Vanilla Complex

A friend, Ali posed the question, “Is there anything you fear being labeled as?” in her wonderful blog post titled Anything But Beige.

In New York (& probably other places) – being beige is called being “Vanilla.” 

To me it represents one of my biggest fears: “The fear of being boring.”  This, coupled with fear of “wanting to fit in,” has led me to some interesting life choices over the years.

Like:

- smoking pot to impress boys

- getting busy in a car when I so wasn’t into it

- trying my bed sheets together to climb over the balcony of my two story flat

- staying out when I wanted to be home

- playing team sports

- watching movies / listening to music I didn’t like

- often living in self perpetuated insecurity

And the real reason I fear I’m boring? I often find I have little energy to contribute to large social situations, and I can get ‘socially lazy.

A wise T-bird once told me - extroverts get their energy from large groups of people. Introverts get their energy from being alone, or having more intimate exchanges. That’s how these two personality types recharge. (This explains so much! Thank you T-bird!)

I feel some extraverts assume innies are shy or snobby, the same way some introverts assume extroverts are obnoxious and domineering. Just a misunderstanding of personality types really. I’ve always beat myself up over not being more outgoing in large groups, but I never thought to say “Hey good job on the D&M’s you have in small groups. You Rock at that!” Also, Obama is rumored to be an innie. Go team introvert!

My ex-boyfriend used to whine: “Why aren’t you the crazy colourful Ally I know at home,  when we go out to parties or networking events?” This used to hurt my feelings. But he’s an extravert. He will never understand. Also, I hadn’t realized how a little thing like a coffee before a dinner party, or a redbull before a pub can work wonders. And if I really want to pass over to how the other side lives, then there’s always tequila ;)

That said, I know moderation is key, and that’s easy now that I’m at peace with being an innie. I'd be lying if I said I still didn't fear being labeled 'vanilla' anymore, but at least part of me knows I have nothing to worry about. This blog has helped me realise that, and with so much more color to show... well you'd better stay tuned! 

Australia Day Kisses

Ummmm... I kissed my 3rd guy in New York last night. Another bloody Australian! What is wrong with me!! Kiss an American or at least someone from New Zealand, Ally.

The Life - Alternative

When you have a parent to who is passionate about a cause, it makes you happy. No matter how much they clog your inbox with petitions to stop whaling, mulesing lambs, or wearing fur, you still respect their passion.

I’m referring of course to my mother – animal activist, environmentalist, naturalist, and extreme new-age-ist. Luckily her antics often make me feel like I’m trapped in a Wes Anderson movie, and I've taken to playing the soundtrack to “The Life Aquatic” when ever I read her emails.

Somehow this helps me enjoy the following statements she has written me:

“I was given a message from "upstairs" by someone who is quite psychic regarding your contact with Ada.”

“I've been 'cyber-campaigning' for years regarding halting the horrible seal slaughter. finally it's on the down-turn!”

“It seems Americans can't have a feed of meat without slavering it with melted cheese! If they truly knew the full environmental, socio-economic and humanitarian implications of such a diet - not to mention the overall effect on their health(!) they'd be rethinking their eating habits in a more enlightened way.”

"I attended an end of year dinner at Fitzy's for the Brisbane group of Hypnotherapists last Wednesday."

“I recently attended a one day course in ‘organic facials’….”

“Ally - thought you may be interested in this info for yourself which is based on a numerological analysis of your birth date…”

“Just a quick email re the Swine Fu…There is a lot of unfounded and irresponsible information which is being generated to persuade the masses to get the Swine Flu shot. Whatever you do,  DO NOT get it….Obama has been misinformed.”

"Yesterday, I was up at 4:20am to get ready to go to the Million Paws Walk"

Or my personal favorite, when alluding to the fact that she had joined a nudist colony while on holidays in Croatia:

"We have just had our second day at a Naturist camp… So when we get up in the mornings, we have to get undressed for the day! It does feel quite natural after a while - and very freeing.”

And this is just the tip of the ice-berg. Peace.

Situation Update

My situation here has somewhat changed. It seems I’m an excellent employee - as long as there’s a boss I respect to impress, and now my boss doesn’t want me to leave. In fact, he’s just offered me a hefty pay rise and possible sponsorship of a temporary work visa, not to mention he’s been extremely nice to me every since he found out I was thinking of heading back to Oz.

