After watching my date check his emails, thumb his Blackberry, and refresh his Facebook status to reveal that absolutely nothing had transpired in the nanoseconds since his last update, I came to the realization that this man was a techno-junkie. Although we were ambling around Prospect Park on a luminous, unclouded afternoon, the serene setting did not distract this bloke from squinting at his iPhone screen and muttering the word "FarmVille" repeatedly.
At long last, when he was able to relinquish his handful of hand-held technology, we had an interesting discussion about life in New Jersey, genetics, and our family histories, at which time I disclosed that my father had passed away years prior.
Although no romance ever transpired between myself and this gent, we chatted briefly a few times post park date. Unfortunately, his Bluetooth headset may have obliterated his short-term memory, because each time we spoke he would never fail to ask, "And how's your dad doing?", to which I ultimately replied, "Still dead, but should that change, I'll update my Facebook status to "Dad Now Alive", and assign it a "Meredith likes this" thumbs up.
We never interacted again in either the real world or in the virtual realm, though I'm quite certain he soon forgot that I ever crossed his qwerty.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Final Girl
At the end of a horror movie, after the savage slaughterer has been shot in the testicles, electrocuted, and finally beheaded, a lone heroine remains in the aftermath known as the final girl. She is the one who discovers the dismembered bodies of her friends, and is terrified and tortured for the entirety of the film. Eventually, it is the final girl who manages to find the strength to challenge and defeat the killer herself, and by the last act halts the sanguinary cycle...unless of course, there's a sequel.
Recently, I've started to wonder if being the final girl in a petrifying picture show isn't that far off from dealing with the residuum of a volatile relationship. Often, both scary movies and the bombshell breakdown of a courtship can result in scars, trauma, and the urge to check under one's bed for monsters, or in some cases, between the sheets.
Perhaps dating isn't very disparate from the drama in a slasher flick. Traditionally, there's a chase, an ephemerally false sense of security, brief nudity, a diabolical master plan, and ultimately a broken heart, and/or severed limb. Meanwhile, family and friends watch the plot unfold, as moviegoers often do, but in lieu of yelling, "Don't go in there!" or "Aw bitch gonna get killed!", they reserve their comments to, "I hope this one works out", or "Uh oh, you sound excited about him...", followed with the fretful "fffffff" sound which occurs when someone sucks air through their teeth, to further emphasize a disquietude.
Of course, just as the audience of a frightening film can surmise that a homicidal hobo is lurking in the bushes, or that the protagonist's seemingly angelic boyfriend is in actuality the bloodthirsty butcher, some non-objective onlookers in my life have the ability to recognize the red flags of a potential beau of mine. Unfortunately, like the oft ignored, kooky psychic cinema character who spouts prophecies of doom, sometimes we don't heed the messenger when blissful ignorance is the more attractive option.
One of the most notable scoundrels I've encountered to date (pun intended) is as follows:
Roy* and I had been dating for two months before he and I engaged in the dreaded discourse about past relationships. When he mentioned an ex-girlfriend named Amy, he became extremely emotional, and revealed that he would never fully heal from the fact that she had been killed in a car accident years prior.
Since going steady with a veritable widower was uncharted territory for me, I was unaware of the proper protocol when I found myself continuously compared to a dead woman. From the fetching fashion in which she would dress, to the fact that she could bowl a 110, I was in a constant state of competition with a corpse. "Amy would never mind when I smoked cigars, are you sure it bothers you?", "Maybe you could learn how to give a good back rub...Amy took a Shiatsu class". "It was really sexy when Amy would dress up like a Storm Trooper for me".
As soon as Roy was accepted into a grad school program upstate, he decided not to continue our relationship in a long-distance form, and gradually our communications ceased. One morning, after months without contact from the bloke, I opened my front door and found an envelope sitting on my welcome mat. As I retrieved the purple parcel, I discovered a small tear in the pouch opening, along with a handwritten note from my neighbor, Marni.
Meredith,
Sorry I opened your letter, it had my house number on it, and I saw it addressed to "M", so I thought it was for me.
Sorry about that.
Marni
I opened the flap and removed the typewritten letter:
Dear Meredith,
I hope you are well.
I wanted you to know that I never had a girlfriend named Amy. I made her up because I wanted to seem less happy-go-lucky and more experienced. I was a virgin when we met, and I never felt like myself, but now that I have the Lord to guide me, and a new wife, I wanted to make amends.
I hope your days are as bright as the stars,
Roy
I inspected the envelope, hoping to ferret out some proof that the entire epistle was a gag or a hoax, but no traces could be found. Not only had I been hornswoggled into believing this guy's ghost stories, but the cherry-on-top remained in the idea that my neighbor had presumably read the contents of his manic message. As time passed, the initial shock of the letter wore off, but the selfish and apathetic actions of this man still gives me the heebie-jeebies on occasion.
Nevertheless, whether he was bullied by his classmates, fell in love with a woman who cruelly rejected him, or perhaps received only evil juice and Yoo Hoos through the placenta, at the turning point in a horror movie, the motive for the psychopath's killing-spree is uncovered. However, reality serves to be more frightening when men and women who appear content in continuing in their harmful behavior towards others survive in complete oblivion to it. Ultimately while they progress through life, with a growing number of broken hearts and hurt feelings mounting behind them like the body count in a snuff film, these folks never fully realize that one day they will be at the mercy of the final girl.
