My boyfriend and I declared the month of March as "No Pizza March". Today is the 26th. I have gone 26 days without pizza in NYC and have 5 more to go.
Since moving to NYC which is a haven for Yes-aholics, I have never had to put myself into so many little self-imposed "just say no" programs. Last year was "No Alcohol March" which did nothing other than make me a more impassioned booze hound. I went on about a 6 month stretch of "No Internet Dates for Brooke" which succeeded in keeping me single and lonely but at least I did not sleep with total strangers off the internet for half a year and instead met them in bars.
This past summer was "Ease up on your margarita consumption June" followed by "Seriously, when you are in Chicago visiting, it's not a license to eat Mexican food all 8 days for every meal just because NYC Mexican food sucks so much ass July".
I used to have even smaller goals when I moved here that were more focused on making it through a single day as opposed to a month. Today is "No crying Monday" hopefully followed by "No crying Tuesday" and so on and so forth.
Well before hatching so many of these little hare-brained schemes of denial like not eating pizza for 30 days, I have embarked on other journeys of restriction. I did the Master Cleanse 2 summers ago and lasted 6 days to prove nothing other than the fact that I have hardcore emotional attachments to everything I eat. I fiercely clutched a copy of "Power of Now" for those 6 days and journaled like a mad person every time I felt myself going to a crazy place over food.
I honestly did not feel hungry, (yeah I needed to lose some weight but this is about the most unrealistic way ever to do it) and I even had some crazy bursts of energy and clarity, but this was about me trying to finally gain some control over the emotional crutch that food had become since moving to NYC. It was all out psychological warfare as I had never stopped to observe how many stressors pop up every day in NYC which then immediately cause knee jerk reactions not limited to: stress eating, drinking yourself blind, punching a stranger, injecting street drugs into your vein, screaming, screaming, screaming, and more screaming.
I never have done street drugs but I see plenty of other people do them. I HAVE however succumbed to all of the other mentioned reactions due to stress overload and no access to Yoga anywhere near my apartment.
Doing the Master Cleanse stripped me of all my go-to numbing devices and forced me to really deal with my stress like a human. I found myself able to ease myself off of the cleanse as I was enroute to upstate Maine where I could unwind and stay out of trouble for the next several days. Instead of drinking myself into a state of imagined euphoria and tranquility, I sat next to a lake, ran my fingers through cool, verdant grass, inhaled deep, piney breaths of air and just let myself be. It was wonderful and I knew it wouldn't last, but I felt certain that I understood my triggers a little bit more and could better deal with them upon returning to NYC.
So fast forward almost 2 years later and while I still have not gone to one fucking yoga class in 3 years, I have calmed down and removed alot of the stress from my life. Doing hard cardio has been the trick for NYC. It's like fighting fire with fire for me. I have to engage in an activity that satisfies my stress instead of trying to dismiss it through meditation and deep bending. Nope. Not gonna work. I find that exhausting myself through 40 minutes of kicking and punching at the air satisfies my need for violence while also stimulating seratonin and burning calories. It's a win-win situation for everyone.
But man, oh man. This particular winter has turned into a real doozy, especially this month and especially in times of national crisis.
So this brings me back to "No Pizza March" which has also inadvertently turned into "No leaving the apartment March" as well as "Little to no income March" and I have realized that I am not a stronger person mentally. I am just poor and depressed. Not eating 4 dollar slices of pizza for 26 days is not really that much of a challenge when it is not really an option. I cannot afford my favorite means of self-destruction, nor do I have the energy or interest to leave the apartment in search of numbing devices because that would require getting dressed. Am I winning at this round of self-composure or losing an even bigger battle? Is it my steely resolve to abstain or just the economy once again stealing my thunder?
Eh. Whatever works. I am trying to ready myself for "Don't think too hard about it unless you want to go bat-shit crazy April."
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
T-R-O-P-H-I-E
Instead of writing, I have spent the last two weeks promoting myself. I apologize for this, but I am actually trying to be a competitor for this ECNY awards thingy instead of curling up into a ball and hiding. Believe it or not, competition makes me squirm. It's only fun when you know you've got it in the bag......
I am a 2 time spelling bee champion, so you would think that the amassed confidence from the 4th and 5th grades would have carried over into adult life, but no. I am also a State Champion Cheerleader---- 2 years in a row...maybe 3, I lost track---we were that awesome at cheerleading. I have the medals to prove it along with assorted trophies and severely fucked up knees. But did that "bring it on" confidence carry over into comedy? Not an ounce of it.
I have a real quitter attitude. My brother and I both suffer from this character flaw and since we can relate to one another about this, we have somehow justified quitting as part of who we are. Our parents have grown numb to it by now, both of us dropping out of sports and extracurricular activities that we excelled at, long ago. The minute college got tough, we both bailed. Good jobs with great benefits? Eh. We quit 'em.
When we sit back and reflect on why we do this, we both agree that it feels gross to have the spotlight on us----neither of us enjoy pressure and basically we don't want the responsibility of living up to a standard of any sort. As much as we are both talented people, we have convinced ourselves that being competitive is about as lame as it gets for a human, and that there is nothing more embarrassing than someone who is impassioned. Yuck. You just look like that much more of a douche when you fail.
It was 6th grade when I chose being cool over being special at something. I was the incumbent spelling bee champion and as we all know, a great deal of self-awareness develops between 4th grade and 6th grade. My acute talent for perfect spelling was something that made me stand out and everyone celebrated with me.
Going into 6th grade though, people acted differently. It was the first time I really noticed alot of judgement coming from my peers. I was one of those kids that teetered between brainy nerds and smart mouth cool kids. I loved both groups but at that age, lines are drawn. You are either one or the other and I was horrified that I was about to be put on the spot and revealed for the brainy nerd I was because of my spelling prowess.
The day of the spelling bee came and my cool friends begrudgingly took their place in line, rolling their eyes, laughing and mocking everything and everyone. My spelling buddies were feverishly looking over flashcards, cramming before we began. I stood there not knowing what to do and became flushed with anxiety.
My teachers who had presented me with the engraved dictionaries in previous years looked at me with pride and confidence; a hopeful who could maybe go on to be a regional champion.
Now, I would love to build up the story and paint a picture where with each passing round of spelling, I once again eek ahead of the group. The nerds cheer for me and the cool kids are glaring and getting ready to jump me in the parking lot after school when on the last round it's down to me and a super geek, I buckle under the pressure and spell something wrong by accident, thus having put up a good fight, but also still being able to pass as a cool kid.
No, I bounced outta there on the first round. The special-ed kids were still spelling words correctly. Ironically the word given to me was "trophy" and I misspelled it like a cocky little jack ass. I didn't want any drama, so I immediately failed on purpose. "Trophy. T-R-O-P-H..........IE. Trophy. I'm outta here." I got ready to be embraced by the "in-crowd", but it didn't go down like that.
