On the way to my writer’s space, Labour Day morning, I got a text from my friend, Anya - “Too cold to swim, let’s do brunch at 1pm.”
She had a pool on the roof of her apartment building, that cost $30 to enter, even for five minutes. Pools are so rare in Manhattan. A recent article in the New York Times said there is close to 100 pools in total, for an area that services 2.9 million people during the day, and houses 1.6 million at night. (Crazy right? Considering every second house in Brisbane has a pool.)
I was counting on this weather day, to give me some much needed time for job hunting online. But job hunting sux-ass, so I said yes to brunch.
On the way, I scoffed the egg sandwich that I’d made at 1am, the night before. I figured I could just order coffee, and save a few dollars to ease my guilt.
Dressed in denim shorts, sandals and a loose, slinky T-shirt from Urban Outfitters, I was casual Sunday meh.
The brunch place was a little swanky, and Anya sat at the bar drinking OJ from a wine glass. Anya is a gorgeous girl, my age, from Poland, and is a big TV producer there. But in NY, she is nobody, and is humbly starting again from scratch. Her thick Polish accent probably isn’t helping, but her drive is pretty incredible.
“I have a uni friend coming, she’s a real sweet heart.” She said, as I took a seat. “Great,” I said, expecting some quiet little darling thing.
A voluptious blond, in an off the shoulder leopard-print-dress, and heels strode up to us. She was gorgeous. Dripping with designer gold jewellery and looking very LA.
We sat down, and she opened the menu. “Oh.. I’m just going to barf anything on here anyway!” she smiled, then said - “Sorry, I’m a barffer! I know it’s a disorder, but only if you can’t admit you have it! ah ha ha!”
We laughed, and so did the people at the table next to us.
“I also love to drink, and do a shit load of drugs for fun!” she continued. I smiled and nodded again. She was shocking me, and I was loving it. A sweet heart?
And then another test. She yelled “I don’t know if Anya told you, but I’m an escort! I always tell everyone straight away, because I’m not ashamed of it.”
‘Ahh - no she didn’t tell me’ I said… and awesome! This was going to be a fun brunch. I ditched my idea of drinking coffee, and ordered a round of Bloody Maries. Woot!
It was a good decision, because what followed is the time I will always remember as:
The day I had brunch with a Porn Star, saw William De Foe, got asked out by a model/banker, and went clubbing in the Meatpackers District - in shorts and a T-shirt.
TBC...
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Saturday, September 12, 2009
The Unfortunate Fate of NY Umbrellas
Poor things stop about 3% of rain before blowing inside out, and breaking. Melbourne weather is picture perfect in comparison.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Get Real. Get Therapy.
This past year, has literally been the catalysts for some seriously big “Ah ha!” moments.
I have more confidence, I’ve faced fears, I’ve started to develop my own writers voice, make sense of my life etc, etc.
But there’s something missing. (And it’s not Jesus, people, it’s not Jesus. Thanks to my childhood, I’ve managed to achieve spiritual awakening before anything else.)
I’ve been coasting along in NY just fine… But the truth is…Well, the truth is…. I’m not being productive at all. I’m not sure the goals I had, are the goals I truly want. I’ve been conflicted about my living situation, about my career, plagued with self doubt, and scared to really put my self out there, to take advantage of the vast opportunities this magical land has to offer. And the worst thing is, I’ve been completely financially irresponsible. (Living off a small inheritance that I’m meant to saving for a house deposit, for a life I’m not sure I want.)
It’s like I’m trying to sabotage my future!
But NO BODY should have to hear my neurotic ramblings. Unless I pay them a shit load of money to listen. And that’s exactly what I’ve just started doing… because when in Rome… right?
So, like a true New Yorker, I now have a therapist. And just knowing someone is there, is helping me calm the fuck down.
I’m hoping she can help me figure out why I'm so paralyzed? Or perhaps just be an ear to listen. Poor thing, I’m like the female Woody Allen.
Regardless, I need to set some goals. More specific ones, because without them, I’m just coasting along in la la land. Stay tuned for a turn around!
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Traumatic Tales
(Warning: this post is about wiping elderly butts. It's not for the feint hearted.)
This morning, for the second time this year, I found myself doing something highly traumatic, and inconceivable to me a year ago.
I stood, one hand lifting Aunt-Ada off the toilet, the other hand using a wet-wipe to wipe her ass.
