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Fri, April 29

I Can Speak Good

Yesterday, I attended a meeting with the CEO of our company, and the president of our division. It was a nice meeting, a way for people from different departments to get to know each other. We had to go around the room and introduce ourselves, and say what we do. When it was my turn, I told them how long I'd been here, what I do, who I work for. And then I said,

"I've also wrotten a few books for our imprint."

Oh god.

"But on second thought, maybe I should never have received the privilege."

Hahahahahaha.

Hey, I was nervous! Hopefully you'll agree that it was a nice save.

Posted by lexzog at Fri, April 29 | Comments (1)

Thu, April 28

Pics from J's Party (last weekend)

Girls!

More Girls!

The French Guy

J

Posted by lexzog at Thu, April 28 | Comments (0)

A Night of Numbers

Last night I saw Billy Crystal's, "700 Sundays." What a beautiful tribute to his father. What a life! I had no idea he was surrounded by such amazing artists of our time. Billie Holiday not only recorded the song "Strange Fruit" with his uncle, but Billy Crystal sat on her lap at his very first movie. There's a nice article about this performance, and the concept of performance art itself, right here:

http://www.broadwayworld.com/viewcolumn.cfm?colid=1859

J and I were the youngest people in the audience, but I think we were blown away as much as the alta caca's (that's "old people" in Yiddish). I hope they do a taping of the show for television, because the tickets are near impossible to get. But I think this is as important a performance to watch for Jews in New York City especially, as Seinfeld reruns.

Before the show, we had some food at the bar at Blue Fin—one of the few hip places one can dine at in the Theatre District. We ended up sitting next to a guy from Toronto, who really had a hankering for smoked salmon. I suggested he order the salmon sushi. He had never eaten sushi in his life! He took a big bite of wasabi, despite J's and my protests. I guess that was his punishment for also never having heard of bagels and lox. Most of all, that was his punishment for asking how long J and I have been together, and "if we heard wedding bells around the corner." Something about the image of wedding bells makes me want to hurl, though obviously I am not against marriage in general. But wedding bells? Yeah, I'll hear them when I get married in a big church in a gaudy frou-frou wedding dress (which would be never because of the whole being Jewish thing, oh, and also because of the whole I'm stylish thing). Gag. And talk about an awkward moment for J and I.

After Billy, we raced down the Henry Hudson to see a Tribeca Film Festival film, "9 Songs." Ha! I just noticed I saw two shows in a row with numbers. Maybe that's why I keep calling the play "900 Sundays". I knew NOTHING about this movie. But when the host of the show announced that it was about "two people in a room..who do things with each other", I knew I was in for a surprise. Basically, it was a lot of sex interspersed with gratuitous music.

http://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/27/movies/27dirt.html

I found the whole thing slightly underwhelming. Stylized sex scenes in R movies are more exciting than this artsy "real sex" film. And sometimes, less is more. Watching ordinary people have ordinary sex is kind of weird. If you really wanted to do that, you could just video tape yourself and your partner. And then it would be just like that episode on Friends when Ross and Rachel accidentally tape themselves, and then watch it: After a few seconds they both make disgusted faces and scramble to turn it off.

This morning on my way to work I called my mom back for the usual morning report. I told her how great Billy Crystal was, but then that I wasn't so into the movie we saw in Tribeca. "What movie did you see?" she asked. "Oh, just some artsy independent film." Mom doesn't usually follow the art scene, so I was surprised when she asked, "Was it "9 Songs?" "Yes, actually, it was." I said. "Dad and I KNEW that was the movie J was taking you to!"

Really? 'Cuz I sure didn't.

Posted by lexzog at Thu, April 28 | Comments (0)

Mon, April 25

Passover Weekend

When I walked into J's mom's apartment on Friday night, for Passover dinner, I went straight to the kitchen to say hello to everyone. I kissed his mom hi, gave his sister a hug, and told his Grandma how good it was to see her, and that it had been so long I could hardly recognize her.

"Alexis?" J's sister asked.
"Do you think that our housekeeper is Grandma?"