I will never, ever forget the look on my teacher's faces. The whole faculty for that fact, was shocked and disappointed. My classmates, even the cool ones were giving me looks like, "So not cool, Brooke." I remember sitting there for the rest of the spelling bee in a daze, silently spelling words at twice the pace of people still contending. I had wanted to define myself that day and I certainly did. L-O-S-E-R.
People believed so much in my talent that they were mad at me for failing them. My friends avoided eye contact with me and I got pulled aside after school by 3 seperate teachers who shunned me. They knew I had botched it up on purpose and they told my mother about the debacle when she came to pick me up after school. I had no idea being cool came with so many ramifications.
I have done some idiotic things in my day like when I wanted to quit cheerleading and my parents wouldn't let me, so I decided to be the worst cheerleader ever. I was always purposely a beat behind everyone, clownishly smacking into my teammates and dropping stunts much to the delight of, you got it, the highschool cool crowd clustered in the bleachers. They thought I was hilarious and instead of quitting, I got kicked off the team by a coach who couldn't understand where her 2 time state champion had disappeared to.
Even though that was shameful and embarrassing to my parents, it still did not match the perplexed look on my mother's face when she picked me up from school after throwing the spelling bee. She knew she was in for a bumpy road with me.
It makes sense that I am a comedian. I almost feel like it is my punishment for quitting so many things in the past. I have spent 6 years in the school of comedy hard knocks and here I am, once again excelling at something that this time around requires alot of failure to get good.
Right about now would be the time where I quit, or throw the competition, or do something dramatic to wriggle out of the spotlight next week as I stand a 6 to 1 chance of losing.... yes, that is how I look at it, I never said I was a positive person.
I am just proud that I can finally face the noise---win or lose, both prospects are terrifying, but most terrifying is that I'm not going to interfere this time.
Oh man, I am even going to post a link where you can vote for me. (now i am really putting myself out there. gulp.)Vote for Brooke Van Poppelen as an "Emerging Comic" of NYC here: http://www.ecnyawards.com/
I am a 2 time spelling bee champion, so you would think that the amassed confidence from the 4th and 5th grades would have carried over into adult life, but no. I am also a State Champion Cheerleader---- 2 years in a row...maybe 3, I lost track---we were that awesome at cheerleading. I have the medals to prove it along with assorted trophies and severely fucked up knees. But did that "bring it on" confidence carry over into comedy? Not an ounce of it.
I have a real quitter attitude. My brother and I both suffer from this character flaw and since we can relate to one another about this, we have somehow justified quitting as part of who we are. Our parents have grown numb to it by now, both of us dropping out of sports and extracurricular activities that we excelled at, long ago. The minute college got tough, we both bailed. Good jobs with great benefits? Eh. We quit 'em.
When we sit back and reflect on why we do this, we both agree that it feels gross to have the spotlight on us----neither of us enjoy pressure and basically we don't want the responsibility of living up to a standard of any sort. As much as we are both talented people, we have convinced ourselves that being competitive is about as lame as it gets for a human, and that there is nothing more embarrassing than someone who is impassioned. Yuck. You just look like that much more of a douche when you fail.
It was 6th grade when I chose being cool over being special at something. I was the incumbent spelling bee champion and as we all know, a great deal of self-awareness develops between 4th grade and 6th grade. My acute talent for perfect spelling was something that made me stand out and everyone celebrated with me.
Going into 6th grade though, people acted differently. It was the first time I really noticed alot of judgement coming from my peers. I was one of those kids that teetered between brainy nerds and smart mouth cool kids. I loved both groups but at that age, lines are drawn. You are either one or the other and I was horrified that I was about to be put on the spot and revealed for the brainy nerd I was because of my spelling prowess.
The day of the spelling bee came and my cool friends begrudgingly took their place in line, rolling their eyes, laughing and mocking everything and everyone. My spelling buddies were feverishly looking over flashcards, cramming before we began. I stood there not knowing what to do and became flushed with anxiety.
My teachers who had presented me with the engraved dictionaries in previous years looked at me with pride and confidence; a hopeful who could maybe go on to be a regional champion.
Now, I would love to build up the story and paint a picture where with each passing round of spelling, I once again eek ahead of the group. The nerds cheer for me and the cool kids are glaring and getting ready to jump me in the parking lot after school when on the last round it's down to me and a super geek, I buckle under the pressure and spell something wrong by accident, thus having put up a good fight, but also still being able to pass as a cool kid.
No, I bounced outta there on the first round. The special-ed kids were still spelling words correctly. Ironically the word given to me was "trophy" and I misspelled it like a cocky little jack ass. I didn't want any drama, so I immediately failed on purpose. "Trophy. T-R-O-P-H..........IE. Trophy. I'm outta here." I got ready to be embraced by the "in-crowd", but it didn't go down like that.
I will never, ever forget the look on my teacher's faces. The whole faculty for that fact, was shocked and disappointed. My classmates, even the cool ones were giving me looks like, "So not cool, Brooke." I remember sitting there for the rest of the spelling bee in a daze, silently spelling words at twice the pace of people still contending. I had wanted to define myself that day and I certainly did. L-O-S-E-R.
People believed so much in my talent that they were mad at me for failing them. My friends avoided eye contact with me and I got pulled aside after school by 3 seperate teachers who shunned me. They knew I had botched it up on purpose and they told my mother about the debacle when she came to pick me up after school. I had no idea being cool came with so many ramifications.
I have done some idiotic things in my day like when I wanted to quit cheerleading and my parents wouldn't let me, so I decided to be the worst cheerleader ever. I was always purposely a beat behind everyone, clownishly smacking into my teammates and dropping stunts much to the delight of, you got it, the highschool cool crowd clustered in the bleachers. They thought I was hilarious and instead of quitting, I got kicked off the team by a coach who couldn't understand where her 2 time state champion had disappeared to.
Even though that was shameful and embarrassing to my parents, it still did not match the perplexed look on my mother's face when she picked me up from school after throwing the spelling bee. She knew she was in for a bumpy road with me.
It makes sense that I am a comedian. I almost feel like it is my punishment for quitting so many things in the past. I have spent 6 years in the school of comedy hard knocks and here I am, once again excelling at something that this time around requires alot of failure to get good.
Right about now would be the time where I quit, or throw the competition, or do something dramatic to wriggle out of the spotlight next week as I stand a 6 to 1 chance of losing.... yes, that is how I look at it, I never said I was a positive person.
I am just proud that I can finally face the noise---win or lose, both prospects are terrifying, but most terrifying is that I'm not going to interfere this time.
Oh man, I am even going to post a link where you can vote for me. (now i am really putting myself out there. gulp.)Vote for Brooke Van Poppelen as an "Emerging Comic" of NYC here: http://www.ecnyawards.com/
Monday, February 9, 2009
Open Letter From a Rat
I used to work at Joe Coffee Store in Manhattan. We spent most of last winter co-habitating the shop with a 3 lb rat.
