Part 1
Few things in life are as absolutely terrible as trying to find an apartment in New York City. When I first moved here, I found a place to sublet through a friend and figured I could find an apartment easily and quickly when the time called for it. I couldn't have been further from the truth.
Luckily my old college roommate, Dan, was working in the city and living at home like a cool kid with his parents in New Jersey, so I shot him an email asking if he'd like to find a place in Manhattan. "I'm in" he responded, so the search began.
2 weeks later, I found myself scouring the blocks of the East Village with Dan, trying to meet up with Fuki - the broker who would be showing us some apartments. It's funny because you go on craigslist to find "no fee" apartments (aka you don't have to pay a broker) and yet somehow, like a magical unicorn on acid, the broker appears from behind a curtain as if to say, "SURPRISE! You thought you could get this apartment but guess what...you have to go through ME!" And so try as I might to find a place on my own, I just couldn't do it with the short time frame I had. This is how we met Fuki - our Japanese broker who looked like she was no older than 12 and had self admittedly been living in NYC for only 10 months. And this was the girl that would be showing me places to live?
"Herro Andre nice to meeta you! My name is FUKI!!" she said excitedly, as she hurried out from behind a pilar of the Duane Reade in the East Village. She was wearing a sparkly white baret, hello kitty gloves, a white fluffy coat and black boots with furry pom-poms dangling off the back. "Perfect!" I said to her as she approached. "Dan LOVES Hello Kitty so I think we'll get along just marvelously" - all the while staring at her Hello Kitty pink mittens. "Oh rearry!?" she giggled shyly, "Isa da best!" she said as she clapped her mittens together frantically. Dan shot me a glance and just nodded in confused agreement.
As we walked around the East Village in search of some magical place that both of us could afford without having to live with rats or roaches, it became pretty clear that Fuki had no idea where she was going. In fact, it became my job to essentially lead us from one place to another for the span of almost 2.5 hours.
The first place she showed us resembled some sort of crackhouse section 8 housing with dilapidated walls and creaky stairs. In fact I could have sworn I saw rats larger than a chihuahua staring at me as I made my way up the stairs, as if to say "What the fuck do you want?" Before opening the door to the first apartment, Fuki struggled with the keys and before long, was throwing her tiny Asian body voilently against the door in an effort to get it open. I took the keys from her and opened the door, as I noticed she was attempting to use the mailbox key. She entered and frantically searched for a light. Turns out the apartment had no lights, so I had to use my flashlight app on my iPhone to examine the place. "Dis very pretty place - FABUROUS location Andre and Dan" Fuki said, in a strangely genuine tone. "Yeah, it's great...." I responded sarcastically, as Dan clutched his pearls in the corner mouthing the words "Let's get the fuck out of here" to me. The next apartment luckily had lights, but as we walked in I noticed that the kitchen was completely slanted. Had I tried to pick Fuki up and place her on the counter, she would have slid right off and giggled on her way down. "It give apartment CHAWECHTER!" she replied when I brought it up. Charecter? For $3,000/month? The pantree had been made into the smallest bathroom I had ever seen with only room for a toilet and tiny shower. No sink. "Where do we brush our teeth?" I asked Fuki. "Ina da kitchen sink sillyyyyy!" she said, completely serious and enthusiastic.
The saddest part was that Dan and I had seen so many other apartments by this point, that we had actually considered taking this dump. "Well I guess I could live with having to brush my teeth on top of dirty dishes if I had to" Dan said to me. "I'll just learn to maneuver my way around"
It's sad how New York City can so quickly change your perception on what is an acceptable living situation. For $3,000/month I could buy a luxury mansion in Texas but in New York, all it would get me was a slanted kitchen and perhaps a homeless man squatting in the corner of my apartment, holding a flashlight and wearing a lampshade on his head as replacement for real light. And that would bump up the price of the apartment by at least $200. You know, because it gives the place more "charecter". Exposed wires and asbestos? That'll be an extra $500 amenity fee, please.
This couldn't be, I thought to myself. There has to be better places for cheaper somewhere. 2.5 hours and 7 apartments later, Dan and I found ourselves walking towards Alphabet City with Fuki. After about 20 minutes of walking and talking, I turned to Fuki and asked, "Where are you taking us?! Why is this next apartment so much further from the others?!" Without a blink of an eye, Fuki replied "What you mean?! I thought we goin out summawhere!" WHAT? I was so confused. Apparently Fuki thought that after our apartment search, Dan and I would be wining and dining her and, with any luck, writing her a nice check for one of the apartments she showed. That way she could go back to Tokyo for the holidays and buy more custom-made mittens. I felt like screaming "Listen you crazy little Pikachu, I've just seen some of the worst and most expensive shithole apartments in New York, I think it's a wrap here." But instead, I decided to be a gentleman and walk Fuki to the nearest train station to send her on her way.
And feeling more defeated than ever before, I said bye to Dan and walked myself home as it began to rain. All the while hoping and praying that the right place would somehow magically turn up.
And eventually, it did.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Looking Back
It's been a stressful few months adjusting in New York, finding an apartment, making friends, starting a new job and, essentially, starting a new life. No doubt I've been frustrated and have felt defeated at times, but I stumbled across this entry I made on the "Notes" section of my iPad right before leaving DC and thought I'd share it and keep it someplace public. A place where I can constantly remind myself and anyone else that sometimes amidst the chaos, you lose sight of the clarity that once existed - and how important it is to get it back...
Today I opened my closet, staring in awe at the daunting task of choosing what I'd be taking with me when I move to New York. At some level, the feeling of packing is familiar to me from all my travels. Except this time, I know it's more permanent. I've spent the last few days wondering what lies ahead, if I've made the right decision, if I'll be happy living on my own in a new city and making new friends. While my days have been riddled with surges of overwhelming anxiety, I can't help but be excited for what lies ahead. I know the transition will be far from smooth, but I'm confident in the fact that I've made it this far. My dreams of starting over in a new city doing something I love seem to be coming true, and yet I can't help but be reluctant to embrace it. It's as though I've lived my life, and most of my 20's, settling for unhappiness and mediocrity. And now, now that I'm finally at a place where I'm satisfied and happy, it feels difficult to embrace it. These past few years I had managed to completely forget what happiness felt like. And now that its back and stronger than ever, my logical side seems apprehensive of existing with this happiness - as though there's no room for it. So I've made a conscious decision to make room and enjoy my moment, because it's something I've worked long and hard for. And while my nerves and fears may try to get in the way, I know my anticipation for the greatness that lies ahead trumps it all.
But it's hard to believe my last day in DC is here. It's bittersweet because I'm leaving behind my friends and family and everything that is familiar, yet I know this is something that is good for me. It's time I grow up, move on, and turn to the next chapter of my life. And the best part is that aside from the ups and downs, I can leave my home, my job, and my friends knowing I have absolutely no regrets. And the most satisfying feeling on earth is knowing I'm pursuing what I knew was deep down inside me all along. I'll never look back now and think, "Why didn't I go? Why was I so scared?". I'm terrified, but I'm embracing the fear in hopes of the beauty and excitement that lies just beyond it. But through all of this, I've learned that relationships are important. Not just the ones you have with your friends and family, but especially the one you have with yourself. I never knew how to listen to my own voice, my own desires. Too often the sound of my own dreams was muffled by the opinions and persuasions of others. And while the search was long and difficult, I found my own voice once again. And this time, I listened.
Today I opened my closet, staring in awe at the daunting task of choosing what I'd be taking with me when I move to New York. At some level, the feeling of packing is familiar to me from all my travels. Except this time, I know it's more permanent. I've spent the last few days wondering what lies ahead, if I've made the right decision, if I'll be happy living on my own in a new city and making new friends. While my days have been riddled with surges of overwhelming anxiety, I can't help but be excited for what lies ahead. I know the transition will be far from smooth, but I'm confident in the fact that I've made it this far. My dreams of starting over in a new city doing something I love seem to be coming true, and yet I can't help but be reluctant to embrace it. It's as though I've lived my life, and most of my 20's, settling for unhappiness and mediocrity. And now, now that I'm finally at a place where I'm satisfied and happy, it feels difficult to embrace it. These past few years I had managed to completely forget what happiness felt like. And now that its back and stronger than ever, my logical side seems apprehensive of existing with this happiness - as though there's no room for it. So I've made a conscious decision to make room and enjoy my moment, because it's something I've worked long and hard for. And while my nerves and fears may try to get in the way, I know my anticipation for the greatness that lies ahead trumps it all.
But it's hard to believe my last day in DC is here. It's bittersweet because I'm leaving behind my friends and family and everything that is familiar, yet I know this is something that is good for me. It's time I grow up, move on, and turn to the next chapter of my life. And the best part is that aside from the ups and downs, I can leave my home, my job, and my friends knowing I have absolutely no regrets. And the most satisfying feeling on earth is knowing I'm pursuing what I knew was deep down inside me all along. I'll never look back now and think, "Why didn't I go? Why was I so scared?". I'm terrified, but I'm embracing the fear in hopes of the beauty and excitement that lies just beyond it. But through all of this, I've learned that relationships are important. Not just the ones you have with your friends and family, but especially the one you have with yourself. I never knew how to listen to my own voice, my own desires. Too often the sound of my own dreams was muffled by the opinions and persuasions of others. And while the search was long and difficult, I found my own voice once again. And this time, I listened.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
10 Rules for Dating
Due to most recent events in the "dating" scene, I've been forced to compile a list of what I think 10 rules for dating me (or anyone really) should be. But seeing as how I'm single and have no real valid track record of functioning relationships, you can take these with a grain of salt.
1.) Do not ask me to call you if we have not met. Because most of us live busy lives and can't be bothered with meeting and courting people the old-fashioned way, we've turned to the era of online matchmaking. There's a few downsides to this: 1. People lie through their photos 2. You can't get a good read on the crazies via your computer screen. 3.) See number 1
2.) Brush ya fuckin teeth. Seriously, it's a very simple concept if you think about it. At least use some fucking mouthwash. A few weeks ago I was bored and decided to meet this French kid for drinks in Hell's Kitchen. He seemed attractive enough via pictures, but then when we met up his teeth looked like broken shards of glass that were run through a garbage disposal, dipped in cow shit, and re-attached to his gums. It's one thing to have genetically horrible teeth and poor parents that can't afford braces, but a tube of toothpaste and some Scope costs about 5 bucks. I mean shit get it together.
3.) Don't pretend you're a baller when you're not. Allow me to use the same French kid as an example. He enjoyed discussing his various responsibilities at work, along with his great 1 bedroom apartment in Midtown West with his 3 cats. That's all fine and dandy, but when we go to buy a bottle of wine at the Chinese market for $8.99 and your credit card gets declined, perhaps it's time to ditch the cats and consider a roommate. Or a second job. At least I admit I'm poor.
4.) Don't criticize my drinking. If I find it weird that we are only splitting 1 tiny bottle of wine for an entire night and you give me a judgmental eyebrow raise
(Yes you, you French bastard), chances are this is not going to work out. Half a bottle of wine doesn't even relax my left tit. Call me an alcoholic, but I call it "prioritizing my caloric intake".
5.) Say SOMETHING. It doesn't take some superflous set of social skills to have a normal conversation. A while back I met this guy at a bar beneath my building (good trick is to have them come to you, particularly if you have little vested interest to begin with). Things seemed perfectly normal via text, which could disprove my first rule of not calling before meeting but whatever. When we sat down at the bar, I could hear crickets chirping. Every time I finished some sort of sentence, even as basic as "This beer is incredible. I've never tasted such a delicious Miller Lite", the guy would stare at me like some sort of Autistic 3 year old. By the end of the first hour I was so exhausted from having to maintain any sort of decent conversation that I gave up, took a shot, and went back up to my apartment to catch the last 15 minutes of Hocus Pocus on ABC Family.
6.) It's not a job, so let's not interview. It's inevitable that at some point during a date you might straddle the fine line of interview questions. The trick is to catch yourself before you do it and divert to something else. For example, "Kim Kardashian is a whore. Discuss." He will have no choice but to agree. And just like that, you've found 1 thing in common!
7.) NEVER ask someone "Where do you want to be in ten years?" or "What kind of animal would you want to be?" WHAT? These two questions were actually asked of me on two separate occasions. You know what kind of animal I'd want to be? A hybrid between a Cheetah and a Preying Mantis. A "Cheyantis". That way, I can rip off your head after we've had sex and then run away as fast as possible.
8.) Don't say you're from Ohio. Seriously is EVERYONE from Ohio? I'm beginning to think there's some sort of underground tunnel that transports oppressed gays and very bored heterosexual white guys from Dayton, Ohio to every major city in the Northeast. If you're from Ohio, just say something else. Anything else. Try Boise, Idaho. No one will ever argue or say "Oh really? What part of Boise are you from? I grew up right outside the gunshop on Main Street". No one is from Boise, so it's a safe bet.
9.) Don't suggest that we meet at your place. If I don't know you, I'm not coming to your apartment to meet you. Apparently this isn't common sense to some people. The last thing I want is to end up chopped into small pieces and put inside a hefty bag. Or even worse, being caught in an extremely awkward situation with no real way to leave. As curious as I am to see what other people's apartments look like, I'd much rather have a clear and easy escape route.
10.) Don't offer to buy me a canoe. 2 weeks ago I met a guy named "Ronald" for a drink in Chelsea. I should have known how this would turn out when I saw he was wearing Birkenstocks with khaki pants. 20 minutes into the date, he suggested we go camping near some obscure river in Pennsylvania. When I said I'm not much of an "Outdoorsy camper type" and much prefer the comfort of a flat screen TV and chicken wings on an Ikea sofa, he responded with, "Well how about I buy us a canoe? I bet you'll change your mind". There is no "us" so he would essentially be buying "me" a canoe. I barely allow myself to have more than 2 pillows due to lack of space in my apartment, much less a fucking canoe.
Verdict: I'm either dying alone or in some apartment surrounded by ten cats and some canoes. Awesome.
1.) Do not ask me to call you if we have not met. Because most of us live busy lives and can't be bothered with meeting and courting people the old-fashioned way, we've turned to the era of online matchmaking. There's a few downsides to this: 1. People lie through their photos 2. You can't get a good read on the crazies via your computer screen. 3.) See number 1
2.) Brush ya fuckin teeth. Seriously, it's a very simple concept if you think about it. At least use some fucking mouthwash. A few weeks ago I was bored and decided to meet this French kid for drinks in Hell's Kitchen. He seemed attractive enough via pictures, but then when we met up his teeth looked like broken shards of glass that were run through a garbage disposal, dipped in cow shit, and re-attached to his gums. It's one thing to have genetically horrible teeth and poor parents that can't afford braces, but a tube of toothpaste and some Scope costs about 5 bucks. I mean shit get it together.
3.) Don't pretend you're a baller when you're not. Allow me to use the same French kid as an example. He enjoyed discussing his various responsibilities at work, along with his great 1 bedroom apartment in Midtown West with his 3 cats. That's all fine and dandy, but when we go to buy a bottle of wine at the Chinese market for $8.99 and your credit card gets declined, perhaps it's time to ditch the cats and consider a roommate. Or a second job. At least I admit I'm poor.
4.) Don't criticize my drinking. If I find it weird that we are only splitting 1 tiny bottle of wine for an entire night and you give me a judgmental eyebrow raise
(Yes you, you French bastard), chances are this is not going to work out. Half a bottle of wine doesn't even relax my left tit. Call me an alcoholic, but I call it "prioritizing my caloric intake".
5.) Say SOMETHING. It doesn't take some superflous set of social skills to have a normal conversation. A while back I met this guy at a bar beneath my building (good trick is to have them come to you, particularly if you have little vested interest to begin with). Things seemed perfectly normal via text, which could disprove my first rule of not calling before meeting but whatever. When we sat down at the bar, I could hear crickets chirping. Every time I finished some sort of sentence, even as basic as "This beer is incredible. I've never tasted such a delicious Miller Lite", the guy would stare at me like some sort of Autistic 3 year old. By the end of the first hour I was so exhausted from having to maintain any sort of decent conversation that I gave up, took a shot, and went back up to my apartment to catch the last 15 minutes of Hocus Pocus on ABC Family.
6.) It's not a job, so let's not interview. It's inevitable that at some point during a date you might straddle the fine line of interview questions. The trick is to catch yourself before you do it and divert to something else. For example, "Kim Kardashian is a whore. Discuss." He will have no choice but to agree. And just like that, you've found 1 thing in common!
7.) NEVER ask someone "Where do you want to be in ten years?" or "What kind of animal would you want to be?" WHAT? These two questions were actually asked of me on two separate occasions. You know what kind of animal I'd want to be? A hybrid between a Cheetah and a Preying Mantis. A "Cheyantis". That way, I can rip off your head after we've had sex and then run away as fast as possible.
8.) Don't say you're from Ohio. Seriously is EVERYONE from Ohio? I'm beginning to think there's some sort of underground tunnel that transports oppressed gays and very bored heterosexual white guys from Dayton, Ohio to every major city in the Northeast. If you're from Ohio, just say something else. Anything else. Try Boise, Idaho. No one will ever argue or say "Oh really? What part of Boise are you from? I grew up right outside the gunshop on Main Street". No one is from Boise, so it's a safe bet.
9.) Don't suggest that we meet at your place. If I don't know you, I'm not coming to your apartment to meet you. Apparently this isn't common sense to some people. The last thing I want is to end up chopped into small pieces and put inside a hefty bag. Or even worse, being caught in an extremely awkward situation with no real way to leave. As curious as I am to see what other people's apartments look like, I'd much rather have a clear and easy escape route.
10.) Don't offer to buy me a canoe. 2 weeks ago I met a guy named "Ronald" for a drink in Chelsea. I should have known how this would turn out when I saw he was wearing Birkenstocks with khaki pants. 20 minutes into the date, he suggested we go camping near some obscure river in Pennsylvania. When I said I'm not much of an "Outdoorsy camper type" and much prefer the comfort of a flat screen TV and chicken wings on an Ikea sofa, he responded with, "Well how about I buy us a canoe? I bet you'll change your mind". There is no "us" so he would essentially be buying "me" a canoe. I barely allow myself to have more than 2 pillows due to lack of space in my apartment, much less a fucking canoe.
Verdict: I'm either dying alone or in some apartment surrounded by ten cats and some canoes. Awesome.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Top-Ten NYC Moments
Having spent my first beautifully diastrous week in NYC, I figured I would copulate (yes, engage in sexual intercourse with) a quick recap of some of the things/moments that have amused me. Aka, I want to have sex with this list:
10.) Homeless People on bikes. Not quite sure if they're actually homeless or just excessively hipster artists from Brooklyn, but either way they're obnoxious and I've managed to cuss out a number of these bike bastards. And they smell.
9.) Asians. They are literally everywhere and I couldn't be more thrilled. Watching them take pictures of one another whilst giggling and holding up an enormous Papaya's hotdog is most certainly enthralling. Plus Korea town is a mere 3 blocks from my apartment, which means I can witness young Korean girls go crazy when they spot a "famous" Korean singer and enjoy a bulgogi at 3am whenever I please.
8.) The Irish. I've had the pleasure of meeting quite a few Irish people. Not only have they made fantastic drinking partners, but they're also extremely foul-mouthed, which is a beautiful thing. Somehow the phrase "Fuck off you wanker cunt" sounds so much more polite and borderline romantic when it comes out of their mouths as opposed to mine. Note to self: Take a weekend trip to Dublin and practice drinking whiskey out of a pint glass.
7.) The Jews. For some inexplicable reason, I have a relentless case of Jewish envy. When drunk, I will often times go as far as telling people I'm Jewish and rant about all the pretend presents and money I received at my Barmitzvah. Whatever. And it so happens that on Sunday I went to see a movie at the AMC in the Upper West Side (which my friend pointed out was "very Jewy"). It definitely resembled the early bird special crowd at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas. I've never seen so many old Jews, both men and women, in my life. And this is why I love the Jews, because when they are old and have saved enough money from their days as a lawyer and/or doctor, they can afford to live in the Upper West Side. Therefore, my dating criteria has since changed - find and deceive into marriage/civil union a young Jewish banker/lawyer/doctor/CEO. By the looks of Manhattan, I should be married and swimming naked in my private pool in the Hamptons by May.
