BROOKLYN

Bucket List Checklist

2010-10-12T17:19:00.000-07:00

Goal:
Leave country - check
Do Stand-up comedy - check
Do Improv - check
Run a marathon - half check!

I ran the Staten Island Half Marathon! I finished #1 in the category of women ages 25-35 with the last name of Turnbow. Even I can't believe it! Oh yeah, and got my picture on the New York Road Runners website. The photographer said I was the best photo of the morning. But, now that I'm seeing how many pictures he took (or how many people he told that to), I'm really glad I didn't show him my boobs like was my initial reaction to such a compliment.

On the train at 5am, I was probably the only person headed outside instead of "on in" after a long night of partying. I mean hey, I party. I probably watched "When Harry Met Sally" for the 17th time the night before, and I cried JUST as hard as all you 20-somethings, locked in a bathroom, digging your way out of a K-hole.

I arrived at the Staten Island Ferry at 6am. Awaiting the 6:30 ferry departure, I noticed that among the now hundreds of marathoners arriving, I was the only one eating breakfast. Either I'm the only hypoglycemic or everyone knows something I don't. It is my first big race after all. Sure, I'd run a 5K once, but my performance was down due to the chain-smoking in the parking garage prior. So now I'm eating, because I know my blood sugar (and my inner fat kid) would have it no other way.

The sun rose at the exact moment our ferry passed the State of Liberty. It was one of those moments where you realize where you are, why you're there and the things you'll hope to see another day. It was also followed by one of those moments where you plan to invent Freedom Fry Casserole with Toby Keith blaring in the background. And then you remember that you're not white trash, and you think Oh shit! I'm about to run 13.1 miles.

Then I did. Then I went home. The end.

Economic Upswing

2010-10-03T16:57:00.000-07:00

For all intents and purposes, the economy does seem to be on the upswing. After all, my landlord boldly proposed a 14 percent rental increase. But somehow what's being reported isn't translating into the street, as is evident from this trash can I took a moment to talk to.

This is David. David used to have a home in the suburban area of Ridgwood, Queens, where he stood proudly outside, collecting used go-gurt wrappers and full-priced tags from H&M. Due to lay-offs, the family he worked for had to move to a smaller home in a multi family rental, where dumpsters were provided as a collective. With no where to go, David made his way into the city, where I met him: broken, desperate and with tiny rat knawings at his once pedicured base.

Well...that's either what happend or the guy who made this sign struck big, dumped it, the economy IS on the upswing and my landlord is just a dick.

Don't Jack Off On My Parade

2010-06-03T06:28:00.000-07:00

If you've never been in a New York City subway, it has a way of being even dirtier than the street. Or rather, even "dirtier" than the street. It's here I experienced what I've learned to be yet another New York right of passage.

It's not uncommon for the New York female to become immune to staring problems; wearing headphones even when the IPod is broken or having to out right ignore perposterous advances. Sitting in a corner seat on the subway, I was practicing patience with a "starer" sharing a bucket bench with me. Being the benefit-of-the-doubty-NW-girl-at-my-core that I am, I told myself he was probably just reading the emergency instructions posted behind me. We've all read the emergency instructions, overhead advertisements and gay subway poetry, avoiding all human contact as is customary of many subway commuters.

Just to make sure it was innocent, I glanced over at the man. He had his backpack on his lap and appeared to be playing with the extra fabric of his pants, reminding me of the Curb Your Enthusiasm episode where the woman thought Larry David was rubbing his man parts when in fact a clothing manufacturer had provided him more fabric than was necessary for that area. I had a giggle in my head as I replayed this episode. And am again right now. Oh, Larry David.

What are the chances he is actually playing with fabric. I'll just lean over and take a quick peek. Oh...that's a dick. A wet one. Ew.

I got up from the seat, right as my subway stop approached, with an expression full of disgust. The man sitting across from us laughed more raucously than any jacker-offer witness should ever do, and said "I thought you guys were together!". YOU DID!?! I can picture it. "Hey babe, wanna do a little foreplay and jack off next to me on the train while I pretend to be fading in and out of commuter snooze? Don't worry, I'M old enough to buy the beer. Just hope your traditionalist Hindu family doesn't mind the race-mixing. Let's DO this!"

