Exes

Exes are pretty funny things.

I look at a picture of this one and I find that I'm still in love with him.

I see that one and want to smack him across the face.

I speak with this one and I feel that we speak instead through our eyes.

I hang out with that one and forget that we ever dated.

I avoid this one at all possible costs.

Exes are pretty funny things. You put them all in a lineup and discover that they bring out a totally different something in you. With this one, I was a goofball. With that one, I was a sex bomb. With this one, I was a best friend. With that one, I was a philosopher. With this one, I was a few forgettable first kisses. Hey, we're all bad at kissing when we're fourteen. If you're good at kissing when you're fourteen, you'd better take a step back and read The Giver instead. Think about something else.

Exes are great things because you can be glad the bad ones are exes. But exes can be great because you can think back on wonderful times in which you were leading a pretty wonderful life. I'm glad to know those times will likely come again. Until then, I hope all of my exes are doing swell. Except, you know, for that one. Just kidding.

My back to the Seine, and my front to the Samaritaine

From ages one to five, my best friend was a twelve-inch doll with waxy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a pink jumper, on which was embroidered the name Corolle. Actually, it was a brand name (Corolle Dolls remain popular toys for French girls), but I interpreted it as the name "Carol" in French form, and called my baby doll just so. In time, her hair fell out in fistfuls chemotherapy-style. Her clothing tore off. But her plastic skin smelled like something delicious, and I kept her with me always.

My father bought dear Corolle for me in Paris. When I was a squabbling, chubby little toddler with black eyes and hair to match, my dad accepted a job at a laboratory there. My mother took me at one point to visit him, and his tiny apartment was the site of the most embarrassing photograph of me ever taken. It's me as a toddler, naked, in the arms of my also naked father. Both of us are in the shower. Thankfully, only the upper half of his body is seen. In the picture I'm crying, because I know that in fifteen years I'll be subject to my friends' ceaseless taunts in regards to this slimy nude shot. Other less incriminating photographs from that visit include my waddling with the ducks and chomping on baguettes, but understandably, the Shower Photo is the most memorable.

This month, I returned to Paris for my first cognizant visit. My dad was there too, twenty-two years later. My fourteen-year-old sister was also in tow, shuffling her feet and shuffling her iPod. Together, we trampled the cobblestone walks and strolled along the Seine, chowing down on crepes at every possible opportunity. We took in the Louvre and the Musee d'Orsay, Notre Dame and Versailles. We stared up at the Eiffel Tower from the bottom, but didn't go up. Looking up into it, I felt like I was staring at the nose of an oncoming ship. "Can you take a picture of me?" English-speaking tourists would ask me in excruciatingly enunciated speech, pointing like clowns at their cameras. "Yes," I'd respond. "I speak English." Calm yourself.

On Bastille Day, my dad, my sister and I passed a dark building on the Seine with windows so gothic, it could nearly pass for a cathedral. "That's a department store," said my dad. "That's where I got your doll that you liked so much."

"Corolle!" I exclaimed. Instantly, I remembered her smell. She smelled like a dessert: fragrant, sweet, delectable.

"Samaritaine," announced my father. He likes to say French words. "That's the name of the store."

It was closed, so I remembered it and went back on a day when I was walking around by myself. I planned on tromping to the toy section to find today's version of Corolle, but to my disappointment the store remained dark. It was closed for good. With my back to the Seine and my front to Samaritaine, I imagined by stick-figure father in 1988, blindly putting one foot in front of the other amongst walls of boxed dolls, trying to find the perfect one for his young daughter.

Taking candy from strangers

FRENCH DIP
/ WILTED SPINACH
Bar 83.

French dip in hand, I found a man with a giant Barnes and Noble bag, his eyes glued to the Wimbledon tournament.

"Sir?" I offered as I slid the plate in front of him. He tore his eyes away from Novak Djokovic and they lit up in manly hunger.

"Thanks!" he responded. I smiled at him and turned away, when he stopped me. "Hey. You a chocolate person?"

"What?" I asked. "Um, yeah."

