If You Thought Your Valentine's Day Sucked

Read on the terrible tale that won some bragging rights on Gawker and maybe a Valium...

" On February 12 of 2001, the mother of my then- boyfriend passed away at the young age of 42 due to drug use, malnourishment and a complete inability to take care of herself despite all the help offered and all the hospital stays/surgeries paid for by the state. In general she had led a nasty, repulsive life from which many, MANY people including myself tirelessly attempted to rescue her through the years. There's no way to sugarcoat this- even without the drug issues, all of her other behaviors made her the epitome of white trash. (Curiously, one such white trash episode- I kid you not- involved water with HAM a la J-WOWW years before J-WOWW was a household name.) I should mention here that not long after this woman's death her son, my first love with whom I had been with for SEVEN years and helped put through college, turned out to be a cheating, lying thief who was selling drugs out of our attic. (I know....shocking! But I was young, naive and had the type of Messiah complex that only comes with first love.)

Also, I should mention that a week before his mom passing, a female "friend" of his died at 26 from an undetected cancer and we had made the 4 1/2 hour drive to his hometown of Bumblefuck, Pennsylvania (a town renowned for its lone gay bar repeatedly being burned down and then reopened under new ownership. Over and over and over again. Burn, reopen, burn, reopen which should give you the idea of the area's general mentality). The viewing for that friend of his caused many people to throw up in the alley behind the funeral home because whoever did the deceased's make up hadn't covered her autopsy scars. And yes, in retrospect I figured out that this "friend" I helped him mourn was another girl with whom he had been cheating on me at some point. But I digress.

So his mom kicks the bucket. I have the awful job of driving to his work to tell him.and then pack all our stuff up and leave to make the 4 1/2 hour drive to Bumblefuck. Again. We don't leave until midnight. I wind up driving the whole way because even though this was expected and he truly wasn't close to her, he is sort of lost in thought and not able to concentrate plus I'm not a bitch- who is going to make someone drive that just lost their mom even if they weren't close to her at all? Not I. The snow comes down. I almost hit a deer. Trying to stay awake on the frozen, winding mountain roads is nearly impossible. We get to his maternal grandparents' house which is where we always stayed because his mom was such a mess. I should mention here that his father was a career petty criminal who was out of the picture since my boyfriend was a baby. Oh, and his step-grandfather? He was both a cop and a perv who through the years would constantly sexually harass me. (Each time I confronted him/scolded/yelled ...etc. etc. etc. but he seemed to have some sort of dirty old man asshole amnesia and kept on doing it.)

With hardly any sleep, I wake up on February 13th to learn that the funeral arrangements had been made without even consulting my boyfriend, her only son and oldest child. Much to my horror I learn that his mom will be getting the cheapest package possible which is literally being placed in a cardboard box. Which would be one thing if she was going to be cremated immediately, but no, a viewing for immediate family was scheduled for the next day which of course was Valentine's Day. As if that wasn't horrid enough, I learned that his mother didn't so much as own one decent dress or suit in which to be buried. This troubled me greatly and I quietly offered to go purchase something nice for her. I was told NO, they would "make do" with what she had.

It was at that point that Pervy Cop Grandpa told us that he had made sure he ran an obituary in the town paper so that maybe if her ex-husband, my boyfriend's father, the career petty criminal who apparently had several warrants out saw it, he might show up at the funeral home out of guilt or just curiosity. Only instead of allowing him to pay his respects, there would be a sting operation to arrest him on his outstanding theft warrants. Which of course was not the time or place but despite my urgings, was still the outcome for which Pervy Cop Grandpa hoped, even going so far as to wring his pervy cop hands in gleeful anticipation.

Which brings us to Valentine's Day- the day of the actual viewing. After an hour trying to convince my boyfriend's 16 year-old single mom sister that perhaps wearing denim overalls and a matching T-shirt emblazoned with Winnie the Pooh was not the best choice of attire for her mother's viewing, I gave up and we all piled in the car- myself, my boyfriend, Disney Overalls, her baby, Pervy Cop Grandpa and my boyfriend's grandmother who had spent the better part of her life trying to keep her daughter safe from the demons that plagued her and was genuinely mourning her loss but in a very, non-showy way but also seemed relieved that she was gone.

It should be noted here that my boyfriend was wearing a suit which caused each of his relatives-even the Grandma in mourning- to exclaim, "Why are you so dressed up?" while Pervy Cop Grandpa took a keen interest in "how different my body looked in dress pants and a nice blouse." Fucking ewwwww.

We get to the funeral home and I am BRACING myself for the spectacle I know awaits me- i.e. the sight of the deceased in the aforementioned cardboard box presumably clad in her standard outfit of acid washed jeans and any one of the Camel cigarette T-shirts she got for free with all the Camel points she accumulated. But alas, as it turns out that would have been a welcome sight. Yes, she was in the cardboard coffin but in lieu of jeans and a t-shirt (and with the COMPLETE ABSENCE OF MAKE-UP OR EMBALMING FLUID ...."Why spend the money?" I was told) she was clad in a nightgown purchased from the Salvation Army that can only be described as a cast-off from the wardrobe department on the set of the original "Night of the Living Dead." (They're coming to get yoooou, Bah-bar-ah.) Flannel, high frilly neckline, floral pattern- it was as if we stumbled upon the original character inspiration for the cryptkeeper from HBO's "Tales from the Crypt." The sickly, gaunt, white-as-a-sheet, stiff-as-a-board drug-ridden corpse who was to be perpetually ready for a long night's slumber lying in a giant cardboard box was a ghoul incarnate. (To this day, I have nightmares about this shit.)

Of course despite my shock at the scene before me, I doted on my boyfriend, trying to portray the perfect balance of warmth and support without being clingy or patronizing- this was not an easy feat but somehow I managed to pull it off.

And so they bid their farewells while I concentrated on not throwing up. No one cried or showed any emotion which given the sort of person the deceased was, was no surprise though it was still... unsettling. They all just stared at the body- not even with reverence- more like no one could take their eyes off the macabre, physical results of the "cheapest package" purchased at the funeral home. I imagine the way I felt was the same way hostages must feel when they are being held at gunpoint against their will- trying desperately not to believe that what is happening before them is really happening but knowing it is and being helpless to stop it. Meanwhile, much to Pervy Cop Grandpa's pervy cop dismay, his sting operation did not go down and thus his dreams of landing in Bumblefuck's Policemen Hall of Fame were shot in the non-blink of a zombie's eye.

Following this nightmarish display of non-mourning at which no one, not even some ashen-faced, lurchy funeral director officiated in any way or offered so much as a Unitarian prayer or the tossing of a dead carnation on the cardboard box while yelling "Hey! Good luck in the Afterlife, lady!" we were ushered back to the grandparents' house for a repass of day-old lunch meats, raisin bread, beets and Cheetos.

But alas, it was *still* Valentine's Day! And in the spirit of that, the grieving Grandma gifted me a stuffed animal, which when pressed issued robotic, comical sayings about love and romance. Given that death, horror and and the complete distortion of respect and etiquette still loomed in the air like a fart in an airplane bathroom, when the little plush frog or penguin clutching a heart-or whatever the fuck animal he was- said ANYTHING, it sounded eerie, ominous. menacing and serial killer-like. He was a souvenir of my despair and quite frankly scared the crap out of me. So off he went to live in a dumpster behind a deli. Which I suppose was par for the course and at that point, the least of my worries.

As if my mental state and any semblance of being ok wasn't obliterated enough it was decided that we would all immediately go "clean" out the apartment of the deceased, i.e. pillage all her shit in the hopes of finding some treasure she forgot she owned and thus hadn't been able to pawn for smack before going to meet her maker. Off we went!

Now this was in the day before text messaging, blackberries and iPhones were de rigueur. Lucky for me, before making the drive, I had alerted 2 friends of mine- my "top gays" at the time about what had happened. (I believe we were supposed to visit that weekend and not knowing when we would return, I wanted to let them know about the change in plans.)

I don't know if it was the tone of my voice on the voicemail I left them (and just think- this was before I became aware that I was unwittingly co-starring in the real life equivalent of a David Lynch film) or just the kindness of their hearts but without even telling us, they made the 4 1/2 hour trip out there which took longer because of snow.

They used an old-school pay phone to call Information and get the number of the police station. Since they knew about Pervy Cop Grandpa they called the police station and no doubt weaving some supernatural gay magic, they were able to get the home phone number for Pervy Cop Grandpa's house where we were staying and then contact Pervy Cop Grandpa who gave them the address of the dead mom's apartment.

Sans GPS as this was long before such technology was available, they tracked us down for the sole purpose of....taking us out for Valentine's Day dinner to help alleviate us from our weariness and overall distress. That's right- the gays descended through snow (on the day they should have been giving each other back-rubs in front of their roaring fire while arguing who loved who more as their 6 Boston Terriers fought for the best cuddle spot on the couch and witnessed them exchanging cashmere sweaters from Barney's) into the same town where the lone gay bar was routinely torched and re-opened, tracked us down and fed us a proper hot meal. God/Buddha/Allah/Liza Minnelli love them. If that isn't friendship, I don't know what is.

Of course, the only restaurants in Bumblefuck are all of the chain variety but I can assure you, never was I was so thrilled to eat boneless buffalo wings and mozzarella sticks on Valentine's Day in my life, which was the form in which they offered us their condolences and I happily accepted.

The contrast of the shiny, red foil decorations everywhere in the restaurant was striking and almost startling compared to the grim setting in which we had spent the day. We raised our over-sized, over-priced sugary cocktails and my beloved gays in shining armor toasted to Love. That was it. A toast to Love, the single word with no elaboration, context or explanation. My heart sang with the sort of joy a girl can only get from being rescued from a nightmare-inducing fate by two dashing gays in a snowstorm offering comfort and salty, fried carbs.

And for all we had been through in the last 48 hours, considering all the nurturing and love I had given my boyfriend despite the grotesque, petrifying circumstances in which I had found myself, he didn't so much as utter a thank-you much less whisper an "I love you" - not even when one of the hero gays went to pay the bill while the other went to clear the snow off the car. He had never really been in in shock or truly mourning since he was not close to his mom and by this time his mood could even be described as jovial - he merrily had taken over the pillaging of his mom's home and then had become the life of the party during our Applebees double date. Granted, I still didn't expect anything remotely Valentine's-like from him in terms of a gift or really any attention paid to it, but a quick kiss or thank-you would have been nice as I was tirelessly hauling out Hefty Bag #26 filled with cigarette butts, liquor and prescription bottles, mysteriously stained bits of unidentified material and every copy of The National Enquirer since 1982.

