Why I Couldn't Be A Stripper (even though I kind of wish that I could)

So today marks two months since leaving NY (I think. I might've just made that up, though) and I still don't have a job. I worked for about 10 hours in the last two months. I'm totally not even kidding you. Just realizing that made me want to cannonball out my window.

Have I leads? Yes. Have I income? No. What's one to do in this situation? Well, lots of cleaning, lots of hours (and parking meter quarters) of running from bar/restaurant to bar/restaurant with a (somewhat fabricated...okay not fabricated, but exaggerated) resume with my smiling photo in the upper left-hand corner, many hours on Craigslist and lots of emailed attachments, some reading, booking two stand up shows (I know...that's good, right?! Want to come? Comment for info in the LA area!), and the occasional foray into a bar with a half-buttoned shirt and a manager's name memorized. Yes, I used my boobs to try and get a job that I didn't even get (although I did get eye fucked...sigh).

So let me be real with everyone for a minute. Real about stripping. I don't condone disrespecting yourself for cash, but I get it. When you've got flotation device boobies, or abs that would make Denise Austin blush, or a tush that don't quit [I am in no way suggesting that I do, or do not have any of these, I'm just commenting] and a checking account resembling the digestive system of an anorexic teenager (empty...get it? empty. sigh) it may be tempting to run to your local "Girls Girls Girls!" establishment. Let me give you a few reasons why you shouldn't (aka: a way to convince myself that I shouldn't):

1) You are bound to see someone you know in the audience. Most likely a family member or former teacher. It is never going to feel like Christmas again at Uncle Tim's house.

2) Someone will try and have sex with you at work. This is pretty likely in almost every job, but it's damn guaranteed if you're a stripper.

3) Those days when you just don't want to go to work but you have to? You have to go get naked in a room full of drunk, smelly, ugly strangers.

4) You don't get to choose who gets a lap dance.

5) Your parents will find out. And they will cry and tell you that they would have sent you a check...if you'd just asked.

6) You will fall and break your ankle in those shoes. You just will.

7) You'll probably get raped on your way out to your car one night.

8) You will get pregnant.

I hope this has been helpful. If you need me I'll be down at "All Nude" around 10 pm tomorrow night.*

A

*I'm kidding. Gosh.

This Was Your Life

A series of strange events (always begins with a dream, doesn't it?) has led me to an oddly upsetting discovery. Allow me to backtrack to the beginning (warning, this is long and might get boring. Don't un-follow, I promise I'll get back to sex and booze later on):

As a small child I was rambunctious and irritating, I would climb things and exhaust my parents with incomprehensible energy levels, so they did what any loving parents would do (no, not adoption), they enrolled me in gymnastics classes. From the age of three on I began to spend more time at "the gym" than anywhere else (yes, including my house). I would come home from school and rush to finish all of my homework before 4:45, then I would put my leotard under my clothes, eat a dinner of tofu hot dogs, salad and baked beans (I cringe now to think what the result would be if I attempted to eat a mountain of baked beans and then spend the next three hours upside-down), and then my Mom would drive me to gymnastics, where I would stay for the next four/four and a half hours.

Practically every important moment of my childhood occurred at US Gym on Humphrey Street. It went from a casual hobby, with coaches who had good intentions and smiling faces, to a life commitment and a rising competitive nature that still hasn't subsided, with coaches who barked at each other in Croatian and shouted our routines into perfection.


The group of girls who were on the competitive team with me were practically my only friends (who else would want to sign up for a friend whose entire week was spent essentially, in her underwear hanging from a wooden bar?) and, since I was one of the oldest, I was one of the "ringleaders", you might say. I was, by no means, a great example. I used to crack jokes at inappropriate times, I used to talk back to my coaches, and I used to have to run a lot of extra laps around the gym. But I loved it there. I loved the way that it always smelled a little bit like feet, I loved that I got my own locker that was covered in Spice Girls bubblegum wrappers and stickers, I loved that I knew how to push on the vending machine when my Snickers got stuck, I loved running at full speed, only to propel myself in another direction, I loved telling stories to my teammates, and I loved being the first person in US Gym history to get a 9.7 on the vault (even though that record has long since expired and the vault itself has long since been replaced with a newer, more aerodynamic design). I loved lining up in height order on a piece of crinkled, silver duct tape on the floor, I loved the way it felt to be the best at something, and I can still feel the different textures of the different balance beams; the coarse, camel colored, very square one, the smooth, softer, more rounded one, the blue mesh of the mat under my feet. That place was more a part of me than any other.

