Monday, March 31, 2008
Yes, that's right and as the tale would have it, I'm apparently "next." If someone could tell me where that silly tradition came from that would be FANtastic, Lord knows I don't have a date in sight that is leading to potential marriage, hell naw. (HOWEVER, there is a dude sketching me, like drawing my face- across the room at a coffee shop, who is quite pretty. And yes, I feel completely uncomfortable since he's studying my face and I'm acting like I don't notice.)
I was a bridesmaid this past weekend in OKLAHOMA, where the winds go sweeping down the plains, where everyone rocks "the bob" haircut, where OU and Boomer Sooner (or something) is almost as important as their relationship with their Lord and Savior and where my taxicab driver had a banjo sitting on his lap. BANJO'S SAY, "You're not in New York anymore little lady...."
It's also where one of my best friends is living and getting married....see what we do for love, we move from Los Angeles to Tulsa, wow- love must be good.
Needless to say the wedding was beautiful, there was a beach/seashell theme (California girls never let go of their love for the beach), traditional church ceremony and the bride and bridesmaids were all devilishly attractive. The groom was pretty sexsamatastic as well (High five Kris) is it a sin to say people were so hot, it must have something to do with the Devil? Hope not, cause I've already done my fair share of sinning and I'm pretty sure I threw around politically incorrect statements left and right the WHOLE time I was there and definitely said fuck/bitch/balls/can I have a drink?, all while in church. Can I fly first class on my jet to hell?? I'm putting in my order.
And even though I was in Oklahoma, singing The Lord's Prayer (that's right.) I still wore fake eyelashes and tried to look as much like Kardashian as possible, have I mentioned before that the Kardashian sisters are my make-up inspiration because they are so fucking full out? FULL OUT, ALL THE TIME. That shit is inspiration, screw meditation and the beauty of a flower, or love- women taking two or more hours a day to do their hair, make-up, and dress like a super babe in heels while running from paparazzi, or tackling their hot step-brother in a "brother/sister" brawl, is inspiration. Plus, I'd like to tackle Brody Jenner in heels, so call them my muse'. I sometimes wonder when my next paycheck is for getting ready in the morning and bathing is gonna arrive, cause it's work damnit.
I've always wanted to be one of those naturally beautiful babes who rocks the no-makeup look like it's the new black. No blackheads, no oil (and yes my face gets like a straight Olive Oil factory, I'm Italian, lotion isn't even necessary it's purely vanity.) no blemishes, who the fuck are you people?! You are blessed is what you are. "Drink more water" they say....uh, I've been pissing off environmentalists and water conservation groups for years I consume that much water. Maybe chocolate really does clog pores, considering I could almost be a spokeswoman for Hershey's. Which leads me to another mission besides meeting my husband; eating more protein. I got a lashing from my mother this weekend over my lack of meat-y intake....ha. Which, is actually, not all that off from my original mission.
I digress. This is all about "the bouquet"...how I caught it, and how I'm destined to be married.... and yes, I was questioning it before, so no, this isn't a "given."
Is anything a GIVEN? That's such an interesting saying.
The truth is, I DOVE for the bouquet...like I was part of Oklahoma's All Girl RUGBY team, I risked tearing my dress, breaking an ankle and flashing my SPANX (which I LOVE by the way) to all of the guests, just so I can see if it actually works....
I dove for the bouquet because of the look on my friends face when she was holding eye contact walking down the aisle towards her husband to be.
I dove for the bouquet because I want a perma-grin. I dove for the bouquet because I'd like to have a yard one day and yard's aren't all that necessary for single people, unless I had a dog and I'm just not a dog person.
I dove for bouquet because I love LOVE. I dove for the bouquet because I at the end of a shitty day I'd like to have someone to help me take my mind off of it. I dove for the bouquet because I want to not look at anyone in the room but him. I dove because I want to like "his team", I want to have someone to fly with since I hate flying but I love traveling....I dove for the DAMN bouquet because if there is a chance, even a small chance that "it works" I'll take it.
I dove because I love alone, but I don't love lonely.
When my "friend" passed through town this past weekend and he was staying with me for the weekend, he IMed me a few days later and said,
"Just one question, if we went out for drinks and then you let me come back to your place....why didn't you sleep with me?"
UH. BECAUSE I DIDN'T WANT TO. Is this what men always expect? And is this the reason that I won't find a boyfriend or is this the reason I'm so hesitant to start dating someone because of expectations like this, and then the obligation that follow. AND for the record he didn't BUY me drinks, if that changes anything in the minds of you men.
