Happy Fleet Week everyone!  Some tips!

SAILORS ARE REALLY YOUNG:  Seriously.   So young that your usual entrees of seduction will not work on them because: they never had the Fisher-Price record player, have no working knowledge of Crystal Pepsi, and if you bring up Double Dare they  think it’s an overture for a drinking game of some sort where people end up naked,  rather than reminiscing about Marc Summers’ career.  On the plus side, you get to experience that “I get older, they still stay the same age” phenomenon the dudes seem to like.  On the minus side, if you can’t pillow talk about Saved By the Bell and have him crack up at your “read my lips, no new taxes” impression, then really, what’s the point?

SEX AND THE CITY HYPE:  You mean to tell me that my real-life experience during Fleet Week will not be an exact replica of how it was on  Sex and the City?  Right- so I’m to believe that sailor parties in Times Square are actually full of bad house music, Wet Seal dresses, and shots of Hypnotiq instead of cocktail dresses, champagne, and chaste slow dancing to Otis Redding and big band music?  I guess I’ll just pack up all my puns and cupcakes, and move back to the Midwest, because this is not the New York that I was promised.

AN OFFICER AND A GENTLEMAN FANTASY:  Remember how Richard Gere was all damaged and mean, but secretly sensitive and hurt and rescued Debra Winger from life in the factory because love lifted them up where they belonged?  Yeah, if you meet a sailor out this week, it’s about as likely that he’s yearning for a lasting relationship as that story about Richard Gere and that gerbil is likely false.  (Please let it be false.)  

GIRL IN EVERY PORT:  This is most definitely true.  And the other girls probably have tongue rings and scream “Woo!” when Ke$ha comes on at bars.  Remember when Hannah on Girls got HPV from the stuff that gets around the sides of condoms?  Be careful out there.  As my Mom said to me in high school:   “Don’t have sex before marriage.  You could get AIDS!!!!  Or YOUR FEELINGS HURT!!!!”  True.

THEY GO TO THE WORST BARS:  They really like to hang out around Times Square.  I get it, lots of tourists do.  Can’t fault them for that!  But wait, are these real fleet week sailors walking around in the East Village?  Yes!  Someone ventured below 14^th Street!   I wonder if we’ll run into one tonight?  Better put on my Ann Taylor Loft party clothes, tonight might get crazy!  Oh wait, why are they all going into Bar None and IHOP?  Don’t they want to hang out with 30 year old girls experiencing artisanal Brooklyn?  They don’t.  But they are gentleman, and will give you extra quarters at Dave and Busters, so have fun!

CONVERSATION:  I’m going out on a huge limb, but you probably won’t have a ton in common with a deployed sailor on leave – so, as I think to myself when someone I’m attracted to starts to describe their ex-girlfriend in excruciating detail using the words “hot” and “crazy” – Shhh, let’s not ruin this with words.

FIRST SIGHTING:  Despite all of the above, when you have your first Fleet Week sailor spotting, particularly if they are in groups of three or more (they’re always cuter in groups), your heart will skip a beat and you’ll start smiling like an idiot, and you’ll want to draw a line up the back of your leg cause your World War II rations this month did not include nylons – but wait!  It’s 2012.  Remember that.  But also, enjoy!  We get one week a year.  We’ve earned this.

When I leave rehearsal on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon I can’t wait to head east and get out of the area, but first I have to make it through my own personal Delilah (one of our only Jewish temptresses – like a biblical Natalie Portman)  – store after store of cheap, cute sandals and summer dresses.  Usually I’m able to keep my head down for at least a few blocks, but this past Sunday I had a roof party that night – one of the summer’s firsts.  I already had the dress to wear, but was in search of something sparkly.  I went into the first store I saw on 34^th Street – Conway.  I began the familiar fight I’ve had with myself for the last few summers.

