Lupe.

Wow. It has been a LONG time...a lot's gone down. And by a lot I mean I became a 'mom'.

Welcome to my world as a tiny puppy owner. Admittedly this was one of my brashest, unplanned actions thus far, and I'm a hell of a planner...but it was also one of the best decisions I've ever made. At three and a half months old, she is 3lbs, 3oz. She doesn't respond to her name, she likes toilet paper (thus it's been moved) better than any of her toys and she can only walk a block or two at a time. I've never had a dog. I have no idea what I'm doing. This is total madness and I've never been calmer.

So. There's my explanation for the hiatus. Here's to hoping we're back on track!

Love,
L and L

My! What Pretty Decorations You Have!

A couple days ago, I go to take my break and eat lunch on a swinging bench out front of my job. A little girl, about three years old, is swinging violently on the thing, so I ask her if I can join her (I like swinging, I can balance my soup, I want to be outside). She says YES!, so I sit. All of a sudden she's nearly in my lap, face about two inches from mine inspecting my nose and ears.

"What are those THINGS in your nose?!" She asks, referring to a couple of piercings.

"Oh, they're just decorations that some big people like to get." I respond.

"OH! Like a Christmas tree?!" She exclaims, she's getting louder and shriller now..."Like Christmas decorations for your NOSE!"

I am dying laughing. Her mother is dying laughing. I love kids.

Cut Me A Deal.

Picture the scene. After fleeing work 15 minutes after arriving (one of my compadres arrived, thinking he was opening...and I ran away) to FINALLY go to the doctor after a) having been in THE WORST PAIN I'VE EVER FELT (and I've felt some horrible pain) for four days straight and b) almost having dragged my unable-to-stand-straight body to the ER ten blocks from my apartment, I find myself in the fetal position in the office. The office of NOT my normal doctor. All is not lost, I am still finding comfort in the fact that the entire 'medical complex' looks like a ship from Star Trek. Love. It.

Back on track. The doctor, we'll just call him Dr. C, comes in...he starts poking and prodding like doctors are wont to do while I grimace and shudder. Test results come back (I'm an expert at peeing in a cup...less of an expert at giving blood samples) and he makes his diagnosis. I say blah. He says he can't give me painkillers though I KNOW FOR A FACT that anyone else would get demerol. I get it, I know why he can't prescribe me demerol (and honestly, I'd end up tossing it after a dose or two), but I still don't understand how he's just gonna send me home like this.

And here's where the real kicker comes in.

Dr. C, who is now sitting on one of those godawful roll-y stools, fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out a card.

"I am actually an acupuncturist on the side. I don't practise it here. I have a clinic....you familiar with Chinatown?"

Now, I'm all for alternative methods, really. And I love Chinatown...for dim sum and cheap markets that sell food items you can't find anywhere else. But he goes on...

After giving me specific directions to probably the busiest corner I can think of in Chinatown, and as I'm actually considering this as an option, I decide to ask about price. And this is where I swear to you Dr. C adopts an auctioneers voice:

"Anywhere else, 150 dolla...for you, you come today...60 dolla. Really a good deal."

I am...confused...floored...in too much discomfort to know what to do...I know my jaw dropped.

And upon my exit I found it absolutely, 100% necessary to phone a friend.

Five Year Plan.

The defining characteristic of my adult life has become very clear to me: this is all just a huge, complete and total crap shot. In the most positive way possible.

I'm a planner, I'm goal oriented and I don't like to not know what's happening at every moment of every day...for the next ten years. But that's not working out so much at this point in time and...surprisingly, I'm sort of beginning to embrace it. I have no idea what I'm doing tomorrow, except for a very loose skeleton of a to-do list that pretty much reminds me that I will show up to work (same place, same time, same tasks as every other Friday), I will workout and I might call to renew my renter's insurance. Duh. And you know what? It's not as scary as I thought. I actually don't even want to SPECULATE about what kind of madness will ensue tomorrow. This past week has been more than enough.

But anyway. I began to laugh about the whole idea of a five-year-plan since, quite frankly, nothing is set, nothing is certain and nothing really matters in my life right now. I could decide to pack my shit and leave tomorrow and it simply would. not. matter. The joys of having no spouse, no children and very few commitments I suppose. And while I say that nothing is set, nothing is certain and nothing really matters, I still have to remind myself that I have very real goals that I am ridiculously attached to.

So, without further ado...here is my (part honest-go-God, part tongue-in-cheek) 5-year-plan (sans timeline...too uncertain...).

-Go to Graduate School. Accrue many student loan debts. Live off of scraps in bad neighborhood. Love every minute of it.
-Get Pitbull. Name it Jolene.
-If dog is decidedly too big/too scary (lets be real, I'm terrified of dogs)...get new parrot instead. Name it Jolene.
-SHOOT! As in complete the huge notebook full of photo series' I've mapped out, sketched out, written proposals for etc. etc. etc.
-Get a job with benefits. That doesn't require working weekends.
-Get job where I run the show.
-Run the show.
-Go on a date with someone worth going on a third date with (you know, since two dates is protocol with me...UNLESS I come to find out on date one that you've just been released from a 12-year stint in the Federal Penitentiary. THEN I think a second date is really not necessary...)
-Learn how to sleep.
-Be able to afford a GREAT studio space. That isn't in my apartment.
-Get back in as-close-to-my-competitive-dance-years shape as I can possibly get without being able to be a competitive dancer.
-Work up the courage to touch a banana without cringing, hyperventilating and ultimately making someone else do it.
-Have long hair again. So I can realize how much I hate having to deal with my long hair and chop it off again.
-Tell everyone who needs to hear it to 'shut up and let me go'...and not care what they'll do.
-Have a job where I can both afford and have a REASON to wear fancy clothes. Have a fancy job.
-Finally get around to deleting all the Cure off my computer. And the Daft Punk. And the Radiohead. Talk about things that totally kill the mood when they come up on iTunes shuffle.
-Find a way for it to be appropriate and acceptable to wear more super sparkly things.

That's all I've got for right now. I think it's time to lay in bed and THINK some more. Not dream...cause one would have to be asleep to dream. Please refer to 5-year-plan.

Déjà Vu

My father is a PhD chemist, I grew up on college campuses and constantly (as a small child) became the entertainment for my father's post doc students. I used to supply the Chemistry Department with girl scout cookies and drawings in red, black, blue and green dry erase on a regular basis. At dinner parties, I, the only child until my younger brother came around, was the cute thing for everyone to coo over and talk to awkwardly. I adore when people who don't know how to talk to children TRY to talk to children. It always ends up more than a little...weird.

In one such incident, one of my father's students decided that asking a 4-year-old ME what I wanted to be when I grew up was a good idea. Generally, when you ask a little kid this, they'll say something like 'ballerina' or 'fire fighter' or 'astronaut.' GENERALLY. By age 4, I had been taking ballet and creative movement classes for about a year and was VERY into them. I LOVED dancing.

Not only did I love dancing, but on the way to and from church, we had to pass a Déjà Vu. Yeah, the strip club with the garish legs in fishnets on a huge ass billboard on the side of the road. The one with the legs THAT LOOK LIKE BALLERINA LEGS. Let me reiterate...I was four and I loved. to. dance.

So...how did I respond to this twenty-something's question? At one of my father's dinner parties? With about 15 students around? I'll tell you how. Loudly. Hands on hips. Proudly:

I WANT TO BE A Déjà Vu GIRL!!!!

All I remember is being confused when everyone laughed and later my mother explaining that those girls didn't wear clothes...

Words: Mindf*&k of a Five-Year-Old.

I am five years old, sitting quietly in the backseat of 'Jenny', the gunmetal grey '87 Camry (we are rather Toyota loyal, aren't we?). My mother is driving. We're headed down Lake City Way towards home, we've just passed Deja Vu (which is another blogpost entirely) when mom cranes her head around to me at a stoplight.

She begins to explain, completely straight faced, that 'they' (who? Oh...just nonspecific powers greater than ourselves) have decided to change the meanings of many words. What? She goes on...from now on, the words I HAD a concept for would no longer mean or stand for what they'd meant or stood for yesterday. I don't remember if she gave examples or not, but I do remember the panic that ensued internally for the next few hours...

As a small child I immediately began to worry. I started with my own example, I thought about a sandy beach and a bowl of soup. What if soup means sand and sand means soup and I don't know it and therefore nobody knows what I'm trying to say when I'm talking?!

