WHEN I DECIDED I WAS GOING TO BE A SINGER

They say that people create the best art out of their darkest moments. One morning, after an interesting sequence of events, I walked through the streets of Manhattan like a zombie. Words were floating through my head like paper planes in elementary school. I was talking to myself, singing to myself; I even bought myself a black dress. “Retail therapy” they call it. Then I jumped on the train where I wrote my second poem of the day. “Hopelessly Devoted,” I called it, like the song Sandy sang in Greece. How pathetic I was that morning. You know how babies cry and get emotional because they haven’t slept enough? Yeah, I think that happened to me.

So I’m writing this poem on the train, right? In between talking to my self and emitting random bursts of laughter, the person next to me switches seats. (This happens pretty often). After writing my poem and feeling really good about myself (in other words, depressed as shit), I walk into my aunt’s hair salon to find Roberto. Roberto: the beautiful shampoo guy from Venezuela.

When I asked if he was gay, he replied, “I’m not, but my partner is.” You get the point.
Roberto is also a part-time counselor, so he immediately sensed my despair.
“What’s wrong darling?” he asked, in his most exquisite accent. While complaining about my first world problems, “Hopelessly Devoted” came on the radio. I stopped talking and started singing. Every word came straight from the heart. It felt amazing.

That’s when my middle aged, off-the-boat Italian aunt said those life-changing words: “Wow Bianca, you have an amazing voice. Quit your internship and follow your dream. Become a singer.” Everyone in the hair salon agreed with her. I didn’t believe a word. I though she was bullshitting me…but my aunt wasn’t the type to beat around the bush. She would have straight up told me to “SHUT UP!” if I was bad.

I immediately turned to Roberto, desperate for an inch of positive reinforcement: “Am I good? Really?” He nodded his handsome head. “Fantastic,” he said.

I was skeptical, but they continued reassuring me of my singing talent for the rest of the day. So I sang every song that came on the radio like it was mine. I even talked about how it was “meant to be” and that I was “psychic” because I wrote a poem called “Hopelessly Devoted” earlier that day only to hear it later play on the radio
(I put that occurrence in my psychic portfolio).

It wasn’t long before I called my musically inclined friends and said, “Let’s start a band!”

“I write and sing, you play the instruments.” Everyone seemed interested, so we arranged our first band practice.

I always liked to sing. When I was a kid I used to sing in the shower. On the bus in middle school I used to sing Italian songs and make up raps with my friends. In high school I took opera lessons, but that wasn’t my thing. In college I was a member of the glee club (for a day). I recently acted as a “singer” in a music video. I thought this all happened for a reason. It was fate.

For the rest of the week I was singing all the time. I walked down the streets of Manhattan singing songs from Joan Jett and the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s.
(Good thing I live in a city where people are used to crazy).

I also talked about my new idea to people at my internship.

One day, while my intern friends and I were returning to the office with a car driver, I began singing songs from the radio. Everyone was silent but the car driver. “I want your autograph,” he said. “You think I’m good? Really?” I said. “Yes, you will be famous, sign here.”

Now that I think about it, it was the stupid bill he wanted me to sign.

So…I walked back into a half empty office feeling really good and screamed out to one of my bosses, “the car driver wanted my autograph because he thinks I’m going to be a famous singer.”
“I hope you gave it to him,” was all she said.

“I’ll take a spread in the next issue,” I then told her. “But I choose the photographer and stylist,” and walked out.

I hope I don’t get fired for that.

Things were starting to look up. I was going to get my magazine spread, I signed my second autograph: little could stop me now. (The first was my elementary school teacher. I’ve been at this for a while)

The next day my friend and I even discussed my singing career over dinner.
“I will give you lessons,” she said. “Then I think you should learn the piano and the guitar.” This was becoming too much for me. Piano and guitar? All I wanted was to sing my poetry. I just wanted to be heard.

The next morning I woke up at my aunt’s house and began singing again. “How was that?” I asked. “Can you shut up,” she said.

No she didn’t. I thought she liked my singing. What was she implying here? “Please, don’t quit your day job,” she then blurted out.

It was all a lie, all of it. My dream of the week was being shot down.

Then she looked at me. “Bianca, you thought I was serious? I was being sarcastic. Oh mamma mia. If someone gives you dog shit wrapped nicely, you’ll buy it.”

Whatever, my poem is still awesome.

PREPARING FOR THE WORST DAY OF THE YEAR, VALENTINES DAY

            I despise Valentines Day. Every year Valentines Day creeps up on me, slowly, and when it hits, it’s painful. I always complain about not having a date on Valentines Day, and then I remember all of the men who asked me out. I have a different excuse for everyone. For the good male friends who are always trying to make the moves I say, “I’m sorry, I’m in love with someone else.” For the acquaintances I reply, “I am going to the movies with my best friend,” and for most I ignore the text.

            I am petrified to give these kids a chance on Valentines Day; it is way too risky. The stars are aligned especially for "love," which causes people to get in weird romantic moods, and later want to make out with you. I would just rather not. Don’t get me wrong; I am by no means a cold and frigid woman. I am in fact a very loving and kind person. It's you, it's not me. 