A few weeks later, my boyfriend made the trip back to Bumblefuck to retrieve his mother's ashes (I was none too happy that her urn would soon reside in my living room.) Creepily enough, the ashes had been divided into two urns- one for him and one for Disney Overalls.

A couple months after that but before the cheating, thievery and drug factory was discovered (again- I was verrry young, naive and in love) I came home one night to find my boyfriend had opened the urn. And for reasons I still don't know in a scene that still makes me shudder when I think about it, he was quietly running his fingers through his mother's ashes. We never spoke of it, but from that twisted moment on, having opened Pandora's box of evil dust, the feng shui of our home became totally fucked up and our relationship crumbled at a record-setting pace. I soon discovered his indiscretions and criminal behavior and kicked him out.

At the end of the painful, raw moving out process, I came home one day and as I opened the door I could sense that the apartment was...changed. The sunlight from the windows was filtering through the curtains differently and there was a feeling of general calm, relief and happiness that had been missing for months. I immediately knew why. The urn that held half a ghoul minus the particles that I'm sure had gotten lodged underneath my ex's fingernails was gone. Happy days were here again!

Needless to say, I vacuumed like a woman possessed and then made a pitcher of margaritas and invited my top gays to come celebrate. They happily obliged and we all cried laughing while recalling The St. Valentine's Massacre of Good Taste and Decorum while toasting my future. That was a most excellent evening though Valentine's Day has never quite been the same for me. And Christ on a cracker, how could it possibly ever be?"

What's the policy on...

Being a writer is so weird and difficult and strange. Being a freelancer even more so. I've spent the better part of a week gently harassing a magazine that I pitched an idea to in DECEMBER. They said yes and it would run in March. Since then I went ahead, did the interview, wrote the draft, re-pitched as a blanket email went out for pitches and cc:ed everyone else important in case someone else would get back to me. I called the editor who said we'd do it. I emailed. I emailed someone else. And then I emailed all three together and said, hey what's going on with this pitch?

I haven't heard anything back. My friend says go sell it elsewhere. It was my idea and I did all the work. But it feels sleazy to sell it elsewhere. That said, the aforementioned magazine just hasn't gotten back to me, and I think I've been pretty cool about it. I mean, it's over 2 months without a hard deadline and contract. They said they'd make it work but I haven't heard anything for a while. I dunno why they won't get back to me--maybe they want a "more capable" writer to write a longer piece. I don't think it's the content because it's about a topic that is time-sensitive and about a band people really want to read about (plus their album drops right around when the issue would). So I guess I go elsewhere? I mean do I have to tell the first people? And I know this is not important, but why oh why don't people just say "no" in the first place? It would have felt much better to hear a "we're not into your style these days" instead of waiting around like a jackass and promising it to this band and having to call and email and beg for someone just to give me a deadline.

Writing sucks and rejection is involved at every turn. Why I chose it, I'll never know.

Quote of the Day: You Just Got Fresh Princed

For The Record, I Think The Smell of Axe Deodorant is Hot

I know. I know. But it smells like Drakkar Noir or something, and when I was 12 I thought that hot older guys wore that. That and Cool Water. I'm sorry world. I really think it smells great. Can we not be a civilized people and admit that when we were all tweens, we were drawn to trashy things because they seemed adult, and we had no idea what the hell that was?

Before you rush to judge (okay you already have), check the following article on Jezebel today, about how we navigate deodorant from teens to now. Ladies, if you hate Axe, then you hate someone just because of their deodorant choice. That's mean. Understandable, but mean. Article below...Malibu Musk mention...holla! Oh I thought it smelled soooo good and if I wore it I would be immediately 17 and in the passenger's seat of a red convertible, driving out of Connecticut and into Beverly Hills...(this can still happen right?)
----
"I was approximately 12 years old when my mother bought me my first stick of deodorant. She gave it to me right before I entered sixth grade, and it was, at the time, the most grown-up product I'd ever owned.

Looking back, I realize that my mother probably tossed a stick of deodorant my way because puberty had brought the joys of b.o. to my life and she didn't want me entering sixth grade as "that girl who stinks," but at the time I thought it was her way of acknowledging that I wasn't a little kid anymore; I was a lady, who needed lady things, you see, like deodorant and a training bra and face wash and such. It didn't matter that I had no breasts or zits to speak of: it was the ownership of these products, the physical reminders that I was entering the realm of the grown-up world, that really mattered.

In today's New York Times, Jan Hoffman explores the world of the youngest Axe deodorant wearers—tween boys—and notes that the deodorant really represents "masculinity in a can," a way for boys to assert their manhood through the smells their female classmates have come to associate with older men. It's not a new phenomenon by any means; when I was in middle school, the stench of Drakkar Noir, often swiped from an older brother's bedroom, wafted down the hallways, and for the most part, we all thought it was totally dreamy until we grew up to associate it with, well, those dudes who still wear Drakkar Noir.

It's easy to scorn Axe deodorant and it's dumbass depictions of masculinity—I do it nearly every weekend, for crying out loud—but there's one line in Hoffman's piece that really broke my heart: when asked by a teacher why he had to wear the scent, a junior high student replied: "I have to have it, Ms. G., because I don't have the money to dress the right way. This is all I can afford." As a can of Axe costs less than $10, it's a way for young men to fit in and give the girls something they supposedly like without breaking the bank.

One of my New Year's resolutions is to be kinder to teenagers: it's way too easy to mock them without taking the two seconds necessary to remember how terrible and scary and complicated life was at that age, not only because of the effects of puberty, but because adults are constantly pointing out how much you have to learn and how far you have to go without really giving you an opportunity to actually learn and or go before they start yelling at you for doing it wrong. My instant reaction to this article was to just write "Teenage Boys Attempt To Stop Smelling Bad By Smelling Worse," which is a bit jerky and rather unfair, and doesn't really take into account the fact that many of us, myself included, doused ourselves in Debbie Gibson-inspired perfumes in order to feel more grown up at the age when being a kid or being an adult both seem somehow impossible.

And though I do find the Axe-ification of masculinity to be troubling, I'd guess that most of these tweens will move past their deodorant obsessions as they mature. Probably. Maybe. Most of us have moved on from our days of Baby Soft and Electric Youth and Malibu Musk, no? I don't think every 11-year-old boy who Axe-ifies is instantly transformed into a misogynistic douche, just as I don't think every 11-year-old girl who puts on a bit of eyeshadow is booking a ticket to Tramp Town. Adolescence is a strange and smelly time: sometimes, you just want the assurance that whenever adulthood does arrive, you'll at least be somewhat prepared. And that you won't be "that girl who stinks." Thanks, Mom."

For Tween Boys, Masculinity In A Spray Can [NYTimes]

The Best Craigslist Ad Ever

Sometimes I troll them when I'm bored, looking for free trampolines or drum-circle classes or knitting groups or used books for sale.

And sometimes I love to look at the "missed connections" site, not because I ever have any myself, but I hope to witness one happening someday. A boy looks at a girl. A girl smiles at boy. Their eyes meet, but the subway stops and one has to leave. It's so hard to meet someone, and now we have to deal with the effin 2/3 train.

And ladies and gentleman, I present to you the best Missed Connections Ad I've ever seen.

"You Heard Me Fart....m4w - 35 (North)"

Yesterday was the most embarassing day of my life. I am so ashamed.
I had no idea that you were sitting at your desk when I unleashed a nasty Taco Bell fart that I was holding back all day.
I just could not keep that dirty old man in my stomach any longer.
And to make matters worse I yelled out, " La Cucaracha !"

When I passed your cubicle and saw you sitting there, I died a thousand deaths. But you just kept reading.
How considerate.
When I had the courage to return, I noticed that two of the windows were open.

I have always thought that you were a hottie and dreamed of taking you out to dinner. But that will never happen now.
Now you know that I am just a slyme ball. A creature with no consideraion for people.

I was told that you called out today.
I hope you are well.

Ahahahhaha!

Corporate Awkwardness - Making Friends With The Cube Next Door

Hey friends, I'm back in a corporate office for the time being (look, the unemployment benefits runneth dry and ye old writerly jobs pay squat) and therefore subject to office culture and excel spreadsheets once more. Huh huh, I said "spread."

So for some reason I have the only non-creative job in a creative department, as I am filling in for my lovely friend who is out on maternity leave. Someone remind me to block her on facebook for this.

So the work is somehow both boring AND hard. I didn't think something could be capable of both things at once, but hey, here we are. Kind of like when Bart Simpson said he didn't think it was physically possible for something to simultaneously suck AND blow.

But, I sit next to the art department! And they are cool (of course, has anyone ever been in the art department of anything who wasn't totally hilarious and amazing?)! And I want to be friends with them because they blast songs like Eddie Murphy "Boogie In Your Butt" and sing along and have Christmas lights and sometimes include me in their jokes (it just happened as I was writing this) even though I don't yet know their names.

Anyway, I am trying to make friends with them. If you have a suggestion better than me going over there and asking if they want to be friends with me, I'd love to hear it. I'm only here for three months, I have to expedite bonding immediately!

This Truth Is Making My Life As A Music Writer Quite Hard

Best summation about why one of my jobs is so impossible, made in the comments of Gawker:

"The best thing about the current state of "indie" is that starting about the time The Strokes and The White Stripes and all those bands hit the scene, the universe starting folding in on itself. It was no longer a scene of consisting of a handful of bands at any given moment. Suddenly they were popping up left and right on a weekly timetable. As pointed out above, "indie" means nothing anymore. Just about any genre of music you can imagine can be classified as such. And, best of all, the waves of backlash now come so quickly that you can't even tell if something is hip or if it's already passé before it even began. While this seems like a horrifying thing to happen, it's really the most liberating of all possible occurrences. It's harder and harder for people to define their "coolness" by the music they listen to because no matter who you like, somebody even cooler (or less cool?) than you will mock you for liking it. So now we're stuck with just listening to what we genuinely enjoy. Which is how it's supposed to be. And the timing couldn't be better. There are more interesting bands out there today than at any given moment in pop music history. If this were the 80's or the 90's I would probably be forced to love Vampire Weekend because there would really only be a few bands even remotely possible to like. But now there are hundreds. I can just admit I don't care about them much and move on, and know that there are so many fantastic options to try and always something new to explore. And Vampire Weekend will work for a lot of people, and I'm happy for those people."