I DOVE FOR THE BOUQUET BECAUSE I DON'T WANT TO DEAL WITH THINGS LIKE THAT ANYMORE.
I want to be as drunkenly in love and happy as my friend is (pictures to follow)...
Would you dive for the bouquet, and what for...? Or is the whole "marriage thing" not for you?
Monday, March 24, 2008
I would've bought a nice big salad instead of a bagel or a chicken platter with grilled vegetables that was warm and made me feel full instead of binging on Cadbury eggs in my bed for dinner, something crisp and healthy that made me feel good...if I had the money. A nice cooked meal, I'd buy all the spices, olive oil and basic cooking supplies...if I had the money.
I don't need Prada, I just really wanted a dress from Forever 21 that was in the window, but I didn't have the money. My boots have water slipping through the edges, and with all the walking though they're vintage, they really just look tattered and lived in, they're my favorite pair but when I lost the traction on my heel while rushing to work and the wood keeps splintering splitting the heel in half, I know it's about time to have another favorite, but I just don't have the money. I'd buy more socks that matched and kept my feet warm, if I had the money.
I don't need Christian Louboutin, I just need another pair of heels that don't leave my feet bleeding at the end of the day, but I don't have the money.
Instead of going straight to clearance I would've picked a down comforter and wouldn't have woken up shivering in the middle of the night, since I only bought a throw blanket and a sheet. Instead of buying just one cotton pillow, I would've bought two feather pillows so my neck wouldn't be as sore as it is today. I'd even buy a mattress, and maybe a real ladder, to crawl up to my loft, instead of risking breaking my neck every time my feet slip off the painters ladder that makes loud noises and looks like trash.
I miss yoga. I said, "Sure, I'd love to come try a class with you!!" but I know I can't afford it. Working out sounds nice... the weight of the machines, the sound of people breathing heavy and the smell of sweat, I miss that all....the first thing I'd do is get a gym membership, if I had the money. Then I'd take myself to dinner and I wouldn't drown out the carbs in the "house" wine, I'd probably order Pellegrino and the biggest slab of protein the kitchen could offer me.
I'd probably paint my walls that are scuffed from previous owners, I buy deep cleaning supplies and live in my own dirt instead of the dust of a stranger. I'd have Internet at my house instead of hoping through Internet cafes spending dollar bills on black coffee that give me headaches after cup number seven.
If I had the money, I would sleep just a little bit longer and a little bit better.
A cart full of groceries; grapes, berries, thick yogurt, fresh tomatoes, lettuce, dried fruit and less Campbells canned soup and NEVER any Ramen, softer toiler paper, candles to set an ambiance of "home", Dreyers ice cream to "just to have" in case I had company, snacks for my cabinets so they would be full if I felt like "snacking", string cheese, and brands that "tasted" better instead of only looking at the price tag.
I'd switch shampoos. I'd even get a haircut....and buy some products instead of using Pantene. I think....I'd look better, if I had the time and I'd only have the time- if I had the money.
I don't need much. I haven't thrown around ideas of "spa days" flippantly after sleeping in until noon like so many women do because they're just "so stressed." I haven't asked for anything other than more hours. My plate is completely full and even when my arms are tired from it's weight I make sure that there's still room for people to throw their needs on top of my own, and I still manage to get it all done.
I never complain. I do my best not to get too jealous, I understand working hard and feeling it crackling through your bones, I still make time for friends and just enough time for me....but I'd be lying if I said I cannot wait for it to get just a bit easier, when I have the money.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
In your twenties people become; disposable. Unintentionally of course.
We're looking for closeness and for our group, for the people that we can spend hours upon hours with on futons clutching cheap beer and catching up on reality television with. Who we can wear our raggedy pajamas around and apply zit cream with, or live in our greasiness with on our days off and occasionally take naps between Food Network episodes with. People we'll then make runs to 7-Eleven for candy bars and sodas with after days of daydreaming. People who will love our souls over anything else. We look for people who will be "our people." Who will grow with us through the beginning of an entry-level position to our first promotion, to our wedding, to our children and then we'll revel together over Tuesday tea when we're old and our husbands and kids have grown or passed. We look for people to make our chosen family, the family that will be even closer than some of those who share our blood. We look for those that will be unconditionally connected through break-ups, evictions, moves, divorces, and self-discovery.
