Curtain Call, New year' Eve 2006

Jan 2, 2007

11.30am , swimming in the turquoise water near Cancun , Mexico.

2.14pm. boarding on a plane for Philadelphia , PA.

7.01pm boarding on 3 different trains to reach NY , NY.

9.55pm on our way to a New Year's party in Brooklyn .

Why am I telling you all that? It's not like it was a really complicated trek –granted a gruesome one- nor that I am about to rave about attending the party of the year. But I still would like to share with you what I called my 2006 New Year's Eve bash…

The thing is, I'm not really into parties that are more packed than a Sunday at Wallmart and that cost $150 for the all-you-can-drink, especially because in my case, all I can drink is half a glass of wine before looking deeply intoxicated. I then naturally planned on crashing a private party, the kind with less people to push on your way to the temporary bar made out of four chairs and the bathroom door. And as far as meeting the host, well, just backtrack a couple of pages...

The problem with online dating is that you are as soon forgotten as a deleted email. It is a bit like warming up your food in the microwave: it gets hot pretty fast, and cold even faster. With that in mind, try to imagine His face when He opened the door: We hadn't spoken in 3 weeks, I had flown to Paris, Miami and Mexico and had told Him I would not be reachable during these trips. But who cares about what I say anyway? So back to the party I was "sort of invited to." Passed the surprised He seemed genuinely happy, and genuinely drunk too. We lingered there for a bit, staring at each other by the entrance wondering who should start to feel uncomfortable first. And then She saved us all, walking towards Him and looking like she had just sipped a whole bathtub worth of homemade whiskey. She stumbled and pushed Him somewhere between the couch and the Ikea frame, deciding it was time for a well deserved make out session.

I took advantage of this brief clearance of the entrance door and eased my way into the apartment, straight to the bar/bathroom door.


11.25pm. 35 minutes to go and I don't know anyone besides my two friends.

11.35pm and a vodka tonic later we're dancing in the living room to some poppy sound. It's funny how Americans don't seem to dance at parties and Europeans never seem capable of talking without convulsing to the beat of whatever they recognize first. You don't believe me? Gather a room full of Italians or French, blast out some 80's music and watch them all joyfully jump up and down, shout all the words out of tune with tears of pride in their eyes, holding each other like they were already friends when that song came out. Now they are ready to meet each other. But this is an American party and we're only 3 French shaking it on the dance floor, soon followed by a Turkish couple (…see?)


11.48pm , everyone is sent to the roof when I get held back by some hairy hand and quickly sent sitting down on a chair. A guy called Conan, (thank God his name is not spelled with a K) jumps in and proceeds to what his buddies call a lap dance but what to me resembles more an epileptic attack. As the guitar solo kicks in, he bends over and whispers in my ear "don't be afraid, we both know we'll end up together before the end of the night." I'd laugh but I am scared that if I open my mouth something that has not been invited will sneak in.


11.56pm someone I will never thank enough puts me out of my misery and drags all the belated guests to the roof so we can admire the fireworks. My lap-dancer, whom I now gather is also throwing the party, starts the countdown for everyone. 10…9….8…(let go of my shoulder, please)…7… 6….(hands off my waist too if you actually want to make it to 2007)…5…4…(look up! A flying snowman! Escape missed) …3…(closer)....2…(closer)….1 (too close)

Happy New Year!!!!

His starts with an elbow in his gums, mine with a missing elbow and a partial view of the fireworks hidden behind the building across the street.



"2006, Year of the Shit" had said the Chinatown psychic. "2007, Very-Very-Lucky-give me-5-dollars-even-more-lucky" now started to feel like a rip off. Although granted that he had been sort of right for the first part. 12.32am, January 1st, 2007. I am walking home under the rain, repeating to myself that it can only go up from here.

Last Day in Mexico

Dec 30th. One more day in the Caribbean. One more morning of hot sun tanning on our originally green skins now beautifully turned pale yellow after a full week of deep exposure. One more Scrabble night to go. In a common effort to keep this trip memorable, we agreed we would splurge on a nice hotel room for the last night, away from the rusty/bloody/dead buggy sheets of Tulum. We decided to set camp in Puerto Morelos, because it was a fisherman’s village that wasn’t yet welcoming its springs with wet t-shirt contests on the Zócalo, so said the French Routard. When we got there, we were famished so we sat down in a nice little café and ate tortillas, listening to a jazzy elevator tune on a loop. The idea of going to bed in a genuine place where modern civilization and X-boxes had not yet reached the shores was delightful. Our eyes were sleepy, our heads heavy with scrambled memories of the past week.

Barely carrying ourselves, we walked to the first pensión and asked for a room. Lleno. Ah. On to the next… Lleno. And the next and the next were all Llenos. God damn tourist guide! After the 7th attempt, I asked the owner, desperate, where we could go. He said that so close to New Year’s eve everything would be fully booked and that there would not be anything here, or anywhere along the coast included our dreaded Cancun. He was even renting rooms that were not fully built yet: business was that good and our planning that bad. I asked again if there was anyway, anywhere besides in our car where we could spend the night. “Well” he said, there is a Motel on the highway between here and Cancun, a kilometer after the airport. Turn around on the Southbound and here it is. It is on the highway but it is clean, secure, and nicely done. I believe you will find a room there.”