The summer that I decided to quit, I knew I was ready. I was already twelve and was developing mental blocks on almost every new trick I was practicing, as well as the other things I was developing, like crushes on boys, the need to be socially accepted at school, boobs, and the need to wear shorts over my leotard...if you know what I mean–ahem. It was time to say goodbye. It was time to wake up and have to go buy an under-wire bra, time to have insomnia for lack of physical exhaustion when hitting the pillow, and time to grow up.

I still would try to fall asleep by mentally running through my uneven bars routine, and I would still call myself a "gymnast". My biggest fear was ending up like my mother, saying things like, "I used to be a gymnast", I wanted to be a gymnast forever. Well, let me tell you something, kids, no one is a gymnast forever. That's some Peter Pan shit. You grow to 5'6" and you fill out a D cup bra and all of a sudden you realize that you will never again do a glide kip. Sure, you'll be able to impress small children (and possibly adults) by doing backflips on trampolines, but mostly, it will just hurt later. I used to listen to my parents talk about how much it would hurt to do anything like that now and would think, "I'll never be like that". I am. I carried a couch up one flight of stairs today and I think I need a vicodin.

Back to the point: I found the Facebook page for the gym I used to be a part of and I found something terribly sad: they've moved. I know this doesn't sound like much, but I somehow always thought that I'd be able to go back there and relive those moments, re-smell those feet, go look at those lockers. Maybe it was naive to think that, and I'm sure it was, but now, knowing that it's gone...well, I cried. Yes, seriously. If I ever go back (and that would require some serious time in NJ–and we all know how I feel about that...oh? We don't? Well, we'll have a post about that soon) it won't smell the same, and the walls won't be covered in my fingerprints, and there will be new lockers, probably with Justin Bieber stickers on them. What did I want? Some sort of immortalized plaque to me? Well, yes, kind of.

I know there is no way to relive your childhood, but I'd really like to do a back layout again.

 

Oh, I was Kerri Strug for Halloween '96 (You remember her: the gymnast who sprained her ankle to win Gold for the US in Atlanta?) 

A

Say Bye Bye

I’ve long since known that this moment would come, but I haven’t prepared for it. It’s no secret that I’ve had a teddy bear all my twenty-four years, nor am I ashamed of it. I might’ve been at one point, but Really Bear (yes, that’s what my toddler self decided was an appropriate name for a teddy bear who was “really a bear!”) has been just as much a part of my life as any other member of my family. No, I didn’t bring him to the dinner table or take him out of the house, except on vacation, but he was there for all of it.

When I first brought a boy back to my house and bedroom I tossed Really Bear aside, more because I didn’t want to corrupt him with the indecency of whatever was going on than because I was ashamed to have a stuffed animal. A somewhat well adjusted teenager, I went off to college at eighteen, but Really Bear came along. A constant for me at a time when he spent more time “shielding his eyes” than I care to admit, Really Bear was a reminder that I could grow up, but I didn’t have to be an adult just yet.

I long wondered how I would make the decision to remove a childish teddy bear, frayed and faded in color from the center spot on my pillows. Really Bear topped off each bed-making, always, so how would I choose to be the adult whose bed is not adorned with a teddy bear whose eyes are barely visible under the over-cuddled “fur”? It was never an addiction or dependency; I’d gone on vacation without Really Bear, I could sleep at night, peacefully, without him, so how is it that on January 7, 2011 I was able to consciously take Really Bear and place him in a cabinet, squashed up like some second-rate Beanie Baby with no resale value?

First, let me say that Really Bear made the cross-country trip with me back in November. Unavoidably stuffed in the overstuffed car and the subject of scrutiny (?), judgement (?), observation (?) in the mouth of my boyfriend’s father. I defended myself, and said that of course Really Bear made the trip, *wink wink*, as if I was shielding the ears of a small child whose feelings were to be protected. But really, why bring along a nearly twenty-five year old stuffed animal? Old habits die hard, I tell you. A rational (at times), intelligent, responsible adult still sometimes needs a reminder of her roots. Really Bear, somehow, serves that purpose.

Moving into my new apartment this last week I had time to myself before my new “roommate” arrived. I took the time to make the bed nicely and thought long and hard about Really Bear and then placed him in his usual spot. Once my boyfriend (and new roommate) arrived, without so much as a sideways glance, I found myself saying aloud, “I guess Really Bear should probably be retired, huh?” and was met with an affirmative response.

That was it, like a band-aid, and all of a sudden I’m an adult who shares a bed with a man, not a bear. I still keep two pictures of me as a toddler on my nightstand, just in case I need to remember what’s important.

