Wigs

images6.jpg Sometimes I miss acting purely for the outfits. I really want a job where I can wear a wig and a sweat shirt with a puffy photo of two kittens frollicking with a ball of yarn, you know, something completely unflattering and unrelated to my life. My friend Alex suggested that I start wearing wigs in my regular life, but nah, that’s not why I dig it. I like pretending to be someone else on stage or on film, I don’t really need the attention in real life, does that make sense?

I went wig-shopping with my mother yesterday. Once she gets an idea in her head, she’s a bit like the racing horse with blinders, she will not be deterred, regardless of how retarded the ideas. Like she wants to stop dying her hair (probably TMI about my mom that she would prefer I don’t share, so do me a favor and don’t bring it up with her), so she’s thinking wigs are the way to go. Someone at her job wears a different one everyday, which is how she got the idea — never mind the fact that a wig cap and wig might be uncomfortable or too hot after nine hours of wearing. Just saying.

We went to Fulton Street Mall in Brooklyn, to a discount wig store catering to a mostly African American population, and my parents kind of have no clue about race and cultural differences between all of us, blah blah blah, so that was kind of fun to watch them navigate that. Since the wigs targed African American women, the color options worked for an Asian face and the caps were adjustable despite my mother’s fear that her head would be too gigantic for any normal size wig (like mother like daughter. I too have a gigantic noggin.)

There were like signs every where advertising the strict rules: YOU MUST BUY A WIG CAP! YOU MAY ONLY TRY ON THREE WIGS!!!! She tried on three wigs — one that was conservative bob with red streaks, and then two others that were permed with bright blonde streaks and kewpie bangs, which made me urge to her to start an all-girl Japanese anime band. She looked like a hip bassist.

There were three tiny kids watching us, two boys around 8 and a 3-year-old girl. Where their mother was? I dunno. But after watching my mom, one of them whispered “That one looks nice, Chinese lady,” and I startled them by saying “Did you just say ‘that one looks nice Chinese lady?’ I have supersonic hearing you know.” And then chaos ensued. The little boys took my friendliness as a cue to try on the wigs and accompany each one with a funky dance or walk. Me and my dad laughed so hard. I did get a little nervous when one of them eyed the $75 wig, b/c I don’t want them to get into too much trouble. Where was their mom? Is the security camera catching all of us messing around? And at the same time, there are times when I have hung out with little kids where I completely abandon adult responsibility. I’m worse. I encourage them to act out and laugh and challenge them to thumb wrestling and am the worst loser. It’s like Vince Vaughn possesses my soul for a moment. [I’ll blog about my Thanksgiving face-off with an 8 year old next.]

And then one of them told me I ought to trying them on to…and I’m such a rule follower and I was kind of tired that I didn’t bother. What a lost opportunity!!! Mom ended up buying the conservative bob with red streaks, the one the Peanut Gallery voted for. Look out world.

Thai food

images5.jpg Nothing profound today, but I just think there are too many Thai restaurants in NYC and Brooklyn. Does Brooklyn really need 10 Thai restaurants in the radius of a mile? Can I please order something other than pad thai? The final insult was when a new pan-Asian (not technically Thai but does offer pad thai on the menu) replaced Taco Madre on Montague Street of Brooklyn. Where else can a girl enjoy $1.95 tacos alongside the homeless? No where, my friend, that’s where. I’m thinking of organizing a Thai food boycott to introduce a little more variety to the restaurant world….except that I’m essentially a sedentary person and a boycott sounds suspiciously like…exercise.

Turns out…I heart zombies!

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I didn’t used to like zombie or any kind of horror movie, but I’ve changed. Finally, in my thirties, I embrace zombies! In the 70s, zombies used to kind of wander around at the pace of sleepwalkers and their victims, instead of easily outrunning these flesh-eating predators, would become paralyzed by fear and inaction and just bump into walls, making themselves easy targets for the undead.

In “28 Days Later” (which I saw after my Chipotle margarita and is not a great flick and presumably a worse flick than its predecessor “28 Days Later”), the zombies don’t meander aimlessly — they freaking sprint! They’re downright Olympic-quality athletes, people! There’s a scene, where Robert Carlyle is racing in bright daylight away from a zombie-invested house in a pretty English country setting, and on the horizon of the hills is a full line of zombies marathoning at full speed to his fresh blood! The palpable anxiety on this actor’s face and the 60 zombies after him set to a great rock song was an awesome distraction from office politics! Neck biting! It’s way distracting from run-of-the-mill stress.

This picture, coupled with the hilarious “Shaun of the Dead,” has confirmed my zombie love for life.

Tearing it up at chipotle

images4.jpg After an awfully stressful work week (last week) thank goodness I have pals to kick back and blow off steam with. Admittedly, Chipotle is a Disneyfied funhouse, but really, I would drink almost anywhere that offers $3.95 margaritas. We were getting so giggly and rowdy we were concerned about getting kicked out. It is a brightly lit, family-style corporate dining establishment after all, owned by McDonald’s no less. We pity the fools at Quiznos, man, drinking their sodas. After one margarita, I was ready to go home. Par-taaaaay! Senior citizen style, yes!

silver lining

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Oy, my job is insanely busy with both stuff to get done and internal politics, including a mind meld between my bosses and my main competitor. We might have to sue the previous tenant of my parents’ place to get money they owe. I need about a kabillion hours more of sleep.

