Not the Halloween I'd Planned....

Ho-kay....so.

Before we get to the nitty gritty I thought I'd start out by saying, YES, I am back at work. And yes, very few people are here with me. Apparently the phones are also down, which means I am largely going to be sitting here looking at crazy hurricane photos all day. That and eating the scrumptious apple crumbly cake that L dropped off at my desk this morning, like a glorious baked goods goddess.

I walked by that collapsed crane on the way in this morning. It's around the corner from my office. It is actually terrifying to see in person, when you think that all over this city giant cranes are strapped to rooftops high in the air, and perhaps they aren't really as sturdy as you thought. Most of the damage in and around my area came from downed trees and collapsed scaffolding.

We were watching the news last night, and both my roomie and I were pretty incensed at the reporters on various stations trying to further increase the drama of the situation by comparing Hurricane Sandy to not just one but all of these events:
*September 11th
*Hurricane Katrina
*The Tsunami in Thailand
*China Earthquake
*Haiti Earthquake

As someone on the ground here, let me say this. Hurricane Sandy was horrible. No doubt. The loss of life (29 was the last I heard) and certainly billions it will cost to repair the city is a terrible blow. We all feel it. Seeing parts of town I know and love submerged and ruined...it takes your breath away like a punch in the gut. HOWEVER. It is in no way on scale with those other disasters (thousands upon thousands dead, cities wiped out, spread of disease). We're going to be OK. The power, while terribly gross and inconvenient, will come back on. Flooded subways are being pumped as I type. We are a fortunate city, with a lot of stamina and the resources to bounce back. That is the thing: we have the resources. New York City has the capacity to rebuild, much more quickly than most. A city of nine million won't let projects go undone. (It's like a love/hate thing I have with this place. New Yorkers are so spoiled that they can't function without all the little luxuries they now take as necessity, so every little bakery and shop MUST reopen asap! Little Timmy needs his organic muffins!) This alone gives us a great advantage over most other places faced with disaster: we have the money and the drive to rebuild, and quickly. So yes, this week has been pretty brutal, to say the least. But we'll be fine. New York will always rebuild.

Today is Halloween, and frankly, I understand why no one seems to give a fuck. There are bigger problems. But, because I try to keep things fun even in the face of disaster, I am dressed as Waldo (as in "Where's?") today. This means simply that I am wearing my red/white striped shirt and have my glasses in my bag. It's like a stealthy costume. Fellow employees might think I am simply a hipster. Sadly, though, I am missing the one most crucial part of my costume...

MY CANE!
Which is made all the more ironic by the fact that I slept on my back kind of crazy last night and am in all sorts of pain today. Like, really really horrible pain that I'm trying to stretch out discreetly without bursting into screams pain. So I could actually use a cane today. Dressed as Waldo. Oh life.

Cabin Fever and Weird Food Things

It's day one of Hurricane Sandy, and I'm dying to get out of my apartment. This is a bad sign.

I spent as much of Sunday out of doors and it's still not enough. Apparently when it comes to "hunkering down" I am something of a failure. Sure, I like an afternoon cuddled up in front of the TV as much as the next girl, but I don't like having no other option! According to Mayor Bloomberg (whose attempts as Spanish are pretty much the funniest thing I have ever heard) the shit is going to get real much later today into tomorrow with crazy winds and flooding. Sigh. I wanted to pop outside for a quick walk, but the rain and cold winds have already picked up, and since I don't want anything to fall on me, I'll abstain.

So...how are you guys?

After 30 years of kicking around on Planet Earth I know very few things to be 100% true. The few things that are indisputably fact are food-related and can be summarized as thus:

1. Gummi Bears pair beautifully with a nice rose.
2. Everyone likes at least one type of pie.
3. There is no such thing as an omnivore.

(Awesome Sidenote: Remember back when I wrote about Tabula Rasa...or Clean Slate? I recently had the MOST DELICIOUS wine that was called....Clean Slate. DESTINY! WINE OF DESTINY!)

If you haven't read Michael Pollan's book The Omnivore's Dilemma, I encourage you to put down 50 Flavors of Stupid Nonsense, Hooker and check this out instead. It's a slow start but ultimately a fascinating read. Where does our food come from? Why is corn in EVERYTHING? How does culture influence culinary choices? It's so interesting!

But in the broadest definition of "omnivore," that is, one that eats anything, I have never met a person who didn't have some weird hang-ups or aversions to food. We can't please all of the people all of the time. When I was much younger, I was like a carbo-loading monster. Potatoes, pasta, bread. Every mean could have been a starch and I'd have been happy. It was only with time, and experimentation that I learned that I also liked many vegetables, most fruits, and some poultry. Seafood is not really on the cards. Nor are creamy foods and sauces (it's a texture thing, I can't handle it) or eggs (I've been trying for years to eat eggs and not feel sick afterwards. No dice.)

Here at HQ, my roommate has prepared a bunch of food for the hurricane. I....uh....did not. I picked up a Big Gulp of coffee at 7-11 yesterday, and a footlong sub from Subway. Both of which are dwindling. I've also got some garlic hummus (my favorite!) apples and peanut butter. I think I'll be ok. Starvation is not on the cards in any sense.

Thanks to those who have sent well wishes to the East Coast during this slightly bonkers couple of days. If power goes down....well, them's the breaks, you know? I'll be back when I'm back. 

The Nanny Question

I wasn't planning on publishing twice today (Happy Friday, I guess) but considering that this morning I walked by the scene of a double homicide on the way to work I've got some heavy thoughts.

