It's been nine months since I returned from Tunisia on Valentine's Day.
My tube of harissa that I transported back in a quart-sized Ziploc bag is nearly empty, as I scrape its mouth for any remaining bits of hot, sweet pepper paste.
Though I haven't washed it, my gray glittery scarf no longer smells of the hotel soap whose scent prevailed throughout my trip. It broke my heart to launder my light gray waffle-knit top that I wore to keep warm in Tunisia's unseasonably cold weather, but I'd already stretched it for a couple weeks and it really needed to be washed.
I try eating hummus, eggplant, tabil spice, and eggs, but in the context of Queens, even in a very Middle Eastern neighborhood just off of Steinway Street, I'm losing my reminders, the authenticity of the experience I had for only eight days nine months ago.
I'm not one to buy trinkets or other souvenirs, and I managed to resist even the cage des oiseaux that I admired in Monastir and whose white-and-blue versions were so prevalent in Sidi Bou Said. So all that I have now are my memories, jogged by my photos, and the diary entries that have contributed to a travel memoir I hope to one day publish.
When I returned from Tunisia in February, I couldn't wait to go back. I thought I would have gone back by now, perhaps during the summer music festival season in August. Surely I would have had a job by now in order to afford another trip. Surely I would have gotten a job in Tunisia that would have relocated me there. Surely someone would have found a way to bring me back, to see me again, to complete the transformation and absorption that began when I was 35 pounds heavier and dozens of dates lonelier.
There's a cafe down 30th Avenue from me called Harissa whose chalkboard menu lists some Tunisian (and Moroccan) specialties for lunch and dinner like brik, the fried triangle of dough that contains egg and tuna. I'm drawn to it every time I walk by, but I'm afraid to go, afraid the yolk won't be as runny, the pepper not as hot, and the coffee not as bitter.
But I wonder whether it's better to let my memories evolve on their own, as the distance between my past and my present grows ever wider, or to try to continue to reintroduce similar tastes and smells to my senses which approximate my past experience, but create a whole new context. Is it better to recreate Tunisia in New York in a manner that's close enough but not quite right, or to gradually lose Tunisia altogether?
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Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
November 13, 2010
November 11, 2010
Am I the Same Girl?
If you were to ask my mother, she would tell you that I’m exactly the same now as I was as a newborn baby - that I never loved her, that I screamed when she walked into the room, that I was never grateful for anything and never wanted help from anyone. She would tell you that my independence pushed her and my father away from the first time I insisted on calling them “Mom” and “Dad” instead of “Mommy” and “Daddy,” and the first time that I felt uncomfortable sitting on their laps.
I think I was 9.
Recognizing the separation of self and parent is an important part of a child’s development, and a normal part of growing up, but my parents always wanted me to need them as much as they (or my mother) needed me. I just…didn’t.
But 9 years into my life turned out to be a watershed year: I transferred from parochial to public school, met a whole new diverse set of fourth grade classmates, and then zoomed ahead of all of them and started functioning at a seventh grade level in math, spelling, and reading. Somehow, as I grew into my first bra and my precocious mind accelerated to a speed my parents couldn’t understand and at a rate I had no vocabulary with which to articulate, the essence of me suddenly bifurcated. Two roads diverged, and the 9-year-old stood still, frozen in time, holding onto childhood comforts like a time capsule somewhere deep inside of a growing girl that would soon become a preteen, and then a teenager, young woman, and now, bafflingly, middle aged.
As much as she hides, though, I can sometimes see the curtains moving. I know that she is there, watching the bizarre world that surrounds her, my Inner 9-Year-Old.
Her hair is short, boyish and cowlicky.
Her knees are fat, so plump and bumpy that she dreads the class photo which will surely be taken with her knees exposed from beneath a schooldress, bulging out bent in seated position.
She crosses her arms over her stomach so that no one will see, unknowingly drawing more attention to a middle section that her mother explains away as “baby fat” but never matures into a more manageable, sculpted version.
Her eyes are wide with hope behind thick, magnifying lenses encased in huge, pink plastic frames. She still can’t see very well, and staggers with each new pair of glasses.
Her feet are constantly wet and cold from the Sears winter boots whose outer shell invariably cracks and peels, and whose sole reliably leaks without any visible evidence of structural damage.
Her earlobes are unpierced, but indented by the clip-on earrings she suffers through for hours just to add a little color and sparkle to her life.
She does not bite her nails because she does not want to damage the nail polish her mother lets her wear. But the cleaning solvents that her mother forces her to use inevitably damage it anyway.
She knows she’s not pretty. Based on her mother’s wisdom, she can only hope that boys will one day stop being so superficial and will like her for how smart she is, since she will never be pretty.
She doesn’t want to eat so much, but she gets yelled at if she doesn’t.
She’d rather sit on the floor than worry about damaging her mother’s couch. Eventually, she’s accused of wearing down the carpeting.
She takes her punishments bravely and humbly, but she still cries through them, because she knows she doesn’t deserve them.
She really wanted Make It Big on vinyl but will wear down her cassette anyway.
She is bored.
She doesn’t want to go home.
She doesn’t want to get up.
She loves her stuffed animals more than any person she’s ever met.
She wants to play the flute with the pretty girls, but when her parents can’t afford to buy one for her, she accepts the free French horn from her band teacher and lugs its huge, hulking, hard plastic case to and from school every day. Her lips and hands constantly smell like wet metal.
She cannot collect enough stickers, perhaps the first indication of her addictive personality.
She cannot collect enough prizes, awards, and academic accolades.
She will lie to get herself out of trouble, and to make you like her more. Most of all, she will lie to herself when she chants that everything will be all right.
She is afraid of everything: her house, her mother, her dreams, bees, spiders, dogs, strangers, illness, loneliness…Everything but death.
People sometimes think she’s a boy, even when she’s carrying a pink purse. She often wishes she was a boy.
Her stomach hurts all the time, especially after dinner when she lies on the kitchen floor, writhing – a condition her pediatrician attributes to “growing pains.”
So is my mother right? Is this the same girl that I am now?
My hair is long, shiny, and graying, tamed only by days without shampoo and the harsh discipline of a curling iron.
Lenses are now directly upon my eyes, surrounded by lash and sparkle and a thick black line. I only wear my glasses when I’m trying to look older, or want to be taken seriously.
Lobes are pierced, twice each. My nails are painted and unbitten. I am thrilled beyond belief when people think I’m pretty, finally.
My knees eventually emerged, cap and joint proudly poking out from beneath years’ worth of flesh and shame.
My arms and hands still instinctively go to my stomach, first to cover it and then to pat it down, marveling at how flat it is.
My feet are constantly wet and cold from walking around the streets of New York in puddles of rainwater and beer, protected only by flip flops that break or ballet flats that absorb the elements instead of shielding me from them.
I don’t want to eat so much, but I feel better when I do.
I take my punishments bravely and humbly, but I still cry through them, because I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve them.
I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to get up.
I love my stuffed animals more than most people.
I cannot collect enough promotions, raises, and game show wins.
I ignore most of my fears, but bees will still cripple me. I do not fear death; I only fear being maimed.
I still wish I was a boy, and often dream that I am one.
My stomach hurts so much sometimes that the pain has sent me to the emergency room, and often places me on the floor of my office and public restrooms. Doctors have been unable to diagnose the cause, and since becoming uninsured, I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.
