7 Clips of My New York Life

Here I am, a month into my New York adventure.  Here is how my life is different:

1)      I spend about 2.5 hours on the subway each day, and I devote a lot of that time to wondering how New York has not yet been wiped out by some disgusting disease. How are we not all dead yet? Or at the very least, I find myself wondering how on earth everyone in New York does not constantly have diarrhea. Every time I touch the handle on the subway I think to myself, I should probably stop biting my nails. But then I zone out and my fingers find their way to my mouth and I’m probably that much closer to catching typhoid fever. Either that or my immune system gradually gets a little more immortal. Today I felt a lady on the subway breathe on my face though, and all I could think to myself was how badly and immediately I want to take a shower. But that’s a problem because…

2)      I haven’t showered in a few days. For some reason we are not getting any hot water lately, making showers completely intolerable—I have a theory that it’s because we live in church-owned property and so it’s assumed that, in solidarity with lepers, we want crusty skin. Based on the fact that my roommates do not smell rank, I can only assume that they have braved the icy water and gotten clean. I, however, am from California. Being from California doesn’t mean I can’t handle cold, it just means that I’m better than it and do not need to condescend to mingle with it. It has, however, reached a critical point and something must be done. I’m considering putting the kettle on and making a bath.

3)      The other week I was standing outside of St. Patrick’s Cathedral, trying to kill time, when a bride got out of a car and walked towards the doors. Because it had snowed so hard the night before, she had to hoist her skirt practically over her head so as not to get it dirty. And…well…thanks to her choice of underwear I accidentally got pretty stellar view of her ass. This, of course, made me feel morally obligated to attend her wedding…so I did. I watched this woman and her (now clothed) butt marry a very decent-seeming man, and she seemed very happy during the entire service. Hopefully her butt also enjoyed the Mass.

4)      Speaking of Mass, I have a cassock and a nun who waves to me whenever she sees me. If that’s not BAMF, I don’t know what is.

5)      Speaking of waving, people in my work neighborhood sometimes wave at me. I suspect it’s because I’m quite literally the only white person walking around, but part of me is hopeful that I’m going to find out soon that I’m actually the Harry Potter of East New York.

6)      At work I have literally nothing to do. And everyone is aware of this. I beg people to give me work, to let me help them with whatever task I can help with, but there simply isn’t anything for me to do. I’ve resorted to the tactic of drinking obscene amounts of water and then peeing every five minutes, just because needing to go to the bathroom lends a sense of importance (or at least urgency) to my day. It gives me an excuse to stride down the hallways purposefully. Otherwise, desperate for no one to resent me, whenever anyone walks by my desk I put my (empty) email inbox up on my screen and frown at it as if in deep thought. “Hmm,” says the look on my face, “I wonder how I can make these numbers crunch.” (Is that even a thing?) I narrow my eyes and scratch my shower-desperate head, as if to say, “Gosh, if I don’t resolve this problem we’re going to have all sorts of other problems.  Man, my work keeps me busy. There are just so many problems that keep me busy with diverse tasks and jobs, not to mention projects.” And then as soon as they walk past my office it’s back to daydreaming, thinking about how I wish Quakers still dressed like the Quaker Oats man, or reading papal encyclicals.

7)      I’m discovering that New Yorkers just do not give one solitary shit about farting. I cannot even tell you how many times I’ve been on a crowded subway and heard a loud bombshell, followed by the look in the bombers’s eyes that conveys a shrug and a “Yeah. What of it?” It's just a bit surprising, to say the least. Even for someone who hates New York, I always assumed that what I'd remember after my hopefully brief stay here would be the bright lights of Times Square or something glamorous. I'm not ashamed to admit that the first time I came to New York as a little girl, I remember singing this song (in Frank Sinatra accents) with my brother in the backseat of the car as we drove over some bridge, with the skyline coming into view:

 Part of me assumed that that'd be my takeaway from my life here. But I know me. I know that what I'll tell my grandkids about my time in the big city is the shameless church farter, or the SBD-dealer in a fine suit on the 3 train, or the people on the 1 train whose asses were attempting a three-part harmony.

Actually, what am I talking about, “New Yorkers do not give one solitary shit about farting”? New Yorkers don’t seem to give a solitary shit about anything.

