Two Girls For Five Bucks

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