all i want for christmas

Home for the holidays means entire days spent in fleece zip-ups and pants. It means sleeping til noon, eating the best food on the planet, and snuggling with pets (and parents). It also means reminiscing about holidays past.
My mom asked us about our most memorable Christmas Eves and Christmases at the dinner table. It was nice listening to my parents' stories about their lives before I came along. A lot of Christmases blur together, simply because the traditions we follow render each one the same. But there are some years that I can remember vividly.What I can't remember, however, is when I stopped believing in Santa Claus. It seems that I was around 9 or 10 when I started writing letters addressed as follows: Dear 1/2 Santa, 1/2 parents. What prompted my doubt, I couldn't tell you. Perhaps the realization that a red-suited, gray-bearded, present-bearing magic old man didn't exist was so traumatic that I have blocked it out of my memory.Regardless, my parents continued to insist that "if you don't believe, you won't receive." And thus, I continued to write my Christmas wishes to "Santa," even through middle and maybe even high school. Seriously. Even now, I still put out milk and cookies (although now it's morphed into soy milk and vegan gingerbread). Why? I'm not really sure. I think I just love the magic of Christmas.

the gemma show

Whenever I am set to work the brunch shift at the restaurant, I concentrate all my efforts, the night before, on making it rain. While I feel sorry for all of the delivery people who bring food to New Yorkers who refuse to leave their apartments, as a hostess, rainy days make my life a lot easier. Last night's rain dance... well, let's just say I'm going to have to try those moves again.

Today, from about 10:15 to 10:58, the restaurant was completely, utterly empty. Since I work at a hotel restaurant that never closes, a window of time that large--on a Sunday during peak breakfast time--in which no customers come in is unheard of. Absolutely unheard of. So what did we, the staff, do?

Why, cat-walked around the entire restaurant, of course. Oh, and did yoga in between tables. Some jumping and dancing may have been involved as well. Perhaps a push-up contest transpired. It was absolutely fantastic.

In my producing class this week, we pitched ideas for films and TV shows to each other. One group had the idea of an HBO show that takes place at a fictional New York hotel called the Soho Majestic. Brilliant. An absolutely brilliant idea. I think that the staff at the Bowery Hotel should be a model for a TV show, if we are not worthy enough of a reality show ourselves. Posh hotels are always a good subject for a TV dramedy (though I hate that word). Just this week, a swimsuit designer was mysteriously murdered and found in the bathtub of her suite at a swanky hotel in the meatpacking district. Turned out her scorned lover did it. (When is that not the case?)

But seriously. How great would that show be? Follow the lives of Massimo, the at-first abrasive and OCD maître-d' with a fiery attitude who turns out to be a big old opera-loving, bad-joke-telling softie at heart. There's Noah, the tall and lanky male model wannabe who works room service and makes a little extra money selling special brownies to the guys in the kitchen, but is quite possibly one of the friendliest people in the whole hotel. Don't forget Angelina, a beautiful hostess with a behind out to there and an attitude to match--you don't want to cross her, but if you're on her good side you're golden. Names have been changed to protect identities, and some exaggerations have been made. But still. Don't you want to know more? Don't you want to watch these people as they interact with celebrities, socialites, tourists, and the homeless people that sometimes wander in to use the bathroom?

Yes. That does indeed happen.

Season Premiere Fall 2011.

lost boys (and girls)

(from weheartit.com)

Coming home from college for Thanksgiving break is always a weird experience. It's such a short reprieve from the ins and outs of quotidian life, but sometimes a very necessary one nevertheless. Freshman year, it was incredibly exciting to fly home and compare stories with high school friends. Sophomore year, I stayed in New York and went a little stir-crazy. Junior year, it was an incredible relief to get away from the oppressive concrete and loneliness of the streets. It had been a rough semester, and going home for a little well-deserved hibernation was exactly what I needed.

It's senior year, now: the last Thanksgiving break of my college career. It's been a crazy semester-- crazy, but happy. Still, the thought of going home for these few bleak November days was the light at the end of the tunnel. As soon as I stepped off of the train and into the car that would take me westward, I breathed a sigh of relief. I could relax. I was going home.