Thoughts About Our Generation...and my libido

Our generation is fucked. This isn’t some earth shattering discovery or anything, I mean, birds are falling from the sky, our work ethic is akin to a goldfish, and by the time we retire, well, we won’t be able to. But that’s not what I’m talking about right now. I’m talking about how our parents ruined it for us. At least mine did. Think about some of the coolest, best bands and musicians of all time, Led Zeppelin, The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin. Who do they remind you of? They remind me of my parents. And the worst part is, they probably remind my parents of smoking hash in the back of a pickup truck in Michigan or blowing lines in the bathroom at CBGBs. Our parents ruined “cool”. I have it really bad, because growing up I was convinced that my parents were the least cool people on the planet, because they had a compost pile and practiced Buddhism and played the drums and danced like they were at Woodstock. It was easy to hate them and save up for Tiffany’s bracelets and Kate Spade bags and Sketchers because it was rebellious. But then I graduated from college and I moved to New York, and guess what the cool hipsters, that I so badly wanted to be like, were doing? They were composting and practicing eastern religion and playing the bongos and dancing like their bones were made of cafeteria pudding, and to top it all off, all of the men looked exactly like my dad did thirty years ago. My parents rebelled against their “square” parents with corporate jobs and Tupperware parties, if my choice to rebel against my “hipster” parents is go to get a corporate job and buy a Le Creuset pot collection (okay, I actually do want one of those) then count me out. Now, every time I go see an awesome new band, the bongo player reminds me of my dad and that’s not good for anyone’s libido.

I Am Not Me

I wasn't going to post this...but I will.

I wrote this on the plane on my way to New York two weeks ago. It's not the next War and Peace or anything, but I'm trying to share these days. (Warning: I realized in parts of this that it sounds like I'm "boasting" or something, but I promise, I was just trying to make sense of the past 24 and a half years)

We are not defined by where we come from or who raised us, but by a combination of factors that add up to the “I” that is ourselves.

I am not me because I was born at St Vincent’s hospital on 7^th avenue south in Manhattan. I am not me because my parents gave up their loft in Union Square to buy a house in the suburbs. I am not me because I have a brother three years my junior. I am not me because I am female. I am not me because I was one of two white kids in my first grade class. I am not me because I was home-schooled in second grade, sent to Catholic school in third and transferred to one of the best public school systems in New Jersey from fourth on. I am not me because my father is an atheist and my mother is a Buddhist. I am not me because my mother is a painter and my father a drummer. I am not me because my mother is a dancer and my father a film producer. I am not me because I went to school with primarily wealthy, Jewish kids. I am not me because I went to a small liberal arts college with primarily wealthy, New Englanders. I am not me because I graduated cum laude. I am not me because I’ve traveled to Europe, the Caribbean, Central America, and thirty-seven of the fifty states. I’m not me because my hair is brown or my eyes the same. I am not me because I am five foot, five and a half inches tall. I am not me because I wear a size 8.5 shoe. I am not me because I drink coffee. I am not me because I don’t like Gin. I am not me because my ancestors come from Italy, Sicily, Romania, Russia, and Austria. I am not me because my mother’s side of the family is Jewish and my father’s Catholic. I am not me because I have a brother eight years my junior. I am not me because I am allergic to cats and have never had a dog. I am not me because I lived in London for a semester. I am not me because I have seen King Lear performed by Christopher Plummer at Lincoln Center and Sir Ian McKellan in Stratford-Upon-Avon. I am not me because I speak a little bit of French. I am not me because I spent ten years working towards going to the Olympics for gymnastics. I am not me because I quit. I am not me because I’ve been in love. I am not me because I can’t play a musical instrument. I am not me because I wear tall tube socks under my boots. I am not me because I take soy milk, no sugar in my coffee. I am not me because my best friends have been the same two girls since I was ten months old. I am not me because they are an accountant and a medical school student. I am not me because I am an actor. I am not me because I’d like to be a writer. I am not me because I’d like to be a photographer. I am not me because I wish I was still a dancer. I am not me because I used to believe in Santa Claus, and I still fantasize that he’s real. I am not real because old Tim Burton movies make me feel connected to something special. I am not me because saxophones make me cry. I am not me because I know I belong in New York. I am not me because I live in Los Angeles. I am not me because I could listen to Joni Mitchell, Regina Spektor, and Fiona Apple all day. I am not me because the lyrics of Bob Dylan and Tom Waits make me rethink my entire life. I am not me because I have sprained or broken my ankles and wrists a total of seven times. I am not me because I run. I am not me because I do yoga. I am not me because I sing in the shower better than I’ll ever be able to sing in front of another human being. I am not me because my teddy bear’s name is Really Bear and he still sits on my bed, even though I have someone else to hold at night now. I am not me because I can put my legs behind my head. I am not me because I don’t speak Spanish. I am not me because I baked pot brownies in the basement of my on-campus house once [or twice] in college. I am not me because I’ve kissed girls, so I know I’d rather kiss boys. I am not me because I’ve been a waitress, a bartender, an office assistant, a file clerk, a production assistant, a retail sales associate, a temp, a receptionist, a sister, a daughter, a babysitter, and an actress. I am not me because my middle name is Rose. I am not me because I ski. I am not me because I want to learn how to surf. I am not me because I am always five minutes late. I am not me because I always have a good excuse. I am not me because I can talk to anyone. I am not me because I’m always reading a book. I am not me because I still try to finish the Times crossword puzzles after Wednesdays, even though I can’t. I am not me because I saw Hanson in concert…three times. I am not me because I wanted to be Morticia Addams for Halloween when I was eight. I am not me because I wrote a play. I’m not me because I’ve performed stand-up comedy. I am not me because I cried myself to sleep for months in high school. I am not me because I drove across the country in November. I am not me because I went to performing arts sleep-away camp. I am not me because I have too many pairs of shoes. I am not me because I rarely ever wear more than three pairs of them. (not at once...that'd be very impressive)I am not me because I’ve been dating the same guy for a year. I am not me because I always make scrambled eggs with cheese and no milk. I am not me because I love to eat frozen cheese tortellini. I am not me because I used to have my nose pierced. I am not me because I don’t have any tattoos. I am not me because I was an English major. I am not me because I have an absurdly small nose for someone with a Jewish/Italian background. I am not me because I love cliff jumping and rollercoasters. I am not me because I was on the diving team for one year in college. I am not me because I was born at the end of June. I am not me because the kids used to make fun of me. I am not me because my hair is curly. I am not me because I drive a Volvo. I am not me because I’ve been wearing the same silver necklace with a small “A” on it since I was sixteen. I’m not me because I’m a control freak. I’m not me because I hate being wrong. I’m not me because I’m competitive. I’m not me because I like naps. I’m not me because I take short showers. I am not me because I want to go to Brazil. I am not me because people have told me that I look like Rachel Bilson, Natalie Portman, Keira Knightly, Christina Ricci, Eliza Dushku, and Rachel McAdams. I am not me because I don’t actually look that much like any of those people. I am not me because I don’t like to re-read books.

