Upbeat/Beat-Up

I didn't mean for Monday's post to be this back-to-work downer. (And now here I am re-hashing it as you're about to head off to the weekend...sorry) I've had many lovely moments in recent weekends (Weddings! Mom! Rhode Island! Skyping with much missed friend and dinner with one of my favorite couples among the highlights) but I thought it would be cheating in a way to not talk about the fact that my anxiety issues were resurgent after so many months of being "good."

I mean, this blog isn't entitled "FeelGoodMcKittensCupcakesSunshineRainbows" (Side Project?) or a promise of all things cheerful and hilarious all the time.

 THIS IS REAL. These are animals crossing a magical rainbow bridge to the great sparkly nether. I'm sure it's some kind of picture to comfort owners of deceased pets, but holy shit. I mean. I love how the rabbit is like "Yeah, you go first cat. I ain't."

You can't force cheerful all the time. Because when you do, it's fake and fucking creepy as hell. I don't trust people who are always manic-happy. There's trying to keep a positive outlook, and there's forcing yourself to seem OK...why? I don't know. Maybe you think having problems means people won't like you. Maybe you just don't want to talk about it (which is all right, some of the time). Or (like me) you're looking to keep it together until you feel like you're back on stable ground. Everyone has problems. At some time or another, we are caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. But you know what the remedy for that is, right?

GRUMPY CAT.

This cat has a lot on his mind! Most of it displeases him! But his face is sooo sweeeeeet!
Grumpy Cat is obviously my Spirit Animal.

As much as I'd like the blog to be more positive than not, sometimes (currently) I am frankly feeling more beat-up than upbeat. It happens. I'm fidgety. I feel sick even after delicious meals. I'm bored. I can't write. I miss being in love. I'm over New York. I don't see a solution. I get angry quickly. I'm just kind of done. I'm waiting for a break, for relief that I'm no longer sure is coming.

After wallowing in those thoughts for longer than I'd ever want, I pick myself up. I have to.  Because you can't stay down there. I mean, you CAN and sometimes I do, but I don't recommend it. Yesterday, 37 year old Mets pitcher R.A. Dickey earned his 20th win, the first to do so in that club since 1990. It's a big deal. And Mr. Dickey, he just seemed so damn nice and emotional about the whole thing. (He's a fascinating guy - look him up) But what really stuck with me was what he said:
"I never abandoned hope. I always held that out," he said. "My hope always outweighed my doubt, and that's what kind of kept me going."

"My hope always outweighed my doubt, and that's what kind of kept me going." 


I like that. I know I can't live by it all the time, that there will always be setbacks and rough days, times where you can't turn your brain off and your thoughts just make you cry... but it's something good to keep in mind, I think.

Happy Friday.

Ready-to-Wear...At One's Discretion

Most mornings I sit for a few minutes with my coworker V and chat about nonsense - up to and including what various colleagues have chosen to wear into the office today. It's usually a very funny conversation, because V is a middle-aged Latin guy with a wife and two kids and I am a 30 year old free-wheelin' white chick. Needless to say, we're coming from very different places, but we have relatively similar ideas about what is or is not appropriate to wear to work. We have even joined forces in hopes that one lady will stop purposefully exposing her neon pink bra and wearing THE LOUDEST heels on the planet. She loves clickety-clacking up and down the halls, and it's ear-splitting. You can hear those heels coming from the back row of planet earth.

Our office is divided into three sections, who fascinatingly enough rock three distinct styles.

1. Section One is largely male-focused, though there are a few female employees. And...they are, in my opinion the best and most-appropriately dressed for work. Who would have thought?!? Way to go, gentlemen. The attire? American Classic office casual. Most of the guys wear button down shirts (my kryptonite) and some nice-fitting jeans or trousers. They look fiiiiine! It IS in full disclosure that I should point out my office crush (is he or isn't he?? I still don't know!! Is every polite, handsome, stylish man gay?! He looks INCREDIBLE today. But he doesn't even glance my way....) works in this section. About 2 years ago, the majority of New York men suddenly started sporting jeans that fit well, handsome shirts and stylish footwear, and ever since I have been completely at a loss regarding anyone's sexual orientation or nationality. It was like holding a giant magnet up to my gaydar.

 

 2. Section Two is largely female-focused (though like Section One there are of course males working too!) It's HUGELY hip and trendy and stylish and sexier than I could ever imagine time putting into an outfit. The ladies of section two (for the most part) look like they're on their way to somewhere very posh and elite and important and I'm not invited.

This is the thing. I wish I looked as hot as they do, but at the same time, it just doesn't make any sense to me, practically. I'd like to wear f*me heels, and figure-hugging dresses and have my hair sleek and bouncy. I really, really would. I'm sure it would solve a bunch of my less important problems. BUT...I walk to work (sneakers) I move around at my desk a lot (jeans) and my hair is a force of natural insanity deserving of documentation by National Geographic. To make myself look presentable, I'd need to wake up a few hours earlier in the morning, and then what's the point of  a sexy dress if I look like a strung-out crank-fiend? For example, today I'm wearing a nice, comfortable shift dress, tights, and converse. This might be why people keep thinking I'm 24. But I am wearing makeup! HAHA. Score one.

3. Section Three is a Bermuda-Triangle style mystery. Some of it's employees are tough-looking, while others look like they're getting excited for freshman orientation (secret: they're 30.) It's pretty funny. But I've got to give them credit, it keeps things fun and exciting. It's like The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo meets Superbad. 

That's so accurate I am smiling from ear to ear. Every once in a while, I get it right.

Ok, another work sidenote. I'm a bit at a loss here. Currently being SUPREMELY IRRITATED by two people who work for the building my company resides in. For brevity's sake, I'll just talk about the young messenger. Here's the deal...

He's a young guy who has a bit of a crush on me. Fair enough. Thank you. BUT he's 22 and annoying as hell. Every single time he comes up to our floor, he stops to make some inane conversation and ask stupid questions. And I haven't quite figured out a way to politely let him know that I want him to leave me alone. Yesterday's interaction went like this:

Him: Hey (my name)! (He always uses my name!!)

Me: Hello.

Him: Have you been out in the sunshine today?

Me: Nope. I'm working, as you can see.

Him: Do you hate when you walk into the movie theatre, and people are talking?