NSFW: Oh My God

The best part is the couple talking and dying of laughter.

On A Break-Up : Quote of the Year

"You want to stay? That’s staying out of convenience. Because if you stay, and for as long as you stay in this home, my home, then all the things you said will be just that. What you said. But when you leave, they will immediately become what you did. And you will have forever done it."

Aaaaand We're Back

A little jumbled static today.

Happy New Decade, and many days late! I will now be updating this blog much more because I have an office job in addition to my music jobs and book writing jobs and rainbow-kitten-catching jobs (an idiot can dream!).

See, the office begets blog-writing. That's when I was all over this thang (check my archives from 2006--they RULED). And blogs and gossip and music and websites are what I like to read while sipping overpriced Asian noodle soup on my lunch hour in front of this blasted screen (this is my treat, my trade for taking a full-time, temporary magazine job in Midtown. I will eat soup, and I will eat it A LOT. You know, I'm really seeing why old people like soup. I'm on the wrong side of twenty-five, three years on the wrong side of it (did you also think you'd be dead by now when you were teenaged and knew EVERYTHING there was to know?), and man oh man how it soothes my bones. I can see why oldies eat soup and toast and complain. Because it's awesome, that's why.)

So what's new with you, dear diary, dear readers? Unfulfilled January wishes? Me too!

Here's the listsicle, here's what I want/here's what's going on:

1. I want to talk to you about my relationships like besties, like we used to. No, not my professional relationships or my sense of self, the dirt with the boy(s). I have gone through some good ones in our time together, yours and mine. And while the greatest of you have never met me, ALL THOSE BOYS READ THIS BLOG. Damn them! The crushes, the heartbreakers, the heartbroken, they all know. So I'd like to talk about my hopes, and dreams, and fears and my insanely moody feelings about all of them, past and current, and yet I cannot. Time to bring back "Annabella," a conglomerate of girls and myself who I spoke of on ye old Almost Literary back in the Aughts. Anabella has some stories to tell, about international DJs and crazy tattoos, about her live-in perfect boyfriend, about her affair with an older celebrity, and she has some quotes of the day. Good ones. We will discuss.

2. I want an agent for my book. It's good, I swear. If you have an agent who is taking clients, or work in the lit biz and would like to read what I've got, please let me know and leave a comment here!

3. All of my friends have abandoned me. Okay, they've abandoned New York. I am making new ones and that means more girl date stories. Why don't they make an e-harmony for girlfriends?! I would pay dearly for this service. Yeah, I'd pay for friends, want to fight about it?

4. I am starting to be offered some full-time jobs (kinda, sorta). After cobbling together freelance work for over a year, I'm kind of into the working at midnight on Sunday routine. It also lets me keep taking my art classes. But until I hear about where I did and didn't get into schools in April (and if anything does or does not happen with my book until then, I also need money). Stay a free bum or a caged suit? I never really fit in with either...

I have more...but I will have to think...

The Last Essay I Ever Wrote For Applications

When you go do it like this, they know you're spent. 13 down, no more to go, sorry Columbia, for this:


Dear Columbia University

When I started my critical paper for entrance to your program, I began to cheat. I had in my possession a gently-worn copy of The Collected Stories of Amy Hempel. It’s edged in red and white, and still bears the purchase sticker from where I bought it (Borders on the Upper West Side, a steal at fifteen dollars plus tax). I adore it. But more, it was published in the past ten years, and in my genre—fiction! I told this to myself as I happily re-read on the lurching subway, fingering the pages, trying to be stoic when I felt the pangs her sentences invoked. I formulated grand plans. And then I re-read your clearly printed instructions on what we were to write.

Alas, the stories in the first three quarters of the book were not published in the last ten years, never mind written then, and so they could not count. What she wrote which I thought most spoke to me was what she wrote when she was my age, and I had a response to it all right. How she changed, and how she changed me. What it all meant. It would have made a great critical essay, in my mind.

But it’s The Dog of The Marriage that qualifies, and it is that which is pertinent to this essay, and now I realize, most pertinent to me. How to begin? With the depiction of rapes, the fear every day at being a woman, with the long shores of shuttered lake houses? With the seasons that followed, the dogs that arrived, with the husbands that left? There is endless departure, departures without permission, pervasive in her stories. Each loss flows lyrically into the next, as if each were a chapter in a well-crafted novel. A novel of loss—of love, life, youth, beauty, summer. There is sexual violence, both terrifying and thrilling. The narrator—whoever she is, Hempel, a collection of facets, her friends and my imagination—speaks the same language no matter where she arrives.

She is surrounded by people, by animals, by machines, and she is alone, with a trowel, in a man’s shirt. She is alone even in the arms of her lover as she invents a lifetime of sexual fantasies for a man who will not love in “Offertory.” She is alone as she watches the revolving door of suitors in her widowed father’s life, and when she and he argue, without words, on what time means in “The Afterlife.” She is alone as she dips the pregnancy wick into the crystal scotch glass as she recalls her favorite film and confuses who is the ghost in the movie and in her own life in “The Uninvited.” Sometimes she is irate when alone, as she is when penning the parking ticket rebuttal in “Reference #388475848-5.” Sometimes she is quiet when alone, when she remembers her mother’s death and looks upon her x-ray in the doctor’s office in “What Are The White Things?” She is on the wrong side of fifty at each moment alone. There are pets that nuzzle and boxed turtles that die on nets spread over strawberries, there are men who float in and those who she will not love. She is a competent driver, and she drives into and out of every situation, not a single one unfolds without her specific self-aware presence, and oftentimes, her actual car. She has the sensibility of a poet. There is a quiet suspension of disbelief here, those who are not the narrator speak in near-couplets (and she often turns a phrase on its head) and time is fluid—we never seem to start at the beginning. Often we’re at the end as in the title story, or in the middle in “Jesus is Waiting.” In “Memoir,” we begin nowhere, in void. And of course, that is precisely the point. Hempel may not have invented the mantra “every word counts,” but she is the gold standard in this collection. White space frightens some writers. Others must see the page the way a sculptor sees marble, and carve out from one block of it. If roughness, incompleteness remains, that is part of the whole. It’s tempting to point towards greater metaphor here, naturally, about life, but for respect for Hempel, and your time, I won’t try to make it. The Dog of The Marriage, however blunt, does not make me, the reader, scared of this inevitable time in a woman’s life. I sigh when reading it. Sometimes I want more than anything to be old and full of stories, which is a strange thing perhaps. Something that is rare, and that this work does.

As for how she does it, I understand that is the point of a proper critical essay. Also, not to use “I”. I was taught the critical essay should read, “The writer’s purpose is to do X through Y and accomplishes it using Z. Here are the number of ways in which it is done. Here is the symbolism. Here is God. Here is greed.” But, when speaking of Hempel, how can one do this in an ordinary way? In Rick Moody’s introduction he asserts, “Who gives a shit how long the book takes,” and now, here I am, cursing in my essay. It’s entirely wrong. But it is my response, my honest one. Hempel writes tightly—her characters are so compelling it’s as if the words aren’t even there, and yet, it’s all about the words, too. The sentences, as Moody says. She repeats, how she repeats so many things! And yet, it’s all over in a flash, a novel in stories, and it was short and it was all about longing. It was masterful, and it was heartbreaking. I had the idea that while writing this I’d somehow emulate her style. I’d write, critiquing Amy Hempel is like…and I would say something multi-layered and clever and just end there. Without the summation in words. But she does what I cannot. I don’t know how she does it. I realize that she does, and I see where and when. How to do it myself, I hope to learn in your program. So I’ll end my response with her words. The last in the collection, on the last page. “Unimprovable,” he says.

If only the same could be said for this essay.

BEST SONG EVER

Insanely hilariously good video re-posted by the good folks at You Ain't No Picasso.

To wit: 'I said it on twitter and I’ll say it here: if this had come out this year, I’d pick it for song of the year.

Boing Boing posted this video of a song written by an Italian composer in a gibberish language that is his imitation of what he thought English sounded like. It’s a great 70s funk track that incorporates killer riffs, great dance moves and manages to answer the old question “what does English sound like to foreigners?”'

What I will prepare for Christmas Lunch

As I am lady this year (damnit!) I am cooking for the family and will be making a filet of beef (slice it up to get the mignon) with gorgonzola cream sauce. Roasted rosemary potato wedge fries and roasted cherry tomatoes. Thinking about the balsamic onions too. But the whole thing is so damn pricey!

Asking the boy to pick up a Venerio's cheesecake and Mom and Pop to bring the wine. What to serve as bar snacks as I'm preparing? Olives in orange juice? Spiced nuts? I made a pretty great trail mix for a company party last week consisting of white chocolate chips, cranberries, chopped walnuts, almonds and milk chocolate chips. It was a big hit, but we all ended up eating that instead of some amazing baked brie in pastry, homemade butternut squash lasagna, artichoke and olive pasta salad, some incredible rillettes, and all sorts of pate (which I will no longer eat after reading a few articles). Sadly, I might give up duck as well. I love their quacking too much.

Details on the other party I went to, at the gorgeous home of the nicest editor of the best food magazine still on the market (lush mac and cheese, sliced pork, cranberry mayo) to come. As well as how this endeavor, courtesy of Goddess Ina Garten to come...

Grinchin' It

So it's cold, work goes late, you're skipping the gym, and every holiday party is designed to cram as much duckfat and sub-par Shiraz into your gullet as possible.

I'm trying to take this weekend, this freezing cold weekend, and make some hot chocolate and put some presents under the first tree I've ever had on my own! Okay, the boy brought it in, but it was me who reached my scrawny arms into the thick of the needles to wrap the lights as he looked onward with a dim realization that if he stood there long enough doing it shoddily I would do it myself, it was me who broke the borrowed ornaments and then stepped on shards of purple glass with my idiotic barefeet, me who turned the temperature up to 80 degrees despite how much I'll pay for the bill because in my parent's house you have to wear a coat at all times or risk death (my father, upon hearing even the rush of air from my brother turning the thermostat up from 60--yes SIXTY degrees at night--to 62 has roused him from his bed to chastise us) because I wanted to decorate the tree in a warm room, me who lopsidedly hung the beads and me who climbed on top of a chair nearly falling into the tree to top it with the star. Yes, I am an adult! Sort of.