Lucy Who's Cardboard TARDIS

I work in a faraway land called Brooklyn, in a building that I have to assume is made out of cardboard. I say this because the walls are so thin that I can hear everything. Like long discussions on the merits/shortcomings of various coworkers. I also swear I can hear the occasional euphemistic "struggle" from the bathroom on the far side of the building.

While waiting to be fingerprinted I have a desk job…minus the desk. With no fixed office home, I spend the day surfing between whichever computer happens to be free for a moment. During the two hours or so in which I was at “Lucy” ‘s desk, a coworker walked in, saw me sitting at Lucy’s desk, and said, “Lucy?”

Before I continue, let me stress that Lucy and this woman are long-term employees, and know each other. But she said “Lucy?” the way you’d say it if you bumped into Lucy after she had gotten a peculiar haircut, as in, “Is that really you, Lucy? What the actual eff have you done with your hair?” (Except the second part of that is kept to yourself.) Only this time, Lucy not only got a weird haircut, but also morphed from a confident black woman into a neurotic white jackass.

The “Lucy” was one of genuine confusion. The rational response to seeing me at Lucy’s desk would be to say, “Oh, is Lucy not in today?” Not, as happened here, to stare at me as though I could be a new form of Lucy. A regeneration if you will, like the Doctor. Yes, I am the 9^th Lucy. The 10^th Lucy will be portrayed by David Tennant when the 9^th Lucy is forced to regenerate after sacrificing herself to save the receptionist from a tragic filing cabinet accident, in which the safety mechanism malfunctioned and two drawers were able to be opened at the same time, causing a tear in the very fabric of space.

Such was the conviction of her “Lucy?” that I began to wonder if maybe I really was Lucy, and I nearly said, “Yes.” Instead we had a long silence in which we stared at each other from across the room, me in a throne-like chair with wheels behind someone else’s fine wood desk and her in the doorway holding a stack of files, to the music of the ticking clock and the buzzing fluorescent lights. And I really mean staring. Intense, unbreaking eye-contact, both of us fully aware of it and not sure how to proceed.

I’m not sure how things ended. Perhaps the other lady committed hara-kiri when I finally broke eye-contact. And so I was left alone again, updating children’s medical charts and entering in the dates on which they received their polio vaccinations.

In a misguided attempt to stay sane, when I enter this information I pretend that I am personally responsible for the eradication of polio in the western world. In my head legions of men with swords follow behind me into battle to a stirring trumpet score by John Williams while I charge forward, waving a crusader cross banner and yelling, “NO ONE IS GONNA DIE FROM POLIOOOOOOOOO!” …as I silently stare at the screen and move nothing but two fingers on my right hand to punch in the numbers for hours on end, like a gamer minus the Mountain Dew.

I suppose that’s the depressing thing about saving the world. It seems like no matter how badly you want to save the world, the world always wants you to do data entry. You yell at the world, “Let me love you!” and the world responds, “Um, ok, that’s nice.” Awkward pause. “Fold this towel, I guess?”

The Brunch, Church, and My Social Anxiety

Some days I get really bored of meditating upon new things to which my body odor can be likened (today’s simile: a stale fortune cookie) and going for long sobbing sessions drives. Because these things are, of course, how one occupies one’s time (in addition to a never-ending stream of pointless job applications) when one is unemployed.

In an effort to get me out of the house and, more importantly, out of the dirty pajamas I call my mope rags, my mother suggested signing up for a class. Her reasoning is that any normal person would make friends. And she’s right, but unfortunately I’m not a normal person. I would say that I’ve forgotten how to make friends and socialize, but that would imply that I knew how at one point.

See, I’ve signed up for this theology class a local church. Before our lecture and discussion, we are expected to have dinner with each other in the parish hall, a dinner which, if you know anything about me, is complete agony. I honestly cannot remember how I have ever managed to make friends, and indeed sitting through these weekly dinners that are like a Greatest Hits album of my gaffes has made me seriously wonder whether the people I think are my friends are, in fact, imaginary.