OK, I was thrown off by the grey hair and the apron. I mistook their strictly-Polish-speaking housekeeper for J's wonderfully personable Grandma. No dis to housekeepers. Or Polish people. But you can understand my embarassment.

Before the meal, his Grandmother told us that this time many, many years ago, was when she was separated from her family in Europe, never to see them again. And that we should remember, on this holiday of remembering opression, and slavery, not only the atrocities of war but perhaps more importantly, the lives people lived before the war.

His Grandma asked me, "Did your Grandmother tell you about her life in Vienna as a girl?

I said yes, she did. I thought of the dark oak furniture she talked so fondly about, custom-made dresses, finger sandwiches. Children that were seen and not heard, but also a mother who was the "kidest woman in the world."

But I wish I knew more. I wish I had asked more about THE BEFORE. Talking about her life as a young girl brought a wistful sadness, but when she spoke, it was with the tiniest bit of a smile. Not the tight-lipped sadness that talking about the war brought over her. Why did I always push the questions that brought a dark cloud over her face? "How did she die?, What was it like living in Israel at seventeen, married, and without any of your family? How did it feel to recognize you would never see your parents again?"

Isn't it more informative about the person you would like to learn, to ask about her life when it was a life, and not a tragedy? When it was lived and not only scrambling to put itself back together?

I know I didn't ask my Grandmother any WRONG questions, because it was important to learn about the bad as well as the good. But in my quest to gather all of her demons and somehow take them away from her, I neglected to ask more of the important questions. "What was life like before?"

Posted by lexzog at Mon, April 25 | Comments (0)

Fri, April 22

Thursday Night

Last night after spin class with Becs, I finally got to have a get-together with Linz and Alexis. I met their new cat (unfriendly) and ordered from RICE (delicious). This of course, first took the usual hour and a half of deliberating over where to order from:

Me: So, what do you think about ordering from RICE?
Linz: Eh. I don't know. There's too much to choose from.
Me: Are you hungry?
Linz: Not really.
Alexis M: "I'm hungry but not for anything in particular.
Me: Well, I'm open to whatever. But RICE is my first choice.
Linz: I just don't understand. How could an Asian restaurant also offer empanadas on their menu? There must be something sketchy about it.
Me: Did you happen to notice that most workers in New York's kitchens are Ecuadorian? Or Mexican?
Linz: Still...
Alexis: Hey Lex, did you ever have pizza with mozzarella and..
Linz: Alexis! Let's concentrate on what we're going to order!
Me: But Linz, maybe Alexis wanted pizza?
Alexis: No, I just wanted to tell you about something I ate once.
Me: (Eye roll)
Linz: (Eye roll)
Linz: What about Pongri? Would you eat something from there? Its seems sort of like the food from RICE.
Me: Fine, just order me sweet and sour chicken. I'm going to call my brother back.

Two Minutes Later...

Alexis and Lindsay: Lex, we're ordering from RICE! What is it you said you wanted?

hahahahahah

Anyway. After dinner and lounging around, I went home and quickly got dressed to go to the very chic and upscale, oops, I mean, super duper dive bar, CHERRY for Sonia's birthday. I was forced to take a tequila shot and pretend to drink the beer they had on special (read: cheap). J left with Jarrett to get something to eat, and I stayed on with his friend Clara and some of her friends. We complained about boys (our favorite thing to do as of late).

So, one of J's roomates broke up with his girlfriend...Or is kind of breaking up. Or hasn't quite done it yet. The whole thing is really ambiguous. I don't know what to do, because I love both the roomate and his sort of ex girlfriend. I want to still remain friends with her, but it would be odd since we only hung out in context of the whole group (J, his roomates, their friends). I have already heard J's and his other guy friend's opinion, that I really shouldn't contact her.
I know it is a delicate matter, but a big part of me wants to write to her and see how she is doing...Thoughts?

Posted by lexzog at Fri, April 22 | Comments (4)

Wed, April 20

Bessie

Yesterday, my great aunt Bessie passed away. Everyone said it was for the best, she was 96 years old, she had lost her husband and her daughter...I am sad that the last months of her life had to be so unhappy.

As a tribute to her, I am writing a few memories I have of her here. Happy ones.

