Purity and the Art of Gettin' Dirty

Sitting on a most assuredly filthy side of a statue near Central Park in a pristinely white sundress, I noticed my chocolate chip cookie had decided to lightly decorate the front. I dwelled for a moment on my general lack of white dresses then remembered my wonderful capacity for staining, which rivals that of a five year old on a muddy playground with a melting ice cream cone.

I guess you could say I'm not afraid to get a little dirty. (oh the innuendo!) Or maybe I just get a little too engrossed in experiences to notice silly things like the front of my shirt. Or my Tide-to-go pen is my ultimate cop out. (Though I did not have it with me at time of need. Of course.)

I had visited MoMa earlier in the day with a dear friend, and we had viewed some splatter paintings(my terminology expresses the expanse of my modern-art knowledge). We both could recall times in our lives when we decided to create one(she, church mural - you go girl; me, summer camp circa '96), either intentionally or otherwise. I just thought it was the least effort/most fun way to paint. My idyllic summer camp outfit would speak to this, except it did not survive the incident. That did not go over well at home. (Acrylic paint is some pernicious shit.)

I think of the beauty of dilution. Often a saving grace when it comes to preserving the purity of a garment, dilution has saved my ass quite a few times in the laundry room. Though dilution may remove the chocolate from my white sundress, it does not preserve the purity in all situations. It possesses a double-edged sword-like quality(cue Billy Mays chiming in with: CUTS THROUGH STAINS) outside our dear laundry rooms.

I think of Volcker and the concept of compromise. And the beautiful fundraising focus of our elections. And a most interested deep-pocketed party: banks! Diluting the stipulations of what-is-allowed to make some pockets smile and of course, "serve the American people". It's nice to no longer have to consider myself a politician(note: if I ever really was) when I reflect on chewable tidbits like that.

To be fair, I should have prefaced this brief foray into ethics with: this is coming from an accessory to an umbrella theft at the MoMa museum earlier today.(It was raining, we were wearing white. I think that grants me Greek politician level of impunity. Zing!)

Fortunately, there are some people that don't get as engrossed as I do when eating a chocolate chip cookie. They keep their hands clean, and maintain some shred of purity in our splatter-painted world.

Want your khakis to be stain-resistant? Slap some on Glass-Steagall. It's an old-fashioned remedy.

Gershwin me over

I want to feel the noize.

Screw the mashups of the year-whatevers-DJ-sick-bEaTz. Take me back to the days when songs didn't require three collaborators or a dirty thumpin' beat to be successful.

I will take a hair band with men in leather pants and eyeliner over those gimmicks any day. Yes, it's wonderful that the top 40-ers of our time have learned to play nice on autotune for the sake of selling a single on itunes, but I want a goddamn brass section. Hey big spender, give me the trombones and trumpet that made you so damn irresistible. I crave poison. I need nothin' but a good time.

I'm sorry Guys and Dolls, I've been on a showtunes/oldies/classic rock binge as of late, so sue me(sue me, what can you do me...)

I will stop with the totally obvious allusions now.

Only these gems on high volume in a pristine upper east side apartment could adequately complement an all-morning dish washing session. Complete with dirty dancing, the twist, and Aretha Franklin-style belting(I helped dry).

There is a recording of my sisters and me running around(Sue). The type of shenanigans one might find occurring in our living room on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Or we might be running(with the Devil). But that's more of a Saturday night type of deal.

Red Nose Bulldog

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Friendly People.

There are some things that never fail to make my day. One of which is visiting my coffee truck guy(yes, mine. because it's totally ok to arbitrarily declare ownership over another human being. uhhhh...) I tend to leave my desk at obscure times, so that there is less of a chance of a line, or as I view it, a potential interruption in our brief chats(miiiiiiiine). It is also entirely possible that I have an irrational fear of seeing his interaction with others. (In case he is as nice to them as he is to me.) But we will just assume that that is not the case and move right along.

Delusions aside, today there was a line. Ruining the wonderful repetition of our encounters. Although very tempted to duck around until it cleared up, I had spreadsheets(read: spreadshits. thanks Sara.) to attend to.

I saw him interact with the three women ahead of me - all matter-of-fact, all business.

Walk up. Medium, two sugars, skim milk. Money. Leave.

I know that it shouldn't have, that it really, really shouldn't have...BUT it made me pretty happy. Perhaps slightly pathetic that I gain fulfillment from flirting fidelity in my coffee-truck-guy relationship, based on barely five-minute conversations, but whatever. It is the little things in life. Or as a fellow intern pointed out "Aww at least somebody likes you!"

