How to Pick Up Women at Your Local Starbucks

Actually, you know what? Just don’t. For most people, Starbucks is really one of three things: a) a caffeine refueling station; b) your cubicle/study carrel away from your cubicle/study carrel; or c) an awkward and ill-considered location for a first date. Notice, you young Turks of Sunnyside, that “meatmarket” or “bumpin’ pick-up joint” does not appear on the above list.

Why am I griping about this? Is it because I was the victim object of some cliched pick-up line at my local Starbucks last night? Why, yes. You are correct.

And here is where I shake my fist at the patriarchy, because I have the distinct feeling that if women weren’t socialized to be so fucking nice all the time, I wouldn’t find myself in these sort of situations. Seriously, unless he’s being a spectacular asshole, it’s really hard to tell some strange guy to fuck off.

So, if you really must, here is the first rule of hitting on chicks me at Starbucks: Don’t Interrupt Me. If I’m wearing earphones, staring intently at my computer screen, and typing away, it’s a good sign that I am DEEP IN THOUGHT. On Very Important Things. That Don’t Have Anything To Do With YOU.

Interruptions make me peevish and cranky. Interrupting me sends a signal that your horniness whims are more important than my time. This is a bad first impression. I assume you want to get on my good side.So don’t do it.

There are subtle ways of striking up a conversation. Asking questions about my laptop is one. But try to act like you’re actually interested. This means you should get the basic terminology right. It’s an iBook. Not an iPod. If you were really interested in buying one, you would know the difference. We both know that faking an interest in widgets to start talking to an attractive stranger is a common social lubricant, but to mix metaphors, try not to let the zipper show.

Next, I really can’t believe I have to say this, but the below phrases are not ok:

• I haven’t seen you around here before….

• Do you come here often?

• Live around here? (STALKER!)

• I know I’m interrupting you. (Yes, you are, I was just taught that it’s equally rude to point out another’s rudeness.)

Offering to get me a drink is a nice gesture, though I tend to view a relative stranger buying me something with some suspicion. (For the record, I also take a dim view of girls flirting with guys for free drinks in clubs.) But that’s just me and I’m cranky.

And if the girl in question is dropping hints like, “I come here to work” or “I have a boyfriend,” for god’s sakes, leave the poor woman alone.

Finally, I used to hear all. the. time. from my ex about how haaaaaard it is for guys to approach women. And then I’d feel guilty for being annoyed.Especially when he’s obviously nervous in the first place. It’s like stepping on a baby bird.

Well, fuck that. You know what’s also hard? Menstrual cramps. Childbirth. Buying bras that fit and don’t cost a fortune. Making less money than a guy in the same position. Cry me a river. We all have to do things that hard.

And as a 20-something woman in a large urban area, I get enough guys hollering at me on a daily basis.It’s like how mothers of young children complain that they get “touched out” by little ones grabbing at them all the time. Sometimes I just don’t want to deal with yet another guy’s overactive libido.

The thing is, I’m a friendly person. Mostly likely, I’ll be happy to talk with you. Just don’t fucking interrupt me.

What are these things you call widgets?

See those bits on the side, below the archives? Those are what we in the blogosphere call “widgets” — it’s a very technical term, and I’m not sure you’ll be able to follow me.

Actually, I only figured out what they were last week.

Apparently, they’re little doo-dads you put on your blog. Like a Flickr badge or a del.icio.ous link (I haven’t figured out what that is yet, either) that you put on your blog to make it look like you know what you’re doing. Ok, something that I put on the blog to make it look like I know what I’m doing.

Fine.

Oook, where was I? Ah yes. Widgets. So, as of 7/23/07, I have two. One shows the progress I’m making on Baby’s First Novel. I’ve made up a word count of 500 words a day, which is not a whole lot, really. I could probably crank out more in any given day, but the next day my brain would be as gimpy as I would be if I walked out my door and ran the New York marathon.

So far, I’ve averaged 472 words per day since starting. It really is a crappy novel so far. I’m taking the NaNoWriMo approach: I have a daily word goal that I have to meet and I don’t have time to edit. I actually find this approach to be very freeing. I used to start writing and then get so caught up in editing every. single. word. and I’d never get much further than page 10. I think it was E.L. Doctorow who compared writing a novel to driving at night with only one headlight. That’s exactly what it’s like, except I’ve also taken off the rear view mirror.

The second one, Joe’s Goals, is a bit more quotidian. I have my goals on there: going to the gym, getting up early enough to go to the gym in the morning, putting up a blog post, etc. I also have negative goals, the things I want to discourage myself from doing: eating candy, wasting time on the internet, etc. So every time I accomplish a positive goal, I get points. If I eat a Snickers bar, I lose points.

Really, it’s an online sticker chart. I’m basically three years old.

But, to get to my very drawn out conclusion, I posted these widgets so I could have some accountability on my goals. It’s from a tip I read about increasing your writing productivity. So I am making my goals public, and thus making myself accountable to you, my audience of…one? Maybe two?