Every kid in our family loved Bessie. Not only because she had really cool white white hair that she wore in a fancy coiff on top of her head and made you wonder just how long it was when she took it down (which in our minds, must have been never). Not just because she put cute little butterfly clips in that coiff way before that became the style three years ago for tweens shopping at Clarie's Boutique. The best thing about Bessie was that she was under five feet tall, and seemed to shrink every year. When everyone else seemed to tower above us, Bessie was just our size. And when we hit twelve, or thirteen, or whatever age those growth spurts kick in, seeing Bessie would let us know how much we've grown. Reaching the "Bessie" mark was a milestone in every kid in my family's life.

I didn't start really thinking of my family members as individual, real people until I was in high school. Before that, family was just something you had around a table at Passover, at engagment parties, or reunions.I loved being among this cozy concept of family, but hadn't stopped to consider what each member meant to the overall structure. Who each person really was, away from the table.

Bessie was one of the first people I wanted to get to know. One day, we sat down on my grandparent's couch, and talked about love. I was sixteen, and involved in my first serious relationship. Bessie told me all about her's—it was her first and only. Bessie fell in love with a boy she met in summer camp, and he ended up being the love of her life. Long after he passed away, she never stopped talking about him, and when she did, it was with the face of someone newly in love. She sparkled. As I got older, and my first boyfriend became a laughable memory, Bessie would still ask, in a thick Brooklyn accent, "So how is that nice young man you're dating, the one we talked about?"

Bessie was also one of those relatives who never seemed to age despite the fact that I was getting older. Bessie was a real beauty and my idea of a "lady". Her hands were delicate. She always folded them in her lap when she sat down. She patted her hair.

About five months ago, I was I struck by the desire to want to interview her, and learn about what life was like in Russia before our family came to the States. She was my only relative who would remember the pogroms. I had never considered how much history she held until now. When I brought the idea up with other family members, they cautioned against it. Bessie was too fargone, and probably wouldn't be able to carry on a conversation with me. A part of me had a feeling that the memories from childhood would be clear enough to break through the mess of Alzheimers. I never made the trip to her nursing home.

The last time I saw her, I had to bend down very, very low to hug her. But when I try to picture how she looked that day, despite her protests that her hair was a mess and that she needed more makeup, in my memory, she looks the same as she always had: Beautiful.

Posted by lexzog at Wed, April 20 | Comments (0)

Silly Lex

The one good thing about making mistakes is that you learn from them. You make a mistake once, say oops, and then never do it again. Mistakes are great that way. Except, if you’re me. If you’re me, the rules of mistake making just do not apply.

Take today, for example. Or any day at work. There exists (and this is going to be shocking) a person who HATES me at work. She is a higher up, so it matters that she hates me. In fact, I was advised that the most important thing I could do this year, is make her like me. Yes, I am back in high school, and this woman is the "popular" girl. Only instead of an entry to the cool clique, she holds the keys to my entry to a promotion. Anyway, when I learned that I wasn’t her favorite person, I vowed to do everything in my power to only do smart things in her presence, never ask a stupid question, and well, be perfect.

So of course, every single interaction I have had with her since I made this vow has resulted in her thinking I am stupid. The kinds of things that I have done to make her think this are almost valid. Except, I never make these mistakes with other people. Today, I sent out two identical emails, one addressed to her and another addressed to another person. By some freak karmic glitch, the one I sent to her had a file with the correct name, but the wrong content. Of course.

How did this happen? A week ago, an IT technician told me to take any document I am working on from one folder, and put it into a “My Documents” folder. This means, that after I work on the document and save it in “My Documents”, I have to transfer it back to the original file, but make sure to discard the older version of it.

