Blogger at Café

Presently I am the perfect cliché of Writer at Café. If you wrote a book and titled it  that, you would want the picture of me as I am this very second on your cover.

The far corner of my view is obstructed by the back of LUNCH SPECIALS and CARTA DEI VINI. In fact they serve a purpose of hiding my netbook so I don’t seem quite such a poseur to the common passerby. Although if anyone does see it, I still very much pass for a student and studying is a perfectly acceptable reason to be on a laptop in a cafe. I’m self conscious, imagining everyone can see me for the self-important blogger I am (but have been embarrassingly neglectful for over two weeks). I’m not editing a final paper, not answering urgent emails, not drafting an article, not managing my stock portfolio. I’m unemployed and struggling to motivate myself to form semi-interesting paragraphs about the goings-on in my life. Which, honestly, is just how I look, and if any one looked closely, I’m sure they’d be able to guess this in a second. You can judge this book by its cover, sure. But who am I kidding? This is New York City, the only person who is even aware of my existence is the barista who brought me my chai latte and maybe the toddlers being pushed in their strollers who take in their surrounding with a wonder we adults have long forgotten.

There’s a little boy playing peek a boo from the window of the building opposite. Which makes me think how rarely we take the time to look out windows. Growing up my bedroom window overlooked the intersection of 2 picturesque San Francisco streets and I literally spent hours staring out of it, people watching and daydreaming. Ten years later I spend hours staring at Windows XP. Granted, the view from my present bedroom window is largely the building across from mine and a pathetic excuse for a courtyard that separates us. But this stool in the Arte Cafe on Columbus Avenue on the Upper West Side of Manhattan places me face to face with a window. And between typed sentences and sips of chai I drink in my surroundings, able to cherish these moments as I am not on a deadline, have no commitments for 36 hours at the least, and am writing for the simple reason that I feel bad when I don’t.

Against the layers of cloudy sky above I see the dots of 3 bug-like blinking helicopters. When paired with a wailing fire engine flying down the street below I must wonder “what’s going on?” The internet at my finger tips provides no answers- must not be anything I should worry about. Had I a TV, maybe I’d see it on the evening news. But I don’t and so dismiss it from my mind and return to my window.

I see my bicycle is still safely locked outside and it is not alone. Every traffic sign and tree I can see bares at least one bicycle chained to it with the necessary extra-strength NYC locks. Not only do us bicyclist live in constant fear of dying on our bikes as we ride down city streets, the moment we get off them we live in fear they will be stolen in spite of the industrial locks. I dated a cyclist for a bit (Banjo Guy), someone who rode everywhere and had a sizable amount of money invested in his transportation, an amount which grew weekly as he added improvements/embellishments. Any meal with him, any kind of outing actually, was interrupted several times with him leaving to check on his bicycle. Though I found this annoying and excessive to perhaps the point of paranoia, I did understand it. Every time I return to my locked bicycle visions of it sans seat, sans wheel, or just gone all together flash before my eyes. However thus far not one of these visions has had any weight in real life. We’re (me and my bike) hoping it stays that way.

When I get up to go to the bathroom a fellow customer, an older man in a party who looks as though they hailed from Europe tries to get his bill from me. Momentary utter confusion. Apparently I don’t look like a blogger, I look like a cafe server. Hmm..same difference?

The UWS is living up to its stereotype as a family neighborhood. Countless strollers pass by, people walking dogs, and little girls holding hands in four-year-old friendship which I remember enviously, one wearing a pink polka dot sweater I would have traded favorite stuffed-animals for.

It makes sense I’m having flashbacks to childhood. I’m enjoying a surprisingly care-free month. I don’t have rent looming, I’ve been working enough to not qualify for unemployment/worry much, and my  nights are deliciously free of “aaah I have to wake up for work in 6 hours!”. I have time to sit at a cafe and type what ever pops into my mind. I’d say unemployment suits me, but that would be a lie. This is unemployment with the end quite in sight- less than two weeks away. I call it unemployment, most people would call it a vacation. Potaytoe Potahtoe.

