August 2018 - Girls Aren't Funny

Please let me walk your dog

A notification appeared on my cell phone.

“Looks like Jessica gave you a tip!”.

I’m stunned. I open my dog walker app and find proof in dollar signs.

My bachelor degree is so useful I was able to land two jobs. My second one is now as a dog walker. This works for me as I enjoy all things fluffy (except for that thing growing under my sink).

I was still riding high off of a particularly good walk with a Labrador named Sam. Little did I know my dog walking app was glitching in my pocket.

When I accepted a walk with Archie, an Australian Shepard mix, I left about 15 minutes before the walk was supposed to start. The app claimed his home was less than a mile away.

On the way, my phone began to get warm and the app experienced what the customer service line called an outage. I called it the worst thing to happen to my very short career as a dog walker.

This was a timeline of the events that followed:

9:59 am: Hi Jessica, it’s your dog walker! I am so sorry but my app told me it would take only 11 minutes, but now it’s saying it will take 30 minutes. I will be late, but I hope you’ll still let me take your pup on his walk!

10:02 am: After walking around in circles my blue dot could give me no direction and I panicked. I’m in a Lyft now. Again, my apologies.

10:05 am: Or at least I think I’m in a Lyft, it was a black car who nodded when I asked if it was here for me. Please report to the police if I don’t arrive in 10 minutes (which I will because I’m going to be still on time). Please let me walk your dog.

10:07 am: I’m not even wearing a seat belt because I’m so ready to jump out of the car and walk your dog. And I’m usually really big into safety. I used to be bullied for always wearing a seatbelt on the way home from church. Not that safety isn’t cool. Your dog will be safe in my hands.

10:09 am: I can’t wait to meet Archie! I’m sure he’s a good boy. I’m usually a good girl.

10:10 am: Please ignore that last message

10:12 am: I’m downstairs! Please let me in! I’m already warmed up for our walk. I’ve got a nice sweat going.

* One hour later *

11:12 am: I’ve been pacing back and forth outside of your building. My app won’t let me end the walk. I think Archie is getting confused.

11: 14 am: It keeps saying I have one more minute on the walk. Time flys when you’re having fun (which Archie and I certainly had) but this minute is not ticking by.

11:16 am: I’m just going to give your dog back.

11:18 am: Please don’t rate my service.

Yet, here I am days later and I receive five stars and a tip. Thanks, Archie! Sorry for all the heavy breathing.

What to wear when you run out of underwear

I haven’t worn underwear in almost two weeks.

This is not necessarily a personal choice. After recently moving to New York City, I realize I simply do not have enough quarters in my life to successfully use a laundromat.

The apartment complex I live in has a laundry room that requires a refillable card. I would love a card of my own, but I haven’t been able to track down the Laundry Fairy who gives out this precious device.

Many emails to the landlord, the building managers, and the laundry gods, I am still without fresh underwear. There is only so many thongs, briefs and diapers a girl can own.

It has certainly made wardrobe choices difficult. As I type I’m currently in a ridiculous creation of clothing in order to hide my genitalia.

Therefore, it is fitting to provide a list of underwearless outfits just in time for New York Fashion Week (#NYFW).

Day Clubbing
- Why wait until your night out to bust out a skin-tight skirt to make sure you really tape your legs together? This look also doubles as a hip abductor exercise in your free time. Pair this with Keegles and your pelvic region will thank you. (And hopefully, repay you in underwear.)
Boyfriend Boxers
- Heard of boyfriend jeans? Well instead of paying 60 bucks for ill-fitted pants, just sneak into a man of your choice’s drawers *wiggles eyebrows*. My personal favorite is the boxer brief as they also work for volleyball practice. (If you’re into that exercise stuff.)
Long dresses
- Relate to the freedom of the Scots in their kilts and stride proudly on a hot summer day. If you feel like Little House on the Prairie or a member of a cult in a Lifetime movie you’ve gone too far*.
Non-denim pants
- For those risk takers out there, you can experience full commando with a cold zipper pressed up against your hoo-ha (yes, that’s a medical term for vagina). I strongly advise against skinny jeans as underwear was apparently made to protect our flowers from being crushed by denim. But if you can find softer fabric and a looser fit, tread lightly and go for it.
Jumpsuits
- Inside a jumpsuit, you are completely sealed to the point that you will have to fully undress to use the bathroom. Try not to make eye contact through the bathroom stalls. Coworkers just want to wash their hands, not experience a moment with you that they will remember even when you bring doughnuts to the morning meeting. I’m sorry, Karen, I thought sprinkles could fix this**.

