I.n.d.e.p.e.n.d.e.n.t

That title is a nod to that terrible song that came out a few years ago that spelled out independent as its chorus. What a pathetic attempt at music. What an awesome way to get your friends drunk and try and get them to spell words.

I'm having one of those "I love being an adult" moments, so I'm going to savor it. Let me start by saying that if I were, oh, ten years younger, maybe even 8, I'd be sitting politely at my parents' dinner table eating with a fork, wearing pants, a shirt, and a bra, probably already showered, drinking water, and most definitely enjoying an assortment of vegetables before any sort of sugary dessert.

What I'm currently doing right now is binging on yogurt raisins and cashews (I know, gross, right?), chugging water (I just got back from the gym), wearing a towel (pre-shower), downing a bottle of wine (I'm only 2 glasses in, but I have high hopes for this bottle), and thinking about skipping dinner in favor of raw broccoli and more wine.

This is a pathetic post, but I've fired up some endorphins or something and I'm feelin' good so deal with it. (Yes, I'm already on glass three) Must be time for a shower...can I bring wine in the shower? In college I used to take beer showers all the time–not showering IN beer, mind you, but showering with a beer, lest I get sober long enough to make a good decision. Something tells me, though, that wine isn't meant for water sports. Although, wine and slip-n-slide go together like half a velcro and the other half of a velcro, but that's a tale for another Friday night. I've got a surprise party to go to, and we all know what happens if you're late to a surprise party...

...nothing in this case, since I don't even really know the surprise-ee, I'd hardly ruin anything by walking in next to him. But alas, there's broccoli and wine to consume.

Have a good weekend, champs.

A

That's what she said...

This is another thing I found when I was cleaning out computer files. I wrote this a few months ago. Check it.

I recently read an article that stated that if men weren’t trying to impress women they’d stop working so hard at their jobs, stop working out, and stop being healthy at all. Now, this struck me as sort of obvious. I’ve often wondered if I wasn’t pursuing a career as an actress if I would care as much about gaining weight, because my motivation to lose weight is almost always that every single successful actress working is either two dress sizes below me, or two above. You see (and not to make this about me, but the point needs to be made), I am a normal sized human. I am reluctant to use the word woman because that makes it sound like I’m trying to make a point about femininity and the way that women’s bodies are viewed by society, and I’m not (entirely). I’m simply trying to point out that there are no normal sized women (okay fine, women) making a decent living as actresses, unless they have been famous for so long that it no longer matters what size they are (see: Meryl Streep, Susan Sarandon, Diane Keaton–not to say that these women are anything other than stunning, but they no longer have to starve themselves to fit societies standards of acceptability–they’re accepted)

Back to my previous point, however, the sole reason for trying to look “the best that I possibly can” from my point of view is to be competitive with the other actors out there. It is obvious that if I go in for a role and so does another girl with long, dark, wavy hair and big brown eyes and we both do a really solid reading but she happens to have really defined cheekbones and on camera she looks sleek and evokes movie star she’s going to get the part. Because on camera I look like I am the supporting lead in a local sofa commercial.

Now, I do want to digress here again for a moment and point out for a moment that there is an increasing market for people who look like they belong in local sofa or mattress store commercials, and that is the faux-reality show. Shows like The Office and Parks and Recreation LOVE normal looking people. But I’m probably not going to get cast on one of those shows, or in anything else as a “normal looking person” and this is precisely why…I am too pretty. I know, “kill yourself” you’re saying, but seriously it is a curse. I’m a normal sized, very pretty person. In the real world this is a huge asset, in fact it’s never been a problem for me, until now. I’m not going to get the “hot girl” roles, because I have man shoulders, and I’m not going to get the “Pam” secretary role because my features are just too gosh darn striking. Maybe I should go into radio, or stop eating.

Okay, so back to my original point about the purpose we have for being attractive. As someone who has grown up in the film business I can tell you, although I wouldn’t be breaking the news to anyone, that movies are full of attractive people. We, as a culture, are obsessed with looking at attractive people on the big screen, little screen, in magazines, et cetera. It is a fact that a movie full of attractive people will do better at the box office than a movie full of average looking people. We want to spend two hours staring at someone that we’d like to have sex with, not at the lady who’s in front of us in line at the convenience store. This is just the way that it is, we are a culture obsessed with celebrity, vanity, and sex. This isn’t some revelation, this is the way that the world operates right now. This isn’t to say that at some point in the future this won’t change, although I’d be willing to put money on the guess that it stays this way for a very, very, very, very long time.