I thought further about soup and sand...and how sand would make really gross, gritty soup and soupy sand would really just defeat the purpose of whatever I was supposed to call that junk at the beach! We got home and I was quiet for hours, pondering the possibilities...more like just being terrified to open my mouth.

My mother insists to this day that she was just playing around, just enhancing my higher-level thinking skills. Perhaps just trying to get some peace and quiet (come on, those of you who know me wouldn't BLAME her in the least)?? Whatever it was, I find it hilarious.

Hello? Ambien Walrus?!

I don't sleep. No really...I slept an HOUR AND A HALF TOTAL the other night. After much coaxing from some close friends I decided to go to the doctor. You know, cause the insomnia's only been going on for, what, ten years now? Well...this spell has been particularly long and ridiculous, so I went.

I went armed with my list of failed sleep-inducing activities, a timeline of the past four or five months, and an honest to God need to get some ZZZZ's. I got through maybe a paragraph's worth of explanation before my doctor looked at me, in shock, and told me she'd be right back.

Within 15 minutes I held in my shaky little hands an Rx for Ambien and a referral for a sleep study. 45 minutes after that (I did an awesome arm and ab workout at the gym) I walked home with my sacred little pharmacy bag.

It has been so long since I've slept normally and for a legitimate amount of time that, now that I have the little pill to put me there, I'm terrified to take it. I'm not really sure what I'm afraid of...perhaps losing the POWER I feel I have in being awake all the time. Or maybe its just all the Ambien horror stories PLUS the hilarious and extensive medication guide that came with this junk. The first item in a list of "reported activities" while on it is:

DRIVING A CAR ("sleep driving")

Are you KIDDING me?! ThankyouJesus I don't have a car. Also included in the list were (in parentheses, see my thoughts):

Making and eating food (Dear God I'm going to burn the building down)
Talking on the phone (Dear God this sounds worse than drunk dialing)
Having sex (Dear God...oh dear God)
Sleep Walking (Dear God I am going DOWN)

In talking pretty extensively with my roommate about this stuff, he has assured me that if I'm going to do any 'sleep activities' they'll generally be something I already do rather frequently. To which I responded with my list:

SLEEP WORKING OUT (or walking to the gym)
SLEEP WALKING TO MY JOB
SLEEP CLEANING MY KITCHEN
SLEEP TEXTING
SLEEP EATING KASHI GOLEAN AND PLAIN NONFAT YOGURT
SLEEP PAINTING MY NAILS
SLEEP BEATING PEOPLE UP

Obviously some of these are WAY more of a problem than others. If I wake up in my pajamas on the streets of New York because I 'ambiened' myself out of bed and to the gym or work at 2 o'clock in the morning I will be...I don't even know. Impressed? Mortified? Terrified? Amused?

Bottom line, this bottle is going untouched tonight. I think I'll have one or two last hurrah nights with my insomnia. I'm going to embrace it and appreciate it, love it and cherish it. And then I'm going to kick it outta bed like I do to most men (what what?!).

Okay and now for one more comic...cause both of these made me smile big time.

Exile.

Growing up in Seattle, my family had a GORGEOUS backyard. Close to the house we had an awesome swing set and sand box that my father built and painted blue (per my request). The real gem of the property though, was the huge ravine beyond. We're talking true nature here people...it was a freaking forest with a creek at the bottom.

The extent of my ravine experience was limited to making up stories about being chased by horrible villains on the hike down to the bottom and then scaring myself enough that I had to bust ass back up to be in view of the house where I felt safe again (weirdo kiddo).

At least, this was the extent...until my mother came up with new 'family' protocol. One fine Spring day Mom announced that Daniel and I would be spending at least an hour outside, every afternoon, for the rest of summer vacation, starting right that minute. Daniel was thrilled and headed right out. I, on the other hand, was PISSED. I tried ignoring her...I tried mouthing off (which was a REALLY stupid idea. I believe the hour turned into an hour and a half...)...I tried pouting, pleading and begging. I may have tried to convince her to let me call my Dad. I got sent out anyway, and both the front and back door were locked behind me.

I gave in, but not for long. After awhile I convinced Daniel to help me yell loud enough that Mom would hear us from inside the house (what can I say, I've always been good at getting people to jump onboard my missions...). She came out on the deck (two stories up from where we were) demanding to know what we were screaming about. I couldn't think of anything except to say I was dying of hunger.

What happened next never fails to amaze me. It shut me up then, and it would shut me up now. My mother walked back into the house and a few minutes later emerged with a bucket. The big industrial paint sized bucket. We watched her fill it with some food and water, tie one side of a rope to the bucket handle and tie the other side to one of the deck posts.

She then proceeded to lower the bucket from the deck to the backyard, presenting us with a full spread of nutritious food. I kid you not. My mother exiled us. She exiled us for a few hours every afternoon for an entire summer.

I was dumbfounded. I kind of still am...15 years later.

Not Solving the Problem...

I don't get a lot of sleep. Not because I don't try...believe me. This has been going on for almost ten years now and rarely do I feel sleepy during the day. I'll go on 4-5 hours of non-continuous sleep (20-90 minutes at a time) for a few weeks and by a few I mean six to eight. Then I crash. For 3 or 4 days. I still don't legitimately sleep at night, but my afternoon nap goes from 30 minutes to THREE HOURS. And night time sleep happens in longer segments too...occasionally up to 4 hours at a time. Holy Batman.

This is the beginning of a new cycle. I'm sitting here. At 2:20 am. I am not tired. Not in the least. So what the hell do I do to try and get sleepy? You might want to take a seat, I'm about to blow your mind.

Here's what I've done TONIGHT.

-I cleaned the bathroom floor. By hand. On my hands and knees. Every time I've done this the floor is gorgeous...and I'm still not sleepy. Fail.

-I organized all the baking supplies, spices and herbs in the cabinet. And made an inventory list. Not sleepy. Fail.

-I've been reading. Books. Various credible (and not so credible) news sources. Scholarly articles. Manuals (if I'm really desperate). Sometimes works. Not tonight. Fail.

-I swept, mopped and lysol-ed. The apartment. All of it. Now my apartment smells like shit tons of cleaning supplies. If the hour doesn't induce sleep, shouldn't the chemical fumes? No. Fail.

-ONLINE SHOPPING PARTAY!!!! Which means opening up a double digit number of tabs...filling 'shopping carts' with ridiculous amounts of WANTMUSTHAVE items...and then not actually purchasing them. I suppose this is more of 'quiet' game to see how much money I could spend in any one sitting if I had all the dollars in the world. It's sick. I can't admit this number. Noooot sleepy. Fail.

-Chug cup after cup of calming tea. Chamomile. Calming? Maybe? If I squint my eyes and try really hard. Fail.

-I have been returning emails. Dear God I hope the Chair of the MPS program I just emailed doesn't look at the timestamp and judge. Or question. Productive, yes...helping me get to sleep, no. Fail.

-Do. My. Hair. I swear to you, while most days at work my hair looks like a drunk ten year old did it, at 2 am...it's truly impressive the things I can create. A skill level that does not scream 'tired' even a little. Fail.

-I just made a very detailed tasks list for every day between tomorrow and the following Monday. They're all on pretty turquoise post its, lined up equidistant from each other on my desk. I f'ing measured.

And now I am writing. And watching RickRossTV on YouTube (oh yes, this exists and yes...it is as awesomely bad as you think). I have to stop writing for tonight. RickRossTV needs all my attention right now...total derailment. Shiny things. Rick Ross's hilarious beard. Big things poppin'...

A Straight Woman Has No Place in the Kitchen

Confession: I love food. I hate food. I am terrified of food. Simultaneously.

I'm not writing about loving/hating/being terrified of EATING food today (I'm going to continue holding out on you all and just indulging the white coat in the white room with the white notepad thankyouverymuch)...I'm writing about COOKING it.

I LOVE LOVE LOVE to cook. I bake a wicked apple pie. I make a Honey-Dijon baked chicken that is amazing. My manicotti...to die for. I've cooked for people in the past, and I will cook for people in the future (in fact, next week, which is what spurred this totally neurotic post) but I am so terrified of cooking for others IN MY HOME that it's nearly painful. It's not about serving bad food, I have never made anything bad save for a pie crust I made when I was ten years old. 1 C sugar + 1 C flour + 1 C water DOES NOT EQUAL pie crust. It equals rock hard mess. When I'm going to throw caution to the wind and try something that has the potential to be terrible, I try it on myself. In secret. And if it was bad I never speak of it to ANYONE, except perhaps my best friend who would never judge, just laugh.