It was past 10pm, meaning way past our bedtime, and anything else than taking turns to sleep in the half sized car would have done. The instructions where pretty straight forward and it didn’t take long before we spotted our shelter. Indeed it was secured: 2 guards were standing at the entrance asking for our room number. We said we were looking for a place and he lifted the gate. The owner of the cute hostel was right, empty rooms they had… to the point that it started to look suspicious. But who has time to be suspicious when you’re about to get the only vacancy on the whole coast? I visited a room before agreeing to anything as we would always do. It was indeed very clean, the king size bed big enough to fit four people and elegantly placed on a… hem, podium with purple dimmer lights. As I got out, I told Emmanuelle and Vanessa what I had seen. We laughed at our tacky Vegas style room with a private garage embellished with African statues, and opted for a more traditional bedroom with 2 large beds. Asking about the price, the receptionist inquired “¿la noche entera?” “What do you mean, the whole night?” “can we take it for, say, half a night? Ahaha” I replied. Funny me. “Yes,” she said “3 hours, 8 hours or la noche intera.” Ah. Well, the full night please. Hem.” We unloaded our bags, still unsure of where we had landed. As I walked into the über bleached room, Vanessa worded our unexpected concern “this can’t be a brothel.” (well, “hôtel de passe” in French, where rooms can be rented by the hour. But maybe the Victorian English language I have learned has conveniently chosen to elude a translation and the question altogether.) “This can’t be a brothel,” she said, “or there would at least be condoms.” “Point taken,” I shouted from the other room, “I just found them!”

J date. part Deux

After seriously believing I had exhausted the list of "Js" in my social network last month, I was ready to move on to the next letter. As "K" had already been tried the day Zinedine Zidane headbutted that cocky Italian soccer player, I figured I could directly tackle 'L." maybe I was finally about to meet Love?
In the meantime, I would stop pretending being a New Yorker and really try online dating, chatting the night away. (i am only revealing this now because the one month trial is over and my profile taken down...eheheh)

So, after filling out some kind of profile, I logged into a virtual world of happiness. First there was James -I guess I had not exhausted the J's after all- to whom I explained that SanFran was the first US city I had been to right after high school. I had gone there for 5 weeks to learn English, but everyone in my class being a foreigner as well I had came back speaking Italian. He replied within the regulatory 2.3 days by saying he was a recent Vet. school grad, and how he would totally try reading novels if the right person asked him to.

I felt like I was back in the whole set of implied house rules one had to decipher, ingest and integrate, just like in the (sur)real New York life. But being oblivious to the fact that I should probably wait for another email 1 1/2, plus 2-3 business days between replies and another 5 hours just to be safe, I offered him to skip it all and meet up in a bar after he was done handing out prescriptions to horses with pounding headaches. From our online delayed -or maybe just jet-lagged- conversations it seemed at the time that we could get along rather easily (and if I were wrong, one one us can always fake a sudden doctor's appointment in the middle of diner...) He had said he liked to watch Star Trek re-runs and I was sure I could find something to do in this city to make him feel we actually did meet on the set of a Sci-Fi novella. So it was set, Thursday night, 8.30pm.
And strangely enough that was all that ever happened as far as my last J went. His horses got the flu, and I got an autograph from Peter Graves instead.


2 pints of therapeutic Hagendaaz and 3 bags of Oreos later, I came back online, determined to do a little bit of homework before voluntarily exposing myself to yet another disaster: I would read what the other women wrote about themselves and take lessons from what the sum of Miss Perfect had to say. According to these profiles, the wonder girl was voluptuously pretty -of course-, loved to have fun, deeply loved her family and friends, would go out to diner but also stay home sometimes, played hard worked hard, and, yes, loved to laugh. Basically, if I were to fit in I had to revised my profile a bit, as none of the above keywords appeared in the section I had filled under "My ideal relationship." Instead, mine read:
"My long term goal is to meet people who will not denounce me, adventurous nerds, people who like absurd stories and pillow fights. I do not wish to meet anyone related to celery or fennel."
Browsing through, I carefully read Amato profile (backtrack in the alphabet...) and decided to do my best to adapt to the norm while personalizing the message as much as possible:

"I thought I would drop you a note, because I think you're the perfect man. I mean, yeah. You're blond and you read comics. I mean. What's not to like? I also think that men who bowl for a living are hot. Or at least popular, but isn't it the same?
Since you might ask, I am not blond, but as I mentioned in my profile I am French, so it helps. I lived in D.C for a year and offered a co-worker to fly to Vegas to marry me, just because we had nothing else to do that morning. Unfortunately, he turned around before entering the subway. I want to meet someone that will actually make it to the airport with me. I have no manners, no plan on getting any, but I don't have a goatee so it's not all bad I guess. I'd love to hear more about you, your dreams in life, and how they got shattered so you ended up on Jdate.
I mean.
yeah.
best regards.
M."


Looking back at this email now, I guess I can sort of understand why he never replied, and that switching to DSL would not fix the problem. I signed off -or so I thought- and started another journal entry at 3am.

J Date jam for Jena

So this is an email I just sent in reply to a Fwd from a friend. She belongs to this list where people post concerns, questions et al... I included the original posting first for clarity. I guess...