Future Career Goals

It's hot, I'm tired, I can't stop eating blueberries, and my limbs feel like they're going to fall off from excessive exercise and an especially unexciting spinning class this morning, so you're getting the bottom of the barrel today.

I give you, a list of occupations I might not suck at if I wake up one day 35 and a non-working actress:

1. Spinning Instructor (I'd have more energy than the instructor I had for this morning's class if I was on muscle relaxers and Ambien and listening to Joni Mitchell on my ipod...I could definitely do this)
2. Event Planner (I'd rather organize a party than go to one. Well, I'd rather go to one that I've organized than go to one that anyone else organized. Almost. No. Definitely. I'm a control freak)
3. Restaurant Reviewer (I'd be fat and happy, and use words like satiated and repulsive on a daily basis. Mmmmkay)
4. Blogger (click those damn ads, people)
5. Psychic (You don't want to know how good my "feminine intuition" is...)
6. Crack addict (I like silverware, I like being skinny. Downsides? I like humanity, possessions and being lucid.)
7. Yoga Instructor (I can put my legs behind my head, but probably don't have enough deep breathing in me to keep a straight face throughout a silent retreat, so maybe not. Read: I'd be the asshole sticking string beans up my nose when we were supposed to be meditating)
8. Mom (This is so non-progressive that it makes me want to hit myself over the head with the bag of English Muffins directly to my right, but, weirder things have been suggested)

There you have it. Call me in ten years or so to remind me of this list, unless I'm already on TV, in which case, pretend you never knew me, I don't owe you anything.

A

PS: I'm totally kidding, you can be my entertainment lawyer or maid or something, I already have a personal assistant, pool boy, accountant, chef, and clothing-iron-er lined up, though.

Relics

I'm forcing inspiration today, I've been "all business" lately, and am having a hard time thinking of something worthwhile to post, so you get an English Sheepdog and its puppies, because that's what I'm thinking about right now other than my "She & Him" Pandora station (full of perfect music for my afternoon of transferring computer files and writing emails, letters, and more letters).

Let's see, what else do we have...I've gotten better at juicing things. Well, actually I kind of stick to carrot juice, but it's really good! I...ate a tuna sandwich for lunch again. God this is pathetic. Not just because I'm always writing about eating tuna (mercury poisoning anyone? Just kidding, I only eat it once a week or so), but because I just can't think of anything moderately interesting.

Lucky for you I've been transferring files all day so I'm going to copy and paste you something I wrote when I was in Italy in 2006. I was 20 at the time and entering my Junior year of college. The title is ironic, by the way. Here goes:

What is Art? Who am I?: America

I sit here on a stone patio looking over Lago di Como in Northern Italy, my sleek silver laptop with the apple facing outward towards the foothills of the Alps. Sailboats whiz by on this extra breezy, overcast day in the mountains. The village on the other side of the lake looks miniature. The wooden cross adorning the top of the mountain we spent nine hours hiking up to earlier this week isn’t quite visible through the thick clouds. A fisherman heads around the curve to my left, to a portion of the lake where all the locals know George Clooney’s vacation home is situated. It is Wednesday, August 16, 2006 and I should be savoring every last bit of my three remaining days in this European paradise. Instead I find all of my thoughts drifting across the Atlantic to a much different lake. My mind wrestles with the possibility that after twenty years of dreaming about coming to Europe I am craving the scenery of the shores of Seneca Lake. Hobart and William Smith: Population 1,800. What has changed me in the past two years to make me fall so in love with the place that I could hardly breathe in at first? I'm starting to think that I am on the verge of an identity crisis.

The past five months have been consumed with thoughts of Europe. I told everyone I met that I had every intention to become a fabulous ex-patriot, become fluent in French and Italian and never leave. And now that I’m here my mind wanders back to comforts. The Special K isn’t as crispy and I cannot seem to find a veggie burger anywhere. Don’t even get me started on my craving for a burrito. And Italian isn’t coming as easily to me as I expected, even with my laminated verb cheat sheet. I’m also not quite sure that the men here are the answer to my dating problems. I think an attitude adjustment and a year’s worth of yoga classes are the answer to my dating problems. The furthest in conversation I’ve managed to get with a local, tall, dark, and handsome Italian was some guy borrowing my goggles and returning them with a civil, “grazie.” Oh well.

Let me backtrack a little bit here. I am not taking my three-week Italian vacation for granted. I am very happy to be here and despite the difficulty of traveling with my parents and two younger brothers am having a wonderful time. This does not change the fact that my thoughts wonder back home a little more than I’d like them to. Maybe being an ex-patriot requires throngs of other ex-patriot friends escaping the two more years of the Bush administration, the drinking age that is ten months too far away and running away to Eurotrash and a ghastly exchange rate (although I will point out that my new shiny black leather purse was still a quarter of the price it would have been back home).