No, it's not the actual food that terrifies me, but what could go wrong in the process of cooking it. Tonight, while I was at work (where I, surprise surprise, cook for others. I'm telling you, this is all really beyond neurotic), I brainstormed some of my fears. Here is a short list.

*The oven will blow up while I am using it. If that wasn't bad enough, shards of metal and glass will shoot into me and the whole building will go up in flames. The fire department will come. I will be...wait for it, wait for it...embarrassed.

*My kitchen will fill up with smoke, the smoke detector will go off, the evidence of my loss of control over the situation will be absolutely impossible to erase before said guest arrives. (This fear is so old and so real that I actually take the batteries out of my smoke detector while I'm cooking because I am positive that the godawful beeping and dreadful flat voice uttering 'Fire! Fire! Fire!' does absolutely NOTHING to help the situation. I also keep the kitchen window wide open, which is how my super always knows to find a reason for an apartment visit right as cupcakes come out of the oven.)

*The meal will catch on fire inside the oven...but the oven will not blow up...I will, all of a sudden, no longer be able to operate a simple fire extinguisher.

*The oven door will slam shut on my arms while I am putting food in or taking food out. My arms won't just be burnt to hell, they will come off. Into the food.

*I will stab myself in the palm while prepping and bleed out into my unprepared meal and no one will find me and I will die. The worst part of this one is the anxiety is less about the bleeding out an dying and more about the not following through and feeding my guest part. I shake my head at myself.

Really. This is insane. I am going to spend the next week hyperventilating in the back of my mind over a meal I've already planned out start to finish, that I am REALLY EXCITED ABOUT MAKING because it is for someone else! I might PRACTISE the damn thing. I will wrack my best friend and my coworker's brains for tips about food prep and how to make this a 'foolproof' endeavour. But honestly, if I'm going into this CONVINCED my oven is going to blow up, I'm not terribly sure what any of them are going to be able to say to make it okay...

Oh and quick note. The title of this post is a quote from a dear friend of mine who never lets me prepare my own meal at the shop (on principle, he says food tastes better when someone else makes it for you, especially when you spend all day cooking/serving others). I adore you, M!

What Does YOUR Daddy Do?

I work at a family owned coffee shop, run by a husband and wife team. They have three kids. My female boss and I were chatting a few weeks ago and making fun of/ranting about the general male inability to 'get shit done' in a timely and effective manner. She told me this story about her daughter that's had me cracking up ever since:

One weekend, Dad and the three kids went to a family reunion/picnic (Mom stayed behind to WOman the shop). When asked why her mother wasn't at the picnic, their 5-year-old daughter explained that 'mom was at work.' When asked what her mother did, this little girl took a moment to REALLY think the question through, and responded (appropriately enough) with "Everything."

The same relatively (most likely rather amused) asked what her father did, to which she responded: "My dad? Oh...he counts the money!"

Oh my God. Perfect. Dear sweet girl, as soon as you're old enough to understand how incredible your answers were, I will shake your hand. Until then, I'm going to smile even more when I give you your lemonade with a pink straw.

Custody Battle aka Ich Mochte mein Vogel

When I was in the fourth grade, my parents told me if I did enough research I could have a bird. My entire family is ridiculously allergic to cats, so they were out of the question. My father happens to also be allergic to dogs...no deal. Fish are boring. Ferrets smell (and have fur). Bunnies...fur. You get the idea. My only chance at a real pet was a bird.

I don't think my parents were prepared for the level of stubborn they'd created in me. In fact, in view of recent events, I'm rather confident they're STILL not quite aware of how far I will go to get just what I want. As an 8-year-old, I checked out every single book about cockatiels from the Seattle Public Library. I read them cover to cover. Multiple times. My knowledge of cockatiels is sick. Anyway, my parentals finally had to follow through on their promise and our little family trekked off to Wings of the World.

On visit one, there were no baby cockatiels. I checked out Quaker Parrots, parakeets (too small), Lorikeets (too expensive) etc etc...I did not find my bird. On family trek number two, there they were. Four baby birds, still scrawny and quietly screechy. A baby bird crying kind of sounds like raspy, chalk on a chalkboard sound. It's weird. But distinct. Anyway. There were four babies. One had already been claimed and named 'Tango.' Two were sleeping. Then there was the fourth...he was alert...running around...and as interested in me as I was in him. THAT was my bird.

Pippin came home three weeks later. We had to feed him baby formula out of a syringe twice a day, at breakfast and dinner. He would cry, wiggle his head, get 90% of his formula on his feathers rather than in his beak and then you'd see his belly bulge a bit and he'd calm down. The rest of the day he was forced to learn to eat seeds like a 'big boy bird'.

For the first few months of his life I read him a bedtime story every night. Yeah. I read stories to my baby bird. That's called LOVE, DEDICATION (and batshit crazy). My mother taught him to whistle a song from Le Nozze di Figaro, the name of which escapes me right now (most likely because once again it is 2am), which he sings loudly, proudly and incorrectly at the height of his joy. He is a very happy bird. He also plays peekaboo (Oh no! Where's Pippin? Where is he? I can't find him! Oh no, where's my little Pippin-boo...at which point he cocks his head and screams "Peeeeeekabooooooo") and likes to hide under and sing to tissues. He's a weird bird.

He's a REALLY weird bird and I LOVE HIM.

Which brings us to the custody battle and a test of how stubborn both my parents and I can be about this situation:

*I've recently moved into a new room in my apartment that is large enough to happily house both Pippin and me. Therefore, I want my bird. Have I mentioned I love him? He is the light of my life.

*I mentioned my newfound bird-housing capabilities to my mother, who in turn went on and on about how much responsibility it would be to have him. Her 'strongest' argument was that I'd have to buy 'Pippin food' and that might not be easy to do. Mom: I live in NYC. Everything is fairly easy to acquire. Especially 'Pippin food' seeing as there is a Petsmart two blocks away...

*After my failed Pippin-housing pitch to my mother, I figured I'd try my father. My father has a way of not hearing things he's not interested in dealing with. Desperate times call for desperate measures. I began text messaging my father. In German. -note: The best part about being German and using the German language is that it aids an air of "I am so serious it is scary" to anything you say.- I bombarded him, showing off my German vocabulary throughout a truly unnecessary number of texts and in return, I got ONE, UNO, EINS (in English nonetheless), completely ignoring my impressive demands to have my bird returned to me, and instead a) informing me that it was late and b) would I please stop bothering him so he could go to sleep.

Psh.

Obviously I'm going to have to take this custody battle to the next level...the only logical action I can think of is birdnapping. I'll let you know how it goes.

Noteworthy Things I've Learned TODAY...

I've been in NYC just over a year now which also means I've been out of school and a fully functioning (well...that could be a lie...but it's a nice thought) on-my-own-in-the-world adult for just over a year now as well. For whatever reason, today has been especially full of little lessons. Here they are...

*Virtually impossible: Painting nails. Realizing nose rings must be switched out immediately. Attempting to switch out nose rings without ruining said BEAUTIFULLY painted, very wet nails.

*Also virtually impossible: Choosing just the 'favorite' songs from your complete No Doubt discography for transfer onto your iPhone. I've been a No Doubt fanatic for so long its truly disconcerting, and there are only two songs I don't like. I guess I'm adding the whole collection. I'm a No Doubt pack rat. I want my pink and platinum hair back. Someone pass me my red lipstick. And give me an orange to pose with.

*Classic: Measuring your fun-sized New York apartment for furniture with a plastic, 12" ruler you used to create all your screen printing templates and technical drawings. This method leaves absolutely NO room for error and I will be completely baffled if my new couch doesn't fit exactly as I expect it to.

*Always call ConEd to set up your new account during a heatwave when the threat of citywide blackout is SUPER high. They will be SO excited to hear that you're not calling about a power outage or some other electric emergency that they'll be more friendly and helpful in three minutes than they've been all year.

*Don't even bother calling the cable company to ask if you can 'just pick up the materials and set up wireless in your apartment by yourself.' The response will be a veeeeeery long silence. Followed by a lot of 'um uhhhh..ummmmm'. When you say "This is really something totally out of my league, isn't it?" the customer service representative will let out an audible sigh of relief that YOU said it and he didn't have to.

