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)
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Monday, October 26, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
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.
Thursday, October 08, 2009
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."
*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, September 30, 2009
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...
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...
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
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!
Still working on that book, but in the meantime, check out the journal and let me know what you think!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
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.
Going to have to make this my home alone now, and a lot lies ahead.
Monday, September 07, 2009
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".)
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".)
Sunday, September 06, 2009
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.
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.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
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.
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.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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 gosh a place of my own! No roommates...can I make a tree-lined block of Carroll street work?
Eep.
Friday, August 14, 2009
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..
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..
Thursday, August 13, 2009
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??
"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??
Friday, August 07, 2009
Room Hates
Perhaps roommate stuff is better, but I still want to live somewhere else like an adult...
Sunday, August 02, 2009
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...
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...
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
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.
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.
Monday, July 27, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
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.
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.
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