Posts tagged the pit nyc
Posts tagged the pit nyc
It was Saturday night and I was eating a full pasta dinner by myself at a restaurant where my friend works in Williamsburg.*
As with most of my solo-dining experiences, I was more than a little buzzed, frantically typing “Harriet the Spy”-esque notes on my iPhone with traces of marinara sauce on my face.
“It’s my birthday, bitches!” a 30-something year-old man in khakis slurred to an old couple at an adjoining table.
"I need to buy my pants bigger because my dick’s so big. Like I need more room for my balls."
(to the older couple) “Why didn’t you guys and my mom and dad just get a room at the Wythe Hotel and kick it Brooklyn style?!”
Soon another bro with black slicked-back hair and a paisley pocket square walked outside accompanied by a cheetah-print clad woman in her late 50’s.
"Ooh maybe I’ll join her!”, he full-voice whispered to his frost-tipped companion, motioning to me, to which she replied loudly, “Yeah, not my cup of tea.”
"Come on, Mom!" he said.
Now I was intrigued.
"No, I just don’t like women," she continued. "I’m a woman. I know how they are. I really don’t fucking like them. I really disdain them."
"Hey Tina/Tammi/Bernice!", I wanted to say, "Hey. Yeah, you. Come over here. Wanna ‘Lady and The Tramp’ this pasta with me? I swear we’re not all bad…"
Just then, my friend Asher showed up with some of the birthday boy’s stolen party favors including a pedophilic melange of Bourbon-flavored lollipops, Chinese finger traps and Play-Doh.
After watching full grown men lick lollipops for 20 minutes I ran to the bathroom where, as fate would have it, Tina/Tammi/Bernice and I met again.
There were so many questions I wanted to ask her like:
"Were you at Woodstock?"
"What actually is a placenta?"
”Where’d you get that top? TJ?”
But instead I said, “Is that your son over there?” motioning to the paisley bro.
"Yes," she smiled, "I have some magic ovaries."
And I said, “I bet you do Tammi, I bet you do.”
And she said, “What?? My name is Evelyn.”
And I said, “Shhhh. You’re all the same.”
JUST EAT THE FOOD
* Much like this man, only not as endearing:
This words are majic (bom shaka laka bom ) say it next to your vagina and the jenie will come out to make your wishes come true
- an actual message on OKCupid
Even now, I can’t recall whether it was the soft accent on the word “majic”, the rhythmic onomatopoeia of the bom shaka laka bom or the tender advice to whisper to my vagina so that a mystical “jenie” would come out that made me fall for you, Rider911.
But I fell hard.
I studied your provocative beach picz with a hookah in hand for hours.
What I wouldn’t give to be a grain of sand on that beach!
Your glorious room, where the real majic would happen…
But then I tried your request, Rider, and nothing happened.
Just me alone in sweatpants whispering to my vagina.*
Waiting for an answer that would never come…
YOU MADE A FOOL OUT OF ME, RIDER!
I see now that the jenie was a metephor.
You’re the jenie; the jenie who broke my heart.
So why don’t you and your chic oversize black coat and XXL vespa helmet go toy with another woman’s emotions and leave me here.
I hope I never see your hauntingly sexy blurry face again.
Also, cute dog.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*It was, after all, a Tuesday
This recent presidential election highlighted an intense divide in our nation.
It is now more clear than ever that some people are Democrats, some people are Republicans, some people are vampires and some people are humans who love them.
But the one thing we can agree on across the political and mythical spectrum is that everyone enjoys a good bowl of soup.*
This is why 3-7 nights out of the week you can find me at the Hale & Hearty Soup on 23rd and Madison, taking up an obscene amount of window-seats with a hoarder’s cocktail of bags, coats and empty soup containers, dunking my chicken salad sandwich into a jumbo container of Tomato Cheddar soup with a fervor that can only be described as “NSFW.”
My neighborhood Hale & Hearty Soup is like Cheers! where everybody knows your name, only here absolutely no one knows who you are or gives a sh*t about you, and there is a surly Hispanic teen named Marco whose sole purpose, it seems, is to remind you of this.
The scenes of sexual tension between me and the aforementioned Marco usually go something like this:
Me: Hey there! How’s it going?
Marco: (surly and wearing a hairnet in silence, staring ahead)
Me: So what’s good today?
Marco: (dead eyes, more silence, more staring, thrusts hand at board)
Me: Alright! I think I’ll try a sample of the loaded baked potato! Sounds cheesy!
Marco: (removes lid from vat of soup and slams it down, throws ladle into liquid, slops soup into a tiny plastic cup and skids it across the counter at me)
Me: (catching cup) Woo! Looks good today. (sips) I’ll take a large one of this please! This’ll get the juices flowing for my writing today!
Marco: (rolls eyes and speaks flatly) 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Sorry, what?
Marco: (annoyed) I said, 7-grain or sourdough
Me: Oh, both please!
Marco: (looks me up and down and tosses both breads on counter with disgust)
Me: Thanks bro! (goes for fist bump)
Marco: (systematically denies fist bump and shifts entire body away from me)
Despite this particular love-hate relationship, there is a striking sense of camaraderie among soup-lovers. It seems that hot, savory, liquid truly transcends race, gender, age and sexual preference.
