In a New York State of Mind
A lot happened last week. Unfortunately for you, I'm not ready to talk about a lot of it. Also unfortunately for you, I'm in the mood to do one of my awesome photojournalistic blogs.
My original topic was one so obscure some of you would have gone away, scratching your head and wondering if I'd finally gone off the deep end. But I'm going to save that for another day and instead tell you about some of my adventures in New York.
As most of you know, I'm visiting my sister Parisa. This is the two of us in her kitchen:
Parisa, of course, is the one on the left. She's fond of telling people she's the cute one. I just humor her.
Because I suddenly have more work than any sane person would agree to do, I've been hanging out in a lot of cafés. The café culture is different in New York than on the West Coast. People go to cafés to socialize, not work. I know—it's the strangest thing ever. A lot of cafés frown upon laptops even.
But there are a few choice ones that people use as their office-away-from-office. One of them is the B-Cup in the East Village:
One of my sister's friends saw Julia Stiles hanging out at the B-Cup. I haven't seen her yet. The cute Israeli boys who work here are especially friendly.
Speaking of working... My agent and I have had a number of meetings with industry folk. One of our meetings took place in a chocolatier. As we left, among the chocolate-covered Cheerios and Easter baskets, we spied Peeps dressed in chocolate tuxedos. When I (foolishly) let it slip that I'd never eaten a Peep, my agent decided that it had to be remedied. And documented...
My hands shook from the sugar for hours. I also realized that my agent has serious sales skills, if she can get me to eat fluffy marshmallow crap.
I was at the MOMA with a friend, looking at an exhibit of live naked people hanging on the wall (seriously) when suddenly he asked me if I'd ever had a true New York deli experience. I hadn't, and he felt compelled to fix that. So we ended up sharing a reuben at the Carnegie Deli, apparently the most famous deli in town:
Yeah, that disgusting looking pile of goop was the reuben, hence the reason we shared one. Actually, we shared less than half. I've been eating leftover pastrami for days now. I've never seen sandwiches the size of what they served there. It was obscene. Also obscene were the slices of cake. No, I didn't have one, but I may have to go back to try.
The next photo is of a friend, who came into the city to hang out one afternoon. However, you're going to have to imagine the picture because I forgot to take it. Duh. It's too bad, because we had a cupcake orgy in the park.
Stay tuned for another week, when I may or may not have pictures of the Hachette offices, the Doughnut Plant, tangoing, Culture Espresso Bar, and the firemen at the grocery store.
Rejected
I was given the most invaluable information a single woman could ever have.
Because I'm an author and, therefore, all about cliffhangers, I'm going to leave you at that and provide a little setup into how I came by it. You ready for it? Are you in your comfy chair, wearing your favorite slippers and robe, a mug of Baileys-spiked hot chocolate in hand?
Okay, realistically, the backstory won't take that long. You don't have to get that settled. I was just fantasizing about the Baileys hot chocolate and needed to express.
Yeah, yeah—I'm getting on with it.
I was out with my sister and a couple friends, and we were talking about dating—specifically methods of turning away the skeezy guys who ask for your number.
(That's it. That's the setup. See? I told you it was short.)
Anyway, they told me about The Rejection Line (212.479.7990). Basically, it's a recorded message that says the person who gave the number to you never wants to hear from you ever again. And then you get a menu with several choices.
Option 1: a comfort specialist. Someone telling you there are plenty of fish in the sea and to keep plugging along. And if that fails, there's always alcohol and Snickers.
Option 2: a sad poem. Enough said.
Option 3: unrealistic hope. That the person who gave the number just got a digit wrong, or that the telephone company screwed up the connection. And so forth.
It's brilliant. I wish I'd known about this ages ago. Better late than never, I guess. But I'm wondering if there are other types of hotlines that are desperately needed. Like a service your boss can call that gives you an excuse for missing work, or something. I'll brainstorm that some more.
What Would <insert person> blog?
I was trying to think of a topic for The Blog this week. I thought about writing something on New York, which is where I am currently. Well, technically I'm in Brooklyn at the moment, but that's not something interesting we should get into right now.
So I was sitting here and pondering possible subjects, which spurred me to change my Gmail status to WWJB? In other words: what would Jesus blog?
Which got me thinking... What would Jesus blog about? Or Buddha. Or Confucius. Or Abraham Lincoln, for that matter. (Not that I'm implying Confucius or Abraham Lincoln are deities—I'm just making a point. Please don't get your shorts in a twist.)
Which got me thinking more... If you could read the blog of someone from the past, who would it be? Genghis Khan? An Egyptian slave? A stegosaurus? Tell us.
Listen Carefully
Because I've got just one word for you this week: flagitious. It means shamefully wicked.
What do you have to say to that?
Signs
Have you noticed how the universe will give you signs when you need to change certain things in your life? And have you noticed that if you don't listen, the universe will smack you upside the head until you do what you're supposed to?
For example, a friend of mine realized it was time for her to move out of her condo, but she kept putting it off. A couple months later, she found a dead bird on her balcony. Then, a few weeks after that, there was another dead bird, this time in front of her front door, on the porch. Did she move? No. So then the top of the tree next to her home broke and crashed through her ceiling. She got the message—she moved a couple weeks later.
I got smacked today as I walked home from the café, where I'd spent several hours working on my revisions. <— That's in case my editor drops by. I don't want her to think I'm slacking.
However, before I get into that, let me tell you about last week, when my friend Dawn (of pet psychic fame) dragged me to a psychic fair so we could get our auras photographed.
After our auras were photographed* and we waited for the results, Dawn introduced me to one of the vendors—a man who sells jewelry coated in essential oils that promote compassion, health, joy, etc.
He took one look at me and said, "We've met before."
I shook my head. "Nope."
"Let me see your hands." Before I could comply, he seized them and looked at my palms. "That's what I thought."
Dawn and I exchanged puzzled glances. Then I asked, "What did you think?"
Only he was staring at me so intently he didn't hear the question. I stood there and observed him, partly amused, partly perplexed, and partly wondering at the strange feeling that I knew him too.
Suddenly he exclaimed, "You need to explore your feminine side. Buy lace."
Dawn gasped. "Yesterday I made her try on a bunch of frilly stuff and she wouldn't go for any of it."
He nodded sagely, his gaze never leaving mine. "Next time buy the lace. And you need to stop kicking men to the curb. You're going to miss the right one if you keep this up." Then he dropped my hands and pulled out two bracelets from a pile hidden behind some boxes. "This one is coated for balance, in work and hormones. This one is coated for love." He arched his brows sternly. "Put them on and don't take them off."
"Yes, sir." I saluted and slipped the bracelets on my wrist.
But then I didn't listen to him. (Sigh.) Which is why the universe stepped in and smacked me today.
This morning, I ran into Peter as I left Java Beach, the café where I go to write. Peter is a bright, shiny neighborhood guy—everyone knows and loves him. He was hit by a car years ago, and it left him disabled—mentally as well as physically—but he's the most cheerful, positive, loving person you'll ever meet.
So Peter lumbered up to me as I crossed the street, an untypical frown lining his forehead. He pointed at my chest and, in his slurry deep voice, said, "Open your heart."
I blinked, stunned. I touched my bracelets, remembering what Dawn's friend said to me. Then I nodded and replied, "Okay," because what else was there to say? I know a sign when I get slapped with one.
Some things are easier said than done though. (Sigh again.)
* In case you wondered: my aura is purple topped with gold, and around my face it's all white. Purple was creativity, perfectly balanced by gold wisdom. The white was apparently guardian angels. I'm surrounded by them. I suspect a couple of them are jokesters too.