I am a vegetarian who buys leather bags and eats jello. I don’t really care about animals. Like, either way. I am allergic to cats and indifferent to dogs. I am not opposed to a good bug smashing but frown upon animals being put in microwaves.
Its hard enough to deal with humans. Why on earth would I take in an animal that needs me to feed, clothe, bathe, and attend to it? Wouldn’t online dating be more productive and possibly less expensive? I don’t see Buster or Fido picking up the check at any take out establishment, I have never witnessed Fifi or FrooFroo handing out back massages, or fixing things around the house. For me, an animal relationship only has one column in a pro/con list.
Mind you, I have never had a man do any of these things either- but legend has it that they can. That its possible. Physically. They have arms and legs and a nervous system or whatever. And with the exception of the Redwall series, I have never been led to believe an animal to be as productive as a mate. Loyal? Yes. Cuddly? Of course. But I am talking pure productivity. What can you do for me that I cant do for myself?
Sure…there was Daniel Radcliffe and the dear Lorenzo Pisoni in Equus and Samantha Mathis in that movie that was not Black Beauty, but it doesn’t seem practical to keep a horse in my one bedroom apartment. “Candle on the Water” was the best thing to come out of Pete’s Dragon and there is no way Falkor is still alive.
The problem is that as soon as I start coming around to some sort of animal it does something unpredictable and weird. Like try to give me a hickey or eat my toast. The only advantage to having a dog or cat would be to eliminate mice. Because mice are THE WORST animals on the entire planet. I would rather my apartment be infested with Great White Sharks, Rattlesnakes, and Yellowjackets than EVER lay eyes on a mouse again.
Growing up in Florida you have the opportunity to experience a variety of wildlife in your home and yard- lizards, beetles, lady bugs, mosquitos, etc. One does not often have the need to obtain, kill, or harm these animals. A simple afternoon leaving the screen porch door ajar allows them to scurry back to their natural habitat and everyone wins. My issue with rodents is that they have like tiny brains. They know that they are tormenting me and do it any way. It’s a choice.
Flashback to the fall of 2005- I am subletting an apartment on 181 and Cabrini at the tender age of 21 all by my lonesome. My roommate had just booked the Non-Eq Oklahoma tour and I was left to my own devices with the first four seasons of Sex and the City and unlimited Ben and Jerrys options at Jin’s Superette. On my day off I woke up, crawled onto the couch, popped in a disk and was ready to watch my future of whacky Manhattan adventures flash before my eyes. And then. It happened. A mouse darted out from the second bedroom, stopped in front of the television, and stared at me. RIGHT at me. He looked into my eyes. And he saw fear.
I immediately jumped on the couch and began doing cardio step aerobic moves in order to distract both the mouse and myself from the current events. I was SCREAMING at the top of my lungs when another mouse came out to join what he obviously believed was a party. Well this was just too much. I was desperate for my phone. But it was about two feet away on the bookshelf. Two feet that might as well have been an entire ocean. Two feet of wood floor, barefoot, running the risk of a mouse parade traversing over my foot.
I needed to call animal services. Or 911. Or my mom. Really anyone who would listen and get on a plane and carry me off of the couch into safety. In a death defying act of bravery I lept onto the bookshelf, grabbed my cell, and richocheted back onto the couch before the bookshelf even had time to think about plummeting on top of me.
My mom suggested I calm down, call the super, and make sure the apartment was clean of all food and trash and anything a mouse could be attracted to. Looking around, it seemed clean enough…with the exception of an entire bedrooms worth of clothing and bedding shoved haphazardly into that space behind the couch and the wall referred to as “storage”, a half eaten pizza from two days prior, a plate of stale saltines accompanied by an open jar of peanut butter- It was practically spotless.