He had alot of personality and really enjoyed our assortment of sweets. He mostly came out at night and helped himself to leftover stock which we tried in vain to secure in tough, plastic storage bins. He always found a way in.
It was a mostly peaceful relationship, if not annoying and gross. You can imagine our shock when upon opening the store one morning we found a letter addressed to the staff. It reads as follows:
To the baristas of Joe Coffee Store: Purveyors of Espresso and Savory Delicacies,
I am a rat. Some of you are aware that I have been occupying your basement for upwards of 3 months. I thank you for the accommodations and have had a most enjoyable stay. I chose your fine establishment because it is a well known fact that I have quite the sweet tooth. It is a treat to indulge on pastries from Donut Plant, located in Brooklyn. I would go directly there but I must admit, Brooklyn is somewhat of a trek and we all know cabs hate going out there. I could really go into a tirade about cabs right now, but let's stay focused on the issue at hand.
Roughly 2 weeks ago I stumbled onto a dessert that can only be described as "life-altering". Being a connoisseur of Old-World European pastries, I was floored to discover that you serve rugelach; a rare and highly specialized Yiddish sweet.
I immediately tore into your reserves and took a bite out of each one. They were all to die for. Each one combined the perfect blend of walnut, cinnamon, and raspberry preserves; subtly sweet, savory and wholly intoxicating. I will however admit that I was very displeased to find that the following week's inventory contained raisins.
I HATE raisins. I have always hated them and don't see where they fit into the food chain as an edible. I have seen children put them up their nose rather than eat them. The elderly put them on their bran flakes to encourage regularity. That is a double whammy of inedible slop if you ask me.
I felt a great conflict of emotion because I LOVE rugelach and I HATE raisins. It was a lot to process, but the love overwhelmed me and I painstakingly picked out all of the raisins or ate around them. It was still delicious but not as indulgent and gratifying as prior experiences because I lived with the fear that I could bite into a raisin at any moment. They are always hiding in there somewhere. Nasty little critters, they are.
A careless and thoughtless baker will fill out a batch of dough with extra raisins because these vile little creatures cost next to nothing when compared to a walnut. The ratio of raisin to walnut was a staggering 8:1. I would have rather the baker gone outside and picked up a handful of gravel to add to the batter than deal with another raisin.
It is clear that I am upset. I beseech you, please contact the vendor and demand they return to the original recipe of rugelach. If that does not work, demand the baker is suspended from further employment until he realizes that this maelstrom of raisins is corrupting a perfect recipe which in my mind is like an act of defiance against God.
If none of this is rectified within the next 2 weeks, I will be forced to take my business elsewhere. To speak about this further, feel free to seek me out in the basement. My hours are 1am to 5am.
God Bless,
The Rat
He had alot of personality and really enjoyed our assortment of sweets. He mostly came out at night and helped himself to leftover stock which we tried in vain to secure in tough, plastic storage bins. He always found a way in.
It was a mostly peaceful relationship, if not annoying and gross. You can imagine our shock when upon opening the store one morning we found a letter addressed to the staff. It reads as follows:
To the baristas of Joe Coffee Store: Purveyors of Espresso and Savory Delicacies,
I am a rat. Some of you are aware that I have been occupying your basement for upwards of 3 months. I thank you for the accommodations and have had a most enjoyable stay. I chose your fine establishment because it is a well known fact that I have quite the sweet tooth. It is a treat to indulge on pastries from Donut Plant, located in Brooklyn. I would go directly there but I must admit, Brooklyn is somewhat of a trek and we all know cabs hate going out there. I could really go into a tirade about cabs right now, but let's stay focused on the issue at hand.
Roughly 2 weeks ago I stumbled onto a dessert that can only be described as "life-altering". Being a connoisseur of Old-World European pastries, I was floored to discover that you serve rugelach; a rare and highly specialized Yiddish sweet.
I immediately tore into your reserves and took a bite out of each one. They were all to die for. Each one combined the perfect blend of walnut, cinnamon, and raspberry preserves; subtly sweet, savory and wholly intoxicating. I will however admit that I was very displeased to find that the following week's inventory contained raisins.
I HATE raisins. I have always hated them and don't see where they fit into the food chain as an edible. I have seen children put them up their nose rather than eat them. The elderly put them on their bran flakes to encourage regularity. That is a double whammy of inedible slop if you ask me.
I felt a great conflict of emotion because I LOVE rugelach and I HATE raisins. It was a lot to process, but the love overwhelmed me and I painstakingly picked out all of the raisins or ate around them. It was still delicious but not as indulgent and gratifying as prior experiences because I lived with the fear that I could bite into a raisin at any moment. They are always hiding in there somewhere. Nasty little critters, they are.
A careless and thoughtless baker will fill out a batch of dough with extra raisins because these vile little creatures cost next to nothing when compared to a walnut. The ratio of raisin to walnut was a staggering 8:1. I would have rather the baker gone outside and picked up a handful of gravel to add to the batter than deal with another raisin.
It is clear that I am upset. I beseech you, please contact the vendor and demand they return to the original recipe of rugelach. If that does not work, demand the baker is suspended from further employment until he realizes that this maelstrom of raisins is corrupting a perfect recipe which in my mind is like an act of defiance against God.
If none of this is rectified within the next 2 weeks, I will be forced to take my business elsewhere. To speak about this further, feel free to seek me out in the basement. My hours are 1am to 5am.
God Bless,
The Rat
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Violence and post Modern Art, also known as the F train
NY----you've done some retarded things. Profoundly retarded.
But last night, you really raised the bar.
I was leaving a great show I had performed on at Bowery Electric and because of the awful, bone chilling wind, scampered down into the 2nd Avenue F station instead of walking to Delancey.
For those of you who don't know this station very well, or anyone who has never been here, a brief description is paramount.
The 2nd Avenue station is where nightmares come true. Aside from being the most consistently urine soaked station along that line, or any other for that matter-- ( E train, you're not off the hook, this story just doesn't involve you) I am certain that the generator that provides power for all of Manhattan is underneath the platform. Either that, or some accessible version of the fires of hell. It is the most outrageously sweltering place on earth mixed with stifling garbage stench, fecal matter wafting, and sweaty, toxin filled New Yorker perspiration rolling down smalls of backs and foreheads. And this is the winter time. I would need to go under hypnosis to explain what this is like in the summer time because I have repressed these experiences and pushed the trauma down so deeply.
A pomegranate slurpee? With a hole in the bottom that trailed behind the passenger sprinting to catch the train? I just don't think so.
I take a few more steps down and realize they are drops of blood. Then there is a large splattering of it at the bottom of the steps and of course it leads up to the MTA vending machine where I need to purchase my card. I look around not sure what to expect; there is no station attendant present to witness this horror scene. I approach the machine, begin to touch the screen when I realize there is blood smeared all over it, covering all of the metrocard options. Ugh. How awful that I am so used to these machines looking like a baby's highchair tray, that I don't notice blood smeared everywhere. It's dripping down the money slot where you feed your dollar bills and I see out of the corner of my eye, 2 dollar bills wadded up on the ground sort of floating in a pool of blood. I feel concerned and nervous that someone has been hurt really badly.
