Stiletto

The other day I was in Starbucks, reading a book and drinking some tea (how original of me, I know). I had two packets of honey for my tea. I opened one of them no problem. The second packet, however, well let’s just say Joel was testing me. I got a text message right before I started trying to open it. By the time I had finally opened this packet, after trying fingers, teeth, Jedi mind tricks, and asking the Ascetic Jew sitting next to me (who may very well be one of God’s chosen people, but that doesn’t help him when it comes to opening honey), it was still unopened when I looked down at my phone again 10 minutes later. I’m pretty sure at some point everybody in that crowded Starbucks in Soho knew I should give up, but just watched in silence as I kept trying. Just as some Italian woman taking pity on me was about to hand me her unopened honey packet, my teeth finally prevailed.

(The Enemy)

I’m not sure why this story is important or what it says about me yet, but I do feel like Billy was trying to tell me something from the experience. Maybe I was supposed to taste the bliss of perseverance as that honey came gooping into my mo

uth. Maybe I needed to learn about patience. Maybe Billy was saving me from burning my tongue on tea that was too hot. Or maybe, just maybe, I was meant to remember that no matter how good that honey is, the guy behind the counter at Starbucks will just give you another packet if you can’t open your own and save you from becoming the center of attention, but that conclusion seems unlikely.

In news where I don’t reveal stupid embarrassing things that I do…

Since last week I have only found my way into three n

ew apartments.

The first belonged to a middle aged hippy, whose voice never rose past a stage whisper, and a French woman who did not speak any English. Upon entering this strangely decorated Zen sanctuary I couldn’t help but to notice that the long grey haired man’s incense burning could not cover up the stench on weed or the fact that he was trying to charge me $200 more a month than the place was worth.

The second place was in an even grimier and less attractive area of Chinatown than I live in now. I would be without a closet and four blocks further from the same F train. When I first met the two people looking to become my new roommates they mostly just spoke Chinese to each other. The one roommate was a white guy who was definitely American and therefore spoke perfect English, but I’m not sure that his girlfriend, the other roommate, could speak any. They were also asking for a hundred dollars more a month.

Meanwhile, the apartment I'm currently trying to get the Hell out of has taken a turn for the worse. My one roommate moved out because she got in a fight with her boyfriend (our other roommate) and took the tv. So now I'm currently living with the one roommate I don't want to be around, a guy named Thor from Norway and a girl from Sweden whose name I can't spell. I wish Billy would send some ghosts of my Scandinavian ancestors to come help a girl translate.

The most recent place I saw was in Soho. The apartment was an amazing location, great television, and a room with storage space. Problems? The bath tub is in the kitchen and the bedroom has tile floors. I’m thinking I could live with it though; after all nothing screams a scene from a movie about a poor artist living in New York that a young woman taking a bath in her small kitchen in Soho. And really when have I ever passed up a chance to make my life play out more like a movie?

As for the title of this post I have a job interview on Wednesday to work at a very trendy shoe store. I won’t tell you if I got the job or not; you’ll know because the next time you’ll see me I’ll be wearing one of the pairs of the following shoes:

Only Joel knows how much I want a discount of any of those completely impractical-I'm-blinded-by-their-brightness-glitz-and-beauty shoes. Cross your fingers and be thinking about me Wednesday night.