Am I the same girl?
Aside from the adulthood-borne influences of alcohol, sex, travel, adventure, responsibility, money, aging, and flirtation, am I that girl? Does losing 45 pounds change the 9 year-old inside of you who’s tugging at your intestines? Does going on a few nice dates silence her, stuff a rag in her mouth to stop up the self-doubt and the self-consciousness, the desperate need to be liked and saved? Do having a job and being self-sufficient and paying the rent eliminate the need for comfort and stability and reassurance?
Do wearing Silly Bandz, collecting dolls and listening to Lady Gaga and Katy Perry placate her enough to keep her hidden away, or do these actions merely encourage her to show her tiny, pale, tear-streaked face?
Can I be confident now and yet cognizant of who I was and where I’ve been? Can both versions of me coexist in one body, or must one dominate the other, squelching the things she doesn’t like about the other, adapting and co-opting the things she does?
Or are they necessarily the same person, the same girl, and my current self is just a phase on my way to regressing back to age 9 when I am 90?
If I was truly born this way, is it possible for me to ever truly change?
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I think I was 9.
Recognizing the separation of self and parent is an important part of a child’s development, and a normal part of growing up, but my parents always wanted me to need them as much as they (or my mother) needed me. I just…didn’t.
But 9 years into my life turned out to be a watershed year: I transferred from parochial to public school, met a whole new diverse set of fourth grade classmates, and then zoomed ahead of all of them and started functioning at a seventh grade level in math, spelling, and reading. Somehow, as I grew into my first bra and my precocious mind accelerated to a speed my parents couldn’t understand and at a rate I had no vocabulary with which to articulate, the essence of me suddenly bifurcated. Two roads diverged, and the 9-year-old stood still, frozen in time, holding onto childhood comforts like a time capsule somewhere deep inside of a growing girl that would soon become a preteen, and then a teenager, young woman, and now, bafflingly, middle aged.
As much as she hides, though, I can sometimes see the curtains moving. I know that she is there, watching the bizarre world that surrounds her, my Inner 9-Year-Old.
Her hair is short, boyish and cowlicky.
Her knees are fat, so plump and bumpy that she dreads the class photo which will surely be taken with her knees exposed from beneath a schooldress, bulging out bent in seated position.
She crosses her arms over her stomach so that no one will see, unknowingly drawing more attention to a middle section that her mother explains away as “baby fat” but never matures into a more manageable, sculpted version.
Her eyes are wide with hope behind thick, magnifying lenses encased in huge, pink plastic frames. She still can’t see very well, and staggers with each new pair of glasses.
Her feet are constantly wet and cold from the Sears winter boots whose outer shell invariably cracks and peels, and whose sole reliably leaks without any visible evidence of structural damage.
Her earlobes are unpierced, but indented by the clip-on earrings she suffers through for hours just to add a little color and sparkle to her life.
She does not bite her nails because she does not want to damage the nail polish her mother lets her wear. But the cleaning solvents that her mother forces her to use inevitably damage it anyway.
She knows she’s not pretty. Based on her mother’s wisdom, she can only hope that boys will one day stop being so superficial and will like her for how smart she is, since she will never be pretty.
She doesn’t want to eat so much, but she gets yelled at if she doesn’t.
She’d rather sit on the floor than worry about damaging her mother’s couch. Eventually, she’s accused of wearing down the carpeting.
She takes her punishments bravely and humbly, but she still cries through them, because she knows she doesn’t deserve them.
She really wanted Make It Big on vinyl but will wear down her cassette anyway.
She is bored.
She doesn’t want to go home.
She doesn’t want to get up.
She loves her stuffed animals more than any person she’s ever met.
She wants to play the flute with the pretty girls, but when her parents can’t afford to buy one for her, she accepts the free French horn from her band teacher and lugs its huge, hulking, hard plastic case to and from school every day. Her lips and hands constantly smell like wet metal.
She cannot collect enough stickers, perhaps the first indication of her addictive personality.
She cannot collect enough prizes, awards, and academic accolades.
She will lie to get herself out of trouble, and to make you like her more. Most of all, she will lie to herself when she chants that everything will be all right.
She is afraid of everything: her house, her mother, her dreams, bees, spiders, dogs, strangers, illness, loneliness…Everything but death.
People sometimes think she’s a boy, even when she’s carrying a pink purse. She often wishes she was a boy.
Her stomach hurts all the time, especially after dinner when she lies on the kitchen floor, writhing – a condition her pediatrician attributes to “growing pains.”
So is my mother right? Is this the same girl that I am now?
My hair is long, shiny, and graying, tamed only by days without shampoo and the harsh discipline of a curling iron.
Lenses are now directly upon my eyes, surrounded by lash and sparkle and a thick black line. I only wear my glasses when I’m trying to look older, or want to be taken seriously.
Lobes are pierced, twice each. My nails are painted and unbitten. I am thrilled beyond belief when people think I’m pretty, finally.
My knees eventually emerged, cap and joint proudly poking out from beneath years’ worth of flesh and shame.
My arms and hands still instinctively go to my stomach, first to cover it and then to pat it down, marveling at how flat it is.
My feet are constantly wet and cold from walking around the streets of New York in puddles of rainwater and beer, protected only by flip flops that break or ballet flats that absorb the elements instead of shielding me from them.
I don’t want to eat so much, but I feel better when I do.
I take my punishments bravely and humbly, but I still cry through them, because I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve them.
I don’t want to go home.
I don’t want to get up.
I love my stuffed animals more than most people.
I cannot collect enough promotions, raises, and game show wins.
I ignore most of my fears, but bees will still cripple me. I do not fear death; I only fear being maimed.
I still wish I was a boy, and often dream that I am one.
My stomach hurts so much sometimes that the pain has sent me to the emergency room, and often places me on the floor of my office and public restrooms. Doctors have been unable to diagnose the cause, and since becoming uninsured, I’ve stopped trying to figure it out.
Am I the same girl?
Aside from the adulthood-borne influences of alcohol, sex, travel, adventure, responsibility, money, aging, and flirtation, am I that girl? Does losing 45 pounds change the 9 year-old inside of you who’s tugging at your intestines? Does going on a few nice dates silence her, stuff a rag in her mouth to stop up the self-doubt and the self-consciousness, the desperate need to be liked and saved? Do having a job and being self-sufficient and paying the rent eliminate the need for comfort and stability and reassurance?
Do wearing Silly Bandz, collecting dolls and listening to Lady Gaga and Katy Perry placate her enough to keep her hidden away, or do these actions merely encourage her to show her tiny, pale, tear-streaked face?
Can I be confident now and yet cognizant of who I was and where I’ve been? Can both versions of me coexist in one body, or must one dominate the other, squelching the things she doesn’t like about the other, adapting and co-opting the things she does?
Or are they necessarily the same person, the same girl, and my current self is just a phase on my way to regressing back to age 9 when I am 90?
If I was truly born this way, is it possible for me to ever truly change?
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November 09, 2010
Back to Basics
When you start giving away your possessions, throwing away the junk, and losing nearly everything else but your mind and your breath, you start to understand what you really need to live, and what you can live without.
After I moved to Queens, having put most of what remained in storage, I realized I actually need more than two plates. (I have three now.) I can survive on two bowls, but I need a wine glass.