I’ve been reading productivity/lifehacker sites recently. There’s something about wasting time reading productivity tactics that is so evilly ironic to me. For example, Merlin Mann’s site is about tricks to be more productive. But each time I log on, I end up wasting MORE time by clicking all the pretty links. Also, I kind of hate the name. Why “43 Folders”? Why the number 43? What goes in the 43 folders? Are they labeled?

These are the questions that keep me up at night.

(I originally wrote this around midnight; when I logged on this morning, the last paragraph was pretty much incomprehensible. Oops. My bad.)

Confession: I actually stole these widgets from Mur Lafferty of the I Should Be Writing podcast. Mur writes sci-fi/speculative fiction, which is SO not my genre, but she has very sensible, down-to-earth advice for newbie writers. I’ve been a little obsessed with listening to the archives, and I’ve picked up some cool tips from her. Check it out.

Pavlov’s Rain

Even though my apartment isn’t exactly in a noisy neighborhood (read: a block over from a warehouse district), I still get a fair amount of ambient noise from the LIE, plus there’s always roommates about watching TV or making it with their various fuck-buddies. So, I’ve started playing nature sounds on a loop at night to help me sleep.

I find it immensely relaxing. I have this one clip of a lake at night that I find very soothing — you could swear that you were at a lake house in the middle of the Maine woods. Whenever I play it, I feel a weight lifted from my shoulders. Living in a city is somewhat stressful; you’re around people all the time, even if you’re just standing in line, on the subway, . Even the just illusion of being completely alone for miles around relaxes me. (The kicker is that if I really were all alone at a lake in the middle of the woods, I’d go completely crackers after about two days of rural solitude.)

I’m also very fond of a clip of a thunderstorm at sea: waves crashing, rain pouring down on the water, and thunder cracking. I put that one on and I’m asleep in seconds.

In fact, I’ve developed a bit of a Pavlovian response to the sound of heavy rain. It makes me very relaxed and very sleepy. Which would be a good thing, except that it’s 10 am on a Monday morning. It’s pouring rain outside. And I’m at work, trying desperately not to nod off on my keyboard.

Swimming Laps

Every summer when I was a kid, I went to sleepaway camp for two weeks.  It was a fairly ordinary outdoorsy camp, which seems almost quaint compare to the specialty camps my much younger sister later attended.  We bunked in platform tents, showered in an outhouse, and hiked across the lake for overnights once a week.   There were boating classes, and crafts, and sing-a-longs after meals.

It was great.  Except for swim class.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t swim, or that I hated swimming, or that I was scared of swimming.  I loved swimming, in fact.

I just wasn’t very good at it.

There were four different swim classes, which were grouped by ability: Turtle, Advanced Turtle, Dolphin, and Shark.  You had to take a swim test at the beginning of each session. There were whispers of a fifth class, Killer Whale, and you had to swim AROUND the entire lake to become one.)  But for three summers in a row, I was in Advanced Turtles.

I don’t think I really would have cared about the class, if it weren’t for free swims.  During free swim periods, you could only swim in your part of the swim area.  The Turtle section of the swim area only went to three feet in depth.  You couldn’t dive or do cannonballs off the edge.  It was pretty lame.

So one summer, I decided I’d had enough.  In those days, we had a membership to the local raquet club, which had an outdoor pool.  We went there almost every day in the summer.  And every day that we went to the pool, I swam laps.

I don’t really remember doing it.  There was something very clear and almost completely absent of conscious thought about swimming all those laps.  To rip off Nike, I just did it.

When I went back to camp in August, I took the swim test again.  I was hoping to make it into the Dolphin class, obviously, but to my shock and delight, I made Shark.  (This meant I could go out on the Shark raft, which had an actual diving board, during free swims.  Very exciting stuff when you’re 11.)

Since then I got some good test scores, I’ve graduated from high school and college, got a job, got a raise, written some pieces…but sometimes, I think I’m proudest of having been a Shark.  Of just having gone out there and practiced and done it.

That’s the attitude I’ve decided to take with my writing.  I love writing, and I’ve managed to have a lot of fun with it, but I also worry a lot about it.  I used to start writing a story, when I was in junior high or high school, and I’d write and write and write.  Then I’d stop and read back over what I’d written.  It sucked.  A lot.  And I’d give up.

What I didn’t realize is that it’s ok to suck when you begin to learn something.   And I didn’t realize that I would get better — if only I practiced.   Like the swimming.

So, that is what I’m doing right now.  I’m swimming laps, and writing some really shitty, awful stories.  It’s actually a lot more fun than swimming up and down the length of a pool.  And I don’t have to worry about my hair turning green.

It’s been one week…

…and another 7 weeks and 2 days since I quit smoking.

Which is, you know, awesome, rah rah rah, go me, and all that.

But now that my senses are no longer dulled by that sweet, sweet disgusting nicotine, I am excruciatingly aware of my officemate’s halitosis.

Excruciatingly.