I wish I knew how to show these people how desperately I’d love for them to tell me about their day, using a method that does not involve asking accidentally personal questions about their work in a voice several octaves higher than my actual speaking voice. I try to fill our many awkward silences with a friendly smile to show how open I am, but instead I smile the near-hysterical forced smile of someone who has just farted in polite company and is hoping to God that no one heard it. When conversation has been paired away from me, I drink obscene amounts of water simply so I have something to do with my hands. Other times I give up and pick a spot on the wall, stare at it with a forced serene expression on my face, and wonder why this is supposed to be better than sitting at home in my underpants and crying.

The worst is when one of the priests comes to the table, because they use a Scream movie entrance rather than a Jaws approach. That is to say, none of them wear clerical gear, so you don’t notice them slowly but surely making their way towards your table, which would allow you to prepare for their arrival.  Instead you casually look to your left, jump about five feet in the air, let slip an expletive, and say hello to the priest that was definitely not sitting next to you just a second ago. But why would you need warning for a priest anyway?

Well, only a minute before you were treading water in a sea of people with actual social skills, and then all of the sudden without warning the priest, who as a priest is naturally the only other person in the room whose social ineptitude can even begin to compare to yours, comes up and starts talking to you. There is at least some hope of normalcy when I talk with the other people, but now suddenly the conversation becomes the verbal equivalent of two fat people trying to come through a doorway at the same time.

If dinner isn’t alienating enough, the post-lecture discussion does a great job of making me feel more foreign than I’ve ever felt in my life. I’m not entirely sure which country I think I’m from, but I think we can safely assume no one has heard of it. It’s not just my social awkwardness, it’s also the content: they talk about heaven as social justice and replace God with a vague “higher power,” apparently everyone’s been canonized, and we listen to the Gospel according to Maya Angelou. It’s all so foreign to me that I would have an easier time if they instead talked about Malian butt hygiene.

I could have given up socially, but I’m stubborn. Pioneer spirit, American can-do attitude and all that. I like to think of myself as a one-woman Titanic band, if the Titanic band had sobbed hysterically while nonetheless sticking to their guns by going down with the ship. And so what does the one-woman Titanic band do?

She signs up to serve at the parish brunch. I figured I would have a purpose, and I could make small talk but would also not be weird for being quiet. And, best of all, I’d have something to do with my hands. THIS would be my social in, I declared.

When I walked in to serve brunch and discovered my role for the morning, I am convinced that Satan and Hitler were sitting on a couch somewhere in Hell, having a fantastic laugh about it. Hitler actually laughed so hard that he snorted, got really embarrassed, and had to tell Satan to stop making fun of him. See, I had been placed in the position of “kitchen runner.” That is, I had to stand awkwardly (well, the awkwardly part was optional, but I like to go big in all my roles) to the side and watch other people serve other people. Should any buffet server run out of food—which, I must stress, did not happen—I was to go to the kitchen to bring more out. But mostly I was to just stand awkwardly to the side.

Have you ever noticed that when you’re uncomfortable and have nothing to do with your hands you suddenly turn into an octopus? It’s like all of you is just a blob of hands, knocking into things, touching your face, shaking violently. It seemed like every time I tried to casually ignore one of my hands it would suddenly become five hands, and if any of those new hands were ignored they would then turn into even more hands. Hands everywhere, but what do I do with them?

This pretty much sums it up.

I tried standing by the silverware station with my hands in my apron pockets, but there were two problems. The apron pockets were in a quasi-vulgar place, and also a parishioner thanked me for my work. Having done literally nothing to enable the fine buffet spread besides putting on an apron, this was more than I could bear. I figured I could reject the gratitude and explain that everyone else had done the work, but it seemed like I would waste too much of her time in explaining that this was not false modesty but simple accuracy. After all, she just wanted to say a quick thanks before shuffling away to eat her breakfast—she wasn’t asking for insight into my social anxiety. So instead I died a little inside and said, “You’re welcome. Enjoy!”

I figured I could just do this to anyone who said thank you, but my hopes were dashed against the rocks when I met the eyes of the 8 year old standing between me and her mom, who  (lucky bitch) was assigned to serve the scrambled eggs. I swear this 8 year old girl in a sunflower-patterned sundress could see into my soul as her eyes seemed to sentence me to Hell with a, “YOU DID NOT DESERVE THAT THANK YOU!” For all I know she didn’t even hear the thank you exchange and was just appalled by how ugly I am, but I didn’t want to take any chances.