Home! What a magical place. Flannel sheets to sleep on, a fat cat to snuggle with, incredible food to eat, wonderful people to talk to. It is so nice to be able to come back to a place from which I've been absent for six months and to still be completely myself, completely comfortable. It is also nice to be able to catch up with friends that I haven't really talked to for that long, either. Those are the best kinds of friendships, I think. Each person is so driven, doing his or her own thing, and when we do get together it's a genuine interest in what goes on in the others' minds. That constant contact is not a necessary thing, because we are secure enough to realize that these people always have our back, regardless. It's beautiful.

Last night I met with two of these inspiring, beautiful people. We sat around my kitchen island, drinking Little Penguin and snacking on pumpkin bread. We just talked, and talked and talked, for nearly four hours. I remember, when I was little, looking at the adults around me and thinking to myself, "Man. They talk so much! How boring. When I'm grown up I'm still going to play with my stuffed animals and be imaginative and fun."

Jokes on me. I can't even remember the names of my stuffed animals. At my old house, my bed was cut into the wall; it was a nest in which I surrounded myself with a community of animals. And that's really what they (we?) were-- every night, I would tell them all about my day, about my hopes and dreams. They were all arranged in a specific order, and I went down the line and slept with a different animal each night. There was a bear named Mayor, his wife Nicola. A blue monkey named Swinger, who was married to a dolphin, whose name I cannot remember. I cannot remember the other animals. These animals used to be such a part of my daily life, and now I have forgotten almost everything.

"Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting," writes J.M Barrie in Peter Pan. Also known as the boy who refused to grow up. Going away means forgetting. Growing up means going away, and thus, forgetting. It's scary.

Talking with these two was reassuring, though, and inspiring. One of them has already made the transition from college life to, well, "real" life. She's moved away (far away!) from home. She has a job, working 50+ hours a week. She is living in a real house, with real people, dating real men, doing real things. By "real," I mean there is no protection, no shield to hide behind. College is definitely a sort of shield: Oh it's okay, I don't have to be responsible yet, I'm in college. Et cetera. You know how it goes. But she did it. She did it; it was hard, but she's surviving. The other one is graduating in just a few short weeks. Full of anxiety, but also full of determination to make something of herself. It was so interesting to listen to them talk about their decision-making processes and the thoughts going through their head, the emotions they experienced (or are experiencing) during the closing of another chapter. It made me feel more mentally prepared for my own chapter closing coming up in a few short months.

Growing up is funny. Life is funny.
And I am ready to turn the page.

(Sorry that was hopelessly cliché. I'm a bit rusty.)

pillow talk

from aishagabriela.tumblr.com via weheartit

I had a strange experience in bed the other day.

Please, keep reading, it's not inappropriate in the slightest.

I was lying in bed, awake at 2 AM, a victim of too much caffeine (brunch does have a negative side, it turns out). Earlier that evening, it had stormed: thunder and raindrops had been the soundtrack to my studying. As I tossed and turned, I realized the world outside was eerily quiet. So quiet, in fact, that the bed in my East Village, New York City apartment felt like it could have been anywhere.

I closed my eyes and began composing a little poem in my head about the phenomenon that is middle-of-the-night silence (on a par with empty Sunday morning streets) but then...almost as if on cue...a car alarm went off.

I giggled to myself, and then: a thought.

Was that God?

I've never been particularly religious (and only somewhat spiritual), so this thought was very strange to me. The idea that someone or something out there had heard my thoughts and played a little joke was rather disconcerting, actually. I comforted myself with the idea that there was no way, if God were real, that He would be listening to my thoughts. Surely there were one million--even one billion!--other people whose thoughts were more important than mine at that moment and needed God's attention.

Unless He needed a break from all that work.
A laugh...

But it was probably just a coincidence anyway.

shake your bon bon

from weheartit.com

Once upon a time--third through seventh grades, to be exact--I was in love with a swivel-hipped singer named Ricky Martin. Remember him? I wanted to be the one making him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain. Figuratively speaking, of course; I was only nine years old. Who do you think I am?