Coffee dates are made, plans that show our "creative side" are written in pencil in already full planners, stories are shared on long olive branches passed over tables of bread baskets and house wine. We are desperate to make the people we introduce ourselves to people that will remain, that will stick. People that will eventually spend the night after too many shots and ask shamelessly to use your toothbrush before they go to work.
The people we plan on sticking rarely do. Its those that we didn't try as hard with that remain, the ones who you allowed patience with, time to grow into one another's company and time to (like a house) build, from the ground up- sharing e-mails, short stories and eventually just becoming, so effortlessly; great friends.
We're figuring it out, finding ourselves, our jobs and the homes and locations we feel comfortable with. One moment someone you love and adore is there and the next, they have completely fallen out of your life. One moment you were holding each other's hearts in your hands and laughing into hours past "bedtime" and the next, you were across the country doing the same thing with someone new.
Holding hearts, sharing and introducing your past into your present, a present that will hopefully lay the foundation for a friendship, in the future.
I've loved so many people. Not in the romantic sense, there's only been one there. But I have loved so many stories, so many hours, so many expressions and tears of so many people I have known, and many of them have accidentally- through time, paths and change, have become virtual strangers. But I have loved them. I have loved knowing secrets and quirks, knowing hopes and plans, I have loved knowing people even for a moment in our quick conversations stumbling through words and awkwardness to find a genuine connection. In a time, in a past and from then until now they will hold a constant period in my life that no one presently or in the future will ever know.... and someday we all do form that endless bond with those that we share Earl Grey with, pictures of grandchildren in blue soccer uniforms and memory lanes. And until then, these people are markers in our life paths of where we have been, who we are becoming and where we eventually go.
Like my friend Ryan, who thought cemeteries were as beautiful as I did, who would take walks with me and sing, so, so beautifully despite his preference to scream awful metal... Who would sit my car and listen to me pour out insecurities over hot coffee and melancholy music, he never judged just listened anyway. The hours I spent with Skyler, writing songs after one Vicodin too many, followed by late night walks down Hollywood Blvd to meet with boy "friends" who we secretly wanted to make out with, hoping the intoxication would make us brave enough to do it. Jenn who ferociously had my back "til the end" even though the end was only a mere six months away, she'd even beg the man on the street corner for a churro when we didn't have the dollar it took to buy one. Ace, who gave me a can opener when I didn't have one and had managed to open my canned peas with a butter knife, who told me guys would get it, "one day" and let me sing songs in his closet recording studio, though never noticed my serious crush that made me stutter every time we spoke. Max, DK, Jon, Asher, Pontus (who was also and incredible kisser), and Doug who all believed in my voice, a voice I don't really use, anymore.
I have worn my heart on my sleeve with so many people, allowing them to accept or reject it. It has been dry, beating and full, tired, knocked around and then handled gently by so many, and I have loved every one of them. The people who are still in my life but are slowly trickling out purely as victim to time change and geographical location, to new circles and new titles, I love them, STILL with my whole entire heart, I love their new lives and that I contributed to them getting there, that I have known their struggles, known their late night puffy eyes, their scents, their scars and their craving for Three Musketeers at 3am.
These people aren't disposable on purpose, they are part of the seasonal friendships that happen in times of change....and that often come back around after stability settles in, strength secures us and something grounds us. This is a tribute to those that have brought me to where I am at, though they may not be here now, and though they may have never known how close I held them. I LOVE THEM.
Who are the people you have loved, that have changed or molded you? who would you say "thank you" to and who still holds a time period that know one else will know???
Sunday, March 16, 2008
It made me miss everything about it; the curiosity, the innocence.
I miss clutching to my Daddy's hands that were so much bigger than mine, that protected and took care of me. I miss swinging all of my body weight on one grip. I miss picking out Easter dresses and patent leather shoes that you could see your reflection in.
I miss licking the all the frosting off the tops of cupcakes, I miss picking dandelions and crushing the yellow petals between my delicate tiny little fingers. I miss thinking a vanilla ice cream cone was the best thing in the whole world, and that chicken noodle soup could really cure anything or a kiss would make anything feel better. I miss running to my parents when they'd come home from work and feeling their warmth and the weight of their heavy winter coats wrapping me up in their arms and the smell of my Mom's perfume.
I miss when I didn't know what it felt like to miss somebody, and I was just excited to see someone I loved at the end of the day. When I didn't know the sound of writing checks, or hearts falling, when I didn't know that not everyone in the world is kind and open. When I assumed "good" was always the outcome and if someone "promised" that was enough of a contract.
