An Ode to New York City
Odi et Amo.
I hate and I love. The wise words of the famed poet Catullus. My understanding of that phrase reaches light years beyond what might be deemed comprehendible. The only disparity between his meaning and my interpretation would be that his refers back to a lover, while mine refers back to the follies I encounter each time I leave my apartment.
Odi et amo is a phrase that summarizes my feelings of being coughed on, mid-pandemic, as I leave my building to take the ACT exam. It can sum up the day I cried over my never-ending supplemental essays until I was interrupted by a homeless man across the street from my apartment setting fire to a pillow-constructed replica of Mt. Everest. It can even describe the time I kissed a boy in my living room, only to hear the squawk of grown women urinating on my building’s awning in direct sight from my window.
I won’t lie; more often than not, I lean towards ‘odi’. An example might be the time when my friend and I made our way to a cafe for an early breakfast and an elderly man standing on the street christened our mornings with a tasteful and debonair ‘Nice tits, nice ass’. Maybe my point might come across more clearly if I describe the day an unprompted man next to me skillfully whipped out a metal rod, as though he had been possessed by an alternative version of Luke Skywalker who dabbled with crack, and threatened to beat a nearby group of oncologists. Even the saying, the city that never sleeps, has its faults. I wish it slept, for if it had, then I would not have witnessed the world’s largest dookie emerge from a stranger’s butthole next to a park bench during a late-night car ride.
A few ‘nearby crime’ alerts I’ve received while sitting at outdoor restaurants this month:
Report of Armed Assault Involving Pots, Pans
Report of Man Armed With Sword Harassing Drivers
People Throwing Cheese At Cars
Group of Aggressive Squirrels Inside Apartment
Need I say more?
“Amo” certainly makes appearances, however. At times, my love for the city is physically too great to carry. Think: a man rollerblading in front of the Plaza Hotel with two live rats perched on each shoulder. I challenge you to imagine a more soul-nourishing scene than this. My love deepened the day I walked four miles downtown in a stress-and-tear-induced haze, only to stumble upon a cafe whose neon walls presented the question, ‘Did you nut today?’ My most carnal love for my city stems from the mere fact that no other than convicted murderer Robert Chambers lived in my building, post-prison sentence, and became laundry buddies with my mother. That ended soon enough, however, as he was later arrested for running a cocaine factory in his apartment (have I mentioned this was in my building). Fret not! He managed to call me pretty before he left for the slammer. Here, it seems as though one day of simply breathing can award you with enough stories to last a lifetime.
The parts of the city I love can transform into emetics in the blink of an eye. A perfect example is walking, as walking is a favorite pastime of mine. In New York City, you inevitably stumble upon ample opportunities for stories. However, walking can take a turn for the worst when it begins to pour and thunder and a speeding taxi challenges your strength by soaking you via rat-dirt-urine-poopy-new-strain-of-HPV-and-resurgence-of-leprosy puddle water. A more niche example for those in the know might be the time I dove into a freshly baked Joe and the Juice Tuna Avocado sandwich on the world’s most pleasant summer’s day. My boss awarded me with an extra long lunch break, and as I sat on a stoop enjoying the scenery, the birds chirped above me, children walked hand in hand with their parents, and it seemed that the clouds sang. I near expected a fantastical rainbow to emerge when I was suddenly slapped in the face by a woman whose hair was eerily reminiscent of Russel Brand. I somehow apologized to her before cowering behind a random mother pushing her helpless newborn infant in a stroller, proceeding to call my mommy in tears, and running back to work like the spineless victim I am. Don’t ask about the sandwich, for she is a mourned casuality of the chaos. I haven’t been able to look at a Joe since.
Sometimes, my love and hatred emerge simultaneously. Such a feeling could be found at a cafe when a waitress tells you that your gluten free bread, labeled gluten free on the packaging, is not gluten free. She then says that the restaurant does not serve iced tea, while you watch your table-neighbor carelessly sipping on a mint iced tea. She finally ends the meal by stating that the restaurant has physically run out of cash, despite another waiter seamlessly accepting your cash payment. I don’t care, I’m not still mad. I’m easygoing, which I even made clear in my letter of complaint in which I stated ‘this sounds like an SNL skit’. It’s times like these that I find life pathetically hilarious, further catalyzed by the fact that I had the gall to write a letter of complaint focused on gluten free bread.
New York City is a social experiment for character development. Throughout my 18 years of life, I’ve seen more people get arrested on the street than is probably recommended by psychiatrists worldwide. I live in the only city where you can wake up, eat cricket ice cream, swing on the flying trapeze, and get mugged on the city bus all in a day’s work (an unfortunate but true tale). While I am thankful to live in a city that has left me well-rounded and unfazed, maybe slightly mentally scarred and definitely with some symptoms of PTSD, I received an alert mid-writing this very essay that a fight has broken out directly in front of my building, and I am reminded of why I hate and I love it here.
