December 28, 2010
December 21, 2010
November 3, 2010
taxi cab confessions
wednesday morning. i jumped out of bed @ 9a.m. tired, exhausted, and sleep deprived. got dressed, brushed my teeth, ate my oatmeal, and poured myself a large cup of coffee…to go. out the door by 9:30a.m. not too bad…but still running pretty late. unacceptable. too tired to walk the fifteen minute walk to the subway hop on and hop back off five stops later and walk an additional six blocks to work. not short blocks. long ones. total estimated time: 45 minutes. why not take a taxi, i thought. i wasn’t thinking. i opted for a quick cabbie ride. total estimated time: 20 minutes (give or take with traffic).
after approximately five minutes of standing around and sipping on my coffee, i finally hailed a cab. spotting a cab with its lights on and not off duty, is like winning the lottery. dramatic? yes. cabs in new york, despite what one may think, aren’t that easy to come by. so, you can imagine how happy I was to finally pin one down. i jumped in.
“57th and 10th please.” off we went.
the driver was a nice, algerian man. we didn’t chat much. i was too busy updating my facebook status. as we approached 23rd and 10th, I heard a siren go off. music to my ears. the cabbie pulled over. a chubby, short bald man approached the driver’s window. i was slightly confused. he wasn’t wearing a uniform..no badge..i don’t think he even had a gun. he sort of resembled michael chiklis. you know, the guy from the shield.
officer-“i need your driver’s license”
cabbie- “i don’t have it.”
i thought, shit. here we go. should I get out now and avoid this disaster? things could get out of hand. i’m laaaaaaaaaaaaaate!
officer- “you don’t have a ny driver’s license? that’s illegal. do you have a hack license?”
what’s a hack license, i thought? too late to get out. i was stuck. nowhere to move.
cabbie- “yes.”
phewwww. thank god.
officer-“you can’t just go around cutting people off with no signal” (officer walks away and goes to his tinted black impala. not even a police car. suspect.)
that’s what cab drivers do. it’s their specialty. cutting people off. it’s a craft.
9:50a.m…chiklis returned and gave back the hack license to the driver.
officer- “because she is in the car (looks at me) i won’t give you the ticket.”
how nice officer, thank you. i’m still late to work. the driver took off and immediately started cursing out loud. i was consoling the cabbie. “it’s okay. it’s not your fault, blah blah blah.” all i was thinking was, get me where i need to go…i’m laaaaaate!
finally got to work. five minutes late. no one noticed. i think i’ll just walk from now on. i'm not taking any chances.
after approximately five minutes of standing around and sipping on my coffee, i finally hailed a cab. spotting a cab with its lights on and not off duty, is like winning the lottery. dramatic? yes. cabs in new york, despite what one may think, aren’t that easy to come by. so, you can imagine how happy I was to finally pin one down. i jumped in.
“57th and 10th please.” off we went.
the driver was a nice, algerian man. we didn’t chat much. i was too busy updating my facebook status. as we approached 23rd and 10th, I heard a siren go off. music to my ears. the cabbie pulled over. a chubby, short bald man approached the driver’s window. i was slightly confused. he wasn’t wearing a uniform..no badge..i don’t think he even had a gun. he sort of resembled michael chiklis. you know, the guy from the shield.
officer-“i need your driver’s license”
cabbie- “i don’t have it.”
i thought, shit. here we go. should I get out now and avoid this disaster? things could get out of hand. i’m laaaaaaaaaaaaaate!
officer- “you don’t have a ny driver’s license? that’s illegal. do you have a hack license?”
what’s a hack license, i thought? too late to get out. i was stuck. nowhere to move.
cabbie- “yes.”
phewwww. thank god.
officer-“you can’t just go around cutting people off with no signal” (officer walks away and goes to his tinted black impala. not even a police car. suspect.)
that’s what cab drivers do. it’s their specialty. cutting people off. it’s a craft.
9:50a.m…chiklis returned and gave back the hack license to the driver.
officer- “because she is in the car (looks at me) i won’t give you the ticket.”
how nice officer, thank you. i’m still late to work. the driver took off and immediately started cursing out loud. i was consoling the cabbie. “it’s okay. it’s not your fault, blah blah blah.” all i was thinking was, get me where i need to go…i’m laaaaaate!
finally got to work. five minutes late. no one noticed. i think i’ll just walk from now on. i'm not taking any chances.
October 2, 2010
gone fishin...
tuesday. i had the day off. lucky me. it was rainy and gloomy outside. raincoat, check. umbrella, check. boots, check. i headed to the movies. catfish. 3:10p.m. regal union square. i walked into the theatre and sat down close to the exit...convenient. near the exit just in case I was frightened out of my wits and had to run out respectively. i was all by myself. the best way to enjoy a matinee. no junior mints. no popcorn. no nachos. just me and a dark room filled with strangers all equally excited to see the movie.
the film, co-directed by henry joost and ariel schulman, documents the life of nev schulman, an interesting and charismatic character to say the least. i won’t spoil the movie, nor will i attempt to review. i’m no jeffrey lyons.
i will, however, say, i was on the edge of my seat and intrigued the entire time. as an avid moviegoer and diehard facebook fan, I was drawn to nev’s story. it was sort of like "to catch a predator" minus the sweet tea, chocolate chip cookies, and awkwardly tall chris hansen. nev was the underage minor. the prey, if you will... and the predator....well, you'll have to see for yourself. the movie was over, an hour and thirty four minutes later. credits were up. i was the last to leave. inspired. facebook friends, go see the film. it will move you.
the film, co-directed by henry joost and ariel schulman, documents the life of nev schulman, an interesting and charismatic character to say the least. i won’t spoil the movie, nor will i attempt to review. i’m no jeffrey lyons.
i will, however, say, i was on the edge of my seat and intrigued the entire time. as an avid moviegoer and diehard facebook fan, I was drawn to nev’s story. it was sort of like "to catch a predator" minus the sweet tea, chocolate chip cookies, and awkwardly tall chris hansen. nev was the underage minor. the prey, if you will... and the predator....well, you'll have to see for yourself. the movie was over, an hour and thirty four minutes later. credits were up. i was the last to leave. inspired. facebook friends, go see the film. it will move you.
