Broke

So, I now have internet in the home. My first order of business was to try to sell things for more than their worth on craig’s list. I’m still pretty broke until Wednesday so I’m all about the money-making schemes and free samples.

I have to admit I’m sort of enjoying being temporarily poor. When I get over the shame and anxiousness that paralyzes me every so often I feel pretty free. At first I had some trouble accepting people’s generosity as it always makes me feel weak, but I got over that pretty quickly. The best part is not having money means scrounging around like a little street urchin. This used to be one of my favorite pretend games as a kid. When I was in high school we would sometimes spare change when we were short on $ for beer. Sometimes we'd just tell people we needed a dollar for the train and they'd actually give it to us.

Now that I’m a yuppie I’m a little more subtle about my scrounging. The day realized that paying my credit card would be like writing a second rent check I met up with my other poor friends in Union Square. I went to that little pizza place on the corner and got a slice of cheese. The employees there always give you your slice and then stand around talking while you wait for twenty minutes by the cash register at the other end of the counter.

I stood there for about ten seconds wondering if anyone would come to collect my two dollars. I was completely ignored, so I sat down and ate my pizza. After sitting and chatting for long enough I asked my friends if they thought I could walk out without paying. They said to give it a try. We sauntered past, pretending to be deep in conversation. I heard one of the guys say something, but I pretended not to hear.
Free pizza!
The next day the wheels were stolen off my bike.

After pizza we decided to go to the enormous new Whole Foods for samples. There wasn’t anything sitting out besides some big chunks of tomato-cheddar cheese, which we ate in large quantities. After grazing for a while at the salad bars we went over to the deli section where they’ll give you a sample in a little white cup of anything you ask for. I swear the whole store was full of people just sampling things. We even got the dessert guy to give us samples of bread pudding which tasted like French toast with caramel. After eating small quantities of about ten different things I admit I had a mild stomach ache, but it was worth it.

This Saturday I spent the day trying to sell things to Beacon’s Closet and bringing my coins to the counting machine at the grocery store. Both endeavors are good for short term money, but they are long term rip-offs. Beacon’s Closet gave me $8.37 for a brand new dress with the tags still on and a very pretty vintage lace shirt. They didn’t look twice at any of the clothes I actually wanted to get rid of.
The coin machine took 19¢ for every dollar.
Still there was something oddly satisfying about making money in these random ways. I bought a can of tuna and a box of spaghetti (not to be consumed together)for $1.74.

So, now that I’ve learned something about gratitude and generosity and scrounging I’m looking forward to Wednesday when I get paid. I’m going to stock up on fancy cheeses and go see Batman.

Big Cheese

Everyone’s all in a fuss that today was the ten year anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s death. It’s embarrassing to admit, but at one point that would have meant something to me. I was obsessed. There’s nothing like a cute suicide to stir a teenage girl’s heart. Now all I can think of are the mall kids in Nirvana t-shirts. Even at the time I knew it was a cheesy suburbanite obsession, but there was nothing else to dwell on and everyone has got to idolize a rockstar at least once in their youth. It was hardcore idolization. I was in love.

Now I know better and I’m wondering why Spin Magazine hasn’t moved on. In the nineties we thought everything sucked and were hoping desperately that someone would come up with something better, it seems they haven’t. I'm afraid the movers and shakers have gotten lazy and keep choosing re-runs. I’m ready for something new. Teen angst is so tiresome.

“Temper your affect.”

It's awful somtimes how clumsy I am about boys, but most of the time I figure I'm the only one who realizes. This weekend I found out that I’m not fooling anyone.

I was hanging by the bar talking to Nicole. Nicole—with her shock of blond hair and tan, chiseled bicep. All eyes in the room were on her, but it was a gang of fat, rowdy, 30 year-old thugs from Queens who offered us drinks. They were crude mother fuckers and insisted that she flex her muscle in exchange for the beverages.
“You want a drink?” She asked me. I shrugged, “ok” and modestly she complied. Telling them, "you know this doesn't mean we're going home with you or anything like that, right?" So straight forward and yet, flirtatious enough to get what she wants. I don't think I could ever be so cooly charming.

I had what I considered to be polite conversation with the portly, somewhat pathetic gentleman who bought my drink. I didn’t intend to talk for long, but I couldn’t figure out how to end it. His friend came up after a few minutes and half shouted, “get her number now, ’cause I wanna leave.” This was probably the most awkward moment of my life, but there was no way in hell that I was surrendering my phone number so I shook both their hands and said “nice meeting you, thanks for the drink” before slipping back to where Nicole had already joined the others.

After a few more minutes past a large pock-marked man in a leather jacket came up to me, I recognized him from their group. He said in stern careful words, "you need to temper your affect on men. You don't know what you're doing, and my friend, he's totally lost it. Learn how to temper your affect." I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but instead I nodded. I was annoyed, but more-so I was embarrassed and a little guilty feeling.

“Temper your affect.”

I didn’t want to talk to his friend even for a minute, but it seemed to mean so much to him and maybe because I was drunk I was emitting all kinds of false warmth, saying shit like, “you live in Queens and went to BU? Wow, what do you know! What a coincidence!” As if I thought we might be soul mates and that perhaps he should propose on the spot so we could have a big June wedding and then settle down in Whitestone where I’d pump out five kids and nag him every weekend to finish the deck.

I’m always too nice to people I don’t give a shit about and too afraid to talk to the ones I’m interested in. Next time I’m going to say “thanks for the drink,” and wander off to rub up against to someone sexy. That’ll teach him to buy drinks for strange girls with flimsy arms.

Maybe now is not the time to ask for a raise.

I don't think I can even write about last night, for fear that it will somehow make things worse. All I will say is that I went to a president's day party at my co-worker's house and ended up puking in front of my boss. My only solace is that the managing edtor told me not to worry, because she smokes pot and doesn't give a shit.