I’m a Jinius

It is a wonder that I am somehow still alive.

Despite my proclivity to drink like a Vietnam Vet and turn into a stumbling zombie by the end of the night, I still somehow manage to find my way home. I’m like a cat. I just have an inner gps system that directs my sleepwalking self to my apartment.

But on this particular 3rd of July, my inner gps system must have exceeded its battery capacity. Pay attention because this is what they refer to as foreshadowing!

Thursday or why I need a chaperone

I go to Jack’s 3rd of July roof top party. Roof top parties are an imperative for a 4th of July weekend. Grilled meat and ice cold beer just taste better against the backdrop of the city. I didn’t take any pictures of the impressive view because my hands were occupied by food and a glass of rosaaaay at all times (more foreshadowing!) but I shall paint this lovely urban portrait for you.

Picture it: Jack’s roof. July 3, 2008.There are about a hundred hipsters squeezed onto this roof. There is Famous Fat Dave manning the grill. We ask him how he got designated as grill master and he replies, “I just love grilling. I’m doing it for the community. For the kids.” There is genuine love and content in this man’s grilling. But after a couple of hours, I think he is a bit overwhelmed because he is deluged in sweat and he eventually turns off the grill and throws off his apron.

We are near the ipod so Ursy puts on some Michael Jackson. Nothing creates party unity like some old school Michael Jackson. Hmmm, maybe Obama should consider playing Man in the Mirror at the Democratic Convention? So we all start dancing and by “we” I mean me and my group of friends, when all of a sudden one of the party guests turns off the Michael Jackson and puts on some indie song that we’ve never heard of.

From that point on, we kept referring to that man as THE MAN WHO KILLED HAPPINESS.

So I just keep drinking more rosaaaay. I start talking to one dude at the party about Carl Jung– a subject that should never be brought up at a party, especially after one is already on their second bottle of rosaaaay.

So lets fast forward to the end of the night. I get to my apartment building. I go up to the my apartment and try to open the door. Except my key will not go in. I keep jamming my key into the keyhole, thinking that will surely enable the door to open. I furiously bang on the door. I call my roommate and tell her to let me into the apartment. She says, “But you’re not at the front door.”

So after about twenty minutes of pounding on the door and CRYING–yes, I am actually so frustrated that I start crying–, I realize I am at the wrong apartment. I call my roommate again and she can’t figure out where I am and I can’t figure out where I am or even what planet I am on at this point, so she tells me to meet her at this spot near our building. We meet. Apparently I was at the building next to our apartment this entire time.

Dear Future Boyfriend:

THIS IS WHAT YOU WILL HAVE TO DEAL WITH.


Friday or how you can get a guy to kiss you after eating kimchee all night

I wake up and immediately check the contents of my purse. Wallet? Check. License? Check. My dignity? Nowhere to be found.

I call some of my friends and tell them what happened. I am swimming in embarrassment. I’ve been living in my apartment for like four years. How the hell could I get lost? But my embarrassment is allayed when my friends tell me that the same thing has happened to them. It’s nice to know that we’ve all been there. Some of just have just been there more than others.

We head to K-town for our 4th of July dinner. Because nothing says I love America like Korean bbq. We go to my favorite Korean bbq spot. This place is so nice to us even though everytime we go there we end up dancing on the tables and smoking cigarrettes. I guess this is why they always isolate us in the private room. Oh, and they hook us up with free beer! (more…)

Found some old journal entries. These three are my favorites.

Thursday, September 11, 2003

In memoriam of September 11th, I met E. for lunch at Tao.

If today was my last day on earth I would feel somewhat satisfied knowing that I had ass the night before and steak for lunch. Not that I would like to die having only completed those 2 things, but I would be happy having ass and steak for the rest of my life on a regular basis.

Saturday, September 6, 2003

Watching the Li’l John video. “Bend over to the front, touch your toes.”

I woke up at 2 pm today. Last nite went to 2 parties in Brooklyn and fell in a tub. Why do I always do that?

Tonight V. and I made shrimp paella. It was the bomb. For dessert we’re eating No Pudge Brownies. They are fat free brownies. There’s a picture of a pig on the carton. I dont know how I feel about eating something with a picture of a pig on it.

Thursday, September 4, 2003

Listening to Massive Attack’s Mezzanine

Track Number 3 reminds me of R., the Brazilian tatoo artist I met in Miami a summer ago. He had crystal blue eyes and tattoos of Japanese coy fish on his arm and leg. That is the summer I fell in love tattoos. He bartered cigarrettes and beer for kisses which I shyly denied but eventually gave in after the alcohol doused my inhibitions. I never saw him again after that nite but I hope he didnt get deported.

Synchronicity.

Carl Jung described it as “meaningful coincidences”.