September 21, 2010
will work for food...
working in the freelance world or as an independent contractor, as I like to call it, (sounds more fancy shmancy) has its perks. work a few months, take time off to travel, relax, and catch up with friends you managed to avoid while working outrageous hours. it also has its drawbacks. no health insurance. no 401k. no guarantees. nada. nothing. to most level headed people, working in a career that often times does not provide an ounce of stability is crazy. wacky. unheard of. but this is the life i live. the life i’m accustomed to. unpredictability and instability…which can lead to excitement and adventure…or the unemployment line.
see, in freelance there’s always a beginning and an end. no surprises. you know when you start and you have a rough idea when it ends. there’s no such thing as, “this isn’t working out.” much like a relationship…you’re fully committed when you’re in, but you’re free to do whatever you want once it’s over. no hard feelings. off to something bigger and better.
here is one major thing i learned in my freelance life…
starting a new job with a new company is like the first day of school. no one talks to you. you’re the new kid. the person who does befriend you is usually the nerd no one likes. the weirdo with the pocket protector, if you will. this is the guy or girl that everyone in the office secretly hates. it usually starts with, “hi, my name is Brad. what’s your name?” you respond politely, “my name is so and so.” now, usually that’s just a formality. even though you’re desperate to make friends, you CANNOT become besties with the first person who tries chatting it up with you in the office.
why?
because they’re probably, most likely part of the geek squad. there’s no real squad. it’s just one geek trying to make friends with the poor, unsuspecting new hire. he might seem friendly, but you’re making a massive mistake by accepting his offer to go to lunch. by saying yes to grabbing a burger down the street, you’ve been pegged by the rest of the office as “the new guy who hangs out with boring Brad.” remember, you’re the new guy. the odds are already stacked against you. Brad, in this case, is the guy in the office who comes in early and always leaves late. he’s the go getter in the group that everyone dislikes. he’s the one upper. watch out for him. ditch him. ditch him fast or else you too will be shunned by the cool kids.
freelance may not be for everyone, but for someone like me who can’t sit at a desk, dress business casual day in and day out, and work a 9 to 5, it’s perfect. well, sometimes perfect.
see, in freelance there’s always a beginning and an end. no surprises. you know when you start and you have a rough idea when it ends. there’s no such thing as, “this isn’t working out.” much like a relationship…you’re fully committed when you’re in, but you’re free to do whatever you want once it’s over. no hard feelings. off to something bigger and better.
here is one major thing i learned in my freelance life…
starting a new job with a new company is like the first day of school. no one talks to you. you’re the new kid. the person who does befriend you is usually the nerd no one likes. the weirdo with the pocket protector, if you will. this is the guy or girl that everyone in the office secretly hates. it usually starts with, “hi, my name is Brad. what’s your name?” you respond politely, “my name is so and so.” now, usually that’s just a formality. even though you’re desperate to make friends, you CANNOT become besties with the first person who tries chatting it up with you in the office.
why?
because they’re probably, most likely part of the geek squad. there’s no real squad. it’s just one geek trying to make friends with the poor, unsuspecting new hire. he might seem friendly, but you’re making a massive mistake by accepting his offer to go to lunch. by saying yes to grabbing a burger down the street, you’ve been pegged by the rest of the office as “the new guy who hangs out with boring Brad.” remember, you’re the new guy. the odds are already stacked against you. Brad, in this case, is the guy in the office who comes in early and always leaves late. he’s the go getter in the group that everyone dislikes. he’s the one upper. watch out for him. ditch him. ditch him fast or else you too will be shunned by the cool kids.
freelance may not be for everyone, but for someone like me who can’t sit at a desk, dress business casual day in and day out, and work a 9 to 5, it’s perfect. well, sometimes perfect.
August 30, 2010
bicycles. tricycles. icicles.
learning how to ride a bike is a rite of passage, much like learning how to play catch or swimming without your floaties for the first time. it’s one of the most unforgettable moments in a young, impressionable child’s life.
i was six years old. a frizzy haired, four eyed freak. before the four eyes, it was really just one eye. a cyclops, if you will. my parents thought it would be a good idea to have me wear a patch over my right eye in order to make my left eye stronger or in other words humiliate me in front of everyone and anyone who had the pleasure of crossing paths with me. pointing and staring was a common occurrence. the patch wasn’t your traditional patch. not the kind you wore on halloween to compliment your pirate costume. nope. mom and dad opted for the oversized band-aid. the kind that would sometimes rip the hairs off my eyebrow once it was taken off. it was awful. it was embarrassing. it was a real character builder.
after begging and pleading, my parents finally felt it was time to retire the “patch” and trade that puppy in for what americans call, eye glasses. i graduated to a whole other level of nerd. i was a geek with coke-bottle glasses. my bulging eyes and curly hair made for an interesting duo.
now, where was i? oh, learning how to ride a bike.
it was a hot, summer day in sunny southern california. my family and i were in the back yard sipping on lemonade and chomping on watermelon. this was certainly a pastime for the sardarian clan. my brother, who’s almost two years older than me, knew how to ride a bike. he was cool. even with those big-framed bifocals, i was desperate to be cool. i got on the bike, scared and timid, but determined. i told my dad to hold onto the seat until i was ready. once i got on, i was terrified. “dad, don’t let go,” i yelled. “okay. okay,” he responded. i kept riding, thinking he was still holding on. little did I know, he had let go. i was on my own. all by myself. at the age of six, i felt free. i felt empowered. i felt cool.