Cliches - reworked
My take on common clichés:
cold as ice - cold as my grandma, three days post-funeral
cute as a button - cute as my grandma, before she died.
tough as nails - tough as the frozen, mid-winter, ground that was shoveled aside for my grandma’s casket.
smooth as silk - smooth as the luscious hair on the medical examiner who ruled my grandma’s death a homicide
pretty as a picture - pretty as the pigtails on grandpa’s new mistress
black as pitch - black as the ink covering the redacted statements addressing my inheritance in grandma’s will
eager as a puppy - eager as grandpa to date a twenty year old
sweeter than sugar - sweeter than grandma’s blood sugar before she went into diabetic ketoacidosis
the strong, silent type - the strong, silent type, much like my grandma now, because she’s dead
my heart skipped a beat - my heart skipped a beat, much like grandma’s heart but grandma’s heart actually was the cause of undiagnosed heart arrhythmia and also diabetic complications and a suspected homicide.
Rejected Submissions for Seventeen Magazine's 'Daily Traumarama'
My take on Dede Preno’s genius work. As I am a teenage girl, Seventeen’s trauma(rama) hits too close to home. Instead, enjoy the middle-aged edition!
Troubling experience today. Margie’s cat died - so sad - and I went to post a comment on the FaceBook. Well, apparently commenting “Rest In Peace, Whiskers. A loss for the community! LOL” does NOT mean what you’d think! Turns out ‘LOL’ has nothing to do with ‘Lots of Love.’ No thanks to the meshugenah who told me that - yet another reason not to trust the goys. Apology note will be written ASAP (as soon as possible, right? Just checking) Blaming it on menopause and early onset, am I right ladies? - Elaine, 54, Merrick
Under Attack
This summer, I had a brief encounter with the face of Terror, brought on by a soaring pigeon’s decision to relieve himself on my right shoulder. Writing this, four months later, the stench is still suffocating.
The weather was similar to the hot days New Yorkers are accustomed to, made more frequent by global warming. The sun felt heavy on my skin, and the humidity left my arms and neck similar to the conditions of a slip and slide. I walked through Hell’s Kitchen with my friend, Jackie, prepared to embark on a day’s journey down the West Side Highway.
A cold and damp weight fell upon my shoulder, and for a brief moment, felt like a refreshing god-sent kiss. Seconds later came a twinge of fear. With trepidation, I cocked my head and peered at my shoulder, yet saw nothing. I didn’t need to see anything, for the smell held all of the answers. Like a landfill of used toilets or a chest of diapers, the hot scent of bird diarrhea climbed its way through my nostrils and hijacked my mind. I tried to scream, but no sound could be heard - I was paralyzed with fear. The pigeon laughed above, contemplating a round-two while circling overhead. He puffed out his chest in pride as he watched Jackie christen the feces with photos as I breathed through my mouth.
No cafe in sight, I marched hand-in-hand with Jackie for seven blocks, frantically looking for a safe haven with tissues. Jackie used her free hand to clamp her nostrils shut and ignored her suffering as she led me through the streets. The pigeon followed above, sending telepathic messages to the store-owners, forcing them with threats and blackmail to deny our entries. A nearby Chipotle was spotted, yet she turned us away with her locked doors and unsympathetic cashier. Smushed faces lubricated by sweat and tears slid down her glass windows as we rapidly lost hope and electrolytes. Subway claimed to be out of napkins, and, we believed her, despite the unlikely mid-morning napkin demand at the height of a pandemic. Just as we had begun to lose hope, a literal sign from heaven appeared in the form of half-lit neon lights, reading ‘Skyline Gourmet Deli’.
We dodged oncoming traffic as we sprinted across the street (witnesses describe a green cloud leaking from my shoulder). The bird dung swam through sweat streams towards the great North Neck and the bustling Southern Arm. The uncharitable deli refused to offer their napkins without a purchase. With that, I bought an extra-large bottle of hand sanitizer - my equivalent of holy water - and sage to burn, in hopes of cleansing my impure right shoulder.