*When you haven't eaten chocolate or ice cream in the past three months, decide to splurge on a pint of Haagen-Dazs (obviously to eat your feelings about Germany's loss in the World Cup) and quickly drop three spoonfuls onto your bed within moments of tearing off the protective plastic seal, there is NO denying this is God's way of saying "You do not deserve this treat and will regret it both tomorrow when you go back to the gym and in two weeks when it shows up on your ass and thighs."

*Always put in your headphones when you're on the train, whether you're listening to music or not. If that crazy rando over there STILL isn't deterred, find a reason to lift up both your arms and flash the armpit tattoos (stretching or grabbing the overhead rail are both fabulous options). I'm finding most people are so shocked by the pits that it buys me enough time to exit the situation or it just shuts them up completely. Also, wear your 'mean' face that all those ex-boyfriends told you you had...the one that makes people wish they were dead. (Okay, so this is an old one...but it is foolproof and therefore warrants being included).

*Making sure you're a constant fixture at your gym, corner bar and the diner down the street really pays off. After being MIA from the gym for two days because it's just too damn hot to workout I got a text from the night front desk guy checking to see if I was okay since he hadn't seen me since Monday. Additionally, I told my bartender on Sunday that I might swing by and say hey on Monday. When I didn't come in, he called me from the bar to make sure nothing was wrong (and was probably wondering how the hell I thought he was going to pay his rent if I didn't come in). In light of these recent events I DARE New York to mess with me.

*When you find out firefighters are coming to your job to do a building inspection, don't get excited. They aren't sending ANY cute ones.

Okay. I have to sleep. It's 2am and I have to LEAVE for work shortly after 6...I guess that's another thing I'm constantly learning: insomnia never goes away.

50 Favorite Things-Famous Poet Edition

If there's one thing I've learned in my past year in New York, it is to believe no one. Especially those who claim they're 'famous' or doing something really cool in their field and can absolutely take you under their wing and 'hook you up.' It's a protective distrust and skepticism, really...one I've had for a long time, sometimes ignore and has earned me some not-so-nice titles at times.

About a week ago, one of my regulars at the shop came in, money in hand. I had his vegan chocolate chunk cookie bagged and ready. He had $2.20...keep the change.

"Do you write? I'm a writer, you know. I'm actually a FAMOUS writer. You should really come study with me. I'm right up the street. $75 an hour. You can come study with me now."

This guy is generally pretty quiet, so naturally I was slightly taken aback. Furthermore, he just blatantly told me he was FAMOUS. To me, this kind of a statement screams 'delusional, out of touch with reality, certifiably nuts...' choose your term. He told me his name, I looked it up and didn't find anything.

On Tuesday he came back into the shop. He has decided he wants to give me writing lessons for free. He wants us to work together, he has a 'feeling' about me. He writes his name down...I realize I misspelled it last Sunday. I am instructed to create a list of my 50 favorite things and have it ready for him by Friday. I get home and Google him again. Oh boy. He wasn't lying. He's not delusional. At. All.

The moment he gave me my first assignment I started thinking about it, not really knowing if I'd actually send it his way or not. I figure taking a moment to think about the things that really make my world is something I ought to be doing anyway. Taking inventory.

So here they are, my 50 favorite things (as of July 3 at 8:24 PM, in no particular order)...and bear with me, some of them were a little emotional, but damnit, they're honest.

1. Waking up early to start my day in silence and calm...this is why I love opening the shop so much. Nobody is awake or alert enough to be in my world with me while I get ready, or walk to work and I have a nice chunk of time to organize life the way I want it to be before I allow anyone to touch it.

2. Being in the darkroom, under the safelights and watching my images come up as if I'm releasing a little secret from the paper and setting it free.

3. The smell of fresh laundry. As in the smell of dryer sheets PLUS warm.

4. Poppies. The color, the texture of the petals, the texture of the stems and leaves, the pattern, the plant, the buds, the actual flower, the seed pod. Every. Single. Part.

5. Pigeon (yoga pose).

6. Yoga Inversions. Being upside-down.

7. Not looking back to 'revisit' what I'm leaving when I walk/drive/ride away. I learned this from my father. Say your goodbye's and be gone.

8. Standing in front of the actual work of art I love and have studied (in books and via slides) to the point of knowing well enough to feel like I am 'getting' it (as opposed to once again viewing it via textbook or slide).

9. Birds. Real birds. Pictures of birds. Dreams about birds. Songs about birds. Bird songs.

10. Making lists and conquering them.

11. Building things. Like shelves and lightboxes...and preferably requiring the use of power tools.

12. Reading a book I enjoy, start to finish, in one sitting.

13. Fresh, just cleaned sheets. Preferably ironed before they were put on the bed.

14. Rigid routine. And the flexibility to deviate from the routine if I feel like it.

15. The way you held me that night I couldn't sleep at all and had the worst cramps of my life. I changed position every three minutes, easily, and somehow, despite the fact that you were out cold, you managed to change position and hold me in each new 'pose'. I am rather confident you have no idea this ever happened, which makes it even better.

16. Alternative processes in photography. Especially Gum Bichromate.

17. Cleaning. Dishes, the refrigerator, the bathroom, clothes, walls, surfaces, floors. And organizing.

18. Hot tea.

19. Barging into your office all throughout my Junior and Senior year of college, making you listen to my ideas and making you tell me about yours.

20. The way my mom tucked me in bed when I was little, putting my blanket in an arch over my head (from ear to ear) and stroking my nose until I could calm down.

21. Francesca Woodman's photographs.

22. Pad Thai with Chicken.

23. Padilla Bay and the Hoh Rain Forest. Or more generally, the Pacific Northwest.

24. Pippin.

25. Riding on trains. Fast movement.

26. Human contact. As in touch. Honest, loving, caring, nurturing touch.

27. Female photographers, musicians and writers.

28. Vygotsky's Zone of Proximal Development...the idea of scaffolding.

29. Dance. For competition and performance.

30. Meeting new people, trying new things with them, and realizing that the faith I sometimes manage to have in humanity is not unfounded.

31. Giraffe eyelashes. Literal and figurative.

32. 76°...outside...sunshine...light breeze.

33. Baking soda and vinegar volcanos.

34. Having soft covers that reach up to my neck (as in bedspread, sheets, etc) on me when I sleep.

35. Baking. And sending the goods away.

36. Cooking for myself and making things that are absolutely delicious, nutritious and exactly what I wanted.

37. Kodak High Speed Infrared Film (Dear Kodak: Please un-discontinue this. I would go broke for this film), a Hoya Red #25 filter, Ilford Multigrade FB Warmtone Paper (Semi Matte) and Duratrans.

38. Smiling...and laughing until tears come out.

39. My own aggression. Because it is only 6 years old and make me laugh everyday.

40. Walking and refusing to take cabs.

41. Stainless steel.

42. Pin Up/Rockabilly style.

43. Planning for the future...both rationally and irrationally, realistically and not realistically at all.

44. Working out.

45. People watching.

46. Producing quality bodies of work.

47. Coconut popsicles, coconut shampoo and coconut conditioner.

48. Snow White.

49. Being in charge. As in being the boss. As in running the show...

50. Handwriting letters and mailing them via the USPS.

And If You Don't Know...Now You Know...

I hate dating. No...I despise dating. Quite a few of my friends have been getting on my case lately because I am 'mean to men' and 'not even giving the nice ones a chance'. In fact, even my mother is putting in her two cents. So...as a response...I'm going to remind us all of a few of my 'shining dating moments' that illustrate WHY.

In no particular order.

*If you cheat on me with five (yes...count em..FIVE) women, I will leave. I mean honestly, if you cheat on me with ONE person, I will leave. Your feeble attempt to woo me back with chocolates and stuffed animals on my parent's doorstep everyday for a few weeks can't even begin to 'fix' this. Oh...and a love letter a week for a year (or longer, who knows...I moved...) isn't gonna do the trick either. Get. Out.

Quick note to men: Once I am done, I am done. You cannot get me back. Furthermore, I am the LEAST sentimental person you will ever meet. Love letters and stuffed animals make me feel like putting a stillettoed heel through your skull and shaking your brains out across the pavement while I laugh. The chocolate...I'll eat it...because only idiots let perfectly good chocolate go to waste.

*If you call me from jail (or prison...yes...both have happened)...we are done. I am not your 'boo'...I am not going to accept that collect call...I am not going to bail you out...I am not going to wait for your sorry ass...and I sure as hell am not going to show up at night court and 'stand by my man' when they let you out . Stop calling. And good lord...stop writing me letters.