I miss sticking my tongue out at strangers, making strange noises and throwing fits in public. I miss being connected to myself enough to cry when I was sad. When being analytical, calculated, and manipulative weren't a means to get what you wanted, but a simple "please" would do. The times when I was conscious of saying my "thank you's" and "excuse me's."
I miss when I was supposed to have a sense of wonder, and people wouldn't warn that soon I would be "hardened" I miss softness. Blankies, and stuffed animals, Granddad's sweater and Nana's temperament. I miss bedtimes and birthday parties, crushed Goldfish and "snack time." Ratty hair and purple nail polish.
When I didn't have to be accountable. When the only fear I knew was that of the dark. When the perfect vacation was one that involved people in costumes with pink cheeks, and parades. When I played house instead of worried about paying for one. When I didn't know how to tell time and just trusted there was always enough of it. "Play dates" over real ones. Before insecurity and awareness, before anxiety and doubt, before I knew anything about my body and I used it as a means to live in; skip, stretch, climb, and ride bikes.
I miss when guilt, lack, regret, or disappointment weren't emotions that existed to me.
I miss when love was really unconditional, when faith just was, and security always meant Mom and Dad.
When I look at my hands I'm proud of them, I like that they look like my Mom's, that they move quickly and have strength, I just wish that they could have stayed young, that I could have stayed young...a little bit longer.
Friday, March 14, 2008
This is a problem.
No, the game isn't a problem I happen to have champion skills and have reigning title holder positions in this game, but when you apply for a job where BEER PONG is present, along with: stripper poles (not actual strippers they're just available for drunk girls acting like strippers) You've reached an exciting new low.
The downside to getting into the world of freelancing is that when you're piecing together jobs and a huge chunk of your time is spent doing things that don't pay (but will eventually if God shines his golden (actual gold will do) good graces upon me) you often run the risk of one of those jobs not being so consistent. When my boss from my "money job" called this yesterday and told me I had this weekend and next weekend off, he was expecting to hear jubilation to not have to work into the oh so wee hours on my Saturday nights, instead he received instant PANIC from me."OH SHIT, NO NO, I NEED TO WORK." I pleaded sort of pathetically and to no avail.....
....found myself skipping into a bar that had a chalkboard sign on the street stating "SEEKING DOOR GIRL. $2 Miller Lites, $3 wells and KARAOKE! ALL NIGHT." Door girl couldn't be that bad, I sit at the door and check I.D.'s and chat to strangers (my favorite typing of chatting) and then get cash at the end of the night, perfect. Seedy and totally below my standards but a girls gotta go what a girls gotta do-or something.
And oh shit, the karaoke would be enough to entertain me. I figured I do this "door job" for two weeks, then I'll quit when my real job comes back to me...
"CAN YOU STAY TONIGHT? RIGHT NOW." Um, I love this, (asshole)- how people interviewing you can take full advantage of your desperation and immediately put you to work, next thing I know I have three pitchers of beer spilling onto my hands and my cute beige vintage boots and 60's style dress. Fantastic. And definitely not bar wear.
"HERE HAVE A SHOT. MEET INGA, SHE'LL TRAIN YOU." My ear is officially covered in my "new boss'" spit, and I feel slightly violated.
INGA, my dear girl is drunk...9:30, already completely hammered and serving the people. I can already tell this is not going to be the gig for me, apparently the asshole didn't mention DOOR GIRL means motherfucking cocktail waitress to masses of drunken beer pongers and NYU doucheness.
"I don't get good tips, but I get TWO FREE DRINKS! AND SHOTS ALL NIGHT!" In the job description they should have just put, "seeking future alcoholics", also another category I'd like to skip out on, though I love the drink, I love to sit and drink, preferably with a nice meal- I'm not a feign enough to push my cleavage onto chests of drunk boys to get them to buy me a shot. My boob pressing is reserved for those who deserve it, (like the hot boy running karaoke, did I mention that I may take this job just so I can know him?)
2 hours pass, I'm still "training" and involuntarily taking in the scents of sweaty men brushing past me and peeking down my dress through their black furry eyebrows and tequila breathe. Excuse me, move the fuck out of my way before I pour an entire pitcher down your pants, eager beaver.
I have decided to detach myself from my body- I am officially floating above it, looking down and saying, out of body is the best in shitty situations; FLOAT "Dear Chelsea, what are you doing. leave. Go beg on street corners before working in this helllllll dive."