Absolutely terrified of what this 8 year old girl with flowers in her hair would do to me, I swapped my creepy lurking by the silverware table for falsely purposeful surveying. I floated around the parish hall, pretending to do mental calculations of how much orange juice we had left (enough), patrolling around like a soldier visually verifying that every table had a pitcher of water (they did), and, perhaps most stupidly, putting on an official census worker-like air to ask the buffet servers if they needed anything (they didn’t).

Still though, I wasn’t as bad as the Brunch Nazi. She was in charge of ensuring the smooth running of the parish brunch, and she clearly thought the day was the culmination of her life’s work and existence. Indeed, she was called by God to manage THIS particular brunch, which I guess to her turns every scone we are short of into one concrete slab in the sidewalk to Hell. Someone served an old lady about 30 seconds before Parish Brunch Go Time, and Brunch Nazi reacted as though someone intentionally shat in her jacuzzi.

She also used the word “need” more often than I use the word “just.” Just about every sentence took the form of “I need you to do X” or “We need to do Y” or “You need Z.” And you could tell that she really meant the NEED, you could hear the urgent desperation in her voice every time she opened her mouth. The “need” seemed to suggest a WE WILL DIE IF THIS DOES NOT HAPPEN. I found this amusing because, actually, we don’t need to do any of this. We could actually just say screw it to all of this and go back to bed. But instead we got “I NEED Hallie to serve this much potatoes. I NEED you to go to the kitchen to ask them about this. We NEED , We NEED, We NEED, You NEED, I NEED.”

Lady, you know what I need?  I NEED you to calm the eff down. You’re like my dog  when the mailman comes, and you know what we give to my dog? Prozac. You should look into it. Because you know what happens when the parish brunch is running a little short on scrambled eggs?

Everyone dies.

Oh wait, no, that’s what happens when there’s a nuclear holocaust. Sorry, I meant to say that some people don’t get scrambled eggs. And if having to suffer through scones, potatoes, ham, and unlimited coffee and juice without scrambled eggs at the parish brunch is enough to make someone abandon Christianity and join some kind of pagan cult, then so be it. They’re probably better off there than here anyway.

My Acceptance Speech

Announcer: AND THE AWARD FOR MOST UNEMPLOYED PERSON GOES TO....[*pauses while opening the envelope. flashes a cheeky smile to the audience*] awww, you don't really want to know, do you? Haha, oh all right then...SAM BERRY!

 

 

[*immense applause as Sam gets up from her seat, awkwardly and unintentionally shoves her butt in people's faces as she scoots towards the aisle, and accepts her award on the stage*]

 

 

Sam: Wow...oh my goodness...[*applause starts to gradually die down*]...wow...[*inspecting award*] this is just...wow...thank you, thank you [*applause finally dies down completely*] thank you.
 

This is such an unexpected honor. I never thought I'd be up here, winning this prestigious award when I was up against so many amazingly unemployed people on welfare.
 

You know, growing up on the mean streets of Cheviot Hills, a hood where a slim majority of people can only DREAM of upgrading their BAs to doctorates, I never thought it would be possible to win such an amazing award. [*running left hand through hair in stunned amazement*] This is like something out of a dream. Um...wow...I'm speechless, but I'm gonna keep talking. [*the crowd chuckles*]

 

 

I mean, as I watched kids graduate Brentwood and go off to college and grad school and become successful lawyers and doctors and what have you, I always felt that the world of sitting in one's underpants all day and sobbing sometimes quietly and sometimes violently while questioning the worth of one's existence was something that only happened in fairy tales, something that couldn't happen to me, Sam Berry, just some poor nobody in upper-middle class suburbia. But you know what, America?

 

 

[*raising award triumphantly in the air*]
 

DREAMS. DO. COME. TRUE.

 

 

Of course, there are so many people to thank. Obviously the schools, the private families, and the countless faith communities both here and in many foreign countries, for not employing me. But you know, I couldn't have done this without the behind-the-scenes help that I received from hundreds of more qualified individuals who, with Christ-like attitudes of self-sacrifice, willingly succumbed to employment in my stead. I could not have achieved this without you guys.

