Hard Knocks and Elf Socks

This doesn't seem so bad... I keep thinking to myself as the days wear on. Most of these kids honestly don't seem so bad. In fact they're kind of cute. And all these parents seem really happy... I know I have never been really gung-ho about having babies, but.. well...NO. My sap-tap was almost running full force, when, just in the nic (knick? nik? nick?) of time it was stopped.

It was all going so well. The kids were cute, the parents were patient, the candies in my apron hadn't run out. But I should have known it couldn't go on like this. I should have seen it coming. Today my dear friends, today is a dark day. A day, where not even my elven magic could protect me from what I was about to experience. The first thing to hurt was my eyes, then my fingers, and finally, my feelings. Oh yes, its a tear jerker folks. 

ROUND ONE: Jersey Shore Velour (see how I'm keeping it happy and festive with the colored font? ho ho ho)

I see a lot of matchy-matchy families come through 'SantaLand,' with their reindeer sweaters and their snowflake dresses and santa hats with bells, and it all very 90's-family-potrait-tastic (mom, take notes, I want to do our family pic in tack sweaters). I appriciate a nice, ironic, and goofy, conceptual theme photo. But when I looked up at the family the was headed my way, a little part of me died.

Now, I have never seen the 'Jersey Shore,' and all I know is that some chick named Snookie had two bumps: one in her hair, and one in her belly. But I know enough to know that this family, should probably be on that show. We have Dad, a large, mafia looking dude, with a chain the size of my jump-rope, sporting a rhinestone cross the size of the thief #2's. Spiked hair, sleeveless shirt. In November. Cool. Next up, the wife. Who we call grenade throwers? Or like, bombshells? Something about a land mine? Whatever. Mom, wearing what I can only assume to be a child's sized velour track suit in powder pink, tucked into her camel colored ugg-boots. Her mid-drif was showing me that she also loved the lord, as could be seen by her belly button cross-ring that she apparently only took off to go tanning. Which, I am pretty sure was where she was before she came to Macy's, because judging by her dark roots, it was not the salon to get her bleach blond dye-job touched up. But the kids. Ohhhhhh, the poor poor kids. The son, lets call him mini-Vinny, toddles up wearing baggy pants, a backwards flat-billed hat, and a chain to match daddy. Maybe one day he will inherit the real thing. Finally, bringing up the rear, is the daughter. She is maybe, three years old, and she is a spitting image of her mother. Except her track suit was powder blue. And instead of a belly-button ring, she wore large, silver hoop earirings. Her hair was in a curly bun atop her tiny head. It was, hands down, the most disturbing thing I have ever witnessed.

ROUND TWO: Hard Knocks 

When I think 'orphans' I think one thing: Annie. When I think 'foster kids' I think one thing: Orphans... which leads me back to: Annie. So when a group of rag-tag foster girls in matching red coats came into 'Santaland,' I got a warm happy feeling inside. These kids have such a hard life, and here they are, coming to see Santa and believe in the magic of Christmas! I betcha' she knits! I betcha' she sews! I betcha' they-OUCH! What-the-elf!? That little brat just snapped the partition thingy on my fingers! It's fine. It's fine. Maybe it was an accident? A pre-meditated, intentional, accident. Yeah.

And then it happened. While I consider myself a contender in any battle of wits, this little girl came at me full force, with a game I hadn't encountered since grade school. There were no rules, no boundaries,  no cleverness, this 9 year old put the 'War' in 'Warbucks.'

"Santa's not real."
"Of course Santa's real! I should know, I work for him."
"You're not really an elf. What are you, 30?"
"Sure. I'm 30."
"Nah, you look at least 65."
"Wow, I must be aging reeeeeally well."
"This is your job? People pay you to dress up and look stupid?"
"I mainly get paid to spread Christmas Cheer. Looking stupid I guess is just a perk."
"So what, you were too dumb to get a real job?"
"Well, when you're an elf, your options are very limited."
"But you're not an elf. You don't even look like an elf."
"Well, what do I look like then?" (I take full responsibility for walking into this one guys.)
"You look like an alien."
"An alien? Wow. I am not doing well with you today."
"And I know Santa's not real because I saw someone else dressed as Santa, and one wore glasses and one didn't."
"Well, not everyone who wears glasses wears them all the time. Santa is a very modern guy. He has contacts."
"Im not an idiot. I'm nine, and in my opinion, you're a stupid alien and Santa is made up."
"Okay, well your opinion isn't valid until you're 18."
"Whats on your face?"
at this point I am assuming she is talking about my scar
"Its a sc---"
"Because it looks like and 'L.' For Loser. You're a Loser."