I went out for a drink with a girl who also works on my floor. She’s leaving for California – for the exact same reasons I was thinking of heading home, plus she’s tired of the New York dating scene. She’s offered me her room in her apartment. It’s tiny – which is typical, in Noho just north of SoHo. The bedrooms barely fit a double bed, but I long for a place where I can sleep in on weekends, hang my clothes and cook a meal or two. Her flatmate is also lovely, and a writer for a prominent financial magazine.

I’m dying to set root back in Oz, and feel permanent... but I don’t want to regret giving up an opportunity, so I’m considering it.

When consulting my gut about it on the subway this morning, it lay quiet and still regarding both scenarios. I take it that means either decision will be just fine.

It Begins

“Good night, Ally” my boss said as he passed in front of my desk towards the door on Friday evening.

“Good night!” I beamed as I sat down and made an incredibly loud farting noise.

My boss closed the glass door behind him, and I reached underneath me to retrieve a whoopee cushion, obviously planted there by my lovely co-workers.

I started to chuckle, then looked out the glass door and saw my boss staring in, as he waited for the elevator. I held the whoopee cushion up and pointed at it desperately, as a means of explanation. He squinted at it, then nodded quickly before the elevator doors opened and he disappeared inside.

In tears of laughter, I buzzed my co-workers to issue a clear warning: Let the prank wars begin. 

Sandwich City

American’s must come to other countries and go “WTF - you call this a sandwich?”

Seriously, they may know nothing about coffee, but they sure know how to build a sandwich, and that’s saying something, because I usually loathe the humble ‘sanger’.

In New York, you order a turkey sub, and expect enough shaved bird to give you leftovers for dinner, and christmas next year. How people are expected to fit these things in their mouths, I know not. And just how many cans of tuna do they have to open to fill a tuna melt?

Mind-blowing, really. Here's one from Katz Deli:

mmm!

Jewey Jew Jew Jew

New York is so Jewey, it never ceases to amaze me. For example, over Christmas EVERYONE said “Happy Holidays” and no one said “Merry Christmas.” Also, next to most Christmas trees was a Menorah. My boss told me there’s a saying “There’s more Jews in New York than in Israel.” So then why is a nice Jewish boy so hard to find.

Perhaps I’m not Jewey enough. Even though my father is a non practicing Jew, the fact that my mother is a ‘gentile,’ means I’m out of the sacred circle. (Religion is passed down through the mother.) Plus growing up in Queensland, where there are no Jews, meant the closest I ever got to their culture was trying a bagel with cream cheese - and that was after graduating and moving out of home.

 (menorah in the lobby of Ada's building)

Here, there’s a bagel shop on every corner and in front of these shops, there is a street-cart selling more bagels. Jewish holidays headline the news, most comedians seem Jewish, Newyorker’s even talk in ‘Jew’; Yidish words like “shlep” and “shmutter” are heard in general conversation. I secretly long to be a part of their mysterious culture that I know nothing about, and also… I want to wear a yamikah. Is that weird?

“YOU DON’T LOOK JEWISH!” Aunt-Ada will yell suspiciously when ever she glances at my profile. She’s right. My nose is distinctly from my Australian heritage. (I’m seventh generation on my mother’s side.) I’m pretty sure she suspects we’re not related at all. But this doesn’t stop me trying; this year alone, I’ve eaten more bagels with cream cheese than most Australians have in their entire life.

It’s odd that Ada’s Caribbean carers have taught me more about Jewish tradition,  than my own family has.

***

I do feel I have one foot in the door though. I can identify with their neurotic tendencies, their over analytical though process and the way they find humor in tragedy. And I do feel at home in a sea of people who have brown hair and brown eyes. In my classes I’ve met loads of short, brunette, Jewish girls – who are just like me, into the same things as me, who even write like me. To me, they are my clones. But to them? Well I’m just ‘the quirky Aussie.’  

Aye Aye Aye!

Turning on the Magic

In between the Avenues of New York City, the snow is free from the wind's force. It falls in slow motion, like confetti. (A party on the street and everyone’s invited.) It's as if New York is celebrating and congratulating those who want to notice. I notice, even though I’m running incredibly late for work.

The snow dares me to slow down and take in its beauty, so I do. It lands on my nose and disappears before I can see it. I want to inhale it.

