You know when you have a thing that you do.
You may not do it everyday, but it's definitely a habit within the situational confines of a life event that you undertake with some regularity. It isn't changing the world, but you can for sure say you do it out of practical necessity for a possibly non-essential pastime. Then all of a sudden some blogger or hip magazine gets their hands on the practice, coins a jaunty little term to describe it, and all of a sudden, bam!
Everyone's "twerking."
Well, that's how I feel about the whole "binge-viewing" thing.
I WAS DOING THAT FIRST, FOOLS!
Except I didn't call it binge viewing or even think to put a name to it, because when you spend 36 hours at a time in your bed, you categorize things in binary form: 1. Makes me want to kill myself 2. Makes me want to hold off on killing myself until I see how this story arc plays out.
That's what I mean.
Hopping back into the NY employment world during the Great Depression, Part Deux wasn't really a blast for me, but armed with the sickest friends, family and self-help books I could get my hands on (It's not your fault..) I actually had a pretty clear head about doing what I needed to do while getting on my feet, without any real ego about it all. Not my fault.
I was prepared to start at the bottom. I was prepared to have a 23 year old boss telling me how to speak to people over the phone about Planned Parenthood (this bitch..). I was all set with taking a half hour lunch break during the course of a 9 hour working day. I was handling it all beautifully and quite proud of how much my ego wasn't bruised by it all. On the contrary, I felt like one of the people. Most capable Americans struggle daily to make ends meet, and who did I think I was that I could get out of paying my dues? Your middle-class upbringing is not bequeathed to you for life. Hike up your skirt, Shirley, and get a little dirty. Yeah I got this. And I did. Right up until I got fired.
--
Which brings me back to my bed and my binge-watching.
So I'm block watching 5 episodes of "Parks & Rec." In my parallel life, I'm Leslie Knope. Because I actually am like that in my work life. But that doesn't make her my favorite character. I'm a Tom and Donna fan. (Treat yo'self 2011!!). Not because they're of color, but because they are probably the least self-conscious characters on the show. Yet aren't any more or less idiotic than any of the other characters. Which goes to prove the old adage your mom told you growing up: be yourself! Oh wait, and Andy, even though he married that jerk, April and she really grinds my gears. (Dear TVGuide Magazine..)
The episode that spoke to me was a two-parter, beginning with the episode entitled "Trouble in Swagadise."
Tom has a business called Rent-A-Swag. It's a company where you can rent expensive designer clothes instead of purchasing them, and it had become quite successful. Tom's best friend is a manchild, R&B bro named Jean-Ralphio who speaks a mix of hip-hop slang and Euro Trashanese. Tom had a relationship with Jean-Ralphio's sister Mona-Lisa and when their very successful father found out, thinking that his baby girl was a chaste princess, he sued Tom for everything he had, which was basically his stake in Rent-A-Swag. With me so far?
As he's prematurely lamenting his failure as a businessman, Jean-Ralphio gives him a pep talk.
Tom: Maybe I should just throw in the towel. Your dad'll destroy me, I'll be left with nothing. I thought I was a better looking version of Mark Zuckerberg. Turns out I'm just a better looking version of the Winklevoss twins
Jean-Ralphio: First of all, unbelievable analogy. Second of all, what are you talking about man? You're Tommy Haverford, you're an idea man. When Babyface was your age he hadn't even signed Toni Braxton yet, let alone Usher.
Tom: You're right. I mean, I'm basically Babyface.
Jean-Ralphio: You're basically Babyface!
That was the moment it resonated. We don't all peak at 28 (God, who'd want to. Good luck with that 60 year slow downward plummet to the middle). And occasionally you fuck up. You take the wrong job, trust the wrong people, forget to take your anti-psychotics, whatever.
Point being, you find that comfort in your skin after you've been through the worst that life can give you and come out on the other side alive. Then you realize that you, like countless others before you and more to come are all, basically, Babyface.
I still binge watch shows, but I also now binge internet search for abandoned buildings to visit on that cross country trip I will take someday. Hey, it's my thing. Baby(face) steps.
Friday, November 29, 2013
Thursday, November 28, 2013
Shake n' Bake
The second time I took a pregnancy test in my life was in the public bathroom at a HyVee in Des Moines, Iowa.
Actually, it was a group activity. I made my campaign fellow, Lisa Bonet, take one with me because if you find out you've gotten pregnant by a man ten years younger than you while working a job where cargo shorts are not only a fashion statement but a way of life, you want a reminder that life could be worse. I could be 23.
