What A Disgrace For Our Nation?

Hmm. He sure doesn’t  look like terrorist to me.  What do you think?

#BeautifulBeautifulBeautifulBoy is my only answer.

Jagoff!

Jag-off  is a phenomenal word originated by Pittsburghers in the 1980’s.  It quickly traveled to the suburbs, and then eventually, it made its way to the country folk.  Almost every Western Pennsylvanian uses the word daily.  Once I tried to go without saying it for an entire day, and I made it three hours. Jaggoffs come in all different shapes and sizes. They are both good and bad looking, Wall Streeters or hipsters.  Wikipedia defines the word as “inept” or “stupid,” but native speakers do not necessarily mean that all the time.  At home, a jagoff is usually the truck driver that wants to race you, or the kid who brags about the buck he killed.  Honestly, though, jagoffs are everywhere, and being a jagoff can be a temporary state or a personality type.  Surprisingly, the jagoff population is massive in New York.  I met three today, but that’s neither here nor there.  Here is a good example of a New York City Wall Street Jagoff.

It’s an “I kind of love New York” day.  As I stand on the street asking people to simply save a polar bear, I remind myself to smile.   Remember what you’re fighting for.  I look up and wonder, Is this letting my eyebrows grow out work for me?  Maybe that’s why so many people aren’t stopping?   Oh, here he is coming towards me.  His suit is perfectly pressed, his hair newly trimmed, and he’s washed his face more than once today.  His eyes are bright, and there’s that smile, and those perfect teeth.  He’s, like, annoyingly perfect.  “Hey, take a minute.  Save a life man.”  “Well, I guess I’ll save a life.”  “Great!”   I wonder what this beautiful man does for a living.  Is it finance?  No, he’s too good looking.  “What do you do?”  “I have a hedge fund.”  “Right!  Amazing, I actually don’t know what that is, but I hear it’s a great gig!”  “Would you like to learn…?”  “Honestly, not so much.  But you stopped for a reason, right?  #BecauseYoureAmazing, so let’s just get to it.”  “Of course.  I want to save a life.”  As I proceed to tell him what cause he’s stopped for, I wonder how much female attention he gets.”  So much, I bet.

“Yeah, I don’t think I’m gonna sign up.”  “What?  No, why?”  “Because.”  “No,  please stop!  Listen, Jason, right?”  “No, John.”  “Well it’s a J name, isn’t it?”  “Ha, you’re cute.”  “This isn’t a boy/girl  problem like, Oh, did I text him too much?  Did he misinterpret my last text?  Usually you did text him too much because you felt the need to explain yourself because he was most likely being a douche bag, and maybe he overanalyzes just as much as you. Mindless text messaging and gossip made you appear temporarily cray.  It  destroyed what you knew could have been something brilliant.  Either way, you showed your crazy way too soon in the game. In his/her eyes  you are worthless. Two weeks of crying in your room at night, “Why am I such an idiot?”  Then guess what, in a week you’ll be over it. You’ll meet someone who is worthy.  And all those nights waiting up thinking “Why wasn’t I good enough?” will be a distant comical memory!

This is a real problem,  it’s not going away unless you take action.  Save a life, man.  Do it for love,  this amazing universe that loves you.  Because you care, Jason.”  “John.”  “Oh just go with it”  “Okay, I’ll sign up.”  “Really?”  “Yeah, because you’re cute.”  “What?  No, no, I don’t want you to sign up because you think  that.   In order to sign  up, I need for you to tell me exactly why you want to.”  “Are you joking?”  “No, you have degraded me and made me feel very sad,  and I need to be sure you’re not going to cancel your membership.”  “Okay, polar bears, babies.”  “Fine, Jason, that’s enough.“  “I’ll give $20.”  “Wow, big spender, aren’t ya? No, $50!” “Ha what?” “Save 50 babies, or go get wasted at Brother Jimmy’s; it’s your choice man.”  I show him a picture of a starving polar bear.  “Come on, Jason.  Just do it.”  “Haha, you don’t give up.”  “No, I don’t, and I believe in you because you’re a good, beautiful person who loves the universe!”  “right, okay, $50.”  “Yay, well done you!”