The first time it happened, I’m ashamed to tell you, I completely freaked out. Her nurse, Jean went to the store, and I stayed in the apartment with Ada, watching a US soap, packed with Aussie exports, called “The Guiding Light.”
Suddenly Ada was fiddling with her cane.
“I need to pee!” she yelled. Oh dear, I thought. Usually, her nurse takes her to the bathroom, and I remain purposefully ignorant of what goes on. That day, was going to change everything.
I helped Ada to the bathroom, lifting her nightie for her as she sat. My body stiffened, when I heard number twos…
No no no no… please don’t do that, I thought… but it was too late. In that moment, I panicked. I didn’t want to think about what I might have to do next. I was in serious denial. All I wanted to do was call the nurse to come back from the store immediately. Have I no maternal instinct what so ever?
Selfishly I hummed and haaaawed about my next move. Then I sucked it up, ran to the living room for wet wipes, and did the unthinkable.
The thought of wiping the elderly’s ass is always more horrifying than when you actually have to do it. It’s more a battle of the wills than anything else. You have to un-paralyse your body and get it out of denial of what’s about to take place. You have to pretend it’s what you were borne to do, to put the person at ease, and you have to hope that by the grace of god, you don’t accidentally wipe your eye straight after.
Once you’ve over come it, it’s not that bad. It’s life. Life is messy! And it would be boring if it wasn’t.
Thankfully, nature has a way of helping us out in our old age. Mark my words, one day our butt holes will hang out our butt cheeks, like a loose, floppy vagina. ☺
The experience is always rather humiliating for Ada. Both times, she wept in self pity and embarrassment. (Although she does that about everything. That's the kind of person she is.)
Never the less, this is a timely reminder of how short life is. I hope by the time we get old, robots will be doing all this for us, or perhaps we will have evolved to no longer need to poo.
That would be fabulous indeed!
And, here's something funny to watch - for those of you who remember speaking Pig Latin in primary school, and also to change the subject!
This morning, for the second time this year, I found myself doing something highly traumatic, and inconceivable to me a year ago.
I stood, one hand lifting Aunt-Ada off the toilet, the other hand using a wet-wipe to wipe her ass.
The first time it happened, I’m ashamed to tell you, I completely freaked out. Her nurse, Jean went to the store, and I stayed in the apartment with Ada, watching a US soap, packed with Aussie exports, called “The Guiding Light.”
Suddenly Ada was fiddling with her cane.
“I need to pee!” she yelled. Oh dear, I thought. Usually, her nurse takes her to the bathroom, and I remain purposefully ignorant of what goes on. That day, was going to change everything.
I helped Ada to the bathroom, lifting her nightie for her as she sat. My body stiffened, when I heard number twos…
No no no no… please don’t do that, I thought… but it was too late. In that moment, I panicked. I didn’t want to think about what I might have to do next. I was in serious denial. All I wanted to do was call the nurse to come back from the store immediately. Have I no maternal instinct what so ever?
Selfishly I hummed and haaaawed about my next move. Then I sucked it up, ran to the living room for wet wipes, and did the unthinkable.
The thought of wiping the elderly’s ass is always more horrifying than when you actually have to do it. It’s more a battle of the wills than anything else. You have to un-paralyse your body and get it out of denial of what’s about to take place. You have to pretend it’s what you were borne to do, to put the person at ease, and you have to hope that by the grace of god, you don’t accidentally wipe your eye straight after.
Once you’ve over come it, it’s not that bad. It’s life. Life is messy! And it would be boring if it wasn’t.
Thankfully, nature has a way of helping us out in our old age. Mark my words, one day our butt holes will hang out our butt cheeks, like a loose, floppy vagina. ☺
The experience is always rather humiliating for Ada. Both times, she wept in self pity and embarrassment. (Although she does that about everything. That's the kind of person she is.)
Never the less, this is a timely reminder of how short life is. I hope by the time we get old, robots will be doing all this for us, or perhaps we will have evolved to no longer need to poo.
That would be fabulous indeed!
And, here's something funny to watch - for those of you who remember speaking Pig Latin in primary school, and also to change the subject!
Monday, September 7, 2009
Same Wavelength
Met a guy my age, stumbling into my building at the same time as me, (5am) this morning. This was our conversation:
Me “Hey.”
Him (slurred) “Hey. I just had some… Doritos.”
Me “Oh yeah? I’m about to go have some Dorito’s too.”
Him “Yeah. They’re so good”
Me “Yep.”