After some group of co-workers performed a killer karaoke rendition of The Beatles "The continuing Story of Bungalow Bill", which by the way, drunk people repeating the words- BUNGALOW BILL, over and over while clutching to a microphone and a stripper pole, is. pure. priceless. entertainment. I decided, give me my free drink- my jacket, and give me that pen....
"HEY, Can you sneak me in if I wanted to sing a song??" Batting my eye lashes.
HOT KARAOKE MAN, "Yeah kid, sure." oh. I love you.
"UP NEXT, OUR NEEEEWWWW EMPLOYEEEE.....MISS CHELSEAAAAAAA" New, fucking, employee.
Fuck it. I'm at least doing some karaoke before I flee, I chose Susan Tedeschi's "Just Won't Burn" and sang my bluesy little soul out until beer pongers, and the sloshed twenty somethings were cheering in their best bellowing, wasted wails.
I got a few whispers on the way out, "yoooo, you totally did like, fuckin' professional karaoke...shiiit...." Thank you Mr. Jack Daniels, I appreciate it, now- move so I can run and never, ever return....
I'm scheduled to work tonight, After some thought, I've simply decided, there is a certain point in your life, no matter the low- where you cannot tip me 2 dollars to be your beer maid. I've done that. I love sleep, I love getting home and hanging out in my jamis until 1am, not a tight t-shirt covered in someones happy hour draft. I don't want to take shots with strangers, I don't want my manager touching my lower back and calling me sweetie....ever.
"OH AND TOMORROW, BRING YOUR OWN APRON."
Yeah, no. I'll eat bagels for two weeks at 99cents a pop before I wear an apron again.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
The first step on a track back to a life of fitness is obviously; cute work-out clothes. So where did my ass sit in my sexy yoga pants, Nike shocks and a wife beater for 7 hours, not the fucking gym that's for sure- I sat at the Soy Luck Club and tried, through osmosis to work off the calories of my current sedentary lifestyle by watching the sweaty skinny people busting their asses across the street at Equinox. I figured sitting at a trendy health cafe where people eat handfuls of flax seed, do shots of wheat grass (instead of tequila) and carry their yoga mats like a new appendage on their bodies, would get me all in line with my CHI, which would obviously get me in line with my cravings for apples, spinach and almonds (for snacks instead of Cheez-its) which would lead to my sexy firm, sexalicious body- again.
Since coming to NYC I have treated my body like a trashcan. Consuming a lot of liquid (ahem, liquor calories) and acting like my restaurant reviewing gives free reign to bust ridiculous highs of calorie consumption. I mean, ridiculous highs. Empanadas/mojitos at Cuba on Thompson, sauteed mushrooms in sherry wine and creme brulee at Las Ramblas, a glass of wine here and there just so I can soak in the atmosphere and listen to fancy people talk about their fancy jobs, in fancy places, wearing fancy shoes, talking to their fancy, fancy friends.
I wanna be all, fancy like. I swear New York does that to you.
When I lived in L.A. I spent most of my days doing the same old thing in sweatpants and messy buns, I spent hours upon hours at the gym. My body was ridiculously in shape. I could climb a fucking mountain and not break a sweat. Salads were for lunch and dinner most days sans bread basket, breakfast was a latte with Splenda, and friends would meet and chat over a spinning class or yoga date. I spent hours meditating and creating a "fancy life" in my head, rather than going out and actually living one. I wore my Mala beads and carried my spiritual books because I was desperately looking for something that would show me that living miserably wasn't my inevitable fate, there was light and energy and blaaaah blah. And then I would spend the rest of the hours completely disconnected from myself wishing I could just feel happy, then I'd fall asleep crying.
Friends weren't living in it either and because everyone was so concerned with looking perfect in order to book a job, meals were rarely enjoyed and the stress one would go through before going out to meet (which means network) "friends" would span hours of shopping for the perfect designer top and looking "trendy", while looking so personally stylish and unique of course- under certain guidelines.
EVERYTHING was so contrived, the conversation, the image, the happiness. It was just day-to-day survival and at the time the only way I could get the endorphins necessary to smile meant, going to the gym.
New York isn't a gym city to me. Gyms are for cities where you don't need to tote heavy gym bags, but you can throw them in your huge SUV and hop back into your warm car when you're sweaty, turn up the heat and let your muscles relax, rather than walking through wind chills that freeze the tips of your hair and leave your bones crackling.
