A Mexican Man and his teeth....

So I was heading out of my house yesterday...VERY early evening hours...trying to get some errands done before the Halloweeners were out and about. I walk down the end of my street and see one of the strangest things. In one of the little driveways on my quiet little street, I see a mexican man passed out flat on his back, in between his legs is his cellphone which appears to have lost it's battery. So I start to worry...is this man drunk? Did this man get mugged? Is he alive? I see his beer gut moving which means that yes, he is still breathing. He doesn't look distressed. He looks like he is having a sweet sleep there on the sidewalk. I am just baffled. This wouldn't stun me so much in midtown, or even where I used to live, in Sunset Park, Brooklyn where I know there were plenty of drunk mexicans, but here it was, like 4:30 or 5pm on a Tuesday Halloween afternoon, and nothing close to this ever happens on my street in Astoria. But the BEST part of this was, as I was still trying to process what might have happened, I noticed something else. This man's dentures from his top row of teeth were lying a few feet from his...feet. The man lost his teeth. Now I definitely thought there had to have been fowl play. But the sweet smile on the sleeping Mexican's face said otherwise. All sorts of images flooded my mind as I imagined him tripping to his sidewalk bed dropping his teeth and phone along the way...or I saw him wobbling sideways up the sidewalk with his drunk mouth agape, no longer able to control the position of his jaw, or the placement of his fake teeth...perhaps that is when they slid out, and he grabbed his phone to tell his friend how drunk he was and passed the fuck out. All I know is that a mexican man and his teeth were on the sidewalk on my street at 5pm on a Tuesday. Luckily he was gone when I returned home a few hours later. His teeth were gone too.

To the memory of you:

"The last time I had tank tops and flowing skirts on, I was happy to be spending time with you." "There's that place we used to grab dinner when I was falling in love with you." "It felt so great when you'd lean across the table over the food to kiss me sweetly just because you needed to." " I remember when the weather changed last year I was happy and thinking I might be love with you." "The last time I put on this hat and scarf I was happy and still in love with you." My mind is booming with thoughts like these. The pangs of hurt that once were present every single moment now only return each time I do something that reminds me of you. When I pass a corner we kissed on. When I smell the perfume I wore when we were together. When I think of how you were one of the best things that happened to me all throughout last year when other things didn't seem to be working out...and in that instant I am sad again. I am sad because we are no longer together, and I remember how much you meant to me. In that moment I also remember that you didn't ever feel exactly the same for me and that is why we are no longer together. I remember denying that what I felt was love, even though I knew that was what it was, because I knew you didn't feel that for me. I don't want those moments anymore. I am sick of feeling sad about you. I know we shouldn't be together. I don't want to be with you again. I haven't wanted to be with you since just after you broke up with me. You ended it because we both knew I couldn't even though I knew things weren't right. Will these memories I have of you ever be good or happy? We were very happy quite often. When will these memories stop hurting so bad? I want to be in love again, but not with you...so stop haunting my heart! I want to be in love again, but this time with someone who loves me. I won't stand for anything less ever again and it feels so far off I can hardly take it sometimes. But I do, because I have to. I do because I want to. I do because I know that it is possible, no matter how long it takes to find it. So I will continue to wait. But this is my message to the memory of you and I. Get out of my head and get out of my heart. I don't want to walk these streets thinking about what we almost had. It was never enough then and it's way too much now. Each time that I think of it I just wonder how I let myself feel so much and continue to hurt so much for someone who couldn't or wouldn't do the same for me.

Mmmm...piss in a cup....

Ah...the piss test. I recently began working a new job and had to visit a local drug testing facility this past week. There aren't too many experiences quite so humbling as pissing in a cup and then handing it, still fresh and warm, to the lab technician. "Here, this was all just in my bladder, but I just hovered over the toilet holding this cup between my legs, aiming the best I could and squeezed it out just for you to pour into a plastic tube and label for me. Thank you for the lovely hand sanitizer to cleanse my piss off my hand, since I wasn't allowed to turn on the water at the sink until you checked the bathroom to make sure I didn't tamper with anything."

I am not sure why I just launched into the preceding rant. I am not at a point in my life where I need worry about the drug test, but somehow, I obviously have a lot to say on the subject, much to my own surprise.


