How I am.

Let me first just say that when it comes to meeting new people, I have always just assumed myself to be the most socially inept person in the room. I don't know where this belief originated. It could stem from the fact that I have a horrible memory and will often meet the same person 3 times. More than once, a person has pointed that out. It could be that I abhor small talk. It has always felt both unnatural and ingenuine. I've figured out I can fake it for about 10-15 minutes. At minute 16, typically, there's not a lot left to say, and I excuse myself to refill my drink, promise to be right back, and go pet the host's cat for 5 minutes. (This has replaced my smoking habit, but if I'm trashed, like a cheap whore I'll pick it right up again. Take that however you feel most comfortable. That too.)

That's a party. What happens if say, you find yourself going on a first date with, say, a hotel concierge that you have met on, say, an online dating site, at, say,11:30 on a Friday night, when you know you're not even remotely a night person? They do it on Sex and the City all the time, and they make it look so easy and fabulous. You never, ever see them chugging coffee or redbull or attempting a two-hour power nap beforehand, and you certainly don't see them stopping to clutch their upset, nervous stomachs, giving themselves pep talks, and engaging in deep breathing just moments before they enter the upscale rendezvous bar in Chelsea.

I was fully-prepared to continue on my unwavering path toward being crowned Queen of Social Ineptitude. Little did I know as I goofily slinked past all of the gay boys and hipsters that crowded the aisle to our table, I would have someone to contend with.

When I reached her, she pretended to find me entertaining. "Very stealth," she said. I thanked her as we engaged in the Metropolitan Cheek Kiss Ritual. She was from Salt Lake and I'm from south Florida, neither of which are terribly metropolitan. At least not in a cheek kissy way.

She didn't look like her pictures, but she was very pretty. Tall, nice skin, good hands, nice outfit. She'd obviously put time and thought into her appearance, whereas my friend Suzanne just sort of told me what to wear and I obeyed. I've learned that I don't think about my own clothes too much until they're too big or too small.

"How are you?" she asked.

"Oh, good, good."

Had I known that this would be the very last question she would ask me for the rest of the evening, and by evening I mean between the hours of 11:30 pm and 2:00 am, I would have been more specific as to how I in fact was. What happened next was a 2 1/2 hour monologue, a one-woman show, essentially, with limited audience participation and no intermission. The admission fee was $14 per mojito.

First there was the explanation of how she moved to the city 5 years ago. I asked her questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. Then she launched into the story about how she came out when she was 21. I asked questions, because I was interested. She didn't ask me anything. (As a side note, she came out of her closet shortly after having walked into Henrietta Hudson's for the first time and having heard a voice in the back of her head that said in a very clear voice "You're home." Really? You're home? At Henrietta's? I should have known at that point, but who am I to judge another person's spiritual awakenings? Go ahead and check out the pictures on the website. I'll be here when you get back.)

Then came the story of how she met her ex that night. How she lived with her for 5 years. How she still works with her ex. How her boss is now boffing her ex, but she doesn't care, because she's a professional. Exxity ex, ex, ex, ex exitty exterstein, EX. I didn't ask any questions. I wasn't interested. There was nothing to ask me, as far as she was concerned, because, guess what, I didn't bring up any of my exes. I respect them far too much to use them as an antidote/ice breaker for a first date. And guess what else? Talking about an ex-girlfriend for 20 minutes on a first date is rude. (She would later try to stiff the waitress on the tip, because in her mind, tipping $2 per drink is what she would give at the bar. I will spare you the dissection of her logic.)

At about 1:00 am, a couple canoodling near the drink ledge next to our table tipped over their beer. It fell face down between my plush chair and my plush ass, and sent beer gushing onto my nether regions. I moved our drinks to an empty table, excused myself to the restroom, and tried my very best to dry off. I was hoping she would have obtained a towel from the waitress by the time I'd returned, but no. I flagged down our waitress who, after bringing me a towel, repeatedly apologized for this thing that wasn't even her fault. I instantly felt more of a connection with her than with the ill-mannered girl I'd just met. As soon as the waitress left, my date was back to talking about herself. I don't remember what she said after that. It was all a blur.

I think biggest problem I had with this chick was her unwillingness to be silent or to allow for silence. This was an awkward situation: We'd never met face to face. What would be possibly talk about? Rather than embrace the weirdness, she preferred to pretend like it didn't exist. If I didn't come in immediately with something to say whenever there was a pause after one of her speeches, off she'd go again for another 10-15 minutes. I didn't even really have to listen, and quite frankly, after beer was spilled into my asscrack, I just stopped listening. I just nodded after a while, suppressed my yawns and said "Uh-huh" a lot.