I had a poster of him in my bedroom, and, if my memory serves me well, I'm fairly certain that I practiced kissing on it. Typical. His face was just so tan and...well, symmetrical. Of course, I moved on to other, slightly more real crushes, and that poster is probably crumpled up somewhere in one of the many memory boxes I have in the storage closet. Also, it turns out Ricky Martin is quite gay. Story of my life, really, but it just allowed me to move on faster since I knew that now there really was no chance we'd ever be together.

Fast forward ten years or so. One sunny September Saturday, I walk into work and who is seated at a table by the window but Señor Ricky Martin himself. A little scruffy, with mirrored aviators on, but still, unmistakably, that tan, symmetrical face. One of my childhood idols, in the flesh, mere inches away. Sitting, unaware of the flood of emotions coursing through my body. Nostalgia. Breathless anticipation. An uncontrollable urge to laugh, both at myself and at how utterly ridiculous life is sometimes.

As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said:

"Life is infinitely stranger
than anything the mind could invent."

i bet you think this song is about you

from weheartit.com

I hate to say it, but it's true. I care about what I look like. I've always cared. I've always been the one comparing myself to others to make sure I'm cool enough, stylish enough, etc. I mean, we all do that, to an extent (at least, I hope so!). We need to make sure we look appropriate for the situation, the milieu, in which we find ourselves.

But lately I have found that I am succumbing to the pressures of New York City even more, in that I literally cannot leave the house without makeup on, or in the twenty minutes I spend in front of my closet every morning trying to decide what to wear. I have become even more obsessed with my image. And you know what isn't helping? Working at the restaurant.

I work at a pretty hip place. It's a hotel restaurant. I seat people who give hundred-dollar-handshakes, and celebrities. I need to look good so I get some tips. I need to look good, because otherwise, I will be looked down upon. Everyone's always telling me I do look good, and, sadly, these compliments have become what I strive for every night. If I don't get complimented, I'm doing something wrong.

The other day we got a new hostess. Tall, lanky, a beautiful doll. I felt like a child next to her. I found myself fishing for compliments from the staff to boost my temporarily deflated ego. I literally heard myself saying those words and wanted to slap myself.

Why does what you look like have to be such an important part of social life, especially here in New York City? It's funny (not in a haha-funny way, more of an interesting/ironic funny sort of thing) how far being good-looking can get you. Tall, attractive men get promoted more often, or so studies have shown. The pretty girls are the ones that get in to exclusive bars and clubs (not that that's what I aspire to, but still). It's all about image here, and I'm really starting to resent it. I want to rise above it. All I want to do is go camping in the Adirondacks for two weeks: no makeup, lake baths, no mirrors. And I don't want to be judged.

It's strange, really. All of the staff at the restaurant tell me they like me because I'm not all about image--there's more to me than just my face. And yet I find myself becoming more and more shallow day by day, spending less time beautifying my mind and more time learning how to apply my eyeliner just-so.

I think I need a swift kick in the rear.

objects in mirror are better than they appear(ed)

(fotolog on weheartit)

I was in the Strand recently, browsing through the maze of bookshelves and relishing the smell of books old and new. I stumbled upon the poetry section, and, always wanting to be more interested in poetry than I have been in the past, I decided to take a closer look and picked up a collection of T.S. Eliot poems.

I studied Eliot in high school, closely, even; we had to be familiar with some of his work and to be able to differentiate his words and structures from his contemporaries'. I flipped through the pages and found 'The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The only thing I remembered about this poem was simply how much I had hated the fact that I had to read and analyze it.

I leaned against a pillar (fearing the bookshelves would fall like dominoes) and read the poem. "Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky." I loved it. And I got to thinking...

It's funny how we often dislike (or even hate!) something we are forced to do, but then, upon re-discovering the same thing on our own, we change our mind. Like me and poetry, for example. Or me and art museums. Me and practicing piano. Or me and arugula. I could go on.

I wonder why that is, why things that seemed so horrible while they were occurring end up being some of life's little pleasures. I think it has a lot to do with independence and choice. Choosing to read a poem, or eat a pine nut, is a lot different than being forced to do so with no other reasonable explanation other than "Because I said so."

Choices...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.S. Eliot