I suppose I understand why companies want to drug test, but really...I don't totally get it. I mean, drugs are bad, mmkay? We all know this. Doing drugs at work is bad. But only if you are an idiot, and are totally fucked up to a point that people realize that there is something wrong with you. If you are stupid enough to take drugs at work at all...or an amount that makes you retarded at work, then you should just be fired, because you will act stupid and people will have no choice but to fire you. What's the point of all this ceremonial peeing in cups and testing shit? If someone has some fun outside of their job, I don't understand why that is anyone's business but their own. You should get fired or penalized for not showing up, calling off all the time, or showing up and being wasted in any way shape or form. All of those are grounds for some sort of consequences, and I don't need piss in a cup to show me that. Maybe if a piss test could indicate whether a person was going to complain while they are standing next to you at work all day, or if the results were to show that a manager was going to be overly condescending or constantly be on a power trip, that would be useful. I think most employers will know quite immediately that they are interviewing a crackwhore or a junkie, and if one slips through the system and gets past that day of training, their ways most certainly won't take too long to be revealed. All those others need to just keep their shit together and save the parties for their off-time.
Thanks for listenin'.

Oh...the crazies!

There are many times in life that reality is just so kooky that no writer could possibly invent the characters that I encounter on my various jobs here in NYC. Working at the Compusa on 5th Avenue (promoting AOL) has always been what I will refer to as an adventure, so as to cleverly conceal some of my bitter sweet feelings for it. Located in the heart of midtown, entirely too close to the Empire State building, you encounter one of 2 types of people here...the foreign folk, and the crazies. There are a lot of both in midtown, where they walk in all directions at once, none aware that there are hundreds of other human beings anywhere near them..changing their already indirect directions instantly running into you, stepping on you, keeping you contstantly on guard to dodge them, or stand your ground and run into them. Just the foreign folks, the crazies, and me. Perhaps it is best that these folks just bump into you and keep moving, for when they stop, and talk to you...you enter a world that not just anyone can handle. I talk to these people. I listen to them. Not generally on the street, but while working my various jobs. It took me a while to realize that while there shouldn't be any harm in this, they can often drain the life out of you at the same time as they tickle your brain when you realize that this is a real person standing in front of you, talking nonsense. When you stand in one place in a retail store every day or every weekend, these crazies always know where to find you again. I have met so many but right now all I can recall is yesterday. I met a filthy looking lady yesterday here at the store. She was very sweet. She was missing her two front teeth which were framed by the bright red lipstick smeared around her mouth. She had a tragically uneven skin tone, made moreso by the streaks of concealer or foundation strewn about her face. Her eyeliner appeared to have been applied heavily before her head had, perhaps, been held under water for a spell. Her hair seemed plastered to her head, with a slight frizz, and coated in some sort of glycerine-like liquid that was at some point dripping down her temples, but whose thickness had stopped it on it's way . Too thick to be sweat I wondered if she had applied glue? The topping on the cake is a toss up between the swirls of red lipstick that had somehow been spread faintly around her entire face and the numerous whiskers on her chin. She was a sight to behold. I approached her in my section without realizing all of her uniqueness, but once we began, I was involved...and had little way out. So we chatted. I learned she was an actress and she showed me her headshot and resume, a postcard sized copy of a picture she said had been taken on a cellphone, of her standing on a NY city street in front of a subway station, looking like a homeless person with bright red lipstick on. On the back was her resume, which boasted film/tv/commercial credits that my resume can't hold a candle to. Some credits were scribbled in and all was on the back of this postcard/cellphone picture. I offered to take her picture here (one of the parts of the area I am to get people to interact with). She seemed as though I caught her off-guard and she wasn't necessarily at her best, but we gave it a go. She saw the first shot and whipped out her makeup bag saying she needed to touch up her face. The first thing she grabbed was her tube of whore-red lipstick, which she not-so-expertly applied without a mirror. Instantly it began to bleed out into the lines and sweat on her face, on a path towards joining the rest of the "lipstick party" already in full swing on her forehead, cheeks and chin. Then she grabbed her foundation and swiped her finger in it and proceeded to draw lines around her face, poorly attempting at blending it while asking "do I look alright?". I can't answer that! Lying is physically painful to me. I couldn't even begin to point out all of the things that would have required fixing. The most helpful thing I could have offered would be a sponge and a bucket, but this was not an option. She was now looking in a mirror, and if she couldn't tell that she didn't look okay by seeing what I was seeing, what was the point in trying to fix it? Lastly she took out the eyeliner observing in the mirror as she rubbed the dull pencil around both eyes. "do I look alright?" she asked again, smoothing back her glue-y hair and smiling her no-front-teeth smile. "yes, yes you do." I said, pinching back my amusement and wincing at the pain for the untruth. She wasn't ever pleased with her photo, yet she had plans to go to kinkos to copy it and use it for her acting work. A few minutes later when she sat down at the public free internet computers we have here, I cringed as I watched her dirty hands smearing the left over brown foundation all over the keys and mouse. I couldn't wait until she left to wipe it down, but these computers are very popular and I never had a chance...several people cleaned it off with their own hands. Ew. Ew.

