inspire me

With the dull black branches as chill as ice providing my only muse, I often find myself as frosty as the trees—I'm ready to dust myself off and dance with the breeze. Inspire me!

Homelessness is a Problem and a Half

There are over 32,000 homeless people living in the New York area according to the NYC Dept of Homeless Services. I wonder what percentage of these people are actually homeless…

Half of them sit useless on the sidewalk holding out a tattered old cup hoping for a couple coins; others are dancing and singing on the subways and streets for a few dollars an hour; and a few walk the streets begging for whatever we want to give them.

I find it hard to give; only because I see the same people day after day holding out that cup in the same exact spot. I hear the same songs echoing through the subway walls. And the worst of them all…I get the same reaction every time I offer food instead of money, “No, I’ll just ask someone else.”

And, it’s not just what they say that makes me do a double take, it’s that they say it in a rude way. Are they really that ungrateful or are they just trying to get money for whatever leisure they might enjoy (i.e. crack, cocaine and crap)?

A lady came up to me yesterday when it was pouring rain, she was crying, she was frantic about getting home to “Westchesta,” she was begging for anything. As soon as she said “Westchester,” I knew she was going to turn down food; she just wanted money. Why? There’s no way she’s from Westchester, stuck in the city, and trying to get back home. First of all, it cost $2.25 on the train to get up there. Second, there are no homeless people in Westchester.

I just happened to be going into the Health Food store we were standing right in front of, so I told her,“I’m not going to give you money, but I’m going into this store right now if you want anything.”
“Do they have chicken and biscuits??”
“No, it’s a health food store.”
“Do they have chips?”
“No, but they have protein bars and smoothies and bread and yogurt…”
“It’s ok, I’ll ask someone else.” (tears desist).

All I could say was “Really?!!?” Everyone is a damn actor in this city.

I don’t know what the world is coming to? Not only do I have to ask for a credit report and blood test from every man I meet, but now I have to ask the homeless people for their paperwork from the shelter before giving them money or food.

It’s New York; expect to be lied to, manipulated, used and pissed on before you exit the island.

The Daze Go By

It’s crazy how easy it is to zone out when you’re staring at a computer all day. My mind is moving but my eyes are not. The glare from the screen is undoubtedly blinding me slowly with its Ultraviolet rays. Yet every day I return to my screen in hopes that today it will be more interesting and the glazed over daze I fall into most days will cease existence. Today I have no such luck as I try to focus on what I am doing and not what is going on in my head. Sometimes I become so mesmerized by the screen that when someone approaches my desk for a moment of social interaction, I feel like a zombie and can’t bring myself to have a normal conversation.

Somehow through my daily daze I manage to accomplish finishing the work handed to me and walk out with nothing on my mind. I usually wonder as I’m leaving if I feel less stressed because I sat here thinking about myself all day or if it’s merely a feeling of relief that I am free to be out on the streets where my focus is not on the screen but on all the things moving around me. It might be that I am just too tired of thinking that my mind finally just goes blank. Is this what it feels like to have a day job?

I know that it is normal to question your life and the path it’s on, but I feel like I do that more than other people. It seems that other people keep jobs for two years or more, move up within a company and are satisfied with staying in one building for 10-20 years, only moving up…but not out (and sometimes not even up). I just don’t seem to be that happy with anything that I can do that. I’m always wondering, “What’s next?” and “Is this what I’m supposed to be doing?” How does one ever really know if they are on the right path? Isn’t there always something better out there? Wait, isn’t that what people say when they have a commitment problem? (Enter Tom Leykis - http://www.blowmeuptom.com/)

There’s a long list of events and situations I have experienced in life that may have made me the way I am; always moving, never any consistency, always someone different in charge growing up, randomly changing hair colors…who knows? Well, besides the psychiatrist I refuse to visit.

In some ways all of this made me stronger, in others it makes me the non-commital type who flounders along in her own sea of randomness. I prefer to be the stronger version of myself, sometimes it’s just hard to see her through the forest of thoughts and questions.

"The irony of commitment is that it's deeply liberating- in work, in play, in love. The act fills you from the tyranny of your internal critic, from the fear that likes to dress itself and parade around as rational hesitation. To commit is to remove your head as the barrier to your life."
- Anne Morriss

I stole this quote from a facebook page of a friend who has so many options that she finds it hard to commit to just one thing. She thinks it’s both a luxury and a curse, I think it’s because she’s just THAT talented. For me, this quote resonates deeply in my mind because of the fact that I don’t have a lot of choices, I just make rash decisions and hope for the best. I think I need a little commitment in my life.

For REAL?

I may be betraying my fellow ladies, my womanhood, and even my own body by writing this, but in all honesty, I don’t care.

