"Bottoms Up" Or Schadenfreude

No matter what the circumstance, a wet bottom is an unhappy bottom. And that's just what I had yesterday: a wet bottom. My disillusioned derriere would have been better off, had it come from a Memorial weekend jaunt in the pool or in the sea, but my dampness was not caused by anything of that sort. And if you might feel inclined to poke some fun at me here, and suggest that I peed myself, well I'm not the incontinent type. This is how it happened. I was walking in the West Village, searching for a business card, and because walking and wallet-wading is not a talent of mine, I decided to sit down on a cool inviting marble ledge surrounding some shoddy-looking plantings which lay outside of a post-war, white-bricked, door-man building. I sat down, and thought to myself, wow this marble is very cold, ultra-cold, and WET! I jumped up in horror, realizing that I completely soaked the back-side of my skirt, and water was busily running down my legs. The door-man started to howl with laughter, I mean really howl. It was a cartoony-type cackle that seem to generate and proliferate from its own noise-making. This door-man, with a name-plate, reading "Robert" was having a blast at my expense. I squeezed out the water from the ends of my skirt, and walked up to rascal Robert. "Hey, Robert, don't mean to be a kill-joy here and interrupt your fun, but couldn't you have told me the marble was wet. Really wet. I mean you saw me sit-down, and it seemed that you almost gave me your approval to sit-down." To which Rasputin replied, "Hey lady, it's a marble planter." It's true, he had a point, but it did seem decidedly dry, I guess marble has trompe-l'oeil properties. I was visibly rankled, but Robert was having the time of his life. "Well you don't have to laugh so loudly or so consistently," I said sadly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to laugh at someone else's misfortune?" "Whatever lady!" Hee-hee, haw-haw. Well, bottoms-up. God knows, I have hit it before yesterday, but somehow it made itself painfully known at that moment, and so did something called "schadenfreude." You know the word, well Robert does at least. "Pleasure derived from the misfortunes of others." Bless the Germans who came up with a word that sounds exactly like what it means. Now, what's German for "F--- you" Robert?

Special Entry

I was a VIP yesterday. Truly. No use denying it. It felt fine to be a part of a small clientele that come-and-go as they please, and come-and-go in such a respectable fashion. In fact, if I were to do nothing else than come-and-go easily and without any hitches, I think I would be a fully contented human being. It has always been enticing for me to have a special door, entrance/exit of of my own, not even a room of my own, just a door, or a flap, like one of those nifty cat/dog doors, where pets can to-and-fro to their hearts content (apparently, according to a rudimentary Google search, there are "ultra-high" performance pet doors. Who knew? How about a high-performing human door?)

Here, you might wonder, how is it possible for someone like me, who has been looking for a permanent job for such a long time, to have access to a high-performing flap that allows for easy gliding to-and-fro-ing? Well, yesterday, I was a "Very Important Passenger." Yes, you heard me. A VIP that glided through the "Special Entry" turnstile in the subway. All this about a hifalutin elitist flap, and I come up with the pedestrian "Special Entry." Well, it might sound pathetic or paltry to you, but it meant a lot to me; even if I purposely misconstrued the meaning and usage of "Special Entry." I figure this: if I pay my way on that God-forsaken subway, I might as well feel regal using the anointed "S.E." I could tell that fellow passengers thought I was quite odd in the way that I passed through the turn-stile, actually waltzed/sailed/zipped/cruised/sallied through. "Sallied?" what a great word, probably a word bandied about in the fabulous conversations between Audrey Hepburn's Holly Golightly, and George Peppard's Paul Varjak in "Breakfast At Tiffany's." But aside from that aside, I have learned over the last two years, that I have to treasure these small funny things that make me feel better, no matter how small, petty, and non-sensical they might be. After all, if I don't honor the illogical, I will inherit the "mean reds" like Holly, and that wouldn't be too pretty, now would it darling? It would be tres terrible, and why should anyone begrudge me my fun? If they do, quel rat!

Lavender Legion

I've been told that a drop or two of lavender oil placed on the temples and wrists has a calming effect on frayed nerves, and a soporific effect on insomniac tendencies. I also found that if I place a lavender sachet under my pillow just before I go to sleep, those strange little itinerant thoughts, you know the ones: semi-mythical and magnificent, where anything and everything that seems difficult and laborious and far-off, can seemingly be achieved in the here and now. Last night, these lullaby thoughts were informed by the delectable scent of lavender, and played out a nice sojourn to the South of France. There, they grew robust from good wine, cheese, and composed salads, and wooden shutters, and the smell of the sea and of course lavender, everywhere you look. A legion of lavender. Who knew that three dollars could buy a mini holiday, transport to a sublime location; a location that sits square in your mind's eye, a location that wafts up every now and then; like the gentle breeze that is carried from the sea's movements onto your lap. And then I awoke to the sirens and the scrappy sounds of New York, with the occasional improvisational sounds of a bird's song, and oh, the smell of lavender, it was still there. Strong and forceful, an olfactory adage, whose presence let those lullaby thoughts from the night before live into today. And today's quest is to gently nudge New York to love me, because France already does.