I'd like those of you who know me, even a little, to keep in mind as I lay this next one out for you, how opposed I am to having children (and how nearly impossible it would be for me to carry a baby even if I wanted to). Also...lets keep in mind the number of feminist based classes I took in college, and how rooted much of my work is in feminism...

*I semi-recently went on a blind date. A friend of mine said that his friend and I would 'TOTALLY hit it off.' I bedgrudgingly agreed. I'd just cut off a Wall Street guy who turned out to be totally bizarre, and is the reason I have a 'no Wall St' policy at this point in time. But I digress. This guy picks me up, we go to a restaurant and order dinner. Now, I'm not really sure how he managed to do this, but he simultaneously insults me for eating too much and not eating enough at the same time. I then come to find out that he wants four children. At least. And somehow it comes up in casual conversation that he truly believes a woman's place is at home in the kitchen. I'm not really sure why he continued to talk (persuasively at that...because I OBVIOUSLY want kiddos...I just don't realize it...). Or try...because he did... Next.

*If we are long distance...do not come to my home for Christmas, give me pearl earrings (do you know me?), break up with me December 30, attempt to give me a New Years kiss on the 31st/1st and then wonder why I kicked you out and made you spend the rest of your time in 'hometown number 2' in a hotel steps from the airport.

*If we've been hanging out for awhile and you invite me over to watch a movie at your apartment and I fall asleep on your couch because it is late...here's something that's probably not going to work: poking me with one finger and whispering "I think we should have sex." Really? As a VP at a prominent BANK, I'd have thought you'd be more creative...and less stupid.

*All good things must come to an end. Just like we all die, at some point, all relationships end. When I break up with you, man in your 30's, do not come back two months later with random texts at all hours explaining that I am "the biggest bitch ever", that "anyone who dates me is fucked" and telling me that I will "never become the things I want to do in life" (that doesn't even make sense, dude...). Grow up, please...for the sake of humanity.

Alright. I just realized what time it is (2:13 am) and I have to be AT work at 6:30am. So what prompted this post even more than my friends and family getting on me about dating? Tomorrow's another blind date. I'm making this (poor) man take me to the Guggenheim to see the 'Haunted' show...a collection of terrifyingly cryptic, dark and, well...haunting...photographs, videos and performance pieces (obviously this event is 100% in my court and most likely 0% in his). I gave him the 3pm slot in my day. What. A. Biiiiiitch.

Oh...and here's a song for the road.

Homicidal Maniac

Saturday was a page out of a nightmare. I haven't been sleeping well lately (as in I'm sleeping between 20 and 90 minutes at a time), so that definitely could have been a factor. But believe me you, it was not the ONLY factor. I think the general consensus between my compadres and myself was that there were only two options upon leaving work...cry, or murder.

I walked home from work in my funk, took a nap (60 minutes. Not bad. At this point I'll just take what I can get) and woke up in time to put in a nice two hours at the gym.

I enter the bathroom in my apartment to grab my sports bra which I have a bad habit of hanging on the doorknob 90% of the time. The shower curtain is pulled back. I am NOT alone. I'm still in my funk and a not-so-nice term flies out of my mouth towards my unwelcome guest. I am faced with a crossroads here. Cry. Or murder. Now...let me give you some background on my relationship with roaches:

-First and foremost, I owe "Chris in Apt. 17" (as I refer to him) a cup of coffee, a drink, hell...a whole bottle of the finest liquor after apprehending him IN THE HALLWAY as he entered the building still in his super nice business suit with the question "are you afraid of bugs??" He handled my first roach issue in New York by chasing one around my shower for twenty minutes while I stood in my kitchen and hyperventilated.

-As you may recall from a post awhile back, I cut myself with the broken shards of a glass that lost it's life because I was startled by a roach early one morning before a shoot.

-About two months ago, after seeing three roaches (that's three too many) over the course of three weeks, I called the building exterminator. He told me in no uncertain terms to 'man up.' I kid you not.

-Last week my roommate found a roach lying on its back, appearing to be dead, in her room. I was bold and put a cup over it. A couple hours later I went to scoop it up (paper under the cup, transport to the toilet, flush, woes over). I didn't hear it fall, and upon 'dropping' it in the toilet, I found my little friend was NOT DEAD AT ALL and let out the most impressive Hollywood/Psycho scream I've ever witnessed. It put Janet Leigh to shame, dear readers...

And that brings us up to Saturday. I'm at a turning point: cry or murder. I vehemently deny myself the option to cry. Crying over a roach seems tantamount to crying over a boy. I don't cry over boys. Guess that leaves us at murder. I grab some Lysol and spray. The sweet smelling stream follows that bugger all around the tub, but he doesn't die. Fine. Two can play at this game. I've got some off-brand glass cleaner (ShopRite Glass & More, as pictured above! I'd recommend this for all your roach killing needs, not so much on glass cleaning needs though...) within arms reach, so I go for that. I spray and spray and spray. I'm getting lightheaded...this stuff is potent. And then all of a sudden something happens, the roach kind of stops and tips over. He wiggles his disgusting little legs for a moment (I am still spraying) and then...he's done. Based on the latest experience with a 'dead' roach, I am NOT convinced. I give him a few more blasts with my weapon of choice and then put a glass over him and go to the gym. This is my way of letting all his roach friends know that I have the upper hand here.

When I got home two and a half hours later (I'm fanatical about the gym), little buddy is truly, 100% dead. Success is mine as he is sucked into a watery grave.

I think I'm growing as a person.

Swagger Wagon: Trek Across America

My Thursday client is in the Hamptons. This makes me laugh. Most things do these days...but seriously. I don't think it will ever seem normal to me to just run off to my house in the Hamptons on a whim. I don't think I will ever have a house in the Hamptons. And if I do, holy batman, I guess I will have made it.

When I was a kid our vacations were planned 'meticulously'...we'd all pile in the brown '87 Toyota van (nicknamed Freckles by my brother because of the thousands of tiny rust spots on the front hood). Freckles, who's sliding door literally fell off one day...who's ceiling upholstery was coming undone, a situation only further exacerbated by my boredom during roadtrips...and who's door latch would periodically make it impossible to get in our out (I'm noticing a 'trapped inside' theme as of late. Anyone wanna analyze this?).

We'd load in and shove off, the back of the van full past the point of 'safe rear viewing' with coolers, the family tent (also brown...later replaced with a teal version), sleeping bags and clothes. Daniel and I would read, fight and sing. We replaced the words in Frere Jacques to go something like this:

"Are we there yet, are we there yet?
She bit meeee, she bit meeee
I hafta go to the bathroom, I hafta go to the bathroom
He bit meeee, he bit meeeee"

In typing that out and replaying it in my head (I can still hear our shrill, drawn out voices. Top of our lungs to boot.) it's a wonder Daniel and I are still alive. If I were the driver, I would have pulled over, demanded the singers put their palms on the hood of the van and run over the two of us. Fast. I guess that's why I'm not a mom....

We never went to the Hamptons. Instead we explored the West Coast and southwestern US. We went to various National Parks, camped and got learned.

At the age of 8 I was awarded a Junior Park Ranger Badge at Chaco Canyon for my groundbreaking exploration into rock formations, plants and creatures indigenous to the area. I was so proud of myself and wore my badge for the rest of the week. It was also in Chaco Canyon that Daniel nearly died. I slept through the entire incident. I am such a good sister.

Mesa Verde was another stop...to this day if you take my to ruins and set me free I will be as happy as a tick on a fat dog (so gross, had to be used). Cliff dwellings are my favorite. Daniel and I were fully occupied scouring any and all rock surfaces for pictographs, and then excitedly deciphering them for my mom and dad.

Scariest family roadtrip excursion: Valentine Cave in Newell, CA. I'd been to other caves during that trip, but for whatever reason, this one terrified me. I should really go back and do this one again.

The last roadtrip we took as a family (though my mom flew ahead...3 out of 4 still counts, right?) was from Seattle, WA to Nashville, TN the summer between my 7th and 8th grade years in school. My dad tried his best to make moving cross country with two birds and half your belongings in the back seat (by now we'd graduated to a 99 Toyota Sienna) fun by recreating the trips of years past. The only thing I remember is the women at one motel along the way that sang to our birds and refusing to stop crying for about four days. Man being 13 sucks. For everyone.

I think when I started out this post I was going to write something about this random day off being odd and productive. Who cares. Reminiscing about my family and our crazy trips was way more fun. I miss you family! And now I wanna hop a train, go upstate and go outside.