Dear QFers,
This is a posting for amusement and interest.

It suddenly dawned on me the other day, that my boyfriend is called
Alfred, my three best girlfriends are called Annie, Antonia and
Aarona, my business partner is called Alex, my loyal web designer
Alegria, the architect of my up and coming center called Aya, my
administrative assistant Angie and one of the holistic health
counselors on my staff also called Angela. That's nine names
beginning with A within my closest personal and business circles.
That is quite an unusual occurrence. I can't say I've ever before
noticed such an example of alliteration of names of the important
people in my life. Have you?

So, here's my question, intended to elicit your imagination as I seek
a different kind of QF recommendation - not for where to find a great
meal or perfect pilates class, but how to analyze life at large.

What does it mean? Is there a meaning inferred by this case of the
reoccurring A's.

If you have any interpretations, I'd love to hear

thanks in advance,
Jena


Dear Qters,

As I was quietly sitting at my desk at work, reading personal emails and taking care of other unrelated work matters such as Holidays Greetings and the true meaning of calories in chocolate chips cookies, I opened Jena’s message and my breath started to shorten. No, I was not dying of a heart attack, but rather choking down my own singularity, painfully swallowing what was left of my identity.

While most of my friends are already highly amused by this, let me here explain: every single guy I have –attempted?- to date this year (it is NY after all, and finding a decent guy has proven slightly harder than applying for a job you seem eternally under qualified for…), every single date, I was saying, shared the strange similarity of bearing a first name starting with a ”J”.

All of them you might ask? Well, every time the disturbing sequence seemed to end, it was only to be broken by the letter “A”. First there was Justin the dancer, then Alexandre the UN activist testing his thick French accent against my newly adopted Brooklyn attitude, one vowel at the time. Then came Josh, Josh and Josh (I also have series of 3’s that engender letters + numbers, but that would call for another posting altogether.) Respectively the broker, writer and web designer. Jason the real estate extatic, Jan the Investment Fund Foreigner, Andrès the Argentinean artist turned into a JP Morgan sell out, Juan-ma the scientist measuring up the stress in NYorkers’ blood stream by quantifying the level of adrenaline in mice exposed to famished wild cats. Adam the way-too-young to be declared, Angelo the Italian mobster (no kidding), and again Alexandre (maybe I should stop hanging out in my ersatz of French community. But then again, I have one Alexandre to go and I don’t fly back home that often…) and Jeff, whatever that one was doing.
That’s about it for this year and that’s probably more than enough. Well, that’s counting without the friends in my close circle: Judith, Javi, Jesse, Joel, James, Jonathan, Jean-Philippe, and Jérémie, who just sent an invitation for his birthday party this morning although I am not even sure we have actually met.

So, Jena, what can I make out of all that, besides the fact that you also have an “A” recurrence and your name starts with a J? I really don’t know. Last year went by with a cycle of “D’s” and that only ended on New Years Eve with, well, you know, Justin. My take on this? I am on my way to Mexico this Sunday and 2006 has another good 10 days to go. Juan, José, Jaime, I’m ready.

Maïa

Erratum

As per my conversation with the Imdb geek (Internet Movie Database,
for the non-geeks in the room), please note that I actually did "meet"
Mr. Crunch guy AFTER his encounter with "Sex and the City" Miranda. (the episode dates '01. I dated in '02)

Now, reflecting on it, is it better to lose a guy to fame or to be a celebrity's rebound?

D.C. Heritage Week

I know I know. it is too late to still be up and too early to be up yet, but it seems that the demons of the past have decided to all knock at the same time.

So there I was, 1.5 weeks ago, contemplating the idea of actually working at work, when my email box clicked to announce a message untitled "what about maia's life?"
What about it, in fact? It was a reply to a note left years before to a Smithsonian Museum fellow, back in the day where I lived the unhappy life in Washington D.C. (that exact life I had spent the last 3 years to forget.) As it turned out, my Spanish friend Gilberto was inquiring about my health and whether or not I finally got kicked out of America. As good as it felt to hear from him, it also brought back feelings of war, anthrax, sniper, anti-French protests, death and a fair amount of anxiety. But I just figured the thoughts would vanish again with sunrise.
3 days later, another mail popped from the forgotten D.C life: Josh was on his way to visit the Big Apple and wanted to meet up. Sipping on my decaf last Wednesday, we both happily evoked our attempts to survive in the conservative museum setting, and how we almost got fired for showing up dressed as a fat French Q-Tip and a balding bureaucrat 2 weeks before Halloween. No matter how fun the catch up night had been -his name starts with a "J", after all,- memories of a broken engagement with some NYC actor were brought back to life with it. The D.C Heritage Week had to come to an end. Sure, but who was I to decide?
The next day, I received an invitation for Jesse's housewarming party. Not only Jesse - another Smithsonian fellow- still had my email address, but he was requesting my presence to celebrate his move to New York.

Tonight, after a couple of hours trying to recognize Jesse's features hidden under a wild beard, it finally hit me: the only way to escape D.C. memories was to fully immerse myself into NYC nightlife and create new ones. I was too exhausted to live it, so I would just go home, put on "Sex and the City" and call it a Saturday night.
It is now 3.50am, and I am still trying to grasp what happened. How is it that I just watched an episode I had never seen, terrified at the sight of a hot Crunch gym guy hooking up with Miranda? Half a second, that's all it took. I had kissed that guy too, long before Miranda, talking to him every day for 3 month until he moved out of the city. Washington D.C., that is.