At this point, the "Jack" we'll call him, has become less sociopathically interesting than the guy who knew it was happening, assumed I liked it and couldn't be bothered to change seats. After all, Jack was enjoying the sight of an adult woman - not a child, nor a rat (it happens). Frankly, until that moment I had been feeling fat that day. With a little skip in my step, I walked away with a story. I love a story. Me and my New York love story. To be continued....

10 THINGS I LEARNED WHILE IN PUERTO RICO

2010-05-26T19:01:00.000-07:00

I've never left the country before. Okay, I've been to British Columbia, but a friend once described our neighbor so accurately as "Canada: The United States Biggest State Park"

Now, I fully understand that going to Puerto Rico doesn't count as leaving the country either, but it is apart from the continental US, which is a big step in the right direction for me.

Lesson 1: BRING OUT YOUR DEAD .... Milkmen?:
The Ice cream trucks of Puerto Rico have a dull, constant bong as they stroll through the neighborhoods, during inappropriate times of dusk. Unlike American ice cream trucks, which are so cheery they nearly drive one to kill, the PR truck bell makes it sounds as if someone has already died. It nearly discourages poor, late night choices of dairy consumption. Nearly.

Lesson 2: ROAD RULES...minus all the sexy singles desperate for air time: It is LEGAL for drivers to run red lights after midnight due to increased car-jackings in secluded areas.

Lesson 3: HONKY TONK
Puerto Rican drivers are smart enough to realize that every daytime hour is technically after midnight. They also know they're way around a horn, a pot hole and a general responsibility that they stand unified in finger pointing.

Lesson 4: BLISSFUL IGNORANCE: If the Sarah McClachlan themed humane society commercial makes you want to change the channel, then don't come to Puerto Rico. A rampant population of stray cats and dogs will eat out your soul instead of your eyes ... as you'd prefer.

Lesson 5: DEATH BY CHOCOLANT: Ants like chocolate. A lot. Do not leave unconsumed if your goal was to eat the whole bag. Which I've heard some people like to do. You don't know them. Shut up.

Lesson 6: THE SUN WILL COME OUT ... TOMORROW: During the rainy season, sun comes out in the morning. If you're going to head to the beach make sure you're there before 2pm. Or, like myself, learn to love the soul cleansing that comes with warm, oceanic rain.

Lesson 7: MUE MUE MUE, MUE MUE MUE... MUEVE CULO. MUEVE CULO!!: Eat what you want. The Puerto Ricans do not shy away from a junky trunk.

Lesson 8: THEY DON'T ALL EAT ALIKE: Refrain from telling the locals you left something back at the "Mexican" restaurant. (I did non-ironically, Tollemache! Don't let it happen to me in CR)

Lesson 9: MI AMIGA ME ESTA HOSPIDANDO (or whatever): If the only spanish word you know is "gracias" it'll get you by with a patient and gracious local by your side (Gracias, mi amiga Betania!).

Lesson 10: EAT, PRAY, LOVE: Cliche' is the new 30. Taking mini vacations to soul search, heal, accept, feel and all that mushy shit are totally cool with me now. I'm nothing to anyone else without my own self worth and the peace to move forward, believe and give. Careful, miserable people and general douchebaggers - I may put a smile on your face or a warmth in your heart.

I Got A Bike!

2010-04-20T16:46:00.000-07:00

Is riding a bike the only way to travel Brooklyn? I've been told so and only 19 months after moving here, I've jumped on board. Riding a bike can be dangerous business in this town, but luckily, at nearly 33 years old I've found it acceptable to be cautious. Dorky cautious. I bought a helmet - not that dorky. I relearned my arm signals for left/right - a little dorky. When I get nervous in large intersections, I get off my bike and walk it across the street in the crosswalk with my helmet still on - embrace it. In fact, one of these times I may just walk about town with just the helmet on and ask for bus directions all day.

Bike safety came to my attention in an interesting way this time around. When on a 1st date, the guy asked me if I would stay with a man I was newly dating whom was in a bike accident while not wearing a helmet. I answered without hesitation "I don't know you well enough to stick around". I've never liked vegetables and at 33 it's hard to teach an old dog a new trick. Especially when that trick's primary toy is covered in brains. And why should I expect different for myself? I don't ...wish brain damage on anyone, but mostly not on myself. P.S. we didn't go out again.

I may get scrapes. I may lose teeth. I may get both, finally possessing all the physical qualifications of a Norman Rockwell muse (see pic). But that doesn't stop me. With full-exposure of my borough ahead of me and full-exposure of my fellow subway commuters behind me (post soon to follow!) - I'm ready to take this world by the bulls balls!