Last night, very close to my apartment, a nanny allegedly stabbed the two children in her care to death before turning the knife on herself and slitting her throat. She is alive, but in critical condition. My neighborhood is in a state of shock today. In a city where so many children seemed to be raised by "the help" even those of us without kids are floored. How does something like this happen? And what does it mean for those currently working as professional child caregivers? Nannies frequently become like extended family members. It's sad but important to note that terrible crime happens in this city every day. The gruesome murder of two affluent white children isn't more important than any other (pretty much any news story where a kid is murdered feels like a punch in the gut, I think most of us would agree) but I think what's most jarring about this is that these very young children were murdered in their own home by a person entrusted with their lives. The more I read about this family, and what was seemingly a warm and loving relationship with this nanny, the sadder and more confused I get.

When I found out about the crime, I was in the locker room at the boxing gym. Interesting enough, a large number of the women in my class are....nannies. And they, like the woman arrested for the murder, are women of color. As they chatted amongst each other, the initial shock of the story gave way to a new thought...how it will be even more difficult from here on out for them to gain the full trust and support of their white employers. Oftentimes, I think we're not so far out from the 1960s as we'd like to think we are.

I don't think any parent handles the decision of choosing a nanny lightly. How do you interview the person who will be spending the majority of your child's waking hours with them? How will they handle themselves in an emergency? Do they actively engage with the kids, or plunk them down in front of the idiot box?

Parents have been commenting on news stories all morning, declaring they no longer feel comfortable leaving their children with strangers, and will stay with them until they leave for kindergarten. But not everyone has this luxury. For many working parents (including my own) they simply cannot be at home all the time while their kids are young. Brother and I had a nanny while we were very young. Peggy (I use her real name, because she deserves real praise) saved my brother's life in a house fire that happened before I was born. She was selfless bravery incarnate. Her absolute priority was to get him to safety as quickly as possible. I'm getting kind of emotional thinking about it, because there was never enough we could do to thank her. My family owes her everything, and she knew up until her death how much we loved her. That is how my family was with our nanny. We visited Peggy and her husband until we were well into our 20s. It was a bond like that of children with a grandparent, and since we'd lost our biological grandparents quite young, it was just as strong.

I've seen both sides of nanny/parent as an adult too. Friends have nannied with mixed results. At times they are welcomed into the fold and all goes swimmingly. (It is interesting to note that many of these friends are white, English-speaking, and college-educated) They stay with the families for years, and are loved dearly by the children. Other times though, the line of "family" and "assistant" is firmly drawn and rarely crossed. I mean, The Nanny Diaries was a huge hit for a reason. When I worked in retail, a group of nannies came to the shop frequently. They were....God, they were terrible. Frequently screaming into their phones, ignoring the children (more than once, knowingly late to pick them up at school and not giving a fuck) and just focused on pushing the pram for the allotted hours until they got paid and could go home.

 I do think that if you are a stay-at-home parent with no job who still hires a nanny so you can fuck off every day with your friends for shopping, yoga and coffee, then you fucking suck and your kids should be handed over to someone who gives a damn about them. That I firmly believe.


This is a hodgepodge of thoughts. I personally don't know anything about being a nanny. (I mean, I did some summer-camp teaching, but those kids were older and hella smart) All I know is that something truly terrible and heart-breaking happened, and every single kid in the world deserves better than that.

Hilarious Childhood Mixup

First let me say thanks so much for the warm reception Wednesday's post about feminism was greeted with. It's good to get feedback, and when people tell me they are thinking about what I've written, and talking about it, I am humbled.

Now a pause for something decidedly less important....

Tuesday, when I logged onto Gawker, I was greeted with an AMAZING picture of a screaming child and the following brief article....

Children Flee Movie Theater in Terror After Madagascar 3 Accidentally Replaced with Paranormal Activity 4

Employees at the Cineworld in Nottingham claim a "technical error" caused Paranormal Activity 4 to be screened accidentally to a theater full of formerly happy-go-lucky kids who were there to watch the third Madagascar film.
"It opens on the most terrifying scene in the first film - where a body shoots full pelt towards the camera," said parent Natasha Lewis, whose eight-year-old son was in attendance. "It's enough to make grown men jump, so you can imagine the terror in these young faces."
Lewis said the 25 or so families in the the theater quickly grabbed their screaming children and headed for the door. "It was only about two minutes worth of the film but it was enough to scar them for life," she said.
A Cineworld spokesperson apologized to the families and said all theatergoers were given refunds as well as complimentary tickets." Families were also invited to attend a later showing of Madagascar 3 free of charge.
No word on financial assistance for years and years of therapy.

After I stopped bwa-ha-ha-ha-ha-ing from laughter I thought:
"Those kids will be fine."
"Nobody needs therapy."
"This will make for a great story for them to tell as they get older."

I had a very similar experience, and I turned out fine. Totally fine. I'm...(sniff) I mean I'm ok, right? (sob) Everybody's got some problems...

What happened to me, you might ask? The year was 1993. A fine year for film. It was the end of the school year, and as it was HOT AS BALLS where I grew up, the "end of year party" for my class was usually held at one of two places.
1.) The water park (swimming is refreshing!)
2.) The movie theatre (movies are air-conditioned!)

As there had been a kerfuffle last year at the water park, when a kid got the wind knocked out of him after a poor dive, it was off to the movies for us. A bunch of kids, the teacher, and a handful of parent chaperones piled into buses on our way to see....oh yes....The Sandlot.

 If you haven't seen The Sandlot, you're crazy. It's really fun and silly and great (I mean, not The Mighty Ducks great, but still pretty terrific, and if you feel the same then you're a big nerd and marry me.) It's basically this sweet, funny homage to coming-of-age, friendship, and baseball. You really don't need more than that for a classic movie. We were all so excited!

