Now that I've been gone for months and months, and have likely lost all readership, this is going back to my grassroots little musings. So here's what I've been doing.
-Joined a kickball league full of nice people and even nice hipsters. Drank beer. Slid into base. Got a lot of bruises.
-Went to London to see my old friend and ended up spending time with an old flame whom I love.
-Went to Mexico with my new best friend and was asked to be her maid of honor.
-Was dropped by my old best friend with no explanation after being her maid of honor (was it my speech?). No idea what happened but I miss her.
- Got back together with my ex boyfriend as horrible friends with benefits and cried my eyes out. Shut. The. Door. On. That. Detox talking to him for 60 days at the very least.
- Am weeks away from finally finishing the first book. Only took me five years but here we are.
- Went to a crazy, crazy Montreal woods festival and caused a national scandal when a singer and I decided we wanted to hang out...a lot. There was also a haunted summer camp.
- Am still working my butt off as a journalist even though I am only a fiction writer, learned how to modern dance, made some amazing new girlfriends.
- Working on a crazy magazine event that has ruined my life for the past three months. Will be over by Monday. Send massages, flowers and klonapin my way.
- Went to the beach. Danced on the boardwalk a lot. There were tacos. Went to some dance block parties. Went to some dance backyard parties. Am a little tired of dancing but I can't stop doing it.
- Got tan.
- Lost tan
- Shaved #swag and then BLING into the side of my head. It looked cool but not pretty. Will try to be pretty from now on.
- Started to plan my annual cupcake and champagne all-girls birthday party.
- Got nominated for a writing award but won't know until December.
- Submitted the novel to a new agent. Won't know for 6 weeks.
- Got some new eyeliner.
- Debated moving to San Francisco, again. Would like a new start even though I have nothing to run from.
- Mourned the loss of my dog.
- Did a lot of yoga.
- Slept in my bed and on my couch.
- Never stopped dreaming.
Showing posts with label seasonal. Show all posts
Showing posts with label seasonal. Show all posts
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Sunday, February 06, 2011
Recovery Sunday
Here's the recipe to recover from a very tough week:
1. Sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, pad into the kitchen to get ice water, and then go back to sleep. Make sure the velvet curtains are closed but the bedroom door is open so sunlight comes in but never touches the pillow. Feel free to drool and to sleep, smack-middle in the bed and kick the covers to and fro.
2. After waking properly, open the windows to let in the chilly pre-Superbowl air, and turn up the heat so it all co-mingles while you...
3. Scrub the bathroom and then take a long, hot shower. Slather on three different lotions and put on a soft new nightshirt and slippers. Dance around a little and then turn off the heat and close the windows. Consider donning a robe.
4. Put on trashy television on low (thank the God of small things for Law & Order SVU marathons and Bravo) and stack up earmarked magazines and local papers with shops, restaurants, films, dance performances and concerts for the week you'd like to pounce upon. Put the writing theory books within sight so that technically, you aren't ignoring them. Position a fleecy blanket close.
5. Re-water the wildflower arrangement that holds fragrant sweet pea, royal purple poppies, egg-yolk orange and white daffodils, strange antique rust roses, and bursts of hardened small berries, stalks tied together and thrust into a mason jar. Call the senders to say thank you for being great friends. Position them on the crystal stands on top of the coffee table that doubles as a fountain because your parents are just as crazy and full of too many ideas as you are.
6. Light four different fat candles and put those on the stands, too. Even better if they are Jo Malone and Archipelago, white and cream colored, smelling of linen and lemon and deep spice.
7. Microwave three mini-cinnamon rolls until they're gooey and have to be eaten with a spoon. Smash together with said spoon until the texture resembles mashed potatoes. Amazing, sweet, sticky, dessert mashed potatoes. Serve with a glass of red wine and more ice water.
8. Brush hair for a half-minute before deciding it can't be tamed today. Make lists of to-do for the week, allocate time to writing, sleeping, talking, walking, texting, cooking. Clean up kitchen. Put wine back in the fridge because the TV doesn't count as another person to socially drink with. Not yet, anyhow.
9. Blog. Take vitamins. Finish that wine anyhow (it was only a third of a bottle and someone is coming over soon anyway, say this aloud to make yourself feel better). Make the bed. Decide to buy more candles.
10. Answer the door when Annabella arrives, bearing gifts. Consider Superbowl picks and two different pools in the office and then realize you haven't even planned to watch the bowl at all. If Annabella doesn't say anything about changing Law & Order, then blame it on her when you both miss it because you're too busy gossiping.
Sundays are for rest, aren't they? No one can ever accuse me of not knowing how to rest...that's for sure.
Hope you are having a wonderful Sunday too.
1. Sleep until noon. If you wake up earlier, pad into the kitchen to get ice water, and then go back to sleep. Make sure the velvet curtains are closed but the bedroom door is open so sunlight comes in but never touches the pillow. Feel free to drool and to sleep, smack-middle in the bed and kick the covers to and fro.
2. After waking properly, open the windows to let in the chilly pre-Superbowl air, and turn up the heat so it all co-mingles while you...
3. Scrub the bathroom and then take a long, hot shower. Slather on three different lotions and put on a soft new nightshirt and slippers. Dance around a little and then turn off the heat and close the windows. Consider donning a robe.
4. Put on trashy television on low (thank the God of small things for Law & Order SVU marathons and Bravo) and stack up earmarked magazines and local papers with shops, restaurants, films, dance performances and concerts for the week you'd like to pounce upon. Put the writing theory books within sight so that technically, you aren't ignoring them. Position a fleecy blanket close.
5. Re-water the wildflower arrangement that holds fragrant sweet pea, royal purple poppies, egg-yolk orange and white daffodils, strange antique rust roses, and bursts of hardened small berries, stalks tied together and thrust into a mason jar. Call the senders to say thank you for being great friends. Position them on the crystal stands on top of the coffee table that doubles as a fountain because your parents are just as crazy and full of too many ideas as you are.
6. Light four different fat candles and put those on the stands, too. Even better if they are Jo Malone and Archipelago, white and cream colored, smelling of linen and lemon and deep spice.
7. Microwave three mini-cinnamon rolls until they're gooey and have to be eaten with a spoon. Smash together with said spoon until the texture resembles mashed potatoes. Amazing, sweet, sticky, dessert mashed potatoes. Serve with a glass of red wine and more ice water.
8. Brush hair for a half-minute before deciding it can't be tamed today. Make lists of to-do for the week, allocate time to writing, sleeping, talking, walking, texting, cooking. Clean up kitchen. Put wine back in the fridge because the TV doesn't count as another person to socially drink with. Not yet, anyhow.
9. Blog. Take vitamins. Finish that wine anyhow (it was only a third of a bottle and someone is coming over soon anyway, say this aloud to make yourself feel better). Make the bed. Decide to buy more candles.
10. Answer the door when Annabella arrives, bearing gifts. Consider Superbowl picks and two different pools in the office and then realize you haven't even planned to watch the bowl at all. If Annabella doesn't say anything about changing Law & Order, then blame it on her when you both miss it because you're too busy gossiping.
Sundays are for rest, aren't they? No one can ever accuse me of not knowing how to rest...that's for sure.
Hope you are having a wonderful Sunday too.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Girlfriend Getaway
We had an article in the magazine about Girlfriend Getaways. We made fun of it loudly and then found ourselves furtively stealing glances.
Girlfriend Getaway...a vacation just for girls. No boys. No couples allowed. Sun and drinks and dinner and massages and flirting with bartenders...
