Written on 8/10/08
While home visiting my family this past July, at one point I found myself in an unfamiliar local health food store with my parents. It was in this store that I told my father he was “annoying the hell out of me.” He was following me around, pointing things out while I was trying to focus on finding some fancy loose tea.
“And look over in there,” he’d say. “There’s even a little café where you can sit and eat. I’m pretty sure they have vegan options, too.”
“Cool, thanks! By the way, I’m actually looking for some loose tea called yerba maté. Do you know if they have that here?”
“No, I don’t know about that.”
So I figured I’d keep looking and maybe ask one of the employees once I found someone. This is entirely what I was focused on.
My father continued to interrupt as he shadowed me around the store.
“Dad, you’re annoying the hell out of me,” I finally said out of frustration.
I realized my mistake at once, and added a lighthearted giggle at the end of the sentence, turning to smile at him with my eyebrows raised expectantly, exactly like someone who had just made a gut-busting joke and was waiting for the inevitable laughter. I hoped this might soften the blow.
It did not.
Later in the car, my mother turned from the front passenger seat to face me in the back, where I was sitting. I had a feeling I knew what was coming, and I was right.
My mother effectively shamed me, as she reminded me that I should never speak to my father with that kind of disrespect again.
My mother has a thing about disrespect. Be it telling my father he’s annoying the hell out of you or even just raising your voice at either of them—she just won’t tolerate it. And yet, it’s perfectly fine to say the word “fuck” at home in everyday conversation.
I don’t know exactly when it became OK to say "fuck" at home, but I do know that it started with my sister and it started sometime while I was away at art school.
My pretty younger sister who still lives at home has a mouth like a trucker. Over the past few years she has flawlessly integrated “fuck” into her everyday vocabulary. It’s her thing. Everything with her is fuckin’ this or fuckin’ that. Rarely does she ever give a fuck. And sometimes it’s important to remember not to fuck with her. But always, if you have a problem with it, that’s your fuckin’ problem and not hers.
The first time I heard my sister say "fuck" in a conversation with my mother, I was home from art school for the weekend. We all sat around the kitchen table eating dinner—my mother, father, brother, sister and I—and my jaw dropped when my mother made a tongue-in-cheek comment to which my sister replied, “Shut the fuck up.”
I sat in silence holding my food in a half-chewed ball in one cheek, like a chipmunk storing nuts, waiting for the other shoe to drop. It never did. Instead, my mother laughed and said, “You shut the fuck up.”
I’ve never been able to figure out how telling my mother to “shut the fuck up” is any different from telling my father that he’s “annoying the hell out of [you].” To me, one is just as disrespectful as the next. But who am I to judge when it comes to respecting one’s elders.
Today I thought about this as I was in the grocery store picking out a tomato. I’d gone for a few things that I’d forgotten yesterday when I did the bulk of my shopping, so I was back in the store attempting to pick up my tomato when I noticed that I couldn’t approach the stacks of ripe Jerseys in the produce section. Parked directly in front of those tomatoes stood an anorexic-looking blonde woman and her elderly—deteriorating, even—mother.
There was something seriously wrong with the elderly woman’s right eye. Horribly, I thought she sort of looked like a corpse with a popeye. And she moved with the slow, staggering gait of a zombie, hanging onto a shopping cart and pushing it at tortoise speed.
The elderly woman, like my father last month, was annoying the hell out of me. But to tell the truth, I was a little bit afraid of her. Images of her grabbing me and taking a bite out of my arm as I tried to pass by and get my tomato flashed through my mind. It would be very Night of the Living Dead. But also, I felt a sort of obligation to show some respect by hanging back and allowing her to move out of the way without any added pressure.
So I sort of moved in closer to the tomatoes, just enough to let the elderly woman know that I wanted to be where she was but not enough to make her feel nervous or pressured. It was at this point that the anorexic-looking blonde woman left the elderly woman’s side and started walking past me toward jars of olive oil on shelves along the wall. The elderly woman began to follow.
“I said stay there!” shouted the anorexic-looking blonde woman. And when she shouted it, I could hear the hatred in her voice.
My first thought was Oh! She’s mean to her.
Now the elderly woman stopped directly between those tomatoes and I.
I was thoroughly annoyed. Also amused. As I slipped past the elderly woman who looked entirely confused, and went about picking out my tomato, I thought: Well, I would be mean to her too. I’d be like, “I said stay put, you stupid popeye.”
Catching myself in the act of a startlingly mean thought, I paused to compose myself and watched as the anorexic woman gruffly lead her decaying mother further down the aisle.
Talk about disrespect, I thought. At least I let my parents know when they’re pissing me off. I would never drag my father around a store hanging onto a cart like that, yelling at him. Even if he turns into a zombie with a popeye one day.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
Arachnophobia
Written on 2/23/09
The spider emerged from my bedroom in a particularly brisk scurry. It hugged the wall as it ran, until it was beneath the TV stand. There, it paused for a moment, perhaps considering which direction to move in next. I had already noticed the terrible creature, and began keeping an eye on it as soon as it rounded the corner from my bedroom to the living room where we were watching TV. But my roommate, Alison, had not.
“Oh my God!” Alison yelled. She held the “O” so it sounded more like, “Go-o-od”.
I didn’t even need to ask what the problem was.
But still.
