Benji for President

Sometimes I get emails from my dog:

HelLo thE Qeuen

i aM SeNDign eMiaL tO ObmaMa. WahT dO Yuo Thikn?

DeEr OmaBma,

i Am Stwtrea,

i Thnik dOg Fud is mOsT ImpOtrNat issUe In Amekrica. DoG is manz BeSt frEnd. If DoG fUd bAd No mORE bsEt FrIeND. MaN No hApPy BecuAse hE nO hAve bESt fRend. AmKriCA nO HappY. IsNo GoOd.

PlEEZe tAkl AbUoT dOg fUd.

Tahnk u,

i aM StRewtA

[Brought to you by: Greg]

MOM, DON'T READ THIS

My mother's mother died last Friday but I just found out this morning at work. I was returning a call to my brother's text stating "call me i'm breaking up with my boyfriend". I called to make sure he hasn't shaved his head or started having cocktails for breakfast and he tells me our Grandmother died.

I think I've only met her three or four times in my life. I remember she smoked a lot and was really small. She had these big bug eyes and a nice smile and I got my blonde hair from her. I think I was in high school the last time I saw her. She stayed in my room. We had to wash the drapes after she left.

I didn't know her at all. All I ever heard was that she was really mean, nuts and had been her whole life. She once sent me five dollars in a birthday card for cab-fare. I was in Junior High and I lived in TX. I'd never even ridden in a cab and the card came about six months before my birthday.

In all of the old photos our family has of her, she is unbelievably beautiful and looks the spitting image of Bette Davis.

My mother once told me a story about coming home from school and she found her mother sitting in the dark, in the parlor with all of the shades drawn. She was chain smoking and talking to the television set that was turned off.

I always picture it in black and white.

I hope my mom is ok. She spent most of her young life trying to protect her brother and sister from her mother and most of her adult life trying to protect my brother and I from having to deal with someone like her.

She says she has dealt with it. She told me that no one wanted to give her mother a service or memorial and so they weren't. That was when I cried.

ElectroCUTEd Puppy

I am sitting across from this 31 year old 'go getter'. His name is Amir Levin and he is the charming, energized inventor of the Kaboost, Portable Chair Booster. We are in his very nice, very modern SoHo living room. He's in a chair with his legs spread, elbows on his knees, fingers together. He is a little intense and a little twitchy, using short, succinct sentences. I am on the couch, my palms pressed together and squeezed between my thighs in front of me. I'm trying to sit up straight. I'm in full drag, nice skirt, heels and I'm even wearing fake glasses. I have perfect vision.

He is firing me.

This is the second time in my life I've ever been fired. The first was when I attempted to be a hostess in a little Thai fusion restaurant that no longer exists. The owners were very sweet and trusting when I demanded $15 an hour. I often sat people according to how I felt they looked aesthetically in the restaurant. I'd never hosted in my life. I assumed it was easy enough work that I could learn on the job but no one trained me...in English. Thank goodness we never had more than five parties at a time. I had no clue. After two months they hired a college student at $10 an hour. She also waited tables. Much more bang for their buck. I was 'not vely good hostess'.

But THIS....THIS KID....THIS RICH, TRUST FUND KID...was firing me. I'd only worked for him for two weeks and after day three he was asking me for things I was simply not qualified to do....but this job wasn't like the hostess thing I lied my way into...our interview, where he literally shook my hand and hired me on the spot...was me explaining I could assist him in setting up an office but I was not capable of being his accountant. He only wanted me to know Quickbooks and I told him I knew some but I could learn more with time. Day three he wanted a report on his inventory. I was still putting software on the brand new computer and setting up his voice mail. I didn't even know he HAD inventory.

Every night I took the laptop and Quickbooks for Dummies home and every morning I was up early, eager to get through my to-do list of setting up his home office while at the same time researching a real office to move us to. I was to be the Office Manager and eventually...his sidekick. I was all aflutter with new ideas for branching off of the Kaboost. I was ready and committed. So committed, I'd quit my prior job giving them only two days' notice. I was asked not to come back at all. That was a nasty taste in my mouth and I don't like to burn bridges like that. That was the old me, not anymore! But I choked it down while I lit the match knowing I was going to have a lot more money and a whole new life! Idiot.