The more we said it, the better it sounded. So we picked up, and we went. Sunsets, cliff dives, oxtail stew.
Netting on the bed, the villa overlooking water that glittered a hundred shades of blue.
The hot sun beating down on us, in January no less. Pineapple drinks. Rum, rum, rum.
Bikinis and wet sundresses. Extra fries, rice and peas. The white-sand beach, the waves crashing on the bluffs. Flowers on the bed.
The shower? Outside.
Bare feet. Fashion photographers who asked us to party, waitstaff who asked us to dance. We said no and kept on in our pack, headed to the next piece of fruit, wave, snack and magazine. We laughed until we cried. We have a new nickname for everyone we know.
Ten new inside jokes, three new playlists, and hundreds of future plans now.
We did it. We went to Jamaica. It was phenomenal. Pics are a-coming, and I'm going to ice down my sunburn so it will turn into a tan.
Girlfriend Getaway...a vacation just for girls. No boys. No couples allowed. Sun and drinks and dinner and massages and flirting with bartenders...
The more we said it, the better it sounded. So we picked up, and we went. Sunsets, cliff dives, oxtail stew.
Netting on the bed, the villa overlooking water that glittered a hundred shades of blue.
The hot sun beating down on us, in January no less. Pineapple drinks. Rum, rum, rum.
Bikinis and wet sundresses. Extra fries, rice and peas. The white-sand beach, the waves crashing on the bluffs. Flowers on the bed.
The shower? Outside.
Bare feet. Fashion photographers who asked us to party, waitstaff who asked us to dance. We said no and kept on in our pack, headed to the next piece of fruit, wave, snack and magazine. We laughed until we cried. We have a new nickname for everyone we know.
Ten new inside jokes, three new playlists, and hundreds of future plans now.
We did it. We went to Jamaica. It was phenomenal. Pics are a-coming, and I'm going to ice down my sunburn so it will turn into a tan.
Sunday, January 02, 2011
Joyeuex Nouvel An
Happy New Year!
I am ringing it in with jetlag and new blankets, faux fur pillows and apple struesel snack bars, bottled water and good lighting, a to-do list I've only crossed one item off of, a bitter cold day half-slept away and many hours of TV I've missed.
I got in last night and haven't left my apartment since. I have lots of unpacking to do, reading to do, emails to catch up on, and working out to do. But it didn't happen today. Luckily I have tomorrow off and have an article to write by 10 AM, coffee with Annabella, a drive to Morningside Heights, a lofty plan to stop by a design store to buy more suede blankets (can't stop buying these), cash checks, read the rest of that awful Lincoln historical fiction novel for class, sign up at the gym finally, reschedule a dance class, and go to a music meeting. So, I feel okay that I got nothing done today. Busy people get things done, and tomorrow I'm busy.
Today, I'm listening to the wind and lighting the candles and sleeping as I watch or read.
It's going to be a good year.
I am ringing it in with jetlag and new blankets, faux fur pillows and apple struesel snack bars, bottled water and good lighting, a to-do list I've only crossed one item off of, a bitter cold day half-slept away and many hours of TV I've missed.
I got in last night and haven't left my apartment since. I have lots of unpacking to do, reading to do, emails to catch up on, and working out to do. But it didn't happen today. Luckily I have tomorrow off and have an article to write by 10 AM, coffee with Annabella, a drive to Morningside Heights, a lofty plan to stop by a design store to buy more suede blankets (can't stop buying these), cash checks, read the rest of that awful Lincoln historical fiction novel for class, sign up at the gym finally, reschedule a dance class, and go to a music meeting. So, I feel okay that I got nothing done today. Busy people get things done, and tomorrow I'm busy.
Today, I'm listening to the wind and lighting the candles and sleeping as I watch or read.
It's going to be a good year.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
South of France Listsicle of Love
Things to sit beside: the ancient fireplace, the whitewashed stonework, the wraparound leather couch, flannel sheets, heated ceramic floors, stacks of wood, pages of other people's novels that once I read for homework I throw into the fire
Plans each day that are the townie equivalent of a socialite's calendar: Christmas champagne here, chocolate there, painting crafts with the girls in the bookstore, walking the tiny dog on cobbled streets as people prepare their dinners and the aromas waft out the shutters and into the ether, Boxing Day lunch on a lazy suzan, thirteen people for a place setting for caramelized chicken studded with sesames, pots of crispy potatoes loaded with ham and cream, strong and dark coffee and neverending wine
Things to watch: low-hanging sunsets, the fleeting green and white expanses of the fields, farmers and their families piling the pruned grapevines to burn, my parents at the center of this circle with loads and loads of stylish friends and making jokes that even my brother and I find funny (are we getting old? are the children of all the townspeople and expats who set up little shops and bookstores who have retired from a life of fashion magazines and film careers ever going to rival their parents?), that tiny dog again running through the snow on his tiny paws and sigh to yourself though you said you would never, ever love a little dog, and now you kind of do
Things to do: be happily dragged from place to place, eat, drink, and be merry, watch movies good and bad, check email just once a day, stare at your darkened phone that will never work here (no Droids in France), walk that tiny dog and stop at every child who wants to pet him, heat up pizzas in the stove, pour Orangina over ice, dress for formal parties, dress for informal parties, try to use the tiny hairdryer (not as cute as the tiny dog), run out of clothes to dress in and start wearing flannels to lunch, etch cardboard squares with Japanese cartoons and magenta swirls, have long talks with everyone, read without writing, make French friends, Dutch friends, and several Brits, jokingly flirt with engaged men (they started it), and hey, flirt with the old men too (they appreciate it the most), wonder how I'll ever date someone for real again because I have turned into a massive flirt and all my old boyfriends always hated how I flirted before, which was already alot, let's face it.
Things to want: more days, and nothing more
Plans each day that are the townie equivalent of a socialite's calendar: Christmas champagne here, chocolate there, painting crafts with the girls in the bookstore, walking the tiny dog on cobbled streets as people prepare their dinners and the aromas waft out the shutters and into the ether, Boxing Day lunch on a lazy suzan, thirteen people for a place setting for caramelized chicken studded with sesames, pots of crispy potatoes loaded with ham and cream, strong and dark coffee and neverending wine
Things to watch: low-hanging sunsets, the fleeting green and white expanses of the fields, farmers and their families piling the pruned grapevines to burn, my parents at the center of this circle with loads and loads of stylish friends and making jokes that even my brother and I find funny (are we getting old? are the children of all the townspeople and expats who set up little shops and bookstores who have retired from a life of fashion magazines and film careers ever going to rival their parents?), that tiny dog again running through the snow on his tiny paws and sigh to yourself though you said you would never, ever love a little dog, and now you kind of do
Things to do: be happily dragged from place to place, eat, drink, and be merry, watch movies good and bad, check email just once a day, stare at your darkened phone that will never work here (no Droids in France), walk that tiny dog and stop at every child who wants to pet him, heat up pizzas in the stove, pour Orangina over ice, dress for formal parties, dress for informal parties, try to use the tiny hairdryer (not as cute as the tiny dog), run out of clothes to dress in and start wearing flannels to lunch, etch cardboard squares with Japanese cartoons and magenta swirls, have long talks with everyone, read without writing, make French friends, Dutch friends, and several Brits, jokingly flirt with engaged men (they started it), and hey, flirt with the old men too (they appreciate it the most), wonder how I'll ever date someone for real again because I have turned into a massive flirt and all my old boyfriends always hated how I flirted before, which was already alot, let's face it.