And, coincidentally, I’ve been seeing this word everywhere.

First, the tv show LOST is all about synchronicity. Characters having chance encounters with others. Earlier this year I read Paul Auster’s Book of Illusions and synchronicity is a running theme in many of his books. Julia Cameron talks about it in her book The Artists Way and Martha Beck also discusses it in Finding Your Northern Star.

Um, can you tell I’ve been reading a lot of self help books? I’ll let you know if they actually help. And don’t worry, you won’t be hearing me chant “Find your spirit” anytime soon.

But what LOST and all these books seem to share is that synchronicity happens when you allow yourself to be open to it. You ask the universe for what you are seeking and then the universe will send these little signs. Why do you think Aladdin’s genie told him to make three wishes? He had to articulate what he wanted before he could receive.

I have my own story on synchronicity. It was about eight years ago. I had just graduated college. I was back in Miami and just desperate to move back to New York. I was jobless. I was broke. I didn’t even have money for a plane ticket back to New York. I needed to find a company that would not only hire me but sponsor a visa. Even though I had all these obstacles ahead of me I was somehow confident that I would make it back to New York. There was no way in hell I was going to allow myself to stay in Miami.

So one day my mother comes back from a doctor’s visit and she tells me that she ran into this woman I used to babysit for. The woman recently gave birth to a baby girl and was having a check-up. The woman tells my mother she needs a babysitter to accompany her and her family on a weekend vacation and she would pay me $500.

Around this time my mother also found out that this company in New York was hiring and they were willing to interview me, and if they liked me they’d sponsor my visa.

So with the 500 bones I made from babysitting, I booked a plane ticket to New York, interviewed at the company, and got a job.

And I’m still in New York.

Maybe it was coincidence. And maybe my mother played a very prominent role in creating these opportunities. But I definitely think that sometimes the universe orchestrates these meaningful coincidences when you really want something and will not settle for anything else. In my case, being stuck in Miami with my dysfunctional family was NOT an option!!!

So here’s an exercise for YOU. In Martha Becks’ book, she has an exercise where you pick some random object–an object you don’t really see all the time– lets say a kangaroo. Then for the next couple of days you will notice that this object will keep popping into your life. You will be seeing this object everywhere or hear people talking about it.

I think the point of this exercise is to hone your intuition. Stop listening to your ipod and reading US Weekly (fellas, you know your read it at your girlfriend’s apartment!) Take the time to observe what is going on around you. You’ll notice there is alot more meaning in mundane things.

Like Shakespeare said: Find tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything.

My two main goals in life are: a) eat and drink in excess and b) stay skinny. You would think that those two agendas are diametrically opposed and that is because you would be right. But such is the leitmotif of my life. The battle between the devil on my shoulder and the angel. Saint vs sinner. Moderation vs excess. Going home vs going on a journey for pizza. (more…)

Since retiring my dreams of being a back up dancer for Justin Timberlake, I’ve decided that I should probably try a more pragmatic career option. One that I actually have some talent and expertise in.

And then it hit me.

A kindergarten teacher!

I think teaching kindergarten would be great for me because:

a) I’m guaranteed to be taller than all the students

b) I’m good at arithmetic. As long as I can teach them that 1+1 does not equal poop, then they will be fine.

c) I’ll be molding the young minds of America. (pause) BWAAAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA

d) Kindergarteners get nap time. I LOVE nap time.

e) Um, hello, haven’t you people seen Kindergarten Cop? Best! Movie! Ever! This will give me an excuse to say, “KIDS, WE AH GOING TO PLAY AH GAME. WHO’S YOUR DAHHDY AND VAT DOES HE DOOOO.” And I’ll win their affections by bringing a pet ferret to class and everything will be going swimmingly until the day that the estranged father of one of my students gets out of prison and hunts me down.

But I was looking at the eligibility requirements and you have to be a US citizen or greencard holder to teach in New York City. Drats. I guess the public school system does not feel comfortable with an immigrant teaching English. I can speaks English!

This just reinforces the fact that I should just marry someone and get my greencard. The only problem is that I actually have to convince a dude to marry me. Perhaps I will use that as my pickup line tonight.

“Hey, do you wanna marry me so I can become a kindergarten teacher?”

I met a cute boy with a beard last night. And I’m pretty sure he’s over 21. Although the beard could be misleading. Whoops!

So I go to The Room to meet up with my friend Erica from Miami.

Erica and I were the geek girls in high school but she wasn’t really geeky because even at the age of fifteen people would come up to her and tell her she looked like Kate Winslet. She is also one of my sweetest friends. The type of friend that would drive thirty minutes just to pick my lame ass up and then go hangout at Borders because where else do you hangout at fifteen? Anyway, she is still as sweet and beautiful as ever because she shows up to the bar with a bag of brownies from Chelsea Market!