Finally I react to the person pumping money into the machine next to mine and I say, "Uh, do you see all this blood everywhere?"
The man says to me, "Honey, this is NYC, it's probably just an art installation---get over it."
I just shot him a look like he was nuts for saying that and he was shooting a look at me like I was nuts for caring that there was blood covering the station, fake or not. I don't want to live here so long that I no longer react to the sight of blood. And I also don't want to ever be so blase towards violence that I assume it's always an "art installation".
Which leads me to another topic. I see so much shitty art in this city it boggles the mind. Get the f#%$ out of town if you think staining public property with blood to stage a violent crime "art installation" is valid. Yes, you got a reaction out of me as art is supposed to do. My reaction was to kick your ass for making bad art, and causing me to miss my train because my dollar kept getting spit back out at me, each time, more smeared and red, much like the art installation I would like to make out of your face.
So, I still have no clue if I was supposed to be concerned for someone curled up in a corner bleeding out, or if I should go home and google "The New School funds bloody subway station art project"so I could write a snippy letter. (I googled and couldn't find any reported murders or a senior art thesis involving gore.) All I know is that I was stuck on the same car as the guy who thought I was a tourist and prone to histrionics. We sat on opposite ends eyeing one another; on the same train, but living in very different New Yorks.
But last night, you really raised the bar.
I was leaving a great show I had performed on at Bowery Electric and because of the awful, bone chilling wind, scampered down into the 2nd Avenue F station instead of walking to Delancey.
For those of you who don't know this station very well, or anyone who has never been here, a brief description is paramount.
The 2nd Avenue station is where nightmares come true. Aside from being the most consistently urine soaked station along that line, or any other for that matter-- ( E train, you're not off the hook, this story just doesn't involve you) I am certain that the generator that provides power for all of Manhattan is underneath the platform. Either that, or some accessible version of the fires of hell. It is the most outrageously sweltering place on earth mixed with stifling garbage stench, fecal matter wafting, and sweaty, toxin filled New Yorker perspiration rolling down smalls of backs and foreheads. And this is the winter time. I would need to go under hypnosis to explain what this is like in the summer time because I have repressed these experiences and pushed the trauma down so deeply.
A pomegranate slurpee? With a hole in the bottom that trailed behind the passenger sprinting to catch the train? I just don't think so.
I take a few more steps down and realize they are drops of blood. Then there is a large splattering of it at the bottom of the steps and of course it leads up to the MTA vending machine where I need to purchase my card. I look around not sure what to expect; there is no station attendant present to witness this horror scene. I approach the machine, begin to touch the screen when I realize there is blood smeared all over it, covering all of the metrocard options. Ugh. How awful that I am so used to these machines looking like a baby's highchair tray, that I don't notice blood smeared everywhere. It's dripping down the money slot where you feed your dollar bills and I see out of the corner of my eye, 2 dollar bills wadded up on the ground sort of floating in a pool of blood. I feel concerned and nervous that someone has been hurt really badly.
Finally I react to the person pumping money into the machine next to mine and I say, "Uh, do you see all this blood everywhere?"
The man says to me, "Honey, this is NYC, it's probably just an art installation---get over it."
I just shot him a look like he was nuts for saying that and he was shooting a look at me like I was nuts for caring that there was blood covering the station, fake or not. I don't want to live here so long that I no longer react to the sight of blood. And I also don't want to ever be so blase towards violence that I assume it's always an "art installation".
Which leads me to another topic. I see so much shitty art in this city it boggles the mind. Get the f#%$ out of town if you think staining public property with blood to stage a violent crime "art installation" is valid. Yes, you got a reaction out of me as art is supposed to do. My reaction was to kick your ass for making bad art, and causing me to miss my train because my dollar kept getting spit back out at me, each time, more smeared and red, much like the art installation I would like to make out of your face.
So, I still have no clue if I was supposed to be concerned for someone curled up in a corner bleeding out, or if I should go home and google "The New School funds bloody subway station art project"so I could write a snippy letter. (I googled and couldn't find any reported murders or a senior art thesis involving gore.) All I know is that I was stuck on the same car as the guy who thought I was a tourist and prone to histrionics. We sat on opposite ends eyeing one another; on the same train, but living in very different New Yorks.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Is it just me or is something going on with the economy?
I am worried that something actually is wrong. As a New Yorker, being impervious to a weak economy is second nature. Or so I thought.
I didn't notice anything different among my group of friends and family so I have been living life like normal.
I still enjoy taking a car service everywhere even if it's just to the corner bodega. Well, I call it a bodega, but it is actually a world class Patisserie where I like to stock up on petit fours and gold flake truffles for breakfast. My trainer doesn't mind that I indulge in such sweets since he works with me twice a day, 7 days a week. It's my little allowance.
I haven't had to curb any spending habits although I must say I was astounded to find a pair of Badgley Mischka's had dropped from $2,200 to $1,800. Due to these tough times I scooped them up instantly to help "stimulate" the economy and do my part even though I would normally not be caught dead purchasing anything with a sale tag on it.
I have even decided to start washing my own hair. Instead of going down to the spa located in my building lobby every morning for a shampoo and blow out, I am now washing my own hair in my own bathroom. Yes, yes, yes this is very pedestrian of me, but actually I have coerced the maid into giving my scalp a good, strong scrub and every once in a while she will towel me off in an invigorating fashion.
But here's where it gets weird. I was having lunch at Balthazar with some other ladies in my building. I was astounded that we were sat immediately. Per usual there would be a crowd surrounding the host stand and as is custom, one of the ladies slips the host a crisp, $100 bill to get a table. It was my turn this week to do so and we all looked at each other in confusion for being able to sit down upon arrival. I gingerly clutched the 100 not quite knowing where to put it. Ew. How repulsive to not be able to buy your way into a coveted table so as to gloat at the commoners waiting in the vestibule.
Then, I was very startled to see that there was a lunch special. A LUNCH SPECIAL at Balthazar. I mean--- how embarrassing to have to have a combo of salad lyonnaise, steamed mussells, and foie gras tortellini with a dessert included for $55. I mean, i would expect this nonsense during Restaurant Week, but this was December.
The world opened up to me. I left lunch that day determined to spend the leftover 100 I had and thought I would maybe go buy a hand towel from Tag Heuer Boutique with it, but I felt strange. My beautiful, perfect Soho seemed....sad. I noticed that men and women were walking around with half the amount of shopping bags. I saw fewer mercedes pulling up to store fronts to let out throngs of beautiful SoHo locals. I smacked into David Bowie while I was rounding a corner and he had an Au Bob Pain carry out bag. I was reeling with shock and when I thought things couldn't get anymore disheartening, I walked by a little pizza joint and saw America's Next Top Model, McKey serving up slices.