He reached into the Barnes and Noble bag and pulled out three Godiva chocolate bars. Fanning them out in front of me, he said, "Pick one."

Pick one! Was this some sort of joke? This was literally taking candy from a stranger, the number one no-no. "Really?"

"Yeah. I had like a $75 gift card to Barnes and Noble," he nodded toward the bulging bag. "Pick one."

I carefully selected the dark chocolate, raspberry filled bar. Wow, this double just got a lot better. "Thank you! I can't wait to share this with the rest of the staff."

He grinned at me and picked up the French dip, ready to dive in. "Enjoy."

"You too," I said, and returned to the main floor, sliding the Godiva in the pocket of my apron. And I didn't share it with anyone. I kept it all to myself, savoring it piece by piece in the locker room over the course of the dinner shift. Eh, sorry.

PETA would have had a stroke

My post for Political Subversities.

PETA would have had a stroke

Kitchen singing

There is a tall black man who works in the kitchen at my restaurant. He's got crinkly eyes, a wide smile and one of the most fantastic singing voices I've ever heard.

I made this discovery about a month ago when I worked one night that he was working. I was dumping some dirty dishes off by the dishwasher when I heard a stunningly on-point, a cappella rendition of Usher's "U Remind Me." I turned my head and saw this skyscrape-like figure bopping his head back and forth, his arms elbow-deep in uncooked ribs, serenading them as if it were 2001. He was Usher and the ribs were Chilli from TLC. (Remember, they dated?)

I shoved the dishes in the dishwasher and crept up beside him. He smiled at me and began singing to me, and I responded by harmonizing with him on the chorus. "You remind me of a girl that I once knew," we jammed together. "See her face whenever I, I look at you..." I don't think anyone had every acknowledged his singing before. He seemed so grateful to have someone to sing with.

In the nights that I've worked with him since, he greets me with a high five and a "Hello, angel!" I always ask him, "What are we singing tonight?" Sometimes it's Michael Jackson, other nights it's Rihanna or Beyonce. It's always R&B to get our spirits up in the stress---or tedium---of the dinner shift.

Tonight, as I stood in the back polishing silverware, I asked him, "Where are you from?"

He whipped out that huge smile of his and answered, "Jamaica."

It made so much sense. He's so carefree and easygoing. Of course, he's from the beach. "Oh, wow. I've never been."

"Man, oh man," he said, leaning up against the dishwasher. "It's paradise. The beach." He exploded his fingers, "and the sun."

I imagined him dancing on the beach with long-haired women in hula skirts. "How long have you been in New York?"

"Seven years," he answered. I wondered what his big dreams were. How he came to work in the kitchen. "I'll take you to Jamaica sometime."

"Oh, really!" I laughed. That's how all the kitchen guys are. They flirt with you, tell you they're going to take you home, meet their parents, take you out, give you a good time. "I look forward to that."

Later in the night, when I was about to leave, I bumped into him and he extended his arm for a hug. It was one of those hugs in which the two huggers don't actually touch bodies, they just place their heads in the negative space next to the partner's head, and wrap their one arm around the other, making as little contact as possible, as if they were a ghost. "Goodnight, angel," he said.

"Goodnight," I said to him. As I high-fived him and turned around to turn in my money, he said, "I'd like to take you to church sometime."

"Church!" was all I could say. "Church!"

"I'd like to hear you sing a Christmas song," he confessed. "Joy to the World. I think you have the voice of an angel."

Blushing, I responded, "No way. You're the star here. You have one of the best voices I've ever heard."

He smiled, and I saw him on the beach. "Thanks. Goodnight, angel. I'll see you tomorrow."

Birkenstocks, a bruise and a bona-fide Frenchman

I was blasting Fleet Foxes in my headphones on the 6 train tonight when the man seated beside me leaned over and inspected something: me.

Immediately, self-consciouness washed over me. Last week, I took a mighty fall and now there's a murky bruise on my thigh, brooding fiercely under the skin. It's the size of my hand and pretty scary-looking. Over the last few days, I've had a couple horrified people demand, "What happened to your leg?!" My hand raced to the bruise in an effort to shield it from sight when I realized the man hadn't noticed my bruise. He was looking at my feet.

