Two Girls For Five Bucks

Dear Santa,

I’m going to start my Christmas list tonight.

1) For Christmas, could I please have the ability to have a crush on someone who might actually like me back?

…and no, the guy I never got over from high school who I ran into when I was home for Thanksgiving, does not count. He’s married…with kids. We talked about this. Men who are married and/or don’t live in New York are what we now call, “counter-productive crushes.”

…and no, the deli man who offers to live with me every time I buy a seltzer water, also does not count. I feel like I don’t have to explain this one.

2) An agent.

More to come…

Love always,

Daiva

In the last 30 minutes, I’ve checked my BlackBerry 28 times. The only reason I haven’t checked it 30 times, is because I purposely put my phone in a hard to reach pocket of my bag, and I’m just lazy enough (or desperate enough, depending on how you look at it) that I only checked it once on my 5 minute walk to the coffee shop where I am now writing this. So, I’m sorry, but I don’t think this one is going to be that funny.  I’m too distracted to think of funny things to say…I have to use all my brain power right now to keep myself from checking to see whether or not he’s texted me….or emailed me…or liked my status or something. Technically there isn’t even a “he” to check for, so I’m not sure what I’m doing. 

29…

It’s this time of year. I don’t know what it is, but every fall I always develop a ridiculous and blind craving for love that inevitably leads to a lot of misery and staring at my phone. I guess maybe it’s not actually the “love” part, so much as the “falling” part that I crave. I love that new date smell, that first awkward gooesbumpy kiss, and that easy going girl that I am before we really get to know each other, and I let my crazy out. It’s so annoying. I’m like Pavlov’s dog, and without fail, as soon as that first brisk breeze blows through my bangs, I turn into a drooling lovesick puppy. I know that we have a natural instinct to nest during these few months before the snow comes, but my “natural instinct” usually ends up being more moth-to-a-flame like. There’s nothing graceful and woodland creature-ness about it…just me flying spastically into any fire I can find, no matter how inappropriate and/or unrealistic that “fire” may be. I loose all rational judgment as soon as those leaves start changing; and the expert skepticism, cynicism, and sarcasm that usually keep me at a safe distance from heartache totally disappear. My mother would argue that these “ism’s” also keep me at a safe distance from a healthy relationship, but that’s a story for another time.

30…

After years of awkward, painful, and usually very weird autumn crushes, I have come up with only one logical explanation…At some point, years ago, I was mean to an old lady, who was actually my Fairy Godmother in disguise, and she put a spell on me.  It must’ve gone something like this, “Once A Year, From the First Red Leaf to the First Snow Fall, You’ll See Princes Where Douche-Bags Stand, Melt for Un-Medicated Manic Depressives, Leap Head First at Every Head Case You Can Find, and You Will Love, You Will Love, You Will Love.*” Thus, with every sweater that gets pulled out of storage…with every festively placed pumpkin…and with every hostess who stands back, chalky hands on black skirted hips, to asses her, “Now Serving Hot Apple Cider,” the spell sprinkles over me, dusting my eyes and heart with the fairytale version of beer goggles, New York turns into a glittery magical kingdom overflowing with impossible Princes…and I become the oldest Princess in all the land…

31…

32…

Now, sure, other princesses have had it worse. I mean, it’s not like I have to live with 7 tiny men while my step-mom is running around the kingdom trying out different ways to kill me. I’m not locked up at the top of a tower asking guys to climb up my hair…although, I do live in a 6^th floor walkup which has, once or twice, been referred to as “birth control.” And at least I’m not being chased around by a big drag-queen-octopus-witch with electric eels at her beck and call. Yes, it could be worse…but it couldn’t possibly be any more pathetic.

33…

Every fall is an obstacle course of schmucks dressed in shining armor, and I always end up running towards the worst of them. I will say, that the blessing and/or curse of this spell is that, only one of the Princes I’ve ever chased after during this time has actually stopped, turned around, and liked me back. So…you know…that helps.