Dear Future Boyfriend: If you want to know the swiftest way to my heart then bring me baked goods from Chelsea Market. Oh, and a burger from Shake Shack. With fries. Can you tell I’m hungover?

So Erica and I go outside to smoke a clove and as we walk back in I notice this cute boy coming in behind us. Hummana. Hummana.

The boy is sitting to my right at the bar and he is chatting with his friend. But I can’t tell if he’s straight or gay because he is drinking rose. I don’t know how to do the little accent mark on this computer but I don’t know if you caught the observation that he is drinking rosaaaay.

So Erica and I are chatting and I’m mulling over the boy’s sexual orientation when he turns to me and asks me a question.

Scene:

Boy: Have you ever had a Snickles?

Me: What is that?

Boy: It’s kinda like a snickers but instead of chocolate it’s crack cocaine covered in crushed ecstasy pills.

Me: Are you drinking Rosaaaay?

Boy: I’m straight. Really.

So I chat with the boy and his friend and then I turn to talk to Erica about god knows what you talk about after like ten belgian beers. The boy taps me on the back and asks what’s my name. I tell him. He tells me his name and it it SUCH a white boy name. And I’m only over generalizing because I have never ever met a minority with this name. Here’s a hint: It rhymes with Burt.

Erica leaves and I end up chatting at the bar with the boy and his friend. I think at some point I keep muttering No Homo. I think I am muttering this because the boy is drinking rosaaaaay.

And then I did my classic Jinius move where I order a drink, take two sips, then leave without saying goodbye.

I get home and I text: Sorry had to go. Lets party. If this is your real number?

Dear readers, I am pretty sure you are intelligent. Afterall, you read this blog. A blog that only requires a third grade reading level and if it were in book form it would be made of cloth and placed in cribs.

But can you read this text and tell me what the hell that means because I have no freaking clue!!!!!!

So the boy miraculously understands my text and replies: I would love to party with you again. Text me later this week babe. You were alot of fun.

Cute, right?

But do I leave it at that? Do I allow my evening to end on a cute, positive note????

Oh, nooooo. I just have to be funny. Like I’m Tina Fucking Fey. I try to respond with something like “Oh, yeah, lets drink rosaaaay” because that is my humor at 2 in the morning. But because it is 2 in the morning and I have no motor skills, I end up dialing his number and calling him.

So the boy probably has like a hundred missed calls from me. Okay, I’m exaggerating. Maybe less than a hundred.

Whatevs. If he wants to tap this ass then he’s gonna have to deal with my lack of texting skills and my propensity to drunk dial at two in the morning.

On another note, I’ve been listening to alot of John Legend and he is freaking awesome. If you get past that horribly cheesy song “Ordinary People”, the rest of the album is hot. It’s the kind of album that helps you get your groove back. Only to lose it at the end of the night.

Drats.

Her refrigerator has seen better days.

A bleak landscape of dannon lites, diet cokes, and whole wheat toast greet her every morning like corpses of a diet revolution. Today she will treat herself to a key lime yogurt. This is because yesterday she had the coconut creme pie flavor and she was disappointed to discover it did not taste like coconut creme pie. She closes the refrigerator door and scans the neon colored schedule taped to her wall. Today she will do Yoga Sculpt. It is her favorite class. She enjoys classes that allow her to meditate and gather her thoughts while also pumping an 8 pound dumb bell over her head.

I’ve never talked to this woman.

But every time I go to the gym, I see her in the corner of the locker room preaching to the other gym devotees about her favorite classes. She’ll tell you the level of difficulty. The instructor’s personality. And even what kind of music they play.

She looks like she’s in her mid thirties, with a thin frame and dark colored hair that is so brittle it makes uncooked pasta look sensuous.

Her acolytes listen attentively. Then they disperse and run off to their jobs and families. Leaving her alone.

The gym is where New Yorkers perform public acts that should be done in the privacy of their bedroom. Wearing spandex. Sweating uncontrollably. Leaving clouds of body odor. Grunting while lifting weights. Performing Squat thrusts.

Of course, I am guilty of all these things.

On a good week, I’ll go to the gym three or four times. With this kind of frequency, I tend to see some of the same characters.

There’s the guy I call Silver Fox because he’s pretty goodlooking and has a head of gray hair. I still can’t tell if he’s gay or straight because I don’t think a straight man would perform leg lifts in public. There is something about a man being on all fours and lifting his foot up to the sky that manages to squash any ounce of heterosexuality.

Then there’s Cell Phone Girl. She garners this nickname because she’s on her cellphone when she’s on the treadmill, lifting free weights, on the machines, and even while doing sit-ups on the mat. I know cell phone girl seems like a pretty obvious nickname for this behavior but I’m not sure what else you would call her. Woman I Hope I Never Have the Unfortunate Chance of Talking To?

