Michelle Markowitz

Humblebragging does not always neccessarily come from a bad place.  Perhaps it is the way women are socialized since birth, but we are usually much more comfortable at the humble part and the bragging part usually comes later. (I am grossly generalizing here of course)  It tends to be the opposite for guys.  What probably started at its root as a means of ensuring that it was their sperm that’s had pieces published in the New Yorker and whose film was even at Sundance (short film, but come on, let’s not split hairs) that would be the one fertilizing the best looking, most well accomplished eggs.  So it should not rankle me and make me as blind with rage as it does considering the vast amount of braggers I encounter daily.  Whereas with most other careers, your job title or company/ start-up you work for will convey much, people in the arts rather than saying “freelance” which makes them sound like any other struggling person, will brag and boast and list all their credits.  Don’t guys understand that they should just play it cool, for girls usually will find it all out through friends or facebook anyway?  The thing that particularly kills me about guy humblebraggers is that they are so bad at it, and usually all but forget the humble part entirely and just end up bragging all over you.   

I arrived early to a show I was in the other night and sat at the bar.  There was one other person at the bar as well – a guy roughly around my age.   Hoodie, angry beard – the usual.  Thirty seconds passed when he emitted this loud guttural sound. 

“AHHHHHH.  I have so many emails it’s ridiculous!  I’m a sound designer here.”  he complained.   This tone of voice sounded familiar.  It was the exact same pitch and tenor  I have when I complain loudly about how sore I am after a gentle yoga class just so people know I did, in fact, work out.

“Ahh work emails?” 

“Work/personal.  People are emailing me about April, it’s like – let me just get through this week first.”  Hmm, I myself like to book things out, and my pet peeve is when I’m emailing about shows and someone responds “Email me again as we get closer.”  It makes me feel like Lloyd Christmas.  “Do you think you’re free to tech for next month’s show?  Ok, I can check in with you in a couple weeks… I’ll just not cross it off my to- do list, but then add it to next week’s to do list as well.  But if you had to, are you telling me there’s a chance?  Just – this is funny – I got a missed call from a private number and thought it might be you, so I wanted to get back to you… Ah, it wasn’t!  Ok, I will check back in next week then!”  The worst.

“That sucks.  At least we have a long weekend with Monday off.”   He gave me an eyeroll I can only describe as what I might look like when I visit my parents and try to convince them we should go to an authentic local restaurant instead of a chain.   

“OK.  In the arts we don’t get things like President’s Day off.”  I haven’t wanted to be disassociated so strongly with a group of people since we first found out about the Madoffs.  I rolled my eyes (but not too obviously because I didn’t know if he was doing the sound for the show I was about to be in).  I returned to my notes and was contemplating if I should bring my coat and bag in the bathroom with me or if he was trustworthy enough to watch it, when he interrupted-

“OMG!!!!!”

“What happened?”

“Yoko Ono’s birthday!   I completely forgot about it.  It’s gonna be so fun!”  This I couldn’t take.  Be bad about returning emails?  Fine.  Insinuate I’m not an artist?  Well, I’m wearing my particularly edgy outfit from Ann Taylor, with certain accessories even from Urban Outfitters, but OK, you just don’t get me.  But I had enough.

“Yoko?” I made the same face guys make when I tell them I still listen to Wilson Phillips.  “I’m not sure if you heard.  But she split the Beatles up and left Ringo to a career of PBS and performing in state fairs.  Terrible.”  He gave me the same Wilson Phillips look I just gave him.  “One sec – gotta go to the bathroom before the show, just gonna grab my stuff…”

It was a day like any other Thursday.  I’m wearing a new dress since I have something after work.  I was just trying to make it till 6pm with neither staining it nor having it absorb the myriad of tiny degradations one gets through in a day.

I had resigned myself to the standard lunchtime salad.  Two coworkers were going to Chop’t which is like the Chipotle of Midtown salad places, so I joined.