Things to want: more days, and nothing more
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Off To The South
On Tuesday I'm leaving for southern France. My parents--looney birds, elders, and inspirations to us all--have bought a house there. The bro and I are heading over to join them for the holiday. I'm taking off of work early, I'm letting my friend and her fiance stay in my apartment (and cleaning insanely beforehand), and I'm packing up the presents, a million papers, my computer, other reading materials and the work I have to continue to do for my jobs while I'm gone. It's a lot of work to get there but nothing else could be worth it, I think.
I will read. I will sleep. I will eat cheese. I will try to do some situps. I will blog most days in detail about the cold, the view, the food, the dog yipping at my feet, the absence of television. I will try not to check my email too much. I will attend a Christmas eve party where I am the only one born in the 80s (or 90s for that matter), because only old villagers and my family will be there. I hope to write a good deal. I'm not sure of the internet situation. I hope not too bad, I do need to use the computer...I didn't take a leave from my music writing job. We aren't really allowed...but I do hope I can duck out for a day or two here and there.
I'm leaving behind my ex, who doesn't know I'm leaving and it doesn't seem right to call him to tell him. It will be his 30th birthday tomorrow or the next day I think. I can't remember. He wanted to go out for it. I said okay, he never followed up. He tried again, I said okay, he never followed up. Texting keeps relationships going that should have gone a long time ago. Still, I miss having a boyfriend and I miss having a best friend. I know I will have another one that encompasses both eventually. But I do wish I'd hurry up and have it already.
A holiday is for family and friends. This year I've only got family, but I'm certainly glad to have one. Excited to see where they've decided to spend their time. Excited for an overnight plane ride (I actually kind of like these). Excited to let my voicemail pile up. Excited to be unavailable for real. It's kind of thrilling to do. And I'm always available.
Putting many, many books on the Kindle that I'm giving my mom and hope to sneakily read them all first before I get over there. Doing laundry. Wishing to be missed and hoping not to miss anyone too much.
Thinking that sadly (or testament to how funny the other stuff could be?), Liz Lemon is now the unfunniest thing about 30 Rock. What's with the constant psycho-sexual stuff? It's getting old. More Lutz, more Jenna, more Jack. Less Liz, less Colleen (she's strangely far too old and annoying), less Avery.
Thinking that I haven't actually been outside today except when I hung out on my terrace.
Resolutions that I can enact starting now: stop having incredibly inactive days on weekends and far too active nights. Work out less crazily, but more regularly. Stop eating things that come in boxes and start eating things that will spoil after a few days. Stop reading things on computer screens. Sleep longer. Sleep less. More popsicles, less emotion. More calls, less text. Fewer dates, more important hang outs. Less talking, more listening. Go away to France and have a good time, turn on the out of office and let it go.
I will read. I will sleep. I will eat cheese. I will try to do some situps. I will blog most days in detail about the cold, the view, the food, the dog yipping at my feet, the absence of television. I will try not to check my email too much. I will attend a Christmas eve party where I am the only one born in the 80s (or 90s for that matter), because only old villagers and my family will be there. I hope to write a good deal. I'm not sure of the internet situation. I hope not too bad, I do need to use the computer...I didn't take a leave from my music writing job. We aren't really allowed...but I do hope I can duck out for a day or two here and there.
I'm leaving behind my ex, who doesn't know I'm leaving and it doesn't seem right to call him to tell him. It will be his 30th birthday tomorrow or the next day I think. I can't remember. He wanted to go out for it. I said okay, he never followed up. He tried again, I said okay, he never followed up. Texting keeps relationships going that should have gone a long time ago. Still, I miss having a boyfriend and I miss having a best friend. I know I will have another one that encompasses both eventually. But I do wish I'd hurry up and have it already.
A holiday is for family and friends. This year I've only got family, but I'm certainly glad to have one. Excited to see where they've decided to spend their time. Excited for an overnight plane ride (I actually kind of like these). Excited to let my voicemail pile up. Excited to be unavailable for real. It's kind of thrilling to do. And I'm always available.
Putting many, many books on the Kindle that I'm giving my mom and hope to sneakily read them all first before I get over there. Doing laundry. Wishing to be missed and hoping not to miss anyone too much.
Thinking that sadly (or testament to how funny the other stuff could be?), Liz Lemon is now the unfunniest thing about 30 Rock. What's with the constant psycho-sexual stuff? It's getting old. More Lutz, more Jenna, more Jack. Less Liz, less Colleen (she's strangely far too old and annoying), less Avery.
Thinking that I haven't actually been outside today except when I hung out on my terrace.
Resolutions that I can enact starting now: stop having incredibly inactive days on weekends and far too active nights. Work out less crazily, but more regularly. Stop eating things that come in boxes and start eating things that will spoil after a few days. Stop reading things on computer screens. Sleep longer. Sleep less. More popsicles, less emotion. More calls, less text. Fewer dates, more important hang outs. Less talking, more listening. Go away to France and have a good time, turn on the out of office and let it go.
Saturday, September 11, 2010
I Just Said Goodbye
I am a person who usually cannot say goodbye to people. I feel too much, I miss too much, I love too much, I believe, deep down, that I have the unspoken power to crush someone with all this emotion, like I am a giant child, grabbing tight and holding long, I can't feel someone beneath me push away until they are gone.
I don't know where I got this from. It takes a long time for someone to get my affection, but when they have it, they pretty much have it forever.
I feel this way about my ex. I love him. I miss him. We are not right for one another, this is clear. But I feel so strongly about him, and he does about me (so he says). But we are who we are. People do not change, not really. We can't get to a new place. We've been officially broken up for nearly six months, but we are still going through it, all the time. It's the longest I've ever been semi-single, and I have enjoyed much of it and been undeniably broken for some of it. We are still texting, still calling, still say that we love one another, still make plans, still break plans, but we are not together, and we are with other people much, much more than we are ever with each other. This, friends, is brutal.
I can't do it any more, it's not me being single properly, it's not me moving forward. It's a new season, a new apartment, and unless he wants to try to fix things and does something remarkably different instead of continuing to prey upon the fact that he knows I love him deeply and simply dip his foot in when he wants to and takes it out when he wants to, I've got to say a real goodbye.
I just sent the email, it was three lines long. It said I loved him too much to keep doing this halfway, so please do not contact me any more. And it said bye. Now I'm going to clean my room and go be in a wedding and not care that I don't have a date.
I'm me, and that will have to be enough this time.
I don't know where I got this from. It takes a long time for someone to get my affection, but when they have it, they pretty much have it forever.
I feel this way about my ex. I love him. I miss him. We are not right for one another, this is clear. But I feel so strongly about him, and he does about me (so he says). But we are who we are. People do not change, not really. We can't get to a new place. We've been officially broken up for nearly six months, but we are still going through it, all the time. It's the longest I've ever been semi-single, and I have enjoyed much of it and been undeniably broken for some of it. We are still texting, still calling, still say that we love one another, still make plans, still break plans, but we are not together, and we are with other people much, much more than we are ever with each other. This, friends, is brutal.
I can't do it any more, it's not me being single properly, it's not me moving forward. It's a new season, a new apartment, and unless he wants to try to fix things and does something remarkably different instead of continuing to prey upon the fact that he knows I love him deeply and simply dip his foot in when he wants to and takes it out when he wants to, I've got to say a real goodbye.
I just sent the email, it was three lines long. It said I loved him too much to keep doing this halfway, so please do not contact me any more. And it said bye. Now I'm going to clean my room and go be in a wedding and not care that I don't have a date.
