Archive for the inapropriately long posts Category

My Fleeting Attempt at Being a Fashionista

Posted in adventures in life, celebrities, fashion, inapropriately long posts, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on September 15, 2009 by melsanie

IMG00243-20090911-1514So I’ve lived in New York for about three years now and all this time I have never taken part in any fashion activities so this year I figured I should at least see what all the hubbub is about.  I should mention that it helps that I also have a contact at IMG who got me into fashion shows.  Lesson here kids: it’s never what you know, it’s who you know. Don’t stay in school, just learn how to mingle and fake a degree from an Ivy League or at least FIT.

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(90) Days of Unemployment

Posted in adventures in life, inapropriately long posts with tags , , , , , , , on July 31, 2009 by thedith

It has been approximately 90 days since I was laid off.  It’s 3:30 am.  I can’t sleep.  It’s hard to imagine now, but the day after I got laid off, I went to Vegas for three days.  Yep, that’s right, Vegas.  Granted, I was already planning to go to Vegas before I got laid off — bought my ticket during my lunch break the very day I got laid off, but really? I did that? Reckless? Irresponsible? Stupid? Or best decision of my life?  I vacillate between the last two.  I think it was simultaneously both.  Foolish perhaps, but at the time, I think it was what I needed to get my mojo flowing. Sometimes, you gotta do stupid things to get your groove back.

Since being laid off, I’ve temped part-time at a non-profit that organizes continuing education opportunities for Seniors;  I’ve worked (well, work, present tense) at a restaurant.  I’ve met dozens of new people — some I’ve been apathetic about, some I’ve disliked; many I’ve liked, and some I’ve really liked.  Some, I’ve regrettably fallen out of contact with because I’m bad at staying in contact with people (if you’re one of those people, and you’re reading this, hey, let’s hang out by the way?).  I’ve Networked with countless people to no avail; sent out billions more cover letters and resumes, and heard back from few.  Then, in the month of July, I all but gave up.  I knew that I needed to keep trying, but it just got to be so damn dispiriting.  This, was no funemployment.

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What’s That? Speak Up. I Don’t Read Smoke Signals

Posted in inapropriately long posts, opinions, rants, servicey, suggestions with tags , , , , , , , , on July 27, 2009 by thedith

An admitted Social Retard, I’ve been thinking about social cues a lot lately.  Like, how we give them off, how they’re interpreted, and what to do when what you’re throwin’ out there isn’t being picked up — or worse yet, when what you’re throwin’ out there is being picked up, but is being misconstrued.

Obviously, social cues are important.  Not just learning how to read them, and give them out, but logistically speaking as well — there just aren’t enough hours in the day to verbally communicate every thought and every idea to every person we encounter, so naturally we need to rely on non-verbal forms of communication.  Okay, understand that.  But sometimes, I wish we relied on social cues a lot less, and verbally communicated with each other more.  It would make life a lot easier for socially handicapped people like myself.

I like to call myself (okay, that’s a lie,  I’ve never called myself this, I’m just making this phrase up right now, but I’m going to start calling myself this from now on) a high functioning socially retarded person.  Outwardly, if you met me, you’d think that I’m just as capable of social interaction as the next guy, but actually, I’m really kind of hella awkward.  That is to say, if you like me, it takes me a really long time to pick up on it; if you don’t like me, it takes me a really long time to pick up on it.  Meanwhile, you might assume that I dislike you, even if I really haven’t made up my mind either way. And, if I do actually like you, you might never pick up on it.

Sound confusing? It is.  And, you know why? Because, like any symbolic form of communication, social cues are rife for misinterpretation.  So, that girl you saw outside the club? The one you smiled at because you saw her slip, and you wanted to let her know hey, these things happen, don’t be embarrassed? Yeah, well she’s acting all suspicious of you, whispering a warning to all her girl friends, because she thinks your smile means you’re trying to figure out what she’d look like without her clothes on.  You’re not meaning to hit on her, but she misread your social cue.  Now you don’t have a chance with any of her friends.  Or, what about that guy you’re crushing on? Remember him? He’s the one who’s phone calls you never answer right away (even though you really, really want to) because you don’t want to seem “too available” (i.e. desperate)? Yeah, well, he’s not calling you anymore because he thinks you never answer your phone when he calls because you don’t like him.  What’s to blame here? Really? Do I have to type it out here, for you? Miss-communicated social signals, duh.