Now, don't expect me to go to bed at normal hours and stop sending journal-like emails after this. You are the guardians of what's left of my sanity.

Agent de Change

Austrian Consulate, Wednesday October 18, 6.30pm.
3 strudels, 1 1/5 cappuccino. 2 blue eyes barely awake emerge from a sea of hyperventilating and over-perfumed hairdos. “You look like your brother” the blue eyes say. Someone else turns to me and probably recognizes a familiar smile: “you must be Maïa. Very nice to meet you. Please send your borther our warmest regards when you see him next.” Then, whispering in the loving ear nearby: “her brother is that amazing guy who helps run the Center from Vienna. The business man who speaks 5 languages and is a star in the city basketball team. A wonderful man.”

The Words linger in the air, holding their breath for a second so the sound travels faster than the meaning.

Are they talking about my brother? The one wearing faded promotional tee’s and run down 1990’s Michael Jordan basketball shoes? What business man? What tie and suit? I mean yes, he does speak 5 languages, comes to think of it. Yes, he’s always been very good at sports, gentle and smart and soft spoken and funny. I already knew that. But I never experienced him summed up with words, and strangers’ words at that. I am stunned by this new and yet accurate description. “It’s about time you realize” says the full page of the company’s annual report, bearing his picture and a laudatory note form its President. I am chocked, I am proud, I miss him. For the first time, I feel like a mother who did not see her child grow. That child just happens to be my older brother.

The blues eyes say it’s time to go home. They wave good bye and vanish around the corner at the bottom of the strairs, leaving behind a soothing smell of spring.

Decaf, caf, caf

We all have our moments when we know we crossed the line. My line gets pushed over by caffeine and white wine. And neither of them help me understand the world better; I just look with wider opened eyes. Last night I was sitting –vegetating- in front of the TV (sue me), and despite the high dosage of nothingness around, I was somewhat listening to what was going on. In the name of Almighty Commercials, is it OK for Fat Actress Kirstie Alley to feed diet chocolate bars to 6 year olds as a Halloween treat? Someone got paid (A LOT) to come up with ideas like this. Is it really worth all the Four Seasons meals, the hour long team debates, the business flight to LA so some A.D. (Artistic Director) can get approved by a board of half baked Romeo and Juliet cigars? Things are far from being perfect in Cheeseland (we do sell mashed goose liver macerated in fungus as one of the highest New Year's delicacy; a treat for your body that no Maalox or hand sanitizer will ever defeat. And I do support that.) But diet chocolate bars for kids?

Small talk

I can't beleive I found this piece of text from over a year ago. I guess I entered the city love/hate relationship long before realizing it. I am a New Yorker now.


January 24th, 2005

Hey, how are you? –Good thanks. You? –Good. –Cold huh? –Yeah. Freezing. Can’t wait for summer. –Me too. –How’s work? –Good. You? –Still looking for a new job… –Cool. I have to go. Nice talking to you. –Yeah, bye. –Bye.

Small talk.
What exactly pushes us to be eternally dull, boring and dangerously persistent? You meet friends of friends, hoping for nothing but a nice conversation. It happens you’re happy; it doesn’t you get over it. So why do we keep re-enacting those uncomfortable simulacra of interest? What good does it do to engage a conversation that is indubitably heading towards a dead end?
Like anyone, I grew up meeting my neighbors and their families knowing these bribes of conversations would never digress into a late night at Jenny’s Coffee Shop. But those are people I did not choose, just like my own family -you love them unconditionally (as I do) or you spend your life figuring how to. So outside of the immediate surrounding, why do we authorize ourselves to deliver automated speeches?

I am tired of pretending, wasting my time on shallow acquaintances, tired of expecting a punch line for a joke that doesn’t exist. Live and let die. Time to move on, eradicate the plethora of individuals who are welcoming hosts only if you promise not to stay. Exit overrated ones that label you “clinging type” when you show interest, and that call you back once they understand the inferior being that you are was not mesmerized by their outstanding wits.

Random people vanish with the last call of the bar. Let those empty shells vanish with them.

Gradually Reduced Eskimo

Leaning against the 10th Edition of the GRE book, I am resolving the last equation of the day: if x= 0, √x= 0. When you're lame, you're lame, and that's easy math right there.

Today, my friends, I took my first GRE class and learned... how to make a division! Yeah, and let me tell you this was a painful experience. If I hadn't already had a brake down this afternoon because the Austrian Consultate left its doors shut despite my insistent knocking, paper invitation for tonight's cocktail in hand (the paper read: Sturdel party. I had brand new dentures on, ready to mingle with the 70 something years old nobility's finest veterans) I would have cried a river of embarrassment.

I can recognize Ghanaian Ashanti stools, Nias Lwölö Guardian Figures, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattvas from the Northern Qi era, or a fake Monet (by lifting the frame,) but I can't freaking divide. To that, add (not divide) the fact that I am slightly dyslexic (left/right, north/south, "b" and "p", are all the same to me.) Imagine my tutor's -and my- amazement when I struggled in the BASIC REVIEW section of the book. p.4, that is, right after the credits. Why is the remainder of a division put over the divisor? If it represents the left over, how come it comes first when you look at the whole thing? That might be a detail to you, but we, Ze French, learned it differently. The right way I believe, and I already sucked at it back then.