We were looking for fortifying vitamins because my hair had started falling out. Naturally, at no point did I attribute this to the doubled up dose of birth control I had begun to consume or even to the nightly ritual of drinking that looked less like "Animal House" and more like the last scene of "The Deer Hunter." Nah, bro, it's this campaign. It's wicked intense!
I headed straight for the "dollar deals" rack. There was no way I was going to pay $13 for a bottle of something that didn't stand a chance of giving me a nice buzz. As I was trying to figure out why this was likely the largest selection of multivitamins I'd ever seen, but God forbid each type of corn isn't carefully segregated out by type, size, color, and cup size, I caught a glimpse of why I was really there. To take a $1 pregnancy test in a dirty bathroom.
It was my density.
I mean.. My destiny.
Long way to go for a "Back to the Future" joke, but if you think it's so easy, why don't you give it a try, hot shot?
All other objectives got cast to the winds in the face of this discovery. I told Lisa that it could be a really fun story of how we took $1 pregnancy tests in the bathroom at Hy-Vee and how we weren't pregnant at all, ahahahaha! Aren't we irreverent?!!
- What if we're pregnant?
- It can be a really fun story of how you once kicked me down a flight of stairs. Hahaha! Aren't we spontaneous?!!
- *crickets*
- Dude, just get in the damn bathroom..
We get in there, and of course it's one of those performance anxiety things where the one time you need your bladder to do you a solid, it gets all, "Nah, I'd prefer to let you Liz on yourself a little right in the middle of the second chorus of 'Living On a Prayer' at a bar down the shore while you're trying to take some dude home but subsequently have to pretend that your friend has alcohol poisoning and go home without him, but really you didn't want to risk him putting his hand down your pants on the car ride home only to come back up with a fist full of Eau de Nursing Home because, man, I just had to do me!" says my bladder. Or something like that..
- I can't go
- Raven, even you can't fuck this up. All the stick needs is a few drops, just shake it out.
- Shake.. ok just shake. Like jump up and down or.. what? Wait, like.. can I dance?
- What the fuck are you talking about?
- I really don't know
- Dude, just move your hips and relax, man..
- Ok. .... So both at the same time? Move my hips and relax? Becau-- Ohhhh there it goes....
aaahhhhh... Ok yeah.. I think I just needed to talk it out. You know, I think that sort of relieves tension and to be honest with you --
- Yeah congratulations, there's a tampon on the ceiling so I'm getting out of here. See you outside.
--
We got back in the car and headed back to the office. A James Taylor song came on. As I sang along and pulled an over-exaggerated smiling face, Lisa said, "You're going to be a good mom."
- Huh. Well not today..
- For real. You feed me and buy me pregnancy tests. I mean, that's some white mom shit right there.
- That'll do, Donkey. That'll do.
And Lisa never had to kick me down the stairs.
The End.
Actually, it was a group activity. I made my campaign fellow, Lisa Bonet, take one with me because if you find out you've gotten pregnant by a man ten years younger than you while working a job where cargo shorts are not only a fashion statement but a way of life, you want a reminder that life could be worse. I could be 23.
We were looking for fortifying vitamins because my hair had started falling out. Naturally, at no point did I attribute this to the doubled up dose of birth control I had begun to consume or even to the nightly ritual of drinking that looked less like "Animal House" and more like the last scene of "The Deer Hunter." Nah, bro, it's this campaign. It's wicked intense!
I headed straight for the "dollar deals" rack. There was no way I was going to pay $13 for a bottle of something that didn't stand a chance of giving me a nice buzz. As I was trying to figure out why this was likely the largest selection of multivitamins I'd ever seen, but God forbid each type of corn isn't carefully segregated out by type, size, color, and cup size, I caught a glimpse of why I was really there. To take a $1 pregnancy test in a dirty bathroom.
It was my density.
I mean.. My destiny.
Long way to go for a "Back to the Future" joke, but if you think it's so easy, why don't you give it a try, hot shot?
All other objectives got cast to the winds in the face of this discovery. I told Lisa that it could be a really fun story of how we took $1 pregnancy tests in the bathroom at Hy-Vee and how we weren't pregnant at all, ahahahaha! Aren't we irreverent?!!
- What if we're pregnant?
- It can be a really fun story of how you once kicked me down a flight of stairs. Hahaha! Aren't we spontaneous?!!
- *crickets*
- Dude, just get in the damn bathroom..