When I sent the two emails, the one to the “hater”, had the document with the correct name and wrong info. You see? I could have checked it before I sent it. But I didn’t! Some part of me must have been begging to make a stupid mistake, a special one, for this woman. So when she emailed me back that the file she opened did not look right, I couldn’t defend myself. She is the kind of woman who cringes at defensiveness. If I had explained myself, I would have been courting disaster. So I didn’t. I THANKED her for showing me the error of my ways. The many errors of my ways.
.
And then, after work, I made another mistake. I am thinking I should start a separate blog, where I can rant about my various problems with the subway. I left a dance class at 49th street and decided to take the N,R to meet my friends in Soho. I walked past the B,D (which, I later realized goes directly to Broadway/Lafayette), to the glorious N,R. As I swiped my card, a flashing sign alerted me that the express train was here. I ran downstairs, ignoring the fact that Prince Street is not on the express stop. The stupid f-ing Q train was there. I still shiver when I see the Q and W trains. When did they get here? Where do they go? Why did they have to change things from N,R to Q,W? Why doesn’t the subway follow the alphabet a bit more closely when they assign trains to similar paths to different trains? I’d love to take the Q express or the R local downtown along Broadway, and the S express, T local uptown. They should pay me to reconfigure the subway system.

Anyway, I waited and waited, as I usually do, for the local train to come. As I write this, I am still confused as to which train the local is. It is one of those lessons I give up on. I’ll never learn. A train stopped in front of me, and like an automaton, I got on. I opened my book, as I always do when I take the QRSTUVNR train, and became absorbed in reading. Didn’t notice the train was going awfully fast. Didn’t notice, until we came to CANAL F-ING STREET. This has happened to me so many times, I think my brain plays a little funny on me every time I try to get downtown this way. Its usually when I am late for a class, or in the midst of a torrential downpour, or, in this case, meeting friends who have been waiting an hour already for me to meet them for dinner. I usually suck it up and walk.

Today, as a matter of principal, I decided I would just go back from whence I came, and figure this whole thing out once and for all. I waited for the uptown N,R. While I waited, I consulted my trusty subway map: a mini one that folds into my coin purse. The map had dots along the N,R line that indicated the train SHOULD stop at Prince. I got on to whatever train appeared before me (again, I should pay attention). I asked a blind old woman if this was the local or express. She took a bite out of some odd looking Chinese vegetable and told me it was local.

I love the psychology of subway directions. I get asked directions almost three times a day, and I am not always certain of my answers. (Gee, I hope that old man made it to the Senior Center on 66th St….) Still, when I am the one asking and when someone acts confident in her answer to me, I feel A-OK. Like, just because this old lady said the train was going local to Prince St., I relaxed, opened my book, and tried to enjoy the ride.

We went through many subway stations, and ended up at Union Square.

I was ready to go postal.

But instead I waited for the downtown W train (I learned it was a local train from those nice little signs up on the subway columns that show you where each line stops).

It took twenty minutes to come, but God bless it, it took me to Prince Street.

This is not the last you’ll hear of me and my subway woes, I can assure you.

Posted by lexzog at Wed, April 20 | Comments (2)

Sun, April 17

Ouch, my body...

Yesterday I motivated myself to wake up at 10 in the morning (exhuasted), and go all the way uptown to the 79th St. NYSC. Suzanne had told me she was going to do the dance to J. Lo's "Get Right", and I certainly did not get that dance right the first time she taught it to us. "Alexis, you better be there", she'd said to me at our Wed. dance class. So, I went, and it was GREAT. We were all sweating buckets by the end of class. But, all that floor work and the turns, and god knows what...My entire body feels wrecked. Like fight club. My booty is so sore when I sit down. Four Ibuprofins should help, right?

Right now I am watching "Save the Music" on VHI. Now, I love Mariah Carey. Always have. I saw her perform in 1999, where I watched from boxed seats that Karina's dad got us from his job at CNN. She wore a long black dress, with her curly black hair falling over her shoulders. She seemed really happy, and sang "Someday". God I love that song. But now...What is with this "Emancipation of Mimi" business? I hate when stars go undercover for a while, or just lose popularity, and then come back with completely different names. So stupid. And I feel like when women music stars make their comebacks, they always say, "This album is all about ME. This is about ME expressing MYSELF, and not holding myself back." Then they get this cool rap star to go "Oh! Oh!" in the back ground of some new song from their CD and it becomes the hot hit single of the summer. Please.

