Trudging all over the city this weekend = two minor celebrity sightings!

On Saturday, Blane and I took a turn about the Financial District with a charming realty broker called Jesse.

Our apartment lease ends in four weeks so, under much pressure to find a new home, we were testing out down downtown for some down deals on studios with WATERFRONT VIEWS!!!!!!!!!!!! (That’s the way realty brokers talk.) Apparently the mammoth residential buildings in the Financial District are currently having trouble finding residents to fill their super-slick apartments (after all the super-slick finance dudes were fired late last year). Prices on apartments are PRICE TO MOVED, which just about brings a tiny little closet-size (COSY!) studio into our price range.

While wandering down Wall Street we had one of the most boring celebrity sightings possible, walking past this man:


I had no idea who he was. Blane, however, was mildly mildly interested to recognize James Altucher, the television talking-head who specializes in bringing the technical strategies used by hedge fund managers to the general public…. sdjhfouwiedivfu

Sorry, I fell asleep and my giant breasts just hit the keyboard.

Anyway, after Jesse showed us about twelve different apartments (which, after seeing only one, all started to look the same) we decided the Financial District was not for us. It’s too impersonal, too concrete, too suits. Basically, it’s too James Altucher.

On Sunday, Blane and I adjusted our apartment hunt to focus on the East Village. After the exhausting Financial District marathon of LUXERY STUDIO!!!!! after LUXERY STUDIO!!!!!, we decided we needed to more selective.

After looking at every single listing on Craigslist we found one apartment that actually seemed like a good deal. There was an Open House for it at 2pm, so we headed over to 10th Street and First Avenue to meet Cory the Sleazy Broker; blonde tips in his hair, sunglasses indoors (and at night obviously). We arrived at 2.15pm to find one girl already waiting out the front of the building. Cory arrived five minutes later and took us all up to the fifth floor.

The apartment was lovely! I spent about one minute looking at it before whispering to Blane, “We need to apply for this one before that girl does!” After getting a brief nod of affirmation from Blane, I walked over to Cory the Sleazy Broker.

“What do you think?” Cory asked me.
“Uh, actually we’d like to apply for it.” I said.
“Great! Let’s go downstairs to talk.”
I turned to the girl and cajoled, “You didn’t want to apply for it did you?”
“Well, I only started looking today,” She replied.
“Yeah, you can’t choose the first one you see.”

The girl nodded, and I felt a bit low for taking advantage of her ignorance. The apartment seems like a steal: one bedroom, top floor, facing the street, beautiful old building, two big windows, two (now ornamental) fireplaces.

After a quick conversation with Cory, Blane and I walked back through the East Village to meet Cory at his office and put a deposit on the apartment. On our way we passed a group of girls sitting on their front stoop looking extra trendy and BAM! Second celebrity sighting. Sort of.


I see a lot of girls in New York who make me think, “You must be a model.” But this is the first instance where I’ve recognized one. Agyness Deyn. Ms. Uncompromising Hair.

A recent New York Times article describes her as, “genuinely sweet, sunny and slightly dim, her punkette look the thinnest candy coating over an interior filled primarily with airy, whipped pink goo and nuvo-hippie, gestalt-y wow-ness.”

This also describes how I think of the East Village. It’s stylish but in a candy-coated obvious way. I think once Blane and I move in we’ll learn to recognize the difference between the hipster icing and the old East Village; the one that was depicted in the flashy Broadway musical, ‘Rent’.

Okay, obviously I don’t know anything about the East Village.

But, Ms. Deyn,
Neighbour,
I am moving in.

What I said in a job interview today:

Office manager: What salary do you expect to work for?

Me: Well, $xxxx would be my minimum.

Office manager: Yes, that's fair.

Me: However. Obviously, the higher the pay the higher my commitment to the company would be.

Office manager: *silence as my non-altruistic ambition rings greedily in her ears*

_________________

PS: Apart from that rotten clanger the interview went pretty well. I remain hopeful.

The return from Mars

Whey!

It's been a while, eh. Not really sure where to pick up with this blog (which is probably why i've been avoiding it so long), so i will give a brief summation of where i'm at right now... both meta physically and mortally.

My mortal self is in Manchester. I returned back to Oz with a great song and dance back in April, only to decide within 24 hours of being back on home soil that it wasn't where i wanted to be. So after a three week 'holiday', i returned to Manchester on a wing and a prayer.

Reasons at the time of making this decision were probably quite sound, and after all that's happened recently, i don't regret it... I left Melbourne 18 months earlier, unhappy with my life, yet motivated to rebuild else-where. When time came to leave Manchester, i wasn't unhappy... i had a group of friends, one in particular i was very close to, a job i didn't hate and enough distance between my family and i to keep me in sound mind. It seemed obvious.