Trapped in the [water] Closet

You know how sometimes at work you find the only time you can SIT DOWN and take a personal moment is if you escape to the bathroom? Yeah. I'm not gonna lie...if I have to pee, I take my phone and I'll check my texts and my email after I wash my hands. Which still makes it just a 3 minute hiatus. You go in, lock the door, do your business, leave. No questions. No issues.

Until recently.

A week ago, after downing my four glasses of water in the morning (four before noon is the rule) I needed to use the facilities. When I tried to leave, the door wouldn't budge. Maybe, I thought, I didn't actually lock it...I had to go BAD and was in a bit of a hurry. Flipping the lock yielded no success. Maybe I'm not twisting the knob enough? No. I began knocking on the door...which felt very peculiar...the knocking to get out part. Knocking turns to banging and yelling.

*The absolute worst part of this entire story is that I can hear all my lovely coworkers talking and laughing and working on the other side of the door. And they can't hear me.*

I think I was in there about 10 minutes before I decided the situation was dire enough to warrant a panicked phonecall from THE INSIDE. As I reached for my phone, with one sweaty palm, I reached for the doorknob with the other, one more try can't hurt, I'm thinking, desperately.

Lo and behold the damn thing popped open. Wide eyed I ventured back into the living world. As a result of this mishap I now announce my restroom visits to all my coworkers. I notify at least two members of the staff that I will be using the loo and if I'm not out in less than ten minutes, by all means PLEASE COME RESCUE ME.

Side note: the lockage fear has expanded to include the walk-in freezer. I swear to the powers that be if I get locked in there I am going to need therapy. If I don't freeze to death first.

Just Text PSYCHIC to 88376 for Your Personalized Reading.

Alright. I've been read. You know how you always walk past the Psychic Advisor window fronts, complete with crystals laying across some mystical swath of velvety looking tapestry nonsense (...the neon glow advertising PSYCHIC READINGS is what always gets me) and you scoff about the people who actually waste money in there, but secretly you're wondering what you'd find out if you dared to enter? Well. Today the psychic came to moi.

Work was slow this evening. Really slow. Painfully slow. All of a sudden this lady walks in...I greeted her, served her, made change for her and all of a sudden she bursts out with this gem:

"You have some really intense energy. Can I do a reading?"

Uuhhhh...why not? I explain to her that I can't actually leave the counter. This is a half lie...but I don't want to venture into the dining room and sit down with her right now. I want to guard my tips and stand behind my sweet sweet register that screams at me all day for INVALID SEQUENCE INPUT (what does that even mean?!).

I'm holding out my palms...she traces a sweeping arc from one hand to the other.

Verdict: My life line is very long. I'm going to live to a very old age. I'll die not of disease, but of natural causes.

Thoughts (internal of course): Sweet success body! Nevermind the fact that you've been rejecting yourself, destroying yourself and causing all manner of medical conundrums for the past 23 YEARS...we're gonna make it! Go team! We are going to LIVE!

Next she looks me directly in the eyes. "You have a smile on your face, but not in your heart."

GULP.

Thoughts: She sees right through me. She knows I think this is all a load of...hooey. She thinks this smile is totally fake. Really I'm just having a good day and I'm amused by the thought that I won't die of disease, and instead, of old age.

She goes on-"You have a deep sorrow. You spend all your time taking care of others and you don't want anyone to know when you're hurting inside. You often feel there's no one to help take care of you."

Thoughts: These are gonna stay between me, God and the psychic, thankyouverymuch.

"Relationship-wise, you care about someone very deeply. But there's more sorrow here. There's something wrong, something's not right. He's treating you badly."

Thoughts: Initial-Which person are we talking about here? Secondary-ACCURATE WITH A CAPITAL 'A'. Story of my dating life. Thank God I'm not the only one who's noticing this. For all the incredible guys I've dated out there that may be reading, I do appreciate you...and I'd also like to add that in telling my mother of this encounter she made sure to play devils advocate and bring up the fact that I'm apparently 'mean' to the boys who love me. I'm sorry.

Travel: Apparently, I am a free spirit (who woulda thunk it!?) and while I haven't had the opportunity to travel internationally much yet, I will be doing so a LOT in the future.

Thoughts: Awesome. No sarcasm here. Just pure, unadulterated awesome.

And finally...according to my psychic customer, I am about to go through some changes of EPIC PROPORTION.

Thoughts: Please let it be my big girl job. Please let it be my big girl job. Please let it be my big girl job!!!!


Final verdict: My reading was informative, amusing and totally vague. I'm so glad it happened. On a slow day at work. For free.

The Walnut

I think it's time I wrote about (dun dun duuuuun), The Walnut. My place of residence for the past year. It's small, its haphazardly wired and the only reason I have any faith in sound structure is because my super lives below me. I was in Kansas City this past weekend and the hotel bathroom was as big as...wait for it, wait for it...my bathroom, kitchen and living room combined.

Some fun facts/nuances of the space/things to know:

*My upstairs neighbor blasts techno OR Creedence every evening starting at 6pm. Like clockwork. He also has a penchant for moving and dropping heavy objects round the clock. It's a wonder the ceiling hasn't caved in yet.

*When you turn on the stove, stand back! This isn't a 'if-you-happen-to-remember' warning...this is an 'if-you-don't-the-flame-will-find-you-and-make-you-it's-bitch' warning. Thoughts: this cannot be safe.

*When you use the fun-sized oven, A) remember to empty it of the contents you're storing in there...B) pop a percocet and chug a bottle of wine, because being unconscious is pretty much the only thing that will even BEGIN to alleviate your (legit) fear the apartment is going to blow up during baking.

*The faucet in the shower is backwards (the initial 'on' yields water that yields a third degree burn). It also feels like it's going to fall off one day. That will be a sad day.

*Sometimes if you close your eyes and imagine really hard, the sound of pigeons cooing in the back alley can actually sound like owls...or some other less foul thing from nature.

*There is an opera/Broadway hopeful somewhere across the back alley. Rehearsal time is ALL the time. He's also been working on the same song in excess of 8 months. Quite possibly the same verse of the same song...

*The super is trying to kill us all. By cranking up the heat. Suffocation isn't a joke, it's a scarily real possibility. (Oh, and on a more 'New York' note...don't touch that heating pole. The warning your friends gave wasn't a joke, nor was it a dare, it was dead serious).

*Someone hid a few bricks of cocaine underneath the cabinet under the sink. Or at least, that's what it smells like. Know how you'll know when I've located them? I won't live here anymore.


And now for my personal fav:

*If you use the automatic lock 'function' on the front door, don't expect to have an easy time getting OUT of the apartment next time you try. You will be locked in. And the super won't pick up his phone to help you. You will have to use a pizza cutter to jimmy yourself out and it will take at least 30-45 minutes.

I love New York. Seriously.

Too Bad I'm Allergic to Apples...

Alright...tonight's topic: things you have to learn how to do when you move far far away from all of your family members and find yourself pitifully alone. Medical edition. Or rather: medical edition complicated by the fact that you have health insurance from a large company that has sectors in many states, but the state you live in differs from the state your insurance is from therefore nobody can figure out how to process you. Groan.

So why am I doing this anyway? Because it's probably a good idea to have a primary care physician BEFORE you need one? Because it's the responsible thing to do? Because I'm BORED (ha fat chance)? No. I am literally scrambling to find a doctor ASAP because I have injured my ankle. You have no idea how many times I wish I'd done this when I actually had the time...like...oh I dunno...when I was completely unemployed?! I am kicking myself (with the 'good' foot, and steering clear of the injured ankle) like crazy right now.

Anyway. I don't even know how to go about doing this 'find a doctor' business. I've got the list of physicians approved by 'my' insurance (in the state I live in...not the state my insurance is issued from...so all of this work may be in vain)...I've used the 'refining tool' to weed out all the men (sorry men, but it's becoming increasingly evident that I generally don't really give a rat's ass what the majority of you have to say...to be discussed in a later post). Now what? Uhhh...I'm looking, I'm looking...through my massive list...

Here's how I've narrowed it down: My first choice has the same name as me, is relatively young and is located near where I live. Oh, and the hospital she's associated with looks legit. And by that, I mean I think I've heard of it. My second choice is the same person as my first choice, just at her other location (is that even allowed as a second choice?). My third choice...doesn't exist.

This is the shoddiest of shoddy doctor hunting. Being an adult is exhausting.