“What?!” I yelled back, matching her shock, and raising my voice higher for effect. Truthfully, I had seen this sort of specimen before. I knew it was a wolf spider, and I also had a good idea as to how it appeared in our Brooklyn apartment.
“Spider! There’s a huge spider under the TV stand!” Alison was out of her chair now in a position midway between standing and crouching. She looked as if she might launch into the air and land on top of the chair in an attempt to get as far away from the ground and the spider as possible.
“Oh my God!” I screamed, still pretending I hadn’t been aware up until now.
This is customary whenever I spot a large insect or arachnid in the company of other people. My fear of coming into contact with a spider exactly like the one I was sure was sizing me up from under the TV stand is embarrassing. And because I prefer to have things like this taken care of for me, I choose to silently keep an eye on the uninvited guest until someone else notices and takes control of the situation.
“What should we do?!” Alison cried, terrified.
“The mop,” I said, still seated, pointing at the tall kitchen cabinet containing a Swiffer. “It’s flat on the bottom. Squish it with that!”
The spider was bigger than any turning up in your house should ever be. I tucked my legs up in an Indian-style position on my chair and kept an eye on it while Alison went for the Swiffer. I needed to be a safe distance from the creature and was prepared to make a run for the front door should it begin to move in my direction.
The thing is, I happen to be morbidly fascinated by spiders exactly like ours. I could have sat in that chair and studied it all day from afar—as long as there was no chance of the spider ending up on my foot. Or arm. Or head. Because if it ever looks like this might be even a slight possibility, I turn into a shrieking hyena and start propelling myself around the room, doing punches and kicks in a an effort to rid myself of the cause of my sudden hysteria.
“Ayeeeeeee—aahhhh! Eeeeeeeee! Get—it—off—of meeeeeee!”
I discovered this shameful side of myself at the age of fifteen, when I went to grab a pair of clean jeans from the laundry room at the back of the house one morning. I pulled them from the top of a pile of folded clothes, shook them open and put one leg in. Out popped a small house spider that sat dumbfounded on the floor for a second before scurrying out of sight.
“Aaahhhhhhhh—ayeeeeeee—eeeeeeeee!”
My father came running in, fearing the worst. Instead, I was in trouble when he discovered that I was only screaming because there had been a tiny spider in my pants.
“Alyssa, for Christ’s sake, get control of yourself. It was just a little spider and now it’s gone. Put your pants on. What’s the matter with you?”
But getting control of myself in a situation like this is easier said than done. If there had been one spider in my folded pants, who was to say there wasn’t another one hiding in there, too? How did we know I wouldn’t put those pants on and wear them all day and unknowingly be bitten by a spider.
The pants would need to be inspected.
My father grabbed the jeans and shook them once, then handed them to me. “There. Now put your pants on and get out there for breakfast.” I took the pants from him and after he left the room, conducted my own thorough inspection before putting them on and joining the rest of my family in the kitchen.
But nothing could compare to the variety of spider I would encounter years later, when we moved to a house farther away from Philadelphia.
While brushing my teeth one evening, I noticed a very big brown spot on the front of one of the steps leading up to my third-floor bedroom. Intrigued, I moved in closer to get a better look. I realized my mistake at once.
“Aaahhhhhhhh—eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“What’s the problem?” I heard my father shout from inside my parents' closed bedroom door behind me.
“Help! There’s a really big spider!”
I heard my mother sigh and then address my father with a stern tone of voice. “Chuck, you’re a fool if you go out there and kill a bug for her. She’s twenty three years old. She should be able to handle this stuff on her own.”
But my father has never been one to refuse taking care of one of his children’s problems, especially those of his daughters. Within seconds he was out in the hallway, standing next to me with a tissue. The expression on his face turned from annoyed obligation to shock when he saw the spider. He now knew that something more than a tissue would be necessary. So my father squashed the giant creature with his slipper and then used the tissue to clear it up. He disappeared back behind his closed bedroom door and I heard him explain to my mother, “It was big. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
That house had been the house that introduced “wolf spider” into my vocabulary. So when I saw the hairy beast that was currently sitting under the TV stand in my Brooklyn apartment, I was filled with an odd sense of familiarity. And because it had emerged from my bedroom, I was certain it had hitched a ride in the Trader Joe’s bag my brother brought with him from my parents’ house, when he had visited the day before.
“Here’s some stuff Mom wanted me to give to you. It was in the garage,” was what my brother had said when he handed the bag to me.
It was in the garage. I replayed the sentence over again in my head.
I was still sitting cross-legged in my chair when Alison reappeared with the Swiffer. She gripped it tightly with both hands like a dangerous weapon and marched over toward the TV stand. She looked like a crazy person about to embark on a killing spree—the type of murderous crazy person who, once arrested and arraigned, would plead temporary insanity.
The spider knew what was coming. When Alison neared it, it ran for it’s life.
Here, I screeched and darted into the kitchen, where it was safe to watch Alison finish her gruesome rampage. Once she had completely pulverized the spider and was certain it was dead, Alison looked over at me.
“What the hell was that thing?!”
The spider emerged from my bedroom in a particularly brisk scurry. It hugged the wall as it ran, until it was beneath the TV stand. There, it paused for a moment, perhaps considering which direction to move in next. I had already noticed the terrible creature, and began keeping an eye on it as soon as it rounded the corner from my bedroom to the living room where we were watching TV. But my roommate, Alison, had not.