Me: What the fuck are you talking about you stupid bastard?

(THAT'S NOT WHAT I SAID BUT I WISH I HAD)

(What I actually said was...)

Me: Nope. If they're talking before the movie that's totally fine with me. Once the movie starts, people for the most part are polite and quiet down.

Him: Do you like to go to the movies?

Me: Uhm. No. Never.*

(*That's absolutely the furthest thing from the truth.)

Then I stared at something really intently on my desk (OK - I was staring at my Jackie Chan bobblehead - I'll post a picture sometime) and he eventually went away. 

I don't want to be mean to this kid, but I have no interest in talking every damn time I see him. V suggested that I pretend to be on the phone whenever he comes by, but I'm THE WORST at fake phone calls, to the point that it's hilarious. 

Fake Phone Call: Oh hello. It's me. I'm calling about that thing we talked about earlier. (dramatic pause) Oh you know. The usual. (pause) Penguins? I had no idea. (Another pause. Is he gone yet?) Ok, well it has been very pleasant to converse with you. Until next time....(hangs up).

Universe, You Are Such A Bitch

More often than not, I think, the universe enjoys kicking you when you're already down. As if to say, "well I see you on the floor, and I wanted to get a few shots in soooo...brace for it."

Last week I felt the universe (and when I say "universe" I am globbing together what little I know or believe about existence, faith, coincidence, mystery, and all that other wibbly-wobbly Doctor Who type shit) was kind of taking pot shots at me. Like it knew I had been enjoying a lengthy period without the aid of anxiety or sleep medications.

As I mentioned previously, the apartment-hunting trip left me with a lot of emotions close to the surface. In addition to some hard-thinking about my parents' mortality, we also spent time with my aunt, my only other family, who is herself not in the best of health (I guess we live kind of hard.) It sounds so stupid, and childish, and generally deserving of a punch in the face, but I missed being ten years old. There was so many things to remind me of an easier time. Everything smelled and looked familiar. Sitting on the John Deere mower felt like both yesterday and five lifetimes ago. (Why is the smell of grass and grease so goddamn intoxicating?) When my aunt handed me the keys to the truck, I had a flashback to the exact same moment when I was sixteen and this was the greatest excitement imaginable. Stuff like that. Maybe I'm not doing a good job of describing things, but I was fragile. I couldn't quiet my mind down, which is a problem I haven't had in a long while. I ignored the first warnings (like one does) and kept on keeping on. Because what other choice is there?

Then Universe came along and decided I was extra-ready to feel some unexpected heartache. I started to type out an email to Brother on my phone, to give him a quick summary of how the trip was going. I typed the first letter, and it brought up...P's email address. Not my brother. My ex-boyfriend. The former love of my life. None of that made sense to me though because I had deleted P as a contact from my Gmail ages ago. He shouldn't have been an option to email at all. But there he was. I shook it off. The next day on the train ride home, I looked up just as we passed Larchmont....an otherwise unremarkable town that only means something to me because P and I did our first getaway together there. We just picked it and went. I could even see from the train the bar where we stopped and hung out as we waited for OUR train all that time ago. I wish I understood why I still hurt so much after all this time. No matter how many times I think it, or write it down "He broke your heart. Twice."
I don't get it yet.

So on the train, in the tunnel approaching New York City, I had my first anxiety attack in months. A tipping point was reached. It wasn't like some big dramatic thing, it was a quiet panic that resulted in seriously labored breathing, a dose of the shakes, and trying to reassure Mom that I was fine. Big emotions, leaving the fresh sea air for city smog, and an alternating mental tape loop of "I don't know what to do" and "What am I doing?" can only be pushed to the back burner so long. Eventually, you have to accept that you're struggling, and in my instance, you've had a setback. I think this is an important point that is not made frequently enough....when you are trying to climb out of the pit of hell, sometimes you backslide. Remember when Batman was trying to climb out of that hole Bane put him in, but the first couple of times he tried, he fell? That's me, you guys.  I'm Batman. (Can't even type that with a straight face. Can't type it without imagining Christian Bale reading my words in his super growly Bat-Voice.)

 But not all is lost. The Universe DID cut me a break when I finally solved my big coffee problem. My aunt has a mini-Keurig and I became completely obsessed with it. It's SO TINY AND EASY TO USE!!! So I toddled down to Bed Bath and Beyond and got my very own!
Needless to say, I love my new toy.

Now I am brewing delightful coffee at home and not having to deal with the third-string idiots at my local Dunkin Donuts every morning. That's a definite plus.

Notes from the Road...

This past week you may have noticed a marked 47% (jab intended) increase in the crapiness of my posts. I've been on the road with my mom, living the Kerouac dream and hunting for potential new places for her and my dad to live. It's hard though - one day we were looking at condos (for her) and the next we toured assisted living facilities (for him). The biggest thing looming over the whole affair? This would more than likely be the last move. Thinking about the end of both your parents lives...does not an easy trip make. Every day ended feeling exhausted and overwhelmed. Because you have to think about things differently. Stairs are a downside - because someday they will become too difficult to manage. Condos are prime because there will always be someone else to deal with maintenance - fixing little things, shoveling snow, mowing the grass. How far are you from the nearest hospital? Is there any public transit if you can no longer drive? Logistics are critical. It's not about your dream retirement home - it's trying to juice a little bit of happiness out of survival mode. If that makes any sense.

Being in the town where my Dad's family lived brought up a lot of memories. We used to go visit my grandfather there every summer, in his beautiful house. I drove over there and just sat in the car outside the property like a huge creep. I remember everything. If I close my eyes I can still navigate the majority of the house, circa 1992. I know where things were and how they smelled. Which drawer my favorite spoon (yeah, I had one, whatever) was kept in. I would remember the cat getting out and having to search for a dark-colored cat on an already sticky black night was not exactly fun. But there was the pool where I learned to swim, and the basement where oddly the smell of dust and mold was super comforting...most likely because everything in there brought me closer to my Dad and Grandfather. Oh, there's Dad's surfboard. Some model trains. A lot of books and suitcases, and the bizarre stuff we all keep in basements or attics. It was all important. 