 

 

Most importantly, I want to address any children who might be watching this, yes you children whose eyes are big and Bambi-like with the hope of unemployment. I'll tell you now what I would have told any young person, had I actually come in contact with one since last June, and that is this: my success here tonight was not without effort. Only if you work really hard and stay in school will you, too, one day be able to baffle and annoy the living shit out of your Oxford tutor by being the one student in his program who is still unemployed. You need faith in yourself and in God, children. That faith will give you the strength you need to wake up in the morning, apply for a job you're either ridiculously under or over qualified for because it's the only one out there, and then spend the rest of the day crying into some cake. Faith will give you the courage you need to carry on in self-pity in spite of the nay-sayers who call themselves "friends" who try to weigh you down with things like "hope," or the promise of a job one day, or their prayers. Faith will give you the determination you need to cry like a little bitch every day. You need to believe in yourself. Yes, in the words of Dr. Maya Angelou,

 

 

"Ain't nothin' gonna break my stride
Nobody's gonna slow me down, oh-no."

 

Faith really is the most important thing, children. And adults. I would like to take this opportunity to thank God, who has blessed me with the totally off-putting complete lack of social skills without which I could never have bombed so many interviews. You see, not so many people are lucky enough to be born with the gift of having no idea how long or short appropriate eye contact is, giving me a shifty, serial rapist-like quality when under pressure. Only a loving and personal God would inspire me to take the successful gamble of actually shimmying at a headteacher during an interview. By God's grace alone do I misunderstand interview questions, awkwardly interact with other candidates, and laugh when no one else is laughing. Yes, it takes a lot of work to be stuck in this state of permanent adolescence, but with God all things are possible.

 

[*orchestra starts to play*]

 

 

Oh dang it, I've turned into one of those people that the orchestra has to play off the stage. Sorry I've spoken for too long! Um...oh crap oh crap...there are still so many people to thank...um....thanks to Carol, Susan, Charlie, Jeff...um....Hank, Laurie, Jeff...shit, I already said Jeff...um....OH MY GOD I NEARLY FORGOT KEVIN! Um...oh the band's getting louder, they really want me off. Ok okay, um, thank you America. [*points at sky*] Unemployed to the glory of God!

 

 

[*exits*]

A cubicle dweller reflects on the concept of pregnant women

You know what I don't get? Pregnant women. I'm staring at one right now and I have no idea how she's so calm, doing work on the computer. If I were her, I'd spend all nine months screaming, "OH MY GOD THERE IS ACTUALLY ANOTHER F***ING PERSON IN MY STOMACH LIKE RIGHT NOW. HOW THE F*** IS EVERYONE OK WITH THIS?" But not her. She just sits there, occasionally clicking the mouse and humming along to the quiet strains of a muted Stevie Wonder belting something out on the office radio.

And this is not even taking into account the countless horrifying aspects of the actual process of childbirth. No, ignoring the pain, the wishing your husband dead, and the potential to crap yourself in front of strangers, I--and I say this as someone who is pro-life and completely pro-babies--find the concept of pregnant women to be completely and utterly terrifying.

I feel like it's not cool to admit this, particularly as a woman (and a woman who loves babies for that matter), but I find the concept of pregnant women about as frightening as the concept of a twin in the womb dying and being absorbed by the other twin, like I saw in that House episode. Or maybe it was a nightmare. I can't remember anymore, all I know is that it was bad, because you know it's two people, but you only see one. Pregnant women are like the conjoined twins who got their own TV show on TLC, except much more concealed and therefore much more sinister. No, even worse, it's like a pregnant woman has her own horcrux that she carries around with her in her stomach. SHE CANNOT BE KILLED.

And because the fact that a pregnant woman is actually two people in one is hidden beneath clothing and skin, then there's the problem of fat people and/or people who wear empire-cut dresses or blouses. Are you pregnant and therefore to be feared, or do you, like me, simply have a fondness of Hostess snack cakes? This is why obesity is an issue--not because we're all going to die of fat, but because I don't know who is a terrifying clandestine two-person she-beast and who just likes McFlurries. Clearly the only solution is to either make all pregnant people wear signs announcing their pregnancy or we fat people need to start wearing signs that say, "DON'T WORRY: JUST FAT."

This might seem extreme, but you'll know I'm right once you, too, spend a few hours in an office where the only person you can see from your cubicle is a pregnant woman. In the meantime, I'll just be keeping an eye on her. COME NO CLOSER, TWO-HEADED SHE-BEAST!