I need pedicures.
I need to get my hair done. I am vain and spent years tortured by the boyish haircuts my mother inflicted on my sister and me.
I need love.
I need a dollar.
I need to write.
I need to document.
I need to be alone.
I need attention.
I need to hold something while I sleep.
I need to dream.
I need to drive.
After years held captive as a child shut-in by an agoraphobic mother, I need to be outdoors.
I need to move.
I need to travel.
I need rules to break.
I need to celebrate.
I need praise.
And right now, in order to keep getting what I need, most of all I need a miracle.
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After I moved to Queens, having put most of what remained in storage, I realized I actually need more than two plates. (I have three now.) I can survive on two bowls, but I need a wine glass.
I need pedicures.
I need to get my hair done. I am vain and spent years tortured by the boyish haircuts my mother inflicted on my sister and me.
I need love.
I need a dollar.
I need to write.
I need to document.
I need to be alone.
I need attention.
I need to hold something while I sleep.
I need to dream.
I need to drive.
After years held captive as a child shut-in by an agoraphobic mother, I need to be outdoors.
I need to move.
I need to travel.
I need rules to break.
I need to celebrate.
I need praise.
And right now, in order to keep getting what I need, most of all I need a miracle.
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November 08, 2010
Photo Essay: Steinway Industrial Business Zone
As much as I wish I had a car to take me out of Astoria, ultimately, it's a very walkable neighborhood. Just as long as you don't plan on leaving.
This weekend, I wandered up to its northernmost shore, past the final stop on the N train at Ditmars, to explore its industrial waterfront, whose major landmarks are a ConEd power facility, the Steinway & Sons piano factory, and the little-known Steinway Creek.
creek
Steinway piano factory
I also stumbled upon a construction site next door to a playground, a half-finished or half-torn-down structure looming eerily over the kids at play, whose only protection from it was a plywood wall painted bright green with signs indicating the "Falling Hazards" within its perimeter.
Not sure what they're working on in there...
But its inner cesspool was reminiscent of the smelly, rotting creek where I first began my walk, and where signs warn of raw sewage discharge during or following rainfall.
This is New York for you. Amidst all of the revelry inside the bars and clubs and cafes and diners, there are rotting docks, rusting metals, and standing water, long left neglected, abandoned so much and for so long that Nature finally just reclaims what was rightfully hers.
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This weekend, I wandered up to its northernmost shore, past the final stop on the N train at Ditmars, to explore its industrial waterfront, whose major landmarks are a ConEd power facility, the Steinway & Sons piano factory, and the little-known Steinway Creek.
creek Steinway piano factoryI also stumbled upon a construction site next door to a playground, a half-finished or half-torn-down structure looming eerily over the kids at play, whose only protection from it was a plywood wall painted bright green with signs indicating the "Falling Hazards" within its perimeter.
Not sure what they're working on in there...
But its inner cesspool was reminiscent of the smelly, rotting creek where I first began my walk, and where signs warn of raw sewage discharge during or following rainfall.
This is New York for you. Amidst all of the revelry inside the bars and clubs and cafes and diners, there are rotting docks, rusting metals, and standing water, long left neglected, abandoned so much and for so long that Nature finally just reclaims what was rightfully hers.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
November 07, 2010
View from the Bottom
Whilst barreling down the road to Empty, I decided to get back in touch with the guy I dated in 2003-4 and ask him to repay the money he borrowed from me six years ago.
He'd called me on a day I was home from work after minor surgery - not to check on me, but short on cash, and desperate to buy his son's school supplies. So in my nightgown, doubled over in pain, I shuffled over to my secret hiding space and extracted my $200 cash emergency fund. I was too weak and in pain to go to the ATM for more. He said he supposed it would be enough.
A month or so later, he called me at work to tell me he'd been locked out of his apartment - not evicted, but barred from entry until he paid his rent. He and his two dogs were homeless, crashing on someone's couch, leaving nowhere for his kids to visit him.
When I found out that paying one month's worth would get him back in, I offered to pay the $1300. I had it. I helped because I could help. I didn't expect him to pay me back, but I hoped that one day he would, or that he would try.
Nearly six years after his cheating on me (or cheating on someone else with me, I'm still not sure) broke us up, I hadn't heard a peep.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I reluctantly got back in touch, because that $1500 could really help me out now. Now I'm the one that needs help.
Here was his initial response (reprinted exactly with all errors included):
It wasn't surprising that he said no. As a DJ, record producer, and actor, his income has never been steady, and whatever he does make, he probably spends on partying. Or Jets tickets.
But even if he had $100 or $200, and only repaid me that and nothing ever again, it would help my situation. So after a month of driving with the fuel gauge pointing to E, I emailed him again, asking for anything he could give, like the pledge drive hosts on public television. Even the smallest donation could make a world of difference.
Here was his next response (again, with errors included):
This guy is in his mid-40s. His kids are old enough now to be in college (and used to, at least, primarily stay with their mother). If my experience dating him didn't, this correspondence has shown me that he is a lost cause. He is never growing up. He is an unfit mate. And he is undeserving of my kindness and generosity.
But what's done is done. I've accepted the fact that he will never pay me back. I don't regret giving him the money, because I was in a position where I was able to help someone who was desperate. What I regret is giving him the love that he would never reciprocate. He was most undeserving of that.
If I am at rock bottom, he has managed to position himself even farther down than that. But what's below the bottom?
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He'd called me on a day I was home from work after minor surgery - not to check on me, but short on cash, and desperate to buy his son's school supplies. So in my nightgown, doubled over in pain, I shuffled over to my secret hiding space and extracted my $200 cash emergency fund. I was too weak and in pain to go to the ATM for more. He said he supposed it would be enough.
A month or so later, he called me at work to tell me he'd been locked out of his apartment - not evicted, but barred from entry until he paid his rent. He and his two dogs were homeless, crashing on someone's couch, leaving nowhere for his kids to visit him.
When I found out that paying one month's worth would get him back in, I offered to pay the $1300. I had it. I helped because I could help. I didn't expect him to pay me back, but I hoped that one day he would, or that he would try.
Nearly six years after his cheating on me (or cheating on someone else with me, I'm still not sure) broke us up, I hadn't heard a peep.
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I reluctantly got back in touch, because that $1500 could really help me out now. Now I'm the one that needs help.
Here was his initial response (reprinted exactly with all errors included):
hiHow do you forget a thing like someone paying your rent? I was shocked. I could only reply briefly, politely, "OK, thanks for letting me know."
thanks for bringing this up cause i did in fact forget all about it.alot has happened in 6 yrs.
without going into detail of my finances , i dont have it and probably wont until the new yr.
sorry things just r not steady
but at least now i know and will be at the top of my to do list
It wasn't surprising that he said no. As a DJ, record producer, and actor, his income has never been steady, and whatever he does make, he probably spends on partying. Or Jets tickets.
But even if he had $100 or $200, and only repaid me that and nothing ever again, it would help my situation. So after a month of driving with the fuel gauge pointing to E, I emailed him again, asking for anything he could give, like the pledge drive hosts on public television. Even the smallest donation could make a world of difference.
Here was his next response (again, with errors included):
Without going into anything deep. Me and my children r at my momzI didn't respond.
apt if that gives u a clue. E other peeps and yourself I owe and will
pay when I have. I ahavnt fogotten and rminders help but then they don't.