fast forward 20 years. summer time. new york city. my roommate and i decided to go for a nice bike ride on a sunday afternoon. it was a gorgeous day out. we rode our rented bicycles on the westside highway and central park. it was amazing. the frizzy haired, four eyed freak was back. frizz still in tact, minus the coke bottles, and now sporting sunglasses. at age 26, i felt empowered. i felt free. i felt like a kid again.
i was six years old. a frizzy haired, four eyed freak. before the four eyes, it was really just one eye. a cyclops, if you will. my parents thought it would be a good idea to have me wear a patch over my right eye in order to make my left eye stronger or in other words humiliate me in front of everyone and anyone who had the pleasure of crossing paths with me. pointing and staring was a common occurrence. the patch wasn’t your traditional patch. not the kind you wore on halloween to compliment your pirate costume. nope. mom and dad opted for the oversized band-aid. the kind that would sometimes rip the hairs off my eyebrow once it was taken off. it was awful. it was embarrassing. it was a real character builder.
after begging and pleading, my parents finally felt it was time to retire the “patch” and trade that puppy in for what americans call, eye glasses. i graduated to a whole other level of nerd. i was a geek with coke-bottle glasses. my bulging eyes and curly hair made for an interesting duo.
now, where was i? oh, learning how to ride a bike.
it was a hot, summer day in sunny southern california. my family and i were in the back yard sipping on lemonade and chomping on watermelon. this was certainly a pastime for the sardarian clan. my brother, who’s almost two years older than me, knew how to ride a bike. he was cool. even with those big-framed bifocals, i was desperate to be cool. i got on the bike, scared and timid, but determined. i told my dad to hold onto the seat until i was ready. once i got on, i was terrified. “dad, don’t let go,” i yelled. “okay. okay,” he responded. i kept riding, thinking he was still holding on. little did I know, he had let go. i was on my own. all by myself. at the age of six, i felt free. i felt empowered. i felt cool.
fast forward 20 years. summer time. new york city. my roommate and i decided to go for a nice bike ride on a sunday afternoon. it was a gorgeous day out. we rode our rented bicycles on the westside highway and central park. it was amazing. the frizzy haired, four eyed freak was back. frizz still in tact, minus the coke bottles, and now sporting sunglasses. at age 26, i felt empowered. i felt free. i felt like a kid again.
August 27, 2010
standard on a school night. sure, why not?
thursday night. the hottest night in the city, according to my friend jordan, who’s lived here for over ten years. we decided to grab dinner to catch up. two weeks of not seeing one another was brutal on our friendship. it was going to be a low key night. we met at cafeteria, one of my favorite restaurants in the city. not so much for the food more so for the people. cafeteria is where i witnessed my first proposal. it was disappointing. dude got down on one knee next to a trashcan outside the restaurant and asked for the lovely girl’s hand in marriage. she, surprisingly, said yes. they embraced. not my idea of romance. to each their own, i guess. also the same restaurant where my roommate and friend shared a meal with 500 days of summer heart throb, my future husband, and father of my unborn child, joseph gordon levitt.
8:10p.m. i show up to cafeteria ten minutes late of course. i’m always punctual but for some reason never on time since my move. we sat outside. beautiful night in ny. we had dinner, well appetizers really. jordan ordered crab cakes, parmesan fries, tomato soup, and macaroni and cheese spring rolls. yum. i, on the other hand, ordered an artichoke salad. added chicken to spice things up. i’ve gained almost eight pounds since leaving lovely los angeles. unacceptable. i’m worried for my health. i was salivating as jordan took a bite from each delicious dish. we shared a few laughs and caught up on each other’s lives. after a delightful meal, we left cafeteria and took a stroll around the west village. we stumbled upon turks and frogs, a local wine bar, and enjoyed two cups of turkish coffee. coffee in a wine bar? yes, please.
i couldn’t finish mine, since it was much too sweet for my taste. this was the perfect place to people watch. an older gentleman with a plad jacket, jeans, and a cigar. odd looking. young, beautiful blonde girl with older white haired rich looking tycoon. really good looking guy with not so cute girl. it was great. while sitting there shamelessly passing judgment on whoever entered the bar, jordan got a text from his friend and told us to meet him at the standard. it was time to go, but first we needed more coffee. we made our way to meatpacking and landed at villa pacri. cup of coffee for me and shot of espresso for the man in the striped shirt. soon after, we walked over to the standard. made it through the red velvet ropes and entered the elevator. elevator doors opened and we headed right for the bar. we ordered our specialty drink. “two waters please.” no lemon just straight up water with some ice of course. neither one of us was drinking. self-control. we headed upstairs to check out the roof top. beautiful view of the hudson river. gorgeous. we headed back downstairs. parched. another glass of water, por favor. i was mighty impressed when I saw a huge hot tub strategically placed near the DJ booth. not so impressed, rather intrigued when I witnessed people dancing and getting “wild.” clothes on the floor. half-naked drunk people dancing in the water. i was in a brothel. my low key night, in the blink of an eye, turned into something more than i had ever imagined. me: sober at a bar. them: drunk. naked. dancing in a tub filled with hot water on a school night. all very odd, but entertaining to say the least.