I walked up to a "Good Morning" and left with an invite to stay and enjoy the rare, cool breeze on Hudson St. with my always hot cup of coffee.(Large hazelnut. He does not even have to ask anymore.)

I had to decline - a spreadshit awaited me.

Yea, it's the little things.

That Thing You Do

"People call these things imperfections, but they're not, aw that's the good stuff. And then we get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds. You're not perfect, sport. And let me save you the suspense. This girl you met, she isn't perfect either. But the question is: whether or not you're perfect for each other. That's the whole deal. That's what intimacy is all about." - Good Will Hunting

I think about the people I let into my weird little world. The people who get a glimpse of the idiosyncrasies, the peccadillos(though I promise I don't fart in my sleep) that construct a person, like legos. Little building blocks of that random band you liked in 7th grade that made you fall in love with indie, craving peppermint patties at 3pm, one's "expressionful face". A genome of experiences. A map of the seemingly random course of one's life.

And there are always the ones that few notice, or are privileged enough to see. The people who impact our lives might take their coffee black (because their fathers do) and have the slightest pout when they sleep.

It's interesting how one can find a kindred spirit based on these quirks. Total strangers, fictional characters.

Skylar in Cambridge finds value in learning something for herself and enjoys telling dirty jokes.
Tereza in Prague has a penchant for sleep hand-holding and a desire for privacy.

Peggy in New York is a girl who "won't settle" and a people-pleaser at Church.

Emily in Amherst is feisty and jots down a poem or two from time to time.

Kindred.

Camels

Note: Found this among some abandoned short stories stashed away, figured I'd put it up.

violence has it's place in every life
every circumstance
whether it merely be the escalation of the wrong conversation
or a competition to determine a victor,
it exists, persists, pervades

I have to say, I have never had greater appreciation for the American legal system than when I was manhandled in Cairo.

It was Spring Break. One of the trip leaders had a local friend, who joined us on our many cultural visits. He was incredibly knowledgeable about the area and acted as our guide(since we had to fire the last guy who tried taking us to "The Pharonic Village", an amusement park for kindergarteners). He didn't really appreciate the crowd that many of us drew, but what was to be expected when you have a couple blonde girls and an asian chick running around?

Nevertheless, he was an asset to the group; suggesting wonderful places for us to eat, explore, and...eat. He had some contempt for me and another girl in particular, for we had difficulty saying no to the local boys who harassed us for pictures, and wouldn't pretend we had husbands every time someone tried chatting us up. I managed to develop a rapport with him despite this, and I eventually started playing by his rules. He called me "Britney Spears" and made light, flirty jokes at my expense.

This continued over the course of the trip, until our last night. Our trip leaders decided that we should hold up in a 24 hour mall, due to the fact that we had to stay up all night and fly out at 4am.

This, of course, was less than desirable to many of us, particularly those from the land of the malls(ie new jersey, ie me). We gathered a group of less-complacent and asked the local friend if he would take us to a place we hadn't explored yet. He acquiesced, and we then proceeded to badger our leaders into letting us escape the mall-prison.

With the go-ahead, a few brave souls followed the local to the parking lot to find his car. We crammed into the front/back seats and set off to an area he promised would entertain us. It was an area clearly meant to satisfy the tastes of the more affluent Egyptians, a sharp contrast to the ragged, dirty city life we had been exposed to. There were many lovely shops for us to explore - chocolates, ice cream, jewelry - a girl's paradise. I was still on hot pursuit for cheapish souvenirs, and he vowed to help me find a place.

While walking down towards another stretch of shops, we began with what I believed to be friendly conversation. After much teasing banter, I felt that he had given a green light for some mocking at his expense. So, I made a few jabs about his "guide" expertise.

He did not appreciate that.
He utilized the close proximity of our walking and grabbed the back of my neck in a tight grip. He did not relinquish his grasp, so I lightly batted him on the arm with my water bottle saying "hey! not cool", trying to play along with what I assumed was some sort of game.
He let go.
Me: "Bitch."
I had forgotten my place. He made sure to correct this immediately. He proceeded to grab my arm and bend it as far back as anatomically possible. I was still operating under the illusion that this was some sort of "playing around" that I was simply unfamiliar with(or perhaps a good game of "uncle" from back in the day). But then it started to ...hurt. Really hurt.

"Hey! that hurts." (nervous laugh.)
"Does it? It should."
This made me slightly alarmed, though I was still tying to keep the mood less-than-serious(if it escalated I had no idea what he would be capable of).
"Hey, uh, can you stop?"
He waited a few more seconds, a menacing look in his eyes.
"Watch your tongue."
With that, he let go of my throbbing arm, and I hurried over to the other girls in the group, who were several feet away looking into a shop window.