I have it on my mind. K?
This guy is in his mid-40s. His kids are old enough now to be in college (and used to, at least, primarily stay with their mother). If my experience dating him didn't, this correspondence has shown me that he is a lost cause. He is never growing up. He is an unfit mate. And he is undeserving of my kindness and generosity.
But what's done is done. I've accepted the fact that he will never pay me back. I don't regret giving him the money, because I was in a position where I was able to help someone who was desperate. What I regret is giving him the love that he would never reciprocate. He was most undeserving of that.
If I am at rock bottom, he has managed to position himself even farther down than that. But what's below the bottom?
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November 06, 2010
Running On Empty
There's an exhilaration you feel when you're driving a long distance, whether it's on a Thruway or a long country road, and you know that the next rest stop is not around the next bend, and the fuel gauge on the dashboard is pointing to Empty.
My early driving days were nearly all for long-distance trips, whether embarking on a late-night road trip to Rhode Island in Terry's parents' van, towing Christmas presents back to New York from Syracuse in a salt-stained rental car, or getting lost and crashing into a highway median on the way to Columbus, OH to visit my sister after a business trip in Detroit. I now prefer the long haul to the monotony of city stop-and-go, pedestrians, traffic signals.
But regardless of where I'm driving - regardless of the from or the to - I nearly always push that fuel gauge to Empty, like squeezing the last bits of toothpaste out of the neck of the tube, or adding a bit of water to the dishsoap bottle to scrape its inside walls of the last remaining clinging product.
Even in the desert, in places like the towns around the Salton Sea where its residents drive electric golf carts because of the scarcity of fuel, I drive circles around that sea, down dirt roads along canals, not knowing when I'll get another chance to fill 'er up. The heart pounds. The eyes dart between the road and the dashboard, waiting for the light, knowing there's a lag between the gauge hitting E and the light going on, and a subsequent lag between the light going on and actually running out of gas.
I've never actually run out of gas. But the prospect of it has stared me in the face many times.
My parents kicked me out of the house. They threatened to pull me out of college. The family that took me in for a year and a half eventually kicked me out too, leaving me homeless during school breaks until another friend came to my rescue and took me in.
I increased the amount of my student loans and opened up three credit cards in order to spend a semester abroad in London, a hardship that left me eating Dairy Milk chocolate bars from the train platform vending machine for breakfast, peanut butter out of the jar for lunch, and high-alcohol hard cider for dinner.
With nowhere else to go after college graduation, I moved to New York with a truck full of my dreams, no job, and $200 worth of earnings from three jobs my senior year. When I got my first paycheck at Atlantic Records a couple months later, my funds had dwindled down to $9 - even after having borrowed $20 from my father so I could buy a Metrocard - and I was eating the cheapest lunch I could find, Dunkin' Donuts doughnuts at 60 cents apiece.
The financial fuel gauge started emptying itself again when I was laid off from Atlantic and rode out four and a half months' of severance and a couple months more of unemployment before starting my job at Razor & Tie. I had spent all my game show winnings, and I was $40,000 in credit card debt, not to mention the student loans I still owed.
Somehow, working late hours and being aggressive, savvy and political at work helped me dig myself out, and three years ago, I was finally out of debt. I actually started saving money.
But where's the exhilaration in that?
With a nice little nest egg accruing interest, I considered buying an apartment in New York, potentially draining all of my savings and even my 401K. Heeding the warnings of my financial advisor not to push the debt envelope that far, I decided to wait and save more.
And thank God I did, because all hell broke loose, and soon after I had confidently declared I would live in New York for the rest of my life, I couldn't get out of here fast enough.
With $40,000 saved - not yet enough for a downpayment on a condo or a co-op - I quit my job I was secure but miserable in. I figured it would last me a few months. I didn't know what I would do after that.
It is nearly two years later and the gauge points to E. The warning light is on. I am running on empty but I am still running, blood pumping, breath quickening, eyes flashing. I am looking at the road. I can't take my eyes off of the road, but I don't know what I see but wide open spaces, not a gas station in sight. My foot eases up on the gas to let inertia bring me forward, momentum and wind, but it does not brake. It will not brake. I will drive this unknown car down this unknown road until I feel the one thing I have never felt before: the putter and sputter of an empty fuel tank, engine relenting, the silence of a still machine.
But maybe by then the road will be moving under me rather than me upon the road.
Maybe by then I will have learned to fly, right through the windshield and out into the sky, leaving the road behind.
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My early driving days were nearly all for long-distance trips, whether embarking on a late-night road trip to Rhode Island in Terry's parents' van, towing Christmas presents back to New York from Syracuse in a salt-stained rental car, or getting lost and crashing into a highway median on the way to Columbus, OH to visit my sister after a business trip in Detroit. I now prefer the long haul to the monotony of city stop-and-go, pedestrians, traffic signals.
But regardless of where I'm driving - regardless of the from or the to - I nearly always push that fuel gauge to Empty, like squeezing the last bits of toothpaste out of the neck of the tube, or adding a bit of water to the dishsoap bottle to scrape its inside walls of the last remaining clinging product.
Even in the desert, in places like the towns around the Salton Sea where its residents drive electric golf carts because of the scarcity of fuel, I drive circles around that sea, down dirt roads along canals, not knowing when I'll get another chance to fill 'er up. The heart pounds. The eyes dart between the road and the dashboard, waiting for the light, knowing there's a lag between the gauge hitting E and the light going on, and a subsequent lag between the light going on and actually running out of gas.
I've never actually run out of gas. But the prospect of it has stared me in the face many times.
My parents kicked me out of the house. They threatened to pull me out of college. The family that took me in for a year and a half eventually kicked me out too, leaving me homeless during school breaks until another friend came to my rescue and took me in.
I increased the amount of my student loans and opened up three credit cards in order to spend a semester abroad in London, a hardship that left me eating Dairy Milk chocolate bars from the train platform vending machine for breakfast, peanut butter out of the jar for lunch, and high-alcohol hard cider for dinner.
With nowhere else to go after college graduation, I moved to New York with a truck full of my dreams, no job, and $200 worth of earnings from three jobs my senior year. When I got my first paycheck at Atlantic Records a couple months later, my funds had dwindled down to $9 - even after having borrowed $20 from my father so I could buy a Metrocard - and I was eating the cheapest lunch I could find, Dunkin' Donuts doughnuts at 60 cents apiece.
The financial fuel gauge started emptying itself again when I was laid off from Atlantic and rode out four and a half months' of severance and a couple months more of unemployment before starting my job at Razor & Tie. I had spent all my game show winnings, and I was $40,000 in credit card debt, not to mention the student loans I still owed.
Somehow, working late hours and being aggressive, savvy and political at work helped me dig myself out, and three years ago, I was finally out of debt. I actually started saving money.
But where's the exhilaration in that?
With a nice little nest egg accruing interest, I considered buying an apartment in New York, potentially draining all of my savings and even my 401K. Heeding the warnings of my financial advisor not to push the debt envelope that far, I decided to wait and save more.
And thank God I did, because all hell broke loose, and soon after I had confidently declared I would live in New York for the rest of my life, I couldn't get out of here fast enough.