I actually enjoy the silences on a date. It's in those silences where you get to find out if you're compatible or not. What do you do with them? Do you look at a person's eyes? Do you try to touch them? Do you laugh? Do you make fun of yourselves and how improbable the whole situation is? To me, comfortability with small silences equates to "comfortability with imperfection" and most importantly "comfortability with oneself."

I guess the thing that baffles me the most about this night is the fact that not one single question was asked about me. Not one. I gave her so many opportunities, but she never bit. At 2 am I finally ended it. I couldn't think of anything other than the truth. "I'm sorry. I've got to go. I'm really tired, and I have rehearsal tomorrow."

Say you were on this date with me. "Rehearsal for what?" you might be tempted to ask.

"Oh, well, it's actually kind of cool," I would say. "I've written this play, and am putting it up with 2 really great friends of mine. I'm actually really excited about it!"

That, of course didn't happen. After we paid and resolved the tip issue (yes, I made up the difference) she was debating with herself on whether or not to take a cab home. It was then that a cab pulled up next to us. At 2 am. On a very deserted 19th street. Finally the universe had tossed me a bone. I practically forced her not to walk me to the subway with the words, "Don't you love it when things just pull up right next to you? You shouldn't take these things for granted." It was the one truly ill-mannered thing I did all evening, but I didn't care anymore. I was tipsy on two $14 mojitos, wanted my two and a half hours back, and I was going to take it back with a good walk, and a nice, long, purposeful smoke. I obtained a Marlboro from a very sweet gay boy, and reflected on my evening.

I was totally exhausted for having paid so much attention at such a late hour. My brain was puttering out, and I felt as if I'd just attended a lecture on geology, or a screening of Schindler's List.

Some good has to come out of this, I thought.

I recalled a memory from my childhood. I was 11 years old, and my mother and I were watching Married With Children in the living room. Even at 11, I knew it was a guilty pleasure.

"Do you like this show?" I asked her.

"It's not that I like it. It just makes me feel a lot better about my own family," she said with a smile.

We laughed for a full minute. We were dysfunctional, to be sure, but not the Bundys.

"We're not that bad, huh, Mom?"

"No, we're not."

jerry springer: bad television/good theatre

I just came back from a lunchtime workout. For the first 30 minutes of my workout, I tried my best to take out my frustrations on the oh-so- immovable elliptical machine, rock out to The Killers, and basically block everything out. Then, while wiping my face with my towel in a moment of pure exaustion, I made the mistake of looking up at the televison. Jerry Springer was on. The theme was "Bizarre Love Triangles." Here is the description:

A woman confronts her friend about having an affair with her lover; a woman tells her husband what she has been doing to make ends meet; a man reveals his infidelity to his boyfriend.

The second story was pretty uneventful from what I could tell. (I was reading the closed captioning.) She was a ho. She told her husband. Everybody cried. It was far too functional for the Jerry Springer arena in my opinion. I didn't catch the last one. But the first story...That was something. The "friend" entered, and the "woman" immediately started charging at her. (Both of them seemed to be laughing.) Of course the "man" stayed remarkably clear of any physical conflict and stood in the audience to watch these two duke it out over him with a self-satisfied smirk on his face. The audience underscored the typical woman on woman slanderfest with the requisite chant: "JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!" Then something extraordinary happened. "Friend" got into a screaming match with an audience member. On her rant the cameraman on the floor got a good shot of her from below. I got a good look at her teeth and audibly gasped. Remember Sloth? Both the woman and her friend had really amazingly-cut bodies, great skin, professionally and tastefully-highlighted hair and really unfortunate luck with dentistry. Something was not right, and before I got the chance to ponder it, I read this exchange on the closed caption:

AUDIENCE MEMBER: You need to go get your teeth fixed!
WOMAN: I have a calcium deficiency, *BLEEP*!"
AUDIENCE MEMBER: You need to be drinkin' some milk, then!

ENTIRE AUDIENCE: DRINK, MILK! DRINK MILK! DRINK MILK!

WOMAN: (overlapping, with rage) I DON'T LIKE MILK! MILK SUUUUUUCKS!

Jerry Springer, if you recall, used to be quite the serious talk show. His was one of the first talk shows to host open dialogues between KKK Grand Masters and members of the Chicago black and Jewish communities. He deevolved pretty quickly into what can only be described as what Oprah would be like if she had a pro-wrestling gig on the side.

