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.
August 30, 2010
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.”
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