Oh yeah...and major nerd alert on that picture.

Red: The Ice Queen, Intimidator of Homeless Men

"Yo, yo lady....yo RED!"

I hear this a lot. And by a lot I mean multiple times a day. Do all redheads get referred to as 'Red' by strange men on the street? I guess I can't say it's always strange men on the street calling me 'Red'...I had a dear friend in college who called me 'Red' (I called him Nate-Dogg). REGARDLESS. My general rule of thumb when I hear someone yelling after me, calling me 'Red' is to not turn around under ANY circumstances. I am getting really good at it. Until a week or two ago.

I'm on Bleecker around 8:30 am, excitedly hobbling (due to a sprained ankle yuck boo hiss) towards a much anticipated cup of coffee at a new favorite coffee shop (though not the one I work at. Don't tell.) This guy won't stop yelling after me, and I keep hobbling...until I hear:

"Yo Red, you DROPPED something."

Enter slightly frantic train of thought: Uhoh...my just-bought-20-minutes-ago unlimited metrocard was in my back pocket. It actually could have fallen out. This is so not the general rule of thumb. Must turn around and check. Do not want. Do not want. Do not make eye contact...

I stop, I turn, I look...

"ME!!!!" A semi-toothless homeless guy jumps up, arms outstretched, onto the sidewalk. I stare, I start laughing, hysterically. I can't even help it. And now he's laughing with me.

I had to hand it to him, it was clever. He got me. He got me good. If the interaction had ended right there, we would have been totally cool. But it didn't. I got my coffee, I sat down outside (perhaps my second mistake here). Minutes later, my 'buddy' approaches my table and sits across from me. He begins to talk...

Apparently he was dared to talk to me. Apparently his 'crew' loitering on Bleecker found me 'intimidating.' He says I'm beautiful and calls me an Ice Queen (which at this point in life, I agree with). Let me remind you, I'm not responding. My 'buddy' goes on to inform me that he successfully finished four years of highschool (oh boy, I can tell where this is going)...in fact, he also finished two years of Pharm school. He informs me that if I can accept him as he is now, he won't make me sign a pre-nup. I have almost choked on my bagel at this point.

Some more words were spoken (him to me...I literally did not respond, and if you know me, this is QUITE a feat). I ended up leaving right about the time he starting screaming the spelling of 'pharmaceutical' at me.

"P-H-A-pause-R-M..."

Frantic or Efficient?

I currently have 23 minutes until I have to force myself to get in bed. Originally the 'force goal' had been 11 pm. For some reason I've pushed it up...don't know why. Maybe to see how fast I can complete my new set of tasks I also just made up (i.e., write this entry, put new sheets on my bed, get a number out of my old blackberry which is beyond dead and giving me the spinning hourglass of death, prepare room for morning, etc etc).

I used to do this (meaning made up neurotic deadlines) in college too, especially during paper writing. I'd sit down to write a 10, 15, 20 page paper. I'd sit down with a gigantic water bottle. I'd chug water while I wrote. I'd refill and chug more. Side note: My bladder is the size of a dime. Once I was literally busting at the seams because of insane water consumption, I'd tell myself I wasn't allowed to use the restroom until I finished x number of pages. This is bizarre and batshit crazy, I know...but truthfully, my absolute BEST papers were written this way. I work very well under pressure. Surprisingly well. And apparently 'pressure' and 'stress' are two very different things. Thank you New York City for making this embarrassingly and painfully evident. But that is another story entirely.

Regardless of my 'deciding' to run around like a chicken with it's head cutoff, I have to say, today has been a) INCREDIBLE and b) Incredibly efficient. After what I can honestly say was simultaneously one of my worst (for a number of reasons) and best (solely because it kicked my ass into gear) weekends of my life in NY, I have conquered my Monday.

I woke up at 4am. I needed to use the restroom (I'm telling you, I drink a lot of water even when I'm not forcing myself to write a paper at mad speed), and I was thirsty (again with the water). By 4:30am I was still awake. Wide awake. I trolled various news sites in hopes of falling back asleep. No dice. At 4:45 I got out of bed. And got ready to go to the gym. Which for some reason I thought was going to open at 5am, but in actuality wouldn't open until 5:30am. What do I do with this aimless half hour? I run. WHAAAAAT?! Anyone who knows me knows I don't run. You could force me to choose run and live or not run and die, and I'd probably choose option B (over dramatic, yes...but really, I despise running). Anyway. I have half an hour to kill, I want my full hour workout, I have to be back at my apartment to get ready for work at 6:15. I run. Around a few blocks over and over. Lame. I do my little elliptical workout. I complete an hour of nice hard cardio by 6am. I am ready for work by 6:45. I am at work by 7:58.

Friends. It is 8am and I have already kicked life's ass. Dear weekend: anything you wanted to try to tell me about being a bad human being, or not having my life together...I'm going to need you to take those unsavory tidbits and shove them somewhere the sun don't see. Cause this girl is on top of it...and it gets better.

I get off work at 5pm, have made some returns I've been meaning to make for three weeks by 6. I am fed and watered by 6:30. My laundry is taken out. I have sent emails for work, looked for new work and paid my bills. All by 7 pm. I even made time (by 8) to talk to friends. Holy mother of all people, I had voice communication with people I love.

I have completed everything on my notoriously 'uncompleteable' list for the day by 8pm (the changing sheets thing was an afterthought which I will attend to in about thirty seconds). I think I'm back on track. I'm conquering. With a smile on my face. And taking care of myself.

This 'R' Train is on the Lam

I swear to God this is what the conductor on my 'R' train said the other morning...don't try and tell me I imagined it or misheard because it was early. I'm at my PRIME in the early AM.

Regardless. Back to the point. Not only is THIS 'R' train on the lam...MY 'R' train is on the lam. And by 'R' train, I mean any semblance of sanity, clarity, centeredness (it IS a word. It refers to emotional stability. Wonderful.), organization...the list goes on. Never fear, I am having a blast, but I'm coming unraveled at the same time. I think I once had a life plan, it is long gone. I don't know if it's just New York, or somehow something in me has done a complete 180...'the plan' has derailed. It doesn't exist. It never stood a chance. I'm not going to fret (much) over this. Instead I've come up with a new plan that isn't really a plan so much as a game. To get through the day. And keep myself laughing because damnit, I'm pretty sure if I don't just keep laughing, I'm gonna break down and cry. No thaaaanks!!

The game is called 'Breaking Even' If I was in the picture above (I don't know if I'd be Godzilla or the train, I kind of feel like both depending on who I'm dealing with lately...) this is how it'd go:

Oh no. Godzilla just strong-armed your train. Minus 1.
Now you don't have to go to work because Godzilla DID just strong-arm your train. Plus 1.
People are probably dead in there. Minus 1.
Godzilla is having the time of his life. Plus 1.
Shit. The city is destroyed. Minus 1.
Eh, it needed to be rebuilt anyway. Plus 1.

Now for the math part! -1+1-1+1-1+1=0. Sweet success we've BROKEN EVEN. No tragedy here.

Here's my rundown for today so far:

Woke up at 6:18 on a Saturday. Minus 1.
Didn't stand a chance of being late to my shoot. Plus 1.
Decided to re-hydrate. Plus 1.
Found a HUMONGOUS cockroach (or water bug?) in my sink. Minus 1.
Was so frightened I dropped/tossed my glass. Minus 1.
My glass didn't break. Plus 1.
It hit another glass when I accidentally threw it, now I have broken glass at 7:30 am. Minus 1.
I'm so terrified of this bug I'm shaking and cut myself on said glass. Kinda badly. Minus 1.
No bandages or band aids. Minus 1.
Go to shoot. Show up on time. Plus 1.
Show up in last night's clothes (never taken off), as well as last night's makeup (it was a rough night. Don't judge.) Minus 1.
Get smoothie (despite bloody hand with shitty homemade bandage). Plus 1.
Shoot took 15 minutes. Plus 1.
Get 'proper' bandages on the way home. Plus 1.
Lady at the Duane Reade checkout station makes comment about my bloody hand. Minus 1.
Back in the apartment, phone a friend. Begin to cry hysterically about the roach. Hyperventilate and squeak. He laughs. I laugh. This one ends up being neutral.
Am forced (by aforementioned friend) to check and see if creature from hell is still in my sink. Minus 1.
He is not. Again, neutral.
Decide to take a nice hot shower to 'regroup'. Plus 1.
Do makeup. It's flawless today. Plus 1.
Bandage hand adequately. Plus 1.
It is very difficult to type...or do anything...the way I've had to bandage my hand. Minus 1.
Deposit money in account. Plus 1.
Took out laundry (and apologized for the blood). Plus 1.

