Is it weird to go to a party with a 46 year old Trinidad nanny?
Because I'm pretty sure I'm going to do that in the near future.
One of the perks of being a NYC nanny is you will find yourself on numerous play dates with the lovely ladies of Trinidad, and it will always be awesome.
You'll talk about sex, food, and booze constantly. Their daily calorie intake will come up from time to time. 1200 hundred calories a day to be exact. They'll ask how you white girls stay so skinny.
You'll laugh and say, "Lady you don't need to lose weight, but if you really want to... Low carb."
They'll want to know everything about your life, and you'll tell them, because you're a talker, and they asked politely, "Who you fucking these days?"
"...no one."
"Really?"
"...really."
"Well lets change that."
They'll be shocked by why a little sex kitten of a white girl is not screwing anyone and everyone and you'll try to play it off, but deep down you know they are right.
"Come to my party."
Come to her party?
"Have you ever been to a Caribbean party? You'll definitely get laid at a carribean party."
"46 year old Trinidad nanny, I don't need to get laid."
"You need to get laid."
"Well played."
"Then it's decided... You're coming."
"I'm coming."
Word of advice... Never argue with a nanny from Trinidad, unless you want to die. Then by all means... Go for it.
"Amazing. Now let's get back to cartoons... Did you know the Simpsons is a cartoon NOT made for kids?"
"Wait... It's not?!"
She didn't get my joke.
Oh New York...
What am I going to do with you?
You've become the bane of my existence, yet I wouldn't be who I am today without you.
And for that I will always be indebted to you and your endless summer nights dancing at my favorite gay bar and lets not forget that your selection in ice cream and cannolis is superb and quite possibly orgasmic to an extent.
Don't judge assholes, sex in your mouth is a real thing, and it's called cannolis at that deli on 96th and Columbus.
I love you. You know I do, but let's chat for a hot sec. While you have made so many of my dreams come true, you're holding me back.
Is that really your fault? Honestly? No. That's all on me. None of this is your fault, it never has been, nor will it ever be. But come on, I bet you hear this a lot, because it is just to easy not not to blame you.
A very specific type of person moves to new York city. They want it all, but expect none of it. Well they expect it, but they are smart enough to know what shall be sacrificed to justify their "dreams."
And while that sounds very dismal, it's not. It's the best distraction of any reality you will ever find yourself in.
Perfect example, I'm writing this post on my terrace that overlooks the upper east side and the empire state building AND the Chrysler building. And I'm probably drunk (I'm definitely drunk) on overpriced generic beer while listening to some hard core rap in the dead of night.
You can't not not feel like a privileged little asshole whilst in this situation. I also just used the word "whilst." So you can go shoot me now.
There is no other place where I could be doing this than right here and right now. Do I want to be somewhere else right now? Yes. But that's not you, New York, that happens to everyone everywhere.
It just happens to be one of those days for me and a handful of other people in the city. We will forget this feeling in a few days and fall back into your loving arms very soon.
Luckily, you make life a little easier to live when you've hit "that moment." Too many distractions, too many hot dog stands to not love what you bring to society.
My only request is that you bring down the price of Michelob Ultra at the deli downstairs. Twelve bucks for a six pack is just absurd.
I also hate how you know that I'm too lazy to walk down to the local Duane Reade to buy a cheaper six pack, even if it's only two blocks away.
I wish I was high right now. My mind is always clearer under the influence. But you already knew that New York. That's why I can text a random number and have that shit delivered.
You're perfect. I hope you know that and I hope you never forget that or the moments that we've had together. I'm not leaving anytime soon, but if I don't say this now, I'll take you for granted yet again.
At the ripe age of 23 I'm finally starting to learn that communication is a very important part of survival. It's a bitch, but absolutely necessary.
So I'll say it again, I love you New York. You are what makes me, me. And I will always be here loving you, as long as you promise to do the same.
And you just started playing the one song that ultimately brings me to tears... The ice cream truck song.
You win New York, you always do.
You've become the bane of my existence, yet I wouldn't be who I am today without you.
And for that I will always be indebted to you and your endless summer nights dancing at my favorite gay bar and lets not forget that your selection in ice cream and cannolis is superb and quite possibly orgasmic to an extent.
Don't judge assholes, sex in your mouth is a real thing, and it's called cannolis at that deli on 96th and Columbus.
I love you. You know I do, but let's chat for a hot sec. While you have made so many of my dreams come true, you're holding me back.
Is that really your fault? Honestly? No. That's all on me. None of this is your fault, it never has been, nor will it ever be. But come on, I bet you hear this a lot, because it is just to easy not not to blame you.
