The Turkey and The Sleeping Dragon

I am twenty-four years old. For all intents and purposes, I am an independent adult.

However, I am terrified of my mother.

Waking, she is loud, brash, larger than life, smart, beautiful, intimidating, and outrageous.

Sleeping, she is a very frightening thing, indeed. And she has a terrible, terrible temper.

Once, my brother was sick with food poisoning (and this is a boy who has my father’s stomach of steel) and he threw up, and he’s pretty darn large for a kid (fifteen years, six foot one, deuce and some change, size fourteen feet) and after he had done so, he came to my room to ask me to help him find some medicine, and his labored shuffling on the carpeted floor woke my mother.

Who flew from her room in a flowered nightgown and was suddenly upon us, hissing, “What the hell is going on out here!”

A statement, not a question. When I said, “Zak’s sick, I was just trying to help him, he’s throwing up,” the words were no sooner out of my mouth then they were answered.

“Don’t be so loud about it!” And as fast as it happened, the door slammed and it was over.

So last Thanksgiving Eve, when my mother gave me explicit directions, I listened very carefully and took notes. The turkey, for the eight people she was serving the next day, including my very proper and very French great-Aunt Nicole (pronounced knee-cole), was chilling on the wooden porch because it was very cold and there wasn’t room in the freezer, was to be taken out and placed in several plastic bags in a pristine sink to thaw slowly so that at 5 AM she could begin to cook it. She went to bed at 10 PM. I promised to bring the turkey inside when I went to bed somewhere around 12.

At about 11:30, I decided to take the turkey in early, because I suddenly remembered and did not want to forget. Yet, when I padded onto the porch wearing slippers and my dad’s winter jacket, I did not see it.

I got a flashlight and powered the beam onto the tables, the railing, the chairs, the stairs. Still I did not see it. So I went inside and asked my brother, who was a bit of a turkey himself in that he never proved to be much help in solving a problem, to please come out, and please help me look.

He came out barefoot and in shorts, looked for half a minute, then went inside. I followed him.

I said, “Zak. We have to find the turkey.”

He said, “No. You have to find the turkey.”

I took a breath and used all the ammo I had. “Do you really think Mom will care who’s fault it is? You’ll pay too. Everyone will pay.” It was very Shakespearean.

All are punished.

He put on shoes. We looked for the next hour and a half. I kept asking him, “Did you see the turkey out here earlier? Did you move it? Do you think an animal took it?”

He kept rolling his eyes, as he was missing Cartoon Network.

We crouched around the perimeter of the house; maybe it had blown away with some tremendous wind? Maybe the dog had dragged it underneath a car? Maybe when my mom said “porch” she really meant “the barn”?

Finally, I said it.

“The turkey is gone.” The fear was thick-on-my-tongue palpable. For Zak too.

I ventured, “We have two options. We wake up Mom to tell her now and ask if she put it somewhere else. Or, we wait until she wakes up and finds it’s missing.”

I knew the problem with each of these. If we waited until morning, we’d surely ruin Thanksgiving, because it would be too late to buy another turkey, and even if it wasn’t, the turkey would be frozen, and there wouldn’t be enough time to thaw to roast it. Having ruined considerable more holidays than my brother, as I out-aged him by nine years, I knew that I couldn’t do that.

But waking my mother is like waking a sleeping dragon. As though she suffers from a curse in which she kisses us goodnight, floats upstairs, closes her door, shuts off the light with that, the room transforms. A darkened lair in a wicked forest, and she's a black-haired witch for eight hours only to emerge bright-eyed in the morning, seen singing over her coffee mug and swatting my dad with a dish towel.

I consider myself to be fearless in many ways, but this was not one of them.

Tears welling in my eyes, I knew what I had to do. Wake her now, and hope that I had simply misheard her, and she would tell me where the turkey was so I could do what needed to be done, and then chalk everything up to a strange dream she had that I could convince her never happened.

Outside her room, where I could hear my father snoring, was a different story. My brother and I stood together, fiercely arguing in whispers.

“You do it!”

“No—you!”

“No!”

The door opened with a shot.

My mother, her flowered nightgown, her squished up sleep-face, her hair askew, it was all happening again.

“What the bloody hell are you doing?! I just fell asleep!!”

Simultaneously, we stammered. “We lost the turkey!”

Wordlessly, my mother pushed past us and stomped downstairs. Then, the screaming began.

“Who’s wearing my coat? Get me some boots! What the hell were you thinking?!”

We followed her to the porch door. I hung back, half-hoping that she would immediately find the turkey and it would be all over, then hoping not, because then we wouldn’t be two idiot kids, but justified. Not that it mattered to her whether we were justified or not.

I held my breath. Zak trembled.

My mother stomped back inside. “I don’t see it.”

Together, then, we looked across the boards of the porch, boards that I knew very well, as I had scoured them many times earlier that night.

My mother decided to look in the dumpster behind our house as a last, illogical resort.

And there, underneath a pile of coffee grinds, was the turkey, quadruple wrapped in a mylar-like covering.

We came to a conclusion. The only conclusion.

My brother, right after dinner, when he took out the trash, had thrown the turkey away.

Let me repeat. My brother, who had gone through this entire thing with me all night, had thrown the turkey into the dumpster.

Because he thought, as it was wrapped up in so many protective bags, that someone had placed trash on the table outside, and he was simply, in his mind, taking it out.

I shrieked, “What are we gonna do? About dinner tomorrow?!”

With that, we all burst into wave after wave of laughter. Because we could not get another turkey, because company was coming, because it was two in the morning. Then my mom paused and said,

“Don’t tell Aunt Nicole.”

We took it inside. We thawed it in the sink. And we cooked it, special seasoning and all.

We rationalized it as it had been wrapped so many times, and we rinsed it thoroughly, and it was not really in the trash, per se, at least not in a highly offending way. But for his idiocy, my brother, usually quite loud-mouthed, was sworn to secrecy that he would not say anything about it to anyone at the table, and he kept his promise so that no one would know what he had done except the immediate family.

And to tell you the truth, it ended up okay because the turkey, stuffed with a lemon and garlic and rosemary, was a big hit.

But even more importantly, I had passed the torch of ruining holidays from my hand to that of my brother’s…

Unrivaled Girls

Last night swirled in borrowed time. The famous blogger friend, her reading, and her after-party at the Stone Rose.

I was feeling a bit anxious, because to be perfectly honest, sometimes it’s hard for girls to be completely unrivaled with/happy for other girls. I wish this weren’t true, but it is, at least in my experience.

It’s left over from something else that I can’t place. Maybe from “Mommy Dearest” or from women in the workplace, or just plain old judging your self-worth by desirability—from a man, from a school, a career. The doctrine which dictates that a victor is only one by defeating another and how the line between is painted black and white.

Best friends have felt this way towards me when I make strides, and I of them. We’re happy each other is doing well, of course, but would you/I mind not doing so much better than me/her? Cause that means, somehow, one’s winning and one’s losing.

Girls don’t have to make sense; we’re too busy making things harder for ourselves.

So for last night, you may see how a successful writer, her highly lauded book and legions of fans might make one (anyone who isn’t quite there yet) a bit jealous, maybe a bit sour grapes. I hoped at least it would not be me that felt it, but went in bracing myself anyway. And dragging the boy so I wouldn’t feel like such a dorky hanger-on.

I didn’t. It was marvelous. She was marvelous. Gracious, glowing, and great on her feet. I felt proud and happy for her and so did everyone else.

An inspiration for where my life could take me if I work hard enough. To a corner overlooking the edge of the park, the glittering lights, a lemon-basil martini to my right, a meaty mushroom crostini to my left, atop a leather banquette with my head high.

Of course, when the bill came, reality hit and I slunk home to the many roommates, the laundry piles, the blisters on my toes.

Though Project Runway was a damn good consolation prize…

P.S. Spoiler Alert!

I incorrectly thought Keith was going to get kicked off for this scandal, not the books, and wonder if that will even come up or was that only discovered after the show was filmed. Anyone know?

Foiled Again

The foil’s infection has spread through the class. Luckily, because of her, I have come to see and will immediately take the following memos to heart.

Notes to self:

1. Stop, stop, stop basing characters on myself! That way, when they are exposed for being obnoxious, entitled, and self-involved, I won’t get as upset.

2. While we’re at it, stop being so obnoxious, entitled, and self-involved, because it’s offending people.

3. (Optional) Once #2 is completed and the need for a new personality presents itself, figure out how to get a very different one as it’s becoming painfully clear that no amount of self-loathing, no matter how sincere, can compensate for unconsciously being a total brat.

The only good I guess to come out of last night was the teacher’s secret backing: that I can still tell the story I want to tell from the character I want to tell. Also, that I should get my butt to an MFA program, because I may possess it. Whatever it is.

So beaten down, but still have potential. Okay, I’ll take it.

Armed

Neko Case and “Deep Red Bells” is on repeat.

This is my song for the week as it harkens rushing rivers, swaying reeds, drooping blue willows, wooden-slat porches, bourbon and a glass of water

All those hot weather things, all those sips of someone else’s life. Borrowed time in other scorching days.

Dipping a toe, then swinging high, a moment of flight before falling off the rope swing.

Minnows and sand banks.

Old doors and sun-drenched parlors. Slow-churned anything, everything.

Pink moons, stars puncturing. The creaking of floorboards and the click-click of dog toenails.

Now here’s hoping those thoughts and the iPod battery can last, as today is Tuesday and I face the foil once more, this time armed with thirty six pages…

Duality

I remember high schools, plural, because I went to more than one, though it wasn’t by my own choice or even fault.