The Dove campaign has been controversial since it came out. Was it airbrushed? Is it all-natural? Blah, blah, blah. In my experience, even pictures that don’t necessarily need to be airbrushed are. I airbrush, crop, red-eye reduce almost every single picture I post. Why? Well, because I don’t want to be remembered as the girl with the breakouts, the wrinkles, or dare I say it, the cellulite. Even though these ladies participated in an “all natural” display of womanhood and femininity, I’m sure they have no problem with having a little airbrushing performed on their not-so-perfect bodies. After all, this is a representation of them to all of the United States (and parts of the world), including their friends and families.

Realistically, this is not a picture that I would pay attention to, unless I was searching for the imperfections that I can compare my own body to. I honestly look at magazines to see how amazing the girls look, to see how the clothes fit, to have something to strive for (among other things); physically and financially. This picture just doesn’t motivate me. I don’t want to look like any one of these girls. I want to look like Kate Winslet or Beyonce. Those are my ideal body types. And, although I haven’t seen them in their underwear…I’m sure they are beautiful and totally unrealistic. And that’s how I want it. The part of them being unrealistic is what draws me to them. I mean, is there one woman out there that posts pictures on her frig or mirror of the girl next door with the perfect body? No. We post pictures of Britney Spears (pre-baby) and models for the latest Dolce and Gabbana ads.

Also, men don’t find the Dove ads attractive either. What guy stops and stares at these ads when the one next to it is a woman with a long torso, C-cups, and an amazing tan?

I may be just feeding into the pop culture ideas of what is perfect. I may be causing eating disorders among young girls as we speak. Publishers and photographers don’t have the right to tell us what we should look like, I know. But, that’s not my point. My point is, perfection is in the eye of the beholder and although these models and celebrities are airbrushed, there is some truth to how they look on TV and on the shiny pages some people worship daily. And, if that’s what motivates you, who am I to say it doesn’t belong on your refrigerator?

Fur and All Things Fluffy

So when I tell my temp agency that I want to work in fashion. I think they assume ANYTHING in fashion is ok with me. Well it’s really not.

When I walked into Betmar Hats during Christmas vacation and saw there were only two people in the office (the owner/CEO and his assistant), I expected to be answering calls, filing, faxing, copying…you know, all the administrative tasks one of the regular cubicle occupants usually does. I met the owner shortly after this thought. He was a sweet old man. He led me over to some boxes and dumped all the contents of one onto the floor. “Take inventory and repack all of these,” he says as he points to the towering piles of boxes that seemed to go on forever. “Can I listen to my IPod?” I asked with a tiny glimpse of hope left in my voice. “Sure, just leave it low enough that you can hear me call you if I need something,” he says with a smile. Yep, sweet old man…

As I unpack and repack hundreds and hundreds of colorful and obnoxious but appealing hats, I hum along to John Legend in hopes that this is all I have to do all day. As the thought crosses my mind, it is interrupted by a shriek. I take out my headphones and look around. “What the heck was that??” I go around the corner and the sweet old man says, “Took you long enough, are you almost done.” Glancing at the remaining 20-30 boxes, I say, “Yep, about a half hour of work left, I think.” He squints at me, pauses for what seems like a minute and then finally says, “I guess you are working pretty quickly, I’ll have another project ready when you’re done…you’re not being sloppy with your work are you?” Hmmm…. “No Sir, I’m more of the fast perfectionist type.” “Ok then, come get me when you’re done.”

“Oh great,” I think, “What next??”

As I continue on my inventory expedition, I notice the sweet old man practically running back and forth between his office and this big closet in the corner (picture the six flags guy skipping around the room, cause that’s exactly what it’s like).

He comes in to check on me again just as I’m finishing. When he sees that I’m still working, he shakes his head and goes into his office. When I finish, I walk slowly to his office, imagining the outfits he could want me to match hats with or the photo shoots he could want me to organize with his hats as the main focus…maybe he wants me to be a hat fit model…well no, my heads too small for that…

The sweet old man jumps up as soon as he sees me walk in and leads me into the corner closet he kept going into. I see rows and rows of different colors, different textures, different prints. Its then that I realize this is the fabric closet. Maybe he wants me to match fabrics and designs to create something; maybe he wants me to help him with ideas for the Spring collection. My mind races as he takes out a huge bag from the corner and says, “These are all our Spring season fabrics.” “Oh how fun,” I think. “I get to create something!”

While were walking into the showroom, I realize the only thing I will be creating is a mess. He tells me I will be cutting out 40, 1 inch squares of each fabric for the color swatches. He gives me this little rotary cutter (imagine a very tiny pizza cutter), a ruler, and a fabric cutting board.

