B'scuse me?

More of Your Emily Performance Needs!

2011-09-30T14:41:00.001-07:00

While my website is being baked in the oven, I figure I should probably start listing my shows in one place.

If you're around this weekend, I'm on a storytelling and comedy show in Brooklyn on Sunday, October 2nd.

Details:
7 pm at The Bodega Winebar
24 St Nicholas Avenue (right off the Jefferson L stop)
FREE

All the rest of the glorious details are here:
http://www.facebook.com/event.php?eid=251779554864049

Out of Ideas

2011-09-21T15:04:00.000-07:00

Leaving the house these days has become stressful. This is what happens when you’ve mined your life for every possible shred of a story. It’s like I have nothing left to write about. Travel experiences? Check. Childhood? Done. Complicated parental relationship now that I’m a grownup making my own decisions? Absolutely. Relationship drivel? Of course. My fear of getting older, having kids, and possibly having made some bad decisions? Indeed.

I thought about writing poetry but realized I have as much skill in that area as I do in solving quantum physics. I thought about writing fiction, but I’m simply too literal. And for some reason, whenever I try to write something that may not be completely true, I take from my dreams, which are insane. I had an idea recently for a story about female clown who realizes she’s missed out on her calling as a stripper. WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME? Besides, aren’t dreams just twisting your reality? So really, I’m just writing my brain’s version of nonfiction.

So now when I go out of the house, I pray for something amazing to happen or at least for . . . something. Sometimes I wear ridiculous, nonmatching outfits with my skirt as a shirt and my shorts as a hat, hoping someone will engage me in a conversation, but I forgot that I live in New York and no one cares. I’ve gone from hoping to pass a burning building on the way to work just so maybe I can save a baby or a dog, to wondering what it would be like if I tripped in the middle of the street and got hit by a car.

Please don’t be concerned: I’m not trying to kill myself. The thought of having to write a suicide note is simply too stressful to even think about going through with the act. But a possible near-death experience could provide some useful fodder. Just think about it! Say there’s an accident on the subway. A sharp turn, by a haphazard, half-drunk subway conductor throws me from my standing position into some poor man’s lap. I turn to him to apologize and suddenly, we stare into each other’s eyes and realize it’s kismet. Or maybe I fall on an old war injury of his, which stirs up flashbacks from Vietnam, causing him to curl into the fetal position while shouting out military commands. This causes the train to come to a halt as someone has grabbed the emergency break and delays the train for hours. An angry mob attacks us and almost kills the Vet. He’s holding on by a thread. Maybe I feel so horrible that I caused all of this chaos that I accompany him to the emergency room as he keeps thinking I’m his long lost daughter, Consuela, anyway. Maybe when we get to the hospital our doctor is cold and standoffish but his heart is stirred by the Vet’s case because he reminds him of his father. And I am so stirred by the doctor’s compassion, that I decide that maybe I want to be a doctor.

Or maybe I’ll just settle down and have a family. Have a kid, adopt a puppy, start a blog about the magicalness of my puppy and my kid called “Buppy: Why a Baby and a Puppy Is All You Need.” I’ll be so transformed that this is the only right way to live that I’ll go on the lecture circuit. I’ll call my converts Buppies. Maybe I’ll realize that this is all I’ve ever wanted, and then I’ll resent myself for having tried to be different for the sake of being different. And then I’d get sad, because I’d want to tell my grandmother that she was right all these years, I just didn’t realize it before she passed away. Nah, that can’t be it. Maybe I’ll just work on that story about the stripper clown.

A Camel for Your Wife

2010-08-05T06:31:00.000-07:00

Samet stopped talking to our tour group and simply stared at the boys. He said something to them sharply in Arabic, but the boys only looked back at him reproachfully, one of them sassily cocking his head to the side and narrowing his eyes in what seemed to be a challenge, all the while they continued to record us with their video camera. Tamara, my traveling partner and fellow American, who was standing in front of Samet in the middle of the group pretending to be a pyramid, held her pose with her arms up in the air and her fingers touching, a comical look on her face.

We were in Egypt, an actual stone’s throw from the Sphinx, her noseless blank face hovering behind us, and Samet was our own personal and literal Egyptologist. The sun was hot on our backs, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, which might partly explain the 107 degree April temperatures.

Our tour group started to wonder if there was going to be a fight. And then, just like that, a policeman appeared, oversized gun swinging casually at his hip, and the boys were led out of our sight without another word.

“Sorry for the interruption, SamSemians,” Samet said, using the name that he had given our group, after his own nickname, like he was our conqueror. Retaking his position behind Tamara, “now, as we were saying, the Sphinx—”

“Wait, what was that all about,” I asked. I imagined the boys being thrown into a dark and grimy prison similar to that in the movie Brokedown Palace, where if they ever got out of jail, their only job opportunity would be to become a drug mule.

“It’s nothing,” he said. And then, as if reading my mind he continued, “Don’t worry. I know all the police around here. They’re not going to get in trouble, just be strongly reminded to not lurk like that.”

“But what happened? Were they making fun of us?” I implored.

“Come on, Samet,” Tamara asked, her brown eyes sparkling, her pyramid stance still strong. “You know we won’t let you go on until you explain.”

Samet sighed. He knew it was a losing battle. “Those kids weren’t Egyptian, but they were Arab. They were trying to record us. When I told them to stop, they asked me to move.”

“Why would they ask that,” Tamara said.

Samet continued reluctantly with a smile. “They thought that Tamara was ‘hot’ and just wanted to record her.”

****

“Hello beautiful ladies. Your husband is lucky man. How many camels to trade for you to become my wife?”

“Where you from? American? Welcome to Alaska, ha ha!”

“I love you!”

The storekeepers were relentless with commentary such as this as Tamara and I walked through the bazaar. Despite wrapping our heads in pashminas and keeping our knees covered to try and be respectful of the culture, it was no use. The men would yell just about anything to get our attention, and then beckon us into their stores filled with colorful scarves, small wood Egyptian sculptures of everything from pharaohs to scarabs, or huge containers filled with saffron, indigo, or lotus flower. If they didn’t say something to us, they’d stand right in our path and drape their wares over our passing shoulders, as if our contact with the goods was the missing link to change our minds. They would never say such things to Egyptian women, but foreigners? We were fair game.

One of our first days on our trip Tamara and I went in to a small store to get water. The shopkeeper was very friendly but respectful. As we handed him our items he asked if he could take a picture of us. “I guess so,” I said, looking at Tamara. She shrugged in agreement. The shopkeeper, a portly, older, balding gentleman gathered me in close first and took a picture on what seemed to be the first camera phone ever invented. He then kissed me rather aggressively on the top of my head. Tamara followed suit, trying to keep a little space between her and the man, but wanting to honor her promise. After the pictures, he gave us lollipops.

“I feel like we’ve been lured into some man’s unmarked white van,” I said.

“I just hope we don’t end up on the internet with a caption under our pictures that we’re his ‘wives,’” Tamara said in agreement. When we got back to our hotel we told Samet and the rest of the group about our encounter, much to the group’s delight. Tamara and I googled “American whores” for a while just to make sure our pictures didn’t come up.

The next night, just as we were about to explore the night markets in Aswan, Samet pulled Tamara and me aside.

“I know how independent you girls are,” he started running his hands through his dark curly hair and straightening himself up as tall as his 5”6 frame would allow, “but…it might it be better if you walk with one of the boys.”

“Why? We can take care of ourselves,” I said.

“Oh, I know that,” Samet said, “but I think you’ll make things easier for yourselves. You’ll get less…unwanted attention that way.”

“You know what—”

“Sure, Samet,” Tamara said, cutting me off, as she escorted me away.

“I’m sorry, but that’s bullshit. We’re grownups! We’re covered up! I don’t need some MAN to take care of me.”

“Em, why are you getting all wound up? Samet’s just being protective.”

My boyfriend jokingly likes to call these my “Independent Woman” moments, complete with Destiny’s Child accompaniment, where I assert righteous indignation, not unlike Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction, at something feminist-oriented. I wasn’t sure if I was upset that women in Egypt couldn’t just go about their business if they weren’t covered up. Or maybe I was mad because these men didn’t know me, and yet they assumed that women from outside their country were all cut from the same whore-y cloth. Maybe I was just delirious from the heat.

“Maybe I’ll catcall them.”

“Good idea,” Tamara said. “Maybe you can get us kidnapped.” Before coming to Egypt, we had both been forwarded lots of information from our overprotective parents about Jewish tourists being kidnapped.

“You think Bill Clinton will come and rescue us, like he did those journalists in North Korea? That could totally be worth it.”

Tamara just ignored me.

As we wandered through the market, I tried to calm down. We looked at knickknacks, took pictures, and marveled at the number of feral cats wandering through the city. (Seriously, Egyptians have a weird reverence for cats. There is a cat goddess. In ancient Egypt, if a cat died of natural causes, it was mandatory for the cat’s human family to go into mourning.)

And then it happened. I noticed a man staring as we walked past his stall of spices. Without breaking his gaze he screamed at us as we passed in fast succession: “You are in my dreams! I love you! You have nice shape!”

That was the final straw.

“Seriously, dude? I like your shape? What is she a cantaloupe? Maybe I’m more of a pear?”

He sputtered and looked at me with confusion. “What is cantaloop?”

“It…it doesn’t matter. Would you talk to your mother that way? Your sister?”

“My mother is dead. And it is a compliment.”

“No, it’s not, you creep. Seriously, if you know what’s good for you, do not say another word.” And with that I turned on my heel, glared back at his speechless face, and pulled Tamara with me.

We walked for a while in silence. “Do you feel better now?” Tamara asked.

“Yes,” I answered. “I feel great. Now let’s go look at some more head scarves. After all, I wouldn’t want to offend anyone’s culture.”

Why I Now Respect Strippers...

2010-05-13T14:15:00.000-07:00

I entered the studio tentatively, unsure of what to expect. I had just put my bag down when a girl burst in looking like a modern schoolmarm, dressed in all black, a feathery headband, pearls, and shockingly red lipstick.

“Oh my god! I’ve had such a day. And I haven’t been on the pole in a week. A week! I’m going out of my mind!” she exclaimed.

She meant pole as in pole dancing. And I was here to take my first class.

I went because I like a challenge. I went because I figured it might be good to learn to ooze a little sexuality. But I went mostly because my friend, much like the schoolmarm, loved the pole. In fact, my friend had a pole installed in her apartment. She had gone one step further creating her own Youtube channel, which showed her thrashing and gyrating and doing amazing, sexy, aerial things to a burnished pole. Unexpected comic relief was added when her small, furry dog would fly through the frame, wanting to join in, too.

I had no idea what to wear to such a class. In my head I thought clear stripper heels and pasties maybe, but I was told I’d need a tank top and “booty shorts.” My friend brought several booty short options and I choose the ones that would reveal the least amount of my lady parts. Not knowing what to expect as far as how difficult a workout it would be I had gone to the gym earlier in the day.

“Alright guys, let’s do this,” Kyra, our instructor said, clapping her hands. She started up her iPod and hip hop blasted from the speakers. She was tall and toned and looked serious. In place of booty shorts, she wore loose tear-away cargo pants. Kyra got her start choreographing routines for the strippers at the Hustler club. I joined the other three girls, all well-versed in the pole for some floor work. We sat on the wood floor surrounded by mirrors, the three poles gleaming in the fluorescent light behind me. I was surprised to see that schoolmarm, who’s name was actually Jade Electrica (yes, that’s her real name, not her stripper name) when changed out of her attire, was covered in tattoos.

For forty-five minutes Kyra taught what could be best described as sexy yoga as we did sit-ups and stretches, pushing and pulling our bodies closer to the floor until I was ready to yell out “mercy!” I’d left my hair down, thinking that would help with the “sexy” factor, but by the end it was sweaty and matted to my face.

Just when we were at our breaking points Kyra stopped us. “OK girls,” she said, pausing. “It’s time for some pole work.”

Good God.

I got my own pole and my own instructor because I was about as much of a beginner as one can be. I watched the other girls saunter up to their poles and rub up against them, like a strange animalistic courting ritual. Seconds later they were climbing up the poles like they were part of a sexy covert CIA mission. Then they were upside down. They were twirling around the pole. They were sliding down it. They were, in essence, making love to the pole.

“Um, can you teach me how to do that whirly upside-down thing that looks like a helicopter?” I asked.

“Well,” Lian, my instructor said, “why don’t we get you acquainted with the pole first.” Like we were supposed to shake hands or something. “Getting acquainted” required me to circle the pole and roll my body down it. And all the while I kept seeing my reflection and realizing that with my tongue hanging out in concentration, I looked anything but sexy. It was as if all “the practice” I had done in my clubbing days had vanished.

Eventually, I started to get it. “Good,” Lian said. “Now let’s try some moves.” She pranced around the pole, her long brown hair swaying at her hips, complimenting her thin dancer’s body, swinging around and then flipping her legs from side-to-side while hanging from the pole in a move called the fan kick. But it wasn’t just swinging around, it was “left leg first, dominant hand at the top, pop your booty, arch your back.” And I did it over and over again because I’m competitive. And soon my hands were starting to slide down the pole because they were so sweaty. All the while Lian never took her eyes off of me or unpuckered her lips. If we had been anywhere else this would have felt like sexual harassment.

My friend, who had been watching me while uttering assurances like “you’re doing it, Em!” and “You look so sexy!” (which always made me lose any sexiness I could muster), ran to her bag. She returned with some kind of ointment that made my hands stop sweating, like we were Olympic gymnasts training for the gold. And so I kept mounting the pole with determination. Soon I had managed to hold myself up and rotate my legs through the air from side to side like a completely unabashed oscillating fan. As I slid down the pole to the floor, I felt a sense of accomplishment and noticed with amusement that Color Me Badd’s “I Want to Sex You Up” was playing. My arms, however, felt like Jell-o. I looked over to the right and saw Jade go from a “fireman pose” to a “no-handed bow and arrow” to a “spinning chopper” to the “teddy bear.” She dismounted the pole and breaking from her sexy face, displayed a huge smile.

“You did great,” Lian said, turning me to face her and giving me a big hug. I half expected us to make out. “We’ll work on the sexy part next time.” I had so much to learn.

A Tale of Two Cities

2010-02-23T07:49:00.000-08:00

Growing up, Valentine’s Day was never a holiday that my little adolescent heart yearned for. I never had a boyfriend when the dreaded holiday of Hallmark fell (well, except for fifth grade when I was dating Joel Spitalnik), and it was now my senior year of high school. Just once I wanted to get a box of candy from someone other than my parents, even if my parents were careful about my nut allergy. I wanted some cheap-ass carnations! I wanted to bask in the artificiality of the made-up holiday with someone that loved me or at least thought he did for a little while.

This year, I decided, would be different. I would go away, away to a different country where they still had Valentine’s Day. And if I found love, well, all the better. So I went to visit my friend Theresa.

“I think I’m going to go to Toronto for Valentine’s Day,” I announced to my friends at lunch.

“Really? Is there some guy you haven’t told us about?” Allie asked, with what felt like judgment.

“Maybe,” I replied, trying to sound mysterious.

Everyone just looked at me. “Fine, no, I’m just going to visit a friend I met on my trip to England last summer. But you never know. I could fall in love.”

“Well, I don’t think we have anything special planned, at least not that I know of,” Melanie said, but Melanie already had a boyfriend, so she didn’t count.

“Who cares about Valentine’s day,” Justine replied.

“Yeah,” Esther added. “All I’m doing this weekend is getting my wisdom teeth out.”

“You really know how to celebrate,” I said.

And so I bought my plane ticket. “So there’s one thing,” Theresa explained. “I kind of have to go to this big black tie benefit the weekend you come up. It’s for my dad’s Multiple Sclerosis Benefit, but you can come, too!”

It didn’t sound like that much fun, but maybe benefits were different and better in Canada. And besides, I liked to dress up. “Okay! Maybe there will be cute boys!”

“More like old men, but maybe we can get drunk, ay.” I was sold.

A month later, I was in Canada, all decked out on Valentine’s day night with somewhere to go. This was going to be great.

But Theresa was right. There were no cute boys under the age of 60. There was booze, but we couldn’t get our hands on a whole lot of it, so most of the night was spent plotting and playing Do, Kill, or Marry.

The next morning at breakfast, my parents called.

“Geez, you don’t have to check up on me, I’m fine,” I said, rolling my eyes at Theresa.

“Honey, I’m not sure how to tell you this.” My mom paused. “Esther passed away last night.”

I stood there, holding the phone, trying to understand. But Esther had been fine when I saw her on Thursday. Esther couldn’t be dead. “That can’t be true.”

“I’m so sorry, honey. I think you should come home.”

“I guess I should,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get a flight.” I hung up the phone, but kept gripping the receiver.

“What happened?” Theresa asked. “You look completely freaked out, ay?”

“My friend died last night. She had a brain aneurism when she was getting her wisdom teeth out. I have to go home.” A lump caught in my throat but I couldn’t cry.

Theresa reached out to give me a hug, and I let her but it felt strange. She’d never met Esther. She didn’t understand. “Let’s pack your stuff and we’ll drive you to the airport. My mom will call and see about changing your flight.”

I looked out the window; the snow was starting to fall. “But it’s snowing.”

“Yeah, it does that a lot here. It’s Canada,” she said. “You’ll be okay.”

Two hours later, I was at the Toronto Pearson International Airport, clutching my bag and my ticket. I sat at the gate. Theresa had tried to stay with me but I told her I’d be okay. I wanted to be alone.

My flight was in an hour, but the snow was starting to come down harder. And then I saw the announcement go up on the board. The flight was delayed. “That’s okay,” I mumbled to myself. “It’s just delayed twenty minutes.” I continued gripping my bag. Around me a group of what seemed to be about 30 people who were all together were also waiting for the flight. They groaned when they saw the time change.

An hour later, the flight was cancelled. Oh God, how will I get home? I thought. I’m in a foreign country (even if it is Canada). What if I miss the funeral? And that’s when I started to cry. And I’m not talking a few cute stagelike tears. I started to wail.

I wanted to be home. I wanted to reminisce about the time that we all went to see the movie Scream and we were driving home and it was dark and the highway was deserted and we were freaked out because of the movie and Esther screamed out “I’m so glad I’m a virgin!” because virgins never die in horror films.

I wanted to talk to someone about Esther trying out for cheerleading senior year and us teasing her mercilessly because she was small and stocky and all personality and no dance skills. But our cheerleading team wasn’t very good and they needed another member. And how excited Esther was to walk around in her uniform on game days and how she’d come up behind me and tickle my nose with her pom poms.

I wanted to tell someone how brave I thought Esther was when she found out she was diabetic. She said she felt better because now, she explained in her always positive way, “this explains why I can never lose weight!”

I took deep heaving breaths, all the while hugging my luggage. The tears kept coming.

“You okay, sweetie?” a woman said, kneeling in front of me. She was part of the big group that was waiting for our flight. She was probably in her 50s and was very blonde and very well dressed. I realized just about everyone was staring at me.

I took another hyperventilating breath and tried to get a hold of myself. “I have…to get to…Philadelphia.”

“That’s good. So do we.” I noticed she was looking at me both with concern and as if I was slightly autistic. “We’ll help you get there, sugar. There will be other flights. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It’s not just that. My friend just died. I have to get home,” I said quietly.

“Oh, honey,” she said, and surprised me by wrapping me in a big hug. I tried not to cry but I just lay there with my head on her shoulder, sobbing, soaking her shirt through to her shoulder pads. She hugged me until I stopped crying. It took a while. “Well, we’re all here for a family reunion. I’m Lisa and this is my husband, Phil, and my three kids, Justin, Sam, and Phil, Jr.” The boys looked embarrassed and Phil senior waved. “We’re from Manayunk. You know where that is? All these guys,” she gestured around us, “are family too, and they live all over. You want something to eat? A hoagie or wudder or something?”

“Manayunk is about 5 minutes from my parent’s house,” I said, wiping my face with the back of my hand. If I couldn’t be home, at least hearing a familiar Philly accent made me feel better.
And Lisa did indeed take care of me. She got me on the next flight out and I got home 8 hours later. If it hadn’t been for her, I might still be at that airport rocking gently. As soon as I got to my house Justine and Allie and Melanie came over and we sat and cried and hugged each other and talked about Esther.

After finally getting myself under control I looked over at Melanie.

“So what did you and your boy end up doing for Valentine’s Day?” I asked.

“I can’t even remember, it seems so long ago,” she said. “It doesn’t seem all that important either.”

It really didn’t.

Me, Lady Parts, and Mr. Matthews

2010-02-02T14:51:00.000-08:00

While watching the Grammys the other night and I caught Dave Matthews’s performance. Seeing him brought back a lot of memories.

When I think about high school, I think of Dave Matthews Band. Sure, most of the songs sound the same. They sound like adolescence, like the hardest decisions I would have to make would be which boy I should have a crush on and whether I should wear my red hippie skirt or my Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls. I had not yet discovered the magic of hip hop or R&B or clothes that didn’t have previous owners. I hadn’t learned about real heartbreak or the frustration of being out on my own.

I went to countless Dave concerts and they were all awesome but all the same. The band would play and we would sing every single word because we knew them all by heart and they would jam for hours. It was like a Grateful Dead concert without the counterculture. I imagined if I ever met Dave Matthews that he probably wouldn’t fall in love with me—I rarely had that effect on people—but at the very least I would make him my best friend.

One summer my friend Jackie and I went to see Dave Matthews at the Mann Music Center in Philly right around my birthday. She had gotten tickets from a friend of hers who worked at the Mann and we were front row center. I remember swaying to the music, looking up Dave’s nose, and feeling like the luckiest girl in the world. If he would just play “Seek Up” I could die happy, I thought to myself. During the second encore he did and I can’t remember if I cried or peed myself a little bit or both. The song wasn’t quite finished when Jackie whispered in my ear, “come on.”

“But the song isn’t finished …” I said, exasperated. Was Jackie not the real fan I thought she was?

“Trust me,” she said, pulling me with her. And since she was several years older, and we had had some interesting adventures together, I let her lead.

“So I think we can get backstage,” Jackie said, laying out her very limited plan. “My friend who got us the tickets also got us catering badges. I think we can meet him.”

I tried to focus on walking but I had lost the ability to function. “Meet him? You mean Dave him? Oh my god! Oh my god! What will I say? What will…”

“Calm down, Em. We’re not backstage yet. But if we’re going to do it, I need you to keep it together.”

I took some deep, calming breaths. She was right. The only way Dave could become my best friend was if I could relax.

She gave me a badge to put on and I tried to look like a knowledgeable caterer. It was surprisingly easy to get backstage and we stood together in the back of the room, trying not to seem excited. And then Dave Matthews came out. And I was kind of awestruck. Jackie went to walk up to him and I couldn’t seem to uproot myself from my place. Apparently I was the only stationary one, because all the other people in the room flocked to him, squealing, chattering, arms outstretched with writing utensils and a dream. Jackie pulled me along again when she realized I wasn’t behind her and we wadded into the sea of fans, not getting anywhere. We realized that to the right of where Dave was signing autographs there was some space. So we stood to the side, just close enough to him that it wasn’t creepy and waited patiently for him to finish.

We stood there for a good hour. Every so often he would look over at us and smile and I tried not to faint, but we waited. And when the crowd finally thinned considerably, he turned to us.

“You girls have anywhere to be,” he asked, his strange southern twang drawing out his words.

“Just waiting for you,” Jackie said.

I just nodded, as my voice box had stopped working.

“Well, thanks,” he said. He gave Jackie a hug and she passed him something to sign. She was tall and he didn’t have to bend over to hug her, but he noticed that she jolted a little.

“You okay?” he said to her, as he leaned down to give me a hug. He smelled like sweat and patchouli. I tried not to attach myself to him like a blood-sucking leech.

“Well,” Jackie said, looking a little embarrassed, “I just had surgery, so I’m a little sore.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t mean to hurt you. Was the surgery serious?” he asked.

“Ah, sort of? It was a breast reduction.”

“Nice. Congrats,” Dave twanged. He managed to do this without giving her the once over the conversation called for, which made me like him even more. He leaned down to hug her again, this time around the stomach to avoid any sensitivity.

“If I tell you I had surgery, do I get another hug, too?” I blurted out. “Oh my god, sorry, that was assholic.” And then I was even more mortified because I had said ‘assholic’ in front of Dave Matthews. (Note: My mother argues that that was not the most “assholic” thing I have ever said in front of a celebrity. She felt that the time that Larry Brown, then coach of the Sixers, came into the Starbucks where I working and I told him that I “liked his work” took the cake for idiocy.)

“No sweat. I like hugs,” Dave said, and he leaned down to give me another hug.

And then we stood there for a while and talked about hospital food, and Dave’s time in South Africa, and his funky shoes that were made out of hemp. And I imagined Dave adopting me and we’d have conversations like this all the time.

“Man, do you girls have to get back to work?” Dave garbled, eyeing our badges.

“Not really,” Jackie and I said, exchanging glances.

“Well, I have to go, but it was nice meeting you girls.”

“You, too, Dave,” we said casually, like we hung out with him all the time.

And as we walked away I gave Jackie my own hug around her waist. “That was kind of amazing,” I said. “I can’t wait to see what you do for my birthday next year.”

A Tale of Multiple Grandmothers

2010-01-26T12:16:00.000-08:00

My grandmother has been in the hospital for almost 7 weeks now. It happened the way it happens to most older people: a fall which results in a broken bone which results in surgery and then complication after complication after complication.

When I tell people, I keep getting the same question. “Well, how old is she?” Like her age will determine her survival rate. A woman named Nola Ochs graduated college at the ripe old age of 95. Mary Armstrong celebrated her 90th birthday by skydiving. Frank Schearer is still water skiing at 100 years old. Are these people unique cases? Yes. But I’m not encouraging my 87-year-old grandmother to go for that first attempt at bungee jumping. I’m just rooting for her to make it through all this.

Every week I go visit her in the hospital and every week she’s in a different situation. At first it was just her surviving the surgery. Then it was starting her on physical therapy which she was not happy about because it was grueling and she was having a hard time breathing. She was vocal, and adamant, and cranky, and no doubt in a lot of pain, but she was fighting.

Then the real problems started. She developed pneumonia and was put on steroids which made her delusional. I walked into her hospital room, only to find her discussing in great detail the party she was throwing for herself that night. Other then the fact that she was nowhere near being released from the hospital, it made sense until she started reading the menu.

“Where is the menu you’re reading, Mom Mom? I asked.

“Em, it’s on the bed sheet, obviously.”

Then came the list of guests for what she insisted be a low-key affair. “We should invite Bunny and Eddie, and the Pollacks,” she said. “And let’s get some puppies, too. But only the small fluffy ones…”

When she asked the nurse who the green people were, I got really upset. Was she seeing aliens now? But when the nurse confirmed that the nurses now had new uniforms, thus the green, I was relieved but still terrified.

The next week I saw her, she was in a coma. She couldn’t breathe without the aid of a machine and she was in such a deep sleep, I didn’t even see her eyelids twitch. We thought this might be the end and we tried to prepare ourselves.

And then after almost a week, she woke up. Just like that. She couldn’t talk or move her arms; the doctors thought she’d had a stroke. For days she just lay there. And though we were happy that she was alert we wondered, if she survived, what quality of life she would have.
And then just a few days ago, she spoke her first words in weeks.

“She talked!” my mom exclaimed. It was good to hear my mother, who’d been keeping a vigil by her mother’s side, sound so positive.

“Well, what did she say?”

“Her first words were ‘that was crazy.’”

And we both laughed, because if my grandmother could recognize how strange this trip had been, maybe she’d be okay. Maybe she’d gotten her fight back.

When I went to see her this past weekend, I hoped to find her in good spirits. She was alert, looking around, and she had full function in her arms.

“Say hello to Em,” my mom said.

“Hello,” she responded. But there was no warmth in her eyes, no happiness, simply complacency.

I gave her a kiss and told her how happy I was to see her. Then I noticed that her wig was all askew. “Mom Mom, let’s fix your wig,” I said. “You look like Little Richard.”
And my father laughed. And the nurse laughed. And my mother actually snorted. But my grandmother didn’t even crack a smile.

And that’s what really worries me. I know that she can beat this if she puts her mind to it. She’s a tenacious woman who was patient enough to be my piano teacher for almost 10 years, and I’m not an easy student. Even if she can’t walk, I want her to at least wheel out of that hospital with her head held high and her wig on straight. But she has to want it.

The Dave Who Ruined Christmas

2009-12-21T07:25:00.000-08:00

“Man, I wish you could join me for Christmas,” Dave said.

“I know. It’s not even like I’m doing anything special—maybe a movie and some Chinese food.”

“Why don’t you come up to Syracuse? My family always makes it a really big event, and I’ve been wanting you to meet my parents anyway. And . . . I miss you. Besides, maybe then we can finally, you know, take our relationship further.”

That was all it took. I had never celebrated Christmas before, most likely because I’m Jewish. But like most Jewish people, I’d always been kind of curious as to what actually happens at Christmas. Was it as warm and fuzzy as all the Hallmark commercials? Did someone always get a diamond and happiness abounds, like Zale’s says? Would I get the hottest new toy that I had been wishing for, as Toys R’ Us predicts? I’d also never dated a guy who was so freaking . . . nice. There were no games with Dave, no mystery as to how he felt about me. And it was refreshing. I couldn’t wait to see him.

Several days later, after a long and snowy six-hour car ride, with me gripping the wheel until my knuckles turned white, I found myself at Dave’s parent’s house on Christmas Eve. He greeted me with a long hug, as did his parents, his ninety-three-year-old grandmother, his three older sisters, their spouses, and their multiple kids. I found myself overwhelmed. I smiled and made small talk, but I began to wonder if I had made a mistake. There were so many people. And so many Christmas decorations. And so many representations of Jesus and his various relatives.

We sat down to dinner. There was a large ham. There was turkey. There were about fifty side dishes. I picked at the sides and made small talk about my classes. Dave and I held hands under the table. I felt the pressure of his thumb stroking my inner palm, and it soothed me. Every time one of Dave’s parents would ask me a question, they would look at each other and smile after my answer. After dinner the children ran off to play games that small children play.

“Okay, guys,” Dave’s dad said, looking at all of us adults expectantly. “It’s time to take communion!”

Oh, no. Was he really serious? Is that something you do at Christmas? Was I expected to do this, too? I imagined if I actually took “communion” some Jewish child would lose his Hanukah gelt.

“Pssst, Emily. Over here.” I looked over to see John, Dave’s oldest sister’s husband, gesturing to me. “You look scared,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. I’m Jewish, too.”

“Do they know?” I asked, alarmed.

“Of course. Listen, since we’re Jews, I’ve come up with our own special ‘communion’ that only we can do. Join me.”

“Okay,” I said, looking over at Dave, who gave me an encouraging smile from across the room.

“Take this Ritz cracker. I want you to eat it, say ‘shalom’ and kiss me on the cheek on the count of three.”

We did. It seemed to make John incredibly happy. I’d forgotten how good Ritz crackers can be. Probably much more buttery than a communion wafer. I also wondered if John would just perform this ritual with himself before I came along. That must have been really weird.

“Now go back to the Christmas stuff,” he said, as Dave came over. We sat in front of the fire and looked at their Christmas tree. It was huge and leaned slightly to the right. The ornaments were plentiful, some homemade, and didn’t match.

“We add new ones every year,” he began to explain in great detail, as if I had not only never celebrated Christmas before, but as if I was also autistic.

“Nice,” I said. It was really a very good idea, those Christmas trees. Kind of like a shrub of memories.

“See this one?” Dave said, pointing to a small ornament that looked like a movie camera. “My parents gave me that one when I started college and I decided to be a film major.” Dave was now in his junior year and I was a sophomore. We had met while working on the school newspaper as Features editors. We were just like the movie Up Close and Personal without the excitement or Robert Redford.

It was getting late so we got in our pajamas. I had packed the most flannelly pajamas I owned, not wanting to alarm Dave’s parents. If I could have found footie pajamas, I probably would have brought them. I was surprised to find out that I was sleeping in the same room as Dave, him on the floor and me in the bed. That would not have been cool at my house. Of course, a Christmas tree wouldn’t have been cool either.

