself from age 15 to 17: NOFX, Reel Big Fish, Stroke9, The Aquabats, Sugarcult, One Man Army, The Matches. Smacked into over a hundred random people I’d never see again. I took pride in being the only girl in a pit. I always clung to the fantasy that a cute boy with chunky glasses, dimples, and floppy hair would come up to me, “I saw you out there, only girl in the pit! You’re awesome!” We’d dye our hair from the same bottle of ManicPanic, write poems on each other’s Converse, and make out listening to records of obscure, non-mainstream punk bands. That never happened.

When I turned 18 and entered adulthood, shows lost their magic. I belonged to the college community, I didn’t need the punk rock, outsider embracing world any more. My teenage dreams became distant memories.

You’ll still find me at the occasional show. They’re fun, I like music. These days I always go with friends, often my roommate who works in the music industry and gets comp tickets. So the other day when I found myself alone at a show in Brooklyn, I knew I owed something to my teenaged self. It wasn’t a final spin in a mosh pit, I can tell you that. The the minute one started, I backed away rolling my eyes- I’m so over mosh pits. They’re so 2002. I owed something to my teenaged and current self: proof of how far I’ve come since my wallflower days. 

To be continued…

Finally, The Safa Finale (For Real)

Why haven’t I been blogging? I don’t like the way this saga ends. That’s my excuse. I may not like it, but I’m telling you any way.

safa[This is Part Nine, the last of The Safa Boy Series. Click for the Introduction,  Part One,  Part Two.  Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five,  Part Six,  Part Seven, and  Part Eight]

Learning he had cheated on me, lied to me, and treated me like shit: that was all hard enough, but I’d handled it. In a way I am proud of no less. But then he told me that at the very moment I was reading about all these past indiscretions in his diary, he was meeting another girl for a date. That he had warned me he might be home late that night or even not at all (“If it’s too late I’ll crash with my friend”) because he planned on shagging her. I had already thrown his stuff out of my apartment. Told my best friends he was a shit-head. Already said “Fuck you”. All without shedding a tear.

So what was left? Throw a drink in his face, walk away, and never see him again. Sleep soundly that night knowing he was broke, forced to beg vague friends for a night on their couch or sleep on the streets. Flyer New York City with pictures of his face reading CHEATER! LIAR!!!!

Remember that episode of Sex and the City? Samantha is awesome when her boyfriend cheats on her. Drink in his face and the priceless line, “Dirty martini, dirty bastard.” But she eventually does take him back…

Unfortunately, that is not what I did.

I didn’t even besmirch his name on the internet. I’ve protected his identity completely.

Nope. Instead I stared at this boy I had gotten so close to in such a short amount of time and said, “I don’t know you at all.”

That would have been fine if I’d said that and then walked away. But I didn’t. Instead I sat in 30 degree weather on a curb of the Riverside bike path and spent and hour hashing over things with a little sniveling 19 year-old who I didn’t know at all.

“You do know me!” He promised. “I’ve just been an asshole in New York.” He said, blaming my city. “People here are so heartless, for a while I really didn’t believe I was doing anything wrong. My friends made me think that too.” He paused. “But I know I was. I’m sorry.”

“What did I do wrong?” I asked. I couldn’t stop myself.
“It wasn’t you. There was nothing you could have done. I was intent on being an asshole. I owned the world, I could do whatever without consequences. I’m sorry.”
He’s fucking nineteen years old, I thought to myself. I hadn’t viewed him as a teenager, but looking at him now, I saw a lost little boy- scared and afraid.
“I let you live in my apartment,” I said, thinking aloud now, “That’s what I did wrong. I’m too nice.”
“You did nothing wrong.” He reiterated.
“I let you use me for my apartment,” I continued, “That’s what I am to you- a bed for your body and a hole for your dick. You don’t give a shit about me.”
“That’s not true!” he sniffled. I looked over at him and saw tears welling in his eyes. To my dismay, I felt my own eyes begin to water. “You’re my best friend in New York!”
“Is this the way you treat your friends?” I spat.
“No,” he blubbered, “You’re the first. I swear.”
“Lucky me.”

“Did you read the whole diary?” He asked.
“No, I could barely stomach what did I read.”
“Where is it?” He asked.
“I threw it in your bag which is waiting for you with my concierge.” 
He looked disappointed. “I want you to read it. I want you to see that I’m not like this. I’ve never done this to any one before.”
“No thanks.” I replied sarcastically.
“There’s a list on the last page, did you see that?”
“No.”
“It’s two lists, actually. One is of great people I’ve met on this trip, true friends. There are only 8 people on that list. The other is girls I’ve slept with.”
I winced. He was so young he kept a laundry list of shags in his diary.
“You’re the only person on both lists.”

I said all I wanted was to feel special. There he was, clearly trying to tell me I was special.
I couldn’t have felt more like shit.

I finally got up and left. We parted in the middle of Times Square. The next day I wondered about where he had spent the night and tried not to care. I even tried to call him once, but his pre-paid phone had run out of money. Four days later, he was out of my country, out of my life. It took me much longer to get him out of my head. To wrap my head around how and why someone could do what he did to me.