*names have been changed, but incurably, the past remains the same
Recently, I've started to wonder if being the final girl in a petrifying picture show isn't that far off from dealing with the residuum of a volatile relationship. Often, both scary movies and the bombshell breakdown of a courtship can result in scars, trauma, and the urge to check under one's bed for monsters, or in some cases, between the sheets.
Perhaps dating isn't very disparate from the drama in a slasher flick. Traditionally, there's a chase, an ephemerally false sense of security, brief nudity, a diabolical master plan, and ultimately a broken heart, and/or severed limb. Meanwhile, family and friends watch the plot unfold, as moviegoers often do, but in lieu of yelling, "Don't go in there!" or "Aw bitch gonna get killed!", they reserve their comments to, "I hope this one works out", or "Uh oh, you sound excited about him...", followed with the fretful "fffffff" sound which occurs when someone sucks air through their teeth, to further emphasize a disquietude.
Of course, just as the audience of a frightening film can surmise that a homicidal hobo is lurking in the bushes, or that the protagonist's seemingly angelic boyfriend is in actuality the bloodthirsty butcher, some non-objective onlookers in my life have the ability to recognize the red flags of a potential beau of mine. Unfortunately, like the oft ignored, kooky psychic cinema character who spouts prophecies of doom, sometimes we don't heed the messenger when blissful ignorance is the more attractive option.
One of the most notable scoundrels I've encountered to date (pun intended) is as follows:
Roy* and I had been dating for two months before he and I engaged in the dreaded discourse about past relationships. When he mentioned an ex-girlfriend named Amy, he became extremely emotional, and revealed that he would never fully heal from the fact that she had been killed in a car accident years prior.
Since going steady with a veritable widower was uncharted territory for me, I was unaware of the proper protocol when I found myself continuously compared to a dead woman. From the fetching fashion in which she would dress, to the fact that she could bowl a 110, I was in a constant state of competition with a corpse. "Amy would never mind when I smoked cigars, are you sure it bothers you?", "Maybe you could learn how to give a good back rub...Amy took a Shiatsu class". "It was really sexy when Amy would dress up like a Storm Trooper for me".
As soon as Roy was accepted into a grad school program upstate, he decided not to continue our relationship in a long-distance form, and gradually our communications ceased. One morning, after months without contact from the bloke, I opened my front door and found an envelope sitting on my welcome mat. As I retrieved the purple parcel, I discovered a small tear in the pouch opening, along with a handwritten note from my neighbor, Marni.
Meredith,
Sorry I opened your letter, it had my house number on it, and I saw it addressed to "M", so I thought it was for me.
Sorry about that.
Marni
I opened the flap and removed the typewritten letter:
Dear Meredith,
I hope you are well.
I wanted you to know that I never had a girlfriend named Amy. I made her up because I wanted to seem less happy-go-lucky and more experienced. I was a virgin when we met, and I never felt like myself, but now that I have the Lord to guide me, and a new wife, I wanted to make amends.
I hope your days are as bright as the stars,
Roy
I inspected the envelope, hoping to ferret out some proof that the entire epistle was a gag or a hoax, but no traces could be found. Not only had I been hornswoggled into believing this guy's ghost stories, but the cherry-on-top remained in the idea that my neighbor had presumably read the contents of his manic message. As time passed, the initial shock of the letter wore off, but the selfish and apathetic actions of this man still gives me the heebie-jeebies on occasion.
Nevertheless, whether he was bullied by his classmates, fell in love with a woman who cruelly rejected him, or perhaps received only evil juice and Yoo Hoos through the placenta, at the turning point in a horror movie, the motive for the psychopath's killing-spree is uncovered. However, reality serves to be more frightening when men and women who appear content in continuing in their harmful behavior towards others survive in complete oblivion to it. Ultimately while they progress through life, with a growing number of broken hearts and hurt feelings mounting behind them like the body count in a snuff film, these folks never fully realize that one day they will be at the mercy of the final girl.
*names have been changed, but incurably, the past remains the same
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Wilfred Brimley
My first formal date after my last relationship was with a stand-up comic named Ted. Since the guy was supposed to be funny for a living, and I obviously have no sense of humor, a mutual friend figured we would be the perfect match.
After a brief email correspondence, Ted asked me to meet him at a pub in the West Village. That Thursday evening, I arrived early, settled myself at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.
Fifteen minutes later, a lanky, long-haired gent sauntered in, donning a skintight cowboy shirt, and leered at me so unctuously, that were I casting for an eighties sitcom, he would be hired immediately as the villain for "A Very Special Episode".
We exchanged greetings and sat down at a lopsided table, where I immediately inquired about his comical occupation. After a few minutes of strained and floundering chit-chat, the comedian 's comments became shamefully sleazy.
"I have to say, you have a tight little body"
"Um...thanks?"
"No, really. I think we'd have a really good time in bed."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."
At this point, most self-respecting ladies would have signaled the Amber Alert and hightailed it out of the bar. Since I maintained a momentary lapse of judgment, and determined that somehow the comedian would reveal that our meeting thus far was some asinine prank, I sat for a few moments, slightly stupefied.
Seconds later, Ted reached his arm behind my head and tugged a few strands of my hair.
"Your hair is too fine, I don't think I'd be able to pull it hard enough with my fingers."
"Really? That's funny because if you touch me again you won't have any fingers left." I gathered up my belongings, stepped down from the bar stool, and stated flatly, "Six words...I'm not gay, but I'll learn!".