We're not even sure if M & D will be able to relocate. Mostly it will depend on Dad's health, his reaction to the idea of moving (it is very hard for someone with dementia to approach change, especially drastic change) and finances....you can't buy a house until you've sold your current one! That was another thing to consider - selling their house. My parents have owned their home for decades. When they were active duty and we moved around, we rented the house out. Lots of renovations were put in. It's a beautiful, cozy, happy place to raise a family...but much too big now for my mom to take care of on her own. I'd be sad to see it go, but then again, I have no plans to move back either! When I feel sad about it, I think about one of the apartments we saw...it was pretty much everything Mom has ever wanted. Space. Light. Water view. And we can afford it. I think we maybe saw the perfect place, far far before we were ready to. But she deserves every happiness that can be given to her, because the retirement I'd hoped she and Dad would have was taken away by his illness. That is simply what it is. There won't be travel. There won't be holidays in the sun. There aren't even the simple joys of quiet nights at home together. It fucking sucks. So if a new location, with a little clean sea air can make her happy, then God help anyone who tries to stop me from getting it for her.

I could live here. Too bad I'm not a senior citizen.

I love house/apartment hunting. I'm the person who goes "We'll take it!" if I see something remotely cool. (Nobody takes me seriously, but I'd probably be a terrible choice to bring to an auction.)

 I'm such a sucker. Probably because I've lived in more than my fair share of shitty apartments, and the idea of space and air, and light and views other than that of a basketball court or alleyway signify real progress in life. These are the pleasures of adults.  Note my wistful gazing out at this clean, shiny, fresh life. Is that what we want when we move? A clean, shiny fresh shot at life?

Putting M on a train home today was such a downer. I miss her so much already.

Greetings From iPad

As many of you know I'm currently traveling with my mom in search of possible new homes for her and Dad. This means looking at both condos and assisted living facilities. It's great to spend time with mom (and my aunt, who has been such a help) but I am totally exhausted too.

The funny thing about spending time with my aunt is that she is an obsessive technophile who buys gadgets and refuses to read the directions! It's strange and endearing. There is always a project for me to tackle- me! Who knows jack shit about technology. But I do read the directions so more often than not I can set things up. This trip I set up 2 nooks and an iPad...upon which I am currently hacking this out. It's fun! It's just like a big iPhone. My aunt is a livery driver who loves to read and travels out of town frequently, so she'll have access to books and email and whatnot wherever she goes.

This trip has been pretty emotional- sensory overload and whatnot. Lots of memories floating up, triggered by various sights and smells. I'll write more about it soon- I can't type too long on this crazy thing. Oh technology.

All Hail Berocca

Ehrmahgerd.

I woke up earlier this week, with the abrupt beginnings of a cold. I'd gone to bed tired but peppy, and woke up with a nose full of hate, and a throat of acid. Blargle! "You ask me, I blame society."

So I went to my trusted friend, Berocca.

Kneel before Berocca, as you would before Zod.
(Superman 2 jokes are always funny. Always.)

  












Discovered this little beauty while living in London, and we've been inseparable since. Berocca is essentially like if aspirin, Airborne, and your multi-vitamin had a fizzy, fruity little baby. It nipped my burgeoning cold straight in the bud. Berocca has helped through colds, hangovers, and many other instances where I just woke up feeling shitty. It's the miracle drug they all thought Dr. Pepper would be. (You know you're getting old and useless when you are this excited about medicine.)

Until a few days ago, I'd never seen it in America. I had friends bring me over shipments ("Hey. You got the drugs?!?") whenever possible. So imagine my surprise when I toddled into the pharmacy downstairs in my office building and there it was, in all of it's glory...waiting to cure me of sickness I don't even have yet. I yelped in delighted surprise and did a little dance in the vitamin aisle. Other patrons craned their necks to see exactly what drugs I'm taking, and perhaps they should be on as well.
But what do I ask my friends to bring me from England, now that I can get my fix of the good shit stateside? The answer?
Imperial Leather Foamburst soap.

That's right. If I can't get medicine. I'll have soap. Then I'll take out my dentures and you can feed me soup before Matlock comes on.

Things I Am Excited For....Fall Edition

1. THIS FUCKING THING.

Bonjour, diabetes. Enchanté.

I think a serious line was just crossed. Isn't some food scientist at Nabisco kind of feeling like Dr. Frankenstein? Wavering between "I am a genius" and "Dear God what have I done?" This is probably the biggest "oh snap" development in food since Taco Bell brought out that shell made of Doritos. It's like we're trying to die.

But I must sample them. I need to know. Because I love candy corn. It is a sugary, universal symbol of fall and I must partake. The end result will certainly be an upset stomach and/or a manic episode, but I'm sure it'll be worth it. For science, you guys. I do it for science. I should eat a whole bunch then film myself. I'm sure the tape will end either like The Blair Witch Project, or just a wide shot of me crumpled into a ball somewhere.

2. PUMPKIN THINGS
I've recently discovered that you can ask Starbucks to ice a Pumpkin Spice Latte. The result is this cool, sweet and spicy burst of caffeinated goodness. It's a robust delight to the senses, for sure. Or like autumnal crack. Either way. Good stuff.
Pumpkins are the best. You can do just about anything with them. (that didn't come out right...) They taste good. They look adorable and rustic. And then you can carve them to look like other things and light them from within. This is WAY cooler than making a pipe out of an apple. Pumpkins all the way.

Pumpkin, transform and roll out!!

That's not a pumpkin, it's a space station!

(Truly, if you Google Image "awesome jack-o-lanterns" you'll be lost for at least 45 minutes. Super cool and creative what people can do.)

3. HALLOWEEN IN A GROWN-UP OFFICE
Halloween at work is one of those weird and wonderful things I love because it's a riot to watch people toe the line between having fun and being hilariously inappropriate. Last Halloween was great, because there was this freak snowstorm in New York, and suddenly all these young women were...slutty Eskimos? All the trashy costumes (cat, bunny, pirate, devil, cop etc.) were suddenly covered by huge coats and I laughed til it hurt. Amazing. Women deciding that Halloween is "naked time" is another post in and of itself. But this will be my first year working Halloween in a respectable, grown-up job. So what am I going to wear?? Maybe nobody dresses up at all. That would be such a downer. Halloween is fun! Masks and candy? When you boil it down to that, it does sound like the setup of every episode of "To Catch A Predator." Yeesh.