He caught my eye and mouthed something. He mouthed it again. I took my headphones off. "Nice Birkenstocks," he said.

"Oh," I looked at my feet. They were dirty and calloused with hairy toes. Embarrassing. "Thank you."

"I have a pair myself," he went on. I detected a French accent. "They're like..." He held up his hand and made a crossing motion with his fingers. I knew exactly the kind he was talking about.

"Oh, right! Yeah, those look too manly on me," I replied. He had gorgeous gray eyes. His hair was dark brown, with specks of white around the ears. He wasn't clean-shaven, but his pink-and-white striped shirt was neatly pressed and tucked into a pair of gray jeans. On his feet, he wore black socks with brown loafers. I loved his style; he wore the kind of clothing I think I'd wear, if I were a man.

He spoke easily, and we continued to talk about shoes. I told him I'd recently gotten these Birkenstocks repaired. Oh, he asked, did you send them in? You can do that, you know. No, I didn't. I took them to a cobbler in Manhattan. Oh, he replied. They look very nice. These loafers are from a thrift store. You should wear socks always, I said. I do, he replied. It feels a little like someone else has worn them. That makes sense, I replied. Because you got them at a thrift store.

I wondered if he was visiting the United States, or if he lived here. I wondered what would happen if he asked me for my number. Would I give it to him? Should I give him my email address instead? I've never given my phone number to a stranger before. I was rapidly thinking of options when my Frenchman turned to his right and began conversing in French with his travel partner. I didn't even know he was with someone. He seemed so engrossed in me.

He and his friend continued to chat in French as the train arrived at my stop. As the doors opened, I thought, Well, he's not going to ask me for my number now. He looked up at me and smiled. "Have a nice evening," I said to him, and out the doors I went.

-----

The Chinatown bus chugs along the expressway in the middle of the night. "I feel like I never meet anyone."

"Well, that's why so many of our friends are on OK Cupid," says Alex. He and I are slumped in our seats, eyes half-closed. I hope there aren't bedbugs on this bus.

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of finding love via questionnaires and games, searching for a man like I'm searching on Google. "I don't know. Maybe I'm a dreamer, but I like happenstance. Meeting someone on the street. Or wherever. Out of the blue."

"Yeah," he said. "Me too." And our single selves sat in silence, imagining lucky encounters.

"No sleep until Philly" and La Luz De Un Cigarillo

These next two days are gonna be crazeballs. Tomorrow, I'm getting up at my version of the crack of dawn, 7:30am, to be at a run-through of Alfridge, which I'm teching and opening next week in Philadelphia with some of my best friends and frequent collaborators. "No sleep until Philly," says my director, Andrew. This week, we're going to tech the show, rehearse the shit out of it, write the ending, and, oh, open the show. "Actually," he corrects himself, "No sleep until we're back in Brooklyn."

After the 9am run tomorrow, I'm jetting to my work, then jetting from my work to Political Subversities at the PIT, where we're kicking off our summer run with a brand-new show. Gadzooks! Then, of course, I have to stick around to watch some of my improvising friends, Gentlemen Party, who go up right after us at 11pm. Boy, am I going to sleep well tomorrow night.

Then Sunday, I head to work, then jet to Chinatown and take the bus to Philadelphia, where I'll be for a week. I cannot wait to be stationary in Philadelphia all next week with my buddies. For the past month, I feel like I've been running from place to place, having no time at all to take a breath. Last weekend, as I tore off my work clothes in the locker room, hastily shoved my sweaty feet in my Keds and wiped the lipstick off my mouth, I nearly burst into tears bolting out the door. Am I doing too much? I've asked myself this ten times a day over the past month. But when someone from Alfridge or Political Subversities brings in a brilliant piece of writing or tries a character voice that is the most ridiculous I've ever heard, I have to forget the tears and burst into laughter instead. Yeah, it's all worth it.