In home-ec class, I would often avoid the sewing projects or get someone else to do it for me. While growing up (well even now), if I needed something hemmed, a button put back on, even ironing…I always asked my mom to do it, or I would just throw it away and wear something else. I’ve always refused this part of domesticality. So, just imagine my excitement as he’s telling me about the project. And the cherry on top is that I get to use a hot glue gun and glue all these little pieces of tweed, wool, fur, and fluffiness onto paper for the sales demonstrations.

“Why bring four hats when you can bring one hat and a paper with all the colors and textures it comes in on it” he says with a big smile and trots off. Sweet old man…

I start my new project with a little less enthusiasm than the last and just try to focus on the sound of Alicia Keys singing “Superwoman” coming in from my headphones.

Working through the tweed and wool is not so bad. It’s not until I get into the knits and furs that I start to get really annoyed that I am doing this. I had worked through the hand cramps that little rotary cutter gave me. But, with all these pieces of unwound cotton and fur flying around, it gets in my eyes and I start sneezing. I have contacts so when something gets in my eye its like sheer misery trying to get it out. And I have a very strong affliction to touching furs so I saved the angora swatches for last hoping to “not to get to them.” But, I was not so lucky. I got to them and with disgust, cut through the poor little bunny fur. This was not only hard to think about, but the fur was flying everywhere. My distaste for wearing fur was of no matter when it’s actually going into my nose, landing on my arms, in my eyes, all over my clothes. I was on the verge of vomiting when I decided I have to stop.

I went into his office, it was five o’clock. Thank goodness! He asked me if I would be back to finish the project the next day. I just said, “Oh the agency didn’t tell me…I have a friend in town for the next two weeks, so I can’t.” And as I breathe a sign of relief a rabbit hair flies into my mouth and I start coughing.

“Ok then, thank you.” He says as I rush to the bathroom to get all this hair off of me.

It was freezing when I got outside so my walk to Grand Central seemed like it was taking longer than usual. The cold air blows and makes my eyes water enough to move something around in my eye.

More fur.

I’ll be destroying this outfit and taking a scouring hot shower when I get home.

A Day at the Office

As soon as my alarm went off this morning, I knew it was going to be just one of those days. After working a ten hour shift at BJs serving nachos and Bud Light draft to happy “Sunday Funday” enthusiasts, half-drunk-half-hungover, I fell into my ice cold bed and switched my electric blanket to the hottest setting. This was around two in the morning. Almost five hours later, I woke up thinking about how to get ready the fastest way possible so I could sleep just a little longer. Realizing that no matter how early I woke up I would still be running late, I decided to forgo the usual snooze button ritual and just get up.

The walk to the green line was only half-bad considering it snowed only a day and half ago. What I remember to be a white, smooth and fluffy pillow of snow is now brown, chunky slush / slippery ice. I only half-fell twice on my walk up and to my surprise the train arrived right after I did. I felt relieved when I realized that I might just make it to work on time today…but then that moment passed as soon as I saw the train was packed so tight that people were smashed up against every window with bulging eyes and a slight sense of panic in their faces. My claustrophobia almost prevented me from boarding the train but lucky for me (and for my fellow train riders), some people exited and made just enough room for me to squeeze in without the risk of my face becoming a permanent fixture on this six trains window. For some reason, when its cold outside the people of MTA think the trains need to be heated even though the sheer amount of body heat, wool and tweed on one car could keep a small country warm.

This brings me to my theory on why New Yorkers are always sick; hot, cold, hot, cold, combined with no toilet seat covers in the bathrooms and the obnoxious amount of people who seem to consciously wipe their noses and touch things. For this reason, I avoid touching anything on the train, doorknobs or faucets unless there is no other choice.

So I got to the temp agency just in time, 8 a.m. And I am the first person to sign in; which means I will get sent out on a job for sure. But, after an hour of reading about Robert Pattinson and admiring all the shiny fashion advertising in Vanity Fair I started to doubt if I would leave that fluffy blue chair before five. Then the lady with all the power called my name and sent me on my way. IT Design needs a receptionist and apparently I am the girl for the job. I get a little nervous knowing I made it seem like I have more reception experience than I actually do…but really, how hard can it be?

