Exciting Things to Get Excited About (Or Shameless Self Promotion)

First, here's a really interesting story I read today about what could possibly be the best way to handle getting jilted before your wedding day. Seriously, nothing says "Fuck you, not only have I clearly moved on, but I am also a better person" than donating your wedding reception.

Next, I am attempting NaNoWriMo. I signed up yesterday and have not had time to write yet. Nor do I have any ideas. But the site suggested telling as many people as possible that you signed up, so that you are then shamed into finishing. So there you have it.

I am just smearing myself all over the goddamn internet. I now proudly Yelp, which has become indispensable to trying new things in New York. Also, if you're not a creep, you may request to follow me on twitter- @missalexander.

Powder Room Experiments: Those That Never Were...

As soon I saw an ad for 'Bumpits', I knew I had to have one. The TV commercial is possibly the best since US Window Factory. Unfortunately, a lack of funds and a phobia of ordering things off the TV delayed my purchase. And now, so many months later, I was in my enormous local Target (right over the bridge in the exotic Bronx!) and what did I see on an aisle-end display? BUMPITS! SCORES AND SCORES OF BUMPITS!

I immeadiately snatched a package up and tossed it in my basket. There would be no dull hair tonight! Tonight, I would, perhaps, 'rock a pony' as they so repeatedly suggest in the commercial. And then I stopped my mini joy dance and remembered.......I don't have any hair. As of a month ago, I look like this:
It's a terrible picture, but basically- I lack hair, which did not cross my mind as I was jumping up and down excited about finding Bumpits. So I dejectedly put the Bumpits back on their shelf knowing that it will be months before I have hair long enough to try them. Possibly years, I really like my new haircut.

Luckily, I have friends with similar values. Thank God. What I've heard is that the Bumpit is pretty much the best thing since sliced bread. Everyone else enjoy! As for me, I'll be living in a universe where hair accessories don't exist.

Isle of Joy

I would venture a guess that my first trip was probably my baptism, which was performed at Saint Illuminators Armenian Apostolic Church on 27^th street. Growing up, most holidays involved a trek into Manhattan or Queens for family gatherings or special events. I started taking the train in by myself when I was 15. I lived in Sunnyside, Queens for two wonderful and strange summers in college. And on July 29^th of this year I decided that even though I only had enough money for one month’s rent and no job prospects, I was going to move. I drove a van of stuff up to Harlem- Sugar Hill to be exact- on August 1, 2009.

To say this has been a whirlwind two and half months would be a vast understatement. Despite knowing the city extremely well and having the support of my awesome friends helping me find jobs, I literally spent my first month in a pretty constant state of panic. I have been lucky enough to land a series of freelance jobs and just this week I finally secured a steady part time job (in a law office, of all places). My panic has finally subsided, my bank account doesn’t look completely dried out, and I’ve stopped waking up in the middle of the night worried that I should start packing my things up.

What I have thought about recently is the life I am living here now and my childhood conceptions of what this life would be like. Starting further back than I can remember I always knew that when I grew up, I would live in New York. Really, this was probably after age 6, because before that I wanted to be a farmer and you can’t do that in Manhattan. The fantasy would change every year- what my ideal job, ideal New York apartment, ideal city pastimes would be. For a kid, these were probably based in a healthy dose of reality. I have family that lives in TriBeCa as well as Queens and I constantly heard about how expensive things were and hard it was to hold on to an apartment, job, etc. But in my daydreams I always had a job- usually one I imagined would be very time consuming and painfully artsy- I always had an apartment in a quiet neighborhood somewhere uptown or in Queens. The daydreams always placed me with multiple social circles of fascinating friends and acquaintances, and I always had a dog or a boyfriend (both would have probably made my 14 year old head explode).

All of this flashed in my head the other night as I was closing up at the puppetry studio I have been freelancing at, waiting for my boyfriend to come meet me so we could go out with our fascinating friends. And at the end of the night, I went home to my lovely apartment in my (sometimes) quiet uptown neighborhood. It is all very wonderful.

These Kids Today

Here is proof that I am officially old and I need to leave to suburbs: today, I came dangerously close to going outside in my house dress and hosing teenagers off my lawn.

