Life Lesson #40: Dear Abby...

Things have been a little crazy over here. This is due to the office move of my (relatively) new place of employment. We’ve abandoned the hell that is Midtown West to calmer grounds east, just above Gramercy. And so a late entry, for which I apologize.

The New Digs are actually quite a big deal for me. They are, as some would call, the Make or Break point. Which is why I’d like to write them, as in The New Digs, a letter, just say they understand how important this change is to me.

Now, before proceeding, I need to pay homage to a man I’ve never met but would like to shake the hand of: Timothy McSweeny. I’m not really sure who he is, but to be honest, I’m tired and not really in a research-y kind of mood. I’ve been unpacking boxes, recording voicemail messages and trying to get my freakin’ printer to work for three days now. Cut me a little slack.

What I can say, however, is that McSweeny has a great website, and even further, an amazing section called Open Letters to People or Entities Who Are Unlikely to Respond. If you’re too lazy to click on the link I so nicely attached, the title pretty much sums it up. Basically, people write letters to other people, places, inanimate objects, whatever, that will never get read. It’s a little mental release if you will. Most of them are hilarious. Some kind of sad. Others, totally creepy.

On that note, here it goes.

Dear New Digs,

First and foremost, I’d like to formally introduce myself. I get the feeling that since the company has come and completely occupied your Eight Floor (and the Concourse in a few weeks, if you hadn’t already heard); you can’t remember one name from another. No worries. I was the New Girl just shy of two months ago, so I know how it is. Wouldn’t it be nice if we all wore name tags to help you out? While that was tough to ask for, I was able to go around and put up signs with everyone’s name in each section. Hope it helps.

As I was saying, I’m Penny. I work all the way at the end of your Hall, to the right of the Pantry and Bathrooms but before you hit the huge Palm Tree. I anticipate killing the poor plant pretty soon, not because I’m malicious or anything, but because I suck at taking care of living, breathing things, so you might want to warn it. If it doesn’t make noise, I forget it's there. Just ask the Plants in my Apartment.

Next, I’d like to thank you for opening up your Elevators to us. I know I speak for more than just myself when I say we are very excited for the opportunities you present to us. I would like to emphasize that I’m probably the most little-kid-on-Christmas-morning-eager to be here. You see, the Old Office and I did not get along so well. A brief outline of why:

1. It bore a striking resemblance to Fort Knox. I had to use a swipe card just to move ten feet. And the Executive Area that I was in was so paranoid; I was one of only four people that could even gain access to it! Four people out of over one hundred!

2. Given the prison-like nature of The Old Office, it goes without saying that my area was pretty damn quiet. And very depressing. Whether or not there were even other people in the company was impossible for me to decipher since I was locked behind glass doors, only to mingle with others when I went to use the bathroom. I became that weird girl that would strike up a convo with the woman in the stall next to her just because I hadn’t had human contact for over four hours.

3. The Old Office neighborhood was pretty crappy. Wedged in between Rockefeller Center and Times Square, I felt like I was constantly in the middle of a National Lampoon New York Adventure gone horribly wrong. I got side swiped with subway maps and fanny packs on a daily basis. Food was terribly expensive. And the blaring horns and screaming street vendors made me want to gouge my eyes out.

4. Apparently heat was not an option for The Old Office. I was always freezing. I’d wear three layers, wrap a scarf around my legs, and still be chattering away. Now, you were pretty frigid too the past two days. But a call to your Maintenance Room, and I think the problem is solved. Well done.

As you might gather, you pose much promise for me. A chance to meet co-workers in you kick-ass Coffee Bar just around the hall from me; an great view out my Giant Window that overlooks Madison Square Park; a Television in my boss’s office that I will most certainly abuse when he is not here; what seems to be a working Heating System – something which my apartment is severely lacking and thus much appreciated when I’m here eight-thirty to five; a chance to eat at a restaurant that isn’t a giant chain or tourist trap; and a fifteen minute door-to-door commute.

