Whore d’oeuvre.

I haven’t updated recently for a perfectly legitimate reason: I have been too busy drinking, and no, not soda.  Actually, that’s a lie, I have been drinking soda–with vodka.  I will say this about the road to alcoholism: it is paved with FUN!

This is the first Google image result for “the road to alcoholism.” I’m serious, check.

However, in those few sober hours between happy hours, I’ve been interviewing for–and actually getting!–menial jobs that do not involve computers or physical labor.  I count math as physical labor. I feel ok about that, because a friend of mine recently (and drunkenly) said to me, “You are our lesbian mother,” in a primitive, tribal tone.  As the leader of a tribe, I don’t feel the need to explain my shortcomings.

3 jobs I have worked recently (and what you might know them as, in layman’s terms):

1) Corporate Guardian (Receptionist)
2) Outerwear Organizational Manager (Check Coat Person)
3) Food Critic (Caterer)

Anton Ego wears the exact outfit that the catering company requires we wear!  Not an exaggeration!–well, the awkward palm tree hand position is optional.  Sometimes.

The catering is actually a semi-permanent job, and I have no idea how I got it.  I had heard that the catering company has a strict dress code, and also a strict grooming code.  Hair has to be pulled back, nails filed and clean, no visible piercings, etc. I made an effort to look as un-Williamsburg as possible, which can mean only one thing: unironic pantyhose.
They itched, and I was pulling at my crotch for about three-fourths of the train ride there, but I thought the pantyhose would really seal the deal, really make a good impression.

TANGENT:

Isn’t it strange how pulling at your crotch is one of the ultimate social no-no’s?  Think about how much kids unwittingly pull at their junk between the ages of birth-6.  It doesn’t mean anything yet, it’s just this stuff that gets in the way at recess.  I still think of my junk that way, except now, recess is a metaphor for life.

Why is this hilarious…

…and this, slightly less hilarious?

END TANGENT.

Right before I went into the interview, I saw a loose thread in my pantyhose, and you know what I did?  I pulled on it.  I pulled on it like a big, stupid douchebag.  It tore, of course, but it started off not so bad:

So I went in, sat down, tried to forget about it, and ya know what?  I walked out of the interview and felt like I had really nailed it.  I had successfully tricked my interviewer into thinking I was very motivated and eager to please, and straight-up functional.  Then I sat down on the train, and looked at my legs:
  I also took the time to change out of my heels and into tennis shoes.  You’re welcome, New York pedestrians.

Also, at a completely different job interview, I crossed one leg over my knee, looked down at my foot, and said, “Oops! I accidentally look like the Wicked Witch of the East!”

I didn’t get that job.

So despite the fact that I totally Williamsburged my tights, I got the job, and now I’m a part-time caterer, and it will be my ruin.  Catering is hard and tiring, and a lot like what the Party Down characters do except minus the van-sex, drinking, and eating. So really, it’s nothing like Party Down, and there’s no time to flirt.  I don’t even know what my coworkers look like.  Everyone is nice and professional, and the company does a fantastic job, but sweet mary mother of god it’s stressful.  Since I started this job, my anxiety levels have sky-rocketed, I’m constantly craving candy, and I’ve started chewing my cuticles again.

A couple days ago, I woke up at 6:30AM and needed a marshmallow, not wanted, needed, so I walked to my kitchen half-asleep and grabbed one from the huge bag of gigantic marshmallows I always have on-hand.  I fell back into bed, took a bite, and fell asleep satiated, remaining marshmallow clutched firmly, but lovingly, in my palm.
I woke up and my hand was in the exact same position, except the marshmallow was gone.  I rolled over to look for it, and felt a huge gob of something warm and sticky and exactly like a melted marshmallow fusing my back with the bedsheets.

HOW DID IT GET THERE?
Catering, that’s how.


Someone suggested that I dress up as a character from Party Down for Halloween cause I’d only need to buy the bow-tie, and while it seemed like a fantastically pseudo-pop-culturally-obscure and economic idea at the time, after my first catering job was over, it hit a little too close to home.  My first job consisted of:

1) Falling asleep in the catering van and dreaming that someone had written “WHORE D’OEUVRE” across my forehead in permanent black marker.

2) Unsuccessfully hitting on a clown (who was in full clown makeup).  He came over to the buffet and asked if we were serving peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and I said real sexy-like, “No, it’s jelly and cream cheese.”  (Please recall that I am in an Anton Ego costume, and my hair is slicked back.  Imagine Johnny Depp’s hair in Cry-Baby.)
He laughed a clowny laugh and said, “Oh man, I had this babysitter when I was a kid who would only let me eat margarine and jelly sandwiches.  She was really post-World War II.”  I laughed too loudly and said, “Wow, aren’t we all kinda post-World War II?…cause it happened.  It happened already, and we’re living in the time after it happened.”  He did a spot-on, mimey imitation of shooting himself in the head, did not take a sandwich, and walked away.  I saw him juggling from afar later that evening.  It stung.

3) Texted someone on my dinner break and typo’ed “Crunch Gym” as “Brunch Gym” for the millionth time.  Sometimes I see it before I press “send,” but I send it anyway, cause it feels dangerous.

