The other night I went to a Russian party with lots of rich Russian folk. I didn't know anyone at the party except my one Russian friend who invited me. Okay, less of a friend and more of a person who I recently discovered has my addict's habit of waiting at exactly 7:45 am every morning at the cafeteria to get my coffee and bagel fix. We usually smile and toe the floor awkwardly, making absurd comments like, "Gee, I really need my coffee this morning!" or "I really need to start buying own coffee instead of this cafeteria shit." All the while attempting to keep our eyes from roving maniacally towards the freshly brewing coffee. Needless to say, we've bonded. Sort of.
Being at a party where everyone speaks Russian is an odd experience. Being one of the few non-Russians-- a dull black head among freakishly bright bobbing blondes is even odder. There really is not much to do but swallow lots of vodka. I dragged Melon and Licorice with me and we started drinking alcohol like water. When we finally spotted a couple of American students, we nearly fell on them. Turns out they were a dud. One of the guys started to attempt to talk to me, and desperate for English, I waited to hear what he had to say. Nothing much, apparently. Instead, he was one of those guys who stared a lot and didn't say much. In normal life, or dating life, this would be GREAT. He'd be classified as a "good listener," and whoever dated him would be deemed a lucky girl. At a party though, these strong, silent types are just... well, boring. I might as well have talked to a wall.
Melon and Licorice were lost in the crowd by this time (probably dancing to the Eurotrash music) and I realized I was physically wedged between this dude and the wall. More like I was wedged between two walls. So I reverted to my normal NP behavior when I'm talking to a wall--- I talked incessantly to amuse myself. I cracked jokes, laughed at them myself, told stories, smiled at the recollections, and made lots of hand gestures to look as Russian as possible. While I was in the middle of doing this, I noticed that Strong was not only staring at me, he was laughing at my jokes. So I went on and on. Pretty soon I had a group of 3 pple around me, listening to my little standup routine. Self-centered? Narcissistic? Yeah, that's me. Especially when I'm bored. Things took an awkward turn when Strong attempted to dance with me. It got even more awkward when I finally got bored making jokes to myself and started to leave. Strong followed me wherever I went, got me more drinks, attempted to make conversation (true to his breed, he couldn't get very far).
After that night, along with inquiries into my dating life from his friends, I learned an important lesson. Apparently, when NP talks crazily in a desperate attempt to amuse a wall, the wall can actually talk back! Three words only though.
"What's your number?"
Thursday
Sunday
Awkward one hour and 47 minutes
I'm sitting on the plane to NY, reading a magazine. It's the free magazine stuffed into the front pocket of my seat, mostly detailing all these exotic places and vacations I'll never go on-- unless my advisor decides to send me to a conference or I make enough money to fuck grad school and go on vacation. Neither of which are going to happen anytime soon. The seat next to me is empty. 'Perfect!' I think. Now I can look in both directions without feeling awkward and paranoid about staring in my neighbor's direction; I wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong impression.
I wriggle around in my oversized sweatshirt, snuggling into the seat, wearing my Knicks cap with my hair bundled under. 'Aaahhh, Bermuda,' I mentally sigh, flipping the sunkissed pages of the travel zine.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. 'Excuse me SIR?' says a loud voice. I look up into the staring faces of a late-twenties redhead and the blonde middle-aged flight attendant standing next to her. The redhead opens her eyes wide and practically shrieks, "I MEAN, M'AM! Can I, uh, sit next to you?" The flight attendant giggles and says, "Well now it'll be an awkward one hour and forty seven minutes!" We all laugh uncomfortably as I manever a half turn in my seat so that the redhead can scoot into her seat, all the while while the flight continues to giggle, and the redhead continues to apologize. The people in the plane smirk at me and I find myself wondering if I really do look like a boy in my Knicks hat and sweatshirt.
