In this week’s magazine, Tina Fey writes about the lessons she learned as a writer on “Saturday Night Live.” Fey and other women use the ladies’ room; “the men urinate in cups.” Harvard graduates write “commercial parodies about people wearing barrels after the 1929 stock-market crash”; improvisers from Second City create “loud drag characters named Vicki and Staci screaming their catchphrase over and over.” Click over to the site for more vintage Tina Fey video.
Musings of the Yogis
Typically, one of my favorite parts of my day is reading Yogi’s highly confusing tea-bag quotes. These musings of the Yogis are meant to inspire you, so every morning you can walk to work with cartoon birds on your shoulder as you nom-nom into your egg and cheese. The other day I ordered some Yogi detox tea for the office (read: myself) which claims to “promote healthy liver and kidney function.” Clearly, the only people who are buying this tea have a special (i.e. destructive, competitive, loving) relationship with alcohol. These are the people who wince after a night of heavy drinking as said organs are internally giving them the finger (thank you, j.munro for image of angry organs). Although I do not fall into this category of people (every night), I decided to give the tea a try.
This is how my morning typically goes:
Tea Bag: “You must first give prosperously to your nearest neighbor, before you will yourself prosper indefinitely.”
Me: “WHAT?!”
Day continues.
I was fine with this, until the morning after a late night out. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to really test out the stuff, yet upon reading Detox quote I realized this was not in fact the case. My brain hurt even more than usual, and left me needing an additional egg and cheese just to cope with the pain. It just wasn’t right. Why subject an ailing customer to such philosophizing?
I think Yogi could profit by marketing their Detox Tea quotes specifically to this certain niche of tea-lovers. Not necessarily to inspire (pretty hard to inspire someone with an alcohol-induced migraine!), but to instead help them out, advise…or something.
Here’s some suggestions (Yogi people get out ya pens):
- STOP. Or the American government is going to take your baby.
- Sorry, but that wasn’t a woman.
- You can find your pants on W 12th street outside of the bodega.
- It was falafel. You ate falafel.
- Don’t return to any bar/restaurant/establishment anywhere in Astoria without a disguise.
- Find Louie the cab driver somewhere in Coney Island and apologize, though he probably won’t accept.
- No, it doesn’t happen to everybody.
- Those five “unknown” calls were NOT from your ex. Grandma’s been having phone trouble.
- Your money is under your fedora.
My Favorite Things Volume I: Things to do besides socialize
Many people before me have declared their “Favorite Things.” So, in the same vein as Oprah, Barney Stinson (on How I Met Your Mother—if you don’t get this reference, for shame) and all those girls on Facebook who insist on dividing their favorites with periods, so I know that their love for “tea with fresh mint.l’oreal hair gel.people who aren’t afraid to go barefoot.freshly baked baguettes.the color magenta.laughter.” is for serious, I’m starting a “Favorite Things” series. But please, don’t expect any cashmere slippers with my initials on them in the mail or a giant paragraph of random foods.feelings.beautyproducts.bodyparts. Let me explain…
It’s time for me to face da music—I’m old. Or at least, I feel pretty old. Case in point: no matter where I am or what I’m doing, I typically find myself asking “Is it time for me to go lay down yet?” I may be right in the middle of my roarin’ 20s (I can use that phrase here, right?) but the past few years of going out until 3AM on Tuesday nights, talking to people about “unemployment” and then (luckily) “work,” eating too many tacos (or hotdogs, pizza, burgers, etc—the list goes on), listening to the same Usher song on repeat and never EVER exercising has left me in a zombie-like, vampire-esque state of mind and attractiveness level. It has also banished me to my couch most nights. I thrive on the daydream of going out on weeknights in my neighborhood, meeting a bearded brooding Brooklyn man with a dog and a beat-up car who chops wood in his backyard for an inexplicable reason. I don’t know if such humans actually exist, but it’s what I tend to imagine I’m missing out on when I’m hunched in front of my too-small TV with popcorn, cracker crumbles or sometimes a mixture of both on my lap.