I haven't been concerned with my calorie counting because, I haven't been concerned with perfection, rather I've started living IN, my own fanciness, without searching so much for it. With that I suppose has come some imbalance, which has always been somewhat of an issue for me- one extreme or the other. Reckless abandon, or army like militancy. And that is something I'd like to get more of a hold on.
I don't enjoy having that extra little jiggle when I walk at alarming speeds to the subway, and actually today- I was seriously craving a banana, whether that has anything to do with the shape of the banana and some Freudian relationship towards craving sex, I'm not sure, but either way it was a craving for something out of the carb category which is at least a start.
With all that being said, I'm enjoying myself. Greatly. I've never been like many Americans who feel guilt in pleasure. I believe life is MADE for pleasure, not for strife or stress, disappointments and rough skin. Disappointment is all in how your react towards it. I don't buy into the masochistic views that in order to have pleasure you must have pain, bitter with the sweet, life should be work, work then you die. etc...and even if that is the truth, I've had quite a bit of bitter, that when the sweet comes along the laast emotion I'm going to let in is guilt.
I have no problem with eating dessert more than once a day, enjoying a restful nights sleep, listening to music for hours without watching the clock (my favorite right now is DUFFY, check her out, shes about to give Amy Winehouse a run for her money), writing and writing without any purpose, vacationing and the entire art of pleasure-seeking. AFTER ALL, you never know when your last day is.
Though, I'm incredibly motivated, voraciously work towards achieving, and am often so hard on myself to point of paralysis, the only way to start living IN your life is by, doing it. The success I seek in my life never ommits the enjoyment of my life, they go hand in hand for true fulfillment, for me. Planning, counting, outlines and to-do lists are useless until they are done.
So as I sit here in this Internet cafe writing my articles, drinking my green tea latte and staring at the model outside without incredibly small thighs, I mentally say thanks to God for putting my NEW APARTMENT on the 6th floor, for forgetting to put in an elevator and for technically being "at work" right now (ah the life of a writer, sigh.)....
Climbing six flights a few times a day is enough exercise for me now, until I get my penthouse with it's own elevator and a built in exersize room, stair stepping outside the gym will have to do.
Friday, March 7, 2008
I keep saying I need to "work on my language" and every time I say it- I'm just saying it to please people, to lessen my "offense", and what not. I don't mean it, at all-when I'm taking back my fucks. Every time I say it my whole heart is behind it, and my heart is out almost ALWAYS... FUCK is very often the word I NEED to use to express what I'm feeling, and yes, some would say that makes me sound like I'm ;uneducated, have a difficult time expressing my emotions, lack the words for better communication, troubled, etc. In my opinion, if you can't say "fuck" you have the communication issues, not I my friends.
Any who, this blog isn't about fuck, fucking or the origin of "fuck."
The thing I'm saying "fuck" over tonight is, why THE FUCK, do I always need everyone and their mother, their extended family, their friends, their doormen, their accountants, their toothbrushes, their maids, and everyone in their damn life circles- to like me?
And though I'm the first to say, self sufficiency is the only way, or "I could live the single life forever" "I'm so BUSY", or "I keep a close circle because it's 'quality over quantity;", they're all perfectly acceptable sugar-coated responses to questions regarding my singular status, romantically or otherwise, I would prefer to not have the need to whip them out as often as strippers whip out titties.
Its funny, cause actually- I think I tend to give off the "I'm so cool, I'm so cool, I'm so freaking cool." vibe, that most people think I don't give an EFF. I've been told I'm "intimidating" more than...12 times? And intimidating, to me, translates to "I think you look like a scary bitch."
So maybe they just think I'm perfectly dandy and fine every time they don't invite me out, validate my awesomeness, sing my praises, ACKNOWLEDGE MY MOTHERFUCKING PRESENCE, ETC. but really, no, I'm not fucking fine. Yes, I make plans alone, I plan vacations or ridiculous unplanned moves, completely by myself- I know what kind of wine I like and not having anyone to answer to works out just fine. But when it comes down to it, I'd like to have the option of having someone to alert when I'm deciding what to do for the evening...Or for instance, I spent a solid 13 minutes trying to decide between Sprite Zero and Diet Dr. Pepper at the pharmacy, I wanted to ask the woman at the cash register, "light or dark?" since, I simply couldn't make up my damn mind.
