Rites of Passage

Careful what you say, New Yorkers.

I'm excited (maybe a bit too excited... oh who am I kidding, I deserve it!) to report that a conversation I submitted to Overheard in New York was officially deemed humorous by Team Overheard and published on the site. Go to the main page, scroll down to the posts dated 7/11/2010, and you'll find my little nugget of an exchange between a mother and her daughter on the subway.

 

Now Quit Whining and Drink Your Cappucino

Little girl: I'm gonna be 4!

Mom: In December.

Little girl: In December!

Mom: And you're gonna be this short forever. You're not gonna grow.

Little girl: Whaaa-aaaat?

--Q Train

Overheard by: Brigid

 

FYI regarding OINY submissions: the reader sends in the quote, and Team Overheard writes the snarky title. In this case, I think they did a fine job. I'd like to thank God, my parents, and the crazy people on the Q train for making this Gothamist's dream come true.

 

On the note of accomplishments, today marks one year since I officially sold my soul joined the working world. I could say something obvious like "Time flies!" or "Where does the time go?" but I won't. Looking back on a major life event almost always puts us in awe of how fresh the event still feels in our heads. On July 13, 2009, dressed for success and fifteen minutes early, I was shaking like a chihuahua in that elevator on my way up to Orientation Day 1. And a year from now, I'll be open-mouthed and wondering how RWY2 (Real World Year 2) will already have come and gone. So it goes.

 

Anyway, one year of waking up at 6 AM, hour-plus subway commutes within my own borough, and working for the man five days a week deserves a personal pat on the back. One down-- a few more to go.

Confessions of a Former [Middle School] Actress

My acting resume consists of three major roles.

#1: I played "Mrs. Elephant" in my 4th grade production of the folktale "How the Elephant Got Its Trunk." After the initial disappointment in losing out on the role of "Baby Elephant"-- the title character who spent the entire show sucking her thumb and looking adorable-- playing Mama Pachyderm gave me quite a bit of pride. If my scanner was up and running (and if I had no shame), I'd post up the sole photo that exists of my all-gray ensemble, complete with cardboard cutout elephant ears and a sewn-on tail (compliments of my grandmother).

#2: My next big year came in 6th grade. First, I was a puma in a production about rainforest conservation. No, wait-- it was a musical showcase about rainforest conservation. Yes, each of the three classes in my program had to perform a song-and-dance pertaining to the rainforest, and predictably, everyone had to dress up as a rainforest animal. My class was stuck with a dreary number entitled "Those Were the Days," a song whose lyrics we had to tweak in order to describe the plight of endangered species. (We actually took time out of biology class to do this.) Anyway, my "moment" came in the fourth verse: I had a solo. I also had a tail.

#3: Just a few months later, I played the Greek god Cronus in a skit that parodied Judge Judy (back when courtroom shows were the closest thing we had to reality TV), one of three skits in the gifted program's "Tribute to Ancient Greece" (stifle your laughter; the best part is coming). During the tryout, I was the only one in the class who read the lines with any trace of enthusiasm. That's how 12-year-old me ended up as a man, outfitted with a beard and wig, in a part that required tumbling across the stage, violently throwing up my children, and dying. Like the rainforest musical, we were given time in class to write the script. (What can I say? My teachers were lazy.)

That gender-bending performance was my swan song. How poignant that my acting career ended as a bearded woman in a toga, faking a massive upchuck in the auditorium of I.S. 234. Is there any better way to go out than on the floor-- err, on top?

In the years to come, I went on to more deeply immerse myself in sports : softball, then ultimate frisbee. It was my own time to shine-- to have all eyes on me, if only for a few moments of glory-- that required no memorization of lines or singing abilities (excluding goofy sideline cheers), just pure energy. And I soaked up every minute of attention on the field, which didn't quite make me the most sportsmanlike at times (so I threw the bat once... sue me), but at least I felt good at something that involved an audience of some sort.

Yet while I comfortably absorbed athletic activities, my interest in theater never did go away. I went to all of the student shows in high school and college (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Broadway musical soundtracks were a staple on my iPod, circa 2004 (remember when the screens weren't in color yet?). And most of all, I gravitated towards the theater kids. Sitting front and center, mouthing out the lyrics to songs I only halfway knew, I lived through them. I crushed on them. I wanted to be them. Always wishing, wanting, hoping to latch on to a piece of their aura, to have what they had, admiring and envying them at the same time.