I burst through the door (which I would never have done otherwise) to make sure it was her. Oh, It was her allright, there was no Annie Leibovitz photo shoot happening--- it was McKey serving up slices from a brick oven wearing a ball gown smeared with marinara. I looked over and saw Yoanna taking down orders over the phone. It was too much. Much too much.
I instantly hailed a yellow cab, since I didn't have time to wait for my driver, sped home to the penthouse and immediately fired my hairwasher. Yes, I admit that instead of going down to the salon anymore I decided to hire my maid's cousin to start washing my hair because she does it for half the price of the woman downstairs....I mean, I need a little luxury in my life. Don't we all? But I panicked after seeing models and large pizzas in the same space. Those two things are not supposed to occur in nature under the same roof and now I know that something is wrong with the economy.
I am writing this entry from my anti-aging chamber as I decided this is probably the best place for me to be right now. I had not intended to induce the vitamin/nutrient filled coma for another few years but if SoHo is going to be a veritable wasteland, I do not want to be lucid. Until someone else figures out how to fix all of this, I am going to rest. Wake me up when the economy is back to normal.
I didn't notice anything different among my group of friends and family so I have been living life like normal.
I still enjoy taking a car service everywhere even if it's just to the corner bodega. Well, I call it a bodega, but it is actually a world class Patisserie where I like to stock up on petit fours and gold flake truffles for breakfast. My trainer doesn't mind that I indulge in such sweets since he works with me twice a day, 7 days a week. It's my little allowance.
I haven't had to curb any spending habits although I must say I was astounded to find a pair of Badgley Mischka's had dropped from $2,200 to $1,800. Due to these tough times I scooped them up instantly to help "stimulate" the economy and do my part even though I would normally not be caught dead purchasing anything with a sale tag on it.
I have even decided to start washing my own hair. Instead of going down to the spa located in my building lobby every morning for a shampoo and blow out, I am now washing my own hair in my own bathroom. Yes, yes, yes this is very pedestrian of me, but actually I have coerced the maid into giving my scalp a good, strong scrub and every once in a while she will towel me off in an invigorating fashion.
But here's where it gets weird. I was having lunch at Balthazar with some other ladies in my building. I was astounded that we were sat immediately. Per usual there would be a crowd surrounding the host stand and as is custom, one of the ladies slips the host a crisp, $100 bill to get a table. It was my turn this week to do so and we all looked at each other in confusion for being able to sit down upon arrival. I gingerly clutched the 100 not quite knowing where to put it. Ew. How repulsive to not be able to buy your way into a coveted table so as to gloat at the commoners waiting in the vestibule.
Then, I was very startled to see that there was a lunch special. A LUNCH SPECIAL at Balthazar. I mean--- how embarrassing to have to have a combo of salad lyonnaise, steamed mussells, and foie gras tortellini with a dessert included for $55. I mean, i would expect this nonsense during Restaurant Week, but this was December.
The world opened up to me. I left lunch that day determined to spend the leftover 100 I had and thought I would maybe go buy a hand towel from Tag Heuer Boutique with it, but I felt strange. My beautiful, perfect Soho seemed....sad. I noticed that men and women were walking around with half the amount of shopping bags. I saw fewer mercedes pulling up to store fronts to let out throngs of beautiful SoHo locals. I smacked into David Bowie while I was rounding a corner and he had an Au Bob Pain carry out bag. I was reeling with shock and when I thought things couldn't get anymore disheartening, I walked by a little pizza joint and saw America's Next Top Model, McKey serving up slices.
I burst through the door (which I would never have done otherwise) to make sure it was her. Oh, It was her allright, there was no Annie Leibovitz photo shoot happening--- it was McKey serving up slices from a brick oven wearing a ball gown smeared with marinara. I looked over and saw Yoanna taking down orders over the phone. It was too much. Much too much.
I instantly hailed a yellow cab, since I didn't have time to wait for my driver, sped home to the penthouse and immediately fired my hairwasher. Yes, I admit that instead of going down to the salon anymore I decided to hire my maid's cousin to start washing my hair because she does it for half the price of the woman downstairs....I mean, I need a little luxury in my life. Don't we all? But I panicked after seeing models and large pizzas in the same space. Those two things are not supposed to occur in nature under the same roof and now I know that something is wrong with the economy.
I am writing this entry from my anti-aging chamber as I decided this is probably the best place for me to be right now. I had not intended to induce the vitamin/nutrient filled coma for another few years but if SoHo is going to be a veritable wasteland, I do not want to be lucid. Until someone else figures out how to fix all of this, I am going to rest. Wake me up when the economy is back to normal.
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Depression Do's and Don'ts
With the current clime of the economy, the cold grey expanse of winter closing in around me, and a career that won’t crack open, I think it’s safe to say I am backsliding into some depression. Ah, familiar, all too cyclical depression folks---it’s not just for Brian Wilson anymore.
Being no stranger to the blues given my unstable lifestyle, lack of control over income, and one of those temperamental “creative” personalities, I have experienced varying degrees of “sadness, hopelessness, anxiety, withdrawal from social situations, lack of interest in sex, decreased or increased appetite…” and so on and so forth from the laundry list of symptoms found in a Zoloft brochure. How do you deal with it? Do you seek out a professional? I say nay.
Sometimes what you need most is a good kick in the pants, maybe have your chops busted a little bit. Maybe you need to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth instead of from a melanchoy little animated blob on your T.V. screen pretending to be sad. I don’t trust a skinny cook and I sure as hell wouldn’t take depression advice from someone who’s never lived in their bathrobe for 3 months. So that’s why I am stepping up to the plate and offering advice to you the reader from a field I am well versed in. These pointers have worked for me over the years and helped me through the lowest of lows and helped bring me back up to…well…what is normal anyway?
1. DON’T: Spend time with lively, attractive, industrious people who are turning their dreams into reality.
DO: Spend time with your 93-year old grandmother and challenge her to little feats of strength, cognitive & verbal reasoning quizzes and eating contests. Trust me, you’re going to leave feeling like a champ and she appreciates the visit.
2. DON’T: Continue to account for yourself by paying rent, working and contributing to society. It’s hard and you need a break!
DO: Move back in with your parents. Nothing says “adult” like your mom waking you up while you’re sleeping in the hot tub to ask why in god’s name you drank all of the wine in the house.
3. DON’T: Meet new people.
DO: Cling desperately to failed relationships, marriages and friendships and then drop in for surprise visits. People love surprises! You can’t change the past but you can re-visit it over and over and over again.
4. DON’T: Accept any employment that is beneath you. You are an artist, people need to recognize that and they can find you if they need to. They WILL come to you.
DO: Continue old spending habits because it feels good. Going out for every meal and hobnobbing at the bar every night is good for your soul. Your little brother works very hard and you can borrow money from him.