So tonight, when I had an "appointment" to look at a potential apartment (long story short, I was supposed to move in with friends on the 15th, they told me roughly 4 nights ago that, their other roommate was staying put- well, FUCK, thanks. I have 10 days to FIND A PLACE (that's affordable), IN MANHATTAN?!) I was beyond excited, it felt like kismet when the address was e-mailed to me and it was DIRECTLY next door to the friends apartment I'm currently staying at. DIRECTLY NEXT DOOR. I thought,I've got this. NAILED IT. Champagne anyone?
The apartment is in Chelsea, four roomies- two attorneys, one doctor, one model- and me? hopefully? The layout, was amazing. Susan Surandon is a neighbor, the closet was spacious, balcony was in the room, PERFECT LOCATION, flat screen TV; which just sounds nice I don't actually have time to watch the telly, ETC. I was so excited after I saw the apartment I felt like doing a toe touch and breaking into cheer. "The Model" (who internally made me feel like a gigantic asshole for mentally measuring her thighs, so I could go home and see how much I should lose from my own)was friendly, sweet, we had ping-pong conversation, talked about yoga, poetry, art, and other things that models shouldn't know anything about-since models shouldn't be be given the gift of intelligence too, it's threatening, unfair. I wanted to give her a best friend necklace right away, she fooled me into thinking we were instant best friends....though she was a fucking model, we had A LOT in common, writing, drinking wine- pretty homes with men to protect us from potential intruders or earthquakes?
I went home, ready to pop "the bubbly" and celebrate my new home. I'm likable, 1 out of 5, I've gotta be number 1? Come on, I figure from Craigslist the rest must be crazies, old- smell funny? So, I waited patiently while watching Dateline NBC for my "acceptance letter" e-mail. Smelling lovely might I add.
When this arrived, I felt dumped:
"Hey Chelsea Talks Smack,
I think (you think?!) I really enjoyed meeting you and think we would get along great as well, and it was a tough call, but there was one other girl who I bonded with a little more and liked. I'm sorry it didn't work out, I will keep you posted if things change or if the boys do not approve. Again I'm sorry and really did like you as a potential roommate and you seem like a really cool girl. take care and good luck in your search!!
All the best,
MODEL WHO IS HAS A BETTER LIFE THAN YOU. HA. HA.
I was shocked. WHAT?! NO. NO. NO. I threw a couple clenched fist at the sky (since, you know, the fucking SKY is "watching me" and understands my anguish)
AND WHAT HAVE I BEEN DOING THE PAST THREE HOURS?? Well, other than contemplating which size cardboard BOX my ass will fit in after finishing my bowl of popcorn, or if I could possibly sleep in my suitcase in the holding room of a cozy Marriott, I've been thinking...."WHY DIDN'T SHE LIKE ME?!"
Like a fucking insecure child. A homeless, insecure child.
Does that ever go away? Why would I be #2, why couldn't I be #1? What did that other girl have that I didn't? Why does she get the cute apartment with a fireplace in her bedroom, BITCH. Which spins me into a frenzy of, why did my ex pick that OTHER bitch over me, am I the "favorite intern", does my boss like me, is God pissed at me for my selfish decisions in a past life? Was I a harlot, a home wrecker, a man-stealer, a murder? What in the FUCK.
back to the word FUCK, because frankly, it sums up my situation...
so, IF ANYONE, all of you Internet strangers who now know more about my life than most of the people who know me, actually I take that back, I sort of slit my chest open and serve my heart on a a platter to all that I meet, maybe I should use a bit more discretion in the future, no?
IF, you know anyone subleasing a fantastic apartment that will allow my to EAT, do my laundry and occasionally take a cab when I'm too drunk to walk home, please let me know.
I'm going to try to stop being so insecure and wondering why I couldn't say I have at least ONE FRIEND who is a supermodel..... maybe so I don't feel guilt every time I order pizza at home and she's shivering and hungry curled in the corner putting on fake eyelash's and drinking coffee? Cause that, is just sad.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
First off, I dig accents. Any issue I'd have with European men would be in regards to the atrocious Euro shoes. I can handle my man saying "lovely" if he has an accent, but it he's wearing cheeky leather tennis shoes, that are shaped strangely like rectangle banana boats, we're gonna have a problem. Especially if they're white. Who wears white tennis shoes unless they're a thug rapper with a roadie who shines them, or...a tennis player? Andy Rodick is exempt from this rule.
Good thing I couldn't see Antonio's shoes. (Who the fuck is Antonio?)