4. PIE...WITH FRUIT I'VE PICKED!
A few years back, I went apple picking in New Jersey and then brought the apples home to make a pie with them. We peeled, spiced, sugared and threw them into a delicious pre-fab crust. Holy crap it was so super good. And it was strangely gratifying to be like "I picked them myself" and now we eat them! Really very much want to do that again this year.

5. AND MOST IMPORTANT...THIS

A Funny, Great and True Story About My Mom

"To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power." - Maya Angelou

Today is my mom's birthday. So in her honor (because that's how I choose to look at it) I'm going to share with you yet another story that illustrates what an outstanding human being she is....the only problem is she could definitely tell all of these stories much, much better than I can.

Mom's the best cook ever. I come by my shape honestly, as Dad used to say. Thanksgiving was always delicious, and though we are a tiny family, there was always lots of mouth-wateringly scrumptious  food. Turkey, stuffing (but like THE BEST stuffing that I gorge on shamelessly) peas, and cranberry. It was great.

But one of the most fun Thanksgivings we ever had was the one where all of our careful plans went to hell in a handbasket, when we'd all flown out to see Brother in San Diego.

(Side Note: I've decided San Diego was the one that got away. I'll be going back there for a while at some point. I decided this the other day. Probably in 5 years or so. Even though there are big scary spiders. That's how much I loved it. So there.)

(Side Note #2: I just typed that whole paragraph very quickly because my work crush was at the elevators, and he was wearing this SUPER SEXY leather jacket and I needed to look busy/distracted so I didn't stare. Sorry Mom. I know this post is about you. But DAMN.)

Uhm...Yes. Where was I? Is it hot in here? Thanksgiving. San Diego. Mom had gone and made reservations months ahead of time at a beautiful, well-reviewed restaurant in La Jolla using what was then a relatively new website, Open Table. Everyone was excited. We saved ourselves up for the big meal...So imagine our surprise when we drove up Thanksgiving night and found the restaurant was closed for renovations!

Mom. Oh man. She was so upset. You don't mix Italian and Irish and not get the potential for some quality fireworks. All she'd wanted was for us to have this lovely holiday meal at a gorgeous restaurant. But then after some substantial cursing and apologizing (for something that was not at all her fault - a pretty typical trait of our family) we decided to head back to the hotel and eat in the restaurant there. And it was pretty good! It wasn't as good as Mom's cooking, but we threw back some drinks and had a nice time laughing about how ridiculous holidays can sometimes turn out to be. After that we bounced over to a cinema and caught a showing of Casino Royale, which was freaking awesome. I'm pretty sure that Thanksgiving ranks in the top 3 favorites of all time, simply because we got thrown a curveball, and ended up making the best out of a pretty lame situation.

This is one of the best lessons my mom exemplifies. When life hands you lemons...first of all, take a minute to let those lemons know that you don't appreciate their bullshit. Then turn them into some kind of delightful lemon pie, or muffin.

Suck it, lemons. Ha.

Make the best out of bad situations, because chances are better than not, they'll end up making some pretty sweet and wonderful memories.

Thanks for the lesson, Mom.
Happy Birthday.
I love you.

Beware Beautiful Tuesdays

Today, I conducted my morning routine as usual - wake up (a bit late today), throw on clothes and head to the living room. From there I make toast, coffee and turn on NY1. For those unawares, NY1 is essentially a CNN (news all day) specifically for the New York/New Jersey/Connecticut areas. It's pretty great. Every half hour I get top stories, traffic and weather before I head out the door. It's a quick and easy way to check that the world didn't end while I was asleep.

Walking to work, I realized it was a crisp, coolly beautiful, autumn Tuesday, just like the September 11th of 2001. Back then, I was a sophomore in college, watching my campus and the world around me slow to a stunned stop. It's strange to think the kids in junior high now only know this way of living - knowing what a "terrorist" is before you turn ten. Never thought the world would change so irreparably when I was only 19 years old. But now, it's been over a decade, and the NY Times this morning raised some interesting questions over the choices of several communities to scale back in their remembrance ceremonies. After 10 years, is it appropriate to move into more personal expressions of grief, or do we continue with the bigger ceremonies? I'm of two minds on the matter. I understand private grief. Many times I feel like the poster girl for it. And it is important to have a certain measure of solitude and self-reflection, to think upon what this experience has meant to you. There comes a time when we must simply accept that something horrible happened, and move forward. However, I also understand that we as a nation should never forget those who died...not just in the towers, or the pentagon, the downed flight. We should continue to honor the first responders, and the soliders who were deployed to war so soon after. An entire generation was rocked. We can't possibly push that into the backs of our minds. Nor should we.

Heavy stuff. Moving Forward. Damn you! Why do you keep coming back to slap me in the face with your wisdom?!? And why are you so much harder to do than I ever imagined?

My friend, whose life is essentially a non-stop Tequila party, brought a magazine to my desk this morning...with Bob Dylan on the cover. And although it was such a nice thing to do, my heart completely sank. P loves Bob Dylan. Adores and reveres him. There were more pictures of Bob Dylan in our home than there were of us. That's how much. Just looking at Dylan's craggy old face, I thought "Fuck You." Which is totally illogical. But I felt it anyways. And I missed P so damn much. Still. We were together this time last year. It just sucks. It sucks a whole lot. I have, for the most part, let go of this. I don't cry anymore. But I hurt. I mourn, privately.

I found this later today. It felt right after the fact...

"How easily you now live without me; how awkwardly and clumsily and foolishly I live without you. The pain, anyhow, is past. To love you without hope or expectation feels expansive. There is nothing that I need from you, nothing you can say or do in response to it – only know that there is nothing about you that I find unlovely. That I cherish you, deeply and profoundly and without reservation. That you should exist in this world – that I should have been with you – seems like an extravagant gift, one for which I am forever and unutterably grateful."

Flying Solo

This past weekend, I was an integral part of B's 30th Birthday Surprise....playing the role of "surprise" thanks to her awesome hubby D, who set up my flight down to Florida and everything! The look on her face when she opened the door and saw me was priceless! It was SO GOOD. I'll remember it forever. Worth every moment spent in transit.