This was one of those moments that was too perfect to be real, but so perfectly-improvised that it was almost brilliant. I have zero doubt in my mind that this woman was an actress. Her gnarled, snaggly, fucked up teeth were prosthetic, as were her friend's. It was also a moment I instictively recognized as significant. I'm not sure how yet, but it was. It's with me. Jerry is sticking with me.

There was absolutely no point to this posting. None whatsoever.

creativity begets creativity

I have a lot to be thankful for these days.

Examples:
My health is in-tact.
One of my plays has been produced 4 times in New York.
I'm no longer addicted to nicotine.
I have a great cat.
My friends are very loving.
And lovable.
I live in Brooklyn.

Perhaps the thing I am most thankful for today is that I have something really wonderful to look forward to in October. In about a month and a half, I will quit my law firm job and start teaching after school programs. My roommate, Meghan has been working with this program for a year and thank goodness she had the foresight to recognize that this job was an ideal fit for me.

I never really saw teaching in my future--Even when I was a music education major for two years of my life. In everyone's mind but my own, it was something practical that I could do with a performance degree. Teaching in my mind had the connotation of being fallback career. A "those that can't" situation. Since I was pushed into pursuing it, the thought of later teaching was never appealing to me.

What they don't tell you when you're about to enter college for something creatively-oriented is that fallback jobs are actually quite abundant if you are adamant in your resistance to throwing in the towel on your real job of creating art. I've had plenty of fallback jobs, but never a fallback career. To me, that's an impossibility.

Artists excel at many things. We soak in information and direction at extremely fast rates. We process this information originally, and in a way that sheds new light on something that can often be dull, routine, and uninteresting. This is why corporate America invites us so often to the 45th floor--They need our bravery, our vision, and our enthusiasm to make their businesses greater and more successful, yet they often resent us when our inner light shines beyond our cubicles.

I've been a Director of First Impressions at a law firm (that defends big tobacco and the Bush family) for 4 long years because I hated it, thinking that that hatred would motivate and propel me to pursue art more vigorously. Maybe my break would come, I would become instantly successful. (I'm smiling right now, and rolling my eyes...) Let's just throw aside the seemingly obvious fact that having a full-time office job doesn't really allow for the vigorous pursual of one's passions. The most important concept I've become aquainted with is even simpler than that. Intellectually, you the reader have encountered it, but maybe it hasn't sunk in for you yet: You cannot plan for good timing or good luck. It's a tempting and romantic notion to think that you can prepare yourself for your own preordained greatness. We are constantly primping for and anticipating our moment that fate intervenes and gives us our big break. We're so consumed in thinking about that any-moment-now moment that we fail to find stimulation and satisfaction in the current one. And if our minds are not engaged in the current moment, we fail to recognize the fateful moments when they actually do present themselves to us.

You cannot plan for good timing or good luck.

Wow. I've just realized that this statement applies to so many aspects of my life.

In these 4 years, I have justified staying in a place I hate. Insane, if you think about it. Hate and animosity does not beget creative success. Monetary success, sure. A rise in status, okay. But remaining in a place in which it (literally) hurts to remain will never, ever make me a better artist.

I'm slowly starting to learn that a fallback job, or something you have to do for money, can actually be a job that you enjoy. I could say that I think teaching kids will make me better, but I am willing to go out on a limb to say this: I know for certain that teaching will make me a better, more well-rounded, and more complete artist and will give me a well of experience to draw from for the rest of my life.

I've known for a while that this change has been coming. I've been preparing myself for it in stages for months, though I had no clue how it would manifest itself. I'm glad that my roommate suggested it to me. I was ready for it and I'm so incredibly thankful that I was absolutely present to hear it.

Flutter By.

I have a crush. It's so horrible. And it's wonderful.

There is nothing like a crush to make you feel horrible and wonderful all at once. As I get older, I find that they happen less frequently, but that doesn't mean they are any less intense than they were when you were, say, fifteen. The crush I had on Ashley G. from grades 9-12 was supremely intense. We both had 1984 Volvos; hers, blue and mine, mustard. Twin cars, and in my mind, twin souls. She was super-stressed out about her grades and would often break into heaving sobs after getting a B+ on an Honors English exam. I would always be waiting outside the door to our classroom to comfort her and tell her it was all going to be okay. She would cry in my arms and spend the rest of the day ignoring me. Years later, I would develop an unfortunate crush on an attorney that behaved in much the same manner.