And you know what? Fuck that.  I’m tired of all this social confusion.  Can I make a request here? Can I request that we stop being so lazy, and kind of talk to each other more? I know it’s easier, more comfortable, and less time consuming to let your actions reflect your thoughts, but actually,  it’s really pretty annoying when someone misreads your actions.  Let’s cut down on the suspicion/confusion/anxiousness/false hope here, and just talk to one another.  Mystery dramas are fun for entertainment purposes, but suck in real life.  Like, sure Ghost Writer was a really fun show, but wouldn’t you get sick of having a friend who insists on communicating by throwing random letters and words together in the hopes that you can figure out what  he means? Wouldn’t you be like, fuck you, Ghost Writer, who’s the dbag committing all the annoying pranks on the Lenni music video set?  You know the answer, why can’t you just tell me? Admit it, you would say that.  That’s how I feel about social cues.  And now, I’ll end with a poem:

So, tell me what you want, what you really, really, want/

I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want/*

*Answer: A zig-a-zig-ahhhh

Awkward? Party of One? I Can Seat You Now

Posted in inapropriately long posts with tags , , , , , , , , on July 17, 2009 by thedith

Working at a restaurant has taught me kids come in two forms: the super cute, and the super hateable.

Sometimes, like when a little baby looks up at me, and spontaneously bursts into a huge face crinkling, toothless smile, I like them.  Other times, like when a kid’s  jumping on the seats of the booth shrieking like a God damn banchee; or when they’re sitting in a highchair taring a tomato sauce stained napkin to shreds and then throwing it in the air like confetti; or when they’re wiping their greasy little hands on the windows I just windexed, leaving a revolting streak of sticky film in the shape of an animal paw print hand  upon the once clean surface — at these times, I hate kids.

There is actually a third species of kid: the creepy kind. They’re pretty rare though.  But, when you encounter them, they make it count…

The dinner rush had ended, and my shift was settling nicely back into a nice boring little lull of inactivity.  I reached behind me and grabbed the copy of The Corrections that I had just taken out of the library the other day.  A friend had once told me that it’s a “really riveting book.”  I had somehow managed to drag myself across 160 pages of inanity, and was beginning to question both my friendship with this person, and whether or not a person could actually die of boredom, when I had the strangest sensation I was being watched.  Putting my book down, I craned my head in either direction to catch my peeping tom in action, but all I saw were oblivious dinner patrons scraping away at their meals.  A few tables away, a kid in a booster seat blew a snot bubble.

Still not convinced that I wasn’t being watched, I wearily picked up my book, and continued reading.

“A boy likes me.” A tiny voice bleated.  I ignored it.

“I said, a boy likes me.” This time, the voice tapped on the host desk for extra emphasis.  Leaning over the host stand, I finally made eye-contact with my voyeur.  A tiny girl with giant purple cat-eye framed glasses.  The lenses were so thick, her eyes seemed to take up half her face.

“Excuse me?” I responded.

“A boy.  Likes me.”  She repeated.  She tugged down on her bangs impatiently.

“Oh…”

“A boy likes me, and I like him.”

“Sarah? Oh, there you are.” A young frumpled looking woman rushed over to the host stand.  She smiled up at me apologetically.

“Mom, I’m telling her about the boy I like.” Sarah pushed her glasses back on to her face, leaving tiny little smudges on her enormous lenses.

“Huh, huh.”  Her mother laughed nervously, wiping the child’s spagghetti stained face.  Talking about boys with strangers was clearly not polite conversation in this mom’s book.  I decided I liked this kid.

“What’s his name?” I asked, as though this toddler and I were discussing last-night’s hook up over Sunday brunch.

“Um, I don’t know…” Sarah struggled out of her mother’s grip. “Mom, what’s his name? What’s the name of the boy I like?”

“Jonathan.  They just met.” Mom looked up and explained to me. “Honey, you don’t like him, you just met him.”

“No, I like him.  and he likes me.”

“How’d you meet?” I continued to prod.

“Just now.  His mom just became friends with my mom, and then me and — Mom, what’s his name again?”

“Jonathan.”

“Yeah, Jonathan, liked each other.”  Sara clasped her hands breathlessly.

