tricia mangan.com

Not tardy for the inflation party

November 25th, 2009 § 0

I couldn’t wait for tomorrow’s parade. I decided to hang with the tourists tonight in the hopes of getting a sneak peek of the balloons. Talk about a motley crew. (That could apply to both the tourists and the balloons, really.)

The parade staff kept shouting on their megaphones “Welcome to the inflation party!” I felt like that was a bit misleading. I would think an inflation party is something like a cooking party or a botox party where every guest gets involved in the fun. It’s not like we all got to help inflate Sponge Bob. Then again, judging by the look on his face, I think he’s had all the inflation he can take.

Sponge Bob wasn’t the only one. Poor Kermit is absolutely baked.

Then there were the suspicious characters. This guy’s a loose cannon if I ever saw one.

And I personally never trust anyone wearing sunglasses at night.

Still, I think if I had to put money on one of these things making a move tomorrow, I think I’d have to put it on Spidey.

Has he been “working out” with A-Rod?

And I did not see the famous Santa Clause that rounds out the parade each year. But I did see this pumpkin.

And maybe it’s a little past season, but really who doesn’t love a great pumpkin?

Parade? Perhaps.

November 24th, 2009 § 0

I’ll be spending my first Thanksgiving in New York City this year. I usually travel out of town, but this year I’m staying put, so it’s the first time I have the option of going to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade up close and personal.

It is with reservation that I contemplate running out to the parade route to secure a spot because, quite frankly, I don’t get parades. There’s just too much lip-syncing and waving for my taste. The only thing that intrigues me are the giant character balloons, and that’s mostly just because of the potential for them coming untied, coming to life and taking over the city. Ok, right, statistically the chances of that are slim. But it only takes one.

I mean, I guess I could bring my dog with me. She might spice things up a bit.

Like this.
al-roker-gingerbread-man-dog

And perhaps there will be other surprises. Maybe Sarah Palin will go rogue and take over a float? I wonder what that would look like?

Making It

November 23rd, 2009 § 0

Trying desperately to self-actualize when you can’t even pay rent sometimes feels futile. Maslow stacked all those needs in a hierarchy for good reason. Hell, I generally only have three of the seven most basic, bottom-level physiological needs met on any given day (I won’t tell you which ones – I do have some pride left). It’s hard to write funny, inspired stuff when you can’t keep your mind off of the electricity cutoff notice. And while becoming homeless would give me material, let’s face it – it’s been done.

But I’m stubborn as hell and too old to keep dicking around or tolerate the consequences of giving up, so onward I push. And, it’s times like these when I find it useful to look back on something I wrote about a year ago – back when I was still corporate. Back when I was buttoned up, but coming undone and absolutely thrilled about it.

After spending the better part of the last year as a hermit trying to make up for lost time and turn myself into a remotely cultured, interesting, well-rounded person again, it’s safe to say the thrill is gone. But at least I can say I’ve progressed enough that there’s no chance of me ever resurrecting an ashy pair of dress pants. And frankly, I think that’s a sign that I’ve already made it.

——-

I am acutely aware as I march up the subway steps every morning with the rest of the corporate army that they see the bottoms of them. At best, they’re just dirty, covered in city sidewalk soot. Somewhere in the middle are the ones that are chewed up and frayed from dragging on the ground. The absolute worst are the ones with the visible safety pins. I mean, I actually do have a needle and thread. I do have a needle and thread. I do.

They reek of submission. They smell from the anxiety, frustration, and disgust I try to hold in on a daily basis but that can’t help but to seep out my pores.

They remind me of my poverty. I have four pair in heavy rotation, and a couple of backups in case of dire emergency. They weren’t that expensive, and I could have chosen to buy more, but I refuse to donate one more dime in support of my own wage slavery.

They erode my identity. I’m not myself in them. I feel boring. Bored. Beige. Like a kidnap victim with her mouth taped shut. Like my IQ is 50 points lower than it actually is. Like an uncommitted spouse in a loveless marriage. Like a lazy, underachieving high school student. I feel less inquisitive, more numb, not as funny, not as pretty, not as sexy, not as sweet. They transform me into them.