“Oh my God!” Alison yelled. She held the “O” so it sounded more like, “Go-o-od”.
I didn’t even need to ask what the problem was.
But still.
“What?!” I yelled back, matching her shock, and raising my voice higher for effect. Truthfully, I had seen this sort of specimen before. I knew it was a wolf spider, and I also had a good idea as to how it appeared in our Brooklyn apartment.
“Spider! There’s a huge spider under the TV stand!” Alison was out of her chair now in a position midway between standing and crouching. She looked as if she might launch into the air and land on top of the chair in an attempt to get as far away from the ground and the spider as possible.
“Oh my God!” I screamed, still pretending I hadn’t been aware up until now.
This is customary whenever I spot a large insect or arachnid in the company of other people. My fear of coming into contact with a spider exactly like the one I was sure was sizing me up from under the TV stand is embarrassing. And because I prefer to have things like this taken care of for me, I choose to silently keep an eye on the uninvited guest until someone else notices and takes control of the situation.
“What should we do?!” Alison cried, terrified.
“The mop,” I said, still seated, pointing at the tall kitchen cabinet containing a Swiffer. “It’s flat on the bottom. Squish it with that!”
The spider was bigger than any turning up in your house should ever be. I tucked my legs up in an Indian-style position on my chair and kept an eye on it while Alison went for the Swiffer. I needed to be a safe distance from the creature and was prepared to make a run for the front door should it begin to move in my direction.
The thing is, I happen to be morbidly fascinated by spiders exactly like ours. I could have sat in that chair and studied it all day from afar—as long as there was no chance of the spider ending up on my foot. Or arm. Or head. Because if it ever looks like this might be even a slight possibility, I turn into a shrieking hyena and start propelling myself around the room, doing punches and kicks in a an effort to rid myself of the cause of my sudden hysteria.
“Ayeeeeeee—aahhhh! Eeeeeeeee! Get—it—off—of meeeeeee!”
I discovered this shameful side of myself at the age of fifteen, when I went to grab a pair of clean jeans from the laundry room at the back of the house one morning. I pulled them from the top of a pile of folded clothes, shook them open and put one leg in. Out popped a small house spider that sat dumbfounded on the floor for a second before scurrying out of sight.
“Aaahhhhhhhh—ayeeeeeee—eeeeeeeee!”
My father came running in, fearing the worst. Instead, I was in trouble when he discovered that I was only screaming because there had been a tiny spider in my pants.
“Alyssa, for Christ’s sake, get control of yourself. It was just a little spider and now it’s gone. Put your pants on. What’s the matter with you?”
But getting control of myself in a situation like this is easier said than done. If there had been one spider in my folded pants, who was to say there wasn’t another one hiding in there, too? How did we know I wouldn’t put those pants on and wear them all day and unknowingly be bitten by a spider.
The pants would need to be inspected.
My father grabbed the jeans and shook them once, then handed them to me. “There. Now put your pants on and get out there for breakfast.” I took the pants from him and after he left the room, conducted my own thorough inspection before putting them on and joining the rest of my family in the kitchen.
But nothing could compare to the variety of spider I would encounter years later, when we moved to a house farther away from Philadelphia.
While brushing my teeth one evening, I noticed a very big brown spot on the front of one of the steps leading up to my third-floor bedroom. Intrigued, I moved in closer to get a better look. I realized my mistake at once.
“Aaahhhhhhhh—eeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
“What’s the problem?” I heard my father shout from inside my parents' closed bedroom door behind me.
“Help! There’s a really big spider!”
I heard my mother sigh and then address my father with a stern tone of voice. “Chuck, you’re a fool if you go out there and kill a bug for her. She’s twenty three years old. She should be able to handle this stuff on her own.”
But my father has never been one to refuse taking care of one of his children’s problems, especially those of his daughters. Within seconds he was out in the hallway, standing next to me with a tissue. The expression on his face turned from annoyed obligation to shock when he saw the spider. He now knew that something more than a tissue would be necessary. So my father squashed the giant creature with his slipper and then used the tissue to clear it up. He disappeared back behind his closed bedroom door and I heard him explain to my mother, “It was big. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
That house had been the house that introduced “wolf spider” into my vocabulary. So when I saw the hairy beast that was currently sitting under the TV stand in my Brooklyn apartment, I was filled with an odd sense of familiarity. And because it had emerged from my bedroom, I was certain it had hitched a ride in the Trader Joe’s bag my brother brought with him from my parents’ house, when he had visited the day before.
“Here’s some stuff Mom wanted me to give to you. It was in the garage,” was what my brother had said when he handed the bag to me.
It was in the garage. I replayed the sentence over again in my head.
I was still sitting cross-legged in my chair when Alison reappeared with the Swiffer. She gripped it tightly with both hands like a dangerous weapon and marched over toward the TV stand. She looked like a crazy person about to embark on a killing spree—the type of murderous crazy person who, once arrested and arraigned, would plead temporary insanity.
The spider knew what was coming. When Alison neared it, it ran for it’s life.
Here, I screeched and darted into the kitchen, where it was safe to watch Alison finish her gruesome rampage. Once she had completely pulverized the spider and was certain it was dead, Alison looked over at me.
“What the hell was that thing?!”
Regulations
Written on 11/8/08
Late last week I had just placed my order at Starbucks when I overheard the man behind me order a double espresso. “Double espresso,” said the kid behind the register. “Do you have ID?”
