Literally Speaking

Today (or, rather, yesterday) was something out of Louise Brook’s autobiography. I’m seriously considering turning today (yesterday… whatever) into a screenplay for future viewing pleasure, because it was just THAT FUCKED UP.

At 10:27 I was painting my toenails. I had a photo-shoot at noon, and God forbid any imperfections, even if my toes are not visible in any of the photographs. Somehow, between trying to eat breakfast and packing outfits, I ran myself late.

Major fault #17: I tend to be chronically late.

At 12:11, I call the photographer. “Hey, I’m obviously running late. Is 1 p.m. a problem? No? Lovely. Thanks so much.”

At 12:49 I am wandering around Woodside in Queens. A cocaine dealer from Spain tries to help me find the apartment, than jumps on my neck like some vampire while I desperately ring the photographer’s buzzer on the stoop.

Cue photographer. Cocaine dealer scampers. I’m wiping off my neck. I didn’t make a good first impression.

While that was certainly embarrassing, I will inject here that this photographer knew his shit. I have found myself in front of a monster Nikon many a time, some with halogen lighting and massive monitors and this man, without a doubt, is a natural director. After an outfit change, a gold dress that I pointed out was “fairly risque” (whereby he countered, “I wouldn’t call it that…) he suggested that we take it outside with a pair of jeans. The photos are fucking amazing.

I left the gig feeling lovely, wary that the Spaniard may be laying in wait, and walking quickly towards the subway. I passed a playground, a corner of it occupied by a seven-year-old on her knees, wailing the most amazing prayer I have ever heard. She had a circle of children around her, who would repeat her prayer as a chorus. The chain-linked fence was a prayer wall, parents looking on in approval, and passerby in amazement.

All too soon I am back in Manhattan. Bag and purse while I am getting off the train? Check. Off the escalator? Check. While I am adjusting my arm to help a pitiful, old lady who begged “Help me across the street?” Check.

Crossing the street. Old lady is getting on my nerves. Why am I so fucking nice? I really should be a bitch sometimes. I’m hungry and I need some iron pronto before I keel over.

Half-way across the street. Two of my “weekend” friends pass. “Hey girl! How are you?” “Hair looks good!” (Turning) “Thanks lady! See you later.”

Annoying old lady is stumbling over nothing. I get her across the street when she needs to cross to the west side of 3rd. I sigh, noting that I need to cross myself anyway for a much needed pick-me-up at Gigi’s cafe. People smile at me while I plod with my load. “Look child. There’s a flapper helping a homeless grandma. There is good in the world.” Once on the West side of the street she turns and shuffles off and I head to Gigi’s.

Problem once at the cashier to pay for salad: my purse is gone. Read old-lady scenario again. I’m a fucking idiot. The cashier was terribly nice and patient while I ran off up the block to tackle the old lady, I would be wearing heels, but the stealthy bitch disappeared. Man leaning against parking meter didn’t see her pass by, and the ATM vestibule is empty.

A word to the wise: beware the pitiful and ugly because they NEED YOUR MONEY. Though actually, I admit, I feel a little sorry for her. She went through all of that trouble for close to nothing. After canceling my credit cards, calling the credit bureaus, and filling the police report, everything in the purse is completely worthless. Save two dollars. In fact, she’s totally screwed: even my freebie cell phone is tracking her.

You understand it’s just a major pain in the ass for me. Several phone calls and paper work. Technically, everything in the purse is easily replaceable. This may be God’s way of telling me that my wallet is terribly out of vogue and that I need a bigger purse. I really don’t have time for this. Tomorrow I have finals. I have work. I have the Tribeca Film Festival. I am looking for another job and another apartment.

Wherever you are bitch, I hope you feel like hell.

What do you think? If I add a couple of pot scenes and innuendo, I could totally write my one-day autobiography as another “Factory Girl.” Or a chapter of “Coyote Ugly.”

Applaud my hairstylist, for she is a genius. She is also a student at Aveda Institute. That’s right: I’m cheap. But the haircut looks like a million bucks.

 I was hoping that I would magically transform into Natalie Portman:

But I’ll carry my lot with patience and sass.

Tomorrow I am going under the knife. Pardon me, I mean shears, for a transformation that has been dubbed as the look of the season by yours truly.

Even if I’ll be the only one wearing it. As always, haircuts are given their promotion on this page, provided they are being worn by me, so rest assured you will see the results of the operation.

What inspired this (soon to be revealed!) drastic change? Well, it is spring and things are only going to get steamier. I predict spicy nights on the town with drunk artists and sweaty armpits, subway rides that kill style like a sauna, and heads that will turn by my genius. However, I give credit to my yoga teacher, who yesterday accidently stepped on my ponytail when “admiring” my head stand.

I feel but a tease if I say anything more. Check back with promptness Friday morning.

I don’t know if the child who careened into my shin yesterday has anything to do with my preoccupation with the well-being of America’s children in the last twenty-four hours, but is there anyone besides me who is disturbed by the move from the ABC game to DVD players on road trips? About the government prescribing lessons rather than the teachers? Their daily intake of corn-syrup?

Understand, before I go any further, that I actually do not get along with children. At all. They scare the hell out of me. (This video here sums up my interaction with anyone under the age of eight pretty well.) I don’t have enough patience to tap into my inner child and make those entertainment-hungry energizer bunnies love me unconditionally. I’m one that really, really has trouble walking through Disneyland.

[Insert incriminating babysitting story here.]

But I am not stupid. I know what children become. Those with an ounce of sociology knows (which, by the way, requires little more than walking out your door) that we are cultured people. Some are more susceptible to this process then others, which is why some people resemble rotten cheese, but it cannot be denied that our upbringing affects our future persona considerably.

(I realized yesterday that I fold my used tissues exactly like my mom. SO FREAKY.)

Children become agents of this culture. Or daycare, whatever. They get taller and everything too.

Considering, again, their formulated classes, I have this uneasy feeling about the entire situation. In fact, let me just throw this out there: ARE WE BRAINWASHING THEM?

So it’s easier to flip the DVD player on in the car than listen to them singing. Easier to feed them orange-shaped gummies than actual oranges. But I have to say that this is a really, really bad idea. I’m all about peace between nations. I don’t think the world needs another reason to hate us.

So, uh, Dear Department of Education and Ford,

Please step away from the test tubes.