6.) Models. These, too, are everywhere. In fact, my roommate had one of her various boy interests over last night. This, I have discovered, is completely normal and acceptable in NYC. If one is not dating at least 3 people at any given time, then you should consider yourself a hideous sewer creature with no future and a possible birth defect. This boy was not only attractive enough to be on an Abercrombie and Fitch bag, but he was also super nice and thoughtful enough to sleep/walk around naked in the wee hours of the morning. In fact, when I awoke for work still drunk from the previous night, he was nice enough to brush his teeth while I peed right next to him. In the toilet, of course. I'm not an animal. This is NYC people, and there's only one bathroom per every 400 New Yorkers - at least I can share it with a model. Too bad I got stage fright and he eventually had to leave, but it was the thought that counts.
5.) The Gays. They're so prominent that the whole city sounds like a series of lisps, creating a noise that sounds like someone is slowly draining the air out of Manhattan via a pin-sized hole. Last night I was out for a walk circa 12am (because I have yet to join a gym and have serious and legitimate fears of being the fattest person in NYC) and an older gentleman stopped me in my tracks with just one hand out in front of him, palms facing towards me, and said, "Those shorts are just FABULOUS!" I was confused not because this man stopped me, but moreso because I was wearing a pair of older cargo plaid shorts from Express. Last season. Clearly this gay was not up-to-date.
4.) Bagels. They are the best. Enough said.
3.) Walking quickly. Although I've always been a fast walker, I've had to really focus on perfecting this skill as it seems everyone is consistently walking faster and faster as the day goes on. And there is no mercy for slow-moving old ladies and cripples, for they are merely shoved to the side of the sidewalks and wished death upon by hurried executives and long-legged women in pumps.
2.) The Chinese Lady. Technically this should be under the "Asian" category. However, I feel Chinese Lady is worthy of her own slot on my top 10. I believe she works and lives in a cubby hole next to my building, and emerges from it to run her Chinese restaurant, laundry service, and sushi dispensary 24/7. I'm fairly certain she never sleeps and runs on some special Chinese-imported gasoline diet. Nevertheless, I'm grateful that I can drop-off my underwear and grab some Sushi to-go with a side of Beef and Broccoli at any given moment. It wouldn't surprise me if Chinese Lady is secretly a multi-billionaire and owns several underground casinos in Manhattan. As well as the entire island itself.
1.) Delivery. You can literally have anything you can imagine delivered. From drugs to tampons to a late-night mail order Jamaican hooker from Queens, it's all merely a phonecall away. I've found that with minimal effort on my part, I would never have to leave the square block radius of my apartment. Which is why I've also come to find that it's nearly impossible to maintain any sort of friendship with anyone who lives on the opposite end of Manhattan. If you live on the East side, you might as well bid adieu to your friends on the West side. Anything above 70th street might as well be considered Connecticut. And if you're dating someone in Brooklyn, which might as well be New Jersey, which might as well be Soviet Russia, you'll be forced into a long-distance relationship that will be limited to sexual encounters via Skype and Gchat.
A bonus magic 11*
11.) Trader Joe's. DO NOT, BY ANY MEANS, visit the Trader Joe's in Flatiron or midtown or anywhere in Manhattan, really, after the hours of 5pm. You will be mauled. And you will be bitten. And you will get rabies. Best advice is to take a "hunter-gatherer" partner with you, so that he/she can hunt-and-gather food while you wait in the 75 minute checkout line. Concrete jungle is an understatement, as it seems New Yorkers at a Trader Joe's during rush hour have reverted back to the caveman era of hunting for our own food. Darwinism at its finest. FUN!
-Andres (aka Fat Asian Girl from Madison Ave)
10.) Homeless People on bikes. Not quite sure if they're actually homeless or just excessively hipster artists from Brooklyn, but either way they're obnoxious and I've managed to cuss out a number of these bike bastards. And they smell.
9.) Asians. They are literally everywhere and I couldn't be more thrilled. Watching them take pictures of one another whilst giggling and holding up an enormous Papaya's hotdog is most certainly enthralling. Plus Korea town is a mere 3 blocks from my apartment, which means I can witness young Korean girls go crazy when they spot a "famous" Korean singer and enjoy a bulgogi at 3am whenever I please.
8.) The Irish. I've had the pleasure of meeting quite a few Irish people. Not only have they made fantastic drinking partners, but they're also extremely foul-mouthed, which is a beautiful thing. Somehow the phrase "Fuck off you wanker cunt" sounds so much more polite and borderline romantic when it comes out of their mouths as opposed to mine. Note to self: Take a weekend trip to Dublin and practice drinking whiskey out of a pint glass.
7.) The Jews. For some inexplicable reason, I have a relentless case of Jewish envy. When drunk, I will often times go as far as telling people I'm Jewish and rant about all the pretend presents and money I received at my Barmitzvah. Whatever. And it so happens that on Sunday I went to see a movie at the AMC in the Upper West Side (which my friend pointed out was "very Jewy"). It definitely resembled the early bird special crowd at a Chinese restaurant on Christmas. I've never seen so many old Jews, both men and women, in my life. And this is why I love the Jews, because when they are old and have saved enough money from their days as a lawyer and/or doctor, they can afford to live in the Upper West Side. Therefore, my dating criteria has since changed - find and deceive into marriage/civil union a young Jewish banker/lawyer/doctor/CEO. By the looks of Manhattan, I should be married and swimming naked in my private pool in the Hamptons by May.
6.) Models. These, too, are everywhere. In fact, my roommate had one of her various boy interests over last night. This, I have discovered, is completely normal and acceptable in NYC. If one is not dating at least 3 people at any given time, then you should consider yourself a hideous sewer creature with no future and a possible birth defect. This boy was not only attractive enough to be on an Abercrombie and Fitch bag, but he was also super nice and thoughtful enough to sleep/walk around naked in the wee hours of the morning. In fact, when I awoke for work still drunk from the previous night, he was nice enough to brush his teeth while I peed right next to him. In the toilet, of course. I'm not an animal. This is NYC people, and there's only one bathroom per every 400 New Yorkers - at least I can share it with a model. Too bad I got stage fright and he eventually had to leave, but it was the thought that counts.
5.) The Gays. They're so prominent that the whole city sounds like a series of lisps, creating a noise that sounds like someone is slowly draining the air out of Manhattan via a pin-sized hole. Last night I was out for a walk circa 12am (because I have yet to join a gym and have serious and legitimate fears of being the fattest person in NYC) and an older gentleman stopped me in my tracks with just one hand out in front of him, palms facing towards me, and said, "Those shorts are just FABULOUS!" I was confused not because this man stopped me, but moreso because I was wearing a pair of older cargo plaid shorts from Express. Last season. Clearly this gay was not up-to-date.
4.) Bagels. They are the best. Enough said.
3.) Walking quickly. Although I've always been a fast walker, I've had to really focus on perfecting this skill as it seems everyone is consistently walking faster and faster as the day goes on. And there is no mercy for slow-moving old ladies and cripples, for they are merely shoved to the side of the sidewalks and wished death upon by hurried executives and long-legged women in pumps.
2.) The Chinese Lady. Technically this should be under the "Asian" category. However, I feel Chinese Lady is worthy of her own slot on my top 10. I believe she works and lives in a cubby hole next to my building, and emerges from it to run her Chinese restaurant, laundry service, and sushi dispensary 24/7. I'm fairly certain she never sleeps and runs on some special Chinese-imported gasoline diet. Nevertheless, I'm grateful that I can drop-off my underwear and grab some Sushi to-go with a side of Beef and Broccoli at any given moment. It wouldn't surprise me if Chinese Lady is secretly a multi-billionaire and owns several underground casinos in Manhattan. As well as the entire island itself.
1.) Delivery. You can literally have anything you can imagine delivered. From drugs to tampons to a late-night mail order Jamaican hooker from Queens, it's all merely a phonecall away. I've found that with minimal effort on my part, I would never have to leave the square block radius of my apartment. Which is why I've also come to find that it's nearly impossible to maintain any sort of friendship with anyone who lives on the opposite end of Manhattan. If you live on the East side, you might as well bid adieu to your friends on the West side. Anything above 70th street might as well be considered Connecticut. And if you're dating someone in Brooklyn, which might as well be New Jersey, which might as well be Soviet Russia, you'll be forced into a long-distance relationship that will be limited to sexual encounters via Skype and Gchat.
A bonus magic 11*
11.) Trader Joe's. DO NOT, BY ANY MEANS, visit the Trader Joe's in Flatiron or midtown or anywhere in Manhattan, really, after the hours of 5pm. You will be mauled. And you will be bitten. And you will get rabies. Best advice is to take a "hunter-gatherer" partner with you, so that he/she can hunt-and-gather food while you wait in the 75 minute checkout line. Concrete jungle is an understatement, as it seems New Yorkers at a Trader Joe's during rush hour have reverted back to the caveman era of hunting for our own food. Darwinism at its finest. FUN!
-Andres (aka Fat Asian Girl from Madison Ave)
Thursday, September 22, 2011
2 Weeks Notice
Today I submitted my 2 weeks notice for resignation at work. It's a day I have been looking forward to for the past year or so. And it's strange because while there were days that I hated my job, there were also days that I loved it. I loved my co-workers, the environment, the glamor, and the paycheck. So in the end, I can't be surprised by how unexpectedly sad today has been.
I always thought I'd be leaving this place with my ass cheeks fully exposed as I walked down the hallway and made my grand departure, leaving the countless jaws dropped to the floor - but that was before I really knew how valuable I am to many people in this place and, in return, how valuable they have been to me. I can't deny that I've learned immensely from the experience of working at the IMF for almost 3 years, but throughout the whole process I've realized I learned more about myself than I ever imagined I would. 3 years ago, I came in as a confident college graduate thinking that my degree was worth something and that corporate America owed me something in return. What a rough reality check it has been. The value of hard work, dedication, and experience cannot be overlooked. And as a cocky college grad that was molded by the inspiring minds of America, private schools, and my ivy league friends, I realized that nothing in life comes easy.
I can honestly say the hardest part of this whole experience has been putting my ego aside and being O.K. with asking others for help. I'm no better than anyone else, and that's something that formal education never taught me. In fact, I was raised to believe that attending private schools and graduating college put me ahead of the pack and that I'd never have to struggle much to find a well paying job and be successful at a young age. This, believe it or not, is false. For the past 10 months or so, I have felt like a cheap K street hooker- selling myself to anyone that would give me the chance. Being in DC and wanting to move to NYC made it all that much worse, but determination goes a long way in cases such as this.
So after I submitted my 2 weeks notice, my boss called me into his office to "talk". Initially, he seemed very uneasy and nervous and felt it was his fault. I felt bad but also humbled by our conversation and my explanation as to why this was my time to go. My "fuck you" moment never really came, and I'm glad it didn't. I'm thankful for the lessons I learned and the rough patches I endured because, from all of it, I gained an amazing group of coworkers that become close friends that I can have for life. It's an experience that resulted in the positives far outweighing the negatives, and I'm glad I can move on to the next chapter of my life having no regrets and burning no bridges. You go through shit, you learn from it, and you move forward. There's really no other way to go about it.
But as luck would have it, I went to lunch at a sleazy Chinese restaurant with 2 of my coworkers where we just happened to sit next to a table of college-aged kids. From what I gathered, these kids were seniors getting ready to graduate the bubbly college life and move forward from their $200,000 education at GWU. As it's innate in my personality to eaves drop on the conversations of others, I overheard them speaking about job opportunities. And in NYC of all places. One of the overweight and unattractive girls in her Colonials sweatshirt with her frazzled hair stated that she would not accept any salary below 60k because, as she put it, "I want to live in midtown and I refuse to have a roommate so that's the only salary I can take so I can live on my own". Then her Jewish male counterpart responded with, "I totally agree, we didn't have our parents pay all this money for our education to take a crappy job and live in filth." And collectively the table of four nodded in agreement and "Mmmhhhhmm'd" each other. I kind of laughed to myself because that's exactly how I felt and sounded just a short time ago. And now, I've taken a pay cut to move to a city I've always wanted to live in and start over in an industry I'm interested in, with a group of talented people in a company I truly believe will foster my growth. And as I left the restaurant, I glanced over at the table of 4 and saw myself sitting there with them. And then one of them said, "Ugh, I just hate the way NYC smells. I'll probably have to live on Park Ave to avoid all the grossness". $200,000 later and the best word she could come up with was, "grossness". I almost turned and said, "Well I hate the way you smell, you fat ugly skank". And this, I felt, was my cue to leave because I refused to have these hideous college creatures bad mouthing my new city.
But just as I learned through experiencing the real world, so will they. But for now, STAY OUT OF NEW YORK CITY. IT'S MINE!
- Andres
Dedicated to my Muslim girls and my blond bombshell on the 7th floor
I always thought I'd be leaving this place with my ass cheeks fully exposed as I walked down the hallway and made my grand departure, leaving the countless jaws dropped to the floor - but that was before I really knew how valuable I am to many people in this place and, in return, how valuable they have been to me. I can't deny that I've learned immensely from the experience of working at the IMF for almost 3 years, but throughout the whole process I've realized I learned more about myself than I ever imagined I would. 3 years ago, I came in as a confident college graduate thinking that my degree was worth something and that corporate America owed me something in return. What a rough reality check it has been. The value of hard work, dedication, and experience cannot be overlooked. And as a cocky college grad that was molded by the inspiring minds of America, private schools, and my ivy league friends, I realized that nothing in life comes easy.
I can honestly say the hardest part of this whole experience has been putting my ego aside and being O.K. with asking others for help. I'm no better than anyone else, and that's something that formal education never taught me. In fact, I was raised to believe that attending private schools and graduating college put me ahead of the pack and that I'd never have to struggle much to find a well paying job and be successful at a young age. This, believe it or not, is false. For the past 10 months or so, I have felt like a cheap K street hooker- selling myself to anyone that would give me the chance. Being in DC and wanting to move to NYC made it all that much worse, but determination goes a long way in cases such as this.
So after I submitted my 2 weeks notice, my boss called me into his office to "talk". Initially, he seemed very uneasy and nervous and felt it was his fault. I felt bad but also humbled by our conversation and my explanation as to why this was my time to go. My "fuck you" moment never really came, and I'm glad it didn't. I'm thankful for the lessons I learned and the rough patches I endured because, from all of it, I gained an amazing group of coworkers that become close friends that I can have for life. It's an experience that resulted in the positives far outweighing the negatives, and I'm glad I can move on to the next chapter of my life having no regrets and burning no bridges. You go through shit, you learn from it, and you move forward. There's really no other way to go about it.
But as luck would have it, I went to lunch at a sleazy Chinese restaurant with 2 of my coworkers where we just happened to sit next to a table of college-aged kids. From what I gathered, these kids were seniors getting ready to graduate the bubbly college life and move forward from their $200,000 education at GWU. As it's innate in my personality to eaves drop on the conversations of others, I overheard them speaking about job opportunities. And in NYC of all places. One of the overweight and unattractive girls in her Colonials sweatshirt with her frazzled hair stated that she would not accept any salary below 60k because, as she put it, "I want to live in midtown and I refuse to have a roommate so that's the only salary I can take so I can live on my own". Then her Jewish male counterpart responded with, "I totally agree, we didn't have our parents pay all this money for our education to take a crappy job and live in filth." And collectively the table of four nodded in agreement and "Mmmhhhhmm'd" each other. I kind of laughed to myself because that's exactly how I felt and sounded just a short time ago. And now, I've taken a pay cut to move to a city I've always wanted to live in and start over in an industry I'm interested in, with a group of talented people in a company I truly believe will foster my growth. And as I left the restaurant, I glanced over at the table of 4 and saw myself sitting there with them. And then one of them said, "Ugh, I just hate the way NYC smells. I'll probably have to live on Park Ave to avoid all the grossness". $200,000 later and the best word she could come up with was, "grossness". I almost turned and said, "Well I hate the way you smell, you fat ugly skank". And this, I felt, was my cue to leave because I refused to have these hideous college creatures bad mouthing my new city.
But just as I learned through experiencing the real world, so will they. But for now, STAY OUT OF NEW YORK CITY. IT'S MINE!
- Andres
Dedicated to my Muslim girls and my blond bombshell on the 7th floor
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Dear Life...
Dear Life,
Today, I went to pay for my $8.12 Chipotle burrito bowl during lunch, and was told my card got "partially" declined. So I had to pay the remaining $2.83 in cash. Slightly concerned, I went to check my bank account, and for the first time since I was perhaps 12 years old, it read "Available Balance: $0.00". I smiled to myself, because that seems to be the only emotion I have left for instances such as this. I then tried to go to the Post Office to have this letter to the Delaware Court over-nighted.
You see, in recent weeks I've been driving back and forth to NYC in an effort to interview for various crappy jobs. I finally found one that I feel would be great for me, seeing as how I can no longer stand one more second of my current job without wanting to jab a pen through my eyes and a butter knife through my ears in a desperate effort to become blind and deaf to the absurdity I witness on a daily basis. I have invested a lot of my own money in making trips to Manhattan, often times getting ditched by interviewers who were "too busy" to meet with me or uninterested in my "overqualified" skills. Here's where I have a bone to pick with you, Life, so please listen carefully. Because this is my story.
On 9/2/2011 at 1:40 am, I was traveling southbound on Interstate 95 through the part of Delaware that no one cares about, when all 5 lanes of the interstate were merging into 1 lane due to construction. I was attempting to merge into the last lane between 2 trucks and noticed that the driver of the second one was purposefully closing the gap in an attempt to not let me in. As my lane neared its end, I slowed to almost a complete stop to avoid getting mauled and was purposefully sideswiped by the 2nd truck in an attempt to cut me off. The Delaware State trooper was called and, although I tried to explain to the officer that I believed the driver of the tractor-trailer was driving aggressively and dangerously, I was given a citation for “Failure to Yield”. Additionally, I was given a second citation for failure to provide valid proof of insurance. Because the car (a 2011 Honda Civic) belongs to my sister and is insured under my dad's policy, I was unaware that the insurance card that was in the glove-box was expired by about a month. I suppose the last thing that went through my mind nearly 20 hours earlier at 6:30 am, as I nervously made it out the door to head to my interview, was whether or not the insurance card was up-to-date in case some sadistic asshole hit me. After sitting on the side of 95 for over 2 hours with this bastard truck driver who had no remorse for what he had just done, I was sent home with two tickets in hand and an impending court date in Delaware. I am now responsible for a $500 "Failure to provide proof of insurance" ticket, a $200 "Failure to Yield" ticket, and about $1,000 in damages to my sister's brand new car.
Although it has been two weeks, I still find this situation difficult to swallow. What has happened to our justice system? I can only hope that you, Mr. Life, will divulge some much needed karma to the dick-headed redneck who found joy in another person's misfortune.
I find it difficult to swallow the fact that we, as human beings, must go through so much adversity and rejection just to end up often dissatisfied and hurt in the end. I can perhaps accept this as being inevitable. I have never been one to be negative or melancholy in my outlook towards things; however in the recent weeks you, Sir Life, have left me with no other choice.
That truck driver had no idea what I had been through that day, nor did he care. Too many times, people fail to realize that the stranger we pass on the street might be having a bad day. But, Life, I cannot accept your constant need to kick someone when they are down. It seems like the poor get poorer, the hungry get hungrier, the unfortunate get more misfortune, and the drunk driver lives when the innocent bystander dies. September 11th would be a great example of that. In an effort to change my career, my city, my outlook on things, and my life in general, it seems you've made it harder and harder on purpose. In the past month, I've received unexpected hospital bills from nearly 8 months ago, a 2nd notice for a $250 camera ticket from DC dated 2 months prior (for which I never received a 1st notice, therefore it doubled...), dentist bills, pay cuts, insurance increases, a family death, and countless other things that have contributed to my financial and personal distress. As much as you have tried to defeat me, I try to take this all as a learning experience. I try to become stronger and smarter because of it, but I can tell you one thing - It's fucking hard. I'm not saying I may not be at fault for some of these things, but why do bad things have to happen all at once? If I had a proper grasp on my emotions, I would cry. But I don't, so I haven't.