“This is the year you’re getting a romper!  You can pull it off.  It’s not like summer in high school you wore what you thought were your ‘sexy culottes’ and look back at cringe.  Try on some rompers!  This store might have the one that finally works!”  I hear in this encouraging Oprah sounding voice.

“Just no.  You can’t pull it off.  This is a bad idea.”  I say in the voice that’s normally in my head.

I grabbed a handful of rompers – the cheaper stores don’t obey any type of standardized American sizing. Therefore it’s a free-for-all of either being elated you are a teeny tiny petite size, or most likely shamed, since this romper was probably created in a country whose native language doesn’t include a  translation of the phrase “second lunch!”

I asked where the dressing room was, and was greeted with a “bitch please!” look.  “We don’t have dressing rooms!”  “But how do I know if I’m a size -2 or a 12?”  She gave me back a look that said “I’m sorry, maybe you weren’t aware that the only amenities we offer are a Port Authority adjacent shopping experience, and the fact you can buy a WHOLE OUTFIT OF CLOTHES for under $10, which is how much I’d be getting paid if I had to continue this conversation with you for the next THREE HOURS.”  She communicated all of this with her eyes.

I was debating the relative humiliation and sexual attractiveness involved in me jockeying for a space in the group mirror trying on a romper over my dress, when it caught my eye.  Gladiator sandals with studs.  Unable to resist a stud (ed note:  really?), I reached for it, but it was on a high shelf.  I put down my pile of rompers, got on my tippy toes, and grabbed for it.  All of a sudden an avalanche of gladiator sandals came falling down.   I’m dodging descending gladiator sandals all around me, but one pair falls directly on my face.  The stud falls right under my eye and it hurts.  I scream out an obscenity, then look behind me to put on a brave face for the people swarming around me, seeing if I’m ok, but there was no one behind me, just a woman browsing through a bin of frog slippers.  This is not good.

I open my compact and see there’s a scratch mark right under my eye, and it hurts really bad.  I’m hoping it won’t turn into a black eye, while at the same time hoping it does – because I’ve never had one, and it would lend a sense of mystery and passion to the perception of my personal life.  Ultimately, no black eye formed, but it was throbbing and looked more like a scratch mark.  I left the rompers behind and headed for my apartment to put ice on it – when I saw one of my favorite threading places.  I stopped in for my eyebrows (still had a party to go to – the show must go on!).  She had the hands and mouth of an angel.  Cause you know, it’s the ancient Indian art of using thread, one end you hold in place in your mouth, and ok… you might want to just Wikipedia it.  She saw my scratch mark and did the tsk tsk thing and asked how it happened.  I told her, then saw my opening and went for it.

“Do you – umm, do you know of any remedies for it?”  I gave her a knowing look.

“Ummm…. What do you mean?”

“Would you have anything to recommend that might be an ancient…….. Indian remedy?”  Am I racist in assuming that she has a mastery over the universe in ways I don’t understand, given in no small part to her ability to make my eyebrows look awesome through only determination and ONE SMALL PIECE OF THREAD.

“I do.”  She grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down turmeric powder.  “Go to Little India and hand them this.  Grind it up a bit and put on your cut overnight, and by the morning it will be healed.”

Yes!  This what exactly what I was looking for!  I had a piece of paper and would travel to a far off neighborhood in New York City in search of an ancient remedy.  I felt like Tom Hanks in Big searching  for the Zoltar machine – we each were on a noble quest to be put back to as we were.

It turns out Little India was just two blocks away, in the East 20s, near Chipotle.  I handed the woman the piece of paper and she handed me the turmeric.  I thought she would bring me into a back room, but it turns out it’s very common, and used in cooking, and featured in a lot of curries.

I went to the party, then came home and made my turmeric concoction and put it on my cut that night, waiting for the healing properties to work.  I actually couldn’t fall asleep for a long time, and then kept waking up since it smelled like really great Indian food on my face and was making me starving.   Am I still using it?  Of course.  And I’m also using my own ancient remedy for bumping into things, Neosporin and checking it obsessively thirty times a day.  But at least I have brand new sharp as tacks gladiator sandals with studs.  Fierce.