That is probably the first time I have ever been called a loser, by anyone who was even semi-serious. This kid meant business. It took everything in me to just smile through it and move them along. I put her on the 'Naughty List.' Not that it matters, because everybody knows that the year you stop believing in Santa Clause, you get underwear.

I don't want to ruin kids for you, so I will leave you on a happy note. One little girl told me that:
"When I grow up, I want to be one of Santa's helpers, just like you."

And its kids like that, looking for the 'Santa Stand' at job fairs, that make the world a better place.

ELFING: Part One

As many of you know, I am coping with the Christmas Blues by participating in paid Christmas Cheer at "Macy's Santaland." Its magical. Its whimsical. Its insane. But mostly, its hilarious. Families from all over the world journey to the shining star that is New York City to see the Big Man himself: Santa. I am working as one of Santa's elves. Sniffles. I am "Sniffles the Elf." Adorable right? I know. Already I am probably more likely to answer to that name than my actual name.

Each day I say "Merry Christmas!" at least 600 times, and get to have lots of great conversations with lots of kids who are slowly restoring my faith in the human race. This is the first installment, of what I hope to be many, of the heart warming dialogues I have with the children I encounter.

Part One:

"What did you ask Santa for?"
"An ipad."
"Oh wow."
"Did you make a lot of ipads this year?"
"Yes we did. And Apple is not happy about it."

"Can I take a picture with Rudolph?"
"He's actually not allowed inside anymore. He tends to make a mess if you know what I mean."
"Oh...ew."

"How much does Santa pay you to be his elf?"
"He actually pays us in cookies."
"Is that a lot?"
"...No."

"Im leaving Santa salad this year, because he looks bigger than last year."

"My name is Noel, whats your name?"
"I'm Sniffles."
"Like the Dwarf?"
"No, thats Sneezy."
"Oh, so you both just have colds?"
"Uh, sure... But elves and Dwarves are very different."
"But you are both short."
"Yeah, but we are magic."
"Oh. And you make toys and dwarves dig holes."
"Exactly."

"Where are you from?"
"The North Pole."
"Which part of the North Pole?"
"................the middle."

"Why dont all the elves here have pointy ears?"
"Because our ears don't get pointy until we turn 50." "How old are you?""I'm 47 and a half.""Wow, Mom! She's older than you and looks way younger!"

Ginger Magic

I remember being in middle school and high school and looking at college kids, and people in their early 20's and thinking they were soooo old. So grown up looking. So mature and worldly. So... together. Don't worry, this is not going to be an entry on how I don't have my life together (which I don't, I mean please, I'm 23, a temp, single and watching NCIS... besides the '23' park I'm basically a retired man). This is however, a story of a day that changed the way I look at my mortality. And my hair. Mostly my hair.

Let me paint a little picture for you here: Im working at the New York and Company on Lexington and 57th. Im on the second floor. I am folding sweaters. I am filled with a lot of disdain for my current situation. One of my fellow employees in going on about how her friend is not good, something about a birthday, something something BBQ...blah blah. Im doing my best to look like I am listening. After all, she is one of the few girls who was kind enough to learn my name and forgo calling me "white girl." Finally I gather enough information to deduce that it is her 21st birthday that is fast approaching and she is planning on just staying home.
 "Oh no" I say. "You have to go out! Most people only turn 21 once, and after this birthday its all downhill. The next few aren't too thrilling..."
"Really? Yeah... Wait. How old are you?"
"23."
"Oh wow."
"What?"
"Nothing. I mean, its just, you look really good for 23."

I look good for 23?! How am I supposed to look at 23? Like Joan Rivers? Sure, I get mistaken for 19 more than I would like to admit, so I know I look young, but I guess what I didn't realize is, all my friends must look ancient. Sorry guys, I know that you all thought we were in our prime, shoot, I know I did, but it looks as if we are old at 23. Just a few of us are lucky our age doesn't show. But, it turns out I have an unfair advantage sooo... Oh right! I haven't finished the tale. Sorry! Pan camera back! whoosh!

"Thank you? ha....ha?"
"No, I mean, you have really young looking hair."
"oh..."
"Like, its a really young looking shade of red. Very youthful."
"...ah."