The un-amused Super brought me seven glue traps, wished me luck, and slammed the door in my forlorn face. All right, its gonna be ok, I thought. I will just put these glue traps on the floor and the mice will find them and die and evaporate and then I will pick up the empty glue traps and move out of this apartment in two weeks and live in a sealed bomb shelter for the rest of my life where no rodents can get in. Problem. Solved.
Alone in my room I begin to hear a noise, like fingernails on a chalkboard, coming from the kitchen and am horrified to turn on the light and discover 5 mice with their torsos stuck on the glue trap, scooting it across the tile floor with their flailing hind legs. With my legs shaking underneath me I head back to bed and try sleep with one eye open as the mice make their final attempts to scoot themselves to freedom.
Traumatized by the evening events I begin packing my belongings to head to a hotel for my last week in the big city. As I hop into the shower I feel something scurry across my foot. Screaming, I jump out of the tub turn the water on as hot as it will go and stand there. Naked. And Cackling. Channeling Diana Morales I peered over the tub at the floating mouse corpse and I felt…nothing.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
One Girl, One Cup
Some say, you officially become a New Yorker when you have lived here for ten years. And when I say “Some Say” I mean…that’s what the fictional female characters on Sex and The City determined. There are other ways to measure one’s inherent “New Yorkness” such as residence in NYC during 9/11, having a “dry cleaner guy”, and insisting on arguing with a anyone who will dare challenge you to the “best slice of pizza/cup of coffee/pedicure” contest.
As a female- I would say that you officially become a New Yorker when you have a confrontational yet educated response to sexual harassment ready to roll trippingly off the tongue. A monologue, if you will, highlighting the fact that you do indeed have a personal space bubble and the violation of such bubble has not gone unnoticed. Now, bear in mind- this speech should be short and to the point, accusatory without screaming “Rape”, and illicit a response not only from the perpetrator but from those around you who might aid in your protection, should you need it.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I am not one of these girls who wants to write a blog about all of the men that yell “hey baby” as we walk to the deli, or even the theatrically inclined midtown dudes who shout “Hey SJP” or “You look like a young Bernadette Peters!” In those situations I just remind myself that men still live on the playground, in a world where the childhood rhyme, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, took on a literal meaning to them and they believe they have done nothing wrong. In these situations, the speech would be uncalled for. It could even confuse the men into thinking you actually want to speak to them- or create an open forum for them to call you a stuck up bitch, prude, or some other terrible name for having the gall to stand up for yourself. They were just playing baby….smile…a pretty girl like you shouldn’t get so mad…You get my drift…
I am talking about the men, strangers to be more specific, who make the bold move to actually touch a woman they don’t know. In public. This has now happened to me on two separate occasions, and due to the repeat performance I have been sitting at home on this rainy day refining the speech that I hope to never use.
When you live here for several years, there are certain things you pick up on other than the best deli’s/coffee shops/nail salons. I am talking about survival skills- such as, avoiding Times Square at all costs, subway pre-walking, and the mastery of the cute yet extremely warm winter coat. All of that being said, all of those lessons learned, I somehow found myself on 42nd St and 8th Ave at 6:00pm on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a mistake. An error in judgment. I wasn’t heading to the Irish Rogue or anything, so I wasn’t a complete fool on a fools errand- but I did have my guard up. As I crossed the overly crowded intersection from Port Authority up to Duane Reade a man in a blazer was heading my way. He looked me right in the eye, and bopped me one in my lady part. Yup. You read that correctly. He cupped my vagina. Fully. My first good old fashioned cupping experience occurred accidentally when my best gay friend became overly enthusiastic while doing some improv-ography at our So You Think You Can Dance Party Aught 6. As jarring as that may have been for myself, and those who witnessed it, I must say I would rather re-live that once a day than this “St. Patty’s Pat” as it is now referred to.