I'm me, and that will have to be enough this time.
Tuesday, September 07, 2010
Why Be Normal?
I haven't been on this blog in a month. I haven't been writing. This is an awful shame. Where does the creativity go if you don't pour it from your fingers and let it slip down and hit the page? It gets re-absorbed by the body, perhaps. It is lost forever, maybe. I don't believe it makes me a better writer the next time. It makes me worse. I become stiff, regular, normal. It is bad to be normal. When I was eight years old, I went to sleepaway camp and I had a bumper sticker above my bed (I had the top bunk). It said, Why Be Normal? I looked at it, staring into the pink and white of it before I would go to sleep as the girls slept soundly around me. It bled into my brain. It was the best mantra, the only mantra that always rang true.
So I'll ask this of you today, why be normal? Usual, the same? Any time you get too comfortable, jump to something uncomfortable. I'm not saying I do a good job all the time or even most of the time at this, I'm not saying there isn't something to be said for routine, I thrive on discipline in spurts. But I am a binge person. I binge on being movable. Stillness is not a move. Not for you, not for me. No moss. No cobwebs. Keep it moving. On to the next.
I've been off being weird, making moves. I have been neglecting things here though, and that's going to change right now. Where the heck have I been? I look out the window and down at a rumpled pile of clothes, a sunburnt nose, an empty wallet, ticket stubs, stick sandals, handprints on the wall, and I'm not sure I know. I don't know where I am right now. I don't know where I've been or where I'm going. I'm not a tourist though, I am an observer. I am a collector. I collect lives and try them on to see which one will fit for me. I have feet that work, half a mind, a nickel in my pocket and all the rest.
I am holding this summer until it fades like colored paper, until it becomes light and brittle in my hands and eventually, only dust like all the rest. This summer was hot and cold, bright and dark, thrilling and lonely, alone and surrounded by too many people, expensive, draining, invigorating, inspirational, scary, but never dull. That is something. There is always something.
Filled with flings and things, packing, leaving my beautiful, comfortable, nested, lived-in apartment for one brimming with light and bare walls, full of promise and too much white, too much sun, too much heat, much too much but then I am binging again and when you binge, too much is never enough.
I don't know why I did it. It isn't cheaper. There aren't trees. I guess I needed a change. I always need a change. I am a banana, I am an avocado, I get squishy when left in the same place for more than a few days. I am fruit salad. I am perfect in three hour increments. I am not everyone's taste but I am pleasing enough. I am palatable. I am watermelon. Fill me with vodka once in a while. I'm still good, I swear.
I was in the Catskills this weekend and I went to a square dance. I heard my friends have sex all night. It was so cold I could see my breath as I shivered under the blankets. There was a lot of steak. The morning brought an even colder snap and the sun reflected onto the glassy expanse of water until it looked like the end of the earth, this blue-gray expanse, it seemed all the problems were absorbed by the wind. I thought but did not say out loud, I want to be the ocean. Change, churn, slosh forward and retreat only after going fast and far. Twist around bends. Take the shape of anything, a tub, a glass, a straw, I will move like liquid if I can, wherever I can. I will be weird. I hope I can be weird forever.
So I'll ask this of you today, why be normal? Usual, the same? Any time you get too comfortable, jump to something uncomfortable. I'm not saying I do a good job all the time or even most of the time at this, I'm not saying there isn't something to be said for routine, I thrive on discipline in spurts. But I am a binge person. I binge on being movable. Stillness is not a move. Not for you, not for me. No moss. No cobwebs. Keep it moving. On to the next.
I've been off being weird, making moves. I have been neglecting things here though, and that's going to change right now. Where the heck have I been? I look out the window and down at a rumpled pile of clothes, a sunburnt nose, an empty wallet, ticket stubs, stick sandals, handprints on the wall, and I'm not sure I know. I don't know where I am right now. I don't know where I've been or where I'm going. I'm not a tourist though, I am an observer. I am a collector. I collect lives and try them on to see which one will fit for me. I have feet that work, half a mind, a nickel in my pocket and all the rest.
I am holding this summer until it fades like colored paper, until it becomes light and brittle in my hands and eventually, only dust like all the rest. This summer was hot and cold, bright and dark, thrilling and lonely, alone and surrounded by too many people, expensive, draining, invigorating, inspirational, scary, but never dull. That is something. There is always something.
Filled with flings and things, packing, leaving my beautiful, comfortable, nested, lived-in apartment for one brimming with light and bare walls, full of promise and too much white, too much sun, too much heat, much too much but then I am binging again and when you binge, too much is never enough.
I don't know why I did it. It isn't cheaper. There aren't trees. I guess I needed a change. I always need a change. I am a banana, I am an avocado, I get squishy when left in the same place for more than a few days. I am fruit salad. I am perfect in three hour increments. I am not everyone's taste but I am pleasing enough. I am palatable. I am watermelon. Fill me with vodka once in a while. I'm still good, I swear.
I was in the Catskills this weekend and I went to a square dance. I heard my friends have sex all night. It was so cold I could see my breath as I shivered under the blankets. There was a lot of steak. The morning brought an even colder snap and the sun reflected onto the glassy expanse of water until it looked like the end of the earth, this blue-gray expanse, it seemed all the problems were absorbed by the wind. I thought but did not say out loud, I want to be the ocean. Change, churn, slosh forward and retreat only after going fast and far. Twist around bends. Take the shape of anything, a tub, a glass, a straw, I will move like liquid if I can, wherever I can. I will be weird. I hope I can be weird forever.
Monday, July 05, 2010
Remembering: Summer State of Mind
When I was smaller, I regarded the Fourth of July as a benchmark. A hard and fast entity, that, while always promised the sizzle of the grill, wet feet slopping drops from the pool to patio, and the fireworks at Limerock, first and foremost, the holiday meant one thing.
Half of summer gone.
I’m still small. In stature and in mind. Because even with the advent of Summer Fridays, the unrelenting pour of rain (that really shouldn’t tally, as it cuts back on useable warm days), and a vacation planned in August, before this moment, I’ve suffered from the idea that summer is a marked man.
An unshakeable feeling that his death is near.
Perhaps my gloominess is not entirely unfounded, just misdirected. It could very well be that the end of summer for me is pending, looming. Though not exactly because it’s Independence Day Eve. Maybe it’s because my summer job is actually my real job, trading the contraband crème brulees and cigarette breaks of a bus girl for the matching accessories and fountain pen of a worker bee.
No longer do I ride my bike to the little grill in town, I take the subway to a monstrous building cookie-cut from the mold of so many others.
No longer am I paid in cash, wrinkled bills stuffed into a maroon apron without counting, then shoved into a drawer, retrieved only for dime store lip-gloss and the cost of entry to a kegger. A paycheck arrives, already deposited into a bank account, full of columns and numbers and taxable subtractions. Depending on the week, it goes straight away to rent.
My parents say that they really don’t have a summer any more. Each day of the season cannot be distinguished from the last, save for the humid weather and weekend barbeques.
I find that heartbreakingly depressing. I refuse to become an adult about this. I see the error in my maturation and need to stop it. Not to remain young at heart, but because I know, deep down, I just will never be able to fully give it up. The memories of summers cascade through me.
Sleepovers, cooking fireside, mosquito bites, the community pool.