Aaaand there was a lot of time in transit. From waking up at 3:30 am Saturday morning to catch my flight out I was on the move! NYC-Chicago-Orlando-Long Island-NYC. I got home last night around 1am. But today I really do feel fine at work, despite being told I look a bit "glazed." (Like a sexy donut.)You do great things for the people you love.

My views on flying continue to have their ups and downs. I was a great flyer as a kid, but as I told you, that's because mom plied me with toys. I was pretty good through high school, with nerves only really kicking in on trans-Atlantic flights. I reasoned that plunging into the ocean was much worse than crashing into the ground...because I am an idiot. I also dreamed of ways that I would save myself in an emergency...like wearing one of those winged-Lycra "Squirrel suits" under my clothes when flying. Then, if needed, I could simply strip down to my squirrel suit and glide to safety.

 Plan B was a bit more simple...to pack a sheet in my carry-on to serve as a parachute if needsbe. Yes, because that will totally work.*  The WORST part? I still have these safety dreams. Like I would be able to save myself if only I had this thing. I'm not sure if this is keen survival instinct or another prime example of my potential candidacy for a Darwin award.

*Bedsheet as parachute does not work. You will die.

Side Rant. Carry on bags. This is for all you fuckers who either think one large suitcase or three medium sized bags are acceptable! THEY ARE NOT!!! Check that bag before I wreck you! One small bag and maybe a purse for the ladies. That's it. Just accept that you might have to allot a few extra minutes to pick up your bag afterwards. I'm sick to death of watching you trying to shove a hard case bag the size of a dwarf into the overhead. You are thoughtless. You are an idiot. You are an asshole, and may God have mercy on your depth and size perception impaired soul. Just as irritating though is the fact that airlines aren't trying to stop them! What the hell, man?!? Airlines, you have these rules for a reason! Time to enforce them. Call me (maybe) if you'd like some help.

Back to flying. A very scary flight a few years back (small plane, big storm) scared the shit out of me, and ruined my airline spirit. My sense of safety was really, seriously damaged. I spent the entire flight huddled into a ball in my seat with my jacket over my head, that's how scared I was. After that, I lost my muchness. Every bump and dip on a flight caused me to gasp and grip the seat in terror. More than once, gentle strangers seated next to me would ask if I was ok. And then...I read a CNN article on "why planes crash" and weirdly I felt a lot better. The article discussed the mechanics of large passenger planes, the training of pilots (what is great and what needs to be improved) and why things bump and move the way they do. It didn't "cure" me but it sure did help a lot.

So last night I flew home into the most beautiful sunset, contentedly picking at Cheese Nips and wondering if I could register for my future wedding at Skymall?
(I'd like the Yeti garden statue and the hot dog cooker.)

(Yeti see you.)

It was then that it dawned on me that I couldn't remember the last time I'd flown WITH someone. I always fly alone, and have for as long as I can remember. I don't even think CA and I flew together to LA for that big awesome road trip we took in 2007. I don't fly with anybody. Not with family not with friends. I am a flying lone wolf, but I'd like that to change. Maybe, just maybe, I would be less scared of the occaisonal bumps and dips with a companion. Even just a travel buddy- someone to let me sleep on their shoulder, do the in-flight magazine puzzles, share my Cheese Nips with. I think I would be less scared if I could fly with a friend.

Ninja. Jumper. Dancer. Spy.

Kickboxing just hasn't been the same lately, you guys. I'm feeling like I'll finish out my year (which is February) and call it a day. The thrill is gone. And with my work schedule, I'm lucky to get there once a week.

Despite the fact that I saw that chick I loathe take a wicked punch to the face the other day, (I saw it happen in the studio across from the one I was in, and I exclaimed - joyously? - DAYUM!) it just hasn't been as much fun. Sensei has been absent the last few weeks, and I don't know where he is. I don't know if he's injured, or off in another world, fighting in some kind of amazing Mortal Kombat-style tourney. Go Sensei, Go! You can totally defeat Sub-Zero.

Confession: I love the Mortal Kombat movie. To the point where I bought it. I know what you're thinking....FINISH HER!

So Sensei is elsewhere (and the guy teaching the class now is totally not invested...he's always wandering off and leaving the room during sets!)...and I have no friends. Granted, I began training months ago hot off a major meltdown, so lack of friends didn't concern me. I went to the early evening class, and had a good partner, Ramia, who is a dentist. We were a great match. But when I got a new job and had to start going to the late night classes, I didn't have Ramia anymore. Suddenly I'm Johnny-No-Mates and it sucks. And the late-night people...I'm not thrilled.

What I'll miss? Killer arms. What I won't? Those FUCKING STUPID white ninja pants.
Seriously. I'mma burn 'em.

After my year is up, I'm wondering what to try next? At first I thought, I'll just keep up my walking to work thing and it'll be fine. Oh, yes. I'm walking to and from work (unless I'm running late, but I've been pretty good) and according to Google Maps, it's about 4.2 miles a day. This seems like a good amount of exercise, no? And I'm saving money that would usually go to subway fare. Win-Win. But guys, I'm 30. Calories don't burn themselves. This is not the time to take it easy! There needs to be something else, preferably something fun and interesting that not only holds my attention, but helps me get out of my own head for an hour or so a day. Especially at this point in my life is this important, both for body and mind.

Here are two things that I'm going to drop in on and see what's up:

1. TRAMPOLINE

In spite of the fact that I have, in my lifetime, fallen off a trampoline and given myself a black eye flipping on one, I still love them. In some cultures, this is called a death wish. Seriously though, who doesn't love to bounce and fly high?! This is a legitimate question. I feel it's inherent in human nature to want to defy gravity and soar. And if I can do a flip or something while I'm up in the air, so much the better. Trampoline is not only fun, but a fantastic workout focusing on core and leg strength. There are drop-in trampoline classes for beginners at the Trapeze School of NY, so I think that's definitely in my future. Just to see. There are loads of safety precautions so idiots like myself don't get killed.

Even foxes love to trampoline!!

2. DANCE CLASS

I haven't been to a proper dance class since my junior year of college, but it doesn't mean I've given up the funk. I love to dance. There are some really fun-looking classes in jazz, hip-hop and ballet for out-of-shape/practice adults at the Alvin Ailey Extension, so I think I'll do a few drop-ins. Why the hell not? Isn't this the time of life to try things you're not really sure you can do? Push a little bit? Enjoy busting the moves before your knees give out? Yeah.  (HA. Right after I typed that I had a crazy cramp in my lower back. Need to stretch more. Maybe I'll fit a yoga class in there somewhere too.)