And now the invites pour in. For this concert and this party and this literary event. All fabulous, and I am almost fabulous enough to deserve to be invited (so the invites state). But it is COLD. And there are too many! And I am a brat to complain of being invited. And I get a little egg nog in me and I start telling everyone they're not the boss of me. And then no one gets the joke.* And the fabulous invites don't come in April. There is no blow out bash, no spreading of cheer. That's when I want to be popular. April! Not now, not December, when my face is all red and my hair is all blown from the wind, when I've been ingesting nothing all day just to take three, count 'em, three miniburgers from The Standard at the last literary event I attended (a BBC documentary on the real Mad Men). And three glasses of champagne. That's how I roll these days. Adult, maybe. Tasteful, not on your life.

Friends, I will have holiday cheer as soon as I get rid of one or two of my jobs to pay for the holiday cheer I have to spread. As soon as I figure out how to make this interview I did on spec with this adorable musician who has no hook into a story, as soon as I turn down the heat in here to 60 and put on my coat to sit on my couch and look at my tree with no presents underneath. As soon as I complete four more applications. I have done nine. I have four more. I have cheer. It is coming.

I hope you are spreading some and can wrap yourselves in enough to go get some brunch, go to a museum, get thee to yoga, because that's what I want for Christmas, as soon as I can.


*To all the funny people out there, don't you hate it when other people don't think you're funny? You are! This is what I must cling to. Give me this lie and nothing else and I will be happy.

Kittens bring Joy, another application bites the dust

AH! I cannot get enough of this!



Also sent in UT-Austin today, that's 4 down, and maybe NYU will be done this week too (here's hoping) and San Fran State after...but if I get them all done by Monday, that will be a miracle, and the only way to keep on track...

One Holiday and Three Applications Down

The turkey, parsnip puree and cranberry mojitos were flowing but it all passed in a joyful blur for me as I arrived bedraggled and zombie-d out, hair a mess, sweater covered in lint, my jeans sagging and my posture slumped. When I got to Connecticut to join in on the holiday festivities (which were marvelous but it took me the entire time to unhunch my shoulders), I had just completed a killer week, ending with the fact that I had essentially completed three applications for grad school! Provided that they weren't lost in the mail (my greatest fear) or that I wrote across the front "BOOGER" in my complete-the-application madness.

But still...

Three down! Only NINE more to go! But the first ones are the hardest ones--now my personal statement is as perfect as it's going to get, and my essays are all sketched out (except for one for Columbia that I can see myself completing badly at the last minute). The writing sample itself, which is 90% of the application's worth (so I hear) will not change another line, word or even comma. If it does, I might just die.

So I sent in the completed MFA and or Fellowship applications to:

UC-San Diego
UC-Irvine
and Stanford--which I looked at one last time AFTER I handed it in and saw a typo on the personal statement. Noooo! Can't change it now. All are due tomorrow so they were done last week. Next round is due December 15th, but I hope to have a few due beyond that out by then.

In the meantime I will be squirreling away in the recesses of my cozy apartment and using the cubes at work to furiously download PDFs on a faster computer than my own (after work hours of course!) and if all goes well, I will submit three applications per week until the week of Christmas. Then I will be done. And on to perfecting my query letter and getting my completed novel out there, starting a new but pretty hard temporary magazine job, and continuing my music writing. Oh, and writing that new book too. *Sigh*

Are you a person who needs to be busy or feels like you are wasting your life? I am. Sometimes it's fun, but on a rainy day like today it's a little exhausting. Perhaps it's that leftover turkey, or perhaps because I had two assignments due over the weekend so have not officially taken a day completely off from work in months, or that I'm working on my next round of applications now, but I am sleepy and wish for my cloud-like bed and a cup of cocoa instead of this lukewarm bitter coffee and piles upon piles of paper.

Sending good vibes out to you on this Monday, hoping to get some back. Boy, do I need it!

I laughed aloud while reading this

On Gawker today, on the endless and boorish topic that New York is over. Don't only over the hill people say that about cities? Because New York in the 70s wasn't cooler per se, it was cool to you because you were 20 and everything was interesting to you? And everything is cool when you are 20 and over when you are 50? Including cities? The world wasn't better then, you were just more excited about it! When you stop getting excited about it, you have to start thinking that it's not the world that is so different, but it's you, you who does not stay out until 4 AM, you who does not blow off your job to follow your favorite band, you who are not going on a wild roadtrip with a band of merry pranksters and artists?

Anyway, the article in its entirety, courtesy of Foster Kamer. I was laughing and cringing. Are we really arguing about our cities now?
---------

Oh, hello there, Stephanie Marsh of the Sunday Times. When you write an essay called "New York has lost its edge," and you live here, it's okay. When you're writing from London...

The question presents itself: What the shit do you think you're talking about, lady?

Her two big examples are the John Varvatos store at CBGBs, and the Whole Foods on the Bowery (which is the articles kicker). Great. She mentioned two places within three blocks from one another. Yeah, it sucks that CBGBs is dead, but that place sucked when it was dying and hey, at least Varvatos kept some of the original walls. It could be another Chase Bank, but, whatever.

Here's her thesis:

"The problem for those who would like to see a return in New York to its edgy past is that Manhattan, as more than one New York-based blogger has claimed, is still "a gated community for the rich". The cultural critic Julian Brash has complained that under Bloomberg the citizens of New York have been turned into consumers - it is a place where everything is about what can be bought and what can be sold."

Okay, fine. Manhattan's really expensive, blah blah blah. Bankers run everything, blah blah blah. Everything in New York can be bought. And? This city was built by hyper-capitalists, it's why there's so much goddamn money here. Old hat. Certain things about New York absolutely suck and will always keep sucking worse and worse. And let's get one thing straight: people have been saying things about New York sucking for as long as New York's been around. If you read Monocle magazine, which this essay is basically ripped out of, this is like, every issue. This has long been the party line of travel press types—especially ones from abroad—for at least three years. I mean, if you really want to go back, I believe Rolling Stone called New York the Hot Dead Zone in their inaugural Hot List issue. In 1998. Saying New York is no longer edgy hasn't been edgy in forever.

The sequel to this piece is when she inevitably says that Berlin is starting to get really, really hip these days too. Pretty much anybody who went through Ellis Island and didn't stay probably had some sentiment along the lines of "this place sucks." According to the Daily News, one of our presidents basically told us to stick this city up our collective asses (look where he is, now: dead).

But—and I'm sure others have their reasons—I live here because, quite frankly (A) there's still nowhere else in America like it, and like many other people here, I have some sick/awesome compulsion that makes this grind of living here that much more attractive to me than anywhere else and (B) it's still got better stuff than everywhere else in America. Yeah, fuckin' stuff. Awesome stuff.

Now.

Can we quickly go over the reasons London—a nice city, sure—sucks compared to New York? Great:

* Your food sucks. It all tastes like ass until American chefs take two months to do better what you've spent hundreds of years sucking at.

* The service in your restaurants sucks, because you have to instruct people how to tip by putting a mandatory charge on their tab, like many other countries that do this. Which is the wrong way of doing this, which is why every server you will every have in London will probably be an asshole.

* Your theater sucks. War Horse—no, really, War Horse—is the best thing you have up right now. Anything good you have on the West End came from us. And don't bring up fucking Billy Elliot.

* Your nightlife is just stupid. Pubs close at 11, our bars don't close until four. Who goes to bed at 11? Are you serious? So you guys open up clubs that close at 2AM that have two kinds of people in them: the kind who get unceremoniously drunk and piss on everything, or the places Prince Harry goes. And who wants to go there? Also, you only play American music. You think Kings of Leon are the Second Coming of Christ. The Kings of Leon play our bar mitzvahs, goddamnit. By the way: most of those rappers you guys play on repeat (and not even the good ones...50 Cent?!) still live in New York. Our clubs and nightlife might have their issues, but they blow yours out of the water. You guys wouldn't know what to do with The Beatrice Inn if it crawled up your nose in a $100 bill.

* Nobody knows where anything is in London. Seriously. It's like the worst parts of the West Village for an entire city. Everything is higgly-piggly or whatever dumb word you have for it. We live on a grid. A grid. You guys have the dumbest civic planning this side of kids eating Legos.

* OH. Don't get me wrong. Our subways suck, for sure. But at least they're supposed to work after midnight, and don't cost half our income to ride. Also, an Oystercard? That just sounds stupid. Who's running your design schemes, Lewis Carroll? Stupid. Oh, and, you wanna talk about EDGY? How about our D-Trains getting stabby again, edgy? Exactly.

* You guys have never had a nice day of weather in the history of the universe. Seriously. The only person Madonna has to compete with for causing a scene is the fucking sun. It's yellow, it's in the sky, sometimes, it...nevermind. Have you even been here in September? It's like Central Park is trying to get in your pants and get you off, the weather's so goddamned nice.

* Oh, and the pound is stupid-expensive. Like everything else in your city.

* Your tabloid newspapers make the New York Post look like The Paris Review.

* And Whole Foods on the Bowery, sure, Whole Foods sucks. But it's in a pretty great location, and, fuck that, you know what sucks worse? Sainsbury's. Sainsbury's suuuuuuuucks. Which goes back to your food sucking.

* Do you have Brooklyn? Do you even know what a Brooklyn is? No, not David Beckham's son. You're stupid, shut up. [Quiet Moment: The article didn't mention Brooklyn once, but didn't refer to Manhattan exclusively. Go figure.]

* London's celebrities are all on Big Brother and fucking suck. They're mouthbreathing idiots. They make Tinsley Mortimer look like Jackie Kennedy.

* You guys have soccer—yeah, I called it soccer, goddamnit—teams. Multiple ones. Great. We have two baseball teams (including the 2009 World Series Champions), football teams (Including the 2008 Super Bowl Champions), hockey teams (I'm sure they Won Something Great recently), and a basketball team. All of them except for the Knicks could smash every London soccer player. Nothing else, just "smash" them.

* There is one—and only one—good song about Foggy London Town. There are as many songs about New York as there are New Yorkers, and most of them are awesome.

