The Taste of Boogers and Tears. Salty.

Training is a lot like being in elementary school again. We're grouped into teams of 9, and each team has its desks pushed together. We even have one can of Play-doh on every table. It's been a furtive lifesaver during those long tedious Power Point presentations. Keeping my hands occupied keeps my mind awake.

I used to love Play-doh when I was little. I made things with it, I squished it like a stress ball, and I ate it. It never fails to bring back memories of childhood and kindergarten with that distinctive salty smell. It's an odd juxtaposition to have hands smelling of Play-doh as I tramp around in business casual.

Of course, I'm all grown up now. But sometimes, I still get the sudden feeling... The more I play with it, the more I tempted I am to put it in my mouth. But I squash that urge.

Some childhood habits die hard.

Interview with a Buddhist Priest

Training is international. We're split up into teams of three, which means that more likely than not, there's going to be someone from Greece, Italy, or Japan in our group.

I've got a Buddhist priest!

During our break, I took it upon myself to burst through the language barrier and ask M. a couple of questions. Here are a few facts:

Buddhist priests can get married.
That was my first question. "Do Buddhist priests have to be celibate?" I had a few qualms as to whether this was an appropriate question to ask in the workplace, but I forged on ahead. But, he didn't understand the word "celibate". I tried "No sex?" No go. I wasn't about to charade sex, so I made do with pantomining a pregnant woman. The results of half an hour of hand motions and re-wording ended up with finding out that Buddhist priests can have families. In fact, M's best friend (who is also a Buddhist priest) joined the temple because he had crush on the temple manager's daughter. She's only allowed to date and marry a Buddhist priest. So cute!

Buddhist priests don't always have to be bald.
That was the second question I asked him when I flagged him down during break. "Why aren't you bald?" They only have to be bald when they're inside the temple. Once they leave, its okay to grow hair. He started training when he was 18, and spent the summers at the temple preparing for priesthood. Inbetween summers, he went to college and majored in economics. He said that he'd have to shave his head again when he went back. But that he likes having hair, if only because its a nice change.

Women can be Buddhist priests.
Approximately 10% of Buddhist priests are women, according to M. However, they're not allowed to get married, whereas the men are. I tried to ask whether they had to be celibate as well (after all, not being married doesn't mean that they can't have sex), but that question didn't quite work. He did manage to say that they can't have children, which I took to be the same thing.

Buddhist priests have a variety of jobs.
I'm not quite sure what M. is doing in consulting. I tried to ask him but I'm not sure he understood the question. He did say that he joined the temple because he wants to be a teacher after he makes some money. Apparently, the majority of teachers in Japan are also priests.

Buddhist priests are quite technologically advanced. And its not just in National Geographic pictures.
M. has a digital video camera! It's super small. When he first pulled it out, I thought it was a digital camera. But then he pantomined moving and pointed to the little screen. Ah, I get it. He wanted me to introduce myself to the camera so that he could have a video of his trip to the U.S. and the people he met. Nervewracking! I might become the stereotype for the American in his Buddhist temple! .....I didn't rise to the occasion. I was a complete idiot and ditz. I never realized how much I played with my hair when I'm nervous. He replayed it for me, beaming brightly. I asked for a re-do and repeated the word "delete?" a few times. He shook his head like he didn't understand and kept saying "good". ...I have a feeling he uses the language barrier to his advantage sometimes.

I can't imagine what it must be like come halfway across the world and be jetlagged through two weeks of training in a language I barely understand. Despite the language barrier, I'm incredibly impressed with how well they've done. M. never asks for help, and everytime I glance over, he's hunched over the training binder typing anxiously into his palmtop dictionary. I constantly ask him if he understands or needs us to slow down. I try to explain the directions for each team project to M. in simple words, and I'm always left with a sense of frustration that I didn't convey anything well. But half an hour later, he's finshed the entire thing before anyone else has. One word: admiration. But, in an effort to make things easier for him, I learned one key Japanese phrase that I can use a lot in class.