But at least I had a good hair day. Seriously, it looked really good. Gloooorious. See? There’s always a silver lining.

yoga on a saturday

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When I do tree pose, why do I feel like the Towering Inferno?

Why do the gym mats have to smell like feet?

Why do I eat a gigantic meal an hour before I go to yoga?

trying to volunteer…someone take me please

logo_contact.jpg I’m trying to find volunteer work. I have this fantasy where I run a writing workshop for 13-year-olds, and we exchange meaningful moments and leave indelible impressions on each other’s lives, but in Brooklyn, which has like the highest concentration of famous, established writers in the world apparently, there’s a waiting list. Like I’m trying to work for free, okay, but it’s still like competitive to do that. I have to wait six months to hear if I can do some measley copyediting because Paul Auster is teaching the kids right now. Jees. Both great, and jeees. This cool nonprofit, 826 NYC, is partnered with McSweeney’s, one of those literary mafia outfits. What the. It’s like wanting Dunkin Doughnuts coffee and all that’s available of super mochatto mochiatto frappe cinnos.

Our Bodies, ourselves

images1.jpg Apparently, the men in my office get together and talk about the bods of the women in the office. There was one group email that circulated commenting on the view of one set of “beautiful cantaloupes” during a photo session. Various young ladies have complained about one person in IT who loves to call them all “sexy” and “baby” and complain about being married. I was a little shocked to hear this goes on, from people I know and who have been perfectly nice to me. My husband’s reaction to this was to shake his head and say “why are people still eight years old.” (Sensitivity Points for Husband.) There was one guy who is such a lonely oddball that he gets inebriated at office functions and hits on everyone (the old throw-everything-on-the-wall-and-see-what-sticks technique). At one such event, he actually massaged my back while I was talking to friendlier colleagues, causing me to say “Lots of inappropriate touching going on right now” while dissolving into uncontrollable giggles. (Um, I’m eight years old.)

I don’t know what to think. It sort of is sexual harassment — not the “Disclosure” kind starring in Demi Moore and Michael Douglas, in his favorite kind of role of being a victim (See
“Falling Down,” where he gets victimized by and then turns his anger on every minority group. Poor rich white man. Pleeeeeeease.) More annoying than threatening. I don’t think we all have to ignore the fact that we have bodies, but it’s funny how some males still don’t see how this might be somewhat offensive to the ladies, and I don’t understand why more people don’t hit on me. I still have it going on. (ha ha ha ha) And that’s the other weird side of this equation. I’m passing that age where people look at me, and not that I was ever Prom Queen, but there’s definitely something about being a young woman that draws people’s eye and they do stop looking as you age. Isn’t that weird? It’s like when Shirley MacClaine told AARP Magazine that she feels invisible, especially after working with Cameron Diaz. Oh my god, I’m like Shirley MacClaine.

complaining

images2.jpg I asked someone in Accounts Payable how’s life and she said “I’m alive, so life is good” (which is almost redundant. heh heh, i’m so petty) but I instantly wished to have a similarly, no-nonsense attitude. Why not? I go to the gym, I have a job, I have a home, I have a husband, I have access to a multitude of Yuppie services. Yo, I’m like loaded, people! I’ve got nothing to complain about.

And yet…I’m so good at it…

Mom Friends

images2.jpg I’ve had Mom Friends for a while. I don’t mean like my junior high school teacher whom I still talk to and who is 82 or 1,000 or something, but the Mom Friends my age. It’s slightly freaky when your pals start reproducing. It’s a sign of what–adulthood? Yet another hallmark that seems to happen so easily in the movies but in real life seems unacceptable or unbelieveable or just I don’t know, not what you think it would be. Friendships change. I don’t know what it’s like from the Mom Friend perspective (and I suppose I will some day) but from the perspective of the friend-with-inactive-womb, it’s a shift that sometimes puts a bump or a permanent stop to the friendship.

Keeping up with Mom Friends requires you traveling to them (understandable) and spending the much of the time fretting over the baby rather than talking to each other (also understandable). Having a baby is consuming stuff, and kids require a LOT of attention. And they’re so tiny. (Oh god, what if you drop one.) That part doesn’t bug me. I get that part. (I actually am a fan of kids — some of them. With some, there’s an insta-bond; others seem like blank-faced pigs in a blanket.) But sometimes there’s a faint whiff of “Some day you’ll understand” from your Mom Friend. She has advanced beyond your realm and is only able to fully connect to other Mom Friends, and sometimes, that makes me sad. It’s sort of like the pals you lose when they fall in love. When single, they’re reliable and like steel-rod-loyal, but once coupled, they disappear like, I don’t know, alka seltzer dissolving in water (i’m really low on similes right now. sorry). Or it’d be like if all your friends move to Philly and started talking about cheese steaks all the time. What would you do then? Mom Friends like other Mom Friends because they have much in common. Like one of my Mom Friends, who is still quite dear to me, is a Mom to two kids and sees ghosts in her house. And now, she’s completely enamored with another Mom Friend who happens to be a Psychic and can cleanse her house of spirits as well as discuss the merits of Timeouts. How do you beat that, people?

It’s a long life (knock on wood). People come and go, and sometimes come back again. I mean, we all kind of take turns leaving each other, right? I’m just getting used to it and I’m not always so dang melancholy. Maybe I’ll just go give myself a timeout.