On my subway ride home, I imagined the target audience of the stand-up's routine to be an obese, middle-aged man, who while getting busted on "To Catch A Predator", pleads to Chris Hansen, "I was just gonna take the little girl to Ted's comedy show, I swear!", as a bottle of Spongebob bubble bath and a box of condoms simultaneously drop from his trouser pockets.
Eight months later, with a few more dates under my belt, I actually look back on that squandered hour of my life, with a new found respect for that fulsome fool. Now I'm not saying that I applaud date rapists for "taking initiative", but the fact that Ted didn't enter into our meeting under the false pretense that he desired anything but to carry out his fetish fantasies, is somehow more sincere than the game-playing I've recently encountered.
Look, I'm a novice when it comes to the act of dating. Although I've been in consecutive long-term relationships over the past few years, they originated from a friendship, and only later wound up turning into vomit-inducing, tedious messes. Since the development of my former romances was more overt and forthright, luckily I had been spared from the usual pitfalls of dating communications. Unfortunately, now I find that in lieu of people expressing what they really feel, they don't say anything at all, leaving the other person to wonder what has transpired.
A few weeks ago, I even stumbled upon a passive aggressive rejection, when a guy I was seeing, flaked out on plans we made, and declared that I should have reminded him to call me.
Now I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says, "He's interested", as much as when I phone my man to inform him that "He's interested".
Please, if the simple act of telling a male to like me, would cause him to, I'd have the cast of Lord of the Rings on speed dial.
"Hey Elijah Wood, Meredith again...Yep, you still adore me. Bye."
Maybe next week I'll conference in Sawyer from Lost and Sir Paul McCartney.
Of course, it's not easy to tell someone, "I'm not keen on dating you", or "I really just want to sleep with a lot of people" or "You look like the six-fingered banjo player from 'Deliverance' and not in a good way", but I'm learning that it may be more humane than abandoning people to the inveterate analysis they may torture themselves with, in attempts to concoct a reason for your disappearance. Perhaps it's my recent inspiration from the commercials starring Wilfred Brimley, that incessantly loop during the Lifetime TV line-up, but the truth, like Quaker Oatmeal is the right thing to do...and no one benefits from "diah-beetus".
After a brief email correspondence, Ted asked me to meet him at a pub in the West Village. That Thursday evening, I arrived early, settled myself at the bar, and ordered a gin and tonic.
Fifteen minutes later, a lanky, long-haired gent sauntered in, donning a skintight cowboy shirt, and leered at me so unctuously, that were I casting for an eighties sitcom, he would be hired immediately as the villain for "A Very Special Episode".
We exchanged greetings and sat down at a lopsided table, where I immediately inquired about his comical occupation. After a few minutes of strained and floundering chit-chat, the comedian 's comments became shamefully sleazy.
"I have to say, you have a tight little body"
"Um...thanks?"
"No, really. I think we'd have a really good time in bed."
"Yeah, that's not gonna happen."
At this point, most self-respecting ladies would have signaled the Amber Alert and hightailed it out of the bar. Since I maintained a momentary lapse of judgment, and determined that somehow the comedian would reveal that our meeting thus far was some asinine prank, I sat for a few moments, slightly stupefied.
Seconds later, Ted reached his arm behind my head and tugged a few strands of my hair.
"Your hair is too fine, I don't think I'd be able to pull it hard enough with my fingers."
"Really? That's funny because if you touch me again you won't have any fingers left." I gathered up my belongings, stepped down from the bar stool, and stated flatly, "Six words...I'm not gay, but I'll learn!".
On my subway ride home, I imagined the target audience of the stand-up's routine to be an obese, middle-aged man, who while getting busted on "To Catch A Predator", pleads to Chris Hansen, "I was just gonna take the little girl to Ted's comedy show, I swear!", as a bottle of Spongebob bubble bath and a box of condoms simultaneously drop from his trouser pockets.
Eight months later, with a few more dates under my belt, I actually look back on that squandered hour of my life, with a new found respect for that fulsome fool. Now I'm not saying that I applaud date rapists for "taking initiative", but the fact that Ted didn't enter into our meeting under the false pretense that he desired anything but to carry out his fetish fantasies, is somehow more sincere than the game-playing I've recently encountered.
Look, I'm a novice when it comes to the act of dating. Although I've been in consecutive long-term relationships over the past few years, they originated from a friendship, and only later wound up turning into vomit-inducing, tedious messes. Since the development of my former romances was more overt and forthright, luckily I had been spared from the usual pitfalls of dating communications. Unfortunately, now I find that in lieu of people expressing what they really feel, they don't say anything at all, leaving the other person to wonder what has transpired.
A few weeks ago, I even stumbled upon a passive aggressive rejection, when a guy I was seeing, flaked out on plans we made, and declared that I should have reminded him to call me.
Now I don't know about you, but to me, nothing says, "He's interested", as much as when I phone my man to inform him that "He's interested".
Please, if the simple act of telling a male to like me, would cause him to, I'd have the cast of Lord of the Rings on speed dial.
"Hey Elijah Wood, Meredith again...Yep, you still adore me. Bye."
Maybe next week I'll conference in Sawyer from Lost and Sir Paul McCartney.