Why am I even taking the test, you might ask? Because I am applying to Grad school. Again. 1.5 Masters, 2 Art History theses, and I am going for another diploma (although here, in the US.) I want to feel the warm atmosphere of school again, discern the soft scratch of blue, green, purple and yellow fountain pens as they engrave on expensive paper that the "before the after-war" was a productive artistic era (did he mean "during the war" ??)
I want to rediscover the smell of rancid cold tobacco outside of the amphitheater as I leave the sweaty classroom to breathe some fresh air. I want to be transported to the Middle Ages Royal Courts again, cradled by the soft voice of a"Gothic art" tenured reciting the "Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry" in Latin, to the beat of a badly tuned mandolin. (Education is free in France and the academic selection is made by endlessly failing the students until they forfeit. So try to spot the depressed 5th year freshman playing mandolin in a room of 500+, under the glow of slides showing antique ruins long turned into Disneyworld's attractions.)

And above all, I miss cheating on my neighbor’s mid-term paper, herself looking at an outdated and therefore erroneous book barely hidden on her lap. I want to feel my heart jump again, as the examiner unseals the final exam's question taken randomly over 4000 years of art History, (the one that will determinate if you are worthy of finally becoming a Sophomore) :"Define Opus Caementicium", "-you have 4 hours."

Yes, I miss all of that. So, what am I doing instead of practicing the GRE? Another blog entry. I guess I could also just watch re-runs of "Saved by the Bell" and call it a career.

Groundhog Day

Cynical is en vogue, my dear, and depression is in the air. Not in me, but my air is definitely polluted by depressed, depressing and aspartame sweetened people. How can I get away from this?

a/ Leave the job (but “love to hate themselves” people are everywhere; it’s not worth loosing the potential of the actual job. Plus, I feel I reached the highest level my current skills can get me.)

b/ Go to school. Apply now for next year x 2 ½ years enrolled x $80,000 x rent x food x reimburse school = raw pasta sans sauce nor personal life until I’m 42. Then menopause, then die. But die smarter than at 27.

c/ Move to a country where none of this matters. Eat grilled fish, mangos, guavas, freshly baked bread. Stare at colorful displays of strangely shaped veggies, wave at old man sipping on an exotic fruit blend under the neon like sun. Check out Whole Foods Market purchases through cashier n°21 and go back to work.

d/ Start a blog. Write a public diary no one will ever read (don’t we all only want to access what has been locked?) Close laptop. Start over as often as necessary.

One Way Ticket

So here I am sitting down with my insomnia. 2..30 am, watching Shannon Doherty ditching love partners on behalf of mall-singers groupies who thought they could conveniently humiliate their ex AND record application materials for the next "F*** me I'm single" MTV reality show . (Yes, since I have been on the same job for over 3 month, I though I would splurge on long term commitments such as cable TV.) What happened to the quarterly "I'm getting kicked out of the country" emails some of you asked? (sorry for the ones who didn't, maybe I secretly hate you and left you on the list for that exact reason) Well, I've had the same visa since last November. 10 month of administrative stability -a record that outlasted by far any relationship I've had since I moved to this city. Truth is, the level of distress hasn't changed much. TV is as dumb as ever and my attention span has shortened to the point where I cannot read the foreword of a book without hoping the commercial break will be on soon so I can see what's in the fridge.

On a positive note, the roommate who used to parade in sports bra-sponge shorts every time she would sense male pheromones in the hallway (sales rep, boyfriend –mine-, pizzaiolo, kids trick or treating et alii) finally left, leaving me to a sweeter misery and an empty apartment. I know there's something else in life than Work Permits and relationships, but I can't seem to care about fashion that much, so I'm sorry for always going back to the same topics. So, although the "Post Coitum, animal Triste" has been widely covered by Sarah-Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw and by Brigitte Rouan in her "disappointingly mediocre" 1997 feature film (says the Imdb review), claiming the talent of none I will simply ask this: what the hell is wrong with this city??

I am fascinated by how such an impersonal etiquette of love ever became the standard in this town breathing off of diversity. The Sex and the City years might be over for Carrie and friends, total strangers still come up to me in the most random places to complain about their sex life. A 50 something Lebanese male in Whole Foods last week, the 35 year old daughter of the couple who is subletting my friend's apartment this week, my boss, the Air France pilot on our way to Germany 10 days ago –that's another story all together-; even the late night cab driver: "too many girls, you know; too many girls and not enough guys. No good for people. I see bad things and I am ashamed for their families. They ask boys' name in cab, but they already all over them. Disgusting."
If I got it right, you meet Mr. STD –well yeah, you can't just multiply one type of fun- on a clear drunken night. You guys talk, dance, and let's say he's even funny. You see each other often, sometimes for a diner or a movie before going back to his place for the night... Life is good, and Mr. Considerate even offers more and more often to skip the diner-movie-talk-laugh part to directly go back to his place. In a word, you feel connected. One day, after many moving shared memories and half rent checks, he ceremoniously goes down on a knee, tears in his eyes, and pops the question: "my darling, would you like to be exclusive?"