And now, here we are two months after my return, and i have slipped back into life as usual, yet so many things have turned upside down in the last six months, two months, two weeks... things i expected would remain have changed, the life i had this time 12 months ago, even one month ago is nothing but a distant memory and i feel like i've lost myself somewhere in the mix.

I left my heart in San Fransisco.
I left my head in 2008.

It's always difficult to lose a friend when it's a one sided falling out, and that's what has happened to me. Someone i considered a good friend, my best friend even, has dropped me like i'm hawt. Truth is, i think he's a bit lost himself, and i - through the sheer fact that i have been so close, available, willingly indulgent - seem to have become a bit of collateral loss. A friendship that went too far, got too intense and essentially, imploded. It's possible i wore him out. It's also possible he is just being a bit of a dick.

So what does every good woman do when they've been dropped (romantically or otherwise)? She turns on herself. And that's what i've done, oh boy... the last two weeks in my head have been a real party! I don't know if it's a party i've had to have - if fact, i'd probably have preferred to sit this one out, but it was a cracker, though i'm hoping the party's over now... all that remains is the red wine stains on the carpet, the cigarette ash on my coffee table and the half eaten kebab by my pillow (though secretly admit there's probably a lot more partying to be done).

Naturally, my instant reaction was to try and 'fix' things that had gone wrong. Blame myself, let others blame me, accept being yelled at, make excuses for those who don't deserve them, allow myself to be ignored and not only treated like rubbish once - but actually keep coming back for more! All in what is now obvious, a vein attempt to diffuse a situation. Calm things down, i thought, i'll stick up for myself later.

I never thought i could have stood for such treatment, to be honest... i've said it before - no middle, no half, no change of heart, people don't get many chances with me, however, a punishment must fit a crime and i kind of think with really good friends, i'm willing to give them a chance, time, whatever they need, if i've really annoyed them. And there's no doubt, in this situation, i really annoyed him. Whether he was justified in his reaction - well, it's subjective, but i don't think so. So i'm at the point now where i'm digging my heels in... how long am i supposed to persist for, in this situation?

After my return to Manchester, i faced a lot of questions from people at home, family and friends wanted to know what my plan was. Well, truth of the matter - there was no plan. I didn't know where i was going to live, if i was going to be able to get a job or how long i'd be staying for. These 'concerns' were aired in a ruthless manner - and not one to be told what to do by anyone, i completely withdrew to the point where i hadn't spoken to anyone from home, including my parents, until about a week or so ago.

These people are my friends. These people i ignored, the people who persisted in contacting me, the people who never stopped caring or worrying. These are my people, and van damn when it all turned to shit, if they weren't there for me. I guess what's most disappointing is that i thought he was one of those friends, not someone who was going to cause the anguish. Maybe i gave the friendship more credit than it deserved? Maybe he meant more to me than i ever meant to him?

So where am i left... i appear to be down one bezzie mate and suddenly have loads of time on my hands. Time to think (which is probably the last thing i should be doing) and i've forgotten what i used to do before my life became absorbed with this person. I used to read, i know that. And i believe i used to keep a blog. The blog i ignored, the blog that persisted in being the elephant in the room and the blog that never stopped caring or worrying!

I hope my friendship can be restored - i am hurt and i am angry, but i know i can get past those things at this stage. Above all, i miss my friend and want him back... but make no promises on this state of mind staying the way it is - i've not got much patience for being ignored and before too soon he may well end up with a brick through his front window.

It's nice to be back, bloggy.

Tattoo Test

I'm very interested in tattoos. But I would never get one. I can't get one because I'm afflicted with a condition called 'change-mind-a-lot'. This condition seriously impairs my ability to make permanent decisions. I just don't like to commit (the only reason I got married was because my mum reassured me, "You can always get divorced if things don't work out." She knows.).

Anyway, I've been watching heaps of Miami Ink, LA Ink, and London Ink this weekend.

And now I really want a tattoo.

However, it's risky. I'm too fussy about lines and artwork and symmetrical positioning... I know if I got a tattoo it would be a disaster. The only way it would ever happen is if I could overcome the following issues:

1. I find an original design/drawing I really like and would be suitable for a tattoo. The test is if I decide I like it and then in six months decide I still like it (it has to be this long so I can work out if my tattoo choice is just a fashion-trend or not).

2. I can get some serious scientific proof that my tattoo will age well. I have freckly skin that burns and blotches easily. Not the best for long life tattoo clarity?

3. I find a great tattoo artist, or I learn to tattoo and do it myself. As someone who likes to draw a little bit, I don't really like the idea of someone else drawing on me. It would have to be an artist I really really really admire. Like maybe Manet. Or William Kentridge.

So, my tattoo is obviously not going to happen.

For example.