Of course, it's not easy to tell someone, "I'm not keen on dating you", or "I really just want to sleep with a lot of people" or "You look like the six-fingered banjo player from 'Deliverance' and not in a good way", but I'm learning that it may be more humane than abandoning people to the inveterate analysis they may torture themselves with, in attempts to concoct a reason for your disappearance. Perhaps it's my recent inspiration from the commercials starring Wilfred Brimley, that incessantly loop during the Lifetime TV line-up, but the truth, like Quaker Oatmeal is the right thing to do...and no one benefits from "diah-beetus".
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Abe Lincoln
In order to avoid becoming a complete solitarian this winter, I've been forcing myself to spend a few hours a week at a coffee shop two blocks from my apartment, where I sit amongst the living, drink overpriced herbal tea, and write these pretty words that you're currently reading.
One afternoon, the cafe was unusually crowded, so I agreed to share my table with Jim, a gentleman who was in need of a place to sit. He set his coffee mug down, settled himself into the wooden chair adjacent to the table, and complimented my Wonder Woman notebook. I thanked him, and then became engaged in a half hour-long conversation about the Beastie Boys, monster trucks, and the Yiddish language...overall a completely non-flirtatious and wholesome exchange.
As I was readying myself for a graceful exit, Jim mentioned that he was going to sell his LPs, including some Beastie Boys albums, but if I was interested, we could meet again at the coffee shop, and he would bring his unwanted records for my perusal. Since he seemed harmless enough, coupled with the fact that I find it nearly impossible to pass up free shit, I gave him my number and left quietly.
At 3 o'clock in the morning, I awoke to the grating sound my IPhone produces when I receive an incoming text message. I rolled over, tried to focus my eyes at the glowing screen, and this is what I read:
"Hey it's Jim from the coffee shop. Why don't you come to my apartment for a drink"
Now I'm no mind reader, and I have yet to receive the late night text message decoder ring I ordered off my box of Corn Pops, so I could only hypothesize that the true meaning of this guy's missive was along these lines:
"Greetings possessor of female genitalia. I struck out at the bar and/or high school I was trawling at and desperately want to get laid. I hope you maintain the same nonexistent amount of respect for yourself that I hold for you, and partake in what you will later describe to your friends as the worst five second ride of your life."
I sighed audibly, placed my phone back on the nightstand, and rubbed my forehead with the palms of my hands, frustrated, yet sadly, not surprised. This hadn't been the first time that I had received one of these bird-dog notes from a veritable stranger, and it caused me to wonder if this interaction was an indication of what is currently passed off as courtship.
Perhaps my last long-term relationship served as the equivalent of a cryogenic capsule that kept me frozen in the culture from three years ago, so now that I've awakened in futuristic 2010, I'm having difficulty adjusting to the newfangled, high-tech interpersonal relationships, where people communicate their feelings through the use of emoticons, and men email pictures of their junk in lieu of sending roses.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment where romance died and the act of earning intimacy with another person became as obsolete as the eight-track. Did courtship go the way of the dinosaur or is it merely bankrupt like Nicholas Cage? Hundreds of classic poems were composed about the slow, sensual yearning for a lover, and pining after one's paramour over the span of a lifetime. Unfortunately, these days I feel like I have the amount of time it takes for the Final Jeopardy theme song to wind down to bed someone, or else they move onto the next willing female from the conveyor belt of options, while I am left to dust the large chip on my shoulder and tend to my growing garden of neuroses.
Although I can't recall when I transformed into the archaic caricature on the deck of Old Maid playing cards, up until recently, I never considered myself to be old-fashioned. I don't want to spend the remainder of my days, seated in a creaky rocking chair, muttering, "He's out there, I know it!" until one of my sixty cats eats my face, but I also cannot manage to find it flattering when a man wearing a "Trust Me I'm a Doctor" tee shirt instructs me to "Take your tits out" while I'm trying to have a drink with a friend.
Since there is no satisfying compromise to this pickle as of yet, I vow to keep myself from becoming a puritanical stick-in-the-mud by exercising, becoming a Twi-hard, and memorizing the Urban Dictionary, one word of the day at a time.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=abe+lincoln
Amazing stuff.
One afternoon, the cafe was unusually crowded, so I agreed to share my table with Jim, a gentleman who was in need of a place to sit. He set his coffee mug down, settled himself into the wooden chair adjacent to the table, and complimented my Wonder Woman notebook. I thanked him, and then became engaged in a half hour-long conversation about the Beastie Boys, monster trucks, and the Yiddish language...overall a completely non-flirtatious and wholesome exchange.
As I was readying myself for a graceful exit, Jim mentioned that he was going to sell his LPs, including some Beastie Boys albums, but if I was interested, we could meet again at the coffee shop, and he would bring his unwanted records for my perusal. Since he seemed harmless enough, coupled with the fact that I find it nearly impossible to pass up free shit, I gave him my number and left quietly.
At 3 o'clock in the morning, I awoke to the grating sound my IPhone produces when I receive an incoming text message. I rolled over, tried to focus my eyes at the glowing screen, and this is what I read:
"Hey it's Jim from the coffee shop. Why don't you come to my apartment for a drink"
Now I'm no mind reader, and I have yet to receive the late night text message decoder ring I ordered off my box of Corn Pops, so I could only hypothesize that the true meaning of this guy's missive was along these lines:
"Greetings possessor of female genitalia. I struck out at the bar and/or high school I was trawling at and desperately want to get laid. I hope you maintain the same nonexistent amount of respect for yourself that I hold for you, and partake in what you will later describe to your friends as the worst five second ride of your life."
