Someone Hit the Panic Button

I shall now proceed to transcribe for you the actual conversation I had with a dear old friend last week.

Me: I have to talk to you.
Her: Oh, geez, are you pregnant?
Me: No! Geez, why do you always have to assume the worst? We just need to discuss what I did this weekend. I need perspective.
Her: Oh, geez, is X. back in town? Did you hook up with him again?
Me: No! Geez, you really do think highly of me, don't you? Besides, X. is still in Singapore. Anyway, it does have to do with dating.
Her: Oh, geez, did you--
Me: NO! Whatever you were going to say, NO! You will not guess it! Let me talk and then we can do the psychoanalysis part.
Her: OK, OK, calm down, psychofreak. What did you do this weekend?
Me: I read a book.
Her: You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you read a book this weekend?
Me: It's 10 pm! What are you, 85?
Her: Says the girl who's been shopping at Ann Taylor since she was 10.
Me: They have high-quality, classic tailored pieces! You're all just jealous that you didn't discover it sooner!
Her: OK, Betty Sue. Tell me that part about Talbot's again?
Me: We are so far off topic here. You are distracting me.
Her: Fine. I will humor you. You read a book.
Me: Yes. It was a dating book.
Her: You read a dating book?! Desperate city!
Me: It gets worse.
Her: Oh, geez, what have I told you about these self-help books?
Me: Hey, Dr. Kevin Leman helped me learn alot about my tormented soul! Someday, I will actually be able to afford therapy with him. Of course, he will probably be dead by then. Or at least in a nursing home.
Her: At risk of regressing to eighth grade, you are a FREAK.
Me: But you know you love me. XOXO.
Her: OK, Gossip Girl, finish your story. Just give me the bad news straight up.
Me: It was a Christian dating book.
Her: (snorting) Crap! You owe me a new sweater and another bottle of $6 wine! A Christian dating book? Was it like "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" or "Let Jesus write your Love Story" or geez, what else did the youth group kids read?
Me: First of all, what is this $6 wine and is it tasty? I'll buy you a box of Franzia if you ever come visit me! Second of all, no, it was not one of the youth group books. Geez, I've not completely lost my mind.
Her: So, what was it?
Me: It was a humorous look at dating by a 20-something Christian woman.
Her: (snorting) Geez, again with the wine! Did you read that off the back cover of the book?
Me: No, I made it up! That was my personal synopsis.
Her: So what on earth made you decide to pick up this book, out of everything in Barnes and Noble?
Me: Well you know, I'm well into my quarter-life crisis, and I just read "The Panic Years" and--
Her: You read "The Panic Years"? Do you not listen to me at all? What have I told you about these literary choices? Can you not just read a Jane Austen novel for dating perspective like the rest of us?
Me: I read all of Jane Austen's novels by sophomore year of high school! I am well beyond Jane's help at this point!
Her: You're barely halfway through your twenties! Calm down!
Me: But see, that's the point! Why am I like this? I don't want to get married! I don't need a man in my life to be fulfilled! I'm a feminist, damn it!
Her: Roar, woman! So, what's the problem?
Me: Well, the book kind of... made sense.
Her: If you utter the word "courtship," I am hanging up the phone right now.
Me: No! That's just it! The girl who wrote this book even said she thought the whole "dating/courtship" debate was ludicrous. I was like "Yeah! Where were you when I was getting shunned by the youth group for that perspective!"
Her: So, really, why this book? Why did you pick it up?
Me: Well, I guess I was just looking for a different perspective. At risk of being lame, a moral perspective? I mean, I love my SATC lifestyle as much as the next girl, but it's not going to last forever. In fact, if it lasts forever, I'll shoot myself. If I'm still single when I'm Carrie Bradshaw's age, I'm joining a convent. After all, I do look good in black. Although I'd have to see if there's a way around the wimple thing, because I don't do hats without brims.
Her: True, hats without brims are not a good look on you. Remember the backwards baseball cap debacle of 1998?
Me: Must you kick me when I am down? And since we're speaking of awful trends of the past, you took down that picture of us in your apartment, right, the one where we are on the beach and I am wearing those ridiculous overall shorts over a bathing suit and looking truly heinous?
Her: (shiftily) Yeah sure, I took it down.
Me: I don't believe you.
Her: Moral perspective, remember? Why the sudden interest?
Me: I don't know! I was hoping you could shed some light on it!