Little did I know that the connection I craved would eventually be fulfilled in college by the thespian I'd become smitten with the most. When we finally acknowledged what we'd both been holding in for too long, it was the ultimate dream come true-- almost impossible to fully comprehend at first, but the most logical feeling in the world, when I thought about it a little harder.

And so, I rightfully earned my place as her number one fan. I went to every show she appeared in at least twice (sometimes three times), got to crash most of the cast parties and formals, and brought flowers on closing nights. It took some getting to, having spent years secretly pining to do these things without ever actually doing them. But it became the happy norm that I'll always associate with the second half of my college years, a norm I wouldn't have traded in for anything.

Even then, though, I can't help but wonder even a little bit how life would have turned out if I hadn't succumbed to stage fright. Perhaps the Me in an alternate universe never quit the church choir in 6th grade, tried out for a one-act play at Stuy, and even joined an acapella group in college. Would I be jealous? Yes, probably a bit. But I would love to meet that girl from the twilight zone and show her that everything turned out alright anyway.

And besides, I'll always have karaoke.

That's What Friends Are For?

About two weeks ago I had to make a quick trip to the pharmacy just a few blocks away from where I work. Feeling a cold coming on, my objective was to purchase a box of tissues, Zicam Vitamin C drops, and copious amounts of Tylenol. As I gazed at the tissue box mountain in the corner of the store carefully contemplating which brand to choose, a little old lady approached me.

If this sounds liked an all-too-cliche expression to utilize for my description-- well, it really isn't. The woman before me barely reached the five foot tall mark (five feet short?). She stood hunched over with a cane in her left hand and a shopping basket in her right. Pointing her cane at a row of sky-blue colored boxes, she looked at me and said in a raspy Brooklyn accent, "The Puffs are on sale, ya know."

Although I consider myself a fairly streetwise New Yorker-- I've mastered a "subway scowl" that successfully creates a facade of toughness, if not the illusion that I'm sufferring from lockjaw-- there is always the occasional internal freakout session that occurs when a stranger starts talking me up. But this little old lady seemed harmless enough. "Oh, really?" I replied.

"Yeah, ya gotta pick up one of these circulars at the front to get the good stuff," she said, holding up her basket, the bottom of which was lined with multiple sheets of coupons.

I grabbed a box of Puffs. "Thanks," I told her.

"They're 99 cents!" she said.

"Wow," I replied, immediately feeling a bit silly after the utterance left my mouth. But I looked back at the pile and noticed that the other brands were $2 and $3 apiece. Any embarrassment instantly evaporated. "Thank you," I told the old woman.

"No problem. Have a good one," she said, turning around. But before she headed back up the aisle, she added "Have a good blow!"

Now, I rarely laugh out loud in public when I'm unaccompanied by a friend or family member, but this case was an exception. Regardless of whether or not the woman knew what she said had sounded like to the outside observer, I cracked up while walking to the cashier, and was still forcing back a smirk during my wait in line. As I was about to pay, the little old lady brushed by me again on her way out the door. "Take care," she said, but not without adding "The Puffs are 99 cents, right?" to the cashier. Any good bargain-hunter has to be sure of herself.

The cashier, a gothy-looking woman only visible from the waist up behind the counter, responded "Actually, they're 88 cents today."

A twentysomething hipster with a fauxhawk and thick-rimmed glasses emerged from behind me (this is Williamsburg, don't forget). "Wait," he said, in a slow, deep bass voice. "Puffs are only 88 cents?" Before anyone could answer, he was bolting to the back of the store to scale the tissue box mountain.

I laughed out loud for a second time. "Told ya so, gotta ask about these things!" the little old lady said. I told her thanks again as Goth Woman rang up my purchases. Halfway out the door, she looked back and said "Sure. What're friends for?"

The ten minutes or so that this older woman and I were in contact with one another was certainly not enough time to create a lifelong, life-altering friendship. But it's funny how a single act of concern about something as trivial of tissues stuck with me (as well as the inherent comedic nature of the situation). I don't know if I'll ever see her again, but I do know I'll be retelling this story again. You know what they say about laughter being the best medicine? Here's my spin on that classic maxim: an anecdote is the best antidote.

And now, I end this entry with a bundle of kooky kat quadruplets. Enjoy.