The Let-Down Generation

Note: I actually wrote this about a week ago, so the references to the Yankees game are obviously antiquated. But still, it deals with issues that aren't going to go away. Issues that you, WMWC readers, might also be working through.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly grow up any more, I have. Without going into too many details, all three of my parents (that includes the regular kind and the step kind) are now out of work, the victims of layoffs and cutbacks and other frightening words that invoke strong feelings of being powerless at the chopping block. The Economy, which always seemed like a mythical beast I couldn't quite comprehend -- something out of a Madeleine L'Engle book, perhaps -- is now all too real, too tangible for my tastes.

Empty pockets. What now?

I got home from work last night smelling of buttercream, with bruise-like marks on my arm that were nothing more than smudges of blue frosting, and I collapsed on the couch to watch Game 6 of the Yankees-Phillies World Series. The Yankees were already up (by how many runs I can't remember now) and I stared at the screen in a shock-induced temporary coma as I grappled with the idea that now it was official. The layoffs at Time Inc. I had read about on New York Magazine's blog were not just another news story about the impending death of all print media. I had pictured faceless suits being handed pink slips. In fact, it was my dad. And he probably wasn't wearing a suit, though I'm sure he was more than likely wearing a silly hat.

Onscreen, Andy Pettitte left the game in a torrent of flashbulbs, tipping his cap to the crowds. Andy, with his grecian features and menacing stare, whom I have watched exhibit a killer pickoff move since I was a child. Later, Damaso Marte struck out Chase Utley in a grand display of dominance and soul-crushing (the good kind). And I just watched the spectacle, not even moving to take off my hat or my shoes, transfixed by the display on the screen and the pulsing heartbeat of the new stadium. If I didn't have anything in that moment, I did have this game and these players and the hope that they might win it for New York and, more importantly it seemed, for me.

I have always said that I want exactly two things out of life: I want to do what I love, and I want to be with people I love. I want love in my life -- the kind that is so powerful it makes you wonder what you would do without the object of your affection, how you would go on living and breathing. And by that, I don't just mean reliance on another person. I mean a passion, something you have found that you can't seem to replicate anywhere else in the world.

I don't need anything else if I can have those two things.

Sadly, they're being threatened. I'm about to graduate in May, which means I'm about to have (or, perhaps, am having) the usual "What Do I Do Now?" quarter-life crisis that every other person my age has. But I'm about to have that crisis amidst the worst job market the country has seen in my lifetime (I may be wrong... I'm not a history major, so don't quote me). I don't have any money saved and my lease on my apartment will be up May 1st. So, essentially, in April of 2009 I need to figure out where I want to go and what I want to do, knowing full well that my family probably can't provide a safety net or monetarily keep me afloat until I land on my feet. This is the first time in my entire life -- and this probably goes for the rest of my generation -- that I DON'T feel generally safe.

I grew up in the suburbs, in Connecticut, where affluence was measured in "play rooms" and swimming pools and yards and labradors. But what we all mostly had in common, regardless of whether we were the wealthiest or the less-wealthy, was a feeling of security and reassurance. We hadn't seen anything really bad. We were going to go to high school, to college, and then things would work out. "You can be anything you want to be," they told me. And I never doubted for a second.

Well, world, I know what I want to be. I know what I want to do and exactly how I want to earn my money. And the only thing that makes me want to give up that dream is the idea that, through the ultimate sacrifice (no, not death...) I might find some sort of economic stability. I could possibly AFFORD an apartment, a haircut, a gym membership, and to shop at Whole Foods if only I abandoned my silly goals and accepted a life outside of this teeming, racing, beautiful city. If I moved back to the suburbs, if I based my life on a 9-5 job. Did people feel entitled to their crazy dreams during the Great Depression? No, they felt lucky if they could feed their family and avoid the breadlines.

Has it gotten to the point where I should no longer feel entitled to my crazy dreams?

It certainly seems that way. It's hard to sleep with the churning knot of fear in my stomach of what happens next? I knew I chose a difficult path when I chose it, but I couldn't have predicted just how much more difficult extenuating circumstances would have made it by the time I was on the brink of really going for it. All these years when I thought it was outrageous to work as an actor for a living, I didn't realize that people were doing it and being successful, just not quite as successful as, say, financiers. Now the financiers aren't making money... imagine how much less the actors must be making.

So I guess what the title of this post refers to is the Great Loss of Security. The economy and the country just don't keep chugging along regardless of what anyone does. The balance of the world is more fragile than I ever thought it was, and the scales could tip at any moment.