And dear Life, if you've made it this far then it means you might be listening. So hear this: Today you tried to defeat me once more. I was assigned a court date to appear in Delaware on Sept. 19th, a Monday. At 9:30AM. For those of us that work for a living, this seems unorthodox. After speaking to two different women who work at the Delaware courthouse and seem even more miserable than I can possibly imagine, they informed me that the only way to postpone this date or pay the fines without having to appear in court is to send a letter to the judge for review. Because of the fact that I have not sent a letter since the days of the Pony Express, I decided to head to the U.S. Post Office thinking I can easily pay a few dollars and have them mail the letter overnight. I stood in an enormous line TWICE, for an hour each time, because they kept giving me the wrong envelope. The same thing happened to 2 ladies in front of me, only they seemed far more frustrated than I at the time. At this point, I can only sit there and smile in amusement like an idiot because I have been drained of my ability to be angry anymore. After wasting two hours of my life attempting to mail a $14.40 letter, I simply gave up, went 2 blocks away to FedEx, and paid $25.00 to send this absurd letter to Delaware. No wonder my account reads "Available Balance: $0.00". Thanks for that snippet of fun that I so badly needed on this lovely Wednesday.
I recall that there was a movie once made called "Life is Beautiful".
If they made a documentary of what it's really like most of the time, I'm fairly sure it would be called, "Be jealous of those that have died before you, for they no longer have to deal with post offices, lack of finances, trans fats, exercising, tooth aches, insurance companies, tickets, police officers, dirty dishes, dirty toilets, rude and inconsiderate people, traffic, being caught in the rain without an umbrella, sweating profusely while wearing a suit, horrible bosses, break-ups, deadlines, stress, fat free cheese (which is disgusting), tragedy, terrorists, long lines for a bathroom, that part of Delaware between Maryland and New Jersey that always has traffic for no apparent reason, mosquitoes, diarrhea, artificial banana flavored candy, any commercial with Ashton Kutcher in it, politics, bad sexual encounters, crowded subways with smelly strangers, humidity, impotence, growing old, cover letters, resumes, and automated call-centers".
For simplicity sake though, I think I would just put all of those into
one and name it, "Life is beautiful on occasion, but for the most part
it sucks a big ethnic donkey dick with herpes and a hint of asbestos
on the side".
And Life, while you often suck at times and cause me and my fellow human beings to curse our own existence, I can say for the most part that I'm lucky. I'm lucky that most of my problems have been merely financial. I'm lucky to be learning these important lessons of adversity and hardship at a younger age. I'm lucky to have come to realize the importance of having genuine relationships with others to get through the rough patches. And while there may be roadblocks and hurdles and 5 lanes merging into 1 at times, I will still reach my final destination. And I will appreciate it that much more because of all of this.
Though for now, I can wholeheartedly tell you to fuck off, life.
Xoxo,
Andres
Today, I went to pay for my $8.12 Chipotle burrito bowl during lunch, and was told my card got "partially" declined. So I had to pay the remaining $2.83 in cash. Slightly concerned, I went to check my bank account, and for the first time since I was perhaps 12 years old, it read "Available Balance: $0.00". I smiled to myself, because that seems to be the only emotion I have left for instances such as this. I then tried to go to the Post Office to have this letter to the Delaware Court over-nighted.
You see, in recent weeks I've been driving back and forth to NYC in an effort to interview for various crappy jobs. I finally found one that I feel would be great for me, seeing as how I can no longer stand one more second of my current job without wanting to jab a pen through my eyes and a butter knife through my ears in a desperate effort to become blind and deaf to the absurdity I witness on a daily basis. I have invested a lot of my own money in making trips to Manhattan, often times getting ditched by interviewers who were "too busy" to meet with me or uninterested in my "overqualified" skills. Here's where I have a bone to pick with you, Life, so please listen carefully. Because this is my story.
On 9/2/2011 at 1:40 am, I was traveling southbound on Interstate 95 through the part of Delaware that no one cares about, when all 5 lanes of the interstate were merging into 1 lane due to construction. I was attempting to merge into the last lane between 2 trucks and noticed that the driver of the second one was purposefully closing the gap in an attempt to not let me in. As my lane neared its end, I slowed to almost a complete stop to avoid getting mauled and was purposefully sideswiped by the 2nd truck in an attempt to cut me off. The Delaware State trooper was called and, although I tried to explain to the officer that I believed the driver of the tractor-trailer was driving aggressively and dangerously, I was given a citation for “Failure to Yield”. Additionally, I was given a second citation for failure to provide valid proof of insurance. Because the car (a 2011 Honda Civic) belongs to my sister and is insured under my dad's policy, I was unaware that the insurance card that was in the glove-box was expired by about a month. I suppose the last thing that went through my mind nearly 20 hours earlier at 6:30 am, as I nervously made it out the door to head to my interview, was whether or not the insurance card was up-to-date in case some sadistic asshole hit me. After sitting on the side of 95 for over 2 hours with this bastard truck driver who had no remorse for what he had just done, I was sent home with two tickets in hand and an impending court date in Delaware. I am now responsible for a $500 "Failure to provide proof of insurance" ticket, a $200 "Failure to Yield" ticket, and about $1,000 in damages to my sister's brand new car.
Although it has been two weeks, I still find this situation difficult to swallow. What has happened to our justice system? I can only hope that you, Mr. Life, will divulge some much needed karma to the dick-headed redneck who found joy in another person's misfortune.
I find it difficult to swallow the fact that we, as human beings, must go through so much adversity and rejection just to end up often dissatisfied and hurt in the end. I can perhaps accept this as being inevitable. I have never been one to be negative or melancholy in my outlook towards things; however in the recent weeks you, Sir Life, have left me with no other choice.
That truck driver had no idea what I had been through that day, nor did he care. Too many times, people fail to realize that the stranger we pass on the street might be having a bad day. But, Life, I cannot accept your constant need to kick someone when they are down. It seems like the poor get poorer, the hungry get hungrier, the unfortunate get more misfortune, and the drunk driver lives when the innocent bystander dies. September 11th would be a great example of that. In an effort to change my career, my city, my outlook on things, and my life in general, it seems you've made it harder and harder on purpose. In the past month, I've received unexpected hospital bills from nearly 8 months ago, a 2nd notice for a $250 camera ticket from DC dated 2 months prior (for which I never received a 1st notice, therefore it doubled...), dentist bills, pay cuts, insurance increases, a family death, and countless other things that have contributed to my financial and personal distress. As much as you have tried to defeat me, I try to take this all as a learning experience. I try to become stronger and smarter because of it, but I can tell you one thing - It's fucking hard. I'm not saying I may not be at fault for some of these things, but why do bad things have to happen all at once? If I had a proper grasp on my emotions, I would cry. But I don't, so I haven't.
And dear Life, if you've made it this far then it means you might be listening. So hear this: Today you tried to defeat me once more. I was assigned a court date to appear in Delaware on Sept. 19th, a Monday. At 9:30AM. For those of us that work for a living, this seems unorthodox. After speaking to two different women who work at the Delaware courthouse and seem even more miserable than I can possibly imagine, they informed me that the only way to postpone this date or pay the fines without having to appear in court is to send a letter to the judge for review. Because of the fact that I have not sent a letter since the days of the Pony Express, I decided to head to the U.S. Post Office thinking I can easily pay a few dollars and have them mail the letter overnight. I stood in an enormous line TWICE, for an hour each time, because they kept giving me the wrong envelope. The same thing happened to 2 ladies in front of me, only they seemed far more frustrated than I at the time. At this point, I can only sit there and smile in amusement like an idiot because I have been drained of my ability to be angry anymore. After wasting two hours of my life attempting to mail a $14.40 letter, I simply gave up, went 2 blocks away to FedEx, and paid $25.00 to send this absurd letter to Delaware. No wonder my account reads "Available Balance: $0.00". Thanks for that snippet of fun that I so badly needed on this lovely Wednesday.
I recall that there was a movie once made called "Life is Beautiful".
If they made a documentary of what it's really like most of the time, I'm fairly sure it would be called, "Be jealous of those that have died before you, for they no longer have to deal with post offices, lack of finances, trans fats, exercising, tooth aches, insurance companies, tickets, police officers, dirty dishes, dirty toilets, rude and inconsiderate people, traffic, being caught in the rain without an umbrella, sweating profusely while wearing a suit, horrible bosses, break-ups, deadlines, stress, fat free cheese (which is disgusting), tragedy, terrorists, long lines for a bathroom, that part of Delaware between Maryland and New Jersey that always has traffic for no apparent reason, mosquitoes, diarrhea, artificial banana flavored candy, any commercial with Ashton Kutcher in it, politics, bad sexual encounters, crowded subways with smelly strangers, humidity, impotence, growing old, cover letters, resumes, and automated call-centers".
For simplicity sake though, I think I would just put all of those into
one and name it, "Life is beautiful on occasion, but for the most part
it sucks a big ethnic donkey dick with herpes and a hint of asbestos
on the side".
And Life, while you often suck at times and cause me and my fellow human beings to curse our own existence, I can say for the most part that I'm lucky. I'm lucky that most of my problems have been merely financial. I'm lucky to be learning these important lessons of adversity and hardship at a younger age. I'm lucky to have come to realize the importance of having genuine relationships with others to get through the rough patches. And while there may be roadblocks and hurdles and 5 lanes merging into 1 at times, I will still reach my final destination. And I will appreciate it that much more because of all of this.
Though for now, I can wholeheartedly tell you to fuck off, life.
Xoxo,
Andres
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Suburbia Sucks
Another small snippet from Ch.8 in the upcoming book:
Life in Suburbia is like living in the twilight zone. Much like my environment at work, I often times end up feeling trapped and frustrated with my daily life in the suburbs. Of course, I realize it’s my choice to currently live in my parents’ house in exchange for saving a few dollars. I’m beginning to see a pattern of giving up my mental health and potential happiness in exchange for money – which is something I never wanted for myself.
Recently, I found myself outside of a Starbucks in the quaint and over-priced Potomac Village suburb of Washington, DC. This is where I live. And this is where many people choose to live. Everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by symbols of status and money and power – characteristics that are violently sought after by the modern-day family wanting to reach that perfect spot amongst others living the “American Dream”. As I sat outside the Starbucks with my friend Stephen, I noticed a sign posted above a lamp post. “Notice: Smoking is banned in this area by law of the Montgomery County Fire Marshall. Premises is patrolled and violators will be fined and convicted.” I began to wonder whose job it is to patrol the premises of this small village shopping center, searching for the riff raffs and hoodlums that dare light a cigarette in public. Surely the Fire Marshall was too busy saving kittens and rescuing old ladies that have fallen in the bathtub, so who was in charge? As I sipped my five dollar iced skim latte in the fresh outdoors, I looked over at Stephen, who happened to be lighting a cigarette.
“What are you doing? Doesn’t that sign say you can’t smoke here?” And as I spoke those words, I simultaneously realized I had fallen into the suburban trap. Obeying every rule and law and sign posted within a wide circumference of your surroundings. This is an understood rule of living in the suburbs. No arguments – just pure submission in exchange for an orderly life of freshly painted parking spots and expensive colorful landscaping.
“Yeah, that’s what it says. But I do it anyway. It’s an outdoor spot, wide open with fresh air. But it’s entertaining to see what happens when I do this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, with a slight look of confusion on my face.
I’ve known Stephen for 13 years, and I often times find myself confused when he speaks. He’s burly and moves with excess motion, swinging his arms and legs violently and taking charge of each sidewalk like a bull elephant in the wild. He’s always been someone with little regard for rules and regulations, so his behavior rarely astonishes me.
“You’ll see,” he replied, grinning mischievously.
And as he lit his cigarette and took the first puff, it became clear to me exactly who patrolled the vicinity.
“AHEM. Excuse me! The sign clearly says ‘NO SMOKING ALLOWED!’”
As I peered behind the lamp post, I noticed a middle-aged woman holding a small Yorkshire terrier. She was sitting on one of the wooden tables provided by the Starbucks for customers to enjoy their luxury lattes, but she had taken advantage of the complimentary seating to groom her dog and read the latest issue of Washingtonian Magazine. As she glared over, Stephen continued smoking.
“That lady sounded pissed.”
“Yeah she’s the same type. Different lady but same attitude – they feel like it’s their duty to enforce the stupidly placed rules because they spend their days shopping online and reading CNN.com so they can feel informed and accomplished. Fuck her,” said Stephen, as he blew a plume of smoke and made a perfectly shaped “O” in the air.
“SIR. EXCUSE ME! That’s VERY rude to partake in your disgusting habit in front of the rest of us,” she continued. I quickly pictured what this woman would have done had she been confronted with the site of a young male monkey masturbating in public directly next to the Starbucks. It concerned me to think she was the type of woman that would approach the monkey and, in her thick Jewish northeastern accent, demand that he stop touching himself in public, as it’s a disgusting habit.
We walked 5 feet past the sign towards the sidewalk to relieve ourselves from the incessant squawking that relentlessly flowed from this woman’s mouth. Mere seconds later, I noticed a father walking by with his young daughter. He was attractive and impeccably dressed, and I imagined him being a successful entrepreneur that married young and started a family with his high school sweetheart immediately following his graduation from an Ivey league university. As he walked by, he shot a dirty look and coughed incessantly. “Gross!” he announced, as he forcibly hacked up a lung and held his daughter slightly closer to his side. It was difficult for me to grasp the reality of what was happening. How could it be that I, along with my slightly demented friend, were the only ones that noticed the outlandish reactions by our fellow suburbanites. Had we exchanged the lit cigarette for a freshly used heroine needle and passed it around in a circle, the reactions would have remained exactly the same.
One by one, I witnessed multiple people pass by in disgust as Stephen puffed his cigarette and nonchalantly recited a story to me about the new type of bondage porn he’s recently been into.
“These people are robots. Did you notice that I could talk about anything I want and the only thing they notice is the cigarette in my hand? Next time I’m going to talk about my affinity towards bestiality, and I bet the only reaction I’ll get is a loud cough and angry demands to extinguish my cigarette”. He was right. It was as though someone had taken me out of the fishbowl and given me the opportunity to look from the outside in. So I took a cigarette and joined Stephen. And one by one, the angry suburbanites climbed into their over-sized SUV’s and drove past us, polluting the air with $100 worth of premium gasoline to get their kids to and from soccer practice. And as they drove past, Stephen and I waved our hands in front of our faces. Coughing incessantly.
Life in Suburbia is like living in the twilight zone. Much like my environment at work, I often times end up feeling trapped and frustrated with my daily life in the suburbs. Of course, I realize it’s my choice to currently live in my parents’ house in exchange for saving a few dollars. I’m beginning to see a pattern of giving up my mental health and potential happiness in exchange for money – which is something I never wanted for myself.
Recently, I found myself outside of a Starbucks in the quaint and over-priced Potomac Village suburb of Washington, DC. This is where I live. And this is where many people choose to live. Everywhere you look, you’re surrounded by symbols of status and money and power – characteristics that are violently sought after by the modern-day family wanting to reach that perfect spot amongst others living the “American Dream”. As I sat outside the Starbucks with my friend Stephen, I noticed a sign posted above a lamp post. “Notice: Smoking is banned in this area by law of the Montgomery County Fire Marshall. Premises is patrolled and violators will be fined and convicted.” I began to wonder whose job it is to patrol the premises of this small village shopping center, searching for the riff raffs and hoodlums that dare light a cigarette in public. Surely the Fire Marshall was too busy saving kittens and rescuing old ladies that have fallen in the bathtub, so who was in charge? As I sipped my five dollar iced skim latte in the fresh outdoors, I looked over at Stephen, who happened to be lighting a cigarette.
“What are you doing? Doesn’t that sign say you can’t smoke here?” And as I spoke those words, I simultaneously realized I had fallen into the suburban trap. Obeying every rule and law and sign posted within a wide circumference of your surroundings. This is an understood rule of living in the suburbs. No arguments – just pure submission in exchange for an orderly life of freshly painted parking spots and expensive colorful landscaping.
“Yeah, that’s what it says. But I do it anyway. It’s an outdoor spot, wide open with fresh air. But it’s entertaining to see what happens when I do this.”
“What do you mean?” I said, with a slight look of confusion on my face.
I’ve known Stephen for 13 years, and I often times find myself confused when he speaks. He’s burly and moves with excess motion, swinging his arms and legs violently and taking charge of each sidewalk like a bull elephant in the wild. He’s always been someone with little regard for rules and regulations, so his behavior rarely astonishes me.
“You’ll see,” he replied, grinning mischievously.
And as he lit his cigarette and took the first puff, it became clear to me exactly who patrolled the vicinity.
“AHEM. Excuse me! The sign clearly says ‘NO SMOKING ALLOWED!’”
As I peered behind the lamp post, I noticed a middle-aged woman holding a small Yorkshire terrier. She was sitting on one of the wooden tables provided by the Starbucks for customers to enjoy their luxury lattes, but she had taken advantage of the complimentary seating to groom her dog and read the latest issue of Washingtonian Magazine. As she glared over, Stephen continued smoking.
“That lady sounded pissed.”
“Yeah she’s the same type. Different lady but same attitude – they feel like it’s their duty to enforce the stupidly placed rules because they spend their days shopping online and reading CNN.com so they can feel informed and accomplished. Fuck her,” said Stephen, as he blew a plume of smoke and made a perfectly shaped “O” in the air.
“SIR. EXCUSE ME! That’s VERY rude to partake in your disgusting habit in front of the rest of us,” she continued. I quickly pictured what this woman would have done had she been confronted with the site of a young male monkey masturbating in public directly next to the Starbucks. It concerned me to think she was the type of woman that would approach the monkey and, in her thick Jewish northeastern accent, demand that he stop touching himself in public, as it’s a disgusting habit.
We walked 5 feet past the sign towards the sidewalk to relieve ourselves from the incessant squawking that relentlessly flowed from this woman’s mouth. Mere seconds later, I noticed a father walking by with his young daughter. He was attractive and impeccably dressed, and I imagined him being a successful entrepreneur that married young and started a family with his high school sweetheart immediately following his graduation from an Ivey league university. As he walked by, he shot a dirty look and coughed incessantly. “Gross!” he announced, as he forcibly hacked up a lung and held his daughter slightly closer to his side. It was difficult for me to grasp the reality of what was happening. How could it be that I, along with my slightly demented friend, were the only ones that noticed the outlandish reactions by our fellow suburbanites. Had we exchanged the lit cigarette for a freshly used heroine needle and passed it around in a circle, the reactions would have remained exactly the same.
One by one, I witnessed multiple people pass by in disgust as Stephen puffed his cigarette and nonchalantly recited a story to me about the new type of bondage porn he’s recently been into.
“These people are robots. Did you notice that I could talk about anything I want and the only thing they notice is the cigarette in my hand? Next time I’m going to talk about my affinity towards bestiality, and I bet the only reaction I’ll get is a loud cough and angry demands to extinguish my cigarette”. He was right. It was as though someone had taken me out of the fishbowl and given me the opportunity to look from the outside in. So I took a cigarette and joined Stephen. And one by one, the angry suburbanites climbed into their over-sized SUV’s and drove past us, polluting the air with $100 worth of premium gasoline to get their kids to and from soccer practice. And as they drove past, Stephen and I waved our hands in front of our faces. Coughing incessantly.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Invitation to See Me in L.A.
Dear Stephanie Gwyneth Ruth Eugenia Baker,
I will be in L.A. from this Thursday morning until Monday morning. Please arrange accordingly for us to see each other - preferably topless. MOST preferably topless and slightly intoxicated. Also, I miss your breasts and have not seen the newly reduced ones, for which I'm anxious and a bit perturbed by. I would also like to share that I might have very little energy - because seeing as how no one in Hollywood really eats or does anything remotely strenuous with their lives, I've been living off of half a pack of tic-tacs for the last week - with the occasional acorn I steal from the very mean squirrel that lives outside my window. Seriously, she's a bitch. Regardless, I hope I look as delectably emaciated as Sarah Michelle Gellar and/or Lindsay Lohan (but without the wrinkles and crack cocaine look that seems to be popular with the youngsters these days).