What a lame joke, I thought as I poured soy milk into my own coffee. And then I carried my cup over to the little bar about three feet away to steal as many handfuls of Splenda packets as I could fit into my coat pockets.
“No, I don’t have ID,” I heard the man who ordered the double espresso say, and I assumed that he had understood the joke. He was wearing a navy suit and seemed to be in a deep work-related conversation with someone on his cell phone.
“Oh, they just asked me for ID,” he told the person on the other end of his conversation.
Starbucks Kid laughed. And then I heard Double Espresso ask Starbucks Kid this: “Is that going to be a new policy now with Obama as president?”
“Oh, no! I was kidding,” said Starbucks Kid. And I glanced at Double Espresso just long enough to notice that his face had turned a brilliant shade of red.
In this country, right now, jobs are disappearing at an alarming rate, people are leaving their families to go fight a senseless war, we are energy dependent, we pollute and destroy the environment, people can’t afford healthcare, two people who love each other can’t get married in most states just because they both happen to pee standing up—all of this and more. But apparently, it’s entirely believable that our number one concern now as a people is regulating caffeine intake.
I think we need to consider regulating stupidity.
Just in case one might doubt the number of stupid people in New York, there is a website called Overheard In New York where the public has been submitting the ridiculous things they hear other people say on the streets for years. Here is an example:
Frumpy mom in Century 21, holding up t-shirt for hipster tween daughter: Catherine, is this ironic?
I have never submitted anything I've overheard to Overheard In New York. Not even when a friend of mine told me her funny subway story three years ago.
"I was on the six train, and I was sitting next to a very obviously gay couple," she said. "And you know how the newer trains have those automated announcements about 'if you see a suspicious package'? Well, that announcement came on and the one guy turns and looks down at his partner's crotch and says in, like, an erotic voice, 'I see a suspicious package...'"
“That’s perfect,” I told her. “You should put that on Overheard In New York.”
But she would not. And though I thought about it, neither did I.
Earlier this evening I was thinking about all of this when I passed by my neighborhood Starbucks and decided I could use my own double shot after an exhausting, wet afternoon sloshing around Manhattan.
“You know,” I told the barista, “I was in another Starbucks a few days ago and they jokingly asked a guy for ID when he ordered a double shot.”
“That’s lame,” she said.
“I know. But the guy who ordered the double shot didn’t get the joke. And then he asked if that was going to be a new policy now with Obama as president.”
“Really?’ the barista asked. “You should put that on Overheard In New York.”
Late last week I had just placed my order at Starbucks when I overheard the man behind me order a double espresso. “Double espresso,” said the kid behind the register. “Do you have ID?”
What a lame joke, I thought as I poured soy milk into my own coffee. And then I carried my cup over to the little bar about three feet away to steal as many handfuls of Splenda packets as I could fit into my coat pockets.
“No, I don’t have ID,” I heard the man who ordered the double espresso say, and I assumed that he had understood the joke. He was wearing a navy suit and seemed to be in a deep work-related conversation with someone on his cell phone.
“Oh, they just asked me for ID,” he told the person on the other end of his conversation.
Starbucks Kid laughed. And then I heard Double Espresso ask Starbucks Kid this: “Is that going to be a new policy now with Obama as president?”
“Oh, no! I was kidding,” said Starbucks Kid. And I glanced at Double Espresso just long enough to notice that his face had turned a brilliant shade of red.
In this country, right now, jobs are disappearing at an alarming rate, people are leaving their families to go fight a senseless war, we are energy dependent, we pollute and destroy the environment, people can’t afford healthcare, two people who love each other can’t get married in most states just because they both happen to pee standing up—all of this and more. But apparently, it’s entirely believable that our number one concern now as a people is regulating caffeine intake.
I think we need to consider regulating stupidity.
Just in case one might doubt the number of stupid people in New York, there is a website called Overheard In New York where the public has been submitting the ridiculous things they hear other people say on the streets for years. Here is an example:
Frumpy mom in Century 21, holding up t-shirt for hipster tween daughter: Catherine, is this ironic?
I have never submitted anything I've overheard to Overheard In New York. Not even when a friend of mine told me her funny subway story three years ago.
"I was on the six train, and I was sitting next to a very obviously gay couple," she said. "And you know how the newer trains have those automated announcements about 'if you see a suspicious package'? Well, that announcement came on and the one guy turns and looks down at his partner's crotch and says in, like, an erotic voice, 'I see a suspicious package...'"
“That’s perfect,” I told her. “You should put that on Overheard In New York.”
But she would not. And though I thought about it, neither did I.
Earlier this evening I was thinking about all of this when I passed by my neighborhood Starbucks and decided I could use my own double shot after an exhausting, wet afternoon sloshing around Manhattan.
“You know,” I told the barista, “I was in another Starbucks a few days ago and they jokingly asked a guy for ID when he ordered a double shot.”
“That’s lame,” she said.
“I know. But the guy who ordered the double shot didn’t get the joke. And then he asked if that was going to be a new policy now with Obama as president.”
“Really?’ the barista asked. “You should put that on Overheard In New York.”