I'm not in dire straits -- not yet. The Boyfriend has assured me that he will never let me go homeless, that I can (metaphorically) stay on his couch if it gets to that point, which is a kind gesture. Plus, I don't think I'd look very good as a street urchin. I mean, my bangs are kinda shaggy right now, but if you dumped me on a street with a Dunkin' Donuts cup and told me to sing for my supper (literally) I think the bangs would become the least of my worries. Regardless, I'm at a crossroads with a big decision to make. Follow my practical, rational side and abandon the dreams? Or keep believing, like I always have, that I'll be the exception to the rule.

I'll keep you updated. I'm still working on it.

Worth My Weight In Buttercream

It's only Tuesday, but I'm already beat. Here I am, back in the world of the overworked.

It's a necessity, really. My mom is out of a job, the economy is dismal, and because I decided that I really do enjoy eating and being able to buy myself toothpaste, I got a job. Never mind that NYU offered me work-study money that I will never receive because they're in a hiring freeze. Never mind that I'm a double major with a schedule that reflects as much and a SENIOR RECITAL (in all caps, because that's how it exists in my brain) inching ever closer in my calendar. I had to find some sort of job, and find it fast.

Of course, I turned to cupcakes.

Or, really, cupcakes came to me. My mom, who graduated from the Institute of Culinary Education back when it was Peter Kump's (sorry to date you, Mom) received a job posting through ICE for a Sales Associate/Cupcake Froster and passed it along to me because, well, someone who has owned their own restaurant (her) is clearly overqualified for the job. But you know who's not? Me. The 21-year-old student and Cupcake Lover with a big, dimpled smile and a genuinely friendly demeanor.

So I applied. I interviewed. And I got the job on the spot. What can I say? Apparently working for Martha, The Queen of All Things Domestic pretty much qualifies you to hawk cookies and cupcakes behind a counter. Who knew? Although I am not, as it turns out, frosting cupcakes, I am SELLING the cupcakes, and that is fine by me. I also mop the floors when I stay till we close the store, and I almost always accidentally splash mop water on my face. Mmmm nice.

But I'm okay with a faceful of mop water... really. I grew up around this business. After my mom went to cooking school, the kitchen at home became a different sort of environment. We were taught to hold a knife vertically when we walked and to hand it, handle first, to whoever was requesting it. If I ever passed someone whose back was turned (and by someone, I mean my mother, my brother, or possibly the two unsuspecting dogs) I was to say "Behind you!" with enough gusto that they could hear it and know I was, in fact, behind them. We always had massive, industrial-size boxes of saran wrap that put limp, unsticky supermarket wrap to shame. We were told to wash our hands for 26 seconds as we said the alphabet, taught to turn the handles of the pots to the side so that they didn't stick out and endanger anyone, instructed to curl our fingers when chopping anything, so that if we were sliced we didn't lose a fingertip. And in the event that we did, we had finger cots in the medicine cabinet. Don't know what those are? Now you do.

Finger cots: for when you don't want blood to get in the food.

When I was young, I made my mom a book of "Good Chef/Bad Chef" helpful hints. Good chef, of course, brought his meat to temperature and kept his raw chicken far from his mise en place and the other components of his dish. Bad chef didn't wash his hands or know how to keep his souffle from falling. In middle school, I could have told you the symptoms of E. coli and the various ways and reasons you might get it. Later, when I worked in my mom's bakery and after, her restaurant, I learned the ins and outs of counter service and small restaurant work. I am fluent in POS systems. I know just how many crumbs one croissant can make when handled by a small child (Hint: A Lot.) And I also know for a fact that the phrase "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen" should not be taken lightly. It is hot and tough on the aptly-named hot line. If you can't take it, maybe you should be a pastry chef. (Ohhhhhh snap.)

Which brings me back to my cupcakes-and-mop-water duties. The place I work is not a bakery -- the baking is done off-premises. The cookies are tasty, but that's not why people spend $75 a pop on twelve -- YES you read that correctly -- twelve sugar cookies shaped like "Designer Handbags." This is more a novelty store than a restaurant. A place where adults' eyes widen just as much as the snot-covered children they bring with them. A place where a vanilla cupcake with vanilla buttercream can look so enticing under the bright lights with the frosting dyed hot pink that a typical New Yorker will sit, munch, and lick their fingers after picking at the crumbs.