I'm also kind of a celebrity now, so the paparazzi will be following me around to take glamouorr shots and I don't want a rumor spreading on Perez Hilton that my slight "baby bump" indicates a newfound preganancy while I shop with Sandra Bullock in Beverly Hills. That would be embarassing seeing as how I'm not dating anyone and I've had my ovaries removed and eggs frozen some years back. Also, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
***
Omg. You have NO idea how much I miss you. Sooo I am free Friday night and all day Saturday, but I do have to work Sunday (stupid students moving back into the bldg). What plans do you already have? I am about 35 miles east of LA (nothing you want to do here, I assure you unless you want to eat at an all vegan restaurant or take a tour of the Claremont colleges). Oh, have I told you I'm vegan now? I just thought I should give you a heads up as I can no longer eat gluttonous amounts of cheese with you. I assure you I am the same cynical, sarcastic yet oddly compassionate short girl just with slightly smaller breasts and fewer cravings for cheese.
What are your plans? I am happy to come meet you somewhere that's more LA-esque than suburban Claremont at a time that's good for you.
Xoxo,
♥♥ Slightly reduced titties
PS my haircut is asymmetrical now. I thought I should warn you of the dangers of grad school (being too poor to afford a haircut around the entire circumference of one's head). Just didn't want you to be too alarmed.
***
Dear Slightly Reduced Titties,
I'm saddened, but not very shocked, that you're now Vegan. It seems that California does this to people. You move to the West coast and either chain yourself to trees and animals or become a bulimic windsurfer. Either way, it seems like a fabulous life. However, how do you live without cheese? And Milkshakes? And anything else that comes from the lovely tit (pronounced 'Teet') of a female cow. Also, how will I be able to spot you upon arrival to our meeting spot (which will inevitably be somewhere glamorous like the urine soaked friendly streets of Venice beach)? Don't you drive a small hybrid like everyone else over there? I'm also wondering - do your newly reduced breasts mean there will be less milk produced? In addition, if your feeding milk from your body to a small infant and/or starving homeless man, does that still make you a vegan? After all, that IS dairy.
And no worries about the haircut - mine is asymmetrical as well but only because I got drunk and attempted to shave down my sideburns. You're in good company.
Still though, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
I will be in L.A. from this Thursday morning until Monday morning. Please arrange accordingly for us to see each other - preferably topless. MOST preferably topless and slightly intoxicated. Also, I miss your breasts and have not seen the newly reduced ones, for which I'm anxious and a bit perturbed by. I would also like to share that I might have very little energy - because seeing as how no one in Hollywood really eats or does anything remotely strenuous with their lives, I've been living off of half a pack of tic-tacs for the last week - with the occasional acorn I steal from the very mean squirrel that lives outside my window. Seriously, she's a bitch. Regardless, I hope I look as delectably emaciated as Sarah Michelle Gellar and/or Lindsay Lohan (but without the wrinkles and crack cocaine look that seems to be popular with the youngsters these days).
I'm also kind of a celebrity now, so the paparazzi will be following me around to take glamouorr shots and I don't want a rumor spreading on Perez Hilton that my slight "baby bump" indicates a newfound preganancy while I shop with Sandra Bullock in Beverly Hills. That would be embarassing seeing as how I'm not dating anyone and I've had my ovaries removed and eggs frozen some years back. Also, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
***
Omg. You have NO idea how much I miss you. Sooo I am free Friday night and all day Saturday, but I do have to work Sunday (stupid students moving back into the bldg). What plans do you already have? I am about 35 miles east of LA (nothing you want to do here, I assure you unless you want to eat at an all vegan restaurant or take a tour of the Claremont colleges). Oh, have I told you I'm vegan now? I just thought I should give you a heads up as I can no longer eat gluttonous amounts of cheese with you. I assure you I am the same cynical, sarcastic yet oddly compassionate short girl just with slightly smaller breasts and fewer cravings for cheese.
What are your plans? I am happy to come meet you somewhere that's more LA-esque than suburban Claremont at a time that's good for you.
Xoxo,
♥♥ Slightly reduced titties
PS my haircut is asymmetrical now. I thought I should warn you of the dangers of grad school (being too poor to afford a haircut around the entire circumference of one's head). Just didn't want you to be too alarmed.
***
Dear Slightly Reduced Titties,
I'm saddened, but not very shocked, that you're now Vegan. It seems that California does this to people. You move to the West coast and either chain yourself to trees and animals or become a bulimic windsurfer. Either way, it seems like a fabulous life. However, how do you live without cheese? And Milkshakes? And anything else that comes from the lovely tit (pronounced 'Teet') of a female cow. Also, how will I be able to spot you upon arrival to our meeting spot (which will inevitably be somewhere glamorous like the urine soaked friendly streets of Venice beach)? Don't you drive a small hybrid like everyone else over there? I'm also wondering - do your newly reduced breasts mean there will be less milk produced? In addition, if your feeding milk from your body to a small infant and/or starving homeless man, does that still make you a vegan? After all, that IS dairy.
And no worries about the haircut - mine is asymmetrical as well but only because I got drunk and attempted to shave down my sideburns. You're in good company.
Still though, bring cheese.
Xoxo,
Andres
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Hunnay, wha you like today?!
It wasn't so long ago that I remember my mother taking me to Cartoon Cuts at Lakeforest Mall for my monthly haircuts. It was one of my favorite things because I was always intrigued by the transformations that came along with a haircut. She'd hand me over to the hairdresser who proceeded to plop me on top of a giant plastic elephant where I would remain until the haircut was over.
"Ok listen," I'd say with authority to the hairdresser. "I want to look just like Zack Morris on Saved By The Bell. I don't really care how you do it, but make me blond and make the mushroom cut a perfectly straight line. I don't care for AC Slater so please don't make me look anything like him."
Saved By The Bell was my favorite show in 4th grade, so obviously I had to look like my crush - Zack Morris. "Sure thing sweety. I'll see what I can do," she smiled, as though just to appease me. In reality though, she was doing the haircut to her taste because, as she presumed, what does a 9 year-old know? Of course, 30 minutes would pass and I would look nothing like Zack Morris. By the end of each haircut, I was furious.
"Mom, she didn't make me blond and the mushroom line in the back is not nearly visible enough! Why did you pay the lady?!"
"Andres, you're being rude. Stop the tantrums or no Burger King for you!" my mom would say, in her thick Spanish accent. Burger King was her solution to shutting me up, which in turn allowed her to shop for hours while I quietly scarfed down french fries and nuggets near the kids area with my 88 year-old grandmother. Although frustrating, the entire process of the haircut was relatively simple and worry-free for me. We'd come in, I'd make my demands on top of a plastic animal, and my mom would pay. Being a kid was so care-free in that respect.
In my older age, I've grown to fear haircuts. Not because of the actual act of cutting my hair, but because of the barbaric process of choosing a stylist. Over the years, I've bounced between salons and hairdressers the way one might shop around for the perfect home. My hair is very simple to cut and style, so the stress involved in choosing a stylist is beyond me. A few years ago, I wandered into the Hair Cuttery at Kentland's in a hurry. My normal stylist at Bubbles, Joy, was booked. I hate having to make an appointment for a haircut - something that takes ten minutes. It's not a root canal, and I'm more of a "Walk-ins welcomed" type of guy.
"Herro, how can I herp you?" said the nice Asian lady behind the counter. According to her black nametag, her name was Amy.
"Yes, I'd just like a simple haircut. I don't have an appointment."
"Ohhhh no probrem! I not busy I cut your hair very good! Ten minute!"
I had instantly fallen in love. Fast, cheap, and ethnic. Just the way I like it. For the next 3 years, I would visit Amy once a month every Friday for my haircut. I loved walking in and seeing her levels of excitement sky rocket. "Andrea! How are you!? Take seat I be with you in minute. Just finishing Fat Joe," she'd say, as the overweight balding man named Joe would stare back at himself warily in the mirror. I wondered if Joe was even his name. Judging by the look on his face, I'm certain that "Fat Joe" is not the official nickname he had presented himself with upon meeting Amy. Each haircut, Amy would ask me the same questions as though she had prepared a speech prior to my arrival.
"You go on vacation yet?"
"Yes I'm going to the beach next week."
"Oh my Godddddddddd you so lich!!!"
"No I'm not rich. I just like to throw away my money on cheap haircuts and travel."
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH You funny! I bet girlfriend love you!" she'd say. Amy always laughed at everything I said - no matter what. I could talk about a news story related to a dead baby that accidentally swallowed a bag of narcotics and she'd bust out in high-pitched hysterics. An evening spent with Amy was the perfect boost for the weekend every Friday.
Because of this, I was horrified one afternoon when I entered the Hair Cuttery and found that Amy was not around.
"Can I help you?" said the new Asian girl with far better English.
"Yes, I'm looking for Amy. Is she around?"
"Oh she just left. But I'm free. My name is Jodie, I'm the head stylist. I usually require appointments but my 7:00 canceled so I'm available."
How does one become a lead stylist at a Hair Cuttery? The fact that she requires appointments for a $14 haircut annoyed me, but since I was desperate I gave in.
The second I sat in her chair, I felt instantly guilty. Her station was directly next to Amy's station, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was having an affair. I found myself quietly mouthing the words, "I'm Sorry" to the pictures of Amy's small Asian children taped over the mirror of her booth.
"It's nice to meet you, Andres. Please sit back and relax. I will take care of you today" Said Jodie, as she massaged my temples. It was clear to me that this was now a huge predicament I was in, as my feelings for Jodie became more intense every second that passed. By the end of the flawlessly executed haircut, she handed me her business card with floating kittens sprinkled all over it.
"See you next month, and remember what I told you about the new product I gave you. Use it sparingly but dazzle your tips with it so as to stimulate the hair folicles. It will give more shine and volume to your look and accentuate your facial featuers."
Holy shit. This lady was the real deal - I felt as though I had just undergone some intense spa treatment and lazer lipo. All for only $14 plus tip.
A month later, I was nervous as I walked into the Hair Cuttery. I had scheduled an appointment with Jodie at 7pm on a Friday, and was hoping and wishing that Amy would have gone home for the day. As I walked in, I was greeted by Jodie and, directly behind her in my line of sight, was Amy.
"Oh herro Andrea! Take seat I be with you right when I finish with baby Jane!" yelled Amy, as a fully grown adolescent girl apparently named Jane sat uncomfortably confused in her chair. In moments like these, I become very awkward and terrified - leaving me often times speechless. "Ok I'll wait here," I replied. Why did I just lie? I know it makes things worse in the end, but I had no other reaction. It was like second nature.
Eventually, Jodie motioned me towards her chair and I reluctantly followed. Like a creepy serial killer, I leaned over to whisper in Amy's ear. "Amy I'm kind of in a hurry today and I know you're super busy because you're just the best stylist in here, but is it OK if Jodie takes care of me today?" With a confused look, Amy nodded her head and said, "Of course, Andrea. No probrem. You go on vacation?"
The next 25-30 minutes were the most uncomfortable of my life. As Jodie went further and further into the haircut, as though she were some sort of Asian trapeze artist with magical hands, I could see Amy's demeanor change. Like some desperate geisha, Amy would intermittently cut into our conversation. "Andrea, I know you rike vacation. I no see you in rong time! How is work? I bet you go away with your girlfriend to tropical paladise or Vegas. I rove Vegas I go with my husband to pray gambring games!" Jodie would uncomfortably smile and say, "Well, Andres, I'm glad you came to me before your vacation. You're going to look spectacular." I sat uncomfortably as the two Asian women battled for my love and affection. If only my real-life relationships were this glamorous.
By the end of the haircut, I walked hurriedly to the counter to pay. What I failed to also realize was how similar both Jodie and Amy looked. In my hasty attempt to leave the ambushed set-up of the Hair Cuttery, I accidentally tipped Amy instead of Jodie. The only way I realized what I had done was when Amy blushed and said, "Oh tank you Andrea! Come back so soon and see me ok?" Fuck. I had mixed up my Asians. Not only that, but I loved Jodie and was giving her an extra $15 as tip for an awesome haircut. I cursed myself as I walked over to the real Jodie and shelled out another $15 to make-up for my stupidity. Suddenly, my $14 haircut had resulted in $44. I don't even have $44 worth of hair to cut, but I exited quickly and vowed not to return again. I just couldn't bare the thought of choosing between my beloved Asian stylists. I learned long ago from many romantic comedies that if you love someone enough, you put their happiness before yours. This is exactly what I had to do with Amy and Jodie. I didn't want to break their hearts and cause Asian mafia wars within the walls of the Hair Cuttery, so I left and never returned.
A month later, I walked down the street from my office on 19th and Penn and stumbled upon "David's Hair Salon". As I walked in, David greeted me and pointed me towards an older Asian woman named "NaNa". Here, I received the actual BEST haircut of my life. NaNa even shaved my eyebrows and sculpted my neckline as meticulously as possible. I felt as though my own grandmother was lovingly cutting my hair. I paid $40 for that haircut (including tip), but I left happily knowing I now had a new Asian woman to mend my broken heart.
When I returned to see her a month later, I was met once again with David, the owner. "You're looking for NaNa? She's not here today, but I'm free and would be happy to take you." Reluctantly, I agreed because I was leaving for a gay weekend in Rehoboth the following day, where it's startlingly tacky to show up with a lion's mane on your head. So David cut my hair, and did an AMAZING job. I paid him $43 dollars and, as I walked out the door, he said "See you in a month!"
I knew right then and there that I would never be back.
"Ok listen," I'd say with authority to the hairdresser. "I want to look just like Zack Morris on Saved By The Bell. I don't really care how you do it, but make me blond and make the mushroom cut a perfectly straight line. I don't care for AC Slater so please don't make me look anything like him."
Saved By The Bell was my favorite show in 4th grade, so obviously I had to look like my crush - Zack Morris. "Sure thing sweety. I'll see what I can do," she smiled, as though just to appease me. In reality though, she was doing the haircut to her taste because, as she presumed, what does a 9 year-old know? Of course, 30 minutes would pass and I would look nothing like Zack Morris. By the end of each haircut, I was furious.
"Mom, she didn't make me blond and the mushroom line in the back is not nearly visible enough! Why did you pay the lady?!"
"Andres, you're being rude. Stop the tantrums or no Burger King for you!" my mom would say, in her thick Spanish accent. Burger King was her solution to shutting me up, which in turn allowed her to shop for hours while I quietly scarfed down french fries and nuggets near the kids area with my 88 year-old grandmother. Although frustrating, the entire process of the haircut was relatively simple and worry-free for me. We'd come in, I'd make my demands on top of a plastic animal, and my mom would pay. Being a kid was so care-free in that respect.
In my older age, I've grown to fear haircuts. Not because of the actual act of cutting my hair, but because of the barbaric process of choosing a stylist. Over the years, I've bounced between salons and hairdressers the way one might shop around for the perfect home. My hair is very simple to cut and style, so the stress involved in choosing a stylist is beyond me. A few years ago, I wandered into the Hair Cuttery at Kentland's in a hurry. My normal stylist at Bubbles, Joy, was booked. I hate having to make an appointment for a haircut - something that takes ten minutes. It's not a root canal, and I'm more of a "Walk-ins welcomed" type of guy.
"Herro, how can I herp you?" said the nice Asian lady behind the counter. According to her black nametag, her name was Amy.
"Yes, I'd just like a simple haircut. I don't have an appointment."
"Ohhhh no probrem! I not busy I cut your hair very good! Ten minute!"
I had instantly fallen in love. Fast, cheap, and ethnic. Just the way I like it. For the next 3 years, I would visit Amy once a month every Friday for my haircut. I loved walking in and seeing her levels of excitement sky rocket. "Andrea! How are you!? Take seat I be with you in minute. Just finishing Fat Joe," she'd say, as the overweight balding man named Joe would stare back at himself warily in the mirror. I wondered if Joe was even his name. Judging by the look on his face, I'm certain that "Fat Joe" is not the official nickname he had presented himself with upon meeting Amy. Each haircut, Amy would ask me the same questions as though she had prepared a speech prior to my arrival.
"You go on vacation yet?"
"Yes I'm going to the beach next week."
"Oh my Godddddddddd you so lich!!!"
"No I'm not rich. I just like to throw away my money on cheap haircuts and travel."
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH You funny! I bet girlfriend love you!" she'd say. Amy always laughed at everything I said - no matter what. I could talk about a news story related to a dead baby that accidentally swallowed a bag of narcotics and she'd bust out in high-pitched hysterics. An evening spent with Amy was the perfect boost for the weekend every Friday.
Because of this, I was horrified one afternoon when I entered the Hair Cuttery and found that Amy was not around.
"Can I help you?" said the new Asian girl with far better English.
"Yes, I'm looking for Amy. Is she around?"
"Oh she just left. But I'm free. My name is Jodie, I'm the head stylist. I usually require appointments but my 7:00 canceled so I'm available."
How does one become a lead stylist at a Hair Cuttery? The fact that she requires appointments for a $14 haircut annoyed me, but since I was desperate I gave in.
The second I sat in her chair, I felt instantly guilty. Her station was directly next to Amy's station, and I couldn't help but feel as though I was having an affair. I found myself quietly mouthing the words, "I'm Sorry" to the pictures of Amy's small Asian children taped over the mirror of her booth.
"It's nice to meet you, Andres. Please sit back and relax. I will take care of you today" Said Jodie, as she massaged my temples. It was clear to me that this was now a huge predicament I was in, as my feelings for Jodie became more intense every second that passed. By the end of the flawlessly executed haircut, she handed me her business card with floating kittens sprinkled all over it.
"See you next month, and remember what I told you about the new product I gave you. Use it sparingly but dazzle your tips with it so as to stimulate the hair folicles. It will give more shine and volume to your look and accentuate your facial featuers."
Holy shit. This lady was the real deal - I felt as though I had just undergone some intense spa treatment and lazer lipo. All for only $14 plus tip.
A month later, I was nervous as I walked into the Hair Cuttery. I had scheduled an appointment with Jodie at 7pm on a Friday, and was hoping and wishing that Amy would have gone home for the day. As I walked in, I was greeted by Jodie and, directly behind her in my line of sight, was Amy.
"Oh herro Andrea! Take seat I be with you right when I finish with baby Jane!" yelled Amy, as a fully grown adolescent girl apparently named Jane sat uncomfortably confused in her chair. In moments like these, I become very awkward and terrified - leaving me often times speechless. "Ok I'll wait here," I replied. Why did I just lie? I know it makes things worse in the end, but I had no other reaction. It was like second nature.
Eventually, Jodie motioned me towards her chair and I reluctantly followed. Like a creepy serial killer, I leaned over to whisper in Amy's ear. "Amy I'm kind of in a hurry today and I know you're super busy because you're just the best stylist in here, but is it OK if Jodie takes care of me today?" With a confused look, Amy nodded her head and said, "Of course, Andrea. No probrem. You go on vacation?"
The next 25-30 minutes were the most uncomfortable of my life. As Jodie went further and further into the haircut, as though she were some sort of Asian trapeze artist with magical hands, I could see Amy's demeanor change. Like some desperate geisha, Amy would intermittently cut into our conversation. "Andrea, I know you rike vacation. I no see you in rong time! How is work? I bet you go away with your girlfriend to tropical paladise or Vegas. I rove Vegas I go with my husband to pray gambring games!" Jodie would uncomfortably smile and say, "Well, Andres, I'm glad you came to me before your vacation. You're going to look spectacular." I sat uncomfortably as the two Asian women battled for my love and affection. If only my real-life relationships were this glamorous.
By the end of the haircut, I walked hurriedly to the counter to pay. What I failed to also realize was how similar both Jodie and Amy looked. In my hasty attempt to leave the ambushed set-up of the Hair Cuttery, I accidentally tipped Amy instead of Jodie. The only way I realized what I had done was when Amy blushed and said, "Oh tank you Andrea! Come back so soon and see me ok?" Fuck. I had mixed up my Asians. Not only that, but I loved Jodie and was giving her an extra $15 as tip for an awesome haircut. I cursed myself as I walked over to the real Jodie and shelled out another $15 to make-up for my stupidity. Suddenly, my $14 haircut had resulted in $44. I don't even have $44 worth of hair to cut, but I exited quickly and vowed not to return again. I just couldn't bare the thought of choosing between my beloved Asian stylists. I learned long ago from many romantic comedies that if you love someone enough, you put their happiness before yours. This is exactly what I had to do with Amy and Jodie. I didn't want to break their hearts and cause Asian mafia wars within the walls of the Hair Cuttery, so I left and never returned.