So here is to what I hope is a great, new friendship, within the confines of a Work Environment, of course. I hope to be able to learn all you have to offer in the next few weeks. And if you have any questions, don’t hesitate to stop by. You know where I am.

Best wishes,

Penny


PS – An Appendix to The Keyboard Shelf Attached to the Desk

Dear Keyboard Shelf,

I know you’re here to make my life easier, with your smooth ability to glide under the desk when I don’t need to type and, well, that’s it I guess. I gather you mean to make my life easier. But honestly, if you don’t stop falling of your tracks and slamming into my lap at the lightest of touches, I’m going to have to throw you out the window.

Seriously. This is just plain ridiculous! It’s not like I have heavy fingers or a tendency to throw my full body weight into my wrists. So back off my lap already. You’re hurting me. Just quit it already.

Life Lesson #40: Work is work. It sucks. But unless I win the Mega Millions or find me some Sugar Daddy on the side, I have little choice but to show up Monday thru Friday. So I might as well try to make the best ofThe New Digs and this whole working-for-the-man thing. It’s all about looking at the bright side: enough free coffee to send me into cardiac arrest, some natural sunlight to glare up my computer monitor and a paycheck that comes, guaranteed, every other week. The Old Office was horrible, but here, there is a chance to make it all better. Fingers crossed everybody. We all know how crazy Penny gets when unemployed.

Life Lesson #39: Tis the Season to be Jolly...and quiet, relaxed, maybe even well rested...

Every weekday morning when the alarm rudely awakens me from what is never enough sleep, the first thought to pop into my head (after the sweet jesus I have to pee) is, yes only ____ more mornings to get up early!. I fill in the blank depending on the day of the week. Obviously, when I wake up on Thursday and think, yes, only one more morning to get up early!, I’m much happier than on Monday, when six hellish mornings still loom ahead.

A few hours ago, my usual groan wasn’t so loud when I realized that the Thanksgiving holiday was cutting my work week drastically. And all I can think about is how much sleep I’m going to try and cram in on those extra days off. Probably because this past weekend kicked my ass. And after some thought, I realize that the same exact weekend last year also handed it to me.

Some of you may (or if you were in any shape like me, may not) remember the UES bar crawl for City Harvest last fall. Two cans of food and ten bucks got you admission to drink at practically any local watering hole for very cheap. By nine pm, I had enough two dollar draft beers to land myself sideways, passed out on my bed. When I woke up fully dressed and totally blurred, I stumbled into the living room to find a bunch of our friends watching football.

“Ok, who wants to order breakfast? I’m starving,” I said, looking around in disgust as everyone seemed to be drinking before noon.

“Um, what?” someone asked.

“I’m starving. Let’s order breakfast,” I said.

“Penny, get a slice or something,” someone else mumbled.

“Ew, that’s gross. I don’t eat pizza for breakfast,” I answered. What the hell is wrong with people?

“What? Penny, it’s almost midnight. Why the hell do you want breakfast?”

“What? You’re kidding me?! It’s not Sunday?!” I asked, in complete shock. While I was under the impression I passed out for the night, I had really only knocked myself down for three hours. I still had a whole night of drinking ahead of me!

“Oh. Well, in that case, I’m going to go to The Bone. Anyone wanna come with?” I asked. The Bone being a bar. Might as well not waste a perfectly good night of drinking, especially since I got some unexpected z-s under my belt.

This year, I didn't even make it to the pub crawl. Why? Because I had gotten sufficiently snookered while bartending on Friday night. I’ve been working at another UES bar; this one being relatively new and [attempting to be] slightly nicer than its neighbors, hence I’m forced to wear white button downs and black pants.

I usually don’t go on ‘til eleven, giving me enough time to squeeze in a much needed nap before standing on my feet for seven or so hours. Friday, I got there at 10:30 so as to get settled before getting started.