I know I shouldn’t complain (though this doesn’t deter me) since my level of fatigue is completely self-inflicted. I work two jobs 7 days a week, which is extremely tiring, and not just because of the working 7 days a week without a break part. Though I realized how draining it would be to work a 9:30-6:30 during the week and a waiting job on the weekends, I didn’t understand what it meant to have waiter friends who work Friday/Saturday nights. In order to socialize with both them and my 9-5 type friends, my life goes something like this: working, working, drinking, staying up until 5am/working at 9am, tripping down the subway stairs, working, working, eating lots of cheese, insomnia, working, drinking, working, working, drooling on the floor like a zombie. For my Life’s sake I’m hoping this is just a phase. Technically, it has to be unless I develop some sort of meth addition, which Fergie taught us might not be too bad—it could mean an Oprah appearance, which everyone know leads to a life of fame, fortune and singing annoyingly repetitive songs with a bunch of weird dudes.
Note: all of these things are better when performed with a roommate or friend, especially while drinking too much wine. Though being alone is also okay (right?!?). Reading is not on this list because you should NEVER read, and I repeat DO NOT READ. Just don’t do it. It will leave you smarter and with fewer friends than you began with (unless that’s what you’re looking for). And now for the list…
Have a Spa Night: Everyone needs some quality “me” time no matter how depressing this may sound, and with socializing out of the picture, why not make this alone time relaxing instead of anxiety-ridden? First, you’ll have to take a trip to your local pharmacy. Now, it’s important to remember—time spent pampering yourself doesn’t have to be expensive (for me, it would be counter-intuitive for an at-home spa night to be expensive since when I spend too much money my heart palpitates, my hair falls out and I spontaneously bleed form the nose—just kidding you guys!). All you need is a big carton of Epson salts, a cheapo face mask (Queen Helene has some nice selections) and a jar of Vaseline (located in the baby aisle, but don’t let that stop you—adults can use it too). Next stop is your corner bodega or wherever the closest vegetables are located. All you need there is a big ol’ cucumber, and maybe a can of soup for dinner if you’re feeling fancy. At home, fill up a bucket with hot water and Epson salt, face mask-up and position yourself in front of the TV with your soup in hand. Although watching TV while relaxing with cucumbers on your eyes presents a hurdle, this can be easily overcome (for those of you with glasses—for you people with working eyes there’s DVR? Music?). It’s simple really. All you have to do is stab out the seed part of the cucumber slices and position them in the eye part of your glasses and voila! You have a cheap and easy spa night without having to compromise your TV watching. Once your face mask is all dry and cracking onto your clothes, wash it off with warm water then swiftly apply a generous amount of Vaseline to your face. It will leave you looking like a sweaty murderer back from the kill, but once that wears off your face will be better-looking than a baby’s butt.
Spend way too much time in the bathroom: What’s the worst part about socializing? Not being able to spend sufficient time in the bathroom, of course! Think of all the things you could do in there when no one’s outside waiting for you to finish your riveting conversation about their new website dedicated to a “different kind of LOLCAT.” Just go crazy in there: bring your laptop, watch some internet TV, look at the pictures in a magazine (no READING), paint your toe nails, shave your chin (?), take a weird bath in your creepy apartment tub, sing the Glee renditions of songs from the 80s, take your roommates acne medication. Just do whatever comes to you.
Watch free Internet porn: You’re alone; you have a computer. What’s the problem?
Order a Pizza: Ever since watching Home Alone as a kid, I’ve always wanted to order a pizza and be able to say “A whole cheese pizza just for me.” and then actually consume the entire pie. Unfortunately, I could never fulfill this fantasy because of my stupid friends and family members getting in way. So, go ahead. Order that pizza. Repeat after Macaulay. Eat the whole thing.