A month later, I walked down the street from my office on 19th and Penn and stumbled upon "David's Hair Salon". As I walked in, David greeted me and pointed me towards an older Asian woman named "NaNa". Here, I received the actual BEST haircut of my life. NaNa even shaved my eyebrows and sculpted my neckline as meticulously as possible. I felt as though my own grandmother was lovingly cutting my hair. I paid $40 for that haircut (including tip), but I left happily knowing I now had a new Asian woman to mend my broken heart.
When I returned to see her a month later, I was met once again with David, the owner. "You're looking for NaNa? She's not here today, but I'm free and would be happy to take you." Reluctantly, I agreed because I was leaving for a gay weekend in Rehoboth the following day, where it's startlingly tacky to show up with a lion's mane on your head. So David cut my hair, and did an AMAZING job. I paid him $43 dollars and, as I walked out the door, he said "See you in a month!"
I knew right then and there that I would never be back.
Friday, August 12, 2011
What if?
I decided recently that the best way to go about promoting my book and my stories would be to really focus on this blog. Since most of my income goes towards plane tickets and the excessive consumption of cheese and alcohol, I can't really afford to hire someone to design a website and make my blogs more popular through a google search. I rely on my friends and their friends and my family to share my stories and essays if they happen to find them entertaining - and I'm ever grateful that I have such a loyal group of readers that enjoy coming back and being a part of my life. That being said, you guys seem just as sadistic and twisted as myself. I enjoy it.
Often times, people have no idea how to locate my blog or get to it. To make things easier for everyone, for the extravagant price of $9.99 I purchased a domain and called it www.22tolife.com
The meaning behind this is simple. We all share the same frustrations when it comes to life, jobs, relationships, and growing up. It can be really fucking hard, but I've learned that the more difficult things in life come with the greatest rewards. And the more I've written and discussed with people, the more I learn that we share so many more common experiences and fears than we can ever imagine. Success doesn't come easy - nothing does. But I've found that doing what you love and enjoying the things that fulfill you can be the most rewarding feeling on earth. And that's why I write.
We're never alone with our uncertainties, because everyone is afraid of the "What ifs". Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the fact that the "What ifs" are what make life interesting and fun, and the more I've gotten sucked into the corporate world and adult life after college, the more I've lost myself in worrying about the "What ifs". Somehow, I've convinced myself that I have too much to lose when dealing with any major decision. Thus, I've become comfortably stagnant, like so many of us. And what if I leave that comfort zone?
"What if I leave my job that I dislike?" Well, you'll find another one. "What if I struggle?" You'll survive. Because you have to. Everyone has struggled at some point or another. "What if I click on 'complete purchase'on this travel website I'm booking my vacation on?" You'll feel a sense of satisfaction in being able to go wherever the hell your heart pleases.
I can't tell you the number of times people have told me, "I have no idea how you travel so much. I sit on the internet with a web page open for 3 days showing a flight I was about to purchase, only to find that when I muster enough courage to click 'Purchase ticket', the session has expired - and I end up going no where." Life passes by so quickly - and I realized this when I blinked my eyes and 3 years at my first job had gone by. When I first started, as a temp, I remember thinking "I'm taking this 6 month contract, saving my money, and moving to California." I remember after 6 months being offered a permanent position to replace a girl that had left. And I remember asking my then boss, "How long was the girl before me working here?" and laughing in my head when he replied, "2 years." - because I knew I would never last that long. That was 2 years ago this month. Life rarely goes as planned.
Let's be honest - working a 9-5 office job can suck. Rarely do we meet someone who is passionate and enthusiastic about sitting behind a desk reading emails all day and attending 10 different meetings for an asshole boss or client. Unfortunately in life, there's things that we have to put up with because whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we learn something. The past few years out of college have been tough for me. It's been a constant battle of confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, debauchery, and every other feeling or emotion that a human being can possibly have. Growing up, or rather being a grown up, does not come easy.
When I was entering the "real world" at 22, I remember feeling like I had been handed a prison sentence: 22 to life. I thought, "Is this all that's left? My desk, my cubicle, and the occasional happy hour that we all pretend is the highlight of our weeks as adults?" So I took off on adventures - weekend trips to wherever I could afford to go. And as I went, I learned that my life didn't have to be the prison sentence I thought it did. True, I needed to work because it's what was expected of me. You finish school, you get a job, and you support yourself. It's just expected of an upstanding adult. As a kid I had always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and I loved looking up and seeing a plane fly by, wondering "I wonder where in the world that's going? And are the people in there excited to get there?"
My frustrations with the 9-5 corporate life grew, and the only venue I had to regain control of my life was my love for travel and adventure. This blog started as my coworker's way of keeping an account of my crazy and often times unbelievable stories and/or ramblings. Which in turn became a way of allowing myself to maintain a small perspective of who I really am without becoming lost. This, in turn, became a book. The stories will be new and different, but the underlying theme has remained the same: work to live, not live to work. And laugh as much as possible. Americans spend at least 40 hours a week at work, that's 2,000 hours a year (including 2 weeks vacation, for those of us lucky enough). That's a fuckload. Each of us, at one point or another, will find ourselves feeling trapped and imprisoned within the confines of our buildings or fast-paced life. We can complain (which I've done a lot of) but, more importantly, we can regain control of our lives and find what really makes us live
If what I've learned resonates with even one person, and what I've written in my blog and in my book reaches one person who can relate, and if I can transport someone away from their desk or overwhelming life and make them laugh if even for a few minutes, then I've found fulfillment in what I do. Yes, I'm still working at my job. Yes, I still feel frustrated and sad and happy like everyone else, depending on the day. But that person a few years back has come a long way in attempting to figure out life in your 20's. It took me years to find what I want to do and where I want to go - and I still really haven't. Just a vague outline of an idea. But in doing the things I dislike in my professional life; I stumbled upon something I love.
22toLife is up to each of us. It doesn't have to be a prison sentence, and nothing is ever permanent. If you find yourself wondering why it's taken 3 days to purchase a trip you've been thinking about for months or years, or debating the "What ifs" of your life decisions, then those 3 days will turn quickly into 3 years.
While I've been adventurous these past few years in terms of traveling and escaping my Monday-Friday life, I've also been reluctant to leave my comfort zone. I've sat around waiting for the "perfect opportunity" or "the right salary" that can take me to a whole new level. But my best friend said something that struck a chord in me a few days ago. He asked me, "How much is your happiness worth? 10k? 5k? If that's what's keeping you from moving to a place you've wanted to move, or breaking into an industry you've been wanting to try, or doing something completely new, then you've put a price on your happiness." Suddenly, my fears and doubts of the "What ifs" eased.
So if 22toLife is how you feel - how much is your happiness worth???
I hate feeling as though I'm preaching, because I'm the last person on earth who should be telling others how to live. I drink too much, I can be quite selfish, I'm completely inappropriate and often times offensive. So I'm certainly not a perfect role model for success and happiness-not all of us can be as glorious as Oprah. But if I can offer any insight or opinion on my personal experiences through stories and humor, along with my often times crude perspectives in my own journey on figuring out my own life, then hopefully my writing can be as much a venue for others as it has been for me. There's still those "What ifs", but hopefully I'm learning how to face them somewhat more valiantly.
And what if no one reads this? And what if I start over? And what if I have no friends in a new city? And what if I go broke? And what if I make it big? And what if I don't? And what if I make a mistake? And what if that mistake leads to something great? And what if I get lost? And what if I never look back?
And what if, what if, what if, what if...?
Often times, people have no idea how to locate my blog or get to it. To make things easier for everyone, for the extravagant price of $9.99 I purchased a domain and called it www.22tolife.com
The meaning behind this is simple. We all share the same frustrations when it comes to life, jobs, relationships, and growing up. It can be really fucking hard, but I've learned that the more difficult things in life come with the greatest rewards. And the more I've written and discussed with people, the more I learn that we share so many more common experiences and fears than we can ever imagine. Success doesn't come easy - nothing does. But I've found that doing what you love and enjoying the things that fulfill you can be the most rewarding feeling on earth. And that's why I write.
We're never alone with our uncertainties, because everyone is afraid of the "What ifs". Sometimes it's easy to lose sight of the fact that the "What ifs" are what make life interesting and fun, and the more I've gotten sucked into the corporate world and adult life after college, the more I've lost myself in worrying about the "What ifs". Somehow, I've convinced myself that I have too much to lose when dealing with any major decision. Thus, I've become comfortably stagnant, like so many of us. And what if I leave that comfort zone?
"What if I leave my job that I dislike?" Well, you'll find another one. "What if I struggle?" You'll survive. Because you have to. Everyone has struggled at some point or another. "What if I click on 'complete purchase'on this travel website I'm booking my vacation on?" You'll feel a sense of satisfaction in being able to go wherever the hell your heart pleases.
I can't tell you the number of times people have told me, "I have no idea how you travel so much. I sit on the internet with a web page open for 3 days showing a flight I was about to purchase, only to find that when I muster enough courage to click 'Purchase ticket', the session has expired - and I end up going no where." Life passes by so quickly - and I realized this when I blinked my eyes and 3 years at my first job had gone by. When I first started, as a temp, I remember thinking "I'm taking this 6 month contract, saving my money, and moving to California." I remember after 6 months being offered a permanent position to replace a girl that had left. And I remember asking my then boss, "How long was the girl before me working here?" and laughing in my head when he replied, "2 years." - because I knew I would never last that long. That was 2 years ago this month. Life rarely goes as planned.
Let's be honest - working a 9-5 office job can suck. Rarely do we meet someone who is passionate and enthusiastic about sitting behind a desk reading emails all day and attending 10 different meetings for an asshole boss or client. Unfortunately in life, there's things that we have to put up with because whether we choose to acknowledge it or not, we learn something. The past few years out of college have been tough for me. It's been a constant battle of confusion, frustration, anger, sadness, loneliness, happiness, debauchery, and every other feeling or emotion that a human being can possibly have. Growing up, or rather being a grown up, does not come easy.
When I was entering the "real world" at 22, I remember feeling like I had been handed a prison sentence: 22 to life. I thought, "Is this all that's left? My desk, my cubicle, and the occasional happy hour that we all pretend is the highlight of our weeks as adults?" So I took off on adventures - weekend trips to wherever I could afford to go. And as I went, I learned that my life didn't have to be the prison sentence I thought it did. True, I needed to work because it's what was expected of me. You finish school, you get a job, and you support yourself. It's just expected of an upstanding adult. As a kid I had always had a sense of adventure and curiosity, and I loved looking up and seeing a plane fly by, wondering "I wonder where in the world that's going? And are the people in there excited to get there?"
My frustrations with the 9-5 corporate life grew, and the only venue I had to regain control of my life was my love for travel and adventure. This blog started as my coworker's way of keeping an account of my crazy and often times unbelievable stories and/or ramblings. Which in turn became a way of allowing myself to maintain a small perspective of who I really am without becoming lost. This, in turn, became a book. The stories will be new and different, but the underlying theme has remained the same: work to live, not live to work. And laugh as much as possible. Americans spend at least 40 hours a week at work, that's 2,000 hours a year (including 2 weeks vacation, for those of us lucky enough). That's a fuckload. Each of us, at one point or another, will find ourselves feeling trapped and imprisoned within the confines of our buildings or fast-paced life. We can complain (which I've done a lot of) but, more importantly, we can regain control of our lives and find what really makes us live
If what I've learned resonates with even one person, and what I've written in my blog and in my book reaches one person who can relate, and if I can transport someone away from their desk or overwhelming life and make them laugh if even for a few minutes, then I've found fulfillment in what I do. Yes, I'm still working at my job. Yes, I still feel frustrated and sad and happy like everyone else, depending on the day. But that person a few years back has come a long way in attempting to figure out life in your 20's. It took me years to find what I want to do and where I want to go - and I still really haven't. Just a vague outline of an idea. But in doing the things I dislike in my professional life; I stumbled upon something I love.
22toLife is up to each of us. It doesn't have to be a prison sentence, and nothing is ever permanent. If you find yourself wondering why it's taken 3 days to purchase a trip you've been thinking about for months or years, or debating the "What ifs" of your life decisions, then those 3 days will turn quickly into 3 years.
While I've been adventurous these past few years in terms of traveling and escaping my Monday-Friday life, I've also been reluctant to leave my comfort zone. I've sat around waiting for the "perfect opportunity" or "the right salary" that can take me to a whole new level. But my best friend said something that struck a chord in me a few days ago. He asked me, "How much is your happiness worth? 10k? 5k? If that's what's keeping you from moving to a place you've wanted to move, or breaking into an industry you've been wanting to try, or doing something completely new, then you've put a price on your happiness." Suddenly, my fears and doubts of the "What ifs" eased.
So if 22toLife is how you feel - how much is your happiness worth???
I hate feeling as though I'm preaching, because I'm the last person on earth who should be telling others how to live. I drink too much, I can be quite selfish, I'm completely inappropriate and often times offensive. So I'm certainly not a perfect role model for success and happiness-not all of us can be as glorious as Oprah. But if I can offer any insight or opinion on my personal experiences through stories and humor, along with my often times crude perspectives in my own journey on figuring out my own life, then hopefully my writing can be as much a venue for others as it has been for me. There's still those "What ifs", but hopefully I'm learning how to face them somewhat more valiantly.
And what if no one reads this? And what if I start over? And what if I have no friends in a new city? And what if I go broke? And what if I make it big? And what if I don't? And what if I make a mistake? And what if that mistake leads to something great? And what if I get lost? And what if I never look back?
And what if, what if, what if, what if...?
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Email Nation
Last weekend I ventured into Manhattan to purchase underwear.
In reality, though, the original intent was to interview for potential jobs. I had spent a better part of 2 weeks relentlessly contacting companies in an effort to schedule interviews for that particular Friday that I had planned on being in the city. When I say I was relentless, I truly mean that I came fairly close to having a restraining order placed against me by a handful of recruiters. Here's how I see it: If you ignore my emails, I will simply be forced to call you and practically recite my cover letter out loud over the phone. Not only do I find it idiotic that I'm required to write a cover letter, but I find it even more perplexing that the very people who asked for one don't even read it. I know this because they often times have no idea who I am. When I call, I can hear the fat fingers of Tim the recruiter typing furiously on his computer searching frantically for my resume, taking small pauses to sip his $7 Starbucks latte. Had he read it in the first place, I wouldn't be forced to stoop to such levels. I know we're all busy, but I feel 2-3 weeks is ample time to sort through applications and at least create a "Yes" and "No" pile.
Luckily, I'm quite shameless when it comes to competition and let's face it, applying for jobs in NYC puts me at quite a disadvantage, as I'm now helplessly competing against a plethora of overly educated, overachieving Jews and Asians. Honestly, how many 25 year old lawyers and executives named Adam Rosenberg does Manhattan really need? I'm far too complacent when it comes to furthering my education and seeking any degree or certification at the moment, so I commend them for their efforts. My approach, however, is far simpler - desperately claw my way to the top by forcing others into believing I'm competent. And if that doesn't work, I'll seduce a CEO.
My wishful thinking is that if everyone just stopped going back to school for more degrees, we can all be equally appreciated with nothing more than a Bachelor's. Much like the 60's and 70's. But since everyone has unanimously decided that higher education and enormous debt is the more intelligent route to pursue in exchange for real-world experience, our bachelor's degrees are now relatively worthless. Eventually, the Masters and PhD will be as well. Before you know it, we will all have 10 diplomas lining the walls of our cardboard box homes, because the only way to get a job will be to have some special talent that differentiates us - like playing the Cello or having no gag reflex.
So for two weeks I shuffled through a list of my most desired places to work that I had sent an application to. Included was a cover letter tailored specifically to the company I was applying to. In reality, though, all I did was change the name of the company. Because who has the time to sit and write cover letters for every job you're applying to? I'm a busy man and there's a lot of reality television on my DVR that needs catching up on. I pride myself on being able to discuss a plethora of different topics - from the state of the global economy to the repetitively obnoxious "on and off" relationship of Sammi "I'm a dumb desperate bitch" Sweetheart and Ronnie on the Jersey Shore. In my opinion, a sign of a truly intelligent person is one that is well-versed in both ends of the spectrum.
Why, then, is it so difficult to garner a response from a potential employer? All I was asking for was a chance to interview or even meet informally, but from the responses (or lack thereof) that I received, you would think I was going around asking for free handjobs or selling discounted coupons to a Mexican bestiality show.
The unfortunate reality is that the job market is competitive and cut-throat, and you learn that most companies rarely give a fuck about your resume and cover letter that sit lonely and untouched on the bottom of a massive pile. It's discouraging, but it's true and always has been. Therefore, I got creative. I Googled companies and found contact info for HR recruiters and CEO's, grew some rather large balls, and shot them emails. I even went as far as creating a Linked-In profile to send the CEO of one company an email asking him to meet with me. But no matter what I did, no response. Since I have a hard time accepting when someone ignores me, I became increasingly assertive and pushy. This annoys me because I end up feeling like a used car salesman, but it's really the only option you're left with.
In the days leading up to my Friday in Manhattan, I had managed to secure 3 interviews, both formal and informal, in an effort to make my time worthwhile for the day. That Thursday, I emailed one of the companies to confirm my meeting the following morning. To my complete and utter lack of shock, I received no response after 2 different emails politely asking where and when we would be meeting. Around 10 PM that same night, I received the following email from my second potential interviewers:
Andres,
Unfortunately we are not able to schedule the interview for you tomorrow as previously planned, the hiring managers are still reviewing resumes, however they do have stronger candidates with more of the type of experience that they are looking for. I will keep your resume actively on file.
Thanks,
Tim
Actively on file? What does that mean, Tim the recruiter? Is there a database that they keep, similar to a no-fly list? Earlier that week, I had completed some stupid assessment for this Tim person. After doing so, he filled me with promises of interviews and opportunities, which of course got my hopes up. Needless to say, I felt as though I had been stood up at the prom. At this point it was too late to change my plans, and I remained hopeful that the last person I would be meeting with "informally" at a Starbucks in midtown would be worthwhile.
The following day I arrived in Manhattan and checked into my hotel (as my 1 friend was out of town and my other friend had no A/C in her apt. If you've read my "Excessive Heat Warning" post, you will understand my reasoning for shelling out 144 bucks for a hotel room). I quickly emailed the guy I planned to meet to confirm our 4:30PM Starbucks meeting. Earlier in the week, it had been nearly impossible to garner any sort of response from this guy. This time, however, I received a response 2 minutes later:
Hey Andres,
As it happens, I'm pretty busy this afternoon. We could always try for sometime during the day Sunday or next week. Not sure when you are around until, but let me know.
- Steve
Fantastically enough, I was now left with 0 interviews and a $144 hotel bill. So I walked to Soho, shoved 2 enormous slices of Pepperoni and Sausage pizza down my gullet, and went shopping. I stumbled upon the notorious UNIQLO store, a Japanese version of H&M. Here, I purchased breathable undershirts (to control my sweating problems), breathable underwear (to protect against chub rub), and a $19 shirt that I could say "Oh, well I bought this in Manhattan" if someone chose to compliment me. The Japanese think of everything, from seafood flavored potato chips to breathable underwear. And for that, I am thankful.
As I walked around the city, I found myself in a fury of rage each time I passed a "young professional" chewing on their $14 salad on a park bench. Why did it seem that, for me, it's been increasingly difficult and degrading trying to even have someone sit down and interview me? It seemed so easy for these other people. You would think I'm attempting to land a job in Paris and apply for French citizenship. This is NYC, which is located in the U.S., which is a 3 hour train ride from my house, where I have full rights to work as an American citizen, and which is seemingly the most impossible city on earth to find a place that will pay me a mediocre salary so I can live in a shit hole shoebox of an apartment and eat Ramen noodles from a dented Styrofoam container. But to me, it's where I feel my next step is - maybe a place where I will finally come alive. And who knows, maybe I'll change my mind. But for now, I will sit at my desk in my comfortable Japanese underwear and freshly aired torso - sending emails with my resume and cover letter and waiting patiently for a response.
In reality, though, the original intent was to interview for potential jobs. I had spent a better part of 2 weeks relentlessly contacting companies in an effort to schedule interviews for that particular Friday that I had planned on being in the city. When I say I was relentless, I truly mean that I came fairly close to having a restraining order placed against me by a handful of recruiters. Here's how I see it: If you ignore my emails, I will simply be forced to call you and practically recite my cover letter out loud over the phone. Not only do I find it idiotic that I'm required to write a cover letter, but I find it even more perplexing that the very people who asked for one don't even read it. I know this because they often times have no idea who I am. When I call, I can hear the fat fingers of Tim the recruiter typing furiously on his computer searching frantically for my resume, taking small pauses to sip his $7 Starbucks latte. Had he read it in the first place, I wouldn't be forced to stoop to such levels. I know we're all busy, but I feel 2-3 weeks is ample time to sort through applications and at least create a "Yes" and "No" pile.
