Greenvale Townhouse.

The Greenvale Townhouse is a staple of any given night out. The breath-taking landscaping, waterfalls, and garbage receptacles are only the beginning. Past the front double doors and not-so-functioning Pac Man machine is not just any diner. It’s a magical gathering place of drunk, high, and often horny teenagers. It’s a feeding ground with a $4 minimum per person.

On most nights at the diner one usually pulls up in a car containing 4-5 drunk people and one sober person, that sober person being the designated driver. After scoping out the parking lot to see whose car you recognize, you proceed up handicap ramp into the diner only to be met by Mr. and Mrs. Greenvale Townhouse (aka. Gremlins). These two dubious characters never seem to happy to see a brigade of drunk kids barge in through the door.  They run this restaurant as if it has a Zagat rating and Wolfgang Puck himself is cooking your grilled cheese and french fries. Try sitting with your friends – they’ll put you on the other side of the restaurant. When you kindly ask Mrs. Greenvale Townhouse to seat you next to your friend, she suddenly mysteriously becomes a deaf mute who doesn’t speak english and proceeds to simply throw the menus on the table farthest from your friends.
While seated at the diner, after ordering from a rude hobbit-like waiter, the most exciting event is when the front doors open. That’s why I always sit where I am facing the doors. I wouldn’t be exhaggerating one bit when I say that whenever the doors open EVERYONE turns around to see who walked in hoping that it will be another drunk car pool of friends. Sometimes, its like a random middle-aged couple who’se awkwardly at the diner at 12am and they kind of look concerned. I can only imagine the husband saying to himself, “damn, i wish my wife could cook. That way i wouldn’t have to be here among these young biddies looking and old saggy hot mess…”
Many of us who frequent the diner have formed personal and very close relationships with the staff of the Greenvale townhouse. We tell them how much we drank, and they tell us about how hard their life is and how tired they are and we pretend to listen and care…
Paying can sometimes be a hassle. You get the check and try and figure out how much each persons meal is and how much each person needs to pay. But, there is always that one person who pretneds to be too drunk to remember to pay or that person that says they weren’t hungry and didn’t order anything but basically ate everyones food. Those people need to pay too. K?

Love you greenvale townhouse

People Are Crazy.

So this summer I drive my dad around all day from place to place while he makes calls and signs shit in the passenger seat. Really boring. But, driving around NYC all day has its perks.
In the city if your a pedestrian and you cross the street at the wrong time you basically die. But, while driving a car if you happen to make a right on red by accident while people are crossing the street you just kind of plow right through them as if they were bowling pins.
Another thing i noticed is that a lot of people living in the city must not have mirrors. And if they do, then they must be crazy.
The amount of hot messes i see walking the streets of NYC alone could be the cause of global warming. Just today this dude was walking around wearing JELLY sandals (you know, the ones from 1992 that came in 800 colors from the gap), jeans, and a BELLY SHIRT. What is all that about. Needless to say, he was stared at. A lot.
Or today this woman, who was very large, was wearing those wet-suite looking leggings which basically made her look like a dolphin whith cellulite.
I’ve also noticed a new trend with men’s clothing. JORTS (jean shorts) ARE NOT OKAY. EVER. please. i would never. Also, white pants, especially linen ones, are never okay. Unless your a nursem, cuban, or gay you should probobaly not wear white pants.
Now let’s talk about homeless people. I feel terrible for homeless people i really do. But honestly some of them are liars.
Like today i was jchillen in my car waiting for my dad to leave a meeting when a homeless man knocked on my window. He started talking about how he just got run over and was a war veteran and lived in LA and had no money because his wife runs a bank and stole his life savings and she went to new jersey and he needed to get downtown. The bottom line? he wanted $2.50. So, I gave him two singles and told him i didnt’ have the $.50… Two hours later i come back to pick my dad up again and homie is STILL standing there telling some other man the same story. This man gave him $5. Damn, who needs college? All you need is a sad story, a hospital bracelet, and your well on your way to making minimum wage every hour.
“did you get you fifty cents?” i asked.
And he said “you know what happened? well i was just about to call my wife (he had an iphone) and the money blew out of my hand…”
OOOKKAAYYY SIRRRR….
Ps. this is what im doing while im supposed to be working…. lalalalalalalallalala…..