Dai-jo-bu: Are you okay?

The List.

Training has been an exercise in extremes so far. Super boring and super fun. Eleven hour of PowerPoint isn't exactly what I had in mind. And I'm a little puzzled as to what sort of skills I'm supposed to be gleaning from all this. I've met a lot of nice people, although the "networking" concept continues to elude me. There's something about networking that fundamentally bothers me. By definition, it seems to be "being friends with someone that you think can help you out now or later on." That in of itself smacks of the insincere. But I find myself doing it, however unwillingly. It seems to be a necessary evil in the world of business. Yet another reason for me to get out of it as soon as financially possible.

Training has been a lot like freshman year of college. We travel in packs (I hang around with the other New York office kids), we meet lots of people, and have lots of meaningless mini-conversations. According to my co-worker S., training is supposed to be a huge "fuckfest". Whatever that means. Although I suppose that can only be interpreted in one way. Looking around, it's a bit hard to believe. I bet the "camp goggles" effect comes into play. When you first get to camp, you never think anyone is cute, but then by the end of it, your standards have lowered until they're met. Luckily, as is evident by years of celibate camp experiences, I seem to be immune to the camp goggle effect.

But, since I'm supposed to be in my "let's become hot girls" mode with J., I diligently made a list of Potentials. Potentials*, because people tend to drop off the list and land on it as I get to know them better. Here it is:

1. Wrinkles, not Dimples: Pretty good looking guy. Gets creases in his cheeks when he smiles. Its really cute at this age, but he's screwed when he gets older. Think of it as the "Robert Redford Effect."

2. Distended Nostril: This guy's super cute. Plus he was a ski instructor for little kids! Too bad all I could do was stare at his uneven nostrils all night. I had to force myself to talk to someone else because I knew if I kept talking to him, I'd end up saying something about it.

3. MidWest: This guy doesn't quite fit into this category. But, he gets bonus points for making me feel insta-comfortable. He had an easy sort of confidence that was strangely attractive. There are times when the intangibles can more than make up for the tangibles.

*subject to change.

Tonight: Cosmic Bowling.

Windy City, Here I Come!

Off to Chicago for two weeks. Yay!

Grow, damn you, grow!

Perhaps it was the dreary weather yesterday. Perhaps it was New York. Perhaps it finally sunk in that "Dear Lord, I'm really on my own now." But last night, I found myself feeling suddenly lonely. In this city, you can feel surprisingly alone. If anything, the sheer number of people only serves to magnify the sense of being merely One. Alone. If that makes any sort of ironic sense. It's like freshman year of college, when you land in a new place, full of people, exciting, but yet amidst the hustle and bustle of it all, you feel... strange. It's like freshman year... except on a grander scale. Because now that I've officially won the grand battle with my parents to move out to big bad New York, of all places, I don't quite feel the same way about calling home to arrange a weekend visit.

Busy. That's what it is about New York. It's too busy to make you feel like anyone's willing to give you the time of day. And as a tried and true suburb girl, it's exciting and new at first, but eventually becomes worrisome and tiring. On one level, I'm thankful for this the same way I might be thankful for broccoli - I may not like it, but I know it's good for me. After all, it can only serve to make me stronger and less dependent on fickle things such as people. But in the meantime, I'm left feeling slightly unsettled, and with a vague sense of unhappiness.

I have the face the facts.

And the fact of the matter is, despite all my trumpeting and self-righteous sense of female independence, I'm a big chicken. New York has taught me this. I'm like the plant that can't grow without the wooden stick to support it. The little wooden stick has been yanked away, and like most weak little plants, I promptly fell over. While I was weakly struggling to pick my head back up, I decided to call my friend P. who migrated to New York from Connecticut for school a few years ago.

"I felt the same way exactly when I first got here. New York takes some adjusting to, you know. It took me about... oh... two months to stop feeling like that."