Swim lessons, day camp, packed lunches, pickles, juice boxes, shorts and scabbed knees, my bike, the sky, the porch, the burst of sparklers, Frisbee with my dogs, the ice cream truck, playing dodge ball in the dead-end street after dinner, the walk to the sticker store, the passenger’s seat of my parent’s car.
Field parties, his parent’s house when they’re in Europe, the drive between, the trampoline, red cups of beer, the backyard, Tiki torches, tank tops, popsicles, the sundeck, the evening.
Now glasses of white burgundy, the shore, beach towns, weddings, parties, walks around the block in search of gelato, counting the handful of stars visible in the city, taking those days off of work, ice coffee, her homemade desserts, his friends and their cigars, the garden in the back of the bar, the rooftop, paper lanterns, votive candles, the exclusive pool somehow within reach, Coney island for the concerts and hotdogs, the parade, shifts and linen.
Summer does alter as we age. But not in a bad way. Maybe it’s that summer does change tunes, but never quality.
For me, I just won’t let it. This has always been my most beloved time of year. And this year, I’m regarding the Fourth of July as the beginning of summer, not the middle, because I haven’t noticed it until now, haven’t slowed down with a belly-breath and a Sno-cone until now. Because now that I'm older, what I've lost in freedom, I've gained in choice.
So this year, I choose summer. Summer as a state of mind.
And it’s only just begun.
Half of summer gone.
I’m still small. In stature and in mind. Because even with the advent of Summer Fridays, the unrelenting pour of rain (that really shouldn’t tally, as it cuts back on useable warm days), and a vacation planned in August, before this moment, I’ve suffered from the idea that summer is a marked man.
An unshakeable feeling that his death is near.
Perhaps my gloominess is not entirely unfounded, just misdirected. It could very well be that the end of summer for me is pending, looming. Though not exactly because it’s Independence Day Eve. Maybe it’s because my summer job is actually my real job, trading the contraband crème brulees and cigarette breaks of a bus girl for the matching accessories and fountain pen of a worker bee.
No longer do I ride my bike to the little grill in town, I take the subway to a monstrous building cookie-cut from the mold of so many others.
No longer am I paid in cash, wrinkled bills stuffed into a maroon apron without counting, then shoved into a drawer, retrieved only for dime store lip-gloss and the cost of entry to a kegger. A paycheck arrives, already deposited into a bank account, full of columns and numbers and taxable subtractions. Depending on the week, it goes straight away to rent.
My parents say that they really don’t have a summer any more. Each day of the season cannot be distinguished from the last, save for the humid weather and weekend barbeques.
I find that heartbreakingly depressing. I refuse to become an adult about this. I see the error in my maturation and need to stop it. Not to remain young at heart, but because I know, deep down, I just will never be able to fully give it up. The memories of summers cascade through me.
Sleepovers, cooking fireside, mosquito bites, the community pool.
Swim lessons, day camp, packed lunches, pickles, juice boxes, shorts and scabbed knees, my bike, the sky, the porch, the burst of sparklers, Frisbee with my dogs, the ice cream truck, playing dodge ball in the dead-end street after dinner, the walk to the sticker store, the passenger’s seat of my parent’s car.
Field parties, his parent’s house when they’re in Europe, the drive between, the trampoline, red cups of beer, the backyard, Tiki torches, tank tops, popsicles, the sundeck, the evening.
Now glasses of white burgundy, the shore, beach towns, weddings, parties, walks around the block in search of gelato, counting the handful of stars visible in the city, taking those days off of work, ice coffee, her homemade desserts, his friends and their cigars, the garden in the back of the bar, the rooftop, paper lanterns, votive candles, the exclusive pool somehow within reach, Coney island for the concerts and hotdogs, the parade, shifts and linen.
Summer does alter as we age. But not in a bad way. Maybe it’s that summer does change tunes, but never quality.
For me, I just won’t let it. This has always been my most beloved time of year. And this year, I’m regarding the Fourth of July as the beginning of summer, not the middle, because I haven’t noticed it until now, haven’t slowed down with a belly-breath and a Sno-cone until now. Because now that I'm older, what I've lost in freedom, I've gained in choice.
So this year, I choose summer. Summer as a state of mind.
And it’s only just begun.
Tuesday, June 08, 2010
Getting Loopy
Uh oh, the warm weather is setting in and I'm getting a little...you know. Full of ideas. This class, that trip, this boy, that party, this job, that book, this style, that mindfulness, this idiocy, that carelessness.
The other day I was feeling moody, bratty and alone. I have so much and still I was being such a little jerk about it, wanting more without giving more, staring at my phone and bemoaning why it wasn't ringing when really, I hadn't rung anyone. Mad at a boy for not calling and another for calling.
I peeled myself off the chaise, grabbed the book I'm supposed to be reading for my own book to fix the first fifty pages, and took the subway out of my neighborhood. I also put on some eyeliner and a new necklace, because...I don't know. I had some romantic notion I would end somewhere romantic or interesting.
To be interesting, you must be interested. I was not interested and therefore not interesting. I wasn't interested in myself or the world. I was just curled up in a blanket.
So I took the subway to a neighborhood I never go to. I took my book. I took my pen. I was going to get some good dialogue out of it at least, I hoped. One or two great lines would make the process of bringing the notebook worthwhile.
I went into get a coffee and left on a seven hour date. There was an insane art exhibit with sound hard-wiring. There was gourmet pizza. There was a crazy dance party and a hilariously shaped luge for people to take shots. There was a farm. There were hipsters. I danced really hard. I left and when I came home, he'd emailed already that what had happened was rather wonderful.
It actually was.
I'm still pissy about a few things. But not about deciding not to be pissy. Not about deciding instead to be grateful, and get the hell up, and go somewhere and say hi to someone and make a joke and to say yes, just say yes, when someone, anyone remotely worthwhile invites you anywhere remotely worthwhile.
Because then you are remotely worthwhile. Even more than that some might say.
And because I am getting loopy with possibility and less numb to joy, and more numb to say, meanness or bad form or what-have-you, and more inclined to just ask if I can come or to just show up and if anyone wants me there declare it a victory. If not, I can go home, to where I already was. But no one has asked me to go home yet. If you do the same for them, I think they ask you to stay. I want to stay interesting. I want to stay interested. I want to say yes. I will say yes. I do say yes.
And I will quote, I will blather. It feels good. Do what feels good and don't do what feels bad if you can, whenever you can. I think. I think that is enough today. That, and a quote. Always a quote.
“I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”— Sir Isaac Newton
The other day I was feeling moody, bratty and alone. I have so much and still I was being such a little jerk about it, wanting more without giving more, staring at my phone and bemoaning why it wasn't ringing when really, I hadn't rung anyone. Mad at a boy for not calling and another for calling.
I peeled myself off the chaise, grabbed the book I'm supposed to be reading for my own book to fix the first fifty pages, and took the subway out of my neighborhood. I also put on some eyeliner and a new necklace, because...I don't know. I had some romantic notion I would end somewhere romantic or interesting.
To be interesting, you must be interested. I was not interested and therefore not interesting. I wasn't interested in myself or the world. I was just curled up in a blanket.
So I took the subway to a neighborhood I never go to. I took my book. I took my pen. I was going to get some good dialogue out of it at least, I hoped. One or two great lines would make the process of bringing the notebook worthwhile.
I went into get a coffee and left on a seven hour date. There was an insane art exhibit with sound hard-wiring. There was gourmet pizza. There was a crazy dance party and a hilariously shaped luge for people to take shots. There was a farm. There were hipsters. I danced really hard. I left and when I came home, he'd emailed already that what had happened was rather wonderful.