I had a moment tonight when all of the busy-ness slowed and I could sit, put away my phone, and enjoy a play. My dear friend and fellow Political Subversities cast member, Ismael Cruz-Cordova, is starring off-Broadway in La Luz De Un Cigarillo at Teatro LATEA. I attended his performance tonight, solo and totally nervous. I knew it would be completely in Spanish with English supertitles. Would I be able to keep up? I forgot that I have been reading since age four; so, actually, I can read supertitles pretty quickly.

The play was really beautiful. It's about a Dominican mother whose son returns home for a couple days for his father's funeral. They can't really connect with each other; she wants him to open up to her, but he can't because he rejects her conservative outlook on the world. They love one another but cannot respect each other. In the second act, the mother goes wild and slaps her son, calling him ungrateful, detailing for him the sacrifices she has made for him to be a happy child and successful adult. Something in the scene reminded me of my own mother, the most hardworking woman I know. In that moment, I saw my own mom, who has made an infinite number of sacrifices for me---working seven days a week, paying for nearly everything I desired, never remarrying to focus on her work---and myself as the son, who fears that his mother will be alone for the rest of her life. As these things clicked into place, I began crying in my seat. I missed my mom. I missed my childhood. I resented every hurtful thing I ever said to my mom. I resented the nonstop work in which she immerses herself. After the show, I called her before I even left the theater. She's the best. I didn't realize that as a kid. Boy, do I realize it now.

Hey, guys with girlfriends...

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Get your hand off my back.

The Lady at Table 45

I see now that this has become a blog mostly about work-related incidents, about which I refuse to complain. Instead, I embrace it. I'm glad this survival job has allowed me to tell so many different stories about the strange and marvelous humans that walk the Earth with me. Now, wasn't that dramatic?

A few nights ago, I was treading my section in the restaurant on two very sore feet. I couldn't help but seethe about the couple I'm waited on earlier that evening: a young man and his young date, old enough to drink vodka-and-sodas but immature enough to give me a decent tip. It was his birthday, which I'd found out when I carded them. I'm a softie when it comes to birthdays---who doesn't love something free on their birthday?---and especially when it comes to twenty-somethings' birthdays. I'm pretty broke. I assume most twenty-somethings are pretty broke, as well. If I were to take my broke self out with my broke friend out to an expensive dinner and the waitress gave us something for free, I'd be over the moon! This was what I set out to do when I comp'ed their $14 appetizer: make them happy, happy, happy people.

Instead, when I presented the check and my my huge smile, they didn't seem moved in the slightest. "The appetizer was on me tonight!" I exclaimed. The dude nodded and said, "Thanks. Could you take a picture of us?"

Well, happy birthday to you. And they left me a 12% tip. After I gave them something for free. Dickwads.

Anyway, I was pissed and mopey and my feet hurt and I'd kill a man to sit down when I noticed the fifty-something, frizzy haired, bespectacled woman now sitting at my table 45. She had a cocktail in front of her, which meant she probably had come from the bar. She was plinking away on her Blackberry and barely noticed as I approached the table.

"Hello!" I greeted her.

She looked up, smiling. She had a kind face. I wondered why she was dining alone. Immediately, I asked myself silently, Is she married?

She knew exactly what she wanted. "I'll start out with a small salad, garlic dressing on the side. Then I'll have the cheeseburger, medium. Thank you!"

I smiled through gritted teeth as I took away her menu and thanked her. Walking away, I cursed the gods. Gods, I addressed them, if you're going to give me a one-top, can you at least give me a one-top who orders the $44 New York Strip Steak and drinks like a fish?

The gods must've heard. "Oh, wait!" the lady at table 45 called to me. I returned to her table, and she rested a hand on my arm. "I'll have another Casper after all. I'll just take two ice cubes. My teeth are so sensitive. I can't handle the cold!"

I chuckled. "No problem!" All right, at least she's a fishlike drinker.

Over the course of the evening, I checked back in with the lady at table 45. She seemed very sweet and bumbly. She praised the garlic dressing, asking for more and more of it. She fawned over the cheeseburger, claiming it was the best burger she'd ever had. She ordered Casper after Casper, two ice cubes only. Every time I swung by her table, she was cheerful as a toddler, having the time of her life at the one of the smallest tables in the restaurant, enjoying one of the simplest meals off the menu.

