Taking Care of Business

The bathroom is my bitch lover. Whether I'm home or out, the bathroom is where I find sweet relief from everything that is going on around me. When the room is spinning and I drank way to much, I find solace in the bathroom. I hear my name being called from my boss's office at my internship but no one can find me, I'm in the loo. If I have a bad day at my retail job, I hit the head. Even if it's just to wash my hands, the water closet is a safe zone. When I'm on the floor at Pottery Barn, I will wash my hands until they are cracked and bleeding, but no customer would dare to knock on the door and interrupt me.

Like with every passionate relationship, the bathroom comes with a host of quirks and baggage that need to be handled with sensitivity. I like to think I have mastered most encounters but every once in a while, it throws me for a loop.

Last Friday night and Holly and I were pounding $3 beers at a bar in the Lower East Side when I threw my bag into her lap and rushed down the steep stairs to the bathroom.

I had to go so badly and it was really satisfying to sit down for the first time since I had gotten to work around 9:00am that morning and pee. But when I tried to flush the toilet, it wouldnt flush. A moment of hesitation on my part had been made when I reached for the handle. Had the sensitive filly of the bathroom noticed my trepidation?

I went over my options in my head. A second flush would be the obvious choice although everyone else in the bathroom would hear it and know that I had clogged the toilet or done something WORSE. I could lift the top of the toilet off and investigate but again, that would draw too much attention to my cause. I could leave it but the person who came in after me would know what I had done and worse, know what I looked like.

I waited, frozen, for the last person to finish washing their hands and bolted for the door. I let some water drip on my hands on the way out, but I admit, it was not a thorough washing job. I escaped from the room an instant before the other stall door opened. My identity was preserved.

I tried to sit back down and enjoy my beer but I couldn't focus. Holly told me a hilarious story about her brother and I halfheartedly laughed-- my mind was still in the bathroom. Did I really clog the toilet or was I just an innocent accessory in a crime that occurred long before my time? I wondered if the water was still running in the bowl. Maybe if I had jiggled the handle... a myriad of second thoughts ran through my mind as I tumbled the sequence of events over and over again. At this point i had completely stopped paying attention to Holly and was watching the bathroom door intently, judging each person as they left. Did the have the same guilt stricken look I had?

I was considering going to Home Depot, buying a plunger and coming back to investigate when I decided it was time to share my guilt. I interrupted Holly's description of her work day to ask her about the toilet, if it had been clogged when she went to the bathroom too. She thought for a minute and said that it had. Unlike me, she had not given it a second thought, just blamed it on a previous user and gone on her way. She pointed out that because of my over analytical personality led me to become preoccupied in small, menial things. She told me I was being controlling and to lighten up.

I think I just care too much.

There are two kinds of people in this world.

There are two kinds of people in this world: the huggers and non huggers. I fall into the latter category and I am comfortable with that lifestyle choice. It has the obvious benefits of not compelling me to grind pelvises with casual and although it can increase tension at family gatherings, it is completely worth it 95% of the time.

Opon first meetings people often come away thinking I am cold and introverted. Au contrair however it takes more than a coffee for my true colors to shine. This gives me an air of mystery. I like to think that at least.

The non hugging tends to be a rule I apply to most physical interaction. I also don't let my hands brush casually against people on the train and being a skinny person allows me to avoid further contact once I'm seated.

While people with my condition can make acceptions to the rule in, say a crowded train, these are few and far between and certainly don't apply outside of New York city.

Take the bolt bus for example. You pay your 19 dollars and you get a giant seat, wifi, and your own outlet. You don't consider it a bonus that your seatmate is a 125lb female. You don't get to take the remaining 4 inches in her seat as exea room for your fat ass. You don't get to rest your sweatpanted / ugged leg against her and crush your arms into her side while you shuffle your iPod. One would think that you would notice your seatmate smooshed against the window curled around her purse, frantically texting everyone she knows about you and plotting to choke you to death with your headphones as soon as you fall asleep. Because, bitch, don't think she won't. She is a woman on the edge. Also, when the bus stops at an Arby's in Connecticut, and your now very flat seatmate locates the armrest and puts it down to fend off your huge ass/thigh/entire right side, do not come back and put your entire arm over it into her lap while you adjust your computer. That is just plain rude.