Problem areas...

Ah...the steam room, one of my my favorite havens. Yet all too often people have to come in there and repulse me. Why is that? I have already figured out that I am obviously in the minority of women who walk in there with a towel around them and leave it wrapped around themselves the entire time they are enjoying the steamy goodness. So I suppose I am the strange one here. I rarely enjoy my time in there without some older lady splaying herself on the bench in front of me, periodically rubbing her body and, if I am really lucky, loofa-ing. I am aware that I have already posted a blog about this a while back, but tonight was a special night. Tonight, after one wrinkly lady got through lounging and rubbing herself, a little indian woman with a bit of a buddha belly strolled in naked and stood in front of me. It was just she and I. She started flapping her arms around...stretching out her sore muscles...when suddenly she puts her hands on her hips and begins moving her pelvis in a circular grinding sort of motion. It was as if she were attempting to hula hoop...ever so gently...and her hand slid from her hip onto her flappy buddha belly...as she continued her strange gyrations. I'm doing alright in my own world...not entirely understanding the purpose of this, or if I should be present for it, when she turns and looks at me as she moves. I try not to make eye contact and she looks away. She stretches a bit more and a few moments later she begins this steam room dance again...and she keeps trying to look at me! Is she trying to have a magical steam room moment with me? I wrap my towel tighter around me and attempt to stay in my own world when she speaks to me. "Someone told me that this will help..." as she swirves her hips in slow circles...rubbing her buddha belly...looking for some sort of response from me. I just nod my head and try not to laugh. This happened a few more times before I finally had my fill of the therapeutic steam. Where do these people come from? Am I really the strange one here? Keeping myself modestly wrapped up in a towel? Should I be gyrating for strangers and drawing attention to my problem areas?

Under Pressure

I have an addiction. I have an addiction that goes far beyond checking myspace (and every other site I have to "check") obsessively and for no good reason all day long. I absolutely MUST listen to the song "Under Pressure" by David Bowie/Queen on my ipod as I am walking from the subway to my apartment in Astoria every night. It is a requirement of my soul. This song took on some fun nostalgic meaning for me when I did a whacked out one act this past year and we danced to this song in it. Since the night I downloaded it, it has seriously changed my commute home and possibly my entire life or the life I live whilst walking home. It is the perfect song for walking to. It is a brisk walk. Not fast enough for when you are trying to get somewhere relatively fast or need to walk quicker in order to get around slow tourists. But it's not so slow either. It is the ideal pace for nearly strutting down the sidewalk, only slightly wondering if people can tell you are walking to a beat that turns you on. I don't quite know what it is about this song. It could have been one of the first things that made me smile during my more recent depressing commutes when my memories get the best of me. I don't particularly feel as if I have been under any sort of pressure as of late. I mean, of course things have been happier for me, but I wouldn't explain it as feeling pressured. It's funny, as the song is speaking about pressure, it has an incredibly freeing effect. I feel like I am in my own music video (a feeling I am all too familiar with) and I feel rain should start falling on me as I walk down the city street with my hands outstretched from side to side as they make their way above my head and I dance into a spin and keep strutting. I don't know why I am so damn happy to be caught in the rain, generally this just makes me soggy, but tonight...tonight I am walking with David Bowie in my ears..and a beat that never fails to make me smile from ear to ear...mainly because the song is so damn good...but also because I am the only one who can hear it.

...for your baby's daddy

Walking in the West Village last night with a man friend of mine, a guy who was selling balloons and such said "Want to buy a balloon....for your baby's daddy?". This perplexed me for a moment, as there was no baby...nor do I appear to be pregnant...and I totally forgot it was Father's Day...but regardless of all of that, it cracked my shit up.