After I'd cleared her dishes and left her with a clean table and a near-empty highball glass with two melting ice cubes inside of it, I offered her dessert.

"Oh, I do love the key lime pie!" she exclaimed.

"Totally," I agreed, "I love it, too. Shall I order you a slice?"

She shook her head. "Sadly, I'm allergic to nuts."

"A tragedy!" I replied. "All of our desserts have nuts! Can I offer you a scoop of ice cream?"

She pointed to her teeth. "Too sensitive," she reminded me. "My poor teeth can't handle it! I'll tell you what. I'll have one more drink, please. And that'll be my dessert."

"Absolutely," I smiled at her and began to walk away from the table when she stopped me.

"Kim," she said in her soft, heartfelt voice, "thank you so much for a wonderful evening. You've really changed my mind about this place. I used to come here all the time, but then I stopped. I don't know why, I was just sort of over it. This is the first time I've come here in about a year. I work around the corner. And I must say, I have you to thank. You've given me a wonderful evening, and I'm looking forward to coming back."

I was stunned. And touched. I couldn't think of anything else to say except, "Thank you so much!" So I said that.

As I walked back to the wait station to re-ring her Casper, I couldn't help but feel very happy about the compliment she'd paid me, and how I'd made a difference in not only her night, but her attitude about the restaurant. I felt proud, but at the same time I felt limp. My dad always used to say, "There are some things you should be glad you're not that good at doing." It's weird to know that you're a good waitress.

After the lady at table 45 paid the bill, I took one last visit to her table to pick up the credit card slip and bid her goodnight. She was such a sweet woman, and I was moved by how great of a night she'd had with a cheeseburger and her Blackberry. I reached down and picked up the signed copy of the check. "It was lovely getting to know you," I said. "I hope to see you again soon!"

"I hope to see you soon, too!" she replied. "Thank you."

I smiled at her one last time, and walked away. As I slipped the signed copy off of the check presenter, two crisp $20 bills fell off, too. I stopped in my tracks and counted. Two $20 bills. I looked at the check. The bill was only $70 in total! And she tipped me $40 in cash? I was so affected, I couldn't even move. This one lady, this lady who only ate a salad and a cheeseburger, gave me the largest tip of my life. I almost started crying. It was one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. It was right behind the first time a boy told me that he loved me.

I turned around and caught her before she left. I addressed her by name, which I remembered from swiping her credit card. "I really must thank you again for your generosity," I said to her. "Thank you. I'm really quite moved. Thank you."

She smiled at me and said, "Thank you. You know, people think that going out to eat is just getting food and getting drinks, but it's not. It's about the experience, and you gave me a great one tonight. I'll be back. Thank you."

And as we smiled at each other and hailed one another with mutual appreciation and affection, we parted ways. She waved goodbye to me and stepped back outside, and I headed into the kitchen, my arms full of dirty plates but my insides full of certainty that kind, wonderful people exist in this world.

Get OUT of here

Last night, I was at my restaurant job and I dropped off a bottle of tap water and six small plates to my friend's table, as she worked their first round of drinks. As I set the plates and the bottle in the middle of the table, the girl on the end looked up at me and said, "Are we supposed to drink water out of plates?"

I was so stunned by this Bitchiest Question I'd Ever Heard that I made her repeat it. "Excuse me?"

With eyes wide, she asked again, "Are we supposed to drink water out of plates?"

I fought between slapping her across the face and screaming, but finally I settled on replying, coolly, "Elizabeth is right behind me with your glasses of water." And then I walked off.

WHAT A BITCH. I've never heard anything so nasty! I was appalled, humiliated, pissed and also hysterical with laughter all at the same time. Get OUT of here, lady. Through with you.

The fantastic and fantastically sexy ariANDemma do it again

They made a cat video. Fuck, yeah!