5. DON’T: Get stressed about the 20 pounds you’ve gained. Sometimes little changes in our body happen when life isn’t all peaches and cream and we decide to stop exercising and start lying around a lot.
DO: Continue to force yourself into your old clothing, go out to the bar for White Russians and end the night right with a combo platter at Taco Loco. It’s important to feel normal.
6. DON’T: Admit anything is wrong. Humility is weakness and you’ve got a reputation to uphold dammit! You are self-important!
DO: Go about your regular schedule and interactions despite your instability, but be sure to periodically excuse yourself to the bathroom to scream, cry, and punch yourself in the gut. Nobody wants to see you cry. *** Be sure to carry eye makeup remover, astringent and mascara with you to re-apply after you’ve had your head in the toilet to muffle the screams.
7. DON’T: Take advantage of free counseling or group therapy. You are better than that. Do you really want to surround yourself with poor, stupid, crazy people?
DO: Wait to be hospitalized. It’s far more glamorous to be rolled out on a stretcher while wearing a scandalously low cut slip screaming, “I can afford this!”
8. DON’T: Stay put in one location for too long and allow a routine to develop.
DO: Bail out the moment something becomes hard or unfavorable. That’s no good. Abort, Abort, Abort! Besides, moving is exciting and there will be a whole new group of people to eventually leave behind, disillusioned and shaken.
9. DON’T: Accept invitations to relax with friends and family. They say they love you, but the minute you have a drink and start to relax they’re going to start prying about your health, finances and sanity. They will offer help. You don’t need anyone’s help.
DO: Spend all holidays and special occasions alone listening to Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” or any track off of “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. These tracks sound good year round. People admire your independence.
10. DON’T: Make goals for yourself. They’re so constricting and people talk shit about you when you don’t accomplish them.
DO: Wallow in this creative and financial lull. The only way out of depression is through it. Be prepared to feel this way for a loooooooong time.
I hope these tips have helped you recognize how best to deal with unfortunate bouts of depression. You just need to realize there’s NOTHING you can do about it and it’s not your fault. Medication is for the weak and/or insured. So live your life how you like to and eventually things will change. Or they won’t. So unplug the phone, grab the clicker and cozy up in your favorite flannel onesie; you’ve got some down time ahead of you.
Being no stranger to the blues given my unstable lifestyle, lack of control over income, and one of those temperamental “creative” personalities, I have experienced varying degrees of “sadness, hopelessness, anxiety, withdrawal from social situations, lack of interest in sex, decreased or increased appetite…” and so on and so forth from the laundry list of symptoms found in a Zoloft brochure. How do you deal with it? Do you seek out a professional? I say nay.
Sometimes what you need most is a good kick in the pants, maybe have your chops busted a little bit. Maybe you need to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth instead of from a melanchoy little animated blob on your T.V. screen pretending to be sad. I don’t trust a skinny cook and I sure as hell wouldn’t take depression advice from someone who’s never lived in their bathrobe for 3 months. So that’s why I am stepping up to the plate and offering advice to you the reader from a field I am well versed in. These pointers have worked for me over the years and helped me through the lowest of lows and helped bring me back up to…well…what is normal anyway?
1. DON’T: Spend time with lively, attractive, industrious people who are turning their dreams into reality.
DO: Spend time with your 93-year old grandmother and challenge her to little feats of strength, cognitive & verbal reasoning quizzes and eating contests. Trust me, you’re going to leave feeling like a champ and she appreciates the visit.
2. DON’T: Continue to account for yourself by paying rent, working and contributing to society. It’s hard and you need a break!
DO: Move back in with your parents. Nothing says “adult” like your mom waking you up while you’re sleeping in the hot tub to ask why in god’s name you drank all of the wine in the house.
3. DON’T: Meet new people.
DO: Cling desperately to failed relationships, marriages and friendships and then drop in for surprise visits. People love surprises! You can’t change the past but you can re-visit it over and over and over again.
4. DON’T: Accept any employment that is beneath you. You are an artist, people need to recognize that and they can find you if they need to. They WILL come to you.
DO: Continue old spending habits because it feels good. Going out for every meal and hobnobbing at the bar every night is good for your soul. Your little brother works very hard and you can borrow money from him.
5. DON’T: Get stressed about the 20 pounds you’ve gained. Sometimes little changes in our body happen when life isn’t all peaches and cream and we decide to stop exercising and start lying around a lot.
DO: Continue to force yourself into your old clothing, go out to the bar for White Russians and end the night right with a combo platter at Taco Loco. It’s important to feel normal.
6. DON’T: Admit anything is wrong. Humility is weakness and you’ve got a reputation to uphold dammit! You are self-important!
DO: Go about your regular schedule and interactions despite your instability, but be sure to periodically excuse yourself to the bathroom to scream, cry, and punch yourself in the gut. Nobody wants to see you cry. *** Be sure to carry eye makeup remover, astringent and mascara with you to re-apply after you’ve had your head in the toilet to muffle the screams.
7. DON’T: Take advantage of free counseling or group therapy. You are better than that. Do you really want to surround yourself with poor, stupid, crazy people?
DO: Wait to be hospitalized. It’s far more glamorous to be rolled out on a stretcher while wearing a scandalously low cut slip screaming, “I can afford this!”
8. DON’T: Stay put in one location for too long and allow a routine to develop.
DO: Bail out the moment something becomes hard or unfavorable. That’s no good. Abort, Abort, Abort! Besides, moving is exciting and there will be a whole new group of people to eventually leave behind, disillusioned and shaken.
9. DON’T: Accept invitations to relax with friends and family. They say they love you, but the minute you have a drink and start to relax they’re going to start prying about your health, finances and sanity. They will offer help. You don’t need anyone’s help.
DO: Spend all holidays and special occasions alone listening to Lou Reed’s “Perfect Day” or any track off of “A Charlie Brown Christmas”. These tracks sound good year round. People admire your independence.
10. DON’T: Make goals for yourself. They’re so constricting and people talk shit about you when you don’t accomplish them.
DO: Wallow in this creative and financial lull. The only way out of depression is through it. Be prepared to feel this way for a loooooooong time.
I hope these tips have helped you recognize how best to deal with unfortunate bouts of depression. You just need to realize there’s NOTHING you can do about it and it’s not your fault. Medication is for the weak and/or insured. So live your life how you like to and eventually things will change. Or they won’t. So unplug the phone, grab the clicker and cozy up in your favorite flannel onesie; you’ve got some down time ahead of you.
Monday, January 19, 2009
I'll fleece 'em all
Has anyone ever spent 14 hours at LaGuardia? I highly recommend it as means to push your patience to the limit. I do realize that we had a very brutal amount of snowfall last wednesday and that it made flying "dangerous". Fine.
New York does not know what to do when it snows. When it hits, everyone freaks, a state of emergency is declared and the numbskullish behavior begins.