Her: It's not that out of the realm of possibility, Miss I attend Mass every week and recently signed up to be a Eucharistic Minister. You are a moral person. You're way more Charlotte than Samantha.
Me: OK, can we please not compare me to any of them at this point? And I did the Eucharistic Minister thing as a way to meet men! Add that to my credit towards my one-way ticket on a freight train to hell! So, anyway, then, not long ago I was talking to a friend and she said something about a friend of hers who married a youth minister, and I was like "awww, I would marry a youth minister!" I mean, where did that come from? I'm supposed to marry an investment banker! Or a hedge-fund manager! Or a jet-setting CEO of a multinational corporation!
Her: Man, you really don't dream small do you?
Me: No! I don't dream small! So why am I now so desperate to settle that I'm reading ridiculous dating books, Christian or otherwise, and planning my life as Mrs. Youth Pastor of Bumbleton, Iowa?
Her: Are you really doing that?
Me: Well, not quite. I'm totally not resigned to the Bumbleton, Iowa part yet.
Her: But it's OK to change your mind. It's OK to decide that would be OK. Or to open your mind to other possibilities than being a hard-nosed New Yorker for the next 3/4 of your life. Even if that means a youth minister. Even if it means a convent.
Me: I was kidding about the convent.
Her: I know. But you need to calm down. Stop freaking out. Open yourself to the possibilities. You are a Christian. And need I remind you that all of the guys you've seriously dated have been church-goers? I know you're running away and this whole "Christian dating book" thing seems like a blast from a past you're trying to forget, but it's not that bad. You don't have to be wacko about it, just like the girl in the book wasn't wacko about it. Just open your mind.
Me: Thanks, Oprah. I knew I could count on you.
Her: OK, Gayle. If I may continue on my soapbox for one more minute, it's just to remind you that you took a personality test in 12th grade that was supposed to tell you when you'd be ready to get married--
Me: Oh, yeah, I remember that! It sounds like something out of Cosmo, but it was totally a graded thing for religion class.
Her: Oh, 12th grade. Yes, and do you remember what your test said?
Me: Something like "28 and 6 months."
Her: It was "28 and 9 months."
Me: Why on earth do you remember that? Are you stalking me? Creepster...
Her: Oh please! You were like the only person in the class whose answer was above 24. And the teacher used you as a case study and warning against women who were too involved in their careers, and you told him where to shove it.
Me: Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Then he tried to give me detention for my language, but the disciplinarian thought it was a joke.
Her: Exactly!
Me: That's all well and good, but if I'm supposed to be married by the time I'm 28 and 9 months, and I have to be engaged for at least 9 months so I can get the pretty church and also so they can be certain I'm not knocked up, and I want to date for at least a year before getting engaged and preferably more like two years because we all know that it takes me a while to achieve a functional relationship, that means I need to meet and begin to date the person I will eventually marry, like, right now.
Her: But that's not the point! Remember that girl who spent the entire class period arguing with the teacher so the rest of us could study for the trig test the next period! The take no prisoners, kick butt, I will marry my CEO when I'm good and ready and whether I'm 28 or 38 or 88, it will be when the time is right for me and I will not live in a trailer and work for my dad and never get out of this two bit town girl. You're out! You're living the dream!
Me: But now I don't know if it is the dream. Maybe this book is a way of showing me that the dream is actually a nice church-going guy and a picket-fenced house in the suburbs.
Her: Maybe it is. That's what I told you. It's OK to change your mind. You've tried one dream. If it's not right, try another.
Me: I suppose you could be right. You're good at this. Almost as good as Dr. Kevin Leman.
Her: I know. It's why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: Believe me, if my insurance would pay for therapy, I would designate you as my mental health professional.
Her: Gee, that means a lot. By the way, don't think I'm forgetting about the box of Franzia you promised me.
Me: Don't think that I'm forgetting about the visit you promised me!
Her: Oh yeah, since we're on the topic of men and Christian dating, how's that guy you liked from your church?
Me: Do you mean "Cute Joe?"
Her: Yeah, have you talked to him yet?
Me: Um, yeah. Turns out we now have to refer to him as "Cute, Gay Joe."
Her: Oh, bummer. Not quite the dream, huh?
Me: Guess I keep looking. And reading.