Sunday, July 6, 2014
Penis Men
Written on 12/17/08
During seventh grade Homeroom, Sam thought it would be funny to show me pictures of naked tribesmen from a National Geographic magazine he found in his desk. The idea was to get me to laugh out loud, and it always worked. "Penis men," Sam would whisper and then quickly turn and flash the magazine, which was open to a spread showing about fifteen or so odd penises attached to sub-Saharan African tribesmen. I'm not entirely sure if it was Sam's delivery or the actual penises but I could never keep from laughing. And then one day I decided that no matter what, I would not laugh at the penis men. The joke was getting old.
"Penis men," Sam said and flashed the magazine spread. And though I felt my lips begin to curl slightly upward into a smile, I managed to remain looking mostly stern.
I think I also managed to disappoint Sam because the next morning, he didn't flash the National Geographic penis men at me. Instead, he turned around to face me with narrowed eyes and a mischievous smirk. Sam slung his arm over the back of his chair, gazed at me for a second, raised his eyebrows and then addressed me as Gonzo.
"Hey, Gonzo! The nose shows," he said, touching the tip of his nose and then pointing at mine. Then Sam laughed and smiled, and he looked at me expectantly, as if he’d just made a gut-busting joke and was awaiting my inevitable laughter.
This is where I felt my face become flush with embarrassment and utter devastation. And from then on, I ignored Sam during Homeroom. It was like, you fucker. And as far as I was concerned, he didn’t deserve to exist. Sam had hit me exactly where it hurt the most.
I sort of figure that if I ever happen to stumble across a magic lamp containing a Genie who promises to grant me three wishes, the first thing I will ask for is to own an apartment in the West Village. And then maybe I will ask for a lot of money, so I never have to worry about that sort of thing. But after that? I will ask for a smaller nose.
Throughout my life, I have been aware of the size of my nose. I have always said that if I could change one thing about myself, my nose would be the thing. And then whenever I have said that, people have always said things like, “Oh, stop it. You’re wrong. There’s nothing bad about your nose at all.” And I understand—my nose isn’t that bad, or even really that big. It’s certainly not giant. But it’s not tiny, either. And to me, it is the absolute worst thing about myself.
My hatred for my nose became so intense that in high school, I briefly considered rhinoplasty. And then I considered the fact that rhinoplasty costs money, of which I had none, and that my parents would never go for something like that, anyway. Now I consider rhinoplasty to be, in essence, like fraud.
Sometimes, I imagine what it might be like to be dating or even married to someone who actually loves every little thing about me. Even the annoying habits and tiny flaws. Because, after all, these are the things that make us human. In my fantasy, this person can live with my flaws and even finds most of them endearing.
And then I imagine that my nose is no longer a "flaw". Instead, it’s a cute button nose that sits squarely in the center of my face, radiating perfection. “I love everything about you,” says my Mr. Fantasy. “Even the annoying things—I cherish them. I can’t find one thing that I would even want to change. But mostly, I love your adorable nose.”
Then a few years down the road, immediately after our first child is born, I imagine the two of us staring at this alien baby with a giant nose. “Where did that come from?” Mr. Fantasy asks, shocked.
And that is why I’ve decided never to have rhinoplasty.
In the eighth grade, I found out that Sam had harbored a secret crush on me in the seventh grade. And I thought, really? Because flashing a magazine spread filled with tribesmen’s penises doesn't seem like the best way to go about getting the girl. Sam could have just asked me out. I would have said yes.
During seventh grade Homeroom, Sam thought it would be funny to show me pictures of naked tribesmen from a National Geographic magazine he found in his desk. The idea was to get me to laugh out loud, and it always worked. "Penis men," Sam would whisper and then quickly turn and flash the magazine, which was open to a spread showing about fifteen or so odd penises attached to sub-Saharan African tribesmen. I'm not entirely sure if it was Sam's delivery or the actual penises but I could never keep from laughing. And then one day I decided that no matter what, I would not laugh at the penis men. The joke was getting old.
"Penis men," Sam said and flashed the magazine spread. And though I felt my lips begin to curl slightly upward into a smile, I managed to remain looking mostly stern.
I think I also managed to disappoint Sam because the next morning, he didn't flash the National Geographic penis men at me. Instead, he turned around to face me with narrowed eyes and a mischievous smirk. Sam slung his arm over the back of his chair, gazed at me for a second, raised his eyebrows and then addressed me as Gonzo.
"Hey, Gonzo! The nose shows," he said, touching the tip of his nose and then pointing at mine. Then Sam laughed and smiled, and he looked at me expectantly, as if he’d just made a gut-busting joke and was awaiting my inevitable laughter.
This is where I felt my face become flush with embarrassment and utter devastation. And from then on, I ignored Sam during Homeroom. It was like, you fucker. And as far as I was concerned, he didn’t deserve to exist. Sam had hit me exactly where it hurt the most.
I sort of figure that if I ever happen to stumble across a magic lamp containing a Genie who promises to grant me three wishes, the first thing I will ask for is to own an apartment in the West Village. And then maybe I will ask for a lot of money, so I never have to worry about that sort of thing. But after that? I will ask for a smaller nose.
Throughout my life, I have been aware of the size of my nose. I have always said that if I could change one thing about myself, my nose would be the thing. And then whenever I have said that, people have always said things like, “Oh, stop it. You’re wrong. There’s nothing bad about your nose at all.” And I understand—my nose isn’t that bad, or even really that big. It’s certainly not giant. But it’s not tiny, either. And to me, it is the absolute worst thing about myself.