“Well, my sisters are so much older that my parents probably aren’t even thinking about us being in the same room. That or they’re really glad I finally have a girlfriend,” he said, smiling shyly. He seemed almost giddy. I had a feeling I knew what was coming. It felt weird doing it here, but kind of exciting, like I when I used to smoke pot in my parent’s basement.
We said our goodnights to everyone and went to bed. Spooning me from behind, he whispered in my ear, “I really am glad you came up.”

I was glad, too. I wondered why I hadn’t always made life so easy for myself by dating someone free of drama. Sure, it wasn’t always nonstop excitement, but it was comfortable. We started to kiss, when he stopped and looked deeply with his navy blue eyes right into mine. “I want this to be the night,” he said.

“Are you sure? You’re ready?”

It wasn’t me I was worried about, it was Dave. He might have been older, but I was more learned in the ways of the sex. And by more learned, I meant I’d slept with one other person.

“No. I want to do it,” he said, blushing furiously. “I’m glad I waited for you to come along.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle,” I said, laughing. And we went to it. Or at least we tried to. Dave had a little, how shall we say, performance anxiety. So after trying for a while, we gave up and fell asleep, still content to be next to each other.

The next morning we woke up to Christmas. I got a sweater from the sisters, sans Christmas tree (‘we weren’t sure you’d like that,’ said Carole, the middle sister) and I ate more cookies than all the kids combined, most likely because there was no one there willing to stop me. I headed home later that day, with a container of more cookies and ham (I couldn’t say no) in my backseat. While I was slightly irked by my lack of booty, overall, it had been a memorable experience.

Dave and I kept dating for a few months. It was nice but fizzled out. We never consummated the relationship, despite quite a few attempts. That probably didn’t help things either.

A couple years after college around Christmas I got an email from Dave. “Here's a surprise about my life,” he wrote. “I'm in medical school up here in Buffalo! I finally got in this past summer! Additionally, I am dating someone. Her name is Tracy and it is going really well. Give me a call if you get a chance, I’d love to catch up.”

So I contacted him. And he emailed back. And soon it became clear why he had really contacted me. “So I really like Tracy,” he wrote. “And I think we’re ready to sleep together. And I know that we didn’t, but we got pretty close. I don’t know how to say this, but, you didn’t have any diseases, did you? I mean, I’m sure you don’t but I just figured it would be good to know these things before I take the plunge. Okay, thanks and glad to hear you’re doing so well! Best, Dave.”

I stared at my computer. Dave thought I was whore. And Dave was in medical school, so unless he was studying some new disease, I’m not sure what diseases he thought I might have given him just by making out. (I do not have herpes. My lips are just chapped.) I responded with a terse “No, I’m clean.” So much for catching up.

Sweat It Out

2009-12-15T14:21:00.000-08:00

I never thought I would find myself sweating profusely while twisted in the position of a pretzel, but such was the case when I took a bikram yoga class for the first time. I was told that it would be good for my back and help me stretch out my tired, world-weary joints that feel, these days, like they belong to a 95-year-old. I also tried it because I love a good challenge—my friend had me at “holy crap, it was freaking impossible!”

For those of you that do not hang out with the earth-loving hippie crowd, bikram yoga is performed in a roughly 105 degree room. Classes last 90 minutes, basically without a break, where you go through a series of 26 yoga poses and breathing exercises.
I noticed quite a few interesting things during the class. For instance:

Working out in 105 degrees is hard. This is even more difficult when you’re in a closed room, with a bunch of other sweating bodies, which creates an odor that smells vaguely like dying feet that have been left in a pile of rotting fish.
We were told that some symptoms people suffer from during the class include dizziness and nausea, but that’s it’s “OK and totally normal.” Yup, sounds healthy.
The instructor mentioned as soon as the class started that there were “no judgements.” This was initially difficult, as there was an older obese man in a Speedo, a Brooklyn bike cap, and glasses attached to a string in one corner and a woman who looked like she hadn’t eaten in a while because she had used all her savings to tattoo every square inch of her body in the other. But this judgment quickly ceased when I had a clear view in the mirror in front of the room of myself as I attempted to pull my leg over my head, bend forward, drip sweat, and breathe all at the same time. I am not graceful.
I can attempt to meditate through deep breathing. I can not, however, do this when the instructor sings a song that he obviously wrote—perhaps in his mind with Lenny Kravitz—about how we should not let life get us down or worry about “the man.” Seriously. Really hard to concentrate.
Apparently, I don’t know my left from right. I had to keep putting my “other right” hand behind my heel before contorting myself in ways that young ladies simply did not do in olden times. The instructor suggested when in doubt, the hand that shows a correct “L” is your left hand. I was not sure if this comment made me cry or perspire more through my face.

The good news is I survived. Jury is still out if I enjoyed it, though I certainly felt a sense of accomplishment in finishing. I was so excited I would have hugged some of the other folks that finished the class, but I think that if we had embraced our joint sweat would have forced us to slide right down each other onto the floor. Maybe I’ll give it another chance. I just hope that between now and the next time I go they invest in an air conditioner.

When You Assume . . .

2009-11-23T15:04:00.000-08:00

I had one of the most delicious falafels I’ve ever tasted in Budapest, Hungary. It seemed like fate that we found it. After a long day of wandering up and down the Danube, we needed sustenance. My brother flipped open one of those free city magazines and we saw the ad for it immediately: Hummus Bar. After days and days and days of potatoes, which I love but can only eat for so many meals in a row, I was beginning to hallucinate about meat. My nightmares involved schnitzel, huge phallic sausages, and goulash being thrown at me by old Hungarian women wearing babushkas. Hummus Bar cried out to my vegetarian soul.

At first we missed it. Maybe because the restaurant had only a small chalkboard sitting in front to identify it. Or because the name of the restaurant was mostly wiped off the board. We walked in. A guy and girl, both somewhere in their twenties, dusted themselves off from their seats in the corner, welcomed us, and set to work. The restaurant was otherwise empty.

“What would you like, my friend?” the man, who was now behind the counter, asked. He was wearing a soccer jersey and an eager smile. He wore a gold chain around his neck, his skin dark and sun-kissed.

We ordered two falafels with the works and when we asked if they came with hummus he looked at us as if we were stupid.

“With hummus? Of COURSE it comes with hummus,” he bellowed, his voice thick with an indiscernible accent, while gesturing wildly.

As the young woman began to roll out the falafels from scratch in the small exposed kitchen in the back, our new friend began making our sandwich with so much care, it seemed he was giving birth to his creation. First the hummus was spread evenly and carefully, coating every inch of the pita. Then the lettuce, then the tomato, each placed one by one. Some pickles were delicately placed on top and a sprinkling of cabbage. Then the tahini, dripped evenly over all the toppings. When the woman appeared from the kitchen, fresh falafels in hand, he placed them in the sandwich as delicately as one would place sleeping children in their beds. He continued layering the sandwich until it was about to burst. I sensed that this food was an act of love, a call to his heritage. My mouth watered in anticipation.

“So where are you from? Israel? The Middle East?” I asked.

“No, my friend. I'm Indian. Do I look like an Israeli? You crazy Americans.”

The Unwanted Guest

2009-11-17T07:11:00.000-08:00

It all started normal enough. My alarm goes off. I hit snooze. Eight minutes later, I hit it again. I grumble, roll over to look at the clock, and slide out of my side of the bed. As I walk around the bed I see something on the floor. Thinking it’s a gray T-shirt, I lean over to pick it up, when I stop.

It’s not a shirt.

I scream before diving back into bed headfirst, whimpering.

“What? What is it?” my boyfriend demands, rousing himself out of sleep. I can only point. He looks in my finger’s direction and screams himself, much like a little girl, though he denies it.
It’s a dead pigeon.

The pigeon isn’t bloody, or old, or terrifying. He actually looks kind of peaceful, folded up into a ball of gray iridescent feathers, his small head resting to one side. But pigeons are not supposed to be on your bedroom floor.

We debated under the covers for a long time as to who should take care of our visitor. He felt because I found it first, it was my job. I hated myself for pointing out that he was the man, and that was why one kept men around—to handle these types of situations.

We compromise. He will get the pigeon into the trash and I will discard of the evidence. My boyfriend carefully scoops up the body into a dustpan. We both cringe at the thump the pigeon makes as it hits the bottom of the trashcan. I crawl back under the covers. I stick my head out to watch as my boyfriend sprays an entire bottle of disinfectant onto the crime scene. He ties up the bag and sticks it next to the front door.

“How did it get in here anyway?” my boyfriend asked. We both looked toward the open window that has a large, industrial sized fan blocking its entrance. There was no space for a pigeon to fit through.

“Maybe someone is trying to send a message,” I surmised. “A horse’s head is expensive, but pigeons are free.” But there is no mafia presence in our neighborhood, unless there is a Caribbean or Orthodox Jewish mafia that I don’t know about.

“Possibly. Maybe it’s the fish.” We had recently gotten a goldfish. My boyfriend repeatedly called the fish a bird by accident, so he decided to name him Bird. “Maybe it’s Bird’s way of telling me that there’s a difference between a fish and a bird.”

Both possibilities. Both highly unlikely.

A friend told me later that sometimes animals come out from their hiding places to die. I imagined passing the pigeon in my hallway before his demise, him wearing a tiny bathrobe. When I’d ask him how he was, just to be a polite neighbor, he’d say “I’ve been better, but enough about me.” I mean, seriously. I would have noticed if there was a pigeon wandering around my apartment. We truly had no idea how our visitor had gotten in.

I got dressed, checking to make sure all our other windows were closed, jerking at everything I saw out of the corner of my eye. I put my coat on, took a deep breath, and got ready to leave. “Don’t forget your lunch, honey,” my boyfriend said with a smile, kissing me on the forehead and handing me the ominous trash bag. Damn you, teamwork.

I closed the door behind me and carried the dead pigeon to the trash room, trying not to jostle him. I wondered if he might come to life at any moment and try and fight his way out of the bag. Impossible. Was this how hit men felt after their first kill, the body of their victim rolling around in their car trunk? I had to stop: This was not productive.

I opened the door to the trash room and placed the pigeon gently in a large trashcan, shutting the door quietly so as not to disturb him.

Outside my apartment building I tried to shake off the events of the morning. “No big deal,” I said out loud. “It could happen to anyone.” I turned the corner and walked right into the path of a pigeon. He stopped and stared at me with what looked like suspicion before looking in the direction of my apartment building. I dug through my bag, found the sandwich I had packed for lunch, and threw the whole thing to the ground. Can’t hurt to make amends, I thought. Again, the bird eyed me and sauntered over to my offering. “Sorry for your loss,” I said, and then hurried for the subway.

Missing the Man in the Mirror

2009-06-26T10:23:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning, remembered that Michael Jackson is gone, and was struck by sadness. And I was surprised. When Princess Diana died, I barely gave it a second thought. Heath Ledger? Bummer. Farrah Fawcett? She fought the good fight. But Michael Jackson hasn’t been relevant for me in years. I’ve watched with horror and sadness at what a convoluted mess his life has become. I’ve watched with more horror and sadness as stars like Usher and Chris Brown have stolen MJ’s mojo.

But watching countless videos from his career last night, I remembered why he’s so special to me: Michael Jackson’s music is my childhood.

I still remember when my parents bought me Thriller. I remember opening the record and choreographing dance routines with my brother all over our house. The first concert I ever attended, at the ripe old age of 8, was Michael Jackson on his Bad tour. My dad took me and we sat in the noseblood seats of the arena behind a couple of teenage girls that were screaming their heads off and holding up a sign with their Jackson devotion. As I was only about a foot tall, it completely blocked my view, so my dad politely asked them to move their sign. He was greeted with a tirade of curses, some of which I had never heard before. Between the concert and my newfound words, it was a night for the record books.

Several years ago, I was on a cruise ship in China on the Yangtze River and there was a karaoke night. My brother and I dusted off our old dance moves and sang “Thriller,” (which is entirely too long to perform without backup dancers).

I would say that he’s too young to die, that Michael Jackson had more to accomplish, but I don’t know if I feel that way. He left us a hell of a legacy. It’s amazing to me that someone who delighted so many people with his music and positivity would seem to be such a sad, lonely, conflicted person. I just hope he can find some peace in that big Neverland Ranch in the sky.

RIP MJ.

Calling Masseur Feelgood

2009-02-25T07:37:00.000-08:00

“I bet they have the best pad thai!”

“Is it like the movie The Beach!”

“We should go! No! I love you, man!”

“Oh my god, but did you see Brokedown Palace? Claire Danes was badass.”

“Did you just throw up on my shoe?”

It was during this drunken conversation at a bar in Australia that Jason and Sejul—two friends I had become close with while studying abroad—and I decided we should go to Thailand. So the next day, perhaps still tipsy, we bought our tickets and two days later we were on our way.

What exactly am I going to do in Thailand, I thought to myself, sitting on the plane shortly after takeoff. I realized, sitting there, flipping through a Bangkok tour book, that our drunken conversation was the extent of my knowledge about the country. For a planner like myself, it felt completely alien, but I figured, no, for first time in my life I am going to be spontaneous, even if it kills me. And I hear it can be a dangerous country, so it just may.

Two hours later, we got off the plane and were accosted with the most humid, sweltering heat I had ever felt in my life. I imagined that this is what heart of darkness felt like. We headed into the airport and groaned when the air conditioning hit us as we went through customs. After a quick taxi ride, we were in Bangkok. It was only a matter of time before the exhaustion set in, so we decided to start exploring.

Within five minutes we realized that not only was the city oppressively humid and smelly—many people wore paper hospital masks, which was not reassuring—but it was so incredibly crowded, Times Square on New Year’s Eve seemed spacious by comparison. Within seconds several rickshaw drivers approached us smelling fresh, tourist meat. We decided to go for it—if things got wacky, we could always jump out of the rickshaw Chinese fire drill-style at a stoplight.

“Where you want to go?” the rickshaw driver asked.

“Wat Po, please” I said, pointing to a picture in my guidebook of the largest reclining Buddha in Bangkok. I had tried to cram in a little research on the plane ride, but quickly got overwhelmed with the sheer number of buddhas in the city, which seemed to cover the area like Starbucks stores in the States.

“Okay dokay,” he shouted, taking off before we could negotiate a price.

“But wait! How much?” Sejul yelled, as we all gripped each other and the sides of the rickshaw as he sped off. Sejul was beautiful and petite and exotic with her Indian background, so she often managed to get things done her way.

“I give you special visitor tour!” he said, smiling.

This did not sound promising, but we figured, what the hell. First the driver stopped at a market, replete with every cheap knickknack and piece of crap imaginable. Apparently before everything made in China was dropped off at our ninety-nine cent stores, they made a quick stop here. While there was a Buddha there—a fact that we would soon learn was not surprising—he was not very big and he definitely wasn’t reclining.

“I’m so not paying, and I’m not getting out of this rickshaw,” Jason said, looking frustrated and angry, which was difficult as he was stick thin and wearing a very tight Care Bears T-shirt.

“We want to go to Wat Po,” I said to the driver, the tension apparent in my voice. “Come on guys, let’s just go,” as we started to collect our things.

“Yes! Yes! Wat Po. I take you! You calm down! So many buddhas here. I sorry!”

We settled back into the rickshaw, feeling like we had taken charge but also already exhausted from the 112 degree temperature. We sat back, enjoyed the limited breeze and soon were at our destination.

Except, once again, it wasn’t our destination.

“Ah, this isn’t our buddha. It’s a diamond center, whatever that means,” Sejul exclaimed. “Listen! We don’t have money, okay? We’re poor college students!”

The rickshaw driver's head drooped sadly and the dollar signs in his eyes receded. “Okay dokay, I take you to Wat Po.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said getting out of the rickshaw. “This is bullshit. I’m not being taken advantage of. I’ve only been here for three hours.” I handed the rickshaw driver 100 Baht which equals about $2.88. “Don’t even think of giving me a hard time.” As he was a small man and I was feeling feisty, I was ready for a battle, and arranged myself in my best crouching tiger, hidden monkey pose.

The rickshaw driver screamed something at us I was glad not to understand. Jason glared at him, which strangely did the trick, as he drove away.

“Well, what do you want to do now?” Jason asked.

“How about a massage? Aren't they known for that here?” Sejul said.

“I could use one,” I said, feeling guilty as I had no other ideas as to what we should do. We sat on a curb, clutching our belongings to our chests as I checked in the guidebook. “It says to watch out because a lot of them are brothels.”

“Great” Jason remarked. “Let’s just end up as sex slaves and”—

“It just says we have to be careful, not to be worried that we’ll be sold and bartered. I just don’t want to end up with an STD.”

Sejul checked the map and it turned out that there was a massage place within walking distance. We started along as our spirits lifted with the idea of our awaited bliss. But the parlor was sketchy at best. A woman not only rushed out of the storefront to greet us as we looked in the door, but started to lead us down a back alley. I figure massages, much like abortions, should never be started by leading you to a “special entrance.”

Our search stretched into hours, as parlor after parlor gave us a not-so-fresh feeling.

“This humidity is killing me. It’s like walking through soup,” I said. My hair, which had once been straight was now so curly I couldn't even run my fingers through it. We noticed the outdoor vendors around us covering their wares with plastic, which we found odd as there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

Two minutes later it started to pour. Not rain so much, as it felt like the world was ending and frogs would soon be falling from the sky. We ran for cover but were already drenched. Five minutes later the rain stopped and the vendors pulled away their plastic as if this was a common occurrence. Apparently we were here during the rainy/typhoon season. The planner side of me cursed the new spontaneous side.

“Well, I’m not hot anymore, but Sej, I think I can see your nipples,” Jason said.

“You’re lucky you’re gay,” she replied. “Where is a freaking legitimate massage parlor in this town?”

We started walking and then we saw it. It looked clean, inviting, and non-brothelly. The Mecca of the non-red light district. When we walked in the front door, they simply welcomed us in. We were ecstatic. A plainly dressed, non-slutty looking Thai woman led us to a clean, good-sized room and told us to strip down and put on our robes, not seeming to care that Jason was a boy. We did so willingly, peeling off our wet layers.

We lay facedown on our strawlike mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their discussion. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our yodels of happiness.

When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even considered. I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and maybe spoon. By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get back into our soggy clothes.

It had been a strange day but we were finally relaxed. That night we decided to go out and asked the concierge at our rather nice hotel—thanks to the exchange rate—where was a good place to go. We knew the red-light district was questionable, but asked if it would be fun.

“Oh yes, very exciting,” the concierge said.
“Is that good or bad,” Sejul asked.

“Oh, you must see,” he said, winking at Jason.

We decided to take a look anyway. As we walked around the area, we noticed every bar had scantily clad women dancing with what looked like forced abandon. Every time we looked in one of the bars some man would run out and beckon us in.

“I’m not sure if they want us to work there or buy a dance,” Sejul said.

“This feels like the massage experience all over again. Let’s find somewhere to get a drink without the boobies,” Jason said. “I mean, they’re fine to look at if you’re into that, but I’m not paying for them.”

So we continued wandering. We walked out to the open air bars where things were rowdy but the clientele was mixed. We continued to stroll along and take it all in. And then, as we learned was apt to happen on our trip, it started to unexpectedly pour.

We ducked into the first bar with some cover and shook ourselves off. The bar staff was completely mind-numbingly beautiful Thai woman and every single patron was an overweight middle-aged balding white guy.

“Ah, this is weird,” Sejul whispered.

“Yeah, but it’s pouring and I could really use a drink,” I said. I looked over at one of the women behind the bar. “Singha beer?” She nodded and brought it over. The woman and the three of us stared at each other for a while.

“You not from here?” the closest bartender asked, a very pretty, dark haired woman whose clothing looked like it was borrowed from Britney Spear’s tour closet.

“No,” Jason answered. “Vodka tonic, please?”
“Vodka who?”

He opted for a Singha. We stared at each other some more realizing that a conversation would be difficult. And then one of the women leaned down behind the bar and pulled something out, laying it in front of us.

“Jenga?” We looked at each other. The women behind the bar smiled and began to set up the blocks in a tower of the popular Hasbro game and gestured for us to pull out the first piece. It felt like I was reliving my childhood but on acid.

And so, that night we played Jenga. As the game progressed we became friendlier. By the end of the night, we were drunk, the bartender had given us free reign of the music, and the male patrons of the bar left us alone and concentrated on their respective imported lady friends. Outside the rain had stopped but we weren’t ready to leave.

“Weird night, huh?” Jason said.

“Definitely. I like this beer though. Oh, sorry!” Sejul said, trying to steady herself by accidently placing her hand on one of the male patron’s bald heads.

“And unexpected. I had no idea that we spoke the international language of Jenga,” I said. And with that we turned to do a shot of something we hoped wasn’t a date rape drug and began to play another game.

Don't Hate the Player, Hate the Genetic Game

2008-11-19T16:55:00.000-08:00

I have always slightly resented families that look like they’re cut from the same cloth. “Oh my goodness, it’s like you’re twins!” “That’s your mother? I thought you were sisters!” These are not ever things that are said about my family.

Every so often, after much squinting from the observer, I’ll get “ooooh, I can see it. In the eyes.” Yes, my whole family has been blessed with two eyes of varying degrees of vision. That might be where the similarity ends.

Perhaps this discrepancy is because my mother is blue eyed and blond haired and my father is brown eyed with black hair, encouraging my genetics to play tug-of-war. Maybe it’s because half my family are midgets and the other half are way above the national height average. Whatever the reason, my parents have had to reassure me several times that I’m not adopted. And they always hug me hard after, as if trying to assure everyone involved that they are telling the truth.

Most of the time this chromosome mishmash is not that much of a problem, but there are times when these differences make me slightly sad. After all, I can’t look at my mother and ascertain what I’ll look like in thirty years. I can’t share clothes with anyone in my immediate family because they’re all taller than me by at least five inches.

I notice the differences most with my brother. It’s like mother nature split up all our genetic traits and decided we couldn’t share. He’s 6”3, with big blue eyes and wavy thick brown hair—the kind of hair that makes girls jealous—which he wears in a ponytail. Fred is a musician and dresses the part, wearing relatively tight, worn-in jeans and ratty T-shirts. He has a propensity for both cowboy boots and sneakers. His most recent addition is a tree tattoo that creeps all the way down from his shoulder to his hand. The tattoo is complete with colorful leaves, a character from Where the Wild Things Are, a heart with an arrow through it which holds my deceased grandparents’ initials (my father seems to think that they might not have appreciated the homage), and a knot in the bark of the tree that incorporates his strange scar, the result of a car accident. He carries himself with confidence and has the long stride that only a tall self-assured person can have. My friend once noted that Fred looks like “an Argentinean tango instructor.”

As for me, my look is noticeably different. I may be the older and wiser sibling, but I’m five feet tall, a point that seems to greatly amuse him. I also have wavy brown hair, but not quite as thick. My hazel eyes are my most striking feature, and carry my vaguely Mediterranean/Eastern European-looking face. (According to a cab driver I once met, my face takes on different nationalities based on the lighting.) I dress in what fits me, which is a constant struggle for a petite girl blessed/cursed with a good-sized rack. While I have a tattoo as well, it’s a small tramp stamp—a not-so-affectionate term for a tattoo located on one’s lower back—that’s an American Indian god called the Kokopelli, a symbol of wine, fertility, mischief, and all sorts of other good stuff, which I came across when I was visiting New Mexico. We also share a fondness for shoes. While I also enjoy cowboy boots—mine are gold—I additionally enjoy any shoes that make me taller. What I lack in my short strides, I attempt to make up for with a sarcastic wit. Occasionally this is successful.

Despite our differences, we get along quite well now that we’re all grown up. Long gone are the days when we’d scream at each other for using the bathroom too long, or hogging the phone, or just misunderstanding each other because there was a great deal of teenage angst and a three and a half year age difference between us. I fondly look back on the days when I blamed my brother for the lone beer can my parents found in our soup cupboard after they had been away on vacation. (This blame most likely backfired because I was the one who had had a party, and Fred was 10 years old at the time.) Or when we’d war so ferociously when forced to share a bed on vacation, kicking each other and yanking the covers to our respective sides, that my parents made one of us sleep on the floor. Or when I’d get so frustrated I’d wrestle Fred, which must have been particularly amusing to watch in a David and Goliath kind-of way—if David had wrestled Goliath and not had a slingshot. My best chance for any kind of success was usually to punch Fred in the kidney before fleeing for my life.

These days we go out together whenever we can. And this is fine when we’re in New York, because we’re out to see each other, but when traveling it’s a whole other story. Part of soaking up the culture of a new place isn’t just going out, but mixing with the locals. Sure, you might not be able to speak the same language, but that’s what charades is for.

Several years ago, Fred and I were on vacation with the family in Scandinavia, a place well-known for its drinking and nightlife. After hunkering down at a bar in Copenhagen, Denmark, and chatting and looking around for several hours, we realized something.

“You know, I think we cockblock each other,” I said, with my usual subtleness.

“I know. This would be so much easier if we were the same sex. Then maybe people would hang out with us,” Fred replied.

And it was true. We weren’t actually blocking each other from getting a date, but more “foreign friend blocking” each other. We weren’t approachable because people thought we were on a date. This is a thought we both found revolting. And sure, we look comfortable with each other, but you know what you’ll never see? Me softly caressing his cheek. Or Fred looking deeply into my eyes. Or either of us calling each other honey, shmoopy, or any other pet name.

In Stockholm, Sweden, on that same vacation we stumbled upon a small bar where a band was playing. We stopped to listen and ended up getting in a long, lively conversation with the band’s manager. As the bar was closing we said our good-byes, Fred leading the way.

“Well, good-bye, Mrs.,” our new friend said. And it was then that I realized we had never explained ourselves.

“Oh, no! No, he’s my brother,” I explained, smiling.

“Sure he is,” he said, winking at me. “You’re a cheeky one.”

“No, I know we don’t look alike, but I mean it,” I said, feeling a need to set the record straight.

“Oh, really? Then kiss me.”

I had less than no urge to do this. While our new friend, Jörgen, was a wonderful conversationalist he was not my type. He was not my type because he obviously had spent a lot of time out in the sun, and his skin resembled leather. And I don’t think he had ever gone to a dentist, because he had a lot less teeth than one should have. But most importantly, he was old enough to be my grandfather.

“Well, I know my brother wouldn’t mind, but I think my boyfriend might,” I said. And as the conversation had now gotten a little awkward, I decided it was time for me to leave.

But this was not Fred and my only awkward interaction with strangers. When we were at a club in Bergen, Norway, a girl gestured from across the room for my brother to dance with her. I was sitting right next to him. I thought her move was a little aggressive, and well, rude.

“Why are you offended,” Fred asked. “I’m not dating you.”

“Well maybe I don’t want you fraternizing with some girl who obviously has no manners,” I explained, trying to summon up all my big-sisterness.

And with that, Fred patted me on the head—one of my least favorite things—and proceeded to dance with her. While I was slightly peeved, it was amusing watching them try to both dance and converse, as the girl was very drunk and English was not her first language. Every so often Fred would look over her head at me and grin sheepishly.

Lucky for me, her friends also found her move to be ballsy, so they motioned me over to figure out exactly what was going on and apologize. I found this especially fortuitous; otherwise I would have looked slightly creepy sitting alone in a crowded club, leering as my brother danced with some girl because I had nothing better to do. It was nights like this that made me realize how many foreign friends I was missing out on making, how many couches I could have crashed on later in life. Not to mention all the fun facts one can only learn from talking to someone that’s native to the country.

“Jah, I’ve heard that. In some remote parts of Norway, they really DO eat sheep eyeballs,” one of my new friends said in response to my question. And with that, I politely thanked my new friends and left Fred to his own devices. Somehow, it had turned out to be a pretty good night.

My Mama Said Knock You Out

2008-08-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

I’ve always considered myself more of a lover than a fighter. I’m all for someone fighting for my love, however, but the most involved I’ll get is cheering from the sidelines. What I didn’t bank on was what happens when you’re caught completely unaware.

I was on yet another of my infamous family vacations. This particular year we had chosen Brazil because we wanted to be both adventurous and experience the beach in a country where winter temperatures mean a balmy eighty degrees. This also happened to be after the movie City of God came out, a film about one of the most dangerous slums, or favelas, in Rio de Janeiro. My mother saw the movie after we returned from our trip and said that she “might have rethought Brazil as a vacation destination” if she’d seen this first. After doing some reading on my return of my own I learned that Brazil is a not a good place for tourists. I looked at the US State Department’s website on said country and learned about all the things I shouldn’t have done, like:

· Be outside at night.
· Use an ATM.
· Be in “areas surrounding beaches, hotels, discotheques, bars, nightclubs, and other similar establishments that cater to visitors. The incidence of crime against tourists is greater here.”
· Not be Brazilian. Apparently “Good Samaritan” scams are common. If a tourist looks lost or seems to be having trouble communicating, a seemingly innocent bystander offering help may victimize them.
· Take the bus. Incidents of theft on city buses are frequent and visitors should avoid such transportation.

I imagine Brazil’s travel industry wouldn’t be too pleased if it knew the US government was talking so much trash about its country.

But enough about all that crime. Did I mention that Brazil is amazing? Like incredibly beautiful. Like beaches so gorgeous that you think Brooke Shields might appear in a scene from Blue Lagoon at any moment. Like a mountain that has a statue of Jesus on the top that is so intriguing a Jew like me just had to get to the top. That would be the Christ the Redeemer statue at the top of the Corcovado Mountain, which happens to be one of the Seven Wonders of the World. Like clubs that are full of world-renowned music and dancing beautiful. One of the clubs we visited (and yes we had to be outside at night to get there) was an old antiques warehouse that was several floors with balconies the overlooked the stage on the ground floor, which showcased an eighteen-piece salsa band. Brazil is so beautiful that even the hookers are gorgeous. I didn’t see one woman of the night that looked even slightly “crack whorey.” There is, however, something very creepy about watching a hooker hit on your father in broad daylight. And then your father, in his high-waisted “dungarees,” as he likes to call them, and a monogrammed shirt that says Saúl on the pocket (don’t ask), smiles shyly and replies, “no, thank you, maybe later.”

One afternoon, my family visited the Museo de Arte Moderna in Rio de Janeiro. While the art was fascinating, it seems that artists are a tortured bunch regardless of their country of origin. My brother had decided to opt out after a night of doing many activities that the US State Department would frown upon. After, we walked through the financial district of the city, which on a Sunday afternoon was pretty deserted.

We passed a guy that looked to be in his twenties. He had wavy black hair that curled around his ears and was wearing a nondescript facial expression and matching black T-shirt and jeans. Sensing that we might be from out of town, he gestured to us for the time. Being that we didn’t have any fanny packs on us, I was sad that it was that obvious. Perhaps my sunburn and not being a six-foot tall gorgeous-looking Brazilian woman gave it away. My father, who was walking in front of us, showed him his cheap digital watch, which read 5:27 p.m. We continued on our way, with me in the middle and my mother bringing up the back.

All of a sudden I heard a scream coming from behind me and then a thump. I turned around to see that very same nondescript man holding on to my mother’s handbag and pulling for dear life. My five foot five, short blond-haired soccer-hairdo coiffed mother—perhaps due to her upbringing on the mean streets of the suburbs of Philadelphia—was gripping it just as fiercely.

It all seemed to unfold in slow motion. I simply couldn’t believe it. It was broad daylight! We were on vacation for crying out loud! Did he have no decency? This was not a relaxing situation! I think it took me about twenty seconds to process what was happening, but as soon as I did, I started screaming at the Brazilian, using every curse word I knew in combinations like “youmothershitfuckingassdoosheface!”

And all the while the mugger was sweating, and looking slightly frazzled but pulling as hard as he could. He tugged so ferociously my mother’s legs came out from under her, her Saucony-sneaker clad feet flailing in the air, but she still held on to the bag, not saying much of anything except for the occasional grunt, her eyebrows set in a firm line of determination. As far as she was concerned, this was war.

And then I thoroughly surprised myself. I walked right up to the guy, who was literally two feet away from me this entire time and said “Don’t touch my mom!” and then slapped him across the face. I actually smacked a criminal across his ugly mug. Granted, there was no force behind my slap (adrenaline works in mysterious ways) and it probably felt more like I was caressing his face or smacking him Victorian-style with a white glove, but he got the idea.

And then he did something even more surprising: he ran away. Even better, he ran away empty-handed. What was this, his first mugging?