I saw this really cool tattoo on London Ink last night. A girl got her pet chickens tattooed on her arm. Which sounded weird at first, but the artist did a brilliant job. I was so surprised... he used this psychedelic coloring on a really stylized three-chicken design. I loved it.


But now, only twenty-four hours later my love is fading. It has no meaning (to me). It looks very nice, but not in a forever nice way.

My tattoo test for myself is to see if I still like this in six months time.

The America In Me

It seems appropriate this 4th of July weekend to think about America from an egotistical point of view. How is this country is getting to me? How is this country getting into me? I’ve been living here almost a year now and, while my Aussie accent remains strong (Mum says so!), there are definitely a few areas I’ve compromised on.

So, to the list!

I am American because…
I say ‘cell’ phone.
I write the date backwards: 7/4/09 = 4th of July 2009
I’ve switched spelling (I did this one quick smart!)... ‘s’ to ‘z’, the archaic spelling for ‘color’ etc.
I’ve recently started adding the extra comma to separate list items (I don’t like doing this one, it just looks stupid… eg. Dot, Mars, Emo, and Sally had a big fight. However, this is the way they do it in America and I don’t want it to look like I cant grammar right.)
I wear ‘sweatpants’ and runners in public (I would never do this in Melbourne).
I like filter coffee better than espresso-based coffee.
I use expressions like “let’s make this happen” and “we need to motivate” (although I am being a little bit ironic when I do this).
I love bagels and cream cheese.
I read the New York Times and never even bother to check The Age online any more.

I am not American because…
I always convert the temperature to Celsius.
Measuring in inches and feet drives me nut (same with miles per hour).
I refuse to refer to anyone’s mother as ‘mom’.
I can’t write or speak about ‘our nation’. I’ll always say ‘in America’.
I will never go to the gym (I know people do this in Australia, but it’s a lot more popular in America).
I have no idea about all those M places (Minnesota, Missouri, Minneapolis). Where are they? Are they states or cities? Do people like living there?
I’m not afraid of the word ‘socialism’.
I still freak a little any time someone says to me 'God bless you' (and not because I just sneezed).

Celebrity RIPs

Wow, I was just reading an article about Farrah Fawcett's fame. The journalist was really scrapping around trying to find 'highlights' in Fawcett's career. In the end the best she could say was, "Not all of her performances will stand the test of time, but what is worth remembering is how hard Farrah Fawcett tried."

Then my husband came home from work and asked me if I'd heard the big news.

"Farrah Fawcett died?" I guessed, half joking.

"No! Michael Jackson died," He replied.

"Wow!"

What is this feeling you have when someone really famous dies? It's like morbid excitement, and it's completely guilt free. Poor Michael, he was such weirdo, it's impossible to empathize with his life.

Although, Latoya will be sad. That makes me sad.

Anyway, there are a million things that can be said about Michael Jackson. I'm working reception at a law firm tomorrow, and I know what I'm going to be reading about all day...

Where does one begin to sum up his life?

Are you there Brooklyn Museum? It's me, Dot.

The Brooklyn Museum's website is like water to my oil.

I've been trying for a year to access this website (not all the time, but once every couple of months) and my server just won't let me in. Very frustrating!

Can anyone else access it: http://www.brooklynmuseum.org/

I called up the museum to comment - because that's what I do these days - and the nice lady at the information desk told me no one had ever called up to complain about the website before. She thought I was some Luddite who didn't know how to use the internet and made me read out to her the exact web address I was typing in. w w w dot b r o o k etc.

What is going on? Is it just me, or does this website not work?

No! Oh, no! It's not what you think! Noooo!

There must be a word of this feeling: when you have a delayed realization that somebody thinks you were doing something gross, which you weren't actually doing, but they've walked away from you thinking you were, and you suddenly realize what they must think, and you want to call them back and say, 'I wasn't just doing what you think I was doing!'

There must be a word for that.

For example.

I went to the laundromat today. I did a nice little half-load of laundry (it's good to be on top of these things and have your favorite underwear on stand-by for that last-minute job interview you get called in for...). Once everything was done I stuffed the clean clothes into my laundry bag. I never sort and fold at the laundromat because the lady who works at there doesn't like me, so I don't dilly-dally. These days I like to wash, dry, smash, grab, stuff laundry into mesh bag and run out.

On my way home I passed my favorite little wine store. It's one of those places run by a real New Yorker, who has been in the neighborhood forever. If a Wine Megamart ever tried to open next door, and put her out of business, the whole neighborhood would boycott Megamart, and then Hollywood would make a movie out of the boycott staring Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan.

I decided to go to Kathleen's Wine and buy a little something to go with dinner. I entered the store, which is really small, and put my laundry bag on the counter while I browsed. After selecting my wine I returned to the counter to pay.