The young boys of Little Silver, NJ, ages 12-twentystupid, have in the past few years have mistaking my street for a skatepark. My street has little traffic and slopes down into a curve which said skaters like to fly down and around. They also like sitting on my lawn. I don't know what has hardened inside me over the years, but they fucking infuriate me. I cannot stop wishing cars would hit them, just nick them a little so they would all...i don't know..skate in the goddamn local skatepark we have.

First, because none of them wear helmets. We live in an area infested with helicopter parents and I don't think they would pleased to know that their children are whipping around a blind curve on my street at about 30 mph without a helmet.

That's all really none of my business. Bigger issue, those little fucks are rude. Two blocks over, a busy cut-through street to a major local road, some of them set up an occasional low pipe to ride. They always very smartly set it up in the middle of the road, and upon approaching in my car i slowed to 10mph only to have a 12 year old ollie directly in front of it. I honked, he FLIPPED ME OFF.

I live in SUBURBAN NEW JERSEY. These kids go to COUNTRY DAY SCHOOLS. Yeah, I like skateboarding culture, but I also think it belongs NOT ON MY STREET, where I need to drive my car.

Conversations With My Boyfriend

Me: Do you love me more than bacon?

Boyfriend: ……..

Me: umm, wha…?

Boyfriend: Well! It’s just that I’ve been involved with bacon longer.

Me: But…

Boyfriend: Sorry

Me: Well, do you love me more than turkey bacon?

Boyfriend: Oh god yes.

Me: How about sausage?

Boyfriend: I love you more than most types of sausage.

Me: Most? It’s all types, I can feel it. You love sausage more than me too.

Boyfriend: Can I go? This conversation is making me uncomfortable…

Me: No wait! I need to know which meat products rank higher than me! What if you leave me for a filet mignon?!?!

Boyfriend: Uhh…

Me: Or a nice piece of veal?

Boyfriend: I don’t really like veal.

Me: Really? Cause I would leave you for, like, a crappy piece of veal.

Boyfriend: Oh good.

Me: It’s so tasty! How could I not?

Powder Room Experiments: Freeman Feeling Beautiful Cucumber Facial Peel-Off Mask

Back around 1997 or 1998, at the height of the Biore pore strip craze (or the putting scotch tape on the bridge of your nose craze, pending how old you were at the time) my friends and I would, like every other group of adolescent girls have sleepovers, where we would do elaborate beauty rituals. These included but were not limited to, facials, skin masques, tweezing, “makeovers”, and liberal amounts of sun-in application. Our favorite of these was the Freeman Feeling Beautiful Cucumber Facial Peel-Off Mask.



Freeman Feeling Beautiful Cucumber Facial Peel-Off Mask, or as we called it, cucumber mask, smelled vaguely of greenness and went on our faces in cold goopy handfuls where it would then dry to a tight shellac. Then came the fun part- peeling it off! I will probably never fully understand it, but there is something deeply satisfying and hypnotic about peeling dried goop off of one's skin. Remember letting Elmer's dry on your hand at day camp just to have the fun of peeling it off? Was it just me and my friends?


More than ten years later, Sarah and I were strolling the aisles of, where else, Target and she impulse bought some Freeman Feeling Beautiful Cucumber Facial Peel-Off Mask remembering how much fun it used to be. Later, in her living room, we had reached the peeling stage when one of her brother’s friends came in and sat down to watch TV with us. As we talked nonchalantly, I began peeling large chunks of mask off. The friend became distinctly uncomfortable, eventually pausing to ask, “Are you okay?” Sarah explained the mask. The friend was glad my face wasn’t falling off in front of him.

In the end, the mask, much like polyester and the Marshall's dressing room, gave Sarah what appeared to be hives, so the bottle was turned over to me. I would say that I use it every few weeks, when i have time to kill, the overwhelming desire to peel adhesive off of my skin, or I want to look like Beyonce in that one creepy segment of the "Diva" video.