I'm picturing my brain as rows upon rows of giant holes (abysses, really)lined up perfectly next to one another. Each hole has a cartoonish looking wooden sign next to it: There's the Job Hole, the Family Hole, the Depression Hole, the Creative Satisfaction Hole, the Relationship Hole, and of course, the Crush Hole. A series of shelves are hovering over the holes and on top of the shelves are jars willed with slimy, sticky green time. Each jar is one year and each year weighs about 100 pounds. The more years that go by without significant jobs/family/depressions/creative satisfaction/relationiships/crushes, the greater the burden on the shelf. After a few hundred pounds, the shelf cracks and the jars go tumbling into the abyss. The more jars, the louder and stickier the mess at the end of things.

I need to do more things in moderation.

My crush shelf has broken. I'm walking around with my heart fluttering and impending doom on my face.

I would love to know your crush stories. Did your armpits tingle? Did your heart palpitate? Did you blush or vomit? Please, make me feel better. Share.

Super Sexy Fantasy Farewell

I've been having some seriously intense and lucid fantasies lately. In them, I am at work on a Monday wearing a pear of ripped jeans and a white, loose fitting button down shirt. I sit at my desk without shoes, gingerly sipping a cocktail, my eyes fixed on the computer screen before me. With a wicked smile across my face, I slowly and deliberately lift my fingers and begin to type my farewell email to the NYALL distribution list. In some of my daydreams, this goodbye note is gushing with creatively-placed and profane compound words.

Bumblefucking.

Jackassing.

Corportate sphinctertoads.

I am also amused at the thought of leaving an almost nonsensical goodbye note. One that follows the patterns of past graceful exits, but seems somehow...off.

Probably about 30 people have quit in the past 6 months and, in an effort to bring this hot, steamy quitting fantasy of mine to fruition, to make it seem more tactile, more attainable, and more in-my-face, I have purposefully saved every one of the goodbye letters to NYALL from the past 6 months. I have printed them and have laid them atop my desk in front of me. From these 30 or so emails, and purely in the interest of objective research, I've selected 5 to to create my control group. They include letters from: (A) a legal assistant, (B) a mailroom guy, (C) a lawyer, (D) another lawyer, and (E) a paralegal. They will be compared to (F) my fantasy farewell email.

As you examine them, you may notice simple, obvious patterns in their opening remarks:

A) Dear Friends,
Today is my last day with the Greenblatt family, after almost 5 years.

B) Hello,
Today is my last day with Greenblatt and I would like to say goodbye to everyone that I was not able to contact directly.

C) Hi Everyone,
As many of you know, today is my last day at Greenblatt.

D) All,
As many of you know, Tuesday, July 18 will be my last day at Greenblatt.

E) Hi everyone,
As most of you are aware today is my last day at Greenblatt.

F) How's thangs, chicken wangs?
I'm busting out of this joint in about three minutes, and I've already collected my final paycheck. Hows about dem apples?

The worker bee first acknowledges their intended audience. Some regard their coworkers as family or friends, while others default to the generic "all" or "everyone." Please note that for no reason at all, my fantasy farewell email likens my coworkers to fast food.

The authors also concede that if you didn't happen to be "in the know" you may want to listen up, because this will be the last email that they will be known for at Greenblatt. Ever. There is always the grave mention of the "last day." So final. So sad. In my super sexy fantasy farewell email I refuse to go gentle, but opt to rage, rage by "busting out in about 3 minutes." There is no air of finality, only one of action and optimism.

Next come the honorable mentions, some containing some severe Oscar Speech asslickery:

A) I truly appreciate the guidance and friendship that I received from those very special people in the Miami office, and some here also in the L.A. office. (SPECIALLY* PAULY JONES, CELIA MENDEZ, BLANCHE RIVERA, CARMEN SMITH, PAMELA CROSSMAN, JENNIFER ACKERMAN, and my entire bankruptcy group in Miami.)

B) I will miss all of my friends and colleagues from this great firm. I will not list names because they are too many and I'll probably leave someone out.

C) It has been a great learning experience, and I have enjoyed working with all of you.

D) It has been an honor and a pleasure to work with all of you here. I thank each of you for making this a most memorable and enjoyable experience.

E) It has been a great experience being part of the Greenblatt team, and I'm very grateful to have worked with all of you. A special thanks to everyone in Office Services and Records.

F) I just wanted to take this quick opportunity to write the word "fuck" in an email to everyone here in the office, since it seems to me that I am facing very few repercussions. So there it was. Fuck, that felt good. Oh! I did it again! Fuck! Oh no! There it was again! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck...