My hatred for my nose became so intense that in high school, I briefly considered rhinoplasty. And then I considered the fact that rhinoplasty costs money, of which I had none, and that my parents would never go for something like that, anyway. Now I consider rhinoplasty to be, in essence, like fraud.
Sometimes, I imagine what it might be like to be dating or even married to someone who actually loves every little thing about me. Even the annoying habits and tiny flaws. Because, after all, these are the things that make us human. In my fantasy, this person can live with my flaws and even finds most of them endearing.
And then I imagine that my nose is no longer a "flaw". Instead, it’s a cute button nose that sits squarely in the center of my face, radiating perfection. “I love everything about you,” says my Mr. Fantasy. “Even the annoying things—I cherish them. I can’t find one thing that I would even want to change. But mostly, I love your adorable nose.”
Then a few years down the road, immediately after our first child is born, I imagine the two of us staring at this alien baby with a giant nose. “Where did that come from?” Mr. Fantasy asks, shocked.
And that is why I’ve decided never to have rhinoplasty.
In the eighth grade, I found out that Sam had harbored a secret crush on me in the seventh grade. And I thought, really? Because flashing a magazine spread filled with tribesmen’s penises doesn't seem like the best way to go about getting the girl. Sam could have just asked me out. I would have said yes.
Saturday, July 5, 2014
The Babysitter
Written on 9/15/08
During my childhood in the Philadelphia suburbs, the only time my parents went out—other than the occasional anniversary dinner—was during parent-teacher conferences at school. For this event, my mother and father would leave my brother, sister and I in the care of a neighborhood boy name John, who was tall with dirty-blond hair and thick glasses.
Usually, John would arrive after we were already in bed and peek into our rooms one at a time to check on us. I would hear John coming down the hall and hide under the covers. Because during this time there were two things that scared me more than anything else: the concept of alien abduction and the idea of an unexpected person entering my room while I was asleep. Like Santa.
I spent a good portion of my childhood fearing Santa Clause. One year in elementary school, as Christmas approached, my teacher read a story about a little girl who wished for a puppy for Christmas. The little girl’s parents said “no”. But she wrote a letter to Santa anyway. And do you know what Santa did? The jolly old elf snuck into the little girl’s room while she was asleep and left a squirmy puppy in an open box for her, right next to her bed. Most children would be excited by this idea. I was terrified.
“Please don’t let him come into my room,” I would tell my mother every Christmas Eve until I finally grew out of the Santa Clause belief. Because, really, what little girl wants a bearded fat guy in a weird red suit sneaking around her bedroom while she’s sleeping. To me, this is the stuff of nightmares. It was bad enough to think of him sneaking into our house. But as long as he was limited to the downstairs tree area and left an adequate amount of good presents, I thought that was fine.
One evening the babysitter John arrived early and was given instructions to make my brother, sister and I go to bed around eight. Once my parents were out of the picture, we tried everything we could to get John to loosen up and have a good time. We broke out the Transformers, I got my Jem dolls and my sister brought out her Barbies, some Legos and a Mr. Potato Head. We even brought out our pet hermit crabs and a Fisher Price parking garage, complete with a winding roadway and cars with little holes on the tops to accommodate round, plastic people.
“Look John,” my sister shouted as she stuffed a hermit crab into the hole on top of one of the cars and sent it flying down the winding road from the top of the parking garage. But John just sat on the sofa with his nose buried in a book. Soon, he was asleep.
Eight o’clock came and went, and with John asleep, my brother, sister and I decided there was really no need to go to bed. We thought it would be more fun to stay up and fuck with John.
I can’t say that I remember exactly whose idea it was, but I can tell you that one of us decided to adorn John with Mr. Potato head earrings while he slept. And this is exactly how my parents found him when they came home later that night.
“Hi John,” my father said as he entered the house and approached the living room where John was just waking up on the sofa. “Everything go okay?”
John groggily rubbed his eyes and looked around. His face turned red when he saw that my brother, sister and I were still up. He was visibly uneasy from the way my father was looking at him.
My father touched his own ears—first the right one, then the left. Instinctively, John did the same. And I couldn’t help but notice the way John’s face turned an even darker shade of red when he came away with two plastic Mr. Potato Head hoop earrings in his hands.
That was the last time we ever saw John as a babysitter. Though, I’m fairly certain it was not because he wasn't wanted and only because he was a bit too embarrassed to come back.
During my childhood in the Philadelphia suburbs, the only time my parents went out—other than the occasional anniversary dinner—was during parent-teacher conferences at school. For this event, my mother and father would leave my brother, sister and I in the care of a neighborhood boy name John, who was tall with dirty-blond hair and thick glasses.
Usually, John would arrive after we were already in bed and peek into our rooms one at a time to check on us. I would hear John coming down the hall and hide under the covers. Because during this time there were two things that scared me more than anything else: the concept of alien abduction and the idea of an unexpected person entering my room while I was asleep. Like Santa.
I spent a good portion of my childhood fearing Santa Clause. One year in elementary school, as Christmas approached, my teacher read a story about a little girl who wished for a puppy for Christmas. The little girl’s parents said “no”. But she wrote a letter to Santa anyway. And do you know what Santa did? The jolly old elf snuck into the little girl’s room while she was asleep and left a squirmy puppy in an open box for her, right next to her bed. Most children would be excited by this idea. I was terrified.