With $40,000 saved - not yet enough for a downpayment on a condo or a co-op - I quit my job I was secure but miserable in. I figured it would last me a few months. I didn't know what I would do after that.
It is nearly two years later and the gauge points to E. The warning light is on. I am running on empty but I am still running, blood pumping, breath quickening, eyes flashing. I am looking at the road. I can't take my eyes off of the road, but I don't know what I see but wide open spaces, not a gas station in sight. My foot eases up on the gas to let inertia bring me forward, momentum and wind, but it does not brake. It will not brake. I will drive this unknown car down this unknown road until I feel the one thing I have never felt before: the putter and sputter of an empty fuel tank, engine relenting, the silence of a still machine.
But maybe by then the road will be moving under me rather than me upon the road.
Maybe by then I will have learned to fly, right through the windshield and out into the sky, leaving the road behind.
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October 31, 2010
Grinning and Baring It
Until this year, when I've been asked what my best Halloween costume ever was, I've cited the year I went as the Incredible Hulk, draped in a plastic smock, breath steaming behind a green plastic mask.
Ever since I can remember (though I don't remember many of my early childhood costumes, and have no photos of them), I've been draped in something for Halloween, hiding beneath plastic, swimming inside capes, while everyone around me seemed to shed all of their exterior layers and let their freak flags fly. I didn't dress as a princess; I dressed as a witch.
For years as an adult, I insisted that I don't wear Halloween costumes, that I merely accessorize, resulting in a collection of kitty ears, devil horns, glittery masks, and ladybug and fairy wings (now in storage) that don't constitute a costume per se but at least give a touch of festive flair for the holiday. And after years of gender-neutral and unisex outfits, generally of the ghoulish variety, in my 20s and early 30s, I just wanted to be seen as cute.
But of course I love dressing up. I'm an actor, after all. I've just never felt like I could compete with the other New York girls on Halloween, in this city whose parade is world-famous and whose population is intimidatingly attractive.
But I've longed for the sexy ensembles that surrounded me: the French maids, nurses, angels, cheerleaders, and superheroes with their short skirts and hot pants, bare midriffs and decolletage. I've ached to be the one that everybody wanted their photo taken with. I've craved the confidence it takes to wear an outfit like that, and dare to be photographed in it.
And then this year, I lost 45 pounds. I turned 35 years old. And suddenly, as my body got a little better, my brain got a little braver.
I was determined to dress up this year.
I wasn't sure which iconic figure I was going to select, so I started shopping early. Nearly immediately after moving to Astoria, I began hitting all the party stores, Ricky's, and Halloween pop-up shops I could find - of which there are plenty - to scope out the offerings for this year. And then I found a gold chain bra in 1980s packaging that touted, "A perfect accompaniment to your harem girl costume!"
DONE.
Given my recent travels in North Africa and interest in Middle Eastern culture, and my experience studying bellydancing, the outfit was a no-brainer. And given my new relocation to Queens, I was sure to be able to source most of my outfit locally. Slowing accruing the basics - red bra and boy shorts, a sheer red wrap - and additional accessories - slave bracelet, anklet, belly jewels, veil and shoes - I assembled an ensemble that was my sexiest and most revealing ever.
The only problem?
I had to wear it in public.
Friday night, I was standing in my bedroom, overhead white light blaring, staring at myself in the full-length mirror, wrapping my arms around my exposed waist and doubling over in fear. How was I going to even leave my room, much less the apartment, much less the building? What was I thinking? What was my Plan B??
But as I slowly emerged, first poking my head out of my door and then an arm, then an exposed leg, I surprised my roommate, who in shock said, "Oh my God! You're hot! Look at you!"
Although that gave me the confidence I needed to walk down 30th Avenue, I then had to take the subway, walk into a brightly lit bar full of people, stay there and actually talk to them for a couple of hours.
The horror!
In the end, I survived. Some people averted their eyes, others couldn't stop hugging me. An Egyptian man tried to give me his phone number on the 7 train platform. A Brooklyn man asked for three wishes. A band from Atlanta sent me drinks from across the bar. People called out to me, "Hey bellydancer!" And I was brave enough to actually wear the costume two nights in a row.
Even after losing 45 pounds, I'm only now right at the very high end of the healthy weight range for my height. I'm a pound or so away from not being overweight for the first time in my entire life. (I was born three weeks late and therefore a big baby.) I'm not thin, per se - at least not by any conventional American standards - but in Brooklyn and Queens, the resounding reaction was, "You're hot!"
I'll take it.
As scary as baring my midriff is - especially because most of my bikini-clad time has been spent underwater and therefore not that exposed - I'm glad I did it. After spending the last 10 months slowly losing the equivalent of a small child, I don't have to suck my stomach in all of the time. I can see my feet.
And a bellydancer should have a little bit of belly...something to shake, at least.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
Ever since I can remember (though I don't remember many of my early childhood costumes, and have no photos of them), I've been draped in something for Halloween, hiding beneath plastic, swimming inside capes, while everyone around me seemed to shed all of their exterior layers and let their freak flags fly. I didn't dress as a princess; I dressed as a witch.
For years as an adult, I insisted that I don't wear Halloween costumes, that I merely accessorize, resulting in a collection of kitty ears, devil horns, glittery masks, and ladybug and fairy wings (now in storage) that don't constitute a costume per se but at least give a touch of festive flair for the holiday. And after years of gender-neutral and unisex outfits, generally of the ghoulish variety, in my 20s and early 30s, I just wanted to be seen as cute.
But of course I love dressing up. I'm an actor, after all. I've just never felt like I could compete with the other New York girls on Halloween, in this city whose parade is world-famous and whose population is intimidatingly attractive.
But I've longed for the sexy ensembles that surrounded me: the French maids, nurses, angels, cheerleaders, and superheroes with their short skirts and hot pants, bare midriffs and decolletage. I've ached to be the one that everybody wanted their photo taken with. I've craved the confidence it takes to wear an outfit like that, and dare to be photographed in it.
And then this year, I lost 45 pounds. I turned 35 years old. And suddenly, as my body got a little better, my brain got a little braver.
I was determined to dress up this year.
I wasn't sure which iconic figure I was going to select, so I started shopping early. Nearly immediately after moving to Astoria, I began hitting all the party stores, Ricky's, and Halloween pop-up shops I could find - of which there are plenty - to scope out the offerings for this year. And then I found a gold chain bra in 1980s packaging that touted, "A perfect accompaniment to your harem girl costume!"
DONE.
Given my recent travels in North Africa and interest in Middle Eastern culture, and my experience studying bellydancing, the outfit was a no-brainer. And given my new relocation to Queens, I was sure to be able to source most of my outfit locally. Slowing accruing the basics - red bra and boy shorts, a sheer red wrap - and additional accessories - slave bracelet, anklet, belly jewels, veil and shoes - I assembled an ensemble that was my sexiest and most revealing ever.
The only problem?I had to wear it in public.
Friday night, I was standing in my bedroom, overhead white light blaring, staring at myself in the full-length mirror, wrapping my arms around my exposed waist and doubling over in fear. How was I going to even leave my room, much less the apartment, much less the building? What was I thinking? What was my Plan B??
But as I slowly emerged, first poking my head out of my door and then an arm, then an exposed leg, I surprised my roommate, who in shock said, "Oh my God! You're hot! Look at you!"