Bumming all of a sudden over fake dessert

I was enjoying my late-night cup of Silk soy milk and a couple spoonfuls of chunky peanut butter---if you a cry a little bit, it all tastes like ice cream---when I read a surprising headline:

"Arnold Schwarzenegger, Maria Shriver Announce Separation."

I'm bummed to hear this. As someone with divorced parents who remain single, I'm always flabbergasted when I hear about the separations of longtime couples. Schwarzenegger and Shriver have been married for almost thirty years; why break up now? Is everything in the marriage really going that poorly? Anyway, I directed a full blog post to Political Subversities, click the link to read it in full.

All right, off to finish my milk. Maybe I'll also finish Ratatouille, which I've never seen and have been watching intermittently throughout the night.

The Queen of the May: a Thoroughly Enjoyable Evening of Sharp Writing and Smart Jokes

Last week, I had the pleasure of seeing The Queen of the May and Her Harvest Kings: An Evening of Competition at Galapagos Art Space in Dumbo, Brooklyn. I'd never been to Galapagos before. When I got there, I was stunned. I honestly thought it was going to be a shack. (Aren't most Brooklyn theater spaces shacks? Zing!) It couldn't be farther from a shack. If you've never visited, Galapagos Art Space is a gigantic cabaret-style theater with luxurious table seating and a full bar. The seating areas sit on cement peninsulas that branch from a bridge. This bridge functions as the main aisle from the back of the theater to the stage. Underneath the bridge and seating areas, there's water. It's lovely, but don't drop your purse in there.

The Queen of the May... is a new play by Evan Watkins and Andrew Farmer, who portray (ridiculously fraternal) twin brothers in this absurd, 1920s "evening of competition" in which they fight for the heart of Eunice Cole (played by the incandescent, Dorothy-esque Valerie Graham). Eunice, the newly-crowned "Queen of the May" and heiress to the Cole Family Slaw fortune, must choose one of the brothers to be her man by play's end. With a twinkly piano score executed dapperly by Michael Lapinsky, the play seemed plucked directly from the 1920s. All of the actors' vocal choices were reminiscent of classic performers from the early 20th century. Roe Hartrampf, at the conclusion of the play, even threw the audience a "Merry Christmas!" to seal his take on Jimmy Stewart. The decision to mimic Stewart was not so timely to the play's 1920s era, but it was close enough and so entertaining that I just didn't care.

That's what the play was for me, in sum: ceaselessly entertaining. Among my favorite moments was the limerick portion of the competition, during which the twins recite their own limericks to impress Eunice. Another memorable scene was the seemingly-improvised idioms competition, in which Watkins and Farmer make up ageless sayings based on Graham's suggestions. I'll never forget Farmer's quip to Graham's proposal, jazz: "It's not just the notes that are black." I have to say, I loved every single one of the play's lighthearted racist jokes. They poked fun at the time in history when we all had our noses in the air when it came to immigrants. Blacks, Asians, Jews---Farmer once addressed an audience member simply by bellowing, "Hebrew!"---everyone was ridiculed, but so subtly it was sometimes not even addressed as a joke. Another memorable hidden joke arrived at the end of the play, when the twins encouraged each other that tomorrow's a new day: "October 29, 1929!" Everyone in the theater bellowed with laughter, but I admit: I had to look up the date. It's the date of the Stock Market Crash. I thought it was the smartest joke I'd ever heard, even though, initially, I didn't get it.

The Queen of the May... closed last Tuesday, but I hope it's remounted again soon. The story and its characters are incessantly funny and the way the plot unfolds is actually quite mysterious, despite its lightheartedness. I was impressed by the sly way Watkins and Farmer were able to execute their improvisation talents, but mostly, I was amazed by their writing. It was sharp and loyal to the time. The script simmered with nonstop, often-so-subtle-they-were-unaddressed jokes, which made getting them all the more satisfying. I had an enjoyable time, and haven't laughed so hard at the theater in a long time.





Postcard by Bowen Yang. Photos by Sasha Arutyunova.

