You Know You've Made It When...

Because people are like snowflakes, everyone obviously has their own idea of what it is to ‘make it’ in life.

Personally, my “You know you’ve made it when…” is a constantly changing variable that has differed depending on where I am physically and where I am mentally.

For instance, when I was 5 years old, I would have said “You know you’ve made it when you have a pony that can talk and fly”. At 16, I may have said “You know you’ve made it when you can stay out past midnight without your parents being all over your case about curfew.” When I was in college, it was definitely “You know you’ve made it when you can close the Stone Balloon, and still ace an 8am midterm the next day.”

Please note that according to my 5, 16 and 21 year old self, I have yet to “make it”. Yes - my parents still fret if I’m out past midnight. No – ponies cannot fly (the jury is out on the talking bit). And no – I never aced a midterm.

But just as those are slightly ridiculous goals, I have yet to hear more hilarious “You know you’ve made it when…’s” than from the mouths of my contemporaries who live in New York.

The New York City version of “You know you’ve made it when…” is nothing short of comical and nothing above sad.

Allow me to articulate. The following quotes are verbatim:

You know you’ve made it in New York City when…

- Your square footage cannot be confused with your bra size.
- You have a view of something other than a homeless man in an alleyway, masturbating.
- You can afford beer at a bodega.
- The capacity of your kitchen does not cap off at 2.
- You have a kitchen.
- Your bed does not double as your couch, your coffee table or your counter-space.
- You’re not forced to smuggle flasks into bars.
- You can open your front door and your bathroom door, simultaneously.

I never cease to be amazed at what a person will do for a 212 area code (or 917…or even 347 now). I am no exception. Consider this amazing fact: if I had his number, I would call the Devil and sell my soul at a nominal price for one thing. I’d sell it for the one thing that would officially mean that I had made it (for now)…a washer/dryer IN MY APARTMENT.

For those of you who don’t have this luxury – you know exactly what I mean.

The ironic thing about this is that I’ve never been one for laundry. When I was 22, and living in a gigantic house with 3 other people, paying $300 a month my very own room, my very own writing room, the house amenities and a washer/dryer in our enormous kitchen, I never did laundry. I have three girls who can attest to the fact that they forced it upon me on more than one occasion.

I’d like to say I’ve matured since then. I cannot.

In LA, the Laundromat was around the corner. When I first moved out there, I found it mysterious and romantic: the girl in the Laundromat. This quickly fizzled, and it wasn’t long before it became less important to be mysterious and romantic, and more important to just purchase new underwear in an effort to prolong the need for a laundry day.

My hopes were high upon moving to New York, as our building has a laundry room on every other floor. “I’ll do laundry!”, I thought.

Oh, Christy.

In hindsight, my optimism was endearing, but ridiculously unrealistic. I currently bargain with Chris, like “I’ll clean the bathroom if you do the laundry”. Or “I’ll watch a Will Smith and/or Mark Wahlberg-action-movie-marathon with you if you do the laundry.”

Can you fathom how many hours I’ve spent with Will Smith at this point?

I cringe to think of it.

This week, I woke up every day with a shit-eating grin, as there was a chance that we were upgrading to a new apartment within our building. This apartment contained “the coveted”. I was willing to forfeit our city skyline view to finally “make it” in life with a washer/dryer unit IN MY APARTMENT. I was finally going to do laundry. Sometimes.

Realistically, I could not attribute my shit-eating grin to the possibility of a washer/dryer, per se (because really, that would leave me without a single excuse not to do laundry), but to the idea of taking one more step in a positive direction.

During a time in history when we all feel as if we’re sprinting on a treadmill, it is important to be aware of the littler things. There are stepping stones for us to take – we just have to be willing to look down and squint every now and then to see them. Getting a washer and dryer in my apartment wouldn’t to stop my wheels from spinning, but it would be a little step – up.

Today I found out that we’re probably not going to get the apartment, and I’ll be just shy of “making it” this time around. To add insult to injury, we have so much laundry.

But you know what? I’m already thinking about how awesome its going to be when we have a washer/dryer AND a view, AND a pony that can talk.

And just like that, its updated: “You know you’ve made it when you don’t lose the determination to do so.”

And all things considered, going commando for a little bit longer isn’t the worst thing ever.