It actually was.
I'm still pissy about a few things. But not about deciding not to be pissy. Not about deciding instead to be grateful, and get the hell up, and go somewhere and say hi to someone and make a joke and to say yes, just say yes, when someone, anyone remotely worthwhile invites you anywhere remotely worthwhile.
Because then you are remotely worthwhile. Even more than that some might say.
And because I am getting loopy with possibility and less numb to joy, and more numb to say, meanness or bad form or what-have-you, and more inclined to just ask if I can come or to just show up and if anyone wants me there declare it a victory. If not, I can go home, to where I already was. But no one has asked me to go home yet. If you do the same for them, I think they ask you to stay. I want to stay interesting. I want to stay interested. I want to say yes. I will say yes. I do say yes.
And I will quote, I will blather. It feels good. Do what feels good and don't do what feels bad if you can, whenever you can. I think. I think that is enough today. That, and a quote. Always a quote.
“I do not know what I may appear to the world, but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the seashore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”— Sir Isaac Newton
Friday, June 04, 2010
It's A Beautiful Day and I'm Going To Hate It If I Want To
It truly is amazing to have summer and be in love.
I've got summer. And work to do on my book that I can't seem to get motivated to do. I thought I had love, got a hold of myself and stopped talking to him for three weeks. Of course that's when he wants back in my life. And not asking nicely back, demanding, and telling me how horrible I was and how right our breakup was, demanding back.
Then there is the new crush that I thought I had...Well it turns out that crush was less than. Patience. Is. A. Virtue. I will not turn into one of "those" women. Will I?
No. I will not turn into one of "those" people who doesn't believe in fate and love and purpose and light and cream cheese and kittens and joy. I will just believe that those things don't come to me right now.
That is okay (grits teeth).
In the meantime, it is the weekend, and if I want to spend it stomping around my nice apartment and being generally ungrateful for the fact that I have no plans and no good attitude allowed?
Maybe I can go watch Reality Bites and eat some crackers after coming home from work instead of going out.
Also, note to self: stop skipping yoga. Lots of yoga last week = happy mood. No exercise at all this week = terrible mood. Coincidence? I think not.
I've got summer. And work to do on my book that I can't seem to get motivated to do. I thought I had love, got a hold of myself and stopped talking to him for three weeks. Of course that's when he wants back in my life. And not asking nicely back, demanding, and telling me how horrible I was and how right our breakup was, demanding back.
Then there is the new crush that I thought I had...Well it turns out that crush was less than. Patience. Is. A. Virtue. I will not turn into one of "those" women. Will I?
No. I will not turn into one of "those" people who doesn't believe in fate and love and purpose and light and cream cheese and kittens and joy. I will just believe that those things don't come to me right now.
That is okay (grits teeth).
In the meantime, it is the weekend, and if I want to spend it stomping around my nice apartment and being generally ungrateful for the fact that I have no plans and no good attitude allowed?
Maybe I can go watch Reality Bites and eat some crackers after coming home from work instead of going out.
Also, note to self: stop skipping yoga. Lots of yoga last week = happy mood. No exercise at all this week = terrible mood. Coincidence? I think not.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
I'm In Miami, B*tch
That's the only song still playing everywhere in South Beach and YES my friend Annabelle and I just bought matching shirts that said so after burning our noses whilst laying out at the ritziest hotel pool in Miami.
We snuck in. We can afford a trashy shirt that says we're here, but we can't be here, really.
It's okay. We've got the proof. Uneven tan lines, neon shirts and empty wallets as we trudge through the sludge on our way back home.
Mind's in Miami. Body's back in NYC. Pics to come, after the mountain of work emails is hacked in half. Okay by 10% at least...
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Grinchin' It
So it's cold, work goes late, you're skipping the gym, and every holiday party is designed to cram as much duckfat and sub-par Shiraz into your gullet as possible.
I'm trying to take this weekend, this freezing cold weekend, and make some hot chocolate and put some presents under the first tree I've ever had on my own! Okay, the boy brought it in, but it was me who reached my scrawny arms into the thick of the needles to wrap the lights as he looked onward with a dim realization that if he stood there long enough doing it shoddily I would do it myself, it was me who broke the borrowed ornaments and then stepped on shards of purple glass with my idiotic barefeet, me who turned the temperature up to 80 degrees despite how much I'll pay for the bill because in my parent's house you have to wear a coat at all times or risk death (my father, upon hearing even the rush of air from my brother turning the thermostat up from 60--yes SIXTY degrees at night--to 62 has roused him from his bed to chastise us) because I wanted to decorate the tree in a warm room, me who lopsidedly hung the beads and me who climbed on top of a chair nearly falling into the tree to top it with the star. Yes, I am an adult! Sort of.
And now the invites pour in. For this concert and this party and this literary event. All fabulous, and I am almost fabulous enough to deserve to be invited (so the invites state). But it is COLD. And there are too many! And I am a brat to complain of being invited. And I get a little egg nog in me and I start telling everyone they're not the boss of me. And then no one gets the joke.* And the fabulous invites don't come in April. There is no blow out bash, no spreading of cheer. That's when I want to be popular. April! Not now, not December, when my face is all red and my hair is all blown from the wind, when I've been ingesting nothing all day just to take three, count 'em, three miniburgers from The Standard at the last literary event I attended (a BBC documentary on the real Mad Men). And three glasses of champagne. That's how I roll these days. Adult, maybe. Tasteful, not on your life.
Friends, I will have holiday cheer as soon as I get rid of one or two of my jobs to pay for the holiday cheer I have to spread. As soon as I figure out how to make this interview I did on spec with this adorable musician who has no hook into a story, as soon as I turn down the heat in here to 60 and put on my coat to sit on my couch and look at my tree with no presents underneath. As soon as I complete four more applications. I have done nine. I have four more. I have cheer. It is coming.
I hope you are spreading some and can wrap yourselves in enough to go get some brunch, go to a museum, get thee to yoga, because that's what I want for Christmas, as soon as I can.
*To all the funny people out there, don't you hate it when other people don't think you're funny? You are! This is what I must cling to. Give me this lie and nothing else and I will be happy.
I'm trying to take this weekend, this freezing cold weekend, and make some hot chocolate and put some presents under the first tree I've ever had on my own! Okay, the boy brought it in, but it was me who reached my scrawny arms into the thick of the needles to wrap the lights as he looked onward with a dim realization that if he stood there long enough doing it shoddily I would do it myself, it was me who broke the borrowed ornaments and then stepped on shards of purple glass with my idiotic barefeet, me who turned the temperature up to 80 degrees despite how much I'll pay for the bill because in my parent's house you have to wear a coat at all times or risk death (my father, upon hearing even the rush of air from my brother turning the thermostat up from 60--yes SIXTY degrees at night--to 62 has roused him from his bed to chastise us) because I wanted to decorate the tree in a warm room, me who lopsidedly hung the beads and me who climbed on top of a chair nearly falling into the tree to top it with the star. Yes, I am an adult! Sort of.
And now the invites pour in. For this concert and this party and this literary event. All fabulous, and I am almost fabulous enough to deserve to be invited (so the invites state). But it is COLD. And there are too many! And I am a brat to complain of being invited. And I get a little egg nog in me and I start telling everyone they're not the boss of me. And then no one gets the joke.* And the fabulous invites don't come in April. There is no blow out bash, no spreading of cheer. That's when I want to be popular. April! Not now, not December, when my face is all red and my hair is all blown from the wind, when I've been ingesting nothing all day just to take three, count 'em, three miniburgers from The Standard at the last literary event I attended (a BBC documentary on the real Mad Men). And three glasses of champagne. That's how I roll these days. Adult, maybe. Tasteful, not on your life.