As we finish the sign up process, I close by saying, “Peace, man.”  “So am I getting your number?”  “Oh, sorry, I don’t give my number out at work, but thank you, thats very nice”  “Well, what if I met you out?  Would you give it to me then?”  “No, most likely not.”  “Um why?”  “Well honestly, because you’re insanely good looking, and you know you’re good looking, and that kinda turns me off.  Also I’m shallow enough to forget that looks fade.  I could never be seen with you because I’d be the less hot girlfriend.  Ya know?  It would never work.  Why do you want my number really?  I feel like you get plenty of female attention, much hotter then me.” “Yep, and I feel like you’re into me.” “What, why?   Because I was nice to you, because I spoke to you?  How, man?  How is that me being into you?  Oh, that’s just — no, no that — no, but thank you for doing business.” He looks at me up and down, as though he’s memorizing my body. I try not to use the word hate, but I strongly dislike my body.  Is he making fun of it? He can’t possibly like it. “Listen; if you come back to my place tonight, I will do things that you never thought possible.  Then, tomorrow morning you can leave and go back to your everyday life, but let me tell you this.  You will beg to come back.”   And that, my friends, is  a total jagoff.

Don’t You Just Love New York?

Sometime in fall  2010.

 

 It’s an “I love New York” morning.  Last night I had a dream that I married Leonardo DiCaprio, and in Broadway.com the title of our story was “Leo Found His Jackie.”  Paul sang at our wedding, which clearly means I’ll run into Paul McCartney on the street any day now.  By the end of our forty-minute conversation, he’ll be begging me to perform with him.  Then, this same week I’ll get cast in a full-length feature film opposite Leo.  I can’t quite figure out what the wedding part of the dream means though.  I’m nowhere near finding a husband, am I?  Let’s face it; I’m no Victoria’s Secret model, and I doubt Leo would settle for anything less.  For  Paul, he’s happily married, and  when “When I’m Sixty-Four” is playing at our wedding for our first dance it would make no sense because he’s past sixty-four.   Is Leo friends with Colin Farrell, Jude Law, or Robert Pattinson?  Maybe all of them, and a love triangle is just awaiting us?  Oh well, not gonna let it worry me on this beautiful day.   As I do a little double check in my phone, I notice my hair is finally long enough for the next “Hair Audition.”  I am just letting the “sunshine in,” sending love out to everyone in this amazing universe, and feeling nothing but gratitude!  Don’t you just love New York?  I will smile at everyone today. 

I walk down the subway steps and notice a homeless man.  He’s new.  He’s begging for money  and is insanely drunk.  He looks at me.  “Why  you smiling?”  “Well, why not?  I don’t have any money, but here’s a Luna Bar.”  I pat his shoulder and leave.  As I walk away feeling guilty because I can’t wait to wash my hands after touching him, I feel something hit my back.  I turn around, i’ts my Luna Bar.  The homeless man threw my luna bar at me and is now screaming!  He says, “I don’t want your effing Luna Bar, you effing slut.”  He continues, “You bitch, I gotta gun.  I’m gonna kill you.”  Is he really gonna kill me?   He then drops the dreadful CUNextTuesday.  This man is not English nor is he Irish.  He is American, and therefore he should consider this word to be one of the most offensive words anyone can use.  There is no excuse.  As I walk away,  I start to cry.  In the distance I can still hear him screaming, and I notice everyone is staring at me.  I look up at the man next to me and say, “Do you hear him?  Why did he have to be so mean?”  “Yeah, I hear him, and had you not acknowledged him, no one would have to hear him scream for the next twenty minutes.”  “Well, I was just being nice.”  “It’s New York.  You can’t be nice.”

Don’t you just love New York?

Life Is A Beautiful Exhausting Worry!

Do you ever just feel so exhausted worrying?  About what people think, about what you think, about your family, your friends, your future?  Do you wonder if there is a God and the exact details of your death? Are you going to hell for thinking you’re important enough that people are actually going to attend your funeral?  Is there a hell to begin with? Is there a heaven?  It keeps going and going. #scary!  My mind takes me back to Joseph And The Amazing Technicolor Dream Coat.  “If my life were important I, would ask will I live or die.”  Joseph knew he wasn’t important.  He was selfless.  Your goal in life is to make the universe a better, more loving and peaceful place– to be selfless.  But if that’s your goal, that means you think you’re so important that you have the power to change things in a meaningful way.  Then, you feel guilty because you think nothing but ill thoughts on every teacher, nun, priest who messed with your mind.

 

In the words of Michael Jackson, “You are not alone.”  I, like you, worry, panic, maybe even more then you.  Believe me; it’s not because I have too much time on my hands.  When I’m not auditioning, fighting for animals, the environment, children, equality, working out, babysitting, and writing this blog in hopes I get a sponsor one day, I’m worrying.  When I’m on the subway, when I’m lying in bed #insomnia, when I’m in the shower.  Every spare moment my brain takes me away from the present, and those worries enter my mind!