GERTIE SAYS:

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves and then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos."

- Snoopy

Not So Thrilled: Riding the Rails with the Undead

The New York subway system is an interesting place to be at 11pm on a Tuesday.

I’d forgotten this, considering I am not usually one for the rails. I walk mostly, and if I’m not walking, I’m taking the subway, but rarely that late on a Tuesday. I’m 29. You can bet your bottom dollar that I am two sheets to tomorrow by 11pm on any given night.

So you can imagine my surprise last night to find that I had stepped onto the platform, and into the Dawn of the Dead.

Had it been 1982, I’d have suspected that the Thriller video had just wrapped, and every extra lived in my neighborhood. However, its not 1982, as I would be 2 years old, and the question would not be “Am I riding the subway with Thriller extras?” and more “Where are my parents, and where can I find a clean diaper?”.

Sidenote: If it WAS 1982, MJ would still be alive, and that would be rad. Sigh.

But in all reality, I had to rub my eyes to ensure that I was not, in fact, dreaming.

It was as if it was the witching hour, and all of the dregs of the earth sprouted from the ground, and shuffled their way onto the 4/5 express train. I was sitting next to a girl, who at 4pm, would be a girl a lot like myself: pulled together, articulate, poised (did I mention beautiful?) – but at 11pm, she looked a little like the victim of a mugging.

And then there was the guy in the brown suit sitting diagonally from me. Again, he looked like he was an executive during daylight hours – like someone I could take home to my parents. But now…now he looked like someone my Father would have to stab through the heart with a wooden stake. His executive haircut was tousled and spiking out at points. His tie was missing, shirt halfway un-tucked (How does this happen? I’ve always wondered) and one shoe was untied. His complexion was pale, with the exception of dark – almost purple - half moons under each eye.

The legitimately crazy woman in mismatched socks, with missing teeth and an invisible friend was – in comparison – looking like the sane one.

It was astonishing! There was an African American man sitting in the far corner, wearing a collared short-sleeved shirt, jeans, argyle socks and shoes with tassels – normal. Normal from the neck down. From the neck up, Dude looked like a wax figurine of a lobotomy patient. Slack face, dead eyes…he barely blinked.

Looking around, I realized that everyone in my car was like that: like Zombies. Bodies were loose and swaying and bumping with the rocking of the train, eyes were sullen, faces motionless and sad. At every station, they’d get up slowly and drag towards the door. They’d get off, and would immediately be replaced by another night crawler, shuffling onto the train and plopping into a seat.

What is it about nighttime weekday subway riders? Is it that everyone was like me, and wanted to be in bed? Was it that there was a tragedy above ground that I didn’t know about, and everyone was in shock? Was it because they actually were extras from the Thriller video, and I was in some kind of time warp?

Mind you, these were not threatening, or scary Zombies. These were friendly Zombies that sat, lifelessly (which, in and of itself, is scary), but I felt relatively safe. Granted, I felt like I was dared to spend the night in a graveyard, but safe, nonetheless.

But then something truly frightening happened: I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the subway car window, and I stared at it a minute – not knowing it was me. Because there I was, totally disheveled. The light was such that it cast a horrifying shadow on my face that made my eyes look hallow, my nose look long, and my cheeks, sunken. I was expressionless, and motionless, with the exception of the sway of the train. I looked like one of them. Possibly even worse!

THEY were looking at ME thinking I was of the undead! ME! Here the mugging victim was thinking that I looked like I may have just pulled myself out of a gutter after having been robbed. The guy in the brown suit was thinking that I looked as though I could be a girl he could take home to his parents during daylight hours. Mr. Argyle Socks was certainly thinking that I was coming straight from my Tuesday night lobotomy session!

Horrified, I ran my fingers through my hair, sat up straight, and bolted when we reached my stop – and didn’t look back to see what was after me.

I suppose it just goes to show that before one (me) judges, one (me) should consider their (my) own reflection first.

That said, I would have made a GREAT extra in Thriller. Even at 2 years old.

GERTIE SAYS:

"When you look at yourself from a universal standpoint, something inside always reminds or informs you that there are bigger and better things to worry about."

Albert Einstein, The World as I See It.

Exciting Times: Ants, Aliens and Nic Cage.