I sighed audibly, placed my phone back on the nightstand, and rubbed my forehead with the palms of my hands, frustrated, yet sadly, not surprised. This hadn't been the first time that I had received one of these bird-dog notes from a veritable stranger, and it caused me to wonder if this interaction was an indication of what is currently passed off as courtship.
Perhaps my last long-term relationship served as the equivalent of a cryogenic capsule that kept me frozen in the culture from three years ago, so now that I've awakened in futuristic 2010, I'm having difficulty adjusting to the newfangled, high-tech interpersonal relationships, where people communicate their feelings through the use of emoticons, and men email pictures of their junk in lieu of sending roses.
I'm trying to pinpoint the exact moment where romance died and the act of earning intimacy with another person became as obsolete as the eight-track. Did courtship go the way of the dinosaur or is it merely bankrupt like Nicholas Cage? Hundreds of classic poems were composed about the slow, sensual yearning for a lover, and pining after one's paramour over the span of a lifetime. Unfortunately, these days I feel like I have the amount of time it takes for the Final Jeopardy theme song to wind down to bed someone, or else they move onto the next willing female from the conveyor belt of options, while I am left to dust the large chip on my shoulder and tend to my growing garden of neuroses.
Although I can't recall when I transformed into the archaic caricature on the deck of Old Maid playing cards, up until recently, I never considered myself to be old-fashioned. I don't want to spend the remainder of my days, seated in a creaky rocking chair, muttering, "He's out there, I know it!" until one of my sixty cats eats my face, but I also cannot manage to find it flattering when a man wearing a "Trust Me I'm a Doctor" tee shirt instructs me to "Take your tits out" while I'm trying to have a drink with a friend.
Since there is no satisfying compromise to this pickle as of yet, I vow to keep myself from becoming a puritanical stick-in-the-mud by exercising, becoming a Twi-hard, and memorizing the Urban Dictionary, one word of the day at a time.
http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=abe+lincoln
Amazing stuff.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thank You For Patronizing
In previous posts, I've mentioned that I work in a thrift store operated by a non-profit organization. Since the store's proceeds go to providing health services and housing to people living with HIV and AIDS, one would be inclined to think that the support of such a noble cause, would garner courteous and benevolent customers.
Sadly, one would be terribly, terribly wrong...
A few examples of the customer's activities over the past few weeks include: two grown men engaging in a fistfight over U2 albums, which was curtailed by six police officers hauling them off in handcuffs, a middle-aged woman who became so irate when she was unable to haggle down the price of a six-dollar pocketbook, that she verbally assaulted the store manager for fifteen minutes, and the piece de resistance...a white woman accused me of racial profiling because I was casually chatting with a neighborhood police officer, whom she assumed I summoned, "because there were black women in the store, and I'm aryan".
Perhaps there is some science fiction based explanation for this behavior...the shop was built over an ancient Indian burial ground, or an alien life form hides in the doorway and turns mild-mannered folk into materialistic barbarians upon entry. And maybe the only way to prevent these cosmic creatures from controlling our brains is donning tin foil hats and ingesting red Skittles.
Although these scenarios sound ridiculous, kooky customer incidents occur at least twice a day, if not more frequently, which compels me to wonder if I have unknowingly entered The Twilight Zone...
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, or between the hours of 11-7. It is the middle ground between vintage and slightly worn, between science and fashion, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the Haagen Dazs next door. This is the dimension of plastic bric-a-brac and antique cloche hats. It is an area which we call the THE BROOKLYN THRIFT STORE...
Submitted for your approval, the three customers from Hell:
#3 Hipster Mommy
Currently residing in Park Slope, with her Creative Director husband and son Zeus Gatsby, her hobbies include quoting scripture, a.k.a Gwyneth Paltrow's website, dragging her emasculated husband away from his garage band jam-sessions for a four-hour excursion to Ikea on Sundays, and watching Jennifer Connolly films with her circle of Martyr Mom friends, or as they refer to themselves-"Mothership".
Pushing a Bugaboo stroller towards the register, mowing over all items or persons in her path, Hipster Mommy is an all-knowing entity. She doesn't feel the need to discipline lil' Zeusy, as that would be infringing on his "creative curiosity", even when he pulls a box of Christmas ornaments off of a shelf and watches them clamor to the floor, then toddles away.
She pays for her Belle and Sebastian CD, places it into her Trader Joe's canvas tote, and while her son is busy yanking a rack of skirts down from their hangers, she tells him it's time to go to class at Yoga Tots.
As they exit the store, her stroller topples a mannequin, but she continues on her way, content in her own world of self-satisfaction.
#2 The Stand-Up
Currently single and residing in Boerum Hill with his cat, Newman, The Stand Up's hobbies include being the third wheel with his married friends, masturbating, quoting Joey from Friends, masturbating while watching Friends, and perusing Match.com at his Finance job.
The Stand Up uses his special blend of comedy as an attempt to flirt with the female staff, whether he's doling out inane and unfunny observations about items in the store, "What's the deal with pink shirts for men, this isn't a golf course?" or suddenly finding comedic value in news stories that ceased to be relevant months prior, "So what's with Michael Jackson, he was like all into kids, right?".
Although I provide no encouragement or pity laughs to this bloke as he hurls his wanna-be witticisms in my direction, Stand Up never seems to conclude that his shtick is not endearing, no matter how many times I reply to his commentary with, "Sorry, we don't sell laugh tracks," or "please workshop your material at the Banana Republic down the street, sir, they're used to generic, tasteless garbage.