I watched my life slowly slipping through my fingers like sand while I paced awkwardly around the terminal. I was flying on a thrifty airline called American Eagle which had a makeshift outpost next to security. It was almost as pleasing as the waiting room for the DMV. Almost.
We were a raggity group of travelers flying economy from NY to Detroit. A chirpy, midwestern school teacher and secretary were among the group. I listened as the teacher kept going online to modify that week's hotlunch menu and read it outloud to her friend. "Monday will be double cheese lasagna, french fries, caesar salad and fudge brownies. Tuesday is grilled cheese, tater tots, salad bar and fudge brownies. Wednesday will be type 2 diabetes, hypertension and attention deficit disorder...." and so on.
I listened as she rattled off 2 weeks worth of mediocre, vein clogging menus. I turned my gaze upon her as it became apparent she was my age but dressed like my 52 year old mother. She had been thrashed very violently with the midwestern frumpy stick. She was by all rights an attractive plus size woman but it was obscured by a kicky Lane Bryant number, sensible shoes, one of those short, razored, moussed up haircuts and a "purse" that looked like a diaper bag made out of a quilt. I was terrified of ever becoming that. I was born and bred in the midwest and it was deeply ingrained in my heritage. It could happen without my consent or knowledge.
I got up to stretch my legs and go wait in a food line for a change of scenery. "Hmmmm, what kind of health conscious options do I have at the airport? Oh, none? Allright. M&M's and chips it is. Screw these people, they have no idea how incredibly healthy I am all the time and normally scorn this kind of eating. In public anyway. They eat like this all of the time and I am having a momentary breakdown and will bravely do so in public and join the ranks of gross, uneducated Americans. No one will even notice probably."
I fished around in my bag for money as a king size peanut M&M wrapper fell to the floor, ravaged and greedily drained of it's contents. "Oh fuck. When was this? Think, think, think. Oh right, Monday you stayed out really late thinking you had a chance for a fling. You KNEW you needed to go to bed but continued to suck down beer and drag out your time with a person who you know you shouldn't spend time with, got angry about the situation and stormed out of the bar and straight into a pizza joint followed by a trip into a bodega for a GIANT bag of M&M's.I remember now. It's all coming back.Jesus, Brooke. You're not supposed to eat wheat but you drank beer, ate pizza and had about 5 garlic knots at 3 in the morning. NO wonder you have such a bad stomach ache."
I got up to the cashier and quickly exchanged my gross snacks for an apple and bottled water. That would have to be my punishment. Besides, I didn't want anyone to know that I was secretly a fat person. A fat, midwestern person. Dammit, if I was going to pass as a bitchy, sadistic New Yorker I was going to have to try alot harder. They were going home to Detroit, I was going to Detroit to perform.
No one would ever know I grew up there. They would look at me as a style icon sent from the future, poised and graceful, unaware of how confident and coolly put together I was yet demanding attention everywhere I went. I would say things like, "Oh, how interesting... I didn't know things like that happened in Detroit", or "So, you don't have a subway system?" or, "Oh, me? I live in Manhattan. Yes, as in New York City."
I went back to my gate. The flight was cancelled. Snow was wildly whipping against the windows and I could't really make out the runway. Things were not looking promising. I looked at the departures monitor and flights were being cancelled left and right. I had my first show that night at 8pm and even though it was a Wednesday show, I didn't want to miss it and get $50 precious dollars knocked off my paycheck. I started to get angry but then realized there was no point. I just had to be hopeful that I could even get to Michigan that night.
The flight was terrifying as the plane served up a whopping 70 minutes of arctic turbulence and I was a shell of a person when we landed at 11pm---just a cool 13 hours later than anticipated. My parents were waiting for me in the parking lot and it was way past their bedtime. I quickly scurried to baggage claim to get my crap and get out of the damn airport. Okay suitcase, any minute now....any minute now. I watched and waited hopefully for the sight of it but knew in my heart it was somehow in Des Moines or some other retarded place undeserving of the only fashionable attire I possessed. The conveyor belt grinded to a halt and there was a small group of us who were empty-handed and giving each other the "No fucking way" look. We all bolted to the baggage claim office where the clerk was no longer sensitive to the bristlings of enraged travellers. It was very cut and dry. Our luggage had gone to Chicago. We would fill out a form and maybe receive it via UPS the following night.
I took my forms, climbed into my parents car, sprawled across the back seat and immediately started balling. Since I have lived in NYC by myself, this has been the typical greeting and departure hysterics they have come to know from me and think NYC is evil and causing me to lose my already threadbare sanity.
And on top of that, How, HOW was i supposed to gallavant around Metro-Detroit without my suitcase full of NYC garb? I couldn't afford to buy anything new because this pay check from the comedy club would be my sad, meager income for the week and I had already lost a night of work no thanks to La Guardia. I balled even harder.
Now, I know that I was blowing everything out of proportion. Yes, the 14 hour stay at the airport, terrifying flight and lost luggage added up to mental illness for anyone, but my biggest fear/annoyance was aimed at the prospect of seeming like I had nothing to show for living in NYC. The idea of borrowing an Eddie Bauer sweater from my mother to wear on stage the next night was too much to handle. I left the Midwest to chase bigger dreams and even though nothing bigger had happened yet, I could at least appear to be a New Yorker. I could at least wear an outfit that raised questions like, "Is that Joan Jett?",or "Who is this profound post-modern artist frequenting our humble bar?"
The next day I paced around the house waiting for UPS to show up before I had to head to the club. I had unfortunately worn something like a fashionable sweatsuit for travel purposes the day before so that was also not an option. I reluctantly opened my old closet in my childhood bedroom. It was full of prom and homecoming dresses. Maybe....No. I also had a ridiculous soccer jersey I had purchased in England when I was 17. Maybe....absolutely not.
I moved on to my mother's closet and looked at her age appropriate clothing. Sensible, comfortable and well, frumpy.
I realized that I soon would be dressed exactly like the woman I had been judging at the airport. Maybe she would even be there at the club and think to herself, "Now there is a comic I can relate to---I wonder who emroidered the teddy bears onto her vest?" I tried on the sweater vest and thought to myself that this life was easier. It made more sense. Why get dressed up to the nines when life revolved around church potlucks, and watching TV every night with your husband? Everyone was a good person and judged you for your piety and virtue, not how much your handbag cost. I mean, would anyone care or even notice since I would be blending in anyway? Aren't female comedians supposed to be fashion disasters? Who did I think I was fooling anyway? This is where I am from and it was about time I started having a little bit of hometown pride. The urge to eat casserole was overwhelming.
I was debating between a floor length, plaid jumper with a turtlneck underneath it or a spunky,floral 2-piece pant suit when the doorbell rang. It was UPS. Oh thank Christ. I had some skinny jeans and a military jacket to put on and some people to fool into thinking it was my first time here.
New York does not know what to do when it snows. When it hits, everyone freaks, a state of emergency is declared and the numbskullish behavior begins.