“Please don’t let him come into my room,” I would tell my mother every Christmas Eve until I finally grew out of the Santa Clause belief. Because, really, what little girl wants a bearded fat guy in a weird red suit sneaking around her bedroom while she’s sleeping. To me, this is the stuff of nightmares. It was bad enough to think of him sneaking into our house. But as long as he was limited to the downstairs tree area and left an adequate amount of good presents, I thought that was fine.
One evening the babysitter John arrived early and was given instructions to make my brother, sister and I go to bed around eight. Once my parents were out of the picture, we tried everything we could to get John to loosen up and have a good time. We broke out the Transformers, I got my Jem dolls and my sister brought out her Barbies, some Legos and a Mr. Potato Head. We even brought out our pet hermit crabs and a Fisher Price parking garage, complete with a winding roadway and cars with little holes on the tops to accommodate round, plastic people.
“Look John,” my sister shouted as she stuffed a hermit crab into the hole on top of one of the cars and sent it flying down the winding road from the top of the parking garage. But John just sat on the sofa with his nose buried in a book. Soon, he was asleep.
Eight o’clock came and went, and with John asleep, my brother, sister and I decided there was really no need to go to bed. We thought it would be more fun to stay up and fuck with John.
I can’t say that I remember exactly whose idea it was, but I can tell you that one of us decided to adorn John with Mr. Potato head earrings while he slept. And this is exactly how my parents found him when they came home later that night.
“Hi John,” my father said as he entered the house and approached the living room where John was just waking up on the sofa. “Everything go okay?”
John groggily rubbed his eyes and looked around. His face turned red when he saw that my brother, sister and I were still up. He was visibly uneasy from the way my father was looking at him.
My father touched his own ears—first the right one, then the left. Instinctively, John did the same. And I couldn’t help but notice the way John’s face turned an even darker shade of red when he came away with two plastic Mr. Potato Head hoop earrings in his hands.
That was the last time we ever saw John as a babysitter. Though, I’m fairly certain it was not because he wasn't wanted and only because he was a bit too embarrassed to come back.
Ollie, My Beautiful Future Son
Written on 2/10/09
I've recently been warming up to the concept, but having children of my own is not something I would consider very seriously. It just doesn’t register on my totem pole of things to get done. And yet, I am aware that there might be certain benefits to having a child around. Perhaps in the future.
A few years ago I was lounging next to my friend, Mike, on his sofa. We were watching the Eagles/Giants game and getting pretty into it when he suddenly set his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and turned to look at me expectantly. We both knew where this was going, but I guess Mike just sort of figured Fuck it, I’ll give it a try. And when I refused to get up and serve Mike another cold beer, he looked at me again. This time, Mike smirked and he said this: “I wish I had a son.”
I stared at Mike hard, as if he’d just told me he keeps a little leprechaun and a pot of gold hidden in his closet.
“Yeah,” he said, reading my very obvious confusion. “You know. So I could be like, ‘SON! Go get me another beer.’ I could just sit here and get the kid to do things for me.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. But secretly, I knew he was right. A child would make an excellent slave. Assuming of course that the child was well taken care of, provided for and loved. This child would then be brought up to value hard work, and there is nothing wrong with that.
This is exactly why it would be irresponsible of me to have a child.
But still. Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to have my own son. I already know what I would name him: Ollie.
My son would be my maid, butler, errand-runner, and when he was old enough to drive, chauffeur. And, really, I have no wisdom to impart other than things like how to make sure my iced coffee is made correctly and how to carry it to me without spilling any. My son would get a very rich education in these sorts of things.
Of course, at some point my son would rebel. I would be powerless to stop it. “Get up off your ass and make your own damn iced coffee,” seventeen-year-old Ollie might say, grabbing his skateboard and giving me the finger as he walked out the front door. And there I would be, left sitting on the sofa wondering how it ever came to this.
“The boy used to be so helpful,” I would say through streams of tears. “What happened? Where have I gone wrong?”
I've recently been warming up to the concept, but having children of my own is not something I would consider very seriously. It just doesn’t register on my totem pole of things to get done. And yet, I am aware that there might be certain benefits to having a child around. Perhaps in the future.
A few years ago I was lounging next to my friend, Mike, on his sofa. We were watching the Eagles/Giants game and getting pretty into it when he suddenly set his empty beer bottle on the coffee table and turned to look at me expectantly. We both knew where this was going, but I guess Mike just sort of figured Fuck it, I’ll give it a try. And when I refused to get up and serve Mike another cold beer, he looked at me again. This time, Mike smirked and he said this: “I wish I had a son.”
I stared at Mike hard, as if he’d just told me he keeps a little leprechaun and a pot of gold hidden in his closet.
“Yeah,” he said, reading my very obvious confusion. “You know. So I could be like, ‘SON! Go get me another beer.’ I could just sit here and get the kid to do things for me.”
“That’s terrible,” I said. But secretly, I knew he was right. A child would make an excellent slave. Assuming of course that the child was well taken care of, provided for and loved. This child would then be brought up to value hard work, and there is nothing wrong with that.
This is exactly why it would be irresponsible of me to have a child.
But still. Sometimes I wonder what it might be like to have my own son. I already know what I would name him: Ollie.