That's not how the saying goes, is it.

OMG, I'm a real BFD - JK

2010-01-11T23:16:00.000-08:00

After years of being told I was "funny", I knew that stand-up was something I really wanted to try. But like Tyra says on ANTM "just 'cuz you're the prettiest girl in high school, doesn't mean you can be a model". B-b-burn, T-Rex. But it IS true that just because you're funny doesn't mean you'd be a good comedian. But, you never know until you try and you never wonder if you just fucking do it. The only thing holding me back is my crippling stage fright. Oh, yeah ...that.

I hadn't performed in front of anyone since the 5th grade when I played Mowgli's wolf mother in my elemntary school's rendition of "The Jungle Book". I stood up there, 11 years of baby fat stuffed into my "wolf" costume (heather gray sweatsuit set) and delivered the line "Oh Mowgli, we'll miss you so". Running off stage, I knew right then and there that I would never do that again. The silence, the judgment. Sure it was the opening scene, but where was my applause? I'm 11. Dicks.

Needless to say, that 21 year promise has become the brick wall in the way of my desire to do stand-up. So how in God's name would I conquer this? I needed a supportive environment in front of a controlled audience to practice, so I signed up for an Improv class. It was just the thing I needed. So tonight (after much mirror time and a dry bit run to Seattle's own Dirty Darliene Parker), I got on an open mic stage tonight at Manhattan's Bowery Poetry Club. There were probably 30 other performers and ne'ery do an NYC open mic have people in the audience who are there to watch. For those unaware of New York's comedic underbelly, it's a tough joint. The audience usually consists of other performers waiting to get on stage themselves. And frankly, they're usually not laughing because:
1. You're not funny
2. They're thinking about their own routine
3. They envy you (not a real concern of mine) ....or don't like your shirt (also ...not a real concern of mine).
No matter which way you roll the dice, they're not laughing and your feedback is limited.

My friend Sarah was called on stage 2nd, leans over says "Ooh, I'm nervous!" and proceeds on stage. She's nervous? She's been doing stand-up for 10 years - I'm fucked. Called on stage 7th, I was happy to just have it over with. It was either perform or have a stroke. I was shaky and sweaty, yet somehow managed to spit out the jokes to mostly utter silence. With amazing support from friends and hilarious comedians Sarah Tollemache, Daniel Mahoney and Jonathon Powley, I conquered my fears and survived to bomb again someday.

Before I left, another of the nights performers, Amy Stiller (STILLER), the self-proclaimed "LaToya of the Stiller Family" (pictured), congratulated me and said I did a great job. After admiring Jerry Stiller and Anne Meara's ability to create someone who looked like BOTH of them, I was SO humbled. Someone SO funny, who was raised by true comedic Gods, thinks I'm funny - if even for a minute.

Thank you, New York, I'm having a magical time. Now, send cute boys.

Thanks, Delores

Subway Art 3

2010-01-03T21:39:00.000-08:00

Yes, I'm 32. Female. And STILL think this is funny

How New York Am I?

2009-12-15T07:58:00.000-08:00

Last week was a bad week. Droning on about my own life on the phone outside of a Soho restaurant, my whole world changed. Actually it didn't, which is the primary problem. Jon Bon Jovi walked out of the restaurant I was standing in front of. He (no shit) flipped his jacket collar up and continued down the street ahead of me. And all I thought was "why is his head so big? Could it be that all that voluminous wildcat hair he's famous for having is just excessive amounts of skull?". Here was the front man of the modestly eponymous band "Bon Jovi" (BTW "Slippery When Wet" was my very 1st independent cassette purchase circa 1986, which makes this ALL the more upsetting).

You're probably asking yourself, "What is the issue?". Well, I'll tell ya. I used to get excited about celebrity sightings. I used to feed off of them. Once, in Seattle, I had a chance encounter with Conan O'Brien trying to pass as a "normal" and HELL NO did I let him get away with it. I quietly asked "Conan?"; he nodded a little irritatingly. That was it, but that was enough. I was high as a kite for the rest of the year. Why? Because it was exciting to me. New York City has stripped me of that childlike wonderment and untouchable status of the celebrity. NYC has also stripped my ability to buy peanutbutter or fresh produce from the grocery store, but that is minor in it's effects compared to the death of my unhealthily, obsessive joy.