Sure, on day four he told me not to come in too early because he had a date that night and he wanted privacy the next morning. Sure, in the middle of my trying to deal with his off-shore warehouses he spent 15 minutes showing me where to get his favorite paper clips. Sure, on day five I overheard him micro-managing his daily housekeeper on how to prep his daily laundry. This guy was so SURE of himself that he could and would make a split decision and the 'cost' was never an issue for him. He knew everything. He was always right. He had lots of money.

Do NOT get me wrong ...I got burned 'cause I hopped on his hope train and it was a blaze. He was very smart and worked very hard. His ideas were brilliant and he truly became an over-night success. American dream stuff and I admired him. I knew there were a lot of dangers that go with the success he was managing and I was impressed with his knowledge, his energy, his follow-through, his two bedroom SoHo apartment.

I just thought he would let me do the job.

I found out later the girl before me lasted a month...the girl after me (an accountant) a week.

So, I'm trying not to cry in front of him and when he pulls out his wallet and hands me $200 for my 'trouble', the little pride angel on my shoulder snubs her nose so I decline. Then I look at that money and I know this is nothing to him and everything to me. Pride-schmide. It's not like he was my pimp. Sometimes you should take the money. I call my temp company and tell them. They say I deserve the 'tip' and they are disgusted at his lack of tact. I sob while I walk all the way home. I have NO job.

A month goes by.

I started this blog the second day of my next temp assignment. Greg and I had just come back from Amsterdam and my life was changed. Shortly after, I got the gig I have now and I continue to feel changed...in a good way...

There are so many ways to describe my Kaboost experience....Silver Lining...God shuts a window, opens a door...

I like to think about Stewart and what happened to him the other night while we were at home. He was under the couch, chewing on something and we heard a YELP! He came running out.

Mouse? Bug?

Greg grabs a flashlight. I hold the little guy and dart to the other end of the sofa.

He was chewing on a wire. He seems much calmer now.

If I didn't live in America

I burned my ring finger while making meatballs.

Before Thanksgiving I developed a detailed meal chart complete with a grocery list. We shopped down the street on the weekends. I came home from work at night and cooked meals and made our lunches for the next day. We got out of the habit once the holiDAZE began, once I spent my grocery money on presents and once I realized it was a little less than charming to mince garlic on our dresser. We live in a small place.

I'm back in the habit again and discovering I, who once would rather store new shoes in the oven, have developed a solid nesting sense and interest in cooking for someone I love. Counter space has become an exciting prospect and Greg and I have decided to apartment hunt for a bigger place.

About a week ago Friday, we ventured out to the IFC and saw:

4 luni, 3 saptamani si 2 zile

Greg didn't tell me what we were seeing and I didn't want to know. I love surprises. He explained there was a rave review and this film was all the rage so we had to go before we missed out. Greg is good about those things and he is very capable of weeding out the things that are all the rage that are things that would make us gag. His excitement made me excited.

We met up with friends of ours prior to the film. They knew Greg was keeping the title from me so they didn't spill the info. It was a little thrill. We go to stand on line and I don't even recognize the title on the marquee. I still haven't got a clue what I'm in for. Just how I like it. Greg runs to the front of the line to pick up our tickets and I overhear a couple behind us:

Man: Geez it is freezing. Why aren't they letting us in? [Jokingly to Woman.] This better be worth it.

Woman: I know, I know! Since when do you see a line around the block for a Romanian film in the 1980's about totalitarianism and an illegal abortion!

Oh. I guess that is what this is about.

Sounds about as fun as doing my taxes. But I trust Greg. I erase what I've heard.

This movie was so powerful there was pure silence in the darkness after the last scene. There was no music or credits, only a black screen for several seconds and then white words appeared. The audience gave a collective sigh.

As an art, this movie did not judge, it gave the audience creative space to think and form their own experience. My own imagination inserted subliminal visions throughout. I felt undefinable emotions and the performances are beyond believable. Channeling. The direction is such a perfect journey you begin to smell the environment he portrays.

As entertainment, I can't remember a time when I so completely forgot myself and so completely cared for a fictitious character. Maybe Annie when I was nine. I wanted to be an orphan. They had so much fun! Poor little suburban gal.