And my job is to sell the fantasy. Today, wearing my uniform (a HOT PINK T-shirt, of course) and pigtails under my little hat, I sold my own sugar-coated smile along with the iced cookies. Sure, it's disconcerting to know that one hour of my time is worth approximately three and a half squirrel-shaped cookies (with glittery tails, no less) but I'll take it. You do what you gotta do. And I don't mind it. I like being back in a place where the aprons come back from the laundry wrapped in plastic. I like the feel of bakery tissue between my fingers, the way it feels to wipe down a coffee station with a cloth towel. Sure, I'm tired after sweeping and mopping and generally being around the scent of sugar and butter (tonight I took off my shoes when I got home and found a green sprinkle between my toes) but it's a nice job and I will work hard. Because that's the number one thing I learned growing up around well-worn recipe books and mixers big enough to hold a small child... If it's your job, you do it, and you do it well.

What Goes Around Comes Back Around... To Canarsie

Cupcake Fans, this is one for the ages.

On this blog, I've written about a number of topics, ranging from spilled coffee and broken hearts to stripper poles and "rocking the log cabin." (No really, that's in a blog post. Check it out for yourselves.) I've also, it seems, focused on some "Only in New York" moments that I have encountered since being here, since I first arrived at my NYU dorm with a typical Target extra-long sheet set and a whole lot of incorrect assumptions about college, this city, and life after high school in general.

And now, for those of you who hold the assumption that good things never happen, that New Yorkers are heartless beasts who would never dream of giving up a subway seat to a pregnant lady or helping the elderly or even extending a tiny bit of kindness, bite your tongues. Every one of you. There is kindness seeping from every nook and cranny of this sensational city. And before you gripe about the one rude person who pushed past you this morning, listen to what I think is, quite honestly, an exhilarating "Only In New York Story." And it's one hundred percent true.

First off, I haven't been blogging recently because my computer has been in a very sad, pretentious place known as the "SoHo Apple Store" where so-called "geniuses" wear witty shirts and try to get you to trade in your perfectly reasonable little iPod for some new gadget that hasn't yet had a kink-free incarnation. But that's besides the point. On Monday, I gleefully stepped out of the store with my laptop in tow, knowing that NOW finally, after $300 worth of repairs, my laptop would once again function as a laptop. It would recognized my new battery. It was clean, shiny, new, beautiful, wonderful. And in seconds, it was gone.

Well, not seconds. Minutes, maybe. After a trip to Whole Foods to pick up salmon I was planning to lovingly glaze and cook for The Boyfriend and myself, I took the V train and, consequently, found myself walking through the annals of the the 6th Avenue L stop when I heard that familiar noise -- the steaming, stalling sound of the subway waiting at the platform. I walked briskly, thinking I might catch it. As I reached the closing doors, I swung my hand out in between them, a knee-jerk reaction that might stop an elevator. It was then I realized that the hand I had put out to stop the subway doors was tightly gripped around the handle of a laptop case. I pulled my hand back, trying to prevent damage to my laptop. The computer itself exited the doors, safe and sound. The shoulder strap attached to the case did not.

I realized right away that the shoulder strap was wedged between the doors and that they were firmly closed. To my right, people watched as I tugged at the laptop case, thinking the doors would reopen. They didn't. The train began to move and I moved with it, grabbing at the grey laptop case, screaming at the train conductor along with other cries from my fellow straphangers. He watched me as I stumbled, weighing the option of letting myself be dragged with the subway train before I finally let go, and then he drove away.

With my MacBook dangling from the outside of the train.

I watched it disappear into the tunnel, watched as the train conductor looked me dead in the eyes and kept moving. The image is blurred at the edges in my memory, mostly because it's the moment when hysteria kicked in.

I decided to run to 8th Avenue. I'm not sure why. The train wasn't headed in that direction, and I could have just as quickly taken an L train. Either way, I got confused in my hysterics (sobbing while running down the street, saying "F*ck!" a lot, to the chagrin of fellow pedestrians) and somehow managed to make my way back into the same damned 6th Avenue station after much running, sweating, and panting. It was then I decided to take the subway to 8th Avenue and talk to someone -- my rational side and my optimistic side were conveniently remembering an article I read once about the subway Lost and Found, where items such as expensive technology and prosthetic limbs are dropped off and never recovered by their owners, simply because they don't think anyone could possibly have been so nice. I wondered, perhaps, if my laptop (had it not been crushed by the train and mistaken for cheese by the third-rail-dwelling rats) would find its way there too. Either way, I had to try.

I was guided by an orange-vested MTA worker to a secret door at the end of the platform and, had I not been completely and utterly dismayed at my loss, I probably would have found the whole thing bizarre. If I wasn't choking back heavy sobs, I might have likened the room behind the door to a glimpse into Santa's workshop or a peek behind the wizard's curtain -- except dirty, foul-smelling, and not particularly exciting at all. Inside, a woman with very long fingernails and a half-knitted pink scarf gave me the number for the lost and found. An MTA employee, also in the office, said he would "Check the tracks" on his way to Canarsie. He then asked me if the laptop was expensive... to which I responded with a tearful "It's--" sniffle "--the only laptop I have!"