Clean the house: I’m a Virgo. According to Susan Miller, this means that having a clean and organized living space is necessary for me to function (apparent life problem #1). What I like to do when I’m cleaning is make an event of it—have a glass of wine, put on some sexy (Justin Timberlake) music and wear the corset I bought for last year’s Bettie Page Halloween costume. What’s tricky about this is you need to plan this cleaning adventure in advance, when your roommate is home/available to lace you into it (unless you’re one of those freaks who can do this on your own). If you don’t have a corset and feel like spending too much money on an amazing one, I recommend Orchard Corset (http://www.orchardcorset.com/) on Orchard between Stanton and Rivington. It’s run by a Hasidic family, and after the mother/owner fondles you into corset after corset you’ll: A. want her to be your way too touchy aunt, and B. want a corset despite the price and lack of places to wear it. Oh, and then your house will be clean and you can function again. Don’t spill wine on your corset.
Now go forth, and live out your anti-social fantasies.
Mr. Edwards’s string of successful movies ended in the late 1960s, as did his first marriage, to the actress Patricia Walker. His marriage to Ms. Andrews, the Academy Award-winning musical comedy star, sprouted a year after his divorce. At the time, Ms. Andrews’s public image was of the endlessly cheerful governess she had played in “The Sound of Music.” According to a joint interview the couple gave Playboy in 1982, Mr. Edwards, who had never met Ms. Andrews, wowed a party crowd that was speculating on the reason for her phenomenal success. “I can tell you exactly what it is,” he said. “She has lilacs for pubic hair.” Ms. Andrews sent Mr. Edwards a lilac bush shortly after they started dating, and their marriage lasted 41 years.
How to be a fatty carnival employee at home!
One of the perks (maybe…) of my office management job is I tend to find weird things on Amazon. And then I buy them.
“Who am I…”
When I hear this question I automatically envision Zoolander, hair gelled, head tilted back pondering at the moon until Hansel whizzes by on a razor scooter, splashing disease-ridden New York street water into his heavily made-up face. What I find disturbing, more so than Ben Stiller’s pouting abilities, is that a scene from Zoolander constitutes the deepest reaction I have to question that many find extremely important.
I’ve never been one to ponder such vast ideas—even as a child, I never asked my parents the “big” questions TV has lead me to believe most children ask at one point or another (i.e. “Where do babies come from?” “Why is the sky blue?” “Where is the g-spot?” etc.). My brother, providing a strangely villainous contrast, asked one particular question repeatedly, typically while holding a fake sword, knife or gun to your throat. “What’s your middle name?” he’d growl, in a disturbingly guttural voice for a six year old. That adorable little habit, combined with his affinity for hacking up the backyard with a hatchet for hours on end, led us to believe he was doomed: a serial killer in the making. Luckily for his would-be victims, he mellowed with age, choosing instead to play sports, drink, go to school and smoke some occasional weed like the rest of us non-homicidals.
Growing up I too had questions, yet ever conflicted by a DIY complex, I assumed time and experience would provide me with answers. One question, however, seemed to plague me. “What’s a dingle berry?” I remember asking my father one night while driving home from a soccer game. “It’s poop that’s stuck to your butt hair,” he said, without flinching.
A few weeks ago I went to San Gennaro, the 84 year old festival Little Italy. I was excited to go, proud even, and was filled with the same rapture I experience when watching The Sopranos. Even when Tony’s in the middle of curb stomping someone, the New Jersey streets, the Frank Sinatra playing in the background and the promise of someone cooking sauce in the next scene—it all creates a warm, tea-belly feeling that reminds me of home. And in many ways, mostly related to the over-eating, being at San Gennaro reminded me of my family. Personally, I was seduced by the giant pots of sautéed onions, embarrassed by the t-shirts stating “Save a stallion, ride an Italian” and aprons with phrases such as “Kiss the cook, or sleep with the fishes!” and titillated by, well, the underlying (or in my case, self-induced) pressure to stuff yourself with sausage and peppers, zeppoles, pizza, calzones, cannolis, fried Oreos (err, not so Italian) and/or pasta before you wash it all down with daiquiris in glasses taller than most children, beer by the flagon (don’t know what that means, just know it was the common beer measurement during Lord of the Rings times) and enough wine to make your teeth turn black (for me, one sip—they’re quite porous). Walking down Mulberry Street that night was comparable (or what I imagine so) to maneuvering amongst cattle in the holding pen right before the slaughter. Though instead of being rendered unconscious by “an electric shock of 300 volts and 2 amps to the back of the head,” (Thanks, Wikipedia!) I consumed an entire bag of pre-dinner zeppoles, thus giving myself a similar sensation (and depressingly similar look) to a cow.