8:10p.m. i show up to cafeteria ten minutes late of course. i’m always punctual but for some reason never on time since my move. we sat outside. beautiful night in ny. we had dinner, well appetizers really. jordan ordered crab cakes, parmesan fries, tomato soup, and macaroni and cheese spring rolls. yum. i, on the other hand, ordered an artichoke salad. added chicken to spice things up. i’ve gained almost eight pounds since leaving lovely los angeles. unacceptable. i’m worried for my health. i was salivating as jordan took a bite from each delicious dish. we shared a few laughs and caught up on each other’s lives. after a delightful meal, we left cafeteria and took a stroll around the west village. we stumbled upon turks and frogs, a local wine bar, and enjoyed two cups of turkish coffee. coffee in a wine bar? yes, please.
i couldn’t finish mine, since it was much too sweet for my taste. this was the perfect place to people watch. an older gentleman with a plad jacket, jeans, and a cigar. odd looking. young, beautiful blonde girl with older white haired rich looking tycoon. really good looking guy with not so cute girl. it was great. while sitting there shamelessly passing judgment on whoever entered the bar, jordan got a text from his friend and told us to meet him at the standard. it was time to go, but first we needed more coffee. we made our way to meatpacking and landed at villa pacri. cup of coffee for me and shot of espresso for the man in the striped shirt. soon after, we walked over to the standard. made it through the red velvet ropes and entered the elevator. elevator doors opened and we headed right for the bar. we ordered our specialty drink. “two waters please.” no lemon just straight up water with some ice of course. neither one of us was drinking. self-control. we headed upstairs to check out the roof top. beautiful view of the hudson river. gorgeous. we headed back downstairs. parched. another glass of water, por favor. i was mighty impressed when I saw a huge hot tub strategically placed near the DJ booth. not so impressed, rather intrigued when I witnessed people dancing and getting “wild.” clothes on the floor. half-naked drunk people dancing in the water. i was in a brothel. my low key night, in the blink of an eye, turned into something more than i had ever imagined. me: sober at a bar. them: drunk. naked. dancing in a tub filled with hot water on a school night. all very odd, but entertaining to say the least.
August 24, 2010
miracles do happen...on airplanes
let me just preface the following story with the mere fact that my life is filled with weird and awkward moments.
i was on the plane heading back to new york from los angeles and the oddest thing happened. i began my journey to the los angeles international airport when i arrived an hour before my flight was scheduled to depart. i've flown plenty of times and i've never missed a flight. i always get there just in the knick of time. let's not jinx it. i approached the american airlines check in to well, you know, check in. a nice asian woman named helen (also my mother's name) helped me. i was 10 pounds over. not me, my bag. surprise. surprise. in order to avoid an outrageous fee of $75, i decided to quickly take out my jeans and four pairs of shoes. all were placed and when i say placed i really mean stuffed into my carry on. according to helen, i was boarding in 18 minutes.i wasn't in any hurry. i took a slow and steady stroll to my gate. but first i had to go through the dreadful security check. me, my purse, and my heavy "carry on" headed to security. for the first time in a long time, i wasn't stopped. almost every time i travel, i get stopped. "we do it to everyone." so, they say. yes, i'm pretty positive that everyone who has to strip off their belt, shoes, jacket, and dignity is questioned several times about an item you deem "suspicious." i digress.
gate 49A. all the way at the end of the terminal. i had to 10-1 before my departure. went to the water closet, washed my hands of course (what am i sick or unsanitary?), and was one of the last people to get on the plane. i was shvitzing at that point. black tights, sandals, and a long sleeved top dressed accordingly in full airplane attire. yes, in 100 degree LA weather. i had a carry on in addition to the carry on with all my wannabe carrie bradshaw shoes. i walked to my seat. it was an aisle seat. i only sit in the aisle. sometimes the window. so i attempted to put my oversized bag in the teeny tiny compartment above my seat. first off, in my defense, the bin was barely within my reach. i'm too short to even get it in there. clearly, whoever designed this aircraft didn't think of the billions and trillions of people in this world (over exaggerating obviously) who aren't as tall as the average woman. according to several reliable and credible sources, the average height for an american woman living in the united states is 5'4. i'm under average by about two inches. i was fighting an uphill battle. losing at this point, i've succumbed to standing on my tip toes. i tried shoving my bag in there. fail.
i headed to the back where the flight attendants had congregated. i asked one of them, the one who seemed most pleasant, if someone could help me. she said my bag was too full to fit, so she gave me yet another bag to throw some of my "extra" items in. so, here i am emptying my bag into yet another bag. total of three bags. one on my seat, one being stuffed, and the other is the main culprit that caused all the ruckus in the first place. a male flight attendant (not sure if I should call him a stewardess, steward, stewie?) came to the back at that moment. i asked him to help me since i was too short to reach the bin above my head. i was on the ground making sure my bag was lightly packed and as soon as i got up, i realized i was slightly taller than munchkin man. how is that even possible? the man had a heart, so he helped me. he was short, but sweet. (no pun intended). after a few attempts, he finally got my bag in the compartment. i was relieved.
I sat down in my seat, 35G. I had all my mags aligned. Us Weekly, People, and Life & Style. As I dug into my purse to find my phone to turn off "all electronic devices," I noticed it was missing. the one thing i hold near and dear to my heart was gone. just like that. poof. disappeared without a trace. i just sat there, thinking and doing that inner monologue we all do. "i knew i left it in the bathroom. i knew i left it on the counter when i decided to dry my hands on that obnoxious sounding dryer. the sound and power of that dryer must have somehow hindered my thinking and possibly my memory.” i mean, i was upset. but, shockingly not as upset as I thought I would be since that phone is a prized posession. always with me. day and night. i wasn't too upset about it. for a split second, i did contemplate getting off the plane, running to the restroom, and running right back just in time for the plane to take off. but, i knew that was merely a fantasy that would never pan out properly. i'd be questioned, i'd be reprimanded, and i'd probably get arrested. it just wasn't worth it to me. so, i sat there. waited for the plane to take off so i could forget about my irresponsible behavior.