Once they herded us into the theatre (and got us popcorn and whatnot....oh man, now I totally want some popcorn and a soda at my desk RIGHT NOW) we eventually stopped giggling and the lights went down. Dramatic music began! And the screen suddenly lit up with:

For those of you who never saw it, The Crying Game, unlike The Sandlot, is a psychological thriller with a graphic, full-frontal sexual twist (20 year old spoiler: Lady is a Dude.) Needless to say, at that point in our lives, we wouldn't have been ready for lots of IRA violence and a big penis on screen.

Thankfully, we had parents and teachers who read movie reviews in newspapers, so the minute the title card appeared on-screen, like bolts of lightning adults were running up the aisle and out of the theater to alert this manager that this WAS NOT OK!! It still took about five minutes for the movie to stop, and we didn't know what the fuss was about. Why would we want to watch a movie about crying? Crying's not a game. There's no crying in baseball. We came here for baseball, and a dog. And after what I'm sure were some choice words to manager from our teacher, we got it. But I'll remember how funny that was now in my adulthood. I'll remember it "foreeeeevvvveerrrrr." (Sandlot joke. It's funny. Trust me.)

This Piece Would Rock in 1997, or Why I Proudly Call Myself A Feminist

What I'm about to say has been said before, and sadly, I'm sure this isn't the last time. It's been written by authors far more skilled than I, in publications much more illustrious. It deserves better treatment than I can give it. But....because it's still coming up in conversations from political to artistic, it can't be ignored. Why this is still an issue, especially with women in my own generation, remains a mystery....but we've got to sit down and have a "girl, what up?" conversation.

Because for reasons remaining murky, not once, but THRICE today have I read articles in which modern American women (some of whom are famous) are quoted as saying....

"I mean, I'm not like a feminist or anything, but (insert desire for equal treatment here)."

Uhm, GURL.You think women deserve to be treated with respect? That makes you a feminist!!!
Ta Daaaa! I wrote it in pink just to fuck with you. Why don't you like being a feminist? Are you not proud to be a lady? Do you not enjoy being treated like a decent human being? Is the thought of equal pay repulsive to you? Should I tell you what to do with your body, specifically your reproductive rights? Or (my goodness) do you think equality has been reached?

The most basic, internet-y definition of feminism/feminist is as follows:

Feminism is a collection of movements and ideologies aimed at defining, establishing, and defending equal political, economic, and social rights for women^. In addition, feminism seeks to establish equal opportunities for women in education and employment. A feminist is "an advocate or supporter of the rights and equality of women"

So why is feminist still a word that many women are scared to associate with? Just for funzies, I Google-Imaged (my source for all things truth) "feminist" and got a whole bunch of cartoons and some pictures of Rosie the Riveter.

Rosie: Crazy Old and STILL a total smokeshow!

Here's what I think (and remember folks, these are just opinions and observations).
*Sadly, many modern women assume if you call yourself a feminist, stupid idiots will think you are uber-butch man-haters, who hate males and are repulsed by the idea of sex with them. OR you're a big free-wheeling slut. It's a lose-lose situation, when people are being horrible.
("stupid idiots" refers not to everyone of course, but a rather large portion of society, who, judging by the barrage of cruel and uneducated shit I read on the internet, don't deserve my understanding and leeway. I'm talking to you, internet bullies! The type of people who torment insecure teenage girls! The ones who said horrible things about Adele's weight the moment she delivered her baby. You're scum. I'm talking about you.) Say you're a feminist and some cowardly tool with an abysmally unfunny user name is calling you a fat dyke. That is (in my opinion) why women are shying away from calling themselves feminists. Words can hurt, and nasty people (maybe some of whom are women themselves) say hateful, ignorant nonsense. Take the higher road. Behaving with an iota of basic human decency you'll end up there anyway, eventually.

Taylor Swift writes songs to shame guys who did her wrong but won't call herself a feminist.
Kelly Clarkson is voting Obama because she defends her gay friends right to love, but won't call herself a feminist.
Ashley Judd is awesome and totally embraces the fact that she's a feminist.

Intelligent. Gorgeous. Feminist.

Ryan Gosling (he totally loves this) is a feminist icon! Feminism (like bow ties) is cool.

Ladies, famous or no, it's important to realize that feminism is great. Why wouldn't we want to embrace our social, political and economic rights?!? Why would we let anybody tell us what we can or can't do WITH OUR OWN BODIES??
WOMEN are great.
Supporting women is a great idea! It's not a dirty word, and you shouldn't be put off by it.
See? Super simple. Would Ryan Gosling lie to you?

Eat. Clean. Ruminate.

Hello all. Happy Monday.

I had such a weird weekend. The weather was beautiful, perfect cool autumn sunshine. Blue skies and fiery leaves and just enough sun to never feel too cold. I walked everywhere. I got so much done, as I'd hoped to. But for the love of God or money I couldn't turn off my brain and the crazy thoughts that burned through it non-stop.

It all began Saturday night when I made the (somewhat controversial) choice to stay home, cook dinner and watch Eat, Pray, Love. I acknowledge that this movie has nothing spectacular going for it, other than excellent cinematography and in-depth exploration of all the delicious food on offer in Italy. It's a story (true, apparently) about a woman's round-the-world journey to reignite her own spark and enjoy life again after going through a terrible divorce. For those of us who cannot afford to suddenly drop everything and take off on a global quest of self-discovery, it's a nice dream.
But...
I think it caught me at such a crazy time that I ended up watching the entire thing, and having legitimate emotional reactions to some of the things characters were saying. (Except James Franco. God I cannot put into words how much I loathe James Franco. He is the worst. The. Worst.)

My favorite exchange was between Julia Roberts and Javier Bardem (who is sometimes very regal, and other times bears a striking resemblance to an Easter Island statue).