It was suggested to me by Bryan Hoffman (the world’s biggest shit-giver) that I blog about “how exciting I am” because I opted to bail on a tequila shot fest with him in order to stay home and watch a horrific Nicolas Cage movie (aren’t they all) with my fuzzy two-legged and four-legged friends.

Granted, it was a Friday night, and as if Nic Cage isn’t a waste of enough time – to waste a coveted weekend night with him, is nothing short of a travesty. I KNOW.

Nonetheless, I stayed home.

I’m not proud to admit this, but we watched “Knowing”, which is a sci-fi movie about the prediction of tragic events, aliens using Earth as an ant farm, bad hair plugs, worse acting and the eventual end of days.

It was all a bunch of bally-hoo. However, the movie did something very interesting: it continued the recent (and seemingly endless) theorizing that Chris and I have been doing about life as we know it, life as we don’t know it, and aliens. The short of it? Chris believes whole-heartedly in aliens. I think I married wrong.

But oddly enough, we’ve been on this topic for months. It started with us seeing a History Channel blurb about the Egyptian pyramids. This prompted Chris to tell me his theory on how aliens beamed down, and showed all of Mesopotamia how to mummify people – which prompted me to think he was kidding. Until I realized he wasn’t.

Coincidentally, we watched “Hornton Hears a Who” shortly thereafter, and with that, our debate on the origin, meaning, and demise of the human race was officially underway.

I think its worth noting here, that neither of us smoke pot.

Anyway, not knowing that “Knowing” was going to crazily Hollywood-up the ending with Arian looking aliens (seriously, I’d have thought they were from Greenwich, CT, had it not been for the black trench coats) taking what seemed like a modern day Noah’s Ark spaceship full of 2 of everything into space, I was actually surprised when the underlying theme of the movie fueled the fire of our ongoing debate.

As opposed to huffing off to bed in a fury because I’d never get those two hours of my life back, we actually launched into a discussion about it. Needless to say, this did not happen after watching, say, “Con Air”.

No, I don’t think that Arian Aliens are going to save a modern “Adam and Eve” from the incineration of the Earth’s surface, and re-plant them on a ‘New Earth’ to begin this whole charade all over again. But -- the idea that we’re being observed like tiny creatures in a glass case in a living room of something huge is intriguing indeed!

I mean, the Who’s existed on a spec, and believed that that spec was the whole Universe…until Hornton heard them. So…whos to say we’re not Whos?

Crazy as it may sound, Nic Cage and his posse of equally embarrassing actors might be on to something, here. While I don’t believe that the world’s tragedies can be predicted, I’d like to believe that we are a part of something bigger. And if that’s the case, there’s a chance that we are, literally, living in a giant ant farm.

Think about it: ants are social. They live in colonies and have jobs like “worker” or “soldier”. Ant societies have division of labor, communication between individuals, and an ability to solve complex problems. Check, check and check. Most importantly, colonies consist mostly of women, with a couple of horny men thrown in there, otherwise known as – get this – “Drones”. Fertile females are “Queens”. This is uncanny, no?

And I’ll bet you anything that ants have no idea that their universe is a tiny spec on the ground of ours.

So if we are, in fact, bigger versions of the ant, then New York is certainly a colony, and I am certainly a “Worker”. I get up, walk from point A to point B, work, get food, work some more and return home. Sometimes, I’ll have drinks with my female friends (one of whom is a Queen!), sometimes, I’ll stay home with my Drone, and sometimes, I should go out on a Friday night for tequila – because the World (our world) could be incinerated or stepped on tomorrow. And since I’m certainly not in the running to make the cut for Noah’s Sky Ark (no one in New York City is), I might as well go out with a buzz on.

So color me “exciting” from here on out, Hoffman. You have Nicolas Cage to thank.

Want game? Get a dog.

It’s a well-known fact that puppies are chick magnets. I am guilty as the biggest sucker for a dude with a puppy.

But did you know that a) that rule of thumb goes for men AND women, and b) it goes for 50lb adult (and painfully adorable) pitbulls?

I, too, was surprised.

Gertie has been a true eye-opener. Not only have I made friends through G (despite the fact that I stopped accepting applications for new friends years ago), but I’m absolutely slaying it with the menfolk!