my poor phone probably felt neglected and unwanted, I thought. as i sat there, a few minutes went by and i saw an officer walking through the aisle. what's Ponch doing here? the blue collared man was coming towards me and stopped right at my seat. i was scared i was in some sort of trouble for putting my carry on in the much too small compartment. he looked at me and said, "excuse me, is this your phone?" he whipped out my phone after he posed the question. i said "yes." he handed it to me and the words "thank you" barely made it out of my mouth. i was shocked. in awe. how did a police officer, and no he was not security, (he was LAPD) find my phone and hand deliver it to me on a soon to be departing flight? how did he find me? i wanted to jump out of my seat and give him a great big hug, but I was already buckled up. wow, my hero. he walked away. farewell officer. the woman next to me turned to me and said, "wow, you're lucky." indeed lucky. thanks cop for making my day a lot brighter. i looked down at my phone. reunited and it felt so good.
i was on the plane heading back to new york from los angeles and the oddest thing happened. i began my journey to the los angeles international airport when i arrived an hour before my flight was scheduled to depart. i've flown plenty of times and i've never missed a flight. i always get there just in the knick of time. let's not jinx it. i approached the american airlines check in to well, you know, check in. a nice asian woman named helen (also my mother's name) helped me. i was 10 pounds over. not me, my bag. surprise. surprise. in order to avoid an outrageous fee of $75, i decided to quickly take out my jeans and four pairs of shoes. all were placed and when i say placed i really mean stuffed into my carry on. according to helen, i was boarding in 18 minutes.i wasn't in any hurry. i took a slow and steady stroll to my gate. but first i had to go through the dreadful security check. me, my purse, and my heavy "carry on" headed to security. for the first time in a long time, i wasn't stopped. almost every time i travel, i get stopped. "we do it to everyone." so, they say. yes, i'm pretty positive that everyone who has to strip off their belt, shoes, jacket, and dignity is questioned several times about an item you deem "suspicious." i digress.
gate 49A. all the way at the end of the terminal. i had to 10-1 before my departure. went to the water closet, washed my hands of course (what am i sick or unsanitary?), and was one of the last people to get on the plane. i was shvitzing at that point. black tights, sandals, and a long sleeved top dressed accordingly in full airplane attire. yes, in 100 degree LA weather. i had a carry on in addition to the carry on with all my wannabe carrie bradshaw shoes. i walked to my seat. it was an aisle seat. i only sit in the aisle. sometimes the window. so i attempted to put my oversized bag in the teeny tiny compartment above my seat. first off, in my defense, the bin was barely within my reach. i'm too short to even get it in there. clearly, whoever designed this aircraft didn't think of the billions and trillions of people in this world (over exaggerating obviously) who aren't as tall as the average woman. according to several reliable and credible sources, the average height for an american woman living in the united states is 5'4. i'm under average by about two inches. i was fighting an uphill battle. losing at this point, i've succumbed to standing on my tip toes. i tried shoving my bag in there. fail.
i headed to the back where the flight attendants had congregated. i asked one of them, the one who seemed most pleasant, if someone could help me. she said my bag was too full to fit, so she gave me yet another bag to throw some of my "extra" items in. so, here i am emptying my bag into yet another bag. total of three bags. one on my seat, one being stuffed, and the other is the main culprit that caused all the ruckus in the first place. a male flight attendant (not sure if I should call him a stewardess, steward, stewie?) came to the back at that moment. i asked him to help me since i was too short to reach the bin above my head. i was on the ground making sure my bag was lightly packed and as soon as i got up, i realized i was slightly taller than munchkin man. how is that even possible? the man had a heart, so he helped me. he was short, but sweet. (no pun intended). after a few attempts, he finally got my bag in the compartment. i was relieved.
I sat down in my seat, 35G. I had all my mags aligned. Us Weekly, People, and Life & Style. As I dug into my purse to find my phone to turn off "all electronic devices," I noticed it was missing. the one thing i hold near and dear to my heart was gone. just like that. poof. disappeared without a trace. i just sat there, thinking and doing that inner monologue we all do. "i knew i left it in the bathroom. i knew i left it on the counter when i decided to dry my hands on that obnoxious sounding dryer. the sound and power of that dryer must have somehow hindered my thinking and possibly my memory.” i mean, i was upset. but, shockingly not as upset as I thought I would be since that phone is a prized posession. always with me. day and night. i wasn't too upset about it. for a split second, i did contemplate getting off the plane, running to the restroom, and running right back just in time for the plane to take off. but, i knew that was merely a fantasy that would never pan out properly. i'd be questioned, i'd be reprimanded, and i'd probably get arrested. it just wasn't worth it to me. so, i sat there. waited for the plane to take off so i could forget about my irresponsible behavior.
my poor phone probably felt neglected and unwanted, I thought. as i sat there, a few minutes went by and i saw an officer walking through the aisle. what's Ponch doing here? the blue collared man was coming towards me and stopped right at my seat. i was scared i was in some sort of trouble for putting my carry on in the much too small compartment. he looked at me and said, "excuse me, is this your phone?" he whipped out my phone after he posed the question. i said "yes." he handed it to me and the words "thank you" barely made it out of my mouth. i was shocked. in awe. how did a police officer, and no he was not security, (he was LAPD) find my phone and hand deliver it to me on a soon to be departing flight? how did he find me? i wanted to jump out of my seat and give him a great big hug, but I was already buckled up. wow, my hero. he walked away. farewell officer. the woman next to me turned to me and said, "wow, you're lucky." indeed lucky. thanks cop for making my day a lot brighter. i looked down at my phone. reunited and it felt so good.