Very rarely am I at a loss for words. Normally, if there are words to be found, I WILL find them. But not this time. What does that even mean!? Does red hair age at a different rate than the human its attached to? Does this have something to do with the whole 'gingers being soulless' thing? Are we soulless perhaps because our hair keeps us from aging as normal people do? Is that a side effect of having no soul? A perk, perhaps? Is it 'tuck everlasting' hair?

Sure, there are Gingers who are aging all sorts of well:

                                                 Conan, looks great

                                                        JTF, fab.

                                                     Rupie-Ron. Hott.

But then there is Carrot Top who pretty much just ruins everything:

                                                         Terrifying 

What I am getting at is, now I know that this Thanksgiving season I should be thankful for my magic anti-aging hair that I until recently didn't know I had. I feel as though I have just gone through one of those "time extended" checkpoints on HyrdoThunder, and I can enjoy my youth for far longer than originally thought. But now I can't help but wonder if I lose my power if my hair gets chopped off or dyed... So now I'm nervous that people are out to get me... Unless we are counting the Carrot Top pic and rendering the whole theory null and void. In which case, I will go back to aging at a normal rate.

Terrier Terror

Its that time of year, when the world falls in love, every song you hear seems to say: "Merry Christmas. May your New Years dreams come true!" And this dog of mine, in that sweater fine, wishes he could act like a person too...

Okay, so maybe thats not the version most are familiar with, but I am fairly certain it is the version most dogs in sweaters would want their masters to be singing. The poor things. It seems as soon as the leaves turned an autumny shade of any color other than green, the people of New York decided their dogs just couldn't handle it. Most of them didn't even wait for the first snow! They just decided since their hairless flesh was a bit chilly, that Fido, in his full fur frock, must be suffering as well. Putting him in a hot, and humiliating doggie cardi would make him feel so much better... Yeah... What I am getting at is:

DOGS IN SWEATERS LOOK STUPID.

They do. And I'm sorry of you are someone who puts your dog in human cloths, but you should know, your dog looks like a fool. And he's probably not happy about it. He's not happy about it because it is against nature. Venture with me, if you will, into the depths of my mental process:

I have to wonder what would happen to dogs if we stop putting them in sweaters. Perhaps the canine species shouldn't even be here. Maybe they should have dies out a loooooooong time ago, but because we keep dressing them for the climate change, they have survived, despite what appears to be their inability to adapt. Is their fur no longer enough to keep them warm from the harsh november cold? Why have they not evolved to have a more substantial barrier from the nippy winds? OR. Or maybe, just maybe, they have evolved and adapted in a way none of us expected. In a way none of us saw coming, and most of us have not realized. What if the canines have evolved to a point where they have gained control over us without our knowing. They are the ones making us put them in sweaters to save them from certain extinction. Mindd control. Telepathic terrier terrors.
I used to feel embarrassed for dogs forced to prance around in hideous frocks, but now I only feel embarrassed for their humans. Their poor, weak minded humans, who were clearly manipulated into buying their pet an unnecessary, almost certainly overpriced, sweater.
I fear it is too late for mankind to reverse the mind control the dogs have over the vast majority of us. They did it so sneakily. Befriending us first, manipulating and exploiting us second. It may seem that dog is not man's best friend after all. Cats must be.*

Also, I feel that if a dog is sophisticated enough to wear a Ralph Lauren doggie sweater, that he should not be peeing on a tree. This is my comprimise. Dogs: If you are going to dress like humans, defecate like humans. Wait in line and do it privately, indoors. Specifically in a toilette. I'm talking to you dog at the corner of 22nd and 9th.

*I find it necessary to mention that this entire post has been written under the strictest supervision of my cat Barry. He has taken all of my bobby-pins hostage until I have publicly exposed the dog community for the shiesty, fashionably flawed, feline inferior fools they are. Barry's argues that the dogs should have been upfront about trying to control humans, as cats were and.... no wait. We're good. Barrry saw a moth. Im free.

Sick Gremlin

I don't know exactly when it happened. I think subconsciously I always knew that one day it would happen. But somewhere between highschool and...ummm... this morning, the world decided it no longer wanted to stop when I fell ill. This upsets me for a number of reasons. 

1) It came with virtually no warning

2) It failed to provide me with a caretaker before it carried on with its turing and whatnot

3) I'm sick. Therefore I should get my way

Number three is after all the one perk of being sick is it not? Lying around all day, watching 'The O.C.', while people bring you soup and ice cream. I remember that pretty much being the case.

But not now. Oh no. Not now.