Today J, me and Jen met Chien, Thomas, Martine and some of her foreign friends at Central Park for a picnic. When we got there, the food had long been near-depleted. Just a few things remained, people seemed to only be picking. The crowd around the picnic all wore unfamiliar faces. Martine greeted us but didn't introduce us to anyone. Fine. Chien told me to go help myself to some food. Can't say not to some mid-day picnic food, so I went over to the blanket. I took the stub of a stale piece of bread and some nuttela (well I couldn't just eat it out of the JAR. That would be piggish!) One of Martine's friends turned around and said, "Hello", but not in a friendly way. I said, "Hi, I'm Alexis." She said, "Yes, we've met." I couldn't believe it. I never forget a face. A name, yes, bot never a face. There must have been some mistake. "Really? Where?" I asked. "Do you want me to name the exact date and time?" she asked haughtily.

A little while later, I asked Martine what her friend's problem was. She told me, "I think she was annoyed because you just came over and ate their food without saying hello."

Ok, I don't think I did anything wrong here. I was invited to a picnic. One of the "picnicees" invited me to partake of food. The food had been lying out there since 11 am (it was 4 pm). When we got there, we were not introduced to anyone at the picnic. No one introduced themselves to us. So what, I couldn't remember this friend of Martine's. But now I'll always be remembered as "That piggish American who was rude and ate all our food."

Yesterday was a real Brooklyn day. I made two separate stops in Carrol Gardens. One, was after said dance class, to hang out with Becs at the tween/adult clothing store she works at (where we watched all the tweens walk in, and admitted to each other how much cooler they seemed than us, especially when we were their age). The second, was for dinner at Chestnut, with Clara and some friends. One of her friends came with a guy she'd only recently started dating. The date owned a jewlery company, and had let Clara's friend wear two of his pieces that night. They were stunning: A gold and diamond wrist-band with matching ring. When her date went to the bathroom, she started showing the jewlery off to me and Clara. I asked, "How much is it?" J turned to me and said, "Why would you want to know that?" Well, I was curious. What if it was inexpensive? What if I wanted to buy it? Or, what if I wanted to know the ballpark price of something that beautiful, so if I saw something similar, I could compare? I don't know, it is just something girls ask, or wonder about. I would NEVER ask someone how much something cost that her boyfriend had bought her. Never. But in this case, the girl was borrowing a piece from her date and pretty much modeling the jewelry to the public. I think I was allowed to ask.

J told me that it was "disgusting" that I asked this kind of question. Excuse me?

So yes, later he apologized profusely for speaking like that to me, and really, one "I'm sorry" would have been fine because he was in a bad mood in general last night. So whatever, that is behind us. But it brought up an interesting question. Do guys just get turned off by the idea of women comparing/thinking about/questioning/anything having to pertain to expensive gifts from their significant others? Does it make guys uncomfortable when jewelry is present or even mentioned? I don't know. J doesn't seem like the type. He can shop Tiffany's as easily if not more easily than me (he's accompanied many a friend on girlfriend/fiancee buying excursions). And my collection consists of Bat-Mitvah jewlery, hand-me-downs, cheap flea market buys...I certainly have no concept of rings, or bling, or whatever.
Insight, anyone?

Oh, update on the annoying trainer at my gym: On Friday, I tried to run past him without stopping, but knew he'd see it was me, so I turned around to wave as I went by. He stopped whatever conversation he had been having, to quickly walk towards the stairs I had sucessfully mounted without having to touch or be touched by him. "Hey, where you going?" he asked. I mounted another stair and said, "Gotta run! Plans!" Well, that wasn't good enough for him. "Come on, come on." He raised his hand for a high five hand shake. I couldn't say no. Our hands touched. Ick. Ok, small steps. At least he didn't hug me.

After my first posting on this topic, I learned, through a blogger with the same exact problem, that The New York Times did an article about this exact subject last week:

"When A Personal Trainer Gets Too Personal"
http://www.nytimes.com/2005/04/14/fashion/thursdaystyles/14Trainers.html

Bedtime. Boss is back from Balogna Book Fair....

Posted by lexzog at Sun, April 17 | Comments (2)

Thu, April 14

New Identity

I hope this doesn't earn me the "Number One Ditz" award, but I only found out today that...

I AM AN ISRAELI CITIZEN.