It’s a small gift to make up for the harshness of the bitter winds the day before. Just like the gift my boss gave my friend Jess, to make up the harshness of his bitter words, the week before. He gave her dinner for two, and last night she took me to a cozy little wine bar in the East Village. We soon made friends with a lovely, and incredibly loose gay guy, who manages a hot-new-hotel-bar in mid-town.  He gave us a card with his signature for a complimentary bottle of vino if we drop by. Later we found ourselves at gay bar down the road, being served beers from Anderson Cooper’s boyfriend. Check him:

 (He's on the right, and unfortunately was wearing shirt when he served
us. The bottom pic is a promo shot for their bar - The Easternblock)

Twas a good night, and now it's snowing.  As much as New York takes it out of you, it sure knows how to give it back.

Photobomb

A seal photobombs a group of penguins:

Source: Huffington Post

You Know You're an Aussie in NY when... #8

You watch new Aussie’s fresh of the boat, trying to tip at a bar.

American’s buy a drink, and smack a $1 note on the bench. The bar tender may not take it for a good 5 minutes, so it just sits there, untouched, to be collected eventually when things are quiet.

This is highly disconcerting for us Aussies. It appears the bar tender did not notice the precious dollar we are trying to give them, and now they want us to leave it on the bar for someone else to take. Which is exactly what would happen if you left a dollar on the bar in Australia. “Look! A dollar!” Yoink.

So instead, we hold our tip up in the air and wave it at the disappearing bar tender, as if to say:

“Look – here, a dollar! I’m leaving this for you. Come get it before someone takes it, or I change my mind.”

As the bar tender continues to ignores us, we have no choice but to place it on the counter, and rather than leave, we stay and wait to catch their eye again. We then point to the note and nod, so they know we are not leaving without them seeing us tip. We’d hate them to think we were doing a good old-fashioned “Aussie Runner.” 

Americans are so trusting in that way. They know nothing of our convict past, and treat us like we’re all adults. ;)

Put on a Red Light

This is (or was, if it sold) the bedroom of Sting and Trudy Styler’s New York apartment. They’ve been together for over 27 years (married for 17), have six children between them, and boast a famously healthy sex life. 

Their relationship fascinates me because they describe them selves as “soul-mates.” Yet, they met when Sting was already married with children. Trudy was his next door neighbor. When asked to describe their connection, Sting says “I instantly recognized who she was, that she was the woman for the rest of my life.” “I just recognized someone that I just knew who she was immediately.”

For Trudy, it wasn’t as instant, but it was “a feeling that you’ve come home.”

I remember Jerry Sienfeld saying the same thing about Jessica – that when he looked in her eyes, it felt like home.

I’m also curious about what kind of confidence a woman must possess in order to be happily married to a rock star like Sting - a man who tours the world, and can have sex with just about any woman he chooses. Personally, I’d find it hard, but Sting swears he’s a serial monogamist.  He also says about Trudy: “I want to die with this woman still loving me.”  (Oh swoon! How romantic.)

 

In an interview on Oprah years ago, Sting and Trudy admitted openly to having tartaric sex, which included staring into each other’s eyes and making out for hours at a time. Good on them! I also admire them for putting those sexy pics up in the bedroom. Nothing like a bit of soft-porn on the wall to put you in the mood.

I just wonder how their poor kids feel about it.

Time To Get Physical

Last week, the week before one embarks on a Christmas  / New Year’s eating and drinking spree, two of my Aunt’s Caribbean cares greeted me with a loud chuckle and:

“Ohhh, Ally, you’re getting fat!” and “You got an ass like mine now!”

On both occasions I smiled back, mortified. They didn’t seem to realise this greeting was slightly offensive, especially as it was a case of the pot calling the kettle black.

Plus, I was used to Ada telling me I was “perfect.” Her dear demented brain is convinced I am both “tall” and “slim” and she frequently tells me so. She also gestures wildly with her hands the word for “fat” then points to her carers. (Sometime they catch her.)

So that I never have to catch Ada doing that to me, I’ve joined a gym. The New York Sports Club. It’s not fancy, but it does the job. And it’s a hell of a lot warmer than jogging in Central Park.

Did you know that Jerry Seinfeld met his wife in a gym? I’m sure it was a fancy gym, but still… it happens in real life! There’s something that I can’t quiet get my head around about Jessica Seinfeld. She had just come back from her honey moon to a successful Broadway producer, when she met Jerry and decided to trade up. I’m sure she’s only human, but I have a hard time not judging her for this. Thoughts?