After all the sassy village ladies of Bali kept telling her to find a lover, Julia snaps.
"I'm sick of people telling me that I need a man."
To which Javier Bardem (hoping to secure a spot as said lover) replies calmly,
"You don't need a man, Liz. You need a champion."

You need a champion. What a wonderful idea. Not merely a lover, or a friend, or a companion.
A champion. I suspect if more women held out for champions...there would be a great deal more single women! (But lucky for Javier, this line totally worked.)

Even after the credits rolled, parts of the film stayed with me, because I spent the next day cleaning out my apartment, and sorting through ghosts of my own.When you watch a film about examining your life, then spend the next day doing just that (as well as dusting, killing huge scary bugs, and unclogging the tub) one cannot help but hark back to the other.

I keep correspondence. Most of it anyways. Re-reading cards and letters was good. Some I kept, while others I could let go. I found photographs. Articles I'd cut out of magazines. Things that meant so much and nothing. I found P's Christmas card. Tore it up. Threw it away. Found the letters I had written but never mailed to him post-breakup. I read through my stages of grief. You could actually map out each stage, letter-to-letter. At first I crumpled them up to throw them out as well, but I changed my mind. Because as the letters went on, I got stronger. I called him out (in writing anyways) on a lot of things I wish I'd said to his face. But I am glad the letters exist. I put them in a manila envelope, wrote P's full name on the front, and tucked them back onto the shelf. Maybe I'll be ready to throw them out when I clean it again. Maybe I'll use them to get through the next breakup. Maybe someone will give them to P in the event I get hit by a cab (not what I'm hoping, but with NYC cabs, you can never really be sure.) When Julia says goodbye to her ex in this stupid dream-sequence (NOTHING IN REAL LIFE CAN BE SOLVED IN A DREAM SEQUENCE) she tells him "So, miss me. Send me love and light every time you think of me... Then drop it. It won't last forever. Nothing does." I do still miss him. Don't know about the love & light. But then I drop it. Because I have to. There is no other choice.

Looking through photographs, I thought back again to the movie, this time where Julia Roberts is tapping into her spiritual, meditation-loving side in India. Her young Indian friend has just been married off and Julia is telling her that she dedicated her daily prayers to the girl's happiness. (I like that too. Whatever. It's nice.) Julia tells the girl that she pictured her happy, to which she says:

"What did I look like when I was happy?"

Takes the wind out of your sails. I think about the photos I have just gone through. I'm a kid. My cheeks are so chubby. Everything is so chubby! HA. I've got adorable short hair. College photos. Still trying to figure out my eyebrows, but my eyes look greener like Mom's every day. And since? Thinner face. Nailed the eyebrows. Know my angles. Some of the smiles are real and others aren't. I think I look harder. Older for sure. Happy? I don't know. Photo to photo, I suppose. Two photos on my bulletin board where I know I was happy, and in them I'm confident that I'm beautiful. I haven't taken pics like that in ages. Talking with my mom this weekend, she said "you sound great" and it caught me by surprise. I said "Ups and downs" which is the honest answer. Now she was the one caught off guard. But sounding upbeat one day doesn't mean that everything else cancels out. With my mind running fast and furious this weekend (it took hours to get to sleep every night because I couldn't turn off) I had all these crazy thoughts and some nightmares. In one, I likened my current situation to being in a harness raised just slightly off the ground, so that my feet didn't touch. I sprint, because in my mind I sprint like Usain Bolt, but obviously I don't go anywhere, I just sort of swing back and forth a bit from the exertion. Does that make any sense? It's like I am hustling the fuck out of this, but I am in a harness just about the ground. I don't move forward in anything. Dad never gets better or worse, my plays are good but not good enough, and whatever it is that I need to get my life back into place is seemingly out of my reach, but always in the eye line.

Lessons? Fewer Julia Roberts movies. More sleep aids. Clean only when necessary.

Radio Silence

Crazy cleaning lady (the one who calls me "pumpkin" and "baby") stopped by my desk this morning and pointed over my shoulder.

Sigh.

"Yah see that building cross tha street?"

"Yup." (I did not turn around)

"See tha grates on it?"

(Oh for fuck's sake - I turn around for a second) "I do."

"They look like a' old radio. That's how radios use ta look. Radio is tha best. They used to be this high (she demonstrates) and I'd lie on tha floor an' listen to tha radio. Radio is tha best. TV sucks."
(She did say "radio" that many times. I do not fib.)

(Of course, as she rambles on, I am reading an article about a TV show, and I wish to myself that she would either burst into flames or get transferred to another floor. Seeing as my skin is kind of sensitive to heat, I suppose the latter. Then she creepily rubs my back and skulks off. Later she will come back and ask me (while I am up to my ass in invoices) what "my real job is." After that I would be willing to tolerate a bit of irritated skin if she'd just go away.)

I don't know about you, but as long as I've lived in an urban area, and especially since we sold my car (RIP Luddite - that was the name of my last chariot...that sexy gold '97 tank) I don't listen to the radio. Every once in a while I'll pop on Pandora while at work, or out on a walk, but even then I'm just not tuned in. Now I have NO IDEA what the kids are listening to nowadays! Gah! My only real exposure anymore comes from renting a car for a trip. Even then I scan somewhat in frustration. I don't know how stations really work anymore! All I ever seem to land on is Latin pop (sick beats, but I like to sing along) or intense Bible yelling (a one-sided conversation about faith? Pass.) NPR is cool, but in small bursts. I can handle maybe one or two stories before I need to switch it up. So not much radio for me.