They’re unflattering. Of course, that’s mostly just because I refuse to wear heels. A heel creates a longer line, makes the leg look leaner, the tush firmer. I suppose my insistence upon wearing flats – other than being the obviously sensible and comfortable choice – is really just my form of silent protest. A form of protest that changes nothing and makes me look frumpy.

They make me feel crazy. As I look around at the sea of uniformed people on the city sidewalk, I seem to be the only one who is uncomfortable. How do they not feel the discomfort? Maybe if I chose to wear something other than dress pants, I would feel differently. Maybe I’m just not trying hard enough. The women wearing pencil skirts and pumps seem quite content. And none of the suited men appear to even give it a second thought. What’s wrong with me?

They make me think about dreams. As I sit at my desk chair, I am conscious of the safety pin touching my ankle. It nags me. It reminds me that I am staring at the clock, wishing way hours of my life so that I may leave the office and find freedom. It reminds me that I value my life so little that I am willing to forego my own dreams in order to make someone else’s come true, all for a measly paycheck. Then again, it’s not like I know what my dreams are anyway.

I wonder if the others have dreams. It seems they only dream about the game, the ladder, the race. They all want to be a part of it. Feel smug and secure when they find themselves a part of it. Won’t allow themselves to consider that there’s an alternative to being a part of it. And, my, don’t they look good fully dressed for the part? If not a part of it, who would they be? More importantly, if they weren’t a part of it, what might the world be?

By now, my pants have given me away. I’m a pretender in their midst. And I think they’ve finally found me out. Only, I’m not afraid of what they’ll do. Because, for the first time ever between the hours of 9 a.m. and 5 p.m., I feel a twinge of freedom. I’m letting them go.

For some, it’s the Hollywood sign. For me, it’s the sight of the flames as my dress pants burn and my generic, impressive-sounding, soul-destroying, safe, not-safe-at-all “career” goes up in smoke.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some jeans to change into.

Decisions, decisions

September 6th, 2009 § 0

There was a crazy man of mid-life,
Who met a woman he could call wife;
He fell deeply in love,
Then gave her a hard shove,
And returned to a road that was rife.

The consequences of nervificence

September 6th, 2009 § 0

There was a young woman from Bratz,
Whose stomach was tied up in knots;
Though she tried every angle,
It just wouldn’t untangle,
This nervificent woman plopsed.

Finding love at man camp

September 4th, 2009 § 0

Today I bumped into a neighbor of mine as she was on her way out the door, headed to a weekend-long “singles sports camp”. A veritable man camp for the single lady.

Now, I don’t want to say this reeks of desperation.

BUT.

It’s one thing to throw up an online profile on a dating site or two when you need a little validation. Or to post a filthy ad on the craigslist personals that elicits all kinds of frightening responses and reminds you that you’re not as crazy as you sometimes think you are . Those are completely acceptable distractions from your loneliness that require minimal time and effort. And though there may be moments when you secretly delude yourself into thinking you might meet “the one” via one of these tactics, you don’t let the fantasy overtake you.

But it is entirely another thing to pack up your bicycle helmet, spandex, and climbing ropes, rent a car, and drive to a secluded location to play boy scout/girl scout for a few days.

With the intent to marry.

At the age of thirty-something.

Isn’t it?

ist2_3092116-heart-lifting-weights

I know, I know – this is no different than, say, a singles cruise. Even better than a cruise, some of you will argue, because at least at a sports camp, participants will have a shared interest in fitness. And hey – what about those singles events for dog owners? That’s ok, right? I mean, what’s the harm in narrowing the pool down a little bit based on your interests?

To all that, I argue that if you went to an event for the purpose of getting fit or helping your dogs and happened to meet a man, then that is just dandy. But let’s be real – this isn’t about health and pooches, it’s about your biological clock and/or your aversion to being alone with yourself.

Whatever happened to focusing on your own personal development in your spare time?

Whatever happened to believing that if you focus on your own growth and purpose, the rest will follow (including a relationship, if that’s in the cards)?

What’s more pathetic – spending your nights alone or spending your weekends at adult camp?

What if you stopped trying so hard?

Just asking.