The entire time all I wanted to do was either:
a. punch him in the face(I have a solid right hook)
b. shout obscenities(cursing his mother or future descendants maybe?)
c. report him to some authority
d. sue him for battery
e. some combination of which to make him cry

In America, I could have freely engaged in any of those actions(except for perhaps the first one...eh). However, I was in Egypt, a place where it is apparently "okay" to abuse a person, as long as they are 1. female 2. weaker 3. some combination of the two. In this land I do not have a protector. There was no husband, older brother, father, to run to; to avenge the disrespect I had just encountered. Further, none of the male members of the group had gone with us on the excursion - shopping around did not seem to pique their interest. On top of the fact that I was currently in the Arab world, a place less-than-hospitable to "feisty" or "spirited" women such as myself, I was in place where I did not know the language or the lay of the land. The local was also the only one who actually knew where we were, and provided the only means to get back to the main group: his car. So I knew damn well that I better put on a smile and take it, because, for the first time in my life, I was truly powerless.

So I just choked back the tears of a wounded pride and arm, and continued window-shopping.
What amazed me was how this individual carried on as if our little interaction was nothing out of the ordinary - as if he had just asked me about the weather or something. Unlike before, when we usually ended up walking next to eachother since I was deeply interested in hearing about the history of the neighborhood we were in, I avidly maintained a 10ft distance from him when possible. In one of the more cramped shops, he was only an arm's length apart; I became so uncomfortable I had to leave the store and wait outside. He behaved as though repentant; he bought almonds and offered me some, he took us by shops he thought I would like and bade me to go inside and "take a look". I was as dismissive as possible without appearing too upset or angry - I was desperate to not provoke him again. All I wanted was to get back to the group, hide amongst the crowd, and wait out the time till takeoff without having to look at the bastard again.

Taking Bitches to the Shelf

In most traditional publishing offices there is something called a "take shelf," filled with extra galleys(bound advanced reader copies for the non-industry of you) from different departments. It's a neat concept - waste not, want not. Have extra books? Toss 'em on the take shelf, someone will want it(except for the Idiot's Guide to Fibromyalgia. It's just not happening, Portfolio. I'm sorry.)

Every time I pass by, I always take a quick look. An avid bookworm, I can't help but hope that there might be a freebie there for me.

And one day, there was.

The title was "The Seven Year Bitch". For those of you who know me and are giggling right now, yes of course the title jumped to my attention. I snatched it up like shoes at a sample sale and tore into it as soon as I had a break. The first few pages tricked me into thinking this novel would be a cozy, sardonic real-life-fic that would merit the occasional distractive chuckle amidst the silent commute home.

The book absolutely terrified me.

For those of you who are unaware of the reference, the "seven year itch" is based on the notion that after seven years' of marriage, everything suddenly sucks and the participating parties want to jump ship( It also debuts Marilyn's famous steamy grate white dress!)

Manhattan, money, matrimony. The expected trifecta of most graduates; the assurance of a happy, healthy future.

In the novel, those pillars of success devolve into a successful career taken under, a husband found insipid, a potential affair dangling in front of face, a child to obsess over, and an immigrant nanny to lord over.

But that's not what did it. How did this cleverly titled chick lit get under my skin?

The Nag.

Possibly my favorite insult when having a "difference of opinion" with my mother. I know that word has teeth. It nibbles because underneath the easily-rhymed monosyllable lies the fear that the demands one is making are unreasonable, or worse, that one does not have the power to effectively delegate the task. Either way, a lack of power.

Oh, and it means you're pretty annoying too.

Nag also rhymes with hag, and as much I'd like to picture myself feline-friendly and wart covered, I'd rather steer clear of that association as well.

Old(er). And miserable. I could not resign myself to such a fate. Ok, maybe I could handle becomingthe supercool grandma(nicknamed "gammy", of course) who lathers on wisdom and inspiration and bakes cakes filled with love. But not a hag.

Gammy would not be a hag.

The nit-picker, the never satisfied. It left me with a troubling thought: are all cynics doomed to such a fate?!

Apparently not. Though the book cruelly strapped me into a goddamn emotional roller coaster and forced me to plunge face-first into the problems of the future mundane, it was still just chick-lit.

AND as with all successful chick-lit, by the last few pages the main character enjoys having sex with husband(again), her nanny takes to the fertilization program she finances, and her son gets into the very exclusive nursery school(among other real-life successes).

All is well, all is well.

post script: my mom just picked up the book and asked to borrow it. I died.