Friends, I will have holiday cheer as soon as I get rid of one or two of my jobs to pay for the holiday cheer I have to spread. As soon as I figure out how to make this interview I did on spec with this adorable musician who has no hook into a story, as soon as I turn down the heat in here to 60 and put on my coat to sit on my couch and look at my tree with no presents underneath. As soon as I complete four more applications. I have done nine. I have four more. I have cheer. It is coming.
I hope you are spreading some and can wrap yourselves in enough to go get some brunch, go to a museum, get thee to yoga, because that's what I want for Christmas, as soon as I can.
*To all the funny people out there, don't you hate it when other people don't think you're funny? You are! This is what I must cling to. Give me this lie and nothing else and I will be happy.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Items for the Weekend
Dinner with Emily at DGBG, Daniel Boulud's foray into downtown dining (I hear sixteen kinds of sausages and an ice cream sundae cart!)*
Look out the window and pray for sunshine
Anxiously await the edits from my first personal essay ever, slated to be published, in a brand-spanking new literary magazine (if it happens, you'll be the first to know)
Take a nap
Finish Stanford class and breathe a huge sigh of relief, then, slow-witted as I am, sign up for a new class to tackle the 2nd book (yes I'm still working on the first!)
Go to Torrington, Connecticut for a clambake reunion of high school friends
Drink a little too much wine somewhere and barefoot
Hunker down and get those music blogs in for that new job, edit an article on Hawaii for an old job, and be very thankful for working at all, even if freelance and part-time translates into weekend full-time
Gather new obsessions: mint green tea, Stephen King movies and a new motorcycle helmet
Don't look at my paltry bank statement, don't, don't, look
Clandestinely watch all the episodes of So You Think You Can Dance that the boy refuses to watch with me
Find the four inches of scarf I knitted in winter, my cell phone charger, time for the gym
Have a wonderful weekend!
*and very excited to see DB's takeover of the branding of famed Sid Vicious vomitorium CBGB's.
Look out the window and pray for sunshine
Anxiously await the edits from my first personal essay ever, slated to be published, in a brand-spanking new literary magazine (if it happens, you'll be the first to know)
Take a nap
Finish Stanford class and breathe a huge sigh of relief, then, slow-witted as I am, sign up for a new class to tackle the 2nd book (yes I'm still working on the first!)
Go to Torrington, Connecticut for a clambake reunion of high school friends
Drink a little too much wine somewhere and barefoot
Hunker down and get those music blogs in for that new job, edit an article on Hawaii for an old job, and be very thankful for working at all, even if freelance and part-time translates into weekend full-time
Gather new obsessions: mint green tea, Stephen King movies and a new motorcycle helmet
Don't look at my paltry bank statement, don't, don't, look
Clandestinely watch all the episodes of So You Think You Can Dance that the boy refuses to watch with me
Find the four inches of scarf I knitted in winter, my cell phone charger, time for the gym
Have a wonderful weekend!
*and very excited to see DB's takeover of the branding of famed Sid Vicious vomitorium CBGB's.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Happy Thanksgiving!
I'm in a flurry of planning, hoping to try out a new creamed spinach and parsnip dressing, wondering how to talk my mother into glazing the turkey with apricot compote (for color, I hear it's fantastic), overstuffing bags in case one outfit for dinner ends up with a big fat gravy splotch on it (this is most probable of all). I'm combining friends and family this year and hope everyone is on their best behavior, but the house is full of cats and the dog and my turkey of a brother, my mother who curses if the sausage stuffing dries out, my father who inevitably has to run to the barn, last minute to secure the chair we're missing, and it's inevitably tiny, antique and iron and I have to somehow sit on it as I sip perhaps my third wine and second buttered rum of the evening.
Thanksgiving is fantastic. Especially since I just ordered these flowers as a gift to family who won't be able to join us this year. But before all of that, a manic running around the "office" to check up on freelancing possibilities. My bags are heavy but my load is light--I have my family, I have my friends, I have a bed and for the moment, I may be exceptionally underemployed, but that merely gives me more time to put a new twist on our famous cranberry walnut pie. Traditions? We have none. Just to have a good time and a good stiff drink. And to retell this story.
Sending good wishes to all of you today, may you overeat and not think about the economy for just one day...
Friday, October 31, 2008
Happy Halloween!
I troll the internet so you can be productive. I'm also really immature, so you don't have to be. You're welcome.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Politics are Fun
Who needs debate recaps when these speeches provide such great lines as:
"If I had to name my greatest weakness, perhaps it's that I'm a little too awesome."
I like it when candidates bring the funny...
"If I had to name my greatest weakness, perhaps it's that I'm a little too awesome."
I like it when candidates bring the funny...
Monday, October 13, 2008
File this under WTF
As reported from the field from a friend who is walking uptown.
I got a call about three minutes ago from him, who, on the way to the subway found perhaps the craziest tattoo in the world.
It was on a bald guy, who had a tattoo on his head. Of a helmet.
To repeat, bald guy gets helmet tattooed on his head.
Of course I shouted, what the hell are you calling me for! Get off the phone and take a picture!
But the helmeted man had disappeared into a bank. Ostensibly to rob it.
Oh boy, here come the "Oooooonly in New York!!" jokes.
I got a call about three minutes ago from him, who, on the way to the subway found perhaps the craziest tattoo in the world.
It was on a bald guy, who had a tattoo on his head. Of a helmet.
To repeat, bald guy gets helmet tattooed on his head.
Of course I shouted, what the hell are you calling me for! Get off the phone and take a picture!
But the helmeted man had disappeared into a bank. Ostensibly to rob it.
Oh boy, here come the "Oooooonly in New York!!" jokes.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Jib and Jibber Jabber
Sometimes my life can feel like a movie--an absurdist indie flick, a bombastic drama, the last, crawling hour of Solaris. Last week it was all fish-in-the-city moments that don't usually belong to me. Climaxing with a night of blonde girls and distinguishing patrons, a boating captain in white shoes, crudites and bottles upon bottles.
First a private book party at Cipriani Downtown (Upstairs) where one of my friends, mentors and perennial girl-crushes flitted around in Chloe, champagne-soaked conversing to the crowd gathered to welcome her new novel home. She was the lone jewel in that first writing class, she's told me not to sell myself short and to keep reaching for that brass ring and is testament to taking ones own advice to the fullest: and here's the shameless plug to check her out.
And then, after meeting some wonderful people whose numbers were not exchanged because I am terrible at planning, I had to leave the party early, her goodie bag in my hot little hand, to meet again with a different, albeit no less shimmering blonde, who has read half my book and--gasp--likes it and has told me that when I am ready, so is she, to introduce me to a few of her favorite agents and invite them to take a look as well. She chartered a boat to sail along the West side shores, as white and red was poured and the whispered jokes turned into yells, the cityscape white lights in black puddles, the passengers all holding each other close and laughing too loudly, the captain inviting us all to the fantastic yacht in the middle of the river where "Julian" promises an unforgettable time past midnight and me bowing out, all jib and jibber jabbered out.
I had to go home and finally sleep, because there had been so much consecutive newness already and so much to think about. The stunning sushi at the newly-opened Blue Ribbon uptown, the ride home on that Japanese motorcycle, the sharing of manuscripts. The sharing of playlists. The fall-planning and next summer's Thai dreams await.