A New York Haunting

Several weeks ago, after locking myself out of my apartment for the probably the 8th time this year, I finally decided it was time to Get Organized. (This is a very recent theme in my life. Stayed tuned for the on-going details.) So, I got a little zippered cosmetics pouch, and into this pouch goes all the necessary accessories of my life: cell phone, wallet, Metrocard (after cleaning out various pockets, bags, and wallets, I found three (3) metrocards of varying monetary amounts) and keys. Everything stayed in the pouch. I bought something with my credit card; credit card went back in the pouch. I swiped my Metrocard; Metrocard went back in the pouch.

This was genius. Life-changing, even. No more frantic digging through the depths of my bag each time my cell phone rang. All my money was in one place. My keys were always where I needed them. For someone who lives in a perpetual state of confusion and disorder, this was revolutionary. I couldn’t believe it took me so long to figure this out.

This all worked splendidly, until last night. I came home sunburned and sweaty from a weekend out on the sailboat. I pulled out the pouch and…no keys. Huh?

I dumped my bags out on the sidewalk. No keys.

Luckily, my landlord was sitting outside on the balcony, so he let me in. But there were no keys in my room either. Not on my dresser, not on my nightstand, not in the freezer. Not in my jeans pocket, not in my other bag. Not under my bed, not in my sink, not in my shoes.

The only thing I could think of was that they had fallen out of the pouch while I was out on the boat. Which was not very useful, as the boat was now out in the middle of Long Island Sound. So I borrowed my roommate’s keys and hauled ass to Home Despot, a good 25 minute walk away.

This was not exactly what I wanted to be doing with my Sunday evening. And I was more than a little pissed at myself, and a bit despondent that my best efforts at consistency and self-discipline and organization had still gone pear-shaped. My blondeness was apparently more than hair-deep. I was fated to ditziness, no matter how hard I fought against my nature.

Or so I thought, until the following morning. As usual, I woke up to my alarm as usual. I yawned and stretched, and under the covers, I brushed against something that felt suspiciously like a keychain. And not just any keychain, but MY keychain. In bed with me. Where as far as I know, it was not last night.

There is, of course, only one possible explanation.

I have a pixie problem. Pixies being small fairy-like beings that play tricks on humans, like stealing small belongings such as KEYS. And according to folklore, you’re supposed to keep the pixie happy by leaving a saucer of milk out for him at night. If you don’t, BAD things happen.

Obviously, I am dealing with an unhappy pixie here. However, leaving milk out in a NYC apartment with no air conditioning in July is a recipe for extreme grossness. Possibly an even more unhappy pixie.

But I do have plenty of beer. So tonight, I’ll be leaving a saucer of beer out. A big saucer. I’m hoping the pixie will be too blitzed to fuck with anything else.

Plucking is love.

Being a dyed-in-the-wool East Coast WASP, my mother doesn’t show physical affection very well. Her hugs are usually brief and stiff. But she shows her love through eyebrows. The first time she plucked my eyebrows, I think I must have been 15 or 16. I was upset about something. In hindsight, it’s testament to the histrionics of adolescence that I don’t even remember what the problem was. But I felt ugly and gawky and unpopular. Mom listened to me whine and vent. When I was done erupting, she didn’t say anything, just asked if I wanted her to pluck my eyebrows. I nodded.. She took me into the master bathroom and took out her special tweezers. I closed my eyes. One by one, she plucked my stray eyebrow hairs. It hurt so much that tears came to my eyes. I felt absurdly proud when she commented that my sister had yelped and screamed when she had done her brows. When she was done, I blinked the tears away and looked at myself in the mirror.

Mom smiled and said, “Look how pretty you are.” And I could almost see what she was talking about.

After that, it became part of her standard nagging repertoire: she’d haul me off to the bathroom, tweezers in hand, if she saw them getting too unkempt, or sent me off to an aesthetician to get them done. To this day, there are only three circumstances when I pluck my eyebrows: if Mom says something, if I’m going to see my grooming-conscious friend Abby, or if I notice they are steadily inching along to full-on unibrow.

Recently, I came home for a visit after an awful break-up, the kind that kicks your world off its axis and releases the wolves of raging self-doubt on your psyche. I went shopping and drank gin and tonics out in the backyard and watched bad TV. On Sunday, an hour before I was to board the train back to New York, I noticed Mom peering at my face. “Your eyebrows need to be plucked,” she announced. With tweezers once again in hand, she marched me to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, I once again had defined brows.

“All better?” she asked.

“All better,” I said. And it really was.

***

I’ll be seeing my parents again this weekend, and I just finished tweezing my brows, just to preempt the nagging. But I still left a few, for Mom to take care of.

A Note to Gym Rats

To:

The Men at My Gym

Re:

Weight Machines

This is a weight machine:

Notice how it doesn’t look like this:

That is all.

Yours with sweat,

Me

P.S. – When you take really, really long breaks between reps and really, really, really long breaks between sets, and when you finally stop posing get off your ass finish so I can use the machine, but not before I have to add another 20 pounds…? Yes, I do mock you in my head.

A change of scene

The BushLolz pics have been moved here.

Bombz Ova Baghdad!

I am clearly obsessed.  Or procrastinating.