Fabulous future plans are always mentioned:

A) I am pursuing a different career as an Immigration Paralegal for a small practice in Beverly Hills.

B) I will be managing the Office Services Team at Stedford-Miles, another New York firm.

C) I was offered a new opportunity with the Bank of China.

D) I have accepted a paralegal position at Krakow Bank in midtown.

E) I am reenlisting.

F) I have decided that sitting among the Greenblatt family for 8,320 cumulative hours at a workstation that has compounded my lower back problems has not been worth the health insurance trade-off over the past 4 years, so I have chosen to accept a slightly more lucrative offer from Jamba Juice instead.

Then, after listing far too many methods by which to contact them in the future, our brave adventurers leave us with some choice and beautiful words d'finale:

A) Thank you!

B) Take care and I will miss you all,

C) Take care,

D) All the best.

E) Thx-

F) "I'd like to send a shout out to the whole world, keep on doin' the Humpty Dance, and to the ladies, peace and humptiness forever."
--The Digital Underground

When it comes to my last day, my final few moments at Greenblatt, I wonder what path I'll really choose. Four years is a long time to spend in a place, and in a lot of ways, the stability of this place was really instrumental in my feeling settled in New York. I suppose dignity will most likely be involved, but I also wonder if any truth will slip out unintentionally.

I'm curious, dear reader, if you've ever left a job making your real thoughts known to your employers. Did it matter enough to you, or were you just angry at yourself for having stayed so long in the first place? Have you ever truly raged? If so, I want to know about it. Feel free to comment with a name or anonymously.

Thanks for reading.

*UIC (Usage incorrect.)

The Hymen Story

I published this in an old blog and decided it needed to be re-published on my current one. Enjoy.

The Hymen Story

Never wrote this one down. Felt that it was time.

I'm a worker bee who has the unfortunate "official" job title of Director of First Impressions. Yes, that's a completely serious job title they have given us. We used to be receptionists, but one day in late 2004, some dweedlydoodlefuck in HR who doesn't actually work here anymore, decided that a bloated-title promotion without a raise was the best way to make us feel needed and important. I kid you not, ONE WEEK after receiving that title, someone sent me this Dilbert strip in the interoffice mail. See the follow-ups here, here, and here.

Anyway, my title changed but my job and my salary remarkably stayed the same. My morale as a theatre artist, however, had started to deteriorate at a fast rate. I had reached my dayjob half-life, and, like a CD at age 25, I was starting to get a little warped. I was having a particularly dumpy day shortly after my promotion, when the universe decided to toss me a bone.

I always answer the phone the same way: "Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen." When I first started it was "Good afternoon (morning)! Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen! How can I help you?! Can I lick your bottom for you?! Can I make you feel bigger than you are?! " It was out of control. Now the exclamations are abolished, and without apology. All day long it's a very-flat "Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen. Greenblatt-Turner, this is Jen." Occassionally, it's just "Greenblatt-Turner." I transfer the calls, I make the conference room reservations, I order the cars and the food so already-fat bastards can get even fatter.

This was the best phone call of my DOFI career:



The phone rings.

JEN: Greenblatt-Turner this is Jen.

LADY: (in a uniquely-urban accent) Um, yeeah. I need to confirm da spellin'a your firm's name.

JEN: Okay, go ahead.

LADY: A'ight. G-R-E-E-N-B-L-A-T-T-Hymen-T-U-R-N-E-R.

JEN: (giggling) Um, I-I'm sorry, ma'am. What did-Can-Can you-Can you say that again?
LADY sucks her teeth in annoyance.

LADY: (louder, growing more perturbed) G-R-E-E-N-B-L-A-T-T-HYMEN-T-U-R-N-E-R!

JEN starts laughing uncontrollably and holds the phone away
from her mouth.

LADY: Well, whatchu laughin' at? Is there a hymen or isn't there?

JEN: (laughing) Yes. Yes ma'am. You are absolutely right. There is a hymen.

LADY: Thank you.

JEN immediately hangs up the phone and calls everyone
she loves.


No, I didn't correct her. By my logic, it wasn't right to deprive another law firm D.O.F.I. of future joy. There is a karmic problem with this story. Everytime I have to use the word "hyphen" I really have to think about it. It's the same with "incest" and "incense." I can't really think of a situation in which mixing up those two words would be embarrassing, though.

********UPDATE*********

In the time that has passed since this phone call took place, our firm has become a larger, more experienced, and more dominant firm. We have also gained many, many more partners. Subsequently, we have lost our hymen.