My parents are die-hard subscribers to the (somewhat unpopular) belief that bearing children is no excuse to stop living and breathing an independent life. So because of that, we moved to my mother’s whim; her falling in love with a house here or there, my father’s need to pursue other jobs, other towns, other chapters.

I have no roots. You’d think it was unfortunate, but I’ve found it’s not. It’s liberating, not lonely.

I have been able to rewrite the story of my life, or really, have it rewritten for me, but who doesn’t want to have a new chance every once in a while?

The drawback is, my thoughts of my younger years are choppy, and though they mellow with time, perhaps they do so untruthfully.

Instead, spots are crystallized. Anxiety magnified, sadness overblown, happiness positively manic.

So I think of high school in a strange way, not as four fluid years in my life where I saw this and did that and boy, I was so young and wow, I didn’t know what I had. I think instead of these parts of me which can’t be sewn together because they existed singular, even, in different states.

At one in Connecticut, after most had gone each day, a girl no one really ever saw sat in the east hall and played her violin. Its sound was a beautiful, low haunting that permeated and echoed, past tacked art projects, soccer cleats and the smoker’s corner. Like it was big, alive and slithering, you could feel it everywhere. I remember that, and almost only that, in regards to September of my freshman year, pacing the linoleum tiles as I waited for my ride.

Even then, I was dimly aware that this was a wonderful and rare moment that would never be duplicated and still, I did not close my eyes and let the music pass through me, maybe because I was fourteen and the idea to sit and meditate/love/feel anything seemed so lame and so what my parents would have done, or even worse, what they would have wanted me to do.

Instead, I scowled and wondered why whoever was so late was so late. I said to myself it was weird that the girl played for no one. I said to myself it was annoying because I was trying to talk to a friend. This wasn't the soundtrack I'd picked for my life, yet here it was. I thought, I wish she’d stop. But really, I just didn’t want her to, and I didn’t want anyone to know.

That was the first, I think, I experienced panged duality of appreciation and wistfulness, and how maybe one was not really either, but both.

I’m not really sure why I remember things that way, or did what I did, or even still, do what I do. I just think that maybe because I felt then, as I do now, my lack of roots equated a lack of obligation, only disposable responsibility which could be taken or not, and what I should have done was walk to her and tell her she played well and that she brightened my day, when instead, all I did was pretend I didn’t like it, and then, like so many other times to come, packed up my belongings and moved away.

Tomato Lust

A good mood is back.

I’m going away this afternoon to the shade of Bucks County, the slate-lined pool, the orchards, the infinite meadowed lawn, the yippy dogs, unfamiliar pillows, the pantries lined with red pepper jelly in jars.

I’m sloughing off the city despite the car’s broken air conditioning, the mish mash of bubbled heat and tension closing in. No more week, this is the weekend.

I’ve got my bathing suit, my latest read, my unquenchable thirst for summer and inspiration to keep me cool.

There’s even something to look forward to beyond the present. The dead of August brings an upcoming vacation to the west coast for scoping unfulfilled dreams, but also the harvest of fat yellow tomatoes from the garden. That’s when we make a chilled, chunky gazpacho from scratch, loaded with herbs and heavy with vegetables. It’s sublime with a sloppy BLT made with fresh-picked arugula, toasted grain bread from a local bakery, and thick slabs of crunchy bacon.

We take them to the water and eat them under the sun with popped Frescas, our legs dipped in and our minds empty with ease.

Until then, iced tea and naps, floating and slipping on the grass, will do just fine.

Stress and other inconveniences...

When I am somebody, I vow I will negate stress with a plunge pool replete with pool boy fanning me with a banana leaf, French lemon soda, and deep tissue massages, perhaps given by said pool boy.

Because I am nobody, I negate stress with an electric fan, the mailroom guys shouting “Juancha” as I slump past, and warmed Diet Pepsi.

I’m feeling stressed. This job stuff is nuts, but it's out of my hands nuts. I worry too much, I absorb it all, I shake off too little. I don’t like that part of my personality. My better half has this incredibly infuriating and enviable manner about him, which I’d give my future pool boy for. This, “What? Me worry?” attitude, this “If I can’t change it, then I don’t think about it” countenance.

So much so, that when he gets a parking ticket, it bothers him for minutes, his flashes of road rage are contained in the moment, and he has a perpetual golden retriever grin.

Zen.

He gets it.

I do not.

Blah

Life has never been fair.

But since when has that stopped anyone from whining?

I’m sick, sick, sick. An upper respiratory infection that I don’t know how I contracted (I’m looking at you, Jersey Shore) has left me hacking it for the past few days.

On top of that, I’ve gotten slammed with news at work that puts my position in a weird place, me in a sticky situation, and all sorts of fun stuff. Oh, and I ripped my favorite jeans. Like, really badly ripped them at the knee. No, not in a cool way.

But at least I’m on page 30 of my novel. And I wasn’t the one that passed the dinosaur. (Hooray!)

Okay, life is not fair, but still, it’s pretty great.

If you like, I’ll start posting bits of the book?

Pass

The Jersey Shore is a dangerous place.

Not only for my Japanese sandals, this morning found burned and battered, as though by acid (very well the sludge I danced through all night), the leather cherry leaves peeled off.

Not only for my head, pressed in a hangover vice, not at all soothed the night prior by the cheese fries at the beach (nor with the brilliant discovery of one housemate to roll the cheese fries inside a piece of mushroom pizza).

But most of all, dangerous for this:

A birthday celebration caused immature revelry, multiple hookups, and pirate’s booty from Party Central.

Within the treasure trove were sheriff’s badges, shrimp squirt guns, giant pixie stix, temporary tattoos, golden medals and coins, plastic paratroopers, blow-up parrots and one sword.

Something else, too. Those little sponges that look like nothing, then expand tenfold with a few drops of water to reveal a dinosaur or exotic animal. Though, these were in pill forms.

In my inebriated state I thought it would be funny to toss a pill into the top of the birthday girl’s yet-to-be-funneled Miller Lite. I think I imagined it would immediately absorb and clog the tube or get stuck in her mouth and have her spitting out bits. Because when you’re drunk, things seem like a good idea, and things seem like they’re going to be funny.

Except, the pill didn’t immediately dissolve and the sponge didn’t immediately appear. And because she couldn’t finish the beer, because we had already done so many, I finished it off for her (this, as a reminder, was not thirty seconds after I had dropped the pill in).

When I was done, the pill was gone.

A moment later, I realized what had happened. Someone’s brother beat me to the punch.

“Where’s the pill?”

Where was the pill?

It wasn’t in the funnel. It hadn’t stopped up the tubing or fallen out or stuck to the side. The pill had been sucked down with the beer, was either in me or the birthday girl, and when it sloshed inside a stomach it was going to expand.

The only question was, which of us had been so unlucky? I posed this to the group, as the birthday girl grew mildly hysterical and everyone else doubled over in laughter.

“No,” the brother said, between fits of giggles. “That’s…not…the question!”

I felt my stomach flip, probably self-induced by my overactive imagination.

“The question is…” he said. “The question is, when is one of you going to PASS it??!”

Oh right.

Will keep you updated…

Bella, Mott

If ice cream solves all, then gelato can save the world.

At least my world, at least my bad mood. Gelato can save an evening bordering on the brink of argumentative, or boring, or ordinary.

Ciao Bella (a phrase I never thought I could hear again without cringing after a semester in Florence) might just become my go-to treat for hump day, a bad day, any day.

On Mott, it’s someone else’s New York, my dream city’s quiet, shaded streets and brick fronts. Little boutiques behold leather belts with burnished hardware, big-beaded jewelry, and military-inspired puff-sleeve dresses. Tiny, bustling restaurants emit a happy din, a warbled note or two of individual soundtracks, and the bell tinkling of wine glasses. And, then, there’s Ciao Bella’s gelateria.

Two samples are afforded for each customer, so I try a pink gob of rose-petal, and a chewy taste of hazelnut biscotti. My game is to try two flavors, then select two others in a small cup, so that I will have sampled as many tastes as possible.

A rich chocolate paired with pomegranate sorbet is too delicious and sweet too soon, and can’t be finished. My eyes have always been bigger than my stomach, and even with the smallest size I have to ask the boy to finish it for me. Soon he’s double-fisting twin cups as we meander down the blocks, hearing the call of two kids on a stoop twice (on the way there and on the way back) selling their mountain bike for a mere sixty dollars.

It’s odd, it’s off how tactile and tangible things can cover disappointment and malcontent. But also how great, that a hurdle can be overcome, at least momentarily, by a common pleasure.

And that even a peon like me, grasping for a slice of talent, with roommates and no savings, with powdered soup and worn soles can partake in a little luxury like the inhabitants of Mott.

That, and your kind comments of course, picked me back up again...

REVISED (or Class Foil)

The idea of class is a blast of fresh air, until you’re actually there, in the thick of it and realize.

There’s required reading, required writing, and a sacrifice of a weekly summer night. There’s the rush from work to get there, and the darkness of night when you leave. There’s being thirsty, being tired, and the obligation of being there anyway. Of course, there is all that, but it’s countered by learning, and empowerment and inspiration.

And then there is that one person in class who with or without your permission, becomes your foil.

We had to write outlines. So I threw mine together in about an hour and a half, sort of fleshing out my half-baked novel idea. After it was written, no one could say it was the world’s greatest four pages. Even I looked at it and thought how poorly it captured what I was trying to convey, the sympathies, the struggle, the raison d’etre of my main character.