Here is an ordinary morning, It’s taken from a journal entry, and a very accurate memory from Fall 2013.  Wasn’t that yesterday?  Time is just flying!

 

It’s  7 am.  As I get out of bed, I do my normal routine.  Send love out into the universe and list everyone and everything I’m grateful for, including that perfect stranger who complimented me on my dress.  Or did she compliment me because she felt sorry for me?  I look at the cold temp on my IPhone.  Twenty-two degrees out, really?  I jump in the shower and start doing vocal warmups.  Then, the worrying starts.  That was loud.  I totally just woke up my neighbor.  I’m so rude.  They are  going through a mid life crisis, and were finally able to sleep. I ruined it. That poor thing.  They’re now plotting my murder, they should.  I’m a horrible person.  I get out and dry off.  I haven’t heard from my friend since yesterday.  She was out for drinks — oh, gosh, I hope nothing happened.  What if she was drugged like the girl in  that episode of SVU last night?  Oh, God, it should be me in that alley!  No, she’s fine; she’s texted me!  Or maybe that was her abductor tricking me?  Stop: breathe. I didn’t text my mom back; she’s gonna freak.  What if the last batch of vegan cookies I made for the homeless gave them food poisoning?  I need to do laundry.  I’m a bad person.  Flash back to Sister blank, “Why are you looking at yourself in the mirror?”  “Because I look fat.”  “You are so ungrateful, there are people who don’t have food.”  Who says that to a kid?  I really do look bad this morning though.  Maybe it’s because I drank like a college girl on Spring Break last weekend. I still haven’t recovered.

Then the anxiety  starts.  Another healthy animal is getting euthanized.  Another child is getting harmed.  Why, how can I stop it?  I shouldn’t even go to this audition, it’s already cast. Is my left leg bigger than my right? Gosh, stop feeling sorry for yourself; be grateful you have legs.  I think I used the word “ironic” wrong yesterday.  That’s embarrassing.  Flash forward to today. Recently, I found out I’ve been using the word “bit” wrong.  My Irish girlfriends always say, “her bit, his bit.”  I thought that was just another cute term in their vocabulary for girlfriend/ boyfriend.  No, it means a s.. buddy.  I’ve only used the phrase wrong for a month now.  Imagine the embarrassment.

I bundle up and it’s so freezing my face is getting numb already. I walk to the subway jamming to Spring Awakening.  When will Spring Awakening come back to Broadway?  Flash forward to today.  It is coming back, and I still haven’t gotten a call back!  As I approach TDHI AKA  the “don’t text after 10 douche” building, I switch to Paulie.  He knows how to relax me.  A really pretty blond walks out of his apartment building.  Well, isn’t that just great.  He probably slept with her last night.  No, he’s dating her. Well, didn’t he get over me quick.  They’re getting married at St. Pat’s!  The reception is at the Palace.  No, not the Palace and not St. Pat’s. The Church of The Holy Rosary, and the reception is at  Ashford.  He’s even flying out both of their families.  Ashford Effing Castle!  Oh God, this can’t be happening.  No Ashford is mine!  She’s wearing a Monique Lhuillier gown, my dream gown, and her mother’s veil and grandmother’s rosary draped around her pink and blue bouquet.  Oh, well, isn’t that just great.  TDHI is getting married to a tall blond with blue eyes and a Barbie doll figure at Ashford Castle on October 9th 2014.  There goes my fairy tale superficial wedding!  And in a few years, the cute mental video I have of him running through Central Park with the jog stroller and our baby boy with dark hair and dark eyes that looks sooo my side, and a glance at my baby girl who has blond hair and bright blue eyes.  She has a pretty pink bow and princess dress my dad bought her, and because why not?  And, of course, our family dog.  Even after two kids, several dramatic arguments, he winks at me like  “check out my wife,” and in only a week we’ll have baby three.  Yes, we recently decided to adopt.  Oh well, would have been a nice love story.

 

Now that was just the morning.

What Is Happening To This World?