This entire ridiculous exchange took place in about a minute and a half, but it wasn’t until after the Brazilian escaped that my father actually turned around. He was just far enough ahead of us that it took him a minute to realize that all the scuffling that was going on behind him actually concerned his own family.

“That’s okay, we can handle it,” my mom said sarcastically. She sat in the street, slightly winded, dirt covering her black shorts and white T-shirt with a Monet painting across it, gripping her small, vinyl, brandless pocketbook with both hands. I think she still hadn’t processed what had just happened. I, on the other hand, was in awe of her.

My father and I helped her up and gave her a big group hug. She continued to hug her purse.

“Should we go to the police?” my father asked.

“What’s the point?” my mother said almost nonchalantly. “They wouldn’t catch him in the States; you think they police are better here? And you know what’s funny? All I had in there was my reading glasses and a novel,” she said. “I read in the tour book that you shouldn’t keep anything valuable on you because of the crime. But I really liked that bag.”

If only that Brazilian mugger had known: never come between a woman and her accessories.

No Sex in the Showroom

2008-07-16T07:26:00.000-07:00

“I tried to be gangster, but I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it,” Jamel, our Sleepy’s mattress professional said, smiling sheepishly. He was a big black guy, with a bald head, and he looked slightly uncomfortable in his button-down shirt and tricolor striped tie.

“I can’t even imagine how weird that would be,” I said, as my boyfriend, Elon, and I shook our heads in unison. And though I didn’t feel sorry for the guy, it did make me wonder about his life choices.

This was not how I had imagined my mattress shopping experience. But then again, I guess I hadn’t given much thought to the plight of these sleep experts. All day long they must paste on a smile while trying to help perfect strangers with their nighttime needs. They must explain over and over again why there is a Vera Wang-brand Serta bed. (Vera's a genius with fabrics, blah, blah, blah.) They must be courteous but forceful when attempting to stop children from running into the store and jumping on random beds like it’s their own personal Neverland ranch.

And there is indeed nothing stranger then a job that entails asking someone to lie down in a bed, in the middle of a huge showroom, and ask them to get comfortable and “pretend like you’re in your own home.” Should I actually sleep like I’m told I sleep: on my stomach, mouth open with most likely a little drool on the pillow, one of my hands gently cupping my own ass? Should I snore to simulate real life? Should we climb on top of each other to make sure the bed doesn’t squeak when we “pretend like we’re in our own home?”

Yet somehow, over the course of our shopping venture, Elon, and I, and our Sleepy’s tour guide transcended the customer/salesman relationship. We connected. And this was despite the fact that our new friend kept calling my boyfriend my husband. (This, of course, resulted in my getting a stern talking to by Elon. “Could you stop full-body twitching every time he says husband,” he said, in a loud whisper. “I mean, we are planning to do that at some point.”) This was also despite the fact that he said “axe” instead of “ask.” (What can I say? I’m an asshole.)

As we sat down to discuss finances, the conversation somehow turned to inappropriate conduct. Perhaps it was the fact that there were beds, or as I like to call them, “sexytime areas” all around us. Maybe it was the fact that all three of us just have dirty minds. All I know is that I liked the mattress our sleep professional had shown us, but I didn’t like the price. So being the frugal lady that I am, I tried to find out the best places to check out the competition.

“I’d say Sleepy’s pretty much dominates the industry,” Jamel reported.

“Yes, but who’s your biggest competition,” I asked, pressing him.

“I’d say Rockaway Bedding. No! We bought them last year,” he said.

“Okay, well, who else? 1-800-Mattress?” I said, hoping he’s just give up the goods already. I mean, wouldn’t it be rude to just come out and ask “Where can I get your product but cheaper?” My boyfriend rolled his eyes at me.

“Hmmm, I guess Macy’s…” he said, thinking intently.

“Jesus,” Elon responded. And while we’re at it where did you go to college? Have any kids? What’s your favorite color?”

I glared at him. So much for trying to be subtle.

“Ah, LaGuardia Community College, 1, and green,” our bed representative responded. “What? I’m here to answer any questions you may have.”

And I must say, the man was indeed honest. Somehow in the midst of all this conversation it came out that he had been married for a year but has a five year old. And that he met his wife five years ago while he was working at Foot Locker. And that he and his wife were both fired because they were caught having sex in the employee back room. I was really beginning to like this guy.

“So,” I asked, leaning in close, “ever caught anyone doing anything inappropriate here?” Sometimes I feel like I come off as one of those Midwestern stay-at-home moms desperately in need of a sex toys party to add some adventure to her life.

“Oh, I have some good stories,” he said, smiling. “The best one? That was when I worked at the Sleepys in Queens. They had a huge showroom and an additional one downstairs. I had just sold this crazy $5,000 mattress set to this couple. And they seemed to really take a liking to me so they axe me if I’m hungry."

I think at this point we both scooted to the edge of our seats.

“‘Go across the street and get us some food to celebrate and get whatever you want,’ the guy says. So I bring something back and I sit down and start eating my food right away, cause you know, I’m a big guy and I like to eat.”

My boyfriend nodded his head appreciatively.

“So I finish my food and bring it down to the other showroom thinking they’re still there and then I see them. Actually, first I hear them. The guy is making these weird guttural moans. It sounds like some kind of animal dying.”

“Like a cow?” I ask.

“Not exactly.”

“More of a goat, maybe?” Elon chimes in.

“Well, whatever animal it was, it’s not common in Queens,” Jamel says. And it’s loud. And then I see them. Not only are they doing it, but they are butt-ass naked. In my showroom! On my bed! So I’m not going to lie to you, I watch for a little while. For like 5 minutes.”

I have to say, I think I would have done the same thing.

‘And they’re not stopping!” he continues. “So I clear my throat. Nothing. I get a broom and pretend to clean really loud. They don’t even look up. Then I pretend to be talking to another client. I think they actually got louder.”

“You didn’t like tap them on the shoulder did you?” Elon asks, looking slightly disgusted.

“I’m not touching that! So finally, I just go upstairs. They come up 25 minutes later! No apologies. Nothing. The guy is all kinds of sweaty and they sit down at the table like nothing happened.”

“Seriously? Not even like a wink?” I ask.

“Nothing. So we go to sign the paperwork and the wife keeps looking at me and then back at her husband. And her husband is looking at her looking at me. So he goes ‘do you like him honey?’ And she nods her head. ‘You’ve never been with a black man, have you? Do you want to take him home?’ And she nods again! So they invite me to this party they’re having that weekend. I guess they’re swingers.”

“What? You’re like a 2-for-1 special with the mattress? Did you go?” my boyfriend asked.

“Yeah! I mean, I axed my wife first, but I was so curious. So I get there, and you have to leave you clothes at the door and there were drugs and alcohol and anything you wanted on the table. I tried to be gangster, but I’m sorry, I just couldn’t do it,” our Sleepy’s mattress salesman said, smiling sheepishly.

And I had to give it to him. I probably would have gone too. And I imagine I wouldn’t have been gangster enough to stay either.

“That’s some story,” I said.

“Yeah, I have a lot of them. And that’s why you should never buy mattresses that they’re selling straight off the showroom floor.”

“Done,” I said. For some reason I was kind of glad he wasn’t a swinger. Then we put down our deposit and shook hands. As we walked out of the store a little kid ran in the entrance and started ferociously frolicking on the beds and after Jamel’s story I couldn’t help but cringe. I felt like if I squinted hard enough I could see the STDs on the bed. I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to take a shower.

We turned around to smile and offer our apologies to our mattress connoisseur even if he wasn’t our child. “I do love this job,” he said and shrugged as he rolled his eyes slightly. And the thing is, I really think he did.

Useless Facts of the Barely Legal World

2008-04-18T08:08:00.000-07:00

I am a very black or white when it comes to making decisions. [Insert reference to interracial dating here.] But there certainly are a whole lot of gray areas when it comes to law and life and it’s an area that I love to explore.

I know that if you grow four marijuana plants in Australia, it’s tolerated because it’s for personal consumption. But if you have five, that’s the intent to sell. I also know that the South Australian police don’t know that. When I went into the police station to ask them while I was studying abroad—I was working on a paper comparing marijuana regulation—they were as helpful on the topic as if I had asked my own mother, and she’s no hippie. This is because the Australian police are barely competent.

I know that in Ventura County, California, cats and dogs must have a permit to have sex. I’m not sure if that means you need a permit if different species are doing it, thus creating a cog or a dat, but it’s still weird. In Fairbanks, Alaska, they do not allow moose to have sex on city streets. That alone would make me not want to own a moose, because I would not want to be the one to tell a randy moose that he can’t get his swerve on.

In Oxford, Ohio, it’s illegal for women to strip in front of a man’s picture. I’m glad I don’t live there, because growing up I was kind of in love with Michael Jackson—you know, when he actually looked human—and I had a big old poster of him on my wall. And I like to dance. I’m sorry; I just can’t contain myself when PYT comes on. You put the pieces together.

In Helena, Montana, it’s illegal for a woman to dance in a saloon or bar unless she has on at least three pounds, two ounces of clothing. I don’t know if there’s a weigh station in the bar, but apparently pasties weigh two ounces, which I think is a good thing to know.

In Cleveland, Ohio, it’s technically illegal for women to wear patent leather shoes. Why? Because it might reflect up and men may see something they oughtn’t. First of all, which females over the age of 10 are wearing patent leather shoes? And B) in order for that to happen, I feel like the shoes would have to be especially shiny, the sun would have to be at a 45 degree angle, and you’d have to be a huge pervert to figure that out in the first place.

In Clinton, Oklahoma, it’s illegal to masturbate while watching two people have sex in a car. Once the windows fog up in the car, what can you really see? Personally, I don’t think that should be illegal, because I think it’s pretty obvious that that’s just gross.

I think that when you get a Brazilian bikini wax it looks like your vagina is barely legal, but it sure is smooth. Additionally, after getting said treatment, I think it should be mandatory practice that you spoon with your waxer and have a cigarette together. After all, what you did together was pretty darn intimate.

I know that it’s illegal to use someone else’s ID, even though you can get away with it. This is especially the case when you find it in the back of a cab and you’re nineteen and you try and use it to get into a club. Additionally you look like me, but the ID says that the girl’s name is Arvesha Patel and she’s 27 and 5”9 and Pakistani. And when the bouncer tells you it doesn’t really look like you, you tell him you got a nose job. And then he lets you in the club. That really feels barely legal.

Having parties when you’re underage is never a good legal idea either. I had a huge party once where about 80 people showed up. My friend with a big mouth told everyone and then had the nerve to show up at the party, but came bearing the gift of Chinese food. But then I noticed it was half eaten. You can call it “leftovers” but that still doesn’t make it okay. Also, when you have a party and don’t get caught by the police, why don’t your parents just sense you were up to no good? I mean, the house is cleaner when they return, then when they left it. Children never have the burning desire to tidy up unless they’re obsessive compulsive.

Another way parents know you had a party? When they open up the soup cupboard, and right between the minestrone and the chicken noodle soup, there’s a Bud Light can. And another note? Don’t blame it on your eight-year-old brother. Parents never fall for that.

I don’t know if it’s legal or not, but I do know that my company is theoretically very aware of everything I look at online. And one time, right when the Vanessa Hudgens naked pictures came out (the chick from “High School Musical”) I was looking at them with my coworker. And I thought we clicked on the safe for work version, but all of a sudden we saw underage lady parts. And I kept expecting a red light to start flashing, an email to simultaneously appear telling us we’ve been terminated, and a door to open in the floor and swallow us up.

I found a movie called Barely Legal. The tagline is “they couldn’t rent it, so they filmed it themselves.” I don’t that’s a good idea. I also don’t think I’d ever be able to make a good sex tape because I’d be so aware we were filming. I’d be in the middle of things, and be like, you wanna do it doggystyle? Does that make my ass look big cameraman? Oh, that totally reminds of this joke… That’s because I barely have a comedy career. Sigh.

Another fun fact? Impersonating an officer of the law is illegal. For my friend’s twenty-first birthday we got a stripper to come to her apartment. He knocked on the door because he heard a call about a “noise disturbance.” Then he proceeded to rip off all his clothes until he was down to a very policeman-like g-string. Without pausing for a second, he turns on his boom box (this was a few years ago), and proceeds to pick up the birthday girl and whirl her around. Only problem is that the birthday girl is almost six-feet tall. And there’s a ceiling fan that I notice, even in my drunken stupor, is dangerously close to her head. And I’m very afraid we’re going to celebrate my friend’s twenty-first birthday with a decapitation. I was so flustered by the event, in fact, that when the stripper came over to where I was perched on the arm of a chair to grind on my leg, I lost my balance and fell on the floor. That’s because I’m barely classy.

And while we’re on the subject, begging for change on subway cars is illegal. Unfortunately, this doesn’t exactly cover the guys that try and do freaking back flips down the subway corridor during rush hour. I’m not sure if that’s completely legal, but you’re still completely dooshebags. Go play on a jungle gym.

I’m not sure if preaching the word of God on the subway is legal or not. But if you are going to do it, please make it amusing. These pointers were developed after watching an actual event:

Please tell people they should say “amen” if we think you look good.
Please greet every man or woman who looks vaguely Hispanic by the names Juan and Maria. Additionally, when a Hasidic Jew gets on the train, please inform us that you’re going to go talk to your “Jewish brother about money.”
Also, please end your spiel with the fun fact that you used to be a male prostitute.

So there are a whole lot of useless fun facts for you. So just remember, when in doubt, don’t do things in a car, without pasties on, or in patent leather shoes and you should be fine. And it makes me realize that there really is a lot of gray area when it comes to the law, but I hope that never changes, because if so, all my friends that are lawyers would be out of a job. And I know a lot of lawyers.

Apparently I Sound Like Lisa Simpson

2008-04-09T12:22:00.001-07:00

And frankly, I can think of worse things. She's one smart cookie. Even if she isn't a real person.

I was on Keith and the Girl's fantastical podcast again. It's lucky episode #703.

Please, take a listen!

http://www.keithandthegirl.com/AllEpisodes.aspx

A Lover of the Pole

2008-03-25T14:27:00.000-07:00

"I am obsessed with pole dancing," my friend said excitedly, as she sat down to join us. This very well may have been the second thing she said to us, right after hello.

Apparently, she'd been taking strip dancing classes, complete with pole, at Crunch or New York Sports Club, or the subway, or wherever they offer such things. But for my friend, it's not just a good workout or a chance to get in touch with her sexuality. "It's like the pole is my center. If I can focus on that, I can focus all my energy."

And while it sounds a little like advice that might come from Jenna Jameson if she were to meld with the Dalai Lama, I think I see her point: pole dancing is her happy place.

And it made me think: what exactly is mine?

I would say sleeping, but when I'm stressed I have horrible nightmares (most recently about rabid squirrels), and I toss and turn. I'd say it's alcohol, but that doesn't make me happy, it just makes me forget. I'd say it's heroin, because I hear it makes you really happy, but I've never tried. And since I went bowling on Sunday and I'm still sore two days later, I don't think I have a body built for drug abuse.

I mean, if it's not drugs and not sleep, what's left? A good stand-up set? Maybe, except you can't always predict when that's going to happen (insert jokes about my limited ability to make people laugh here).

And then it dawned on me. My happy place is when I really click with someone. It sounds incredibly retarded, but I think it's true. Back in college my friends used to make fun of me because I'd be at a party and then I'd disappear. And I'd return several hours later incredibly satisfied. And no, it wasn't because I had some tawdry nookie in a bathroom somewhere, it was because I met someone and talked for hours and had, as my friends began to call it, "a good conversation."

Granted, I may be a little drunk when it happens, but that's not the point. Good conversations, where you really connect with someone, make me happy. And maybe that makes me a little bit special, in the "I may need to wear a helmet" kind of way. But I'm okay with that. Then again, maybe I just need to take up pole dancing.

My Mom Will Be So Proud!

2008-03-10T09:39:00.000-07:00

So maybe you're thinking, really Emily, if this comedy thing doesn't work out what are you going to do? And my first answer would be cry. But the second is that I'm really starting to explore my options, and maybe the service industry is for me:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bRglwhYgS58

I Have a Face for Radio

2008-03-03T15:10:00.000-08:00

Last week I was a guest on the podcast Keith and the Girl. It's episode #677 called Break Time and you can find it here: http://www.keithandthegirl.com/AllEpisodes.aspx.

I loved doing it. I mean, I rather enjoy talking: This is one of the main reasons that I choose stand-up comedy as opposed to say, being a mime. And I'm very honest, maybe to a fault. So when a comic goes on a show and people ask you about your jokes, well, sometimes it can get very personal. Especially if your jokes tend to be about your life, as opposed to "what the deal is with paperclips."

This has always been a fascinating aspect of comedy for me. I can watch a comic do set after set in New York City. And after seeing him four or five times I know that he grew up in Massachusetts, had loving yet distant parents, and was raped as a child, yet we've never had an actual conversation before.

And this is always the dilemma as a comic. Should you talk about the issues that are really bothering you, thus opening yourself up to discussion with others, or do you just make sure that you talk about anything else as long as it's funny?

I always thought there were some things I'd never talk about. Like my menstrual cycle. Or how I feel like I'm being raped by ghosts when I go through the Puffer security detector in the airport. Or Slash from Guns N’ Roses. But you know, it can all be funny if talked about the right way. It's just about trying to be you up there. Although I have been dying to try this character where I'm a Chinese Children's Party Clown...

Where's the Stubble?

2008-02-13T11:04:00.000-08:00

I’ve noticed that people see me a little differently than I see myself. People look at me and apparently see a small, friendly, approachable girl who’s either Jewish or Italian, loves to give subway directions to strangers, and probably enjoys brunch. But I see myself as a mysterious, ethnically ambiguous, sensual gal who is darkly humorous, and…enjoys brunch.

I’ve always felt a little different, a little special, and I’m not sure if it’s the gifted kind of special or the kind of special that should wear a helmet. What I do know is that starting in college I tried show off that mysterious side of me in not so mysterious ways. I got a tattoo. And as tattoos are the gateway drug of inappropriate yet predictable young rebellion, after the tattoo I decided that I needed body jewelry. So I got a belly button ring. Several years later I still liked the tattoo, but realized that the belly button ring didn’t really symbolize who I am. I think the belly button ring agreed, as it never really seemed to heal all the way.

But the real deep dark secret isn’t what I’ve had; it’s how I’ve lost it. It all started at a Madonna concert, a typical location for darkness. I went to celebrate a friend’s birthday, a good friend of mine who happened to love Madonna. She brought along her girlfriend, as she’s gay, another lesbian couple, and another gay gal. Everyone was enjoying the concert, but you know what makes the Material Girl sound better? Lots and lots of alcohol. And we had been drinking. We tailgated in the parking lot. We tailgated right into our seats and continued to tailgate while voguing in the direction of the concessions stand as the night wore on.

When the concert was finally over we were all thoroughly intoxicated. The two couples were making out. The odd lesbian out was trying to get in on the action. And I was leaning next to the car, drinking a beer. Some dude came over and started talking to me and even though he was creepy, (because really, who wanders around parking lots looking for conversation), I was frankly just glad to have something to do.

Suddenly all of the girls stuck their heads out of the car. “Hey, Gina!” one of the girls named Lisa yelled. “You’ve never gotten a lap dance before, have you?”

“No, no I haven’t,” responded Gina, as her ears perked up.

“I think that would be just about the best birthday present ever, don’t you?” Lisa said.

“Yeah. Yeah I think it would be!” Gina yelled, as they settled themselves back into the car.

At the first sounds of stirring I had sent the creepy guy away, because we all know that if there’s one thing that creepy men love, it’s the idea of a bunch of lesbians getting lap dances. (That’s pretty much common knowledge, people.) As for me, I was just happy to be doing something other then watch everyone make out, so we started the car and our friend that was the least drunk drove us to the aptly named Delilah’s Den.

We pulled into the parking lot, all kinds of excited and headed for the front door that was blocked by a rather robust, bald gentleman.

“Hello, ladies,” he said, sounding a little like Shaft.

“Hi,” we said, smiling, trying our best to look perky and soberish.

I’m not sure if it was because it was obvious that most of us were lesbians, or the fact that most of were already drunk, or the fact that most of us were drunk lesbians, but Shaft just wouldn’t move.

“Ladies, this is a gentleman’s club. So in order to enter you need a man to escort you in,” he said.

It was at this point that I sensed trouble. I was glad we were all so drunk, because if there’s anything worse then a bunch of angry lesbians, it’s a bunch of angry, drunken lesbians who can’t do something because of a man. Luckily they were the happy kind of drunken lesbians, so we decided to problem solve. We began asking every man that was within 100 feet of the door to be our escort, our Delilah if you will.

The first guy we asked happened to be leaving the club. He replied that “he’d love to help us, but he just got kicked out for touching some stripper’s titties.” Just my kind of guy. You know, honest and hands on.

Our next opportunity was a little more optimistic. Not only did a couple guys come to the door (so they obviously couldn’t have been thrown out yet) but there were a gaggle of guys. Like an entire fraternity plus enough for two games of football. One of the girls in my group asked if they’d join us and the guys were so excited that one of them actually threw me onto his shoulders. I’m not even sure how he did this because I didn’t realize what was happening until I was already positioned, gripping for dear life, behind his head. I felt like at any moment someone would either bring out a keg and a table and we’d be required to get in a quick round of beer pong or have to do a keg stand.

I quickly decided I wanted to get down, but my new friend/perch wouldn’t let go.

And suddenly, like a voice from the heavens I heard Shaft command “drop her.”

So my fraternity fuckhead graciously just let go of me. And the way I was perched I just kind of slid down the back of his body. And as this was occurring I felt my belly button ring catch on something. Lucky for me, I was drunk so it didn’t actually hurt. After landing gracefully on my butt I felt my poor little belly button and realized that the ring was indeed gone.

We walked back to the car, saddened by not being able to give our friend her birthday present. We were just about to pull away when I decided I needed to get my belly button ring. I mean, that ring had memories! And frankly, it was a piece of me, or at least I think a piece of me was still attached to it.

So I walked back to the front entrance to retrieve it.

“Hold on!” Lisa yelled. “Listen, I’ll help you find it, but if I find it, you have to promise me one thing.”

“Okay,” I said, not really listening because I had one distinctive goal on my mind.

“If I find it, I get to kiss you,” she finished.

“Ah, sure,” I said, as we hurried along.

After about ten minutes of searching, I found my ring, looking a little worse for wear. Luckily neither Shaft nor the fraternity was in sight. Lisa and I started to walk back but suddenly she pinned me to a nearby car and planted a kiss on me, complete with tongue and tonsils and I think she may have spit shined my appendix.

“So, what did you think of that?” she asked, smiling at me seductively.

“Ahhhh,” I began, stuttering.

“Welcome to the world of girls,” she said.

“But…”

“What? You like strong women, right?”

“Well, yeah.”

“And didn’t you think about playing rugby in college?”

“Yes, but it’s because I like to drink…”

“Shhh,” she said, as she placed her finger on my lips. “And I know you’re a nester.”

“It’s just…”

“What?”

“Well, there was no stubble, and I kind of like stubble,” I muttered, as her face fell.

And so, my deep dark secret was out—I like boys. Maybe not the ones that frequent strip clubs in packs, or wander parking lots after Madonna concerts, but I figure that still leaves a few options. Although frankly, this is my second piece about not being gay, so maybe I should just talk to a trained professional.

Holy Shit, Matrimony!

2008-01-14T06:51:00.000-08:00

How does over a month pass by without me updating this thing? It's like my blog defies time and space. Add updating this to the rather long list of resolutions. Right next to sleeping more. Well, here's a little something I wrote . . .

“What would you say if I asked you to marry me?”

“Ah, I’d say no,” I said.

“Really?” my boyfriend said, sounding shocked.

“Well, honey, if you propose to me on IM, I’m going to have to say no. I think I need a grander gesture.”

And that was the end of that discussion, at least for a while.

Now, I like the idea of being married. Spending the rest of my life with that special someone who not only loves you, but tolerates you when you have your batshit crazy moments, (not that I have any of those), now that’s appealing. Having some cute little kiddles that can blame you for their shortcomings (and I don’t just mean height), bring it on (although by the time I and my uterus are ready I’ll probably have to adopt.) No, I think my issue might lie with the wedding itself.

You see, most little girls have dreams of their little wedding. And in this little wedding, (which or course, is where you marry Ken before moving into your mansion), there may be lots of precious little details, like little flower petals everywhere, and little shrimps as an appetizer and little presents for you and your betrothed filled with money. But what do these dreams never contain? A budget. Or finding a venue that’s close to the airport but not skeezy. Or your Aunt Bertha.

And that’s the thing; maybe I’m too much of a realist. Or maybe this apprehension dates far back in my psyche. My first wedding memory? When I was five. I was a flower girl (and a rather kickass one, if I may say so myself), at my cousin’s wedding. And it was great. I liked dressing up. I liked walking down the aisle all by myself, having people tell me I was cute as I got to throw things at them. But then later at the reception, I tried a whole bunch of pastel-colored candies. And they turned out to be nuts, which I’m kind of deathly allergic to. But I didn’t know that at the time. So maybe, for a long time I associated weddings with near-death experiences.

And then, when I was thirteen, I had every little Jewish girl’s coming-of-age ritual, the bat mitzvah. If you think about it, it’s kind of like a wedding for one. Or a wedding to god and the Jewish community, if you want to be creepy. And I had dreams of a DJ and dancers, and a night soiree where we would party into the wee hours with our virgin daiquiris and frilly party socks while playing Coke v. Pepsi. I ended up with a sensible luncheon, with a color scheme of pink and green (I hate pink) and an orchestra. How did that happen?

But really, I think my trauma may have been finalized when I was sixteen. I went to the doctor and asked when I was going to get my growth spurt. After all, he said I was going to be 5”4. And when he told me that I had already had my growth spurt (um, I’m still waiting), I joked that my mom should have married someone with taller genes. And she’s like, “I did.” And I’m like “what?” And she just smiled at me. And that was the end of our conversation. Later that night I found out that my mom actually had been married before. But they got divorced after nine months because it turned out her first hubby was gay. I think it was actually the only time in my entire life that I’ve been speechless.

After making sure my father is still indeed Saul (check), I of course wanted to see the wedding photo album. Well, not so possible, she said, because my grandmother had been very upset by the whole event and took it out on the photo album. Apparently all the pictures in it now showed my mother standing either by herself, or next to a headless gentleman. I mean, sure he ended up gay, but he was also a doctor. Was it really so bad? This also explained why my parents’ wedding was a simple affair in my grandparent’s backyard and why my mother wore blue. (When I asked her about it before I knew this story, she was like “why does a girl have to wear white? Blue goes so well with my eyes.”)

Then again, my parents got married on July 4, 1976. Their wedding invitations were made to look like a Declaration of Independence, signed by the parents, so maybe I just shouldn’t look to my family for wedding inspiration.

And now that I’m a semi grown-up, I’m seeing weddings from a whole different perspective—as the bridesmaid, over and over again. I’ve tried repeatedly to be the flower girl but that job always seems to be mysteriously filled by someone smaller and cuter. While I’m honored to be in people’s weddings, there’s nothing I like better then a closet full of dresses that differ only slightly in color and design that I’ll never wear again. And why do they always have to be ordered in a size 18? Is it so I can feel extra good about myself? Or because the bridesmaid designers and tailors of America are in cahoots? I once asked one of my friends whose wedding party I was in, if instead of buying a dress, could I just dye one of the ones I already had to her color scheme. She looked like she was going to cut me.

Then again, there are some reasons I really like the idea of having a wedding. I have found a guy I could be happy with for the rest of my life. And I’m thinking if I wait long enough, I can collect enough bridesmaid dresses that I can make the bridesmaids in my wedding wear the dresses that I had to wear for theirs. Thus, I’d be recycling, and I do like to give back to the earth. Additionally, I love spanakopita, you know, those little Greek spinach pies? And they are a perfect party wedding food. So I could serve that to my heart’s content and I could finally have that DJ that I never had for my bat mitzvah.

I also know that there are two things that I will insist on having at my wedding: an open bar and fireworks. But you know what? I could totally find those in Mexico any day of the week. So maybe I’ll elope. And then you guys can all meet me for an after party in Tijuana. And maybe I’ll wear a blue dress, just like my mom, cause I like to have traditions. I’ll just hope my husband doesn’t end up gay. So the next time my boyfriend proposes, maybe we’ll move up on the classy scale by asking in a text message, maybe I’ll just suggest a vacation instead.

Queer in the City

2007-11-20T11:19:00.001-08:00

Here's a piece from a reading series I performed at recently. Some people use the holiday season to remember what they're thankful for--I think about what I'm afraid of. I know, I'm special.

It all first struck me when I was at the gay pride parade this summer. These kids were here, and queer, and putting some glitter on that. They came in every shape and size imaginable from muscle party boys on the Altoids float (yes, apparently, Altoids is the mint of the gays), to the eight-foot tall drag queens (god bless them walking 50 blocks in heels I can’t make it 50 feet in), to the metrobears, to the group of flag twirlers covered from head to toe in purple. The group’s name? The Flaggots, of course.

And the fact is, I’m sure that most of the Flaggots were not always quite that brash. I mean, some may have been the baton twirlers for their marching band in high school, but they could have also been the quiet ones with understated fashion sense that worked on the costumes for the school play. Still, I think they always had a little Flaggot trying to get out.

Am I using this opportunity to come out? Well, no. Sorry ladies, and gentleman for that matter. But I am a comedian. Now am I saying that being a comedian is like being gay? Well, not exactly. Do I think both things are something you’ve felt that you are for your entire life? And that you won’t be happy if you don’t let it out? And sometimes being more comfortable with it means that you have to open yourself up to new experiences and some of them might be scary and hurt a little? Yeah, I think that is what I’m saying.

It’s taken a long time to figure it out, but I think my biggest fear is being a comedian. And the strange thing is, I am one. Even stranger, only a minimal amount of it has to do with the audience now—yup, the drama is all in here. At first the fear was just getting onstage and telling jokes. And that was despite being the funny, Napoleonic -complex friend growing up. But I began to realize that once I conquered one fear, another one wasn’t far behind. Okay, I’ve gotten onstage, but am I really funny? Okay, I think I’m funny, but am I saying something interesting and different? Am I really exposing myself? Am I exposing myself inappropriately (I mean my soul, not, a wardrobe malfunction). Okay, I’ve been doing this a while, what comedic direction am I supposed to go in? And am I living up to my potential? And what if one day I simply develop a stutter and never again will be able to ppppp-erform onstage?

Maybe it’s my most focused fear at the moment, because I’m afraid of a lot of things. Join me on a brief tour …I have fears that I will live to 100 and everyone close to me will die. I fear that I’ll die young and it will be in a ridiculous, humiliating way, like my allergy to nuts finally getting the best of me. So I will meet my demise, much like Superman can be destroyed by kryptonite, except without doing anything vaguely superhero-like. Or that I’ll die in a self-cleaning toilet, as it almost happened once.

And there are the fears that my parents are right and that my relationship with someone of another race will never work (because apparently it’s 1952 and we’re in the Deep South). Or that we’ll emotionally scar our children because they’ll be biracial and they won’t know where they fit in. (Granted, maybe they’ll be so cute they can model, and at least put themselves through college. I’m hoping they’ll be more Halley Berry and less Tiger Woods, because seriously, he’s not that cute without the success.)

But it all comes back the comedy. And comedy is like therapy. You know what they say: Those who can, go to a therapist. Those who can’t afford it, turn to performance art.
But with anything, if you’re really going to throw yourself into it, it’s going to change you a little. You’re going to be exposed. And that’s scary, too. Between doing comedy and adjusting to living in New York (and I’ve been here for a few years now), sometimes I don’t even recognize myself.

An example:

I was coming up the stairs from the subway, when I realized that I didn’t know if I was going left or right, so I abruptly turned around to go look at the street map. As I was heading down the stairs, a woman happened to be coming up and I excused myself as I got a little too close to her.

“How about instead of excusing yourself you watch where you’re going?” the woman said with an inordinate amount of disgust.

How dare she? I was polite! I used my manners. I didn’t trip her. I was indignant!

“Well…how about you not be such a bitch!” I returned, without hesitation.