Two months?! That's a terribly long time to be unhappy for. I can't wait that long! I called my ex-boyfriend to talk to him about it. I proposed the idea of maybe getting a dog to, you know, speed up the process. He scrapped the idea right away.

"With your schedule, it'd be impossible. Dogs can't spend 8 hours a day or more sitting in their little cages in your apartment. They get lonely and depressed without human attention."

Maybe I'm like a dog. I need to be petted to be happy.

Now that's flat-out pathetic. I can't believe that statement came out of my mouth.

If you want it, you can have it. But you've got to learn to reach out there and grab it. -Weezer

"Love... is the rug they pull out from under you. Love is Lucy always lifting the football at the last second so that Charlie Brown falls on his ass. Love is something that every time you believe in it, it goes away. Love is for suckers, and I'm not going to be a sucker ever again."
-Good in Bed, by Jennifer Weiner

Oh the bitterness of the recently dumped. My roommate lent me this book with a *wink wink* and a "You'll LOVE this book." Translation: chick flick, the literary version. I'm normally not into girly books, but when I woke up moody to a gray rainy morning in New York City, it ended up being the perfect thing to curl up under the covers with. Good in Bed was a quick read, the typical feel-good fairy tale story that caters mostly to sentimental women who've been burned, but still live with the hope that maybe... just maybe, the next guy won't be a jackass. The princess in this story is, interestingly enough, a large woman. But the basic story line is one we're all familiar with - the quest for the holy grail: true love.

In the city of a million people, the dating scene is bound to be healthy. After all, there are entire shows (aka, Sex and the City) based on living in New York. But, the ultimate question is, can you find love in the city? Or is everyone so busy and so suspicious, every meeting so brief, that its near impossible?

A guy picked me up on the subway today. He saw the shirt I bought in Taiwan and asked me if I was a DJ. I had to respond that I had picked the shirt out of the dollar bin in Asia. It just happened to have the word "DJ" along with other nonsensical English words on it. He's a DJ. Born and bred New Yorker. Never even left the city, except for two weeks ago when he went on vacation by himself to Brazil. A quick once-over told me that he's tall, built, well-dressed, and every inch NOT the sort of man who I'd expect to be taking off to different countries alone. Like most good-looking New Yorkers not in a suit, he was an artist of all sorts, trying to "make it". A DJ, dancer, and actor by night, he works as a UPS delivery man by day. Judging by his dashing features and toned body, I concluded that he must be the epitome of every bored housewife's dream, and the real life equivalent of every porn movie out there, minus the infamous UPS shorts and knee-high socks of course. If a man like that can't find love in the city, what's in it for the rest of us?

He transferred onto the 1 train with me. When asked where I lived, I lied slightly and gave my address as a few blocks off. When he reached into his bag, I tensed up, thinking what every city girl thinks about large muscular men walking behind them at night asking for their address. I wondered vaguely whether I had time to grab the Mace that was most likely buried underneath a pile of movie stubs and receipts in my bag. Instead, he pulled out a CD, a sampler of his music with his phone number stamped on top. Told me to give him a call sometime and he'd take me out to clubs. I brought the CD home and listened to it. As for calling him, I didn't even consider it.

That was when I realized that people like me are exactly why people have trouble finding love in the city. Suspicions. Assuming the worst, not the best, of people. Only two-weeks old into NY and I'm already becoming more cynical, less open. Every girl's nightmare is to run into a psychopathic male in her life. Movies and the media make the city seem like a hotbed for such characters. This, in turn, makes the city more impersonal as everyone becomes suspicious of each other. This also, in turn, is what makes movies and tv shows about New York City so successful - its variety and depth, its flares of brightness along with its dark shadows. The city is a buffet. And like every buffet, its a crapshoot. There's always the lumpy mashed potatoes sitting beside the scrumptious desserts.