LoveGame

The great philosopher Lady Gaga said it best in her hit single LoveGame, “It’s complicated and stupid…”
But, in most cases what I find myself thinking is, “It’s complicated because your stupid.”
In the game of love there are no rules, boundaries, or teams. It’s every man for himself.
In most cases a lovegame begins because one person is confused or socially retarded.
Aside from the fact that they may be sexually confused, which in itself is a problem, they might be confused about other things. For example, they might not be sure what they want out of the other person and therefore play hot and cold. Or, they could be “tied up” in a previous engagement which is just dumb.
The second one causes a person to sometimes act like a ho. Look, if you have a boo then you can’t let other people rub all up on you and be all up in your business. Like, are you out of your mind? How are you going to let someone do that and not expect them to deduce certain things… slut?
But, if you got a boo and you find yourself flirting with other people and letting other people be all up in your business then maybe its time you reconsider your relationship.
Like i don’t think that your booboo would be happy if they found out that someone else was ALLLLL up in your business. bitch what’s good?
xoxo

Orientation.

Umm okay. Orientation is really awks and uncomf. I mean, your basically forced into really awkward situations with the people who you’re going to be at school with in the fall. Everyone is overly nice and acts like every single commonality they have between them is enough for the “best friend” label. People rock their “nicest” clothes, or in some cases, the clothes that exude the “I’m too good for this and am not putting in an effort” attitude. That’s so transparent.
My problem with this is that if you make friends at orientation, its more than likely that you won’t be friends with them come fall. (except for maybe the first week when you have no other friends) so what’s the point?
My way of coping? Having my sunglasses on at all times and keeping constant eye contact with my blackberry screen so i looked as unapproachable as possible. That way, I could skip the whole “where are you from? what’s your major? i like your jacket” talk and observe every single person. This observation period is when i decide who i want to be friends with next year.
The most amazing awkward part of the evening was the totally cool and hip “Steinhardt Ball” aka a bar-mitzvah minus the giveaways and baby photo montage. I literally spent 4/5 of the time sitting at a table sipping on ginger ale watching people make fools out of themselves. The first reason was that i had told way too many people that i wasn’t going to dance and i felt as though i needed to live up to that. The second is that the only alcohol i was under the influence of was contained in the few sprays of cologne i was wearing. I don’t think i’ve danced sober since 8th grade.
Orientation is a 48 hour period packed with budding romances, interesting (and sometimes quite obvious) discoveries about people, the pre-formation of cliques, and the creation of a schedule.
During orientation i have some rules you should live by:
1. never ask for someones pin unless they ask you for yours
2. don’t even make the promise “omg we’re going to be best friends next year” because you probably won’t be.
3. don’t think your friends with someone just because your friends on facebook
4. don’t talk about someone whose facebook you stalked because they might be at the table your sitting at
5. try and sneak out, for shits and giggles
6. make friends with your orientation leaders so that they can buy your alcohol and tell you where to go out
7. make funny jokes and be friends with the woman that runs the “sexpert” hotline
8. eat. no one wants to be knows as anno/mano.
9. make an appropriate amount of outfit changed. (two a day will suffice. Three is getting carried away. 4 is just desperate.)
10. make sure your berry is charged at all times in order to avoid it dying during the totally posh “steinhardt ball”
11. don’t make too many celeb references because you just seem dumb
12. don’t talk too much and cause a scene because people will hate you
13. keep your eyes and ears open for potential gossip/drama (trust me it’s there before orientation has even started)
14. don’t be obnoxiously loud and talkative for attention. make people come talk to you and give you attention.
15. don’t mention your parents
16. pretend like you already know everything thats going on
17. don’t laugh too hard at anyones jokes, because then they think they’re actually funny and don’t stop talking
18. if some bitch tell you “umm sorry this elevator is full you can’t come in” give her a really dirty look and make sure your in a fight come fall
19. while making friends is important, so is making frenemies. find people to talk shit about.
20. Try and shy away from being known as “the britney spears impersonator” in order to avoid prejudgement.

and yeaa… make sure you’re don’t tell anyone anything too personal or shit like that because it might make for awkward situations.