#1 Creepy Intense Guy
Current residence unknown, although ultimately his neighbors will describe him as "a clean and quiet guy who always kept to himself" once the authorities find a stash of human kneecaps and index fingers hidden under his floorboards.
Creepy Intense Guy's hobbies include leering, stalking, collecting human knee caps and index fingers, and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.
He's the clean-shaven, meticulously dressed male who stares at my every movement so fervently, it begs the question, "Can a woman become pregnant from eye rape?"
His attempts at small-talk are disturbing, and uttered in a spooky hushed tone, "I see you're drinking a coffee from the bakery, I also drink coffee from the bakery. We have a lot in common". And when he returns hours later, brandishing the same coffee cup in his hand, the interaction becomes even more bizarre, "When I saw you at the bakery, I noticed you added two sugars to your coffee, and stirred the coffee three times. You were talking to the cashier for a minute and twenty seconds, how well do you know him?"
Creepy Intense Guy elicits the use of a safety-word amongst the staff, which shall be used immediately should he express interest in the application of lotion onto skin or any activity involving a hose.
The previous list represents a mere sample of the neverending parade of psych-ward escapees and n'er do wells that frequent the store. Yes, there are friendly, nice people who visit the shop, but unfortunately, their good qualities are overshadowed by the staggering sense of entitlement and gross misconduct of the repeat offenders.
I'm no Polyanna, but my weariness and impatience grows daily, when I observe people who believe that whining, name-calling, and temper tantrums are not activities reserved exclusively for children in the schoolyard. I try to rationalize these poor attitudes as a "New York thing", and until I am ready to make a move to the Midwest, I can only speculate as to what the real answer may be.
In the meantime, I'll impart the words of wisdom passed down to me by an old woman in the shop a few days ago, "Jesus is coming, look busy".
Happy holidays!
Sadly, one would be terribly, terribly wrong...
A few examples of the customer's activities over the past few weeks include: two grown men engaging in a fistfight over U2 albums, which was curtailed by six police officers hauling them off in handcuffs, a middle-aged woman who became so irate when she was unable to haggle down the price of a six-dollar pocketbook, that she verbally assaulted the store manager for fifteen minutes, and the piece de resistance...a white woman accused me of racial profiling because I was casually chatting with a neighborhood police officer, whom she assumed I summoned, "because there were black women in the store, and I'm aryan".
Perhaps there is some science fiction based explanation for this behavior...the shop was built over an ancient Indian burial ground, or an alien life form hides in the doorway and turns mild-mannered folk into materialistic barbarians upon entry. And maybe the only way to prevent these cosmic creatures from controlling our brains is donning tin foil hats and ingesting red Skittles.
Although these scenarios sound ridiculous, kooky customer incidents occur at least twice a day, if not more frequently, which compels me to wonder if I have unknowingly entered The Twilight Zone...
There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity, or between the hours of 11-7. It is the middle ground between vintage and slightly worn, between science and fashion, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the Haagen Dazs next door. This is the dimension of plastic bric-a-brac and antique cloche hats. It is an area which we call the THE BROOKLYN THRIFT STORE...
Submitted for your approval, the three customers from Hell:
#3 Hipster Mommy
Currently residing in Park Slope, with her Creative Director husband and son Zeus Gatsby, her hobbies include quoting scripture, a.k.a Gwyneth Paltrow's website, dragging her emasculated husband away from his garage band jam-sessions for a four-hour excursion to Ikea on Sundays, and watching Jennifer Connolly films with her circle of Martyr Mom friends, or as they refer to themselves-"Mothership".
Pushing a Bugaboo stroller towards the register, mowing over all items or persons in her path, Hipster Mommy is an all-knowing entity. She doesn't feel the need to discipline lil' Zeusy, as that would be infringing on his "creative curiosity", even when he pulls a box of Christmas ornaments off of a shelf and watches them clamor to the floor, then toddles away.
She pays for her Belle and Sebastian CD, places it into her Trader Joe's canvas tote, and while her son is busy yanking a rack of skirts down from their hangers, she tells him it's time to go to class at Yoga Tots.
As they exit the store, her stroller topples a mannequin, but she continues on her way, content in her own world of self-satisfaction.
#2 The Stand-Up
Currently single and residing in Boerum Hill with his cat, Newman, The Stand Up's hobbies include being the third wheel with his married friends, masturbating, quoting Joey from Friends, masturbating while watching Friends, and perusing Match.com at his Finance job.
The Stand Up uses his special blend of comedy as an attempt to flirt with the female staff, whether he's doling out inane and unfunny observations about items in the store, "What's the deal with pink shirts for men, this isn't a golf course?" or suddenly finding comedic value in news stories that ceased to be relevant months prior, "So what's with Michael Jackson, he was like all into kids, right?".
Although I provide no encouragement or pity laughs to this bloke as he hurls his wanna-be witticisms in my direction, Stand Up never seems to conclude that his shtick is not endearing, no matter how many times I reply to his commentary with, "Sorry, we don't sell laugh tracks," or "please workshop your material at the Banana Republic down the street, sir, they're used to generic, tasteless garbage.
#1 Creepy Intense Guy
Current residence unknown, although ultimately his neighbors will describe him as "a clean and quiet guy who always kept to himself" once the authorities find a stash of human kneecaps and index fingers hidden under his floorboards.
Creepy Intense Guy's hobbies include leering, stalking, collecting human knee caps and index fingers, and watching Gilmore Girls reruns.
