I'm Not a Girl

     I am not your typical girl. I have never had a manicure or pedicure in my life, not even for my high school prom, an average haircut is my Supercut's stylist's interpretation of an inch after my mom has pleaded that I do something with the damn dead ends, I couldn't tell the difference between a Coach, Fendi or Walmart bag, have no idea what Diane Von Furstenberg's hottest colors this summer will be, or if she even designs for summer and I believe the words what the hell is Burberry escaped my lips this year, only to be followed by gasps from my surrounding crowd (men included). I'll wear the same pants more than once without washing them, and by pants I mean jeans, though I'm pretty sure they don't make anything else, I rotate about five different long or short sleeved shirts of various shades of blue a week, it does bring out my eyes, and you never can tell what the weather will be in the tropical tundra of the Northeast, but most importantly, I find my three different styles of Converse to be quite the suitable foot attire for all my just rolled out of bed had nothing else to put together wrinkled looks. These fun facts always seem to astound the people I tell, and when asked why, you know what I get nine times out of ten? You do wear makeup. News flash: doesn't mean I've ever entered any Miss Whatever the Hell Contests or that I take the pink Barbie Doll convertable with Kelly, Donna and Brenda to the mall everyday. This brings me to the ever oh so enthralling feminine topic of shopping. It's the one subject I've found to make most girls pee in their pants with excitement, while sending shivers down my spine and making me rather stab my self in the eye repeatedly with a butter knife while walking on a bed of hot coals juggling pin-pulled grenades to When the Saints Go Marching In. Who in their right mind could find any enjoyment in a massive mob of ticked off women fighting for the last pink ruffle sock just because it says "hottie," it's on clearance, and you'll get to save a quarter? What about the pushy ass sales associates? Sometimes I just want to enter a store and quietly, uninterruptedly browse, I know what I like, I know what I want, I live with me. I definitely do not need Candy following me around the damn store, popping out of displays, from behind racks and dropping from the ceiling to point out the lastest deals, which since I am not a moron, I've been able to read on every one of the giant colorful obtrusive model ladened signs posted throughout the store. My favorite line has to be, "I'm so and so, if you need anything let me know," this will be heard at least six times as you shop in that store by each one of the six sales robots. At first you might think they're all so helpful, until you go up to the register to make your purchase and the cashier asks who if anyone has helped you today...what? You mean to say they were all just trying to get credit for assisting me, funny thing is, I just don't remember any actual help, just annoying stalking, startling pouncing and I can't remember for the life of me name dropping. The best moment has to come when you do stumble across something that you guess will do, and now you're tortured with the idea of a fitting room. Why would you want to wait in a long line, or even better hunt down Candy, who has now become elusive when it comes to getting a damn key to open up a room that only supplies poor fluorescent lighting and fun house mirrors? These of course, are meant only to make you feel horrible in something you never really liked in the first place, but since you need something for the Christening and the thought of spending another moment in this hell on earth is beyond anything you'd ever consider, you take it, who wouldn't want to look like orange cotton candy on steroids at church?  The grand finale comes in the purchase of the item you do not actually want. It is an art. You examine all the lanes, the people who reside there and the lengths they have grown to, and from prior experience you chose the one you feel will get you out of purgatory the quickest, but if experience has taught you anything, you will make the worst choice of your life at the picking of the right register. You inevitably will be stuck behind someone with more coupons than any newspaper has ever held, someone who is positive this namebrand item was on sale and now it's a must for an associate to go track down what will always result in the storebrand's item being the one on sale, someone who wants to use their credit card, but cannot work the credit card machine, and thus will have to try it at least a dozen times before it dawns on the associate to take the damn card out of the moron's hands and do it themselves, you know they can, right?? The best though has to be the person who wants to sign up for the store's own card to get their ten percent off today's purchase, insisting on doing it right then and there  with the throngs of onlookers in their line patiently biting their lips and mumbling obscentites to those in front and behind them, they most certainly will be elderly, will not know their own addresses, and will be screaming..."I think it's 55 Maine Street, but maybe it's 59, well there's a 5 in it and it's a white house with green shutters, and it's just me and...," and what...you never lock the doors, you're not home before five...can you repeat that, I don't think the burgular in aisle four heard you. Eventually you do escape the seemingly endless nightmare and you swear on everything you've seen and know that this will never happen again, but on your way home you remember, you need shoes. 