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Good-bye 9-5

Well guys, this is it.

My last entry on the clock. The last entry I can technically say I’m getting paid to write.

No, no one pays me to write this blog (big surprise right?) but my last dozen entries were written while I was on the clock, in the moments of so familiar to the administrative assistant- the phone isn’t ringing, reports are completed, mail’s been sorted- time must be killed. I hate to think what the secretaries of yore did sans computers. Us modern day office people sit in front of the machine that provides  society with more time wasting options than ever before. It’s either great or gross, your pick.

It’s my last half hour behind a desk. My bedroom is too small for a desk- that’s New York living- so all entries henceforth will be written from the comfort of my bed or the kitchen table. Or at Starbucks (or some other free internet venue) where people will oggle my netbook and I will feel pretentious.

I am not sad to leave this job. I think I’ve made that clear in previous posts, but I just want to reiterate. Let’s be honest, the 9-5 world kinda sucks. When the clock strikes 5pm today, I’m officially a working actor. I can say this because most of being a working actor is looking for work to pay the bills between jobs. That’s all I will be doing for the month of May. I’ve already started calling temp agencies, so who knows, I could be in back of a desk by the end of the week. But I already have some promotions lined up. Liquor, dodge ball, and protein bars. Hey, it’s better than theater consession sales and desks.

Though I will miss the theatre aspect of this job. I never benefited off the refreshment aspect-rather felt my eyes grow green with jealousy as a Jack Daniels connection gifted my manager multiple bottles of Jack- I have certainly benefited from the theatre part. I’ve seen half a dozen Broadway shows for absolutely free. It doesn’t get better than that. I was somewhat choosey with my picks- and therefore great enjoyed each one, but I can easily rank them:

  1. Next to Normal Oh my goodness, I’ve never cried this much while watching a play. The music is great, the story original (this is a rare that a musical has no source material), and it is so well performed. I often have trouble watching musical theatre, it so often leans to showing show-men rather than showing humanity and that is what this musical captured beautifully

  2. A View From The Bridge Liev Schreiber was brilliant and Scarlett Johansson not half bad. This play had the effect on me that tragedy aims for- catharis. I love leaving a theatre when a play has transformed my mental state, this and Next to Normal did just that.

  3. Red A two person single set play, I am a sucker for them. About Mark Rothco and his abstract paintings, which are easily the most scoffed at paintings in the MOMA. Brilliant performances from both actors. I love when performers make me abandon my critical eye as an actor/director and just suck me into a performance.

  4. God of Carnage Strong performances, single set, the rave reviews and last years Tony award gave me high expectations which were not met. I felt like the play had the potential to say more, I was waiting for its point, which never exactly came and I looked at my watch far to many times in the 90 minute run.

  5. Behanding in Spokane Again, high expectations that were not met. I love Martin McDonagh and have read the majority of his plays. This is my least favorite. That said, I still enjoy his dark twisted humor and Christopher Walken was captivating in this.

  6. La Cage Au Folles A lot of fun, just not my cup of tea. Apparently I like make-me-cry shows not feel-good ones. Really I like shows that have something to say and/or affect me significantly.

7. In the Next Room: The Vibrator Play Interesting subject-“hysterical” women and how hysteria treated in the Victorian era- presented in a straight forward way. Interesting but did not affect me

As I finish this post and pack up my things, “accidentally” slipping a box or 2 of tissues into my bag as well (and a pen or 2 and I printed out a bunch of resumes..), the girl who hired me and who told me I was fired says good-bye. Before she leaves she mentions if I ever want to see a show to just give her a call! Looks like I’m not even loosing that perk! Brilliant. Ok finished! Now to clear the computer history, turn it off, and I’m out of the office and on to better things!