Kathleen gave me a really icky look. I didn't understand why. She is normally super friendly, but today she was cold cold cold. I tried to engage her by making bland comment about the rain. But she ignored it!

In the end I just paid for the wine, grabbed my laundry and left.

It was only once I was out of the store that I realized that Kathleen thought I'd left my dirty laundry - in its see-through mesh bag, exposing a whole heap of colored cotton underwear - on her counter. No wonder she was dark at me.

I didn't just do what you think I just did! It was clean laundry!

Now the lady at the laundromat and Kathleen of Kathleen's Wines don't like me.

(See below for another example of that feeling you get when you realize somebody thinks you were doing something gross, which you weren't actually doing, but they've walked away from you thinking you were, and you suddenly realize what they must think, and you want to call them back and say, 'I wasn't just doing what you think I was doing!')

I am not an animal either!

Blogging Fox News Style

Breaking News
I just realised the job application I sent out today began with the sentence, "I am wish to apply for the position of Administrator" Idiot! I don't deserve employment!

Latest News
My lovely neighbours - Enin and the French girl - have brought a massive new sound system for their teevee. Tonight they watching something that sounds like Jurassic Park. Every time a dinosaur takes a step my bedroom rumbles like I live next door to an elevated train line. Just like Elwood in the Blues Brothers, only his apartment was bigger.

Current News
I'm temping again as receptionist at the property management company. When I left the office today my supervisor said to me, "Good-luck kid!"

Not My News
Mars is back in Manchester. She returned briefly to Australia last month and decided it wasn't for her. After completing, what she describes as, 'the world's biggest u-turn', she is currently back in the UK working a (sort-of-legal) position on the phones. She'll probably yell at me for blogging this. However, I suspect she no longer even reads this blog... testing... testing... are you there Mars?

I always knew those PETA people were stupid...

But it turns out they are also opportunistic, fundamentalist, heartless... blahs! I have no words.

Here's why:

PETA's latest ad campaign in Wichita seeks to capitalize on the shooting death of abortion doctor George Tiller in order to promote animal rights.

The bully brains of PETA's Wichita chapter are seeking to display billboards that urge both pro-choice and pro-life proponents to, simply, go vegetarian.

Here are the two ads:


Lindsay Rajt, the campaign manager for PETA, openly admits these ads were inspired by Tiller's death.

Rajt says, "While our hearts go out to the family and friends of George Tiller, we are hoping that these billboards will make those who are rightly shocked by his murder sit up and realize that behind closed doors, millions of animals are suffering every day, and that we as individuals can help to reduce the amount of violence and suffering in the world."

This group will do anything for attention.

We've all seen the ads of pretty celebrities posing nude for a cause, but other acts of ridiculousness PETA has stooped to included campaigning the town of Hamburg, New York to change its name to Veggieburg, and creating a 'Got Beer?' ad that encouraged college students to replace their milk mustaches with foam ones.

These campaigns are fluffy. They convey the idea that going vegetarian (or vegan, preferably) is a lifestyle choice. It is fun, and sometimes funny, and will make you feel good.

Yet, PETA have also constantly produced shock-material; the kind of ads that punch you in the face and scream, 'Murderer!'

In 2003, PETA held an exhibition 'Holocaust on a Plate' that juxtaposed images of people in concentration camps with pictures of animals on farms. In 2005, the 'Are Animals the New Slaves?' campaign compared images of slaves with chained animals.

How can an organization reconcile the meanings behind such overarching eclectic imagery? It's a mess. A moral mess of a message that comes out loud, shrill and stupefying:

• Take your clothes off if you're sexy, don't wear fur and be sexy.
• Fight for the rights of those who have been oppressed - the victims of war, slavery, labor abuse, discrimination - as embodied today by the little chickies.
• Your fisherman Daddy is a murderer.
• Your nostalgia for visiting the circus as a child is cruel.
• Your abuse of alcohol is fine, just don't drink milk.
  

And now,

• Your decision to have an abortion has nothing to do with the ethical treatment of animals. However, if you're feeling unsure you can ease your heart a little by choosing to be vegetarian.

Shut-up, PETA!!!!! Shut-up! Shut-up! Shut-up!

Shut-up and listen to me... I will neither 'choose' nor 'go' vegetarian. I have thought about it in the past (on grounds of the environmental damage caused by those farting cows) but now I won't. You've bullied me into stubborn irrationality.

PETA, you've yelled at people for too long. You've pranced around naked, making meat-eaters feel ugly and overweight. You hate us, yet you are obsessed with us. And now, you are daring to pull the memory of George Tillers into your self-righteous world.

GO AWAY PETA! Go and play with your baby kittens and your plastic sandals. Don't you dare turn the issue of abortion into a 'facade' for shock-tactic techniques that service your own agenda.

That's really... ah! Again, I have no words.