I've always been a big believer in the practice of "going radio silent." Giving in to my most private and misanthropic tendencies. Before my dad got sick I used to do it more frequently, but now keeping my phone off for more than a day or so isn't really a great idea. But starting Friday night and going through Saturday, I'm going to simply unplug. Might check Facebook but not much else. It's going to be SWEET. I'm going to clean and write and catch up on things! I'm going for walks! I might even buy a new pair of shoes for work! Things are gonna get WILD.

Also, I really like these shoes. I used to hate them. Am I growing up, or turning into my Dad?

Reader's Remorse

When asked what I did at work on any given day, the answer is usually thus:

"Did my job. Wrote some plays. Read the internet."

Now, while I acknowledge that no I do not read the entire internet whilst a work, I sure do read a lot. It's good and bad. Yes, I am filling my brain with information. And yes, probably 9 out of 10 articles I read are clutter, hoarding valuable RAM and keeping me too closely adhered to the goings-on of the cultural zeitgeist. Even worse, I haven't been able to focus on a proper book in nearly a year. What happened to my attention span....well, whatever. (Ha. See what I did there? Wakka Wakka.) I've got all these books I've been wanting to finish for ages (The Fault in Our Stars, Cloud Atlas, Londoners, The Graveyard Book) that I simply can't focus on. I've been spoiled by bite-size reading material, articles filled with pictures that frequently last about 3-4 pages. I'm ruined, I tell you. Ruined.
But I know a lot of (useless) stuff! About (stupid) things!

To give you an idea, here's a list of some of my most frequently visited sites - and feel free to judge. I judge myself:

Entertainment Weekly
The New York Times
People
New York Post
Huffington Post
Jezebel
The Hairpin
Us Weekly
Rolling Stone
The Guardian
The Telegraph
The Daily Mail
The Washington Post

When I read The Washington Post (a holdover from my precocious high school days, now the journalism is somewhat washed-out in my opinion) I tend to scope out the headlines, the opinions section, sports (until the Nationals fucked everything up and confirmed this is indeed a desolate and Godless world) and Carolyn Hax.

That's odd, some might interject. What's a Carolyn Hax? Ms. Hax is a long-running advice columnist who regularly dishes out hard truths, let-downs, come uppers, and some wisdom in her column. I really like it. Sometimes you read it and think "at least my family isn't a bunch of assholes like that poor guy" or "girl, if you want to get married, stop being so crazy." It makes me feel like I've got some insight into the human condition, you know? And I am, admittedly, the last person in the world who should be handing out advice to anyone. I mean, you read this. You know.

This all started last week when I read a Carolyn Hax column with a query submitted by someone who sounds as if they've been rattling around in the darkest recesses of my soul. The question was this:

From a reader: “Some friends have had a massive string of good luck lately. I’ve celebrated every single blessing with them and am honestly happy for them. While they have had the string of good luck, I’m having the mediocre to bad luck. I’m starting to get tired of putting on the happy face and celebrating...I don’t want to become bitter because they are great people and they do deserve everything they are receiving. But ‘WHY NOT ME!’ keeps popping into my head. Any suggestions on how to fight the jealous/bitter monster?”


The majority of responses were in the vein of "Cheer up, your time to shine will come when you least expect it!" Like every other idiot with an opinion, I wanted to chime in too. (Though I didn't, because it meant creating a user name and log-in, and GOD DAMN IT I am so sick to death of doing that.)

I wanted to say this to the reader.

Reader, life sucks. I (and a whole bunch of other people I suspect) will vouch for it. More often than not, we lose. We fail. We are spurned. We fuck up. Evil wins. The people we love leave us, in one way or another. The hurt never fully goes away. Our bodies rot before our very eyes. The kids who bullied us in school grow up to be rich and happy CEOs. That is just the way it is.

(Real life side note: I smell maple syrup. Am I having a stroke?)

Play the Debbie Downer (waaah-waaaaah) if you want to, but that is just some cold hard truth. Rarely do we get to live our dreams. Not everyone finds true love. Sometimes we just have to slug it out on Planet Earth by going into survival mode. This is nobody's fault. Especially not your friends. Your friends are people whom you love and admire. So it's OK to feel horrible about your situation, and pissed off, and left out. Feel your feelings, because they are legit. But don't blame others for having the hand you don't. Because somebody somewhere feels the same about you.

I hope things get better for you, Reader. I really do. I want to believe that they will, but until the day that I am pleasantly surprised, the armor that holds people like us together can't have any cracks of sentimental bullshit in it. So buck up, kiddo, and go be that single drunk friend with the mediocre job and myriad of problems at the wedding. Here's hoping it's an open bar. 

One last thing. These are the three responses to reality checks that make EVERYONE shake their head in dismay. Feel free to slap someone when they say them to you.

1. "Put out positive energy and good things will come back to you." Blatantly false. People will appreciate your cheerful nature (and the fact they can walk all over you), but that's about it.

2. "Once you stop looking you find love." No. You find 30 extra pounds and possibly a cat or two.

3. Pretty much every "life mantra" I've seen on Pinterest. Is that what you exist for, Pinterest? Adorable ideas for cupcakes and crafts, as well as bumper stickers?
Concession: I did quite like this one.

 

State of the Union: Presented by Microsoft Paint

When we last left our heroine....she was very flattered her blog had received over 7,000 views.....but still, she was having a hard time focusing, and was instead enjoying the rewards of playing with Microsoft Paint...

It was October, the wonderful autumn season. Her roommate had brought home a carved jack-o-lantern, and she wanted to get in on the fun...

Her self-esteem was suffering due to mosquito bites making her look like that poor tribute who got stung to death by tracker jackers in The Hunger Games....

Also she seemed on track for a solid Bad Hair Month....

The man she pined for at the office continued to be wonderful but clueless....