August 12, 2010
the first and hopefully last encounter…
Third week in the big apple. It was time. I couldn’t prolong it any longer. The beloved yet dreaded, “L” word. Yep, you guessed it. Laundry. It’s the most un-fun thing to do on a Sunday night before the work week. I can think of a million more exciting activities that bring color to my otherwise bland existence. I grabbed the pile of dirty, disgusting clothes and headed down to the lower level. The basement, where people go to die. oh, and throw out the garbage. As I headed down, I dialed my brother’s phone number hoping I would get a chance to finally talk and catch up. I approached the door where all the machinery is kept. As I entered, I was boasting to him about how much I love the city and how wonderful and magical this place is. “I can’t even tell you how much I love this city and how wonderful and magical this place is…”As the words were coming out of my mouth, I spotted something from the corner of my eye. It was the size of a cat. Large and in charge. One word. RAID. I screamed, dropped my phone, and scurried out of the cockroach infested dungeon. I watched through the glass window as the roach moseyed its way under one of the washing machines. It was gross. My poor phone was still in there. Stuck in the battlefield. All alone. I had to rescue it. I tip toed in and ran as quickly as I possibly could...grabbed my lifeline and didn’t turn back. I hope I never see another one of those critters again or else it’s curtains for this “concrete jungle.”
July 20, 2010
groceries galore
For those of you who live in Los Angeles, Trader Joe’s is a big fucking deal. So, you can imagine my excitement when I heard there was a Trader Joe’s conveniently located near my new place only 8 blocks down and 4 avenues over. Their claim to fame, NYC’s very first Trader Joe’s. Their motto, “The line’s tiny compared to the savings.” I couldn’t believe it. As silly as it sounds, I felt like a little piece of home was right around the corner. My third day in the city. I needed to fill up that empty, depressing looking fridge fast. So, I ventured to my favorite one stop shop. I walked in and much to my dismay, it was pure mayhem. A bomb had gone off and people were scrambling to get the goods. It was the end of the world. Armageddon. Every man for himself.
I quickly grabbed a cart and dove in, face first. The aisles were long and narrow. I made sure to quickly grab the items most important on the food chain. Bread, cereal, milk, and cheese. Equally important, tabouleh, carrots, egg beaters, garbanzo beans, stir fry veggies, morning star burgers, turkey, pita chips, and granola bars. I bought three of everything for fear of returning to this disastrous scene.
As I approached the line “all items” as opposed to “12 items or fewer,” I forgot the most important thing on my list. The sole reason I even go to Trader Joe’s. The three cheese pizza. I first became familiarized with this delicious goodness in college. My friend Lisa, who was a crazy bio major, would pull all nighters at our apartment studying for her ridiculous and might I add pointless organic chemistry class. Her only vice, a late night three cheese pizza treat from Trader Joe’s. It just stuck. As I turned my cart around, I heard a burly man who somewhat resembled Zach Galifianakis shout, “Uh oh. Illegal U-turn.” I was mortified. It’s like he knew it was my first time entering this Vietnam. He had a sixth sense. I scoffed and walked away. After picking up my delicious frozen pie, if you can call it that, I headed towards the line, which was damn near out the door. I waited and waited. 45 minutes and a half eaten bag of pita chips later, I arrived at the cashier.
The young guy who was ringing me up was very sweet until he asked, “Are you having a dinner party?" I looked down at my cart, which was filled to the brim, and for some reason, I don’t know why I felt the need to lie. I said, “yes.” It just came out. I was defending myself. I wasn’t having a dinner party. I didn’t even know enough people in the city to have a party. He continued to make small talk. “Are you making hummus with those garbanzo beans,” he asked. I was fighting an internal battle that lasted less than ten seconds but felt like a lifetime. Should I keep going on with this? “yes, I love making hummus,” I said. Another lie. The truth is, I love eating raw garbanzo beans. Yep. Straight up, out of the can. No need for tahini, olive oil, or garlic. He handed me my receipt and said, “Enjoy your party.” I smiled and laughed a little inside. I attempted to grab all four brown traditional Trader Joe's bags. Already exhausted from fighting to get my groceries, now, I was stuck walking 8 blocks up and 4 avenues over with four bags filled with enough food to feed a dinner party of 8. It was no longer, just around the corner. As I began walking, I contemplated whether or not I should stop and grab a cab. Make it easy on myself. I’d be home in less than five minutes, I thought. I had too much pride to hop into a taxi. I was gonna walk all the way home whether I liked it or not. Punishment. In that moment, I missed my car. I missed the convenience. I missed LA.
I quickly grabbed a cart and dove in, face first. The aisles were long and narrow. I made sure to quickly grab the items most important on the food chain. Bread, cereal, milk, and cheese. Equally important, tabouleh, carrots, egg beaters, garbanzo beans, stir fry veggies, morning star burgers, turkey, pita chips, and granola bars. I bought three of everything for fear of returning to this disastrous scene.
As I approached the line “all items” as opposed to “12 items or fewer,” I forgot the most important thing on my list. The sole reason I even go to Trader Joe’s. The three cheese pizza. I first became familiarized with this delicious goodness in college. My friend Lisa, who was a crazy bio major, would pull all nighters at our apartment studying for her ridiculous and might I add pointless organic chemistry class. Her only vice, a late night three cheese pizza treat from Trader Joe’s. It just stuck. As I turned my cart around, I heard a burly man who somewhat resembled Zach Galifianakis shout, “Uh oh. Illegal U-turn.” I was mortified. It’s like he knew it was my first time entering this Vietnam. He had a sixth sense. I scoffed and walked away. After picking up my delicious frozen pie, if you can call it that, I headed towards the line, which was damn near out the door. I waited and waited. 45 minutes and a half eaten bag of pita chips later, I arrived at the cashier.
