"Google Me"

“Meddy, would you like to be on NYC Housewives and on HBO, Entourage? You would be with me as a guest on the show. xx” Text received 2:30 pm. How might you respond to this? Perhaps we should start from the beginning.

“No meter.. $5 dolla” What began as a harmless end of summer Tuesday evening out with my friend Marina, ended in us bartering with a cab driver to take me back to Brooklyn from midtown Manhattan for 5 dollars… not gonna happen. Instead we settled for a 20 dollar cab ride to the Lower East Side and a trip down Duane Reade’s snack aisle. The next morning I woke up with a pounding headache and a death grip to a bag of peanut butter M&M's. (I have a tendency of doing this - waking up Sunday mornings with some sort of food in hand or crusted on my face... most often consisting of peanut butter in some capacity .. jars.. candy coated shells...chocolate covered...yikes... maybe that’s better than waking up to some other things?) I slowly realized not only was it not the weekend but I also was not going to have enough time to get back to Brooklyn, change and get to Grand Central in time to be at my internship with an executive search firm. Instead I was going to have to try and fit my 5’10’ self into the wardrobe of my 5’1” friend. Dear god. I managed to find a black dress of questionable length and slipped into the office praying I would not have to engage in any conversation.

I took my lunch break trying to walk off my hangover and found myself aimlessly wandering. In mid town Manhattan, you hardly find people doing this; walking at an annoyingly slow pace, head up in the sky, no headphones, no phone conversation just a slow staggering stroll… most people have somewhere to be, something to do. As I passed a parking garage around the corner from my internship a man in a (insert some expensive designer) suit stopped me and asked me my name. It’s funny how someone asking me my name on the street really weirds me out in this city whereas a man pissing on the corner of Calyer and Lorimer every day at 8:10am on my morning commute to work, or the construction workers that whistle and make crude comments about my butt or the 5 foot polish man on Manhattan Avenue who insists on grabbing my hand, kissing it and not letting me move until I tell him I am "his girl"... I have learned not to flinch… strange.

So, I told him my name and we got to talking about what I do in the city, what I want to eventually do in fashion ..yada yada. He then introduced himself and for confidentiality purposes lets call him V. So V tells me he's a VP of a "small hedge fund" (what does this mean?... I really don’t know..) called Merrill Lynch and hosts fashion charity balls, nothing big. Right. He asks what it is that I am trying to do here, I pointed at the building and said I intern for an executive search firm and waitress. I then threw out numerous words…terms that one uses when they have no idea what they are talking about but somehow think that using these big words and being extremely vague may mask this very transparent truth… “Fashion. Journalism. Creative. Travel. Cultured.” I sound like a cave man putting words into some totally non-nonsensical order.

Cars started honking at us and I realized the valet had pulled up V’s shiny black Range Rover and a line has formed inside the garage waiting for us to get the hell out of the way. How do I know? A man stepped out of the car in the long line and said "Get the hell out of the way". V asked where I was headed, I said I was on my lunch break. He said lets get lunch, I held up my brown bag and said I already got it. He said can I drive you somewhere? I said this was my internship's building. He said can I at least drive you around the block so we can finish our conversation. V was a nice guy, confident, generous, and intriguing, I was not romantically interested but since traveling I have developed a keen interest in people; what they do, who they are. So against my better judgment, I did what every mother has told you never to do - I hopped in the shiny black Range Rover .

By the time we had rounded the corner and were parked outside of 275 Madison Avenue we had touched on numerous subjects; family, career, hobbies, his sick grandmother in Long Island, why he had 3 different blackberrys, and his first job with a “small fashion house” which when I asked which one he nonchalantly said “Gucci, do you know Gucci?” I looked at him and responded “Just because I’m from Maine doesn’t mean I wear a damn paper sack and live under a rock.”

I was already pushing it on my lunch break and said I really had to head back. He said if I was really serious about fashion he’d like to take me to the Tom Ford fashion show. I said ok let me know the details. He then asked to take me to dinner; he'd even have his driver pick me up. He sensed my hesitation, and said “look you can Google me, I am who I say I am. I sincerely would like to help you out, take you to dinner and just get to know you.” This seemed fair, after all is this any better/worse than meeting someone in a bar? I figured, dinner? Why not? I said I'd take the subway, he again offered to pick me up. Ok I was not about to give this guy my home address (but I will however get into a total strangers car.. yes I most certainly will do that.. because that is totally safe). He further insisted on picking me up. I insisted I'd take the subway, period. So we agreed to meet at 8pm.

After some thorough Google stalking I came to the conclusion that V was 1. telling the truth about his career 2. had to have been lying about his age 3. may or may not have been previously suffering from a fat phase and why anyone in their right mind would allow such a terrible photo represent them on their company website is beyond me.