One hour and forty seven minutes. I close my eyes almost immediately after the apologizing has ceased and fall asleep. As the plane touches down, I open my eyes and I'm in NY. We taxi in silence when my neighbor turns me to me and says, "By the way, I think you're very beautiful." I laugh in her face at this ridiculous remark and assure her she doesn't need to make any amends to me. I mean, I think it's hilarious, and even kind of cool. We start talking and tells me she's a salesperson for yadda yadda yadda and she has been so polite for the past week that it's hard for her draw the line anymore between what's offensive and what's not that big a deal. I tell her I get it; it's hard sometimes to leave the work persona at home. I leave the plane, wishing I had talked her before. I was never a big talker on planes, but I think I'm more open to it. Not a fascinating story, but I thought it was amusing and telling.
I wriggle around in my oversized sweatshirt, snuggling into the seat, wearing my Knicks cap with my hair bundled under. 'Aaahhh, Bermuda,' I mentally sigh, flipping the sunkissed pages of the travel zine.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. 'Excuse me SIR?' says a loud voice. I look up into the staring faces of a late-twenties redhead and the blonde middle-aged flight attendant standing next to her. The redhead opens her eyes wide and practically shrieks, "I MEAN, M'AM! Can I, uh, sit next to you?" The flight attendant giggles and says, "Well now it'll be an awkward one hour and forty seven minutes!" We all laugh uncomfortably as I manever a half turn in my seat so that the redhead can scoot into her seat, all the while while the flight continues to giggle, and the redhead continues to apologize. The people in the plane smirk at me and I find myself wondering if I really do look like a boy in my Knicks hat and sweatshirt.
One hour and forty seven minutes. I close my eyes almost immediately after the apologizing has ceased and fall asleep. As the plane touches down, I open my eyes and I'm in NY. We taxi in silence when my neighbor turns me to me and says, "By the way, I think you're very beautiful." I laugh in her face at this ridiculous remark and assure her she doesn't need to make any amends to me. I mean, I think it's hilarious, and even kind of cool. We start talking and tells me she's a salesperson for yadda yadda yadda and she has been so polite for the past week that it's hard for her draw the line anymore between what's offensive and what's not that big a deal. I tell her I get it; it's hard sometimes to leave the work persona at home. I leave the plane, wishing I had talked her before. I was never a big talker on planes, but I think I'm more open to it. Not a fascinating story, but I thought it was amusing and telling.
Monday
Big Foot
So I’ve decided to run the marathon. I have been running for the past 3 years, which in my book constitutes of hitting the treadmill or running paths for about 2 miles- twice or thrice a week. I was pretty full of myself, having never really run before (unless you count running to class). Of course, once I started training for the marathon I realized what a punk I am. Or, more specifically, a poser, loser, fake. Real runners are incredible, single-minded, determined, and can hold off enormous amounts of pain while trudging to the finish line. I perused Youtube videos of runners literally on all fours, puking and crawling their way to the end. Amazing and awe-inspiring. I’ll never be one of those.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aF0nnmdfTA
Yet I remain undeterred. Which means that one of the first steps is to go to a running shoe store. It took me freaking 5 hours to get there of course, with the delapitaded antiquated transit system in this goddamn city. Anyways, once I got there, the saleslady spoke in calm tones, nodded a lot at what I said, chin in hand, and measured my feet with furrowed brows. She had me run in front of her and do lunges so that she could look at my gait and examine my ankles (which she prounounced as “wobbly”). I sat on the bench and she sat a bit lower, examining my feet, turning them this way and that way. It was feeling reeeeal good being catered to.
But then the conversation went something like this.
Lady: Right foot, please.
[NP stetches out her right foot grandly and feel like a princess.]
Lady: Left foot, please.
[NP switches feet regally.]
Lady: Hmmm.
[NP deigns to look down at Lady.]
Lady: What size shoes do you usually wear, m’am?
NP: Excuse me?
Lady: Size shoes.