A very specific type of person moves to new York city. They want it all, but expect none of it. Well they expect it, but they are smart enough to know what shall be sacrificed to justify their "dreams."
And while that sounds very dismal, it's not. It's the best distraction of any reality you will ever find yourself in.
Perfect example, I'm writing this post on my terrace that overlooks the upper east side and the empire state building AND the Chrysler building. And I'm probably drunk (I'm definitely drunk) on overpriced generic beer while listening to some hard core rap in the dead of night.
You can't not not feel like a privileged little asshole whilst in this situation. I also just used the word "whilst." So you can go shoot me now.
There is no other place where I could be doing this than right here and right now. Do I want to be somewhere else right now? Yes. But that's not you, New York, that happens to everyone everywhere.
It just happens to be one of those days for me and a handful of other people in the city. We will forget this feeling in a few days and fall back into your loving arms very soon.
Luckily, you make life a little easier to live when you've hit "that moment." Too many distractions, too many hot dog stands to not love what you bring to society.
My only request is that you bring down the price of Michelob Ultra at the deli downstairs. Twelve bucks for a six pack is just absurd.
I also hate how you know that I'm too lazy to walk down to the local Duane Reade to buy a cheaper six pack, even if it's only two blocks away.
I wish I was high right now. My mind is always clearer under the influence. But you already knew that New York. That's why I can text a random number and have that shit delivered.
You're perfect. I hope you know that and I hope you never forget that or the moments that we've had together. I'm not leaving anytime soon, but if I don't say this now, I'll take you for granted yet again.
At the ripe age of 23 I'm finally starting to learn that communication is a very important part of survival. It's a bitch, but absolutely necessary.
So I'll say it again, I love you New York. You are what makes me, me. And I will always be here loving you, as long as you promise to do the same.
And you just started playing the one song that ultimately brings me to tears... The ice cream truck song.
You win New York, you always do.
Let's get real...
There are two things about myself that I truly hate.
One is that I have this uncanny ability to read people and situations. And while yes, I know this sounds great in theory, but honestly, it's not.
It's so much easier to live in that deluded sense of reality, than actually face what's coming your way. It also sucks because you second guess your first instinct constantly. Every moment where there is a 50/50 chance of something going the way you want it to and how it actually will, you will always choose the "going your way"side.
And you will always end up angrily kicking empty boxes paired some massive hate/angry/i wish I wasn't so pathetic impulse eating. Oh, and there will be crying. A shit ton of crying. Not in public though, that's not your style. Your mother taught you at a young age that crying (especially if you are a lady) is a sign of weakness.
And to an extent showing any sort of emotion publicly is a huge sign of weakness. So you will walk into your place of business with the majority of your peers being none the wiser to your imminent need for an IV filled with Michelob ultra permanently strapped to your arm.
You will be stuck doing some mundane task like staring at a door, to have a male aquatiance at said place of business saunter up to you in a humorous way, whisper, "Now that we are alone" and kiss you.
Yeah. Kiss you. A man you barely know will find the need to kiss you... It will happen so quickly that you won't be able to react, except you wil be super pissed at yourself that that was the moment you decided to be leaning against a fucking wall. Granted you didn't know that dude was going to saunter up and kiss you for no aparant reason in the next 5 seconds, but still... What the fuck were you thinking.
You'll laugh, and say, "Haha, I needed that right now. " But you didn't. It was basically the last thing you needed to happen in your life at that very moment.
And you will say to yourself this is not your life... But it is your life. And you will forever find yourself in situations just like this. Which is also probably why you drink so much, beer just makes everything so much easier to handle.
Which leads me to the second thing I hate about myself, I hate my ability to take really shitty moments in my life and make them humorous for my peers.
Why you ask? Because inevitably that is what everyone will expect from you, it's as almost as if you can't be sad. Ever.
Well no, I take that back. You've got two weeks to feel like shit. And that's usually all it takes, two weeks to get over the initial shock of it all. Yeah you'll be hurt, or pissed, or constipated, (whateva, sometines shit doesnt happen) after the two weeks are done but at that point you have over-thought every possible angle of said situation that now you are just fucking pissed. And out of mayo.
This does not bode well for any part of your functioning society.
You'll be confused by why on this shittiest shit, shit of days you are getting hit on by an inordinate amount of attractive men, in a moment in your life where you've never been more disgusted by who you are as a person than right now.
It doesn't make sense. It never will make sense. But in two weeks you'll find a way to tie it back to how your red puffy eyes makes it look like you're really stoned... And come on, who doesn't want to hit on the stoner chick with mascara running down her cheeks?