As usual I was running very late so I called V to see if we could push the time back an hour. He said he would call and change the reservation. Reservation? The only time I go to dinner at places which require a reservation are with either my grandparents or my parents or… prom! Where are we going? I reassessed my outfit and searched through my closet to find most of my nicer clothes rolled into a ball. It reminded me of my first college party when Amanda Stegman, an upper classman, said she would take me to an invite only party off campus. She said to get changed and meet her in her room. I put on a new J Crew crew neck sweater with cute little buttons down the shoulder ( I even undid one button!) and when I went to Amanda’s room feeling really great and excited for my first college party she looked at me and said “Ooooooohhh no. No No NO No No. Where’s your going out top?!” I looked at her like what the hell is a “going out top” and she proceeded to take my sweater off of me and put on one of her T shirts that seriously could have unbuttoned down to my belly button. She looked at me and said “Well, you don’t have much to show anyway I guess”.

When I arrived at V's building the doorman said to go up to the Pent House suite. (What the hell am I doing here?) I got to the top floor and knocked …

V said the only reason he chose the apartment was because every hour you can see the Empire State building change colors. In my head I was thinking the only reason I chose my apartment was because it was so cheap and I didn't need a deposit. He casually offered me a drink, "Grey Goose?" and insisted on showing me around his new place. The place looked so uninhabited. Everything so clean, he barely knew how to turn on his own tv, he didn't even do his own grocery shopping! Who was this guy? I looked around seeing plaques and certificates in frames on his wall. I read allowed ... "Whar-ton School" I sounded each syllable aloud like a little kid first learning how to read... "What's the Wharton School?" (When I repeated this statement to my mother... she said MEDDY, you don’t know the damn Wharton School!?) he responded to my apparently ignorant inquiry with.. you have never heard of the Wharton School? Well supposedly, the Wharton School… it’s the most prestigious business school in the country maybe even the world.

"oh."

We sat down and chatted about his life, career, how he got to where he is now. He told me about his father and how brilliant he was; former UN member and doctor. V idolized his dad. He tried the medical path at his father’s insistence but found it just wasn't for him. I could identify with these feelings; I had my own father as a teacher for 2 years, spent most of my adolescence surrounded by my family and expectations - uncertain of my career path or what my future may be. This was a vulnerable side of V I could relate to. Maybe he was just trying to connect. Connect with someone who may not just value his material wealth and social status. Oooo the Empire State building just turned green….

V hailed a cab, when we got in he said he was taking me to the restaurant he only takes his "top clients". “And what kind of clients do you mean?” He responded, “Well the ones I take special care of.” Little did I know, this mildly creepy statement was the first of many that would ensue. When we arrived at Megu, a swanky downtown sushi bar the owner and chef came out to greet us and show us to “V's table”. We were seated in the center of the room, next to the Buddha ice sculpture in a rose petal pond. A rose petal pond! We were then awkwardly guided over to this sculpture because it is only "good luck" to scoop water from the rose petal pond and pour it on the Buddha before our meal and make a wish.. I felt like an eight foot tall giant next to this tiny Japanese woman explaining the ritual. I could barely hear her. I kept just sort of nodding and smiling and trying to bend down to hear what the hell she was talking about.

When we sat down V ordered two $100 glasses of sparkling sake.. oh and the Kobe beef ... to start. Well I think we may have just covered my month's rent in our appetizers. V leaned in and said "So, what would you say if I called my friend at Glamour magazine and told her that I had her next issue's cover girl sitting in front of me?" In between a large bite of Kobe beef I glanced around the room and said “Where!?” He said “You! I know a lot of people in this city and I think with the right guidance you could be really big”. Really big? Well yeah if I continue to eat out at places like this I will certainly be really big. Confirming this thought he added, I mean you will need to lose about 20 pounds but don’t worry we will just have them photo shop it. I shook my head Noooo way. Not doing it. He said Meddy everything.. EVERYTHING is photo shopped. Yeah, I get that, I just don’t want to be photo shopped out of existence.

Mid way through our entrée’s V said “This may sound totally crazy but what are you doing next week?” I said working. He said well I have a meeting with a client next week either in LA or Las Vegas will you come with me?” I was so confused how did we just sit down to dinner and now we’re talking about a vacation together? I started laughing thinking it was a joke and asked who his client was, he responded Lebron James. I just kept laughing but when I looked up he was dead serious. What? Trying not to resemble a totally starstruck country bumpkin I casually asked who his other clients were and what that meant. He listed off a slew of names whose financial portfolio’s he manages. Many names I did not know (he made sure to give me a disapproving look for my ignorance and then added “google them”) and those that popped right out… hello Curtis Jackson and Shawn Carter.