After riding to Union Square, speaking to a police officer who told me "Things like that don't really turn up again" (gee, thanks), and checking the platform for a stray laptop, I momentarily gave up. There was nothing I could do but take the subway home and glaze my stupid salmon... salted, of course, by the bitter tears of despair.

Walking in the door of my apartment, I tried to regain composure but the sniffles and gasps betrayed me almost immediately. The Boyfriend, on the phone with his sister when I threw down my things and covered my face, hung up and grabbed me, pulling me into a bear hug. I explained what happened while being somewhat distracted by the odd fear that a rogue drip of snot would sneak out of my nose and he would finally see me at my worst, my ugliest, and my most downtrodden. I sat down, my head in my hands, when my phone started to buzz.

Thinking it was Mr. I'll Check The Tracks For Ya', I ran to answer it.

"Yes" I said, when he asked if it was me.

The gruff voice on the other line continued: "This is dispatch in Canarsie for the L train. We have your laptop, somebody dropped it off."

Someone, some WONDERFUL soul, had delivered my laptop to the depths of Brooklyn. Delirious with hunger, The Boyfriend and I hopped onto the next L we could grab, while I made sounds that straddled the line between heaving sobs and hearty guffaws. On the train, I crossed my fingers that this wasn't all a joke, that my laptop wasn't somehow in multiple pieces with cartoonish subway tracks running across the shards of hard drive.

It wasn't. It was working, good as new, and even the case was unscathed, about as dirty as it had been before. Before the train had even left Canarsie, I opened the computer and held my breath as I pushed the power button. As the screen lit-up, the famous MacIntosh reboot noise sounded like heavenly angels singing a hallelujah chorus.

I doubt that my own personal angel will read this blog. But I can only hope that this piece of good fortune is in response to something that I did sometime... that a piece of kindness I gave to someone once came back to be my saving grace. The Boyfriend seems to think that "this would only happen to someone as nice" as me. I personally think that this would only happen to someone as clumsy as I am. But no matter -- somewhere, there is a New Yorker who looked out for me. It's a tough, gritty city, I'll admit, but the symphony of kindness somehow rose above the everyday din of apathy. Thank you, NYC.

How Slim is Slim? And Other Questions

How slim is slim?

This is the question I've been asking myself for the past week. I'm in a class this semester called Audition Skills, in which we learn Skills for Auditioning (surprise surprise). The point of the class is to start translating all of the actor/singer vocabulary we've learned into showbiz vocab. Example: I'm using nasal resonance and bringing my chest voice up while still allowing a little head voice to influence the sound.

In showbiz terms, I'm "belting my face off."

Our most recent homework assignment was to prepare for a season of shows at a regional theatre slash summer stock type thing. The shows were varied on purpose, so that we would have to deal with the pressures of preparing two short pieces in order to show contrast of both the voice and the acting abilities. We were also given what are called the breakdowns for each of the shows and which roles they were looking to cast. One caught my eye immediately, and it was from a show most, if not all of you, are probably familiar with: Grease. Keep in mind that my professors took some of these breakdowns straight out of Backstage magazine, so these are things people really ask for in a job posting.

It read as follows:

Sandy: female, looks 18, the classic all-American, girl-next-door beauty, naive and thinks the best of everyone she meets, capable of turning into a hot rock 'n' roll babe at the end, lyric soprano with a high belt, should be under 5'7", slim and very pretty.

First off, for those of you who are not actors or singers or performers, think about this for a second. Can you imagine a job posting that, instead of asking for "Experience with Microsoft Excel a plus," requires "girl-next-door beauty" and the capability to turn into a "hot rock 'n' roll babe." It's a strange, twisted, yet cool industry, I know. When I first read the description, my initial thoughts were, "Wow, those words describe me." I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but what I'm really referring to are the personality points. I am somewhat naive, very all-American, and almost always assume the best when I meet people. If I met Danny, I'd totally have fallen in love with him over the summer, expected him to be my buttoned-up boyfriend when school started, and would have been heartbroken and betrayed when he acted as though what we had under those docks wasn't anything special. Plus, I happen to think I have a little naughty glimmer in my eye that hints towards -- dare I say it? -- rock 'n' roll babe. I AM Sandy. Sandy is Me.

Except for one word, one four-letter, self-esteem killing, she-devil of a word. SLIM. Slim.

Slim. What IS slim? What constitutes this word, this quality? Sure, we can quantify the phrase under 5'7" but can we also quantify slim in a sort of body-height-to-weight-ratio? Is there a specific definition for the word, something along the lines of "Slim, adj., stick-like, pencil-thin, underfed, chest ribs must be visible"?