We both looked at each other, and felt a deep mutual understanding, of precisely where we were at in that moment. We were both the same level of wasted. We were both the same level of tired, and both had same post-booze snacking preference. We also knew that in a few hours we would both feel like absolute poo. Needless to say, there was no “Grey’s Anatomy” sexual tension as we shared the lift together.
In fact, I’m trying to remember if he was cute or not… ?
Me “Hey.”
Him (slurred) “Hey. I just had some… Doritos.”
Me “Oh yeah? I’m about to go have some Dorito’s too.”
Him “Yeah. They’re so good”
Me “Yep.”
We both looked at each other, and felt a deep mutual understanding, of precisely where we were at in that moment. We were both the same level of wasted. We were both the same level of tired, and both had same post-booze snacking preference. We also knew that in a few hours we would both feel like absolute poo. Needless to say, there was no “Grey’s Anatomy” sexual tension as we shared the lift together.
In fact, I’m trying to remember if he was cute or not… ?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Books and Television
If I knew growing up, what I know now, about books, I may have been a different person. I may not have bothered with having a childhood. I may have learned how to spell, I may have thought in words, rather than vague feelings, and I may not have felt so alone.
But I was never a reader. My first love was television! As restricted and rubbished as it was by my parents, I viewed it as forbidden fruit. (Sneaking up to it and switching it from Sesame Street to some raunchy day-time soap, on the rare occasion, that my mother left the room.)
We lived on a ten acre hobby farm on the outskirts of Clifton, which is on the outskirts of Toowoomba, which is on the outskirts of Brisbane, which is on the outskirts of Sydney, which is on the outskirts of Australia, witch frankly feels like it’s on the outskirts of the rest of the world.
At the tender age of seven, my window into the rest of the world, was our small, black and white TV. No, I’m not secretly 54 years old, and my parents weren’t poor. They were just conservative hippies! Who hated everything commercial television stood for:
The sexualization of women, the consumer inspiring ads, the over simplistic morals that predictably emerged at the end of each sit-com. It was all rubbish.
“Turn the idiot box off” was the only discussion we ever had about what was on tv. I would lie awake at night crying tears of frustration in bed, because I could hear the television’s feint murmurs, yet was not allowed to watch.
At eight years of age, we moved briefly to Brisbane, and got a color television for the first time. My brother J-Rad and I flicked it on, catching Sesame Street, and were TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY to discover Elmo was red, and not blue like the rest of the monsters.
Television had such a mesmerising power over me. I still have the taboo images of Collette’s “Ring My Bell” music video (below) burned into my retinas.
Seeing a grown woman dance around in a sexy bra on television was so incredibly entertaining, and freeing for me – that I just knew - THAT was what I wanted to do when I grew up!
Our parents tried to get us kids to read, by forcing some of the most boring books in the world on us. But I couldn’t relate to them. Nothing until The Magic Faraway Tree, that I discovered while at a friend's house, ever came close to stirring my imagination.
In grade seven, after reading Playing Beatie Bow (the first novel I ever enjoyed) I got inspired. We had to write a 30 page fiction story for a class assignment, and I based mine loosely on elements from this book, and of course, The Magic Faraway Tree.
The part I borrowed from Playing Beaty Bow, was the main character’s struggle with news of her parent’s divorce. I remember thinking, how would I feel if my parents got divorced? So I wrote that.
My parents read my story with hidden apprehension. Unbeknownst to me, they had secretly decided to separate in six months time, after I’d settled into high school the following year.
So, six months later, after they had announced their divorce, they both told me that I must have known about it, when I was writing my story. But the truth is, I had absolutely no idea, and I was too ashamed to admit I had borrowed the idea from another book. Which led me to the odd belief, that perhaps, because I had written it down, and it had come true!… I had accidentally predicted the future.
Even now, I’m held hostage by this superstition. I tried writing about dealing with the imaginary death of a parent, and just couldn’t. In case I curse my self again. Even writing about it here makes me nervous!
The odd thing is, how I had imagined reacting to my parent’s divorce, and how I actually did react, was completely different. In my book, I was furious and hurt, and real life, I was just sad, then rather accepting.
***
My grade seven story, ended up winning first prize, and ten dollars, in our class competition. I thought the runner up, my best friend Franny, should really have won. She was a much better writer than me, and was the one who gave me Playing Beatie Bow in the first place.