For a moment, I felt elated. Talk smack to me and you get burned, lady! And seconds later, I felt the pangs of my nice, middle-class upbringing, and I felt ashamed. Was this really who I had became? Instead of choosing my battles I just went for every single one that came my way? Was I going to be the one who sighs passive aggressively every time I ended up behind a tourist seeing the city for the first time? Or when the subway takes too long? Or “the kids” downstairs are playing their music too loud (after all, it is after 9 p.m.) At this rate, I’ll be dead by 30.

And it was then that I realized that New York City is changing me, too. So in the end I’m not sure. Is my fear that I can’t see where I’ll be in ten years and that scares the crap out of me? Or I’m afraid that the career I’ve chosen to pursue and the place where I’ve chosen to do it will change me? (And really, I don’t think I like change. It took me a long time to warm to the idea of Capri pants.)

All I know, is that I had a good, nurturing upbringing. I play well with others, I wasn’t fondled at a young age, so why I feel that the only way I can be happy is if I tell jokes to strangers, I will never know. Because I don’t think being a midget in a family of tall people, is enough to do that. And if I have to be in a place like New York, which I love, but most of the time makes me feel like a tadpole in the Atlantic Ocean, then so be it. Because there’s no way you can be in a situation like that, and not change just a little.

So I’m facing my fear: I’m here, I’m queer (and by that, I mean more the Webster definitions of “unconventional” or “mildly insane”, yes, that’s really what it says), and I’m going to live out my dream and tell jokes. And if that, and this city changes me a little, let’s just hope it’s not into someone that is angry, bitter, and unwilling to hang up her Capris when they change with the times.

Son of a Preacher Man

2007-09-25T11:39:00.000-07:00

So there was a guy preaching the word of God on the G train this morning. He did this for about seven stops. And if I was waiting for a sign from God to help me to decide whether or not to buy a new Ipod, well, this was it.

Frankly, I thought his preaching skills were lacking. I'm not saying I'm a professional when it comes to prophesizing. I am saying, however, there were a few things you did, preacher man, that turned me off. So just in case you're reading this, here are some areas you might want to work on to more effectively convert us sheep:

Do not ask people to say "amen" if we think you look good.
Do not greet every man or woman who gets on the subway who looks vaguely Hispanic by the names Juan or Maria.
Do not assume said vaguely Hispanic people are from Mexico and then start praying for Mexico. If you start praying for other countries after that, please remember that it's El Salvador, not just Salvador.
When a Hasidic Jew gets on the train, do not report that you're going to go talk to your "Jewish brother" about money.
Do not keep threatening to get off at the next stop and then keep riding the subway. You getting off the train is the only thing that would make me say "praise Jesus!" out loud.
Do not say that people who are homosexual are "funny": that causes part of your demographic to tune out and we're not quite sure what you mean.
Do not tell everyone how you walk hand-in-hand with Jesus. Like all the time. Do not then go into further detail about how much you two were holding hands and walking close, it sounds gay.
And most importantly...Do not tell me that you used to be a male prostitute.

Thank you, and of course, god bless.

How Can You Ever Forget?

2007-09-11T12:10:00.001-07:00

It's amazing to me how sad today is, even after six years. Ever year when September 11th rolls around, I go about my day, and when I first sign that date on something, I feel a little tightness in my chest. It’s strange—I didn't lose anyone when the Towers fell, but it took me a full year to be able to go visit where the towers once stood.

I had moved to New York City just three weeks before September 11, 2001. I had just started my job and was all bright eyed and bushy tailed. Or at least as much as one can be when they start a new job and then proceed to go out until all hours of the night. I had just gotten to my cubicle when my coworker mentioned something about a plane flying into one of the Trade Towers. And we realized from Sixth Avenue where our office was located, we had a clear view of the Towers. So we ran outside and saw the Towers on fire. The first one had collapsed and we watched as the second one seemed to disappear into the earth.

And I couldn't even fathom what was happening. Everyone at work was struggling to get in touch with their loved ones. I finally got in touch with my mom, only to find out that my brother happened to be visiting some friends at NYU that day. And she hadn't been able to get in touch with him. And I tried to calm her down as her voice became more and more worried.

With the whole city shutting down, I walked back to my cousin's apartment on the Upper West Side where I was staying. I brought my coworker who lived in Brooklyn back with me, as the trains weren't running. And she proceeded to get more and more anxious because the guy she was dating happened to work in one of the Trade Towers. For the rest of the day she tried to get in touch with him, and I sporadically talked to my mom, still having no word from my brother. I watched the smoke pour out of the Towers, which I could see from more than 80 blocks away.

Finally my coworker got in touch with her friend, nodding her as she listened to his account.

"He was in the second Tower," she said. "They weren't letting anyone out because of the fire but he got frustrated and ran down the emergency stairs with his friend. As they were running his friend was crushed by some falling concrete and killed. And he said he kept running until his was out of the building. And he just kept going until he had run over the Brooklyn Bridge and all the way home."

And the way she told me what happened it sounded like some kind of children's book. A horrible, sad children's book.

Hours went by. We sat numbly in front of the TV watching the chaos replay over and over again. And then we'd go out on the balcony and watch it all live.

My brother finally got in touch with my mom, but at this point she was beyond hysterical. For some unrelated reason, my parent's landline in Philadelphia had gone down so my mom was using her cell phone. But she wasn't really used to the cell phone so she was yelling into it. And crying.

"You can come home," she wailed. "You don't have to stay there. You don’t even have an apartment yet. You can move back here."

My dad came home right as we were having this conversation. Apparently my mother had gone outside because she got better reception with the cell phone. And she was sitting barefoot on our front lawn, yelling into the cell phone, drinking. And if I couldn't hear how upset she was and the fact that I was crying too, it would have all been very funny.

***

The next day, I went to work because I didn't know what else to do. But no one was at work, so my friend Allie and I met up and we walked. We walked from Midtown to the East Village and then up to the Upper West Side. We talked and tried to make sense of everything, and there were signs tacked up everywhere of missing people.

***

About a week passed and I went home to Philly for the Jewish New Year. And everyone was talking about how tragic it all was. And I could barely talk about it without getting choked up. And nothing bad even happened to me. But all that week everywhere I went there these signs of missing people and there was still smoke and dust. And some of that dust was the remains of some of the people who were pictured on those signs.

***

Nineteen Islamic extremists killed thousands of people they had never met to make a point. And every time something goes wrong in New York--when a pipe explodes, or the subway stops running, or a baseball player crashes a small plane into a residential building--I watch people tense up and question who's to blame and whether it's intentional.

Every so often, although less frequently these days, there is a warning that there might be a bomb somewhere in the subway. My friend who doesn't live in New York suggested that I refrain from taking the subway until the threat passes over. I asked if she was going to pay for all those cabs.

But we’re powerless. Things out of our control will continue to happen. And all you can do is live your life. It’s not much of a plan, but it’s the only plan I’ve got so far.

Just Top it With a Nice Cream Sauce

2007-09-06T11:32:00.000-07:00

Back to our regularly scheduled travel stories . . .

Whenever in another country, it's always interesting to try the local dishes. China probably had some of the more interesting options, like pig penis. I passed on that one. They also had the motto in some of the more rural areas that translated loosely to "if it has wings or four feet and it's not an airplane or a piece of furniture, we'll eat it." Pure poetry. I'm thinking in China you want to keep your enemies close and your pets closer.

Scandinavia wasn't so big on the delicacies. My family did our customary "go to a supermarket and walk around like it's a museum" tour and all we found that was slightly odd was a huge container filled with ice and prawns right in the middle of things. I also saw firsthand how patient and friendly the people are—one of the women that worked at the deli actually translated all the ingredients on a dip for me to make sure there were no nuts. If I tried to do that here I'd probably get a punch in the face.

Scandinavia’s specialty is definitely fish. Ridiculously delicious fish. Probably because they're surrounded by water and it's pretty much the only thing they don't import. The only vaguely exotic options were whale (don't worry, Greenpeace, it's the Mink Whale, which are supposedly very common) and reindeer (sorry, Santa). Oh, and pasta with disgustingly heavy cream sauces which now, two weeks later, are still somewhere within my digestive system.

But there had to be something I hadn't found. So had a few conversations with some lovely Scandinavians and got some interesting answers. A delightful couple of boys my brother and I hung out with, Max and Rune (to say Rune's name you need to start the "u" sound somewhere deep within your diaphragm), said that Norway's state food was probably Grandiosa. What is Grandiosa? Apparently the world's worst frozen pizza. And that definition was coming straight from them.

But a few nights before I left I got the weirdest answer of all. At first, I thought my new friend Kari-Anne, who was from a small town in Norway called Voss, was pulling my leg.

"Well, where I come from we love sheep's head. We only eat it like once a year but it's amazing. The jowls are really tender. And we do the eyeball as a shot."

Ah, what? After I asked another girl who had no knowledge of my prior conversation, yet the same answer, I had to figure that might be true. And I'm not going to lie. I was a little disgusted.

I mean, Americans are known for some strange foods but nothing that disgusting right? Wrong. We have Twinkies, a food that explodes when heated. We have chitlins; that’s a fancy word for hog guts. And if that doesn't do it for you, there are pork rinds. That's right, we love pig so much in this country that we take the skin that we don't use to make footballs and then fry and dry it so we can eat it on the go. God bless America.

But hey, at least our national food isn't a frozen pizza.

B'scuse Me, Corporate Job?!

2007-08-29T13:33:00.001-07:00

We interrupt any updates of my travels abroad (in case you care) to bring you this moment of B'scuse Me?! . . .

Let me preface this rant by telling you that I like my job. I like the fact that having a job enables me to eat regularly and have a place to live that is not made out of cardboard.

But sometimes I feel like God or "the man" is having a little fun at my expense. I specifically felt that way this morning, when I opened up my email to find a message from Human Resources:

Have you ever tried to make a balloon animal?

Come learn the art of balloon sculpting with Nick the Balloonatic.

Date:Thursday, August 30 at 1:30, 2nd floor conference room

Really? This what they're providing to help us blow off that corporate steam? And Nick is a balloon "sculptor"? That title is right up there with McDonalds' "crew member" and Toyota's "new vehicle advisor."

I'm just glad to know that my bonus is being used for a good cause. I'm also thinking maybe I should work in HR. They certainly seem to have a sense of humor.

Tales of the Trip

2007-08-27T10:35:00.000-07:00

In the travels of the Epstein family, the people are represented by two separate yet equally important groups: the people in the Epstein family and the poor citizens of the country in which they are visiting who come across the Epsteins. These are their stories. [Cue Law & Order opening beats]

I just came back from a ten-day trip with my family to the Scandinavian countries of Sweden, Denmark, and Norway. (Do not insert a stupid “boy are my arms tired” joke here.) Usually we do the various tourist activities with my parents during the day—museums, breweries, visiting random statues that have been decapitated multiple times (and that was just in Denmark)—and Fred and I go off in search of a little local color at night. Now granted, I’m not out looking to sample all the local goods (if you know what I’m saying), but it has occurred to me that Fred and I make things difficult for each other when we go out together.

When we were in Bergen, Norway, a girl gestured to my brother to dance with her when we were at a club. I was sitting right next to him. I thought that made her a bit of a cheeky bitch.

“Why are you offended? I’m not dating you,” my brother said.

This is true. And I wouldn’t want it any other way.

“Yeah, but maybe I don’t want you fraternizing with some girl who has no manners.”

And with that, Fred got up to dance with her. So much for taking my sisterly advice. Lucky for me her friends also found her move to be ballsy, so they motioned me over to figure out exactly what was going on.

But sometimes people really get the wrong idea about us. At a bar in Stockholm, Sweden we ended up talking to a very nice guy for a while. When last call came around, we said our good-byes and headed out. My brother went out first and I followed.

“Well, goodnight, Mrs.,” our new friend said.

“Oh, no…he’s my brother,” I said, slightly disgusted.

“Oh, sure. That’s what they all say,” he said, not convinced.

“No, he really is my brother. He’s a foot taller and we look nothing alike, but my parents swear it’s true.”

“Oh, really? Then kiss me,” he said, smiling.

“While my brother wouldn’t mind, I think my boyfriend might,” I said.

Maybe it’s my boyfriend cockblocking me and not my brother, after all.

I'm Famous.

2007-08-13T06:23:00.000-07:00

Okay. Maybe not. But I was recently interviewed by a comedy website about my exciting day and nightlife.

It's nothing like the time I was interviewed on Good Morning, America about my views on Tom Cruise, but at least this one is actually about comedy.

Read on, readers at:

http://www.theapiary.org/archives/2007/08/punching_in_to_2.html

Seeing Red Peppers at 10,000 Feet

2007-08-09T11:14:00.000-07:00

“Ah, excuse me, I ordered the vegetarian meal,” I said to the airline stewardess or flight attendant or air transit worker, or whatever they’re called nowadays.

“Not according to this list,” she said, smiling condescendingly. “But I’ll see what I can do.”

“Bless your heart. I appreciate it.” I replied, smiling back cartoonishly. A few friends and myself were on our way to Europe, first stop Amersterdam, for the customary find-myself-blow-any-savings-before-growing-up-get-some-culture-and-kiss-a-few-foreigners tour. It was an eight hour flight and I was going to be very hungry without a meal.

Eventually, the airplane waitress made her way back to my seat. “I had to fight for it, but here ya go,” she said.

“I’m sure you really had to wrestle for it,” I said smiling. “Put that meal in a half nelson, didn’t ya?” She laughed uncomfortably and I think she rolled her eyes. I’m sure it was just the way she had “wrestled for a single pillow for me at the beginning of the flight.” Doesn’t every seat get one? I’m not asking for the moon here. (Note to self: I think bitchiness rubs off. Kind of like meningitis.)

I looked down at my meal. An unassuming stuffed red pepper, probably filled with something impossible to determine, a phallic bread roll, a cookie that looked like it had been around since the Carter administration, and some long dead canned pears. Yes, this was worth fighting for.

I took a bite of my stuffed pepper. Although I couldn’t tell exactly what the substance was inside of it, it was definitely vegetarian. And it was then, roughly a minute and a half later, that I felt a little tingling of my lip. And then my throat.

“Shit,” I said, spitting the pepper into my napkin.

“I told you not to get the vegetarian, Emily,” Allie, my seatmate and one of my vacation partners in crime, said. “They’re gross. Even if you don’t eat meat. You should eat chicken. That’s not meat.”

“Ah, yeah. I think I have a problem,” I said, trying not to hyperventilate. “I think there might have been nuts in there.”

“Oh, shit,” Allie said.

“Fuck,” I exclaimed.

“Crap,” Allie continued.

“Mother fucking slut,” I said as the woman in the row across from me glared at me while covering her young daughter’s ears.

“The one time I don’t ask if there are nuts. I think this is going to be bad,” I said, both to Allie and apologetically to the woman who had overheard my outburst.

I am deathly allergic to nuts. Putting Superman near some kryptonite is exactly like forcing a macadamia nut cookie down my throat. The end result? There is no way we are fighting crime after that.

It all started when I was five years old at a wedding and decided to enjoy some delicious candy-covered nuts. Then there was the pesto incident of 1992. Or the time I learned the word for nuts so I could ask the waiters when I was in Brazil. When I asked, the waiter looked at me like I was crazy. Turns out porcas means nuts, but the nuts and bolts kind, not the food kind.

But back to the issue at hand. I called my favorite high altitude hussy over while trying to stay calm. “Ah, do you happen to know if there were nuts in the red pepper? I’m really allergic. There was actually a note about it in the order you guys lost.” (Passive aggressive? Maybe.)

“That’s a good question,” Susie Sunshine said. “John?” she said to the nearby manttendant.

“Any ideas? Seems our friend here has a little allergy.”

“No, I’m really not sure,” John said, shrugging.

“Okay,” I said, trying to stay calm. “Well, is there a doctor onboard because this ‘little allergy’ could get really bad.”

“Yeah, really not sure. But I’ll let you know if I find one,” she said, easing away from my area.

“Could you? Because I really don’t think you want to end up with a dead body on this plane,” I said, using all the angry sarcasm I could muster.

Oh god. This was bad. Maybe not Snakes on a Plane bad, but pretty awful for me. My throat was starting to get really scratchy and my stomach was becoming very angry. And it was getting hard to breathe. Stay calm. Stay calm. Try and watch Mel Gibson, pre-anti-semite in crappy movie “What Women Want” I muttered to myself in a mantra over and over.

Meanwhile, Allie was beginning to get concerned. “Don’t you have a what-do-you-call it? An Epsteinpen? An Emilymarker? Isn’t it called something like that?”

She was right. I had my Eppypen, my shot of epinephrine that was supposed to do the job. Only problem is that I am almost as afraid of needles as I am of nuts.

“Seriously, Em. Do you need me to stab you with it? In the heart, right?”

That helped me to stop panicking for a moment and focus. “Ah, no, Allie, it’s not Pulp Fiction.
You inject it into the thigh, but I don’t know…”

And my reasoning at this moment in time? Well, I only had one needle. What if something happened when I was traveling? Then I’d really be screwed.

(My mother later shared with me an important sidenote to this theory. “If you died on the plane, you wouldn’t need the needle later. Oh mothers. And another sidenote: how come you never hear about kids in third world countries having food allergies?)

So I came up with another plan. I would drink. I would drink and take Dramamine, the motion sickness pill, and if I had enough of both of those, I would either pass out or die, but somehow I’d soon feel sweet, sweet relief. So I called my favorite hostess with the mediocre mostest.

“So, how are you feeling,” she asked. At this point, I was starting to turn a nice shade of green.

“Not good. Did you find out if there were any doctors around?” I said, trying to stay calm.

“I totally forgot. It’s so busy around here, you know? Let me check.”

“No!” I exclaimed, grabbing her polyester-cuffed lapels, while trying to refrain from punching her in the face. “I have another idea. Can I have some of those little bottles of alcohol? I think that will really help. Like as many as you can give me.”

“Okay,” she said, probably more to get rid of me then anything, because I was starting to look a little wild-eyed.

God bless international flights. No laws there about getting liquored up. I began to drink. And took a few Dramamine. And then I’d go throw up as the nuts were fully in my system. And then I’d force down another drink. And a pill, and wheeze and heave and go throw up again. Wash, rinse, repeat. It got to the point that I looked so miserable, that the lines for the bathroom would part like Moses working his magic on the red sea. I even heard a mother trying to turn my plight into a counting lesson for son, “And how many times did the lady go to the bathroom? Let’s count. One, two, three, four, five! That’s right!” And then I’d go back to my seat and sweat, and wheeze, and cry a little, and drink some more.

In between, to try and stay calm, I’d ask Allie questions like, “is your inner ear itching or is it just me?” Or “listen, I think I can wheeze ‘Blister in the Sun” or “please tell my parents I love them.”

And finally, 7 hours into the flight, an hour before we landed, I passed out. I was drunk, I had enough Dramamine in me to kill a horse, and I had thrown up exactly 6 times. Allie looked like she wanted to throw me out of the plane, just to get some peace. But we landed in Amsterdam and I managed to both wake up and be alive, which was pretty impressive.

And then it was time to get stoned. So stoned that I didn’t remember my name or the experience I had just lived through. I was happy, our other friend seemed to fall in love with ‘how pretty the weed is. it’s so green! Who’s so green? (yes, she talked to the weed)’, and for some reason, Allie couldn’t stop writing postcards. Drugs do funny things. And then it was time for food. We all got chocolate covered waffles. I, of course, checked with the guy three times before taking a bite.

“This is delicious,” one of our friends exclaimed. “The chocolate tastes just like nutella.”

“What?” I said, spitting it out in my hand immediately. This was going to be a long trip.

Calling Masseur Feelgood

2007-08-03T06:35:00.000-07:00

It's been an exhausting and stressful couple of weeks. And it's not that this is different from how my life normally goes, but it seems when you throw in 92 degrees with three million percent humidity I just want to curl up somewhere with air conditioning and sleep for a week. Well, that or fight people on the subway who sweat on me. Yeah, I may need a vacation.

What I could really use is a massage. I’m a big fan of massages, though I rarely get them. I think I like them as much as 50 Cent thinks fat kids like cake. So when I went to Thailand a few years ago, a place that is known for said pleasure for a fraction of the cost, I was thrilled. And after lugging myself around Bangkok for a few days with the similarly extreme heat and crowding that makes New York City look like uncharted territory, I was ready for a rubdown.

The thing was, I didn’t need all my muscles to be attended to. So my two friends and I began our mission to find an authentic Thai massage, free of happy endings. We were told if the place was legit, it wouldn’t be down a back alley. It ended up taking us three frustrating hours to find somewhere that would not leave us with the parting gift of an STD. Finally we were all led to a clean, good-sized room and told to strip down and put on our robes.

We lay down on our mats and three miniature Thai women entered, chatting away with each other. With little more then a smile in our direction, they got to work molding our backs to their whim, never stopping their discussion. And it was a good thing they kept talking because they drowned out our moans of happiness. When I was turned over on my back and the woman started walking to the very top of my inner thigh, I learned I was tense in places I hadn’t even thought about. It was intimate enough that I felt like we should share an after-massage cigarette and then maybe spoon.

By the time the women were done, the three of us were puddles of relaxation. It literally took everything we had to get dressed. And while the experience was a bit odd, it wasn’t nearly as strange as an Indian ayurvedic massage a friend told me about. Apparently for that experience you’re completely naked, they lube you up with so much baby oil that the person giving the massage hangs from a rope, and then they massage you with their feet. When the masseuse started massaging her breasts with her well-worn hooves, the girl slid right off the table and out the door faster then you can say Kamasutra.

I guess there’s something to be said for an authentic, foreign massage, but the cost of getting out there without being emotionally scarred? Well, that’s priceless.

Getting Ahead the Old-Fashioned Way

2007-08-01T07:12:00.000-07:00

It makes me happy when people read my blog, especially if it makes them laugh. It doesn't matter what path gets them here, but sometimes it's a bit roundabout. Some things that people have searched and were led to this here bloggity blog:

* woman who thought she was an orange juice
* plaid tuxedo etiquette
* legally midget
* show me your fire crotch
* jews walk into a bar

But my favorite path so far? The one that is close to my heart (or rather below my collar bone)?Someone actually googled "how to use my breasts to get ahead." And I came up.

I'm not sure how I feel about this, but my rack is thrilled.

So This Rabbi Walks into a Bar

2007-07-03T12:21:00.000-07:00

I was told once that I seem to have "some issues" with being Jewish. Honestly, I don't. I just have some issues with the negative stereotypes that are associated with them.

I grew up in an area that wasn't exactly the mean streets. (Lower Merion, outside of Philadelphia, son!) I knew a lot of Jewish kids who were nice people, but spoiled rotten. Who grew up among privilege and whose parents never managed to cut the purse strings. I'm sorry, but if you're over 25 and you still have a credit card that goes to your parents, I see that as a problem. And if the most important thing that you're looking for in a husband is that he's Jewish, despite the fact that you were never bat mitzvahed, I have an issue with that.

But there's also a lot I appreciate about my religion. I like that our families are tight knit. I like that we have traditions that we gather to share. And I love the sarcastic snarky wit that travels from generation to generation; God knows we wouldn't have Sophie Tucker, Fanny Brice, Joan Rivers, or Judy Gold without it.

And there's the debate as to whether Judaism is a religion or a race or both. Many argue that there is no land called Jewishtan (apparently they’ve never been to South Williamsburg). Then again, I feel like if you have a disease just for your own people—Tay-Sach's anyone?—then maybe that allows you to pull the race card. Then again, maybe it just means that if there aren't too many Jews around, you might want to consider marrying the neighbor that isn't your cousin.

But while I have mixed feelings, I don't seem to be the only one. They say the Jews run the entertainment industry, and I think there are indeed a few of Heebs in the biz. But if we're so proud, why change our names? Why isn't Jon Stewart still John Leibowitz? Why isn't comedian Jeffrey Ross still Jeffrey Lifshultz? Why doesn't Slash from Guns and Roses go by his first name, Saul? (What? A guy named Saul can't rock out?) Sure, at one time it was to be able to work, but if a guy with a name like Barak Obama can run for president of the United States, why is there the need to hide your background?

I was hit on by a guy after a show recently. He walked right up to me and said, "I'm not Jewish, but I do have a big nose." Is he going to tell me next that he's also cheap and a mama's boy? Maybe it bothered me so much because I'm afraid that people take a look at me and those are the stereotypes they see. Then again, maybe they just see the sarcastic, funny delicious Jewy center.

Would You Like Some Glitter with That?

2007-06-27T13:56:00.000-07:00

I love the gays and at this point, I know quite a few. There are the guys I dated that ended up hitting for the other team. (What can I say? There is a reason I had the nickname "the rainbow gate" in college.) There are the close gal pals that enjoy the soft touch of a woman. And every time one of my lady friends comes out (we're now up to two) and my parents find out, they ask if there's "something I'd like to tell them."

Anyway, I made my way down to the gay pride parade this weekend and I was most certainly not disappointed. There were gays of every race, proclivity, political inclination, and group you could think of. There were the metrobears, the drag queens (god bless them for walking 50 blocks in five-inch heels), the group randomly against circumcision, and every sport under the son. There was even Chuck Schumer. And of course, throughout the entire parade there was an assortment of dance music blasting.

One of my favorite moments was when a delightfully flamboyant gentleman on one of the floats who had access to a microphone decided to make up his own song about safe sex to one of the dance beats. In the middle of his song he looks out at the crowd, utters "I like your shirt," and goes right back to his song. Don't ever let what you're doing get in the way of keeping your eye on fashion, dammit.

Another highlight? The corporate floats. Delta, Starbucks, and Altoids, among others, must have combed their entire company for the hottest gays to strut their stuff in Speedos and glitter. Apparently most companies have about 11 gay employees. The ones that aren't as attractive, who must only work for Delta, are forced to sashay down the route in a blowup Delta plane, complete with wings, and most likely no inner ventilation.

Also represented was a lasik surgery company. They had a banner held by six timid girls. Behind them was a man who was half drag queen, half body hair who also held a lasik poster. Why that would compel me to improve my vision, I'm not sure.

I also learned an interesting lesson. Sometimes the best way to deflect a derogatory comment is to really own it. Sandwiched somewhere in between the gay volleyball team and the gay square dancers, was a group of men covered from head to toe in purple. They were twirling flags. They were loving it. And the group's name? The flaggots.

Check Yourself Before You (Bicycle) Wreck Yourself

2007-06-18T14:32:00.001-07:00

I hate the phrase "it's as easy as riding a bicycle." Why? Because as I learned a few weeks ago in Chicago, riding a bicycle is not freaking easy.

I was in the Windy City (apparently named as such because of the hot air spouted by the city’s politicians and not the weather) doing a few shows and visiting my friend Elizabeth. She suggested we take bikes out and ride around the city.

"It's really the easiest way to see the city," she explained.

"I don't know. The last time I rode a bike it was pink and purple with streamers on the handlebars," I said, feeling hesitant.

"Oh, Emily, you'll be fine," Elizabeth said, as she presented me with my yellow Schwinn. And I was excited. We could ride around the lake and get some exercise so I could enjoy the city’s delicacies, without too much guilt, to my heart’s content. That was until I attempted to throw myself over the high bar in the middle of the bike.

"Ah, how do you start this thing?" I asked, attempting to jump onto the pedals without causing the bike to fall over.

Elizabeth watched me for a while in disbelief.

"Wow. You really don't know how to ride a bike," Elizabeth said, looking at me as if she'd just witnessed something rarely found in nature, like a blue-footed boobie or a classy Chippendale dancer (not that I know from experience, of course).

"Apparently not," I said, as I started to sweat.

"Well, let's just see. I can teach you and we'll just take it slow," Elizabeth explained.

"Or I can walk," I said, quickly getting frustrated, as I have about as much patience as a three-year-old.

And so Elizabeth proceeded to teach me what my father had apparently failed to pass along. (Though I could have sworn there was an incident with training wheels in my youth.)

As I was learning to kick off and not swerve into a tree, an older foreign gentleman appeared out of nowhere. Like an oracle, he observed me before pontificating, "Do not look at the ground, or that is where you will land. Look ahead."

I tried it, and it worked.

"Now sit on the seat!" the stranger said, nodding happily.

"I can't," I screamed. "The seat is too high!"

"No excuses! Sit on the seat," he yelled.

"Seriously, don't yell at me, strange foreign guy, we have to get the seat adjusted," I screamed back.

"Oh," he said. And he was gone.

We stopped for a seat adjustment at the bike shop (although my ass already felt like it had been in a prison shower at this point). Soon we were zipping along with me feeling only slightly like an idiot. And then I collided with a little kid who was on his bicycle. (Seriously, it was his fault. He saw me and didn’t slow down.) And it took everything I had not to curse him to the high heavens. After all, I was in the Midwest and people are nicer there.

I dusted myself off and continued along. Elizabeth decided I needed to practice my braking. (Apparently you need to raise your butt off the seat when stopping. So much multi-tasking!) We choose a quiet street and I managed to ease to a stop without falling off.

That’s when I noticed yet another older random foreign guy watching me with a grin.

“You remind me of my daughter,” he said.

“Really? How old is she,” I asked, bracing myself.

“Seven,” he replied.

And scene.

Caught Between a Joke and a Hard Place

2007-06-05T09:16:00.000-07:00

This piece is based on a true story. While some of the characters have been tweaked for extra amusement, my general embarrassment and the lose of my pride is one hundred percent true.

I love doing comedy. I absolutely, flonking love it. Whenever I do a joke and the audience likes it, I just want to do a happy dance complete with the running man. And if it doesn’t go well, I can go home, cry a little and gently rock myself to sleep in the fetal position. No big deal.

So when I booked a show in Springfield, Massachusetts, doing 45 minutes of material for a Jewish benefit, I was thrilled. I had even properly schmoozed the booker, Larry. When I warned him that I didn’t have forty-five minutes of material solely on “being a Heeb” he said, “that’s okay, just do your thing.”

“Great! I have about 45 minutes of bestiality and pedophilia jokes that always do well!” I said sarcastically.

“I like you, kid. You’re gonna go places,” he said.

And the deal was sealed.

I had three months to prepare myself for the show. I wrote jokes, rewrote jokes, got onstage as much as I could and prayed that I wouldn’t forget all of my material halfway through the performance and have to fill the remaining amount of time by stripping.

I also learned as much as I could about Springfield, Massachusetts, because when in Rome, you should write jokes about the place so the audience feels like you’re connecting. Did you know, for instance, that basketball was invented in Springfield by Canadian James Naismith? (What are you going to tell me next, the Japanese invented baseball?!). Or that it’s the home of Theodore Geisel, aka Doctor Seuss? Or that there’s a picture book museum in the area, because apparently libraries don’t do the job? And it’s even the home of the Titanic Museum. (I know, I didn’t think there were any icebergs in them there parts either.)

Every couple of weeks, Larry the booker would check on me, to see how things were going: did I get my deposit, had I booked my hotel? And I began to learn more and more about the event. Like the fact they’d never had a comedian before, but last year they had a hypnotist and the group just ate it up. Comedy is kind of like hypnotism, right? [laugh nervously]. And that I was actually performing because the benefit was an auction and they needed some entertainment during dinner so they could tally all the bids. So, okay, maybe I’m not the main draw but I can be the E Street Band to their Bruce Springsteen.

Finally the day arrived. And I was ready to create comedy magic. I got to the subway station, giving myself plenty of time to make my train to Massachusetts. And I waited. And waited. And waited. And then I started to panic. And then I tried to calm myself down. And then I waited some more. And then the subway finally came, and I made my way to Penn Station and I arrived…exactly one minute after my train to Massachusetts had departed.

And as I cursed the MTA demons, I began to wonder, is this God’s way of telling me, “eh, shayna punim, it was a good try, but not to be.” (Yes, I imagine that God would sound like Mel Brooks). But I managed to catch another train that got me to Springfield thirty minutes before the performance.

Larry (who is a delightful bear of a man) pulled up to the station in his long black Cadillac, and after we greeted each other like old friends, he dropped me off at the hotel, which ended up being kind of, how shall we say, minimalist. I get to my room, change while trying not to be irked by the smell of stale cigarettes in my nonsmoking room and the hole in the comforter.

Fifteen minutes later, I’m heading with Larry, his wife, and his Cadillac to the benefit. We enter what looks like a banquet hall with gaudy chandeliers, elaborate Persian well-tread carpets, and lots of lots of Jews. And I soon find out that I have three hours to kill before I’m on and nowhere to go. I was in a room full of strangers in the middle of a silent auction, where the best prizes I could possibly win was a week of soccer camp for my kids or some precious contemporary Jewish artwork.