Having tried all these cool things -boxing, trampoline, dance etc. I will be well on my way to fulfilling my dream of becoming some kind of superheroine. Or Alias-esque superspy. Or...a woman who can take care of herself. Which is so important.

Ladies, I think we should all be our own superheroes.

Just thinking out loud.

Bad Dreams/Stuffed Dogs

I know I said Monday, Wednesday, Friday for the posts from here on out, but I'm actually ahead of schedule for 2 of the 3 side-projects I'm working on, and I needed to dust my brains a bit and get some big thoughts off my heart so here is a bit of Thursday stuff....

I think the most dangerous half-hour of the day is the time between realizing "I am tired" and actually going to sleep. That's the half-hour or so when I lay in bed with my mind running wild and exhausted, thinking of everything and nothing and sometimes it's great....and other times it becomes less so.

Last night in bed, I was thinking of the Mega Millions and how great it would be to win. (Disclaimer: I am not stupid. I know the odds. I am not going to win. But I like to imagine I might.) I've talked about this before. I think the people who say "money can't buy happiness" have never defaulted on a payment before, or had to sell off some of their things to cover bills. Maybe it's not "happiness" but it's a sense of security that was distinctly lacking before, if that makes sense. The current Mega Millions jackpot is listed as $105 million, which if you took the lump sum after taxes, would probably be more in the ballpark of $40 million. Still a fuckload of money! If I won it, I'd do the logical thing....budget! You all know how important I think budgeting your money is. Here's how I'd break it down...
$5 million ($1 million each) to charities benefitting:
American Cancer Society
Alzheimer's Association
National MS Society
ASPCA
Wounded Warriors

Yup. That pretty much covers the big five closest to my heart. Veterans. Cancer. Alzheimers. Multiple Sclerosis. Animals. I'm sure I'll find some more worthy causes to donate to, but those are the first to come to mind.

REAL ESTATE. $10 million for a place for Brother and me to live in LA...I'd prefer Santa Monica, something near or on the beach. Also a nice flat in London and a small place in NYC.

Next, $5 million to put my godsons through school. (Please God it won't cost the entire amount at that point). I'd also love to help other friends get their kids through college. How great would that be? School is EXPENSIVE. But good school is worth it.

I was feeling so awesome! All my pretend money is being well used! Then I started thinking about my parents...and for the life of me, I couldn't figure out a living situation where my folks could be together. I racked my brain, wondering how my dad could get the care he needs - meds, check up, blood draws...and my mom could still have some semblance of a regular life. And I realize we'd tried to make that work for years in our regular house, and there was nothing money could buy that would change the fact that Dad needs to be in full-time assisted living. This is when I went to the sad place, because even though the facility where my Dad lives is fantastic, I become inconsolabe whenever I think of him there, especially at night. Is he sad, I wonder? I hope not. Is he lonely? Does he miss me as much as I miss him? (Aw, fuck, I'm crying at my desk, hang on a sec..) And then, just like now, I start to cry. I'd call him, but hopefully he's alseep already, and I also know that I'd have to say "Hello Dad, it's me" and identify myself or he won't be sure who this female voice is calling at such an odd hour. So last night, after all my big happy Mega Millions dreams, I hit this major snare and starting crying because I hoped my Dad isn't sad and lonely in the assisted living facility. I was crying so much I crawled out of bed and got my stuffed dog, Speedy (I brought Speedy to NYC because I was like "I CAN have a dog if I want to, screw you landlord!") off a shelf and brought him back to bed and buried my face in his dusty old furs. It is a weird and wonderful thing that an old stuffed dog can still calm a 30 year old heart.

Apparently, Speedy is still available on EBay. Good to know.

So that happened. It does from time to time. That's just life now. You know? Sometimes you think sad things and you fucking cry. And eventually, you will stop.

Good Hair?

Did you guys ever see that Chris Rock documentary Good Hair? It's super interesting. (I like documentaries. Didn't when I was younger. Obviously, learning is MUCH COOLER now.) To make a long story short it's a look inside the multi-billion dollar African-American hair industry, largely centered around the legnths black women go to style their hair. Where do they find the hair for extensions? What the hell kind of crazy chemicals are used for relaxers? It began with Rock's five year old daughter asking "Daddy, how come I don't have good hair?" (the fact that his little girl already didn't like something about herself must have been pretty horrible for a parent to hear.)

Great Hair!

The documentary wondered...why do many women work so hard to achieve a look that is so distinctly not what they were born with? And why do we care SO much what our hair looks like? Because we do care. I care! Though you'd never be able to tell from its appearance, I put a lot of effort into my hair! Truthfully these are questions that, in my opinion, apply to all women regardless of race.

Great (Championship!) Hair!

I don't have answers to these questions, but I was thinking a lot about my own hair this morning, as it looked fucking horrible quite messy and I couldn't seem to calm it down. Right now, my hair is long (the way I prefer it) with overgrown, side-swept bangs and a bit rumpled. I like it. In my youth, I was the queen of the slicked back ponytail, but in adulthood I have literally "let my hair down" and embraced my natural state of charmingly dissheveled. With women and hair, the idea of "grass is always greener" seems to be prevalent. We always want to have (or at least know what it's like to have) the hair that is furthest from our own. I always wanted my thick, wavy brown hair to magically transform into my friend K's hair...fine, blonde and straight! She could wear all the cute, short hairstyles I never could.

I wanted this Great Hair style for years...no dice.

I always like to play with my hair. I'm not precious about it. Hair is dead cells and if you do something to it...well, it's ok. If you cut it, it will grow back. If you dye it, it will grow out. So have some fun. Playing with hair is experimenting with identitiy. Maybe one day I want to look like a 40s pin-up girl. Another day like some kind of East Hamptons preppy. A little punk faux-hawk with the bangs? Why the hell not. Or I'm running late and we're lucky if my hair is brushed, forget styled!

Great Hair!