It wasn’t until I arrived at Kodama about 2 and a half minutes later with my mouth agape and the color drained from my face that I was able to fully process what had just happened. I explained to my girlfriends why I was so shaken up and we all did our best to regain both our appetites and some sense of normalcy for the rest of the meal. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. My inner Gloria Steinam began to take hold and I realized that the most upsetting aspect of this event was not a strange man’s hand on my privates, though that was extremely disturbing, it was the fact that if I had been walking with a man- it never would’ve happened. I was a victim simply because I was a lone female and daring to cross the street.
This idea was infuriating. The notion that if I were with a man, I would be safer, protected, less vulnerable- had never felt so real. The other question that kept nagging at me was why does this guy do it? How often? Has he ever been caught? Is he a banker? Or a teacher? Where was his bus headed? Home to his wife and children? His unfurnished apartment filled with pizza boxes?
And though I was in no mood to be with drunken straights in a loud bar, we headed back to Queens to try and salvage the evening. As I repeated this story to some acquaintances at the pub, the recurring theme after the initial shock and disgust, was to scold me for not doing anything. To ask why I didn’t stop him, yell out, find the police, or any number of other logical solutions. And the truth is- I just kept walking. It didn’t even cross my mind to follow him. Stop him, scream, tell someone who could do something. I suppose I was in shock. It was shocking. And what could anyone have done? This is New York City. We are just lucky to be alive. It would be my word against his. I was wearing make up and a dress, maybe it was my fault. Plus, there’s the fear. If a man can touch you sexually with absolutely no invitation whatsoever, what else might he be capable of? If I can take this and keep walking…what else can I withstand?
After a few days and several showers, the incident began to wear off. My friends found the story both appropriately horrifying and hilarious, I felt cared about and protected, at least for the immediate future, and I continued to wear my boots and dresses on 8th Ave. I started to appreciate the moments when I had a man by my side more than I care to admit, and the thought that there might be something to that feeling began to rise from my romantically stifled consciousness. Of course, seasons changed and walking alone again became my most common mode of transportation, and winter coats protected us all from the elements both natural and human.
Then last night, the warmest night in a long while, I was walking to the train- when an older man in a button down shirt took his hand to my stomach and said hello. He rubbed my stomach once and then proceeded down the street in the opposite direction. I froze. Words came into my mind but didn’t make it as far as my vocal chords. Not sentences or complete thoughts. Just words. Hey. Seriously. Hey you. Wait. Stop.
So, I guess this is progress. I stopped. I thought about defending myself. I began to work on my speech for next time. Third times a charm in the world of street molestation I hear. And I realized that in the same way that this wouldn’t have happened to me if I was walking with a man, he certainly wouldn’t have pulled that shit if he was walking with a woman.
As a female- I would say that you officially become a New Yorker when you have a confrontational yet educated response to sexual harassment ready to roll trippingly off the tongue. A monologue, if you will, highlighting the fact that you do indeed have a personal space bubble and the violation of such bubble has not gone unnoticed. Now, bear in mind- this speech should be short and to the point, accusatory without screaming “Rape”, and illicit a response not only from the perpetrator but from those around you who might aid in your protection, should you need it.
Now, don’t get me wrong- I am not one of these girls who wants to write a blog about all of the men that yell “hey baby” as we walk to the deli, or even the theatrically inclined midtown dudes who shout “Hey SJP” or “You look like a young Bernadette Peters!” In those situations I just remind myself that men still live on the playground, in a world where the childhood rhyme, “Sticks and Stones may break my bones but words will never hurt me”, took on a literal meaning to them and they believe they have done nothing wrong. In these situations, the speech would be uncalled for. It could even confuse the men into thinking you actually want to speak to them- or create an open forum for them to call you a stuck up bitch, prude, or some other terrible name for having the gall to stand up for yourself. They were just playing baby….smile…a pretty girl like you shouldn’t get so mad…You get my drift…
I am talking about the men, strangers to be more specific, who make the bold move to actually touch a woman they don’t know. In public. This has now happened to me on two separate occasions, and due to the repeat performance I have been sitting at home on this rainy day refining the speech that I hope to never use.