Editor’s Note:

*At all costs avoid skirts, dresses or long shirts that don’t go past your knees. Find something cute that can blow in the wind without recreating a Marylin Monroe moment with less iconic photography and more public indecency arrests. #airitout

** She is really sorry, Karen, let it go.

People keep telling me I’m going to cry on the subway and it’s vaguely threatening

Wow, I have been so bad at not hitting the shiny little publish button, and keeping these gems to myself. Please proceed.

Everyone warned me I would cry on the subway, I took it a step forward and walked around the city cursing at the sidewalk like I had turrets. Then I got lost and blamed the universe for my problems.

I forgot my phone, which usually isn’t the worst thing in the world, but apparently, unless you carry around maps the size of your mother’s linens then you will need Google Maps. (Or Apple Maps if you want to be told to drive into a river.)

I was meeting a friend at The Wing, a women and non-binary people coworking space. If I had my phone I would’ve taken many photos. But then I wouldn’t have this darling story for your viewing pleasure.

I realized I didn’t have my phone when I stepped off the subway. I was meeting my friend ten minutes from then and couldn’t turn around. I rushed into the nearest coffee shop to steal their WiFi because luckily I had my laptop.

I thought I was a genius, I thought I had hacked the system of forgetting your phone at home. I was deeply proud of this and scorned all of the articles about millennials and their lack of #streetsmarts.

I tried to memorize the map on my laptop before closing it and running down the street. I vastly underestimated how hidden offices can be, tucked away between retail spaces. Construction crews lingered in the sidewalk. I continued to walk up and down to no avail.

This is when the cursing began. Close to tears I sucked it in and used it as fuel for my rage. Strangers gave me a wide berth on the crosswalk as I spoke loudly of my horrible turn of events as if someone would stop and ask if I needed help.

I was lost and sweaty and in a business skirt.

After many runs back and forth to steal WiFi from unsuspecting business owners, I found the entrance. It really was a utopia. Mainly because no one gave a shit that I simply couldn’t have worn enough deodorant to mask my defeat. I stank. All was good again as I sipped water from my personal carafe only an hour late. Not bad.

***

Except, that wasn’t the end of this tale! I managed to get lost ON THE WAY HOME! Because it wasn’t my home, it was one of the many AirBnBs we were crashing at while awaiting board approval for our apartment. Therefore I didn’t remember the address and used landmarks to retrace my steps like I was on the Oregon Trail, with less disease and more WiFi hotspots.

I still didn’t cry though. However, this shame is probably deeply embedded in my skin and will appear in the form of a mole 20 years from now.

The End.

Partying? On a Sunday? The scandal of it all

I haven’t posted in a while because I’m forgetful like a parrot with amnesia, and I’m just telling the same story about crackers until someone puts a blanket over my cage. True story. I wrote this little nugget a weekend after arriving in NYC. I guess I should wait until a Sunday to post it but then I’ll forget again. *Insert parrot noise* Please continue.

Last night I was invited to a rooftop party. Someone I barely knew invited me to someone I definitely didn’t know’s birthday party.

When I got there I felt like a total dweeb because everyone was salsa dancing like a total pro. I’m not kidding. Half of the invitees were dancers.

When I dance I look like a chicken pecking, just a lot of neck movement back and forth to the beat. If the rest of my body gets involved it’s more aggressive arm movements. My feet tend to stay in the same place.

The party was both magical and intimidating and a woman yelled at me about touching her chair (which I will hold as a grudge for the rest of my days).

Oh, you want to hear about the mean woman and her chair? Let me tell you.

So salsa dancing takes up a lot of space and the dance floor was tiny so I moved a chair an inch, not for me, but for the dancers! I was trying to be helpful! I’m incredibly defensive!

This woman looks at me and says, “Don’t touch the chair.” I smile back at her waiting for her deadpan to break and we’d laugh together, become best friends and braid each other’s hair. No. It wasn’t like that.

Her boyfriend then got involved.

“Yeah, don’t touch the chair. I reserved that chair.”