All you need to understand the following picture is thus:
The brown cube hiding my lower half is my desk.
His legs are blue lines because they are skinny jeans.
Yes, that IS a lightning bolt.



And the writing was slow. She's working on some projects. But her focus is off. Except for this blog. You're welcome, I guess?

Tabula Rasa

After taking Latin in school for about seven years, I can read most diplomas and the sides of old buildings. Every once in a while I can even drop a phrase like I am some kind of wise old owl with a little extra insight into the goings-on of the world. Yeah. I'm like the most useless member of the Avengers. I don't just veni vidi vici you guys, I amo amas amat like a boss, and when that gets old, I jump on my bike and am like ad astra, per aspera bitches! I'm like episodes of "Rome" and "New Girl" got together and had a baby.

This was my textbook in sixth grade. No jokes.

(Yes. Kids who took Latin are just that cool.)
(Perhaps not. I image searched "Latin is cool" and got a bunch of pictures of young hispanic dudes making obscene gestures and scantily clad ladies. Then I searched "Ancient Latin is cool" and was offered images of old, broken rocks. Damn it.)

Quick, everyone look over there!

I've been ruminating on a particular phrase lately...Tabula Rasa, or the "clean slate."

If you run and Google "tabula rasa" you'll find a lot of interesting writing on the idea of the mind as a clean slate ready to be imprinted with ideas and the origins of modern psychology. But what I'm focused on is more of a clean slate, as in starting over...beginning again.

About an hour ago I asked the interwebs what the best cities for "starting over" are. I'm not quite sure what I was expecting. But I know how I currently feel, which is utterly shattered and exhausted, and ready for life to suck a lot less. I'm thinking that change - big, mega, awesome change - could be just the catalyst I need. Interestingly, a lot of people have also been interested in cultivating their own clean slates, and multiple articles popped up, pegging cities with high rates of employment, nice atmosphere, low crime, and single people (which I, who basically have the mindset of a romantic comedy, didn't even think of). Places in Maine, Virginia, New Hampshire, Nebraska and the Dakotas popped up. Some looked very pretty. But....I think New York and London have ruined me a bit. Even though I am feeling very very very ready for a new life (I'm on the verge!) nothing on those lists seem quite as good. For me anyways. Where the dickens am I supposed to go? San Diego sounds better by the day. I can envision myself heading west, which I couldn't years ago. Maybe Nashville, even? I hear good things. Or like a small coastal town. Downsize everything. I've stayed East so long for my parents, but I'm pretty sick and tired of it. Obviously I'd love to head back to Europe, but nobody is ponying up any visas for my mad Latin skillz, so that seems to be a dream on the perpetual back burner. I wish I had more answers, but right now there seem to be only questions.

durate et vosmet rebus servate secundis - Virgil

Carry on, and preserve yourself for better times. 

The Sea, The Sea

Two recent weekends, I have found myself staring, hypnotized, into the Atlantic Ocean.

View from hotel, Virginia Beach

Disclaimer: I don't have any particularly elegant turns of phrase or insights into the wonders of the ocean. All I am is a person who is kind of obsessed. I hadn't really put it together until I was flipping through the pictures and videos on my phone, and SO MANY (like 1 in 8) of them were images of the water. Who does that? It's like fish porn. Aquaobsession. I can't explain it. But none of the pictures or videos are good enough. Nothing can quite capture the magic of being...actually, physically being...by the waterside. And I think that's why I keep trying. Maybe it's not about being able to relive the sights, or smells. I'm trying to capture a feeling.

I know I am not the only one who can sit contentedly for hours upon end, staring out at the ocean, watching the waves and listening to the soft explosions it makes upon the shore. It's soothing. It's rhythmic. There's a reason that "ocean waves" comes installed on pretty much every machine ever designed to make sleep noises. And then there's that smell....salt ocean water smell. Clean and fresh and like a hit of pure joy. One of my exes used to say I felt this way because my parents were in the Navy...wherein I gently had to remind him that the Navy and Pirates are two separate organizations with occasional overlaps in policy.Yar.

 Same view, slightly stormier (and about 25 degrees colder)

Interestingly enough, I do know some people who are deathly terrified of the ocean. This is also a viewpoint with merit, and funnily, another reason why I find the ocean so incredible. It is fucking DEADLY and filled with some scary shit. Just as much as the sea is this incredibly beautiful part of nature, it is also strong and unpredictable and can end your life rapidly. (See: Drowning, Tsunamis, Sharks, Jellyfish etc.) Drowning is, I imagine, one of the scariest ways to die. All that intensity aside, though, I still worship the seaside. I love the beach even more when it is stormy. Maybe I just think of the ocean as having qualities I admire in a person - fascinating and calming, but also strong and bad-ass. Perhaps I love the sea so much because I want to be like it when I grow up. Old and wise and salty. I seem well on my way.

Newport, Rhode Island

"You're Still My Little Girl"

 So...due to a whole bunch of reasons (A family situation...also I'm very, very tired and covered in agonizingly inflamed mosquito and spider bites) I didn't really process that yesterday was Monday, so I forgot to post. Here you go. I'll have nicer things written later, but right now I'm cranky as fuck, this is all you get.

Growing up is a lot of stupid shit.

(If I ever become famous, I'm sure saying something so broadly dumb will haunt me. But it's true.)

I find one of the most difficult things to come to terms with as I get older is the changes in the relationship you have with your parents. Now, obviously, mine came a lot sooner than planned, but in the cycle of life, we frequently must become the care-givers for our folks when they can't do it for themselves. The problem is, that as we take on these new responsibilities (and the hard, heavy emotions that come with them) our parents still think of us as their babies.

And trust me, if I could have stayed a sweet little girl for a much longer period of time, I would have. It sounds very appealing. Especially now.