But something was amiss.  It was…. Drizzling.  1/3 of the people on the street were even carrying umbrellas!  The rain had to be avoided at all costs – they did not have umbrellas, and I assume like me, wanted to avoid frizzy hair.  We decided to walk through the tunnel to Grand Central.  Making conversation, I asked if they had to move to a suburb around New York City, which they would choose.  “I’ll decide that when I have to.”  Ok then.  Conversation denied. 

We entered Grand Central to that familiar train station smell, like a slightly classier Penn Station, due to a lack of Carvels and in-house TGI Fridays.  We went down to the food court.  I was about to head to Hale & Hearty when something caught my eye.  There was a new restaurant called Tri-Tip with a huge line of excited looking people.  This was a new steak sandwich place, which looked like a more healthy version of a normal cheese steak place.  My heart was split.

A Gwyneth Paltrow voice came into my head.  “Go to Hale & Hearty!  It’s only a boring Thursday lunch.  Might as well be healthy.  How much would you really enjoy a heavy steak sandwich?  DO THE RIGHT THING.”

Then this Lindsay Lohan voice took over.  “Wouldn’t it feel great to eat a sandwich and carbs right now?  You deserve it.  You’ve been good all week.  Just one.  Try it.  Look how long that line is, it must be so delicious.  Go for the steak sandwich.  Trust me.  By the way… No pressure….But have you ever had a girl experience?  I heard you were a theatre major, sooo…”

The Lindsay Lohan voice had a point.  (about the steak sandwich – not the lesbian part.  I was a theatre major, but the theatre and film boys were so sensitive so I feel like I had that college lesbian experience in a way anyway)  I stood in line.  I did the requisite debating between the steak salad and sandwich with the sandwich ultimately winning. 

There was steak.  And bacon.   And blue cheese.  On a toasty baguette.  I brought it back to my desk, preparing it on a paper plate with a plastic fork and knife in case things got crazy.  I needn’t have bothered with the fork and knife if you know what I mean.  I took the first bite.  It was as if a bacon cheeseburger had a lost weekend with a Philly cheesesteak at a remote cabin somewhere.  Some crumbled blue cheese stopped by, lost and looking for directions, then the burger and cheesesteak gave him directions but then  were all “Don’t leave now.  Stay awhile… You’ve been with buffalo wings for so long, give yourself a break.  Explore your options.”  And then this baguette from next door popped in – “Hey I was just gonna take a quick dip in the Jacuzzi – care to join me, guys?”  That is what this sandwich was like.  It was the kind of meal that as you are eating it you are getting sadder by the moment that it is soon ending.  You tell yourself to enjoy it and live in the present, but you want this sandwich to last forever and grow resentful that you can’t be together for always. 

It felt like a shame that I was eating it at my desk.  Surrounded by cubicle walls, phones ringing, and work to do.  It was the kind of food that you can only truly enjoy when you are alone in your apartment, shame eating it while watching the better episodes of Sex and the City and wearing something flowy.  It ended almost as soon as it began.  I know that the next time I order it, there is no possible way that it will taste as good as it did today.   Like first love, there is no going back.   Did it change me?  Well yeah, actually I feel slightly nauseous now as I’m typing this. 

To paraphrase Woody Allen, it was the most fun I’ve ever had without laughing.

So no one ever gets my references.

Just returned from my daily lunch routine.  Today was no different than my usual.  When not having power lunches with colleagues and friends, it is roughly as follows:  walking while listening to mood reflecting music, stopping into either Ann Taylor or Sephora  (I’m 30 now, remember?), then picking up a healthy lunch consisting of  local organic vegetables (kidding of course).

Today as I was walking by the Ann Taylor on Fifth Avenue I paused to look in the window first.  Hmm, those dresses look a bit boxy, we can do better than that Ann… A weird guy stopped next to me.  How to describe him?  He was like a 45 year old less attractive Louie Anderson type.  I am picturing blonde chest hair for sure.  He yells out “Well I’m one of the producers and he works for me!!  I’ll tell Paramount myself!”  Then he hangs up abruptly.  This conversation could not be more cliché.  It is the equivalent of a finance guy screaming out “Well I told him to buy it at 6.  Now we have to sell!  Check the S&P Index, I have to close a deal now, then go out for expensive sushi!!”  Or a tech entrepreneur screaming out “Google did WHAT?!!  Classic!  Fools!!  K, gonna go meet with some angel investors now, we’re kinda the next Groupon, we have so many meetings its embarrassing!”