How is this possible, you might ask? Well, there's this thing called "The Law." And "The Law" states that any person born from a parent who was born in Israel, is automatically, an Israeli citizen.

I had no idea. My mom had no idea. My brother, sister, cousins (my mom is a twin, so this affects them too)...No one had any idea.

Now, in order to go on the Birthright Israel trip I want to go on, I have to first go to the Israeli Consulate and obtain a passport and army exemption papers. Imagine moi, in the army. I mean, yes, I am ubergymgirl, but those khacki pants? Only suitable with a cute halter!

Guess I better start cultivating a love of hummos and Israeli salad...

Posted by lexzog at Thu, April 14 | Comments (2)

Tue, April 12

THE BEST SHOW and Something Nice and Soft

Last night was by far the best show Inner Monologues has ever seen. It was so packed, everyone was sweating. Jonna started the night off with her flustered poem about never getting to write a poem. Michele read a very revealing piece about dating a bouncer who was 28 to her 18. Brian cracked everyone up with his imitation of a very drunk old highschool girlfriend of his begging him to take her home, because "how else are we gonna be boyfriend and girlfriend if you don't take me home?" Jessica Delfino was HILARIOUS with her song about why women act so strange and moody sometimes. Because (everybody sing): "Once a month for a week, we bleed from our vaginaaaas." She had the whole audience singinging along. Jonathan told his story about being a real jerk to his friend's would-be fiancee. And I told the story behind that entry in June, "Who Dumps a Girl On Her Birthday?" or something like that.

I wore my frenchkitty shirt.

It was great to get some new faces in the crowd. Jonna and Jessica brought a good amount of folks. Too bad I didn't have an email sign up sheet so I could invite them to future MONOLOGUES. Maybe, you are reading this. Please email me so I can include you in the next one!

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Over at Aristocracity (jarradb.blogspot.com), JB wrote a nice entry about the show, maybe even too nice. He told me I could post it:

Monday I attended a spoken word event in the East Village at Apocalypse Lounge hosted by Lex. It's safe to say I was the only person who lived on a street number higher than Bloomingdale's or have likely stepped foot in a Bloomingdale's in the past month, fuck that, past year. I was dressed in my best impersonation of East Village chic, read, corduroy blazer, with graphic t-shirt and plastic framed glasses. The problem being the blazer was Polo, and the glasses were Gucci. During intermission I probably should have approached the microphone and alerted the crowd to the intruder amongst them, an uptown Long Island jap was in the room. Lock the doors, close the windows, hide the women and children a non-hipster has breached the confines. Alert Mo Rocca and the Daily Show staff so a camera crew can get this on tape. It was like watching a National Geogrphic show about predatory lions and how they kill the zebra. I was away from the herd and I was a sitting duck. In all seriousness it was really cool. There was an eclectic crowd of people and the performers were all excellent. I may even perform in a future reading assuming I can sustain my humor and obligatory sarcasm beyond a paragraph.

http://jarradb.blogspot.com/ CHECK OUT HIS BLOG!!!
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Anyway, in other news. I just came back from the gym. There's this trainer at the gym who always forces me into a handshake that turns into a hug. He has a voice like Isaac Hayes. Today he saw me and asked what I was about to do. I told him I was about to do some strength training.

"Let me guess." he said. "You're not happy with your lower region."

"Uh. No. I'm actually happy with my legs and..."

"Your significant other told you he ain't happy with the way you look?"

"No, he pretty much tells me I don't need to go to the gym."

"You don't want to bulk up now, right? You don't want to look like them female body builders, right?"

"No, uh. Not at all, I.."

"Cuz you know..When I go home, I like to touch something nice and soft. Not big and bulky. Nice and soft."

"OK, I'm gonna go and.."

"Something nice and soft like yourself, you know what I mean?"

"Yes. Um. Thanks. Ok. Bye!"

Phew. Ok, off to Craftbar to meet J for a late dinner.

Posted by lexzog at Tue, April 12 | Comments (1)

Fri, April 8

Inner Monologues IV: This Monday!

Posted by lexzog at Fri, April 8 | Comments (0)

Thu, April 7

Some Pics from St. Martin

Ashley plays the maracas with Matteo.