You're welcome, world.

Musical Cars

People ask me what it’s like to be back in America/Los Angeles. Usually I tell them about how I spend my unemployment watching movies about Amish people on Netflix. Often I talk about how totally hollow Episcopalians are. Sometimes I mention both.

But I should probably mention how great it is to have music again. And by music I mean a car.

I should probably back up and explain to foreigners and less fortunate Americans that Angelenos have quite a car culture. Everything is so spread out, and you have to drive everywhere. Last week, during my quest to find a kiddie pool at Toys R Us (I want to vomit just writing that name), I ended up on a trek across the parking lot that took longer than did my walk from my flat in Oxford to the city center, which was in a different zip code.

Granted, I had parked on the edge of the parking lot because it was full—for some reason everyone decided to congregate at Toys  R Us at 2 p.m. on a workday. I mean, I know why I have nothing better to do with my life, but what is the rest of Los Angeles’ excuse? Are we ALL unemployed? This parking lot the size of Oxfordshire is full, and Holy Hank there are cars all over the road. Traffic everywhere. Good God, is the recession so bad that about 50% of all Angelenos at any given moment are loitering, and loitering in a moving vehicle?

Anyway, my point is that I am in the car a lot. Usually marveling at the traffic and screaming at no one in particular, “WHERE THE FUCK ARE ALL THESE PEOPLE GOING AT 11 A.M. ON A WEDNESDAY?!”

When I’m not screaming at the world to get a job and get off the road, I sing. Really loudly. You might know that I do not sing in front of other people, even when others are singing, instead preferring to lip sync or stand in rigid silence like a small child wanting to stay up after her bedtime: “Maybe if I stand still enough they’ll forget I’m here.” Fair enough, I can think of two notable exceptions:

1)      In elementary school I joined the choir. Not because I wanted to sing, but because my friends could sing and I didn’t want to be alone at lunch when they rehearsed. I lip synced at all the concerts and rehearsals, except when we did “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.”

 

      My God did I get into that song. 11 year old Sam felt born to sing that song—heck, I STILL feel born to sing that song. So into that song was I that I tried to do not only the a-wee-mo-weh parts but also the high pitched howl, even when the two were supposed to be sung simultaneously by different people. “Fuck you,” 11 year old Sam said to the rest of the choir through her singing, “I got this one.”

2)      Then there was the kibbutz laundry room. I’ve mentioned it a million times before, but in case you didn’t know, I once spent half a year of my life folding towels in a laundry room in Israel. When I wasn’t folding towels I was accidentally getting parts of my body (namely my chest) burned by the industrial iron, having my fingerprints seared off by freshly laundered tablecloths that seemed to come straight from the fire pits of Hell, and (most frequently) finding elaborate ways to avoid having to fold my Hebrew classmates’ underpants.

Anyway, my coworkers (the Women of the Wash), whom I hated and still hate with a fiery passion on account of which I am perfectly willing to go to Hell, would frequently sing along to the radio. And, this being Israel and the land of Ben Yehuda, obviously most of the songs were in English. And horribly dated. So, to them, the first two lines of “St. Elmo’s Fire” would, instead of “Growin' up / You don't see the writin' on the wall,” be a melodically daring interpretation of the lyrics “Gerrn op / You doesee a wraton a oll.” Or something. As the only native English speaker in the room, several months of nonsensical lyrics from a random assortment of 80s, 90s and occasionally medieval songs started to wear on me.

Finally I could bear it no longer. Neil Sedaka’s “Breakin’ Up Is Hard To Do” came on the radio, probably right after Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit.”

 

And as I sat there folding yet another dishtowel, I decided I needed to show the Women of the Wash how it’s done. THIS is how we sing English, you kibbutznik bitches. So I went big. I sang along with Neil as loudly as I possibly could, hoping even the Jordanians could hear my crackling voice. They’d think to themselves, “Well, I can tell the lyrics are Sedaka, but the tune is unlike anything we’ve ever heard…” Who cares though--my musical ability wasn’t what I was trying to prove, but rather my ability to speak English. See how clearly I enunciate the lyrics? See how I indisputably know how each sound I sing fits within the boundaries of a coherent, English word? Enjoy the free English lesson in this one-woman concert, you rancid communists.