In exchange for the few crumpled dollars I could scrounge up from the bottom of my decrepit bag, I received the ever-glorious napkin - three sheets worth. We stepped foot outside to commence the long-awaited ceremony. Etta James’ At Last played from a divine surround sound system and doves soared through the sky, scaring away my pigeon nemesis, and it began to rain flowers. Upon first wipe, dopamine flooded my system and sent my anterior lobe into overdrive. Jackie, my knight in shining armor, gently wiped the partially-crusted glob off my shoulder. She scrubbed me drown, trying to pick off the eggshell-like shards of dried pigeon stool, assessing the consequences of her martyrdom: at worst, asphyxiation by vomit; at best, anosmia. Before she had the chance to suffer further mental and physical damage, I offered my hand at eradicating the scent. Jackie documented me Steve Irwin style from a smell-proof distance as I marinated my napkin in sanitizer and power washed my arm.
Despite our noble attempts, no amount of hopes, prayers, hand sanitizers, and sage could erase the stench that wafted within a six foot radius of me for the rest of the day - and possibly the rest of my life. But, as Billy Joel once said (though in a less literal sense) “It’s fine with me ‘cause I’ve let it slide,” and slide it did. Out of sight and out of mind, I have compartmentalized this ordeal until now. Triggered by the sight of dog-owners cleaning up after their pets and any reference to a zoo, I am a shell of who I once was. Nevertheless, I have moved on for the best; Terror has introduced me to a new friend, Perfume.
My quarantine lifeline.
The Real Housewives franchise to me is like insulin to a diabetic, or a pacemaker to Sir Elton John. To sum it up, the Bravo Network is the sole reason I have survived quarantine. I have cried with Tinsley Mortimer and laughed with Lisa Rinna; I’ve partied with Sonja Morgan and broken my sobriety with Luanne de Leseppes; I said goodbye to my husband after he was deported with Teresa, and got married to an unknown man in utter secrecy with Kenya.
Like with all parents and their children, I must admit that I have my favorites. RHONY and RHOBH have never failed to be there for me in times of stress. Quarantine has blessed me with the opportunity to, for the first time in my young life, watch these shows in real-time. I have relished it, and then some. After each new episode, I call my friend to discuss. We mull over the general plot and then dissect every details (such as Denise Richard’s husband’s job, or our deep love for LRinna and Erika Jayne). Post-discussion, I immediately listen to The Bitch Bible by no other than Bravo Queen, Jackie Schimmel, so I can further prod my Real Housewives’ thoughts. This routine has been my equivalent of therapy.
And now, to transition, I must release my current thoughts on the most recent episodes of RHONY and RHOBH. Luanne de Lesseps makes me squeal with glee. She just gives, regardless of the episode. Her presence blesses my screen every week. Dorinda is the rock I need, and Sonja will always be my star. All I would like to say about RHOBH is that the drama between Dorit and Kyle serves as the only excitement I have felt in seven weeks. In any other circumstance, this drama would not appeal to me. HOWEVER, my quarantined mind craves the arguing women’s fight-or-flight level stress when discussing whether or not Dorit’s glam squad did her makeup pre-retreat.
While I don’t know how to express the joy The Real Housewives bring me, I can only try to convey my addiction via my blog. I hope this post can simultaneously serve as my own personal therapy and an ode to the women of RHONY and RHOBH. I fear for the future when school ends, as I know this addiction will take over my life.
QOTD: Has my obsession with Zoom workouts gone too far?
So far in quarantine, I have had trouble finding various ways to pass time without getting bored. My favorite methods so far have involved taking online classes, watching interesting videos, and binging every reality show available. Looking back, I am reminded of a fond memory from my time in quarantine; the time I signed up for a zoom contortion class. As a young woman who is neither a contortionist nor a gymnast, I naively entered this class with high hopes that I would be blessed with beginner’s luck. I was mistaken. The first moments of class involved stretches that were strenuous enough to account for an entire workout. Alone, afraid, and recorded by my webcam, I attempted these stretches with no success. As the class-goers bent and snapped in every direction, my body creaked with each move. I mustered all of my strength to not show my pain through my facial expressions; I’d like to believe I did a good job, though I am doubtful that was the reality. After what felt like ten years, the warm up finally ended. We moved on to exercises that focused on back strength, or, in my experience, my lack thereof. I felt like a fish flopping out of water as I shamefully failed to lift my back off the ground. I prayed that my parents would not enter my room to the horrific sight of me, lying on my bedroom floor, covered in sweat, trying to bend my back to join my feet and shoulders. All the while, my webcam remained on to show the class my botched skills. Hardly halfway into class, I had been through enough; embracing the lazy genius that lies within me, I shut off my webcam and opened up a hulu tab and began playing an episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. I was too ashamed to leave class and brand myself a quitter, so I stayed on the zoom call until the class was over. I am unsure of what I gained from this experience, other than the fact that I can officially say I’ve taken a zoom circus class. Going forward in my life, I feel that in order to enjoy a contortion class, I will have to experience it in person. Until then, I will not be practicing contortionism.