Do You Want to End Up Like…

There are certain people, whether in the public eye or in your school, that are synonymous with a certain persona/action/or consequence. For example, Lindsay Lohan is synonymous with a sometimes heterosexual crackhead who cant seem to keep her beaver under wraps. Britney Spears is synonymous with a formerly successful pop-star turned head shaving crack head turned heavily sedated pop star. Then there is the nice neighbor who everyone thought was nice until their house was raided by the DEA one day…

Mothers, grandmothers, and old jewish women love these people. How many times have you heard, “Do you want to end up like…” when doing something your mother doesn’t approve of?

For example, the other day I walked in to the kitchen to get a few pretzel thins (which are so addicting by the way) before dinner.
“Stop snacking, dinner is almost ready!” said my mother.
“Mom, go away…” i whispered.
“Okay, do whatever you want. But, do you want to end up like your fat cousin? you know he’s never getting married…” and she’s off! Somehow eating pretzels will lead me to clinical obesity and a life of loneliness. Not only is jewish guild being used here but a great exaggeration. My cousin, we all think, has a sprinkle of downs since he never really got past the 8th grade level of learning – it’s sad.

Then there was the time my grades went down a little bit due to a very serious case of senioritus and chronic hang over. When my mom opened my report card she looked like she was about to cry and said, “Do you want to end up like Mrs.X’s son? You know he got kicked out of college and is a bum. His parents won’t let him live with them and he’s a big drug dealer now. I think the police are looking for him. Is that what you want? Fine, I don’t care…”
First of all, Mrs.X’s son doesn’t sell drugs. At all. He was never kicked out of college, he dropped out of graduate school because he couldn’t afford it and his parents don’t want to pay because he totaled his rover. The police are not after him, he had a DUI. But either way, thats not where I’m headed.

My favorite moments like this are when mothers think that because their daughter had a little to drink they’re going to be the next Lindsay Lohan and smoke their kneecaps off in crack and flash their flounder all over the place and be a skanky ho and get pregnant. What mothers don’t realize is that the more protective of your daughter you are, the more she’s going to be that. Before you know it, other mother’s will be like “do you want to end up like (insert over protected girls name)” I’ve seen it so many times.

The line “do you want to end up like…” is a great tactic for mothers to use. It is usually followed by someone who is extremely unfortunate, slutty, ugly, or rude. Its never someone who is moderately unlucky, its always someone whose life is in ruins and whose next choice might be euthanasia.

BBM.

Let’s take a look for a second at how far we’ve come with technology. In middle school you were cool if your phone had a color screen or a camera. Then, with the advent of main stream smart phones such as the Sidekick, that just didn’t cut it. Now, with phones like the iPhone and Blackberry it’s become so hard to keep up with it all.

I’ve never really been a big fan of using the phone as… a phone. I always preferred texting/using aim. Regular texting was just fine for me. I always checked my phone every once in a while and that system worked fine.
Of course, there were times when i wished i could see if someone read my text, was typing back, or was ignoring my text. But, at the same time, I didn’t want to know. This is the same dilemma people go through when asked the question, “do you want to know when you’re going to die.”

Yes, on one hand it would be nice to know when my death will come so that i can plan accordingly. Death is a big event to plan for. I’d have to buy the perfect outfit, be at the right place, and be surrounded by the right people. Lets face it, who wouldn’t want to die in an armani suite at the four seasons with a bunch of celebs?

Then again, isn’t that scary? Having a ticking death-bomb constantly in the back of your head? Do you mark off your calendar? Do you send out an email? Do you let the housekeeper know you’ll no longer need her after XX/XX/XX? It’s a lot of stress to handle.

Anyways, back to texting. Everyone wished that they could know these things about texting. Then, BBM came along and opened Pandora’s texting box. BBM can be SO EVIL sometimes.

Take for example the totally transparent mind-games people play with BBM. You know, the one where someone reads your BBM and doesn’t respond, or reads it and types for 20 minutes, or reads it and responds a year later. What about that kid who blatantly ignores your bbm (hey buddy, that icon with the clock means your ignoring). Like, what are you trying to prove? that your busy? that your doing something? that your oh so important? you clearly have your phone and take it everywhere with you. the only time i honestly believe that someone cant answer their phone for four hours is if they are dead. Like, at school you obviously have your phone I SEE YOU CHECK IT. All that does is make a 5 second conversation take four hours because if you took 20 minutes to answer my bbm obviously im going to make you wait to answer…. helloooo?

Okay. I’m done.

Now, you cant lie when you don’t answer a question on BBM. There are icons that mean everything. You can’t say “oh i never got your bbm…” they can see that!
You know, there are people who must have missed the “grammar” lesson because a lot of them don’t know what “?” symbol means. It’s a question. a question, my friend, requires an answer. If you read a question and don’t answer. you’re a d. Like, what are you doing? (That’s a question, see? so was that.) If you really want to stop talking to someone answer with a short and semi-rude answer.

But this opens another door. It’s called the “The other person needs to have sent the last bbm complex.” Yall know who you are. People will literally not answer a question or not respond because they can’t be the person who says the last thing? (i don’t have this problem so idk if i have it correctly). get a life boo.

Another thing about bbm: Identity theft. Not only is this a problem that the guy on TV who works at a fish and chips restaurant goes through, but many people who have blackberrys are also victims of this. Yes, anyone can just change their names on bbm and pretend to be someone else. It’s happened to me. It’s not fun.

And last but not least, the proverbial bbm bitch-slap: deleting someone off bbm. Yes, this is the biggest insult one can possibly experience within the realm of bbm. You KNOW someone is pissed when you can no longer find them on your contacts. When you can no longer bbm someone and have to resort to text or, dare i say, a PHONE CALL (everyone gasp at once) shit has hit the fan. People don’t take this lightly, i’ve literally sat with people who were venting to me about some DBag and had to seriously consider whether they should delete the person off bbm or not.

PS. Don’t laugh at me for knowing my pin by heart. loveya.

I Hate When They Do This.

My parents are young and chill. That’s the image I’ve always had of them and at this point in my life, that isn’t going to change. But, sometimes they just decide one day that maybe it would be fun to pretend to be real parents and be strict. Like, I’m ACTUALLY sure I can take them seriously. They just make things harder.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a spoiled brat. That’s fine. But that’s not my fault. I didn’t raise myself. Mom & Dad – It’s a little late to try and be strict parents.
Like this summer. I was supposed to do an internship. All was well and i was really excited until BAM my parents drop the JOB bomb on me. Mind you, this is like two weeks before the summer starts.
I don’t have a problem with working, honest. But I do have a problem with the fact that my parents decided I should get a job so late in the game. By this time all the fun jobs are taken by annoying college students who’ve been home and people whose parents aren’t annoying.
What am i supposed to do now, hmmm?
My dad started throwing around all these crazy ideas about me doing manual labor which i clearly shot down. I never took the “get your hands dirty” saying very seriously. The dirtiest my hands have ever been is a little ink from a printer.
Whatever.
If i end up doing nothing this summer and getting fat again i’ll be so upset it’s crazy.

What Are You Looking At?

You bitch.

I’m looking at you.

New York City is filled with people who might as well be wearing a sign that says “Please, stare at me.” You know, those people who make every attempt for people to stare at them only to snap at you and say “What are you looking at?”

Listen pumpkin, if your hair is pink. I’m going to stare at you. If you’re wearing underwear in the street. I’m going to stare. If you have 18 piercing. I’m going to stare. If your body is covered in tattoos. I’m going to stare. If your hair looks like a family of blue-jays has taken residence inside of it. I’m going to stare. If your a man wearing woman’s clothes. Get off the street. If you look like botox barbie. I’m going to stare. If your a freak. I’m going to stare.

Yes, if your definition of being an individual is wearing black women’s jeans, black wife beaters, combat boots, and rockin’ pink hair then you should expect to be stared at and judged. A little. Or a lot. Depending on who you ask. you may not want to admit it, but when you have a raggedy beehive on your head, you’re kind of asking to be stared at.

These people obviously know the answer to the question, “what are you looking at?” I’m obviously looking at whatever it is you’re wearing or whatever it is about your physical appearance that is so unusual and weird. I wouldn’t be staring at you if you looked like every other person on the street. If you don’t want to be stared at DON’T DRESS LIKE THAT.

What? Did you think that you would be able to get away with looking like a damn edward scissorhands and not be stared at. WRONG. It’s like a horrible car accident on the side of the LIE that you simply cannot stop staring at.

All i can think of was, what caused this person to want to dress like this? How many years of therapy do they need? What’s wrong with them? I don’t think anyone “JUST WANTS” to dress like a member of the circus. There has to be a reason.

Oh and this whole “loook at me im a real rocker im dirty and i smoke” thing. So not cool.

Junior Prom/Dance

Junior Dance sucks. It does.

After all the stress, fights, and drama you walk into the school only to be horribly disappointed upon entering the cafeteria. Did they think that turning off the lights, hanging a disco ball, and putting up some streamers would throw people off? No, I’m pretty sure I sat at the same table I eat at during lunch. Everyone look so dumb wearing dress clothes in the cafeteria. (I, on the other hand, opted for jeans both times). And don’t expect to leave, your locked in. Yes, the administration created a little game called “Quarantine.” The rules? Once you’re in, you can’t leave. Apparently the idea behind this is so that people don’t leave, drink, and come back (and just to be safe the school bought a breathalyzer). But what the school fails to realize is that the second those doors are open, everyone goes out and gets wasted.

In the cafeteria there are people sitting at tables, sitting on radiators, dancing, and eating. The most interesting people to watch are those that actually dance. You know that those are the kids who are going home after the school and going to sleep, they aren’t going to no club. These are the kids who have a 10 o’clock curfew. The same kids who get turned on by the kiss in high school musical, consider their cello a friend, and who still think that wearing their mother’s clothes is cute. These are the kids that “RAWK OUT” to kelly clarkson, clay aiken, and the totally edgy Avril Levigne. These are the kids who consider a fun, crazy night on the town going to a 5 o’clock dinner at the jolly fisherman with their favorite octogenarians. They dance like they’ll never be able to dance again. The cha-cha slide becomes an aerobic exercise and the cotton eye joe is when the most eligible bachelors show their skills.  These kids awkwardly bob, shuffle, and dip like there is not tomorrow – or at least until 10pm. Then, after a long night of singing along to Jonas Brothers tracks and reliving bar-mitzvah days, they all leave the building in their respective mom-driven mini-vans and station wagons. But, if they do go out. They go to the totally scandalous MAX AND BRENNERS for a intense meal of chocolate. or they go to a comedy club. wow. how. fun.

I’m getting bored writing this but yea you know the rest. Pre-game at someones house. Girls dress like street-walkers. A few people get really drunk. Someone throws up. Someone goes to the hospital. It smells. I want to kill them. A slut cries because someone rejected her. We get to the “club.” It’s yet another mid-town basement rented out for a night. People think they’re cool and smoke cigarets outside. We get back on the bus. It still smells. I want to kill someone. Get home. Some people sleep at someone’s house. Some don’t. Some people (me) go for a 5am diner run. Some people lose their virginity. Some people don’t. Some people get into fights. Okay. Cool. PEACE.

Nuggets.

Dictionary.com defines “Nugget” as:

1. a lump sum of something, as of precious metal
2. a bite-sized piece of chicken or fish; usually batter fried

But, the kind of nugget that it doesn’t mention is my favorite kind of nugget. It’s not the nugget that you find in a Happy Meal nor is it the kind of nugget you find in a bank vault. The type of nugget I’m talking about can also be described as “bite-sized,” but only if your a cannibal. Examples of these nuggets are Chuy, Oompas, and the little 4th grader I tutor once a week. I usually love nuggets. They make my life. But this little 4th grader is so annoying. I DARE you to try and sit with this kid.

Know it all doesn’t even begin to describe this child. He argues with me about everything and whenever something seems hard or confusing, suddenly it’s, “oh yea my teacher said we didn’t have to do that,” or, “no we don’t do it that way in my class,” or, “but it said that in my textbook.” (all of these are blatant lies)

Let’s take today for example. Written in borderline-hieroglyphics hand writing inside his busted assignment pad was written, “FINISH WORKSHEET AND WRITE ESSAY.” In my mind this meant that we would first do the worksheet and then do the essay. So, because he was too lazy, I read him the directions.