34…

There have been Pot-head Princes, Job-less Princes, Two-Timing Princes, and of course, Gay Princes…

35…

One autumn in Maine, I was crown over slippers for a Schooner Prince who said, before he sailed away for the winter, “Well, Daiva, it was nice getting to know you. I could’ve liked you. You’re not crazy…and I should know…because I used to be crazy.” I wrote him a letter for every leaf that fell that year. 5 years later I swooned over a Prince who told me, on our first date, that he spent a year in a psychiatric ward. Obviously, I like a splash of cuckoo pumpkin pie martini. 

36…

Two years in a row, I chose Pathological Lying Princes. One of them even used the old I-Was-On-My-Way-To-Meet-You-When-I-Walked-Past-This-Burning-Building-And-I-Had-To-Run-In-And-Save-This-Grandmother-And-Her-Cat Excuse to explain his lateness for a study date. But it was October, and we were taking a French class at Harvard…have you seen Harvard in the fall? I was powerless. And besides, he said he ran to meet me as soon as the firemen got there.

37…

When I was studying in Paris, I fell for a Mime Prince. No need to explain further, you say? Being a mime is bad enough? Well, it gets worse. I was in Paris, so the spell was at it’s strongest, and I liked him even though he called me “Devvvvvvvvvvvve,” and made roses out of napkins that he brushed across my cheek. Even though he lived with his mother, and worshipped Don Johnson. Even though he frequently pretended he was a cat. The spell lasted well into the Winter until one night, while getting ready for bed, he bent down to get his brosses à dents out of his sac à dos, and I noticed the top of a navy blue thong peeking out of his favorite tie-died overalls. Surprisingly, the tie-dyed overalls had not been enough to break the spell, but when the thong came out, I think my Fairy Godmother took mercy on me, and broke the spell then and there.

38…

Because I know about the spell now, I can protect myself a little bit. I can save myself from the embarrassment of actually liking someone to their face, and just keep things to quiet, albeit, desperate crushes. To give you an idea of what I’m dealing with, these are the “Princes” currently on my crush list:

-The guy that is working right now at this coffee shop…who I neither look at nor speak to.

-A boy who is almost 10 years younger than me.

-Another boy who is not quite that young, but did play little league with my baby brother (apparently, as I get older, this spell also turns me into a cougar).

39…

-My married with children ex-boyfriend.

40…

-Jason Sudeikis.

-Two guys whom I don’t think I actually like, I just have crushes on their names.

-A guy who, in the 10 years that I’ve known him, has never ever liked me-liked me, but I     keep trying.

-The old man who fixes my shoes.

-A girl I work with…I’m totally straight, so this one is especially counter-productive…I mean, did I not learn anything from Anne of Green Gables?

41…

It’s almost winter now, the spell will wear off soon, and I’ll be back to my usual pessimistic, walled up, not trusting self. But a lot can happen in a week…so if you need me, I’ll be locked up at the tippy top of my walk-up tower, that’s nestled in the middle of a concrete kingdom, and surrounded by a very huge moat…til the snow flies…

Love always,

Daiva

42…

 *She definitely added a footnote to this spell, and mumbled under her breath something about the spell getting even stronger if the “Prince” utters the words, “I’m going through a really hard time right now,” or “I just got out of a relationship.”

EPILOGUE:

In an ironic twist, at the end of the day I discovered that T-Mobile had been suffering from a GLOBAL outage and that, unbeknownst to me, no one could get through to the other end of my phone. So even if “he” did text me, I will never know. It seems my Fairy Godmother has learned some new tricks…

Daiva and I are hosting the new, wonderful and entirely FREE evening that Ars Nova is banging out every Thursday during ANT Fest.  Tons of great acts and lots and lots of miserable love!  See you there!