Uncle Sam: Take My Eggs, Please

August 23rd, 2009 § 0

Like millions of Americans, I am in debt. My net worth is six feet under ground. And the credit card companies and pansy lawyers with their idle threats are nothing compared to Uncle Sam, who has been an absolute ball buster about these student loans I owe. You wouldn’t believe the tactics he has used. Low down and dirty, I tell you. I won’t go into all the details – can’t, in fact. I am under strict instructions from my shrink to continue living in denial about it so that I can sustain enough hope to go on with life. You know, like most Americans.

Suffice it to say, I have inside knowledge that Uncle Sam used to be a loan shark. Don’t believe that folklore about him being sweet Mr. Samuel Wilson who was doing his good duty delivering meat to the soldiers in the War of 1812. Nay that “sweet old man” was a savvy and street-wise businessman who was carrying things a lot more lucrative than meat in those barrels. And he and the feds expected a lot more than just a good belch and some teeth picking as a sign of thanks for that “meat”. Trust me when I say that the wage garnishment and bank account freezing of today is nothing compared with the kind of knuckle-breaking Uncle Sam used to do. Oh my stripes and stars you wouldn’t believe the weaponry he was able to hide underneath that top hat.And that bushy beard of his? Not just a crumb catcher, ladies and gentlemen.

But I, for one, am sick of not being able to afford to eat all organic just so that Uncle Sam can receive his astronomical monthly payment, particularly when I have so much else to offer that may be of far more value to Uncle Sam and the public at large.

To that end, I would like to propose an alternative debt repayment solution for all women aged 21-35, including the willing[1] wives/girlfriends/mistresses/sisters/daughters/mothers of men indebted to the federal or state government.

Dear Uncle Sam,

Take our eggs please.

Based on my research, a typical egg donor receives anywhere from $3000 to $15000 per donation. Repeat and “exceptional” donors often receive far more than that. Now, I’m not sure how “exceptional” is defined in terms of eggs – perhaps age, freshness, attractiveness to sperm, meeting FDA approval for size, weight, shape, and color. I am quite confident we could come to a mutually satisfactory and precise definition for contractual purposes, but for the sake of argument, let’s assume a conservative average price tag of $5,000 for each donation. Paying you the old-fashioned way (i.e., a portion of my monthly slave wage), it would ordinarily take me about 5 months to get you that kind of money. Of course, as a consequence of the recession that you have assured me is now visible in the rear-view mirror, I have been unemployed,so you haven’t seen anything close to that. Now, imagine if you allowed me to pay in eggs. You could recoup all the money I owe in just a few weeks!

And here is where it gets really good for you. The eggs may have an above-the-table value of $5,000; but, with your business savvy, you could easily sell them on the black market for five times as much. Just think of all the desperate barren couples that would jump at the opportunity. Or all the single, aging, unmarried women who are panicking looking into alternatives for becoming mothers. Or still yet, the scientific research facilities that need to get their eggs on the down low in order to conduct genetic research that previous conservative administrations have deemed ungodly. With the utmost humility, I tell you that my eggs could totally be used for cloning. Although ostensibly not the best money manager, I have found no research that demonstrates a definitive link between this deficiency and genetic makeup. If reared in an environment where entrepreneurship and out-of-the-box thinking is touted over ladder-climbing and excessive formal education, I suspect my clones would never find themselves in the sticky situation I am now in. The bottom line is, quite simply, that having more of me around would serve the public interest.

Now, if I’m being honest Uncle Sam, you seem like a pretty conservative guy, and I wonder if maybe you would take moral issue with selling my eggs for genetic testing and cloning, or even with supporting women in becoming single mothers not on accident. But I would ask that you turn the mirror back on yourself and ask, “Is genetic testing or single parenthood really less moral than kicking struggling Americans who are on the verge of homelessness while their down? Isn’t it I who am playing God? Aren’t I the one who is judging and punishing as if I were Christ myself?” Uncle Sam, shouldn’t Jesus be the only one who has the authority to freeze my accounts?

At any rate, if you are still unconvinced, rest assured there is yet another alternative. There is a rather disturbing trend of famous Americans going to foreign lands to adopt babies instead of birthing their own here on our home soil. I am certain this offends your patriotic sensibilities. You might persuade some of them to buy American by dangling some top quality U.S.D.A. (United States Debtors Assortment) eggs in front of their faces. And Uncle Sam, need I remind you there is no profit like the profit you can make off of celebrities.

