I'm Playing My 'A' Game

Here I am, minding my own business, in my own world, walking into the subway station. I walk through the turnstile and BAM! rejected. I laugh, embarrassed, and the MTA worker watching the whole thing is polite enough to look away even though I know he's thinking something ridiculous about me.

I forget to not only swipe my MetroCard, I didn't have it out at all. I literally just slammed into the turnstile. I grab it out of my pocket, swipe, and enter uninjured. I feel the need to make a comment and so I turn to the MTA worker and say "And you'd think I hadn't had my coffee yet."

"That's all right darlin'."

It's gonna be a good day.

What I Did

Being exhausted at work all week has somehow inspired me to get out on my days off and actually do something with myself. Mark and I, for the second time, went all the way down to 14th street just to run errands. More food for Vinnie, a visit to the CRAZIEST Trader Joe's in the United States, a little wine spritzer in the evening, some color despite sunblock, and maybe a little dehydration as well.

The next day we hung out with Diana. We had planned on going to see the Dark Knight all together but neither one of us really felt like committing to that plan. Instead we hopped into the car, spent more money on Vinnie (which I believe was truly wasted), and more money at a nice, calm Trader Joe's bringing our collective TJ bill to over $100 this weekend.

After sharing what turns out to the the fattiest pizza in the world, the Numero Uno, at an Uno Chicago Grill we made it back home.

I need another day off.

Good Morning

This morning I stepped into the subway car and sat down in a seat. I sipped on my iced coffee and I was busy digging through my bag to find my iPod. There was only one other person in the car, an older Hispanic lady was sitting diagonally from me.

Suddenly she was plopping down right beside me talking to me, maybe mumbling is more like it. Instinctively I grabbed my bag tighter and hugged my iced coffee closer, a usual reaction when someone suddenly approaches you on public transportation.

I could hear "very tired" and a bunch of Spanish words. I realized that she wanted to chat it up because she was trying not to fall asleep. It's pretty common for older working ladies in my neighborhood to save seats for each other on the Bx12 bus and chat it up like school girls but I had never been approached by someone myself.

I was hungover, maybe still a little drunk, tired, and was looking for my iPod to zone out for the ride. I told the lady "I'm sorry I don't speak Spanish."

"Oh", a pause. "Where are you going?"

I didn't answer right away. Still thinking this is some kind of con. You don't need to know that. But she was trying to make conversation. "I'm going to work." She stares at me, demanding more. "I work at a museum."
"Where do you work?"
"Downtown."
Another pause.
"Where you from?" "You American."

Ah. There it is. The disdain. Here you are you Spanish looking girl with the American accent and you can't even participate in Spanish-as-a-second-language conversation. This is the look from strangers I've always received. From the shops in my neighborhood. From fellow students who bond by speaking their parents language against the teacher's wishes and therefore left out of the cliques.

"Yes, I'm American." She stares at me. Trying to understand the dark hair, tanned skin. "My grandparents are from Puerto Rico."
"Ah. P'rico." She nods, defeated she gets up to walk away.
"Have a nice day." I feel the need to call this out. I feel like I've hurt her feelings. I feel like I disrespected my elders. I watch her move away. Sit down. Look exhausted, rub her face.

Ironically a Spanish-language song comes on my player. I know it's about a woman named Maria, who gets no rest, who always works, always working for someone else. Great, now I feel horrible.

MoMA: My New Master

I've spent my last week employed. And I haven't quit yet! Go me!

I'll be spending the summer as a Visitor's Assistant at the Museum of Modern Art. If you are in New York and want a ticket let me know you are coming and I'll write you in for a freebie!

While the job is not very hard it is very tiring. It being summer and MoMA being world-renowned the crowd never really dwindles and I'm exhausted doing the same three things over and over again.

Here is one particular thing that is always an awkward conversation:
A lot of people need to use the bathroom and think that the museum is a great place to use it. However they don't realize without a ticket you don't get to visit the bathroom.

On day 2 a "gentleman" (an oh-so-very New Yorker) asked if he could use the bathroom. I said that they would stop him with his backpack. He can check his backpack and then I could let him in. "I just want to use the bathroom."
"I understand that sir, but you need to check your bag, show me your ticket, and then you can go in to use the bathroom"
"I need a ticket to use the bathroom?"
"The bathrooms are inside and to get inside you need a ticket. So yes, you need a ticket to use the bathroom."
"This is a public building, isn't it? This is a museum. You use city funding? You take money from the Mayor and my taxes right?"
"I don't know about your taxes, sir. All I know is that the bathrooms are inside and without a ticket you're not getting in."

To avoid this whole fiasco in the future I did learn that we are a private collection and therefore we can deny public access to the bathroom. We can charge $20 for a ticket. And we can charge $20 for a ticket even if we close in 15 minutes and you only want to see 1 painting. No one is forcing you to buy this ticket, therefore feel free to walk away from the counter when I refuse to give you a free ticket. Especially if you think you can bully me into "doing you a favor".

Luckily it's just a summer job.