[Aware that everyone in the store could overhear the conversation between Lady and the 5’1” Nutty Princess,] NP replies, “Oh. Sev—I mean, six.”
Lady: Six?
NP (whispering): ...and a half?
Lady: Well, you’re left foot is hitting seven. I’m going to have to get you seven and a half shoes.
NP: Uh, okay.
[Lady leaves and comes back with a whole bunch of boxes as NP gazes ruefully at her stockinged feet.]
Lady: Try these on.
[NP tries them on sheepishly and Lady feels the shoe with her hand.]
Lady: Hmmm.
NP: These feel great.
Lady: Actually, I’m have to get bigger shoes.
NP: Bigger?
Lady: Bigger.
NP: Are you sure?
Lady (in one of those loud, patient yet exasperated salesperson voices): M’am, your left foot is much bigger than your right foot. Because of this, we’ll have to get a shoe to fit the left foot since your feet are naturally different sizes. It's the best thing to do, really.
NP (tucking her feet under the bench): Oh. Right.
[Lady leaves and comes back with more boxes. NP grins at customers around her. They stare at her. Some stare quizzically, some venture smiles.]
Lady: Here we go.
[NP slips on a pair of Adidas and Lady feels the shoes. It’s like being frisked by someone who has a foot fetish.]
Lady: Ooh. You still need bigger shoes. And these are too wide.
NP: Too wide?
Lady: Yeah, hold on, let me get an eight.
NP (swallowing): Eight?
Lady: Eight and a half, I mean. Hold on , I’ll be right back.
[NP mouths “eight and a half” angrily at her feet, attached to her short, slender legs.
Lady returns with more boxes.]
Lady: Ah, occasionally we get customers like you with unique situations.
[NP stares.]
Lady: Try these on, dear.
[NP shuffles around the store, studiously avoiding mirrors on the wall.]
Lady: Do they feel good?
[NP shrugs dejectedly]
Lady: Okay, I’m going to find some more shoes in that range.
[No reaction from NP]
[Lady turns before going back to the back room.]
Lady: By the way, I’m sooo sorry this took so long. I had no idea you have such LONG, NARROW FEET!
And then it just sort of went downhill from there. How the hell did I go from a 6.5 to 8.5?? I’m not one to be proud of my feet, or even really care how they look. But to have someone practically yell at me in front of a crowded store that I have long narrow feet makes me feel like I have clown shoes attached to my legs, or I resemble some sort of kangaroo. Oh well. Kangaroos can hop long distances, can’t they? I bet they can run 26 miles.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aF0nnmdfTA
Yet I remain undeterred. Which means that one of the first steps is to go to a running shoe store. It took me freaking 5 hours to get there of course, with the delapitaded antiquated transit system in this goddamn city. Anyways, once I got there, the saleslady spoke in calm tones, nodded a lot at what I said, chin in hand, and measured my feet with furrowed brows. She had me run in front of her and do lunges so that she could look at my gait and examine my ankles (which she prounounced as “wobbly”). I sat on the bench and she sat a bit lower, examining my feet, turning them this way and that way. It was feeling reeeeal good being catered to.
But then the conversation went something like this.
Lady: Right foot, please.
[NP stetches out her right foot grandly and feel like a princess.]
Lady: Left foot, please.
[NP switches feet regally.]
Lady: Hmmm.
[NP deigns to look down at Lady.]
Lady: What size shoes do you usually wear, m’am?
NP: Excuse me?
Lady: Size shoes.
[Aware that everyone in the store could overhear the conversation between Lady and the 5’1” Nutty Princess,] NP replies, “Oh. Sev—I mean, six.”
Lady: Six?
NP (whispering): ...and a half?
Lady: Well, you’re left foot is hitting seven. I’m going to have to get you seven and a half shoes.
NP: Uh, okay.
[Lady leaves and comes back with a whole bunch of boxes as NP gazes ruefully at her stockinged feet.]
Lady: Try these on.
