I’m writing this from my old bed. My old bed which now resides in my friend Linda’s room in Astoria. This little ol’ BJ’s Wholesale special has come a long way from Medford, Massachusetts.
The neighbors next door are having one hell of a party, the dubstep is vibrating the far wall of her room. I’m not worried about this, it’s Friday night
Saturday morning and I have nothing to do tomorrow other than make my way to the Meatpacking District to have a glorious brunch with Tim where he will undoubtedly keep conversation flowing as freely as the mimosas.
New York has always been a vacation for me.
It is for this reason alone I can be
(almost) positive I will never, ever live here.
I remember the first time I came to NYC vaguely, it was with my cousin Talia who was living there. On the bus ride down I was incredibly ill and it was miserable. Once we finally arrived though, the sickness of the bus was forgotten and we did a bunch of really wonderful things.
We went ice skating at Rockefeller Center.
We had fluff-a-nutter milkshakes at Peanutbutter and Co.
We went to Dean and Deluca.
We saw De La Guarda which blew my 13 year old mind:
We got table Smores at Cosi.
And best of all I was entertained with stories of how my cousin’s roommate had narrowly avoided being robbed on the subway by pretending to be mentally handicapped.
It was all amazing and magical until my overprotective mother took the bus from Boston only to turn around and bring me straight home.
Ever since I’ve looked at trips to New York as a way to unwind and relax.
I’ve come to NYC enough that I don’t really desire to do anything touristy. Rather I come to visit my loved ones and no matter what I end up having a good time. I love waking up in an apartment that isn’t mine and marveling at it. The old NYC plumbing that is ever present, the yellowish tiled bathrooms. There is always a key for me, I can slip out and come and go as I please.
I can throw money on a metro card and hop on a train. Or if the weather is nice I can walk.
I hardly ever have any obligations unless they are to see some theater, or eat a meal with specific people at a specific time.
And I love that.
And at the end of the day I’ll return back to my home state, usually ready to go. Back to the slower pace, the mundane schedule, and the lack of spontaneity, where the world is indeed not my oyster.
And that’s okay.
I like it this way, my little get-a-way city that doesn’t sleep.
I can always come back again.
This is by far the best okcupid message I’ve received:
“i like your pics but besides that I’m Brian.”
WELL SIGN ME UP!
My freshman year of college I lived in a corner room in Washington Tower.
I hadn’t wanted to live in a tower. Those who have been to the University of Massachusetts will understand why.
I ended up having my own room. Because my roommate died in a fire before we even got to school.
Often during that freshman year I would find myself up very late at night. I would watch VH1 on my little Toshiba tv in my bottom bunk. I would eat string cheese from my mini fridge. I would surf the internet. Endless loops of already being on facebook then going up to the top of the browser only to absentmindedly enter:
I also would talk on instant messenger. Yes.
One night around 1 am I received an instant message from this guy.
I hesitate to use his real name on here, mostly because he’s a gun totin’ republican asshole who wrote many inflammatory op ed pieces in the Collegian. About how hippies should be run over by SUVs.
So we’ll call him Victor Flowerface.
Mostly because I know he’d hate it.
Anyway. Victor Flowerface was the president of the republican club and thusly his office was next to the theater office I often spent my time in as play producer. Our offices were actually in the same room but separated by one of those wall dividers you might see in a large hotel banquet hall. We often heard him screaming obscenities into his phone.
Once I got up the courage to go over, knock on the door and ask him very kindly to lower his voice. And that was a mistake. It was a mistake because now I was on his radar. Being on Victor Flowerface’s radar wasn’t good.
So fast forward some time and we’re back in my dorm room, when his little instant message pops up on my screen.
He was insistent that I needed to come up to his room (which was two floors above mine) and hang out.
Why did I do it?
Internet I do not know. Insomnia does weird things to one’s decision making abilities. Also, he was allegedly trying to date a friend of mine and I think I somehow thought it was my job to scope him out and make sure he wasn’t a psycho.
I WAS 18 STOP JUDGING ME.