Or, more importantly, am I too fat to play Sandy Dumbrowski in Grease?

Don't answer that question, please. It's rhetorical. Trying to answer it also brings up all kinds of questions of social and historical context. Because as far as I know, the definition of "slim" in the era of Marilyn Monroe is quite different from the definition of the word in this, the era of Spanx and "Skinny Bitch." Does slim refer to a streamlined, muscular physique? I wouldn't think of Sandy as a toned, hard-bodied gym rat. Where do we draw the line between slim and just... well... normally fit?

The other day, I met with my journalism class to do an assignment that included "field work" on Park Avenue. One of the girls in the class joined us in our group, fresh off the subway, with a big smile on her face. "Guys!" she said, "That's Andy Samberg over there, on that corner!" We all looked and, lo and behold, it was he.

But he wasn't alone. The young, geekily handsome star of such Saturday Night sensations as "Dick in a Box" and "Jizz In My Pants" was cuddling a blonde with the physique of a 12-year-old ballerina. She had a long mane of blonde hair tied up at the top of her head, and it ran down her back like a straw-colored stream, coming to rest somewhere below her shoulder blades. It was windy, her skirt was short, and so I can honestly say to you that I've seen London, I've seen France, and I have seen Andy Samberg's girlfriend's underpants. (Truth be told, I've seen only the last of the three). But that's besides the point. What I was most interested in was the commentary...

"Ugh, she looks like she's 12, she's sooo skinny." (A variation of this was said by many of the girls in the group.)

"She's probably a model, or a ballerina, but she's not that tall. And her posture's kind of hunched."

"Anyone who's not Amish and has matured beyond the age of 11 should seriously not have hair that long." (Me.)

"Maybe she's his sister. Except he just kissed her on the lips. Ew."

"Of COURSE Andy Samberg would date a model. Of course."

"Isn't she cold? Her skirt is so short."

And so on...

The reason I bring this up is because every girl in the group was -- as I put it right then and there -- seriously hatin'. And I'm not trying to get up on my high horse here. I was, like, Queen of the Haters. I had nothing nice to say about her chest ribs, her ponytail, and the circles under her eyes we saw when she crossed the street and we actually realized she looked 35, not 12, but was even skinnier than we thought. Although, for the record, I did say I liked her purse AND her shoes. But no one could quite handle the fact that Andy, a semi-celeb with big teeth and floppy brown hair, seemed to be attracted to a twig who probably wouldn't know a muffin top if it plopped its way onto her (non-existent) breakfast plate or walked past her, spilling over a pair of too-tight jeans.

Oddly enough, this is neither a post about my desire to embrace my natural shape, or to dispel of it and lose ten pounds. This is more about my obsession with the look of other peoples' bodies. I am the first to admit that I study bodies, mostly female, and am fascinated by the shapes -- by the curves, the faint outlines of muscle beneath T-shirts, the slight crinkle of a patch of cellulite. Whether or not I'm weighing the shape of my own body against the one I'm studying, I'm still obsessed, still examining, still transfixed by shape.

I think that this curiosity about body shape and, especially, body image, really informs my idea of femininity. We are, as women, taught that shattering the glass ceiling is our daily struggle, our life's goal. We are also taught, of course, that raising children is just as much a priority as any of that. It is a blessing and a curse to "be able to do anything we want" because we are still expected to do what we used to have to do. We are defined by our constraints, how we flee them, and how we adhere to them. And I guess that's exactly what is in store for me in the industry I've chosen. I will submit myself to the panel behind the table who will judge whether or not I am "slim" enough for young, innocent Sandy. I will lose the ten pounds if I have to, tighten the biceps, dye the hair... all if it gets me work. If it facilitates doing what I love, I'll play the game and I will accept being defined by these constraints.

Femininity is, in my opinion, about embracing, escaping, breaking, and even building these walls, ceilings, and floors. There are sacrifices -- shatter the glass ceiling and perhaps you lose the picket fence. But I don't pretend I can have it all. These are my constraints -- these Backstage breakdowns -- and I'll embrace them if only until I can escape them.

Remedial Math, or "How Did It Come to This?"

This morning, I got off the subway at 8th street, New York's only stop that has mosaics underground proclaiming "New York University!" with happy tiled faces of students presumably milling about Washington Square. I was pretty occupied with hating the weather and all the humidity I thought had been mercifully chased away by September as I walked along towards Silver room 203... or, as I would later consider it, towards Uncertain Death.

You might know it by its more common name: Laboratory for "Natural Science I: How Things Work."