When I saw the other outlines in the class, I felt all right about it. Many of us had bones with only partial meat to work with. Some had stories that had been told many times, others had stories that I questioned why they would be told, or how it could be possible to breathe fresh life into them. Mine was one of those, and I’m hoping that just because the themes are exhausted, the style and content don’t have to be.

We coddled each other. Ideas that would not make prize-winning books were offered, and we joyfully encouraged each other, with gentle suggestions. When my turn came, I thought I would get the same treatment.

But the first comment, from a girl that I had, not three minutes earlier, smiled warmly at and passed her a genuine compliment, shot me square in the knees.

To paraphrase: “Well….(long pause)…I mean…..maybe it’s because I’m thirty-five, and you’re so young, but…(big sigh)…your protagonist is just so obnoxious and self involved and entitled, this is just not something that could ever be interesting to read.”

The sound of crickets and sucked-in breaths. The other protagonists were on a search for love, money, contentment. Mine was on a search for self, exploring what made her who she was, and that apparently had made her, above all others, a spoiled bitch.

Then, as I prayed that I would not cry, not over this, not over her, not over something that I hadn’t yet put my heart and soul into, but it had been such an awful day already for various reasons, and this was supposed to be my nurturing time, that I had paid for (paid for!!), the teacher said:

“Well, can you say anything positive about the outline? Because there is actually a lot here to like.”

And the girl, well, thirty-five year old woman rather, looked down in exasperation at my outline, her lip curled in disgust, and she exhaled sharply. “No”.

No matter that the protagonist is, of course, based on me.

Ouch.

I heard but did not register the rest of the class’s compliments. Only this detractor. After hearing everyone else’s thoughts on the outline, perhaps overly kind because of her knee-jerk insult, she amended her own.

She told me the blanket statement that eliciting any reaction, is a positive action, even if the reaction is positively negative. Then she dared me to prove her wrong with my opening chapters, due in a future class. As if that could inspire my deflated ego.

Wow, I was wrong, so, so wrong about wanting the negative reviews to come from someone else. I am not there yet.

Self Hate

Some girls can wax on all day about their vibrators, pedicures, and other luxuriant forms of self love.

Not me. Not today. I'm being punished.

I’m watching Hell’s Kitchen, rubbing green goo onto my legs because I was foolish, like I am every summer under a cloudless sky. I take care of parts, and not others. Sometimes my mind, others my body. Most of the time not entirely either. I didn’t pay attention to what was good for me as a whole, I was lazy, and I didn’t take care enough. The mental beating follows the physical burn.

Why can’t I just get it straight?

I have been accused of being too introspective, of trying too hard, of coming off as pretentious, too loud at parties. Not smart enough, as a fraud awaiting exposure, of being silly, and a worrywart. Bad with money, avaricious, slothful, bossy.

These accusations don’t come from my enemies (that makes me pause--who might they be? The blonde girl whose boyfriend I stole for a day in junior high? The boss at my first job who said I reminded her of herself and, reflexively, I grimaced?).

So where do those words, those nasty, slinging insults come from? Me. They come from me.

I say things about myself that are so horrible, so blown out of proportion and context, that if someone heard my inner monologue, I am certain they would immediately chastise me for being so cruel.

But nobody hears them, except my own beaten esteem, and that bruised wimp won’t stand up for herself, because taking a stand is too hard. The other option is easy and indulgent.

Why is it so tempting to participate in self-flagellation? Why is it so incredibly common to beat ourselves up in a way that we would never tolerate from our families, significant others, our friends?

I am not saying that my thoughts have not been correct at times, because they certainly have. But to have that define who I am seems so counterintuitive. Plenty of critics in the world are at the ready, must I really be one of them? At times I feel I own my world, others cause me to realize that if nothing else, I am undeserving of not only my current life, but all aspirations.

Positivity is so scarce, maybe not because it’s ridiculous and cheesy and overdone, but because it’s precious and important. It doesn’t grow on trees; it hides under rocks like moss, and needs to be sought out to be found.

I already have a mother, a boss, a disciplinarian. I’ve got plenty of naysayers, and if I go where I want to, God willing, I’ll have nothing but more…

That gives me a strange goal then. Trade the self-doubt for negative reviews from someone else. The notion of multiple people talking about my merit, discussing my worthiness and my worth is pretty exciting. Bad light is still theoretically light.

A forum of strangers publicly commenting on why I’m no good. That’s my best case of a worst case scenario. As inspiration, it’s nothing short of bizarre.

Maybe that’s why it seems so right for me. I'll conquer second thoughts by forcing my criticisms to fall from someone else's lips. It might mean more that way, so I'll grow. Or it might mean less, so I'll prosper. Either way it will lift my self hate, which leave more room for that self love everyone keeps talking about.

Sugarplums

This weekend, I was fortunate enough to be far from the overcrowds of the Hamptons, though still freeloading in a separate oasis, where the scene was not, but the spots on the sundeck were for the taking. And I took, for multiple hours, for laying, for splashing, for nothing.

We welcomed the blue sear of Sunday because Saturday was spent overcast and downcast, flicking lines into the creek and missing each lurking fish. So, this morning we bounded down to a carved out spot, beyond the tennis courts, and on the hill, with a full, clear view of the mountains, and dragged our chairs to the grass at the edge.

SPF, check. Sunglasses, check. Trashy novella exposing the sexy trysts of Washington wives, check. Deciding the swiftest route to money and power is bedding a senator, check.

Between pages, a thought. Hers was a fantastic idea, far better than any I've had this summer. Icing the market’s sugarplums, and stowing them underneath our borrowed beach recliners. As the sun bathed us in UV waves, we’d pluck a plum from the crinkly bag and relish the cold, the sweet, the tart. Then we plunged in the pool, sideswimming happy children and their 'noodles'.

I felt very William Carlos Williams, very much transported back to the assembly that started our high school Mondays, where the assistant principal would read us a poem at the podium, her voice husky with weight. Otherworldly, for some reason that I do not quite understand, devouring something so foreign to my day to day, and so oddly perfect because of just that. I had never tasted that amazing taste, but many before me had. I was struck by that, I am still discovering all the time the limits of what I know at odds with what I think I know. In my mind, a broken, beautiful record of poetry that I did not pen.

“I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold”

And then, as my shins burned unbeknownst to me, a repeat of my own sugarplum dreams in which I fantasized about my future as near as tomorrow, and what it may bring, or rather, what I may bring to it.

Instead of being productive...

Time-killers, for when I should be doing something else:

MSN’s money and career sections, respectively.

Peeling quarters from inside drawers to purchase white cheddar popcorn from the vending machine.

Furiously scrolling through my DVR for something recorded other than The Simpsons and Medical Incredible, both of which I thought I would want to watch all of the time until I actually had to.

Misting the plants on our balcony. Pinching the tomato stems and inhaling the fresh scent on my fingers.

Creating folders of fun, city stuff to do from magazine and newspaper clippings. Then losing it.

Gap Body, imdb, Yahoo Radio, lipgloss, Papyrus, the windows on Fifth and Madison, re-reading, lying on the grass of Bryant Park.


Regarding the pile of dry-cleaning that needs to be hauled across the street, then shoving it to the bottom of the hamper.

Un-bending plastic-coated paper clips.

Looking up recipes, before realizing the actual cost of saffron, scallops, or baby bok choy.

Trying to decipher post-it notes to myself, the ones scrawled with the bands the kids, you know, the kids, keep talking about.

Spritzing the counters with disinfectant and wiping with paper towels, taking out the garbage but not taking it downstairs until I absolutely have to.

Blogging about nothing, buying too much yogurt, sitting on top of the blanket, bothering him, finding my cell phone, wondering where I put that monthly fashion check.

Lusting after others’ dogs. Every single one.

Flipping through the real estate section, skimming the course offerings, languishing for art supplies, bemoaning success while secretly coveting it.

Advising friends on relationships, editing others’ “Dear John” letters and shamelessly getting excited about it.

Thinking about going into Starbucks, wanting to like coffee more, pretending to.

That’s what I’ve got so far. Any suggestions to add?

The First

Even as an “adult”, the first day of class brings me back, way back, to all the others.

I remember the carpet inside Mrs. Cloake’s classroom, the cushioned book corner and hardcover The Indian In The Cupboard, resting on a chair, poised for reading aloud. The manila-colored, pencil-smeared desks pushed together, sprouting orange and blue plastic chairs. The wall of windows that overlooked the jungle gym and dodge ball court. Then, the entrance of Danny Tavano, and my silent count of the identical number of syllables in our names (five!) and knowing at that moment we were meant to be (though, of course, we weren’t).

Later, the first welcome assembly at prep; pearls, grosgrain and elitism at its finest, for sure, but more, a playground for kids whose parents didn’t want them. As we nervously tugged at our forced uniforms of blazers and khaki skirts, we scanned the auditorium for faces we could relate to, and by graduation had learned to chose advisors, coaches and roommates as confidantes instead of our friends from home, as they were the only others that understood our domed existence.

Now, the familiar groan up mediabistro’s stairs (the Soho outpost). Novels on the fourth floor, wedged between the four-week news anchors and stiletto boot campers, hanging above intro to journalism. A white room with a slatted skylight awaits me, a rectangular table of budding hopefuls, of which I am only one…

Doin' it, and doin' it, but doing it well?

I finally did it.

I signed up for a kick in the ass.

Tonight marks my first novel writing class, one that purports to arm me with the skills (namely the motivation and discipline needed) to bang out one hundred pages by the end of September.

The prospect of possessing—actually creating! Gaaah!---a novel, possibly, maybe, before I turn the ripe old age of 25 is so…amazingly…far away…distant from where I am now.