Tuesday is my "Fill 'The Well' day" and strangely enough, this Tuesday my well was filled entirely through my stomach. A completely gastronomic well. Chelsea Market was the culprit (if you've been you understand). I fell in love with the scents, the richness that fills your nose as much as your belly, the spices, the handmade chocolates, the business men clutching paper bags with gourmet cheeses and warm brownies for an afternoon snack between conference calls. It's just completely, charming. The sort of place where someone could break into "musical" style song and dance and the onlookers would all know the words, and some synchronized kickline with women holding bouquets and rocking rosy lips and flapper dresses would happen.
I even fell in love with the slippery floors that caught the edge of my heel and had me flat on my ass in front of a gaggle of men wearing overalls, slurping clam chowder. "Hey boys, happy you're staring now...too bad I wasn't wearing a skirt huh?"
THEN, I fell in love with grilled cheese at The Green Table...I was so drunkenly in love with the grilled cheese (no, I wasn't actually drunk yet.) I took pictures of it on my camera phone and made it my background. It was otherworldly, trust me.
I digress, you're still wondering who the F Antonio is. Due to my enhanced hankering for food finds, I went out on a mission and naturally, found a bar- or three, along the way. Hey, when you start early you have to make sure you hit at all of the tapas hours, the streets are small, so the next glass of sugary sangria is practically "at your doorstep".
Spot #1 Gottino White wine and pesto bruschetta, followed by a little chat with the owner Jodi (I'm ignoring the fact that that's my Ex's new girlfriends name. Who I abhor.), (P.S. New York Magazine named them Best Wine Bar, the day I hopped in so celebration was in the air- strange I thought it was because I had graced them with my loveliness. Silly me, I'm not famous yet.)
Spot #2 Matador tapas were wonderful and it was strangely quiet, so I absolutely felt like "the creepy chick" at the bar, however I look a bit too youthful to pull of creepy, I still have a plump, shiny, elvish (sparkly cheeks) face. I'm sure the bartender was waiting for me to order a double shot of whiskey.
Spot #3 P*ONG, HEY HO ANTONIO. I was finding my merry was back home sashaying like Little Red Riding Hood, when I noticed big dark brown eyes peering at me from behind a candlelight glass window....it suddenly occurred to me, "Chelsea Talks Smack, you're still hungry. Better stop and eat before you collapse from starvation."
I played actress. I gave Natalie Portman a run for her money, I looked so bewildered, acting as If I just "noticed", tripped even in my pointy boots over this little place. I skimmed over the menu, even though I'd seen it a million times and had already mentally noted the Chocolatini. And said shit, have a seat and enjoy the "scenery."
"What are you drinking?"
God, I'm such a lush. And what a terrible line, I should have asked him what his fucking sign was instead...though, I could already tell he was a Scorpio. And, I already knew- I wanted the chocolatini.
"Eeeh, I'm-ah drinkIng-ah, thee ah, Bangkok-ah (which yes, it sounded like he said cock) Martini-ah."
Holy Italiano. Yes my friends, he has an accent and I realize now, I'm about to spend an excruciating hour trying to decipher his words and play "21 Questions" that will most likely get lost in translation. In comparison to my other option, do I really want to sit at home and watch Oprah's Big Give while crying onto my peanut butter and jelly, crackers? No. Sure, I'll have another round.
"Ey-ah, I ordered the ah, tasting menu-ah, I'm-ah so full-ah......with 4 more courses of dessert-ah to go-ah. Will you join me??"
A man offering me not one, but four desserts in one sitting.....is this a magical Italian a mirage? A saint? A miracolo? Am I being set up, or is this a trippy version of Touched by an Angel if not, he is a man after my heart indeed.
After warm date cake, varieties of sorbets, chestnut truffles and pineapple tiramisu, I noticed about two hours had passed. Broken English and all. The love for food is universal. The love for our grandmas, the city, the Village, and oh, did I mention food again...we talked a lot about food like some people talk about babies, and puppy dogs, gushing passion... and I don't think he would have minded if he needed a gurney to get me out of the restaurant, he wanted me to be fed. Italian men are God's. The best part; we exchanged numbers and with a brief kiss to the cheek, he walked me to my street corner (again with my hooker similarities) and didn't send any creepy text messages asking what color my underwear were. Thank you lord. High five. Instead....I got this the next day, "I hope you have a lovely day. I look forward to seeing you again sometime..."
Hm, shall we meet again? Other than the Euro shoes, which he apparently left at home....I forgot that when you're sitting down, you can't gage a persons height, and though Italian men are lovely, 5'3 isn't.
With that being said....I can never say no to dessert.....