When you live here for several years, there are certain things you pick up on other than the best deli’s/coffee shops/nail salons. I am talking about survival skills- such as, avoiding Times Square at all costs, subway pre-walking, and the mastery of the cute yet extremely warm winter coat. All of that being said, all of those lessons learned, I somehow found myself on 42nd St and 8th Ave at 6:00pm on St. Patrick’s Day. It was a mistake. An error in judgment. I wasn’t heading to the Irish Rogue or anything, so I wasn’t a complete fool on a fools errand- but I did have my guard up. As I crossed the overly crowded intersection from Port Authority up to Duane Reade a man in a blazer was heading my way. He looked me right in the eye, and bopped me one in my lady part. Yup. You read that correctly. He cupped my vagina. Fully. My first good old fashioned cupping experience occurred accidentally when my best gay friend became overly enthusiastic while doing some improv-ography at our So You Think You Can Dance Party Aught 6. As jarring as that may have been for myself, and those who witnessed it, I must say I would rather re-live that once a day than this “St. Patty’s Pat” as it is now referred to.
It wasn’t until I arrived at Kodama about 2 and a half minutes later with my mouth agape and the color drained from my face that I was able to fully process what had just happened. I explained to my girlfriends why I was so shaken up and we all did our best to regain both our appetites and some sense of normalcy for the rest of the meal. The more I thought about it the more agitated I became. My inner Gloria Steinam began to take hold and I realized that the most upsetting aspect of this event was not a strange man’s hand on my privates, though that was extremely disturbing, it was the fact that if I had been walking with a man- it never would’ve happened. I was a victim simply because I was a lone female and daring to cross the street.
This idea was infuriating. The notion that if I were with a man, I would be safer, protected, less vulnerable- had never felt so real. The other question that kept nagging at me was why does this guy do it? How often? Has he ever been caught? Is he a banker? Or a teacher? Where was his bus headed? Home to his wife and children? His unfurnished apartment filled with pizza boxes?
And though I was in no mood to be with drunken straights in a loud bar, we headed back to Queens to try and salvage the evening. As I repeated this story to some acquaintances at the pub, the recurring theme after the initial shock and disgust, was to scold me for not doing anything. To ask why I didn’t stop him, yell out, find the police, or any number of other logical solutions. And the truth is- I just kept walking. It didn’t even cross my mind to follow him. Stop him, scream, tell someone who could do something. I suppose I was in shock. It was shocking. And what could anyone have done? This is New York City. We are just lucky to be alive. It would be my word against his. I was wearing make up and a dress, maybe it was my fault. Plus, there’s the fear. If a man can touch you sexually with absolutely no invitation whatsoever, what else might he be capable of? If I can take this and keep walking…what else can I withstand?
After a few days and several showers, the incident began to wear off. My friends found the story both appropriately horrifying and hilarious, I felt cared about and protected, at least for the immediate future, and I continued to wear my boots and dresses on 8th Ave. I started to appreciate the moments when I had a man by my side more than I care to admit, and the thought that there might be something to that feeling began to rise from my romantically stifled consciousness. Of course, seasons changed and walking alone again became my most common mode of transportation, and winter coats protected us all from the elements both natural and human.
Then last night, the warmest night in a long while, I was walking to the train- when an older man in a button down shirt took his hand to my stomach and said hello. He rubbed my stomach once and then proceeded down the street in the opposite direction. I froze. Words came into my mind but didn’t make it as far as my vocal chords. Not sentences or complete thoughts. Just words. Hey. Seriously. Hey you. Wait. Stop.
So, I guess this is progress. I stopped. I thought about defending myself. I began to work on my speech for next time. Third times a charm in the world of street molestation I hear. And I realized that in the same way that this wouldn’t have happened to me if I was walking with a man, he certainly wouldn’t have pulled that shit if he was walking with a woman.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
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