Anything else? Oh, yeah, did Samuel Motherfucking Jackson just buy an apartment next to your boss? No? Exactly.

Shut up. New York is awesome.

Send an email to Foster Kamer, the author of this post, at foster@gawker.com.

Baby Shower-- Your advice!

Dear readers, I am throwing yet another baby shower! And I sadly have to admit, this time, now that I've done it before and am organizing it in my city instead of Philadelphia, I'm doing a much better job. I'm on the phone with the baker, the tea staff, the party staff, I'm on top of invoices and meetings. It's going to be a good time for those who had nothing to do with organizing it!

This one is in Alice's Tea Cup in the Upper East Side. Everyone will be getting the Mad Hatter tea service with sandwiches, scones, and luscious baked goods. I have sent the invites, sent all the shower registry information, fielded questions and those who want to drop out, drop in, called guests to talk them out of bringing their own food.

It's close.

I've pre-paid for mint green and white latex balloons, handpainted royal-frosted monogrammed cookies and sashays of specialty teas for the guests, and a mint-green chocolate ganache cake (why are cakes the most expensive things ever!). I have also picked up a beautiful baby book for all the guests to sign, and have emailed them to check in with me to sign as soon as they arrive, and also to bring one crazy looking gift bow so that we may trashily deck out the baby book box while keeping everything else an elegant affair.

The mom-to-be will NOT wear a silly hat or play games. Any other suggestions on what I can do/bring/ask others to bring? Any ideas on something fun? Or lay back and just let it happen (remember here, I am now nearly broke after all this, even though I'm having lots of help paying for the space and the party itself, as I keep adding on extras).

And the sleaziest question yet...should I buy an additional gift? I do have the baby book which I bought, but everything else is a surprise or edible or really only is a gift to the party. The last shower I threw I brought an expensive gift that I spent a lot of time thinking about and hauled it to Philadelphia from Austin (where I bought it). But this time...I don't know if I can do that? Is there something with baby showers the same thing with weddings that I have a year to give it ;)

Remembering: Night Habits

Things only people who have seen me in my underwear know.*

I like the room freezing cold. Air-blasting, fetal-position-inducing, take-all-the-blanket-fighting, freezing cold. And lots of quilts on the bed. It reminds me of my artic 19th century childhood home in which you seriously had to decide whether a trip to the bathroom in January was worth the likely possibility that, upon touching your toe to the old pine boards, your veins would turn to ice and you’d shatter into a million pieces. Compounded by my father, whose vehement insistence of responsible consumerism I imagine will surely, upon his deathbed, possess him to reach out a hand, pull me close and whisper, “I pass my legacy to you. Promise me you will not let your mother turn the thermostat past 61 degrees in the winter. Promise me this! Oil is too expensive! God damnit!”

I sleep in dresses. Dresses that I wear nowhere else but in bed. Hey, I’d walk around work in a penoir if I could (that’s a dressing robe which is explicitly meant for combing your hair in).

I write to blasting music. Like techno. Or obscene rap. It is really weird.

My friends that are boys in the neighborhood sometimes come say hi at night when I’m writing. And my doorman thinks because of this, I am running a low-class one-woman prostitution ring in a headband and yoga pants.

I dance to no music in the kitchen. And do a lot of jumping.

I wake up early sometimes and am mad about it. I want to sleep longer but sometimes am too anxious or on deadline to.

I get a little crazy right before sleep. Like all riled up and giggly, like if you threw a tennis ball at a dog and jangled your keys and shouted, “Wanna go to the park? Huh? Wanna go to the park!” riled up and giggly.

There is a green wooden armadillo hanging upside down on the ceiling in my room and a million sketches.

I don’t know how to be lonely any more.

Sometimes I wait for people to get home and it makes me happy to see them. Yes, again like a dog.

I could spend the day in bed if I have a really good book.

I have a lot of wacky ideas and half the time I actually do them. This led to me applying to grad school in Hawaii, backpacking through Australia, writing a book, and saying very inappropriate things to upper management with the thought that I’ll be liberally excused because I am a “creative”. Note: “creative” is just a euphemism for “quirkily unprofessional” at best and “not quite all there” at worst.

I am always thirsty but I hardly ever drink anything.

There is someone in my phone listed as "Not Sure."

I think being interesting is a gift and one day I hope to have it. For now I’m okay with being interested.

I think I feel alive and amazed more than is the norm. Like the wind will blow someone’s hair into a pattern and I’ll stop or I will think about the domestication of animals and think, whoa, who was the first person to see a horse and be like, you know what, I’m gonna jump on that thing’s back, what the hell. Let alone a camel! Or that if an alien landed on this planet and saw an elephant, it would freak the hell out and fly away…


* That includes my roommates, mom and best friend, and anyone else who has seen me sleep or woken me up.

Quote of the Day

Music editor #1: Did you read that sure-to-be-obnoxious piece in NY Mag about Brooklyn music called...'Brooklyn Calling?'

Music editor #2: I tried...but I had to keep stopping.

Music editor #1: Why's that?

Music editor #2: Well, the problem wasn't that I kept rolling my eyes, it was when I brought them back down to the page, I'd invariably keep losing my place.

What came first: The Book or the MFA?

Story Editor is done reading the book, and has given me her notes, and they (and she) are amazing! They are all super-positive and wonderful and really insightful, and it's really cool to see what complicated ideas I've pulled off and which ones have...well, thrown me off.

She has pointed out what I've known all along, the first chapter needs to be different. The good thing is that I have all the first chapter material just chopped up in the current first chapter and framed differently. So it's a rewrite of the first 25 pages or so, which at one point in my life seemed like such a long and difficult thing to do (oh the days of 15 page papers, I would take you back in a second!), but now is no problem. If only I could get my priorities straight...whip the book into final perfection (it's SO CLOSE) and get it to the agents...or work on my MFA applications, which also have due dates, and their own considerations.

So paralyzed was I by which one to focus on, that today I did the unthinkable, and instead focused on work for money (boo, hiss!) and then skipped the gym (double hiss! but I'm still sore from Friday's killer workout). Bad dog.

But tomorrow I will have a sit-down about my personal statement, and the good Samaritan who is looking over my writing samples with fresh eyes to ensure I didn't write "COCK" in huge letters on it somewhere (hmmm...maybe I should do that anyway, and call it "experimental writing" and send it to Brown..zing!) And if this good Samaritan has done what he was asked not to, which is to say anything about making it longer or shorter after I crafted every single word so that it fit the maximum length of the minimum requirement for every single school (this was so hard), I will rise our of the ashes and fly screaming for the blood of his young. If not, he gets a card. (Do the right one, Dave!)

Anyway, going a little insane over here. That's a good thing for "creatives", right? RIGHT?

Babies, more and more babies

Not mine!

Check out Theo, he is the newest baby friend of mine. I'm not a freak! These are my friends' babies. Theo updates his blog more often than I do (courtesy of my bf from high school, Selly).

The Editor's Note: Quote of the Day

The line-editing is just about done, and now the story/character/big-picture editor is looking at the book.

She usually takes three weeks (which is incredibly fast) and said so for my 331 page novel. But now that she's reading it, I'm different. She got it last Friday, and she thinks she'll be done next Monday. That's just over a week! I'm tearing my hair out (she is an award-winning novelist and is always right on point) in anticipation of her notes.

But then...she emailed me a quick update and it was this:

"Just so you know, I'm reading and it's wonderful."

Be still my beating heart...

Let's not get too excited yet, she's still got over 200 pages to go...but if she likes that, then I'll make tweaks with her suggestion, and then...actually start submitting it to agents. My God!

8 Simple Rules for Helping Me With My Applications

8. Don't say that my writing sample is "too smart" and you "don't get it" to get out of talking about my writing sample because it's actually boring. I wasn't born yesterday! (Offender: Boyfriend. -5 points)

7. Don't ask why I'm applying to schools. I don't know anymore, and I have too many things due to have to explain it again, and yes I know that you can be a writer without this degree, but I'm into it deep. And I still want to be a better writer, hence I want the degree. So have a heart and shut it! (Offender: Old Boss. -10 points)

6. Do say I'll get through it...somehow. It's nice, it's not too aspirational, and it's just inevitable. (Angel: Best Friend. + 20 points)

5. Do offer to make a big cup of green tea when I'm surrounded by papers and broken ink cartridges at 11 at night on a Friday as I stay in to edit while you get to go out drinking. (Angel: Boyfriend. +10 points)

4. Don't remind me that I did this once and failed miserably, only getting into mediocre programs. (Offender: Self. -5 points)

3. Do be amazing and think every stupid idea I have is worthwhile, like this one. (Angels: Mom and Dad +100 points)

2. Don't interrupt me every five minutes with an email about a lost detergent cap in the laundry room. I'm trying to work here! (Offender: Landlord. -15 points)

1. Don't give up on me. (Angels: maybe you guys? +100 points)

Things I want to talk about now that I live alone

Well I live alone, without any girls now. It's great! I watch what I want to watch, have my slovenly boyfriend over all the time, cook whatever I like, clean obsessively but let books and papers pile up as I write and rewrite and plan other friends' baby showers...

But I never had sisters. And I was always jealous of those who had. And my best girlfriends now all live in other cities. And well, sometimes you just need another girl to bounce an idea off of, or else you're crazy.

Here's what I want to say to the girls, wherever they may be, on this blog, in my mind, wherever you are!

1. How often do I really have to have a pedicure in the wintertime? It's been over a month...and I feel like I can go longer. This feeling is unsubstantiated now that I am alone most of the time.

2. Is it OK for me to watch Jon and Kate plus 8? I am strangely drawn to it. Please help.

3. What can I make for dinner on Sunday nights instead of ordering? I love to cook, I just hate to shop for cooking. Buying a chicken breast and lemons and herbs and then salad greens? Ugh, all I want is Thai! Also do I have to eat organically? I like Gatorade.

4. What websites are good these days? Gawker is getting a little...and Jezebel is also kind of...you know.

5. I'm kind of done with Oprah magazine. Used to love it, but now I don't. What can I read that is part trash, part stimulating?

6. Is it okay that I don't want to have a baby yet? Or even a pet? That I like to come home and have everything left just the way it was, even though I'm...gasp...twenty eight?

7. Is it okay to be twenty-eight and not even thinking seriously about getting married until I get my book published, which might be NEVER?