The young guy who was ringing me up was very sweet until he asked, “Are you having a dinner party?" I looked down at my cart, which was filled to the brim, and for some reason, I don’t know why I felt the need to lie. I said, “yes.” It just came out. I was defending myself. I wasn’t having a dinner party. I didn’t even know enough people in the city to have a party. He continued to make small talk. “Are you making hummus with those garbanzo beans,” he asked. I was fighting an internal battle that lasted less than ten seconds but felt like a lifetime. Should I keep going on with this? “yes, I love making hummus,” I said. Another lie. The truth is, I love eating raw garbanzo beans. Yep. Straight up, out of the can. No need for tahini, olive oil, or garlic. He handed me my receipt and said, “Enjoy your party.” I smiled and laughed a little inside. I attempted to grab all four brown traditional Trader Joe's bags. Already exhausted from fighting to get my groceries, now, I was stuck walking 8 blocks up and 4 avenues over with four bags filled with enough food to feed a dinner party of 8. It was no longer, just around the corner. As I began walking, I contemplated whether or not I should stop and grab a cab. Make it easy on myself. I’d be home in less than five minutes, I thought. I had too much pride to hop into a taxi. I was gonna walk all the way home whether I liked it or not. Punishment. In that moment, I missed my car. I missed the convenience. I missed LA.
July 18, 2010
me, myself, and i
New York City is a city like no other. Approximately, 305 square miles long, over 8.3 million folks from all walks of life, and more than 800 languages spoken. I moved here just a few, short months ago. Two large oversized suitcases and my laptop. My life line.
My move to New York is somewhat of a romantic story. I had an aching, an itch to move for quite some time. I talked about it, thought about it, dreamed about it. I claimed New York like most twenty-six year-olds claim boyfriends. Mine. “I’m moving to New York.” My out. My excuse. I didn’t have the desire to fully, wholeheartedly commit to anything...including a serious relationship. There was something bigger and better around the corner.
It was slightly scary to walk down that path alone in the dark, by myself. I needed a push. That’s when my dear friend, Natalie, entered the picture. Someone who has always encouraged me to live the life I had always dreamed. A friend I will grow old with. She invited me over for a delicious dinner at her friend’s beautiful downtown loft. Bright, city lights in the heart of Los Angeles. Perfection. As we sat down, we caught up on all of life. The usual. Work, family, friends, and the one-way trip that would forever change my life, as we know it. The question I dreaded to be asked, was, yep, asked, “So, when are you moving to NY, pumpkin”? My response “I don’t know. Soon?" I was secretly terrified. I’d been talking about it for months, but talking and doing are two totally different things. Natalie quickly took out her Norman Rockwell calendar, given to her by her grandfather. “When would be an ideal date for the move,” she asked. I thought to myself, March. March is when it will be warm in NY. Well, warm enough. I was coming from sunny California. I wasn’t ready to dive into a slew of snow just yet. I had to ease into it. March sounded like a good time. So, she grabbed her red pen and circled a date. March 22. That was it. Just like that. Over pasta, and mixed greens, I decided, I was moving. End of story. After dinner and the decision, we watched Away We Go, a Sam Mendes film, the mastermind behind American Beauty (one of my all time favorite films.) The movie, starring John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph, follows a lovely couple who travel around the United States to discover “home” on their own terms. After watching their journey, Away I went. NY, here I come.
Coincidentally, another girlfriend of mine, Sandy Bustamante my big sis, lovebug, chili bean had just gone to NY for fabulous fashion week. She, too, wanted to move to the big city. Leave a successful life behind and virtually start all over again. Build a new life brick by brick. Within a matter of days, my go-getter gal pal found a job. She found us a two bedroom apartment with a view of the east river. "Are you in," she asked. Without hesitation, I responded "yes"! Sold. One bathroom. Minor setback. No big deal. We signed the lease. I couldn’t wait a minute longer, so I left exactly a week earlier on March 15, the Ides of March. Ironic? Perhaps. I booked my one-way ticket to NY and didn’t look back.
I was on my way to the Big Apple. By myself. All by my lonesome. No job. No family. A dwindling bank account and no clue as to what my future entailed. My three best girlfriends (minus one bestie who tried to make it in time but tragically missed me by a few minutes) whom I’ve known for over 23 years came to bid me a final farewell. The life I had known, the friends and family I left behind, and the unfamiliar road ahead is what made this magical place exciting. I was leaving everything in hopes of finding something…
I spent nearly four years living in overhyped Hollywood. In my defense, West Hollywood. The cooler and hipper part to reside in. Life was good. I worked in the most glamorous line of work. Entertainment. Well, from the outside looking in, it seemed glamorous, but looks can be deceiving. After 26 years of living in Southern California, I made the decision to leave the life I was accustomed to. A life that was comfortable for a life of mystery, uncertainty, and anonymity.
I remember the drive to LAX airport. We hopped on the infamously jam-packed 405 freeway and arrived at our destination in less than twenty minutes. Unheard of. As we parked the car, my dad turned to me and said, “Without you, life is miserable.” It broke my little, tin robotic heart. In that moment, I felt selfish. I felt ungrateful for leaving my parents. They had worked so hard their entire lives to provide only the very best for me and here I was moving all the way across the country as far away from them as I possibly could. But my parents never once made me feel guilty. In fact, they encouraged me to always live my life with integrity, honesty, and kindness. My father handed me a homemade “kalbas” sandwich and gave me a great big bear hug. My mayreeg (mother) began tearing up and camouflaged it with a big, broken smile. She kissed me on both cheeks. My brother met us at the airport for the final goodbye. He said, “Don’t forget to document every moment and please don’t lose your nice, sweet self.” All three waved simultaneously. Au Revoir. Arrivederci. Adios.