Cube, grilled cheese, flip cup, my parents’ disappointment---these are the things that are organic to me in this stage of life. But in three months? Dare I think? Organic could be a sophomoric, un-salable novel stuffed in my nightstand. The possibilities are endless.

Maybe I’ll switch to quarters, maybe I’ll add tomato to the grilled cheese.

I did write a full-length screenplay my sophomore semester, and got an A plus, the only A plus I ever got in a college course, and a cute, jokey award for the best “drugs, sex, and angst” screenplay in the class, though most others had written love stories so the prize really didn’t count. I did do that. So I bet, factoring my slightly more burning desire to do this and my increase in age (hopefully maturity too) that this will happen. For. Real.

Wish me luck for tonight and every Tuesday after…

Zoo

Going to the zoo on a Saturday is enough to bring out whatever inner child my cube had crushed long ago, but going with boys pushes me even further into the depths.

No day at the zoo can start before we’re armed with everything we weren’t allowed as kids. We start with a game plan (we’ll skip the birds, except the birds of prey, we’ll ride either the Skyfari or the monorail regardless of the line, we’ll order beer at the themed café). Then we think sustenance.

We stop south, at the most amazing donut shop. From outside it looks small, nearly dingy, flanked by other small, dingy storefronts. But inside, it holds two types of treasures: yeast and cake. The yeast donuts are more aptly described as doughnuts; they’re fat and chewy and slathered with sugary glazes. Monstrous cinnamon buns and their pecan counterparts sit sticky, side by side on wax paper. Jelly-filled are large and square. The cake beauties are smaller and denser. Lavender-scented and fresh blueberry flavors are flecked, blue-hued. The round triple chocolate is a surprise: it’s holed, yet with each bite seeps a rich, deep chocolate pudding.

Just as when we were five, we arrive in the Bronx with chocolate teeth and crumbs on our shirts. I had forgotten that this zoo is unlike most others. It’s no mishmash of sad cages, but a forest cut by a paved pathway.

We navigate first to Tiger Mountain and oooh and aaah at the orange and black cats lazing in a deep pond, flipping their tales and yawning at us, but the crowds are tremendous, so we move on.

Next, the polar seems like the luckiest bear in the world. Instead of fishing through frigid waters and slipping on ice shafts, he’s splashing in his own pool, flopping and balancing on a toy shaped like a chunk of the Artic. To see a bear better known for its ability to decapitate a human with a single swipe, acting like my dog is discerning and wonderful. I stand there with my mouth open, as he floats on his back, limbs outstretched, mouth open in an almost smile. Kids in front of me squeal as he tosses the toy to the rocks at the edge and then attempts to retrieve it without getting out of the water, his butt half exposed as he struggles and then captures it. He jumps into the pool, on top of the toy, and then down under again. It’s hard to pull away, but as I see a little girl behind me, stretching on her tiptoes to glimpse the bear, I know I have to leave.

In the World of Darkness, a long-tongued bat hangs in a glass box across from a fat-tailed dwarf lemur. Further on, a bush baby sleeps inside a Trader Joe’s bag. How that bag got in there as a double for a hammock is beyond me, but I hope aloud that it’s only temporary.

Outside, my eyes are bleary, slow to adjust. They fall upon roaming peacocks on the grass. The peacocks are unafraid, just like the ones at the southern estates my mother would drag me to on family vacations to view the structured gardens.

We see a white-faced saki monkey, a duskie titi, a red-handed tamarin. When we stop for drinks, the boys let their minds wander. They talk of the cocaine craze so frequent in “olden days”, when Coca-Cola and pharmacies touted the benefits of the “wonder drug”. They talk of weird sexual fetishes, and how foreign they seem, and then, somehow, wonder if anyone has a homeless fetish (where one would be aroused by dirty rags instead of lingere), spurred by an unsavory sighting near an art gallery on our block. I giggle and hope no one hears.

After that promised ride on the Skyfari, a slow and breezy trip on treetops above the park, we’re done for the day.

It was silly, unstylish, childish, carb-loaded. It was walking, and dirtied our flip-flopped feet and hot in the sun. There were screaming kids, and drippy ice cream pools to sidestep and public bathrooms.

Still, the perfect city Saturday. The best one in recent memories.

Trader Joe's: The Hipster Smack

In ninth grade, because I fancied myself a badass, and because I was utterly wrong, I had many (what I thought of as) hip tees. Hip like “Funkin Go Nuts” spelled out to the Dunkin Donuts logo, or “White Trash” to the Oscar Meyer wiener logo. My favorite of all was purchased in London and red with the words, “Ketamine: The Techno Smack”. The draw to this one was twofold. First, it showed the world that I knew what Special K and raves were (thereby proving what a badass thirteen year old I had become), and the second was that my mom believed me when I told her it was a band, therefore enabling me to wear it.

As I clutched a bag of prized Peruvian rice and whole-wheat waffles, I was reminded of that shirt for the first time in years.

The past few months have not tamed the beast that is Trader Joe's. Oh no friends, no they have not. First of all, at certain times, there’s still a line to get inside. Inside! And with a friendly, bearded treehugger at the front, cracking jokes and kicking an invisible hackeysack, not letting anyone in while simultaneously singing the praises of his employer’s establishment. Nice guy, but really not in the mood for it as I’m waiting in the crushing heat. As I stood seven deep in a line…to get in…a grocery store…I could almost hear my mother cackling with a really clichéd accent, “Ooooonly in New Yaaawwwk!”

Once inside, one line is traded for another, the newest snakes past dairy, around the produce, and doublebacks near granola in an ingenious way. Like one of the rides at Six Flags where they bundle in tightly woven gridlines so you can’t tell how long a wait you actually have. A guy in glasses holds a cutesy, cartoony sign that beckons, “Line starts here!” instead of “One hour wait for morons right here!” to lift the mood.

To circumvent delay and maximize shopping, some couples have formed systems in which one will wait on the atrocious line, empty-handed, while the other races around the store, haphazardly grabbing items and tossing them at their partner in a makeshift version of Supermarket Sweep. Who can grab the most trade-free items first before the line is at the counter? All you got was organic asparagus and fruit leather? Too bad! Times up!

What makes this event even better is that people can only run in spurts, since it’s more crowded than Sheep’s Meadow on a Summer Friday. Everywhere you turn, you bump someone, or an old lady steamrolls over you. Everything is nearly sold out, and that frenzies the masses even more. Give me that edamame you bitch! I was here first! The hell you were! Okay, fine, I’ll trade you for this jar of almond butter. What do you mean, “Maybe next time??” Screw you!

There are mommies, hippies, respectable homeowners and teens. But most of all, it’s a sea of hipsters, with a few scattered yuppies in the mix. Everyone is strung out on branded pitas. People are grabbing pseudo-Terra Chips like it’s moonshine. It’s pure, unadulterated mayhem.

And highly addictive. I'm drawn to it like no other, engaging in this ridiculous activity regardless of how obscenely difficult it is. More violence than your average bar crawl, more eye candy than any club, and more half-grown mullets and mustaches than Williamsburg.

It reminds me of that time in ninth grade when my wardrobe was dictated by obscure, irreverent sayings and logos. Hmmm. Kind of like it is now.

Trader Joe's: The Hipster Smack.

Someone ought to make a T-shirt.

Bending

Tonight in Nia we're instructed to become withering ghosts on the moor, a wriggling attempt to be fluid. Haunting music moans as I stifle giggles. I accidentally wore an orange T-shirt with black yoga pants, and with my ensemble, the Halloween theme is complete.

The class is a soul recess. And a recession.

Then the teacher says something strange, though he always says something strange, and does something strange, this time it sticks with me.

“Take your masculine energy and throw it! Just pound it into the ground!” He stomps his limbs vigorously to the African drum.

“Become entirely masculine!” He growls over the song.

I’m awkward, a bit too flailing, exaggerating my so-called strength by slapping the balls of my feet into the shiny wood. Flop. Flop.

I’m distracted and taken. The thought of being masculine, entirely masculine is a bit stunning, if not philosophical.

If I were a boy (was a boy? I can never get that tense right, and it makes my English degree roll over in its grave--wherever that may be, hiding in the barn), I know my name would be Colin, but not much else.

Would I be the opposite of what I am now? Would I be complacent? Would I be big and athletic? Would I be a small boy with slender wrists and a sensitive disposition?

Would I burn through women, wooing and dropping them with every fleeting mood? Or would I pine after one girl at work and myspace-stalk her and write her weird songs and scare her away?

Would I have the same brain with a different body, taking in all the things I know now just the same, but experiencing them as slightly taller, heavier and with a stronger stomach?

Would I have told that bully boss at my last job what the real problem with our team was, would I have yelled at Mrs. Peroski to stick it in third grade when she yelled at me instead of Danielle (who was really cheating), would I even be concerned with woulds and would not haves?

Would I be better, would I be worse, would I be further along than I can see now?

The slight man at the front of the room catches my eye; I’m supposed to be bending my body, not just my mind. I hurriedly put a scowl on my face, as if that’s the definition of maleness.

Then I have a show-stopping thought. If I was born a boy, and somehow still existed as a girl, would both of me like each other? Could they stand to be in the same room? Would they want to be friends, or even more?

That snaps me out of it, this line of thought is one of the ridiculous ones, the ones where you feel for a moment you’ve gone off the deep end for sure, that this is the onset of either brilliance or schizophrenia, and not knowing which, if possible, you have tear back to reality.

When we move on to alternating imitations of kung fu masters and sea urchins, I’m in the moment.