That's it! All I had to do was ask, and I feel better. Also, should I take back up knitting, where can I get the best sportsbra, I hate earrings again, I'm not interested in Halloween this year, I wear the same three dresses all weekend long and I don't want to change, and I'm applying to school and am scared I won't get in anywhere or worse, get in and not get funding.

That feels better, okay, back to work.

You've got to be kidding

This is what it's come to. My brother leaves the nest for college and my parents go and buy the smallest dog they can find. Trading one animal for another! Hey, it's pretty cute.

Gourmet is Dead...and so I'm eating Ego Waffles.

Gourmet's been dead since Monday and the slew of internet opinions on the subject have been a lot of fun to read. Today my favorite is this one, and I encourage you to go read it while I try to write a personal statement*.

*How does anyone write these things without sounding like a total self-centered jerk? Anyway, I work for a food magazine (sometimes) and the Gourmet news is HUGE to us so that's all I can really think about, so let's see how this whole personal statement thing shakes out.

Here's my favorite comment from the reader section:

"I love Cook's Illustrated, and I have begrudging respect for Christopher Kimball (I always deduct points for bowties unless you're Chuck Bass). And while I agree that the Internet has created a whole new class of pseudo experts -- which kind of makes me wish I hadn't closed down my blog for fear that I was a fraud -- I think he's willfully ignoring the good things that have resulted from this tiny revolution.

The web, along with the countless home-cook shows that have sprung up on cable channels, has demystified and de-elited the world of cooking for many of us. A lot of people don't take risks and don't try to advance their skills in the kitchen because of low self-confidence and the fear that some obnoxious chef will swoop in and declare that they will never be chefs, only mere cooks. I won't bother defending Rachael Ray's personality or credentials, but Anthony Bourdain's dismissal of her left a sour taste in my mouth because it wasn't just a cruel thing to say, it was a dig at all of us who love food but for any number of reasons haven't received formal training. (Incidentally, it's why I adore Mark Bittman and Julia Child. No pretensions and no "beginners need not apply" declarations; only real love for food and cooking.)

I've learned how to truss a chicken, deglaze a pan, make flavorful sauces, roast a rib-eye to perfection and make compound butter because of no-name food bloggers. Those tasks are all actually quite easy, but what learning how to do them did for me was to give me the confidence to adjust recipes as I cooked, come up with my own ideas and serve my creations without the nervous disclaimers that usually accompanied even the most basic meals I used to make.

Gourmet was a beautiful magazine, one I read cover to cover for the past few years. But like Vogue, it was only a practical resource for the wealthy and cultured. For everyone else, it was pure fantasy: Isn't that beautiful? I want a farmhouse so I can serve a six-course meal to 10 people and we can all wear handknitted sweaters and drink brandy out of snifters while someone plays a mandolin. Maybe one day I'll be able to afford truffle oil and specialty herbs and those adorable organic baby vegetables and handcrafted cheese instead of whatever's on sale at the grocery store.

I'm not saying there isn't a place for that, or that people with the resources and time to craft such elegant meals don't deserve to have a publication that serves their needs. But if there were actually as many people like that as Conde Nast thought there were, Gourmet wouldn't have gone out of business."

Wednesday at The Frick

I'm back in class and that means more stories, more searches for color, more drawings that I'll upload for comments, more running around with grubby hands, snatching gallery guides so I can troll the streets searching for openings, art, but perhaps most of all, free glasses of wine.

In the Frick, we spread out, armed with our sketchbooks and assignment--three drawings, and mix it up this time--and we have an hour and forty-five minutes. Spend it wisely.

Don't stand in the gift shop like me and marvel at what is around you: the walls lined with postcards and black and white prints, enormous books against the shelves: the jackets in the boring muted tones run together. Hotel buffet salmon-pink, sea-scum green. Silk-screened totes and wide pine floor boards.

Shake it off, clutch your book and keep moving, past the crowds of slow-moving patrons, the arguing Russians, the surly staff who by now must find no beauty in what they do, protecting priceless things from us--loud-mouthed tourists we all are in this room where we ooh and ahh.

Grab your pens, scratch and the pad and scowl as you desperately try to sketch this relief of Mary, find yourself shouting out the name of her son as you slip and screw it up. Compose yourself, keep going, scratch scratch scratch for twenty minutes, leaving scars in the paper where you've gone too deep, and then, a 70 year old woman who is shouting out everything that comes up on her audioguide, leans over and tells you "that's kind of good," and you can't help but stand a little straighter and scratch a little louder as if someone will see.

Next up get the pencils, look in the dog-eared pages of the book and choose the next page--do you dare to draw on the back of a good drawing at the risk of affixing something mediocre to something you'd be proud of, knowing full well that if you do, someone could always flip the page and all that they thought of you could be erased in an instant.

Say to hell with it, go on and do it, retreat to the dining room and draw the chandeliers, feel all right about it, then draw the door and irretrievably screw it up and again mutter the name of Mary's son and then look at your cell phone and see that time is up, and you must show what you've done, which is not much.

But it's okay to do not much when you're surrounded by so much. It's okay, because you keep trying, because you think, with no sentiment at all, that you love this in a way. You love art even though you are no genius and you'll never be. And also, that love is a true one, because you are getting nothing back and still you do it because some day you believe you will.

Pictures to come...

Roman Polanski

The debate about him is heating up, what with Whoopie calling the incident not real rape, not "rape-rape" (that set back humanity about 50 years) as if REAL rape has to have a person being beaten almost to death or something? Look, I don't know the facts and I certainly have a knee-jerk reaction to the debate on rape for reasons I don't understand (I'm a girl? I hate how every time a chick gets murdered in a film they seem to want to throw a rape in there first and linger on it, as if murder is no longer horrific enough? What IS THE POINT OF THIS!) but the original report has a 43 year old man drugging and sodomizing a 13 year old girl who yelled "no", so can we please not dispute what rape is and not act like these two were dating or in love or anything and just focus on the fact that he evaded the law and that's all that we are really dealing with here?

Ugh, it is so annoying that because the victim, 30 years later, is basically like "I don't want a trial, I want to move on with my life, please" that people want to rally around the man. As this article nicely points out--it is not up to the victim, the case is the people versus Roman Polanksi, not the victim, and he evaded a plea bargain deal for a long time and now has to deal with it?

Anyway. 43 year old weirdo drugging and assaulting a 13 year old is not what's up for discussion here. It happened. It was horrible, he admitted to a lesser charge so he wouldn't have to do harder time for raping a child. Then he bailed on the punishment for that. He's a piece of crap for that, and I don't care that he makes good movies, lots of pieces of crap are genius pieces of crap, it doesn't make them any less awful.

Anyway, sorry I came back to the blog with this, but it's been really bothering me.

On another note, Brooklyn is beautiful and gorgeous and I am thinking about joining a new gym here but it's kind of too expensive. Also I made brownies last night with a silicon bake sheet (have you tried this--amazing!) and saw Cape Fear (lame, in my opinion, and again with the rape rape rape, come on!) and have been reading a lot and working a lot and neglecting this blog a lot.

Application season is the worst.

Almost Published

Well, at a fine literary magazine I am published, anyway.

Still working on that book, but in the meantime, check out the journal and let me know what you think!

Making a Home

Now that I have a perfect place to live, how do I live like a perfect person? We scraped down cinnamon-wheat Ego waffles and split up, he ran to the art shop to buy materials for my new Parsons class and I got a neon yellow manicure. When it was done we trotted back, banging the pad back and forth as we rushed to avoid the rain. There are ideas floating around: runs in the park, enormous Sunday dinners, bi-weekly vacuuming, the bed made each morning, fresh flowers in the vase on top of my antique desk. Where are the curtains? How come I can't get myself to the YMCA to check out their classes? I'm too busy putting together my recommendation packets, tidying up my writing sample, sending my next 50 pages of the novel to the editor for edits, map out new novel, and send yet another friend packing--the third good friend to leave me and NYC behind in as many months...

Going to have to make this my home alone now, and a lot lies ahead.

Quote of the Day

Waiting for the F train to come on a very hot platform on this Labor Day...next to me is a beautiful Russian mother with a great tan that I would kill for, and her four year old son who has bright blonde hair and a buzz cut and the largest ears I've ever seen.

After 20 minutes.

Son: Where's the F train? I hate the F train!

Beautiful mother trying to placate him: Maybe F stands for Fantasy, yes? Because the F train will not come. F stands for Fantasy!

Son: F stands for Poop!

Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'P'.

Son: F stands for Vomit!

Beautiful mother: No, that is a 'V'.

Son: Well F stands for something stupid.

Beautiful mother: F train stands for something else, maybe? Something that you're not supposed to say. Something that starts with an 'F' and is four letters long and is something your body does. Hmm?

Son: Fuck! It's the Fuck train!

(At this point I have to leave because I'm laughing so hard. But apparently she was trying to get him to say it was the "Fart Train".)

How to Make a House a Home

I am now living by myself on a tree-lined, sun-dappled block in Park Slope. There are old houses and artisanal cafes and food coops and the park. At night, everything is still, cars drive by quietly, couples walk together, dogs wag and the air feels clean. Inside my section of the brownstone, it's 90% decorated--all with my mother's antiques: French ash buffet, Persian rugs, lamps made of stone urns, gilded frames and old flowered prints. A big soft blanket folded on the couch. My desk is a marble table top over an iron base, there are fluffy towels in the bathroom and outside, my patio has a rattan chaise with a big square suede-like pillow tossed on it. It looks over the little garden, the blueberry patch and the mint plants.

The kitchen is eat-in, the dining room table looks outside and my bedroom is a little cove, painted sage-green. Cream drapes fall from the windows, the bed is overstuffed with white linens and a stiff dust ruffle. My favorite white lamp draped with the beaded pearl necklace and a lambskin rug on the floor. It feels like sleeping in a layered wedding cake, an igloo made of fur, a room at a Vermont bed and breakfast. It's the first time I've lived alone, and I made the smallest room my bedroom so that my office and TV and everything is away. For so long my bed was my desk, my workspace, my entertainment center, even my breakfast nook where I sipped coffee.

Now the bed is sacred. And the apartment too. I find myself bouncing around, playing with the dimmers, cleaning the windows, sweeping the wooden planks endlessly. My clothes are in closets, not hanging over chairs, my papers are in folders instead of strewn across the floor. It feels like a beautiful home, my parents' maybe, my great-aunt's whose house is all white and spotless. Here the walls are pale yellow (except for the bedroom), the ancient fireplace irons flank the mantle, and not only does everything feel so adult, it feels full of possibility and promise.