Golden Years

     What the hell am I going to want to remember in my golden years? Will it be the missed opportunities, the educational procrastination or the endless search of "The One" that only resulted in "The Friend," "The Occasional Phone Call," "The Doesn't Know What He Wants," "The Crazy," "The Clingy," "The Not My Type Ever," "The I Obviously Drank Way Too Much," and "The What on God's Green Earth Was I Thinking." They say your 20's are a time of outer exploration and inner consultation, but who are "They" really? I can only guess it's people who've survived this seemingly fruitless decade and in some way or another have managed to make some significant life achievement they mistakingly link with this particular time in life, but most likely are only a select group of individuals who've managed to hold onto to even the smallest shred of dignity that no longer prefacing the age question with a 2 has left. I find myself at a loss for words sometimes, just thinking of what previous days have offered and what future ones still hold. I know I'm still young on the general spectrum of things, but there are those days I feel as though I couldn't possibly get any older. It's not unlike the epiphany you have when you begin to realize you are no longer one of the youngest people in a particular spot, bar, club or McDonald's play place. That exact moment when some kid, who obviously just became legal for they are completely wasted and believe ordering the most ridiculous drinks of varied colors and sizes in nonstop quantities actually makes them look cool (Remember those days?) asks, "And how old are you?" Never use to be such a hard question to answer, but occasionally I find myself stumped while staring into the eyes of this vacant youth and sipping my white wine spritzer, and the funny thing is this whole situation has appeared to come out of nowhere, left field, my blindspot. Sometimes I freak out, maybe there's something I missed out on, or maybe I'm just afraid to grow up, but in all likely hood, it's probably because I'm not where I thought I'd be at 26 (though I'd like to meet anyone who is). "They" say 50 is over the hill, so I had thought that by 25, I should've at least figured out which direction is up, but I've always been clueless when it comes to directions (unless there's a giant donut on the corner or a boot in the shape of New Mexico) and Jack and Jill are never anywhere to be found, and even if I do ever wind up going the right way, there are bound to be multiple rain, sleet, snow and "pail of water" challenges preventing my seemless escalation up this "alleged" hill. With so much to look forward to, it is always interesting to wonder what it is I will look back on and actually want to remember, or for that matter, what those things are I will "correctly" remember and what things remembered will make me one of "Them."  

Arrested Development

     Long Island is about as close as I can afford to actually living in NYC, so inevitably the train is going to win my people's choice award for most seemingly logical means of transportation to and from this much dreamed about Mecca. However, due to scheduling, and the fact that the train really could care less when my actual classes start or when any other possible daily City itineraries might commence, I always end up arriving in the City approximately 40 minutes or so prior to the actual start time of anything that requires my real participation. Now those of you that are not familiar with the Long Island Rail Road and it's decisions on what times to pickup/dropoff  passengers, when to actually stop at or pass by a certain town, it's track numbers, or possible letters, and their choices of final destination (apparently not all trains wind up at Penn Station (Manhattan)....lesson learned....twice), might be wondering, "How come so early Melissa?" Listen, it's hard enough purchasing the correct ticket these days with those computerized machines (do I need On Peak, Off Peak, Roundtrip, One way, which station am I going to or am I even at for that matter,  and knowing my luck, a possible time travel ticket to a nonexsistent location is going to be in order)....if that wasn't bad enough, it was just recently election time, and wouldn't you know it, those damn elected officials feel the inherent need to hand you a flyer while mechanically stating their policies (in an election you can't vote in for you are not currently a NY resident) at the exact moment you're trying to purchase a ticket from this said demonic machine, which by the way, doesn't take cash, not even the crisp kind, so don't bother trying (and of course your train will be leaving the station at that particular moment, so be on guard).  Even those who've lived here their whole lives have horror stories concerning this speeding bullet's thought process, and apparent mind of its own, so, I'm lucky when I've even managed to catch one, or for that matter arrive at the correct location at all, so the extra free time I could of used for much needed sleep or catching up on my new herb garden hobby is no longer a high priority, for I have made it to the city and now have a good shot at making it to where I have to be, when I actually have to be there. 
     Upon arrival at Penn Station, one of two things will most definitely occur, you will either be left standing there alone, completely clueless as to which direction to go, which stairs to take or which exit you will wind up appearing from, or you will be swept up in a claustrophobic crowd not knowing which direction to go, which stairs to take or which exit you will wind up appearing from. Since both offer numerous different scenarios and an abundance of options, I've always found the crowd to be more comforting myself ("at least I'm not in this alone" mentality), however, to each his own, though until you find yourself in that particular situation...don't judge. Now when it comes to actually surfacing in Penn Station, Good Luck and God Speed are all I can ever wish for you. For those of you unfamiliar with Penn's particular surroundings, I can compare it to that of a zoo, in which all of the animals are no longer caged, having free reign amongst the grounds likened to that of a strip mall, where no one really knows whats going on, yet all seem to have a purpose that most certainly must be fulfilled or destruction of the universe is eminent. 
     Now, this particular morning I arrive early, of course, and go to my favorite bagel place (for NY bagels are in a league of their own, no frozen Lenders here people) and pick up my usual egg bagel with cream cheese (only 2 dollars...have to mention that, because I'm still astounded by that cheap fact). I take my bagel and proceed to my quiet little staked out corner of Penn that over the previous few weeks I have happily happened upon, though now that I think about it, I wouldn't describe it so much as quiet, but more like a little girl's bicycle horn as opposed to a large town's fog horn. I sit on the ground because I'm a risk taker here people, got to live on the edge sometimes you know. Besides, I do actually enjoy this partcular angle, for people watching, especially in Manhattan, has got to be one of the most enjoyable, revolting, question inducing, mind blowing experiences known to man kind. So I get comfortable, unwrap my bagel and take a bite. Damn it, that morning they had apparently put the buttered egg bagels in the spot for the cream cheese laced ones, for now I am eating a buttered egg bagel, though not bad, not what I was expecting, or for that matter, even wanting this particular morning, but then again it was all to fitting for what I was about to be witness to.
     Picture this. I'm in a corner on the ground in Penn eating my much unwanted buttered bagel, millions of people running this way and that, then something particular catches my eye; 2 cops and a police dog are slowly heading towards me. The 2 cops seem to be in a bit of a debate, oh hell, it was practically an all out argument, and it wasn't until they came closer and stopped that I was able to make out exactly what it was over. Cop 1, let's call him Bob, and Cop 2, let's call him Jon (originality is my middle name), are having a heated discussion over none other than their walkie talkies. Bob is trying to get Jon to tune in (by the way you have to forgive me for not knowing the correct "walkie talkie" vernacular, the last time I possessed a set, I was maybe 7) to the signal (we'll call it Signal A) that he was allegedly on. Now Jon is insisting he is most certainly on Signal A, and Bob must be the one who's on the wrong signal. This repartee goes back and forth until I literally witness Bob drop to his knees, ear held up to Jon's walkie talkie, while he speaks into his. I figured this was in order for Bob to see if Jon was on the same signal as him, because being halfway intelligent myself, if this was indeed the case, as Bob spoke into his walkie talkie, he would be able to hear his voice coming out of Jon's walkie talkie directly into his ear. Still on the ground, Bob yells, "You see, I can't hear myself in yours, you must be on the wrong signal." Jon replys, "That's weird, cause I can hear you perfectly fine." Bob then says, " The only reason you can hear me is because I am kneeling down in front of you yelling loudly, so you really would be unable to miss what I'm saying, even if you were hard of hearing." Jon retorts, "Ridiculous, I am on the same signal as you, and that's a fact." Jon then grabs Bob's walkie talkie (Bob is still on the ground of course) and places it to his ear as he proceeds to speak into his. Now, this argument does go on for a good 10 minutes in front of me, it is extremely riveting, and the dog appears mortified, but truth is, I am not sure if they ever figured out who was wrong or if the signal in question was the problem (all signs did point to it not being the signal's fault), but it was at this time I had to get to class. However, as I was leaving, I couldn't help but to think, regardless of this argument's outcome, at that moment I felt extremely safe, thank God these 2 are on the streets protecting me.
      