Although that gave me the confidence I needed to walk down 30th Avenue, I then had to take the subway, walk into a brightly lit bar full of people, stay there and actually talk to them for a couple of hours.
The horror!
In the end, I survived. Some people averted their eyes, others couldn't stop hugging me. An Egyptian man tried to give me his phone number on the 7 train platform. A Brooklyn man asked for three wishes. A band from Atlanta sent me drinks from across the bar. People called out to me, "Hey bellydancer!" And I was brave enough to actually wear the costume two nights in a row.
Even after losing 45 pounds, I'm only now right at the very high end of the healthy weight range for my height. I'm a pound or so away from not being overweight for the first time in my entire life. (I was born three weeks late and therefore a big baby.) I'm not thin, per se - at least not by any conventional American standards - but in Brooklyn and Queens, the resounding reaction was, "You're hot!"
I'll take it.
As scary as baring my midriff is - especially because most of my bikini-clad time has been spent underwater and therefore not that exposed - I'm glad I did it. After spending the last 10 months slowly losing the equivalent of a small child, I don't have to suck my stomach in all of the time. I can see my feet.
And a bellydancer should have a little bit of belly...something to shake, at least.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
October 29, 2010
The Best Thing I Ever Tasted
"I mean, who likes brussels sprouts?" My food snob date was sitting across from me, watching me munch on the fried outer leaves of the brussels sprouts I'd ordered at dinner.
"I do."
"But they're not the best thing you ever tasted, are they?" he nagged.
"Well, no..."
But do they have to be?
I am a fan of good food, good tastes, good flavors, good texture, but I am also a fan of variety. As a child, I was raised on a limited diet, but even my gastronomically provincial parents had to struggle to get me to eat anything more than bologna with French's yellow on white bread, or peanut butter and jelly (on white bread). (Quite frankly, I just didn't like the other options given to me, which were generally boiled meat, stewed tomatoes, a rainbow of cabbages and other German delicacies.) As an adult, though, I will try pretty much anything you put in front of me - any part of the animal, any animal. And although I don't always like it, and certainly don't always love it, I am always glad I tried it.
What would my life be like if I only ever ate the best thing I ever tasted? How much variety could I possibly get out of that, when the best thing I ever tasted was some chocolate and peanut butter product from Reese's? Even if I were to expand it out to the various food groups - the best meat, bread, vegetable, cocktail I ever tasted - wouldn't the repetition of that best thing cause a flavor fatigue on my palate, thereby diminishing how good I think it is?
Although I advocate living the best life one can live, consuming only the best things - or judging their competitors because they aren't the best - would only set me up for a life of disappointment. Sometimes the pizza I want the most is a frozen French bread pizza, or some weird little crackery saucy frisbee from a bar. And at that moment, I may not be craving the best thing, but it's the thing I want.
Happiness is knowing what you want.
During that same date, after seeing a movie I enjoyed despite his constant unwhispered complaints during it, my companion asked me, "You didn't actually like that, did you?"
"Yes, I did."
"But it's not the best movie you've ever seen, is it?"
"Well, no...."
But it doesn't have to be!
I have a lot of patience and appreciation for cheesy pop songs, cheap junk food, Hollywood movies and disposable flip flops. These experiences can be endlessly enjoyable in their fleeting nature, their accessibility, and their infectiousness. And although I truly believe that I can learn a tremendous amount from bad experiences and failures - perhaps more than from good experiences and successes - I won't regret not going out again with this ill-mannered, bratty drunk with no regard for my enjoyment of our date, because he wasn't the best guy I ever went out with.
And although variety is a good thing also in the company you keep, I choose to share myself and my time with only the best.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
"I do."
"But they're not the best thing you ever tasted, are they?" he nagged.
"Well, no..."
But do they have to be?
I am a fan of good food, good tastes, good flavors, good texture, but I am also a fan of variety. As a child, I was raised on a limited diet, but even my gastronomically provincial parents had to struggle to get me to eat anything more than bologna with French's yellow on white bread, or peanut butter and jelly (on white bread). (Quite frankly, I just didn't like the other options given to me, which were generally boiled meat, stewed tomatoes, a rainbow of cabbages and other German delicacies.) As an adult, though, I will try pretty much anything you put in front of me - any part of the animal, any animal. And although I don't always like it, and certainly don't always love it, I am always glad I tried it.
What would my life be like if I only ever ate the best thing I ever tasted? How much variety could I possibly get out of that, when the best thing I ever tasted was some chocolate and peanut butter product from Reese's? Even if I were to expand it out to the various food groups - the best meat, bread, vegetable, cocktail I ever tasted - wouldn't the repetition of that best thing cause a flavor fatigue on my palate, thereby diminishing how good I think it is?
Although I advocate living the best life one can live, consuming only the best things - or judging their competitors because they aren't the best - would only set me up for a life of disappointment. Sometimes the pizza I want the most is a frozen French bread pizza, or some weird little crackery saucy frisbee from a bar. And at that moment, I may not be craving the best thing, but it's the thing I want.
Happiness is knowing what you want.
During that same date, after seeing a movie I enjoyed despite his constant unwhispered complaints during it, my companion asked me, "You didn't actually like that, did you?"
"Yes, I did."
"But it's not the best movie you've ever seen, is it?"
"Well, no...."
But it doesn't have to be!
I have a lot of patience and appreciation for cheesy pop songs, cheap junk food, Hollywood movies and disposable flip flops. These experiences can be endlessly enjoyable in their fleeting nature, their accessibility, and their infectiousness. And although I truly believe that I can learn a tremendous amount from bad experiences and failures - perhaps more than from good experiences and successes - I won't regret not going out again with this ill-mannered, bratty drunk with no regard for my enjoyment of our date, because he wasn't the best guy I ever went out with.
And although variety is a good thing also in the company you keep, I choose to share myself and my time with only the best.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
October 25, 2010
In Praise of the Nice Guy
It took me a long time into my womanhood, but I have found my way back to The Nice Guy.
When I was young, I was entranced by any boy or man who was nice to me.
I adored my father, who defended me to my mother, saying things like "Sandi's not bad, she's just misunderstood."
I developed crushes on and obsessions with authority figures: Officer Friendly, the firemen respondents to our house's lightning strike, the concerned teachers who counseled me after class when they witnessed my tear-swollen eyes and bruised nose.
Like any other awkward kid - especially one forced to wear too-big glasses, hand-me-downs from Sears and a boyish, unfortunately cowlicked haircut - I was tortured throughout high school, and whenever a boy would come to my defense, I would unleash my doe-eyed affections upon him.
I suppose that explains why my first-ever real date was with a nice boy who eventually came out of the closet. (There was one date before him, but the boy protested to his mother, my mother and all our schoolmates that it was not a date. He protested, that is, to everyone but me.)
None of those nice guys - especially not the gay ones - ever reciprocated my desires. Maybe they didn't want a nice girl. Maybe they were just being nice for the sake of being nice, with no ulterior motive, no intentions of woo or romance. As much as I wanted The Nice Guy, The Nice Guy never wanted me.