If the egg repayment program is successful, one could imagine expanding the alternatives to other types of donations, as well. For example, I hear a lot of people are in need of a new kidney. I do have an extra one and might consider offering it up – if, that is, I like the reduction I see on my student loan balance.

Credit card companies may choose to follow suit in offering alternative bodily organ repayment plans as well; but, admittedly, I do feel less motivated to hand over my eggs to pay off my Victoria’s Secret balance. Let’s face it – they just don’t give off the same “Your family is next” vibe that you give, Uncle Sam. But, if they dressed up Heidi Klum in a top hat and red, white, and blue striped bra and panty set for a new ad campaign in which she points her finger and issues firm threats (in German, of course) to delinquent credit card holders, they might at least find themselves with a lot of offers to pay off outstanding balances via sperm donations.And while, ounce for ounce, sperm may not carry the same market value as eggs, it is readily available in large quantities and does at least give the men an opportunity to participate.

And speaking of men, Uncle Sam, in closing I would like to implore you to take this proposal to heart not just for my sake, but for the sake of my present and future boyfriends. The men I tend to date would be very relieved to know I am giving all of my eggs to you each month so that would no longer have to fear bearing responsibility for any accidents. I don’t want any accidents either, Uncle Sam, and as they say, an ounce of prevention…

Just think it over, and let me know if you’d like to discuss the idea further – preferably before next tax season.

I believe you know where to find me.

Forever yours,

[1] * Blackmailing, roofie-ing, or otherwise forcing women to harvest is expressly forbidden and punishable by steep increases (without notice) in interest rates

It’s Gone Missing

April 18th, 2009 § 0

It ran away over a year ago. I assumed it would find its way back home after it had its taste of freedom. You know how they are about freedom. *rolls eyes*

For a moment this winter I thought it returned when on New Years I was an absolute riot. But in hindsight I realize it was just the champagne.

As an independent woman, I wish I could say in all honesty that I am better off without my sense of humor. That I will make my sense of humor regret the day it ever left me for the road. That I will regenerate another sense of humor that will never abandon me when there’s no good material to work with.

Alas, I admit, I am utterly lost without it. Stuck, stifled, unable to complete any of my works.

So please, if you see my sense of humor around town – in the pub, handing out flyers promoting his newest mixtape, in line for unemployment – please, tell him to come home.

LOST-Sense of Humor

“Writer”

October 28th, 2008 § 0

Several months ago, I was on my way home when I was almost killed (or knocked down, whatever) by some movers who came barreling out of an apartment with the largest sofa I’ve ever seen. I could have dealt with a concussion. What really affected me was the t-shirt one of the movers was wearing (these weren’t uniformed movers, but I’m sure all the business they do is above the table). It was a simple black short-sleeved tee that on the back in white cursive lettering read “Writer”.

Maybe the guy actually was a writer or aspiring writer. Maybe moving was his day job. Maybe at night when he went home to write, he changed into a white t-shirt that on the back in black bold lettering read “Mover”. I don’t really know. It doesn’t particularly matter, I guess. All I know is that, in that moment, I was green with envy. I wanted that shirt. I wanted to feel like I was worthy of wearing that shirt. But I knew I wasn’t worthy – yet.

To add to the melodrama in my head, I imagined that the mover really just played video games at night and has never had any aspirations of writing or even reading, for that matter. I imagined he probably just found the shirt in someone’s apartment after it fell out of one of the cardboard moving boxes, and since he always needs shitty moving shirts, this would fit the bill quite nicely.

To him, that shirt carried no meaning at all.

To me, that shirt inspired reverence.

That shirt also made me feel like a lazy wannabe writer who hadn’t written a damn thing.

I should have taken a picture of that shirt and hung it on the wall above my computer to serve as inspiration. But that would have been weird. Plus I’m guessing those movers may not have wanted their picture taken. So I didn’t.

And anyway the image is still etched in my mind. And the feelings of inadequacy and self-loathing are stronger than ever. So I think these are both signs that I am well on my way toward becoming a writer now for sure.