When I saw the JBJ, I didn't even take the time to interrupt my own conversation to tell the person on the other end of the call. Nor did I remember to tell anyone that I'd seen him for nearly a week! I have now become NUMB to the affects of celebrities. How New York is THAT? Celebrities walk around NYC like regular people. Who do they think they are - regular people? US weekly begs to differ, presenting in every issue "Stars: They're Just Like Us!". See, it IS weird that celebrities cross the street, just like us. Or pump their own gas, just like us. That's why it's news. So why is it that I should NOT be affected by Bon Jovi thinking he can just walk down the street like a "normal"?

Bon Jovi, if you're reading this, we BOTH missed out on the experience of my excitement and for that, I'd like to make it up to you. I will now listen completely non-ironically to "Slippery When Wet" as an homage. Oddly enugh, "Livin' on a Prayer", "You Give Love a Bad Name" and "Never Say Goodbye" are songs that still resonate in my life 24 years later (actually much more so now, than in 1986). Thank you, Jon for your timeless relevancy, and good luck buying hats directly off the shelf.

Herman's Story

2009-10-20T07:41:00.000-07:00

Meet Herman. Herman was found in my favorite bakery earlier this October. Wanting "pigeon ew" out of my bakery, I chased him back into the street. That's when I saw that he had a broken wing and foot to match. I felt for the little guy, but again, ew.

I hate birds as much as anyone else. Piegons especially. I also hate watching things suffer and feeling that there's nothing I can do about it. I do, however, love finding things that challenge my ignorance about the two latter, while also finding that humanity won't always let you down.

About a week after I'd first spotted the pigeon (whom I have lovingly named Herman), NYC temperatures dove astonishingly low for the time of year. During a chilled torrential downpour, he was spotted wing-drag limping in front of my work, with apparent difficulty of finding shelter, warmth and food. It pulled my heart-strings and I thought "maybe he'll die tonight and I can stop feeling sorry for him". Because that's what good people think. We all want to be ignorant to resolutions of things we can't change or be bothered with finding a way to change.

I started doing a bit of research online about resources for wild animal rehabilitation. Wanting to find a place for Herman to go before I was the captor of an NYC pidge, I posted on a wild bird forum and found my email inbox almost immediately flooded with resources (and when I say flooded, I mean 5 responses - about 5 more people gave a shit than I thought would). A man named Dan called me almost immediately and gave me the number for a place called "The Wild Bird Fund" (www.wildbirdfund.com). He referred me to a woman named Rita, who after a long-winded "what-the-fuck-am-I-doing-with-a-pigeon" descriptive message, returned my call almost immediately and said she had time to view him.

I made an appointment for the following Monday and had to find a way to care for him for the next 48 hours. For 48 hours he lived in a Coors Light box in my closet - safe from Tarzan (my kitteh'z) instincts. It was dark, dank and lonely in my closet. I imagined him longingly staring through the door slats, journaling word by word Anne Frank style, hoping this little fucker will win a Pulitzer and I can ride his tail feathers to the top. WEEEE!

I fed him wild bird seed and changed his Coors Light box liner twice a day. The following Monday, Herman and I hopped on the subway for our hour long ride to the Upper West Side, where Rita works at the Animal General. After a short exam, Rita explained to me that Herman was likely only 8-10 weeks old, having not even grown his tail feathers yet (guess I won't be riding them to the top anytime soon). He had probably been hit by a bike, the impact breaking his wing and foot. She told me that his wing had healed itself well, while not completely enough to fly and he may never fly again. Wings need to be reset within 48 hours of a break to ensure full rehabilitation. She then explained that she was actually glad I didn't bring him in earlier, as she would have suggested euthanization due to his age and the expected extreme pain of a rehab. Herman is a tough little guy, healed himself well and has hopes of surviving now. Any earlier rescue attempt might not have given him the chance to prove his survival skills.

After explaining to her that I was not going to be able to foster him during his rehabilitation she offered to house him in the hospital for a few days. She had spoken to Dan the Pigeon Man who had originally referred me to Rita, and he had offered to foster and rehabilitate Herman. If his wing is able to repair itself enough to fly again, Dan will call me to pick him up and take him back to the place that I'd found him (as pigeons form monogomous relationships and stay with their families - Awww). If he wasn't able to regain his ability to fly, Dan offered to sponsor his entry to the Berkshire Conservatory - a home for disabled wild birds in upstate NY. The cost of admissions is $360 and Dan offered to pay the cost in full.