Then there are The Workout Buddies. They do their weight routines like synchronized swimmers and discuss their menu plans for the week. FOR THE ENTIRE GYM TO HEAR. These are the type of women that say “carbohydrate” as if they are saying “Osama Bin Laden”. They workout in such precision and go into such detail about their diets that the floor is dripping with their sweat and self loathing.

Despite their devotion, their bodies have not changed at all in the past year. Looks like someone has been sneaking in processed flour.

And finally there’s Gym Crush. He’s cute in that nerdy, I just started to exercise kind of way. We make eye contact all the time and just recently started smiling and saying hello to eachother. This was achieved after a full year. I can tell he’s single because guys in relationships don’t work out with such diligence. I see him staring at me when we are down in the weight room. At first I thought he was checking me out but now I am starting to think it is because I look like an air traffic controller when I am lifting weights. I could safely guide a Boeing Jet to my gym.

Maybe he is checking me out. But I know he’ll never ask me out. Because the gym is the kind of place where we acknowledge eachother’s existence but we also forget there are other people around.

We hog the last pair of five pound weights (Damn you! Whoever you are!) We do splits in the middle of the gym. We recount our diets. We run and sweat next to eachother. We look exactly the same despite the fact that we’d rather go to the gym regularly than a church.

In the end, we go home to an empty fridge.

Friday
I’m still on the poverty diet so I buy a bottle of Montepulciano to pre-game before going out. This particular bottle used to be 7 bucks but my liquor store jacked up the price to 9.99.

I wasn’t prepared for this extra cost so for dinner I abandon my plan to buy a slice of pizza and buy a pepperoni stick instead. The name does not leave much to the imagination. It’s basically fried dough stuffed with pepperoni and the size of–you guessed it– a stick.

I guess a smart person would have splurged on dinner and not on a bottle of wine but then how would you enjoy the rest of your Friday night?

Later on, my friend Sarah and I head to this bar Enid’s in Greenpoint for David R’s birthday.

David R is a friend of my friend Dave. They are both from Nashville. When the two of them get together, interesting things happen. And by interesting I mean one night they got really drunk and decided to smash all the light bulbs in Dave’s apartment building and Dave almost got evicted.

People from Nashville are fun to hangout with.

So Dave R currently works as a public school teacher in New Orleans. He was telling us what all the kids were saying these days. For instance, instead of eavesdropping they say ear hustlin’. They also say “no homo” after every sentence. They say it after the most benign things like “Oh, I watched Iron Man this weekend. No homo.”

I guess the phrase became really popular because Li’l Wayne says that all the time and for those of you who have been living under a rock or don’t listen to “that music”, Li’l Wayne is the reigning king of Hip Hop and kids in Louisiana follow his every word. Even homophobic ones!

Anyway, Enid’s was really fun and they have DJs who play really good music but since the place was populated by lumberjack looking dudes and girls with a BMI of 17, no one was really dancing. Not even to MJ!

So since I wasn’t dancing, I decided to keep drinking. Brooklyn Lagers were only $4 so I had, um, 20 bucks worth. (more…)

I never understood those aphorisms that encourage you to be a better person.

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Take the high road. Be the bigger person.

The bigger person? Why would I want to be the bigger person when what I really want to do is BUST. SOME. SKULLS??? People seem to think that being the bigger person is the mark of a mature character but I think it’s a bit fraudulent. Because you never hear people say, “Oh, yes, I’m going to be the bigger person!!!!  I’m so happy I was the bigger person!”

No, they always say that begrudgingly and in a dejected tone that is usually accompanied by a sigh.  “Fiiiine (sigh) I guess I’ll be the bigger person.”

If you feel like acting immature why can’t you just be immature? If you feel like making fun of an ex’s poor bedroom skills on a public blog then why don’t you just go ahead?

Oh, because you’re taking the high road.

I prefer the more accessible road.

I’ve been thinking about this lately because it’s funny when you hear people concoct elaborate and creative ways to not offend people. If you don’t feel like attending a party you make some excuse about how you have to work overtime or you’re sick or your dog needs to be disciplined. Now that I’m older I’ve exhausted all my excuses so when people invite me to things and I don’t feel like going I just say “No.”

Do you wanna go running with me?
No.

Do you wanna go to this fundraiser and pay 100 dollars a ticket? It’s open bar.
Tempting. But no.

Do you wanna go see this live jazz band?
HAHAHAHAH. No.

Do you wanna watch the Sex and the City movie?
Um, I’m too busy trying to actually have sex in this city. No.

Do you wanna be my bridesmaid?
Oh, I’m so honored. No.