Like My Bike

Currently I am wearing a bright orange flouncy skirt that twirls perfectly if/when I spin around in circles (an action that lifts my spirits- I highly recommend it should you find yourself fired.) Outside the sun is shining, the trees are green, tulips color street corners, and the average New Yorker’s disposition is down right cheerful. We’ve won. We beat winter and it’s not coming back. We can finally pack away the winter jackets without fear of jinxing everything. Trade uglyUggs for sexysandals. Put our pasty skin on display. It’s especially hard to be stuck behind a desk with one sad little window overlooking a sad black tar roof when it’s gorgeous outside. Only 7 more chances for that (yeah, I’m counting the days, this Fired-But-Still-At-The-Job thing is even worse than I thought it would be).

I have yet to go on a picnic (that needs to change no later than this weekend), but I have been spending a good amount of time outside in various green areas of the city.

After months of battling the winter blues (and talking about it a lot) I felt the need to celebrate the victory of spring in some tangible, extraordinary way along with spending as much time as possible outside. So I decided to buy a bicycle- kill 2 birds (having owned parakeets as a child, that may be my least favorite cliché). After many craigslist searches, careful consideration of how a bike would fit in my life- specifically my 10’x7′ room, and a test ride, I became the proud owner of this little beauty:


Looks a little weird right? Maybe you can’t figure out why? That’s because it’s not your average bike! It’s a folding bike! It folds in half and then some to become a perfect portable package, so inconspicuous I have to point it out to people who come to the apartment (Notice anything different?? Uh..No? Look at my awesome new bike!!!!) On weekdays it’s the perfect commuter- less than 10 minutes to work, and on weekends it’s the perfect activity- circumnavigating Central Park or up and down Riverside Park.

I have become a New York City Biker- arguably the most uniformly hated micro culture in the area. Pedestrians hate bikers. Cars hate bikers. Other bikers hate bikers. All three yell something inappropriate at me on a (more or less) daily basis. It can be tough for a sensitive person like me to take but I do understand the hatred. Bikers don’t get ticketed for running red lights, something we notoriously do. We zip through congested traffic. We’re hard to see, a law suit waiting to happen. We have no gas guzzling guilt. Every day is Earth Day for us. You can bet there are oodles of clichés about bikers in this  town(many true) but that’s another entry.

It’s a dangerous form of transportation and some bikers forget/deny this, making them a danger to themselves and others. During the worst snow storm this winter I saw a delivery guy riding his bike, snow whipping through his hair as he was not wearing a helmet (STUPID). What takes the cake is HE WAS ON HIS CELL PHONE. This sight made me stop dead in the street- dumbstruck by his idiocy- so stunned that when the light changed I almost got hit by a car. See! A danger to themselves and innocent bystanders!

Don’t worry. I’m a very careful biker. My brakes work and I wear a helmet. In my wildest dreams I would never imagine talking on my cellphone. When I am on my bike I am hyper-aware of my surroundings. It’s a surreal, exhilarating feeling. I love biking and hopefully I can bring my baby upstate with me and continue this spring trend through the summer, though I’m not sure she’s suited for the woods!

Good News and Bad News

There is Good News and there is Bad News, to the extreme on both ends.

Fortunately the Good News happened first. Other wise I might not have made it through the week.

Us new New Yorkers get asked “So why did you move to New York?” all the time. It is often a precursor to the discussed What’s the difference between the East Coast and West Coast? My answer is generally “Theatre.” Yes, I am an aspiring actor, in case you forgot, and it wouldn’t surprise me if you had. I’ve been doing much more aspiring than acting these days. And honestly not too much aspiring even. With ENT bills still haunting me and Mahattan rent, making money has been my #1 priority for many months. I’ve assistant directed a play and been on a handful of auditions but I have to admit it’s been on a hobby level. Which I’m okay with- putting off pursuing my dreams for a bit is fine, plus I’m pursuing my dream of living in NYC which is impossible without money. It’s all relative.

We artists are obsessed with “selling out”, “failure”, “giving up”.  Right, these fears only plague artists.

Any how.