4) Thought about how passive aggressive the seemingly romantic lyrics, “you say it best when you say nothing at all” are.

After I got home, I decided to wait for the elevator despite the fact that another person was also waiting for the elevator–it shames me to take it to the 3rd floor.  As it was coming down, it stopped on 2, and to create a common enemy who must be lazier than me, I said, “Seriously? Taking the elevator down from 2?”

The doors opened, and it was a man in a wheelchair.

Summer Camp Love.

If I muster up the energy to sharpen my eyeliner before I go out with a guy, that means I really like him.  Last night, I sharpened my eyeliner, put on my one pair of jeggings (that I will forever after this sentence deny that I own), zipped up my less-male-looking pair of boots, and left my apartment to have dinner with Drew, my summer camp love.

I was a little nervous, especially because I had openly wept at the gym earlier that day while watching The Ellen Show–she gave a recently-laid-off school teacher a $500 check to Sears (among other lesser things, like bikes and TV’s and a possible job offer).  Also, the last conversation I had before leaving to meet Drew ended with my friend telling me, “What animal do you look most like? Dobby.”

Drew was someone I absolutely adored but hadn’t seen in seven years.  It was like the last scene in Kill Bill: Vol. 2, minus all that hostility.

Drew and I met at summer camp when we were both fifteen, and just immediately clicked.  In the seven years since I last saw him, I have, on more than one occasion, told people that he’s “basically, just my gahddamn soul mate.”  He has this fantastic head of dark, wavy hair, these shockingly blue eyes–he’s an overall Italian Superman.  He also has a gorgeous singing voice, and can do the most amazing impression of a brain-damaged child I’ve ever seen.

Drew represents something special to me.  He’s a living piece of my past, a reminder of more innocent times spent bemoaning cabin clean-up instead of financial woes, dancing to Disney mixes in the mornings instead of angstily sipping caffeine-free herbal tea to the 500 Days of Summer soundtrack.  He was my first love in a lot of ways.  Also, we met at Interlochen Musical Theatre Camp, so Drew is totally gay.

Here is a picture of one of the more recent productions put on at Interlochen Art Camp’s Musical Theatre Workshop:

I like to pretend that they’re singing the chorus of that old-timey hit, “Interlochen: Interloching Hearts Since 1928!” by Keely Flaherty.

Drew walked into the restaurant, and despite having sharpened my eyeliner pencil and squeezed myself into faux-spandex-jeans, he still looked prettier.  And I couldn’t hate him for it.  Not even a little.  Love.
We reminisced about our time at Interlochen, about who was doing what now, who had gotten fat (disappointingly, no one has), how our choreographer asked me to leave the stage halfway through our dance-heavy rendition of “Happy Feet,” etc. But despite the fact that our souls are one, Drew and I are moving in geographically polar directions.  He currently lives in Chicago and wants to move to New York, whereas I currently live in New York and am considering moving to Chicago.

First google image result for “reverse!”

I’ve spent the past few months mulling over the Chicago vs. New York question, Googling it, posting on forums, making pros and cons lists on Post-It Notes, basically all the true signs of emotional turmoil.  I even bought a whole bunch of fortune cookies and recruited my friend to help me systematically eat them in hopes of finding some small scrap of guidance.  This is the closest we came:

Unfortunate.

It isn’t an easy choice.  Chicago represents a quieter, more affordable lifestyle, but there are some things about New York I don’t think I could ever live without.  One of those things is the Museum of Modern Art. Yes, it houses Van Gogh’s Starry Night, and not too long ago it had an absolutely baller display of superhero movie costumes–but there are few things in life more satisfying than making fun of the stuff at MoMA.

What your mom says about you when you’re not around.

“No Torso” or “Torsno.”

“Pearfinger.”

This isn’t actually in The Museum of Modern Art, but be honest, you’d never have known otherwise.

There are other things I’d miss about New York as well, more sincere things, and here are six of them:

1) Occasionally seeing my favorite professor near campus, being too afraid he won’t remember me to speak to him, and taking a picture of him from behind instead.

I’ll never forget the way he said “mimesis,” and how fervently I nodded each time he did, because I never understood what that word meant.

2) The spandex widows/human condoms on 14th Street.


3) The occasional appearance of everyone’s favorite Ethnic Parade Pirate, Sherbert Beard.


4) Everything pointless in Brooklyn.


5) Urban Outfitters’ discrete nod to Star Trek by using Nero’s ship as a decoration design prototype.


6) Free shoes.

The truth is, my relationship with New York is a lot like my relationship with Drew: our souls are mated, like penguins, or Hispanic couples, and no matter how long we’re together or apart, that won’t change.  I could leave New York tomorrow, come back in seven years, and it would be as if no time had passed.  That love would still be there.
But there are certain realities about our relationship that I have to face.
New York holds a special place in my heart, and it always will, but I’m not eighteen anymore.  I came here from Ohio when I was very young, looking for adventure and alcohol.  It was, and is, the Candyland of the theatre world–but it’s hard to keep up with.  No matter how many times I sharpen my eyeliner or try to take up smoking in order to look more at home on St. Mark’s Place, New York will always walk into the restaurant and be just a little bit prettier than me–and I can’t hate it.  Not even a little.  Love.