I come home looking for water and the ice tastes like freezer; slightly astringent, burnt, and reeking of plastic.

And my male version drinks it all, and bothers me while I try to write, and cleans the dishes I dirtied, and flips through our Australian photographs, complains that he needs to use the computer, and blasts indie music, and draws cartoons instead of writes, and I see.

What I would be.

Fourth

After blowing my proverbial stash, (the weekend’s ration of dollars didn’t drip out so much as gushed, fast gone on Blue Owl’s bootlegged cocktails and salumi pairings) I skittered off as always to the refuge of the countryside.

The Fourth of July at home is quintessential, magazine-cover-story great.

My father’s lemon chicken, the fennel flecked slaw, German red-skinned potato salad, and peach cobbler, bubbled and wafting a sweet spice throughout the kitchen.

And the preparation of the meal is as delectable as its consumption.

The cold water cleaning and trimming of the drumsticks, a generous pour of yellow pepper, heaping gold and black hills.

The chop of scallions, cabbage, chives in strips.

The best is our refreshments; chilly lemonade, fruity wine, lime-drenched gin and tonics.

On the porch I can gaze upon the day lilies, the hydrangeas, the iron gate above the hedge, the lion’s head fountain flowing into the stone sink, the sun dial, the white brick and pebbled path that bisects the lawn. My mother's garden and home is in full bloom.

Further on up the road, beyond the miniscule art gallery, the yellow building with white shutters that houses the town architect, and the weeping willow, is the pond. That’s where my dog bounded oblivious around the edge, and then right in, the top camouflaged by an overgrowth of algae, suddenly finding himself chest deep in water, and with a panic, jumped out and shook himself vigorously and on me.

When the light has gone, my mother burns tapered candles and we ladle ice cream and espresso as my father and brother prepare the contraband. The cats snooze.

An enormous package screaming colors, fat cones and sticks with wicks, shooters, sprayers, shreikers, streamers. We celebrate the birth of our nation’s independence as the Simpsons do—by blowing up a small part of it.

Soon our lawn is ablaze, popping flashes and long slips of white and purple. It glazes the sky, filling it with billowing fog.

The snap and crackle of sparklers is no match for the boys’ grand finale, the whistle piercing my ears, drawing celebratory honks from the occasional car that passes, a fresh round of barks from the dog, applause from us on the porch.

I love this holiday.

Happy Fourth of July!

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.

East Village Elitism

The softer side of St. Mark’s is invisible from the view between Second and Third, obscured by the longish bi-hawks of aging punks, kitschy sunglass kiosks, and t-shirt peddlers famous for black attire emblazoned with ‘edgy sayings’ (most of which seem to crazy-font-shout ‘Have a nice fucking day’).

It’s a mini wunderkid land, calling out to teenagers, tourists and upper-direction-siders alike. For those of us who live within a stone’s throw, we look on with a short sense of dread, a perennial reminder of our failed rebel youth, healed tongue piercings, and regrettable tribal tattoos. For me, the bounty of polyester pants and gas station uniforms overcomes the attraction of the crowded dive bars and Chipotle, usually in heavy rotation.

Luckily, walking east, it morphs slowly; dotted by bistros, jazz bars and eateries. The brick buildings emerge, the planted trees in full leaf sprout, and wrought iron no longer indicates prison-barred windows.

Between First and Second, and then from First to A, a nightly sway drifts in the air. Jule’s Café’s sunken patio and intoxicating French conversation pair well with the raspberry coulis Bellini, especially when served to the sultry stylings of a live band. A place I’ve never found the name of is abuzz at every hour, beautiful people stretching their legs alfresco as they dine on exotic salads. Further on, the date spots continue with many like Yaffa Café, under a striped awning and the famed mural. Beyond that, incredible drunk food in throngs: sushi, The Dumpling Man, Crif Dog.

Finally, there exists an Australian ice creamery with gooey concoctions that put Tasti D-Lite to shame (though I am a fan of the whipped air). The cold cups are rich and velvety on the tongue. As they scoop up your order, it’s fun to survey the vast offerings of gourmet chocolates, gilded with designs and infused with teas and other subtle flavors.

Last night, that was exactly what we intended upon doing. Sampling a few on wooden spoons and then insisting our flavor of choice be in a children’s cup, which comes with a hidden toy in the bottom, usually a bouncy ball, perfect for throwing in traffic on First. A few feet before the storefront, we passed two, skinny hipsterettes, apparently pecking at white plastic cups. It was an awkward passing in which we had to dart one way and then the next to avoid the outdoor diners and then again to avoid a perfectly grunged street performer. So we slowed, letting the girls pass. It was then that I realized the thinner one, the one with the pretty, bulging blues and delicate high forehead, was Heather Graham.

In a flash they were gone, and we started gossiping. We just saw Heather Graham! Sure, it didn’t seem she’s been getting much work since Scrubs, and she was a dead ringer for a startled cousin of Elijah Wood's, but it was a celebrity sighting nonetheless. Right near our favorite ice cream place. And even better, it looked like, just maybe, she had just been there.

We lightly continued on our journey. At the door, two workers wouldn’t let us in. They were closed at 10:20. Apparently they had been closed since ten. No. No exceptions.

But then…? How did…?

Though our sighting was admittedly quick, and I couldn’t really tell what she was holding, if anything at all, and she was merely walking from the direction of the place, not out of it, circumstantial evidence leads me to believe…. oh, right. They let Heather in and not us. Duh, ice cream only for the famous.

Got it.

Even still, we felt a little stiffed. Telling from her lanky limbs, we would have at least finished ours…

Kidding, kidding.

Addictions

At the inevitable intervention, I see events playing out as this.

I know I need help, okay? I know it. And I’m sorry. But that’s why I’ve been getting therapy since the tender age of thirteen. And I know, I know, this immersion technique is somewhat controversial, plopping me right in the middle of temptation only to have me dabble in the destructive behaviors anyway. But still, I believe in it. I believe in therapy.

Retail therapy.

Nothing heals my soul more than a cashmere blanket, wooden bangles, creamed eye shadow, floral bath products (oooh, sugar scrubs), shirtdresses, crisp denim or sultry sandals.

Unless it’s heavy, hardcover books, starched linen, sea scallops, obscure CDs, glossies (Money, Vogue for the ads, Glamour, Real Simple, Newsweek, O, The New Yorker sometimes, Fortune, New York), air spritzers in colored tea scents, broccolini, boxes of stationary, socks, swatches of fabric, scraps of ribbon, bundles of bright wool yarn, notebooks and note cards, toilet bowl cleaner.

Hell, I even snapped up a drill once to install some shelving, and floated all afternoon on the wave of my new purchase.

Not that I didn’t need all those "trinkets".

Not that I precisely did need them, either.

But I had use, or made use for them, and out the billfold came. I love the passing of items, the boxed clothes, the new-anything smell. I love finding vintage, the tinkle of delicate jewelry, amassing painted glass. Buying presents for family and friends just because. Reverse shopping double-thrills. Flipping these wonders a few months later in plastic bags full, freshly laundered and gently used items handed to the Salvation Army reclaims the rush. *

Some would tout shopping in New York as better than dating in New York. I’ll steer clear of weighing in on that with one comment off the record.

The shopping-for anything-is really, really good.

Though I’m not quite sure if I’m being cured of or merely exposed to a contagious strain of the gimmes.

*Echoeing the soul-soothing are the donated portions of each paycheck to the Wild African Elephant Fund, a rape center in Salt Lake City, and a children’s refugee charity. Or spending a Saturday in Queens painting murals at an underprivileged school. Though, admittedly, none of this is nearly enough for one person, and I realize I should be giving much, much more in return. And I plan to.

Debauchery, please...

Be afraid, men. Be very, very afraid.

Before Friday, the last bachelorette party I stumbled through was in the dead heat of last July’s Vegas.

The pool at the Hard Rock existed only to quench all thirsts: it soothed our bar-battered bodies, its icy, green, plastic contained beverages calmed our sore throats (self-medicating our hangovers with a bit of the hair of the dog), and our curiosities and libidos were alleviated by man cleavage, dental floss thongs in all flavors, and sun lotion greased hardbodies.

Glittery chains, dark roots, gel-tipped nails. Buoyant breasts bobbed in the water at the south end, butts in the air at the north. Weaved cowboy hats and writhing coeds everywhere.

Versace sunglasses nestled between impressive boob jobs and tucked into the thin sides of banana hammocks.

Everything they said about Vegas…it was all too true. This was not just Sin City; this was lust on a gold-plated platter.

Just the place for us—a motley crue of jaded city girls from the east and sunburnt consultants from Seattle, with high tolerances and money to blow. Just the place for us to play a three-day long game of dare, no truth involved.

My personal favorites:

Me, squawking and flailing as a chicken overcome with bird flu, around the pool, nearly halfway, as strippers in hot pants and 'roid-raged men looked on in a mix of horror and bemusement.

Me, at the high roller table, faking a terrible impression of a thick Strong Island accent, practically yelling my wager of five dollars at three silver fox-type businessmen.

Lucinda jackknifing onto a six-foot long inflatable phallus, which we dragged around with us in the pool, soliciting most frequently the following two phrases:

“Hey, they used my mold!”

and

“That’s right, work your way up to my size!”

We weaseled bottle service at Pure, dodged sleazebags at Ghostbar, took an unforgettable trip to the top floor of Olympic Gardens (our favorite was the cop who reprimanded the bride-to-be for “violating penal code 6969”).

This weekend, the group of girls was different and the venue was closer, though the penchant for debauchery was virtually the same.