And so my neurotic journey toward becoming a writer begins. Already I wonder…how it will end?

The Khakis

October 25th, 2008 § 0

One morning on my way back from walking the dog in Central Park, I ran into the designer trench coat mafia – La Cachi Cosa Nostra. It went down on Madison Avenue, somewhere in the 70’s. I wasn’t prepared at all. Without warning, my pup and I were suddenly outnumbered by the biggest, beigest family I have ever seen.

We crossed paths with the Khaki Don first. The beige boss was holding hands with a little boy, who was holding hands with a little girl, who was holding hands with a little boy. They formed a firmly starched and pressed khaki chain across the sidewalk so that my dog and I were marginalized to one of two sides – either the street or the drainage grate on the interior edge of the sidewalk. I feared it was a Ralph Lauren-assisted set-up that would result in my pup and me being forced into oncoming traffic and killed, presumably on account of our being so unfashionable and irrelevant. Quickly my paranoia wore off, and I realized we weren’t being targeted for a hit but were, in fact, just invisible.
A quick aside – I already knew I had the superpower of invisibility, but what they don’t tell you about superpowers is that they don’t come with a training manual. Consequently, I seem to always become invisible when I don’t want to be, and vice versa. For once, I decided to just enjoy the moment created by my own ineptness and gawk unabashedly as the khaki clan passed by…

Behind Mr. Khaki was Nanny Khaki – she was holding the hand of the one boy NOT in a khaki trench. Figures. The two black sheep. I could have sworn they both gave me a knowing glance.

Next in the parade was Mrs. Khaki who was doting on three girls who all appeared to be between the ages of 5 and 9. For having so many children so close in age, Mrs. Khaki was looking fierce. Of course, the right trench and the right fit can really hide a multitude of sins. She and the children were each wearing slight variations of the same coat – you know, just different enough to avoid looking too matchy matchy. Their nails were all a lovely shade of pinkish red, and they had the kind of voluminous wavy hair I had previously thought only achievable with extensions. Upon reflection, I really think such manicured perfection is not that peculiar. Not many know, but coiffured was my middle name at age 8. The styling I received from the trainees at the community vo-tech center my mom took me to was truly unmatched. I was mistaken for a boy until about age 14, but that was more due to poor genetics than poor grooming. That, and my mom’s insistence on my having short hair. Had Mrs. Khaki been my mom, she surely would have had me in a wig and a dress. Then, perhaps, my whole life would have turned out differently. *Sigh…*

Sadly, although it is evident now that I have two X chromosomes, I have let it all go. Upon crossing paths with The Khakis, I was in my dog walking gear – dirty running tights, thrice worn training jacket that smelled like sweat and salmon flavored dog treats, and old adidas running sneaks covered in caked-on mud and other indecipherable unmentionables. As a result of my decline, I recently received a letter from the state threatening me that if I don’t get my act together, I will be legally required to change my middle name from coiffured to scrub. I am prepared to fight, however, on the grounds that I have a friend named Charity who is not at all charitable. Furthermore, there is no clause on my birth certificate requiring me to live up to my name.

I wondered for a second where the hell this ridiculous khaki clan was going. As beautifully rain-protected as they all looked on this bright sunny morning, it was impossible not to detect their nervousness. Even the children looked stressed. Though I would certainly worry about those curls falling too, I suspected it was something deeper. I imagined they told their non-mafia friends they were on their way to church. Probably told them it was son Christopher’s communion that day which is why they splurged on the designer coats to make sure God thought they looked respectable.

But any street-wise scrub would know that they were actually on their way to a “family” meeting, perhaps to present their case to become a part of the UES (Upper East Side) organization. I’m imagining that in this ‘hood, it goes down something like a co-op board interview, with representatives grilling the Khaki wannabe Don about his finances and questioning Mrs. Khaki about whether they could trust her son, the black sheep (the nanny, not being blood, wouldn’t stand a chance).

And honestly, I wish them luck. Who knows? Maybe those designer trenchcoats will give them just the edge they need. They may not be packing heat, may not have the gusto to break their cousins’ toes (one at a time by hand), or off the nanny before Sunday brunch, but they were fashionably fierce and, in NYC, that counts for a lot.