Do you see that picture above?  This is what we're aspiring to.  Some advice:

Shoes:  Sandals? Noooo. Especially leather.  Too Game of Thrones, and it’s very unlikely you have the raw animal magnetism to make this look work for you.  Topsiders?  Yes please.

Fedoras:  Really hard to pull off.  Ask yourself, if I wore a fitted vest, would my female friends embrace it, or stage an intervention.  If it’s the latter, you probably can’t pull off a fedora.  If it’s the former, go for it, and I am really looking forward to your next album, because your name is Justin Timberlake for he is the only man alive that can rightfully wear one.  (Jason Mraz – I directed that last comment to you) 

Talking about going to Governor’s Island/that outdoor musical festival:  That sounds so fun!  All summer long you talk about going, and make it sound really great.  One thing, you have to actually go.  Just one time.  I know it involves a ferry, and I’m not sure when exactly it departs, but I think we can find that online?  Just go.  You can even Instagram and Four Square it, so everyone knows you are fully experiencing city life.  Do it. 

T-shirts advertising WNYC/Bullseye with Jesse Thorne/independent bookstores:  I got it, you like cool stuff.  I do too.  Animal Collective?  Yep, I have that whole album.  Das Racist?  I’ve heard of them too!  Just take it easy on all the t’s.  Also, man-to-man, fitted t-shirts are not always the easiest things to pull off for one’s physique.  I know for a fact that if you’re listening to the WTF podcast during your workout, you’re most likely not crushing it as much as the guy next to you listening to Monster Ballads IXVIIX.  I’m not saying you should be like that guy and tuck your polos into khaki shorts, and actively contribute to a 401k, just easy on the t-shirts ok?

See movies outside:  It’s the best!  Extra points if you bring Pirate’s Booty.  Always extra points for Pirate’s Booty.

Second Shower:  You need to embrace this, especially if you’re in a courting situation.  Cold showers once brought to mind either nymphomaniacs or sex deviants, but no more!  Seriously, go for the second shower right before you go out.  Trust me on this one.

BBQs:  Great idea!  Look you have that wireless meat thermometer!  Someone’s been reading Esquire’s Guide to Best Wireless Grilling Devices 2012 .  Just one thing – please for the love, you have to include some sides.  Potato salad, grill up some kale, even put out some chips.  Burgers, or worse veggie burgers and beers does not a BBQ make.  Just include one or two sides that could have been served at a V-E Day Party.  And whatever you do, please ask everyone “who likes their buns toasty?”  We’re Americans, we have to embrace it sometimes.

Finally,  you have to stop talking about your CSA.  I know you just moved in with your girlfriend, and I’m really happy for you guys – but you’re  not the first couple to get organic fruits and vegetables on a weekly basis.  They’ve been around for a while, the rest of us call them farmer’s markets.  Or I have my own personal CSA, the fruit stand guy on 14^th and 3^rd who sometimes throws in an extra banana.  Is it brown and on it’s last legs?  Sure.  But I’m still experiencing that farm-to-table experience all of you are, or farm-warehouse-fruit stand guy’s house in Queens-back of his truck-14^th Street.  So no more CSA talk, ok?

My company recently gave us 50% discounts on monthly memberships at Equinox.  Equinox is a super fancy gym catering to the following people:  women who don’t work, fierce Type A business ladies, gay guys, and business dudes that go there pre-8am that I never run into.  Though I do enjoy the occasional African dance class, Booty Ballet Blast, and Pre-Natal Yoga class as much as the next girl, I really do not enjoy going to the gym.  Incidentally, pre-natal yoga as a non-pregnant person is quite the workout, and involves way more than laying on a mat telling your belly you love it.  Lots of leg work is involved, pregnant women are actually quite strong. 