Dear Mom

Dear Mom,

Happy Mother's Day! Thank you for all that you've done for me and all that you continue to do for me. Specifically:

Thank you for following your dream, coming to the United States, meeting the sandy-haired guy with the moustache, marrying him in his parents' house and taking those thirteen hours to birth me. Thanks for giving me this dimple. You have two and Dad has none, so I guess it averaged out to one for me. I used to feel lopsided, but now I like rocking just the one. Thanks for paying for all those dance lessons, and for buying me those tan leather tap shoes once I realized the shiny, patent black ones were so last year. Thanks for the braces. I don't think I'd be where I am now if I had the out-of-control teeth that I had ten years ago. Thanks for the car that you got for me when I was a senior in high school. That was awesome. And thanks for being a mom who drives stick. That's awesome.

Thank you for being the strongest and most hardworking woman I know. How do you do it all? How do you stay so focused? How do you work so many hours in the week without taking a substantial break? You're a machine. Sometimes, I work many hours in the week but then oftentimes I flip out on someone (maybe even you) and cry. You don't do that. You just watch a BBC movie.

Thank you for shrugging off the dumb men who come into your life. I wish I could do that more easily. You know you're better than them. I wish I could respect myself in the way that you respect yourself. Thank you for not taking anyone's bullshit. I hope to be as confident in myself one day.

Thank you for being beautiful. I like to think that I inherited your smile. Thank you for making me drink milk when I was young, so that I'd be taller than you. Thank you for making me see that the little things are little. Thank you for saying, "I'll help you." Thank you for being the woman I hope to be someday.

You're truly the best. I love you so much. And I love this picture of you. I hope you don't mind that I put it up here.

Your loving daughter,
Kimberly

A story from my friend, the barista

I enjoyed rooftop beers tonight with two old roommates and dear friends of mine. I don't see them much anymore because we have crazy jobs and wildly different lives, but whenever I see them I realize how much I miss crowding onto one of our beds late at night to watch Arrested Development. I love these girls.

One of them works for a reality show. The other works as a barista at an Upper West Side cafe that I've yet to visit. She told us this bizarre, uniquely New York-ly funny story tonight that I can't stop thinking about.

At this tiny cafe on 94th Street and Amsterdam, she usually works by herself. She opens at 8 o'clock in the morning, but hey, she gets to play her own music. The cafe shares a window with an art studio. Sometimes, people call out coffee orders from ceramic painting stations. She can make one mean latte, she boasts.

There's a customer who comes in quite frequently: a man, who's balding, or maybe he just shaves his head. She can't tell. He looks vaguely European. The first few times she made his drink, she thought it strange the way he loitered so close to the counter, watching her work. Now that she's grown more familiar with him, she finds him actually quite hot. One day, she passes him his drink and says, "What's your name?"

He looks taken aback at this question. He thinks for a moment. She wonders why he has to think so hard about his name, and begins to regret the spontaneous "Let's be more than barista and paying customer" gesture she just made. Rewind. Rewind. Abort, abort.

"Well," the vaguely European, balding, maybe just shaven, actually quite hot man replies. "People call me Bun."

She stares at his reflective head. "Your friends call you what?"

"My friends call me Bun." He has an accent, but she can't detect what it is.

"Bun," she repeated. "Your name is Bun?" He smiles.

"Bun!" she cried out to us on the rooftop. "I wanted to ask him what his real name was. But I didn't."

The three of us sat in giggly silence, brainstorming what "Bun" could possibly stand for, or be short for. She leaned back and titled her face toward the sky, puffed on a cigarette. I took a sip of beer. It was growing strangely cold.

One of my favorite Steve Martin jokes

I'm re-reading Steve Martin's New Yorker piece, Seventy-two Virgins, from 2007. It makes me want to share one of my favorites of his stand-up jokes. One time in high school, I turned it into a monologue for an audition. It didn't translate that well.

"Actually, I'm kind of thinkin' about my old girlfriend, I guess. Sorry. It's just that I used to travel around and I'd be performing and I could kind of hear her laugh in the back. It'd mean something to me, you know and, uh...I'm sorry. You know how it is. We were together about three years and, uh, she's not living any more.