As I sit in my first owned couch watching mind-numbing programs on my new TV and typing this stupid email on a PC I stole at work, I cannot help but wonder: now that I can finally stay, it is time to leave?

Union Square Pillow Fight

February 19, 2006

VH1 vs. H1B, Part deux –last episode (?)

October 2005: Sum up of the last episode:

August 17th, 2005

12 month work Visa: expired
Status of new 3-year work Visa (H1B) filled in April: unknown
Days remaining in the country: 60

60 days with no legal existence. An administrative overdue, a wandering soul. 60 days as non-being with a freshly signed lease lying on the shinny hardwood floor of a yet to be furnished apartment. What's an overdue to do? Unable to leave, forbidden to work, I opted for a two-month spree to get to know the city, get a job or get an eligible man (and not necessarily in that order, mind you.)

My nonexistent self and I, freed from the burden of having to behave like a responsible citizen, wandered from hip Manhattan to hipper Brooklyn, entering homes, dive bars and bling bling clubs unnoticed (only in this city you bump into George Clooney during a slumber party.) In the course of the summer alone, I participated in a bi-monthly reenactment of what December 31st at the Baron de Mord-moi-l'noeud must have looked like, back in the joyous days when France had Kings and people like me where fed to the pyre. The elaborate gibberish warning on the invitation "no sneakers, no jeans," once deciphered, read " in your face my Armani suit, I'm a banker." For study purposes only, I religiously attended the conveniently baptized "French Tuesdays" events, sipping special priced champagne in my yard-sale beat-up Gucci boots. Café St Bart's, Tavern on the Green, Battery Park Gardens, Boulevard… Alcohol probably helping, my fervent attendance paid off and I soon made new friends. Eager to find out more about them and especially in order to have something to do the rest of the week, I began to follow my ersatz of French community in its after-life –ie beyond Tuesdays.

It turned out that, like the succession of circles you get when you throw a stone in the water, everyone belonged to another "community." Wednesdays became Eastern Europe day. Every other Thursdays I partied with "Made in Italy," an itinerant group of Italian expat' getting seasick in the meatpacking district to the beat of electro-garage. The other "every-other Thursdays" was dedicated to a French version of "girls night out:" only women and free hard liquor cocktails allowed from 8-10 pm. Desperate guys come in at 10pm, confident that 80% of the work had already been done by Mr. Zubrowka. Friday was always filled with some type of "yes. I'm on Vero's list" event in a club or another, that a somewhat expired Press Pass always interestingly managed to back up. Then came Saturdays, with the orthodox Jews gathering in Central Park after Shabbat in hope to meet someone mom would finally approve of –if you're reading this and are interested in joining this group, avoid showing up in shorts and talking on your cell phone. I tried. On Sundays, I met with "Judios Latinos" the Latin Jews also meeting in Central Park, who discussed things I didn't get, and then translated them in several Spanish dialects. One Monday, in an everlasting quest to test my determination to remain in the country, I started to follow people outside of the relative safety net provided by organized social events.

- 22 year old chick clubbing in Chelsea in a tiny-mini skirt –belt?- and confiding everyone she is an industrial spy, check.
- 12 people naked at 2 am in a pool discussing the danger of golf cart driving in Putnam valley, check. (thanks for bringing back the bathing suit Anna…)
- Coke-heads sniffing their checking account using $50 bills in their Über West village penthouse, check.
- Pot heads sniffing beer on the roof of their rent-free squat in Brooklyn, check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton (Brittany's ancestral language,) check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton that blows up an air mattress with a Ziploc bag and a car ventilation but then doesn't want to sleep on it because of spiders, check.
- Plastic pearl necklaces and canoe day in an empty NJ summer camp on September 11, check.
- Karaoke night hosted by a 40 something transvestite in the middle of the projects in Brooklyn, check.
- Young cutie slightly hammered randomly throwing himself at me (who would have thought?) check.
- Handsome man totally sober and throwing himself at me… well, got to remember to check that one.
- Actually had to go to the E.R while E.R was on, stayed 4 hours, swallowed 2 pounds of pink pills, came back sicker than coming in, check.

Today, October 15, 2005, exhausted, dazed and yes, confused, NYC's tasting has come to an end: my H1B case has been approved!

What does that mean? It means than I am officially reborn. I can now theoretically come and go freely for the next 3 years. It also means, now that I no longer work for the company the visa was granted for, that I have 30 days left to find a job, transfer the papers, or get my dirty immigrant ass out of the country.

30 days? …Any one knows of a Hindu or a New Guinea group that meets on Mondays?

VH1 vs. H1B part 1

April, 2005, VH1 vs. H1B

August 17th, 2005.

The date I will officially expire. Like a bowl of mayo left all afternoon on the picnic table, or that bag of party favors from the Oyster festival 03’ your forgot to throw out. On August 17th, I will go from working human being to illegal human waste.

But as for any disease there is a cure, a Botox to repel this express aging. In this case it is called “Sponsorship.” All I have to do is explain my boss that during my 2 ½ month of attendance at the gallery, I have shown exceedingly valuable assets that are worth signing me for the next three years, paying for the $6000 H1B Visa fee, hire a lawyer and go through 7 month of pain-in-the-ass paperwork. The numerus clausus application process starts next Tuesday, first come first served basis.