So non-huggers: when you find yourself in this awkward situation (and invariably you will) be the bigger person. Instead of being a bitch and asking the fatty to move, simply pull our your iPhone and begin watching softcore lesbian porn on the bus' free wifi. Loudly. And good luck in this dog-eat-dog world!

Wealth Management

What does it mean, to be rich? I have never had money, so the idea that shopping or buying a car would be rewarding is foreign to me. My family doesn't have a lot of money and although my parents are comfortable, there were times when they certainly were not. Putting two kids in private schools and college stressed them and although I never noticed it at the time, we had a few christmases with considerably smaller piles under the tree.

Although I have never spent money without thinking, I have lived alongside people who can, and do. Growing up on Cape Cod, I went to high school with Walt Disney's grandchildren and nannied for people like Nicholas Cage. When my family invested in a snow plow, my neighbors bought the LA Dodgers. It never bothered me that my parents didn't give me a credit card at age 16, or that they didn't finance my college education or buy me a car when I graduated. But when I moved out of their house and into a tiny six floor walk-up in New York City I planned to do a few things differently.

After living on an income near, or below, poverty level for two months while I interned at a small design company I was offered a job as a freelance designer for a giant marketing agency. Although it would be long hours, working late into the night, I agreed to take it. I would be making considerably more than any of my friends who had found full time work in the city. I knew it was going to be tough, but the idea of being able to buy groceries or pay for electricity was music to my ears.

On my first day I left my internship and headed to my new job. I climbed the stairs from the train station on Houston St and noticed the marked difference in environment. Away from the hustle and bustle of Union Square, here the buildings grew straight up from the concrete and the sidewalks were packed with people walking in straight lines, to and from work. Once inside the building I had to be x-rayed by the security guard and my lunch began to turn to bile in my stomach.

When my roommate and I had come to New York to find an apartment we had gone to a few realtor's offices, big rooms with high ceilings but no windows, filled with monitors and computer chords and the hiss of ringing phones. At the time I had sworn I would never live like that and when I stepped inside the design studio, the same feeling of anxiety overcame me and I felt short of breath.

On my first night I sat next to the shift supervisor who did not stop swearing, even to sip his coffee. I looked around me and saw only tired, puffy eyes, glued to the computer. Someone in the office next to us was playing ACDC and as the veins in my forehead constricted, one single tear slid down my cheek.

The next day I left my internship again to go to work. Day two. My feet felt heavy on the pavement but the two block walk to the train seemed to fly by. I stood on the corner of 27th street and looked at the subway station lights. Next to me, the train uptown, the one that took me back to my six floor walkup in Harlem every night. Across the street, downtown to work, misery and riches, all rolled together in a nice, easy to swallow time sheet.

The white walk sign flickered on and people started to move past me, across the street as I turned and rode the local line all the way home, poor, unemployed, and the happiest I had been in two months.

Thank You Very Much

After pounding the pavement in New York City for three weeks, I finally scored an interview. Not only an interview, but an interview for a internship with really cool company, that actually liked my work and wanted to meet me and let me work on projects.

I poured sweat the entire train ride to midtown. But the designer who interviewed me was really nice and did a good job pretending to care about my dumb college portfolio I was dutifully showing him, which was nice. He also said really good things about me to the hiring designer and encouraged her to contact me for a second interview. And I thought, what a nice guy. I'll send him a thank you email and he will think I am really nice and genuine and tell them to skip the internship and hire me, right then and there.

So I get all set up and copy/paste in this LAME thank you letter off the internet into my draft and write Dear... and then tab down to the next line and my hand slips and the next thing I know I'm looking at my inbox and the email is gone. And it's not in drafts. Nope. It was sent.

Another email opened. Please ignore the previous message. I am a complete fuck up and although I assured you I was competent with web design and internet concepts, I was, in fact lying. As you can see, I have difficulty navigating the gmail interface. Let your imagination run wild as you proceed to watch me struggle with XHTML code.

Thank you for your time and consideration. Let us never mention this again and upon my commencement of said job, I promise to avoid you at all office functions. Goodnight.

You Can Call Me Honest John

My friends say I am a pathological liar and to some extent I cannot argue with them. I do lie. Everyone does. I started when I learned to talk and never held back because as far as liars go, I consider myself Glinda the Good Witch. I never make stuff up-- I just copy edit every story in my head until by the time the tale is finally repeated at a family dinner or friendly gathering, my presentation is as polished as a presidential address. Just like turning a rock over and over will smooth the edges, I tumble over my days until I have tailored each pause and change in intonation to a tee. This compulsion makes me wildly popular at dinner parties and work gatherings. I like to think.