Then again, at the time, I was unfit for dating: sheltered, abused, battered and damaged as a child, allowed to go on a total of only three dates between sixth grade and high school graduation. When I went away to college, I quickly learned that despite the distance from my overprotective parents, I was still unfit for dating, and The Nice Guy wasn't so easy to spot anymore. Boys would kiss me with no desire for conversation, no regard for my feelings and no intention on ever kissing me again. I hung around one guy who seemed to treat me nicely, but spent all of his time telling me about his ex-girlfriend and the other girl whose dorm room he sometimes he slept over. As I got older, I sought The Nice Guy in underclassmen, but I mistook their innocence and inexperience for kindness, their doe-eyed gazes at me too fleeting, too easily distracted by another girl, smarter, thinner, younger, newer than I.
If a liberal arts education in a small, bucolic town in Upstate New York teaches you anything, it's how to make swift, meaningful connections with complete strangers, and then let them go as quickly as the semester changes, the dorm room assignments shift, the bars close and the party ends.
It's the perfect training ground for living and dating in New York City, whose newness keeps it in a constant state of flux, its population perpetually turning over via immigration and emigration between boroughs, coasts, and countries.
In my first several years in New York City, I forgot what The Nice Guy looked like altogether, so much so that I couldn't recognize him at all anymore. I assumed he ceased to exist. Instead, I allowed Other Guys to ignore me, deny me, hide me, cheat on me, cheat with me, and forget me. I paid their rent. I slipped $20 bills into their empty wallets when they weren't looking. I took late night cabs to outer boroughs to drive them safely home. I eased their aching backs. And I never expected anything in return. I didn't even expect them to return the feelings.
Does that make me the most magnanimous woman in the world? Or just a sucker?
I pegged myself a sucker, so I took nearly two years off. I went through hell. I stopped talking to my parents. I started therapy. I quit my job. I moved to the desert. I traveled alone. I joined Weight Watchers and embarked on the biggest self improvement kick of my life.
And somehow, a few pounds lost, a world of hell past, The Nice Guy reemerged.
I spotted him with disbelief, like the discovery of a species thought long-extinct, nestled in the depths of the rainforest or some remote wilderness. He thought I was smart and pretty. He encouraged my writing and photography. He taught me phrases in foreign languages. He took me on dates romantic and planned, with no expectations but to spend time with me and stare at my face. He spotted me from across the room, sidled up to me despite my group of friends, got my number and used it. He told me how much he liked me, earnestly, unabashedly, without regret or remorse. He visited me at all hours, slept with me in his arms, and kissed me goodbye and watched me as I left.
And I liked him back, needing him desperately, desiring him all the more because he was so nice.
I'm not sure what's changed, what world conditions have been altered in order to support the existence of The Nice Guy once again in my life. I'm 45 pounds lighter and an entire savings account and annual salary poorer, but emotionally richer, more stable, and more empowered. I can take a compliment and say "Thank you." I give out my phone number to anyone who seems like they'll really appreciate having it. And I'll go out with anyone who wants to put the thought and effort into taking me somewhere nice and making sure I have a good time (regardless of who pays, but these days, a girl's gotta eat).
Do I finally, after all these years, believe that I deserve it?
Of course, right now The Nice Guy in my life is a composite of several nice guys I've encountered over the last eight months. Some live elsewhere. Some have other lives and other women. Some are here but lost their interest in me. (It happens.) Some can't forget another girl; some would like to forget her with me. Some don't think that they're supposed to be nice, or that girls will ever like them if they are nice. But God help me, I love 'em: the young, the innocent, the impressionable, the confident, the experienced, the kind and the generous. Whether they are 23 or 43, there is no greater turn-on than someone who likes me so much they can't help but tell me and try to show me.
Maybe one day there will be one nice guy, The Nice Guy. But now, for the first time in my entire life, I am not lonely. I've surrounded myself with The Nice Guy Roommate, plenty of Nice Guy Friends, and a few Nice Guy Dates. After the life I have led, I will take it, run with it, and never look back.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
When I was young, I was entranced by any boy or man who was nice to me.
I adored my father, who defended me to my mother, saying things like "Sandi's not bad, she's just misunderstood."
I developed crushes on and obsessions with authority figures: Officer Friendly, the firemen respondents to our house's lightning strike, the concerned teachers who counseled me after class when they witnessed my tear-swollen eyes and bruised nose.
Like any other awkward kid - especially one forced to wear too-big glasses, hand-me-downs from Sears and a boyish, unfortunately cowlicked haircut - I was tortured throughout high school, and whenever a boy would come to my defense, I would unleash my doe-eyed affections upon him.
I suppose that explains why my first-ever real date was with a nice boy who eventually came out of the closet. (There was one date before him, but the boy protested to his mother, my mother and all our schoolmates that it was not a date. He protested, that is, to everyone but me.)
None of those nice guys - especially not the gay ones - ever reciprocated my desires. Maybe they didn't want a nice girl. Maybe they were just being nice for the sake of being nice, with no ulterior motive, no intentions of woo or romance. As much as I wanted The Nice Guy, The Nice Guy never wanted me.
Then again, at the time, I was unfit for dating: sheltered, abused, battered and damaged as a child, allowed to go on a total of only three dates between sixth grade and high school graduation. When I went away to college, I quickly learned that despite the distance from my overprotective parents, I was still unfit for dating, and The Nice Guy wasn't so easy to spot anymore. Boys would kiss me with no desire for conversation, no regard for my feelings and no intention on ever kissing me again. I hung around one guy who seemed to treat me nicely, but spent all of his time telling me about his ex-girlfriend and the other girl whose dorm room he sometimes he slept over. As I got older, I sought The Nice Guy in underclassmen, but I mistook their innocence and inexperience for kindness, their doe-eyed gazes at me too fleeting, too easily distracted by another girl, smarter, thinner, younger, newer than I.
If a liberal arts education in a small, bucolic town in Upstate New York teaches you anything, it's how to make swift, meaningful connections with complete strangers, and then let them go as quickly as the semester changes, the dorm room assignments shift, the bars close and the party ends.
It's the perfect training ground for living and dating in New York City, whose newness keeps it in a constant state of flux, its population perpetually turning over via immigration and emigration between boroughs, coasts, and countries.
In my first several years in New York City, I forgot what The Nice Guy looked like altogether, so much so that I couldn't recognize him at all anymore. I assumed he ceased to exist. Instead, I allowed Other Guys to ignore me, deny me, hide me, cheat on me, cheat with me, and forget me. I paid their rent. I slipped $20 bills into their empty wallets when they weren't looking. I took late night cabs to outer boroughs to drive them safely home. I eased their aching backs. And I never expected anything in return. I didn't even expect them to return the feelings.
Does that make me the most magnanimous woman in the world? Or just a sucker?
I pegged myself a sucker, so I took nearly two years off. I went through hell. I stopped talking to my parents. I started therapy. I quit my job. I moved to the desert. I traveled alone. I joined Weight Watchers and embarked on the biggest self improvement kick of my life.
And somehow, a few pounds lost, a world of hell past, The Nice Guy reemerged.
I spotted him with disbelief, like the discovery of a species thought long-extinct, nestled in the depths of the rainforest or some remote wilderness. He thought I was smart and pretty. He encouraged my writing and photography. He taught me phrases in foreign languages. He took me on dates romantic and planned, with no expectations but to spend time with me and stare at my face. He spotted me from across the room, sidled up to me despite my group of friends, got my number and used it. He told me how much he liked me, earnestly, unabashedly, without regret or remorse. He visited me at all hours, slept with me in his arms, and kissed me goodbye and watched me as I left.