He said “Look Baby, (the use of this word actually makes me have a physical reaction to the point I can actually taste the bile) I pretty much got Gisele Bundchen her start. I can help you just by bringing you out with me.. You don’t believe me?” He then pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of him in bed with Adriana Lima and the ugliest fluffiest dog that resembled more of a throw pillow than any sort of animal. Trying to look unimpressed (and shocked of how this man was in a bed with Adriana Lima) I said why are you showing this to me? “Because if fashion’s what you want to do I can introduce you to a lot of people in this city but first I have to know that you’re cool. Parties can be crazy and I just have to know you’re cool if I bring you. I got Gisele her start by just bringing her out.” He reminisced about the “good old days”, parties and one time in particular when he met with Curtis for “business” (they’re on a first name basis so I guess that means I can be too for this story) some club’s VIP room. He brought Gisele out when she was just starting her career. He said Curtis’ entourage was passing around a blunt and when it came to her she looked at him and apparently her English wasn’t great at this time and she motioned to V if it was ok for her to smoke. He said it was absolutely crazy, and that at the end of his “business meeting” Curtis was about to stand up to say goodbye but stopped short and zipped his pants as two girls came out from under the table wiping their mouths.

I felt like I had just been shown the door to some secret society of sin where all the members had pledged impulsivity, disregard and gluttony. It was disgusting and intriguing and ironic. Ironic how all the glitter and glisten of this supposedly “glamorous lifestyle” at a closer glance looked about as appealing as the sheen on V’s bald head.

As if this night couldn’t get more outrageous, as V drove me home (sidenote: ask anyone, I have no sense of direction. Don’t even know my lefts and rights.. this comes from my mother’s side. One time I got lost driving to my own pediatrician at the age of 17 why was I still seeing a pediatrician at this age? Is that normal?) he asked if his GPS was taking us the right way. I just said sure. As we approached the Williamsburg Bridge, which Iv only crossed on foot, surprisingly in the city that never sleeps there was not a single car on the bridge. When we got half way across I started seeing headlights coming toward us… why are they coming toward us? I snapped to attention and realized HOLY SHIT we are driving on the wrong side of the bridge! V threw his car in reverse and I swear it felt like we were going 80mph. It was terrifying.

We arrived at my apartment.. thankfully in one piece. As I started to say thank you, V stopped me and said “ have you made your decision on the Hampton’s for this weekend?” The Hamptons? And then came offers of driving his Porsche, shopping, runway shows and gala’s (whatever those are?). I stumbled out of the car overwhelmed and confused on how this first date turned into so many commitments.

The next day at work I got a text from V saying he had spoken with Marc Jacobs and offered me to be in his February Fashion show, appearances on Entourage and NYC Real Desperate Housewives. He asked if I made up my mind on the Hamptons, and said that Billy Joel had invited us on his yacht on Sunday after the Saturday Operation Smile Charity that will have “so many celebs”. Yes this was really all so intriguing; go on Billy Joel’s yacht, “rub elbows with the stars”, meet designers. But at what cost? And why does this guy have to add "Google it" to everything he says in order to get someone to believe him, or bait someone with parties and name dropping to get them to spend time with him? What would I have to do? Even if I went to all these places, assuming they're true, and met all these people, who would I be? Certainly not myself. It was all so clear…

As I ran back through the day I started to piece together my own perceived naiveté…a wide eyed girl with a short black dress in a great big city. My lunch break on 40^th and Madison resembled more of Julia Roberts’ Hollywood Boulevard in Pretty Woman but somehow Richard Gear had missed his cue.

Seventeen

I think when your heart breaks it's like irreversible damage.

“Meddy, when you get older one leg'll get shorter than the other. You’re gonna need a cane and in a year probably a brace. Ain’t fixable but your just gonna learn to live with it.”

That was what Nurse Nathanson said to me in fifth grade. Sometimes I wonder if she was actually describing the inevitable evil of heart break instead of my Scoliosis diagnosis. Maybe they should warn you about the horrible devistation of love at the age of 10. Maybe that way you can have years of preparation and make a rational decision on whether its all really worth it.

But is love really ever rational? You see what you want to see, hear what you want to hear. Do you ever look at someone and say, "Hey! you look like a big bag of disfunction, come on! Lets do this... for a really long time." No, no you don't. Because even the most disfunctional is always the most tempting. I think what we seek out in others is merely a reflection of what we are most unsettled with in ourselves. I know because I have spent years running from what I have not wanted to face most. Myself.

I remember when it first happened. It's like this lead weight that sits on your heart and you walk with it. It stays there. Sometimes I wonder if it's disappeared but I think thats just the adjustment. Adjusting to its heaviness. That’s what it feels like with a broken heart. I was 17 when it first happened, then I was 18, then I was 19, 20 , 21, 22, 23, 24. You’d think by that time I would learn. Learn that this weight doesn’t suit me, that this agonizing pain is becoming me. Plaguing each part of me. I just want to cut it off. Run away. Just get so far away. Where no one even knows me. So I do.

I moved half way across the world. No one did know me. I was at the end of my trip sitting on the beach in Fiji. I was alone. And I remember sitting there thinking, I really don't like myself. I have lived so much of my life as a "good kid". Done so many things out of fear. Fear of failure, rejection, judgement. Who is this person? I'm not sure I know her anymore.

Somehow I had managed to stay 17 for 7 years. Avoiding the inevitable reality of life; You grow up.

People make mistakes. People do crazy things. People fall in love.
Hearts break.