BUT. I can talk a big game and be glib and silly about my hair, because I'm lucky to have hair at all. A dear friend with alopecia isn't so fortunate. When she lost her hair it was devastating - how do you hold on to positive self image when your hair is falling out? So much of our identity as women is woven into our hair, and we don't even realize. My friend is incredible. She is so brave. She faced the situation with more grace and dignity than I ever would. The whole thing really hammered home how something that seems so inconsequential can actually build up or ravage our self-esteem.

Gorgeous Without Hair!

Hair helps make us feel beautiful, feel sexy. Who doesn't love when a guy runs his hands through your hair? But my friend (and every other women proudly showing her dome-piece!) proves that hair is NOT the only way to look and feel gorgeous or express yourself. Your face, your outlook, your personality is the end game here. Hair is good, but it's not everything.

Day Thirty: Obviously Meryl Streep Will Play Me!

Yesterday I was watching that classic blogger comedy Julie & Julia while making myself some dinner. I am admittedly not a great cook by any means - I have good intentions and no patience - but my heart is in the right place and I have a relative zeal for experimenting. Last night I threw some chicken, corn, spinach and a bit of cheese and pepper into my favorite Le Creuset pot (a beautiful gift from my mom) and let it cook for a while (no specific time...see? I have no culinary discipline!). Then I hollowed out a giant tomato, scooped the mixture in, and threw it in the oven. All I knew was that all those things taste delicious and I freaking love roasted tomatoes. End result...pretty damn good.

Cooking is pretty fun. If I cook for you, it means I adore you and trust you. Because not all my experiments turn out great, I need you to have a good sense of humor about it, and know that you'll still like me when we have to throw dinner away and go out for Mexican instead. Years ago I almost set fire to my kitchen trying to make a former boyfriend pancakes...we had a good laugh about it. He got it. I tried to show some affection...and I nearly set the damn house on fire. You win some, you lose some. In this instance though, it is the willingness to try and have some fun that counts.

Also, if you can save up for a LeCreuset (they are admittedly quite pricey) it will change your life and delight you every time you use it. Mine is the perfect size and my favorite color - "ocean." It looks like this:

I had forgotten that Julie & Julia was yet another example of Meryl Streep being awesome. Her take on Julia Child was SPOT ON. What an amazing life that woman had. I was also fascinated by the rocky rise of Amy Adams character (Julie) and her blog. The blog was her life. It was her focus, her outlet, it saved her sanity and nearly wrecked her marriage. Whoever thought that an online journal could do that for someone. I think TNA has worked very similarly for me. It's put me back on the right track of writing (something) every day. It's put me back in touch with old friends, a wonderful and unexpected development. It's kept me connected to friends far away. So obviously, in the forthcoming movie (following my book deal and articles in the NY Times....bwahahah) Meryl Streep will play future me looking back fondly on these wild days. I don't know who will play current me but she will be bold and brilliant and sassy and cool, and there will be that great moment where I look into the eyes of my handsome, supportive husband (is Eddie Redmayne available for the part? Onscreen and off?) and say "I'm going to be a writer!"

And then he says "You ARE a writer!"

Cut. Print. Cue Meryl's bazillionth Oscar nomination. You're welcome, Hollywood.

I suppose I could play current me. That's always a thought. Although I don't want this turning into some kind of egomaniacal Waterworld-esque vanity project disaster where I insist we digitally re-touch every frame so my thighs look slimmer. Even though that would be so great.

Day Twenty-Nine: Painted into a Corner

Despite an onset of miserable cramps, this has been a pretty great Labor Day Weekend. Lots of plotting, reading, hanging out, and even abandoned the couch for my friend E's birthday party last night! It was uber fun and awesome. Thank God he's got a super cool group of friends, because everyone else at the bar was dubious at best. 

It's becoming increasingly difficult to go out in New York anymore...or at least I don't know where to go that I fit in. Perhaps this is further indication my time here is winding down? I don't know. I'm not sure where I belong anymore. But you guys....last night. The peoples were crazy. We were in the back room of a bar, enjoying the awesome Skee-Ball and Big Buck Hunter Safari (YES!) machines when a scream announced the arrival of a plethora of assholes. Young, overly-made up and desperate for attention assholes. Dressed in leather and leopard, sporting the most depressing pair of fake boobs I've ever seen on someone so young (my guess is 23-24) and the worst part....filming each other posing and screaming against the machine. It was so depressingly pathetic. A constant barrage of "Look at me!" and we certainly did...but for all the wrong reasons. Idiotic film students? Or young trustfund types pretending to be slumming it, running amok with Daddys money? Whichever type, they are here a-plenty. They arrive loudly, often hopped up on coke, with no manners and tons of fringe or animal print. I call these Pocahotmess. And sadly, they have overrun so many neighborhoods in my beloved city.

Popped collars and a strange sense of desperation and domination pollute the air uptown. The young professionals (so young!) on both the east and west sides partner up for the night and make a clean break in the AM. I refer to these as the day-to-night traders. So many bars up here look to re-create the college experience too - beer pong for everyone! - that it seems logical to be stuck in a more juvenile mindset. It's like Never-Never Land in a swanky zipcode. 

Midtown is for tourists.

West village, Hells Kitchen and Chelsea belong to the gays. 

I've even branched out to other boroughs. Bars in the Bronx by Yankee Stadium. Local watering holes in Sunnyside, Astoria and Jackson Heights weren't bad, but that was where I got my drink spiked, so understandably I'm a bit weary. 

In Brooklyn (Williamsburg in particular), it's come see my band, show or indie film, here's my card. It's like American Psycho in plaid shirts instead of suits. There is so much hustle there.

This guy is pretty much everywhere. He is the omni-present Everyman, with his bike, plaid shirt, and incomprehensible tattoo. And of course he is a writer. OF COURSE he is. From the way the sun lights on his rumpled person, I can see he is sensitive and tortured.

Do I sound bitter? I don't mean to. Like I said previously, I'm just not sure where I belong anymore. Meeting new people here is really hard, and when you're 30 and not in school anymore it adds an extra layer of "where? what now? with whom?" to the mix. Maybe I'm outgrowing New York? Can you even do that? I feel like there's so much left to experience here, a lot to learn and appreciate. Only time will tell. 

Day Twenty-Eight: It's OK to Laugh Now...Right?