I watched my life slowly slipping through my fingers like sand while I paced awkwardly around the terminal. I was flying on a thrifty airline called American Eagle which had a makeshift outpost next to security. It was almost as pleasing as the waiting room for the DMV. Almost.
We were a raggity group of travelers flying economy from NY to Detroit. A chirpy, midwestern school teacher and secretary were among the group. I listened as the teacher kept going online to modify that week's hotlunch menu and read it outloud to her friend. "Monday will be double cheese lasagna, french fries, caesar salad and fudge brownies. Tuesday is grilled cheese, tater tots, salad bar and fudge brownies. Wednesday will be type 2 diabetes, hypertension and attention deficit disorder...." and so on.
I listened as she rattled off 2 weeks worth of mediocre, vein clogging menus. I turned my gaze upon her as it became apparent she was my age but dressed like my 52 year old mother. She had been thrashed very violently with the midwestern frumpy stick. She was by all rights an attractive plus size woman but it was obscured by a kicky Lane Bryant number, sensible shoes, one of those short, razored, moussed up haircuts and a "purse" that looked like a diaper bag made out of a quilt. I was terrified of ever becoming that. I was born and bred in the midwest and it was deeply ingrained in my heritage. It could happen without my consent or knowledge.
I got up to stretch my legs and go wait in a food line for a change of scenery. "Hmmmm, what kind of health conscious options do I have at the airport? Oh, none? Allright. M&M's and chips it is. Screw these people, they have no idea how incredibly healthy I am all the time and normally scorn this kind of eating. In public anyway. They eat like this all of the time and I am having a momentary breakdown and will bravely do so in public and join the ranks of gross, uneducated Americans. No one will even notice probably."
I fished around in my bag for money as a king size peanut M&M wrapper fell to the floor, ravaged and greedily drained of it's contents. "Oh fuck. When was this? Think, think, think. Oh right, Monday you stayed out really late thinking you had a chance for a fling. You KNEW you needed to go to bed but continued to suck down beer and drag out your time with a person who you know you shouldn't spend time with, got angry about the situation and stormed out of the bar and straight into a pizza joint followed by a trip into a bodega for a GIANT bag of M&M's.I remember now. It's all coming back.Jesus, Brooke. You're not supposed to eat wheat but you drank beer, ate pizza and had about 5 garlic knots at 3 in the morning. NO wonder you have such a bad stomach ache."
I got up to the cashier and quickly exchanged my gross snacks for an apple and bottled water. That would have to be my punishment. Besides, I didn't want anyone to know that I was secretly a fat person. A fat, midwestern person. Dammit, if I was going to pass as a bitchy, sadistic New Yorker I was going to have to try alot harder. They were going home to Detroit, I was going to Detroit to perform.
No one would ever know I grew up there. They would look at me as a style icon sent from the future, poised and graceful, unaware of how confident and coolly put together I was yet demanding attention everywhere I went. I would say things like, "Oh, how interesting... I didn't know things like that happened in Detroit", or "So, you don't have a subway system?" or, "Oh, me? I live in Manhattan. Yes, as in New York City."
I went back to my gate. The flight was cancelled. Snow was wildly whipping against the windows and I could't really make out the runway. Things were not looking promising. I looked at the departures monitor and flights were being cancelled left and right. I had my first show that night at 8pm and even though it was a Wednesday show, I didn't want to miss it and get $50 precious dollars knocked off my paycheck. I started to get angry but then realized there was no point. I just had to be hopeful that I could even get to Michigan that night.
The flight was terrifying as the plane served up a whopping 70 minutes of arctic turbulence and I was a shell of a person when we landed at 11pm---just a cool 13 hours later than anticipated. My parents were waiting for me in the parking lot and it was way past their bedtime. I quickly scurried to baggage claim to get my crap and get out of the damn airport. Okay suitcase, any minute now....any minute now. I watched and waited hopefully for the sight of it but knew in my heart it was somehow in Des Moines or some other retarded place undeserving of the only fashionable attire I possessed. The conveyor belt grinded to a halt and there was a small group of us who were empty-handed and giving each other the "No fucking way" look. We all bolted to the baggage claim office where the clerk was no longer sensitive to the bristlings of enraged travellers. It was very cut and dry. Our luggage had gone to Chicago. We would fill out a form and maybe receive it via UPS the following night.
I took my forms, climbed into my parents car, sprawled across the back seat and immediately started balling. Since I have lived in NYC by myself, this has been the typical greeting and departure hysterics they have come to know from me and think NYC is evil and causing me to lose my already threadbare sanity.
And on top of that, How, HOW was i supposed to gallavant around Metro-Detroit without my suitcase full of NYC garb? I couldn't afford to buy anything new because this pay check from the comedy club would be my sad, meager income for the week and I had already lost a night of work no thanks to La Guardia. I balled even harder.
Now, I know that I was blowing everything out of proportion. Yes, the 14 hour stay at the airport, terrifying flight and lost luggage added up to mental illness for anyone, but my biggest fear/annoyance was aimed at the prospect of seeming like I had nothing to show for living in NYC. The idea of borrowing an Eddie Bauer sweater from my mother to wear on stage the next night was too much to handle. I left the Midwest to chase bigger dreams and even though nothing bigger had happened yet, I could at least appear to be a New Yorker. I could at least wear an outfit that raised questions like, "Is that Joan Jett?",or "Who is this profound post-modern artist frequenting our humble bar?"
The next day I paced around the house waiting for UPS to show up before I had to head to the club. I had unfortunately worn something like a fashionable sweatsuit for travel purposes the day before so that was also not an option. I reluctantly opened my old closet in my childhood bedroom. It was full of prom and homecoming dresses. Maybe....No. I also had a ridiculous soccer jersey I had purchased in England when I was 17. Maybe....absolutely not.
I moved on to my mother's closet and looked at her age appropriate clothing. Sensible, comfortable and well, frumpy.
I realized that I soon would be dressed exactly like the woman I had been judging at the airport. Maybe she would even be there at the club and think to herself, "Now there is a comic I can relate to---I wonder who emroidered the teddy bears onto her vest?" I tried on the sweater vest and thought to myself that this life was easier. It made more sense. Why get dressed up to the nines when life revolved around church potlucks, and watching TV every night with your husband? Everyone was a good person and judged you for your piety and virtue, not how much your handbag cost. I mean, would anyone care or even notice since I would be blending in anyway? Aren't female comedians supposed to be fashion disasters? Who did I think I was fooling anyway? This is where I am from and it was about time I started having a little bit of hometown pride. The urge to eat casserole was overwhelming.
I was debating between a floor length, plaid jumper with a turtlneck underneath it or a spunky,floral 2-piece pant suit when the doorbell rang. It was UPS. Oh thank Christ. I had some skinny jeans and a military jacket to put on and some people to fool into thinking it was my first time here.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)