El Toro to Couture Part III

Part III

Awkward is one word I would use to describe my pre-pubescence. Growing up I wasn't like my best friend Jenna, blessed with long golden hair and boobs by the age of 10, or Jaclyn who embodied sex at the age of 13 giving boys boners long before I even knew what one was, or my older sister Georgia, whom I became the love letter liaison for at the age of 8.***

No, I was a late bloomer as they say. Jealousy with the opposite sex only occurred when I could out eat a boy in a toaster strudel battle (that's including the extra cream cheese frosting packet , if you are a real competitor, you know what I am talking about) I remember the first time a boy walked me home in high school we got to my front door and I could not understand why after I had said goodnight he just kept standing there as if he was waiting for something. I just shrugged my shoulders and shut the door. My first real kiss was when I was 16 and I can only imagine what the expression on my face must have looked like because the unfortunate receiver responded with, “it does get better, you know". So when I was offered to be in a photo shoot for a magazine I was pretty sure awkward wasn’t going to fly.

Sunday August 8, 2010:

(1.5 hours before being picked up for the photo shoot)
3:30AM Return from my last night of bartending…I sit on my couch and wonder how the hell does one prepare in an hour and a half before being critiqued on their physical appearance? I begin generating a mental list of all the hygienic things I have been putting off doing until now… Take a shower. Shave my legs. Floss. Take off the nail polish that has been sitting on my toes for an unsanitary amount of time. Get a manicure, my fingernails look like a mangled dog’s paw. Pluck my eyebrows. Lose 10 pounds… 20? I’m hungry.
4:30 Am Wake up. Drool down my chin. I am still sitting on my couch. Damnit. I settle on shaving my legs and hope that will suffice.
5:00Am I am picked up by Heather one of the photographers and the make up artist. She said we were on our way to Roosevelt Island, located in between Manhattan and Queens, there is an abandoned small pox hospital next to a park where we are shooting. The theme is “suicide widows of 18th century NY”… interesting.
6:00Am We arrive and are met by the photographer, three other models, three stylists and a U-Haul truck filled with designer gowns. Still unsure whether I will actually fit into any of these gowns, I walk up to the stylist, Aminah, and ask. She responded, “Yeah you do got a booty... put that shit in hair and make up. We make it work.”
8:00Am Hair and Make up. I have no mirror to see what I look like but from the cancer I have inhaled of toxic hairspray I am positive I look terrifying. Rashida, the makeup artist asks the photographer which suicide I am depicting, he says “arsenic poisoning.. I want green oozing from her eyes.. but in a hot way..” .. hmmm.
10:00Am I am standing in the back of a U-Haul .. in my underwear..
10:05 Am A group of joggers run by and I am still.. standing in the back of a U-Haul in my underwear with teased hair big enough to rival Diana Ross and make up scary enough to rival Ronald McDonald .. I wave.
10:15 Am Two girls are trying to stuff my size 4 self into a size zero gown. It’s not happening. This is kind of awkward.
10:20Am Plan B. We try another one. It works.
10:25Am A girl is strategically placing double sided tape on my boobs. So much for modesty.

10:30Am – 5:00Pm A lot of boring, vain bullshit.

***Disclaimer: For those friends whom I did not list please do not take it as me not thinking you have remarkable physical attributes worthy of note.
For instance, Lauren you have a seriously enviable back side. Laura, you’re Asian or Polynesian or something.. being hot is like a given. Sarah, Kelly, Kristin, Stacey, Heather… I think there was some code in the 80’s that if you named your daughter any of those names.. they were like destined to be attractive. Ana you’re Cuban… enough said.

El Toro to Couture Part II

Part II

The smell of skunky beer and soggy cigarettes emits a comforting nostalgia. It reminds me of my first bar job the summer I graduated college and moved to Hawaii. My interview went a little something like this;

Rowell (the owner, in between bites of what resembles soupy mac salad): So Beddy, dis job ain't rocket science, yeah. I don't care if ya got a degree or not.. ya work da register, talk ta boys, no free drinks and never let ya boyfriend hang out when ya workin, yeah?
Me (trying really hard not to gag/look at the lone noodle hanging from his beard): Yeah, I got it.. It's Meddy by the way with an "M" and I dont have a boyfriend.

Hawaiians have this way of turning any statement into a question by adding "yeah" at the end, it almost sounds like a Shakespearean iambic pentameter with the rising and falling intonation.

Rowell: I got dis place locked down like da Bellagio, yeah. So don't try and screw me.

Yeah. This was Bob's.. I think everything in this place was broken. We had to use a screw driver every morning to open the front door. Some days the air conditioner didn't work, most days the juke box was broken. Somehow I managed to break the cash register my first day… There were always roaches on the floor and the regulars told me never to use the spoon on the Guinness draft bc there's a huge rat that comes down from the ceiling and chews on it. I hardly think this place was "locked down like the Bellagio". Once the walk in's cooling unit broke, for 2 whole days... Im positive all that beer got skunked and we still served it. Sorrrrryyyy..