Yes, ladies, gentlemen... and others. (The GLBT at NYU is endlessly more popular than our baseball team. I'm totally cool with it if you're a dude-lady, or vice versa). Here's the deal: I'm taking Physics. I am taking Physics for the first time since, oh, I don't know... JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. Do you know what else I did in junior year of high school? I went to prom. I got my driver's license. I wore hideous sequined flats and thought leggings under denim mini skirts were a good idea. I WORE POLO SHIRTS. I spent at least three days of the week playing the saxophone in the dingy high school band room and whispering rumors down the rows of instruments about who did what in the band room closet (hint: it was sexual.) In other words, I was approximately, like, three billion light years from where I am now, sitting in Brooklyn, about to finish my undergraduate degree. Yes, that is the last time I did physics.

So today, when I swung my patterned-tights-clad legs over a stool at a lab table, I felt more uncomfortable and unnatural than I have in the past three years of college. We all went around the room and introduced ourselves as our TA, a tall, bespectacled asian man with the same proclivity for social situations as a smooth piece of balsa wood, awkwardly flailed his hands around while he spoke and tried to comment on our choice of a "favorite performance" we'd seen in the past 5 years. Me: "Well, I saw Geoffrey Rush in "Exit the King." That was really awesome." Him: "Yeah, uhh, yeah totally I think you should all, uh, like see a musical in the city before you die." Uh huh. Exit the King is a piece of absurdist theatre by Eugene Ionesco. Not a musical. Not even close. One girl even had the audacity to name "A Walk to Remember" as her favorite movie, and NOT EVEN IRONICALLY. God, freshmen. When will they learn that at NYU, the right amount of pretentiousness is everything!

Sorry, I'm off topic. What I want to tell you, loyal readers, is about what happened next. After I eye-rolled my way through some really uninspired introductions. Somehow, amidst a sea of "uhhh"s and "yeah"s our TA managed to explain that todays lab was a math review.

Wait, math review?

Yes. A Review of Math. Before I further explain this, let me review the math that I have done since the days of high school:

- Tip calculations, as in "How much should I give this bartender after he gives me this ice cold brew?"

- Clothing sales, like "How much does this dress cost if it's 20% off and I also have a coupon and almost no money in my bank account?"

- Train schedules -- "If The Boyfriend is leaving at 3:53 and his train gets in 44 minutes after that, how long must I wait to blow dry my hair so that it is at peak performance when he walks in the door?"

Yup. This is the math I do in my every day life.

So, of course, when I turned the pages and saw such horrifying words as "logarithms!" and "sine! cosine! HYPOTENUSE!" I was overcome by a cold sweat and an overwhelming urge to vomit on the beakers beside me. For the past three years, I have been studying Neapolitan chords and ledes and interview tactics and Uta Hagen. For me, final assignments included papers that, I kid you not, were based less on what we wrote about than how honest we were about our feelings. I do music, I do writing. I do classes where we analyze text, where we conceptualize and shit.

You know what I don't do? I don't do logarithms.

Somehow, (and I don't know how), I survived. With the help of the freshman across from me I realized I am not as math-inept as I thought, only severely out of practice. "Oh yeah," I thought to myself, "Riiiiight, all I have to do is multiply both sides by 2" or whatever. I had to remind myself, rather quickly, that at some point I was taking calculus and knew what these words meant. "You're not an idiot," I assured myself. "You're just an artist now."

However, part of my writing this blog post is as a big, hearty, farewell. I can say with almost complete certainty that this class doesn't actually require most of what we did on that math review. This is very basic physics we're talking about, that requires more thinking and using common sense than actual hard core algebra. So, with that being said, I would like to say a "Smell ya later" (or, more appropriately, "Smell ya never!") to math of the more difficult, less useful kind. I will probably never again in my life do this stuff, this algebra stuff. I am on to bigger and better things that I actually enjoy and don't make me want to puke all over my TI-83. In fact, I never want to see another TI-83 again in my life, unless it is in the context of looking over the shoulder of my child one day as (s)he struggles with his or her own algebra homework. And even in that case, I hope our conversation goes something like this:

"Mooooom, I don't understand! Can you help me with my homework?"

"Sorry, kid. I don't do math."

You Know You're a New Yorker When...

...You have built an enormous tolerance to crazy.

You know you've lived in the city long enough to be influenced by it when you realize things that would have freaked you out, scarred you for life, and given you nightmares are now commonplace daily occurrences, things you try to block out with music in your ears and a book to read on the subway.