Case and point: Marisa (babe) and I took Gertie for a walk along the Hudson not so long ago. We see a specimen approaching. And by ‘specimen’, I mean a man (well, he was almost a man) so incredible looking that just the sight of him stopped our conversation. For those of you who know Marisa and I but at all, you understand how hot he was.

Not that Ris and I aren’t total lookers (ahem), but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell this guy would have noticed us without a four-legged prop. He was that off the charts. Young, handsome, chiseled (am I getting carried away here?), and so far out of our league if only for the age difference. BUT – I digress…

As he approaches, he smiles (the most beautiful smile), and says (in the dreamiest of voices) “Great dog.”

Heart…skipping…beats…what do I say? WHAT DO I SAY?!

I beamed back at him, googley-eyed and said (in my dreamiest of voices) “Thanks.”

It took a good minute for Marisa and I to compose ourselves after giggling like schoolgirls. At which point, she said “Dude, we should never go anywhere without your dog.”

Agreed.

Sidenote: Marisa saw this same guy in Whole Foods not so long afterwards, and had no ammo. Sad.

And don’t get all “Oh, I wonder what Chris thinks about this” because those of you who know me, know that I called him immediately after our hot guy encounter to report to him that Gertie is seriously upping my game.

And he was proud – of both of us.

It goes both ways, by the way. Yesterday, for instance, Chris and Gertie met me for an outdoor lunch on Stone Street. I am not even remotely exaggerating when I say that we could not fend off the chicks. There was a swarm of waitresses, passer-bys, hostesses, Ladies Who Lunch - you name it – buzzing around our table throughout the entire meal. And was I invisible? Yes. It was Chris and Gertie and a gaggle of cooing Hotties.

And I was proud – of both of them.

They're, Their and Everythere: The Greatest Response

My post about good 'old fashioned grammar' from yesterday, turned out to be a bee in several readers' bonnets. Much to my surprise, I got an overwhelming response - mostly from people who were POSITIVE that I was secretly referring to them in my long-winded diatribe about the sad state of email affairs.

Rest assured, dear Friends, it was a general observation. Though, yes Mom, you are guilty of all grammatical crimes. But that's why we love you!

I got one, really great and thoughtful reply that I cannot help but to share. For his sake and yours, his identity will remain a mystery - but the below is proof positive that there are some pretty awesome boys out there - if you just know where to look.

(And no, this is not from Chris - though, you are correct - he is a very awesome boy.)

I think all grammar issues and email abuses are derived from the demand for instant communication. It seems today if you don't respond to an email within 5 minutes you are slacking, or even worse - simply shirking responsibility.

I am not sure if this happens to you, I think it might be the bi-product of the large faceless corporate setting, but when did it become acceptable to start a sentence with "I just sent you an email...". Since when and why is it ok to assume that I have read your email in the last 1 minute and am well versed enough on the contained topic of the aforementioned email to begin a conversation on this in a thoughtful way?

Also when did it become OK for people to just walk up and start talking? What happened to the good old days of setting up a meeting or at the very least the nicety of beginning with "Hey, do you have a second?". I can't stand the fact that for some reason, as a society, we seem to be slowly reverting to the days of the caveman, where conversations are a series of grunts and when you want something you simply take it.

I often think about my grandparents and how disappointed they would be with the world around them if they were our age today. At the time it seemed bold for any generation to self proclaim themselves the Greatest Generation, but we have certainly helped solidify the statement as fact by following them up as the worst generation.

I think it must have been awesome to have "dates" and to put on a suit for those dates, and take your date to go dancing. Literally just out dancing (it is worth noting here that I hate dancing completely, but that is beside the point). Perhaps I was born 50 years too late, because I don't like video games, I would gladly read an entire book before I just waited for the movie to come out, I like the idea of opening the door for the lady I am with, I like getting dressed up to take said lady out, I don't need to be instantly connected to the world in every way, and on occasion, I like treating those around me as people rather than obstacles, or simply using the words please and thank you on a regular basis.

And while on the topic of speech, how cool it would be to "narro latin volubiliter" (translation: speak Latin fluently)?

So while it may have been bold and pre-mature - I say, The Greatest Generation indeed.

Amen to that!