    
    
    
    

REMEMBER HOW MUCH FUN THAT WASN'T??

     Restaurant week. Two words that send shivers down the spines of even the most seasoned restaurant veterans. For one tedious, tear-filled week every year, a group of restaurants on Long Island gets together and collectively decide to offer the adoring public a specially discounted menu. This most magical time of year always happens to fall in November, turning a week of Autumn, the North's most colorful and vibrant season, into a virtual Hell on Earth for servers and chefs alike.  The inferno originates months prior with the placement of advertisements in and on anything withstanding their toxic touch, the dispersement of menus to any individual with half a pulse who appears to have ever once taken any interest in food, and kitchen preparations that are in full effect trying to come up with new menu ideas never before seen, for prices only ever seen at local fast food drive-thrus. Doors open that first Sunday night, and chaos commences. Seven straight days of, "Wait, can we use this coupon too?," "We'll just have water with no ice, but we could use some lemon.," and "Is there any way I can substitute this side of fries for a lobster tail, even though I see it says I can't in bold print." Table by table they slither in and stumble out, people who not only expect the red carpet to be rolled out in front of their every step, but for it to be done while they're fed grapes and fanned by muscular busboys. The same people who will not ever be seen again, or if so, guaranteed not until this same time next year. The public's constant questioning, quizzes and complaints exhaust even the most experienced servers, until delusions and delerium take over, and one by one they are each found either chain smoking outside in the freezing cold mumbling to themselves in an elderly British accent, kneeled on the ground in the corner by the taps covered in soda and laughing hysterically for no reason or locked in the bathroom sobbing with particles of toliet paper stuck to their face because some lady thinks her fish was salted just to spite her. Chefs argue over whether or not a burger's bun is required, wonder why the words no substitutions still provoke constant questions and demands, and puzzle at the lack of positive feedback from a menu designed to draw a certain "kind of" crowd concerned more about their light budgets than boosting professional egos. What good comes from all of this?? There are no answers, only second degree burns, emotional scars and horror stories of a week, once a year, that comes way too quickly and lasts way too long. Bon Appetit.