I didn't know how to pour one drink but Rowell hired me nonetheless. I was enrolled in a 3 hour liquor commission course with an open book test at the end which my friends said was so easy they all aced it "viciously hungover". Being the scholar that I am I arrived 30 minutes early, sat in the front row and took notes on nearly every word the man said. I was among the last to hand in the test. The instructor corrected the exams and began calling out names of people who successfully passed to move into the next room to receive their licenses. As the room weeded out I slowly started to see that I was among the last few remaining in what to me resembled the reject room. Most of these people consisted of immigrants who's first language had about 10 different dialects, not to mention some even were having the test translated to them and here I was a fresh college graduate of my own American heritage. I told the instructor there had to be some mistake. He reviewed my exam and assured me there was no mistake, I had done poorly on the appropriate alcohol consumption portion and it wasn’t even worth the time to count every error on the part that tests your ability to decipher ones age from their given birthdate, ie. basic subtraction (a minor life requirement from the age of 5.. 6? What year in development is that? Clearly I missed it.). He told me to come back next week for a re take. Defeated does not quite capture the emotion I felt when I left the building, and mortified doesn’t quite sum up how I felt when it took an hour to convince my friends I had failed.
Needless to say my bartending career was off to a bit of a rough start.

SATURDAY August 7, 2010:

I had been bartending at this Mexican Dive in my neighborhood that appeared to have only a few requirements for employment: tatoos, an absurd amount of piercings, and treating every customers request as the largest inconvenience of your life. I met none of these requirements. But somehow was hired.

My first day bartending, Kat the owner, a little firecracker with hair that’s hue changed weekly from platinum to an orange that gave a startling contrast to her Irish skin, gave me a "tutorial" of the drinks. She made me one of every cocktail we served. By the time we hit "Larry's Junkyard Juice" I was feeling like one more was about to send me to a graveyard. She just kept pouring and mixing, talking about how this one and that one was inspired by some escapade in Jamaica that she swore they sprayed the resort with Valium every morning.

My second day training as a server I was to "shadow" (which in and of itself is totally awkward) this guy Mike. He explained the menu to me and how to write down orders, he also took a little too much interest/enjoyment in explaining a specific option on the menu called "Make it wet" or "Make it nasty" each of these a completely disgusting way to clog your arteries and an even more disgusting pun on some sexual innuendo by adding a repulsive white sauce. So I followed Mike to take a table of ladies orders and sure enough one girl asked for the ChimiChonga Burrito and Make it nasty .. Mike said "excuse me?".. she said, "make it nasty".. Mike, "excuse me?", "I said, make it nasty", he said "excuse me?".
She responded Fuck you. Hospitality at its finest.

I was moved outside to bartend the experimental “service bar”, which essentially means you just make drinks for the servers.. ie. No tips. So after the 5th weekend working from 4pm until 3am making about $50 on a “good” night, having a rat run across my foot in the back room, and accidentally dumping a dustpan into a pot of rice and beans that was served (it was on the floor next to the garbage, and it was an accident! I swear! Why the hell was it on the floor next to the garbage can?!) I realized this was a terrible gig.

Thankfully, my friend stopped through for a drink. He came with a friend of his who was a photographer looking for one more model in a shoot for a high fashion magazine. She asked me how tall I was and what I was doing tomorrow morning at 5Am. I said nothing. So she said if I could fit into a gown I could be in the shoot... Why did I eat that third fish taco?

I walked up to my manager and told him I quit.

El Toro to Couture

Part I

When I look back on where I was a year ago today, my life felt so, so… bland. I was probably lying on the couch in my grandmother’s home in Virginia half way through a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, wallowing in the fact that I was about to turn 23, had just been prescribed accutane for a bout of horrid acne and had about as much direction as the Lifetime original movie I was watching. To say the least, I felt awful. One year later its Monday morning and I am laying awake reflecting on the weekend trying to figure out when it began and when it ended. Despite New York’s big city rep it has this serendipitous quality that intertwines fear and opportunity seamlessly. You can in one moment feel yourself drowning in a sea of unknown and the next feel as though everything you have done in your life up until this point has brought you here.

FRIDAY August 6, 2010:

It all started Friday evening, I was invited to a cocktail party by a guy named Nick whom I met on the L train a few weeks back. He had complimented me on my style and asked me to join his “friendship circle”. He was holding an old leather briefcase containing only one item, an etch a sketch upon which he scribbled my name and handed me a business card made from cardboard. Weeks later I received an email invite to a cocktail party on Bedford Avenue in Williamsburg. I probably would not have attended if it hadn’t been for the hilariously detailed “Cocktail Party Gossip Guest List”;

Reggie: Previously on tour opening for Conan O’Brien. Speaks French and German fluently. Originally from Montana. Enjoys talking about Health Food.
Kate: Currently stars in BLOODY BLOODY ALEXANDER play. On our first date I ran a Stop sign and swore profusely. There was no second date. Bringing a friend or two.
Matt: Another of my smartest, most well-read friends. Ask him about anything. If you visit his apartment and use a Q-tip, NEVER put it in the toilet and don't flush it. He will get really pissed. Great cook.