Now, is it really worth it? Why do I keep fighting to stay in the US like a clinging stalker following the object of her deranged affection? I once saw a “problem solver” notebook: it had 2 columns to help sort out the pro and the cons, and a total line to count the points (I guess this is where spending my lunch breaks at the American Folk Art Museum store on 66th street comes in handy.)

Bullet proof: H1B I’m in, VH1 I’m out.






VH1 > H1B

1. VH1 / MTV
> The Sundance Channel / IFC

2. Ubiquitous non-stop commercials.
> SUV’s are cool and big and useful when shopping in Manhattan. So says my credit card company.

3. Outrageous rent prices.
> Just pay for the doorless room.

4. Food-free food, Fat-full snacks.
> Asian Cuban vegan fusion restaurants with all you can eat meat deserts.

5. Old Navy considered by most as a potential “formal” wardrobe.
> Indiscernible body underneath clothing. Allow to keep the peanut butter cups coming.

6. 6 month of freezing winter.
> Keep those stupid flies frozen and out of the house.

7. Inefficient public transportations.
>Inefficient public transportations opened after midnight.

8. George Bush.
>Away from Jacques Chirac.

9. Working with lunatics.
>Lunatics okay to work with me.

10. Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
> Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.

11. In love with New York.


I guess I’ll talk to my boss next Tuesday. Wish me luck. (or a safe trip.)

Speedy Valentine

February 14th 2005

While a lucky bunch received flowers and chocolate today, the rest of us is still wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. At what point in our life, serving the "yes, I do think that not remembering my name is a sign that I should not go home with you tonight, especially since we met an hour ago" ended up being a terrible lack of spontaneity?

I here understand my mistake and admit defeat: yes, I too will embrace the speed-dating life. But a question remains... How can one says it all in less than 5 min? Well my friends, I looked around and finally saw the light: getting a date in New York is like getting a job. So from now on I decided I would distribute a "Love resume" and pray for a call back.

So, on what's left of this joyous Valentine's Day I am calling the unlucky bunch to join me with their resume, and well, pass mine around while you're at it...


MAïA M.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, NY. USA

GOAL: Do better next time.

EDUCATION

Grammar school Sainte Cécile D’avès, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1983-1984
-Crush on Alexandre, aka “golden locks.” 20 years later, he turned into the nicest albino pot head.
-Crush on Sébastien, kid who lives on the other side of the hill. (Still lives there, with the pot head)

Grammar school Eugénie de Guérin, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1984-1985
-(Catholic convent/ school.) People ask if I speak ‘Jewish;’ no love interest in my school.
-Crush on David, who lives on the same hill as Sébastien; his brother actually.
-Crush on ALL the Japanese cartoons male characters. (Astro Boy is still hot.)

Grammar School Calvignac, Toulouse, Southern France. 1985-1989
-Crush on Cédric, a pretty normal kid for once Unfortunately, Cédric’s in love with my best friend.

Junior High Michelet, Southern Toulouse, France. 1989-1991
-First puppy love that appears to be shared. Plan on waiting the following year to ask him out.

Junior High Beaumarchais, Paris, France. 1991-1993
-Move to Paris, city of all crimes. No love interest, just a strong desire to stay alive.

High School Edgar Quinet, Paris, France. 1993-1994
-The concept of love is somehow disturbed by a) the fact that most guys there can’t sing the “alphabetsong” properly, b) the proximity of prostitutes/ sex shops in the neighborhood.
-First kiss with a boy from “Molière High School.” Moments later, love at first sight with hisclassmate.

High School Molière, Paris, France. 1994-1996
-“Saved by the Bell” meets The Discovery Channel: Romanian refugee, depressed singer, videogamechampion wannabee, Japanese cartoon voice over…
-Cédric, from Bréval (Parisian suburban village.)After break up, Cédric joins the army.
-Barnabus, karate champion, from Bréval.
[Score: Big Jim: 1, Barnabus: 0.]
Knowledge acquired: there are 38.851 other villages in France.
-Sébastien (the name got popular in the 1970’s.) Village 9 miles from Bréval.
-Ezekiel. Knowledge acquired: a man, in the Biblical sense.
Additional knowledge acquired: next time, stick to reading the book.
-Platonic relationship with Alexis. Kundera is in the air –and so is Alexis’ girlfriend.

La Sorbonne Paris IV, Paris, France. 1996-2004
-David, from Bréval. First long -love?- story (4 years.)
Knowledge acquired: French villages are all the same anyway.

Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, NY. USA. 2001-2002 (Teaching Assistantship)
-Erik, a drama student. After the 3rd wedding proposal, consider getting engaged the following year.

Smithsonian American Art, Washington DC. 2002-2003
-First time living with a boyfriend. First nervous breakdown. Also first time asking a boyfriend tobuy his own make up – Exit the drama queen.
-Summer in Europe: hook up with my pre-K crush Sébastien.