And I liked him back, needing him desperately, desiring him all the more because he was so nice.
I'm not sure what's changed, what world conditions have been altered in order to support the existence of The Nice Guy once again in my life. I'm 45 pounds lighter and an entire savings account and annual salary poorer, but emotionally richer, more stable, and more empowered. I can take a compliment and say "Thank you." I give out my phone number to anyone who seems like they'll really appreciate having it. And I'll go out with anyone who wants to put the thought and effort into taking me somewhere nice and making sure I have a good time (regardless of who pays, but these days, a girl's gotta eat).
Do I finally, after all these years, believe that I deserve it?
Of course, right now The Nice Guy in my life is a composite of several nice guys I've encountered over the last eight months. Some live elsewhere. Some have other lives and other women. Some are here but lost their interest in me. (It happens.) Some can't forget another girl; some would like to forget her with me. Some don't think that they're supposed to be nice, or that girls will ever like them if they are nice. But God help me, I love 'em: the young, the innocent, the impressionable, the confident, the experienced, the kind and the generous. Whether they are 23 or 43, there is no greater turn-on than someone who likes me so much they can't help but tell me and try to show me.
Maybe one day there will be one nice guy, The Nice Guy. But now, for the first time in my entire life, I am not lonely. I've surrounded myself with The Nice Guy Roommate, plenty of Nice Guy Friends, and a few Nice Guy Dates. After the life I have led, I will take it, run with it, and never look back.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
October 15, 2010
A Getaway Within a Getaway
"What's in LA?" people kept asking me when they heard I was going back.
"A client. Potential clients. Maybe a job," I said, and I meant it. But those were only my justification for the cost of the travel, figuring the benefit of securing a new client would outweigh the cost of the (cheap) flight, car rental, food, and - unfortunately this time - hotel.
But at the time that I booked my trip, moving to Queens made me want to return to LA more than ever before. To see the Los Angelenos that I've become quite attached to... To find work. To go somewhere. To seek out another time, another town, another everything...
Since then, I feel a bit better about my move to Queens, a change of scenery I desperately needed, and one that has rejuvenated me in surprising ways.
But I was still eager to get back to LA.
To save on costs, I booked a room at a place called The Circle in Culver West, the residential area to the southwest of lovely and historic Culver City, just north of Marina del Rey (sort of by LAX airport) and inland from Venice Beach.
For $50/night, staying at one of the customized "rooms" at the The Circle is like being dropped into another time or another town within LA. It is so quiet, save for the gravel crunching beneath your feet and the rustling of a raccoon in the bushes.
The front entrance - next to a parked Greyhound Bus that has been converted into a private cottage - encourages visitors to Create, Meditate, and Celebrate - exactly the kind of place I need right now, and so familiar to me after my time spent out in Joshua Tree.
I originally booked the cheapest room, billed as the "Modern Cave," which turns out to be an inground pool (or as the owner Sanni calls it, a fish pond) that's been covered. Sanni's kids' toys are strewn about The Cave's roof, and during the day they're usually found playing on top of it.
l-r: Treehouse, Floating Bed room, main house, The Cave (in lower right corner)
When I arrived, Sammi graciously put me in The Treehouse - a nicer (and taller) accommodation which happened to be vacant during my stay. In fact, the whole place was vacant during my stay, save for Sanni and her family, and their cuddly dog Lucy.
The Treehouse
The Treehouse is a strange wooden spaceship built on stilts above another fish pond with a canoe and a fountain. Overlooking the backyard, one of the walls literally folds down and out into the meditative garden (something that would have been great during LA's recent heat wave, but it was too cold and overcast while I was here).
Immediately upon my arrival, I cast all my New York City hangups aside, and just let myself be. No lock on my door? Fine. People can see me change if I prop my window open? So what. Ants are crawling on the desk? They'll leave eventually. I have to tiptoe through the backyard in a towel to get to the bathroom and outdoor shower? Yes!
This place is not for everybody, but in many ways, it's just what I needed. I needed to not care when I saw a mouse scurry under the bathroom door, or along the power lines above my treehouse (which isn't actually in a tree). I needed a safe, quiet, cheap, clean place to stay where I could be alone only when I wanted to, and not feel lonely.
And now I leave LA today after the shortest trip I've spent here all year. A surefire way for me to hate New York is by leaving New York and then coming back. I hope I reacclimate quickly.
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"A client. Potential clients. Maybe a job," I said, and I meant it. But those were only my justification for the cost of the travel, figuring the benefit of securing a new client would outweigh the cost of the (cheap) flight, car rental, food, and - unfortunately this time - hotel.
But at the time that I booked my trip, moving to Queens made me want to return to LA more than ever before. To see the Los Angelenos that I've become quite attached to... To find work. To go somewhere. To seek out another time, another town, another everything...
Since then, I feel a bit better about my move to Queens, a change of scenery I desperately needed, and one that has rejuvenated me in surprising ways.
But I was still eager to get back to LA.
To save on costs, I booked a room at a place called The Circle in Culver West, the residential area to the southwest of lovely and historic Culver City, just north of Marina del Rey (sort of by LAX airport) and inland from Venice Beach.
For $50/night, staying at one of the customized "rooms" at the The Circle is like being dropped into another time or another town within LA. It is so quiet, save for the gravel crunching beneath your feet and the rustling of a raccoon in the bushes.
The front entrance - next to a parked Greyhound Bus that has been converted into a private cottage - encourages visitors to Create, Meditate, and Celebrate - exactly the kind of place I need right now, and so familiar to me after my time spent out in Joshua Tree.
I originally booked the cheapest room, billed as the "Modern Cave," which turns out to be an inground pool (or as the owner Sanni calls it, a fish pond) that's been covered. Sanni's kids' toys are strewn about The Cave's roof, and during the day they're usually found playing on top of it.
l-r: Treehouse, Floating Bed room, main house, The Cave (in lower right corner)
When I arrived, Sammi graciously put me in The Treehouse - a nicer (and taller) accommodation which happened to be vacant during my stay. In fact, the whole place was vacant during my stay, save for Sanni and her family, and their cuddly dog Lucy.
The TreehouseThe Treehouse is a strange wooden spaceship built on stilts above another fish pond with a canoe and a fountain. Overlooking the backyard, one of the walls literally folds down and out into the meditative garden (something that would have been great during LA's recent heat wave, but it was too cold and overcast while I was here).
Immediately upon my arrival, I cast all my New York City hangups aside, and just let myself be. No lock on my door? Fine. People can see me change if I prop my window open? So what. Ants are crawling on the desk? They'll leave eventually. I have to tiptoe through the backyard in a towel to get to the bathroom and outdoor shower? Yes!
This place is not for everybody, but in many ways, it's just what I needed. I needed to not care when I saw a mouse scurry under the bathroom door, or along the power lines above my treehouse (which isn't actually in a tree). I needed a safe, quiet, cheap, clean place to stay where I could be alone only when I wanted to, and not feel lonely.
And now I leave LA today after the shortest trip I've spent here all year. A surefire way for me to hate New York is by leaving New York and then coming back. I hope I reacclimate quickly.
To become a fan on Facebook, click here.
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