“Go ahead,” Larry said. “Go work the room, try to win something.”

I then spent the next few hours hiding from the guy who ran the JCC sports camp who took a fancy to me (nice guy mind you, but there’s something about a fella who wears a sport jacket, jeans, bolo tie, and sandals with socks that doesn’t do it for me), and being introduced to other strangers, one of whom invented some kind of newfangled teapot and thought I would be a good person to explain it’s workings to in detail. I also refrained from drinking myself under the table at the bar.

We sat down to dinner two hours later, as Larry or Larr Bear, as I called him to myself at this point, had made sure I was well fed, bless his heart. I sat down at a table with him and his friends. All the women were so painstakingly made up that you could see the line around their jaw where their makeup ended. All the men seemed to have stopped caring about their appearance several years ago, as exemplified by their rumpled bellies and receding hairlines that were combed to mask the effects of time.

“So, Emily, it must be so exciting to be a comedian,” one of the women said. “Have you been on any television shows I might know?”

“I’m working on it,” I said, sighing, as my ego headed south for the winter.

“And are you married,” one of the men at the table asked.

“No, but I have a boyfriend,” I said.

“Is it true, you know, what you wrote on your blog? You know, about him being black,” Larr Bear almost whispered.

“Yes,” I said, smiling, as the table tried their best not to collectively gasp in horror. It was just like a family dinner. All I needed was for my grandmother to show up and ask me, why “if my boyfriend isn’t Jewish, why can't he at least be white?” to really complete the picture. The conversation then turned to everyone’s kids, when each couple’s pool was opening, and how much they had gambled away the weekend before at the casino. As I have no kids, no pool, and no money, I smiled, picked at my food, and continued to go through my set list in my head.

Dinner was finally finished and I thought I was finally up, but no. Now there was a live auction. And then there was the tallying of the silent auction bids. And then they were all announced. And then roughly 220 of the 250 people in the audience got up to get their coats and head home.
And then I heard “And now for your entertainment. She has been trapped in a self-cleaning toilet…” And my heart sank. Because now I had to try and entertain thirty people, spread out all over a banquet hall that fit 300, most of whom were talking, and all of whom had no interest in watching comedy.

I walked to the stage, which was actually just a podium, and asked,” So who here is single, in her twenties, and lives in New York? No one? Fantastic.” And the few people left looked up at me and smiled and continued their conversations with whoever was nearby.

I’d get a chuckle from the audience here and there and when I told a joke that indirectly dealt with sex I got an “ooooohh,” from one of the audience members. (I guess the woman had never had sex before.) And it was exactly that unpleasant for the next thirty minutes, until Larry signaled I could wrap it up. I walked offstage amazed that I hadn’t fled and hitchhiked back to NYC, as my brain had compelled me to.

“I am SO sorry, Emily,” Larr Bear said, rushing over. “I don’t know why they put you up after they were done everything else. You never had a chance. And you’re really funny, we were laughing the whole time,” he said, gesturing to our table of sympathetic smiling faces.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling like I just had one of those nightmares where you’re naked and telling jokes, except in this case, everyone could actually see me. “I’m just going to be over at the bar.” And I had just gotten a drink when Larr Bear grabbed me to drop me off at my hotel. And I figured, no big deal, I’d just hit up the hotel bar, like a good lounge lizard.

Larr Bear dropped me off, with another sympathetic look and my check, which helped a little. “Really, Em, don’t worry about it. Maybe I’ll have you as the entertainment when I open up my pool this summer.” Ah, yes, any reason to drag myself back to Springfield. I half expected him to cuff me on the shoulder like some kind of movie pep talk as a single tear made its way down my face and the credits began to roll.

I walked into the hotel and realized there was no hotel bar. No, that would be in a classy hotel. And I was in the middle of nowhere, did I mention that? I’ll just hit my minibar, I figured. I shuffled over to the fridge, opened the door, and sighed once again. The fridge was completely empty. Eh, next best option, I’ll just watch the Lifetime Network and cry. It has the same effect, after all.

And at that moment, I realized two things: I was never coming back to Springfield, Massachusetts and Billie Holiday was right when she said, “there’s no damn business like show business—you just have to smile to keep from throwing up.”

How to Ruin a Girl's Day in Two Seconds

2007-03-30T12:19:00.000-07:00

I realize that I don't look particularly intimidating, but that doesn't mean that I enjoy advice from strangers. I was walking down the street yesterday and a guy on the street says to me "don't look so sad. It can't be that bad."

I have a couple issues with that comment. First of all, I wasn't aware that I looked sad. I like to think that I look distinguished, or intelligent, or hell, even pretty. That's just my face.

Secondly, what if what I'm thinking about is that bad? What if I had an accident and I am unable to smile? What if my dog just died? What if I just lost my job and then was robbed at gunpoint? What if I caught a whiff of something that reminded me of a wistful memory?

And lastly, why is my face any of your business? I don't go up to homeless people and say, "don't look sad, homeless man. It can't be that bad! I mean, sure, you don't have a home, but at least you have those cats!" Or "don't look so happy, ma'm. Your shoes completely clash with your outfit."

I think the policy is: my face, my business. Besides, frowning burns more calories then smiling. Maybe I'm just on a diet.

Life and Death in 24 Hours

2007-03-15T11:32:00.000-07:00

Maybe you think this is a dramatic title. Well let me tell you, that's not even how dramatic it actually is, as this all took place in about 6 hours. This is the screenplay that was my yesterday. [Stage direction: Reader jumps into time machine.]

It started with an e-mail about one of my best friends. She's pregnant with her first child. She's excited and the mama bear of our group. But regardless of how nurturing she may be, her baby-to-be doesn't seem to see things the same way. Over the last seven months, she's been in the hospital four different times for dehydration. She even managed to lose 16 pounds at one point because she couldn't keep any food down. I couldn't lose 16 pounds if I had a tapeworm.

She went back into the hospital a few days ago because she was having contractions, and she's not due for another two months. When I talked to her she seemed so calm that I was calm, too. She was like "either I’ll be able to carry it to term or we'll have it naturally, early. But the baby will be okay." Maybe that's the beauty of drugs, but still, I felt better after talking to her. See? That's the nurturing part.

Then I get the email. She's having a c-section at 4 p.m. Ah, a c-section isn't natural?! And when I call them a few hours later, freaking out, they have a little almost-four pound baby boy.

"The baby and Mom are healthy," her hubby said. And when he said "mom" I got all kinds of verklempt. My two good friends--people with whom I have been falling-down drunk, who I watched do the worm at their wedding reception, who I've known before they were even dating each other--are now parents. [Cue “Circle of Life” music.]

Cut to twenty minutes after I get the news.

I'm in Times Square. My assignment? To interview people on the street about what they call their or their girlfriend's period. Why, you ask? For a new monthly show called "The Monthly Show with Aunt Flo." (See my schedule for details. It’s March 21 at 8 P.M.!) We tried this first in Astoria, Queens, and the problem was that no one spoke English. (I'm not being racist, that's what happened.) But in Times Square, it’s different; the masses want some camera time.

The jackpot was when we asked two aspiring rappers our question. "I call it man's frustration," one of the guys said.

I wondered if maybe it wasn't a little frustrating for the lady, too. He did not seem to agree. "No, it's a man's frustration. I wrote a song called 'Man's Frustration.' Wanna hear it?"

And indeed I did. And then he dropped a hot sixteen on the subject of periods. I kid you not, a rap song, fit to be our theme. It was kind of magical.

Cut to the west village.

I was heading there after my Times Square adventure to cram some comedy in at the Village Lantern. The show was going on as usual and in the middle of someone's set we hear gunshots. That's right, gunshots. And not one or two, like ten.

And everyone was very freaked out. Someone was actually worried the gunman would come down the stairs to where we were and start shooting. I thought that was ridiculous, I mean, if a shooter is stupid enough to break up a comedy show, and think the person onstage won't call him out, then he needs to get out of the house more often (for many reasons).

Turns out it was a huge ordeal. Four wounded. Two auxilary cops dead. We come out to look and there's a body nearby. That's right. This is not "Law & Order" people, this is life in the big city. It was literally a zoo. (http://www.cnn.com/2007/US/03/15/nyc.shootout/index.html)

All in all, one very hectic day. I think I need to get out of the city for a bit.

[Fade out. Play a few bars of “Man’s Frustration.”]

New York Moment # 497

2007-03-02T06:57:00.000-08:00

I heard the train pulling into my enormously long station yesterday morning and I knew what I had to do. After all, the G train is only 4 cars and stops in the middle of the platform. And who knows when it will come again?

You would think I was used to this: I almost do it on a daily basis.

I sighed, squared my shoulders, adjusted my multiple bags that made me resemble a pack horse, and took off.

But today wasn't every day. For one, I was wearing a skirt. And I was also wearing a pair of little kitten heels, which, while comfortable, are not meant for wind sprints.

But I ran. And I was pretty sure I could make it. That is, until one of my shoes decided not to cooperate and down I crashed. But this was not a little slip and fall: this was a wind knocked out of me, legs all over the place, skirt over my head kind of fall. It was dramatic enough that a woman running for the train behind me actually stopped to see if I was okay.

"Are you all right? That was an ugly fall," she said, panting while still jogging in place.

"I'm fine," I said. "There's no hope for me making the train, but you go. Run! Save yourself!"

And off she sprinted.

And I quickly brushed myself off as Jay-Z had taught me and tried to make the train. And surprisingly I did, limping to the finish line like I had just completed a triathlon.

The train conductor looked at me and smiled. "Good morning," he said. I couldn't figure out if he was just a happy guy, had seen me fall, or had actually viewed my underwear as my skirt had ridden so high. Frankly, any of these things could make for an entertaining morning.

"Is it?" I asked, as I shuffled onto the train and plopped down into the nearest seat. I may have made the train, but I felt like I lost the race. Of course, maybe that's because no one runs a race in heels.

To All the Bosses I've Not Really Loved Before

2007-02-28T06:51:00.000-08:00

This shout out goes to my old boss Irene. If it weren't for her, not only would this piece not be possible, but I wouldn't understand how awful it can be when the wrong people are in control ( I would later fully understand this once Bush became president). Here's to opening up those old wounds and putting a little salt and lemon in there...

“Emily, sit up straight,” my boss whispered out of the side of her mouth as she nudged me in the ribs. Granted this was my first job in publishing, but I think my posture is my business. It wasn’t like I was walking in late to the meeting with a vodka tonic in one hand and a joint in the other and then I slumped down into my seat to take a nap(but wouldn’t that make meetings just fly by?).

I was working at, well, let’s just call it Satan’s Little Workshop. In the two years I was there (a year and a half of those looking for a new job), it’s not so much that I had one awful boss, as that I had four, and that’s not including our evil head of the department. It was like they were transformers and together they morphed into this huge being of destruction and awfulness (so I guess that would make them Decepticons).

I came to New York expecting publishing to be nurturing and rewarding. Even though the pay is low and the overtime is nonexistent, I thought this was my way of giving back to what I had grown up on, almost like giving books a big old kiss of thanks (and yes, that was with tongue). Holy mother of crap was I naïve.

At the helm of our universe of awful was a slight woman. She was red headed and freckled and she looked harmless. Let’s just call her "Fire Crotch". Word around the office was the she had managed to get ahead by using, how show I put this delicately, her vagina. The fact that she found enough straight men in publishing to sleep with is rather impressive, though.

It seemed it was her personal goal to make us, her underlings, miserable. If something went wrong, Fire Crotch relished in finding out whose fault it was and reducing them to tears. She insisted we get into the office at 9 but she didn’t get in until 10:30 which gave her an hour or so of productivity before heading off for her massage, the gym, and taking her child to a Baby Einstein class. During the course of the day, we were kept abreast of her moods and habits by the announcements that would reverberate from her office, like “I’m going to brush my teeth. Hold my calls!” or when things went wrong “Are you kidding me? Motherfuckingshit” she would scream. Yes, a role model to us all.

Fire Crotch also did community service, feeling it was her duty to help with our self-improvement. I overheard her say to one of my bosses “Eating chocolate, Kim? Are you sure that’s a good idea with your ass?” Or “An apple today. Much better choice.”

Even better, her first husband from whom she divorced and received a hefty settlement was Jewish, so she had converted. So now, this brassy, Irish lady with a strong Bronx lilt, would not only pepper her language with Yiddish, but she would do it incorrectly. I had an overwhelming need to throw that mishugana down some stairs on a daily basis.

In addition to dealing with Fire Crotch, there were the four bosses and five imprints that I worked for over my two years there. And maybe you’re thinking, “look at you with all your promotions!” Ah, no. Every couple of months, Fire Crotch would call all of the assistants into her office and discuss the changes she had decided to make. It was more like a very uncomfortable game of naked twister. It would begin with an announcement like “ Jesus. You assistants kvetch me! We need to reorganize things.”

As for my bosses, the first one (the one who corrected my posture) was forced out. My second boss was laid off on a Monday morning with 73 other people. Apparently the company executives had never seen Office Space. Then management made an announcement that there were still several more people that would be laid off that Wednesday. We all quaked in our boots for two days only to find out that it was only one person, who had been on vacation. Welcome back. And then we all got a pep talk that sure, we had seventy-four times the work to do for no additional pay, but “wasn’t it great to still be part of this team?”

My third boss liked to take credit for all the work he made me do. And he took credit for everyone else’s work. I was just waiting for him to say something like “The Bible? Oh, I edited that. Why do you think they call me King James?” He ended up leaving the company due to a nervous breakdown and opened a restaurant in New Jersey with his gay lover. Apparently there’s just something about New Jersey that brings out the gay lover in people.

And maybe now you’re thinking, just stick it out. You’ll get promoted eventually and it will all be an awful memory. It’s called paying your dues. But there was nowhere to go. Fire Crotch wouldn’t promote any of us, she’d just move us around. And I was starting to think: this was some bullshit. I moved to NYC for this? Timing my bills so I could live in an overpriced apartment in Murray Hill with all the other little trust fund babies (except I wasn’t a trust fund baby)? Taking a second job at Starbucks where people would actually walk out with their drink and the tip jar and shooing the homeless out of the bathroom? Going out drinking every night to shake off the day? (Okay, that part was fun. Except when I hooked up with my coworker. And it ended very badly. And everyone knew. And I always ended up in the elevator with him.) I mean, at least at Starbucks I could do whip-its with the whip cream containers when things got bad. (Does anyone else sense a pattern of substance abuse in this essay?)

And finally, after sending countless resumes, many miserable interviews, and much crying, I had a third interview at another publishing house. And the new head of my department looked me in the eye and said, “you know, we try to be very courteous to each other. We don’t curse and we're very supportive.” And I started to laugh a little because it was so far removed from my current situation. I felt like a battered wife. Like someone tried to hug me and my eyes got all wild and I flinched and yelled out, “I’ll cut you, I’ll cut you!”

And when I finally walked into Fire Crotch’s office to give my letter of resignation, I definitely felt like a lot more then $27,000 bucks. “You got goyim coming in here,” she said. “And how do you know how to copyedit, mazel tov?”

“You don’t even know half my skills,” I said, adding a neck swivel to try and make up for my lack of bravado.

“Obviously,” she said, before yelling to her assistant, “Jaimie! Hold my calls! I have to floss and get this piece of damn piece of lettuce out of my teeth!”

And that was it. I didn’t get to tell her all the things I wanted to say. Like “Why do you have to make everyone so miserable?” or “Thanks for bubkes, you stupid bitch.” or “Your face is a piece of lettuce!” But at least I passively aggressively got to rip her a new one in my exit interview. And I even gave less then two weeks notice. Instead, I gave a week and 4 days, because I’m a badass. And when I finally walked out of that building for the last time, it felt pretty good—slightly uncomfortable because I was carrying a big box of office supplies I’d stolen, but pretty darn good.

What Happens When You Take a Girl Out of Philly

2007-02-02T14:12:00.000-08:00

I did a show a few days ago at a bar on the Upper East Side. These types of shows are always interesting because the people at the bar are usually there to get drunk and not necessarily watch comedy. Thus the hilarity, or more often the awkwardness ensures.

On this particular night, there were a bunch of drunken nurses on one side, an older couple watching the show intently just a few feet away from the performing comics, and a group of undoubtedly hot, yet slightly trashy girls. And I'm not saying that because I'm jealous. There's just something about a girl that wears a tank top with no bra in the middle of winter, which says to me "I’m sure this girl is very nice, but I think she might have trade sexual favors for a place to live." When asked who the girls were, they said they were the Girls of Philly and had just finished taping a radio spot. Something told me it wasn't on NPR.

And now it was my turn to entertain this crowd. I looked over at the Girls from Philly. And I had to ask them my question.

"Hey girls? I'm a girl. And I'm from Philly. How come I can't be a Girl from Philly? Is it because I'm short?"

I expected them to say something like. "Yes." Or "Short is the least of your problems." Or "Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?"

But that's not what they said at all. In fact, one of them--who had an INCREDIBLY long torso, I may add. Like it was practically a work of art it was so long--yells over to me: "You can be a Girl of Philly. Show me your boobs!"

This was not the answer I expected.

"Well, I could," I said. "But usually when I show them, I like the person to say nice things to me first and make me feel pretty. And alcohol helps, too."

"Well what do you want to drink?" She asked.

"Tequila. Like a trough of tequila, " I said. "In fact, just warm the funnel up now."

And the rest of the set was great (and I don’t mean just my boobs! He-yo!). The audience was participating and I felt like I had done my job. I just hoped they would forget about the boob showing. I mean, I just felt so unprepared. At least I could get a tan before my bosom’s big debut!

Luckily for me, that wasn't a problem. In fact, there were many other boobs on display that night, courtesy of the Girls of Philly. And the girls were very considerate. When a guy at the other end of the bar yelled that he couldn't see, they turned around and gave him fair share of eye candy.

And while I realized that you can take a girl out of Philly, you can't take the Philly out of the girl. However in these girls' cases, just substitute the word "Philly" with "strip club."

A Few Musical Gems

2007-01-10T06:38:00.000-08:00

Listening to my iPod this morning, I realized that the producer Timbaland is amazing. The man can make anyone sound good, even Omarian. Somewhere in the middle of Omarian's song "Ice Box" he whispers, "I'm so cold, I'm so cold, I'm so cold" and it doesn't even make me want to punch him in the head.

He's helped make Justin Timberlake cool. I mean, the guy started out in a boy band for crying out loud!

I bet he could even make Kenny G. the next big thing. Give Timbaland one album of his to produce, and I swear he'll be all over the news: Kenny G. is out partying too much, Kenny G. isn't wearing any panties, etc., etc. That's right, Timbaland can make us care about Kenny G.

In other musical news, listening to Marvin Gaye's "Let's Get it On" on your way to work, can put you in a very weird mood.

I hope you're reading these musical journalistic gems, Rolling Stone. I have a lot more insight where this came from (or at least a comparable amount to those kids on the new MTV reality show "I'm From Rolling Stone..." . URGH.)

A Little Ass Kicking, Perhaps?

2007-01-04T15:12:00.000-08:00

If we're not watching violence on TV, or reading about it in the news, then we're probably perpetuating it via a video game. Seriously, it's everywhere. As for me, I'm not a fighter. I'm a lover.

Well, that's not exactly true: I do think violent thoughts. Most of those thoughts have involved the zillions of tourists that hover around my work area of Rockefeller Center this past holiday season. If one more person asks me where that goddamn tree is, well, I'm gonna...

Well, I'm probably not going to do anything, just think about tripping them, or cutting off pieces of the tree and smacking them in the face with it--or the most frustrating--walking in front of them and then stopping suddenly to look up. Yeah, that would show them!

But it's not just the thoughts. It's been all around me lately.

I was sitting on the subway and overheard these two women. One of them said with sass, "Yeah, so he pushed me against the wall and I turned around and smacked him in his face!"

I totally expected the other girl to be like, "Oh, my god! Did you call the cops? I'm so glad you could protect yourself, but there's no reason for him to put his hands on you!" (I know, I’ve seen too many Lifetime movies).

But, no. Her friend responded with: "That's right, girl. My boy pushed me the other day and I kicked the shit out of him."

And I thought to myself, I wish I was Puerto Rican, 'cause those girls know how to fight!(Well, except my roommate, but maybe that’s because she’s only half Puerto Rican.) We white girls, as ambiguously ethnic as we may look, do not inherit that gene. And if it's a parental teaching thing, I think Dr. Spock needs to include a chapter in his book on this topic.

[Note: I did not call the girls Puerto Rican because I'm racist, but because they were Puerto Rican. I know this because one of the girls was wearing a necklace that said "Puerto Rico." In big gold letters. I'm serious.]

And this wasn't the first time I came upon this discussion in a week. My boyfriend's mother shared with me a story over Christmas dinner. (Yes, Jews can eat Christmas dinner, too. It's not like I was eating a quiche in the shape of Christ.) It was a little story about how she learned to fight.

When she was about five, a little white girl used to chase her home after school every day and threaten to beat her up. Her grandmother got wind of this and finally said, "If you don't stop running and turn around and kick that girl's ass, I'm going to whoop yours." What a choice.

So that very next day, the little girl chased little Joyce home from school. And she started to run until she saw her grandmother walking down the street. And she was holding what looked to be a switch. (Apparently this was also in the days before child abuse laws.)

Little Joyce had to make a decision. So she turned around and whooped that little girl's ass until her grandmother actually said to her, "that's enough."

If this was big Joyce's way of explaining to me that if I ever hurt her baby, I'll get my ass whooped, her pointed was dully noted.

But I have to say, although I never want to be in the situation where I have to kick someone’s toosh to defend my own, it would have been nice if I’d gotten a little of that “tough love” or “self defense class” or whatever you call it as a child.

It would be nice if despite my small stature I actually looked intimidating, because, well, I can kick some butt! Because maybe then tourists wouldn’t come up to me and ask where the goddamn Rockefeller tree is. Or they’d ask me, and I’d glare at them, and they’d just slink away. And maybe if I was lucky I’d hear them say “See, Jimmy? You shouldn’t talk to a girl like that. I think she has a bad attitude.” And I’d smile (but not so they could see it), knowing that my bad assness showed.

Chrismahannakwanzikuh wish list

2006-12-20T12:46:00.000-08:00

It’s the holiday season, which means cheer, good will, dodging tourists, and asking for stuff, so I’ve compiled a little wish list. And I know you’re saying, but Emily, you’re Jewish, I thought Chanukah wasn’t that big a deal. And I’d say, well, you’re right, but even the so-called choosen people like presents. So let’s get started:

I wish that Jews actually had a Chanukah Harry. Then I could sit on his lap and could pretend that he cares what I wish for, cause all we Jews have are therapists, and sitting on their laps is really awkward.
I wish that celebrities would stop bringing babies home as souvenirs from their travels abroad. It’s really admirable to adopt a little brown baby, dress it up, and give it to the nanny to raise. If you want to impress me, adopt a 14 year old American kid, who’s mom was a crackhead. Unless, of course, you’re Whitney Houston or Courtney Love, cause that’s pretty much just putting them back in the same situation. Except this time with a house.
I wish I didn’t see so much of Britney’s punany this year. The punany peek is the new nipple slip and I don’t like it. And I don’t like that after everything, she went on a shopping spree to buy underwear, cause I know she owned some before this all happened.
I wish someone invented a pill that you could take instead of getting a full night’s sleep and still feel rested, because at the moment, I’m just sprinkling a little bit of speed on my omelets and I’m really afraid I’m going to get drug tested at work.
I wish that there were ghetto vegetarian joints, cause I’d love to get my tofu served through some bulletproof glass. It would make me feel like I have street cred even though I don’t get enough iron and Vitamin B.
I wish that guys that love Girls Gone Wild videos one day give birth to a hot daughter. (Well, not they actually give birth but you know what I mean.) Then they can live in continual fear that they’ll see her on one of the videos and go blind.
I wish that the Puerto Rican homeless guy by my supermarket would stop talking to me. Just because I look Puerto Rican when I wear my head scarf and hoop earrings (and I do), doesn’t mean we have something in common. I also wish I didn’t understand enough Spanish to know what he was saying, because he’s a dirty, dirty, man.
I wish that when guys do hit on me, or any girl for that matter, they’d try a better line. When I won’t give you my name, I definitely won’t give you my number. Although I might give you my social security and that’s it, just to see if you can find me. And if you’re going to use a line, use my favorite one: “How do you like your eggs in the morning, girl? Scrambled or Fertilized?” By the way, I like mine overeasy (just how I like my men, he-yo!).
I wish people would stop saying, “oh, that must be so hard” when they find out my boyfriend is black. It’s not 1774, people. He has a penis, I have a vagina, it’s really very easy. That’s the beautiful thing about biology, it works with all shapes, colors, and sizes.
And while I love my boyfriend, I wish I had a sugar daddy. Actually, I’d even settle for a sugar mommy. Actually, I’d even settle for a sweet and lo or splenda daddy. And I’d like him to have a twin so my boyfriend can have one, too, because I’m a giver.
Speaking of mommies, I wish my maternal instinct would stop trying to kick in. I was on a plane sitting next to this six month old that sounded like he had the bubonic plague. He was so sick, he was blowing snot bubbles, and my uterus thought it was a adorable. That’s not right.
I wish the stuff that I wrote on the train that seemed hilarious at the time, was still hilarious when I told it to people on stage.
I wish something would happen with my comedy career. I understand if it’s not Live at Gotham yet, but how about a herpes commercial? Seriously, I’ll take anything.
I wish the G train wasn’t four cars long, and I didn’t live in the longest subway station in the world. It’s getting really tiresome doing power sprints before I’ve even had my coffee.
I wish a homeless guy (yes, it seems to be a trend with me), didn’t jump in a turnstile with me the other day, because now I feel like I have scabbies. I also wish I haven’t lived I new york so long, that when a rat ran over my foot, my only thought was, “well, I’m glad it’s not summer, cause then it would have run over my bare toes! Now I only have a little bit of the black plague (and yes, I’m realizing from reading this that there are a lot of disesases I may have, so I might want to get those checked out).”
I wish I didn't have hypochondria.
I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl, who looked good, I would call her.
I wish I could rap.

And with that I wish everyone a Happy Hanukah, a merry Christmas, a flippin fantastic Kwanza, and to all, a good night.

Wanted: A Few Inches

2006-12-14T07:50:00.000-08:00

We all want things in life: to win the lottery, world peace, fat-free Chunky Monkey ice cream that tastes like the real thing.

But for me, it's something so small yet so unattainable. I want to be taller.

Now don't get me wrong, I actually don't mind being my height, which is roughly 5 feet. My pediatrician once, after assessing my height and weight, called me a "nice little package." (Granted, these days that might be viewed as “crossing a line.”) Besides, what I lack in height, I make up for with sass and raw animal sexuality. Growl. But really, it's the ramifications that get me.

It's the fact that I’m the oldest child in my family, but have always been too small to beat up my little brother, who's now six foot two. My version of roughhousing was punching him in the kidney and then fleeing for my life. And sure, I know I have the intellectual prowess, after all, I can kick his ass in Hungry Hungry Hippos, but it's hard to remember that when he was punting me across the house like a football.

And there’s the problem that even petite pants are sometimes too long. I once went into a store where the “short” pants always fit and suddenly this was not the case. I began to wonder: had I shrunk? Because honestly, I thought I had a few more good years before that happened. I was then informed by the overly snotty saleswoman that "petite is now 5"3." What am I supposed to do, shop at Kids 'R Us? Because let me tell you, their suit selection, pretty limited. Trust me, I know.

It's the fact that I'll always be cute. Never pretty, never mature, just cute. And that being cute sometimes leads people to think that they can pet me on the head, like their golden retriever. Yes, every girl's dream. I mean, I can understand why Tom Cruise made it so he looked taller then his lady in the wedding pictures. Self-esteem boosts come in all shapes and sizes, people. Sure, it also means that I look younger and that this could one day lead to work as the "underage girl" on To Catch a Predator, but let's not get distracted.

And of course, there's the issue that if my boyfriend or roommate aren't home, I must swallow my pride and get out the stepladder to reach something off any of the shelves. Did you know that in Missouri, if you're less than 5"2 you're legally considered a midget? A midget! Sure, I'd get my own handicapped parking space, but to think they can label me just because of my size! What’s next labeling someone because of their skin color? Oh, wait….anyway.

Now, I’m a curious girl and I like solutions. That torture instrument in the Tower of London known as the Rack could work. Its purpose? To stretch out the victim’s limbs until they pretty much died, but before that happened, they would gain a couple of inches. All I can say is sign me up! After all, I have spent years dating incredibly tall men. A few hours craning to get your ear near to a mouth that is a foot above you just to have a conversation can certainly stretch the neck muscles, why not the legs! (I date tall men, by the way, in case I end up bearing their children. No rush, but I figure that way, at least my offspring would have a chance at a normal-sized life.)

I realized I may be small, but at least all my parts are in working order. Sure, I can’t be a pilot, or a fireman, or even a petite model, but I have to be positive. I could look to a profession where height doesn’t matter, like a job where I spend a lot of time on my back (if you know what I’m saying), but there’s got to be something else.

So I did what any girl looking for some hope would do: No, I didn’t think what would Jesus do, I looked to the stars for inspiration. And I was annoyed to find that pint-sized performers Sammy Davis Jr., Prince, and Christina Aguilera are all taller then me. Then again, I was surprised to find that heavyweights like Joan of Arc and Tammy Faye Baker only stood at 4”11! (Although with Tammy, I think those fake eyelashes gave her a few extra inches.)

In the end, I guess you’re stuck with the cards you’re dealt. And to get me through the tough times like when I’m in a crowd at a concert and can’t see the stage, I turn to one of my favorite poets. Truer words were never spoken when he said: (in dramatic accent) “I wish I was a little bit taller. I wish I was a baller. I wish I had a girl, who looked good, I would (indeed) call her.” And while Skee-lo’s rap career may have faded away (maybe because he was greedy, I mean he also said “I wish I was like six foot nine, so I could get with Leoshi, cuz she don’t know me but she’s really fine), his words and his longing for a few more inches will always live in my heart.

A Wrinkle in Time

2006-11-29T11:14:00.000-08:00

I like the elderly. I mean, we all have our good days and our bad days, but generally, they're a funny people and more so because they don't mean to be.

I had just seen the movie "For Your Consideration" (it was good, by the way, no "Best in Show," but certainly no "Employee of the Month" either. Not that I saw that movie, I'm just saying. ) and went to the theater bathroom. There were four stalls and I saw an older woman go in the stall next to me.

All of a sudden I hear a voice. An old Brooklyn-sounding voice ask, "So what did you think of the movie?"

In response, the older woman who had uttered it got silence, because we were all, well, going to the bathroom. And it's easy to ignore someone when you can't actually see them. And we didn't know each other.

"Fine, don't answer me then,” she said, with a harrumph.

"Ah, well, what movie did you see?" the stall next to me volunteered.

"'For Your Consideration' and I just didn't get it," she said with disgust.

"Well, I thought it was a great movie about the corruption of Hollywood," the stall replied.

"I guess," old Brooklyn answered.

"Really?" ventured the last stall. "I felt it had a dark, sarcastic humor, but truly, the level of tender, ruthless, inspired, lethally accurate study that has gone into the follicular expression of each and every character in Christopher Guest's latest hilarious cultural corrective is something inspiring to behold."

"Sp0ak up. I didn't catch all of it," our moderator said.

"Ah . . . why don't we all just meet in the handicapped stall and discuss this face-to-face?" I ventured. This suggestion was of course, also greeted with silence.

After our little pow wow we all came out of our respective stalls and washed our hands, and it was awkward.

I felt like I gained a lot from the conversation, though. We discussed the nuances of Hollywood, the price of fame, and so much more. But most of all, I went in having to urinate, and came out realizing that stalls should be soundproof. And I owe it all to that older woman who wasn’t afraid to speak out.

Run a Mile in My Bedroom Slippers

2006-11-13T14:51:00.000-08:00

While I knew that the New York City marathon was coming up, I didn't have much of a vested interest in it. I certainly wasn't training for it, (you don't feel so inclined to go for long jogs after you fall off a treadmill, as it leaves emotional scars and twenty stitches of physical scars in the shape of a smiley face on your knee.)