For many people I know, ethnicity is a huge part of how they define themselves. Then there’s what I think of as the true “Americans,” such as myself. In short, I’m an ethnicity mutt—mostly Italian and Ukrainian, with smatterings of French and British, Polish and some other country/group of peoples I habitually forget. Unless my ancestors were a roaming pack of gypsy whores, I don’t really understand how this is possible.
The Ukrainian part of my ancestry is a bit dubious. Most of my life I believed I was “Russian,” and as a third grader in Social Studies class this was a particular source of pride. During a festive and craft-filled “Ethnicity Week” I remember constructing an artistically challenged version of St-Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow, bringing in some sort of potato dish and gushing over my ancestors, who were different from the other 17 kids in my pathetically small Catholic, and mostly Italian, middle school class. It wasn’t until recently that I found out the truth—my other ancestors were Ukrainian, not Russian.
“Who cares,” said my mother, “Being Russian is cooler.”
“Excuse me?” I said. “I’m pretty sure your ancestors didn’t feel that way.”
“Oh, it’s the same thing,” said my mostly Italian father. “They were Russian, then they weren’t—it went back and forth.”
This brief and highly inaccurate history lesson somehow managed to teach me something—I know very little about where my family comes from. Sometimes I think my mother bases our supposed ancestry on the European countries she finds the most interesting. But then again, the Italian part is hard to dispute.
My last name, Alfano, is quite clearly Italian. Still, growing up in New Jersey with a heavily accented mother presented some challenges: it took me years to stop pronouncing it al-FAN-o, and finally pronounce it correctly as alf-A-no, which is obvious to anyone who knows anything about vowels. But being Italian meant more to me than a name; it meant Sunday pasta dinners and dominos, white candy canes and red poinsettias at Christmas, it meant manhunt and wiffle-ball with my cousins, cake and coffee for dessert—always, sneaking beer and cigarettes on the roof after Scarface; and mostly, it meant my grandfather’s giant eggplant of a nose, and how it seemed contagious; all of his children and grandchildren cursed with the thing—the true mark of an Alfano.
“Nose jobs are stupid,” he always said, smirking. Ninety-nine percent of everything he says is in jest (this is a man who used to dye portions of his naturally white beard black just to confuse people). “So you get rid of your honker, but then what happens when you have a kid? Do you get the baby a nose-job?”
“I think they typically wait a while, dad” said my aunt.
When I was four I remember chasing my grandfather through his house, wild with excitement—according to him, the Easter bunny was here, in the house, and if we ran fast enough we could catch him. But by the time we reached the guest room the window was open—the crafty bunny had made his escape, and was on his way to commit another breaking and entering in the house down the road. My grandfather saw my disappointment, in fact he had created it intentionally, but as I stared out that window hoping for a glimpse of rabbit he motioned to behind the door, where an Easter basket taller than my freakishly tall child-self (I was three feet tall at 2 years old: A-dorable) sat wrapped in pink paper. It was glorious, and filled with enough chocolate to kill a man.
When I was in college, deep-seeded issues began to eat away at my family. My grandparents moved out of the house where my father grew up in New Jersey to Connecticut, where they were closer to my aunts, who were older and could spend more time taking care of them. And just like that Sunday dinners became holiday gatherings, holiday gatherings became only Christmas, and eventually it all just stopped. The issue was too big, lines had been crossed—holidays became the four of us.
To me, “who am I” is not even a question. This Thanksgiving, I know my mom will make a turkey the size of a Buick—her annual overcompensation effort. I tend to joke with her that despite the amount of turkey on my plate I’d need something stronger to hallucinate a room full of people. Despite our lack of guests, we do have mirrors. I was lucky—in my case, my mother’s small-nosed Ukrainian genes helped to counteract my grandfather’s Italian eggplant syndrome. Yet for good face or bad face, it’s still recognizable, and somehow comforting. All I have to do is look in the mirror, and there it is—that goddamn nose.