So, I attended. When I arrived I was informed that first, I was late and second, I had missed the front table where I was to make myself a name tag. I walked outside to a beautiful patio, a small pond with 5 fish and a huge garden. I came to realize that many of the guests had met Nick under similar circumstances as myself, one in a cab back from JFK, the restroom at the Whitney, another on the subway, a coffee shop, the pub, etc. Nick has this flamboyant sophisticated nature and a unique way of being so intently interested in what you are saying and with the blink of an eye disappears helping serve guests mint mojitos and stuffed mushroom risotto with baked Parmesan cheese. It all felt so random.

I had made plans across town so I thanked Nick for his hospitality and excused myself. I was meeting friends at Viva Toro, a new Mexican bar in my neighborhood with a dangerous happy hour and a mechanical bull. I had planned on just saying hello, staying for one frozen margarita, and calling it a night. However, somewhere in between my third margarita and shot of Patrón I found myself making a deal with Javier to DJ with my ipod and ride the bull. Throwing caution to the wind I signed the fine print 3 page release form stating that if I lose a limb, become paralyzed, suffer from a sudden seizure or possible death that this was in fact my own choice.. right.. yeah..got it...whatever. give me the damn cowboy hat. So with this new carefree confidence I got up on the bull and told Javier not to pull some sexist bullshit on me by "going easy" because I'm a girl, he raised his eyebrows at me and consented. And with two teeth rattling jerks my face made contact with the inflatable mat faster than I could say "Olé".

As I walked home feeling rather humbled by my cultural escapade I heard a familiar high pitch “Meddy?! Is that you?” I turned around to find my old room mate , Miche, staring back at me. A pair of eyes I hadn’t seen since my last night in Hawaii nearly two years ago when she had come home and insisted that we all sit around and listen to her soulful rendition of Subway’s most recent jingle, “5 dollar foot long”… Miche was this surfer girl from Florida with short bleache blonde hair, who spoke with this breezy aloofness, could most often be seen wearing a spandex onesie and had an unwavering love for a dog named Lupo that was living with us. Lupo suffered from bloody erections (and when I use the term "Bloody" I don't mean it in the way of British terminology, I'm talking about legitimate blood, my friend even hired a professional cleaning service to steam the carpet when we moved out... blarg) and heart worms. Needless to say I had little to no affection for this dog. It’s funny to think that at a certain time you can become so invested in a person's life and they in yours only to part ways and move on to your next chapter. And then two years elapsed you find yourselves on the corner of N7th and Bedford Avenue picking up where you left off. I am always so taken aback when these chance encounters occur; bumping into an old friend (or possible foe). It reminds me that life may not be just a string of coincidences but possibly a path with intentional purpose.

My Safety

I was 17 when I decided… ok settled on my next step after high school. I was rejected from nearly every school I applied (I know what you’re thinking, I have NO idea why either). But apparently just because you get your SAT score back and your Mom and Dad console you by saying, “That’s alright, Honey, it’s only a test” that doesn’t mean a thing to Bowdoin, Tufts, Bates, Colby or Conn. So you can imagine my utter shock when I wasn’t wanted by anyone. I mean not to brag or anything but I was a good kid, I won the “Leadership Award” my freshman year, they even gave me a plaque and this huge book of wildlife animals with the nicest note about how unique I was! (this book also contained a picture of a whale’s “dork”, Google it… YIKES!) Upon graduation my GPA was fairly… consistent (a few biology and pre-cal set backs), I was my school’s first female All American athlete; even my dental hygienist was impressed, having only one cavity! So, when I received that crisp cream linen papered envelope in the mail with the bold blue seal “WHEATON COLLEGE”, I knew this was my safety (literally). The school that would accept all 840 combined points of me.

Fall came and I entered what was referred to as the “Wheaton bubble”, a liberal arts microcosm tucked away in Norton, MA, or more widely known as “that school next to the Tweeter Center” or “where the PGA golf tournaments are held” (many of which I had to work 12 hour shifts with my lacrosse team for “team bonding” and Spring Break fundraising in the scorching heat or monsooning rain wearing some ridiculous neon crossing guard vest that convincingly stated “SECURITY”, upon which I was driven via golf cart to some mysterious checkpoint that I was told to “guard” some zone marked by pink tape and cones that sure as hell wouldn’t keep anyone or anything out much less the drunken middle aged men I was subjected to smile and grit my teeth at) or more recently known as, the school that Anne Curry ***ed up the Commencement Speech by naming all alums from the Wheaton in Illinois (no affiliation)…