But I can't so I didn't. It doesn't stop my mother from sometimes saying the exact same things to me as she did when I was 7, 10 or 16 years old. It comes purely from a place of love, protection and concern, which is always why I feel like such a dick when I snap at her. I never mean to.

I realized this has been in the forefront of my mind due to an old cleaning lady who works in my office building. She's 69 years old, got this crazy thick Boston accent, and is just inappropriate enough to make me hugely uncomfortable all the time. Every time I see her, she's got to tell me about some relative of hers whose birthday it would have been today, or how she misses her "granbabies" or something stupid her daughter did. Then she tells me she's too old for this job (I concur), coughs with her mouth open on my desk, makes a comment about all the celebrity "queers" - usually in earshot of one of my gay coworkers- and slinks away. Last time I saw her she loudly said one of the guys who works in the mailroom looks like a pineapple. I'm assuming this is simply because he has dreadlocks.

Here's the deal.

I'm sorry she has to be doing a thankless job at that age. I wish she didn't. That really sucks. I don't know anything about her life before, but she tells me that she used to live hard and make stupid decisions. Talks about ex-husbands and smoking and drinking all day and staying out all night. She tells me men are pigs and I look very pretty without makeup. I don't know what to believe!! She's very brusque and intense. Also, she leaves her mouth open when she's done talking, like when my cat leaves his tongue outside of his mouth after yawning. Close that thing up.

But the part that bothers me most....she calls me "baby" or "babygirl" or "pumpkin" whenever she sees me. I KNOW. It's so stupid. It's harmless. But I am 30 goddamn years old.I am a professional. I am not a baby. I am not a pumpkin. I am not a pumpkin baby. IT PISSES ME OFF.

FUCK YOU PUMPKIN BABY. YOU DON'T KNOW ME.

(Disclaimer: I am one of those women guilty of sometimes calling her boyfriend "babe" but I don't think that's in the same league. It's not infantalizing. It's not condescending. I don't think so anyway.)

I'm so cranky I should probably stop posting. I bought some hydrocortizone for the bites, but....damn it I feel so hideous and horrible. Also more people at my office are getting laid off. This is not my week. I kind of want to cry. BUT I CAN'T BECAUSE I'M NOT A GODDAMN BABY.

Sports Are NOT A Clue

First of all, let us take a moment to acknowledge that the Washington Nationals are in the playoffs and that is kind of cool and miraculous. DC sports teams are notoriously (endearingly?) shitty, with a knack for blowing huge leads and players who don't deliver. So, yes. Go Nats. Woo.
(Maybe now people will stop ask if the W on my baseball cap stands for Walgreens.)

I am a heterosexual female who enjoys watching sports. I'm not particularly die-hard over any teams or players, though I have dated men who are, and I in turn began to care about them too. But yes. A straight lady who likes sports. Not that big a phenomenon. So why (this is a legit question) am I SO STUPID to repeatedly use "liking sports" as a litmus test for a man's sexuality? I AM STUPID. And wrong. Granted, none of the gay men I socialize with are particularly into sports, but if I learned anything from watching Season 1 of Smash, it's that gay dancers can also be really into the Knicks. Also that Bollywood is terrific. But that's neither here or there. That kind of thinking is narrow, close-minded nonsense and I'm as guilty of it as the next person.

But I heard my work crush talking about the playoff games this morning with his friend Smokey (who I have thus Christened because he takes a smoke break every 20 minutes or so) and my heart skipped a beat and hopes swung back into the "maybe he isn't" category which is silly, stupid, and most likely incorrect. Just because he enjoyed the game doesn't mean he automatically likes ladies. It's like those statements I was always terrible at during high school math class. (It's logic. I fail at basic, simple, monkey logic.)

Take my own idiocy and use it against me.

All straight men like sports (False)
To like sports, one must be a straight man (False)

To really hammer home how delusional I've been I will share with you a story about yet another crush I had about 5 years ago. I don't even remember his name now. Michael? He came into the gym where I worked (I used to toy with dreams of being a personal trainer and specializing in recovery physical therapy - more on that another time) and every day he'd be so sweet. He'd smile and ask how I was doing, and always turn around to smile at me again as he made his way up the stairs. I was smitten and all my co-workers knew. Whenever I was on the gym floor itself, assisting one of the PTs, I'd see him running on the treadmill and watching ESPN. I had no idea what he did for a living, or anything about him other than he had a nice smile and liked watching ESPN.

You know where this story is going. He wasn't straight. Michael? Kevin? No I think it was Michael. That sounds right. Michael wasn't straight. But I didn't know that until he told me. And he didn't tell me until I'd swallowed a lifetime's worth of shyness and run after him on my last day of work (remaining as ever the consummate professional) and told him I liked him and wondered if he'd like to go out sometime. Obviously I took all my dating tips circa 1992. "Wanna go out?" Gah. Embarrassing. That was definitely one of those moments where the idea of bursting into flames was really appealing.

So after Michael politely (and awkwardly) told me that he was gay I slunk back to work and found my coworker R waiting with open arms for a hug. He said "I've gotta give props for what you just did. That took balls. That was cool. Sorry he's gay." I laughed and accepted the hug. Because R was right. At least I tried. I put myself out there (based on completely stupid logic) and ended up looking like a grade-A idiot. It was pretty humiliating in the moment.

But at least I tried.

What Is Lady Swagger?

A few days ago, I was in the ladies room, making myself look presentable again after housing a Hot Pocket for lunch (this grace and beauty can be all yours, fellas) and I saw one of my quiet Asian co-workers from accounting doing a thorough job of brushing and flossing her teeth over the sink. It was precise, dedicated - almost like a ritual. I see her there pretty much every day around 2pm, and I smiled at her and said.