Readers, first let me offer you my heartfelt thanks and congratulations. This blog has amassed over 5,000 views which is both astonishing and deeply humbling. I really appreciate you taking the time to come visit my reflective and sometimes odd little corner of the world. I'll continue to be excited as we hit these numerical milestones. Second, congratulations! You've hit day 28, which means you've now fully completed my rehabilitation program and all of your problems have been neatly resolved. Ta-Dahhh! Here's your complimentary fridge magnet. Don't say I never gave you anything.

(Seriously though. 28 days to overhaul your life? Or to escape the zombie apocalypse? It just feels like we'd need a bit more time...)

My mom emailed me last night and asked for some advice - did I think it was a good idea for her to take my dad out to see the new movie Robot & Frank? For those of you not aware of the title (and it IS such a good title, too) here's a short synopsis:

In the near and believable future, Frank (Frank Langella) is a retired jewel thief, who lives alone but is cared for by his son (James Marsden) and checked on via videophone by his daughter (Liv Tyler). Frank leads a simple life, walking into town to visit the soon-to-be-closed library and the beautiful librarian (Susan Sarandon), picking up food at the market, shoplifting small objects from a foo-foo beauty store that used to house his favorite restaurant. Frank’s son decides that what Frank needs is a robot care-taker (voiced by Peter Sarsgaard), to help him around the house and keep an eye on him. Robot soon sets cranky Frank to rights, with an orderly schedule and a proper diet and exercise. Frank grows accustomed to Robot and soon begins to train the robot to assist him in a heist or two, targeting a wealthy, uppity young man (Jeremy Strong) who seeks to change the library into some kind of creative “space.” When Frank comes under suspicion for the duo’s crimes, Frank’s family and the law (Jeremy Sisto) are bewildered and it quickly becomes man and robot against the modern world.

Sounds pretty funny right? Who doesn't like a film about crotchety old people and robots? What this synopsis leaves out though, is the fact that Frank needs a robot caretaker because he is in the early stages of dementia....and there the problem lies.

I'm still not 100% sure what I think, having not seen the movie myself. Can you take someone with dementia to a dramedy ABOUT dementia? Is that just cruel? Does it matter, if he won't remember it in a few hours? Or are we allowed to laugh?

It's rarely easy to see the humor in my father's illness, but from time to time it does come through. I remember him waking up from yet another surgery in the hospital, and being really concerned about "the guy with the cat food." In the moment, his outbursts are usually very uncomfortable, but for some reason this time it was all right to laugh, because we'd already spent so much time on the verge of tears. "It's ok." Brother reassured Dad "We'll take care of the cat food." And that was that.

I've read so much about comedy - where does it come from, why do we react to certain things and not others, etc. It's a really fascinating topic. A theme that has repeatedly presented itself is the idea of finding humor in tragedy. We need a coping mechanism. So we have to laugh...at something. Not at those who are ill, of course (I do have a heart in there somewhere) but if we just live in the illness all the time...we lose something. It's like a light goes out. But how can we laugh at dementia? It's difficult, near impossible subject to approach with any sensitivity. Losing your mind is nothing short of terrifying - how can we laugh at it? But then again, if we don't laugh, then we just accept forthcoming doom with a morose face? Where is the line, I wonder. How can we relieve ourselves of some of the pressure, yet not come across as cruel or mocking?

A really interesting blog, silverevolution.com made this statement in their review of Robot & Frank that I felt was worth a read.

Robot & Frank is about more than the vanishing mind.  It is about the person Frank was, is and always will be, and how dementia is just a part of that. It is also about the stress that an aging and vulnerable parent puts on children, especially in the US, who live far away and have their own families or geographically distant careers.  In this way it touches on the way Americans in particular are dealing with dementia

But I was impressed with how the screenplay and the movie treated the tangled issues of dementia, aging, and family tension and made it fun and funny.  Like anyone with dementia, Frank never stops surprising everyone, even the robot, who he reminds that “the human brain, it’s a lovely piece of hardware.” 

Indeed.

Day Twenty-Seven: A Tale of Two Jim H's

I finally sat down and watched the first four episodes of Aaron Sorkin's The Newsroom and Lena Dunham's Girls, both of which came highly recommended and scrutinized by trusted sources.

Let me start with Girls. Lena Dunham is very very talented. And although I originally knocked the cast for all being daughters of famous men (BLARGH! Nepotism & Irony. You suck.) the show is well acted, and annoying as hell. Marnie is supposed to be the only likable one, right? Because she isn't spoiled, has common sense and a job? Or is that a 30 year old watching a show about aimless 24 year olds? That's how I knew I was getting old...I re-watched the movie version of the musical Rent, and instead of being all "fight the power!" I totally sided with the villain and was like "pay your rent boho trash!! Arrest them!" So yeah, jury is out on these girls. I'll absolutely give it a few more episodes, if only for the sincere hope that Hannah's boyfriend will stop creeping me out. Fingers crossed.

The biggest critiques I had heard of The Newsroom are:
1.) It's West Wing and Sports Night reloaded
2.) The female character are terrible
3.) Needs more Dev Patel. Should totally be the "Dev Patel is Talented Show."

These criticisms are all fair. I think it can be great- Will McEvoy could become some kind of Leo/Toby hybrid, and maybe oh please Mac will stop being horrible and blossom into a CJ. BUT overall the female characters (except Olivia Munn, who I think is surprisingly terrific) are AWFUL. It goes back to that "endearingly flawed" problem I spoke about in my rant against the diabolical Manic Pixie Dream Girl. These characters need a load of work for me to keep tuning in. Most of all Alison Pill's moon-faced Maggie is too immature, stupid, clumsy, and useless to be worthy of John Gallagher Jr.s adorable, noble Jim.

Which brings me to the title of this post...What's up with all the perfect Jim H.'s on TV?
Jim Harper - The Newsroom
Jim Halpert - The Office

Where do these Jim's come from? Is there a farm where they grow shaggy, sensitively sexy boys next door who pine for taken women? Must they ALL be called Jim H.?!? Why can't we start swooning collectively as a thinking female consensus for...Theodore? Is he simply not earnest enough? Maybe we should just start calling these guys Ernest (not. sexy.) and cut right to the metaphor.

That being said, I want one. I'd like a Jim H. Please.