This was Wheaton College, an institution that promised four years of academic excellence, a commitment to my leadership development and a dedication to my unique potential. Yes, it was here that I had so arduously stretched my procrastination ability down to “reading” a 500 page history book, writing and printing off a précis in 45 minutes flat, perfected the concentrated nod and take notes method to avoid a professors questions, where I mastered the culinary art of preparing a cinnamon raisin, peanut butter, banana and cape cod chip sandwich, and consumed more Sparks (an alcoholic energy drink recently banned in the state of Massachusetts) and Strawberry Andre every Saturday night with enough coherency to request my most recent jam of guilty pleasure, this was usually something from multi platinum (in the UK) recording artist Craig David with song titles like “Born to do it”, “Hot as Fire” or my personal favorite “Just Chillin” you know, real sophisticated stuff. Only to wake up Sunday morning with barely enough mobility to call my partner in crime, Alexa Jurczak and repeat my Sunday morning mantra, “I want to crawl in a hole and die”…

To my parents and grandparents whom financed this education, I want to assure you your investment was well spent. Afterall, I’ve traveled the world, now live in New York City, I have an internship, sleep on a floor bed, I bartend at a Mexican restaurant in Brooklyn...Hey! I even have a blog! These are all tangible things.. Things I can hang my hat on at the end of the day when I step back and think, could I have done ALL this without those four crucially influential years at Wheaton College???... ALL this for four easy payments of $51.999.99?!!… Sometimes Im not so sure.

"Mind the Gap"

Sometimes I wonder how do these things happen to me? Kinda like that time in high school, it was Martin Luther King Jr. Day and we were having these workshops in our school auditorium, you know the ones that inform you about racism, civil rights, our country's most influential leaders in social change and how they risked their lives for the opportunities our generation today can enjoy. Well there I was 16 year old Meddy day dreaming about Bernard Schwartz my most recent heartache who had now moved on to Sarah Tovey… I mean he walked me home and held my hand!! I thought we were like totally together!
“Isn’t that right Meddy?.... Meddy? Meddy?” that was when our teacher Ms. Franklin who was leading the “Attitude over Aptitude” discussion had apparently used me as an example in relating work ethic with my lacrosse skill (essentially giving me a compliment) and my friend Weston chimed in with “well apparently Meddy doesn’t have to work hard!” and I instinctively just yelled out “SHUT UP BERNARD”.. mind you Bernard was not even in the room…. nor part of this discussion.. it just simply flew from my thoughts to the silent room only to be met by confused stares and then some hushed laughter. CRINGE.

Then there was that time I was in biology class when I was participating in a cloning debate and referenced that sheep, "The Dolly" and instead referred to it as the Dalai Lama.. can you imagine.. them cloning the Dalai Lama?!
Or even that time when my mom wrote out directions for me and she wrote "the house with the red Cherokee in the driveway" and the whole time I was looking for some Native American lawn ornament.. like some gnome or something!?

This is just part of my nature I suppose, so I should not have been so shocked this past Tuesday morning when an event equally as embarrassing occurred.

In an effort to shake myself from my vacation withdrawal blues I walked to the subway with a refreshing new playlist on my ipod. It was a beautiful morning, people sprawled out in the park, horns beeping, sun shining, cars rushing, beautiful skyline, and I just realized, “WOW, I live in New York City.. New York City!!” This is one of the most amazing places in the world! People dream about living here, I even flashed a smile to the miserable man who sells me my kombucha. So as I swiped my unlimited metro like an old pro, I waltzed down the steps to a train that had conveniently just arrived kinda like it new I was coming.. it all felt so routine.. dare I say I was becoming a native or at least adapting?

But just as I got to the train the doors started closing and as I hesitated getting on I stepped back and my leg went down the space between the platform and the train the thing that those annoying recordings warn you about “MIND THE GAP WHEN ENTERING THE TRAIN” but no one ever actually thinks their own leg will slip between that space. So I had one leg in the train (doors closing) one leg down the space between the train and the platform and Im like SCREAMING the train is about to take off and this man thankfully heaves me out and onto the floor of the train. I peeled myself off the floor and reluctantly looked around at a silent traincar of people with their jaws dropped and shaking their heads I even heard one woman mutter “idiot”. Welcome home.

Growing Pains

With all the tweeting, facebooking, instant status updating, Gchatting and texting of todays cyber obsession I thought it might be a bit vain to join the masses in the thought that everyone or anyone really cares about anything and everything you are doing every moment. Nonetheless I am here and I have so vainly created this blog with the hope that everyone and anyone will care what I have to say. While it may be hard to believe anyone takes time for personal interaction with all this new technology which allows you to talk and video and text and teleport I am actually on my way to a family reunion in the sticks of Phippsburg, Maine. My family only recently put cable and internet in our home, and considering cell service is only available if you climb the tallest nearby tree, stand on your head and click your ruby red slippers three times, it is safe to say I will be fully immersed in family.

Every year growing up my family would take 2 weeks vacation in St. Augustine Fl, 3 families of 5 plus my grandfather. It was a typical Gauld gathering, consisting of beach days, Disney, mini golf trips, sibling "talent shows", cook outs, melt downs, my cousin Harrison running around the pool asking inappropriate questions usually involving a new phrase he overheard and was then told not to say ("do you have a penis", "shut the Huck up" which was later corrected and then reprimanded), mandatory family seminars that involved me on more than one occasion refusing to participate (which did not last long when my uncle called me a baby) again typical standard reunion. Back then I had this image of all my relatives and that liking and loving them were synonymous. However, similar to the day I graduated from the kids table to the grown up table at Thanksgiving dinner I am seeing perhaps liking and loving can be separate when it comes to family, and I can only imagine this family reunion being quite interesting as we have all grown up so much since our last Florida excursion nearly 7 years ago.