I would say that it does seem to take off a good amount of pesky, fine grain dried skin- the kind that no amount of moisturizer will alleviate. There are other products that do the same- namely Elmer's glue, surprise, surprise. A baby sized bottle of that, which is probably enough for two or three applications, is $0.99. When compared with the $3.99 tag on Freeman Feeling Beautiful Cucumber Facial Peel-Off Mask, I would speculate that the price point difference is made up for by the fact that you are not putting school glue on your face. Although I've been told that the school glue tightens pores better. I've also been told that there is a more natural way of getting a foreign substance to tighten your pores and smooth your skin. While it sounds infinitely more fun, it takes two people, and worse- it takes time. You're probably better served buying some $0.99 school glue.

Hostess Solutions: What To Do When a Guest Will Not Leave And You Cannot Find a Blunt Object.

About two weeks ago, I elatedly helped my good friend Ms. Schultz host a lovely holiday party at her shared Brooklyn apartment. Hot buttered rums were served en masse, loud hip-hop was played, and the room was decorated with paper snowflakes I made out of her recycling. Everybody was dressed in their cutest lil' outfits and proceeded to make serious business out of drinking, snacking, and dancing.

Around about midnight, Ms. Schultz's other roommate stumbled to bed, despite the fact that the party was still raging. Two hours later, Schultz also disappeared into her room. There were still twenty or so people dancing and whatnot, and from atop the chair I was dancing and dj-ing from, I realized that I was now in charge of this party, and more importantly getting everyone out of the apartment. In a drunken panic I ran into Schultz's room, where she was taking a disco nap of sorts face down on her bed in her party dress, and asked for guidance. She kind of half lifted her head and grumbled, "Yeah, get everyone to go home."

With that I resolutely adjusted my feather headpiece, marched back out onto the dance floor and started point at people.

"You, on the couch, you look bored. Go home."

"You there! Stop being here."

Etc., etc.

That worked surprisingly well. I also turned the music off and that was an immediate sign that people had better find their coats. After the last gaggle of guests did one more round of vodka shots and said their farewells, I looked around to realize we had a belligerently drunk straggler trying to make himself comfy on the futon. Under normal circumstances, I would certainly let that just happen, but as it was I had no idea who this dude was, and furthermore that was my futon to sleep on that night. So, he had to go. And, of course, he didn't want to. Here were the step I took:

1. Totally sweet and polite basic requests:

I calmly like was like, "Heeeey buddy, it's time for you to go home. Want me to call you a cab?"

His response: "Nah, nah, nah- I gotta stay here. [Insert long string of nonsensical excuses]"

2. A little firmer, please:

I proceeded to open the door and stand there arms folded. "Come on, dude. Now. Out. You live down the block- go."

At this point Schultz wandered out to see what all the commotion was about. Our unwanted guest attempted to make out with her- she ran back to her room and loudly called our friends to admonish them for leaving us with "some kind of creeper rapist". This did not please him. I also was beginning to lose my patience down a slippery rum covered slope, which lead to step three.

3. Oh you know, just yelling:

Me: Okay, we established that Schultz does not ant to make out with you, so GET OUT.

Guest: What's your fucking problem? I can't leave, I can't find my coat. I can't leave, I have a papercut...etc.,etc.

Me: I want to go to bed and you are wasting my time. Get out. Your coat is on the fucking coat rack now get out!

Guest[while decided to get right up in my face]: Fuck you, you don't even fucking live here. You're just a couch surfing bitch. I can sleep wherever I want! Fuck you!

Ladies and Gentlemen, this lead to step four.

4. Lose your shit:

Me: LISTEN TO ME YOU LITTLE SHIT IF YOU DON'T GET OUT OF THIS BUILDING RIGHT FUCKING NOW I AM NOT ONLY GOING TO CALL THE COPS I AM ALSO GOING TO VOMIT ON YOU SO GET THE FUCK OUT OF THIS APARTMENT...etc.,etc.

About when I felt like my vocal chords were going to give out, he left. I later found out that he lives with some friends of ours and they've asked him to move because of his inability to play well with others.

I guess the real lesson here (which I kind of hostess by) is that sometimes you have to just be able to get a little street with your difficult guests. And I don't think there is anything wrong with that- you invited them, they are guests, and god knows a lot of people take that for granted. Possibly coming in the future: how to be a good guest.