Conclusion: I am insane. And in need of therapy. And lucky to have a dear old friend and a cell phone plan that offers unlimited nights and weekends.

And the Emmy goes to...

So, in honor of last night's "excitement" (or blatant lack there-of) in Hollywood, I offer the Emmy's of my last year of life.

Most Exciting but Probably Not Real Celebrity Subway Sighting: I am telling you people, I sat across from Jake Gyllenhaal on the subway. I know that it is highly, highly unlikely that he was taking the A train from JFK airport at 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening, but I know what I saw... Also, a few weeks later I rode the Q train from Brooklyn with a guy who was a dead ringer for Barack Obama. However, I'm willing to believe that it was not really him, mainly because there was no security around him, and because Barack doesn't really seem like a Q train type of guy. B train, maybe...

Most Atrocious but Definitely Legit "Celebrity" Sighting: Newman from Seinfeld outside an adult bookstore on 8th Avenue around 11:30 pm. For the record, all I was doing was walking home from work. I was not loitering on 8th Avenue, as I am neither a hooker nor a tourist.

Most Dramatic Near-Miss: I am walking down the street. Like a true New Yorker, I am texting someone, listening to my Ipod, thinking about what to order for dinner, looking for my Metrocard, and trying to blow the hair out of my eyes. I am also walking in the direct path of a Big Yellow Taxi (tm Joni Mitchell.) Kind, cute young doctor grabs my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I immediately assume he is attempting to steal my purse and hit him. We share a laugh. Light turns green. I never see kind, cute young doctor again. Life is so tragically unfair.

Store that Inevitably Makes Me Want to Hurt Myself, yet I Continue to Shop There Because I'm Too Lazy to Find Somewhere Better: Toss up between Duane Reade on 34th and 8th and the Kmart Penn Plaza. Duane Reade: Surliest employees in town, $1.79 plus deposit for a 20 oz Diet Coke, worst selection of greeting cards ever, they advertise the Visa Quickpass or whatever it's called where you just touch your card to the reader instead of swipe it and then they yell at you when you try to use it. Kmart: Always full of tourists (seriously, you came all this way to shop at Kmart?) and/or children, have to show your receipt on the way out the door, no matter how inconvenient it is (Do I really look like the type of person who steals from Kmart?), escalators are NEVER working, check-out takes at least 20 minutes, even if I am the only person on line.

First Place I Ever Had a "Usual": Oh, that sounds like a really dirty euphemism. Get your minds out of the gutter people, and get me to the red awninged Halal Pizza place, where $2 buys me a huge slice of greasy cheese pizza, a can of Diet Coke, and a flirtatious wink from the guy behind the counter (Hey, cut me a break... I worked 80 hours a week in an office full of women. Come-ons from the pizza guy were about the extent of my contact with the opposite sex.) About a month before I left my job, they upped the price to $2.25. I raised a stink and they stopped charging me the extra quarter. Considering I ate there at least 2 or 3 times a week, this could have been significant savings, if I hadn't quit my job and gotten the hell out of Midtown.

Biggest "Hell-yeah, I'm a Real Adult" Moment: Signing my own lease, no roommates, no parents. Just me, my landlord, and 3 month's rent upfront. Totally worth it. (Please excuse me while I now hum Beyonce's "Independent Woman" song, complete with illustrative dance moves.)