The 5 hour and 26 minute flight flew by quickly. There I was at 5:55 a.m. on the other side of the country in the middle of JFK International Airport. Surrounded by strangers and a strategically placed Dunkin Donuts. Terrified. This was it. No turning back. Did I make a mistake? What was I thinking? I’d been to NY less than a handful of times and only when the weather was nice. Did I take into consideration that it snows here? Rains. It’s humid. I hate the humidity. It’s no good for my naturally, Armenian frizzy hair, I thought, as my crazy cab driver dropped me off in front of my apartment. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a big hug and smile by Bustamante. I was home.
There’s comfort in knowing that I can walk down any street, any avenue in any borough and not know a single soul. Not one person. Not one individual. In a city with plenty of somebody’s, I, Erica Marcel Sardarian, am a complete nobody…
My move to New York is somewhat of a romantic story. I had an aching, an itch to move for quite some time. I talked about it, thought about it, dreamed about it. I claimed New York like most twenty-six year-olds claim boyfriends. Mine. “I’m moving to New York.” My out. My excuse. I didn’t have the desire to fully, wholeheartedly commit to anything...including a serious relationship. There was something bigger and better around the corner.
It was slightly scary to walk down that path alone in the dark, by myself. I needed a push. That’s when my dear friend, Natalie, entered the picture. Someone who has always encouraged me to live the life I had always dreamed. A friend I will grow old with. She invited me over for a delicious dinner at her friend’s beautiful downtown loft. Bright, city lights in the heart of Los Angeles. Perfection. As we sat down, we caught up on all of life. The usual. Work, family, friends, and the one-way trip that would forever change my life, as we know it. The question I dreaded to be asked, was, yep, asked, “So, when are you moving to NY, pumpkin”? My response “I don’t know. Soon?" I was secretly terrified. I’d been talking about it for months, but talking and doing are two totally different things. Natalie quickly took out her Norman Rockwell calendar, given to her by her grandfather. “When would be an ideal date for the move,” she asked. I thought to myself, March. March is when it will be warm in NY. Well, warm enough. I was coming from sunny California. I wasn’t ready to dive into a slew of snow just yet. I had to ease into it. March sounded like a good time. So, she grabbed her red pen and circled a date. March 22. That was it. Just like that. Over pasta, and mixed greens, I decided, I was moving. End of story. After dinner and the decision, we watched Away We Go, a Sam Mendes film, the mastermind behind American Beauty (one of my all time favorite films.) The movie, starring John Krasinski and Maya Rudolph, follows a lovely couple who travel around the United States to discover “home” on their own terms. After watching their journey, Away I went. NY, here I come.
Coincidentally, another girlfriend of mine, Sandy Bustamante my big sis, lovebug, chili bean had just gone to NY for fabulous fashion week. She, too, wanted to move to the big city. Leave a successful life behind and virtually start all over again. Build a new life brick by brick. Within a matter of days, my go-getter gal pal found a job. She found us a two bedroom apartment with a view of the east river. "Are you in," she asked. Without hesitation, I responded "yes"! Sold. One bathroom. Minor setback. No big deal. We signed the lease. I couldn’t wait a minute longer, so I left exactly a week earlier on March 15, the Ides of March. Ironic? Perhaps. I booked my one-way ticket to NY and didn’t look back.
I was on my way to the Big Apple. By myself. All by my lonesome. No job. No family. A dwindling bank account and no clue as to what my future entailed. My three best girlfriends (minus one bestie who tried to make it in time but tragically missed me by a few minutes) whom I’ve known for over 23 years came to bid me a final farewell. The life I had known, the friends and family I left behind, and the unfamiliar road ahead is what made this magical place exciting. I was leaving everything in hopes of finding something…
I spent nearly four years living in overhyped Hollywood. In my defense, West Hollywood. The cooler and hipper part to reside in. Life was good. I worked in the most glamorous line of work. Entertainment. Well, from the outside looking in, it seemed glamorous, but looks can be deceiving. After 26 years of living in Southern California, I made the decision to leave the life I was accustomed to. A life that was comfortable for a life of mystery, uncertainty, and anonymity.
I remember the drive to LAX airport. We hopped on the infamously jam-packed 405 freeway and arrived at our destination in less than twenty minutes. Unheard of. As we parked the car, my dad turned to me and said, “Without you, life is miserable.” It broke my little, tin robotic heart. In that moment, I felt selfish. I felt ungrateful for leaving my parents. They had worked so hard their entire lives to provide only the very best for me and here I was moving all the way across the country as far away from them as I possibly could. But my parents never once made me feel guilty. In fact, they encouraged me to always live my life with integrity, honesty, and kindness. My father handed me a homemade “kalbas” sandwich and gave me a great big bear hug. My mayreeg (mother) began tearing up and camouflaged it with a big, broken smile. She kissed me on both cheeks. My brother met us at the airport for the final goodbye. He said, “Don’t forget to document every moment and please don’t lose your nice, sweet self.” All three waved simultaneously. Au Revoir. Arrivederci. Adios.
The 5 hour and 26 minute flight flew by quickly. There I was at 5:55 a.m. on the other side of the country in the middle of JFK International Airport. Surrounded by strangers and a strategically placed Dunkin Donuts. Terrified. This was it. No turning back. Did I make a mistake? What was I thinking? I’d been to NY less than a handful of times and only when the weather was nice. Did I take into consideration that it snows here? Rains. It’s humid. I hate the humidity. It’s no good for my naturally, Armenian frizzy hair, I thought, as my crazy cab driver dropped me off in front of my apartment. Upon arrival, I was greeted by a big hug and smile by Bustamante. I was home.
There’s comfort in knowing that I can walk down any street, any avenue in any borough and not know a single soul. Not one person. Not one individual. In a city with plenty of somebody’s, I, Erica Marcel Sardarian, am a complete nobody…
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