This time around, with the theme of “undercover”, the highlights included:

Me, in a platinum wig, sporting a nametag that proudly proclaimed, “Hi! My name is Candi (spelled with an “i”, dotted with a heart)” and a ruffled dress with leggings and heels. And the four guys who asked me if that was indeed my real hair, and indeed, my real name. And who refused to believe me when I told them the truth.

All of us, drinking only from the requisite flesh-toned straws (replete with a Map Quest worthy network of snaking, highway-like veins, and asymmetrical testicles).

Games, lots of games. Card games with instructions for the night. The one I pulled? Get a guy to give you some of his pubic hair; ten extra points if it’s blond, twenty if it’s gray!

Poor Brian (I think that’s what his name was). He hurt himself trying to help me win, bless his giving heart. But after his third attempt, and possible permanent damage to his family jewels, I convinced him it wasn’t worth it and pointed him towards the next So-Co and lime shot.

Later, I was saved from an awkward conversation with another guy (this being the part when I tell him I have a boyfriend and he either walks away as I stand there like an idiot, or he stays, which is even worse) when he tried to impress me by emptying his Amstel Light onto the crowd below the balcony, immediately before he was forcibly ejected from the bar.

The next day, the future bride spent the afternoon with her head in the toilet.


No better way to ring in the celebration of nuptials, I suppose.

Share your bachelor/bachelorette stories, please. I want to think that my friends and I are halfway normal, even if it's far from true...

What day is today?

I’ve locked myself out of the apartment. Defeated and wilting, I’ve taken cover in a coffee shop. Corner table. Against the pillowed window seat. Large iced black tea.

And the bags. The purple canvas hides a pair of red slingbacks, a bottle of fine and gently tasted wine, swimming change, errant Fidelity statements, a folded and smashed packet of Splenda.

The other bag is stuffed with girl goodies, not the least of which being a dark olive shirtdress, nearly identical in cut as the one I am currently sporting.

As I write this, a sleeveless, dreadlocked man asks me a startling question.

“Excuse me, do you know what the date is?”

I stop mid-line, mid-sip, my hand faltering cold from the cubes in the tea.

“Pardon?” I manage.

“Today. What day is today?” He motions to his newspaper, indicating an event listing with his pointed finger.

I want to chide him. Joke with him. Why today is Christmas Day, Mr. Scrooge…

But I can’t. I gulp, swallowing the words whole.

“The 22nd.”

He attends back to his paper, his rhubarb muffin, his ratty backpack. I face the glass, the street, listless.

What day is today?

To not know the date, to be blissfully unaware of one’s surroundings, one’s lack of obligations? This man, at least for this moment, lives within that realm.

I cringe. This man out-ages me by thirty years, yet I’m the one burdened by time. I’m painfully aware of everything. The cost of the dress and the tea and everything else backed out of my strained, quote-unquote budget. The position of the sun as it beats down on my chapfallen back, my borrowed minutes in the cool of this shop, the number of days it’s been since I was purged from the protective womb of college. All of it. I’m so tuned in, I am too engrossed.

I have an 18th century poetess moment. O, to be unaware!

The caloric contents, the manner of shoulds, guarded laughter, business casual, the price of freedom, the limits of experience, the blaring trill of the office phone, the barking orders of parents, bosses, elder siblings, speed and credit limits, blood pressure.

O, what I may find if only I didn’t know even the tiniest self-imposed weight of neurosis, lust for privilege, now-or-never, what could I become?

This man.

This man, at nine o’clock, growing salt and pepper coils in lieu of hair, a sprinkling of freckles across his nose, thumbing through the Voice, opposite his ukulele—yes ukulele—and singing off-key to “Comfortably Numb.”

Motivation

Some people have it. Sometimes I’m one of them. Most of the time I am not. Every morning like clockwork, I’m reminded with the buzz. The bleep bleep bleep. My flapping hand blindly finding the snooze once more. Not before I get a quick (left) eyeful of one half-finished art project, the pile of still-folded laundry that I’ve been treating as an invisible dresser, the stacked paperbacks that were must-reads a mere month ago, the sloppy outline of my dream, debut novel.

Is routine the parent of motivation? Maybe it’s guilt that incites action. Either way, I’ve found nothing to be fail-safe thus far. I need a life coach, I need self-help, I need a jumpstart. Or I just need to start sucking it up and stop looking for an external kick. Take a moment and slide out my driver’s license. Still Connecticut (as I haven’t found the motivation to switch it to New York, even after three years here). And look at myself in the picture. Shining, smiling, rosy-cheeked and with bangs (hey—they were in, I swear). Twenty years old. Just four years ago. And what have I done, really done, since then? Relationships don't count. Vacations, deviations, distractions don't count. The four year journey of high school seemed like flying through a wormhole. The years of college catapulted me into a depraved reality, a jam-cram of information and frenetic travel that was pure joy. But the four after? Hmmmm. I’m three-quarters through and I'm only as far as the first few learnings of a one-year newbie. Since then, I couldn’t tell you what’s happened. Jobs, apartments, more questions, less answers. Oh, and I lost the bangs.

I want something to happen. Specifically, this: To be plucked from the internet by a sharply dressed agent. One that sees me as a diamond in the rough, strips the mediocrity, slaps on a coat of paint, and tosses me on the market. He/she’d believe in my sale. But, who’s buying?

Would you buy it? Would you buy me? If I could pull it off, would the world think I was pulling wool over its eyes? Could I mix my almost literary style with something delicious, salacious, top it with a bing cherry and serve it up for your consumption? Would anyone flock to snag an edition, would anyone touch it with a ten foot pole, would anyone (besides my mother) care?

I may never know. But I have to try.

I have to find the motivation. Somehow.

Out West

Time away, not off, broadens the perspective without fail.

I am constantly reminded.

The world is simplified, not the space and air around me. It is not in the steamed-plump bubble of New York City, within the confines of the 9th floor in midtown, the 3rd in the East Village, the pizzeria, the bookstore, the coffee shop on the corner. It pulses and sways continuous, oblivious to locations, coasts, lives flit, loves lost, movement cannot be contained.

Out west, the rolling expanse of night nearly fogged with clarity. The white lights littered to infinity. I have never seen the stars as this, the chill of June after ten, the navy ocean above.

A place exists, dubbed the “horse heavens”, a vineyard on the red mountain. Back in the city, merely legend, but here, grounded real.

Perennial ice shifts, fat slabs stripe the drive. Old mining towns sprung in crops of painted wood and flat roofing.

Bricked paths, dancing fountains, pricey boutiques, patioed bistros and taverns, all swathed by pastoral, swept green, blue and white.

Blond, implanted women are young from behind, but as they swish direction, their leathered facades divulge decades frying under the western sun.

Peekytoe crab, shaved summer truffles floating in a tarty, creamy, Meyer lemon sauce. The chef smiles and asks my name, and as I respond, he dismisses his approaching sous with a chop of his hand. He thinks he can prey on me because in his world he is a rock star, and in this moment our worlds are one, but I am only interested in his craft, his divine offerings, and so I lick my spoon and turn away in search of the next decanter.

This is summer in a wintered paradise, the new car smell of so much wealth colliding with the refuge of nature. The gorged indulge, feeding ravenously on all around them. The tastes, the freedoms, feet arched and eyes to the endless glare.

This is the world around me for a shortened week, and I am amazed.

The Divide

Never before had I felt genuine jealousy towards a child until this moment.

From behind, her small, shiny head snaps with each syllable.

“I

Don’t

Want

It!”

Colored pencils fling down, a half-scribbled page of the picture book hangs, limp on the ledge of the serving tray, pushed aside by an intrusive slice of yellowed French toast, piped and speckled with brown, flanked by jeweled strawberries—oversized rubies really—growing thin, emerald stems.

A smile stretches, whitened teeth, an updo.

“Would she rather have an omelet?” The long neck in loafers asks.

This is a caste system, I’m merely a visitor, the rear’s bathroom line snaked long through the butt of the plane.

The front line’s wait is roomier and offers a snapshot, the other half’s idiosyncrasies.

The family knows nothing of meritocracy, preferring instead a blanket reaction for want of this and want of that.

The omelet appears simultaneous with the burnout of the “occupied” light.

Inside the bathroom, blue swirly water and florescent buzz, scratchy facial tissue, the weak, lukewarm tap.

Out, to borrow another moment from first class is an impossibility, as impatient passenger full of diet soda stand in wait, and in the way.

The things I don't (know)

How not to take myself so seriously, the proper way to iron, where my money goes each month

Impenetrable obstacles, laziness, immobility of thought

The truth about anger, politics, and stretching

What’s good on T.V. right now, which film to rent, how to bargain for that book, the name of the magazine I wrote down this morning

Two of my grandparents, four coworkers, my newspaper guy’s first name

The gauge which informs me, which shade of navy to choose, what flavor the candles are

When enough is enough, how to be sated, why dark beer fills me up every time

Why I’m neat in spurts, why in winter I’m always cold and never thirsty

Needlepoint, where the button was lost, how to mend a hole in my heart

If facials work, if squinting begets wrinkles, how bad washing hair every day is

The taste of persimmons, the smell of the Pacific Rim, the leather seats of a private plane

Where the jelly jars go, how to make dilly beans, the best way to cultivate the tomatoes

To warm up the car even in summertime, the schedule for clipping the dog’s nails, to stop pressing “snooze”

Where I put my CPR card, what the third rule of CPR is

How to tell well-preserved vintage, when the melons are ripe, if the salad greens have been washed

Why I bought that black and white skirt and never wore it, why I need a new one

To ask for a raise, the justification for paying dues, glass ceilings

Where I’m going, how I got here, the way home

A tried and true way to stave off a cold, when to starve a fever

French-braiding, dough-kneading, straight-sitting

Which way is up, why the firefly glows, how deep the pool is in the dark

To make it impersonal, to keep the enthusiasm down, that I can’t

What’s so great about baseball unless you’re in the stands, why fall seems so sad, why spring is so short

How much sleep I really need, how much space is left on this disc, our square footage

The speed limit, the time limit, why the daily has to grind


Off to white-capped mountains in the west, back on Monday with stories...