I am standing there grinning like a madman hoping they will laugh soon because this is a very specific and ridiculous moment. But they continued to stare at me until I moved away from the chair with a look of both “I hate you” and “you’re boring me”.

Did I let it ruin my night?

Of course, I did! Who gets up in arms about a chair! For the rest of the night, I purposely moved around the room to avoid them until they left. Then I went and touched the chair. Because I’m five, apparently.

On a more positive note, the people there were incredibly interesting. The woman who invited us talked about her travels, how she had two different racecar driver friends, how she sips tequila and scotch, she loves a good cigar, and she casually took up tango and salsa dancing later in her life.

Also, she only parties Sunday to Wednesday night because that’s when the locals come out. Who parties on a Sunday? My worldview was flipped.

I am overwhelmed by the coolness level of these people. I hope some of it rubs off on me because right now I’m experiencing serious imposter syndrome.

I just packed up my things and moved to the city on a whim. I’m having a hard time feeling like I deserve to be here.

I guess whether I deserve to be here or not, I’m here and I might as well make the most of it.

Apparently making the most of it means making a hit list for angry chair keepers.

P.S. I might be taking up salsa dancing lessons. Baby steps?

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

A month ago I decided I wanted to transition this blog into an online magazine. The GAF team is still working very hard towards that goal, but in the meantime, I missed having a platform where I can write.

So I’m back and in a new city. Again. I just moved to NYC! It all happened very quickly and wasn’t planned at all. Essentially I got a remote job and Nick landed a contract for six months and we just took off.

While we were in the process of getting an apartment we hopped around AirBnB’s and hotels. When we reached out to our first host she messaged me back with an ominous warning of “It’s a fourth-floor walk up… can you handle that?”.

I took it as a challenge. Mostly because I forgot “walk up” is a fancy New York way of saying “a shit ton of stairs and no elevator even if you beg the gods halfway up”.

So I arrived with five bags of luggage, two backpacks and a look of determination on my face. The driver, Sean, who unknowingly was acting as a cheaper version of a moving company kindly asked if I wanted help with the bags. Poor man. Poor, poor, guy. It was awful.

Apparently, the apartment building had “high ceilings” so each floor had incredibly steep stairs with at least 30 to a bazillion steps. No exaggeration.

Sean looked like he wanted to run back to the safety of his car. The host probably wanted to close the door in my face.

Then we began the climb with 50-pound bags in the position of our choosing. Sean went for a “head-carrying” position similar to women balancing jugs of water, except with more cursing because he was from Queens.

I hoisted the bags on my hip and essentially dragged it sideways. The host made lots of noises as she watched me ruin her wood stairs.

When we made it to the top I thanked the NYC apartment gods that I wasn’t going to have to deal with those bags for at least two weeks. But alas, the gods had their own plan.

The host walked me through her apartment, she was a designer and it was decorated so meticulously I was afraid to touch anything. Sharp objects everywhere, vintage glassware, white bed linen, etc. Everything breakable or stainable.

“And if you drop even water on the couch it has to be professionally cleaned for $400.”

I audibly gulped and hugged my arms around myself to crush the clutz in me. Within the few minutes there I only managed to gather a few bruises on my shins from bumping into artsy furniture.

Later that night Nick sat down on the couch with a beer. I screamed like I had witnessed a murder.

He lept up and looked around himself as if maybe there was a dead animal he hadn’t seen while lounging around.

“No drinking on the couch. Don’t eat, breath or look at that couch. That couch is only an art installation from now on.”

We agreed and settled into the new place for our first week in the city. But then that fateful Friday, the rain came.

We had just finished dinner and I went to the bathroom. When I closed the door behind me I began to hear the rain. As if it was raining inside. I pulled at the door but it was jammed. I yanked and yanked at the door to no avail. The heavy trickling continued on the other side. It felt like I was in the bathroom at the Rainforest Cafe.

I yelled for Nick and when he released me I was greeted with an indoor shower. The roof was leaking profusely. We gathered all the pots and pans but it was no use. The place was soaked.

The water soaked into the walls and eventually a wall of mirrors, so artfully placed, came crashing down. I’m a superstitious person so I began to count the years of bad luck that surrounded our feet.

Our host came into the apartment to assess the damage. She looked at me with despair and all I could say was,”At least no water landed on the couch!”

We are now in a new location.