I'm pretty sure this girl's going to be Jennifer Aniston when she grows up

I was pretty impressed by this four-year old’s willingness to be so open about her love life.  I predicted a future full of eye-rolls from friends annoyed by frequent tales of obsessive crushes and uncomfortable bedroom antic overshares. I was also, not a little bit jealous that this little nerd — twenty-years younger than me, had managed to land herself a man while out to dinner with her mom.  This girl was good.

“Jonathan is so nice, and so cute!”

“Wow, that’s exciting.  Do you think you’ll see him again?”

“No!” Mom forcefully interjected.

“No.” Daughter sadly shook her head.

“Oh.” Hostess awkwardly smiled for lack of anything better to do.

Thankfully, at this moment, another frumpled looking woman rushed up to the host stand, saving us from our awkward party.  This mom was carrying a chubby baby, who’s bulbus-head tottered up and down like a bobble-head doll as she jogged.

“Diane, so great to meet you!” Frumple Mom Number Two patted Frumple Mom Number One’s shoulder.

“Oh, I know, you too!”

Frumple Mom Number Two set Bulbus Head on the chair next to her.  Lacking any real coordination (he was after all, a baby) he flopped into an upright position next to her.  Meanwhile, Sarah had shyly crawled up onto the couch next to him.  She stroked his platinum curls lovingly.  Then, tentatively at first, she put her head on his shoulder.  She smiled up at him.  Confused, Bulbus Head stared down at her.  Confused, I stared at Sarah too.

OhmyGod, is this kid in love with a baby?

Sarah nuzzled the baby’s neck with her nose and kissed his ear.  Gone were my visions of an adorable little girl in adorable puppy love, and here to stay was the realization that this kid was a pedophile in the making.  Sure, it’s unfair to call a four-year-old a pedophile; I mean she’s just a kid, and with any luck she’ll avoid a life of pedophilia and grow into a first-rate Cougar someday, but,  right now? Homegirl was kiiiind of creeping me out.

Shuddering, I picked up my boring book, excited to grab on to anything to erase that creepy kid from my memory.

Wait, You Mean I Never Told You That Story?

Posted in inapropriately long posts, Weekend Wars with tags , , , , , , , , , on June 26, 2009 by thedith

It’s been an inappropriately long time since I’ve written an inappropriately long post, and you know, I feel badly about that.  I really do. Problem is, I’m getting lazy, and feeling less inclined to write epic re-caps of fleetingly random moments.  I really do feel badly about this. I do.  I’m sure you do as well (you do?). So, to kick off the weekend, I bring you an old inappropriately long story, that will seem new to you, because you’ve never heard it before — unless you’re the person(s) who received this email way back when, and in that case: isn’t it fun to reflect on my our lives?

Subject: So, I went to the office on a Saturday…

Because I’m at work on a Saturday, I decided to write people emails, instead of working on these stupid sponsorship contracts I’ve been writing up.  Take THAT Showtime network!!

Sooo last night I went out with my roomate for the first time since I’ve been here. We went to a random friend of a friend’s house party, where she became obsessed with this hipster Indian dude with shaggy/whispy emo hair and a scull cap that he almost lost his shit over when someone tried to take it off him. I even played the best Wingwoman ever, and started talking to his friend, who is apparently some African prince from The Congo (no, really)  but he currently lives in LA, but also, he’s boring. and I gave him my number, then pretended to take down his, because this was good for his self-esteem. Sooo anyway, my roomate makes her move on Trendy McHipster, and she spend the rest of the party chatting him up. Then, it’s time to go home, we can’t find them which sucks because I have like $8 dollars – in 1’s (laundry or strip club money?) and we live across the city from Hipsterville. I return druuuunjlk to an empty apartment (Bernie Madoff, my other roomate, is in Tahoe for the weekend, skiing on slopes of my money…) and I’m feeling dramatic, so I start writing sad-sack emails on my phone about how I got Ponzi schemed by my roomate. Which is funny because today, I don’t even care that much…

Annnywayyyy I’m dramatically flopped across my bed, writing a drunk, dramatic email on my phone, doing my best Nicole Richie pre-baby/Joel Madden/cleaned-up-act-impression — when my roomate drunkenly returns, doing her best drunk roomate impression.
“It’s okay, my roomate’s probably asleep.” I hear her drunk whisper (i.e. normal person bellow) as she walks down the hallway. “Ohhhh…heyyy!” She feigns enthusiasm when she walks past my room trailed by hipsterman/boy.