We get in there, and of course it's one of those performance anxiety things where the one time you need your bladder to do you a solid, it gets all, "Nah, I'd prefer to let you Liz on yourself a little right in the middle of the second chorus of 'Living On a Prayer' at a bar down the shore while you're trying to take some dude home but subsequently have to pretend that your friend has alcohol poisoning and go home without him, but really you didn't want to risk him putting his hand down your pants on the car ride home only to come back up with a fist full of Eau de Nursing Home because, man, I just had to do me!" says my bladder. Or something like that..
- I can't go
- Raven, even you can't fuck this up. All the stick needs is a few drops, just shake it out.
- Shake.. ok just shake. Like jump up and down or.. what? Wait, like.. can I dance?
- What the fuck are you talking about?
- I really don't know
- Dude, just move your hips and relax, man..
- Ok. .... So both at the same time? Move my hips and relax? Becau-- Ohhhh there it goes....
aaahhhhh... Ok yeah.. I think I just needed to talk it out. You know, I think that sort of relieves tension and to be honest with you --
- Yeah congratulations, there's a tampon on the ceiling so I'm getting out of here. See you outside.
--
We got back in the car and headed back to the office. A James Taylor song came on. As I sang along and pulled an over-exaggerated smiling face, Lisa said, "You're going to be a good mom."
- Huh. Well not today..
- For real. You feed me and buy me pregnancy tests. I mean, that's some white mom shit right there.
- That'll do, Donkey. That'll do.
And Lisa never had to kick me down the stairs.
The End.
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Welcome Back, Hooker
All the signs were there.
I should have known.
It was too easy.
Other platitude.
There was no way New York was just going to let me Moonwalk back into its life as if nothing had ever happened. And definitely not let me believe for a second I was anything special.
So what had happened was...
I was hanging loose. I was laid back Cali, and to say that I was 32, jobless and sleeping on my grandparent's pull-out couch, the one trump card I had was that I had gotten Barack Obama re-elected (God Bless our Black President) and I was hella chill compared to my NY compatriots. Take that, super successful, gainfully employed, new and impossibly good-looking moms posting articles on Pinterest asking for tips on how to make their husbands look less like Christopher Meloni. That's cool - I'm all zen and shit.
I decided tonight was the night. I was going to get my neighborhood groove back and finally hit up my deeply loved neighborhood bar, the Dive Bar. Well, in all honesty, circumstance had decided that a few hours earlier.
I had accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friend Miss Cleo (all names have been changed to protect the clownish) who informed me she wanted to invite Shelley Long who had a friend in from out of town, Woody.
We met at a wine bar and, because of work, I arrived 2 hours into their happy hour. Now, if you are someone aged 29 or over, you're already breaking your neck rolling your eyes because you, my perceptive friend, are someone who realizes the great importance of inebriation coordination. To enter, stage left, smack dab in the middle of a happiness wave, already in progress, throws off all energy, renders jokes unrecognizable, and essentially relegates you back to the high school cafeteria - perpetually feeling as if you are on the outside of an inside joke and wanting to fake Legionnaire's disease and go home.
But, I was all zen and shit.
So it was all, "Naw, it's cool brah.. Just ridin the wave and rollin with the homies. Let's do this, I can hang."
Yeah, but I couldn't, and so halfway through dinner I told Shelley Long that I didn't know where she got the idea that someone could walk from St. Mark's to 34th and 10th in 15 minutes (amirite??!?!?) after I was pretty sure that she got all snippy about it, and I really wanted to know had she ever done it. I mean had she? HAD SHE?!?!
...
The night air was cool on my face as I turned it toward the falafel truck so I wouldn't have to look anyone in the eye. Woody asked me about those Mets. I pretended to find a pair of skull and crossbones socks on a table deeply fascinating. I knew what I had to do. I had to be the bigger person, face up to my unfounded fears that I was "that girl," and just brush it off as a thing that happens to us all after 4 glasses of wine, three shots and 3 beers. I took a deep breath. And ran.
That's right folks. I shot out of there like Lindsay Lohan at a Colombian house party after TMZ busts through the door. I waited until Miss Cleo and Shelley were admiring the same pair of socks I was (but for reals, tho. Ew.), turned to Woody and told him I was feeling Legionnaire-y and just before I could register the full look of utter disgust on his face (not the first time I've see that look) I bolted.
Past the NYU industrial complex, around Broseph alley, barreling through streets made mean by the likes of Julian Schnabel (wut-wut!), I had a purposeful destination in mind. A world of never-ending happiness for a smart, over-confident, enthusiastic female human who never quite remembers to put men first. Or laundry. Laundry's a problem too.
Oh yes, my friends. I went all hunger games up in that bitch and it was only ever going to lead me straight (no pun intended) into the deepest corner of... THE WEST VILLAGE!!