While I will never object to a day where I am given the opportunity to go into full gremlin mode, I do not fancy being in sick, snot factory gremlin mode. Now, I am fairly certain that I am only plagued by a cold. One of those sniffly, sneezy, kleenex kid commercial colds. But, what those kids with red noses fail to mention about their ailments as they wipe their youthful noses with lotion filled pillowy tissue blankets, is that the tissue boxes are next to impossible to open. The last thing my shivery, wheezy, sick self wants to do is grapple with a christmas themed tissue box for the better half of ten minutes while my face is rapidly transforming into a real life game of "Gooey Louie."

Also, being an adult is sad because no one makes you soup. In fact, the chances that you even have soup are unlikely. Where O' where is my mother on a day like today? Why is my tummy not full of milkshakes and lemony honey goodness? Instead I am trying to make one tea bag go as far as possible.

But there is something beautiful about being sick. Its a reminder that we are all fundamentally the same as human beings. While we are all a normally functional species, capable of mundane tasks, but the moment we fall ill we completely collapse. We revert to a primal state where we can do nothing for ourselves besides wallow in shallow, cesspools of self pity and groans. Each violent sneeze brings tears to our eyes while we savor the few precious hours before our imminent demise. 

So thats where I am presently. Holding onto my last few hours of this life. Now that I finished 'Firefly' I can die happy. Though, I am feeling less than 'Shiny.' 

Its a Bird! Its a Plane! ...No, its just a bird...

                                               

It was a day like any other. The sun was shining, I was super late for work, tourists were thwarting my attempts to circumvent Central Park South effectively. Yes, things were looking mediocre. All in all, a pretty normal Saturday in the City. I was bustling along, wishing I had worn a hat, for my ears were chilly (that was not the last time she would wish she had worn a hat this journey**), when I got to the end of the cobble stone path and had the STOP hand at the crosswalk. So, I did what any normal human who doesn't want to get hit by a cab would do. I stopped. Right under a cute little lamppost. Right under some cute little demon birds from the 3rd circle of hell.

So, there I am. Just waiting. When all of a sudden, I feel what feels like I was hit on the head with a snowball. Only less cold. And lighter. And smellier. I immediately look down at the front of my coat... poo. All down the front. I look in my purse...poo. I slowly lift a trembling hand to the top of my head. As I draw my hand back down in front of my face, I see...poo. So. Much. Poo. Why? WHY!? didn't I wear a hat!?

The Walk sign was now showing.

So, on I went. After all, I had to work, and since I had no wipes, or portable sinks on me, and as we all know, New York is lacking in its public bathroom scene, I walked covered head to purse in poo. I laughed a little, I cried a little. I called Caleb to make sure that we still had no hot water for me to look forward to later on. Rest assured, the boiler is still dead.

I get to work. 20 minuets late, and covered in shit. First thing I do is go into the bathroom to clean up. The first thing I notice is that there is no soap. Cool. Great. Awesome. My manager gave me some clorox wipes. Which, you know, is what every ginger with sensitive skin wants to use on her forehead and whatnot. Did I look terrible with cloroxed hair and a red forhead? Yes. Did I smell vaguely of feces all day? Yes. Did I pioneer woman myself clean later? Yes. Did I use the excuse "Well I'm covered in pigeon shit!" all day? You're damn right I did.

Be warned all pigeons of New York City (mainly the C.P.S. Pigeons), I am coming for you. I hereby declare war on all rats with wings on the isle on Manhattan. Take heed. Bust out your Carrier cousins and spread the word. Your days are numbered. The end is near.

Winter is Coming.

**if you know which author I am trying to imitate right there and from which book, we have permission to be best friends.

Before Dying of Dysentery...

In the Heights, one has to face a huuuuuge assortment, of nauseating smells, and spanish rice...

I wish I had a more clever way of saying that i have been without heat and hot water for over a week. i also wish I had a more attractive way of saying that I haven't had a hot shower since last Sunday... and when I say 'hot shower' I just mean 'shower.' Now before you become too attached to your mental image of me as a shivering, yet greasy and grimy gremlin, let it be known that I have bathed many a time since Sunday. A strange thing happened tuesday morning when I awoke from my slumber, full of tormented dreams of steamy mirrors and open pores; I remembered that I knew how to be a pioneer woman. Midwest elementary schools, if nothing else, prepared me for this very situation! Its like they knew that one day we would live in a world of ipads, and wi-fi, where science fiction is abbreviated SyFy, and a world in which it would take over a week to fix a boiler. (My best guess for why its taking so long is that the boiler manual is in English and the Dominicans are having issues).