This year, I’m mostly without a television, and so have become a belated bookworm. And these books are having the most extraordinary effect on me. I keep thinking each author knows me, and is speaking from voices within my own mind. (Narcissist much?) They inspire me, just like Collette did. And they are also helping me write more betterer.
Which, apart from dancing around in a bra and tights, is exactly what I’d like to do with my life… write stories for television! Then hopefully, one day, a curious little kid from the country, who’s wondering "What else does this life have to offer?" will open up their tv or internet connection, see something, and get inspired!… or at least be wildly entertained!
But I was never a reader. My first love was television! As restricted and rubbished as it was by my parents, I viewed it as forbidden fruit. (Sneaking up to it and switching it from Sesame Street to some raunchy day-time soap, on the rare occasion, that my mother left the room.)
We lived on a ten acre hobby farm on the outskirts of Clifton, which is on the outskirts of Toowoomba, which is on the outskirts of Brisbane, which is on the outskirts of Sydney, which is on the outskirts of Australia, witch frankly feels like it’s on the outskirts of the rest of the world.
At the tender age of seven, my window into the rest of the world, was our small, black and white TV. No, I’m not secretly 54 years old, and my parents weren’t poor. They were just conservative hippies! Who hated everything commercial television stood for:
The sexualization of women, the consumer inspiring ads, the over simplistic morals that predictably emerged at the end of each sit-com. It was all rubbish.
“Turn the idiot box off” was the only discussion we ever had about what was on tv. I would lie awake at night crying tears of frustration in bed, because I could hear the television’s feint murmurs, yet was not allowed to watch.
At eight years of age, we moved briefly to Brisbane, and got a color television for the first time. My brother J-Rad and I flicked it on, catching Sesame Street, and were TOTALLY BLOWN AWAY to discover Elmo was red, and not blue like the rest of the monsters.
Television had such a mesmerising power over me. I still have the taboo images of Collette’s “Ring My Bell” music video (below) burned into my retinas.
Seeing a grown woman dance around in a sexy bra on television was so incredibly entertaining, and freeing for me – that I just knew - THAT was what I wanted to do when I grew up!
Our parents tried to get us kids to read, by forcing some of the most boring books in the world on us. But I couldn’t relate to them. Nothing until The Magic Faraway Tree, that I discovered while at a friend's house, ever came close to stirring my imagination.
In grade seven, after reading Playing Beatie Bow (the first novel I ever enjoyed) I got inspired. We had to write a 30 page fiction story for a class assignment, and I based mine loosely on elements from this book, and of course, The Magic Faraway Tree.
The part I borrowed from Playing Beaty Bow, was the main character’s struggle with news of her parent’s divorce. I remember thinking, how would I feel if my parents got divorced? So I wrote that.
My parents read my story with hidden apprehension. Unbeknownst to me, they had secretly decided to separate in six months time, after I’d settled into high school the following year.
So, six months later, after they had announced their divorce, they both told me that I must have known about it, when I was writing my story. But the truth is, I had absolutely no idea, and I was too ashamed to admit I had borrowed the idea from another book. Which led me to the odd belief, that perhaps, because I had written it down, and it had come true!… I had accidentally predicted the future.
Even now, I’m held hostage by this superstition. I tried writing about dealing with the imaginary death of a parent, and just couldn’t. In case I curse my self again. Even writing about it here makes me nervous!
The odd thing is, how I had imagined reacting to my parent’s divorce, and how I actually did react, was completely different. In my book, I was furious and hurt, and real life, I was just sad, then rather accepting.
***
My grade seven story, ended up winning first prize, and ten dollars, in our class competition. I thought the runner up, my best friend Franny, should really have won. She was a much better writer than me, and was the one who gave me Playing Beatie Bow in the first place.
This year, I’m mostly without a television, and so have become a belated bookworm. And these books are having the most extraordinary effect on me. I keep thinking each author knows me, and is speaking from voices within my own mind. (Narcissist much?) They inspire me, just like Collette did. And they are also helping me write more betterer.
Which, apart from dancing around in a bra and tights, is exactly what I’d like to do with my life… write stories for television! Then hopefully, one day, a curious little kid from the country, who’s wondering "What else does this life have to offer?" will open up their tv or internet connection, see something, and get inspired!… or at least be wildly entertained!
Friday, September 4, 2009
I ♥ Honesty
In a city that sells t-shirts promoting its self on every street corner, it was refreshing to spot a guy walking down the street, sporting the t-shirt below. It made me laugh out loud.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)