So I walk in and a girl in a brown fur coat that smells like fur sits me at a desk and explains how the phone works, not too bad. Then after a couple minutes she gives me seven gift boxes to pack and wrap with their holiday gifts nestled neatly inside. If there is one thing that I hate, its wrapping presents. I hate all things “wrap” and prefer to give presents in bags with handles and cute glittery tissue billowing out of it. Don’t get me wrong, if someone wants to wrap something for me (anything really), no problem…but I’m a bag wrapper. So at this point, I started dreading this day. But, seven boxes only took me about 20 minutes to complete and that was all they had for me. When I say “all,” I mean all. My only job was to answer the phone and transfer calls. I’m all for getting paid to do nothing; I just wish I had brought that Vanity Fair with me. So after a few minutes, I begin to stare into the only picture in the office; a black and white photo of a forest. And as I’m walking through the imaginary green silky grass toward my red convertible corvette, I so conspicuously parked deep in the forest among the thick pine trees; I try to figure out how I got there on the barely visible dirt path my imaginary tires made. This doesn’t work, however. There really is no way I would ever drive to the middle of the forest and park and then get out and walk around by myself…and I would never be seen driving a corvette. So I daze off into the fake orange and pink daisies on my desk and wonder how long it will take me to get a job I can’t daydream at.

The phone breaks my concentration and I answer, “IT Design, how may I help you?” Because this company is primarily India-based and has a large amount of Indian clientele and Indian business partners, I have a hard time understanding the name of the person the customer wants to speak with. “Kit-is” she says, “I need Kit-is.” At least “Kit-is” is what I hear. I look down the list of people for something that looks like “Kit-is.” Nothing. So I accidently hang up. After a couple minutes of panic, the phone rings again. Her again. This time I ask her to spell the name of the person she needs. “K-S-H-I-T-I-Z, she spells, and I find it on the list. I don’t feel so bad when I hear the brown fur coat girl giggling at me. She says it’s always funny when someone comes to help out. I guess I’m glad I can provide some entertainment on this otherwise mundane afternoon. And this is how my day went on. After a while, the names became familiar and I didn’t feel like I was offending every person I came in contact with. With only about three phone calls an hour, I did a lot of staring and counting ceiling tiles. Toward the end of the day, I decided to stare at the clock and try to count the seconds at exactly the same rate the second hand was moving along. I was always taught, “One-Mississippi” was equal to one second. But today, “One-Mississippi” seemed like “One-Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious.” Indeed, a long day at the office. At 4:20, they decide to close up ( I don’t speculate as to why…), and I am literally ecstatic for the extra 40 minutes of my life I had deemed lost forever.

I guess reception is just not my thing. Hopefully tomorrow brings a new adventure, perhaps one that takes me down to the Meat-Packing District or Fifth Avenue…perhaps?

Every Morsel Counts

The summer days were amazing. The hours were full of beautiful lively trees blowing in the sweet breeze, lush green grass and the thick scent of flowers and sunscreen. New Yorkers basking in the hot, hot sun scattered like raindrops all over the Great Lawn playing football, throwing Frisbees and reading magazines…all in a summer’s day. Tourists took over the city in troves and locals left to the Hamptons for their much needed escape from the heat on those extra hot weekends.

The fall has a special allure. Brisk walks don’t feel so hard with the thinning air. The leaves are yellow or orange, even red. Every gust of air seems to have 400 leaves floating down escaping life stuck on the branches, to fall to the sidewalks creating a crispy cover for New Yorkers to walk upon and kick up. The tourists have escaped the city before the most beautiful time of year. The locals can’t help but enjoy the peacefulness the change in the trees provides and the Hamptons are deserted for life among concrete and trains until next summer rears its dreadfully gorgeous head again.

All of this is true about New York; at least that’s what I’ve heard. I remember a couple days like this. But as far as details, it’s all hear-say. See, for most of the summer, I was stuck in bed typing along on my computer hoping for a glimpse of the guy I called my boyfriend, who lived an hour and a half away. I was neglecting my job search, I was neglecting my aspirations, I was sad and lonely. I thought it was all part of the transition of moving to a new city. I wasn’t really thinking about enjoying the seasons, I was only thinking about this man and me, and making it work. I don’t think I have ever cried as much as I did this past summer. I needed my friends more than ever. I needed a life outside of him, but couldn’t make it happen. I was pathetic, I was sad, I was ridiculous. I don’t usually admit I regret anything; I’m one of those “I don’t regret anything cause I learned from it” kind of people, but I regret letting myself feel so sad and lonely.

As New York approaches the end of fall, I have finally got to enjoy the weather and get out of my bed ridden computer funk. Running through Central Park in the fall is more beautiful than I could have imagined. The trunks of the trees seem so dark and cold with their hard black exterior. But as I look up and into their outstretched bodies among the man-made forest, I see the bright yellow leaves clinging on for dear life. I see squirrels frolicking so freely among the branches hoping the acorns don’t disappear too quickly as their very existence rests on savoring every last morsel. And, as I jog along, I realize my life is very similar to the squirrels; I’m free to do whatever I wish, and if I have to grab every small piece of hope from the trees as I can, I will make it through the winter and perhaps make it the life I always wanted. And I’m grateful for every morsel.