"I wish I took as good care of my teeth."

She nodded and smiled. For reasons inexplicable (filling the awkward void) I continued:

"I mean, it's paying off because you've got such a lovely smile."

"Oh thank you" she said, blushing now.

As I washed my hands, I thought to myself "Damn girl, you've got lady swagger. You're charming as fuck. You got it going on. You are nice and people like you. You're like a lady George Clooney."

Hella Smooth.

Then I started cracking up because that's such a ridiculous thing to think.

So if you saw me yesterday, in the ladies room, I was saying silly things, then washing my hands, smiling and laughing to myself. You can order my straight jacket in a size medium (I've got broad shoulders).

At first I thought "I wonder what it would be like to put my brain in a man's body for a day. I think I would be crazy charming, and kind and smart, and SUCH a good listener and ladies would love me. But then I'd be me, so I'd be a gay man. (At last!) And then the ladies would be sad because yet another charming man would not be interested in them. So that's not good."

But I think that kind of rakish charm, that wily (!) wit, the smoldering self-satisfaction and carefree sexual bravado hasn't really been defined for this generation of women. We don't have that kind of role model, at least none that I can think of. Can you? Seriously. I'm willing to listen. There is no lady equivalent to Clooney now, just as there wasn't to Cary Grant then. No lady Isaac Hayes. No lady Ryan Gosling. Why can't we ladies be the slick bachelorettes, who are so full of charisma that the internet makes memes about us?!? We wouldn't worry about our weight or our relationship status. We'd just be living. We'd be working for the weekend. And it would rock.

I want to embrace and embody the spirit of the Lady Clooney. I think it can be done. It requires a certain self-confidence, a sense of humor, a heightened awareness of yourself and others. It is a manifest of charm, intelligence, and a kind of devil-may-care, I-own-my-bad-decisions kind of attitude. I think if I could really cultivate this within myself it would rock my world in the best possible way. Who couldn't use a little more self-confidence? (Answer:John Mayer)

Now, the important thing to emphasize here is that Lady Swagger doesn't mean dropping all the great aspects of femininity and suddenly acting like some Rat-Pack (or Brat-Pack) reject. I think we ladies would be loathe to give up our feminine wiles (!) in favor of purely masculine ones. It's finding the balance that is the trick here. For example, today I am rocking a cute tank top and a slim-cut, very feminine blazer with some rockstar black jeans to work. I. Look. Fly. End of story. I feel pretty and powerful, and I've gotten some admiring glances. The thing is, I don't let any of this change my normal behavior. I'm still saying please and thank you and trying to inspire feelings of good will and cheer around me.

I don't think Lady Swagger is all surface. It's not just bravado. It's owning up to every part of yourself and being supremely satisfied with the person staring back at you in the mirror. Yes, frequently I am an idiot. I screw up. But none of those realizations have to detract from the fact that I am cool and charming and sexy and awesome. Or at least I try and tell myself. Lady Swagger, Jamestown. Lady Swagger. Get some.

All this being said, I'm working really hard to keep this from becoming sad emo teenager blog. The backslide continues and I'm still feeling like a big emotional clusterfuck right now. Like, this morning started off with being upset over missing P (it's just going to get worse over the holidays, so if you want to jump ship, the time is now) but then I had a massive upswing when I found out that my beloved friend D just BOUGHT A BAR in London and now I just want to go visit him and reap the rewards of having a friend with a bar. My life will finally be like Cheers. That and I miss D. But the bar is kind of huge and wonderful news, seeing as he's been talking about doing it for years and now he has. Wow. Awesome.

Controversial Praise?: Seth Macfarlane

My friend C and I used to play this game called "Controversial Shag" in which we'd name celebrities that we find attractive that other people might consider to be horrible, horrible decisions.

(The best round we ever had was with Richard Hammond from Top Gear - what is it about little mousey men with a love of fast cars that is just so damn cute?)

Anyways, Seth Macfarlane, creator of Family Guy, American Dad, The Cleveland Show and Ted, RISD graduate, accomplished musician, and general bazillionaire nerd fanboy has been popping up on my radar a lot recently. He did an OUTSTANDING job hosting SNL, had the only moment of genuine surprise and fun at the Emmy awards, and has apparently bagged himself the super-hot girl (who, come on Seth, is a bit too young for you but well done anyways) who plays the Khaleesi on Game of Thrones. If this were VH1, I'd say Seth Macfarlane is having the best couple of weeks ever.

When word came out that he was dating yet another 24 year old (he's 38), many simply reiterated what they already suspected: he's an emotional adolescent with no talent, too much money, and a gross taste for young women.

I respectfully disagree.

Ok, I will say I think dating girls in their early twenties when you're in your late 30s is not my favorite kind of behavior. But it happens. And I'm pretty sure that every pretty 20something he dates also knows that he's a well-connected, enormously wealthy man. He's also wildly intelligent, darkly funny, sings well, and is handsome. It's not like he's some disfigured cave troll just leeching onto supermodels.

What I really admire most about Seth Macfarlane is the fact that he seems to really love what he does. And he works a lot. Voicing multiple characters in several shows, you get the impression that this guy is living out his dreams. He gets to have fun, do what he trained to do, and make cash hand over fist making people laugh with inappropriate jokes and seemingly out-of-nowhere pop culture references. I think American Dad is genius. I also think Family Guy: Blue Harvest was one of the funniest things I've ever seen. People call Macfarlane a douchebag because he makes a lot of the same jokes. So what? More often than not, they're FUNNY. He seems pleased with his success? Good, he should be.

I love my life! (He seemed to say)

I know many people will consider my praise a bit ridiculous. C'est la vie, eh? (French/Canadian)