Biggest "WTF?" Moment: Sitting on A train on my way back to Brooklyn recently next to large, somewhat scary-looking man wearing what I am pretty sure is gang insignia, the kind of person I wouldn't normally sit next to (Good evening, racists and bigots, welcome to the First-class train to hell. My name is Sarah and I'll be your conductor this evening.) Anyway, all stereotyping is quickly proved incorrect when I realize that someone's Ipod is playing "Goodbye Until Tomorrow" from the Off-Broadway production of "The Last Five Years," which is the girliest, whiniest, most (amazingly) ridiculously belt-able ballad ever. Personally, I like to sing it while alone in the car using a Diet Coke bottle for a microphone (it really is amazing that I never get traffic tickets.) Anyway, I'm trying to figure out whose Ipod is treating us all to this lovely sound, when I turn around and realize not only is it the big scary gang member sitting next to me, but he is also mouthing the words along with the kind of emotion that normally causes me to get honked at by the 8 cars behind me because I'm so into chronicling the death of a relationship in ballad form that I haven't realized the light has been green for a full 30 seconds. I stare slack-jawed for a moment before I realize that even a big scary gang member with a penchant for off-Broadway classics is still a big scary gang member who I probably don't want to catch me staring. So I go back to my book and enjoy the music.

Most Common Saturday Afternoon Errand: The library. Too cheap for either cable or Netflix, the public library is this girls best friend. Not only can they entertain me with books, but they can provide me with hours of early 90's TV on DVD. However, Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Works at the Desk and Likes to Comment on my Choice of Entertainment, yes I do like Melrose Place, but no, it is not the "Gossip Girl" of our generation. Gossip Girl is the Gossip Girl of my generation. I don't know what the Gossip Girl of your generation was, but you clearly have a good 17 years on me, so I'm pretty sure we are not in the same generation. I might be slightly too old to enjoy Gossip Girl as much as I do, but you are definitely too old to be hitting on me. As a side note, same goes for Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Rides the Escalators at Target Alot. What part of this face (Just imagine my face here, I am not posting angry face pictures), what part of this face screams "I would be amenable to romantic overtures at the juncture"?

xoxo You Know You Love Me

Is there anything better than meeting your idol? I mean, when one reads the amount of teen fiction that I read and aspires to someday author a series of modern classics of teen fiction, is there anything quite so awesome as a conversation with Cecily von Ziegesar? I can think of only one thing that would be awesome to a corresponding degree, and that is a conversation with Meg Cabot (Ms. Cabot, if you're out there, call me! I just know that we could be the best of friends!)

And that is why I love the city! When I can enjoy a Sunday afternoon book reading in the park by the author of Gossip Girl, get my copy of GG signed with a personal xoxo from the woman who made the xoxo what it is today, and be encouraged in my writing career, that's a fabulous good time. What can you do on a Sunday afternoon in the midwest? Shuck some corn and attend the local spelling bee? (I should be nicer to local spellers... I won the local spelling bee several years in a row. I still have the enormous red hardcover Webster's Dictionary that I won when I was 12 (what a prize!) and I use to reduce my sister to tears every time we play Scrabble (I wonder if this is why she now refuses to play?))

But can you meet a best-selling author? Can you chat at the book-signing table? Can you make everyone at work jealous because they did not meet the creator of Gossip Girl (well, I suppose that depends on what your co-workers are like. I happen to work with people who share my affinity for low-brow popular culture... we have recently discussed starting a book club, with the first book being Tori Spelling's autobiography, Stori Telling, which a) I have already read, and b) is that not the most clever name ever? I can only hope to come up with something equally fabulous when the Lifetime Original Movie of my life (starring Tori Spelling as me, if I can get my way) is ready to be filmed!)

So thank you Brooklyn Book Festival, for reminding me why I moved to this city. Thank you Ms. von Ziegesar, for writing your wonderful books and coming to talk about them. Thank you Mrs. Campbell, my first grade teacher, for encouraging a love of reading and writing that to this day draws me to places like Borough Hall on a humid Sunday afternoon to rediscover why I love words, pictures, and the New York Dream.