But that all changes when the marathon actually races by your window. I woke up on a Sunday morning to cheering. I stuck my head out the window and saw a few guys in wheelchairs race by. This struck me as odd.

Granted, I just moved to Bed-Stuy, so Sunday morning wheelchair races could be all the rage here, but I found it dubious. But the crowds continued to grow, and the runners kept racing by until the street was absolutely covered in them. Big runners, small runners, a runner in a tutu, two German runners with matching German flag-colored mohawks.

Perhaps my favorite runner was the one that was walking but on his cell phone, who I overheard say “Yeah, I’m really not running as fast as I’d like.” Truer words were never spoken.

And here I was, watching (most of) these people run their asses off from the comfort of my bed, in my pajamas, just sticking my head out the window. The only way I could have felt lazier is if I was also eating bonbons.

Now, I know my neighborhood is pretty diverse these days but nothing hit it home more then the portrait across the street of some of the onlookers: four white kids, in various shades of Emo dress, looking like they dropped right out of Williamsburg (and yes, for the record, they ARE in a band). They were standing next to two huge black guys, with copious amounts of bling and the quintessential winter coat with fur hood. It was a crossroad of stereotypes, people.

Even better, the two black guys decided to bring out their stereo and play every album that Jay-Z has ever recorded. I thought this was a brilliant idea, as I love having a soundtrack, and Jay-Z has pretty much lived my life in a nutshell.

Yup, it was pretty much a perfect Sunday morning. I had live entertainment streaming past my window and good tunes to listen to. Now if someone would just deliver some bonbons to my bed.

I Say Potato, You Say Orange Juice

2006-10-31T11:50:00.000-08:00

I was on the way to Philly a few weeks ago on my favorite mode of transportation, Greyhound. (See http://emilyepstein.blogspot.com/2006/03/leaving-driving-to-us-indeed.html).

First the bus was delayed. Or it was late. Or the one before it never came. Frankly, I'm not really sure as they never make announcements, which encourages you to play “what do you think happened to the bus?” with the person behind you in line.

Then the "Greyhound management" decided to do bag and person check. As they searched through my bags, I asked them what they were looking for.

"Anything that could cause a problem," the woman said. "Alcohol, guns, knives."

So apparently anything that could make the trip more interesting.

The thing is, you never hear people planning suicide missions that involve Greyhound. Planes, yes, buses on fictional movies like Speed, also true. But Greyhound? Not so much.

And I think that’s go to be because you will never find anyone important on a Greyhound bus. Starving artists? Definitely. Baby mammas? Hell yeah. But never heads of state.

So at least the terrorists realize that to blow up a Greyhound bus would be a waste of their time, and no furtherance of their mission. And if you were to get the sorry mission of blowing yourself to the afterlife by detonating a bus, I’m pretty sure there won't be any of those 72 virgins waiting for you.

When all the bag fondling was over, I settled in to my seat, hoping to go over my set list before the show I was heading to. I ended up, however, sitting next to an incredibly inquisitive woman. Which was the last thing I wanted.

Those of you that know me, probably find that to be amusing, as I'm not exactly shy. But I have to say, I've never had less in common with someone then I did with this woman.

She was Pakistani and very sweet, and had moved to the states four years ago. She married a dude at 20 years old that she met in church and only knew him for a few days before they jumped over the broom. (I think it was an arranged marriage). Her hubby is now the manager of a Dominos. She has never been a trip on her own until now and she's never been on the subway without her husband. In addition, she has never owned a cell phone nor knows how to use it.

Throw me a bone here, people!

So we stumbled through a conversation trying to be able to relate to each other, which was kind of heartwarming.

When I told her I was Jewish, her face lit up.

"I love those people!" she exclaimed. "They are so beautiful."

Now we were getting somewhere! I mean, we Heebs are indeed a very beautiful people, if I may say so myself.

"But why do you all have the same hair?" she asked.

And then it hit me. She was talking about Orthodox Jews.

I was then forced to do my best to teach Hassidic Jewry 101. Talk about awkward.

After our lesson, she asked me what I did for a living. I explained to her about my dual professions of comedy and book publishing. I had to describe to her what stand-up comedy is.

"Tell me one of your stories," she implored.

So I thought. And thought. And thought some more. And I realized, there was not a single joke (or Spanish telenovela) I could tell that wouldn't confuse her or upset her.

"I got nothing," I said. "Wanna talk more about the beautiful Jewish people?"

She nodded her head. And so we did.

You Owe Me

2006-10-19T12:32:00.000-07:00

One of my best friends just got knocked up. Don't worry, it's a good thing. She's happy about it, her hubby is happy about it, and we, her friends, are all excited, too.

She's my first close friend to have a baby, and I’m realizing it’s really going to change things. No more binge drinking, or staying out till all hours of the night, or taking inappropriate pictures and posting them on the web (because, you know, the baby might see them and be emotionally scarred or something).

More then anything, since I can’t help her carry the baby, I really want to help.

"What do you say to me becoming a midwife? That way I can be useful when the baby pops out," I said to her.

"Thanks, but no," she said, grimacing.

"Oh, come on! I mean, if you can do those online tests to become a priest, it can't be that different to become an untrained medical helper."

But she stuck to her guns, so now all I can do is look for cute baby outfits, and plan how I'll pass along my wisdom to the new baby. Since I don't have any actual wisdom, maybe I'll teach him/her about jokes and gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhoods, which seem to be my only skills.

I'm thinking that something must come over you when you're pregnant because my friend is having an awful time. She's has had to stay home from work because she can't keep any food down and she's losing weight. She's even had to go to the hospital because she was so dehydrated.

How can a child be this difficult before it's even come into the world? Do the hormones shooting through your body make you so loving and patient that you just glow with the light of life? Because I think, if I ever become pregnant, and my child was this much of a pain, it would owe me before it even came out of the womb. None of that "letting a child be a child business," the baby better be supporting mommy in her old age by the time she hits the ripe old age of 5. That’s right, I said get to dancing, Shaquanda!

Then again, maybe it's sign that I'm not quite ready to have a kid yet. Guess I'll just stick to taking care of my goldfish. Actually, it's my roommate's.

Shake Your Tailfeathers

2006-09-27T07:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I perform my written pieces for an audience. I always find this to be a little scary because with stand-up you want to get consistent laughs and if you don't, it can get a little disconcerting. But with written pieces, it's all about the journey and if it's a funny piece, you hope to get some guffaws along the way. This is a piece I did last night for the show Inner Monologues. The theme was "Heroes and Villains":

Villains come in all shapes and sizes. And in real life, their “villainy” tends to sneak up on you. But one thing I do know, there’s always a name for this evil.

There’s my 30-something Polish landlord, who, when I describe her evil ways to people, they imagine an old, bitter woman, twisting her mustache and plotting. I can’t figure out if she’s racist (my boyfriend is black) and anti-Semitic (cause I’m a Heeb), just hates me, severely needs to get laid, or is a combination of the three. Last year, she almost didn’t renew my lease because there was a mouse in the building. Now, please note, there are other tenants in the building.

“Before you lived here, there weren’t any mice,” she said, glaring at me like I had completed the great faux paux of her people by trying to dip one of her beloved polish pierogies in ketchup instead of sour cream.

“Yes, but before I lived here there weren’t any jews, either,” I replied. And we just stood there looking at each other, because technically, we were both right. But soon after, she fell back in the wrong when she yelled at me for walking across the floor in my bare feet after ten p.m. “What reason does anyone have to be awake after then?” she remarked in disgust. And let’s not forget about the time she called me dirty. I’m thinking that’s not her slang for “incredible human being.” If she were a comic book villain, I think her name would be Rhodent, just like the bad guy in Dick Tracy.

And there was the Chinese woman that tried to help me find clothes when I was in Shanghai on vacation. As I’m sure you know, Chinese people are on the small side. So am I. That’s why I thought I’d fit right in. Seems I forget about some of my sizeable assets. So I walk into a store and before my eyes even focus on a piece of clothing I hear, “WE HAVE BIG SIZE!”

My first thought? Maybe you could sweet talk me a little before you pull out the muumuu. They brought out the XXXXL shirt (I kid you not) and I put my head in my hands for a little while so she wouldn’t see me and my pride cry and hold each other. But alas, not even this size fit.

She looked at me disapprovingly while staring at my chest before uttering, “we no have here.” That’s right, she had the nerve to accost my breasts. My grade A (or maybe bigger), all natural, cultivated in America with American products (like apparently milk with steroids in it) breasts. And the fact was, I think she had a pretty good idea there was nothing that I could do about them, so to point that out felt a little “you may have coca-cola in America, but we have itty bitty waists”-esque. Her villain name would have been Dr. Ignorant.

But bad guys don’t just come in human form, there is many an evil animal spirit lurking as well. I may be a vegetarian, but I would eat a peacock in a second. I’m not even picky: peacock brownies, peacock pizza, I’d even eat peacock ice cream with a little feather sticking out of the cup for garnish. And then I’d eat the feather. Maybe you’re wondering: why all this spite? You seem like such a little ball of well-adjustedness.

In that case, I have two words for you, passive-aggressive, but let’s get on with our story. I was about 3 years old (yes, I was the same size) and I was at the London zoo with my parents for a day out. I was in my stroller, buckled in tight, because I was “mama’s little explorer” in those days. Anyway, I had seen all sorts of lions, and tigers, and bears, oh my, and I was ready for a snack. It was then that my parents handed me a chocolate chip cookie. And this cookie was like the size of my head (which is not that small). It was glorious. (How I yearn for the days before I had to worry about my girlish figure.)

I took a bite and began to smile from the top of my ears to the tips of my toes. And I think it was at this point that my parents had turned away. But I was very content. And it was then that a peacock waddled over to me, plumage all aflutter. (Which frankly is weird, because the male peacocks are only supposed to shake their tailfeathers when they’re trying to find a lady peacock to mate with.) Apparently English zookeepers think hungry, horny, 3-feet tall birds should just be able to mingle amongst the common folk.

This peacock stared at me with his beady little eyes lowering his head so we were almost at eye level. And then, he grabbed the cookie right out of my hand and stood there, just past my reach, chowing down on my cookie. And as I was fastened in, there was not a damn thing I could do. And like some kind of school bully, he stood there until he finished the whole cookie before running away. And then I yelled out, what? Don’t you want to insult my mama while you’re at it!” as I shook my little fist.

My parents never saw this peacock, or so they say. They just thought I had a very vivid imagination. I know they thought this, because they asked if the peacock could talk and what his name was. And I would say his name was Professor Shake Your Tailfeathers.

Any maybe you’re thinking, but Emily, these people and animals seem misguided, and a little callous, but not villains, persay. And I say, good point. And then you add, but you didn’t even tell us the villainous story about how you were on a plane coming back from China and a little boy peed on you. And it wasn’t even the first person he had peed on on this flight. And the flight attendants just laughed and tried to explain that it was a custom. And you figured they meant the fact the little boy was wearing pants that were split down the crotch was the custom and not the fact that he just gave you a golden shower. And then I’d say, true, but I only have 7 minutes up here.

The point is, if you look up villain in my good pal, Webster’s dictionary, you’d see one of the definitions is: [clear throat]: “any character who opposes the hero.” And maybe I’m going out on a limb, but I think I get to be the hero in my own comic book of a life. That’s what happens when your boyfriend is a supervillain.

I think I'm in love...

2006-09-25T08:41:00.000-07:00

No, I'm not getting married.

It's my landlord-to-be. He's, well, kind of dreamy. And I'm not talking about looks, I'm talking about how he's a charmer.

I looked at my lease and it said no utilities included so we questioned him about it, as we'd been told otherwise. His response?

"People need the basics to live. Of course it's included!"

I felt like one of those battered wives who is just learning to trust again.

And when I asked about pets like boyfriends he asked, "Well, do you keep him chained up at night?"

But I'm a lady, so of course I said, "that's none of your business."

Then he hit me with the doozie. "We're very family oriented," he explained. "The backyard isn't finished yet, but when it's nice outside we'll have lots of cookouts and you guys are invited."

I almost started to cry.

This would be dramatically different from my current landlord, who not only refuses to let us use the backyard under any circumstances (which is her right), but her sister insists of sunning herself outside our window in an entirely too small bikini. And she's no spring chicken. Not such a nice thing to wake up to on a weekend.

And when they're not sunning their pasty white selves, they continue to add to their backyard decor. At the moment it's replacing the concrete with bricks so I wake up to the sound of splitting rocks during the week. Yup, love the sound of a jackhammer in the morning.

So it looks like there may be a fairy-tale ending to this nightmare.

Well, after I get through the move anyway.

And if my landlord ever calls me back so we can get our deposit.

I'm just hoping this doesn't end up as a Law and Order based on a true story episode.

On trains and trusting landlords...

2006-09-14T09:19:00.000-07:00

My landlord called on Friday night at 10 pm to let me know that she wasn't renewing my lease. Weird time to make such a call. I was upset because frankly, I was supposed to break up with her. In fact, I thought I'd already done such a thing. I clearly remember yelling at her the last time we got in an argument that "we only have 3 more months to live together and then I'm getting out of here! Can't you act like a freaking human being until then?" Apparently I was too subtle.

So we've started the apartment hunt and in just one viewing, the frustration of searching from three years ago all came rushing back. We went to a very nice apartment in the middle of Bushwick (of course the ad said East Williamsburg) that had no living room. I brought this up and the woman said, "Well, I didn't write that in the ad, did I?"

Good point. But you also didn't mention that the apartment would have running water or a bathroom and it seemed to have those. Then again, the apartment also didn't contain my current landlord which made it a lot more enticing.

***

On the train, I saw a woman reading a book called "The Female Orgasm" while yawning her head off. If you're going to read porn on the subway, you'd think it would hold your attention. Maybe there weren't enough pictures.

Though, I think that's a lot less moving then the person I saw on a platform reading a newspaper upside down. I mean, I like to brag as much as the next guy, but boasting illiteracy? That's ballsy.

If I ruled the world, part 85

2006-08-25T08:48:00.000-07:00

In what was a random string of events, I ended up on a segment of Good Morning America yesterday morning.

"Why, Emily, that's wonderful!" you may say. "It's so good to see that all your time and dedication to comedy has finally paid off. It's only onwards and--"

Not so fast, I'd say, because my appearance had little to do with comedy and everything to do with Tom Cruise. Yup, I guess I should send my donation to the church of Scientology now. Besides, I’ve been wanting to take a stress test.

[A side note on Scientology: I don't think God likes them. When I first moved to New York a guy came up to me in Times Square and starting chatting away. I didn't know yet not to talk back. A few minutes into the conversation he starts in with his Scientology hook. A minute later a pigeon poops on his head. This happened approximately two more times to him during the 5 minute conversation. Coincidence? I think not.]

Anyway, we were interviewed about our thoughts on the man since he's been dropped by Paramount for his odd behavior. I thought long and hard before I opened my mouth. And when questioned, out came soliloquies about placenta and post-partum depression and suspension of disbelief.

Yet, what made it onto the two second clip was me smiling and saying something like "It's okay to love someone, but why does he need to publicize his every move?

Now, I'm not saying I'm surprised that things were cut. And I'm very happy for the opportunity. But what amazes me is that other people don't realize that things can get edited down. I mean, it's not like our opinions on Tommy were exactly groundbreaking news.

My grandmother called me yesterday after seeing the segment. "Just wanted to say I saw you on TV, honey, and I'm kind of disappointed. You just got to say one thing. I thought they'd interview you longer and you'd be funny."

Ah, family. Keeping other family members and their pride in check since, well, forever.

No problem, it's just surgery

2006-08-22T11:03:00.000-07:00

I realized a major similarity between New Yorkers and the Chinese: they like to mind their own business. In either place you can start a fight with someone, stab them, eat their heart out of their chest, and cackle while blood drips down your chin and no one will bat an eye. Actually, they might give you a nasty look because they have to step over the corpse to get to their destination.

A little graphic? Perhaps. But try and it and see if I'm right. Although maybe you want to try it with a doll instead of a real person so there's no jail time involved.

I'm really off topic.

Anyway, what proved this point to me was an incident in a restaurant in the south of China. Chinese cuisine is, as I have previously mentioned, rather interesting. As part of a meal you can find anything from shark fin to pig snout. The Chinese also feel strongly about showing you what you're eating. This entails including the head and the bones.

My friend Jenny was eating a piece of fish when she began to have a problem. Not choke, per se, she just felt like it was kind of stuck in her throat. Options to cure this malady were offered: eat a lot of rice, drink water, stand on your head. After a while it became clear from the look on Jenny's face that the situation was not improving.

Luckily, Jenny's dad is a doctor. So he had her stand up in the middle of the restaurant and tilt her head back so he could get a better look. Then Jenny's brother, Ben, gets up to assist by shining a flashlight in her mouth. But the poor man had no tools, because, well, he was on vacation. He was, however, very handy with chopsticks; I mean, once you learn to pick up individual grains of rice, a little fish bone is no problem. With the crisis averted we proceeded to hoot, holler, and take pictures.

Through the whole process no one in the restaurant looked up, least of all the waiters rushing around the restaurant. In fact, at one point it looked like they might knock the attending doctor and his patient over.

Then again, it was nice to feel like I had a little piece of home right there with me. A girl can only go so long without hearing disgusted sighs before she starts to get a little homesick.

I heart New York (and China) indeed.

No, YOU'RE a boob!

2006-08-21T11:17:00.000-07:00

One thing that excited me about being in China is that I would be amongst my people. I know I don't look Chinese, persay, but I'm the right height. Other then my size, I'm a dead ringer except for my eyelids with folds, curly hair, and how shall I say, sizeable assets.

While I thought I had found my people, they seemed to disagree. In an airport, a bunch of Chinese women of varying ages swarmed me and insisted I take a picture with them. It was flattering but weird. Whenever a bunch of us Americans were in a group, a curious Chinese person would come up behind us and just stare.

I figured I'd be able to bring some clothing home with me. And I wouldn't even have to shorten the pants! In Bejing, I stepped into a shop with chinese printed shirts.

"Don't worry," the saleswoman exclaimed after taking a look at me, "we have BIG size!"

I half expected her to pull out a mumu. I realize that English is not their first language, nor is tact, but seriously, i'm a sensitive girl. She pulled out an XXL and yet, it refused to close over my ample cleavage.

"Oh, we don't have in China," she said, pointing to my boobs.

"Yeah," I said, sighing, "it's made in America. 100% natural."

And as aggressive as salespeople are in that country, she just left me alone knowing nothing in her store would fit me.

In another store, a woman saw me looking at a shirt and immediately said pointing to the shirt, "No, too small. You try handbag!"

I don't think I've ever worked out as much as I did on this trip. I may not have left China with any clothing or my self esteem, but I did leave with some handbags. Big ones. After all, the bigger the bag, the smaller you look.

Where to Start?

2006-08-18T12:25:00.000-07:00

I'm back from that magical, dumpling filled, squatter toilet land they call China. And let me tell you, it was quite the experience. According to my jet-lagged body, it's tomorrow. So many stories to tell, so let's start from the end.

Flying is never fun. This task is even less so when there are babies involved. Sure they're cute, but boy can they scream. And I know it's not their fault but they're hard to escape on such a mode of transportation.

On my flight back, I sat behind the most adorable little chinese kids. One such precious item was a little boy who was about 2. The only thing I didn't get were his pants. They looked like normal pants until you realized there was a slit from the butt to the waist. You know, kind of like the chaps that Prince wears. Now, I figured, sure, he's a bit young for the rock star attire but whatever floats his boat.

Halfway through the flight I feel something warm on my foot. And I freak out. And that's because I know exactly what it is. That's right, this little bundle of joy had managed to pee not only onto the seat, but through the seat onto my foot behind him.

And I knew it was pee right away because he had done it earlier to the guy next to me.

Now maybe you think I'm an idiot for not changing seats, but frankly, I didnt' think that pee, like lightning, would strike twice.

Even better, the flight attendants, who were helpful but were totally laughing at us, tried to explain that it was just part of chinese culture. I assume they were talking about the buttless pants, because I don't think golden showers on tourists' feet have ever been a local custom. I know, insert R. Kelly reference here.

Fortune cookie says...

2006-07-30T10:09:00.000-07:00

I'm going on vacation to china for 18 days! And I'm very excited.

I'm hoping I don't kill my family in the process (my parents and brother are going with me). At least we won't quite be able to fall into the "stupid American" category as my dad speaks some Mandarin. That's right, the man learned the language in the army. During the Vietnam war. In language school. He's a badass. He said he'll probably be the only one in the country who will be speaking chinese with a Philadelphia accent. I have to agree.

I've also noticed that every single thing I've bought in preparation for this trip is made in China. It makes me wonder what's actually over there that I can't get here. Then again, at least I'll be able to buy right from the underage worker, so it makes me feel good to be able to cut out the middle man.

And of course, there's always the food issue. My mother is having a chinese friend of hers make a sign for me that says in Chinese "Please do not put nuts in food. I can die." Whenever we go to a restaurant I'm supposed to hold it up and cry a little, like I'm holding up my numbers for a prison mug shot.

And a friend of mine told me something interesting about the cuisine. "So here's the thing," she whispered conspiratorally. "My friend went to China last year and told me that they put peanuts in the food, so be careful."

"Oh, thanks for letting me know but I can actually eat peanuts."

"Not peanuts," she said, "penis. The put it in a lot of the food."

"B'scuse me?"

When I told another friend about this story, she asked "Well, are they animal or human?"

What ridiculousness is that? Like if a line cook messes up in the restaurant he becomes a eunich? Guess we'll have to see. I just hope I can get through the 18 hour flight without jumping to freedom...

Crazy Quotas

2006-07-19T14:12:00.000-07:00

It's been a strange week. I did a show in Bath, PA, this past weekend, where we were greeted by a perky woman wearing what looked to be a shower cap imprinted with musical notes. The venue, known as Brenda and Jerry's Entertainment Center, actually employed security who promptly relinquished their posts once the show started to watch. I've never felt so safe, though I'm not sure what they had to secure.

I've also been dog sitting an adorable Jack Russell all week named Mr. Lucky. He doesn't bark, doesn't bite and I'm smitten. Now the question is how to keep him forever without having to move and/or put a hit out on his very lovely owner. And I'm even more suprised my landlord hasn't picked up his scent yet, being that she is a bitch, and complained but that's definitely a good thing.

And lastly, it took me an hour to get from midtown manhattan to the east village last night, a trip that should only take about 20 minutes. First it started to pour like I've never seen. It was some kind of tropical storm that I and those around me, stuck under an awning together, could only stare at in wonder as we got soaked. Although now I'm starting to doubt myself because no one else seems to have seen it.

Then I had to take a different train because the one I wanted was out of service due to the heat. Apparently, the New York subway system has never dealt with heat before. Who knew? And when I finally plunked my soaked ass into a subway seat, a guy asked me for the time and then shared with me that I have "a pretty face but he sees some pain there."

I was like "thanks, but I'm all good."

And then he started talking about jesus. And I proceeded to switch cars. And the stop after I did that, everyone else in the car switched, too. Guess they also all had their share of crazy for the day.

Promtastic

2006-07-13T07:02:00.000-07:00

So I did another comedic reading last night which was lots of fun. The theme? Prom. Gotta love reliving the old days, especially when you invite some friends from high school to watch your mortification onstage.

Without further ado:

“No, really, I like love sex,” he said.

“Okay, Dave, maybe after the prom. Now’s not really a good time,” I explained uncomfortably.

How did I get myself in this situation? I wasn’t even going to go to prom. Well, that’s not exactly true. I had asked Greg, a guy I’d had a crush on for years. He had apparently already asked someone else to go and was waiting for her reply. Then she turned him down, probably because she already had a boyfriend, which was common knowledge. And then, instead of asking me, he proceeded to ask two other girls to prom, both of whom also had boyfriends, and who turned him down one after another. I really know how to pick them. Don’t worry, though, he got his just desserts, now he’s a doctor. Hello, loser. Sigh.

“You know, dad, I just don’t think I’m going to go,” I said, after I’d heard that the third girl Greg had asked had turned him down. “Who needs all that pomp and losing their virginity in the back of a limo anyway.”

“Are you kidding, honey? You have to go to prom. It was so much fun,” he said, sounding like a teenage girl as he bounded off. He emerged several minutes later with a photograph; there he was, same black mustache and bountiful black hair, with the addition of delightfully long muttonchops. Oh, and a plaid tuxedo, paired with a shirt so ruffled it looked like he stole it from a pirate. (Yeah, it was in fashion at the time. Or so he says.) Even better, he was standing next to a huge white El Dorado convertible, with his date Susan Greenberg. And she had picked him up, because it was her car. To anyone else, this picture would be blackmail.

“I don’t know, dad. I don’t have anyone to go with. I just feel stupid.”

“It’s about being with your friends, honey. And you have plenty of time, someone will ask you.” When did my father start sounding like a self-help article in Seventeen? “And please, none of that sex talk. Don’t think I didn’t hear that little virginity quip of yours.”

Now, a lot of the time, my father is right. Granted, a lot of the time he’s wrong, too—like the time a swarm of bees flew up his bellbottoms in high school but he refused to take them off because there were girls around. I mean, we all know that safety comes before etiquette—but he’s got good intuition.

And he was half right. I did end up feeling stupid, but at least I got a date.

I was at a party and I happened to be in the bathroom when I heard a knock on the door.

“Someone’s in here,” I yelled.

“Hey, Emily, want to go to garble, garble, garble…” a male voice said.

“What?”

“Want to go to garble, garble with me?”

“What?”

“I said, DO YOU WANT TO GO TO PROM WITH ME!”

“Hold on a second,” I said, as I flushed the toilet. I opened the door and there stood Dave, with a big bashful smile on his face. The rest of the party also happened to have heard the exchange and was waiting for my response. So much for conducting this exchange in private. Pride is so overrated anyway.

“Are you for real?” I said, looking up at him.

“Yeah. It will be fun. We’ll just hang out.”

“Okay. Sound good.” And everyone shrugged, smiled, and the party continued.

It wasn’t exactly the romantical exchange seen in teen movies, but it would do. And our collective friends were very pleased. Dave and I were each the “fun, quirky friend” of our groups, so they assumed we would provide the entertainment for the night. Nice to know this would be a working gig. Dave and I continued to joke around and as the prom grew closer, and I was actually getting kind of excited for the event.

As his group of friends and mine were all going with each other, it wasn’t hard getting together the limo. I found a dress I loved, along with eighteen different kinds of girdles and other accoutrement to get that pseudo-hourglass figure, though in retrospect it made me look more like a misshapen pear. I got my hair did, my toesies done, and I was styling.

Dave came to my door and I looked up at him in all his glory. He cleaned up pretty well. My mother, after greeting Dave, scooted us together for pictures. That was when we hit our first snafu. Dave is 6”4. I’m 5”0 in the morning (cause you know, gravity kicks in). Even with four inch heels, all our pictures together had to either be taken vertically or down the street.

Then we got together with all our friends for early boozing. It was then that I noticed that every single one of my friends had chosen to wear a black dress. Like the virgin I was, I had chosen white, cause that’s how I roll. And since I was the shortest, I was in the middle of all the pictures. So now, all my prom pictures looked like wedding pictures. Or rather, a wedding picture in front of a funeral. Lovely.

We finally climbed into our limo for the ride to downtown Philadelphia to the convention center. We talked and giggled like the giddy teenagers we were. Once we got to prom, we quickly acclimated and got in line for pictures. It was then that Dave started to make me a bit uncomfortable.

“You know, Emily, I really like sex.”

“Thanks for sharing, Dave,” I said, unwilling to make eye contact.

“No, really, I like love sex,” he said more forcefully.

“Okay, Dave, maybe after the prom. Now’s not really a good time,” I explained.

“No, seriously. I am a huge fan of sex.”

“Dave, you’re really freaking me out.”

And that’s when he did the unthinkable. He looked me straight in the eye and ripped open his shirt. But my date was no superman. Burned into his very red chest in big white letters, was the word SEX.
[Now, a side note. It is customary at my school to go down the shore the day before the prom to hang out, cause trouble, and get a little color.] Dave had actually taken the time to write “sex” in sunscreen, and then lie out in the sun until it was so much more then a fleeting thought.

I looked at him and realized, I could fall in love with this man-child. I mean, who else would be willing to go so far for a joke? He could be the Elaine May to my Mike Nichols.

“You don’t think you’re planning on covering that up for our pictures, do you? Cause that has to be on display,” I said.

And then Dave got all shy and closed it up, but he’d shown his true colors.

Luckily for me, as the weekend wore on, and we all got more and more drunk, Dave’s “SEX” made more and more appearances, as memorialized in our pictures. Dave’s sex on the bar. Dave’s sex on the beach. We all hung out, reminisced, and I almost got thrown out of the hotel for smoking pot in the bathroom. It was all like a Judy Blume book.

And while some people may have lost their virginity that weekend, I was reassured to know that Dave and his sex were almost always by my side. Just in a friendly way.

B'scuse me, indeed!

2006-07-11T15:22:00.000-07:00

I've been in quite a few debates over the years as to whether boys and girls can be friends. I've come to the conclusion that it's very possible.

Sure, it helps if one or both of you are in a relationship. Or if you've smooched in the past so it would just be recyling. Or if one of you has a hump, bad teeth, and/or an extra nipple to keep things platonic. (By the way, when I was little, I thought the word was plutonic. I'm a genius). But sometimes, there's just nothing there.

And I have a problem when people say that they don't need any more friends. Granted, for some reason, that seems to bring to mind an image of people rounding up friends like cattle. But I've always loved meeting new people. My friends in college used to joke when I'd disappear for a few hours because it would usually mean that I'd met someone interesting and we hit it off.

"Did you have a good conversation? " they'd ask. (And no, conversation doesn't mean nookie.)

So with all this in mind, I was very suprised by an email I received recently.

You see, I ran into a guy last week that I went to camp with. I had actually run into the guy a few years before, but thought he was living in Florida. (See "Strange Encounters of the Underground Kind" for that exchange.) This time he was having dinner with a lovely lady and I said hi, and we talked briefly, and I introduced him to my friend. Then we parted ways and that was that.

The next day, I found that the guy had not only found me online, but he had emailed me. After the basic chatter he wrote:

"Do you want to go out for a drink sometime? I noticed you introduced the guy last night as your "friend" not as your "boyfriend"..."

Which was true, because they guy is my friend.

So I promptly emailed him back and let him know that I have a very lovely boyfriend, but I'd love to catch up.

His response shocked me. (And keep in mind I've lived in New York for a few years, so it takes a lot.)

First he thanked me for being honest. Then he said he didn't think it would be such a good idea because he didn't think my boyfriend would appreciate it. I thought it was very considerate of him to worry about the state of my relationship.

Then he hit me with the doozy, writing:

"If there's no possibility that this would eventually lead to sex, I'm really not interested. Sorry. I don't need any more friends. That's just how guys are. Good luck with everything."

Wow.

And insert witty retort here.

What's so precious, anyway?

2006-07-05T12:41:00.000-07:00

July 4th has a lot of meaning for me. Not only is it the holiday of binge eating and drinking, not only do we get to see fireworks--one of my favorite things--but it's also my parent's anniversary. And this year marked their 30th.

My parents were married on July 4, 1976. Their invitations look like the Declaration of Independence, signed at the bottom by each of their parents. I find this to be both adorable and corny. Some people use these adjectives for me as well, so perhaps the apple does not fall far from the proverbial tree.

Due to the fact my parents never corrected me, I thought the fireworks that take place every July 4th were in honor of them. It took me a while to realize—and by a while, I mean 20 years--that there was no way my parents knew all of Philadelphia, not to mention those citizens of every other city in the USA, who also have fireworks.

As this year marked a big anniversary for my parents and they haven't killed each other yet (quite the achievement), I threw them a surprise party with the help of my grandmother and brother. This turned out to be ridiculous amounts of work, the climax of all this being the day before the party when I came home to Philly early to get things together.

I woke up Saturday morning, not sure if I was drunk or hungover from the night before. This is what happens when you meet your friend’s boyfriend who befriends you with conversation and free drinks. This continues to happen when you go to the club your brother works at after and he then gives you more drinks. This also apparently causes you to hit your boyfriend across the face repeatedly because he doesn't want to dance and then wake up at 7:30 AM in bed fully dressed, dying for water.