Cool hats. Aw yeah.

Its just cute.

One of the clubs in Maho.

Posted by lexzog at Thu, April 7 | Comments (0)

Tue, April 5

April is Empty!

My dad told me today that my blog was blank. I freaked out for a moment, thinking that perhaps the server failed me and all my entries were lost. Or perhaps that as punishment for not blogging in so long while I was away, the blog packed its bags and took a bus to Arizona. But phew, dad explained that since my blog is organized by month, and I hadn't written yet this month, “April was empty”.

No more! With this entry I will help to fill lonely April.

Just when I thought I knew this city like the back of my hand, the subway up and starts acting funny and making me feel like that time when Gillian and I snuck off to NYC in eighth grade. We didn't know the subway from Adam but knew that it was a dangerous place where HOMELESS PEOPLE!!! and KIDNAPPERS!!! dwelled, so we pretending we spoke French in case anyone asked us for directions. Too bad we didn't know French past "Non" and "Oui". We figured, how many trains could there be, and hopped on a random train hoping it would bring us to Soho. I knew we were in trouble when I noticed we were going over a body of water...To Coney Island.

Anyway, that is how I felt tonight on the 6 train from 86th and Lex, coming home from seeing Jonathan Safran Foer read at the 92nd St. Y. I thought I'd get dropped off at Broadway Lafayette, but ended up in China Town. Those darn "skips stop" trains! Damn construction!

You know how sometimes when you hear an author read from his book, namely when he's reading the protagonist's voice, and it ruins it because every time you try to imagine the character speaking, you can only hear the author's voice? Well, in the case of "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close", hearing Jonathan speak in the voice of his nine-year-old protagonist elevated the words. They sounded better coming from his voice, than just imagining the character's voice. What a book, and I'm only on page 40.

Ok, the vacation scoop:

My tan is not too faded yet. We returned from sunny St. Martin on Friday night, well, with the plane delay it was more like Saturday morning (4:30 a.m.!)

I had the best time with J and my family. Every dinner was like a party. We drank and ate and toasted and ate, and had after dinner drinks and dessert and ate, and went home happy. Every day we watched a perfect sunset. J would take Ash to get himself a drink while she drank pineapple juice at the bar on the beach before dinner while I showered. At the beaches, he'd pick her up off the lounge chair and run into the water as she kicked and screamed. The day he was scheduled to leave (he left early in the week), she said, "Now who will I play with?"

Hey, that's what I was wondering too!

On the first night, we were serenaded by a guitar-playing guy named Matteo at the restaurant. He made me sing "I Will Survive" to the whole restaurant, and I shook a maraca to all the parts of the song I couldn't remember.

On the second night, J and I tried to sample some of the nightlife in Maho Bay. Last year, I had met some college guys at my hotel and they took me to some of the clubs in that part of the island. It was a different season, and probably much later in the night when I went last year. This year the party didn't even begin to get started until we pulled out of the parking lot. We did watch the planes land literally twenty feet away from our view by the water's edge at one of the clubs.

My family went to the Butterfly Museum, where we got a very guided and detailed tour and watched butterflies mate. One butterfly took turns sitting on our fingers. We were advised to dip our fingers in orange juice, which would attract a butterfly from a mile away.

J, my dad, and I went scuba diving with a group, on two sixty-foot dives. It was my first dive since being certified, and I was surprised that there was no real preparation like when I was taking dive lessons. Everyone, as soon as they jumped into the water, was just told to go down. Normally I would have been nervous, as the dive instructor in Mexico had us make all these hand signals to prepare for our descent, but this time I was just like, "OK. I'm going down."

Everything was fine until we dove near a sunken tugboat, and swam through its windows. I felt like my tank had stuck in one of the windows, and pushed my hands against the boat to get through...A sharp pain like really spiky teeth biting in to my hand burst through me. I didn't know what had happened or how the hell to tell anyone about it. I obsessively checked my hand to see if it would swell into the size of a balloon, and asked my body if it had just been poisoned and whether or not I'd lose consciousness shortly. I motioned to J but he didn't get it, and just nuzzled his mask against mine. I tried to tell my dad, but he thought I was asking what time it was (I was pointing to where I really got stung, my wrist). Finally, the dive master seemed to know what was up. He rubbed sand from he ocean floor on my wrist, and later, pulled me down to one of those sea plans that looks like a large human brain, and rubbed sticky stuff on me. It seemed to help. I later found it was fire coral, and when I told my brother Justin, he told me the best thing would have been to pee on it.