But like always you will allow this cycle to continue... seeing as humor is the best way to avoid any real situation or emotion in your life. Leaving those around to think that you truly are okay.
One day you'll think you have found a solution to end this cycle in the future, but you haven't. And you never will. Because are simply not that type of girl. ...And that fact alone will always eat away at you, but there is nothing you can do, because without it, you would be, "that girl."
And you are not, nor will ever be, "that" God damn "girl".
One is that I have this uncanny ability to read people and situations. And while yes, I know this sounds great in theory, but honestly, it's not.
It's so much easier to live in that deluded sense of reality, than actually face what's coming your way. It also sucks because you second guess your first instinct constantly. Every moment where there is a 50/50 chance of something going the way you want it to and how it actually will, you will always choose the "going your way"side.
And you will always end up angrily kicking empty boxes paired some massive hate/angry/i wish I wasn't so pathetic impulse eating. Oh, and there will be crying. A shit ton of crying. Not in public though, that's not your style. Your mother taught you at a young age that crying (especially if you are a lady) is a sign of weakness.
And to an extent showing any sort of emotion publicly is a huge sign of weakness. So you will walk into your place of business with the majority of your peers being none the wiser to your imminent need for an IV filled with Michelob ultra permanently strapped to your arm.
You will be stuck doing some mundane task like staring at a door, to have a male aquatiance at said place of business saunter up to you in a humorous way, whisper, "Now that we are alone" and kiss you.
Yeah. Kiss you. A man you barely know will find the need to kiss you... It will happen so quickly that you won't be able to react, except you wil be super pissed at yourself that that was the moment you decided to be leaning against a fucking wall. Granted you didn't know that dude was going to saunter up and kiss you for no aparant reason in the next 5 seconds, but still... What the fuck were you thinking.
You'll laugh, and say, "Haha, I needed that right now. " But you didn't. It was basically the last thing you needed to happen in your life at that very moment.
And you will say to yourself this is not your life... But it is your life. And you will forever find yourself in situations just like this. Which is also probably why you drink so much, beer just makes everything so much easier to handle.
Which leads me to the second thing I hate about myself, I hate my ability to take really shitty moments in my life and make them humorous for my peers.
Why you ask? Because inevitably that is what everyone will expect from you, it's as almost as if you can't be sad. Ever.
Well no, I take that back. You've got two weeks to feel like shit. And that's usually all it takes, two weeks to get over the initial shock of it all. Yeah you'll be hurt, or pissed, or constipated, (whateva, sometines shit doesnt happen) after the two weeks are done but at that point you have over-thought every possible angle of said situation that now you are just fucking pissed. And out of mayo.
This does not bode well for any part of your functioning society.
You'll be confused by why on this shittiest shit, shit of days you are getting hit on by an inordinate amount of attractive men, in a moment in your life where you've never been more disgusted by who you are as a person than right now.
It doesn't make sense. It never will make sense. But in two weeks you'll find a way to tie it back to how your red puffy eyes makes it look like you're really stoned... And come on, who doesn't want to hit on the stoner chick with mascara running down her cheeks?
But like always you will allow this cycle to continue... seeing as humor is the best way to avoid any real situation or emotion in your life. Leaving those around to think that you truly are okay.
One day you'll think you have found a solution to end this cycle in the future, but you haven't. And you never will. Because are simply not that type of girl. ...And that fact alone will always eat away at you, but there is nothing you can do, because without it, you would be, "that girl."
And you are not, nor will ever be, "that" God damn "girl".
I'm going to shit my pants...
I'm about to shit my pants. Oh how I wish that was an exaggeration, but currently I'm seated in an airport bar waiting for my first flight to depart. Did I mention I'm scared shitless of flying. So scared that I've avoided flying for over ten+ years now? Like so scared of flying that I once took a 20 hour train ride from Chicago to DC filled with hobos and a cat book that I bought for 5 cents at a garage sale as a joke. I'm not even going to pretend like I didn't read that book back to back repeatedly. Quite honestly, I don't know how this flight is going to go so this is just going to be a drunken adventure for all of us! I've already informed the people around me to be prepared for some drunk before, after and during fear crying. I'm not a cute cryer. Thank you, Brooklyn Lager. I'm also currently avoiding the stares of the man next sitting directly next to me at the bar. Five bucks he sits right next to me on the plane too. Did I mention I have a window seat because, and I quote from my lovely BFF matthew, " sit next to a window so you can see how far up you are when you are falling from the sky." Annnnnnnddddd..... I just broke the seal. Sorry guys, this is a very stream of consciousness post. My nerves have taken over and I'm now currently peeing as I type this post on my handy dandy iPhone. Sexy right? But I guess if you don't do what freaks you out then you are just a fucking pussy. And pussy I am not. So I think I'll drink another lager and leave you all with this gem of truth... Every time I've ever taken a pure leap of faith not knowing the outcome on the other side the payout has always been worth the gamble. Boom, bitches.