I nearly burst into tears in the vet's office, so overwhelmed with the good and generosity of people and the ability to feel powerful and positive in the face of discouragement. I'll have to remember that when I feel like something cannot be accomplished.

I wouldn't say I'm so pigeon-tickled that I'm one loaf of bread and a grocery cart away from sitting on the steps of a Public Library, letting pigeons shit in my hand, but these organizations are phenomenal and they are changing the world one Herman (scratch that), one Delores at a time.

When God Wants to motivate me, he sends me Adrian Grenier!

2009-10-11T08:59:00.000-07:00

I woke up this morning to a beautiful and crisp fall day. Regardless of the environment's perfection, I resisted my morning workout. After an hour long debate with God, my skinny side, my sleepy side AND my inner fat kid, God told me he'd meet me half way and make it worth my while if I just got out of bed and went jogging. Whatevs, my sports bra is already half on.

I ran my usual path down to Fort Greene Park, here in my neighborhood. The entire park is only about a 1/2 mile 'round, yet after a winded loop and stair-run, I reached the top and not "kind of", but "completely" wanted to die. Moderate to consistent smoking habits and a change of season head-cold all working against me. However, all the sweat, wheezing and mismtached running socks in the world could not stop God from coming through on his promise (he's not a liar; it doesn't sit well with him).

A young man with a wild set of curls, who was also working out at the top of the stairs, approached and said "Good workout?". Why yes, ADRIAN GRENIER, I am having a good workout. Feeling like the wimpy guy trying to impress the girl, I had a second wind and ran off for my second (or third, as far as he knows) loop around the park. At the top of my second stair run, Mr. Man was still there (waiting, perhaps? Probably not). I nodded, he nodded and after a brief conversation with myself in my head (Oh God, I hope it was only in my head), I decided to leave the park before him, running off to enhance my mystere'. Delores Grenier - It has a nice ring to it.

P.S. when I told my bodega guy about my sighting, he said he'd never seen "Entourage" because the Bodega doesn't have HBO. Why? Cablevision doesn't issue businesses HBO/Showtime/Cinemax because of porn. We both agreed it would be weird if he was watching porn when I got my morning coffee.

P.P.S. After telling this amazing tale to local friends, it is apparently widely known that Adrian has purchased a home in Brooklyn and is getting a lot of publicity for his eco-friendly ways. Bravo, Greenier.

Feast of the Giglio

2009-07-08T19:33:00.000-07:00

While planning another night watching TV and excessively updating my Facebook, I stumbled across this gem: The Feast of Giglio.

1 sausage sandwich, 3 zeppole, 1 zeppole fried oreo, 1 under-spirited dacquiri and a ride on the Gravitron = best night of worst ideas. Thank you great people of the Feast of Havemeyer Street - for this, I love you.

More Information Here: http://newyork.going.com/event-614005%3BFeast_of_the_Giglio

iMPERFECTION pERFECTED

2009-07-07T20:38:00.000-07:00

I got a new tattoo. I did. Sometimes I just go from day to day wondering why mediocrity is so prominent in my life; why I haven't ever just perfected something. I've slid by being really good at being bad at things. Relationships, careers, education and cleaning my room have all fell by the wayside to my daydreams, my wonderment of what my life is supposed to be like (as opposed to the creation of said life). That's when it hit me. I am good at something (remember?): Being good at being bad at things. I've embraced it, marked myself with pride that it's totally okay to be me.

And that's why it doesn't bother me when people question the quality of my piece by asking if I tattooed it on myself, or got it in prison; I laugh. Fuck, I did it again. Imperfection perfected. It's perfect.

Subway Art 2

2009-01-20T12:59:00.001-08:00

Pegis.

Subway Art.

2009-01-11T20:43:00.001-08:00

Subway art is my new favorite kind of art. From demonic transformations of Nicole Kidman, to seeing a poster of Haley Joel Osment with a senor mustache and the eloquent words of "Shit Bag" written across his cheeks, this art always amuses me.

I'm SO lucky

2009-01-11T01:26:00.000-08:00

I arrived at Union Station today to be greeted by several people in their underpants. The first was a man taking his pants off on a subway bench. The next, a grown man wearing spidey underoos and a tie (thank you for all the classy). Then 40+ people exiting the F train in their underpants, warm jackets and sensible shoes. Let's not be foolish, disrobed panty partiers, it was snowing outside.

This. Made. My. Day.

Full article here: http://www.blufftontoday.com/node/26407