But every now and then, of course, they get to you... just a little bit. I thought about this the other day (where else?) but on the subway. I chose my car carefully because I saw an empty bench through the window from the platform and thought "Hooray! My ride on the train will be comfortable and enjoyable. I'll read my book and people watch a little, all while resting my feet on my way home from running errands." It was all planned, all arranged. Until, of course, I realized from inside the subway car that the "empty" bench was actually a buffer zone for a man who was having a full-on attack of some unidentifiable yet terrifying mental illness and no one knew what to do but to give him a pole and a corner of the subway to keep him at bay. All of us sat, some reading, some listening to music, some simply pretending they were doing either of those things, while this small man in flared jeans kicked the subway doors, crouched, screamed, kicked some more, and convulsed, all accompanied by sounds he was making with his mouth, beatbox-style, that resembled the soundtrack to a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

He didn't seem interested in getting off at any of the stops, or in interacting with any human beings -- not that we gave him much choice. All of us, eyes down, were clearly afraid that he would go beyond fart noises and screaming outbursts. I think, beneath the bent-back pages of our magazines, we were all shaking in our boots that he was going to open the sliding metal door and throw himself onto the tracks to rid himself of whatever demon was in there. But we didn't outwardly show this fear. Instead we sat, quietly, in our spots, giving him space... because we didn't know what else TO do.

Some might call this apathy. About a week ago I saw a segment on a news program that was purposely set up to show just how rude New Yorkers are. An attractive blonde anchor dressed up like a pregnant woman, dropped some bags, and looked to see who helped her and who didn't. Unsurprisingly (or surprisingly, depending on how you look at it) the results were mixed. Some people ignored her feeble attempts to bend over her faux-bump and pick up her broken shopping bags. Others immediately rushed to her rescue. When her male colleague did the same thing (minus the preggers part, of course) pretty much everyone ignored her. Of course, the point of this was that New Yorkers Are So Rude and no one helps anyone anymore. It's a cruel, cruel world and no one cares for anyone but themselves.

I don't agree. I think New Yorkers are totally kind and helpful when you need them to be. Whenever I need a pick-me-up, there's always someone complimenting me (and not in a sketchy, "Hola Guapa" way, but in a "Wow, cute hat!" kind of way.) Anyone who I ask for directions or for assistance is quick to help and point me in the right direction. But if anyone ignored me, I wouldn't be offended for a second. In a city like this, it's all about self-preservation. If some guy dropped his briefcase in the middle of the sidewalk, sure, I would try to help him gather his papers. But when every other person on the sidewalk is all like "Hey, Save the Whales!" or "Where Do You Get Your Hair Cut?" we HAVE to tune out our fellow human beings or we'll go insane.

One time, I rode the subway home late at night next to a homeless man who was using the seat next to me as his bed for the night. He was fast asleep, had only a suitcase to his name, and smelled pungent. His fingernails were black from dirt and the creases on his neck were also filled with the same black residue. Until then, it hadn't occurred to me that without a place to bathe, every crevice on a body could fill with grime. I thought about leaving him money, about putting it on his suitcase for when he woke up, until I remembered I had no cash and that whatever I could give him (ten dollars maybe? I'm not doing so hot monetarily right now...) would maybe feed him for a day, but wouldn't get him a home or a job or a steady way to support himself. I wanted to cry, fought back tears, watching him sleep with his head against the metal pole, but I couldn't. If I cried every time I saw some unfortunate person without clothes or food, or a man kicking the subway in a schizophrenic outburst, I wouldn't survive.

I guess my way of dealing with it is writing it here and knowing that I'm not alone. Since I've been in the city -- three years and counting -- we've hit an economic decline that has affected this city and its inhabitants. I swear to you there are more homeless people and more sad, disillusioning sights to see everywhere you go, month by month. But I know at heart that we're all sad about it, everyone on the subway with me, everyone who passes the outstretched plastic cups jingling nickels and dimes. Certain sights and people stick with you, like the dirt-stained man whose life I can't even begin to imagine but whose path crossed with mine while he was asleep, unaware I was examining his fingernails. Whoever he is, I hope he's sleeping in a warm place when it gets colder out. I hope his life takes a turn for the best. I hope the psychopath in the L train made it safely to wherever he was trying to go. I see you -- WE see you, we do -- we just pretend not to, and we're sorry.

Friday Night Insights

I'm mostly writing this post so that on my list of things I did today I can add "Wrote a blog post" and feel less... I don't know... unproductive? Mopey? Slobbish? I mean, I DID do like a truckload of laundry, (Thought for today: Laundry looks really poetic flopping around in the dryer when accompanied by a provocative soundtrack) but really I've just been caught in a reverie of "To get things done or NOT get things done?" ...aaaand I think I went the way of Not.