Almost Reality

Today marks the beginning of the highly coveted trial-internship that is the MTV/Rolling Stone project. What better time than now to hurl myself into a shame-spiral of denial, given that I was one of the 85 other losers that almost made it on the show?

I’m no stranger to living the life of a reality reject. Oh, no. Would you believe it if I told you, dear reader, that I made it to the final round of the Real World Austin? Well you shouldn’t, because I only made it to the second round. But still, I was sort of proud. I figure first cuts devastated around a few dozen thousand, so it was validation that I was semi-interesting at the very least. My stellar video included the sound effects of a faulty shower drain spectacle in my boyfriend’s apartment, sucking the water from the tub with a terrible, ripping noise while I sat Jenny-McCarthy-does-Candy’s-ads-style atop the john, demurely crossing and uncrossing my stilletos, moaning, “Why did I eat the whole burrito. Why?!” and jerking my body each time the tub made another hideous “pffffffftttt.” Then the camera panned away from me, over to the tub and the drain, revealing my little joke, the soundtack punctuated by my uncontrollable giggles. I mean, I really thought it was funny. I guess you had to be there, because as I recall it now, I’m nothing short of horrified.

One gray morning after, I was blessed with the “long application”; a big, fat, textbook of a form which requested that the piles upon miles of blanks be filled out comprehensively, legibly, and within 24 hours. This I got in the third week of a new job. Right when the work starts to get really bad because everyone figures you’ve had enough time to “get up to speed” and commences throwing projects at you, though you still don’t know anyone’s name or what you’re supposed to be doing and are far too embarrassed to venture asking. The short of it is this: I filled it out half-heartedly, over-thinking, tossing off prickled barbs like they were lollies* and faxed it in without the final two pages. Suffice it to say, I was never contacted again and they picked that odd-looking, gossipy virgin to fill the “kooky girl” spot instead of me.

So when I was perusing craigslist a few months ago and stumbled upon the MTV/Rolling Stone Project audition info, I was a bit wary of the process. But still, incredibly bored of winter-thawing-spring, broke-ness, and lack of response to, "so what have you been up to?", I thought it might be fun just to apply. Besides, it was an avenue for breaking into writing. And I need(ed) all the help I could get. The perk of marinating with a bunch of hipster bands was just the delicious cream-cheese frosting.

This time, I filled the application out with a pure heart, devoid of gimmicks. I love music, I adore writing, surely I would excel within the realm of writing about music. I offered some ideas for the magazine. Some tongue-and-cheek thoughts on Brooklyn beards, Seattle then-and-now, a “really big” re-shoot of iconic rock photos utilizing artists and influencers of today as the bands and supermodels as their groupies, stuff like that, knowing full well that I was probably signing away the rights to all these pitches, never again to be credited to me. But hey, I had the chance to actually do something with myself here, prove to me, mom, and anyone else that I was worth something, so off the rights went. And for the video, I did it right this time, abetted by many a friend certain of the perfect equation for reality success.

Clear lighting + low-cut top = callback.

Perhaps that would keep me on the monitor for the first thirty seconds while I shook off jitters and morphed from insecure to immanent intelligence. Besides, friends assured, TV is for looking, and we all know you have to be marketable eye-candy to some degree. Show your “talent” now, show your brain later. Cry in the corner because you sold your soul much, much later.

I said my piece; hopes and dreams, how I grew up with Rolling Stone and Kurt Cobain, whom I admired and why I needed this chance, how I’ve lived thus far below expectations, doggy-paddling in a pool of disappointment and hackneyed quips. I dropped it in the mailbox feeling pretty good. Somehow it felt like an espresso-sized shot of confidence, even without any real affirmation.

A few days later I got a call from MTV(!). They had, in hand, my application, but couldn’t watch my video in its current format. Mind you, this video was on a regular, small DVD/VCR tape that fits into any camcorder made in the last ten years. And was nothing special, and the ONLY thing I could have bought at K-Mart in Astor Place. Apparently, the casting kids at MTV are getting some sort of raw deal where they have equipment that can’t handle that format. So after much confusion, I duplicated it and mailed it back, past the deadline, and hoped for the best.

Lo and behold, the prized email came. I was a semi-finalist (!!) and wanted (!!!) for a two-hour taped interview. All I had to do to get on TV was to bring another idea along with my butt to the hotel on time.

At a quarter past eight, I entered an empty hotel room. The beds were leveled vertically up against the walls, the lights were bright, the blinds drawn. A camcorder blinked red at me from its three-legged perch. A barefoot girl politely asked me to please come in. A guy closed the door behind me. They quickly apologized for the shadiness of it all, and I cracked a joke about how they needn’t worry, I’d been filmed in hotels worse than this (tee hee), and we commenced.

Here’s where I’ll gloss over, not to protect the innocent, but to protect you from getting bored to tears. They were really quite nice, I talked about my life, and I signed something. Somehow I went off into this long diatribe about my family and writing history. I was literally irritating myself, so I can’t understand how they managed to look engaged the whole time. These people are well trained. I left feeling like a total moron, knowing that I had jabbered on, not being terribly interesting, adjusting my top and nervously licking my lips the entire time. It had crawled on, and then it was done.

And a few weeks later, so was I. They had a round of hopefuls fly out to LA to get their final screen test. I was not one of them. I had a nagging suspicion that I was done about five minutes in, but still, reading that final no was a bit of a knee-cutter. Then it was a warm wash, clean and total relief.

It’s still frothing around my mind. The what ifs. The goods. The bads. I would have had to quit my loving job, give up my summer, and become a slave to a horde of cameramen. Throw in the kicker: an evaluation by none-other-than Jann Wenner. Televised. And if I didn’t sustain until the finale, I would have emerged bitten and torn from the experience with no job to speak of, no money, and probably zero credibility if I ever dared to try something else. Then I got depressed at the notion. Do people on reality TV become productive members of society afterwards? Can they shake the crushing shadow that people have seen them at their worst and judged them for it? I’ve got to be honest with myself: I’m not sure if I have the spine for that. In fact, I’m starting to think I don’t have the spine for anything.

Blogging certainly is the reality TV of the internet, but somehow it’s safer, nestled close in a cover of anonymity and space between you and your attackers. True, no one cuts you a break, just the same. They happen upon your life via linkage and then think it normal to call you worthless and talent-less based on a blurb you wrote for a select few. Mud slinging and the like on your home turf, skipping out and leaving you to mop up the mess. It’s a blast of harsh wind, and I’ve seen it get nasty on sites. But I have got to believe that it’s worse for those on TV, because the angry rash spreads so deeply. People seem to genuinely vehemently hate actors, celebutantes, reality pawns. And they are quite vocal about it. At least with blogging, you can maintain a shred of ambiguity...

Then again…part of me thinks that it would have been mighty cool…

Something to write home about…

I guess I’ll just have to watch the show to know for sure. And while I’m at it, try and guess which role I would have fulfilled, if only, like so many times before and so many times after, I had just been more of whatever they were looking for…

*Question paraphrased: MTV has a strict, no-tolerance policy against drugs. If you were picked to be on the show, could you go without using for TK days? To which I answered: Dood, totally. Well, okay, no synthetics.

The things I know...

nutrition, contrition

limited astrophysics, Italian grammar, Australian politics, English literature

when to smile and say thank you, and when to just smile

lawn maintenance, to lift from the legs, how to pack

two sangira recipes

that noxious people often win

where the sidewalk ends

laughter spreads by epidemic waves

formal dining room etiquette (salt cellars, dipping bowls, fish forks)

the correct way to cast a line, unhook the catch, and grill it whole

the dogs will sit still for brushing only if chicken-flavored toothpaste is used

to pinpoint an emotional problem, to contain a meltdown momentarily, to hold a seat

the joy of cooking

to read the summer stars

love, fear, and finite sadness

organic embraces carbon

all the Teflon presidents

how many three-cent stamps in a dozen

pets and bed-warmers are one and the same

partial catechism from childhood sunday school, protocol for bat mitzvahs

moss should grow on the north side of the rock

that now is more important than then

when I close my eyes and pull my hands tight to my body, the monster under the bed goes away

tomorrow never comes, yesterday always always fades, today will end if you just let it

all mothers are beautiful

skies are better blue than white

outside voices sometimes come inside

to awake, to breathe, to be alive is divine

in a perfect world, vacations would cycle through our schedules as regularly as the tides

to chew with my mouth closed, sit with my back straight, and hug sincerely with both arms

two wrongs never make it right

butter makes it better

there is such a thing as too much

to not forget the baseboards when dusting, the wine when housewarming, the cushions when key/wallet/remote searching

how not to fall out of a tree, off of a skateboard, in my heels

that there is more for me to learn in this life than droplets of water in the sea

Cause I'm a Boss

I think about the future in slippery waves; small ones as though I am running my fingers through a streaming fountain. No big, bold, crashers, brimming with outrageous plans.

I wonder about the times after now, my wishful thinking leading me, twisting and turning in the dark until I arrive at a small door, one branded faintly with “what if” and I turn the knob.