My son would be my maid, butler, errand-runner, and when he was old enough to drive, chauffeur. And, really, I have no wisdom to impart other than things like how to make sure my iced coffee is made correctly and how to carry it to me without spilling any. My son would get a very rich education in these sorts of things.
Of course, at some point my son would rebel. I would be powerless to stop it. “Get up off your ass and make your own damn iced coffee,” seventeen-year-old Ollie might say, grabbing his skateboard and giving me the finger as he walked out the front door. And there I would be, left sitting on the sofa wondering how it ever came to this.
“The boy used to be so helpful,” I would say through streams of tears. “What happened? Where have I gone wrong?”
The City of Right Angles and Tough, Damaged People
Written on 11/24/08
On Saturday I happened to be in a small, upscale pharmacy in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood. I was in this pharmacy because it is the only place on the entire island of Manhattan where I can find the exact soap I use to wash my face every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. And I have to admit, I particularly enjoy going to this pharmacy. Sometimes when I'm there, I feel almost as if I've stepped into an alternate universe where New Yorkers are an entirely happy, upbeat and friendly people. This pharmacy puts me in a good mood—it makes me feel great. And apparently, I'm not the only one. The woman standing slightly off to the side of the counter in front of me felt the same way, too.
"I rang you up, didn't I?" asked the girl at the register. It seemed like she only vaguely remembered ringing the woman up and wanted to double check before moving on to me. You know, as a courtesy.
"Yes," said the woman. "And it was great. I'm very excited about my new moisturizer."
Personally speaking? I was very excited about my new face soap, too. The place just does that to you.
I’ve spent a lot of time feeling very alone in the city. Which is odd, because in a city of so many millions of people, one would think you could never quite feel alone. But even in a human beehive, it's easy to feel alone.
I've felt alone in movie theaters. I've felt alone in supermarkets and those little street corner bodegas. I've felt alone standing in line at the bank. Or standing up against the doors on a subway train. I've felt alone in restaurants. I've felt alone walking down the street. Even at parties, I've felt alone. I've felt alone every month when I've pulled out my checkbook and written a large check for a small apartment that I couldn’t afford. I've felt alone every time I've gone on a date with a guy I couldn’t stand, just to go on a date, and every time I've needed to go into Manhattan to hang out with one of my friends because they wouldn’t visit me in Brooklyn. I've felt alone and abused.
"The city of right angles and tough, damaged people," is what Pete Hamill once called it. And sometimes, when I’m not feeling overcome by the fantasy and romance of it all, I think he was right. Because it was only recently that I realized, I've only felt alone because I've wanted to feel alone, to prove to myself that I'm strong enough to handle it. Was I really that tough and damaged?
But while standing in line at my favorite pharmacy in Chelsea on Saturday, I realized that I’ve never been alone at all. And maybe not everyone in New York is as tough and damaged as they might seem at first.
Because sometimes? Even in the city of right angles and tough, damaged people, all it takes is a trip to a small, upscale pharmacy filled with happy vibes, and some new moisturizer or face soap to get you seeing things from a different perspective.
On Saturday I happened to be in a small, upscale pharmacy in Manhattan's Chelsea neighborhood. I was in this pharmacy because it is the only place on the entire island of Manhattan where I can find the exact soap I use to wash my face every morning when I wake up and every night before I go to bed. And I have to admit, I particularly enjoy going to this pharmacy. Sometimes when I'm there, I feel almost as if I've stepped into an alternate universe where New Yorkers are an entirely happy, upbeat and friendly people. This pharmacy puts me in a good mood—it makes me feel great. And apparently, I'm not the only one. The woman standing slightly off to the side of the counter in front of me felt the same way, too.
"I rang you up, didn't I?" asked the girl at the register. It seemed like she only vaguely remembered ringing the woman up and wanted to double check before moving on to me. You know, as a courtesy.
"Yes," said the woman. "And it was great. I'm very excited about my new moisturizer."
Personally speaking? I was very excited about my new face soap, too. The place just does that to you.
I’ve spent a lot of time feeling very alone in the city. Which is odd, because in a city of so many millions of people, one would think you could never quite feel alone. But even in a human beehive, it's easy to feel alone.
I've felt alone in movie theaters. I've felt alone in supermarkets and those little street corner bodegas. I've felt alone standing in line at the bank. Or standing up against the doors on a subway train. I've felt alone in restaurants. I've felt alone walking down the street. Even at parties, I've felt alone. I've felt alone every month when I've pulled out my checkbook and written a large check for a small apartment that I couldn’t afford. I've felt alone every time I've gone on a date with a guy I couldn’t stand, just to go on a date, and every time I've needed to go into Manhattan to hang out with one of my friends because they wouldn’t visit me in Brooklyn. I've felt alone and abused.
"The city of right angles and tough, damaged people," is what Pete Hamill once called it. And sometimes, when I’m not feeling overcome by the fantasy and romance of it all, I think he was right. Because it was only recently that I realized, I've only felt alone because I've wanted to feel alone, to prove to myself that I'm strong enough to handle it. Was I really that tough and damaged?
But while standing in line at my favorite pharmacy in Chelsea on Saturday, I realized that I’ve never been alone at all. And maybe not everyone in New York is as tough and damaged as they might seem at first.
Because sometimes? Even in the city of right angles and tough, damaged people, all it takes is a trip to a small, upscale pharmacy filled with happy vibes, and some new moisturizer or face soap to get you seeing things from a different perspective.
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