Of course, an unproductive day for me still involves a lot of thinking... mulling, if you will. Sometimes I feel like I have so many creative juices inside me they just don't exactly know where to slosh themselves, like the water that washes up into elaborate sand projects little kids make but finds itself getting warm as it sits in a puddle somewhere a few feet from the ocean. I have so many IDEAS and IMPULSES and desires to write -- to write music, to write words, -- as well as desires to sing, but nothing I already have in my Black Binders (capitalized, of course, because they are tantamount to My Bible. If my Black Binder is lost, so am I.) I need school to start, I need to be pushed to create and produce and DO SOMETHING. Or else I sit and watch Say Yes to the Dress all day. Pathetic. Although it IS helping me get an idea of what not to wear on my wedding day. As in, I wouldn't be caught dead in a ball gown, thankyouverymuch.

But you'll be glad to know that I have done a few things I can be proud to tell you about in this blog. Number One: Enhancing Sports Knowledge. I spent two hours in a Barnes and Noble reading Football for Dummies. I'll tell you, the prose is not exactly top notch (but then again, who expects Howie Long to be the next Hemingway? Not I...) but I DID learn a few valuable things that are easing me along the path of Football Literacy. My time spent in B&N was one of those excellent "What are people thinking about me right now?" moments as I sat at a table, a strong cup of burned Starbucks coffee in my hand, holding Football for Dummies and Cosmo magazine at the same time. These were the thoughts I imagined swimming around me:

"Wow, that girl is so transparently desperate to pick up a man in a bookstore." (A female perspective, of course.)

or

"Damn, football and sex tips? That chick is hot." (A straight male perspective.)

In fact, what they DIDN'T know was that Cosmo was just my cover, my trench coat if you will, donned to hide the naked truth of my visit. I didn't even leaf through the glossy pages, didn't even attempt to discover what the new, hot erogenous zone on the male body is (honestly, ladies, if we haven't found them ALL by now, what have we been doing since the beginning of time and procreation?) Instead, I stayed glued to the responsibilities of the quarterback, to the different types of "backs," to the various ways you can be penalized. Admittedly, now that I know Mark Sanchez is brawny AND brainy (he has to know ALL of the plays in the big scary playbook!!), I'm considering entering Jets fandom more by the day. However, I suspect that being a Jets fan is a lot like being a Mets fan... consistently disappointing and thoroughly disheartening. So I'll weigh my decision heavily before committing. Regardless, I MUST understand football. My quest for Sports Knowledge has led me to a serious quandary... now that baseball season is nearing its end, SportsCenter is all "Football this!" and "Football that!" SportsCenter is, like, my most frequently watched show. I can watch hours upon hours of it. How can I watch if all of their main stories sound like gibberish because I don't understand how one can get a "safety"? I'll have to give up and get entangled in The Real Housewives of Atlanta!

This picture is completely gratuitous and only on here for your viewing pleasure. Me-ow. I considered a topless pic from gaysports.com (HA) but thought, no, we're classier than that. We like clothing here on WMWC. And by we, I mean me. And by "We like clothing," I mean "This is not ladies porn. This is serious blogging." Wow, too much caption? Yeah, I think so.

Ehem! Where was I? Oh right, Sports Knowledge is taking over my life and driving me to the Sports section at Barnes & Noble because apparently I can't even read real literature anymore. Ugh. However, on another, cheerier note, I did something else this past week that I consider a very "Me" thing to do. Something cool, a little artsy, a little dangerous (if you consider paint fumes dangerous, which most people don't.) I took a stencil and a can o' gold spray paint to the wall above my bed, painting a mural of golden leaves blowing their way across the wall. I think I have a bit of a leaf obsession (leaf headband? leaf bracelet? leaf necklace? leaf WALLS?) but I find them earthy and beautiful, both in shape and in color. Wearing leaf adornments makes me feel like a goddess or a grecian urn... or a goddess ON a grecian urn (ooh, did you like that?) But nevertheless, now I have fingers covered in spray paint residue but a very cool, crafty looking room. Martha would be proud, I believe.

Since this is turning into a hodge-podge of ramblings, my "I Want to Write a Novel" pipe dream most definitely stalled only moments after it began, but the desire is back! A friend of mine who is an avid blog reader specifically told me he would love to see me write a novel, and demanded that I shut myself up and write like crazy in order to do so. Hearing that made the gears start turning again, and I'm hoping that I can get something going even though my schedule this year will be hectic. So stay tuned, the dream hasn't died quite yet. Someday you'll hear about my novel, or my SOMETHING because these creative juices are just dying to burst out, Gushers-style, with none of the Head Turning Into Fruit and all of the "It'll Blow You Away!"