The sky gone gray and that cold honing in, it was the brightest flash of the end of summer. And the film reel has since flipped, I have a cough and a pile of work on my cluttered desk, office workers around me grumble, and sure it's Monday and we have no time and we have no more long days to warm us, but I've got my unexpected memories and the hopes to create a whole lot more to watch in the upcoming months...
First a private book party at Cipriani Downtown (Upstairs) where one of my friends, mentors and perennial girl-crushes flitted around in Chloe, champagne-soaked conversing to the crowd gathered to welcome her new novel home. She was the lone jewel in that first writing class, she's told me not to sell myself short and to keep reaching for that brass ring and is testament to taking ones own advice to the fullest: and here's the shameless plug to check her out.
And then, after meeting some wonderful people whose numbers were not exchanged because I am terrible at planning, I had to leave the party early, her goodie bag in my hot little hand, to meet again with a different, albeit no less shimmering blonde, who has read half my book and--gasp--likes it and has told me that when I am ready, so is she, to introduce me to a few of her favorite agents and invite them to take a look as well. She chartered a boat to sail along the West side shores, as white and red was poured and the whispered jokes turned into yells, the cityscape white lights in black puddles, the passengers all holding each other close and laughing too loudly, the captain inviting us all to the fantastic yacht in the middle of the river where "Julian" promises an unforgettable time past midnight and me bowing out, all jib and jibber jabbered out.
I had to go home and finally sleep, because there had been so much consecutive newness already and so much to think about. The stunning sushi at the newly-opened Blue Ribbon uptown, the ride home on that Japanese motorcycle, the sharing of manuscripts. The sharing of playlists. The fall-planning and next summer's Thai dreams await.
The sky gone gray and that cold honing in, it was the brightest flash of the end of summer. And the film reel has since flipped, I have a cough and a pile of work on my cluttered desk, office workers around me grumble, and sure it's Monday and we have no time and we have no more long days to warm us, but I've got my unexpected memories and the hopes to create a whole lot more to watch in the upcoming months...
Monday, April 14, 2008
Friend, Has it Been Five Years?
I should have felt weird, entirely weird, about descending upon my green velvet alma mater this weekend, with the rest of the oldies, for our five year reunion. But I didn’t. I’m just that immature and wistful.
Highlights:
The Beirut tourney in which I had to drink all of the cups, and I mean all of them, since my partner has sworn off drinking. That made for a lovely four PM, let me tell you.
Walking through the new buildings, scaring the studying kids in the airy new atrium by shout-whispering “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet.” And “This is your future. Look at it! Looook at iiiit! That’s right. You too can grow up to be a jerk. Stop crying, crybaby!”
Shrimp, grits, and vodka sweet tea, but mostly, the waiter who served them, the Chapel Hill hipster with a huge tattoo of North Carolina on his forearm with a big heart in the middle. Cool now, weird in three years.
Finally being told that the saying is “Never the twain shall meet.” Not, as previously thought and spoken, “Never the ‘tween shall meet.”
Having the reaction to, “I write for some magazines”, which, while no one could care less about in New York, is astonishing and creative in a sea of real estate developers and law school students and elicits beaming smiles, sincere follow-ups and gazing off into the tobacco factories with, “I wish I could do that.”
Cantina. Even if it took two hours both nights.
The string orchestra in the gardens and all that champagne.
The marble port-a-pottys and their brass fixtures.
Laughing hysterically about 60% of the time, seeing the new crop build a slip-and-slide party, drinking in the tents.
Lemur tour and the friend I made on it, who, now that I mention it, looked like a lemur and proceeded to follow me around the rest of the day as if I had lemur food in my pocket.
Rebuffing a former lacrosse player’s advances with, “Too soon,” and a college senior’s advances with, “Too old.”
Lowlights: The following conversation: “Are you still dating REDACTED? No?” (Pause). “That’s too bad. REDACTED was so awesome! Wow. Remember how awesome REDACTED was? Man, just the coolest kid. So awesome. Wait, so why aren’t you dating why aren’t you dating REDACTED?”
That second bowl of queso spicy goodness/badness, the legendary fake cheese that the Mexican place on campus serves, which changes its taste and consistency with each passing hour. Sometimes it’s really thin, sometime there’s skin, and all times it’s dotted with red flecks, not of this world I assure you, to indicate that it’s “caliente”. Note, if you ever find yourself in the divine situation of eating this earthly manifestation of heaven and hell, consider walking the 100 yards to McDonald’s to procure fries to then place into the shallow bowl of queso and then let soak for four minutes before eating with a fork. Vomit, then repeat.
Good ole Durham sun, and the sweet, sweet mom burn I got on my chest.
Eight hours of sleep in two days and coming back to the cold, to a pile of edits and a little bit of a heavier step…
I don’t care how stupid and dorky it makes me, I loved college
and I am glad for every minute of it…
Highlights:
The Beirut tourney in which I had to drink all of the cups, and I mean all of them, since my partner has sworn off drinking. That made for a lovely four PM, let me tell you.
Walking through the new buildings, scaring the studying kids in the airy new atrium by shout-whispering “When I was your age, Pluto was a planet.” And “This is your future. Look at it! Looook at iiiit! That’s right. You too can grow up to be a jerk. Stop crying, crybaby!”
Shrimp, grits, and vodka sweet tea, but mostly, the waiter who served them, the Chapel Hill hipster with a huge tattoo of North Carolina on his forearm with a big heart in the middle. Cool now, weird in three years.
Finally being told that the saying is “Never the twain shall meet.” Not, as previously thought and spoken, “Never the ‘tween shall meet.”
Having the reaction to, “I write for some magazines”, which, while no one could care less about in New York, is astonishing and creative in a sea of real estate developers and law school students and elicits beaming smiles, sincere follow-ups and gazing off into the tobacco factories with, “I wish I could do that.”
Cantina. Even if it took two hours both nights.
The string orchestra in the gardens and all that champagne.
The marble port-a-pottys and their brass fixtures.
Laughing hysterically about 60% of the time, seeing the new crop build a slip-and-slide party, drinking in the tents.
Lemur tour and the friend I made on it, who, now that I mention it, looked like a lemur and proceeded to follow me around the rest of the day as if I had lemur food in my pocket.
Rebuffing a former lacrosse player’s advances with, “Too soon,” and a college senior’s advances with, “Too old.”
Lowlights: The following conversation: “Are you still dating REDACTED? No?” (Pause). “That’s too bad. REDACTED was so awesome! Wow. Remember how awesome REDACTED was? Man, just the coolest kid. So awesome. Wait, so why aren’t you dating why aren’t you dating REDACTED?”
That second bowl of queso spicy goodness/badness, the legendary fake cheese that the Mexican place on campus serves, which changes its taste and consistency with each passing hour. Sometimes it’s really thin, sometime there’s skin, and all times it’s dotted with red flecks, not of this world I assure you, to indicate that it’s “caliente”. Note, if you ever find yourself in the divine situation of eating this earthly manifestation of heaven and hell, consider walking the 100 yards to McDonald’s to procure fries to then place into the shallow bowl of queso and then let soak for four minutes before eating with a fork. Vomit, then repeat.
Good ole Durham sun, and the sweet, sweet mom burn I got on my chest.
Eight hours of sleep in two days and coming back to the cold, to a pile of edits and a little bit of a heavier step…
I don’t care how stupid and dorky it makes me, I loved college
and I am glad for every minute of it…
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