May the odds be ever in your favor. Men who pay you all sorts of attention and you don't have to reassure them that, yes, it's big enough - I like them odds! Oh - kaaayy! (snap) [that was mad 90's].
I was headed for my happy place at the Duplex for audience-participation cabaret night and popcorn served fresh from a vintage mini-carnival popper and a cute little hobbity queen of a bartender who doled out Marlene Deitrich one-liners, had a heavy pour and used to sprinkle peanut M&M's in the popcorn. Add some criticism and a Virginia Slim Light and he could be my mother.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost -- ...
..went home with a lesbian (not a hot one) because it was so damn loud in the Duplex I wasn't really certain what I was agreeing to. I managed to finagle myself out of that arrangement, but I went up to the twinkie bartender on duty and asked what's up with the "What is Love" playlist?
- It's retro club night
(RETRO!? It's fucking CeCe Peniston. I.. Ugh! don't get me started)
- What happened to Frodo?
- Gone.
- Popcorn machine?
- Gone. I think the guy at Stonewall has it.
(gasp!)
- And the guys who used to do Jay McInerney impressions off the urinals?
- Is he the guy from "The Crying Game"?
- I hate you.
- What?
- You're hair's hot!
- OMIGAWD THEENK YEWWW!
- Can I have a vodka soda?
- Sure.
- I'm on a tab.
- What's the name?
- Jay McInerney.
Well, didn't we almost have it all..
I had to salvage this night. Nope. There was NO WAY that dawn would break on this dumpster fire of a journey in my defeat. To quote Scarlett (O'Hara. The original, you hipster suckas), where shall I go, what shall I do?!
And that's when Dive Bar breached the horizons of my brain.
OF COURSE!!
That bar's my jam! Nothing could hurt me there. And, I mean, it couldn't be any worse than the rest of my evening, amirite!?
..
Cold.
I just feel cold.
I think I've been slapped.
Maybe.
Oh wait, no I did that to myself.
Wait, why?
Oh yes.
I'm talking to myself.
In a bathroom mirror.
In a bar.
Why?
To tell myself that it's not my fault.
It's not your fault, Will Hunting.
It's not your fault.
He would've talked to you anyway.
You don't give off a whore's scent.
You are a lovely, viable woman that any other Swedish Rhodes scholar would have approached even if he wasn't convinced you were a hooker.
Honestly.
No, no.. You. Are. ... GREAT!
Perfect, in fact, see because, he CHOSE you.
You were the Julia Roberts of that place.
He thought you were sooooo smoking hot that there was no way you'd look at him unless you were paid to do so.
Yeah that's it.
Now you go to your falafel truck with your head held high.
Eat the shit out of that shawarma like a bawse.
Put your earbuds in.
Fall asleep with your hand in that greasy bag to the dulcet sounds of Ambrosia.
Don't just think, but know, that you are a champion.
A champion.
I should have known.
It was too easy.
Other platitude.
There was no way New York was just going to let me Moonwalk back into its life as if nothing had ever happened. And definitely not let me believe for a second I was anything special.
So what had happened was...
I was hanging loose. I was laid back Cali, and to say that I was 32, jobless and sleeping on my grandparent's pull-out couch, the one trump card I had was that I had gotten Barack Obama re-elected (God Bless our Black President) and I was hella chill compared to my NY compatriots. Take that, super successful, gainfully employed, new and impossibly good-looking moms posting articles on Pinterest asking for tips on how to make their husbands look less like Christopher Meloni. That's cool - I'm all zen and shit.
I decided tonight was the night. I was going to get my neighborhood groove back and finally hit up my deeply loved neighborhood bar, the Dive Bar. Well, in all honesty, circumstance had decided that a few hours earlier.
I had accepted an invitation to have dinner with my friend Miss Cleo (all names have been changed to protect the clownish) who informed me she wanted to invite Shelley Long who had a friend in from out of town, Woody.
We met at a wine bar and, because of work, I arrived 2 hours into their happy hour. Now, if you are someone aged 29 or over, you're already breaking your neck rolling your eyes because you, my perceptive friend, are someone who realizes the great importance of inebriation coordination. To enter, stage left, smack dab in the middle of a happiness wave, already in progress, throws off all energy, renders jokes unrecognizable, and essentially relegates you back to the high school cafeteria - perpetually feeling as if you are on the outside of an inside joke and wanting to fake Legionnaire's disease and go home.
But, I was all zen and shit.