As if to prove this, at the present moment this Hale & Hearty crew* consists of: a serial-killer-esque man in a a trench coat silently watching his Asian girlfriend eat soup in the studious and determined way of someone plotting how to murder their next victim, a 20-something blonde woman in post-workout gear pawing at her lentil soup, and a small Indian child in a stroller screaming for his mother.
As I sit, staring at them from my window perch, with traces of Tomato Cheddar around my mouth, looking out the window at trash bags piled outside on the sidewalk, the dog with three legs, and the woman who looks like she bathed with a can of tuna, I am overwhelmed with a sense of hope and unity for our country.
It reminds me of Obama’s famous speech at the Democratic National Convention in 2004 where he said, “There’s not a liberal America and a conservative America; there are people who like soup and then there are people who are idiots.”
So I sit back, comforted by the fact that I am that small Indian child, I am that creepy white dude, I am that … Ok I am not that girl in workout gear.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*For vampires, that’s blood soup.
*As I call them. I got us jackets but no one wears them.
Me in the Feminist Bookstore Scene from Portlandia at the Peoples Improv Theater Acting for Sketch Comedy Graduation Show. What’s that you say?? I make a sexy Fred Armisen? Stop it. I’m peeing.
Check out my cameo in the Dave and Ethan comedy music video “Maybe”!
I’ve spent the past three hours rolling around in bed in a mixture of sweat and Indian food. I can’t tell if it’s hot in my apartment or if the heat is coming from the kinetic energy of me eating three plates of paratha.
I started tonight thinking, “You know what? I’m treating myself. I deserve it!” (and all that Eat, Pray, Love bullsh*t) Cut to three hours later, I’m spread-eagle on my bed, angrily sipping a mango lassi out of a straw.
I’ve decided to stop eating meat for a while. This turn of events came when I touched the ribbed, hard vein on the underside of a raw chicken the other night and nearly threw up.
My new “vegetarian” diet has increased my bread and cheese intake tenfold. I now order Tomato Cheddar soup from Hale and Hearty two times a day. I am slowly going broke, gaining weight and losing self respect. (In other words, my usual prep for bikini season.)
You know what F**K THAT S**T! F**k killing yourself to look good for three months out of the year. Just give up like me. It’s easy. Turn the lights off during sex. Problem solved.
I’m beginning to get a belly and I kind of like it. Now I just unbutton my top button at work and let it hang. That made for an awkward moment with my co-worker the other day but it sure felt good.
My pouch is comforting like a little friend, or a pet. I want to name it something cool like “Zanzabar” or “Melissa” or something.
Eh well, Master Chef is on.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
I’ve never been one of those “eat lunch in the park” kind of girls. You know the type with the work-appropriate sundresses, eating colorful salads and reading about DIY tampon doilies or whatever.
I’m more of a “sweaty, dirty pants-wearing, huffing food into my mouth over the keyboard and crying” kind of girl. (For more on this check out my post: How to Eat a Bag of Tostitos “Hint of Lime” Chips in One Sitting )
But today I decided to “go out and get some sun!”*
On my way to the park, I picked up some pan-seared salmon from Cafetasia off of Broadway. It had a B rating but I like to live on the edge.
"Pan-seared" turned out to be a generous term, as what was handed to me was a plastic container of gray fish soup.
"F**k it, not turning back now,” I thought, walking past a teen couple dry-humping on a mound of grass in Washington Square Park.*
I quickly scanned my surroundings for a vacant bench with enough space on either side so that I wouldn’t have to make human contact. Next I uncovered my salmon soup. It smelled like my five year-old sister’s wet swimsuit, but as it was my only available sustenance, I dove in.
Apart from the sloshing mixture beneath it, it really wasn’t that bad. I started snacking on the accompanying container of white rice, alternating bites and was having a pretty good time with it.
Soon a homeless gentleman man pulled up next to me and spread some cardboard down for a nap. Things were looking up.
Then it happened: I turned, grabbing my purse and the plastic container holding my salmon soup crashed to the ground, splashing oily fish water all over my pants.
"Raaaaah!" I yelled, to the surrounding people’s blank stares.
F**k the park.
JUST EAT THE FOOD
Have you ever spilled s**t on your pants? Done something embarassing in a public setting? Email me at: firstname.lastname@example.org. Let’s talk about it.
* As my mother often suggests to me with anxious eyes in a tone usually reserved for mental patients on the verge of breakdown.
* May or may not have lingered a little too long looking at them. I’m a creep. It’s my cross to bear.
So, I ordered massage oil candles online last week.*
(I may or may not have been laying face down on my bed eating macaroni and cheese out of a cup at the time of this purchase.)
What is unusual about this situation, is that I made the mistake of joining the store’s mailing list.*
Now those of you that know me know that I am a working professional*
You know what doesn’t look professional??
Having emails with subjects like “STRAP-ON SALE! LIMITED TIME ONLY!” at the top of your inbox when your supervisor walks by your desk…
What am I? Some thrifty, sexual creep who can’t resist a bargain?*
But honestly, if there’s anything more humbling than buying sensual massage items alone at 1am with macaroni and cheese on your face, it’s hoarding coupons with names like “Treat URself 2 Pleasure” and “Bondage Kit 25% OFF” in order to buy said items.
So there’s a slice of life for you…
Till next time. Eat up folks!
JUST EAT THE FOOD
*I never click that button!!!
When the waiter brings my food at a restaurant