 I am not me because of any of these things. But I am me because of all of these things.

Soy Hot Dogs and Cyphillis

I've been trying to finish Reverb10, but knowing that they were the last ones I'd answer I got seriously caught up in trying to make it "perfect" and had to keep it in the "edit" section for a little while longer. My East Coast trip is winding to a close as I sit here at my kitchen table with my foot wrapped in an ice pack and resting atop the table, while my mother carves a woodblock (what?) and talks to herself, and my brother is on his third soy hot dog. I never said we weren't a special bunch.

So...I've been religiously opening the tab on my checking account balance and doing math until I've figured out that I don't have enough money, again and again. I spent roughly $10,000,000* in New York the past few days, so now the need to get a job when I return to LA tonight is ridiculous. I might actually just put on some gold lamé booty shorts and stand on a corner until someone gives me something. Preferably not Syphilis. It'd suck if my boyfriend came back on Friday and I had to remind him that he just signed a lease with me and then show him my syph results. So maybe I'll just reopen my Craigslist tab.

*Shut up. I know. I exaggerate.

My Google history now reads Citibank, Gold Lame, and Syphillis. I have no idea what that means, but I know that the government still has no reason to hack my computer.

I have to share this. Sorry. This is in reference to a religious figure from my deceased grandmother sitting atop our entertainment center directly across from the kitchen table, in the living room:

My brother: Why is the Madonna facing away from us?
Mom: Because we don't worship her.
Brother: So we're kissing her ass?

My flight is in two hours. I think it's time for an online check-in and a ride to the airport.

A

Welcome to 2011

I had this whole crazy idea that I'd be able to give you a fabulous blog post yesterday, when in reality all that I was able to do yesterday was continue to drink. It's not my fault that the holidays in New York seem to just equal social, obligatory drinking. Is it my fault that I fall for that trick time and time again? Yeah, sure. But was it fun? Yes. Am I ready to start my new year now? Yes. 2011 officially starts tomorrow morning and I'm ready for it.

I spent New Year's Eve pretty wonderfully, actually. Woke up feeling pretty groggy and unenthusiastic, but then took a trip to the Russian and Turkish Baths in the East Village and spent some time detoxing and sweating before eating some sushi and going back uptown to get all dressed up for the Prohibition-themed party. New Year's Eve is always stressful. Always. And I was determined to not let it get to that point this year. So I didn't. The party we went to was really fun, really simple, and I had no ridiculous expectations for greatness. I ate grape leaves, cookies, and rum punch and we played Apples to Apples and I was happy. I popped a bottle of Prosecco at midnight and just generally had fun. AND best of all, I didn't spill on my borrowed, white dress!

Happy 2011, all!

A