On Monday, 7 minutes before the end of my desk-job work day, I received a call from the only audition I’d been on in April (maybe I’d been on 2, but I don’t think so) offering me a part. A paid part. An offer to pay me money to do what I love.

You want details? It’s an offer to be a part of “the oldest full-time professional acting troupe of any Renaissance Festival, and the inspiration behind many interactive entertainment groups in major theme parks across the country” to quote the website. The part is that of a female pirate, “piratess” (yes, there were pirates during the Renaissance just ask wikipedia, and yes, female pirates did exist, though rarely: it’s legit) in a band of 3 pirates out of 30 actors in the over all ensemble. The contract is from June 1-August 16 with the festival only on weekends, meaning the rest of the week is devoted to rehearsal annnnd basically summer vacation because it’s all in upstate NY, 6 hours away from NYC and they provide company housing (and board on the weekends). Spending a summer pretending I’m a pirate, swimming in Lake Ontario, star gazing, hiking, and other “middle of no where” (as we refer to it in NYC) activities; free rent, and a weekly pay check? Or sitting at a desk from 9-5 on beautiful sunny days, dreaming of evenings spent doing all the million awesome things there are to do in this city in the summer and weekends at the beach? Not too much of a contest. I will sorely miss Shakespeare in the Park, roof top bars, outdoor movies, my friends, etc. etc. But trading in the Administrative Assistant title for that or Professional Actor? That’s my dream right there. And June 1st, it looks like it will be coming true- I signed the contract (!!! contracts scare me) but have yet to receive my counter signed copy, so it’s not 100% official.

My reaction to success surprises me. I would imagine myself ecstatic at such an offer, shouting from the rooftops  with glee. It’s much more mixed than that. There’s fear in such success, disbelief, worry that it’s too good to be true.  In this particular example- worry about subletting my apartment for the summer, being unemployed on August 16, telling my office I’m leaving. I guess that makes me a grown up.

Now the bad news.

I decided not to tell work immediately that I was leaving. Wait for 3-4 weeks notice. My superior recently gave me a wink while talking about previous people in my position, how long they stayed on for, and how nice it would be to have someone stick around for a couple years. I could have told her right then and there I wasn’t planning on doing that, but instead pretended it might be an option, and now that I wasn’t even getting past my 6 month mark I felt a little bad. Not that I had signed a contract here or anything.

On Friday however, I learned that quitting my job was nothing I would have to worry about. Because on Friday I was, abruptly, never-saw-it-coming, no-kind-of-warning FIRED. I’ve never been fired before ever. It was shocking to say the least. Everyone who is in the office on a normal basis was about as shocked as I- or so I’ve been told. My firing was in the hands of the Big Boss Man (with the Prostate Problem) who is, as I’ve mentioned, almost never in the office. He had never reprimanded me previously, never mentioned I was doing an unsatisfactory job and needed to improve or face consequences. Maybe it’s because he found my blog, but I highly doubt it.

I’ve been told I was let go because my sales reports had too many detail errors. I can’t deny this, but will say the majority of these errors were because he demanded the reports prematurely, expected me to understand things with no explanation, or because the creator of the report told me it was “ready to go” when it wasn’t. I trust people and don’t read minds. It’s all an extremely aggravating reason to loose a job.

To add to it? They told me I could stay on until the end of the month (April) and needing the money, I accepted. So, as I type I am still behind my desk. Fuming as it is Administrative Professionals Day and no one gives a shit about me. It is awkward as hell working here knowing I’ve been fired. Talk about no motivation. I mean, what are they going to do? Fire me? And no one is talking about it. It’s this huge elephant in the room. I’ve named him Marvin. Marvin the Elephant is the only one in this office who understands me.

Whatever. I was going to quit any way.

So here I am, 8 more days stuck at a desk, 1 month of unemployment, a summer of professional acting, and then…who knows. I have a 4 month plan- that’s more than I can usually say.