As commentary, this movie hit so many sides of every 'argument' that you never felt you were watching a specific point of view. I'm not sure how that is possible for a topic that has defined entire countries, cultures and religions. It was just a story and it was at zero.

And all this while reading subtitles. Brilliant.

Go see this film. I am so grateful for my little apartment and my little meatballs. I'm so blessed to look down at the band-aid on my finger.

It really is the little things, isn't it?

Banana Milkshake to Heaven

Two weeks and one day ago I had knee surgery. I'm still not sure of any of the medical details except that I tore some stuff that attaches to stuff and that seems pretty common among folks I've spoken with about it. Kind of like learning a new word, you suddenly hear it everywhere.

My knee basically stopped bending past a 90 degree angle and I couldn't deny anymore that the pain was keeping me up at night. I finally went to a specialist after Greg caught me almost falling down a flight of stairs when the darn thing gave out. I still refused to take off my heels.

Setting up the appointment felt like calling a hair salon. "What are you seeing him for? Which side? Anything else you need done?" When I came in to see the doc I was in and out of his office so quickly I may as well had been picking up dry cleaning. He was incredibly charming, made a few jokes, recited his bio and began fondling my knee. He asked a few questions, explained the 'normalcy' of my situation then slapped me on the back and declared:

"Welcome to old age!"

The man is clearly older than my own father and actually sports a graying handle-bar mustache. [...and a funky turquoise pinky ring... I kept thinking of Doctor Jacoby from Twin Peaks...]

I'm not saying I'm not getting old or that getting old is necessarily a bad thing. It just made me pause.

I'm thirty four. I don't have kids yet.

I suppose one could say I've taken my knees for granted but that seems harsh. People would never leave the house if life required reverence toward everything we think we might lose familiarity with. But those words have stuck to me like that silly-but-brilliant song in the Dunkin' Donuts ad.

I-want-some-kids-be-fore-I'm-42----

I-want-some-kids-be-fore-I'm-42----

Get-ting-old-is-part-of-life-why-did-he-make-me-pause--

Get-ting-old-is-nor-mal-and-kidsdon't-come-from-SantaClaus...

Am I THAT woman now?

Hell yes.

The day of the surgery...well...we've all had surgery in some form or another right? I won't bore myself trying to be witty about the details [more avoidance Boutell?] except the waiting room and recovery room felt as if folks were going in for a manicure and brought their friends and family for support. Apparently most of New York City needs work on their joints as often as they need their shoes polished.

Recovery, as I knew it would be, has been rough on my ego. I realize I am a happy, healthy, lucky and blessed woman...I really really do...but after you've hoofed it for 20 minutes to a street corner that normally takes 3 minutes to get to... try explaining with a smile, in less than 10 seconds, to someone who literally jumped in front of you WITHOUT A CANE, why YOU deserve the cab that just pulled up....it is hard to feel good. Especially when you aren't used to asserting yourself...FOR yourself.

"Excuse me. I was here first. I'm sorry, but I was and you see I have THIS." [I'm not sure I didn't point it out as a weapon.]

The other day we went to see a movie and had to wait on line. I have always taken pride in my NYC manners. I'm not one of those folks who stops short in the middle of the sidewalk, stands at the entrance or exit to turnstiles, doorways or stairs, I don't turn around mid-stream with a cell phone to my ear and blind the stranger behind me with my elbow. I go with the flow and I move with the mean speed of the 'traffic'.

Until now.

I have no choice. The doors open to the theater and the line starts going. I start hobbling forward leaving the 'no-no' gap in front of me. Feeling a little panicked I speed up my three-legged dance which gets me out of breath. [How old am I again?] We sit down or collapse into the only seat I am capable of 'rushing' to and I decide [like a normal person] I should hit the head before we settle down. But that means stairs. This place has lots of stairs. I might miss half the movie before I get back to my seat. [Since when does a New Yorker care about stairs? Vertical City Baby!] Full bladder rules out. I hobble back up to the lobby and ask if there are restrooms on "this floor".

"Down. The. Stairs. And. To. The. Right."