Anyway, my point is that with these two exceptions (and a few others over the years, like the time in senior year when I was driving a freshman to school, forgot she was in the car, and ended up performing a noisy duet with Elton John), I don’t sing.

Except when I’m by myself in the car. When I got back in my car on August 1, there was eight months of pent-up diva that needed to be released. I’ve since then driven hundreds of miles around LA, singing at the top of my lungs.

Car song of the moment?

 When I’m in the car, I feel like Fun. need my help. And I’m happy to oblige.

Now, it’s nearly midnight. Diva needs her sleep.

I've reached some new lows.

Let’s get one thing straight, since so many people pity me when they hear I’m a lone tourist. I love it. Until I find a traveling companion who is just as vile as me, I prefer walking around foreign cities by myself because it’s the only time I can walk around publicly belching like a cheap prostitute without consequences. And people who burden me with oppressive hospitality rob me of this joy.

You know what I mean by oppressive hospitality—the most I want from you for breakfast is a finger pointing me to the nearest McDonald’s still serving breakfast. I appreciate your effort, but your three-course breakfast that you watch me exhaustedly cram into my mouth like a chore under your eager, almost evangelical eyes is about as welcome to me as an extended tutorial with my professor who wants to talk about nothing but the golden age of British bus travel.

This is how I ended up spending 5 ½ hours alone with a 40 year old on an internship. See, I was in Geneva for a job interview. My host (and potential boss) had offered to find someone to show me around Geneva on my free day, and not wanting to seem like the anti-social bitch that I actually am, I pretended that this was a fantastic idea—thinking it’d be a brief lunch and visit to a church or museum or whatever it is you’re supposed to see in Geneva. Instead, in an act that gets the award for Most Misguided Act of Hospitality of the Year (Runner Up: Not allowing me to withdraw cash from the cash machine), my host arranged for me to spend the entire day with a complete stranger, and a weird one at that. A man whose first stop on our tour was an English language bookstore, so that he could spend an hour looking for a French dictionary for himself.

And I didn’t even get the job.

When I first met him there was a glimmer of hope when I detected his Midwestern accent. This hope dissipated, about as quickly as a fart caught in the early stages by lowered car windows on a freeway, when I realized his accent didn’t have the same, almost Swedish, sing-songy quality of most Midwesterners, perhaps the chattiest folk in America. Instead it was the gruff, monotone mumble of a defective Midwesterner, like one with a flipper for an arm. He reminded me of the impressions of Louie Andersen saying “Chicken, donuts, cheesecake…” that my brother and I used to do.

I’d like to think I did a pretty good job of keeping the conversation going for three hours, even with the occasional awkward silence, particularly when I gave correct navigational instructions that he ignored in favor of just wandering around like a retarded puppy, followed by a sullen me who occasionally offered a weary, “Yeah, I’m pretty sure we need to turn right.” Followed by a passive aggressive, “…like I said.” But, as I said, we had three hours of the wonkiest conversation even I’ve ever experienced. The last 2 ½ hours were covered by my occasional murmurs of “Mm…this is a nice neighborhood. Is it known for anything?” And his brief, otherworldly “Yeah.”s.

But no matter. At least I got a hug out of it at the end, and you know how much I like hugs. This being a sweltering, sunny Geneva day, filled with loads of walking, it’s safe to say the hug was a bit wet. So, again, it’s not like I got nothing out of the day.

To be fair, the day wasn’t entirely horrible. I did quite like the Museum of the Reformation, and in particular its depiction of Luther burning in Hell. Also fantastic was seeing two teenagers clearly on a date, passionately making out in front of a portrait of a reformer. I’d like to think it was the boy’s idea to go to this museum on the date. “I’ll take her to the Museum of the Reformation—bitches LOVE ecclesiastical reform!”

But most spectacularly eye-opening was the exhibit where you could actually smell fragrances mentioned in the Bible. As I learned, all Biblical perfumes smell surprisingly of shit mixed with harsh chemical disinfectant. It makes me wonder how bad the ancient Middle East must have smelled if THIS was considered a luxurious improvement. I mean, I lived in the Middle East for a while, and I can tell you I’d rather be next to a sweaty Sephardi man on a bus than a bottle of nard. They tell me that nard is what that famous woman in the New Testament anointed DJ JC with, though perhaps given that nard smells of asparagus-flavored piss this woman should be considered infamous. I can clearly imagine her rubbing this vile, inexplicably expensive trash on Jesus’ feet and the world’s dear savior screaming, “For the love of God, Mary (they were all called Mary back then, weren’t they), get that off my feet!”