Row, row, row your boat,
Gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
Life is but a dream.

Droppings

It's a bird, it's a plane, it's super-turd! It was lovely out, breezy, light, peaceful, I was looking pretty spiffy, and I was in good spirits - having come from a very promising meeting with someone I respected. I walked into the busy streets of Times Square, and at that precise moment, I could have been a walking billboard of smiles, and sparkling eyes, advertising the effects of natural mood enhancing - when someone who you admire gives you the time of day. And then, SPLAT! Gee, I thought to myself, must be a leaky air-conditioner, or a myriad of other wet things that squish around in and on the Great White Way. But no, it was just a giant deposit made by a passing pigeon, almost looked like the slime spewed out of those nasty ghosts in "Ghostbusters." And as the detritus kept moving down my arm, I kept thinking, wow, this is luck be a lady, and that lady is me. People in the streets inevitably saw the creeping slime, and moved away from me gently, I paid it no mind. Perhaps I'm nuts, but this was a funny confirmation that maybe things are finally looking up. I went to the Marriott Marquis and washed off my arm, and then noticed some of the droppings had reached the right sleeve of my jacket, so I doused it in the sink. Guests of the hotel, or tourists that were about to see the musical next store inquired about my hand-washing, and jacket-soaking. "What happened to you dearie?" "Oh, a bird shat on me." "That's terrible, how gross." "Oh, no it's fine," I replied, probably looking a little batty, with one of those Woody Allen pasted smiles on my face. "Haven't you heard? It's good luck." "Oh dearie, you're great, what an optimist!" "Good luck getting that out of the sleeve though." "Thanks, it's no problem at all." It's really not. I am so happy to have had a good meeting that restored my faith. I was starting to feel like a battered woman with trust issues. But good things are being reinstated slowly but surely on this strange curve called life.

How Are You?

It's amazing what carrying a few plastic bags with some sweat on your brow can do. It's the one-two-three glamour dissolver that draws exasperated looks and shrugs. That was me on the subway today. I was looking and feeling far more attractive and appealing earlier in the day, but somehow the heat, the bags, the sweat, brought me down to a level of protracted poverty-stricken pallor; I was the bag-lady in the car. Then, the unimaginable happened. No, I was not kissed by a frog-prince. Wish I was. It was, in retrospect, quite imaginable actually. Even apropos. Someone I knew, an acquaintance really, got in the car, and sat across from me. She saw me, disheveled, although, frankly, she wasn't looking her best either, and pretended not to see me. But I was feeling frisky, and I thought some active mischief would do me no harm, and even help dissipate the droplets of sweat on my brow, like in the spirit of condensation or something. Maybe I would even form a cloud that would hover above my head for the duration of the ride. That would surely draw some glares, especially if my cloud started to produce rain. Anyway, I digress. So, I decided to say hello to the woman across from me. She twisted her eyes from her important reading, and said hello back. "How are you?" she said, with pursed lips and crinkled brow. "I'm fine," I said. "It seems you almost have as many bags as I do," when she looked disapprovingly at my plastic companions. "Mmmm, yes." Her eyes went back to her important reading, and then, as if she wanted to be the good Sunday samaritan, continued with the line that really gets my inner goat. "Everything fine?" "Oh, yes, all is fine here," I heard myself say to her. What was I talking about? Everything was not fine. I wanted to say to her, if you look up from your stupid book for more than a nano-second, you'd see I'm not fine. I'm hot, and agitated, and annoyed by the fact that it's been two years, and someone such as myself, who has a lot to offer, cannot seem to be able to offer it in a permanent way, or at least offer it in the spirit of a permanent job. And someone like you is looking down at me and my bags; when you have just as many as I do, maybe even more. Except you're working. You did not quit your job like me, even though you probably want to. You have not suffered the quiet inequities I have, and you don't know how tired I am - of this bull, that is supposed to be evolving, or so our government and elders say. Everything is just passing along - right along with no noticeable "positive" blips. The woman, really a sacrificial lamb in my fleeting ferocious anger, went back to reading though, and I, to my scribble in my notebook - formulating this here blog. And as I am reliving this minor incident, I have to say I am not sorry for my previous thoughts and reaction. I also remember from a dusty corner in my brain, that the last time I saw this woman, I was getting into a black sedan, all dolled up, bag-less, save for a clutch, looking radiant, while she descended the gross sticky subway steps to go back home. Turning tables, and all that...It's kind of funny. I really wish her no harm, it's just that she/hers was the most immediate in a long line of strained replies.