Sometime in fall 2014. It’s an “I love New York” morning.  As I sit on the crowded 6  train focused and ready for my audition I remind myself, don’t obsess.  I take a breath and send love out into the universe.  I notice the man sitting  next to me is looking at my music playlist “Tangled up in blue”  He speaks. “Bob Dylan, any good?” I speak. “I’m sorry?” “I said is the guy you’re listening to, Bob Dylan. Is he any good?  “Yes I heard you. You’re joking? You know who Bob Dylan is.”  “No, I can’t keep up with today’s music.  I’m sorry did I offend you?  You look upset.” Um YEAH!  “Nooo, I don’t get offended.  He’s just a legend.  I mean I love him, I’m just  in total shock!  I see you’re wearing a Giants hat.  I’m sure you know much more about football than I do.  I mean It’s not like you don’t know who the Beatles are. Or who Paul McCartney is haha.  “Haha, of course I know who the Beatles are.  Can’t say I know who Paul McCartney is?  Is that a band?  No words. Just no words.

Just Find A Bathroom

Why do some men – well, I wouldn’t call them men – boys think it’s okay to go to the bathroom outside any time of the day, whenever they feel like it? What goes through these boys heads?  I’m outside in front of a really nice restaurant and I have to go to the bathroom, I’ll just go there. If there’s a line in Starbucks, I’ll just go inside the subway station onto the tracks. If I’m in the park and I see a tree, it’s a sign that I should go to the bathroom on it. No it’s a sign you’re an idiot.  It’s disgusting. This has been my biggest pet peeve since before I can remember. Growing up near the mountains in Pennsylvania about nine hours away the idea of New York seemed like a dream to me. I’d never have to see a boy going number one behind a tree ever again. I remember one of my friends saying, “If you’re going behind a barn, it’s fine.” What? How is that fine? It bothered me for years, but I accepted that it was happening. I just wouldn’t look. I remember thinking, “When I live in New York City, I’ll never see boys going to the bathroom outside.” Ha. Yeah. When I moved to New York almost six years ago, men going to the bathroom outside was a thought that didn’t even cross my mind. I have no idea why because it happens all the time. It’s also offensive to women because these men are exposing themselves to the world. It’s a total power trip thing. You don’t see women going outside to the bathroom. These are not only homeless or mentally ill people; they’re grown guys. I have now witnessed ten men going number one outside in New York City, not counting the NYC marathon. Twice in Midtown, three times in the Upper West Side, once in Sunnyside, Queens, once in Central Park, and three times on the Upper East. Yes, that Gossip Girl fantasy went right out the window the first time I witnessed a NON homeless man going number one in my neighborhood. I’ve called the police more then three times. Each time nothing has been done about it. One time a police officer actually told me “to go get a drink and smoke a cigarette.” His tone was like, “Relax, stupid girl.” I think he even used the word “relax.” I’m one of the  most relaxed women around, but I do not appreciate men going to the bathroom in my face.  Do you know I actually know a bar owner who went to the bathroom outside near the front entrance  of his bar rather than using his own facilities? How twisted is that? Yeah, I get that there are much more important issues in this city and world, but this shouldn’t even be an issue.  I’m just a normal person, there is nothing special about me, but do I deserve to leave my house at 8AM and see a man going number one directly onto my building? I say no. My most recent and probably most disturbing experience was two weeks ago. I walked down Second Avenue and saw some sort of water spraying and assumed it was some sort of hose. An old man lifted me up and saved me from getting sprayed. I see that the “hose” is actually the homeless man who lives on my street for whom I have baked cookies time in and time out, and he is going number one directly into the street. He’s hammered and high on some hardcore drug. I have a major meltdown  as this adorable older man comforts me and pulls out his handkerchief.  After a quick stop at my neighborhood bar to tell my friend my traumatic  experience and write a detailed Facebook status about the incident, I take some water down to the street to clean the sign and cement he went number one on. I see him half asleep. I’m so mad at him and am so mad at myself for being mad at a homeless man who clearly has a drug problem. I see him sleeping on the street. He looks up at me, laughs, then goes back to sleep. I walk over and say directly to him, “I’m never baking cookies for you until you get it together, but I won’t help you.” A  guy walks by and looks at me. “Dude, you  drunk?  That guys sleeping I don’t think he can hear you whispering” “No, I am not drunk. This man went number one all over the street. He actually sprayed people. I bake for him. I’m not saying I’m a good baker but I just wanted him to be happy,  hey don’t laugh it was a very traumatic experience.” “Haha, that’s fuc… up. That’s New York for you.” That’s New York for you? That was the “I’m a 22 year old who just graduated and I think I’m awesome for living in the Upper East with 7 roommates” response. It doesn’t have to be New York. The solution is this: go find a public restroom. THEY ARE EVERYWHERE.