Anyway, I get on the bus Saturday and head home. I spend the whole trip trying to get comfortable and sleep as my seat won't recline. Then the bus breaks down. Then I want to cry. My grandmother doesn't have a cell phone so I can't call her. The conversation on the bus then turns to whether it's possible for an entire busload of people to try and hitchhike. This conversation took place in both English and Spanish for our bilingual pleasure. Finally, the bus driver managed to work his magic and we get to Philly only an hour late.

My grandmother, thankfully, is there and we spend four hours trying to get all the last minute errands done. That’s a lot of minutes. She drove because we were using her car. She's 85. It was a little scary. Whenever she's not sure which way she wants to turn, she moves into the middle of both lanes and slows down. When I yelled at her for doing it the forth time she explained she was "thinking." I explained to her that the other cars were decided and she was going to kill me. It was not until later in the car ride when we had plants and a cake in the backseat that she declared she should probably "drive carefully because she has precious cargo." Apparently granddaughters don't count.

After all the errands--which included me doing a face plant as I tried to run up the stairs with my arms full of flowers (hey, get it? face plant? urgh.)--she then drove me back to the bus station so my parents could "pick me up." Or at least think they did.

According to my mother, she only had an inkling about the party. Her clue? I straightened my hair. That's right. The fact that I looked nice made her think I was up to something. Always good for the self esteem.

Then, in the car on the way to the restaurant for the party, my grandmother pointed out that I looked pretty and "did I know I had a few gray hairs?" she said, giggling.

All in all, the party went off really well, my parents were happy, and my mom shared with me that "I was still in the will."

Now if only I could find a filter for my family.

Her Name was Lola...

2006-06-28T11:05:00.000-07:00

...and let me tell you, she was definitely not a showgirl.

She is a dog, in fact. I met Lola this weekend at my friend's house. Lola is one of their two humungous dogs—I forget what breed she is, but she's 150 pounds and she's only 3 1/2. And she slobbers. And she's just the cutest. But she’s not petite: at one point she stepped on my foot and I think I heard a bone crack.

Granted, I have a weakness for dogs. I feel about dogs the way some women feel about children: I see a particularly cute one, and I'm so in love my uterus tingles. Then again, this is kind of strange, because it's not like I could give birth to a puppy. But such are the stirrings of motherhood.

Anyway, Lola is not only a giant but she's apparently very smart. She can twist off lids. I mean, I can't always twist off lids. She’s mischievous, too. And we all know that brains and a hot, slobbering bod are a lethal combination.

Her owner told me about how Lola got into an entire bottle of doggie aspirin. Then Lola, and their other dog, Fazal—named for their Swiss exchange student—proceeded to collectively eat 100 pills.

Lola's parents came home and found the empty bottle. Good thing Lola didn’t recycle or they would never have found the evidence. So they loaded their gigantic dogs into the car and went to the veterinarian.

Instead of pumping the dogs' stomachs, the vet gave them something that would make them throw up. Then, in a cruel twist of fate, the doctors gave the owners two pairs of gloves. Their job? To count all the pills the dogs had thrown up. Now, that's love. I mean, would you go through someone’s throw-up?

The dogs ended up staying in the hospital for two days, where the owners were updated on the hour as to how they were doing. And to think, new mothers are sent home the day after the give birth!

But really, I think dogs are treated better then people most of the time. I saw one dog wearing a Coach poncho that I’m sure was more expensive then my entire wardrobe.

It’s hard being a dog though, especially if your owner has a saucy job. I heard a tale about a bulldog puppy that swallowed one of his owner’s pasties (she was a stripper) and had to go to the hospital. Hope the stripper found this out before she got to work. I mean, there’s nothing more embarrassing then getting onstage without a matching pair of nipple covers.

So from now on, when I have medical problems or just want a little TLC, I think I'm going to the vet. And if I have to eat someone’s pasty to get there, so be it.

Happy Endings

2006-06-16T08:06:00.000-07:00

I'm incredibly sore today. I figure it's because I slept weird. I find this to be very amusing since I've been sleeping for my whole life. Apparently I need more practice.

For once I don't mind the soreness because I'm getting a massage today. Now don't start thinking I'm some kind of uppity gal who is always getting facials and spa treatments. That's just not me; I’m not only a girl who enjoys the simple pleasures, but I’m frugal. That’s what happens when you grow up in a house where you do a celebratory dance when your father decides to turn the heat up past 55 degrees.

I've only had three real massages in my life. The most memorable, was the one I hunted down in Thailand. This is country known for happy endings so I figured I couldn't leave without getting one. Not an actual happy ending, you sicko, but a quality massage. The only problem was it was practically impossible to find a place that didn't “finish me off.” So we'd find a massage place and it would seem legit until they started to lead us down a back alley and then we realized we had to flee. We actually spent 5 hours trying to find a non red-light massage place. This is not a dilemma in which I thought I’d ever find myself.

Finally, we found one and they put both me and my friend in the same room. In came two little Thai women who yammered away in Thai the whole time. Their voices were so soothing it was like background music. And let me tell you, those women were thorough. My Thai girl turned me over and all of a sudden she was actually walking on my inner thighs. And I mean really close to the goods. Who knew that area was so tense?

And when it was all over I was so relaxed that all I could do was drool in gratitude. I stopped by the gift shop on the way out, hoping that I could pick up a Thai woman for my friends so they could enjoy this amazingness in their very own homes. (I figure if Angelina can bring home children as souvenirs from her travels, I could bring home adults.) Unfortunately they were out of stock.

Like Dad, Like Daughter

2006-06-14T07:27:00.000-07:00

I was asked to do a show last night where I had to write a piece on the theme of "Daddy's Girl." Considering the dinner over the weekend and my current frustration, it was nice to write something positive, because my dad is a great guy. And I must say, from writing the piece I'm realizing how much he and I are alike. I mean, throw a mustache on me, give me a couple more inches, and get rid of my boobs and we could be the same person.

Here 'tis:

Some girls are complicated and quirky because they didn’t get enough love as a child. I am indeed a very quirky girl. I can not, however, say that I was lacking love as a child. In fact, my parents are so supportive that if I tried to kill myself, I think they’d hold my wrists straight because they’d want me to succeed in whatever I do. So, I’ve been trying to trace where this quirkiness originates. While some of it might have developed from my napoleon complex, I think most of it’s been passed down directly from my father. As they say, I learned it from watching you, dad.

My street cred definitely comes from my father. I may have been raised in the suburbs of Philly, but he was raised on the rough streets of Camden, New Jersey, the former murder capital of the country. That makes me half hood and explains my affinity for the hip hop music. He got a little nostalgic a few years ago and we drove by his old house, which now, I kid you not, looks like a boarded-up crack house, complete with strung-out ladies on the front steps. And if I wasn’t mistaken, I think I saw two little kids playing tag with Oozies on the front lawn.

I’m also a little scrappy and love to pretend I’m tough. My father was in the army, though he didn’t exactly get to see a piece of the action. He ended up in language school where he became fluent in Mandarin. This skill only seems to come in handy when we’re at museums and he attempts to read the wall hangings from the Ming Dynasty period. In high school, I would wear his army jacket around, because we all know, there is nothing more intimidating than an army jacket with “Epstein” on the pocket.

I apparently get my tongue-in-cheek arrogance from my father as well. He would never make a pass at a woman—he is a happily married man, after all. But if a little affection comes his way, well, he’s not one to turn it down. I remember he and I were helping on election day in Philadelphia one year. I started talking to this older West Philadelphia woman who asked how I got involved with volunteering. I point in the direction of my father. I don’t know if it was the sparkle in his eye or the way the sun caught his black and gray hair but her response was: “Girl, I love me those salt n’ peppa men. You better tell your mama to watch out for me.”

Obviously, I was a little surprised by her response. We Epsteins are a very good-looking people, but really, he’s a married man! When I told my father about it he smiled coyly and said, “Oh, I get that all the time.” I doubt it. But as a safety precaution we now always escort my father into Philly and intercept any of the panties that are thrown at him as he walks by.

Maybe he took extra joy in this situation because my father was a bit, how shall we say, voluptuous, as a child. Nothing like being a tubby kid with incredibly thick glasses to get the self-esteem up. I guess he got frustrated with this self image and thus became very active and dropped all the weight. And when I say active, I mean the man is a serious gym rat. My dad will run 7 miles before topping his workout off with a couple hours at the gym. While I try to keep up with him, a treadmill accident several years ago left me with twenty stitches in my leg, a failed knee modeling career, and an innate fear of falling off gym equipment. So nice to know that even though he’s pushing 60, he can still kick my ass.

I think his stubbornness is a contributing factor as well, a trait I more then share. I I mean, I’ve worn jeans I’ve loved until they had such a large hole in them, they were practically shorts. My father had a stubborn pants experience in gym class in high school. Seems he was wearing his huge bellbottoms—it was the ’60s after all—playing baseball when he managed to step on a hornet’s nest. The entire nest proceeded to fly up his pant legs.

His teacher screamed at him “Take off your pants! Take off your pants!”—a cry he’s heard many times since—but refused to as he was in mixed company.

My father is also a keen devotee of sarcasm. We were in Brazil on vacation and he wanted to buy a rather expensive necklace for my mother. When he went to charge it on his credit card, the company required a call to make sure it wasn’t stolen.

“Well,” he said to the woman helping us, “we could always leave collateral,” as he looked at me. All I sudden I saw myself, chained to a work gang of small Brazilian boys, mining diamonds in the factory as tourists went by, watching me and waving as I cried. And people wonder why I’m a comedian.

Our trip to Brazil also showed me how unwilling my father is to ask for directions. It was Friday night, the sun was setting, and my father decided that he wanted to celebrate the Sabbath like a good Jew. Sure, some people come to Brazil for the beaches, the music, the bikini waxes, but not my father. After getting the name of a synagogue from the concierge, he set off with my mother and no command of Portuguese. After twenty-five minutes of walking, it turned out that no such synagogue existed in said location.

“Well, we tried. Let’s head back,” my mother said.

And just as my father was about to respond he spotted a couple, a very obviously Jewish couple. How do you know they were Jewish, you anti-Semite, you ask? Well, let’s just say nothing screams Heeb like payas (those curly sideburns) and an accompanying girl with a long skirt and a stroller full of babies.

“Perfect!” My mother exclaimed. “I bet they know where there’s a synagogue. Saul, go ask them.”

“Roberta, did you hear them speaking Portuguese? How am I supposed to ask them?” Now, I’m going to have to disagree with my dad on this one. I think there are a lot of ways he could explain himself. Simulate praying. Draw a Star of David in the air. Show them you’re circumcised.

Instead he said, “Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.”

And that’s when my father started his Jewish reconnaissance mission. And as my mother knew it was fruitless to argue, she went along for the ride. I don’t know if it was that army stint which made him feel like trailing someone was a good idea, but off they went, following just close enough. Whenever they feared they would be “discovered” they would jump into the nearest doorway, like some kind of two member A-Team gone horribly wrong. They followed the couple for three miles, past the beach, past the prostitutes, the pick pockets, and the many salsa and merengue clubs. It was at this point in the story that I decided that my mother must really love my father. You just don’t go on a three hour tour with someone you’re just ehhh about.

Finally, the Jewish couple entered a building. Only problem was that it was someone’s house. Seems the couple was heading to Shabbat dinner, and not to hang with God just yet. Dejected, my parents began the trek back to find our hotel. The expedition wasn’t a total loss as my mother found a “Curves” gym, (or “Rolls” as my friend likes to call it), to which she belongs in the states and loves.

He’s a pistol, my father. And one I’m happy to call my own. I just wish he wasn’t so willing to barter me for jewelry.

Encounters of the Uncomfortable Kind

2006-06-12T08:49:00.000-07:00

First, the random business: A male friend of mine asked me last week if my boobs had grown. Now I'm no doctor, but as I haven't had a growth spurt of any kind in well, ever, I find it unlikely that my girls took it upon themselves to burst forth. I did, however, think it was a nice way to point out that he was looking at my rack, but was attempting to bring them into the conversation so they wouldn't feel left out.

It's the little things.

Now, onto the big stuff.

Ever wish something would happen, and then as soon as it does, wish you'd never wished it? (Ever think you'd use the word "wish" three times in one sentence?) Well, this weekend my parents met my boyfriend.

As soon as I agreed to the dinner, I got heart palpitations. In fact, he and I spent about ten minutes feeling each other's heart and saying, "Whoa, is it supposed to beat that fast? No, seriously, feel my heart now."

And as happy as I was that my parents were willing to take the first step in meeting someone that is very important to me, I knew there was a long way to go. I also knew I had a bad feeling about the situation when I started thinking about stand-ins for Elon. We considered renting an incredibly rude orthodox Jew for the night. Or maybe a lesbian just to spice things up (she’d of course, be a nice, Jewish lesbian). You know, so they could be traumatized enough that they realized me having a nice, considerate boyfriend by my side from a different background isn’t such a bad thing when faced with the alternatives (not that I have anything against orthodox Jews or lesbians).

So we went out to dinner. And I can't think of any situation that I've been in that has been quite as uncomfortable. My parents barely made eye contact with him and hardly addressed him at all. He was obviously uncomfortable and is shy, so I think it took everything he had not to retreat to safety under the table.

One of our only saving graces was the fact that there was a bachlorette party taking place in the other room. Whenever there was an uncomfortable silence at our table, the "woo hoo!" coming from the ladies in the other room as their stripper arrived added the comedic content we so sorely needed.

In the end, I'm just glad it's done, because getting them to meet him was the first hurdle. But in other ways it's kind of sad. My parents were far from the sweet, caring, warm people that I know. And Elon was so nervous that they couldn't see how charming, and intelligent and wonderful he is. So in the end, they're still strangers, except now they're strangers who have met once and aren't looking forward to the next encounter. And I still love them both.

If the dinner had been a sitcom, the stripper from the bachlorette party would have bound into the front room of the restaurant, started shaking his moneymaker, and grabbed me or my mother and made us part of the show. And we would have laughed and laughed.

Sometimes I wish my life was more like a sitcom. Then again, sitcoms have uncomfortable moments, too, so maybe this is just one moment on the way to a happy ending (not the massage kind, of course). Or at least, one we all can live with.

Question of the Day

2006-06-06T07:28:00.000-07:00

So say you love someone. Like, a lot. Not like a crush in high school. This dude is the real thing. He'd walk on hot coals for you singing "My Heart Will Go On" if you needed him to. You'd attempt to beatbox while some sorority girl circled your fat while standing in Times Square if he required those services of you.

But for some reason, key members of your family refuse to acknowledge this perfect union just because he's not a nice jewish boy from the suburbs.

So how exactly do you remedy this without it turning into Romeo and Juliet? (Or maybe more aptly, West Side Story, though I'm not sure if my family are the Sharks or the Jets.)

After all, it seems silly to teach your children to love and accept everyone if you're not going to also tell them that they mean as long as they don't date your daughter.

My Hips Don't Lie, They're Just Slow

2006-06-05T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm short. Anyone that knows me and/or has eyes knows that.

It's something that I've struggled with (okay, maybe that's a bit dramatic) or at least been aware of my whole life. Maybe that's because my little brother is 6"4, over a foot taller then me. Maybe it's because I was square in second grade: that means you're the same height in inches as you are pounds, which made me a little walking marshmallow. Maybe it's because I was always concerned about my weight and my doctor would reassure me by calling me a "cute little package." (That's got to overstep some kind of doctor/patient line, doesn't it?)

My boyfriend is 6 feet tall. I'm about 5"1 in the morning. This further exemplifies my shortness.

"Why do you date someone so tall, Emily? Can't you leave the tall guys for us tall girls, you harlot?!" you may ask.

Good question, you floozy. I date the tall boys because that way I can attempt to produce a normal-sized child. That’s right, I want my kids to have a normal life so they don’t end up with a Shaq-sized Napoleon complex (isn’t that a picture?) like myself. So essentially, I'm taking one for the team so my kids don't end up "special." I read recently that in Missouri, if you're 5"2 or under, you're actually considered a midget. I think I’m going to move to this magical land of Missouri so I can get my very own handicapped parking space and maybe a giant to reach the high shelves for me.

But enough about my future plans.

I found my height is particularly a problem when I'm walking with taller people and we're in a rush. After all, I can hustle, I've got the New York City shuffle down! But I always end up jogging alongside someone with longer legs. When they protest, I share with them that my legs are short. And I'm not complaining, I'm just stating a fact. Ergo, shorter legs slow you down.

My friend, Ilka, disagrees. When we studied abroad together in Australia we were always hungover/late for everything. She's 5"10ish. Our other partner-in-crime, Lexi, was almost 6 feet tall. When we'd hustle I'd just sprint next to them.

"You know, Em," Ilka said one day, "it's not that you have short legs, it's that you shake your hips when you walk. All that gyrating slows you down."

So apparently, I don't walk, I saunter. All these years I thought it was my stubby little legs that were slowing me down. Apparently, it's just my sex appeal.

Dream Lover

2006-05-31T07:43:00.000-07:00

I had this dream that I ate an entire cake. It was a chocolate brownie cake. And I woke up feeling all guilty but relieved that it was just a dream. Then I went back to sleep and dreamed that I was awake and ate another cake. This time it was some kind of blueberry coffeecake number. After the second dream, I started to wonder if I was sleep eating or something, but then realized I don't have a cake in the fridge so I'm safe.

I told my boyfriend about my dreams the next day. He told me that the same night I was having those dreams, he was dreaming that I had gained 60 pounds.

I'm hoping that we're so in tune with each other that we're dreaming similar dreams, otherwise, it's foreshadowing. I really hope it's not foreshadowing.

Owwww!

2006-05-23T07:54:00.000-07:00

I fell up the escalator stairs on my way to work this morning. That's right, I said fell up!

And some guy asked me if I was okay and I could only mumble, " probably shouldn't try walking before I've had my coffee."

Then I picked up my pride, stuffed it in my bag, and shuffled off.

And I'm a little annoyed because I've been doing this walking and stair climbing thing for a few years now and I'd thought I'd mastered it.

My knee hurts.

Phooey.

I'm old. (And my landlord is still a she-devil).

2006-05-22T12:52:00.000-07:00

That's right. I am. I turned 27 this weekend. Not that it's a particularly interesting age to turn. After all, I don't qualify for any special senior citizen discounts. And I'm still probably going to be carded everywhere I go, because despite a few gray hairs, I look 15. I’ve found, however, that a little birthday hoopla really helps to dull the pain of getting older. And this weekend, that’s exactly what I got, for better or worse.

Friday night, my brother and a few friends took me to a concert at Radio City. The line-up had me pretty excited: The Roots (my favoritest group), Erykah Badu (like her music, love her hair, think she has enough attitude for most of the southern hemisphere), and Mos Def (I enjoy him). What I didn't bargain for was the line-up of surprise guests like Bilal, Slum Village, and a strange chick from LA in an Indian headdress. But the icing on this hip hop cake was when Dave Chapelle showed up to do a set and Jay-Z just "stopped by" to close the show. I might have to retire from show-going after this one.

It seemed like the beginning of a fantastic birthday weekend.

That was until I was woken up at 8 am by the construction going on all over my building. Particularly right next to my window. Which is right next to my bed. So they might as well just be hammering and nailing INTO MY EAR. Now, I'll let slide the fact that my oh-so-delightful landlord started all this construction without warning any of us tenants. And I understand it takes a while to take an ugly building and make it more ugly with bootleg aluminum siding. And I also realize it’s not my building so they can do what they want. But for the love of God, does this have to occur on a SATURDAY MORNING? Have you no shame?

So I did what any strong-willed tenant would do who is past reasoning with her she-devil of a landlord: I filed an anonymous complaint. And they swore it would be anonymous. So how my landlord knew that the complaint came from my apartment is beyond me. And now I'm wondering if I should file a complaint about the way they handled my c0mplaint. Lord.

But I willed the day to get better. And slowly it did. My boyfriend made me a lunch of champions. (Well, not actually one that you could use as fuel to compete with because it gave me food coma, but it was very delicious.) But what’s a delicious lunch without a snafu? Elon forgot to check the ingredients in the cheesecake he presented me, to see if there were nuts, a food to which I'm deathly allergic. And for once, I didn’t check either. What resulted was me downing Benadryl like it was going out of style, trying not to hyperventilate, and then making him feel worse by saying "how could you not check?!" Who's an ass? It's me!

But fear not, blog readers. I survived. I dragged myself out of my Benadryl coma and got myself together for my joint party with two of my close friends, Raquel and Tamar. Walking over to the party, I felt more in the mood to stay in my room and sulk like a teenager. It had just been a very long day. But there’s something about getting lots of friends together, the party spirit, receiving lots of hugs and well wishes, and a late night drunken conversation with a group of ten about sex, that can turn any frown upside down, (if we're going to throw down a cliché.)

The moral of this long-winded story? Sometimes life gives you allergic reactions, lemons, and loud construction early in the morning. It's up to you to make allergic reaction, loud construction lemonade. And if you can garnish it with a side of people that care about you, all the better...

Some Life Lessons

2006-05-16T09:20:00.000-07:00

Saudi Arabia's King Abdullah, under pressure from Islamists, has warned the media against showing pictures of Saudi women.

"There are photographs published in some newspapers ... and one needs to think if he would want his daughter, sister or wife to appear like that. Of course, no one would," the king was quoted as saying at a meeting with newspaper editors late on Monday.

These are pictures of women with their hair covered but their faces exposed. Their faces, not their punanies. And this is what's plaguing Saudi Arabia right now. This is what Saudi fathers worry that their daughters will grow up and do.

And as for the US? Our fathers worry that we'll grow up, get drunk, and end up on their copy of "Girls Gone Wild." Or worse, have daddy issues, and end up on their copy of "Busty Broads Lesbian Gang Bang 13."

And they say we have nothing in common with our brethren in the Middle East....

In other news:

Bears in a Netherlands zoo killed and devoured a monkey in front of horrified visitors. Zookeepers said a bear tried unsuccessfully to shake the monkey loose, ignoring attempts by keepers to distract it. The bear then climbed up and grabbed the monkey, mauling it to death and bringing it to its concrete den, where three bears ate it.

So let me get this straight: People are surprised that animals eat each other. Is the food chain really a new phenomenon? I mean, the animals are housed separately for a reason. We clog up traffic to watch the remains of a gruesome car accident, this isn't any different.

And really, I'm hoping that if your kid is excited to go to the zoo, it's because he's been watching Animal Planet and has some ideas how things work. If not, perhaps it's time for mommy and daddy and read a little Darwin's Survival of the Fittest as the next bedtime story.

This commentary has been brought to you by your friendly blogging vegetarian...

Strange Encounters of the Underground Kind

2006-05-10T07:32:00.000-07:00

So I was part of a great reading series show last night called Inner Monologues at Mo Pitkins. Sometimes it's just nice to perform on a non-stand-up show, ya dig? Thought I'd post my piece here in case anyone wants to take a gander...

The subway is my pickup spot. Now don’t get the wrong idea; I don’t go trolling around down there exchanging blowjobs for crack (seriously, when you have a dayjob, who has that kind of time?). And I’m not one of those people that goes “Excuse me, ladies and gentleman. I am here selling candy for my high school basketball team.” (Although, that’s really only because I’m too short to play well.)

But I have struck up friendships through waiting for the train. And I met a former boyfriend on the subway. He asked me for directions and we got to talking. And then he followed me home. What can I say? It was love at first stalk.

But what I find most interesting is that I always run into people from my past on the subway. Like it’s my very own little tunnel of horrors. And since it’s a confined area, if someone wants to “catch up” there’s not much you can do to stop them.

It was a Friday night and it had been one hell of a long week. All I wanted to do was go home, cry a little (you know, to get the angst out), and get ready to throw back a trough of alcohol with some friends. As I stood on the platform I heard someone yell my name. My whole name. I mean really, what are the chances of two “Emily Lauren Epstein’s” waiting for the same train? So I turn, and I see a tall lanky fellow rushing toward me, rolling a suitcase behind him.

“Oh, man! I can’t believe it’s you! I haven’t seen you since we were like 13.”

And I knew he looked familiar. But I just couldn’t place him.

“Remember me? Matt? Matt Hacking? We went to camp together.” And as the last words rolled out, the little rolodex in my mind found the right card.

“Wow. It’s been a while. How’s life?”

And we caught up on the last 13 years. Apparently he had grown up, went to college, was living in Florida but was looking at law schools in New York, thus the suitcase. I filled him in on my end. We took roughly a minute for each year. Then we ran out of things to say, because after 13 years, you’re pretty much strangers. That’s when he pulled out the awkward trump card of the year.

“God, I just can’t believe you’re here. I mean, you were my first kiss! I was yours, too, right?”

For the second time in my life, I was speechless. Whore that I am, I couldn’t remember if he was my first kiss. (Incidentally, the first time I was speechless was when I found out that my mother had been married before my father. They got divorced because the man was gay. She didn’t feel the need to share this with me until I was 16, but that is a whole other strange encounter.)

Anyway, I started thinking back to my first kiss. I was thirteen and I was definitely at camp. I’ve always loved to talk the talk, but was never much of a walker, which was probably why I was quite stout at that age. And so of course, I told my boyfriend at the time that I was a sexual buffet on legs. That’s right people, I said I’d gotten to third base. Twice.

And yet, I’d been dating this guy for like two weeks, which is roughly 20 years in camp time, and we’d done nothing more then snuggle. I guess he was shy, and I was shy, so he decided to make things happen: It was time to trade some spit. So he did what any teenage boy would do. He challenged me to a game of Truth or Dare. Except it was just the two of us.

“Truth or dare?” he said, smiling mischievously.

“Dare?” I said tentatively, trying really hard not to make some inappropriate comment.

“Okay. I dare you to french me.”

“Okay.” Titter. Titter.

I lean in for the kiss and I realize I have no idea what I’m doing. As I feel his breath on me I stop.

“Hold on. You know how I said I got to third base? Well, I actually only got to second.”

“Okay,” he said, as he leaned in for the second time. He lifted his hand to brush my hair out of my face and again I intervened.

“Actually, I’ve only gotten to first.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he said, looking more determined as he leaned in for the third time.

“So, here’s the thing,” I mumbled. “I haven’t gotten to first base. I actually have no idea what I’m doing. I’m so scared.” And I curled up into a little ball.

Which is when he said compassionately, “so are we going to do this thing or not?”

And I nodded, cause it was time. Time to kiss a boy and get all angsty over it. And somewhere in the middle of that long, saliva-y kiss, I realized he probably hadn’t ever kissed anyone either, because he not only shined my tonsils with that tongue, I think he also cleaned my kidneys.

And it was after that little flashback that I realized, that was a long time ago. And that boy definitely wasn’t Matt Hacking.
I looked up at Matt. He just looked so damn expectant. And I figured, what’s a little white lie amongst camp friends?

“Yup,” I said. “That kiss was sure something. You have a very long tongue. And from what I remember, you were such an animal it felt like you turned into a totally different guy.”

He beamed from ear to ear. Just call me the sexual libido fairy.
And thankfully, that’s when the train came. And that’s why I now stick to the bus. After all, it’s always good to have an escape hatch of the above ground variety.

What's next, the apocalypse?

2006-05-02T12:21:00.000-07:00

I woke up yesterday morning and it was sunny and I had a bunch of shows to look forward to and I remember thinking this might be a pretty good week. It's amazing how fast things can go downhill.

I was sitting in Washington Square Park yesterday afternoon, watching the dogs at the dog run flirt when I get a call from my grandmother. She's hysterical. She explains that my uncle has passed away, the police are at his apartment, and there will be an autopsy to determine the cause. This man was 50 years old. There's no "oh, well he lived a long life, it was time" crap. A child isn't supposed to die before his or her parents. It's just not right. And to make matters worse, it's my grandmother's birthday on Thursday. What a birthday.

The weirdest part of all this, is that apparently he died while he was getting dressed: Getting dressed for my great aunt's funeral. There's some kind of twisted irony in that. And the way I've always coped with things is to find the humor, but it seems difficult on this one. What lesson do we learn from all this?

This morning I woke up, and I still felt like I hadn't processed everything. Then I get a call from my friend. Seems there's a fire in our neighborhood of Greenpoint. A fire that is, in fact, across the street from her apartment. It started at 5:30AM this morning, and the FDNY still haven't quite got it under control. Apparently, it's a 9-alarm fire and over 400 firefighters were called in to try and tame it. Can you imagine waking up with that across the street from you?

So she asks if she can bring some things that are important to her over to my place for safekeeping. And it's funny what constitutes as important. Sure you've got your papers and your passport and stuff, but then it's the memories you want to take with you. For her, it was her childhood violin and her grandmother's linens. That's what she'd run into a burning building to save.

And I thought about what it might be for me. The first thing that came to mind was my grandmother's corduroy chair and ottoman. Not exactly practical.

But I guess there are some lessons to be learned from all this: Hold on tight to those who are important to you and let them know you love them. Get dressed with a buddy. Buy homeowner's insurance.

Now put all that on a hallmark card...

Where to Start....

2006-04-20T15:02:00.000-07:00

Good lord. I think that about sums it all up. A girl goes on vacation for a few days and the holy gates of work open and flow into and over my inbox. I'm ready to retire. Who's with me? I don't even know where to start.

Apparently the travel gods don't like me to get anywhere without developing an ulcer. Wednesday of last week I dashed home to Philly to celebrate the arrival of Passover with 22 of my closest friends and family like a good Heeb. While it was lovely, it was over too fast. That and there's the whole "no eating bread" thing.

And maybe you ask: "But Emily, what's the big deal? You don't have to keep the holiday. No one's going to know the difference."

Ah, I guess you haven't met me then. Do you know how stubborn I am? I think that's one of the only reasons I've been a vegetarian for 12 years. Just when I'm about to break, one of my family members will say "Oh, this is some good chicken soup? Have you tried it? I mean, the chickens just sort of marinate in the water like it’s a spa and jump right out. Honest.”

And that's when I get on my high horse (in a completely non-cruel way, of course) and ride off into the sunset.

Anyway, traveling when you're not eating bread is tough because you're eating out all the time. My boyfriend was eating a piece of pizza last night and I practically licked his cheek for crumbs. (That, and I thought to myself, they should so make a pizza air freshener, because this smells heavenly.) Not one of my finest moments, though there are quite a few to choose from.

But I digress...

So after my jaunt to Philly on Wednesday, I had to head back up to New York on Thursday to make a plane out of LaGuardia that left at 5 pm that afternoon to go to Portland, Oregon. I was going to visit my friend for a few days. Simple enough, right? Not so much.

It all began with a late start and a little traffic. And so I missed my glorious Greyhound ride from Philly up to NYC. (Note: If you don’t think Greyhound is glorious, you obviously haven’t read my entry on said delightful mode of transportation.) That meant that I had to run to the train station, piss away too much money on an Amtrak ticket and cry a little. I get to NYC by 3, but I still have to get to LaGuardia.

I decide to take the subway to Queens and then catch a cab. You'd think that I'd never caught a cab before, because I was having no luck. Maybe I looked like a [gulp] tourist. Finally, with an hour and a half to go before my flight left, I hailed one.

Now I must say, I have a lot of issues with cab drivers. Too many bad drivers. Too many dudes that don't know where they're going and get mad when I get mad that we're lost. So when I got in and the cabbie leaned over the seat, I thought he was going to look at a map. I was quickly sinking into pissed mode. Then I realized that he was putting on driving gloves. This man means business! Granted, he got me to the airport in record time, but I think I left my spleen on the way.

I finally get to my flight with an hour to spare. I can relax until I have to make my connection.

We taxi down the runway. Then we pull over. For two hours. With no explanation except that air traffic control told us to wait.

This doesn't look good.

We finally take off and I'm hoping we'll make up some time. When we land in Dallas, I realize that I have 15 minutes to make my connection. And that’s before I’ve gotten off the plane.

I’m going to have to haul ass…

My Grillz

2006-04-07T12:36:00.000-07:00

TACOMA, Washington (AP) -- Government lawyers tried to remove and confiscate the gold dental work known as "grills" or "grillz" from the mouths of two men facing drug charges.

Apparently it's standard procedure to seize assets in order to prevent suspects from trying to move or hide valuables or evidence. And the lawyers thought the grills snapped out like a retainer, which some, but not all grills do.

Now, maybe these guys aren't subscribers to Vibe magazine, thus they are not down with the most current way rappers spend their insane incomes, but assuming all that money just pops out of the suspect's mouth seems a bit silly to me. I mean, if I'm investing thousands of dollars in my mouth jewelry, you better believe that no one is going to be snag those things out of my mouth when I'm sleeping!