I have a problem...
I’m a slut for ice cream. Jesus Christ, am I ever.
Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.
Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.
It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.
And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.
I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…
Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.
My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, 16 Handles, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.
I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.
Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.
But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.
I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.
I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.
What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.
And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.
I'm moving...
Three blocks down the street that is, to this amazing apartment with a terrace, and two, count 'em TWO bathrooms and a dishwasher, and CLOSETS, holy fucking shit there are so closests.
It's just crazy that I've almost hit the one year mark in NYC and quite honestly, I haven't done shit. It's been the big kick in my ass that I needed, but it's not exactly making life easier.
In about a week me and matty boy shall embark in the adventure of walking the majority of our shit three blocks down to our new place in spanish harlem. Yesterday, I was carrying boxes home from work and about 4 men within 2 blocks were like, "MMMMMMMM girl. You need help? Cause I can help you. I can help you realllllllllll good." So carrying tables and appliances and shit is going to be hilarious. "MMMMMMMM girl. You gotta blenda' in yo hands. You want me to blend shit for you? I can blend reallllllllll goooooooood for yah."
I'll never forget the day we got the apartment, either. We found it on craiglist's and literally hid behind the only tree on the block trying to figure it out if we were at the right place.
"Is that it?"
"I don't know."
"Is that a funeral home underneath it!?"
"....Yes."
"Matt, there's a couple outside the apartment holding pinkies. Quick, hold my pinky!"
Don't worry, we beat out the douches holding pinkies, even with me turning to the broker and yelling, "Uh, we don't have jobs. Is that going to be an issue?"
Four hours later we were in our hotel room when the broker called saying we got the apartment, leading me to jump up and down repeatedly in a dress with no bra on. Now, whenever I need some good ol' fashioned luck, I don't wear a bra, and it seems to work.
I wish I was joking.
About three weeks later I moved in. Matt moved in a week before me. I moved in on my 23rd birthday. Cause that's always some good birthday fun, being smushed in the back of a car looking for a place to park in Spanish harlem while your dad screams, "Yeah Natalie, let's take German in high school. Let's not listen to dad and take Spanish. Nooooooooo. Cause one day you're going to move into German Harlem. And you'll need to know a shit to of German when living in German harlem!"
And it's been fun in our railroad style apartment with the roaches, and that slight infestion of mice back in january, and the bathroom in the kitchen and that possible gang related shooting outside our apartment the second week we lived here...
Yeahhhhhhh, it's time to move.
It's just crazy that I've almost hit the one year mark in NYC and quite honestly, I haven't done shit. It's been the big kick in my ass that I needed, but it's not exactly making life easier.
In about a week me and matty boy shall embark in the adventure of walking the majority of our shit three blocks down to our new place in spanish harlem. Yesterday, I was carrying boxes home from work and about 4 men within 2 blocks were like, "MMMMMMMM girl. You need help? Cause I can help you. I can help you realllllllllll good." So carrying tables and appliances and shit is going to be hilarious. "MMMMMMMM girl. You gotta blenda' in yo hands. You want me to blend shit for you? I can blend reallllllllll goooooooood for yah."
I'll never forget the day we got the apartment, either. We found it on craiglist's and literally hid behind the only tree on the block trying to figure it out if we were at the right place.
"Is that it?"
"I don't know."
"Is that a funeral home underneath it!?"
"....Yes."
"Matt, there's a couple outside the apartment holding pinkies. Quick, hold my pinky!"
Don't worry, we beat out the douches holding pinkies, even with me turning to the broker and yelling, "Uh, we don't have jobs. Is that going to be an issue?"
Four hours later we were in our hotel room when the broker called saying we got the apartment, leading me to jump up and down repeatedly in a dress with no bra on. Now, whenever I need some good ol' fashioned luck, I don't wear a bra, and it seems to work.
I wish I was joking.
About three weeks later I moved in. Matt moved in a week before me. I moved in on my 23rd birthday. Cause that's always some good birthday fun, being smushed in the back of a car looking for a place to park in Spanish harlem while your dad screams, "Yeah Natalie, let's take German in high school. Let's not listen to dad and take Spanish. Nooooooooo. Cause one day you're going to move into German Harlem. And you'll need to know a shit to of German when living in German harlem!"