Right after he hung up he looked at me while I accidentally gave him the judgy side-eye. 

Him: “You’ll have to excuse me.  I am in the middle of tense negotiations.  I’m casting a feature film I am producing for Paramount.”  I told him no worries and shrugged then started to walk away.  “I’m a little stressed out right now.  This is weird, but are you in the industry?  You look familiar.”

Now Readers:  This isn’t Michie’s first time to this picnic.  While I may look much, much younger than I am, I’m not quite as naïve as I once was.  I’ve been to far too many fake industry events, accidental pyramid scheme interviews, and “meetings” with agents held in Starbucks, and after a while it hardens you.

I am still only human though.

Me:  Oh really?  I look familiar?  Ha.  Well, umm… do you go to indie comedy shows at all?  You may have seen me at the People’s Improv Theatre, or UCB East, or Union Pool in Brooklyn?  Hmm no?  Umm, well maybe you saw me at that Chipotle on 50^th Street?  I grab lunch there quite often…  Or are you on twitter at all?

Him:  No.  That’s not it.  You  look like an actress.  (this is industry speak for “care to bone?”)

Me:  Oh.  Well…I….

Him:  Because I am casting this project and there are some smaller parts you might be great for.  (this is how every Law & Order featuring a young murdered girl begins)  My project is about – you really can’t tell anyone – (oops.  But also he did reveal this to a stranger 15 seconds after meeting, so it’s probably fine) this guy who goes on a road trip to find himself but ends up with a stripper who teaches him about life.  I think you’d be great to play… (Ah there we go.  He wants me to audition to play a stripper.  No way.  I didn’t study Restoration theatre acting techniques to end up murdered for his fake movie.  I am an artist!)… a waitress at a Midwest diner.  He later has an encounter with her.  There can be something very erotic and sexy about a non-model looking girl.

Me:  UGHHH.   No thanks!   That sounds terrible.  OK, gotta check out Ann Taylor.

So there we go.  I am still alive and not auditioning for a fake movie due in no small part to a measure of common sense and pride.  If only I hadn’t told him about my favorite spot, Chipotle…  I guess I’ll have to play it safe and change the routine up a bit.  I’ll be at the 54^th Street Chipotle if any (real) movie producers are looking for me.

I just put up Australia pictures, and my phone has been blowing up
with my #1 commenter, my Mom. Any photos with any guys whatsoever
will include her mandatory comment, either "who are the hunks??" or
when she's holding back, "who are the dudes??"

I think she's vaguely aware they can see it too, but it doesn't phase
her. When not commenting on myself or my sisters' pictures, her
Facebook comments reveal much. For awhile she was obsessed with Katie
Couric, and would tell her "Katie, you look beautiful!" or "Great
makeup today Katie! You're a wonderful interviewer!" but instead of
writing that on Katie Couric's fanpage, my mom simply wrote it on her
own page, as if she was having an imaginary conversation with Katie
Couric by herself.

I have accepted all of this until today. The only quote on her page
from My Cousin Vinnie? Sure. Announcing herself as a fan of The
Ghost Whisperer? Not my favorite of Jennifer Love Hewitt's work (that
would be Party of Five), but fine, I celebrate our differences.
However, today something happened and an intervention must be called.
She LIKED John Tesh's fan page and then wrote on her own wall that she
hopes she wins his fan of the week! In honor of the fact that I know
this will be me in 30 years, I am telling you what I hope my future
daughter Sophia Gosling will tell me: It's time to shut this down.
You are better than liking John Tesh.

Love you Mom.