"I guess I kind of blame myself for her death. Uh, we were at a party one night and we weren't getting along and we were fighting and she began to drink and...I didn't realize how much she'd been drinking. She ran out to the car, she asked me to drive her home and I didn't want to and I refused. She asked me one more time, would you please drive me home? I didn't want to...so I shot her."

--Let's Get Small, 1977

"You cannot wait us out. You cannot defeat us."

I'm not a Georgetown student in a tree, but I am pretty obsessed all of this Osama bin Laden stuff.

Mostly, I'm interested because this all seems like an episode of Alias, starring the abs-tastic Jennifer Garner, the should-be-more-famous Michael Vartan, the not-yet-famous Bradley Cooper, and Victor Garber, whose Titanic role will always hold a special place in my heart. Except the people in this real-life episode of reality are way less attractive and probably have way less sex with each other. Leon Panetta is definitely no Michael Vaughan.

When the news broke, I was astonished as to how dramatic the situation was. The CIA had been quietly tracking Osama bin Laden for years, and knew of his whereabouts since August. Over the past eight months, the plan was conceived, curated, and it ultimately culminated into what we know now as "Geronimo." And in under an hour, the U.S. completed what they (we?) set out to do in September 2001: conquer bin Laden. In one flawless take, the Navy SEALs ended him. And Obama gave the "go" on this risky plan of attack. Wow.

I can't get over that picture of Obama, Biden, Clinton and a dozen others in the Situation Room, overseeing the raid as it was happening. Clinton's hand is over her mouth. Obama leans forward. Everyone seems paralyzed. The tension is the room is clear. The possibility of failure simmers in everyone's minds. Somewhere offscreen, a speechwriter writes two speeches, one telling of success and the other of defeat.

"We got him," Obama will say. "We got him."

Earlier "funny women post" reminded me of this

Her name is Jenna Marbles. You've got to give this clip at least a full minute for it to become the most genius thing you've ever seen, but trust me: it'll be one of the most genius things you ever seen.

Thank God @allegradc showed this to me. It brightened my life in huge ways.

What I want to be when I grow up

My friend Ryann said recently, "Dear Tina Fey, I appreciate what you've done for women in comedy, but why did you have to do it first?" That's kind of how I feel about this new Judd Apatow movie, Bridesmaids.

From age seven through age twelve, becoming a cast member on Saturday Night Live was all part of my career plan. Right after I graduated magna cum laude from Harvard University and won a Best Supporting Actress Oscar playing opposite Tom Hanks (as my father). That's right, I was going to win an Oscar before landing a spot on SNL. Special, no?

Then I learned that you had to be a superstar at Second City or the Groundlings or whatever in order to even be considered to audition for SNL. Then I didn't even come close to getting Harvard-worthy grades in high school. I also didn't get cast in my school's production of Little Shop of Horrors, which pushed my Tom Hanks dreams even further away. And it all went to shit.

It really didn't all go to shit, but now I've meandered away from my point: Bridesmaids looks awesome, and I'd do anything to be on that poster next to Kristen Wiig and Maya Rudolph and Ellie Kemper. I remember confessing to my freshman year acting teacher that I feared women weren't funny; I am a woman, and therefore I must not be funny. This teacher told me to get it together and shut up about that. I'm glad she did---I was talking bullshit. These Bridesmaids women are funny. (They also happen to be beautiful and skinny, but that's another blog post.) And lucky for me, the women in my immediate working circle, those of Political Subversities and, until yesterday, The First Ladies Project, are indeed the most hilarious and smart women I've ever worked with. If I keep writing and performing with them, I imagine Bridesmaids 2 will someday present itself.

Or, you know, something original. Bridesmaids 2 already sounds like it'll be bad.

A huge evening

It's moments like these when I feel like I'm a part of history, a part of something huge. I also feel that Brian Williams must be really tired right now. It's 12:53 in the morning, for goodness sake! Does he live two blocks from Rockefeller Center? That'd be convenient for breaking news stories like these.

I feel like a lighter human being. Gigantic events remind me that the fucking annoying things we experience in everyday life are actually nothing in comparison to successes like this one. Let those things go. Remember that huge triumphs happen.