I Don’t Know How To Date Boys With Cars

My parents don’t own a car- they never have during my lifetime. They bike or walk everywhere, maybe take public transportation if it’s raining or a cross-city trip. This would be normal in NYC- more people than not live a car-free in this city. In my sphere of friends and acquaintances, no one owns a car around these parts except my former college professor who lives in NYC but commutes to Massachusetts to teach theatre 3 days per week (talk about a horrible commute!)

I went on a date a couple weeks ago and the guy picked me up, at my door, in a car. He was driving in from New Jersey- it shouldn’t have been that weird, but I was 200% thrown. I’m a city girl with limited experience with cars in general, but absolutely no experience with cars on a date. I didn’t know how to greet my date- the normal hug or handshake I wouldn’t think twice about on the street seemed impossible as I climbed into the vehicle. Perhaps this would have been helped had he gotten out and opened the door for me, though such a gesture would have been ludicrous double-parked on a narrow one way street (and made me feel like I’d stepped out of my apartment and into the 1950s).

The date never fully recovered from this awkward start. Dinner and a movie (well films, technically- the 2009 Academy Award nominated short films) in the village. Classification: OK First Date. An OK First Date usually merits a second in my book- I’ll give the benefit of the nerves/bad hair day/whatever. But as he neared my street in his SUV (circa 2000, so not totally reprehensible but still..) I realized I couldn’t do this again when the thought of a good night kiss crossed my mind. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to kiss him but the thing was: even if I did want to, I’d have to overcome even more obstacles than usual. Not just nerves and fear of bad breath and rejection but how do I lean over and not impale myself on the gear shift? How does this already awkward prone gesture have a prayer on front-facing seats? It doesn’t.

Too many added complications. I didn’t kiss him. Didn’t hug him. Just said good-bye and never saw him again. If I were him, I’d probably have spent hours obsessing wonder as to why I didn’t want a second date. He’d never guess his car was the deal breaker.

Roommates: Between Four Walls

My roommates are my 2 bestest friends in the whole world.

This is not the fate of some freakishly-perfect-craigslist-roommate-matchmaking (I have heard of this happening, though I wouldn’t be surprised if such stories are urban myths). The three of us met in San Francisco at the impressionable age of nine and have been best friends for nearly a decade. We often day dreamed about “how hella awesome” it would be to live together during summers of rooming together at Chorus Camp (a camp where you sing 6+ hours a day and think it’s great but complain about the evening activities that involve sport-like games- it’s a camp that makes no sense to outsiders but holds some of the fondest childhood memories for many campers). This was always one of those “wouldn’t that be great, but it will never happen” day dreams. Especially as we got older, fond ourselves in three pretty different corners of the country, and couldn’t even coordinate a summer to all be counselors at camp together.

Then about this time last year, we found ourselves lying on a hill staring up at clouds (picture it that way at least- in actuality this was probably a 3-way phone call or e-mail chain and the image of that is lame), contemplating our futures, which were no longer distant fantasies but up close and staring us in the face. The “what if” turned into “why the hell not?”. Then after months of “I can’t really believe this is actually going to happen”, and 2 of us apartment hunting, signing a lease and faxing papers to the third who signed sight unseen, we all moved into our very own apartment in the “center of the universe.”

The idea of living with your 2 best friends inspires bipolar emotions. On one hand excitement and glee. The other dread and fear. Your living with your best friends? That sounds like a disaster waiting to happen. I’ve heard variations of that a lot. It is terrifying. A classic scary story: One dark and stormy night 3 best friends move into an apartment together, thinking it’s the best idea ever! After just weeks of dirty dishes, loud sex shaking the walls, neglected chore charts, “2 is a company 3 is a crowd”incidences, they all hate each other and claw each others eyes out and never see eachother (because they’re blind AND they’re mortal enemies) again. I’m not just being dramatic, it’s not joke that living together has ruined many a friendship.

It’s been over 6 months in our adorable Manhattan apartment and I still have both my eyes and my two best friends very much intact. We have yet to have a fight, or even any passive aggressiveness worth mentioning. In fact, with one roommate gone this week for spring break in the DR the 2 of us remaining sit around missing her to the point where we are forced to borrow her clothes to simulate her presence, thus making her absence easier (that’s my story and I’m sticking to it).