A few observations about Australia:

1.  The men there are very masculine.  Like at Eric Bana levels.  The reasoning for this is that all their forefathers were basically criminals, and if there is anything we have learned from Lifetime movies, women are attracted to bad boys.  Whereas in America most of our forefathers were rebels in that they wanted to be even more Puritan and anti-sex and fun than the British government would allow.  What I found most surprising was how, well, into it I was!  I've never been usually attracted to traditionally HOT guys (to ex-boyfriends reading - except for you, boo!) and so was totally surprised when I felt the scorchies for a group of people who seemed wholly comfortable with the outdoors, being tan, and fitness in general.  Not once did I even think "well ok, but I wonder how good a blogger he is?" 

Take for example our scuba instructor who was super hot.  He was tall (can get behind this), blonde (what?!  Never like blondes, reminds me too much of Robert Redford's character in The Way We Were), and seemed no stranger to the gym.  He even wore crocs, and seemed to have no working knowledge of early Judd Apatow TV shows.  But I was into it.  As Dee said "He's super hot.  I don't need to ravage his body, but I would definitely date him and see where it goes."  Totally.  I would definitely date him and eventually if I feel he is a good communicator and really emotional and great in small groups and fun to hang out with when running errands, I would indeed consider doing sex to his body at that point.

2.  The town names are insane.  We went to Manley Beach, Coogee Beach, and Darling Harbour.  It was hard to keep them all straight.  We took the train out of Sydney to commune with animals.  On our way back we had to get a shuttle.  I asked our bus driver (who happened to be black, I don't normally notice race or age at all, but stay with me here...)
Me:  Just wanted to make sure - this shuttle goes back to the station right?  We're trying to get back to BlackMan station.
Bus driver:  Uh, it's the right shuttle.  And it's called Black Town.
Me:  Super!!  (dying inside)

3.  Doing outdoorsy stuff can be fun!  This is entirely against all my instincts.  When we first arrived Dee asked what I'd like to do.  "Let's see, walk around.  See a show.  Heard Melbourne has a great coffee culture, so we should go for coffee lots and read."  "What?! No.  You do all that in New York.  We are doing things you can only do in Australia."  We went scuba diving (her) and snorkeling (me) in the South Ocean.  (apparently they named a new ocean since I left high school).  It was super fun!  I was a bit nervous on the boat when told about a tide that can potentially take us all away, but asking all types of "what can I do that can lead to death, so I can try to avoid it" type questions, snorkeling was really fun!  And I only peed in my wetsuit a minimum of times.  And we went to two rain forests, which I've never been to before.  I always thought that when I went to a rain forest it would feel peaceful and majestic, but really it was just us quoting movies, talking about dudes, and gossip and every once in a while saying "wow, that's beautiful! picture?"  Apparently hiking is just a dirty version of walking also.

Failing Our Twenties

However.

I am constantly on the business end of racial profiling.  Just this morning as I was dropping off my laundry it happened again.  We did our typical ritual where she says it will be ready far into the future (tomorrow afternoon) and I ask if there is any way I can pick it up tonight at closing  (11 hours from now).  She eyes me skeptically, sighs dramatically,  and says fine, she will do it, but only for her special clients.  It is our own little thing.  She asserts dominance over me, and I like that she calls me her “special client” because it fulfills a secret wish I have of being a beloved neighborhood fixture, not unlike the East Village man who walks his pig on a leash through Tompkins Square Park.  This morning was no different, but at the end she handed me my ticket with the name “Sarah Cohen” on it.

“Oh, that’s not me.  Here you go – it has the wrong name on it.”

“But that’s your name right?  You look just like-“ and then she trailed off.

So there we have it.  Apparently my exotic dusky looks are reminiscent of any other girl in my neighborhood who also has a partiality towards Ann Taylor, Portnoy types,  and dropping her laundry off last minute.

I have recently gotten more and more into twitter.  Now, it can be used for a variety of purposes.  I'm sure there are even one or two people who are using it for the good of humanity, promoting coal miner's rights and Kickstarter campaigns so their friend from high school can FINALLY make that short film they've been writing for years.  However, once again because it is now 2008 on my blog, I will therefore share the following things that must stop on twitter: