just for once, i’d like to know who buys this stuff and what they actually do with it. do they boil it in a pot? and then what happens?

 

chinatown.

the corner of this city where things go to die.

literally.

i once worked on a tv show whose production office sat smack dab on the border of chinatown and little italy.

i worked there for 5 months. which, in film world, is an eternity. the entire summer took place within this amount of time. and there’s purpose in my telling you this.

the parking garage i frequented at 8:40am, everysingleday, was situated in the very heart of asia-meets-america land, and at 20-buckos a day, it was by far the cheapest in the neighborhood.

so i parked.

but (BUT) then there was the 6 block walk to the office.

wherein i held my breath the entire way.

the.entire.way.

i’m positive i could probably break records for the length of time one can hold their breath.

[do they give out awards for that? could i win a prize or something?! or have my picture taken with someone really important? who do i need to call???]

new york city summers are unlike anywhere else. and believe me, i know heat and summers.

[oh hi, i grew up in the humidity mecca of the south. thank you, i know my heat.]

it’s different here. mainly because the steel trap of the 900-floor buildings, positioned every 3 meters, seals shut said heat . . . and muck . . . and other people’s body sweat . . . and anything that’s dead or dying . . . in one big vacuum for all of us to trudge through like swamp men fly-fishing in a river with no fish while sword fighting their way through swarms of gnats that multiply by the microsecond.

add THAT to those 6 blocks lined with tins and bins of rotting fish and pigs and a vast array of other things (like dogs, i’m sure. the chinese eat dogs. i know this. i’m not judging, it’s just not my thing.) in the rising morning blazing new york city sun and

holyfuckthiscan’tbehappeningithinki’mgoingtodie.

by the time i got to work each day, i either stuck my head in the toilet like some bulimic chick tossing up the 3 grapes and 1 almond she ate on the way to work, or with my head on a desk just trying to regain consciousness long enough to remember my middle name.

[which is rankin.]

a few weeks in, i moved to a different parking lot.

and at a step up to 33-buckos a day, i hardly gave a shit because by now i’d convinced the suits over in los angeles to allow me to submit my receipts for reimbursement, thus keeping the 33-buckos in my own pocket, and calling it a day.

[SUCKERS ! ! ! !]

i don’t spend a lot of time in chinatown.

today i spent a lot of time in chinatown.

and this is how i’m dealing with it.

yeah, we’re making belinis over here.

girly?

i don’t really care.

it’s a happy collision of liquid parts and i’m pretty effing stoked about it.

and the guy at checkout counter told me he liked my pigtails.

so, there’s that.

cubicles are for suckers. now watch me get forced into a cubicle for saying that.

don’t be fooled by the giddy expression splashed across my face.

[or do. your choice.]

there are approximately 7 people i want to stab in the face even as we speak.

but.

they pay me to be in this position.

[not all the time. but sometimes.]

at home.

on my couch.

in a tank top.

[i can wear a tank top because i’m indoors. which means i’m not outdoors.]

clutching my boob?

apparently.

go figure.

i didn’t put any make-up on today. (obviously.)

why, you ask?

because i don’t have to see anyone.

no one.

i like days when i don’t have to put on make-up.

or real clothes.

or even brush my teeth.

[which i do anyway because i’m just that kind of girl and take pride in the pearlies and am acutely aware that gum disease is directly related to heart failure. i’m not so much into heart failure. or gum disease, for that matter. keep brushing, folks.]

but don’t worry.

i’m just like you and have days when i hate my job more than anything in the universe and want to set all of hollywood on fire and watch it burn slowly to the ground while sitting in some villa in the south of france. picking grapes. or my nose. that’s gross. like gum disease, gross.

today isn’t one of those days.

tomorrow could be.

it’s way too early to tell.

call me when you know something. anything.

producer: i’d like to hire you for this shoot. you come highly recommended.

marcy: thank you. so, what’s your budget?

producer: i don’t know.

marcy: ok. well. how much are you offering me to do the job?

producer: i don’t know.

marcy: ok . . . . um . . . . want to call me tomorrow? like, when you know something?

producer: sure.

 

i could slam my head into a wall.

and might.

who do i sue if i get murdered on the job?

i once (or maybe more than once) wrote a diddy about how one of these days my job is gonna get me killed.

i also have an incredibly wild imagination. but i’m as equally trusting of everyone (hello, southerner) as i am completely aware of my surroundings (hello, big city dweller)

today i climbed a series of spiral, almost impassable staircases, followed by a zilllion-story ride up a century-year-old elevator shaft, and some time spent navigating my way across scaling a rooftop.

with a newfangled, seemingly out of sorts, “custodian.”

[i will call him a custodian because i actually have no idea who he was or what he does. i just know he had a bunch of keys and wore a prison-inspired janitor-type jumpsuit. and some guy named max, who i also do not know, put me in his company on a journey to climb to the top of a clock tower that no one ever goes up to, but yet one that an army of people were breathing down my neck to investigate.]

all for this:

sure, let’s send the white chick in the skinny jeans and see-thru top up to the bell tower. alone. with the custodian. and no weapons.

[and when i say see-thru, let me bring it home by explaining that you can see my bra and everything in between my collar bones and hip bones way better than if i’d voluntarily partaken in an impromtu wet t-shirt contest sponsored by a hoard of derelicts in the bowels of the special section of myrtle beach. thank you, j.crew, for not putting a disclaimer on your garments. and thank you, marcy, for not looking at yourself in the mirror before you raced out the door.]

the custodian was relatively normal. by what standards, i’m not sure. he hummed an unrecognizable tune the entire 30 minutes we spent together (alone. in the bell tower. with no weapons. and a see-thru top.), but he also rocked a demeanor that suggested he was tripping his face off on a variety of hallucinogens while serving out his first week in a parole-appointed occupation.

did i mention that no one goes up here? ever?

NO ONE. EVER.

if he stumbled into a psychopathic mindset, and did the unthinkable, NO ONE WOULD EVER KNOW.

[but you can bet your sweet ass that keith morrison would host an applaud-worthy segment about me on dateline. with cool sound effects and an array of photos from my youth, carefully wound together in a montage portraying the life and mysterious disappearance of a brown-eyed girl from a good family. and then i’d be famous.]

my mom gave me mace once.

it’s sitting on my dresser.

i’m doing this wrong.

sometimes you just have to take a step back and say woah. and then say happy new year.

as the oldest of four and the oldest of eleven (ooookay, that made no sense. oldest of four siblings . . . oldest of eleven grandchildren), i think it was scripted in my DNA to always have it together. to do things first. to do things right.

well, screw right.

i’m gonna fuck some shit up, do it backwards, do it last, do it on my own accord, and by god make no apologies for it whatsoever.

and i’m [finally] okay with that.

i sort of always did it that way anyway.

[after all, i’m the only one who ever really left. and by left, i mean packed ship from the confederate states, left the safety net of home, and made no promises that i would see anyone within a calendar month. or even two. and sometimes multiple months may pass. and that’s okay, too. we have phones.]

as the new year rolled in, i made no attempt at making any resolutions. primarily because i didn’t really think about it. and subconsciously because i didn’t want to let myself down when i failed one (or all) of them by january 3rd.

screw resolutions.

and screw right.

[again.]

what i did do as the new year rolled in is drank and abundance of cheap champagne, sang songs of my liking at the tip top of my lungs, probably danced (who am i kidding. of course i danced.), rubbed an aloe plant on my skin for no better reason than someone actually brought an aloe plant to the party (?!?), told the people i love that i love them, made some people laugh, made myself laugh, sat by a bonfire and took and absurd number of photos (with my mouth wide open, apparently. why do i do this? okay, maybe this is my resolution.), and played the harmonica (poorly) while wearing a soccer ball-inspired bucket on my head.

what the hell did YOU do?

i did make myself one promise, though. and i’ll be damned if i break it.

2012 will be the better of years i’ve ever known.

a lot of things may change. and some things may stay exactly as they are.

but there is one thing that will not change.

i won’t change.

not the real me.

the me that i like.

the one that makes people laugh.

the one that makes myself laugh.

the one that is there when people cry.

the one that is there when i cry.

the one that sings.

the one that dances.

the one that wears buckets on my head.

the one that, at the very essence of my core, i have always been . . .