 Preparing for Valentines Day usually requires both physical and psychological preparation. First, I must make sure I have all of the necessities, which are: chocolate, wine, toilette paper, and a sarcastic girl friend to be cynical with me. Second, I must make sure I do everything in my power to feel extra unromantic and unkind. “I must be strong. I must be wise. I must be a bitch.”

I don’t know why I’m like this.

            I’ve only had one Valentine throughout my whole life. I don’t know what the rest were. It was great, we exchanged gifts in the lunchroom while all of our friends surrounded us like puppies.  He told me exactly what he wanted weeks in advance without making me have to come up with a gift idea on my own. He even told me the price and the location of where to buy it. I think his mother or someone picked out my present. So not too much work on his part. It was one of those perfumes that make you smell like a child prostitute. 

One day my best friend came over, went into my closet and sprayed herself with it. No one but myself had ever used that perfume before. I flipped out. She was going to walk around wearing my perfume from my childhood crush all day. It just didn’t sit well with me. I had only used half an inch of the bottle in 8 years. It wasn’t just something you sprayed around. What the hell was she thinking? I do recall her reaction to my outburst: “It's kind of scary that you still have this, Bianca."

I treasure my memories, I don’t know about you.

Then she told me that if I liked it so much, I should go to the store, buy another perfume, and pour it into the bottle; but it just isn't the same.

            My second "Valentine" was this guy from Italy. After speaking on the phone for a couple of hours my phone bill was pretty expensive, that’s when I realized long distance wasn’t for me. If he wanted to email, even send letters, fine, but no more phone calls. Plus, his Italian accent was way too enticing. What a tease. No more European boyfriends... no way.

            To feel better about myself, I called a few of my single girl friends to ask them what they were doing tomorrow. One said she was "lurking around the house," and the other said she was "going to a bar, alone."
Good thing I have a nonpaying job that keeps me super busy until all hours of the evening. I hope they tire me out tomorrow before my - oh no - date. 

             Just in case you were wondering, I like Ferrero Rocher and Kinder chocolate. As for wine, I actually prefer rum, and I have toilette paper so don’t worry about that. 

:)

Fur Coat for Christmas

I cannot get this phrase out of my head, “Fur coat for Christmas,” and I will tell you why. I know that Christmas is far-gone, but take this post as an informational session, a way for you to learn how to get what you want for the holidays next year. Believe me, it is a lengthy process that requires a great deal of conditioning and groveling.

As a spoiled & overgrown teenager, I know what I do to get what I want for Christmas. “But Nonna, I absolutely need all of these Mac products for work. When my boss texts or calls me on their iPhone, it is necessary that I have the same phone so communication is easy and quick. Complications will arise if I am not up to date technologically. Also, I need all of these new clothes because I need to look good for work.” Do I get what I want, yes, but it takes a lot of complaining and pretending to be too “stressed out” to eat her pasta. Once she realizes no one is eating her pasta she will do anything.

I know I am cute but I have a better story for you. My friend Kristie from high school knew exactly what she wanted for Christmas months in advance, and that was a fur coat. We all know a good fur coat is not cheap. The trick is to hold off on buying really nice things, now matter how badly you want them, because then, someone will just buy it for you for Christmas. Genius, right?

Now, how do we ascertain that someone will buy us exactly what we want? How do we make sure that it will be the right design, color, texture and most importantly, designer? We condition them. And that is exactly what Kristie did with her long time boyfriend Keith.

September – Kristie and Keith meet up for lunch. Kristie notices a woman wearing a fur coat. Kristie acknowledges how beautiful the coat looks on the woman and later states, “If that woman weren’t wearing that gorgeous fur coat she really wouldn’t look pretty at all, but it just brings out her eyes.” Keith nods in confusion.

October - Kristie and Keith are in a clothing store. After separating into their different sections, Kristie emerges from a pool of clothes to find Keith sitting on a couch waiting for her to finish shopping. To his, and apparently her surprise, she is wearing a fur coat. “Wow, how… how did this get on me?” she asked. “Anyway, how do I look?” Obviously, she looked fantastic in the coat. He wouldn’t forget it.

November -  “Fur coat for Christmas,” Kristie whispered in Keith’s ear while he was asleep. The “Fur coat for Christmas” actually started a few months prior, but she knew that she had to go full force the month before the big day, so she arranged more sleepovers than usual.

December – It is Christmas day and Kristie is impatiently waiting to see if all of her hard work had paid off.  She spent hours planning and working at trying to put the fur coat in the bag. All of her friends know about the coat and are expecting her to come to the next party in it.
Everyone is anticipating… FUR COAT.

While unwrapping, Keith gives her no signs as to what the present it. She bites her lip; her hand shakes while tearing the gift-wrap. The final moment has come. Has he gotten her the fur coat? Only the box is left. She opens the box. FURRRRRRRR

I caved, said Keith. I had to.

Kids, that is how you get what you want for Christmas. Now go get it.