Humph.

Before J left, we visited a little island that you have to take a boat to. It feels like a private paradise (though over the years, the cruise ships have been slowly overtaking it, the dorky passengers all snorkeling together in big t-shirts, in one tiny sectioned off area, and scaring away all the fish). Thankfully it was a quiet day when we went this time. J and I walked to the more unexplored part of the island, separated from the beach by what looks like a desert wasteland. We took pictures and watched the surf. It was the kind of moment that as you're living it you tell yourself to remember it and save that moment for a dreary day in April in the city or when you're stuck waiting on line in noisy Whole Foods. Just picture those waves.

We had lunch and celebrated dad's birthday with a brownie dessert, as bikini clad French girls sang happy birthday.

Dad, Ash, J and I went snorkeling and fed bread to the fishes. We were rewarded with a swarm of big gray fish, yellow and black striped ones, and needle-nosed fish that followed J and I wherever we swam long after the bread was gone.

After J left, Ash cultivated a profound fear of roaches. When we had dinner at the harbor in Marigot, she saw one scurrying along the boardwalk and literally climbed on top of my dad, to the highest point (his head), screaming to get away from the roach. From that point on, she insisted on being carried whenever we were by the dock.

One day we decided to try a new beach. This Rasta type guy ran the beach bar there, and shouted at us "Hercules is on his way!" every time he picked up a beach chair or umbrella. He had a pet iguana that he let all the children hold, and I even had a turn with it for a few minutes. When the iguana got restless, I went to the guy to return it. He picked it up and dropped it INTO HIS PANTS. His bathing suit shorts. Nothing between the iguana and his manly flesh.

Gross.

I said to him, "Good thing that iguana was crawling all over me". He didn't get my sarcasm and wore an expression of sincere "Yes, you are lucky that this iguana has touched my genitals and climbed all over your skin, yes you are."

(Shiver of repulsion).

Need I mention that we had to swat flies the entire time we ate?

Maybe I was too young the past ten years we've been going there, but I'd never realized that they served rum shots at the end of every meal there. Dad and J enjoyed them, but after the third day of rum after my salad, I was done with it.

Anyway, it is good to be back.

On Saturday, J, Chien and I went to Gramercy Tavern for a drink. I had a pear cobbler martini, which was delicious but not very alcoholic. I was starving, because as usual I was eating at 10pm and hadn't eaten since noon. Thank goodness for the salty nuts (and I'm not talking dive bar nuts, these were fancy cashews and pecans and walnuts in a delicious saltysweet coating) at the bar. Chien left when J and I were seated. The artichoke salad had real artichoke hearts instead of the grated raw artichoke you sometimes get in those salads. J had these huge fresh smoked sardines, that I said "ew" to until I tasted it. I had a fish stew as my entree that smelled amazing when we were sitting at the bar and the guy next to me was eating it (I am a sucker for saffron), but was so full for some reason I couldn't eat more than a bite or two.

When I went to the bathroom, I heard giggling and two women's voices in the stall next to me. I had an inkling that these must be the girls in ripped T-shirts and bleached hair that had shared a very intimate embrace when they greeted each other at the bar earlier. One girl made a "pssssssss" sound like she was trying to make the other girl pee. I was like, "This is Gramercy Tavern! You're eating in the back room (that's the stuffy part, while J and I were in the front room)! Have some class!" When I got back to our table, I told J we had to watch to see who would exit the lady’s room. Lo and behold it was the giggling ladies. So here's a poll: Were they doing coke or the hanky panky?

Our carbon monoxide detector just went off. For the record, in case I do not wake up tomorrow, we figured there is no carbon monoxide, the battery just needs to be changed. All of us are too lazy to get a new battery and test this theory.

Cross yer fingers!

Posted by lexzog at Tue, April 5 | Comments (0)