10PM

511 W 54th St

I never know if I’m going to be able to sleep any given night.  My head is six inches from the window.  I live, with my husband, above a laundry.  Other businesses on our street are:  a dry cleaners, a small bodega, a clothing shop that does not have a name but is for “poor people” according to the owner and a storefront Chuck E. Cheese inspired party place that promises to throw your child any kind of party, including pajama parties.  There is also a bar.  We’ve never been to this bar for a variety of reasons.  The two that come to mind are the time my husband saw a man put his fist through the passenger side window of a car with two people in it.  He then walked around to the driver side and smashed that window with his fist as well.  Another time, a man stormed into the bar screaming at his wife for drinking in the afternoon while her kid was waiting in the car.  Clearly it’s a place where all of your hopes and dreams come to die- so we’ve decided to keep our distance.  Last night, I fell asleep despite a man screaming as loud as he possibly could, “YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE!” – over and over again.  He finally walked out of earshot.  So, I slipped into a peaceful slumber.  That is, until I was rattled awake at 2:30AM as a woman, with a British accent, shouted “MOVE OUT!  MOVE OUT!  I HAVE TO SHAME YOU TO COME HOME TO SEE YOUR KIDS!  MOVE OUT!”  I could barely hear her boyfriend’s mumbled response.  She was a beast. I was hearing that moment every woman has, the “A-ha” moment Oprah likes to talk about.  This British lady had had enough and she was marching her shit bag of a boyfriend out of her home and away from her neighborhood.  Before she woke me up, I was having a dream about combining PDF files into one document, so I was happy to move on from that.  But, I couldn’t fall back asleep.  I kept replaying the woman’s words in my mind over and over again.  I felt sorry for her.  It was like the Nanny 911 lady woke up and was like, “Why the fuck am I living in a shitty neighborhood in New York with a shitty, drunk boyfriend and terrified kids?”  I wonder what happened to them.  To her.  I hope I can sleep tonight.

-cc

Today, while in line at CVS, I accidentally fantasized about my dream wedding dress. It’s not my fault, “Come Away With Me” was playing on the Muzaq, and there was at least one celebrity wedding photo on the cover of each tabloid at the register…I was hypnotized. I came to when the guy behind me started yelling, and then I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I realized what I had just done. Luckily, I was immediately distracted by my ExtraCare Card statement. I only need to spend $5.01 on any John Frieda hair products to earn my reward, and can save $4 on any two Refresh Lubricant Eye Drops. So…phew…I have A LOT going on right now.

Love Always,
Daiva

I was raised at the intersection of Social Justice and Liberation Theology. (If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry. I’m still trying to figure it out.) My mother, an ex-nun, shunned manicures as toxic and petty and liked her hairstyle like she liked her shoes: Sensible. Needless to say, this stunted my ability to be effortlessly glamorous. My mother’s idea of glamour is a floral skirt set from Penny’s and Navajo earrings from New Mexico. Things that come easily for other women –flawless make-up, rigorous gym routines and well groomed body hair — are about as natural for me as playing shuffleboard on a cruise ship with an amputated leg during a tropical storm. So, I have to work a little harder.

I get by…barely.

I had to start dying my hair about a year ago. I’ve never done highlights or anything like that. Too expensive and too complicated. I was raised to keep things simple and avoid too much flair. Why worry about how you look when you could be worrying about the homeless. So, more often than not I resemble a vagrant who’s recovering from some sort of garden-variety addiction. (I am genetically predisposed to have bags under my eyes.) But over the past year, a significant amount of grey hairs have begun nesting in my thick and coarse black hair. Shriveled, wiry little bastards who have decided to frame my face.

So, I’ve had to start dying my hair.

As a result, I’m stepping it up. Slowly but surely, I’m incorporating a beauty routine into my life. I wear make-up. I whiten my teeth, I wax my brows, I try to remember to get semi-regular bikini maintenance, I got a gym membership, I get manicures before shows, I wear deodorant (no joke, used to go without) and I’m dying my hair. My mom has started dying her hair, too. It’s like we’re both coming of age together. I like to think we’re both all set with inner beauty. Paid that shit forward. Time to act like a couple of ladies…

-Cathleen