The suspects were apparently in a car on the way to the dentist when they called their lawyers to try and stop the seizure. And my favorite part was the lawyer's statement:

"It sounds like Nazi Germany when they were removing the gold teeth from the bodies, but at least then they waited until they were dead," Richard J. Troberman, a forfeiture specialist and past president of the Washington Association of Criminal Defense Lawyers, said.

Hmmm. Aren't we being a little dramatic, Mr. Troberman? Sure, the seizure seems a bit extreme, but we’re talking about them seizing jewelry: it’s not like they’re taking the suspects’ braces or glass eye or fake leg.

I just don’t get it. Some people are going to the dentist and getting their retirement policy welded into their teeth, and I’m afraid to go to the dentist at all.

A Few of My Not-So-Favorite Things

2006-04-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

We're all our worst critic. I can't help but notice that about all the people I know. Recently, I also realized that it takes next to nothing to get my dander up. As it's Friday, and time to kick back and enjoy the weekend, I thought I'd include a few of my not-so-favorite frustrations, in hope that it will help me move on with my life. That and realize what a spaz I am:

Yesterday I ate a candy bar because I just had a craving for it. Then I felt guilty for eating it. Then I got mad at myself for feeling guilty that I ate it.
I walked past an issue of Teen People and couldn’t help pick it up and start reading. By the fifth page of teenage celebrity dating drama, I was ready to shank someone.
I’m freelance proofreading a romance novel at the moment. It wasn’t until page 129 that something saucy happened. Aren’t people paying good money to get their smut a little earlier?
I woke up a few days ago more tired then when I went to sleep. I even had a dream that I was dating my boyfriend and a lesbian and I broke things off with the lesbian because it was too exhausting to try and please everyone. It shouldn’t be this hard to start my day. And you know things are bad when it infiltrates your dream patterns.
I was recently reading about the riot in Brooklyn by some orthodox Jews when one of their own was arrested for talking on his cell phone at a green light and holding up traffic. There is a discrepancy as to whether the 75-year-old was roughed up before he was arrested but there was enough outrage that a bunch of his brethren turned out and lit some cars on fire among other things. Is it wrong that I’m kind of ashamed to call the Orthodox part of my religion? I mean, they set cars on fire when someone’s arrested and they threw stones at me from across the street when I was in Israel because I wasn’t dressed according to their standards. A little angry, aren’t they? I think they could use a chill pill.

Sigh. Okay, I feel a little better.

Everything I learned, I learned from Behind the Music....

2006-04-04T11:17:00.001-07:00

I have and I've had a pretty good life. I grew up in a stable, loving household with parents I respect. I joke that if I wanted to slit my wrists, they'd support me enough to cheer me on make sure the knife was straight so I did it right the first time. I went to a good college and I have a job I don't mind. I have rockin' friends and they and my family support me in my dream of comedy. My boyfriend makes me happy, looks out for me, and even cooks. I know, nauseous yet? But while these are the ingredients needed to make a well-adjusted adult, it's not the recipe for a successful career in comedy.

Just about every performer I can think of has had some sort of strife: t0ugh childhood, drugs, bad decisions, blah blah blah. About the worst thing I can think of that I’ve survived is that I grew up without cable. And I can't reach the high shelves. And I'm passive aggressive.

And it wasn't until I actually got cable in college that I realized this. It dawned on me while watching VH1's Behind the Music. I'd watch everyone from Aerosmith to New Edition. And it was always the same. Kids start band early. Band rocks out. People notice. They get a record deal. Drugs and women are everywhere. Half the band goes into rehab or someone dies in a freak accident or success tears them apart. And then the redemption where they get it together and make a comeback.

I've always wanted my own Behind the Music. Not because I want to be famous, but because I want to accomplish enough that people feel a Behind the Music needs to be made about me. And yes, I realize that I need to make an album first, but if Eddie Murphy can do it, so can I. I mean, Jesus, I like to party all the time, too.

So now the question is, can a funny female with a crippling case of Napoleon's complex and no daddy issues make it in the dysfunctional world of comedy? Guess you'll have to tune into VH1 in 10 years or so to find out.

Coffee and Compliments

2006-03-31T11:42:00.000-08:00

I need something to start my engine in the morning. Sometimes it's the frustration of waiting for the train or the sense of impending doom if I oversleep, but more consistently it's a cup of coffee. So when something gets in the way of my morning beverage, I get flustered.

I usually get my coffee from the coffee truck in front of my office. Recently, however, there has been a changing of hands and a very nice guy of indistinguishable Arab accent has taken over. He's been here two weeks now and he's gotten kind of well, familiar.

"Good morning, beautiful lady. What can I get you, my sweetheart?" has been his recent greeting. I usually just smile and order a coffee. I don't bat my eyes. I don't forget to put on a shirt or have my cleavage out for a show. Just to be clear, I'm friendly but there's no flirting going on on this side of the truck.

As the week has worn on he has taken to sharing more with me. "I am now...how you say....certifiable masseuse! You should come over for free massage!" This comment after I ask for, well, a cup of coffee.

Last Friday he forced a donut into my bag after asking if I have a boyfriend. When I told him I was, indeed, off the market he replied with: "No! You? Really? It can't be! You will change your mind and come to me. Here is donut!" As if the donut would cause me to see clearly.

Now don't get me wrong: I like a compliment like any girl, assuming it's not too nasty or from a stranger. (Or from a nasty stranger. Or from a homeless guy trying to get money. Or from someone's dad.) But if you're going to try to banter with me, at least let me have my cup of coffee first.

So I did something the other day I didn't think I had in me. I cheated.

I walked right past his truck to a coffee place across the street and he totally caught me. I heard him yelling "Hey! Hey! Where you going, pretty lady!" Now, in my own not-so-self-absorbed defense, I don't always turn around when someone says something like that. I mean, there are a lot of pretty ladies in this town, but I had a feeling it might be me he was calling. In response, I just squared my shoulders and kept walking. Sometimes you just have to use tough love.

After getting the coffee, I had to walk right past his truck, which is directly in front of my office. "What's in your bag?" he called out, looking hurt.

And I actually felt bad. So I had to lie. "I was in the mood for a cappuccino this morning; otherwise I would have come to you!"

And just like that our relationship changed. I had broken the trust. And when I got my coffee from him this morning it just wasn't the same. His "how are you doing, my sweetheart?" sounded sad.

Maybe it's time to switch to hot chocolate.

Tuesdays with Morrie, I mean, Saturday with Joyce

2006-03-28T11:40:00.000-08:00

There comes a time in every relationship when you have to take the next step. You know, to take all those stories about growing up and go right to the source. So this weekend, after much discussion, I met my boyfriend's mother.

I had been wanting to meet her before we even started dating because I'd heard so much about her. Elon has more then a few jokes about his mother and I was curious to see where the character stops and the real woman begins.

But there was some apprehension on my part, too. He's an only child. She is a single mother. I've seen the Nature Channel. I know how protective those mama bears are over their cubs! Not to mention that he's black and I'm apparently the white devil. Joyous.

So on Saturday Elon and I got on the bus that went from my apartment in Greenpoint through Wiliamsburg, Bed Stuy where he grew up, and finally, Crown Heights. It was kind of like getting a scenic little tour of his childhood, but I could see him getting more pensive the closer we got to her house. And he started humming an old black spiritual which added an interesting soundtrack.

We got to her apartment and as soon as she greeted me I saw the resemblance. Elon may be many things, but adopted is definitely not one of them. I got a big hug and thrown right into her bosom. There are worse places to be. And as soon as I heard her laugh, I knew they had spent some time together.

We finally decided on sushi for dinner. She had trouble with the chopsticks so he gave her a lesson which was slightly adorable. We talked about my boyfriend growing up, and how she has kicked more then a few asses in her time to protect her son, proper language, and the American way. Nothing like telling a small girl about all the ass whopping you've done to make her quake in her boots a bit. But like the little Pit bull I've been described to be, I held my ground. I also found out my boyfriend was a smartass growing up. For some reason, I’m not surprised.

The conversation was interesting. I always felt I had to be two steps ahead as his mother is prone to making this very pensive face where you can't figure out if she's about to be mad or break into laughter. As a result, I felt like for everything I said, I had to have a joke and a save prepared. It was like a Choose Your Own Adventure conversation.

Soon the time came for me to go to the bathroom. I had been dreading this. As I returned to the table, they looked quickly at me and their laughter ceased.

"What were you talking about?" I asked innocently.
"Go on, tell her, baby," his mother said.
"Tell her what?" Elon responded, with a little smile.
"Don't make me tell her myself," his mother said, her voice gaining that authoritative mother tone.

Turns out they were talking about me. His mother said that she liked me because I stick up for myself. I guess instead of preparing her baby for a strong black woman he got a strong white one instead. Course, my people just call it sassy.

Treadmill Travesty, part II

2006-03-24T15:00:00.000-08:00

So where were we? Right, me falling off gym equipment. Sigh.

My parents drive me to the hospital and I remember wondering if I'm wearing clean underwear. Cause that’s my biggest concern. But whatever, not like I’m going to find me a love interest.

We get to the hospital and the waiting begins. Up until this time I had felt no pain, just confusion at how I managed to get myself into this situation. The nurse at the front desk finds my plight to be hilarious. Apparently she's never seen such bloody artwork before. I found myself secretly wishing that she'd fall off a treadmill. Then I realized, as she was a big woman, that she probably doesn't get on one of those very often. Then I felt guilty for thinking all this. Ah, the mind of a passive aggressive.

After 45 minutes of waiting around and starting to notice the pain that was my 0pen knee, I got in to see a doctor. X-Rays determined that there was no muscle damage, it was just the problem of my knee muscle being complete exposed. [Too graphic? I guess you can use this as a cautionary tale].

In comes the doctor. He was very friendly and upbeat considering the hour, and quite hairy. Ah, probably one of my Jewish brethren. He takes one look at my knee and says "Don't worry. I've taken up quilting. You'll look good as new."

Good lord. Then my mother whispers rather loudly in my ear. “He’s cute, Em, and a doctor…want me to give him your number?”

My mother, ever the pimp. And yes, please give him my number if there’s Vicadin involved. And if he can tear himself away from my unshaven legs. I answer sarcastically, "Why don't you see if he is wearing a ring first?”

She not so subtly looks down at his hand. "No ring!" She shouts.

I don't know if the doctor was deaf or just kind, but he pretended not to hear any of the conversation.

Another 45 minutes later, I'm all sewn up. It took 20 stitches to close up that war wound. Then I needed to get my crutches. The nurse, or shall I say murse, was quite a good-looking specimen. But as I watched him reducing the crutches to my pint size, my Napoleon complex kicked in and I guess I looked sad.

"Don't worry," he said. "You'll get your growth spurt soon. How old are you, fifteen?"

Now, I know as a lady I should be flattered. But when an attractive dude thinks you’re young enough to be jailbait, it seriously hurts your pickup chances. Not to mention, I was 21, people! So I grabbed my crutches and hobbled off, waiting for my newly secured Vicadin to kick in.

And I was on those very crutches and an immobilizer for weeks. It was no fun, though I did master the one-legged booty shake. And sure, some people have great stories about their ridiculous scars--saving people from burning buildings, crawling out of a mineshaft, falling off the balcony where they were having sex. I don't have that. All I have is a scar in the shape of a smiley face.

Treadmill Travesty, Part I

2006-03-23T10:56:00.000-08:00

Some experiences shape who we are. Other experiences do that and bring our knee modeling career to a screeching halt. This is that story.

Everyone has fears. Some people it’s biological warfare or getting hit by a car. I’m deathly afraid of treadmills. That’s what happens when you fall off. You try watching TV and running on an incline. It ain't easy!

It happened when I was 21 at my parent’s house home for spring break. After midnight seemed like a good time to work out. Then again, maybe I'm not as coordinated as I thought. Maybe I was still a little hung-over from the night before. Maybe I should wear a helmet when I do any kind of athletic activity. After all, my mother has been known to fall up a step (yes, just one) and give herself a black eye. And it was a step in our house. So obviously the coordination issues are genetic.

Anyway, when I fell off it made a huge crash. You’d think a loud noise in the middle of the night would wake people up, but not my family. Later, my father told me he didn't hurry down to see what had happened because he thought my brother and I were roughhousing. (A little note of clarification here. I'm about 5 feet. My brother is about 6"4. I'm not kidding and I'm not sure who's adopted. What I do know, is that we don't roughhouse anymore. The closest we get to that is me punching him in the kidney and then running for dear life.)

Regardless, no one was coming to my aid. I was beginning to wonder if I was going to have to call an ambulance to wake up my family, so someone would come down and help a sister out. Finally they make their way down to the basement. My father freaks out. He's running around like a chicken with his head cut off. I'm trying to figure out how to stop from looking at my knee which is open to the muscle. It's not pretty. Then again, either are my very unshaven legs. So generally, to confirm, it was not an attractive sight from my waist down.

Finally my brother and father carry me up the stairs and load me into the car. At this point, it's of course started to snow. I'm beginning to think this must be a sitcom.

And this post is going to get very long, so why don't we continue this tomorrow....

It's murder...

2006-03-20T14:30:00.000-08:00

I love going home to Philly to see my parents. And I love bringing friends home with me to see my city. Not to mention that my parents get a kick out of being hosts. I always thought this was safe, because while there are pictures of my childhood around, my parents didn't own a video camera. Thus, I was saved from them capturing my humiliating moments in plays, birthday parties, and my attempts at mastering the toilet. And since I was a particularly precocious child (not like I'm exactly shy now), I think that stuff is better left in the past.

Friday night we were hanging out and looking around the house for a movie to watch amongst the many ’80s movies we'd taped off the TV. All of sudden my father smiles with glee and holds up a videotape.

"I forgot about this!" he said.

The tape was labeled "Murder at Muddleston Manor." You're thinking some kind of Masterpiece Theater flick, right? So was I. That was until they popped it in. And then I saw a group of kids, around 5 and 6, dressed like old maids on a stage.

And then I realized, with horror, that it was a play I had been in. I watched as I sashayed onto the stage, chin jutting out, hips rotating, dressed in a little French maid outfit. In addition, I had a French accent. (Actually, I had an English accent, because I had lived in England until I was 5, mixed with a French accent for the play.) I would say things like "It's out of my 'ands." Like I was Eliza Doolittle.

To say my acting was over the top would be an understatement. In fact, I think porn stars are more subtle. There would be dance numbers and I'd be front in center clapping and singing my heart out. Then I'd realize I was supposed to be on the side, so I'd rush over to the corner with great gusto. There were times when I was supposed to be sweeping, but I think I forgot because I was too busy sighing, looking French, and attempting to put both my hands in my one apron pocket. I had so much blush on my face that I looked like I'd had some kind of allergic reaction.

It was bad. Really bad.

Although I wish I still had that lack of self-consciousness. Cause there's no way I'm getting onstage these days in a French maid outfit. Well, maybe, if you pay me. And I can tell some jokes.

Leaving the driving to us, indeed.

2006-03-16T10:56:00.000-08:00

So this weekend I'm heading home to Philly for some fun and catching up with friends. Getting from New York City to Philly is always a pain in the ass. That was, until I discovered Greyhound.

The beauty of Greyhound is they always fill the bus so it's unlikely you'll have two seats to yourself. And let me tell you, that bus fills up with quite the cornucopia of passengers. One time, while waiting for the bus to leave, I was shaken out of my day dreaming to hear "I ain't gotta move over. I ain't here to treat you nice! This is Greyhound and I'm a big girl. So sit down, bitch, or keep it moving." Ah, the sweet sounds of ghetto transit.

There was the time that I sat next to an incredibly, uh, voluptuous woman. The entire ride she prayed out loud on her rosary beads when she was awake, and snored and oozed into my seat when she was not.

There was the time I sat across from a guy I overheard trying to force a little Jesus on his seatmate. Then he spotted me. I had my headphones on and I was reading a book. Apparently that stance says "Hey! Talk to me! I have nothing to do!" Then he told me I look like his cousin Marisol. Obviously a Russian like myself. Then he asked if I spoke any Spanish. Then he offered me a bible as he had a spare. Then I went to the bathroom for 20 minutes and held my breath: it was better taking in toxic fumes then a conversation that painful.

Of course, sometimes it can be a delightful investment. That however, is so rare that when it does happen, you spend half the conversation telling your seatmate, "I'm so glad you're not a weirdo." I sat next to a lovely guy named Gary, and we spent the entire ride chatting about dating, racial relations, and relaying funny stories from our past. I was almost sad to get off the bus.

But for the 1 in 50 wonderful chats you have on the bus, there is more often the freak. I sat next to a large Italian guy named Sal once. Apparently he'd spent the weekend at a Large Encounters convention. What is a Large Encounters convention? Oh, it's a group of lovely plus-size ladies and the dudes that dig them. Sal was not a chubby chaser, he told me, but he friend was so he went along for the ride. "Those girls are a good time. I mean, I wouldn't date them but they're good entertainment." Ever the feminist. Then somehow he began telling me about his ex-fiancée and how his relationship went awry. This was about the point where I'd had enough of Sal. Then the air conditioning cut out and we got stuck in traffic.

Oh, Greyhound. Their slogan should be "pay for the seat, but the entertainment's free."

Old Age + Tag = Black and Blue

2006-03-13T12:53:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I realize I'm not that old. Only slighty more then halfway through my twenties, in fact. And I'm okay with that. But while my mind is all good, my body does not seem to be in agreement.

My hair, for instance, is going a little gray. I'm getting those little streaks in front of my ears that makes me worry I soon may resemble Bonnie Raitt. And since I'm growing my hair to donate to Locks of Love--an organization that makes wigs for children with cancer--I'm a little concerned how the child that receives my locks is going to look. I don't want her to look "mature" before her time! Hasn't her life been hard enough?

And then there's the rest of me. I may be able to stop, drop, and roll, but I sure can't get up as fast. As global warming was in full effect this weekend, I took the time to do some frolicking in Central Park. A slew of my college friends were visiting for the weekend and my boyfriend was in tow, so it seemed liked just the right number to start a friendly game of tag. While some of us are still pretty agile, quite a few of us, myself included, managed to take a nice spill or three. And let's not forget the near head-butting collision. And this is a children's game, for crying out loud! When that got old, we turned to a game of Red Light, Green Light. That lasted for about five minutes. And let's not forget the classic game, Throw the Acorns at the Ducks in the Pond. PETA enthusiasts love that. I"m not sure if anyone ended up feeling sore from all that throwing. Lordy.

These days a night of heavy drinking requires three days of recovery. I've completely giving up my crack useage because I just don't have a week to take off every time it comes around, and as I've learned from Whitney Houston, crack is wack.

Worse yet, my old man is showing me up. The man has run like four marathons at this point, the most recent one in his 50s. Seems I didn't get those genetics. At this rate, I just hope I make it to my 30s.

Sigh.

2006-03-09T12:07:00.000-08:00

After all that waiting, I now have a cold. I just don't think that's fair. [insert image of me shaking fist wrathfully at God.]

That's right, I think God has enough time to take out of his busy day to give me a cold....

The Last Comic Left Without Hypothermia

2006-03-08T11:29:00.000-08:00

There are some things I think are important to experience once. I did New Year's in Times Square. Sure, I got impaled on a police blockade on the way out, but escaped without any internal damage. I sunbathed topless in France and even managed to stop covering my rack with my hands for five minutes and sport them with pride. And as I apparently have no dignity, I have now done the cattlecall line-up for a reality show.

That's right. I spent from Monday night at 9 PM until Tuesday morning at 11:30 AM waiting in a very long line in front of Caroline's for Last Comic Standing. Around 5 AM I almost gave up. I guess my threshold is right around when you can no longer feel any of your extremities. I talked smack with other comedians and chatted about their respective comedy situations in other cities. I attempted to get a few hours sleep unsuccessfully in my father's old army sleeping bag. I watched the Duane Reade clock as the temperature continued to drop. And of course, I contemplated just freaking going home. It seems the show is called Last Comic Standing because if you can wait in the cold for that long, you very well may be the last comic left in the line that hasn't been struck by hypothermia.

I never expected to get picked, but I figured at the very least I could get some criticism from those in the business. There were some people in the line who seemed pretty confident. They'd done work on the road and have a dick joke that always manages to take down the house. There were a couple guys who hadn't really done comedy before, but had some "skits" they thought were funny. Why they thought it would make sense to try it out after waiting in line for 12 hours instead of at an open mic escapes me. And there were those who had been at comedy for years and really deserved the chance.

In the end, I got up (I had delusions of tripping Jennifer Garner-style) to the stage, smiled, and delivered a solid couple of jokes. I got a few laughs from the judges and was told I have a "great presence" and "funny jokes" but "I'm not quite ready." And the sound guy tapped me on my way out and said he liked one of my jokes but couldn't laugh outloud or it would be picked up on his mic.

I can accept not being ready. I wish I knew when I would be. And it's not that it's easy, but sometimes I wish I wanted to be a laywer or a doctor, because at least that way I knew the route. Eventually, I could look at the diploma on the wall and know that I'd paid my dues. Here I am, a few years into comedy and I realize just how far I have to go. And even better, it's not like there's a little comedy fairy that pops up after you've done your ten years of comedy honing to let you know you've arrived.

I also realized that homelessness may not be something I'm very good at. Looking at the people all lined up for the audition from across the street, Caroline's looked more like a soup kitchen then a comedy capital. All in all, it was an experience. Once in a while it's probably good to remind myself just how retardedly difficult a career I've chosen to try and pursue. But then again, nothing's really fun if it's easy, is it?

Urgh.

Sunburned Titties and Skinny Dipping

2006-03-02T11:18:00.000-08:00

It's cold out. It's snowing and the flakes falling are as big as my head. It makes me want to go on vacation somewhere warm and fast. But let's be honest. I'm not going on vacation anytime soon, so better to reminisce about a spring break of my past...

I've done some traveling. I've been very lucky about that. I guess you could even call me an around-the-way girl, ala LL Cool J. But sometimes, its the most ridiculous, as opposed to the most scenic vacations that stick in your memory.

Senior year of college I went on spring break with two of my friends. We went to the bahamas hoping for some sun, cheap fun, and bahama mamas. We got all that and a bag of conch fritters.

On the cruise from Florida to the Bahamas, I fell asleep on the deck of the ship at 9 in the morning. Maybe that was because we got on the ship at like 6:30 AM. Maybe it was because I had already started drinking by 7:30 AM. Or maybe it was because I didn't get to sleep in because there was a waterbug the size of a small trailer home running around our bathroom and my friends thought that I was the perfect candidate to kill it.

Anyway, I digress as usual.

It was overcast on the deck and I was out cold for over an hour. I woke up later to find that I was red as a lobster. So much for a base coat. Over the course of the trip, you could actually tell what day of the vacation it was by the color of my skin as I got more brown.

As soon as I got to the island, I hightailed it to a store to get something with which to cover myself up. A gentleman working at the store noticed me and my cherry-like color. With no attempt at decorum he yelled out:

"Whooeee girl. You got some sunburned titties!"

Thus my nickname for the rest of the trip was born.

When we got to the hotel, we knew we were in a classy place. There was a doorway that was framed by glass. The glass had "glass" written all over it. When I inquired at the front desk as to why, we were told "because people tend to walk into it if they aren't warned."

This was going to be a good trip.

What followed was a great deal of debauchery. But hey, I was young and stupid, right? [Seriously, people, you think I'm going to share stories from the Paris Hilton period of my life? Maybe when you're older. Or a few more blogs in.]

I did, however, have one of my favorite conversations that first night. He was a captain on one of the booze cruises and we began chatting. It was early in the night and I was only on my first bahama mama.

"So, you run a booze cruise? That must be fun." I said, while petting his very adorable dog.

"Yup, it's a good time. I live on my booze cruise boat, too, so I spend a lot of time on the water."

Classy I thought.

"So, what's your name again? And do you want to go skinny dipping?" He asked. All this was said with a huge smile on his face.

That's what I like. A man that takes it slow. I wasn't in much of a dipping mood though; perhaps I was a bit protective of my sun-kissed breasts.

"No, I think, I'll pass," I replied.

"Oh, you must be a virgin," he grumbled, and walked off.

Poor guy didn't know what he was missing. But apparently the equation goes:
Non-harlot behavior + ability to converse = Virgin

And that's some valuable math to know, people.

Eat Off My Floor!

2006-02-27T10:40:00.000-08:00

I love my apartment. Sure it's about as sound proof as a homeless dude's cardboard box but I still love it. The nice sized bedrooms, the big living room with the view of the backyard we don't have access to, it's great.

But with every delightful renting space in NYC, there seems to be a catch. After almost 2 1/2 years of living in my apartment I've finally figured out the catch: my landlord. At first I thought it would be an added bonus having my landlord in the building. If there's a problem I can just run on down and let her know. And my frugal ass can save 39 cents on a stamp when it's time to pass along the rent.

Now, I live in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, a delightful community that's just starting to ride the gentrification ship. It's a Polish neighborhood. A very Polish neighborhood. So Polish that if you don't speak it as a language, you can't get a job at one of the local stores.

I've observed some things about Polish people who have immigrated to the states, since I've lived here. For starters, they love meat products and they can do tantilizing things to potatoes. Secondly, Polish women are really attractive but the aging process definitley works against them. And most importantly, they are cleaning freaks. We're talking Hitleresque in their attempt to annhiliate anything that could be considered a germ. And in turn, if you don't adhere to this strict cleaning code, you become the enemy.

It was just around the time that my lease was expiring and my landlord and I had agreed to renew it for another year. My roommate had just moved in that day. The phone rings.

"Ah, hello, Emily? We need to talk about the lease," said my landlord. (Another thing I've noticed is that Polish people never make small talk).

"Right. My roommate just moved in. I'll bring her down to say hello," I said.

"Good. And listen, I'm only going to renew the lease for 6 months instead of a year."

"Ah, and why is that?" I asked, attempting to stay calm and pleasant.

"Well, there's a mouse in the building."

"I know."

"And I think it is your fault. We didn't have a mouse before you lived here."

I take a minute to compose myself. "Why would you think it's my doing? I mean, I've lived here for two years and there's never been a problem. Not to mention other people live in the building. And you're doing construction on the third floor and,well, we live in New York. There tend to be mice."

"No. It's you. So six month lease then?"

Now here's the thing. I've been told I can get a smidge worked-up. This especially comes out with cab drivers. (That's a whole other story.) But for once, I felt that this woman was out of her freaking mind. Perhaps it was too much time around the cleaning products, but this was making no sense.

"But we already agreed," I said. "If I'd known that I would have moved out."

"How about we have a training period? I can check up on you regularly and if the apartment is clean you can stay for a year."

Yeah. And maybe then I can take a butter knife and poke my eye out with it. How about that?I mean, if I wanted to have the cleaning regimen and discipline of the army, well, I would have joined the army.

And then began a long discussion with strong words and thinly veiled contempt on my part. But in the end, good reigned over evil and I'm in the apartment for another year. Granted, I may not scrub my floor with my toothbrush, but at least most of what I do makes sense, which brings to mind another interesting incident.

It was actually a few months after I'd moved into the building. One of the windows in my room is right over the garage, so there's a view of slooping roof. It was a Monday night around 11:30 p.m. and it was raining. All of a sudden I hear a noise coming from my window. So I go over and look and I see a pair of feet. Now granted, the guy looked like he was looking to climb a little higher, but still.

I did what anyone would do. I called my landlord.

"Hey there. So listen, there's a guy climbing up the roof. Think I should call the police or is this normal?"

"Hold on. I"ll check," my landlord said. I found it interesting that this could be a normal circumstance.

After that, I heard my landlord come out and lots of yelling in Polish in the hallway ensued. A minute later she comes to my door and gives me a nod. "It's okay," she says. "It is my sister's boyfriend. He forgot his keys."

The sister lives on the third floor. Had the man not thought to use the doorbell instead of climbing up the roof? Or maybe, I don't know, give her a call?

And if that's not a polish knock-knock [pun intended] joke, I don't know what is.

Rebel without a map

2006-02-24T08:16:00.000-08:00

People tell me that my father and I are a lot alike. And sometimes I see it. Then again, sometimes I don't...

My father doesn’t ask for directions. Talk about living on the edge. This caused an incredibly strange journey during my parent’s vacation in Brazil last summer.

It was Friday night, the sun was setting, and my father decided that he wanted to celebrate the Sabbath like the good Jew I'm not. Sure, some people come to Brazil for the beaches, the music, the bikini waxes, but not my father. After getting the name of a synagogue from the concierge, he set off with my mother and no command of Portuguese. After twenty-five minutes of walking, it turned out that no such synagogue existed in said location.

“Well, we tried. Let’s head back,” my mother said.

And just as my father was about to respond he spotted a couple, a very obviously Jewish couple. How do you know they were Jewish, you anti-Semite, you ask? Well, let’s just say nothing screams Heeb like payas (those curly sideburns) and an accompanying girl with a long skirt and a stroller full of babies.

“Perfect!” My mother exclaimed. “I bet they know where there’s a synagogue. Saul, go ask them.”

“Roberta, did you hear them speaking Portuguese? How am I supposed to ask them?” Now, I’m going to have to disagree with my dad on this one. I think there are a lot of ways he could explain himself. Simulate praying. Draw a Star of David in the air. Show him you’re circumcised.

Instead he said, “Let’s just follow them and see where they’re going.”

And that’s when my father started his Jewish reconnaissance mission. And as my mother knew it was fruitless to argue, she went along for the ride. I don’t know if it’s because my father was in the army during Vietnam—albeit it was language school—which made him feel like trailing someone was a good idea, but off they went, following just close enough. Whenever they feared they would be “discovered” they would jump into the nearest doorway, like some kind of two member A-Team gone horribly wrong. They followed the couple for three miles, past the beach, past the prostitutes, the pick pockets, and the many salsa and merengue clubs that littered the city with music.

(Note:It was at this point in the story that I decided that my mother must really love my father. You just don’t go on a three hour tour with someone you’re just ehhh about.)

Finally, the Jewish couple entered a building. Only problem was that it was someone’s house. Seems the couple was heading to Shabbat dinner, and not to hang with God just yet. Dejected, my parents began the trek back to find our hotel. Granted, the expedition wasn’t a total loss as my mother found a “Curves” gym, (or “Rolls” as my friend likes to call it), to which she belongs in the states, and over which she got very excited.

Damn You Modern Technology!

2006-02-22T10:50:00.000-08:00

I've always been a little slow (when it comes to new gadgets). I'd be perfectly content if all things were done on stone tablets and those tin can phones. And let's just abolish cars and do the old horse and buggy thang.

I was one of the last people I knew to get a cell phone, but as soon as I got it I couldn't live without it. When it accidently fell into the subway tracks one night, I seriously considered jumping down to rescue it. Of course, I'm only 5 feet, so getting back up could be difficult, and i was wearing a skirt and a white shirt, but that was a small price to pay to get my lifeline back. It was only after a guy nearby saw me looking distressed that he actually jumped down to get it.

"Here ya go," he said and walked away.

B'scuse me? He didn't want anything out of this, like say, my phone number? I started going through my bag looking for anything I could give him as a reward.

"Listen, I have a half eaten sandwich. Or do you want my book? I'm not quite done it but it's really good. Or would you like some of my jokes? Or my virignity?"

In the end, he just looked kind of shy and uncomfortable and refused any of my rewards.

My grandmother seems to suffer from technologaphobia as well. But then again, she's up there in years, so she has an excuse. We spent an interesting afternoon getting her profile up on JDate as she is single and looking to mingle. Nothing like getting to know much your grandmother "likes to party" and whether she likes her men "ripped or move to love." I accidently checked off that she likes to rollerblade which ended up getting her a floury of unwanted responses.

And after much coaxing, it looks like I have my very own blog. Is this a good idea? Maybe not. I'm afraid I'll forget that anyone with access to the World Wide Webs--as our president likes to say--can take a look and read all about my embarrassing dealings in life. Then again, most of my dealings are public enough that perfect strangers can partake anyway. So if anyone is reading, hope you enjoy. If nothing else, I can guarantee that you reading this will waste at least a couple of minutes of your day. Sheesh.

Coming Soon.

2006-02-14T10:54:00.000-08:00

All sorts of awesomeness.