Anyway. I walked upstairs in my pajamas and knocked on his door. When he opened it the first thing that struck me was the fact that it was completely spartan. He had even disposed of the generic sad wooden desk chair and replaced it with a stiff straight back even sadder wooden chair. There were no posters on the walls. No family photos anywhere.
An iron sat on the desk.
Next to the iron was a small bottle of personal lubricant. He followed my gaze to where it had landed on the sticky little bottle and said quickly
“That’s not for what you think its for.”
I don’t remember what we really talked about because most of the time I was thinking of reasons to leave. I sat down on his chair and held my room key tight in my hand.
At some point into my visit he picked me up off the chair and tossed me like a rag doll on to his bed.
I thought, “Oh. No No No.” And I began to sit right back up.
He swooped in behind me on the bed and held me fiercely in the spoon position. He seemed like a little boy the way he practically begged me to stay and cuddle.
“Stayyyyyyyyy we can watch Titanic! That’s my favorite movie. I only watch the second tape though.”
And then, for the first time that night my blood ran cold.
I had watched Titanic for the first and only time at my arch nemesis’s birthday party in elementary school. It was a slumber party. I didn’t sleep all night, thinking of sinking ships every time I closed my eyes.
Do you remember what happens on the second tape?
The second tape is literally the ship sinking.
His favorite thing to watch….was the titanic sinking.
And I knew then that I had to get out of there.
I waited until he fell asleep and then I quickly threw his arm off me and bolted for the door. Nothing bad happened other than me learning to trust one’s instincts with the creepy boys.
Ever since then I’ve known that there is no better litmus test for a psychopath:
Which tape of Titanic do you prefer? One or two?
This is a story that was told to my father by my Aunt Marcia.
There is a story of a blind girl that was miserable with her life because she could not see. Her boyfriend loved her dearly and wanted to marry and take care of her forever. She told him that if she could ever see, she would marry him. One day she received the opportunity for eye transplants. After the healing process, the bandages were removed to discover a successful surgery. She saw things for the first time. When she looked at her future husband, also for the very first time, she was appalled to see he was blind. As she looked at where eyes should be, she could not bring herself to continue to love him; less spend her life with him. She told him she could not marry him. He left a crushed and heartbroken man. Days later, she received a short note from him that now she could read.
“Take care of your eyes, my love, for before they were yours, they were mine.”
Went to my mom’s nursing home to visit this morning and give her Chanukah present.
I noticed she had a bunch of magazines on tape from the Perkins School for the Blind.
She had audio copies of Sports Illustrated, Boston Magazine, and Playboy.
Guess she really does just read it for the articles!
The fact that my mother was reading Playboy wasn’t too shocking or traumatizing. She’s always been a little outrageous and flippant.
Which reminds me of a story she told me recently on a good day when her brain was working really well.
She explained how she had dated this guy for awhile when she was around my age. After some time for whatever reason they broke up and she wasn’t particularly heartbroken. A few months later he called her up on the phone and said “I don’t want to get back together but we used to have a lot of fun together. I think we should have sex again!” to which my mother replied.
“Huh. Okay well give me your address, I’ll stick my vagina in a box, mail it to you, and you can do whatever you want.”
Which is such an Alison response. And also a really good metaphor for the fact that females can’t really compartmentalize sex unless their vaginas are detached from their brains.
Please Dear lord, let him have the restaurant chosen already.
Please let us not engage in the “I don’t care where we go where do you wanna go?” dance.
Please let him not have chosen sushi.
Please let me be neither under nor over dressed.
Please let him look at my eyeballs and not my breasts.
Please make sure he refuses when I pull out my wallet when the bill comes.
Please let us have enough to talk about.
Please give me the strength to go pee when necessary instead of thinking “there’s no pee break in this conversation! Would it be weird if I went now? Now? How about now?”
Please let him not be one of those guys who is put off by my distaste for beer.
Please let nothing get stuck between my teeth, and please please please let me spill nothing on myself.
May or may not have given myself a January 1st deadline for my grad school applications….
looks like posts may suffer a bit the next few days…
I do not feel like writing today.
Employing the “if you don’t have anything nice to say…” logic from our dear beloved Thumper.
We’ll try again tomorrow.
Enjoy your holidays faithful readers!