So it was all, "Naw, it's cool brah.. Just ridin the wave and rollin with the homies. Let's do this, I can hang."
Yeah, but I couldn't, and so halfway through dinner I told Shelley Long that I didn't know where she got the idea that someone could walk from St. Mark's to 34th and 10th in 15 minutes (amirite??!?!?) after I was pretty sure that she got all snippy about it, and I really wanted to know had she ever done it. I mean had she? HAD SHE?!?!
...
The night air was cool on my face as I turned it toward the falafel truck so I wouldn't have to look anyone in the eye. Woody asked me about those Mets. I pretended to find a pair of skull and crossbones socks on a table deeply fascinating. I knew what I had to do. I had to be the bigger person, face up to my unfounded fears that I was "that girl," and just brush it off as a thing that happens to us all after 4 glasses of wine, three shots and 3 beers. I took a deep breath. And ran.
That's right folks. I shot out of there like Lindsay Lohan at a Colombian house party after TMZ busts through the door. I waited until Miss Cleo and Shelley were admiring the same pair of socks I was (but for reals, tho. Ew.), turned to Woody and told him I was feeling Legionnaire-y and just before I could register the full look of utter disgust on his face (not the first time I've see that look) I bolted.
Past the NYU industrial complex, around Broseph alley, barreling through streets made mean by the likes of Julian Schnabel (wut-wut!), I had a purposeful destination in mind. A world of never-ending happiness for a smart, over-confident, enthusiastic female human who never quite remembers to put men first. Or laundry. Laundry's a problem too.
Oh yes, my friends. I went all hunger games up in that bitch and it was only ever going to lead me straight (no pun intended) into the deepest corner of... THE WEST VILLAGE!!
May the odds be ever in your favor. Men who pay you all sorts of attention and you don't have to reassure them that, yes, it's big enough - I like them odds! Oh - kaaayy! (snap) [that was mad 90's].
I was headed for my happy place at the Duplex for audience-participation cabaret night and popcorn served fresh from a vintage mini-carnival popper and a cute little hobbity queen of a bartender who doled out Marlene Deitrich one-liners, had a heavy pour and used to sprinkle peanut M&M's in the popcorn. Add some criticism and a Virginia Slim Light and he could be my mother.
Almost there. Almost there. Almost -- ...
..went home with a lesbian (not a hot one) because it was so damn loud in the Duplex I wasn't really certain what I was agreeing to. I managed to finagle myself out of that arrangement, but I went up to the twinkie bartender on duty and asked what's up with the "What is Love" playlist?
- It's retro club night
(RETRO!? It's fucking CeCe Peniston. I.. Ugh! don't get me started)
- What happened to Frodo?
- Gone.
- Popcorn machine?
- Gone. I think the guy at Stonewall has it.
(gasp!)
- And the guys who used to do Jay McInerney impressions off the urinals?
- Is he the guy from "The Crying Game"?
- I hate you.
- What?
- You're hair's hot!
- OMIGAWD THEENK YEWWW!
- Can I have a vodka soda?
- Sure.
- I'm on a tab.
- What's the name?
- Jay McInerney.
Well, didn't we almost have it all..
I had to salvage this night. Nope. There was NO WAY that dawn would break on this dumpster fire of a journey in my defeat. To quote Scarlett (O'Hara. The original, you hipster suckas), where shall I go, what shall I do?!
And that's when Dive Bar breached the horizons of my brain.
OF COURSE!!
That bar's my jam! Nothing could hurt me there. And, I mean, it couldn't be any worse than the rest of my evening, amirite!?
..
Cold.
I just feel cold.
I think I've been slapped.
Maybe.
Oh wait, no I did that to myself.
Wait, why?
Oh yes.
I'm talking to myself.
In a bathroom mirror.
In a bar.
Why?
To tell myself that it's not my fault.
It's not your fault, Will Hunting.
It's not your fault.
He would've talked to you anyway.
You don't give off a whore's scent.
You are a lovely, viable woman that any other Swedish Rhodes scholar would have approached even if he wasn't convinced you were a hooker.
Honestly.
No, no.. You. Are. ... GREAT!
Perfect, in fact, see because, he CHOSE you.
You were the Julia Roberts of that place.
He thought you were sooooo smoking hot that there was no way you'd look at him unless you were paid to do so.
Yeah that's it.
Now you go to your falafel truck with your head held high.
Eat the shit out of that shawarma like a bawse.
Put your earbuds in.
Fall asleep with your hand in that greasy bag to the dulcet sounds of Ambrosia.
Don't just think, but know, that you are a champion.
A champion.
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