I also quite liked the cornball attempt to bring it all to life. I was told at the beginning by some overly enthusiastic Swiss girl that there would be a room with a dining room set up and OH MY GOODNESS if I’d only press 300 on my audio guide then I could “listen in” on John Calvin’s dinner conversations with other reformers. Needing to kill time as my tour guide, in spite of this being his fifth trip to the museum, had decided that every tiny label in the museum needed full, Talmud-length exegesis, I decided it wouldn’t hurt to let 300 be the soundtrack of my sit. I suppose they had tried to make it sound as realistic as possible by adding the sound of beverages being poured, but it had the effect of making the first minute of the recording sound as though I were eavesdropping on John Calvin having a particularly stubborn morning pee in an echoey bathroom. Ah well, points for trying, Museum of the Reformation.

Before we rounded off our day with a silent, hollow walk back to my “hotel,” we visited something called the Maison Tavel, which (as far as I can tell) is a museum. To what in particular, I’m still unsure even after spending an hour in there. Armor? Pub signs? Wallpaper? Dead stuffed pigeons? Who the fuck knows…

There was this one tiny room in Maison Tavel that was especially memorable. It was this tiny sitting room, sort of in a tower. I walked in and—I know I’ve talked about farts, belches, etc. already too many times in this post and that I’ve exceeded the quota, but just bear with me—and I caught a whiff of several hundred years’ worth of accumulated farts that have soaked into the wallpaper and gone stale. I have trouble conveying to you in words the strength of this smell, and the closest I can get is saying that it was actually like something out of a fairy tale.

Just over 48 hours in Geneva, and that’s probably what I’ll remember years from now when I look back on my weekend in Geneva. Foul smells.

Oh right. And having to start off my job interview by leading the chaplain in what was probably the most appalling bit of freestyle prayer he’s ever heard. But that’s a post for another day.

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My cover letter

Dear Sir or Madam,

I am pleased to apply for the post of Teacher of RE at your school, as advertised on the TES website.

At this point you are probably wondering what that blinding light is. You know, that mesmerizing but slightly painful light that seems to be suddenly shining in your life out of nowhere, just as soon as you opened this letter? Well, to answer your question, that light is the sun shining out of my ass.

Now now, stick with me here. You are dealing with the biggest BAMF this side of the River Avon. I don’t even know which side of the Avon we’re on at this point, since I haven’t the slightest clue where the fuck the River Avon is, but regardless of the Avon’s geographical location I can pretty much guarantee that I am the greatest teacher you will ever see.

What do I mean? I mean my kids know the Bible so well that they can fart the 10 Commandments in morse code in their sleep. My kids understand the concept of the Trinity so well that they literally made their Math teacher’s head explode. My kids understand arguments for the existence of God so well that Richard Dawkins actually weeps with fear and dives into the nearest trashcan like something out of Scooby Doo when he bumps into my kids on the streets of Oxford.

Bitches worried about how I deal with SEN kids? I am such a goddamn champ that I actually cured my students of their SEN issues. None of this standing around trying to make provisions for these kids like a little bitch would. I cured blindness, much like Jesus. Except I did one better than JC and cured dyslexia as well.

Safeguarding? You’re worried that I’m not gonna keep your kids safe? I will personally bite the head off of any bastard who tries to lay so much as a perverted GLANCE at my kids. And then I will use his head in some kind of a fucked up voodoo ritual—that’s how seriously I take safeguarding. One time a kid had some weird bruises on his arms so I used my laser vision to incinerate his parents into an irrelevant pile of dust that blew away in a slight breeze--at Parents Evening. And then I had one of them free biscuits and ate it like it ain’t no thang.

Bitch please, you think I can’t differentiate for pupils of differing ability levels? Bitch, it be like 27 different goddamn lessons when I teach.

In conclusion, if you don’t employ a fucking BALLER like me, I will have you sectioned. And no, I don’t mean taken in for mental health observations. I mean literally chopped up into sections.

Sincerely,
Sam