I wanted a gorgeous place to be for so long, to work, to create. I didn't realize how much I wanted it, maybe even needed it, until I was blessed enough to get it. If I can't get my books published here, get into grad school here, flourish my freelance career here, then there is no hope for me at all.

But today I am positive. I just got here, but it feels like home. Only when I stop and really think does it occur to me it took 27 years for me to find it.

Last Night in The East Village...

and I'm getting sniffy. Doing lots of drugs. Just kidding, I'm sad! All the dirtiness here has been good to me. Is it weird to join a knitting club to get new friends in Park Slope?

Don't answer that.

But seriously, without school or work, and without your friends introducing you, how do you make friends any more? I'm not sure I know. I made some through having roommates, but now that I will just be freelancing and wandering the streets, can I meet people? I never understood how people made friends and the library or coffee shop. Occasionally I have been asked out by a creepy guy this way, but can I somehow approach another girl for wanting to watch Project Runway with, without being a weird stalker? I know you know the answer to this people. I don't know how to do this!

Also me and my film friend are the last of us in the EV and we are getting together tonight and I am forcing cuban food on him. Not that I'm cooking. I will in the new place (love you Ina Garten). But the cuban place next to me, Cafe Cortadito, is amaaazing. It is one of my biggest regrets about leaving this building. Now by doorman who calls me "Stephanie" is a different story. Nice guy but, he has a really bushy mustache and somehow I don't trust him. It's always the mustaches, isn't it? Also I am gazing out at my patio while the boy snores off a hangover on the couch and thinking I'm going to miss the sage I planted, the sprinklers that come on in a rush exactly every night at 10 pm, even padding to the laundry room and all the hot air in there. Why? Because I didn't appreciate any of this while it was happening, that's why!

Am pretty excited for the dinner parties I'm going to throw in the new place though. No one will come because of karma, as I never went to Brooklyn before moving there. Well except for Song in Park Slope because it's the best Thai food EVER, but I don't think I've been to Williamsburg for two years. What am I rambling about? I think all the packing has got to me...better get out of the house while I still can.

Moving!

I'm doing it! Moving to a beautiful brownstone in Park Slope with a fireplace, an office/library space, cherry cabinets, brush nickel fixtures, hardwood floors, Sub Zero fridge, counter to eat at the kitchen and a little patio. It's adorable and near Prospect Park (which Olmsted also designed, in addition to Central Park, and he always said Prospect Park was his favorite of the two). Still, I'm a little scared of Brooklyn. I can't explain it. The same way that we get irritated that the summer is full of rain. August is still August even though it rains every day...Brooklyn is still living in "the middle of it"...sure--it's not even 2 miles away! But then there is the obnoxious whiny part of you that is a child with everything who says, no there WAS no summer this year and Brooklyn might as well be in Ohio.

But then again, I'm not impressed by the bags of garbage and people shooting up on my East Village corner any more, or all the dog shit, or all the screaming. I've lived in so-so apartments in incredible neighborhoods for years and sort of just want a pretty place to be, especially since I'll be working from home these days, and applying for school, etc. And it's a place all to myself! I've lived with roommates my whole life (we're counting family right?) I just don't know who I am alone. Did I have to swing the pendulum the entire way to a quiet block in Park Slope? Maybe not. But there has been so much frenetic energy with my multiple jobs, courses, classes, roommates and everything else I kind of want to be for a while, get back into writing more (how lazy have I been about this blog), stop being so damn distracted.

Get a puppy.

My best friends have moved away save a few, and I felt like it was time, in my own small way, to move away too.

I'm getting old, for sure. But I'm kind of excited for it. I love the East Village, the Lower East side, the dirty bars populated with tattooed boys. But now that I'm in a relationship with one of them, we've decided we like to walk past the hipster meat market on any given day and head to the video store to rent old 80s thrillers--bad ones--(have you seen Consenting Adults? MY GOD) and drink wine instead. I'd like to do it in a new place, but I love New York to much to leave it now, so I'll jump across a bridge to Brooklyn and still have most everything I need to do and want to do in Manhattan proper. I am the only person without a family making the reverse jump. Well, I've always been a bit of a weirdo.

Pictures to come! And if you have recommendations for Park Slope, please leave them here! I have no idea what I'm doing...

Almost...Brooklyn?

It's a beautiful townhouse in Park Slope? Dare I leave the East Village for the first time in 6 years? Can I exist in Brooklyn, working out of my apartment, or will I go insane? Will I take the 40 minute train ride to my gym here because I have the time and not the cash to cancel my gym membership as I am hanging on to a shred of "city living"? The answers to this...and more...are about to come.

My gosh a place of my own! No roommates...can I make a tree-lined block of Carroll street work?

Eep.

My new boss?

In an effort to bolster my bank account so I may continue writing and apply to grad schools and sell my book, damnit, I am applying for part-time work. I sent a deluge of emails out recently for administrative jobs, or filing, or assistant work. I've done it before and I'm fairly capable and I won't be feeling the need to do anything but my job to its best (not wanting to try to get the boss's job I mean, I just want to be in a submissive role and have a steady paycheck and keep my nose clean).

So check out this email I just got back, in answer to my posting my resume. I have bolded my favorite parts. Spelling and spacing errors have been left as is.

Hello,

Thanks for applying for the post, I quite I appreciate it? I received and read your e-mail and it's reasonable and acceptable. So I will give this a go"
I'm looking for someone that can be trusted and reliable to work very well and good understanding person.
This position is home-based and flexible, working with me is basically about instructions and following them, my only fear is that I may come at you impromptu sometimes, so I need someone who can be able to meet up with my irregular timings. As my assistant, your activities amongst other things will include;*Running personal errands, supervisions and monitoring. Scheduling programmes, flights and keeping me up to date with them. Acting as an alternative telephone correspondence while I'm away. Making regular contacts and drop-offs on my behalf. Handling and monitoring some of my financial activities..
Basic wage is $500 a week . I'm sure you'll understand I tend to have a very busy schedule at t his point, as I am presently in Canada, I will be back in Three Weeks.

I think you're the right person for this post , Please note that this position is not office based for now because of my frequent travels and tight schedules, it's a part-time, work from home basis and the flexibility means that there will be busier weeks than others, so it's a little difficult judging the exact number of hours you'll be doing per week. If you can manage your time
properly, this job may even give you some extra while you do something else on the side. As I have said, I'd want us to get a head start with things as soon as possible. I do have a pile up of work and a number of unattended chores which you can immediately assist me with, I hope we can meet up with the workload eventually.

Permit me to use the coming week to test your efficiency and diligence towards all this, also to work out your time schedule and fit it to mine.. I really need to find the perfect person for this job, I'm confident you can take up the challenge and on the long run we should have a relatively sound working relationship between us.. I'm online most of the time as I am hard of hearing so
I prefer we contact each other through E-mails, but if there is need for me to call, I will be glad to do that. I am glad you are willing to work with me and i promise to be a good boss. I am also glad on the commitment in working. I have been checking my files and what i would want you to do for me this week is to run some errands out to some of the orphanage home, I do that every month. The fund s will be in form of Cashier Check/Money Order and it will be sent over to you from one of my clients and i have some list to email you once you received the funds,You will make some arrangements by buying some stuff for the kids in the nearest store around you so you can mail them out. I will get you more information on that, I will like you to get back to me with your
Contact Details such as.

Once I have received your contact information, I will get back to you with the task for this week,Understand you will also be paid as well as its important for me to

make the necessary steps
before i get back from my business trip back to the states. Hope I am clear with that.

Get back as soon as possible..

Quote of the Day

"I need a vacation."

"Me, too."

"How about Europe?"

"Meh, it's over."


My best friend has moved away, the weather remains lame, the job market stinks. It's time for a vacation, right?

P.S. How can Europe be over??

Room Hates

Perhaps roommate stuff is better, but I still want to live somewhere else like an adult...

Fish Camp

We take the bike out on one of the few summer nights of this year, over the bridge with the blur of lights and long strands of cars. We move through them, back and forth, swerving and me screaming, my bag banging against us both and my dress flying in the wind.

In Brooklyn we go to the fish camp and despite the inexplicably dim staff (why don't they usually have the back patio open on nice days? Who can say?) and tremendous wait and flat glasses of beer and not enough homemade chips for the vinegary ceviche, we wait it out in a corner wooden table that needs to be wiped.

Our name is called and we get to go outside at the long wooden tables with the hanging lines of little lights and the air heavy with pot smoke from the kids who live next door. We get crab claws with parsley and lemon, thick chunks of lobster tail on split rolls, shoestring fries and striped bass with chickpeas, and more and more flat beer. And we laugh with the old folks next to us who are joking over strawberry and marscapone sundaes and decafs and we're all talking about the pot smoke while our charmingly bespeckled waitress keeps calling it "marijuana clouds". So we order the bread pudding even though we're going to be sick and it's high with whipped cream and caramel and it could be the best thing we've ever tasted. It's worth the stomachache. All of it. Just like it always is...

Drugs, Man

I didn't think people still did heroin (mistakenly thought that all stopped in the 90's, which was just a reincarnation of the 70's) but apparently they do if they're in New York and fancy themselves artistes but actually just do a lot of drugs and film themselves having sex and spray newspapers with semen and glitter. Trust. This is what Dash Snow did (if you don't know the name, he was big in certain circles here for the last five years who was buddies with Ryan McGinley and Gavin McInnes of Vice) and he ended up offing himself a few weeks ago in my neighborhood with 13 glassine envelopes of heroin.

He was 27.

Before we start thinking this is in any way romantic, he committed this knowingly (called his girlfriend to tell her he loved her) and did so despite his two year old daughter. As cinematic as this all is, it's actually very sad, sure, but more so, very gross. We know better. Come on. It's not Woodstock and it's not Punk and it's not even Grunge, all the forward "I'm young and it's a revolution, damnit!" movements in music and art and writing and politics have kind of been made, or at least, because of those who have come before us, have been made way easier and therefore has made this time of shock-value rabble-rousing pretty damn extinct (in my assertion, all we have left is technology wars, which is actually very cool). So what's up with this ridiculous shit! Even hipsters are over, are people really still selfishly dying from heroin for God's sake? This is just another landmark for people who get older but refuse the next and better stages of their lives to still skulk around in Ramones T-Shirts and bemoan when New York MEANT SOMETHING and was all thriving and filthy and dirty and therefore better. But you know what? That's bunk, because people only say that about New York, or any place for that matter, because it was the world they lived in when they were 20-27 years old. When they were full of promise and hadn't done everything already and they had a zest for life and everything seemed new and exciting: love, money, substances.