When I was done, I looked over for some sort of response but I honestly think I would have gotten more of a response from a comatose baboon. This nugget was staring into space so intently, I actually think he might have been learning something. I coughed, thinking that this would wake him up from his Adderall-induced trance, but my efforts were futile. So, I poked his Michelin-man arm with the “Dora the Explorer (pronounced explora for rhyming purposes)” pencil he had given me.

“Oh, yea okay that’s good…” he slowly responded as he stared at me blankly.

“What’s good?” I asked.

“Ugh! I don’t understand this it’s so confusing, it’s so hard. My teacher is so mean,” responded the 4 year old princess he responded.

“What don’t you understand?”

“What do I have to do?”

“The worksheet,” I answered pointing to what he wrote in the assignment pad.

“Ohh,” after a long pause during which we both stared at each other like we were about to fight, he continued, “my teacher said we don’t have to do that. I just have to write an essay.”

“Why did you write it then?”

“No I meant this sheet is what I have to finish, it’s the essay.”

“That’s a blank piece of loose leaf paper, not a worksheet.”

“This is what I meant Rom, I promise.”

“I promise you that you need to do this worksheet before you do the essay…”

“YOU WERENT IN MY CLASS YOU DONT KNOW WHAT MY TEACHER SAID I WAS LISTENING WHEN SHE SAID THAT.” He responded. With an attitude. Oh hell no. Did this little sausage just yell at me? This nugget barely hears what I say, and he expects me to believe he was listening to his teacher? No.

“Umm you need to relax buddy. Okay? You need to do this.”

He started yelling and talking about some stuff that was of no interest to me. I just re-read the directions loudly over him and completely ignored the fact that he was speaking. “Now do you understand?” I asked with a smile when i was done. He tore up the sheet.

“Essay it is!”

The essay didn’t go any better. He litterally writes like an illiterate cambodian child (before they get adopted by Angelina and sent to school). The directions asked to write a letter to the director telling them what SPECIFICALLY you would change about the movie. Enjoy an excerpt:

I think you movie is great but I think it needs a lot much improve because you should redo the movie because it’s not so good. The movie should be more happyful and more funny for people watching it. Sometimes i liked the movie but i didn’t really like it that much. The dog looked like my dog. The forest was nice.

We spent about 10 minutes arguing about how the first sentence didn’t make any sense and all he kept saying was “that’s how i always do it,” and “my teacher said its fine.”

“How did your teacher say it’s fine if you just wrote it?”

“No, It’s fine it’s just -”

“Happyful is not a word.”

“Yes it is, my teacher said so and it’s in my Children’s Dictionary.”

“Well my adult dictionary says its not a word, erase the “ful” and write ‘happier’”

“No but high-school dictionaries have different words.”

“No,” I erased the word and he re-wrote it in the most obnoxiously big letters, “okay now you have to write about specifics…”

“No! My teachers said -”

“The worksheet says specifics. I wasn’t there, remember? So i go by the worksheet.”

In the most dramatic way possible this dumpling collapsed to the floor, curled up in a ball, turned bright red, and began to cry. He looked like a boulder.

“The floor doesn’t have the answers, I promise,” I said, to which he started kicking the floor and screaming. “Oh, that’s a nice dance your doing there. And you do such a good immitation of a chimpanzee!”

“ITS NOT FUNNNYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY…YYYYY!” he screamed/sang/called in a piercing, ear drum crashing, obnoxious call.

“Well, from where I’m standing it is. Please get up and -”

“GET UP AND DO YOU’RE HOMEWORK. Sorry Rom,” intervened his mother.

My little McNugget slowly got up and waddled over to his chair. He erased “happier” and replaced it with “happyful.” Then, in letters so big it took up the rest of the page, he wrote “cinserly, XXXXXXX.” He then looked up at me with a malicious, spiteful smile and said “done.”

What this nugget doesn’t know is that two can play this game. He doesn’t realize that when I was tested for ADD and a teacher was asked to rate how “spiteful and vindictive” I was on a scale of 1-5, I got a 5. I know spite. I proceeded to fold his paper and rip it down the middle. I took out a new piece of loose leaf – or “worksheet” as he calls it – and placed it in front of him. “That was a nice first draft, now lets actually write the essay.”