We may not fill the “live together and hate eachother” cliché but we do a damn good job at the “so cute it’s almost gross, giggly, finish-eachothers-sentences, bestfriendsforever!” cliché. I love my roommates, my living situation, and it’s really amazing.

• Liquor Promos: Next Round’s On Me

I was at a bar the other night and I spent $150 on alcohol, $200 with tip.

For some New Yorkers this is nothing remarkable. The inhabitants of this city are notorious drinkers. I’ve heard the joke plenty of times: a social drinker here is considered an alcoholic any where else. It makes sense, we never have to drive home. A cab will take us right to our door all we have to manage is comprehensible slurring of the address and the stumble up the stairs.

I, however, am not a drinker by New York (or really any other) standards. I’m a notorious light weight. On any night out it’s a given someone will make fun of me for being pretty-much-drunk after 2 beers. It’s great, a huge money saver. Which helps ease the Manhattan Spending Phenomenon. The paradox: New Yorkers spend obscene amounts of money to rent obscenely small apartments which are so so small in fact, you can’t really “hang out” in them. We spend very little time in the spaces we pay so dearly for. We (generally) must “go out” to be social. When it’s cold, going out means quickly going inside. Which involves spending money. On top of our rent. Yes, it’s ridiculous. I’m not telling you anything new. I’m merely emphasizing the joys of having the same effect after 2 drinks that most city dwellers have after four. Problems arise when someone else is buying me alcohol. No one in Manhattan says no to a free drink. If you don’t drink alcohol there’s the Shirley Temple option, if you’re the victim of an eating disorder there’s seltzer, Diet Coke. No one turns down a free drink, the offer comes from someone absolutely repulsive. But my weakness for free-flowing booze is another story…

So how in the hell did I, Miss Moderation, Miss I-Had-One-Beer-I’m-Totes-Trashed!, manage to spend the whopping sum of $150 on cold hard liquor?

Considering yesterday was St. Patrick’s Day, this $150 may not seem too unusual. I easily pass for Irish, but it’s actually other British Isle ancestry coursing through my veins. I did wear green but that’s it. Walking 30 blocks down Broadway, on my way to Trader Joe’s and the Union Square Market, I found myself in a steady stream of revelers. Decked out in tacky felt or sequined green hats and “Kiss Me I’m Irish” and “I Shamrock NY” shirts, all quite intoxicated at 4:30 pm and all more than happy to let EVERYONE know their state of mind. I guess I’m a snob an old soul- I see St. Patrick’s day as a holiday used mostly to drink in excess.  That’s fine. It’s the coupling with the extreme proclivity to be obnoxious in excess that I can not stand. I didn’t set foot in a bar yesterday. Nor did I last year. Granted last year I was dumped most unexpectedly on St. Patrick’s Day…which could influence my grumblings about the holiday.

Well you can bet your bottom dollar I didn’t drink $150 of Guinness/Irish Car Bombs/alcohol of any kind myself. Did I buy a round of drinks for everyone at the bar? Am I celebrating my first Law and Order episode? (Cliché: every actor in NY has been on L&O.) No (and therefore I can’t really claim to be a NY actor). So why, how am I spending money on liquor like it’s my job? Because it is my job! Yes, I got a job where I am paid money to buy alcohol and give it to people for free. It’s great. I’ve never felt so appreciated in anything, ever. People love it when you give them free anything, but free alcohol? I make several new bffs every time I work a gig.

I’m promoting a new spirit. It’s from Thailand and sometimes they even dress me up in “traditional Thai garb” for events (I’ve mentioned my 5-year-old glee at “playing” dress up before). That’s why I get to spend hundreds of dollars on booze and then give it to people for $50/hr. Best Job Ever? Well…it doesn’t beat being on Law & Order, but it is pretty great.