I deflate and head that way. No rest for the wicked. No one really cares if you are wicked. No rest for anyone.

"Wait, M'am! For YOU...YOU go to the elevator and go to the second floor!" [God bless you, sonny.]

I do so. Occupied. The door opens and an older [woman?] with a gray beard comes out. She eyes my cane and asks what happened. She tells me what happened to her. Apparently she'd injured her shoulder after falling down. Yes. She with the beard said she needed her cane because she'd injured her shoulder. I gave a sympathtic smile as a I tried backing into the bathroom while slowly shutting the door to her. She was still talking. I had to go bearded lady.

The movie was sensational. We took a cab home and met up with our little devil dog who is so excited when he greets you at the door he will repeatedly jump up to your head unless you stop him. His little brain is so small. You can only shake your head and grin.

A few days later, we order take out from a new restaurant in the area. It is trendy. It is pricey. It is an hour late. We finally get our food and they've over charged us. So I call them.

Me: Hi...um...we just received our food and we were charged for a soup that we did not receive....and...

[She interrupts me.]

Vinyl Chick: ...I'm sorry what? I called you. I told you we were out of soup.

Me: Yes. I know...and I said I would take the fries instead but you still...

Vinyl Chick: ...hold on...

[I'm on hold. A dude gets on the phone.]

Vinyl Dude: Hello? Hi. Did you want soup? We called to tell you ...

Me: ...yes...I know. I ordered Fries. Fries and a Banana shake. [Comfort food, ok?] And I was charged for the soup and I received a Vanilla shake.

Vinyl Dude: ...hold on...

[I'm on hold. The chick gets back on.]

Vinyl Chick: ...um yeah. You got your fries right?

Me: Yes. But you charged me for the soup. It is $1.75 more.

Vinyl Chick: It's only a $1.75. You got fries right?

[Are you kidding me?! 7 second pause.]

Me: Yes.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: M'am...I mean, it's only a dollar...

[I interrupt her. I decide to cut to the chase. She apparently said something I didn't want to hear. I wanted to hear her say, "I'm so sorry. What can we do to make up for it?..." and have her give me a list of options. I know they are new. I realize they don't necesarily have to care about a little $1.75 mess-up and I know this is NYC, but in that 7 second pause I decided I wanted to be treated as if they cared and I decided I wanted a Banana shake. Another one. BANANA this time.]

Me: Yeah. Um. You know what I want?

Vinyl Chick: ...seventy five...I know...um...yes. But. Hold on...wait...what?

Me: You know what I would like?

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: What?

Me: I would like a Banana Shake.

Vinyl Chick: You want us to bring you another shake and take off the dollar...

Me: No.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: You want another shake?

Me: Yes. And I don't want to pay for it.

[Pause.]

Vinyl Chick: ...um...hold on...

[I hold.]

Vinyl Chick: [Over-heard talking to Vinyl Dude.] ...yeah...no...a shake...ok M'am. We'll bring your shake.

[We hang up.]

They called two more times. The second time was a manager. Half an hour later I got a shake and the delivery guy would not accept the tip. I felt a little guilty and worried I might have a loogy in my prize. Perhaps I shouldn't have demanded free food from a neighborhood restaurant as one of my stand-up-for-myself moments...but I did. And at the very least I'm trying it out. [Like I would a new restaurant?]

This cane is a weapon. For now it is helping me destroy the instinct to feel passive about things I want. I should have brought it to auditions last year.

Fits and Starts

December went without a peep.

Maybe I was afraid of unleashing my mind.

Who am I kidding?

I was afraid of unleashing my mind.

I'm saving it for the big talk show in the sky?
Surely God does an exit interview.

Sweet Dreams are Made of Cheese

Most "New Yorkers" fall asleep if they are still for over 120 seconds. It is not uncommon to see someone miss his stop on the subway because he fell asleep. And he was standing. One time I kept doing the head-bobbing-almost-snore-drool-wake-up-every-stop thing when this woman standing over me leaned down, "What is your stop?" I told her. "I'll wake you up when we get there, Dear." And she did. So very thoughtful. Just what I needed.