That famous question, "what do you want to be when you grow up" echoes in my ears at age 23 similar to the way I would ask “are we there yet” every five minutes in our annual car rides from Maine to Virginia. Both of these questions summon an uncomfortable silence. What the hell do I want to be when I "grow up"? If you had asked me at age 5 I would have responded "a ballerina" but I can assure you that was mainly because of the amazing pink tutu which I coveted so much, only to attend one class and wear the tutu to school. Thus began my series of summer camps in Williamsburg, Virginia which I was enrolled in weekly by my grandparents, Mimi and Granky. Marine Biology camp I thought would be a sure thing as I loved swimming in the ocean. I lost interest the first day I realized swimming in the ocean was not on the activity list.

Drama camp I must admit I didn't dive right into with much enthusiasm as I had been plagued by the unfortunate experience at age 6 being cast as the littlest elephant in our towns production of “The Jungle Book” and my sister got to be the Princess (every little girls nightmare of your sister upstaging you with the cutest Arabian outfit and you are left to trip over your own trunk). Nonetheless, I was cast in “A Midsummer’s Night Dream” as Pucks sidekick “Hugo” a character they had to "create" whom was some form of an elf from what I remember (not sure Shakespeare would have been too appreciative of their creative modifications and I certainly can’t say their reassurance that in the Shakespearean era females were typically portrayed by male actors so in actuality I was just keeping the historical integrity by being a girl with the part of a boy.. not very convincing.) I was ultimately cut to "set design". And.. Scene.

Spending most of my childhood summers in Williamsburg, home of the first colony I was absolutely in love with history, milked my Native American roots for all they were worth after visiting Jamestown (I may have even tried to pass myself off as one of Pocahontas's last remaining ancestors) and spent multiple Christmas's with my sister walking around in our capes and bonnets pretending we were part of the re-enactment, posing for photos with tourists.. oh god. Recounting these events is actually cringe worthy. So when my grandmother enrolled me in Archaeological dig camp I was thrilled to say the least. However, on my first day it was over 100 degrees and the perspiration from my Hi-C and 3 water bottles in my unnecessarily over stuffed lunch box (which was actually similar to a cooler a family might bring to the beach… packed by my grandma Mimi) my salami sandwich was soggy and goopy. To make matters worse after lunch I had broken out in a horrible rash across my stomach from the heat and had to go home, it was an absolutely scarring experience.

I really had a lot to complain about during these summers with my Mimi and Granky. When my biggest worry was whether I wanted Ginger Ale or Dr. Pepper for my dinner beverage, the question of whipped cream or ice cream on my dessert really left me reeling... seriously it’s a wonder I wasn’t rolled home after these summers of indulgence with my Mimi and Granky (my brother Zach on the other hand unfortunately didn’t have a metabolism until he was 16; cue chunky stage).

Mimi enrolled me in the local Library Summer Read-A-Thon which don't get me wrong I was quite the reader but when I was introduced to the idea of prizes for reading... let’s just say I started listing books I didn't technically read that summer.. so thats not technically lying is it? It was for a free Parletts ice cream!! And Parletts ice cream was only like the BEST thing ever!! Next to my Mimi’s servings of pie the size of your face. Needless to say, I read a lot of books that summer and ate a lot of ice cream. It was this enthusiasm (in reading) that inspired Mimi to sign me up for ... another camp.. Creative writing camp! which I loved but that couldn't be a career.. I mean the woman who taught the class was actually the size of a house.. she sweat profusely and made us rub her feet.. ok so we didn't actually rub her feet, but to me writing didn't look like the most glamorous aspiration, afterall this teacher was spending her summer with 20 sweaty kids in a non-air-conditioned room of the YMCA, wearing a flashing snowman pin in the middle of July! In my ignorant adolescent mind this "hobby" didn't quite match up to the dreams all my friends were talking about; astronauts, NBA players, movie stars and electric guitars... so I decided to continue this privately keeping a journal since the age of 5. Last year I came across my first Minney Mouse diary when i was going through some old boxes. The first entry read "March 5. Dear Diary, Georgia is such a boob." (oh the days of pre-profanity in sibling rivalry).

So, when do we really "grow up"? At what age can you finally say.. "when I grew up"? I thought I was getting closer now that I get all dressed up for my Internship and get off at the Grand Central stop with all the men in business suits, although everyone in the office asks me what I want to do when I’m older so I guess I’m not an official grown up yet... But when I walk by the woman with the corner office who wears a really nice suit everyday and has a picture frame on her desk with two kids, and a dog I always see her youtubing Twilight and google-imaging that shirtless werewolf or plucking her eyebrows? So is she a grown up? The verdict is still out.