However, Equinox does have a few things things going for it: it smells like eucalyptus leaves, has a hot tub that would be wonderful if it was 100% guaranteed you would never run into any co-workers there - and I  figured with the half off discount, and the generous amounts of Kiehl’s products I planned to help myself to, the gym membership would more than pay for itself.

Today I was reminded why I have sworn off the gym in favor of a chosen fitness regimen consisting of outer borough breakdancing classes, Senior Aquatics at the Y, and brisk walks.

In no particular order, I hate going to the gym for the following reasons:

- Bringing your sneakers back and forth every day.  So cumbersome.  And what kind am I supposed to have?  Air Jordans?  No idea. 

 - Sports bras, ugh.

 - The tiny socks you're supposed to wear.

 - The other people who make fitness a priority and go to gyms for more than just popping in to re-do their makeup.

 - The girls who walk into classes and the teacher is like “Hey girl!” and then they share private Zumba jokes I am never a part of

- Teachers who yell at you through their headset microphones about your footwork.  Rome wasn't built in a day, ok?

- When I’m on the elliptical and I cover up the time with my iPhone because I’m miserable, then getting excited that my 45 minutes is almost done when I move my phone and realize I’ve only been doing it for 12 minutes.

-  The girl in the row ahead of me on the elliptical reading The Economist on an incline of 10!

- How every girl at the gym (even, especially the old women) blowdries their hair with their towel around their waist, dude-style.  When did this become a thing?  Are we to believe that’s how people dry their hair in their own apartments?  Not buying it.  I don’t want to sound like the town elders from Footloose or something, but come on girls, a bit of modesty!

- The woman whose locker is next to mine that is always completely nude the entire time I’m putting my clothes on.  She is always naked, bending in awkward poses while putting lotion on with sustained eye contact in a porn-like reverie.  Just...no. 

Tiny lacy thong / Not totally sure where I’m ending up after work tonight…

 Light pink Hanes that cover your belly button / I might sleep in my retainer on the third sleepover.

Off-brand Spanx / Brunch is my favorite meal!!! J

Bikini Bottoms / I eat cereal for dinner out of a large mixing bowl.

Commando / I always scream out “YOLO!” before making bad decisions!!

I’m not really sure what’s up with parenting now.  Are we all supposed to be eating our own placentas, Alicia Silverstone’ing their food first, and breastfeeding them after they text us from their own iPhones that they’re parched and would I mind stopping by their room and topping them up for the night?  Hopefully by the time I have kids I can conduct most of my parenting through Skype, apps, and robots.

In the meantime, I can’t help but be really grateful attachment parenting was not of the zeitgeist of the late eighties while I was in my formative years.  I can’t picture my Mom attempting to breastfeed me at the age of six, though if she tried – I can only imagine my reaction.  It would probably be along the lines of:

-  No thanks.  I’ll definitely take some more Tab though if you don’t mind.

-  I’m gonna JUST SAY NO on this one. 

-  I might be willing to consider this, but it’ll cost you a lot of Cabbage (Patch dolls)

-  I don’t have time for that right now!!  I’m trying to unload these junk bonds then  prepare my own sushi!!  (I was heavily influenced by the Charlie Sheen character in Wall Street)

-  I would, but WHERE’S THE BEEF??

-  Can’t you see I’m in my leg warmers?!  This Jane Fonda video isn’t gonna watch itself!  (really used to do this.)

-  Can’t talk now, watching this Gary Hart drama unfold.

-  Hmm, has Dad signed off on this one?  Really don't need a Kramer vs. Kramer situation on my hands...

-  WHAT?!!!!  NO THANK  YOU!!!!  THIS IS HORRIFYING AND SCARRING!!!!!!!!  (most plausible)

-  Wow, Mom.  I think you’re great, really.  You snapped right back to that pre-baby weight like a champ, and jazzercised your little heart out.  But I just don’t think this would be right for us.  But no hard feelings!  I’d really like to remain friends!