Luckily, I'm quite shameless when it comes to competition and let's face it, applying for jobs in NYC puts me at quite a disadvantage, as I'm now helplessly competing against a plethora of overly educated, overachieving Jews and Asians. Honestly, how many 25 year old lawyers and executives named Adam Rosenberg does Manhattan really need? I'm far too complacent when it comes to furthering my education and seeking any degree or certification at the moment, so I commend them for their efforts. My approach, however, is far simpler - desperately claw my way to the top by forcing others into believing I'm competent. And if that doesn't work, I'll seduce a CEO.
My wishful thinking is that if everyone just stopped going back to school for more degrees, we can all be equally appreciated with nothing more than a Bachelor's. Much like the 60's and 70's. But since everyone has unanimously decided that higher education and enormous debt is the more intelligent route to pursue in exchange for real-world experience, our bachelor's degrees are now relatively worthless. Eventually, the Masters and PhD will be as well. Before you know it, we will all have 10 diplomas lining the walls of our cardboard box homes, because the only way to get a job will be to have some special talent that differentiates us - like playing the Cello or having no gag reflex.
So for two weeks I shuffled through a list of my most desired places to work that I had sent an application to. Included was a cover letter tailored specifically to the company I was applying to. In reality, though, all I did was change the name of the company. Because who has the time to sit and write cover letters for every job you're applying to? I'm a busy man and there's a lot of reality television on my DVR that needs catching up on. I pride myself on being able to discuss a plethora of different topics - from the state of the global economy to the repetitively obnoxious "on and off" relationship of Sammi "I'm a dumb desperate bitch" Sweetheart and Ronnie on the Jersey Shore. In my opinion, a sign of a truly intelligent person is one that is well-versed in both ends of the spectrum.
Why, then, is it so difficult to garner a response from a potential employer? All I was asking for was a chance to interview or even meet informally, but from the responses (or lack thereof) that I received, you would think I was going around asking for free handjobs or selling discounted coupons to a Mexican bestiality show.
The unfortunate reality is that the job market is competitive and cut-throat, and you learn that most companies rarely give a fuck about your resume and cover letter that sit lonely and untouched on the bottom of a massive pile. It's discouraging, but it's true and always has been. Therefore, I got creative. I Googled companies and found contact info for HR recruiters and CEO's, grew some rather large balls, and shot them emails. I even went as far as creating a Linked-In profile to send the CEO of one company an email asking him to meet with me. But no matter what I did, no response. Since I have a hard time accepting when someone ignores me, I became increasingly assertive and pushy. This annoys me because I end up feeling like a used car salesman, but it's really the only option you're left with.
In the days leading up to my Friday in Manhattan, I had managed to secure 3 interviews, both formal and informal, in an effort to make my time worthwhile for the day. That Thursday, I emailed one of the companies to confirm my meeting the following morning. To my complete and utter lack of shock, I received no response after 2 different emails politely asking where and when we would be meeting. Around 10 PM that same night, I received the following email from my second potential interviewers:
Andres,
Unfortunately we are not able to schedule the interview for you tomorrow as previously planned, the hiring managers are still reviewing resumes, however they do have stronger candidates with more of the type of experience that they are looking for. I will keep your resume actively on file.
Thanks,
Tim
Actively on file? What does that mean, Tim the recruiter? Is there a database that they keep, similar to a no-fly list? Earlier that week, I had completed some stupid assessment for this Tim person. After doing so, he filled me with promises of interviews and opportunities, which of course got my hopes up. Needless to say, I felt as though I had been stood up at the prom. At this point it was too late to change my plans, and I remained hopeful that the last person I would be meeting with "informally" at a Starbucks in midtown would be worthwhile.
The following day I arrived in Manhattan and checked into my hotel (as my 1 friend was out of town and my other friend had no A/C in her apt. If you've read my "Excessive Heat Warning" post, you will understand my reasoning for shelling out 144 bucks for a hotel room). I quickly emailed the guy I planned to meet to confirm our 4:30PM Starbucks meeting. Earlier in the week, it had been nearly impossible to garner any sort of response from this guy. This time, however, I received a response 2 minutes later:
Hey Andres,
As it happens, I'm pretty busy this afternoon. We could always try for sometime during the day Sunday or next week. Not sure when you are around until, but let me know.
- Steve
Fantastically enough, I was now left with 0 interviews and a $144 hotel bill. So I walked to Soho, shoved 2 enormous slices of Pepperoni and Sausage pizza down my gullet, and went shopping. I stumbled upon the notorious UNIQLO store, a Japanese version of H&M. Here, I purchased breathable undershirts (to control my sweating problems), breathable underwear (to protect against chub rub), and a $19 shirt that I could say "Oh, well I bought this in Manhattan" if someone chose to compliment me. The Japanese think of everything, from seafood flavored potato chips to breathable underwear. And for that, I am thankful.
As I walked around the city, I found myself in a fury of rage each time I passed a "young professional" chewing on their $14 salad on a park bench. Why did it seem that, for me, it's been increasingly difficult and degrading trying to even have someone sit down and interview me? It seemed so easy for these other people. You would think I'm attempting to land a job in Paris and apply for French citizenship. This is NYC, which is located in the U.S., which is a 3 hour train ride from my house, where I have full rights to work as an American citizen, and which is seemingly the most impossible city on earth to find a place that will pay me a mediocre salary so I can live in a shit hole shoebox of an apartment and eat Ramen noodles from a dented Styrofoam container. But to me, it's where I feel my next step is - maybe a place where I will finally come alive. And who knows, maybe I'll change my mind. But for now, I will sit at my desk in my comfortable Japanese underwear and freshly aired torso - sending emails with my resume and cover letter and waiting patiently for a response.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Richard
Below is a small excerpt from one of my book's upcoming chapters. Enjoy!
Have you ever met someone that is so painfully dumb, yet so incredibly genuine that you can't help but invite this person into your life? That's exactly how I would describe Richard, my grandmother’s housekeeper/handyman. Richard is 45 years old and comes in a very compact little frame. I can’t imagine he weighs much more than a kiwi. On any given day, Richard will adorn a different hair color that he proudly boasts was done professionally by him. Often times, he wears an old hat and an assortment of t-shirts, pants, and shoes that are at least 4 times his size. Adding to this his high-pitched voice, child-like character and goofy demeanor, Richard clearly sticks out no matter where he goes. He speaks fast and unintelligible, yet his facial expressions and hand gestures are what effectively communicate his ideas the most. Let me give you some background on Richard, who just so happens to be my purest source of entertainment each time I visit Paraguay. In all of my worldly travels and people that I’ve met, I am most intrigued by Richard.
Richard is officially retarded. Well, maybe not in the actual diagnosable sense, but I'm convinced that there's more than a few wires loose up there. Richard started his life in an orphanage where he grew up having little, if anything at all, to call his own. From what he has shared, he's told me he used to sleep in parks and perform odd jobs to survive his adolescent years. As a 45 year old adult now, he has the maturity level of a 13 year old girl at best. I say girl because Richard is a flaming homosexual. He'll never admit it, but one conversation with the man is like speaking with the gossiping neighborhood old lady. My great uncle Oscar doesn’t care much for Richard and openly harasses him due mostly to his homosexuality, but also because he’s just a grumpy old man with most likely a small and non-functioning penis. My grandmother and Richard, however, have a very interesting relationship. To me, it seems as though they are more like sisters rather than boss/employee.
My grandmother comes from a German background as a result of her grandparents emigrating from Germany to Paraguay in the late 1800’s. She’s stalky, fair-skinned and tall with red hair and a large bunion on her right foot. The bunion has been there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to consider it as part of the family. I often times wonder how she’s able to wear normal shoes given the size of this particular bunion, but she always seems to successfully mold each shoe to the peculiar shape of her foot. Physically, my grandmother and Richard are complete polar opposites. She also has a very stubborn and strong personality and enjoys running her household much like a German airport – clean, efficient, and orderly. There’s a staff of two housekeepers who cook and clean, an attractive gardener who comes once a week, and then there’s Richard, who basically does any leftover chores and provides entertainment for my grandmother on a regular basis. In short, Richard sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house, watches soap operas, and changes the occasional light bulb as his main job duties. While my grandmother puts on a tough front, she holds one of the kindest and warmest hearts underneath it all, and this becomes most evident around Richard.
Often times my grandmother and Richard get into arguments over which soap operas to watch. “Richard you have work to do and I want to find out who killed Rosario in this week’s episode of Amantes Diablos” she’ll scold. “But, Senora, I want to find out who is the whore that slept with Magdalena’s husband and aborted the bastard baby in Dos Amantes!” he’ll beg, using his hands to gesture his dramatic plea in a high-pitched voice while staring at her with eager eyes like a child begging for candy at the check-out counter. Of course, my grandmother has a soft spot for Richard and often gives in, but not without intelligently bartering first. “Fine Richard, you can watch the first 20 minutes, but then you need to trim the branches of the mango tree because one fell on Delia the other day and I’m tired of her blaming my house’s imbalanced energy field after every piece of fruit that falls on her head." Of course Richard will always reluctantly agree, but not without stating that her house and overall well-being would be a disaster if not for him. This is untrue for a number of reasons, as Richard is notoriously clumsy and unreliable.
In my most recent visit to my grandmother's house in Paraguay, I found out that Richard had left and never returned. My grandma explained that she had embarked on her routine summer trip to see us in the U.S., leaving behind her cell phone for the housekeeper to charge while she was away. She had also left 2 weeks pay for Richard, on top of extra money for the tutor that she had hired for Richard's reading lessons. Again, Richard isn't actually retarded; he's just one of those people left behind by the educational system and society. So, my grandmother had made a deal with him that she would pay for a tutor if he promised to stick with it. Upon her return, my grandma found that her cell phone and all of the money intended for Richard and his tutor had disappeared. Presumably, it was Richard who had turned himself into a petty thief and stolen my grandmother's cell phone. It was strange to notice how my grandmother didn't actually care about the missing contents, but seemed to care more about the fact that Richard would leave her in such a way. Needless to say, I could sense some strain and tension in my grandma's relationship with Richard.
While I was at her house, I began to notice that every morning there would be a fresh batch of avocados in the kitchen. These particular avocados were hard and yellowish in color and sat on the kitchen counter like plastic ornaments that no one gave a second thought to. After a couple of days, I asked my grandmother why she had decided to buy so many avocados that weren't even ripe. "Oh I didn't buy these" she responded. "This is Richard's attempt at making up." It turns out that for the previous week, Richard would arrive every morning at 7am, ring the doorbell, and leave a bag of freshly picked Avocados at my grandmother's front door. The housekeeper, Rosa, had mentioned that she had witnessed Richard carefully approaching the house the way one would approach a bear in the wilderness, quietly look around, and place the bag of avocados by the front gate. After doing so, he would ring the doorbell and run like hell, flailing his arms like a rabid bat all the way down the street as he negotiated the cracks in the sidewalk with his oversized shoes. This had now become his morning ritual, where he had reasoned that a daily bag of avocados was the perfect way to make amends with someone you had stolen from. I begged Rosa to inform Richard that I was visiting and would love to have him stop by. She relayed my message and told me that Richard would like to stop by, but he is afraid of my grandmother yelling at him. My grandmother laughed as she cleared the space on top of the fridge for the 500 avocados, and instructed Rosa to tell him that she promised she would not yell. Richard then had Rosa inform us that he would be stopping by the house the following afternoon at 4pm sharp. I could see the look of subtle joy on my grandmother’s face at the thought of her sisterly confidant returning for an afternoon of entertainment.
The following morning, I awoke to find Rosa preparing an avocado salad for lunch and was quickly reminded of Richard’s afternoon visit.
“Don’t forget the 4pm visitor we are receiving today!” I exclaimed to my grandmother as she walked into the kitchen.
“4pm? Who’s coming at 4pm?”
“Richard! Remember? You promised not to yell at him”
“Oh, Richard is coming at 4? It had completely slipped my mind” she lied.
My grandmother made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and slowly sat next to me. After a few moments of silence, she turned to me and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all of these avocados?"
She then proceeded to tell me numerous stories involving her history with Richard, all of them involving some sort of humorous outcome that she found entertaining. Apparently, there was one time that Richard had requested to borrow an umbrella to fight off the afternoon rainstorm on his way to the bus stop. “Go into the garage and there should be an umbrella in there for you, Richard” my grandmother told him. A few moments later, she heard him holler his usual “Bye Senora! See you tomorrow!” The door closed and my grandmother, along with Rosa, made their way to the living room window to watch Richard leave. Sure enough, the site they saw was not a letdown. Sashaying confidently down the street in his baggy pants and bright blue XXL Old Navy shirt was Richard, holding an enormously large blue pool umbrella that was gargantuan enough to house a family of 10 on a camping trip. A short time later, Richard returned to the house with a dazed and confused look on his face.
“Senora, I had to come back because my umbrella wouldn’t fit in the bus and everyone was staring at me! The ladies at the bus stop asked me why I was carrying an umbrella that is 3 times my size!”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Richard, that’s because that umbrella is from America and they haven’t seen anything as fashionable and useful here. They were probably just jealous. Here, take this small one and go catch your bus.”
When my grandmother retold the story, I couldn’t quite imagine the size of this umbrella without seeing it for myself. I had decided then and there that I would ask Richard to re-enact the scenario during his afternoon visit.
**Read more about Richard, along with pictures of his visit, when the book comes out later this fall!**
Have you ever met someone that is so painfully dumb, yet so incredibly genuine that you can't help but invite this person into your life? That's exactly how I would describe Richard, my grandmother’s housekeeper/handyman. Richard is 45 years old and comes in a very compact little frame. I can’t imagine he weighs much more than a kiwi. On any given day, Richard will adorn a different hair color that he proudly boasts was done professionally by him. Often times, he wears an old hat and an assortment of t-shirts, pants, and shoes that are at least 4 times his size. Adding to this his high-pitched voice, child-like character and goofy demeanor, Richard clearly sticks out no matter where he goes. He speaks fast and unintelligible, yet his facial expressions and hand gestures are what effectively communicate his ideas the most. Let me give you some background on Richard, who just so happens to be my purest source of entertainment each time I visit Paraguay. In all of my worldly travels and people that I’ve met, I am most intrigued by Richard.
Richard is officially retarded. Well, maybe not in the actual diagnosable sense, but I'm convinced that there's more than a few wires loose up there. Richard started his life in an orphanage where he grew up having little, if anything at all, to call his own. From what he has shared, he's told me he used to sleep in parks and perform odd jobs to survive his adolescent years. As a 45 year old adult now, he has the maturity level of a 13 year old girl at best. I say girl because Richard is a flaming homosexual. He'll never admit it, but one conversation with the man is like speaking with the gossiping neighborhood old lady. My great uncle Oscar doesn’t care much for Richard and openly harasses him due mostly to his homosexuality, but also because he’s just a grumpy old man with most likely a small and non-functioning penis. My grandmother and Richard, however, have a very interesting relationship. To me, it seems as though they are more like sisters rather than boss/employee.
My grandmother comes from a German background as a result of her grandparents emigrating from Germany to Paraguay in the late 1800’s. She’s stalky, fair-skinned and tall with red hair and a large bunion on her right foot. The bunion has been there for as long as I can remember, and I’ve come to consider it as part of the family. I often times wonder how she’s able to wear normal shoes given the size of this particular bunion, but she always seems to successfully mold each shoe to the peculiar shape of her foot. Physically, my grandmother and Richard are complete polar opposites. She also has a very stubborn and strong personality and enjoys running her household much like a German airport – clean, efficient, and orderly. There’s a staff of two housekeepers who cook and clean, an attractive gardener who comes once a week, and then there’s Richard, who basically does any leftover chores and provides entertainment for my grandmother on a regular basis. In short, Richard sweeps the sidewalk in front of her house, watches soap operas, and changes the occasional light bulb as his main job duties. While my grandmother puts on a tough front, she holds one of the kindest and warmest hearts underneath it all, and this becomes most evident around Richard.
Often times my grandmother and Richard get into arguments over which soap operas to watch. “Richard you have work to do and I want to find out who killed Rosario in this week’s episode of Amantes Diablos” she’ll scold. “But, Senora, I want to find out who is the whore that slept with Magdalena’s husband and aborted the bastard baby in Dos Amantes!” he’ll beg, using his hands to gesture his dramatic plea in a high-pitched voice while staring at her with eager eyes like a child begging for candy at the check-out counter. Of course, my grandmother has a soft spot for Richard and often gives in, but not without intelligently bartering first. “Fine Richard, you can watch the first 20 minutes, but then you need to trim the branches of the mango tree because one fell on Delia the other day and I’m tired of her blaming my house’s imbalanced energy field after every piece of fruit that falls on her head." Of course Richard will always reluctantly agree, but not without stating that her house and overall well-being would be a disaster if not for him. This is untrue for a number of reasons, as Richard is notoriously clumsy and unreliable.
In my most recent visit to my grandmother's house in Paraguay, I found out that Richard had left and never returned. My grandma explained that she had embarked on her routine summer trip to see us in the U.S., leaving behind her cell phone for the housekeeper to charge while she was away. She had also left 2 weeks pay for Richard, on top of extra money for the tutor that she had hired for Richard's reading lessons. Again, Richard isn't actually retarded; he's just one of those people left behind by the educational system and society. So, my grandmother had made a deal with him that she would pay for a tutor if he promised to stick with it. Upon her return, my grandma found that her cell phone and all of the money intended for Richard and his tutor had disappeared. Presumably, it was Richard who had turned himself into a petty thief and stolen my grandmother's cell phone. It was strange to notice how my grandmother didn't actually care about the missing contents, but seemed to care more about the fact that Richard would leave her in such a way. Needless to say, I could sense some strain and tension in my grandma's relationship with Richard.
While I was at her house, I began to notice that every morning there would be a fresh batch of avocados in the kitchen. These particular avocados were hard and yellowish in color and sat on the kitchen counter like plastic ornaments that no one gave a second thought to. After a couple of days, I asked my grandmother why she had decided to buy so many avocados that weren't even ripe. "Oh I didn't buy these" she responded. "This is Richard's attempt at making up." It turns out that for the previous week, Richard would arrive every morning at 7am, ring the doorbell, and leave a bag of freshly picked Avocados at my grandmother's front door. The housekeeper, Rosa, had mentioned that she had witnessed Richard carefully approaching the house the way one would approach a bear in the wilderness, quietly look around, and place the bag of avocados by the front gate. After doing so, he would ring the doorbell and run like hell, flailing his arms like a rabid bat all the way down the street as he negotiated the cracks in the sidewalk with his oversized shoes. This had now become his morning ritual, where he had reasoned that a daily bag of avocados was the perfect way to make amends with someone you had stolen from. I begged Rosa to inform Richard that I was visiting and would love to have him stop by. She relayed my message and told me that Richard would like to stop by, but he is afraid of my grandmother yelling at him. My grandmother laughed as she cleared the space on top of the fridge for the 500 avocados, and instructed Rosa to tell him that she promised she would not yell. Richard then had Rosa inform us that he would be stopping by the house the following afternoon at 4pm sharp. I could see the look of subtle joy on my grandmother’s face at the thought of her sisterly confidant returning for an afternoon of entertainment.
The following morning, I awoke to find Rosa preparing an avocado salad for lunch and was quickly reminded of Richard’s afternoon visit.
“Don’t forget the 4pm visitor we are receiving today!” I exclaimed to my grandmother as she walked into the kitchen.
“4pm? Who’s coming at 4pm?”
“Richard! Remember? You promised not to yell at him”
“Oh, Richard is coming at 4? It had completely slipped my mind” she lied.
My grandmother made her way to the table, pulled out a chair, and slowly sat next to me. After a few moments of silence, she turned to me and said, “What the hell am I supposed to do with all of these avocados?"