He's the clean-shaven, meticulously dressed male who stares at my every movement so fervently, it begs the question, "Can a woman become pregnant from eye rape?"
His attempts at small-talk are disturbing, and uttered in a spooky hushed tone, "I see you're drinking a coffee from the bakery, I also drink coffee from the bakery. We have a lot in common". And when he returns hours later, brandishing the same coffee cup in his hand, the interaction becomes even more bizarre, "When I saw you at the bakery, I noticed you added two sugars to your coffee, and stirred the coffee three times. You were talking to the cashier for a minute and twenty seconds, how well do you know him?"
Creepy Intense Guy elicits the use of a safety-word amongst the staff, which shall be used immediately should he express interest in the application of lotion onto skin or any activity involving a hose.
The previous list represents a mere sample of the neverending parade of psych-ward escapees and n'er do wells that frequent the store. Yes, there are friendly, nice people who visit the shop, but unfortunately, their good qualities are overshadowed by the staggering sense of entitlement and gross misconduct of the repeat offenders.
I'm no Polyanna, but my weariness and impatience grows daily, when I observe people who believe that whining, name-calling, and temper tantrums are not activities reserved exclusively for children in the schoolyard. I try to rationalize these poor attitudes as a "New York thing", and until I am ready to make a move to the Midwest, I can only speculate as to what the real answer may be.
In the meantime, I'll impart the words of wisdom passed down to me by an old woman in the shop a few days ago, "Jesus is coming, look busy".
Happy holidays!
Monday, November 30, 2009
Doll House
I'm knee-deep in a landfill of relics from former dalliances, examining my dating history like an archaeologist, trying to decode the evolution of my relationship addiction. Upon further inspection of these memories, I realize that I must have been playing romantic Mad Libs, focusing on the words I wanted to hear to create the story, but unfortunately, allowing the crucial information to go unnoticed.
What I heard:
My friends love you...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend...I miss you.
What was actually said:
My friends love you, which is ironic, since I really don't care for you that much...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend, she was one of those super hot women who could get away with being a bitch...I miss you, but if I keep shooting this rifle, I'm bound to hit some vital artery of yours.
The further I fall down this rabbit-hole of introspection, the more I close off to the idea of a relationship, and truly embrace my spinster potential. The problem is, my new found aversion towards intimacy is causing me to appear more attractive to men because as Spock says, "Having is not such a pleasing a thing as wanting...", and it's refreshing to be presented with a challenge, especially in New York where a guy can't swing a credit card without hitting a woman who is looking for a boyfriend or marriage. My cold demeanor and harsh disparagement towards some guys serves as foreplay, while the blunt verbalization that I do not want to date, make out with, or even inhabit the same planet as certain males, generates more of an aphrodisiac than the finest Canadian porn the internet can provide.
I am seeking out friendships right now, and instead of the "Would I Fuck Him" mental checklist women usually tick off when they first meet a guy, I hold a "Could this be my new BFF" contest in my head, complete with bonus points for understanding Lord of the Rings jargon or the recognition of Spaceballs quotes. Ever since I ceased to live outside of the fantasy land of university, it has become nearly impossible to form quality friendships. Therefore, I don't want a revolving door of amigos, coming and going within the span of months because of disparate goals.
So what if there were some compromise one could find in the tug of war between dating vs. friendship? How can the awkward relationship talk be avoided or the dreaded drunken make-out attempt curtailed?
Real Doll Stand-In, that's how.
According to Abyss Creations, the fine folks who manufacture these creatures, Real Dolls are 'the state-of-the-art for life-like human body simulation', so should the uncomfortable friend predicament occur, you can excuse yourself to the bedroom, set up your doll and let the magic happen on its own. You don't even have to stay in the room while the action is going on, which is sometimes similar to the way lovemaking goes anyway.
Afterwards, your friend will believe the two of you slept together, and because you don't act any differently towards him, he can feel relieved that you don't want to have a relationship. Plus, now that his coital curiosity has been satisfied, and the conquest has been had, he may actually continue to be an attentive friend.
Sure, a Real Doll is expensive, but with a hooker stand-in, you run the risk of the guy catching an STD, awkwardly finding an adam's apple, or the call-girl being really good in bed. These stand-ins also work as a test to see if a guy is in lust vs. like with you, should you want an actual relationship. And in keeping eco-friendly, a Real Doll can be reused again and again for each suitor that won't last in ardor with you past the first expulsion of sperm.
Real Doll Stand-ins, so you can still have a friend after your friend has you.
What I heard:
My friends love you...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend...I miss you.
What was actually said:
My friends love you, which is ironic, since I really don't care for you that much...You're so much nicer than my previous girlfriend, she was one of those super hot women who could get away with being a bitch...I miss you, but if I keep shooting this rifle, I'm bound to hit some vital artery of yours.
The further I fall down this rabbit-hole of introspection, the more I close off to the idea of a relationship, and truly embrace my spinster potential. The problem is, my new found aversion towards intimacy is causing me to appear more attractive to men because as Spock says, "Having is not such a pleasing a thing as wanting...", and it's refreshing to be presented with a challenge, especially in New York where a guy can't swing a credit card without hitting a woman who is looking for a boyfriend or marriage. My cold demeanor and harsh disparagement towards some guys serves as foreplay, while the blunt verbalization that I do not want to date, make out with, or even inhabit the same planet as certain males, generates more of an aphrodisiac than the finest Canadian porn the internet can provide.