City University of New York (CUNY), The Graduate Center, New York, NY. 2003-2004
-Jean-Paul Sartre meets Candace Bushnell: British broker, Hindu engineer, gay guy, politician.
-Pierce, a friend.
-Brendan, his friend.
-Xander, Brendan’s roommate.
Knowledge acquired: check date’s background connections FIRST.

Sorbonne doctoral student on the run, hiding in NYC. 2004
-Ragnagna, 33 years old. Loves Iron Maiden underwear, French puddles, and himself. Hates planning, soft-boiled eggs and anyone who’s not him –especially me, I think.
-Today: Seeking a more selective taste in men.

PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
Fortunately none.

SKILLS
Languages: Fluent: French, English. Proficient Spanish. Basic Rumanian and Hindi
Other:Valid US Work Permit.

NOTE. To emphasize the progression in my social life and of my mental health, this resume asbeen edited chronologically. No causality should be established between my dates, or lack of, andthe constant school change.

Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)

FOX NEWS presents

a 20th CENTURY FOX production:

Breaking News. Morning Edition.

Psycho with hatchet still on the run…………........p.3
War on Terror: Rats doomed to eat us all………...p.4
Chocolate mousse recipe for Christmas……….....p.5
Let it Snow (Weather forecast)…………….……p.6-10
Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)……………....p.11
Classified………………………………………..........p.12
- Jobs
- Green Card seekers
- K Food coupons



P.11 Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)
On Tuesday afternoon, December 14th 2004, Foreign Citizen Maïa Morgensztern left her rent-free apartment and headed towards the Manhattan bound “Q” Train. After a long and strenuous hour spent in the office of the Director of an upscale art organization, Ms Morgenstein was finally granted one of her deepest wish: the right to steal an American citizen’s job. Ms Morgensnitz will legally start her art related career in the Land of the Free at the beginning of January. Questions remain as to whether her future superior, himself a citizen of some Foreign Country, was aware of the Laws and Regulations of the recently approved “Patriot Act” (ie “Thou shalt not Kill […] Thou shalt not hire a Foreign Citizen without my permission.”)
At press time, the exact nature of her position was not known. Rumors have circulated that she will become the “Assistant Director” at Pace Primitive.
“- I am delighted to join Pace Primitive as the Assistant Director.” She said. “It will be a wonderful opportunity for me to work while finally being paid for it. […] I would like to thank God, the President, and my Mother. My long term goal is to bring World Peace to the country.”

Ms. Morge is under investigation by the Foreign Country Secret Services for the theft of a public stapler and failure to complete the mandatory doctoral dissertation she promised her school when she left for New York in 2003. Unfortunately, Foreign Country representatives holding the warrant have not yet been allowed to cross customs at the airport (they refuse to submit to the bag search, claiming that Napoleon never had to go through such a hassle when he first visited the country. ndlr)

Whether or not the art gallery made the right decision in hiring Maia Morgnesbaum will have to be further researched in the near future.

Merry Christmas to you all.

-Reporter Carter, for FOX NEWS.

Thief on the Run legalized; breaches in the American judiciary system

I know, I know, another mass email. And it’s not even to give any vital information, offer something free or give you the pleasure of announcing an anticipated departure. But hey, it could be worse, like a forward of a 10 year old girl who has cancer and will die if you do not send the message to 134 friends by tomorrow and clap 3 times in your hands while chanting your bank account number. No. This email is a statement, the public acknowledgment of my “let’s invade the country” plan.

As many of you might know, I originally came to America to hide from my school. Probably due to a fatal error in their data processing system, I managed to finish my Master's and get into the Ph.D program –rerouting meriting student number 1912034 towards a life of whisky swallowing behind the stacks of her new job at the “history of combs and toothbrushes” museum in Reykjavik. The first draft of my “Art theft” proposal indubitably helped shed light on the terrible mistake. My criminal record also indicated that I stole the list of the admitted candidates embossed with the “Sorbonne” seal, and my name on it. I argued it was just to prove my family they hadn’t fed me all those years in vain -I might still end up poor but I would be an EDUCATED poor. It didn't matter. Stealing the list was considered a national offense, especially since the fund allocated to the French Educational system did not allow the use of scrap paper to print out a second copy.

Since my escape, I have discovered scenic landscapes and its fauna in Poughkeepsie, survived a stunning recreation of “Apocalypse Now” in Washington DC and even landed with a family as nuts as mine in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Now, time for another change has arrived. I will, in the end, fill up the poll of enemies trying to legally steal your well deserved jobs. And by that, I don’t mean that I finally found a decent boyfriend or even an old man ready to marry me so I can get a Green Card. I’m only fighting for ATTAINABLE goals, after all. The news is the INS just sent me my very first “Work Permit” this morning!!! Valid a year to work in the Arts , starting August. And they want me SO much that it seems I am not allowed to re-enter the US if I ever go home during these 12 month. If that’s not love, what is. Veni, Vidi, Vinci

Maïa

PS: I'll probably be going out to celebrate this week end. Feel free to join! -although I'll understand if you'd rather be mourning.

PPS: if you send this email – or rather, my resume- to at least 5 influent people in the Art world to get me a job, your life will shine all through this week. Between 5 and 10 people, you will get a huge surprise on the 17th, and to 10 or more people, your deepest wish will be granted – unless it has something to do with me leaving the country and forgetting your email address. THIS IS REAL. I’ve tried it. Really.