She then proceeded to tell me numerous stories involving her history with Richard, all of them involving some sort of humorous outcome that she found entertaining. Apparently, there was one time that Richard had requested to borrow an umbrella to fight off the afternoon rainstorm on his way to the bus stop. “Go into the garage and there should be an umbrella in there for you, Richard” my grandmother told him. A few moments later, she heard him holler his usual “Bye Senora! See you tomorrow!” The door closed and my grandmother, along with Rosa, made their way to the living room window to watch Richard leave. Sure enough, the site they saw was not a letdown. Sashaying confidently down the street in his baggy pants and bright blue XXL Old Navy shirt was Richard, holding an enormously large blue pool umbrella that was gargantuan enough to house a family of 10 on a camping trip. A short time later, Richard returned to the house with a dazed and confused look on his face.
“Senora, I had to come back because my umbrella wouldn’t fit in the bus and everyone was staring at me! The ladies at the bus stop asked me why I was carrying an umbrella that is 3 times my size!”
My grandmother laughed and said, “Richard, that’s because that umbrella is from America and they haven’t seen anything as fashionable and useful here. They were probably just jealous. Here, take this small one and go catch your bus.”
When my grandmother retold the story, I couldn’t quite imagine the size of this umbrella without seeing it for myself. I had decided then and there that I would ask Richard to re-enact the scenario during his afternoon visit.
**Read more about Richard, along with pictures of his visit, when the book comes out later this fall!**
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Thanks College
I hate job hunting. It's my most hated thing in the world behind laundry, cleaning bathrooms, and adult kickball leagues. Honestly, as an adult I'd rather be drinking a beer at home watching re-runs of "King of Queens" than kicking a ball with other adults who think they're important because they have a $35K/ year job as an assistant on the hill to an obscure representative from Idaho. I've also found that if you start something off with "no offense", it basically clears you of any responsibility for the statements you make. As in, "No offense to my hill staffer friends who play adult kickball and work hard every day to change the library book rental laws of Ward 6 in Boise, Idaho".
When applying for jobs, though, I can't stand the actual process of degrading myself. What I mean is that it's an ugly reminder of just how mediocre life can feel when you're part of corporate America. You send a cover letter explaining how excited and honored you are for the mere opportunity to apply for this particular position, followed by the valient effort of having to sell yourself and your skills to a stranger in hopes of future compensation - much like a prostitute. Most of my time is spent having to sift through long and overly enthusiastic job descriptions on various websites falsely taunting me with advertisements like "Are you tired of commuting and long hours in the office? Well here's your chance to work from home PART-TIME in your pajamas and make up to $300K/year!!!!" Of course I'm tired of commuting and working long hours and wearing clothing or brushing my teeth for work. THAT IS WHY I'M HERE. These people know this and play into my already tainted view of how life in your 20's is a fucked up game of chasing the corporate carrot. We're always trying to move to the next level and improve ourselves to get that higher salary and that promotion, which is not entirely a bad thing. But what is frustrating is that we were never taught that hard work and intelligence don't guarantee you anything. In school, if you work hard and possess some semblance of a brain, you're guaranteed to move to the next level and eventually graduate with a diploma and a picture of you shaking hands with the Dean who just mispronounced your last name. In real life and at work, it's never that cut and dry.
I often times wonder why there wasn't a college course offered to help you handle the politics and realities and responsibilities that come with "the real world" after you graduate. The course should be called "How to not desperately claw your eyes out despite all the fucked up shit you see and hear on a daily basis at work for the next 40 years of your life." Every last person would be able to look back on that course and relate. Instead, we get Calculus, English 101, and false hope that we will find the perfect job with a great salary and live happily ever after as a reward for our 21 years of school. That's one hell of a $240,000 trick that us highly educated people fell into. But hey, at least I got to black out 3 times a week and take naps at 2pm.
So in my almost daily search for "The perfect job", or at least one that gives the illusion of perfection, I find myself feeling consistently inadequate and somewhat degraded. I can apply to 100 jobs and hear nothing back, leaving me to wonder if I'm doomed to walk through the doors of the same building for the rest of my life. But in the case that one employer does respond, I'm bombarded with questions about my experience, education, and knowledge/skills that they may or may not find useful for their company. And in the event I pass through those hurdles, I may be invited for an in-person interview where I'm forced to lie about "Where I want to be 5-10 years from now". 5-10 years from now I'd like to be retired and swimming nude in a desolate carribbean beach being massaged by a pygmy, but I've found that most employers frown upon that response. Therefore, the correct response is "5-10 years from now I'd like to be in a position where my experience and knowledge of emerging markets and global economic trends, along with my natural abilities to lead and motivate others in a cohesive environment, direct me towards opportunities in a managerial role that will foster overall growth and success for myself and this company." And after all the B.S., you shake hands and (if you're lucky) receive a call from Bill the Recruitment guy telling you that your interview went great and they'd like to hire you for a full-time position at a whopping $43k/Yr. Well geez, now I can afford that Hyundai Accent I've been dreaming about. (No offense to Hyundai drivers)
So for now, the search continues. But at the end of the day, I can be grateful that I have my framed college diploma as documented proof of my eligibility to successfully read a job description, click "Apply", and eagerly wait for a phone call that may or may not come. Meanwhile, Snookie has just shown her tits for a million dollars and Justin Bieber has auctioned off his first pubic hair on ebay for charity. Hard work really does pay off.
When applying for jobs, though, I can't stand the actual process of degrading myself. What I mean is that it's an ugly reminder of just how mediocre life can feel when you're part of corporate America. You send a cover letter explaining how excited and honored you are for the mere opportunity to apply for this particular position, followed by the valient effort of having to sell yourself and your skills to a stranger in hopes of future compensation - much like a prostitute. Most of my time is spent having to sift through long and overly enthusiastic job descriptions on various websites falsely taunting me with advertisements like "Are you tired of commuting and long hours in the office? Well here's your chance to work from home PART-TIME in your pajamas and make up to $300K/year!!!!" Of course I'm tired of commuting and working long hours and wearing clothing or brushing my teeth for work. THAT IS WHY I'M HERE. These people know this and play into my already tainted view of how life in your 20's is a fucked up game of chasing the corporate carrot. We're always trying to move to the next level and improve ourselves to get that higher salary and that promotion, which is not entirely a bad thing. But what is frustrating is that we were never taught that hard work and intelligence don't guarantee you anything. In school, if you work hard and possess some semblance of a brain, you're guaranteed to move to the next level and eventually graduate with a diploma and a picture of you shaking hands with the Dean who just mispronounced your last name. In real life and at work, it's never that cut and dry.
I often times wonder why there wasn't a college course offered to help you handle the politics and realities and responsibilities that come with "the real world" after you graduate. The course should be called "How to not desperately claw your eyes out despite all the fucked up shit you see and hear on a daily basis at work for the next 40 years of your life." Every last person would be able to look back on that course and relate. Instead, we get Calculus, English 101, and false hope that we will find the perfect job with a great salary and live happily ever after as a reward for our 21 years of school. That's one hell of a $240,000 trick that us highly educated people fell into. But hey, at least I got to black out 3 times a week and take naps at 2pm.
So in my almost daily search for "The perfect job", or at least one that gives the illusion of perfection, I find myself feeling consistently inadequate and somewhat degraded. I can apply to 100 jobs and hear nothing back, leaving me to wonder if I'm doomed to walk through the doors of the same building for the rest of my life. But in the case that one employer does respond, I'm bombarded with questions about my experience, education, and knowledge/skills that they may or may not find useful for their company. And in the event I pass through those hurdles, I may be invited for an in-person interview where I'm forced to lie about "Where I want to be 5-10 years from now". 5-10 years from now I'd like to be retired and swimming nude in a desolate carribbean beach being massaged by a pygmy, but I've found that most employers frown upon that response. Therefore, the correct response is "5-10 years from now I'd like to be in a position where my experience and knowledge of emerging markets and global economic trends, along with my natural abilities to lead and motivate others in a cohesive environment, direct me towards opportunities in a managerial role that will foster overall growth and success for myself and this company." And after all the B.S., you shake hands and (if you're lucky) receive a call from Bill the Recruitment guy telling you that your interview went great and they'd like to hire you for a full-time position at a whopping $43k/Yr. Well geez, now I can afford that Hyundai Accent I've been dreaming about. (No offense to Hyundai drivers)
So for now, the search continues. But at the end of the day, I can be grateful that I have my framed college diploma as documented proof of my eligibility to successfully read a job description, click "Apply", and eagerly wait for a phone call that may or may not come. Meanwhile, Snookie has just shown her tits for a million dollars and Justin Bieber has auctioned off his first pubic hair on ebay for charity. Hard work really does pay off.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Could be a crackhead....Or a thickheaded Christian
A few weekends ago I found myself immersed in the various levels of ugly that made up the crowd at the Baltimore pride parade. My immediate reaction upon arriving at the parking lot where the tailgating was taking place was to drink as quickly and heavily as possible. That was the only way I would be able to survive staring at this type of crowd for an extended period of time without feeling completely offended.
As the music blared and the lesbians grilled, I looked over to see a small child hoisted onto the shoulders of a very drunk mother who happened to be jamming out to 1998 hip hop. I know for certain that I was frightened by my surroundings, so I can only imagine what was going through that poor child's head. Simultaneously, a woman who embodied the very essence of a crackhead was flailing her arms back and forth in an attempt to dance and seduce an adjacent lesbian with a tattoo that read, "God made me pretty". How ironic. I can't help but think God must have been having an off day or got distracted sending Jesus a text message when creating her.
I often times find myself wondering why lesbians are so disheveled. Strangely enough, all of my lesbian friends actually happen to be attractive and at the very least slightly feminine, but every single pride event I've ever attended, no matter what city, is flooded by lesbians that could easily be mistaken for overweight plumbers or heavyweight champions. Baltimore was absolutely no exception. I swear at one point I looked over and saw two different lesbians scarfing down a hot dog without so much as a single chew. For a group that is so opposed to weeners, they seem to take great pleasure in shoving them down their throats without shame. I suppose I can identify.
In general I find that gay pride parades bring about every type of lesbian and/or gay that very few of us would actually be "proud of" per se. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the sense of camaraderie and community during these types of events. It reminds me of a real life family, where you realize that you don't choose to have ugly or obnoxious family members, you just accept them as an inevitable reality and move on. That's relatively close to how I feel about the gay marriage issue. If you don't like what you see, just look the other way. I found myself having to do plenty of that in Baltimore, and it's just a part of life. There will be times where you don't particularly care for the environment or lifestyle or people that surround you, but it's never an excuse for interfering in the lives of others. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a judgmental prick. My day in Baltimore was filled with reverberating thoughts of "I didn't know such levels of ugly and trashy could exist and be morphed into one person". But in those instances, if I wasn't staring out of curiosity and entertainment, I just looked away and kept it moving. For those people that oppose gay marriage or the gay lifestyle in general, I can only say this: If you don't like gay marriage, blame straight people. They're the ones that keep having gay babies.
For me the logic seems simple. If you have a problem with the gay lifestyle, then don't be gay. You can hide and shelter yourself and your precious children in a bubble in suburbia but guess what, sooner or later Todd and Chad will be moving in next door with their black lab, Vietnamese baby, and VW Jetta parked in the driveway. Sorry to burst that bubble. But, it doesn't stop there. They will recruit your children for play-dates with the Vietnamese, bake you an evil quiche, sow you some curtains for your bare windows, and saunter away the hopes and dreams you had for living in Pleasantville. Before you know it, you and your spouse and all of your children will be partaking in musical theater and embracing the arts while living a life of evil and sin without even realizing it. The world is changing and I believe the views and perspectives of human beings in general need to evolve as well. In the end, we are no different than animals. Animals have evolved for millions of years to adapt to changes and become fit enough to live and thrive in their environments. What makes us different? What is it about change that scares people so much?
Some of the reason behind the "logic" I've heard spewing from the mouths of conservatives and religious zealots is that the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Well the Bible also says that adultery and divorce and pre-marital sex are all grounds for dismissal from The Kingdom of God...yet I see Sarah Palin's 17 year-old daughter, Bristol, embracing her love for the male genitalia and then discussing it with Barbara Walter's on The View in between breaks to breast feed her baby. The world is a sadly hypocritical place. It must be nice to pick and choose to believe what you want based on convenience, and then condemn what you disagree with based on ignorance.
Presidential hopeful Michele Bachmann and her husband, Marcus, are actively involved in the "Conversion Therapy" movement, where a person with homosexual tendencies can actually "pray away the gay" through therapy and religion. It astonishes me that highly educated (allegedly) individuals like Michelle and Marcus can simultaneously be so sheltered and idiotic. Perhaps a better use of their time would benefit from counseling ignorant Bible thumping Midwesterners to use condoms, monitor their cheese intake, and stop the obesity epidemic that's driving up healthcare costs. At the very least, that area of the country would benefit from condoms and a detraction of hideous genetics being spewed out from the vaginas of 19 year old mothers (No offense to those hot, cornfed and moderately educated Midwesterners. Hollerrrrrr!)
In short, I would love nothing more than to place Michelle Bachmann or Anne Coulter amidst a crowd of New Yorkers in Times Square and allow them to speak for 10 minutes about their views on gays. I would televise the event and hold nationwide bets for an ultimate jackpot to the person who can guess how many Louis Vuitton purses, Alexander McQueen shoes, D&B sunglasses, and Skinny Girl Margarita bottles the gays could throw at them in the span of exactly 10 minutes. Whether they like it or not, the gays may be queens but they are also relentless, catty, and vindictive. It's a perfect tri-fecta of evil used for survival that would not exist had people like Coulter and Bachmann just kept their mouths shut and possibly their legs closed.
And since we're all entitled to voice our own opinions I can wholeheartedly say this: I'd much rather attend the wedding of the crackwhore in Baltimore exchanging vows with the morbidly obese tattooed lesbian, officiated by a scantily clad Tranny in a thong and lace bra, instead of the backdoor redneck fiasco shotgun weddings that take place all across America intended to represent the "sanctity of marriage". Whether we like it or not, change is coming; and you can either embrace the evolving ways of society that represent fairness, progress, and equality, or swim against the current and drown amidst your own stupidity and false pretenses. I just hope that the Bachmann's, in the thick of their endeavors to preserve America, took some time off for some swimming lessons.
As the music blared and the lesbians grilled, I looked over to see a small child hoisted onto the shoulders of a very drunk mother who happened to be jamming out to 1998 hip hop. I know for certain that I was frightened by my surroundings, so I can only imagine what was going through that poor child's head. Simultaneously, a woman who embodied the very essence of a crackhead was flailing her arms back and forth in an attempt to dance and seduce an adjacent lesbian with a tattoo that read, "God made me pretty". How ironic. I can't help but think God must have been having an off day or got distracted sending Jesus a text message when creating her.
I often times find myself wondering why lesbians are so disheveled. Strangely enough, all of my lesbian friends actually happen to be attractive and at the very least slightly feminine, but every single pride event I've ever attended, no matter what city, is flooded by lesbians that could easily be mistaken for overweight plumbers or heavyweight champions. Baltimore was absolutely no exception. I swear at one point I looked over and saw two different lesbians scarfing down a hot dog without so much as a single chew. For a group that is so opposed to weeners, they seem to take great pleasure in shoving them down their throats without shame. I suppose I can identify.
In general I find that gay pride parades bring about every type of lesbian and/or gay that very few of us would actually be "proud of" per se. Nevertheless, I can appreciate the sense of camaraderie and community during these types of events. It reminds me of a real life family, where you realize that you don't choose to have ugly or obnoxious family members, you just accept them as an inevitable reality and move on. That's relatively close to how I feel about the gay marriage issue. If you don't like what you see, just look the other way. I found myself having to do plenty of that in Baltimore, and it's just a part of life. There will be times where you don't particularly care for the environment or lifestyle or people that surround you, but it's never an excuse for interfering in the lives of others. I'll be the first to admit that I can be a judgmental prick. My day in Baltimore was filled with reverberating thoughts of "I didn't know such levels of ugly and trashy could exist and be morphed into one person". But in those instances, if I wasn't staring out of curiosity and entertainment, I just looked away and kept it moving. For those people that oppose gay marriage or the gay lifestyle in general, I can only say this: If you don't like gay marriage, blame straight people. They're the ones that keep having gay babies.
For me the logic seems simple. If you have a problem with the gay lifestyle, then don't be gay. You can hide and shelter yourself and your precious children in a bubble in suburbia but guess what, sooner or later Todd and Chad will be moving in next door with their black lab, Vietnamese baby, and VW Jetta parked in the driveway. Sorry to burst that bubble. But, it doesn't stop there. They will recruit your children for play-dates with the Vietnamese, bake you an evil quiche, sow you some curtains for your bare windows, and saunter away the hopes and dreams you had for living in Pleasantville. Before you know it, you and your spouse and all of your children will be partaking in musical theater and embracing the arts while living a life of evil and sin without even realizing it. The world is changing and I believe the views and perspectives of human beings in general need to evolve as well. In the end, we are no different than animals. Animals have evolved for millions of years to adapt to changes and become fit enough to live and thrive in their environments. What makes us different? What is it about change that scares people so much?
Some of the reason behind the "logic" I've heard spewing from the mouths of conservatives and religious zealots is that the Bible says homosexuality is an abomination. Well the Bible also says that adultery and divorce and pre-marital sex are all grounds for dismissal from The Kingdom of God...yet I see Sarah Palin's 17 year-old daughter, Bristol, embracing her love for the male genitalia and then discussing it with Barbara Walter's on The View in between breaks to breast feed her baby. The world is a sadly hypocritical place. It must be nice to pick and choose to believe what you want based on convenience, and then condemn what you disagree with based on ignorance.
Presidential hopeful Michele Bachmann and her husband, Marcus, are actively involved in the "Conversion Therapy" movement, where a person with homosexual tendencies can actually "pray away the gay" through therapy and religion. It astonishes me that highly educated (allegedly) individuals like Michelle and Marcus can simultaneously be so sheltered and idiotic. Perhaps a better use of their time would benefit from counseling ignorant Bible thumping Midwesterners to use condoms, monitor their cheese intake, and stop the obesity epidemic that's driving up healthcare costs. At the very least, that area of the country would benefit from condoms and a detraction of hideous genetics being spewed out from the vaginas of 19 year old mothers (No offense to those hot, cornfed and moderately educated Midwesterners. Hollerrrrrr!)
In short, I would love nothing more than to place Michelle Bachmann or Anne Coulter amidst a crowd of New Yorkers in Times Square and allow them to speak for 10 minutes about their views on gays. I would televise the event and hold nationwide bets for an ultimate jackpot to the person who can guess how many Louis Vuitton purses, Alexander McQueen shoes, D&B sunglasses, and Skinny Girl Margarita bottles the gays could throw at them in the span of exactly 10 minutes. Whether they like it or not, the gays may be queens but they are also relentless, catty, and vindictive. It's a perfect tri-fecta of evil used for survival that would not exist had people like Coulter and Bachmann just kept their mouths shut and possibly their legs closed.
And since we're all entitled to voice our own opinions I can wholeheartedly say this: I'd much rather attend the wedding of the crackwhore in Baltimore exchanging vows with the morbidly obese tattooed lesbian, officiated by a scantily clad Tranny in a thong and lace bra, instead of the backdoor redneck fiasco shotgun weddings that take place all across America intended to represent the "sanctity of marriage". Whether we like it or not, change is coming; and you can either embrace the evolving ways of society that represent fairness, progress, and equality, or swim against the current and drown amidst your own stupidity and false pretenses. I just hope that the Bachmann's, in the thick of their endeavors to preserve America, took some time off for some swimming lessons.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Excessive Heat Warning
It's days like these that I fear most. Those summer days where the temperatures soar and the humidity clings to you like like a relentless ex that you want nothing to do with. Days like this make me angry at myself. They truly and honestly bring out the worst sides of me.
I hate the fact that I sweat far more profusely than the average human. I hate that I'm forced to wear dress pants and a button-down shirt to work amidst excessive heat warnings. I hate the metro, the crowds, the pavement, the sun, the shade, the warm disgusting breeze blowing the sweat off my face. Most of all, though, I hate that at any given moment, I can look up or down a street and find one of two things: a girl in a sundress wearing flip-flops and sunglasses looking minimally bothered by the oppressive heat, or a strikingly thin gay man wearing the gay summer uniform - a torn tank top/wife beater combo adorned with a picture of a child actor from the 80's that barely constitutes as clothing and fully exposes both nipples but is still sold for $20-$30 bucks at American Apparel, slightly rolled up and/or frayed jean shorts, and excessively large and colorful high tops that look cheap and worn yet, in reality, cost $400 from an online sale at Barney's.