The Thrill of my TikTok Fame
Despite my limited interactions with the outside world during this period of quarantine, I am happy to share that I have acquired a memory I am confident will carry me through the rest of my life. The experience that comes to mind took place on an app known as TikTok.
The first two weeks of my time in quarantine were uneventful. I sat in my bedroom playing Sims 4 and watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills for a minimum of 12 hours a day. The monotony of my routine grew old as my mind grew restless. My weary eyes were scarred and flirting with perpetual blindness from countless hours of TV, and I finally felt I needed a new creative outlet. I opened the TikTok application and was immediately presented with a video of a young girl showing off her vibrant eye color. I found myself amused at the idea of watching that same video, with the vibrant eyes replaced with manure-brown pupils. In a moment of sleep deprivation and narcissism, I filmed this video and posted it. I laughed for minutes on end, despite the joke’s lack of comedy. That night, I went to sleep as an unknown soul for the last time.
I awoke to my phone glitching due to the sheer quantity of notifications I had received. I rubbed my eyes, blurry from sleep, and unlocked it, only to find that my TikTok had gone viral. My first few moments as a Registered Influencer™ were enlightening, though I admit that balancing fame and daily duties can be a challenge. I greeted my family with confidence comparable only to Kanye West and tried my hardest to remain modest, despite the tsunami of incoming likes and comments. As celebrities do, I read through my comments and immediately understood that my target audience stood between the ages of 6 and 10, but nevertheless, I had made it. I spent the rest of the week in a haze due to my new celebrity status. Thank God we are quarantined, because as a pillar of the Spence community, I would hate to tarnish our grounds with the hordes of paparazzi that would have inevitably been following me. Although this day was nearly six weeks ago, I have barely started to recover. Each day that I leave my house for my daily walk around my block, I pray I won’t be caught by TMZ or the wicked wench that is Perez Hilton. I am looking forward to experiencing the full weight of my new influencer title in our post-quarantine world.
My Greatest High School Experience
A defining moment in Spence’s history: Sofia Scarselli ’21 and Jennevieve Culver’s ’21 Halloween Dance of 2019
In future years, when memories of the Spence School are recounted by old and young, a particular event will be remembered as a defining moment in history: the Halloween Dance of 2019. The dance, performed by myself and Jennevieve Culver ’21, was the result of painstaking rehearsals and hours spent searching the internet for costume inspiration.
When Jennevieve and I decided to dress up together for the holiday, we took on stress comparable to Heidi Klum preparing her costume for her annual Halloween party. That night, we pushed our homework aside and were on the phone for hours as we scrolled through Pinterest hoping to find a worthy costume. Despite hours of research, we found nothing. This continued through the weeks leading up to Halloween. The night before the doomed day, we had accepted the fact that our biggest fear was on the verge of coming true: we would arrive at school in weak, uncreative costumes.
However, that was a fate we could not accept. At 9:00 PM on October 30th, despite her exhaustion, Jennevieve changed out of her pajamas, hopped on a bus, and we began the odyssey that would be our search for a suitable Halloween costume. We met at a Spirit Halloween in Midtown, which was filled to the brim with other Halloween failures. We entered the store with low hopes.
We wandered down the aisles, aimlessly searching for inspiration. After multiple laps around the store, we were prepared to give up. As we made our way to the exit, we passed by two bald caps; our mouths dropped to the floor, and our eyes beamed with inspiration. We telepathically understood that this would be our costume, and we were going to find a fitting outfit to compliment the show-stopping accessory.
After another hour spent searching Spirit Halloween, we had successfully produced two plumber costumes, complete with oil-face-paint and “grandpa glasses.” We went our separate ways and, as soon as we got home, we borrowed our fathers’ pants and face-timed each other to review the final look; we were elated.
Fast-forward to Halloween day. Jennevieve and I met in the townhouse bathroom to assemble our costumes. As we exited in our grandfather-plumber-gear, we beamed with unmatchable confidence. With this being my most complimented outfit of all time, I felt unstoppable. As Jennevieve and I entered our biology class, we were asked whether or not we would be performing at lunch. A dance was uncharted territory for us, but our costumes gave us the confidence we needed to succeed, so we immediately began creating our performance. Between third period and lunch, we spent every waking moment choreographing our dance. We embraced our inner Maddy Zeigler while unleashing Abby Lee Miller and produced a showstopping performance that will inevitably go down in history (and hopefully on TikTok’s For You page). And so, hours after the saga began, we took the stage, waltzing with indescribable grace in front of the entire Upper School (students and faculty) to the tune of Hotel California by The Eagles. Our prize: Winners of the Best Costume.