New York wasn't cooler in the 70's. There were shooting galleries and garbage fires and general malaise and gang violence and all that. Just because CBGB's was home to a burgeoning scene doesn't mean that scene was worth all the rest of the crap that came along with it or even that the scene was that good. But, you know, people who say that it was were young then. And the thing about being young is....everything is good! It's like that phenomenon when a guy gets laid in, say Ottowa, and then later relates to his friends, "Dudes, Ottowa is awesome!" No, it's not. Anecdotal good times aren't evidence, and are colored by factors that have nothing at all to do with Ottowa. And that's what people are saying right now about New York in 2005.

I know, this is what's being said. I can't believe it either. Now that Dash Snow is dead, he's become an icon for the hipster movement and everywhere you go people are going on about how NY was SO MUCH COOLER in 2005. No it wasn't! You're just four years older and you're pissed, because you're immature. People who choose life beyond one-night stands and pukefests that seemed so awesome a few years back are not losers who've lost their edge. It's like this, you thought you kicked ass when you were 13 didn't you? Was life so much more awesome then? No it wasn't. But somehow when this very same notion is applied to the time when you were 21, it holds water. Maybe because you can have sex and drive and do drugs and buy things finally. So you don't romanticize 13, you romanticize 21 because it represents the years when you finally had access to everything in the world and still had the naivete to think it was brand new and you ruled.

The thing is, if you don't think you can kick ass at 30 or 40 or 50, you never kicked ass to begin with. Sorry Kurt Cobain, Sid Vicious, Dash Snow. I had nascent crushes on all of you but I hope I never, ever be so naive as to think that's cool of you.

Also, this is the best thing that I've read on the subject of us as aging kids in New York City. It's just very good if you're not easily offended.

Remembering: Girls' Night Out

Girls’ night is becoming more and more the standard and these days it feels like summer camp without the shorts. Loose hair instead of barrettes, juice boxes tossed for aperitifs, ants on a log have vanished and frisee salads appear as replacements.

I race out of the office instead of my parents’ kitchen, still with my bag whapping my side and my flip flops sliding around, to meet them downtown in a flickering West Village bistro, arriving late and excited and relieved as though Tuesday was Friday.

We drink too many glasses of wine and divide too few crab cakes at Paris Commune, contemplating New York and LA, reviewing weekend plans and downloading each other on the latest gossip, work and play. Shore houses, summer romances, tennis lessons, promotions; we all have something to share and envy here. And it prompts a Robert Altman conversation pace, everything overlapping, nothing resolved, as our glasses grow dry, the louder we exclaim, “Wait, what are you guys talking about?”

An adult in charge needs to shush us, but our waitress only encourages (probably so that she can reap the benefits of our overtipping to match our over-ordering). For us, the best of the summer week is at night, past our bedtimes, snapping phone photos and comparing sunglasses, making plans and taking initiatives, being aspirational because it’s who we are.

Everything has to be explained more than once, especially since she’s in for a visit, an ex-pat now part of that other city, so we can’t stop our questions. How’s the pool in the apartment? Is just it like Melrose Place? How much is there really the prevalence of smog/collagen/silicone/a thong-clad Lindsay Lohan? Is June gloom anywhere close to the humidity of here? Are all the men blond “directors” with mustaches and vans? We know it’s all a cliché, but don’t clichés start from some point of truth?

I’ve wanted to start a life on the west coast ever since 90210 aired, and we talk about what it might be like next year, if I end up making the move. But now I’ve become such a fan of the pulsating vibrancy of here, I’m not so sure. It’s camp in the city all of the time, and it’s getting pretty hard to leave, particularly since there is no bus to pick me up and tear me away from my friends and paltry paycheck that I spend simply to be with them while we’re still sort of young, and sort of glamorous…at least to us.

Eating. Badly.

I love the idea of cooking. How many times have I told myself if only I had the time I would be oh-so-European and shop for food on a semi-regular basis, walking the perimeter around local grocery stores or any isle of the nearby-Whole Foods, plucking fresh fruit and vegetables, a myriad of colors in my little bag (which I would have brought from home and would be very environmentally sound) as I sashayed through the isles: fresh-squeezed orange juice, house-made soups, pre-arranged cucumbers, carrots and celery, perfect for dipping in my newly bought tub of garlicky hummus (the one kind with the pine nuts is so good!).

Yeah right.

Now I'm figure the milk in my coffee is sufficient calcium supplement for the day. I'll eat a quesadilla and call the salsa "vegetables." I'll think because I have flavored throat lozenge, than it's really lemon. How did this happen? I spent my formative years reading the glossy pages of food magazines, eating my mother's apple cake and lamb chops, going out to spectacular restaurants and vacationing at lodges in organic lemon groves?

Oh right, I've got no money. Now that I've got the time to shop the way I'd like, I just don't have the funds. I read somewhere that in the recession, people are turning to canning. Canning? Really? I'm turning to takeout. It's not cheaper, but it's variety and those things take lots of ingredients while I can't buy a spicerack. I tell myself that it will all be different when I'm a grown up. But I'm 27! I fear that if eating and cooking well on a regular basis, on a natural basis no less, it would have happened by now. I mean, writing has. Going to the gym has. Relationships have, hanging out with my family has, stopping shopping unless I really need that coat (realized I don't), catching up on sleep on the weekends (nothing is as wonderful), and even doing laundry (not as much as I hoped, but it's a start) have all become routine. But feeding myself? Not yet.

I wonder why.

World's Ugliest Animals

Have you read this article on the world's ugliest animals? Some of them are cheating (three dogs and one hairless cat? Just stop the list at ten and be legit!) but some of them are downright nast-ay, like the fish with four hearts and two brains or the walrus that has a big fat inflatable bladder on its nose. I love animals, wanted to be a zoologists as short as five years ago, but wow, barf.

Though really I don't think this monkey's that bad. Yes his nose looks like a "bing bong" but other than that I find that a baboon's big red ass is the worse of the two and the editors didn't see it fit to make the cut. Anywho.

Follow the leader...

Dear Friends,

I have been neglecting you. Badly. It's because I'm writing for pay elsewhere. That's right, pimpin for cash. You knew I was a sellout when we met, don't act surprised!

The thing that stinks is, I'm hard-pressed to share it with you because this blog's been anon for years. I've been able to take refuge in you guys because it won't get back to the powers that be. Been able to artfully complain about people, give you anecdotes about friends, share my crushing heartbreak or falling in love, my crazy and loving family, or my d-bag ex-coworkers has been only because you've been there for me, and you've been there for me quietly.

Thank you. You rock.

But while it's not time for an all-around unveiling (I said it would be when the book got repped and I will stand by that!), I should send you to another place where I'm pretty much writing every day, albeit for music. Sssh, don't tell them that I live here, and more importantly, live here for you. Or they'll come after me and I'll never be able to tell you the skinny of what's going on in my life as well as I have.

Can you keep a secret? This is just between us. Cool?

Did Anyone Else See Public Enemies and feel a little conflicted?

No Spoiler Alert, Don't Worry!

Hey, I'm the first one to say that I wanted to love, love, love this movie. But I left the theater feeling...perplexed. I thought everything looked fantastic, was well-shot, the pacing was consistent, Johnny Depp was cool as hell, and well, what else did I need?

I don't know. Some of this was ruined because I read some of the reviews beforehand. (Side note-hours, and I mean hours, could be spent reading movies on Rotten Tomatoes, oh how I adore that site). But I think I wanted more backstory on why Dillinger was who he was (I know that cutsie little "I like good clothes, baseball, fast cars and you" was supposed to sum it all up, but how did these guys meet each other? How did they plan their next move? Who was really best friends and who merely tolerated whom? How close were they with Pretty Boy Flyod?).

Also, I have to admit, I fell asleep during some of the love story. I sort of felt the chemistry was lackluster. And how it ended with the closing credits was kind of nebulous. It would have been cool to follow up with a few lines that "Dillnger stole X amount of money and will forever be known as the coolest guy in the world". Or monster. Whichever. But this movie left me feeling unsure who I was rooting for. No one was all good, and no one was all bad. That's cool, I understand that's the way it is in life. But shouldn't I really understand one person in the film's motivations?

I'm Afraid...

Of our kitchen drain. It bubbles up with soap at odd hours like the goo in Ghostbusters II.

That I don't know how to have a real job any more since I've gone out on my own as a permalancer.

I might never floss properly.

Because I have more nightmares than sweet dreams, and I wake up not remembering them, just that they were terrifying.

Of the pull-up bar at the gym.

That I have chosen wrong, and there will be no course-correcting.

I might be out of touch with the kids today, but am not old enough to be a yuppie.

That I am devolving in the spelling department and that I say "dude" too much.

Of the far reaches of my closet: scarves, one scuffed slingback and...a diary might be in there!

That I might die in the street one day and my family will have to go through my room and through said closet and all my achievements will have been for naught because I don't fold my socks, my bras are hanging from my ettiger, and my potbelly marble-top antique dresser is missing some of its brass work on the side from where I tore a laundry bag on it.

My immune system stinks because I've never been without roommates and we're all touching the remote and coughing in the air.

Of not being able to stand on my two feet forever.

That I push people away when I think I might lose them.

I won't pay off my credit card bill. Not this month. Not this year. Not ever.

Of moving away from New York. And of staying here for missing opportunities I've painted in my mind.

I let bosses walk all over me because I want them to like me, but they never respect me.

That I'll never get a kitten.

My brain might be turning to mush because in an attempt to "detox" from all that I read and write, I only watch Snapped on Oxygen (it rules) and reality T.V. shows (Real Housewives of New Jersey should have been first!) and cartoons (Simpsons and Family Guy--will I be able to watch these when I'm forty?)

Of forgetting all that I have to be grateful for.

Of ever reaching my perceived perfection in my goals, because then I will have no more room to learn, and that is the greatest possible travesty of all.