So how do I turn my 6th floor apartment into the Little House on the Prairie? Im so glad you asked.

STEP ONE:

Boil three pots of cold water (is there any other kind?) on the stove top. Note*** if you are actually a pioneer who time traveled into the future, are reading this, and want to try it when you get home, you will not have a stove. So just use fire.

While the water is boiling, shut a small heater in the bathroom so its toasty warm and you don't freeze your face off. You will have more time to kill... what you do with it is up to you. I hopped up and down in place for warmth. It was thrilling.

STEP TWO:

Take yo' pots into the bathroom and pour the biggest one in the bathtub. Add some cold water. Don't just get super excited to see something warm and hop on it. It will be painful. Or so I hear...

The rest you can figure out. Pour the water on your head after you scoop it from the tup using an 'Annie' cup. Its super glamourous. I feel all sorts of bad for pioneer women who had to do this always. I feel less bad for the medieval women, because the ones who could afford to bathe like this had hand maids to help. Or tamed dragons to heat the brass tub.

So what I am getting at here, is life is really hard. Life is even harder when you turn from a privileged, white, midwesterner, into a poor, inner-city latino woman. Ay-ai-ai.

I Wake Up Every Morning...

Growing up, we had donuts the average amount of times humans should consume donuts on a monthly basis. Usually, donuts for breakfast symbolized something special... like we had to get up that day. Oh no wait, thats the reason I give myself donuts now... The way I see it, waking up is hard. Waking up and going to work? Harder. Waking up, going to work AND being on your period? That donut should be a solid gold trophy.

So today, like many a day, I walked my happy self into Dunkin Donuts and got a coffee and a donut. Just one. Just one sprinkly, iced, fried doughy ring of pure joy. And, as is an age old tradition of four months of city life, I waited until I was seated safely in my "No Food or Drink Allowed" subway car to embark on my journey of the tastebuds. As I took the first bite of my personal reward, I took a cursory glance at my riding buddies for the morning, and sure enough, they were doing what they do every "donut day"... Staring.

                                                    can we discuss my fancy lipstick?


This isn't a casual, uninterested, morning time zone out kind of stare that I get each time I eat my train treats. Oh no. These stares are full of passenger judginess. And I can't help but wonder what the problem is with my breakfast habits. I have limited ideas:

1) Everyone wants my donut. They are super upset that they didn't get one before the train ride. Totally understandable.
2) They are convinced I cannot balance both the coffee, donut, and my cell phone and are waiting to see me fail. Or burn myself.
3) Its against Dominican culture to eat donuts during the week.
4) They think I shouldn't be eating on the subway
5) They think I shouldn't be eating the donut... Which to be fair, is probably true...
6) I perhaps eat donuts weird?

This realization shattered the glass for me. Oh my god, maybe I eat weird. Thats what they must be looking at. So then, the more I think about eating weird, the weirder I eat. Until I REALLY start to over think it. Am I chewing weird? Too slow? Too fast? Chewing. Chew... to chew... Wait. How do I chew again? Has it always been this difficult? Do I move my jaw up and down, or was there a circular pattern I had perfected? How long before I take another bite? Swallow? What!? Ahhhhhhhhhhh!

Nightmare.

And then I spilt coffee on my pants.

So I guess numbers 2,4,5 and 6 are accurate...

Fancy Free at 23

                                    

Everyone always says that life starts in your 20's... well, thats not entirely true... most conservatives say that life starts at conception... but for the liberal, free spirited sinners of the world, life is rumored to start about 249 months after that. So, needless to say, when I turned 20 I felt a mix of horror and elation. Now that I am 23, I regularly feel a mix of tired, disappointed, hungry and slightly amused. But, here in New York City, the City of Dream, something about a Concrete Jungle where Dreams are made up, the Big Apple, The Empire State that is constantly Striking Back... I am living the dream. I have recently come to realize that while I thought I would be living MY dream, I had clearly misread the saying, which upon closer examination is "living THE dream." There is only one dream that we are all living. No one bothered to inform me that the big dream everyone keeps referencing is struggling to make ends meet, freezing my ass off, and floundering. But in a fun way! Right?

Right...

So I have decided to chronicle my misguided expeditions of my youth for the use of people in the future. And when I say people, I mean for the use of machines to study people. Im assuming that when machines take over, these files will be found on my macbook while it is in therapy for all those years I "used" and abused it.