I have never been caught although my friends might raise an eyebrow at a particularly theatrical rendition of a trip to the grocery store. That is, until last night.

Outfitted in our party gear and wearing so much mascara would could barely lift our eyelids, we bellied up to the bar at our favorite Friday night haunt. The trick is to get your beers early, before the place gets really jammed, and set up shop at the corner of the bar by the band. We were scoping out the crowd and had barely gotten our drinks when, what would soon become my kryptonite, stumbled into our midst.

He was loud and had a thick Boston accent and introduced himself by asking, "How much does a polar bear weigh? Enough to break the ice! I'm Ryan, Ryan, Ryan."

I vomited into my mouth. Unperturbed by our blank expressions he began to quiz us individually on our hometown, hobbies and profession and I watched my friends effortlessly answer with complete bull shit. Alyssa, Jackie and Rachel from Brookline became Kaitlyn, Ashley and Sarah from Allston. They talked about their jobs at their research labs, and even came up with plausible names for their labs and the fellowships they had received. Which is even more admirable considering only one of them was even a science major in college. Bolstered by their success, I felt prepared when the attention was directed at me and Ryan asked my name.

"Ummmmmm..." Silence ensued and I could think of nothing. Not my name, not my mother's name, I could have said freaking Mary Magdalen for crying out loud, this total idiot would have bought it in a second. Instead I said, "I think I have to go to the bathroom?" I am sure even the band stopped playing at that moment as I turned and slowly made my way to the bathroom, my face scarlet and my friends' howls of laughter clearly audible behind me.

I went home and polished my Good Witch crown.

Last Night

Ugh. I am standing with my forehead pressed against a mailbox on the corner of Harvard Ave and Vernon St. My best friend is standing next to me, her eyes closed, swaying to remain upright while the world spins past the backs of her eyelids. What did we do in the last twenty four hours that could have possibly been terrible enough to deserve such punishment? Oh right. Fifteen alcohol units. FUUUCCCCKKKKK.

I mean, it was a post grad mistake. It can happen to anyone. Here we were, heading off to a good night out, wisened by the fact that we have been training for nights like these for the past four years, because, lets face it, what else is college for if not building my tolerance so at 5'4" I can drink more than most 200lb hockey players? But since the days of partying five nights a week have been gone for two full months now, my resistance has faded and I am out of party shape. I mean, I party. I can party with the best of them! But my nights of multiple keg stands and rounds of shots are behind me and I can carry out a buzz on eight or nine beers. However, I arrived at my friends' apartment and overcome with excitement and anticipation, proceeded to consume the equivalent of 7 shots of vodka before we even reached the cab. Convinced I was not feeling a buzz, I drank my way through the front bar, the back bar, the downstairs bar, and back upstairs with shots on every staircase. Which is how I came to lean on the mailbox. At 12:45.

My friend slept on the bathroom floor and I let her, making us both look like fools. When she crawled into bed at six in the morning I had to wonder: was the last four years really worth $100,000 if the only real knowledge I was expected to acquire was my alcohol limit- something I obviously am not aware of? Did I peak too soon? An epic flaw in my conditioning schedule would put me out of partying late into my twenties. I guess I just figured I would never live that long anyway. I mean when your 18, 30 is OLD. And after my skin began to lose collagen at age 20, lets face it, I was planning on checking out as soon as I was legal. Now I am having to reevaluate. At age 21 I have only one spider vein from a run in with a towel bar and no wrinkles on my face thanks to religious sunscreen application. If i am still that young on the surface, I must have at least three more years of partying ahead of me.

So I will revamp my training schedule. I will continue to drink with a renewed energy and vigor. I will make a comeback that would rival Secretariat, remain in drinking shape well into my mid twenties, hopefully outliving the horse by at least four years.

Dream Books

Since I neither dream, nor care to know about anyone else's dreams my most recent project is genuinely for you, my people! Hazzah! Dream books! Each tiny booklet is bound with a different stab binding stitch. They ride together in their case, held shut with your dream-documenting pencil! Now you can write down your dreams, and remember them for always.