See what I mean when I say my 'R' train is on the lam? My game rules. What could have seemed like a really crappy morning magically turned out to be 12 'pluses' and 10 'minuses'...meaning that SO FAR today has been a comedy and not a tragedy. If I hadn't played this game, I totally would have filed it under tragedy.

My hand hurts, man.

Favorite Things

Today was a let down...big disappointment. This too will pass. As a diversion I started thinking about things I like. I started thinking about Oprah and her Favorite Things episodes (and how totally ridiculous car giveaways are...because seriously, if I won a car, what on earth would I do with it?! Obviously not something I need to deal with at this moment, but so much less frustrating to figure out than the answers to my real problems, you follow?)

If I had a talk show (oh boy) and subsequently a 'Favorite Things' episode, here are 25 things you'd all get (in no particular order), whether or not I could feasibly give them:

1. Leggings. Lots and lots of leggings. A year's supply each.
2. Bond No. 9-The Scent of Peace.
3. Note cards. 3x5"...the best size for making lists.
4. OPI Nail Polish in Midnight in Moscow and Light My Sapphire.
5. Headbands. Sparkly ones, flowery ones, bandanna's you wear "Tupac style"...
6. A Tokyo Bay 'Tram' watch.
7. Whole grain flatbread and hummus. Preferably homemade.
8. Tofu Pad Thai to last a lifetime. (Apparently I just got hungry?)
9. Multi-vitamins. Or better yet, prenatal vitamins.
10. Water. Lots and lots of water. Because you know you're not getting enough.
11. Chai tea. Not Starbucks. Real.
12. The Greenhouse Bar in Nashville. Maybe I'd just have to send everyone there?
13. On the bar note...TnT's. As in Tanqueray and Tonics.
14. A bird necklace...or 40.
15. A Pentax K1000, a red 25 filter and Kodak High Speed Infrared (HIE) film. Worthwhile ideas not included (sorry).
16. A cockatiel. One just like mine (Pippin).
17. Black and pink Marc Jacobs rain boots.
18. Ammonium dichromate, gum arabic and some water color pigments. Again: fabulous ideas not included.
19. Ok fine, a darkroom. Each and every person would get a darkroom.
20. Rosebud salve.
21. The pink Kitchenaid mixer.
22. The ability to pull an incredible shot of espresso...
23. A gym membership.
24. M.A.C. Fibre Rich Lash in All Black.
25. A pair of Nike Dunk Low Premium Carmine Zest White shoesies.

Alright. I feel better. And today (since I suppose it's technically Wednesday), I WILL be happier than a bird with a french fry.

Post-Punk Goth Metal

I was in a funk for some days. It was lousy. Being horrendously ill followed by totally crappy weather yields bad results. I felt like a post-punk goth-metal song. More specifically, (because there are always specifics when you run with me...), 'Marian' by the Sisters of Mercy. Please note: Andrew Eldritch frightens me. Understatement. Every time I hear Andrew Eldritch's voice I'm pretty sure he's going to drain me of life, much like a vampire would. A vampire somewhere in between 'The Lost Boys' and 'True Blood'...I've obviously had a lot of time to think about this. I hadn't even seen the featured visual when I came up with the vision. I'm pretty impressed with it's accuracy.

But I digress.

I was in this funk. The first thing I did this morning was craft the most pitiful text message I could, designed to pull at my father's heart strings just right and get me back to my family and my bird. The last time I asked my dad for money ($5 for a show...oh god, how post-punk goth of me...I may have actually been wearing fishnets on my arms, they doubled as a nice shelf bra too don't hate) he looked at me like I was crazy. Needless to say I'm pretty sure I'm not going for an impromptu "baby is sad" visit to my parent's house. Which, now that my post-punk goth metal funk is over, I'm good with (though I do miss my family). Goodbye post-punk goth metal song mood...you don't suit me anyway. The fever broke...now it's 3am (thanks daylight savings, not) and I've been off work for three hours and there's no stopping me. I've made the transition from Sisters of Mercy to GirlTalk. I have arranged a road trip next weekend, been the liaison between two friends in states other than mine (who happen to be stepbrothers, mind you) and threatened to both borrow and bedazzle someone's dogs.

My bossy, aggressive self is back. ThankYouJesus.

Some Catch...and Some Release.

Well this has been an eventful week. Some positive, some negative. Oh who am I kidding? There is always something positive. I can find a way to laugh at anything. Anyway, here it is, chronological order.

One. After dragging my family members along for quite a ride, I've found a dress to wear to my cousin's wedding. It is not black! It is not strapless! Apparently, an inside source has informed me, I had people pretty worried that I wouldn't come through (finding a dress...they stopped even caring about the black and strapless issues a long time ago). I always come through. I always finish the deal. I will make anything a competition and damnit I will win. Thus...the dress, shoes and clutch have all been found. Jewelry...not so much. I have til the end of April, I'm going to give myself a little time. Side note: said dress: GREEN...matches the arm (because that's how I pick my clothes now)...has pockets (big enough to carry a flask? Hmmm? Griiiiin). It was obviously made for this girl.

Two. I have been humbled by illness this week. Humbled, brought to my knees (literally), and amused. I went to work in New Jersey on Tuesday, feeling fine. By the time I returned to the lovely Port Authority Bus Terminal around 6:30 pm I had vomited close to 22 times. Until Tuesday I hadn't thrown up legitimately since my freshman year of college. Let alone while working a 10 hour day, an hour and a half away the Walnut (codename for my apartment). In case you were wondering...I didn't puke on the bus ride home (60 minutes), nor did I hurl in the cab that took me to my door. God obviously felt bad for me and wanted to spare me more humiliation. The amusing part of all of this: my vomit is just as loud and obnoxious as I am...all 22 hits were hot pink (about the color of the pink brownstone you'll find in the upper left hand corner, found on the Gothamist website). There is ALWAYS a silver lining. Oh, the other silver lining...I'm gonna be one skinny bitch by the time I start eating again.

Three. I have just reconnected with my long lost great aunt who I happen to have very similar sentiments about formality, weddings, social constructs etc etc to. I have just confessed my sins loudly, both of the ink and drink variety, to her while walking to the grocery store (9pm toothpaste emergency, anyone?). I haven't laughed that hard in quite awhile. I love reconnecting with my family. I love that no matter what nut job, batshit crazy antics I insist upon, they will still love me. Ahhhhh. That being said, I'm still bracing myself for the 'great reveal' in April. Enough on that. It's time to run. And by run I really mean drag my pitifully weakened body to my bed so I can indulge in another few episodes of Law and Order: SVU before I doze off.

Not My Baby.

I've been doing this nannying gig for quite awhile now...four year, four different states, same old crazy. I'm not mother material, just a rather successful 'non-mom mom.' I am also, for the time being, apparently not the kind of material that uses my college degree. In light of two ridiculous comments directed towards me as I toted a tiny 3-month-old Indian baby around New Jersey, I feel the need to dispel a few seemingly 'popular' ideas concerning 'me' and 'motherhood' in the same sentence.

"Are you totally devastated that your baby looks NOTHING LIKE YOU?!"

I actually had a woman look at my charge and say this to me on Wednesday while we were in the grocery store. The WTF factor here goes through the roof. For one thing, who on earth says this to a 'mother'?! Furthermore, my charge has jet black hair, big dark eyes and gorgeous dark skin. I have red hair, green eyes and am ghost-white. Obviously, this is not my baby, lady. I wish I hadn't been so caught off guard. I would have responded with a) tears. Lots of big fat tears and wailing...b) a pitch for my baby smuggling company. Instead I was boring and less than shocking in my "yeah, I know, right? Different eyes, different nose, different mouth...she doesn't look like me at all." Boooooring. But seriously, really?!

I have a 'bangin post-baby body'

On Thursday, I had a group of lascivious, Spanish-speaking, older New Jersey men chat about me as I walked down the block. Among the topics of conversation were my 'bangin post-baby bod.' Two thoughts here: Thanks guys! Contrary to popular belief, this 'bangin post-baby bod' was actually brought on by the consumption of copious amounts of gin (TnT for the win) and a plethora of cupcakes!! Stealth abs. Makes it less hot, eh? Also...I understand everything you say.

I wonder what next week will be like...