I get angry at both because I'm in dress clothes and it's unfair. Why can girls show up to work half naked during the summer and I can't? Why do they get to wear open-toed shoes while I'm forced into black socks and ugly loafers that literally taunt me every morning while I dress? Who the hell made these rules? And above all, where the fuck are all these gays going dressed like that? Am I missing out on some type of Tuesday mid-morning rave on U street? New York is even worse. Do the gays even work there? Did they all get the same memo that black leather gladiator sandals is the only acceptable form of footwear within the confines of the 5 Burroughs of New York?
All these questions race through my mind as I look down at my watch and realize that my dress shirt is soaked, my balls have suffocated and retaliated with anger in the form of chaffing, and I'm late for my 9-5 life. There's few things worse in life than sweating completely through one's work clothing and arriving to the office looking as though you've just stepped off a river cruise during a monsoon in the Amazon. My anxiety and levels of discomfort in this type of weather are not unfounded....
A couple of summers ago, I was going through my usual phase of "Fuck this place I'm moving to NYC" mentality. I had applied to numerous jobs when, out of the blue, a small sports advertising company contacted me for an interview. "Finally!", I thought, as I emailed them back confirming a date and time to meet. My plan was to hop the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC on a Thursday evening and spend the night with my friend Candy at her apartment in Long Island City before my 9am Friday interview. Her apartment was conveniently located within walking distance of the place, so I was proud of myself for my quick last minute arrangements. "This'll be easy" I thought to myself. "I'll be there in time for a late dinner with Candy, get some rest and wake up early for my interview and then head back home in the afternoon". Of course, my life as I've learned never goes as planned.
When I arrived to Penn Station on that Thursday evening, I noticed on various flat screen TV's a CNN headline that read "Worst heatwave in over a decade to hit Northeast cities tomorrow". In my mind, I brushed it off thinking that I would just surround myself in air-conditioned spaces for the next 48 hours. No biggie. I hopped on the subway and headed towards Candy's place in LIC to change and head out for a drink and some food. Upon arriving, I walked into her apartment and was met with a blast of heat far more sweltering than the outdoors.
"Holy fuck your apartment is like living in the slums of Mumbai, except without the unlimited supply of cheap curry and human shit on the streets!". Candy's apartment was nice and big, but grotesquely un-airconditioned.
"I know" she laughed. "There's no central AC and I haven't really needed a window unit until now". Great. I had conveniently forgotten that most people in their early 20's living in NYC and supporting themselves have barely any money to eat, much less afford an extravagant luxury such as a window unit. In an effort to escape Satan's lair, I suggested we go to a restaurant and hang out for a few hours.
In my mind, 10:30pm is a reasonable hour to return to an apartment and expect for the interior to not feel as though you're being wedged into an overweight bus driver's crotch. Unfortunately, Candy's apt was still a sweltering 88 degrees inside. I took a cold shower and a shot of vodka and settled into the leather couch in the living room where I would be spending the night. I opened both windows next to the couch in a desperate effort to have some type of cross breeze. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was amongst one of the worst nights of my life. I tossed and turned until about 1 am, at which point I peeled my soaking body off the leather couch and headed towards the kitchen. I opened the freezer and attempted to climb in, but only my head would fit. I then opened the refrigerator to cool down my legs and balls and began to imagine myself as a frozen pork loin basking in the glory of freezer burn. After passing out with my head in the freezer and balls near the milk, I made my way to the sink, turned it on, and furiously splashed water on my face and chest before heading back towards the leather couch.
Following a few more hours of tossing and turning, coupled with the incessant rumbling and shaking of the above ground train running directly next to the living room window, I began to panic. I realized I had only a few more hours of solid rest before my interview, but I was sweating so profusely that I actually considered walking to the nearest hospital and having them admit me for dehydration and heat exhaustion. At least that way I could find some relief. Seeing as how it would be difficult to make an interview successfully wearing nothing but a hospital gown, I began searching for a nearby hotel. In moments like these where I'm so exhausted and uncomfortable, I lose all dignity and would have walked to the nearest Holiday Inn wearing nothing but underwear and a moist towel around my head had I been able to find one. At one point, I honestly feared I would pass out and drown in my own pool of sweat. The NYPD would peel my dead body off the couch the following day, and I would join the small list of senior citizens and mentally handicapped victims on the headline of the NY Times: "Extreme Heat Responsible for Death of 3 elderly, 1 Mentally Disabled child, and 1 Large and Sweaty Giant Pussy of a Man". So I can't handle extreme heat as well as others...I know this and I have accepted it as my fate. Pussy or not.
I finally awoke in a fit of anxiety as the sun beamed onto my face. I looked at the clock on the wall. 7AM. At this point, I knew falling back asleep would be impossible so I stripped off my clothing and headed towards a cold shower, figuring that 2 hours to dress and walk 1/4 mile to the interview would be ample time. Have you ever experienced stepping out of a shower and dressing yourself in formal attire in a blistering hot room? It's a feeling I think everyone should experience at least once in their lives to connect with our ancestors from the previous centuries. Had I lived during their time, I would have gladly enlisted in the military and volunteered myself to be amongst the first line of defense in a deadly battle. If that didn't work, I would forcibly engage in lewd sexual acts with someone riddled with bubonic plague.
As I strolled out the door in my damp suit, I headed towards the Quizno's on the street corner. My plan was to walk 15 feet and then quickly duck into the nearest shop for temporary relief before continuing on. It was 8:15am and the temperature was already creeping towards 100, and if I arrived to the interview early enough I could enjoy a few moments of peace in an air-conditioned lobby. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived a half hour later to find this newly constructed building made entirely of windows and a half finished lobby. With no AC. At this point my anxiety crept up as I knew for certain that my interviewer would take one look at me and think I was a homeless businessman living out of his car and wearing the same filthy suit covered in sweat marks. As I made my way to the 9th floor, I opened the office door and greeted the receptionist.
"Sorry about the heat in here, our AC doesn't seem to be working these past few days."
"Oh no worries, I was accidentally pushed into a sewage pond on the way here so AC is the least of my worries right now" I smiled, as I sat onto an all-too-familiar leather couch. Moments later, the interviewer appeared and led me back to his office which, of course, was also comprised entirely of windows and no blinds. Luckily, he was sweating as incessantly as me as he sat and began the interview. I can't say I remember much of what happened, as I'm fairly certain I may have blacked out at various points during our discussion. Regardless, I left the building and headed quickly back towards Candy's apartment. When I opened the door, I found Candy's roommate sitting in the living room watching TV.
"How can you sit in here it's like 90 degrees?"
"Oh well it's nice out here my room is FREEZING. I slept with the window unit on all night."
Upon noticing the look on my face, she asked "Did you sleep ok out here? I wish you had said something I have an extra air mattress in my room you could have slept on".
Trying my best to not kick the bitch in her ovaries, I gathered my belongings and headed out the door. The thought of taking the subway to midtown and waiting 3 hours for my bus was overwhelming to me. At this point I was so desperate for relief, that I hopped on the internet and booked a flight from JFK-DCA which would depart in 4 hours. Fuck the bus. Happy with my decision, I hopped on the airtrain and got off at the Delta terminal of JFK where I could finally relax in the AC and grab a drink. As I entered the terminal, I was horrified to find large industrial fans scattered strategically throughout the building.
"AC's broken" said the large African American lady at the Delta counter to me. "We got fans."
"Yes, I see that thank you. Um, by any chance can I get on an earlier flight. Sayyyyyy right around....now?"
"That's a hundred dollaz, sir. And it's full."
"Great" I smiled, and walked away.
The next 4 hours passed eternally slow until I heard the sweet and angelic voice of the gate agent announcing the boarding of my flight. I walked down the Jetway fanning myself with my boarding pass yet ecstatic that I would soon enter the notoriously frigid cabin of an airplane. I smiled at the flight attendant and stepped on board where I found row after endless row of overweight passengers violently fanning themselves with barfbags and magazines and desperately reaching towards the air-vents above them. The inside of this cabin was, no exaggeration, a cool 90 degrees. I took my window seat and recalled the scene in that movie "Airplane" where the old lady hangs herself mid-flight. I began to wonder if my seat belt was strong enough to support my body weight. The captain announced that, due to a malfunctioning APU system, there was no AC available on the ground. IS THIS REAL? By now I could say with all confidence that I know what it would have been like to be a prisoner of war in Vietnam or Rosie O'Donnell on an African safari.
As the plane taxied and I went in and out of consciousness, the captain informed us we were number 21 for take-off and would sit on the runway for the next hour or so. Baking. What was supposed to be a 30 min flight suddenly seemed endless. I could have fucking walked home by now. The flight attendants walked through the cabin offering small glasses of water as I grabbed 3 and proceeded to dump each, one by one, on my face. The next thing I can remember is landing in DCA and taking the metro back to my dad's office to catch a ride home. As I opened the door to the car, I threw my belongings in the back and collapsed into the front seat. "Tough day?" my dad asked with a grin on his face, as I looked over and gave him the finger.
This ordeal occured 2 years ago and it haunts me still. Any time I see warnings for "excessive heat" or adjectives such as "Blistering, boiling, sweltering" and any other word that should never be used to describe the weather, I cringe in fear. Since I'm not fortunate enough to have been built with the body of a 15 year old Korean gymnast and cannot appropriately pull-off the summer gay look or a sundress, I'll be declining any invite for an outdoor gathering until mid September. I've noticed more and more rooftop bars and outdoor seating available for happy hours and fine dining and I laugh to myself as I drive by in the comfort of my AC on a hot summer day and notice two gays on a dinner date, in their summer uniforms, inconspicuously dabbing the glisten on their foreheads as their date looks away.
I hate the fact that I sweat far more profusely than the average human. I hate that I'm forced to wear dress pants and a button-down shirt to work amidst excessive heat warnings. I hate the metro, the crowds, the pavement, the sun, the shade, the warm disgusting breeze blowing the sweat off my face. Most of all, though, I hate that at any given moment, I can look up or down a street and find one of two things: a girl in a sundress wearing flip-flops and sunglasses looking minimally bothered by the oppressive heat, or a strikingly thin gay man wearing the gay summer uniform - a torn tank top/wife beater combo adorned with a picture of a child actor from the 80's that barely constitutes as clothing and fully exposes both nipples but is still sold for $20-$30 bucks at American Apparel, slightly rolled up and/or frayed jean shorts, and excessively large and colorful high tops that look cheap and worn yet, in reality, cost $400 from an online sale at Barney's.
I get angry at both because I'm in dress clothes and it's unfair. Why can girls show up to work half naked during the summer and I can't? Why do they get to wear open-toed shoes while I'm forced into black socks and ugly loafers that literally taunt me every morning while I dress? Who the hell made these rules? And above all, where the fuck are all these gays going dressed like that? Am I missing out on some type of Tuesday mid-morning rave on U street? New York is even worse. Do the gays even work there? Did they all get the same memo that black leather gladiator sandals is the only acceptable form of footwear within the confines of the 5 Burroughs of New York?
All these questions race through my mind as I look down at my watch and realize that my dress shirt is soaked, my balls have suffocated and retaliated with anger in the form of chaffing, and I'm late for my 9-5 life. There's few things worse in life than sweating completely through one's work clothing and arriving to the office looking as though you've just stepped off a river cruise during a monsoon in the Amazon. My anxiety and levels of discomfort in this type of weather are not unfounded....
A couple of summers ago, I was going through my usual phase of "Fuck this place I'm moving to NYC" mentality. I had applied to numerous jobs when, out of the blue, a small sports advertising company contacted me for an interview. "Finally!", I thought, as I emailed them back confirming a date and time to meet. My plan was to hop the Chinatown bus from DC to NYC on a Thursday evening and spend the night with my friend Candy at her apartment in Long Island City before my 9am Friday interview. Her apartment was conveniently located within walking distance of the place, so I was proud of myself for my quick last minute arrangements. "This'll be easy" I thought to myself. "I'll be there in time for a late dinner with Candy, get some rest and wake up early for my interview and then head back home in the afternoon". Of course, my life as I've learned never goes as planned.
When I arrived to Penn Station on that Thursday evening, I noticed on various flat screen TV's a CNN headline that read "Worst heatwave in over a decade to hit Northeast cities tomorrow". In my mind, I brushed it off thinking that I would just surround myself in air-conditioned spaces for the next 48 hours. No biggie. I hopped on the subway and headed towards Candy's place in LIC to change and head out for a drink and some food. Upon arriving, I walked into her apartment and was met with a blast of heat far more sweltering than the outdoors.
"Holy fuck your apartment is like living in the slums of Mumbai, except without the unlimited supply of cheap curry and human shit on the streets!". Candy's apartment was nice and big, but grotesquely un-airconditioned.
"I know" she laughed. "There's no central AC and I haven't really needed a window unit until now". Great. I had conveniently forgotten that most people in their early 20's living in NYC and supporting themselves have barely any money to eat, much less afford an extravagant luxury such as a window unit. In an effort to escape Satan's lair, I suggested we go to a restaurant and hang out for a few hours.
In my mind, 10:30pm is a reasonable hour to return to an apartment and expect for the interior to not feel as though you're being wedged into an overweight bus driver's crotch. Unfortunately, Candy's apt was still a sweltering 88 degrees inside. I took a cold shower and a shot of vodka and settled into the leather couch in the living room where I would be spending the night. I opened both windows next to the couch in a desperate effort to have some type of cross breeze. I'm not exaggerating when I say this was amongst one of the worst nights of my life. I tossed and turned until about 1 am, at which point I peeled my soaking body off the leather couch and headed towards the kitchen. I opened the freezer and attempted to climb in, but only my head would fit. I then opened the refrigerator to cool down my legs and balls and began to imagine myself as a frozen pork loin basking in the glory of freezer burn. After passing out with my head in the freezer and balls near the milk, I made my way to the sink, turned it on, and furiously splashed water on my face and chest before heading back towards the leather couch.
Following a few more hours of tossing and turning, coupled with the incessant rumbling and shaking of the above ground train running directly next to the living room window, I began to panic. I realized I had only a few more hours of solid rest before my interview, but I was sweating so profusely that I actually considered walking to the nearest hospital and having them admit me for dehydration and heat exhaustion. At least that way I could find some relief. Seeing as how it would be difficult to make an interview successfully wearing nothing but a hospital gown, I began searching for a nearby hotel. In moments like these where I'm so exhausted and uncomfortable, I lose all dignity and would have walked to the nearest Holiday Inn wearing nothing but underwear and a moist towel around my head had I been able to find one. At one point, I honestly feared I would pass out and drown in my own pool of sweat. The NYPD would peel my dead body off the couch the following day, and I would join the small list of senior citizens and mentally handicapped victims on the headline of the NY Times: "Extreme Heat Responsible for Death of 3 elderly, 1 Mentally Disabled child, and 1 Large and Sweaty Giant Pussy of a Man". So I can't handle extreme heat as well as others...I know this and I have accepted it as my fate. Pussy or not.
I finally awoke in a fit of anxiety as the sun beamed onto my face. I looked at the clock on the wall. 7AM. At this point, I knew falling back asleep would be impossible so I stripped off my clothing and headed towards a cold shower, figuring that 2 hours to dress and walk 1/4 mile to the interview would be ample time. Have you ever experienced stepping out of a shower and dressing yourself in formal attire in a blistering hot room? It's a feeling I think everyone should experience at least once in their lives to connect with our ancestors from the previous centuries. Had I lived during their time, I would have gladly enlisted in the military and volunteered myself to be amongst the first line of defense in a deadly battle. If that didn't work, I would forcibly engage in lewd sexual acts with someone riddled with bubonic plague.
As I strolled out the door in my damp suit, I headed towards the Quizno's on the street corner. My plan was to walk 15 feet and then quickly duck into the nearest shop for temporary relief before continuing on. It was 8:15am and the temperature was already creeping towards 100, and if I arrived to the interview early enough I could enjoy a few moments of peace in an air-conditioned lobby. Imagine my disappointment when I arrived a half hour later to find this newly constructed building made entirely of windows and a half finished lobby. With no AC. At this point my anxiety crept up as I knew for certain that my interviewer would take one look at me and think I was a homeless businessman living out of his car and wearing the same filthy suit covered in sweat marks. As I made my way to the 9th floor, I opened the office door and greeted the receptionist.
"Sorry about the heat in here, our AC doesn't seem to be working these past few days."
"Oh no worries, I was accidentally pushed into a sewage pond on the way here so AC is the least of my worries right now" I smiled, as I sat onto an all-too-familiar leather couch. Moments later, the interviewer appeared and led me back to his office which, of course, was also comprised entirely of windows and no blinds. Luckily, he was sweating as incessantly as me as he sat and began the interview. I can't say I remember much of what happened, as I'm fairly certain I may have blacked out at various points during our discussion. Regardless, I left the building and headed quickly back towards Candy's apartment. When I opened the door, I found Candy's roommate sitting in the living room watching TV.
"How can you sit in here it's like 90 degrees?"
"Oh well it's nice out here my room is FREEZING. I slept with the window unit on all night."
Upon noticing the look on my face, she asked "Did you sleep ok out here? I wish you had said something I have an extra air mattress in my room you could have slept on".
Trying my best to not kick the bitch in her ovaries, I gathered my belongings and headed out the door. The thought of taking the subway to midtown and waiting 3 hours for my bus was overwhelming to me. At this point I was so desperate for relief, that I hopped on the internet and booked a flight from JFK-DCA which would depart in 4 hours. Fuck the bus. Happy with my decision, I hopped on the airtrain and got off at the Delta terminal of JFK where I could finally relax in the AC and grab a drink. As I entered the terminal, I was horrified to find large industrial fans scattered strategically throughout the building.
"AC's broken" said the large African American lady at the Delta counter to me. "We got fans."
"Yes, I see that thank you. Um, by any chance can I get on an earlier flight. Sayyyyyy right around....now?"
"That's a hundred dollaz, sir. And it's full."
"Great" I smiled, and walked away.
The next 4 hours passed eternally slow until I heard the sweet and angelic voice of the gate agent announcing the boarding of my flight. I walked down the Jetway fanning myself with my boarding pass yet ecstatic that I would soon enter the notoriously frigid cabin of an airplane. I smiled at the flight attendant and stepped on board where I found row after endless row of overweight passengers violently fanning themselves with barfbags and magazines and desperately reaching towards the air-vents above them. The inside of this cabin was, no exaggeration, a cool 90 degrees. I took my window seat and recalled the scene in that movie "Airplane" where the old lady hangs herself mid-flight. I began to wonder if my seat belt was strong enough to support my body weight. The captain announced that, due to a malfunctioning APU system, there was no AC available on the ground. IS THIS REAL? By now I could say with all confidence that I know what it would have been like to be a prisoner of war in Vietnam or Rosie O'Donnell on an African safari.
As the plane taxied and I went in and out of consciousness, the captain informed us we were number 21 for take-off and would sit on the runway for the next hour or so. Baking. What was supposed to be a 30 min flight suddenly seemed endless. I could have fucking walked home by now. The flight attendants walked through the cabin offering small glasses of water as I grabbed 3 and proceeded to dump each, one by one, on my face. The next thing I can remember is landing in DCA and taking the metro back to my dad's office to catch a ride home. As I opened the door to the car, I threw my belongings in the back and collapsed into the front seat. "Tough day?" my dad asked with a grin on his face, as I looked over and gave him the finger.
This ordeal occured 2 years ago and it haunts me still. Any time I see warnings for "excessive heat" or adjectives such as "Blistering, boiling, sweltering" and any other word that should never be used to describe the weather, I cringe in fear. Since I'm not fortunate enough to have been built with the body of a 15 year old Korean gymnast and cannot appropriately pull-off the summer gay look or a sundress, I'll be declining any invite for an outdoor gathering until mid September. I've noticed more and more rooftop bars and outdoor seating available for happy hours and fine dining and I laugh to myself as I drive by in the comfort of my AC on a hot summer day and notice two gays on a dinner date, in their summer uniforms, inconspicuously dabbing the glisten on their foreheads as their date looks away.
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