What did I do wrong? I picked the wrong man. Boy. When I did it, did I know I was picking the wrong one? Yep. Did I care? Nope.
If I could take it all back, would I? No actually, I wouldn’t. Experience is invaluable. I needed an all caps WRONG GUY to break my series of wrong/Wrong/wrongish/kinda-wrong/not-exactly-wrong-but-definitely-not-right guys. The chance I pick the right guy next time has skyrocketed. Three years in New York, countless dates, no successful relationships, but no true heart break.

I’ve still got hope.

Finally the Safa Finale (Part 1)

As the tragic hero of this saga, it is only natural that I should analyze my tragic flaw. I am beyond the point of agonizing over it What did I do wrong? How could I be so stupid? and at the point of solid self-reflection. Initially, I thought the tragic flaw might be my trusting nature, antiquated in the era of stolen identities and Craigslist Killers. It did indeed feel tragic to me- should I, could I trust a man again? Though I have not exactly given myself the chance to find out, yet, my outlook seems intact: decent until proven asshole. Optimism in New York City- that’s no cliché. But my tragic flaw is about as cliché as you get (short of hubris in Greek tragedy). I’m an only child, aspiring actress, who came of age in conjunction with the world-wide web. Could it be more obvious? My tragic flaw is my need to feel special, unique, a stand out. My lust for novelty, significance, and a spotlight.

safa[This is Part Eight of The Safa Boy Series: click for the Introduction, Part One,  Part Two,  Part Three,  Part Four,  Part Five,  Part Six, and  Part Seven]

 

It’s written all over this blog metaphorically, why not spell it out literally. Though, it is not a flaw in all aspects of life, as the very existence of this blog attests. No, where it reaches Tragic Flaw proportions is in my relationships. As an only child, both my parents love me in a way they love no one else in the world, “special” doesn’t begin to describe how important I am in their lives. They’re my parents, you say, duh. Unfortunately, I want to be significant in all my relationships. I want to be your best friend, or at least the someone you will remember- preferably profoundly. Or at the very least someone you care about enough to read thousand word essays about the trials and tribulations of my life. At least I know I have that from you.

Achilles Heel: a deadly weakness in spite of overall strength, that can actually or potentially lead to downfall. He fought men in wars, I date men in New York City. We’re, like, the same person.

It is this tragic flaw that was the downfall of The Safa Saga. (Remember, only child actress: dramatics go with the territory.) When a 19 year-old, handsome, charming, traveler says he’s only had one-night stands before me I think tragic flaw trumps logic.

Exhibit A: When he says he’s only had one-night stands before me Tragic flaw enables the thinking:Wow, I’m special! He’s never found someone who made him want to stay longer until he found me! Rather than logic: All those girls must have been on to something…Clearly this guy is Bad News. GET. OUT. NOW.

Exhibit B: He’s traveling around the world without a computer. That means no access to internet porn. Therefore he wouldn’t be like the men in the New York Magazine article I had just read, men so addicted to porn they lose their interest in partnered sex. My Tragic Flaw enabled the thinking: In 2011 how many men under 40 are NOT looking at porn on a regular basis? A minority. Really, I may never meet one again! This may be my last shot with a guy with minimal porn exposure. It’s novel. It’s nostalgic. It’s retro. It’s exciting! Rather than logic: If he’s not getting it from porn, he’s getting it from somewhere else… 

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I’d give anything for a man to make me feel special. Jump through hoops, make something out of nothing, enter denial, rationalize like a pro, and of course, hope beyond hope. Which is exactly what I am doing as we begin out break-up/closure walk. Hoping beyond hope he will say something so I feel special instead of like shit. “What do you want me to say?” He asks. I don’t reply, though I know exactly what I want him to say. I could hand him a cue-card:

When I shagged that other girl I didn’t know you that well, and I still felt incredibly guilty. That guilt and the pain I imagined such a stupid indiscretion would could cause you is why I didn’t tell you. And why I lied to you. When I lied to you I didn’t care about you the way I do now, but I was starting to. I left my diary out because I care about you like I’ve never cared about a girl before- and you had to find out. You are an amazing, generous, kind, and lovely  person inside and out. I was so lucky to have you in my life and I ruined it like a fucking idiot. I am so sorry, you never deserved anything like that.

But if he had said that, it would have been a lie, and this was the precise time he stopped lying to me. “I should have told you right away”, he said, “You would have forgiven me.”
“Yes, yes I would have,” I said, “It wasn’t an exclusive relationship, you did nothing wrong until you lied about it.”
“My friends made me think I wasn’t doing anything wrong.” He sighed. I could imagine all his stand-up comedy ticket selling loser friends slapping him on the back “It’s not like you’re married to her, man!”
“Yeah, but you knew you were.” He nodded. Then I asked the seemingly innocent: “What did you tell your friend you were with today?”
He swallowed. “I wasn’t with my friend today. I lied about that.”
I stared at him blankly. “What? Who were you with?” I asked, sensing and dreading the answer.

He couldn’t look at me as he said, “I was on a date.” For the second time in mere hours, I fell back into a state of shock.

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