I walked into a free-for-all that left me wondering if I stumbled into the wrong place. There was a dude on the bar, his drenched shirt exposing his Nacho Libre size stomach. Another guy behind the bar in a wife beater, pounding a car bomb at lightening speed. People everywhere, yelling, screaming, music so loud I thought my eardrums would bleed.

But when I looked closer, I realized I had in fact walked into the right place. And when I looked even closer still, I started to recognize everyone acting like a complete animal: these were the owners and other bartenders! The shirtless fattie? One of the investors. The beater pounding bombs? My manager.

Apparently, everyone had gotten sloshed ridiculously early and were giving the bar away to anyone they pleased.

As I looked around, I thought, when in Rome….

Several hours and numerous shots later, I realized I hadn’t hit the cash register in quite some time, nor did I really care. There were so many people behind the bar; there was no way I’d make any money anyway. So I might as well join in the giveaway.

When five am rolled around and I was finally able to go home, I felt the familiar inability to walk in a straight line and the distinct craving for chicken cutlet pizza. Yum.

Four hours later, my cell phone started SCREAMING at me. Holy crap, is it Monday?

“Hello,” I managed.

“Hey, I’ve landed!”

Oh no. I totally forgot. Liberace had flown in for just one night to attend a friend’s surprise birthday party. The only time we’d get to see each other was right after he landed. At 8:30 in the morning.

“Oh my god! You’re here! I’m so excited! And, wait, oh, yep, I’m still drunk!” I yelled.

We spent the morning catching up and, for me at least, sobering up. Which wasn’t very fun. So the first thing I get when at brunch? A mimosa.

By two o’clock in the afternoon, as Liberace left to go meet his friends and prepare for the party, I realized I was back off the wagon. But this time, after working for what seemed like twenty-four straight hours, half of which I was hitting the bottle, I felt like said wagon had managed to run me over right after I fell off. Consequently, I had to throw in the towel and admit defeat. There would be no bar crawl this year around.

Life Lesson #39: After the past few weeks of nonstop work and going out, I'm looking forward to the holidays a little differently this year. While I will never forgo this season as a time for fun parties, heavily spiked eggnog and gross amounts of food, I am going to try to incorporate a fourth element. This one will be more about relaxing, winding down a bit, and taking it easy. For instance, I'm going to a house party instead of a crowded bar for Thanksgiving Eve. I've decided to not bartend on Friday night to give my body, and liver, a little rest. And I'm even contemplating a more low-key New Year's Eve.

Who knows? Maybe I’ll be able to even keep a better New Year’s resolution than “avoiding a particular bar” this year.

Life Lesson #38: Run, baby, run!

Today is the worst day of my life.

Okay. That might be a bit of an exaggeration. But I swear I have not felt this horrible in a very, very long time.

It’s only eleven in the morning and already I’ve:

Overslept by an hour.
Was late to work because I overslept by an hour.
Have vomited three times. At work.
Forgot to put on deodorant.

This has all happened because I decided to drink my face off yesterday. In comparison, yesterday was my proudest day.

Marathon Sunday means running twenty plus miles for a bunch of people with way more endurance and balls than I’ll ever have. For everyone else, it means drinking heavily from the moment they wake ‘til they pass out. I am clearly in the latter of the two categories.

I made the decision three years ago to truly embrace the Marathon as a Supportive, Enthusiastic, Drunk Spectator. You see, I like the independent nature of running itself. You don’t need a team. You don’t have to be in great shape. And the event itself, well, you only have to watch it once a year. So I feel like I can really put my heart and soul into going bananas since I won’t get to do it for another three hundred and sixty five.

The first time I watched it was from the last mile mark on Fifth Avenue. I brought my little brother with me since his track coach was going to be in it. We had a blast making fun of everyone in the stands and cracking jokes about this crazy lady with a guitar playing ‘inspirational’ music to get the runners through their last few steps. She sounded like she was dying and literarily had people booing to shut her up. All in all, it was a tame experience. After, I went home and called it a day. But I vowed to return the next year.

Two years ago, I lived on the 97th Street between Fifth and Madison. It was the first time Goose was running in it. Madonna and I were ready to be her Number One Fans.