And it's been fun in our railroad style apartment with the roaches, and that slight infestion of mice back in january, and the bathroom in the kitchen and that possible gang related shooting outside our apartment the second week we lived here...
Yeahhhhhhh, it's time to move.
El Diablo
Only two things come out of being catholic: border-line alcoholism and the inevitable pit of doom that the devil will one day possess your soul. Gawk if you must, but this is an uncontrollable fear instilled in most, if not all, Catholics.
They start it young; the nuns converge at night, taking pleasure in inventing new sins, that our god-fearing or, rather, devil-fearing souls will lap up in pure terror the next morning in class. Catholic school is literally just a seven-hour lecture of what you absolutely can never, ever, do unless you want an exorcism performed on your pre-adolescent body.
“Wait, are we not allowed to ever think a single bad thought?”
“God always knows what you’re thinking; and so does the devil.”
“And I always have to pray every night?”
“Unless you want the devil to eat your soul, then by all means, don’t pray. Ever.”
At the mere age of five I was told to love God more than my parents and you know what? I did. Sorry mom and pops but can you stop the devil from eating my soul? Um, no.
Actually, my mother seemed to revel in this fear, taking advantage of any moment my prepubescent soul was exposed to the truth of demon possession.
Even the soap operas my mother watched religiously, knew. Joey, the handsome young man in a coma wasn’t actually Joey, but Joey’s evil twin and according to this episode, the devil knew.
“Mom? What are those two red dots glowing over that guy?”
She paused to answer; slowly reeling her head toward my stricken face, revealing viciously green eyes staring into the depths of my innocent soul.
“Well young child. Those are the eyes of the devil!”
Two hours later my father found me in the corner of my parent’s room, rocking in the fetal position and watching Barbie’s disco workout tape. So I was fat and scared of the devil, whatever, I had tons of friends…
But scarring her daughter just once, was never good enough for my mom. She wanted me to think that the devil was already in me.
“You know. You have piercing green eyes. Just like the devil.”
“Wait…what?”
“Just like the devil.”
I was seven.
“Dad? Am I the devil?”
“Has your mother been talking to you again?”
“Yes.”
I had to eat all my vegetables. If not, he would come. I could never lie. If I did, he would come. And worst of all I could never hit my brother in the “no, no” spot. If I did, he would come, and he would be pissed.
“Natalie! Did you hit your brother in the balls again!”
“No…”
“Lying and kicking…the devil is sure to come tonight.”
“Can I sleep in your room?”
“Nope. Sleep tight.”
I was nine.
Praying soon became a necessary step in survival. If I didn’t, the devil would come. It became OCD-like. Five Hail Mary’s for every important person in my life every night before I went to bed. It took two hours every night. I finally weened myself of this habit last month. I don’t sleep well anymore.
Of course this fear has never subsided. And why would it? Years and years of pivotally scarring devil moments in a child’s life don’t just disappear into thin air. To be frank, they hide in one’s mind until someone accidently trips on crazy weed that they were not told was crazy weed.
Next thing that poor innocent girl hears in an empty apartment is a devilish voice screaming.
“You are being possessed by the devil!”
Well, thank you, Sister Lisa. Tripping on drugs should have been a fun experience. My mom saw cows walking on two feet when she tripped. What do I get? The devil. Awesome. That’s one way to stop someone from doing hard drugs.
Any talk of the devil in my apartment always ends with me and my bestie, Kerry, another Shi’ite Catholic, sleeping out in the common room, because obviously it’s way harder for the devil to possess two souls than just the one.
We catholics picture el diablo differently; from red horns to an evilishly charming and suave young man. I like to keep it old fashioned, however. My man is all red.
“How do you picture the devil?”
“I picture a red monster that’s kind of hot, but eats my face.”
“Really? Because I picture Al Pacino.”
“Well if it makes you feel better I picture God as either Morgan Freedman or Coolio.”
“So who’s going to get your soul? Coolio or Al?”
“Um hello, ‘Gansta’s Paradise’ was the shit.”
I still curse. Still lie. Still steal the occasional candy bar. I still do drugs. I don’t hit my brother in the “no no” spot, but that’s just out of common decency. Catholics don’t follow the rules; we just drink away the fear of exorcisms when needed. Which, honestly, is often.
With the rosary in one hand and holy water in the other, we Catholics know the truth; good behavior doesn’t stop anything. He’s coming. Fuck.
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