But only at buffets is it all-you-can-eat. And when you're in your young 20's, what else is better than sampling life to its fullest, in all its bitterness and its sweetness? When you find that scrumptious dessert, why save it for later? Fill up and gorge yourself before someone else beats you to the last lemon tort.

So, wear your elastic-waist pants and come hungry. Don't worry about your weight. After all, who's checking?

Free plug!

Ted's World: A comic with a cast of male characters based on a bunch of real life guys I know. Check it out. When he becomes the next Bill Watterson, you can say you saw the vintage strips drawn in the early days.

Nice original title Ted. Good luck in LA.

Mondays are the potholes in the road of life.

Training continues. At this point, I'm starting to think that consulting firms are nothing more than glorified temp agencies. So far this morning, I've managed to almost miss the train, rip my pantyhose (I caved to wearing skirts since I was running out of pants that fit. I've apparently gained weight since my college days), and spill coffee all over the guy next to me and into my purse. To think, it's not even 11 AM yet. Mondays.

However, the past weekend was a pleasant contrast to my terrible Monday morning.

Here's my list of Things to Do in New York on Weekends and Still Be in Bed by Midnight.

Dance Class. Friday night was spent trying out Steps for dance classes. I attended Friday night's open Street class. New York dance studios are like nothing I've ever experienced. I could make it through two of Philadelphia-based Koresh beginner classes in a row. With Friday night at Steps, I felt like I was going to pass out after about 45 minutes. As I laid there on my back during break, gasping for air, I motivated myself to plug through it by thinking about how embarassing it would be if I fainted in the middle of class. Next on my list to try is Broadway Dance.

MOMA's PS1 Party. I have to give credit to my friend Nathan for bringing me to this party. MOMA apparently runs the PS1 Summer Warm-Up at their Queens location. It's 6 dollars to get in and runs from 3 pm to 9 pm every Saturday. This past Saturday, it featured house DJ's from Wicked, according to Nathan. As far as I was concerned, it was just great music and a great party. People from all walks of life show up, ranging from families with small toddlers splashing in the wading pool to the thumping bass of the music or young adults dancing it up on the dance floor alongside the middle-aged. With your admission ticket, you get not only the courtyard party, but also admission to whatever exhibit is currently showing at the PS1 location. On Saturday, the party was good to begin with, but it really became rockin' when it started to rain. People partied it up even harder when it downpoured. Overall, a completely amazing experience in my opinion,although I've also heard that its hit-or-miss at times. Regardless, next Saturday is the last week it's running for the summer, and for 6 dollars in New York City, it doesn't get any better than this.

"The Good Girl's Guide to Becoming Bad-Ass."

While cleaning out my manila folders in an attempt to organize my papers in my new apartment, I came across a tattered piece of paper labeled "New Year's Resolutions: 2002". A quick scan down the list revealed a few telling things about me - I dream WAY too big. A lot of the items were already null and void, such as "graduate with honors" *bad buzzer sound*. However, at the bottom was one item that was salvageable.

With this last item, my friend J (who's suddenly single) and I made up the "Bold and Babelicious Agenda for Excellence 2002". We pledge to be more assertive in our interactions with boys. No doormat-ish behavior. And, as added incentive, we've decided to make it into a friendly competition. As two girls who get more flustered than flirtatious with good looking cowboys, this should get -very- interesting as we fumble our way through to the road of becoming a bold and brazen 20-something in New York.

I have a feeling this is going to get expensive. I'm already practically going broke just trying to feed myself. Fifty dollars worth of groceries purchased on Saturday were gone by last night.

And. She's already one-up on me.

The prize of all this hullabaloo? Valuable skills baby... And bragging rights, for the funniest story.

Contest ends January 2nd, 2003 (bonus points if you have someone to kiss on New Year's). Place your bets.

Sharp-eyed and Pointy-toed.