[NP tries them on sheepishly and Lady feels the shoe with her hand.]
Lady: Hmmm.
NP: These feel great.
Lady: Actually, I’m have to get bigger shoes.
NP: Bigger?
Lady: Bigger.
NP: Are you sure?
Lady (in one of those loud, patient yet exasperated salesperson voices): M’am, your left foot is much bigger than your right foot. Because of this, we’ll have to get a shoe to fit the left foot since your feet are naturally different sizes. It's the best thing to do, really.
NP (tucking her feet under the bench): Oh. Right.
[Lady leaves and comes back with more boxes. NP grins at customers around her. They stare at her. Some stare quizzically, some venture smiles.]
Lady: Here we go.
[NP slips on a pair of Adidas and Lady feels the shoes. It’s like being frisked by someone who has a foot fetish.]
Lady: Ooh. You still need bigger shoes. And these are too wide.
NP: Too wide?
Lady: Yeah, hold on, let me get an eight.
NP (swallowing): Eight?
Lady: Eight and a half, I mean. Hold on , I’ll be right back.
[NP mouths “eight and a half” angrily at her feet, attached to her short, slender legs.
Lady returns with more boxes.]
Lady: Ah, occasionally we get customers like you with unique situations.
[NP stares.]
Lady: Try these on, dear.
[NP shuffles around the store, studiously avoiding mirrors on the wall.]
Lady: Do they feel good?
[NP shrugs dejectedly]
Lady: Okay, I’m going to find some more shoes in that range.
[No reaction from NP]
[Lady turns before going back to the back room.]
Lady: By the way, I’m sooo sorry this took so long. I had no idea you have such LONG, NARROW FEET!
And then it just sort of went downhill from there. How the hell did I go from a 6.5 to 8.5?? I’m not one to be proud of my feet, or even really care how they look. But to have someone practically yell at me in front of a crowded store that I have long narrow feet makes me feel like I have clown shoes attached to my legs, or I resemble some sort of kangaroo. Oh well. Kangaroos can hop long distances, can’t they? I bet they can run 26 miles.
Tuesday
Good Day=)
Today was a good day. I finished a midterm, got an extension on a proposal, talked to my best friend (who is living on a farm in CT), talked to Mofito who updated my on gossip on a job I no longer have but still am obsessed with gossiping about, visited Licorice (one of my only friends in grad school who's as skinny, tall, and sweet as licorice), and had a lovely convo with Bwoy.
Chitown has FINALLY turned a corner. I am not sure what happened to spring, but somehow it turned from winter and then late winter... and then extended version of winter to 70 degree, sunny, clear summertime weather. Apparently, despite the warnings that former visitors of Chicago told me, native Chicagoans tell me that this kind of 70-80 mild weather is typical for the summer. Woo hoo! I was not looking forward to a summer like those in NYC-- hot, sticky, muggy. I think Chicago will be different- for one, it's much much cleaner. And people here relish the outdoors, with all that the city has to offer in terms of festivals, biking paths, running paths. And then finally, when you find a free event, there's not a million people who have the same idea as you mobbing the scene (which tended to happen in crowded NY). As Borat would say, Niiiiiiice!
So all in all, a good day.
Chitown has FINALLY turned a corner. I am not sure what happened to spring, but somehow it turned from winter and then late winter... and then extended version of winter to 70 degree, sunny, clear summertime weather. Apparently, despite the warnings that former visitors of Chicago told me, native Chicagoans tell me that this kind of 70-80 mild weather is typical for the summer. Woo hoo! I was not looking forward to a summer like those in NYC-- hot, sticky, muggy. I think Chicago will be different- for one, it's much much cleaner. And people here relish the outdoors, with all that the city has to offer in terms of festivals, biking paths, running paths. And then finally, when you find a free event, there's not a million people who have the same idea as you mobbing the scene (which tended to happen in crowded NY). As Borat would say, Niiiiiiice!
So all in all, a good day.
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