I am seeking out friendships right now, and instead of the "Would I Fuck Him" mental checklist women usually tick off when they first meet a guy, I hold a "Could this be my new BFF" contest in my head, complete with bonus points for understanding Lord of the Rings jargon or the recognition of Spaceballs quotes. Ever since I ceased to live outside of the fantasy land of university, it has become nearly impossible to form quality friendships. Therefore, I don't want a revolving door of amigos, coming and going within the span of months because of disparate goals.
So what if there were some compromise one could find in the tug of war between dating vs. friendship? How can the awkward relationship talk be avoided or the dreaded drunken make-out attempt curtailed?
Real Doll Stand-In, that's how.
According to Abyss Creations, the fine folks who manufacture these creatures, Real Dolls are 'the state-of-the-art for life-like human body simulation', so should the uncomfortable friend predicament occur, you can excuse yourself to the bedroom, set up your doll and let the magic happen on its own. You don't even have to stay in the room while the action is going on, which is sometimes similar to the way lovemaking goes anyway.
Afterwards, your friend will believe the two of you slept together, and because you don't act any differently towards him, he can feel relieved that you don't want to have a relationship. Plus, now that his coital curiosity has been satisfied, and the conquest has been had, he may actually continue to be an attentive friend.
Sure, a Real Doll is expensive, but with a hooker stand-in, you run the risk of the guy catching an STD, awkwardly finding an adam's apple, or the call-girl being really good in bed. These stand-ins also work as a test to see if a guy is in lust vs. like with you, should you want an actual relationship. And in keeping eco-friendly, a Real Doll can be reused again and again for each suitor that won't last in ardor with you past the first expulsion of sperm.
Real Doll Stand-ins, so you can still have a friend after your friend has you.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Jolly Green Giant
On days where I'm feeling particularly confident, I emanate my "flirtation glow". Similar to a taxicab availability sign, or an animated idea bulb a cartoon character displays over his head, this light signals my being open to friendly banter. These interactions occur mostly when I'm wearing something snazzy or my hair hasn't been overtaken by Jew-fro. I'll strut down the sidewalk to a theme song in my head like "Who's That Lady" by The Isley Brothers, chin up, meeting the eyes of the people I pass by.
An attractive guy may smile at me and strike up a conversation, and I'll respond with something witty. Since I have my little glow going, and look like a Keebler elf, I'll come off as darling and charming...my cheeks reddened and facial expression gradually building from smirk to full-monty grin.
Of course these coquettish exchanges never develop into anything serious. They serve no purpose other than an instant ego boost for both parties, ending with a wink or a sly smile.
Yesterday I wore my favorite blue dress, which garnered a lot of positive attention, and caused me to dare I say, feel slightly haughty. I was full of positive energy and five cups of coffee, and found myself lingering in conversation with some cute male customers, feeling self-assured and effervescent. I began to notice how people seemed dazzled by my new found confidence, maybe even intimidated, since a guy I normally flirt with couldn't even maintain eye-contact with me. I felt like a celebrity.
When break-time came around, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. As I lathered up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was immediately horrified.
There it was, in all its glory and splendor...a giant green snot stuck to the top of my nose.
This was no ordinary booger, or a small bat-in-the cave situation where someone needs to be looking up your nostril in order to see it. No, this mucus tumor was grotesque enough to play a villainous swamp monster in a Japanese horror film.
No wonder no one could make eye-contact with me, it looked like the Jolly Green Giant was fucking my nostril. And all the while I was strutting around the store as though it was a catwalk, yet it could have been a circus sideshow.
After a facial excavation, I returned to work, ego deflated like a punctured balloon.
Most days I hear how tired I look, or how I always have such a serious expression on my face and should smile more. How hard is it to say, "Hey Meredith, wipe your face!" Sheesh, people.
An attractive guy may smile at me and strike up a conversation, and I'll respond with something witty. Since I have my little glow going, and look like a Keebler elf, I'll come off as darling and charming...my cheeks reddened and facial expression gradually building from smirk to full-monty grin.
Of course these coquettish exchanges never develop into anything serious. They serve no purpose other than an instant ego boost for both parties, ending with a wink or a sly smile.
Yesterday I wore my favorite blue dress, which garnered a lot of positive attention, and caused me to dare I say, feel slightly haughty. I was full of positive energy and five cups of coffee, and found myself lingering in conversation with some cute male customers, feeling self-assured and effervescent. I began to notice how people seemed dazzled by my new found confidence, maybe even intimidated, since a guy I normally flirt with couldn't even maintain eye-contact with me. I felt like a celebrity.
When break-time came around, I went to wash my hands in the bathroom sink. As I lathered up, I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was immediately horrified.
There it was, in all its glory and splendor...a giant green snot stuck to the top of my nose.
This was no ordinary booger, or a small bat-in-the cave situation where someone needs to be looking up your nostril in order to see it. No, this mucus tumor was grotesque enough to play a villainous swamp monster in a Japanese horror film.
No wonder no one could make eye-contact with me, it looked like the Jolly Green Giant was fucking my nostril. And all the while I was strutting around the store as though it was a catwalk, yet it could have been a circus sideshow.
After a facial excavation, I returned to work, ego deflated like a punctured balloon.
Most days I hear how tired I look, or how I always have such a serious expression on my face and should smile more. How hard is it to say, "Hey Meredith, wipe your face!" Sheesh, people.
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