Love you, Mom.  Happy Mother’s Day.

My cell phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize.  Normally I let it go to voicemail, but then I thought the 212 number instead of 800 number was probably really great news, or my dentist office confirming, so I picked up.

“Hi this is Reproductions, your headshots are ready to be picked up.”

I hadn’t had any headshots taken in several years.  To walk you through it briefly, it is the worst experience ever.  First you have your hair and make-up done, which makes you feel glamorous and like Diane Sawyer.  Then for the next two hours you try to act like you are having the most fun ever, or worse, try to make your sexy face which is actually the least sexy thing ever when the person you are making it to is a 5’3” perky photographer girl calling out “Yah!  Sassy!  Sexy!  HAHA!”  No one likes to take headshots, or see their aging in visual form, which is why if you have recently been to a Broadway show you would find the majority of female performers over the age of 40 have headshots that seem to say “I really hope to book a part on that pilot Murder, She Wrote!"

“I haven’t ordered any headshots; I think you have the wrong person."

“Oh wait, now I remember.  Yeah, there’s another Michelle Markowitz that hates you."

“Michelle Markowitz hates me?  That sounds about right.  Why?”  (Can’t wait to discuss this with my Freudian analyst!)

“She just moved to New York, and she tried to register her name with SAG and they told her it was already taken.  When she dropped off her pictures, we told her there was already someone with that name in our database, and she told us the story and how she hates you!  Ha!”

For a slightly self-aware person (read: Jewish) this felt poetic.  So I’m sorry I guess for taking the SAG name first.  And our name at gmail.   And michellemarkowitz.com.  I know firsthand what it’s like to go through life with this name, and I hope you have an easier time with it.  If I have any advice, I guess I would tell you to not do a monologue where you play a 25 year old pregnant African American former slave in the Reconstruction era.  You will think you have the range to pull it off, but you do not.   Otherwise, good luck!

Recently a few people from work began to follow me on twitter.  While this has in no way curtailed the amount of lady doctor/Michael Fassbender/Mr. Belvedere talk – every now and again I am made aware that they have been let into the (somewhat exaggerated) inner most recesses of my mind.  Every once in a while they will ask me about something I tweeted about,  consequently I will feel totally vulnerable, in a way they can never understand since they tend to only tweet things along the lines of “Nice new UCLA uniforms!”  (which they are, in fairness)

Just now my new club soda addiction came up as I tweeted about it yesterday.  One colleague began with “Michelle’s twitter feed is…..” and the other cut him off with something along the lines of “Funny!”  Or “Amazing!”  Or “Good.”  Can’t remember, it happened like ten minutes ago.  The first colleague was not settled with a positive adjective remaining in the air between us, so like Mystery donned in a feather boa and black nail polish, he was straining to get the neg in.  “It’s definitely….quirky.” "Are you saying quirky or Corky, like from Life Goes On?"   I was ready for my other co-worker to be indignant when he wholeheartedly agreed.  “Of course it’s quirky!  Michelle’s quirky.”  Quirky.  That’s like the manic pixie dreamgirl construct best friend of a girl who self-identifies as “adorkable.”

“I think we define “quirky” differently.  OK, who do you think my TV doppelganger would be based on personality?”  Here it comes… The old Liz Lemon comparison.  It’s been a full two days since I got one of those.  I actually don’t think of her as quirky at all, but rather, self-possessing, confident, and able to be her own straight man at times.

“Got it!!  Your personality reminds me of Mark Harmon’s lab assistant on NCIS.”

I was not expecting this.  First off, NCIS?    Sorry, I stopped following Mark Harmon closely since St. Elsewhere.  Just gonna google image her…

SERIOUSLY?  A gothed up pigtailed choker wearing scientist? 

Yes.  Apparently.