Doing so included meeting at a bar underneath the 59th Street Bridge with assorted family and friends. We wanted to be the first of the group to cheer her on as she came into Manhattan.

A half dozen or so beers post-noon and we completely missed her at the first designated stop.

“Did you guys see her?! She just went by,” her brother’s girlfriend told us as she made her way over to the corner we were trying to see Goose from. Woops.

Okay, on to the next stop then. Harlem, here we come. But first, I just want to grab another drink.

Obviously there was no way we were going to make it up there in time. I mean, I wasn’t going to run there for crying out loud. So into a cab we go.

Ten minutes later and we seemed to be slowing down to a snail’s pace, even though there was barely a car on the road.

“Dude, you got to go faster, we’re trying to catch up to my sister,” her brother said.

Suddenly, the cab came to a stop as it broke down blocks from where we needed to be. Which I found hilarious. I mean, we’re in a cab because were too lazy to walk to meet up with our friend who’s running the Marathon! And the cab just comes to a sputtering halt! Amazing.

After standing on First Avenue and Who Knows What Street for a few minutes, we realize, there’s no way she didn’t already go by.

“Okay, how about we go to Central Park since that’s where it’ll end? At least we’ll see her there,” Madonna said.

Which brings us right back to where we started. The corner of 97th and Fifth. Ten feet outside of our apartment. Woops again. But at least we see her there.

“Where the hell have you guys been?!” Goose asked, jogging in place and looking amazingly normal for someone who’s been running for a few hours at this point.

“Um, well, we had some trouble keeping up with you,” is the best response I could come up with.

The next year, a wiser Madonna and I decided to throw a party at our apartment since Goose and another of their friends from college would both be running it. And this time, our apartment was actually on First Avenue, only one floor up. With windows wide open and a fantastic spread from Dunkin Donuts and York Wines and Liquors, we were ready.

I spent hours on the street, mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, screaming and cheering with Westchester.

“Gooooo Dave! You can do it!”

“Yea Linda, that’s right!”

“Steve! Steve! Steve!”

“We love you ITALY!”

“Come on man with the leg cramp! Walk it off, buddy, walk it off!”

Three hours later, I think I gave myself alcohol poisoning with a side of bronchitis. Running from kitchen to street with mimosa/baileys/beer in hand, I barely made it to the bars after the race only to be taken home a few minutes later.

And then there was yesterday. Which did not disappoint. I had my first drink in hand at 10:30 am at Hansel’s sisters’ apartment (another friend to add to the marathon-runner list). Which, now when I think about it, was only a few hours after I had stopped drinking from Saturday’s antics. Which in turn, had started as a cure for Friday night’s bartending that didn’t end ‘til the sun was almost up. So basically, there was no more liquid in my body that was not some sort of alcohol. I think my body was actually a liquor store.

The majority of the day was spent swallowing mimosas and Coronas and the occasional piece of bagel. And rather than barely making it to the end of the race, I actually made it out to the bar where Hansel was working. No lightweight behavior for me: I’ve had three years of training now! I was even prouder when several hours later, Hansel and I were basically sent home by the manager, probably because we were the drunkest couple on the UES.

Life Lesson # 38: I continue to look back on yesterday with pride as memories of one of the city’s finest days breakthrough. Seeing all the people I knew as they panted their way to the finish line. Seeing all the same people hours later getting shit-faced at the bar. A wise stop to H.F.T.’s apartment to go to the bathroom when the line at the bar seemed worse than anything at Disneyland. A delicious addition to the usual champagne-orange juice combination: Fresca. A dance-off to The Jackson Five, Shakira and Bruce.

So I didn’t run the marathon. Nor am I inspired to give it a whirl next year. That’s just silly. But you can bet your ass I will be one of the best damn fans you’re ever going to see. Because each year, it just gets better and better.

Side note: To all of you that ran - congrats! And to Goose in particular: Happy Birthday!!!