Lonnggg story short, today, I fiiinally made myself leave my apartment at noon, and he was still there! Our walls are thin, and I could hear him laughing and talking up a storm, making no effort to leave. Ever. Like, longest one night hook up ever. He’s bold, this one. Also, I’m pretty sure he peed on the floor by the toilet….

Searching for Bobby Pattinson

Posted in adventures in life, celebrities, inapropriately long posts, New York City, Uncategorized, work adventures with tags , , , , , , , on June 15, 2009 by melsanie
that smile

he's smiling at me

So today I kind of stumbled upon a jackpot.  And if by stumble I mean plotted and by jackpot I mean a tween heartthrob.  I’m not even sure why I’m kind of obsessed with Robert Pattinson because he seems a little too hipster to by my type and yet…the infatuation ensues.

I heard from various interweb gossip sites that RPattz (the name that Seth and Eva affectionately gave him) was filming at NYU.  Annie, my co-worker who also adores the film star, and I decided to head over there during our lunch hour to possibly catch a glimpse of the guy who plays a sparkly vampire.

We eventually find our way to the crowds (about 20 or so girls, gays and old people who wanted to know what the fuss was all about) and with the help of the other fans, we spotted Him.  I mean, it is hard to miss that tall, gangly, perfectly/messily coiffed hair, clad in plaid, smoking a cigarette, chiseled jawbone, gorgeousness of a guy.

gaggle of girls

the other girls that decided to spend their lunch hours stalking rpattz

Annie and I got there at a good time because there weren’t any screaming tweens.  I mean, sure there were a bunch of girls taking pictures, but no one was yelling, fainting or crying. For the most part, it was pretty calm.  I guess later more kids showed up and started freaking out to the point that he had to dash into his trailer.  Yeah.  People are weird.

so far away

if you squint you can see the plaid

Back to my own stalking (which was not creepy at all).  Annie and I found a little spot and  took some pictures.  Annie’s iphone couldn’t zoom in enough  so I took out my camera and zoomed in and snapped away.  Although he was far away, he was shooting a walking scene so as he walked down the sidewalk, he got closer to where we were perched.  We actually didn’t freak out, but we were giddy and, Annie and I did high five ourselves for our efforts and awesomeness and then went over to the NY Dosa cart (vegan, what what) then headed back to the office.

I guess some intern over at Daily Intel of nymag.com also went over to WSP to check out RPattz and it must have been after we left that the crowd went apeshit crazy, freaked out and the intern was unable to take any pictures.  Daily Intel posted his observations sans photographic evidence.  Annie came over to my desk and urged me to send my pics to them, “Mel, your pictures are awesome.  You need to bring over your pictures.”  Meanwhile, I was in a group gchat with the other rabid RPattz fans–Seth, Eva, Andrea, Jessica and Nicole–about my sighting and they were getting ticked off (to put it lightly) that I didn’t bring a camera cord with me to upload the pictures immediately.  I mean, the fact that I had my camera at all is a blessing.

Anyway, to make an even longer story longer: I e-mailed Jess Pressler at Daily Intel that I had pictures, she asked me to bring them over, a photo editor took them from my camera card, me: do i need to sign anything? photo editor: not really?, deal was sealed with a high five (true story), 15 minutes later Daily Intel posted my photos in a slideshow and listed me as the source, which meant that I made my “editorial debut” on nymag.com as the creeper and taking pictures of a tween heartthrob.  Awesome.  What’s cool is that now that page is one of the most viewed pages on nymag.com.  I feel so…famous-ish.  Ah, fame.  So fleeting.  I should join “I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here” while I still can.

However, I’m not going to lie, after talking about this all day and uploading the pictures, I’m a little bit over the “celeb stalking” thing. I don’t know.  It’s kind of creepy to know that I’m probably not the only person who’s posting about their encounter with this random actor and that the random pictures I took are now on a nationally viewed website.  I’ve told people that I’m going to take up a summer hobby of finding celebs and I mean, I probably will but do I want to write about it?  I feel sketch going into details about seeing someone but is it creepier to just post pictures instead?  Oh, the woes of being a photog.