Someone please explain to me the phenomenon of pointy-toed shoes. They seem to be all the rage in the office right now. Pointy-toes and equally pointy stiletto heels. What in the world would possess a woman to squeeze her poor feet into such devices? Bunions are inevitable. Its practically the equivalent of binding your feet. I rank painful shoes slightly below periods and panty hose, the other two things that women seem to be uniquely cursed with. But I suppose, like most things, it is not the actual foot that makes the woman, but the trappings around it.

It seems to fit in with the rest of the world-at-large. We put ourselves through endless acrobatics, whether they be painful contortions of the feet for women, strenuous workout routines for men, or emotional loop-de-loops for the intimacy-fearing. I, myself, am not exempt from the world's obsession with image. After all, I am sitting here in a prim cardigan sweater set with a laptop in front of me, the very picture of the young professional woman. However, hidden underneath that prim cardigan are suit pants that have been left unbuttoned at the top. Apparently, I've gained some weight since college. I trust (perhaps naively) that 80 dollar pants come with strong zippers that will hold up well. My career, after all, depends on it. Although it may be arguable that flashing my panties at work might not accelerate my demise.

I wonder, why are people so set on making things more difficult. Perhaps we're all born with a flair for the dramatic. We love to suffer. If we don't, then we create it for ourselves. Perhaps our lives in the MTV era have become so boring that we feel the need to replicate Real World drama in our own lives. Let's all be valiant in our pointy-toed shoes, revel and brag of our pain, and deny ourselves love in exchange for the thrill of self-denial. Aren't we all courageous?

Self-denial. There's an epidemic of it going around. It seems to be quite fashionable these days. Diets. Long work hours. Anorexics, that's what we all are. But not just for food, but for pleasure. When did pleasure become so laced with guilt? Good food, fattening. Drunken merriness, irresponsible. A good roll in the hay, entrance into the annals of whore-dom. A skipped day at the gym to lounge around, lazy bum.

When did we stop reveling in the simple pleasures of life that are accorded to us as a basic human right? The right to love, to eat good food, and sleep well? Buildings may crumble, civilizations may fall, but these few things never will.

Pointy-toed shoes. Symbolic of the world at large. Interesting how life in the 21st century is theoretically infinitely more easy than that of the caveman. But the 21st century man's antagonists aren't from the sabre tooth tigers lurking at the door or the peril of starvation in the winter. The caveman had no control over his surroundings, and the 21st century man has control of practically everything. And yet that isn't enough. The 21st century man's antagonist is himself. He is the cause of most of his own suffering. He controls even that, and for some reason, he sees it fit to turn the dial on high. After all, its fashionable these days. Funny how twisted we've become with evolution.

I squeeze my feet into square toed shoes every morning. And as I wince my way along to work, I pride myself in knowing that -my- feet are at least 40 times less painful than the feet of every other woman out there, although they may be infinitely more chic. I, too, am a product of the 21st century. But like it was back in the caveman times, its all relative.

I try to set my suffering dial on medium.

Small frog in a big pond.

So. I've landed in New York City. My living room is a mess, my room is tiny, and after long hours and the helpful help of muscle-bound guy friends, I've managed to put my furniture together. The phone lines aren't set up yet, which means no internet access, and lots of money spent on daytime cell phone minutes.

Since work starts tomorrow, I took stock of my inventory for the next few weeks and realized belatedly that I don't -quite- have enough work clothing. But since I've had daily exposure to New York's homeless population (which, I have to admit, is the most talented set of homeless people I have ever seen), I felt not-quite-right in complaining about my lack of clothing variety.

So far, New York's just as wonderfully dirty and wonderfully wonderful as I thought it would be. I spent the past weekend looking at beautiful gay men in gay bars. After about 4 hours of it, I was hungering for beautiful hetero men. Or hetero men period. Granted, being 21 years old and single in New York is a sure recipe for some wild times. But being only 4 days old as a New York inhabitant, there's really no need to be quite so precocious yet.

I'm six feet from the edge and I'm thinking, maybe six feet ain't so far down. -Creed

Tonight: Packing.
Tomorrow: Move-in Day.

::email nine::