Sociopath Or Just A Jerk? Part 3

Sociopath Or Just A Jerk? Part 1

I always wondered how those women on Dateline and 48 Hours don’t realize their husbands have two separate lives.  Not little one night hookups here and there but two different families.  A wife he married in early ’97, a girlfriend he brought on in ’98.  He fathered three children with both of these women right around the same time.  The show is usually titled something like, “ The two faces of….”  I feel sorry for those women, but I think, “Wake up:  you’re married to pathological liars, cheaters.”  Then I continue to watch, and if I get really intrigued by these people’s lives, I do some research and join the online chats when the show’s over.  These men always appear to be the sweetest sensitive ones, true churchgoers who are for gay marriage.

I’ll never condone adultery, but I’m not as judgmental as many people are when it comes to a small affair.  It’s horrible, so horrible, but people are only human.  Men and women get weak.  In some situations I’m sure it gets boring, the same old thing every day.  You’re miserable and sad.  You feel like a complete failure.  If someone comes along and makes you feel alive and pretty/ handsome, it has to be hard to say no.  You have a meaningless one nighter.

 

Well, what if it happens at the beginning of a relationship?  Right when the lying misogynist makes his big decision to pop the question, he decides to bring in some new girl.  He cheats on two women.

 

He’s not the sensitive crying guy or the player metro flirt that you hear about.  He’s the manly one.  Outwardly, he seems rugged and tough.  He keeps to himself, not one weak bone in his body.  To you, he shows a completely different side.  Still very masculine but extremely loyal, caring, understanding, and from the start ONLY has eyes for you.  You’re an independent woman who doesn’t need protecting, but his new motto is to protect you, and he does so without offending.  When you are with him, nothing bad can happen.  You even subconsciously write in your daily goal notebook, “do something that will make him happy.”

 

The next few posts are the most accurate, honest stories because this actually just happened to me!  Just 10 days ago I came to learn I was the blindsided idiot.

 

After a few sad and angry phone conversations, several nasty texts, two uncomfortable encounters, countless hours of crying, “I hate him; he’s a horrible person.  Oh, gosh, I miss him,” the crying always ends with, “he’s heartless.”  I’m so ready to reveal the last four and a half months of my life, six months really.  That doesn’t seem that long, does it?  Well, it’s long enough to fall in love with a sociopath.

Life After The Scarf.

It had been weeks since the Scarf Starbucks douche encounter, but for some reason it was still in my head.  Why did this man, boy really, feel the need to tell me he had a girlfriend?  It was so condescending, as if he were saying, “poor little girl lusting after me.”  And it wasn’t that at all.  All I did was ask him where he got his scarf, and looking back on it, it was not even that cute. 

I keep my eye open hoping I’ll run into him, but all these New York Metro men look alike.  You’re not Jude Law 2006, boys.  Get a new muse! 

I’m on high alert so that as soon as I see him I can throw a comeback line his way.  To name a few:

“Well, you’re not cute.”

“Well, she’s not cute.”  That one’s mean, I know.

“I feel sorry for her.”

“Oh, I was just planning on getting it for my boyfriend Leonardo DiCaprio.” What am I, sixteen?

Last one, this one is the most honest.  “Well, I just wanted to know where you got the scarf.  I don’t find you the least bit attractive, nor do I care about your personal life.  I’m sorry that you have so little self-esteem that you have to make up for it by flaunting your (I imagine unrequited, rocky) relationship in strangers’ faces.”

All these thoughts were pointless and horrible distractions.  After weeks of possible scenarios as to why this douche felt the need to insult me, I came to the realization that it wasn’t an insult at all.  It was the universe sending a comic relief that will always be there for me.  I hope this story made you laugh as much as it still does me.  All because of a scarf. 

The Scarf.

Sometime in November 2012,

It’s an  “I love New York in the Fall” day!

I stop in Starbucks and while pondering if I want a tall skinny vanilla latte or a chai green tea latte I notice a very attractive scarf.  Sure the guy who was wearing it had a handsome face, but the scarf…so timeless, so well-made, tartan, the best pattern ever created.  If I locate this scarf every male in my life would own one.  I could even get one for myself!  I’m trying my best not to engage in conversation with  strangers these days  but I can’t hold back.

Me- “Hi! I love your scarf!  I’m sorry to be rude, but I have to ask where you got it?”

Him- “haha, I have a girlfriend.”

Me- silence.