Paying it forward, I once saw this woman get on the train in very tall, four-inch stilettos. She looked great. And she looked to be in a little bit of pain. We were at Columbus Circle. I know she had to be hurting as she probably walked a good long block or two from the plastic surgeon's. Typical, beautiful, Fifth Avenue Barbie. So interesting to watch and think on what it must be like to live a life of philanthropy, the Hamptons and the perfect dinner reservation every evening. I'd last about three days.

I've been intrigued by this life style since my first trip to the Hamptons with a friend from work who brought me to her rented Summer home as a guest. She instructed me on what to wear, how to do my make-up and claimed she wouldn't speak to me if I talked about where we met. I was a lowly admin. To her I was charity work. To me, I was getting a free ride to another planet. I remember that I learned a lot about myself that weekend. I remembered that I really liked being me. I didn't know who else to be... I couldn't pull a chameleon... I was not familiar with the culture, much less the species. I remember good cheese.

What I experienced was Less Than Zero meets The Great Gatsby meets American Psycho (lots of Easton-Ellis). No exaggeration. Money, drugs, grandeur. Many people pretending to be something they weren't... happy. The depression that drills through your soul from seeing this... even for a weekend. I think I'm still trying to fill it. That is permanent damage stuff. These folks are starving.

That Monday she came by my desk...it was the first time I'd seen her since the Friday night of my arrival... she flipped her perfect blonde hair and with a huge, sexy smile asked if I'd enjoyed myself. I said, "it was alright". Clearly not the response she was looking for. Her face fell and she carefully asked me why. I paused. I tried to look as grateful as possible for the strange abandonment on planet Hamptonland but instead I looked her right in the eye and told her I felt sorry for her and I was so glad I didn't have to do that every weekend like she does.

I wasn't sure if she would slap me or cry or act like she didn't hear me. I don't think she was used to honesty from her supposed sycophants. She kind of did all three and said something flippant about being popular.

A week later she asked me if I was interested in helping her edit her book. First of all, on paper she was a Real Estate Agent. Second, I don't mean this to sound cruel...but I had no idea she was capable of writing more than would fit on her blackberry screen. I thought maybe it would be about her little dog she sometimes carried in her purse. Third, I thought perhaps she was testing me but I said, "Sure!" anyway.

It was a real book. You go girl.

It was a strange mess of a thing...a stream-of-consciousness biography that went on and on for twenty-plus chapters. Basically a 'true' adventure story about a woman trapped in a modern-day opium den for a month. She was trying to reach out. The book was basically about how bad her skin looked once she was rescued from the lare. Skin-deep is only affected so far I suppose. It took me right back to that little pin-prick hole that had burrowed into my heart that Hamptonian weekend. I realized I was feeling that pain for her and all the others like her. All of us like her...

I look up at disgruntled-Barbie-who-couldn't-get-a-cab-pretending-she-was-anywhere-
other-than-the-Subway and ask her if she wants my seat. She needs help. Her feet are clearly killing her and any minute someone might say the wrong thing and she'll ooze out her insecurities all over them. I've done it before in the name of fashion. I was helping out a fellow slave. Her eyes pierced, her eyebrows made a wrinkle-less 'V' over her perfect nose and she spat, "WHY?! Do I look THAT old??!!!" I pointed at her shoes and tried to explain I was a fellow footwear sadist but I could not be heard over the percussion of sighs, eye rolling and shopping bags exchanging hands. She couldn't and wouldn't let herself be helped. Auto-defense.

I observe "New Yorkers" do this in many ways. Is it because we are here? Is it because only a certain type of person lives here? We love a challenge... finding quiet sanity... we can't stop for more than a moment or might actually have to be with ourselves... then who will we wear the shoes for?

I remember waking up last night to a woman's shrieking voice, "Kaaaathyyyy...blah blah...I didn't mean it!!!... blah blah... No!!! Come on!!! It waaaasss fuuunnnnyyyy!...blah blah...STREET!" I heard tires squeal. I jumped up, looked out the window at nothing and looked at the clock on the dresser: 4:04am. I pictured Kathy being dramatically held back by her friend. Perhaps a Barbie stiletto fell off in the street like Cinderella's on the palace steps. She could have died in the name of Prada. Hope Kaaaathyyy was ok. I needed sleep. Horizontal sleep.