Sometimes I start conversations with, “when I’m grown up”. When I’m rich, when I’m powerful, when I’m a boss. None of these things has happened yet. At first I thought age was the key. But as I round the bend to twenty-five, I’d like to scrap that. Please, let age not be the answer, the means. Because I’m officially out of the early 20s and into the “mids”. And not a thing has become clearer since the day I was seventeen, stretched out on the ground, my head on the grass, my body on the drive, eyes on the moon, and falling from my mouth the clichéd and ludicrous conclusions that every teen before me and every after came upon..."If only X, and then maybe Y, the world would be a better place. Why can’t everyone just chill out and intellectualize and move on?" The only difference between then and now? I’ve lost my Doc Martins and I realize how silly I was. Though that makes things no easier to reconcile now that I’m where I am. Or where I’m going.

What I do have is still a blank slate and the inconsistent ego to believe that I can draw on it what I like. That I can pick one of a myriad of favorite things realized or not and chalk it on there. I do know a thing or two about what makes me, me. But as for the rest, I’m just changing my mind every day. And I don't know what it takes to make it, even in a small way.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to strive for the brass ring. I may change the ride I’m on, but never the goal. The goal is to grasp, even if it slips from my grip, even if I lean too far and fall on my optimistic face.

Here's hoping that it pays off. If nothing else, so that one day someone will ask me why I do what I do the way I do it, whatever that may be, and instead of shrugging my shoulders, I’ll simply smile and reply, “Cause I’m a boss.” Because I'll have gotten somewhere, gotten clout somehow. I'll be overseeing something, master of my own universe, reigning over my life.

(And then, because I heart Kelis, perhaps I'll run my tongue over my bejeweled grin and sing the rest, “Diamonds on my neck, di-diamonds on my grill.”)

Friend-Dating

Tonight I’m going on a first date, and I’m going on it blindly. This morning I perfected my makeup, fretted over earrings (big, tacky gold or small, simple Peridot?), and slipped on my go-to jeans. We’re going to Pegu Club, where fabulous cocktails abound, and I already plan on getting tipsy to offset the guaranteed awkwardness.

Though decided upon last week, this morning I’m second-guessing my choice of venue. Sure it was great when I was there in December, but is it still good now? How much has the crowd changed? Will it convey the right vibe?

As an aside, this is not how I normally act. But this is no ordinary date. This is a friend date.

I’ve found in the city that girls have more traditional dating relationships with each other than we do with the opposite sex. Perhaps because hooking up is so easy, and dropping relationships even easier, we tread more carefully when selecting our girlfriends, the ones to penetrate the inner circle of our lives. Guys we try on as though they were dresses, snatching up ones we think might work for the moment, compiling notches, piles on the closet floor. Girls we try on more like undergarments; we want them perfect. They can’t pinch, they can’t pull, and though they are quite assorted as only a few match, some fit only for certain occasions (sober won’t mix with wild nights out, young mom won’t fare well with perpetually single, best road-trip buddy won’t love the long hikes so dear to sandal-wearing tree-hugger), each singular one we’re lucky enough to find must be great.

Too bad shopping for friends is far more limited than shopping for clothes. Work is the easiest arena if you’re surrounded by a gaggle of girls your own age. Friends of friends, randoms met at parties and bars, and at the gym are slightly more difficult. And even when you’re that you’ve managed to finagle the perfect group of friends, the city ends up finite, and great people leave for far off, open spaces. Filling their void is particularly hard. The city can be synonymous with lonely at times because we’re all in so much of a hurry, our heads down and bags bouncing, heels clicking furiously to get to wherever we’re going. So as girls, sometimes we’re left exposed, indulging in this strange ritual, seeking each other out, trying each other on, and hoping we’re liked equally in return.

Oftentimes, we eye each other in the office, first complimenting each other’s shoes or handbag, then working our way up to, “Oh, I’m running out to grab some lunch, want to come?” After breaching that boundary, we tread upon more dangerous ground: happy hour. If we’re really lucky, we can translate that into a Friday night pre-party, and only a very select few make it to Saturday shopping or Sunday brunch status. The number dwindles even lower when we enter stupid-movie watching, dream-sharing, soul-baring, daily-emailing, helping-one-another-move territory. Those friendships are the ones that feed our imaginations; the girlfriend equivalent of wedding fantasies, where the groom takes a backseat to a group of phenomenal bridesmaids.

Seems like it’s best if you approach any coupling, friend or otherwise, with the barest of expectations. Easy, breezy, if it happens it happens, if it doesn’t, oh well, there's always next time. That is how I feel about most things in my life, but deep down, everyone wants to be liked, whether it really matters or not…

So tonight, a friend date. With a very famous blogger. And I need to adhere to the rules of etiquette, composure and class. Because, like all friend dates, this is an evaluation, a test.

And I want to pass with flying colors.

Week's End

The staticky twang of Muddy Waters.

Sated by cups of tea and plates of crab soup dumplings.

Enveloped by the cloud of the bed.

Monday seems far, far away.

A square tin of bag balm rests on a glass edge. Soy candles burn soundless, emitting the sweet odor of milk.

A blind contour drawing tacked to the ceiling. Sepia-toned photographs align my walls. Below, the interlacing wood floor.

An unopened package of gourmet coffee grinds. Wicker basket brimming with snaking scarves, silk and cotton bands of color.

Low drumming of the rain. Pewter and gold figurines; one a rabbit, the other a painted Limoges.

Floral prints, striped pillowcases.

Clustered shoes, a family of keys, a pair of empty leather journals.

It’s only Sunday night. It’s just the warmth of my room. But right now, there’s no place I’d rather know.

With my toes peeking out from under the covers, I remember the feeling, the one I’ve bent by since I was a little girl.

As long as I keep the sandman at bay, my head under the blanket and feet jutting over the mattress’ end, I will prevent the passage of time. The night will unfurl forever as a carpet of black velvet, studded with diamond stars.

And the week’s end will live on. And Monday morning will never bloom.

Is it okay to...?

Suddenly and by a slapping jolt, fall head over heels for my gay Pilates instructor? Nevermind his sinewy stance, the reverse triangular of his shoulders, or his ever-so-slight-and-perfectly-crafted-East-Village-Mohawk. Give that to the other girls and boys. I’m in love with his attitude. The words he said were just so unexpectedly heavenly, I couldn’t help it. He's a modern-day take on my favorite children's story. The one of the girl who was rewarded for being kind to the disguised fairy by forever having an enchanted mouth. Every time he spoke, roses, pearls and gems fell from his lips.

Exhibit A: a smattering of what he said during my first class last night:

I want to make you comfortable.

If you feel stressed or tense, just breathe, and we will calm down together.

There is nothing more important than how you feel.

Are you a dancer? You are? I can definitely tell.

If you ever need to take a break, just tell me. Whatever you can do is amazing.

I’m so glad you came.

I want to see you again. Next week, same time.

(Best. Boyfriend. Ever.) (Sigh.)

Next time I’ll suggest he start a class catering only to newly heart-broken women at $20 bucks a pop. He’ll make a fortune.

First access...

As I was ushered past the velvet rope at the opening of the latest club, promoting the latest exclusionary lifestyle, in last season’s suede, a forty-dollar haircut, and a re-gifted pair of Nicole Millers, it suddenly became Cristal clear.

Not labels, not cash, not a lofty business card nor lofty businessman, fabulous apartment nor pack of model friends.

The only thing I needed to succeed in New York was access.

And the swiftest route to that throbbing vein was a job. Just a silly, simple job where I was an assistant, and I wasn’t even assisting anything terribly important, but all of a sudden I was lusted after, because I possessed the power, or was at least close enough to a generator, where I could whisper in the ear of a rainmaker, and I could change the course of the world. Well, the worlds of a few people anyway, and those people had big, fat, corporate accounts ripe for buying my, and my colleagues, affinity.

So they came in droves. And their arms were full. Cirque de Soleil, ski trips, massages and treatments at New York’s best (read: most expensive) spas, US Open boxes, Fashion Week, concerts (David Bowie, Arcade Fire, Joss Stone), booze cruises and sailing in the harbor…

Magazine parties where lugues spang vodka, models bowed to our demands, and avant garde artists splashed paint on canvases to the rhythm of a cheering crowd.

And the free stuff, oh the free stuff. The bags of designer make-up, tickets, certificates for pedicures, hair products, books, music. So much free alcohol. And a free bout of alcoholism to go along with it.

I wasn’t yet 22 and I was selling my soul for the free stuff. The job wasn’t for me, the hours were long, the pay was bad. But that stuff, I couldn’t tear my arm away from the IV that bought my social status. Putting me close enough to brush against celebrities, drinking at night as though I was a flashing socialite, it pushed back the drapes and plunked bottles on the table like I was a millionaire. At times, my life felt like it was Page Six. And I loved each thrill because it somehow meant to me that I had made it, I was good enough to be treated this way, and my time had come. I was validated. This was my New York and I could do whatever I wanted with it. No matter who it stepped on. Everything and everyone was expendable. Trade up. Move on.

What I didn't realize at the time of course, was that the easily replaced, that relationship with a stamped expiry extended to me.

First access, then excess.

The bitterness, the vacuous nature, the nasty attitudes. The "what can you do for me?" that lurked beyong every BriteSmile. The ugliness found its way in despite my conviction and I slowly but surely began taking it all for granted. It’s true. The scene has a way of changing a person, particularly when all you have is an illusion of acceptance by it. The snapping pictures, the gold-plated parties, the slick veneer of a façade.

You are not one of them. Not quite. Not ever.