I sure hope everyone else is as conflicted about the next ten years of their life as I am, otherwise I am in need of some very serious counseling. Not to mention a few talks about my increased intake in vino rossi from Toscana (another thing that I wouldn’t mind having back home: delicious red wine for $4 a bottle, think about it).

This is the point in my ramblings where I’d normally try to reach some sort of conclusion, or moral, but I don’t have one, so I’m not going to try to make one up. Let’s be honest here, I have no idea whether or not I’ll ever come back to this lake, why I love HWS so much, or when I’ll finally be able to afford my own apartment in Manhattan, I do know that being twenty years old means taking some risks and making some mistakes. So I guess that’s what I’m here for.

The grass just might always be greener on somebody else’s lake. 

Here's a picture of my room on Lake Como, circa 2006. Sigh.

A

PS: a) I did need an attitude adjustment and a year's worth of yoga classes to find a worthwhile guy. b) Bush administration anyone? c) Afford a Manhattan apartment? haha silly youth, still can't afford it, but I'm here. d) That purse is navy. I found that out the next time I looked at it in the light. I still have it. 

Marking My Territory

Having my oatmeal and jasmine tea in the kitchen this morning, reading the New York Times on my computer. Oh, technology, and that "cold" front that came in after the rain yesterday. Man, was that a welcome change. I mean, New York, NY, July 26th: 75º and Sunny? Yes, please!

I'm thrilled that this weekend is over, I spent far too much time in transit. Vans to New Jersey, to East Hampton, back from the Hamptons at 3 am packed in like a sardine with a collection of sweaty, food-covered cater waiters, a mini-van to Philadelphia, a NJ Transit train from Secaucus to Penn Station. Just happy to be in the city, where there's a breeze. I know, who woulda thunk? I got back last night around 7 and decided that I needed to go for a little run, to feel human. I laced up the sneaks and hit Central Park, and then I hit a stride, and then I hit the pavement. I ran five miles and watched the sun set, pink, over the Hudson river. Talk about reversing your bad mood! I hate how cliche this is, but damn, exercise really changes your mind state.

In looking at the paper online this morning I stumbled upon something that I'm sure is going to ruin my life. Here it is. That little search feature has made my morning consist of looking at properties in Montauk, the Hamptons, and Brooklyn. I'm just mapping out my life, kids. You see, I made an important decision on Saturday, one that I've been trying to figure out for the past ten years or so. I know where I want to live "when I grow up" now. I want a place in Brooklyn and one in the Hamptons. No worries, I plan on acquiring some cash flow one of these centuries. I figure I won't be grown up until I'm about 67 anyway, so lets go! According to these mortgage calculators that means I'll only have two monthly payments of $4,500 for the rest of my life to keep up both properties. Victory. Since my current income is roughly -$32, this should be fine. Oh, and I can only have one child live in Brooklyn, the other one can live in Montauk, I think that's kosher.

I'm going to leave my real estate dream now and go get paid to play with children.

A

Status Update

So the plan to lose 10 pounds by August 15th was going really well, for a week. This week is not really happening. Not like I'm sitting around eating cupcakes and drinking Bud Heavy, but I have literally no motivation to work out. I went for a run yesterday for the first time since Friday and it was lovely and all, but now my right ankle is super sore and I woke up feeling like I took three boot camp classes instead of just the two and half miles I ran. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I ran a half marathon in March, that's 13.1 miles. I should be able to handle two and not wake up the next morning feeling like Jane Fonda on a Sunday. I was going to do Tae Bo today but now I'm not. It's literally that simple. I might get in a few measly ab exercises before heading up to babysit for the brady bunch (Mom is two years older than me and pregnant with her third child in three years. Not judging or anything, but that is not for me).

Additionally, I spent way too much money yesterday on things like sushi, frozen yogurt, and Inception. I only regret one of those, and it was definitely the one that involves raw fish, but the idea of tuna from a can for dinner again was too depressing for me to even handle. So, delivery.com strikes again in aiding my financial demise. I need to figure out what to do with these kids for three hours today, we can't leave the apartment because its a fourth floor walk up and I'll be damned if I'm carrying a HUGE 18 month old up and down those steps, and there's only so much Wonder Pets a 24 year old with a BA can handle. Maybe I'll just do sit ups and ask them to sit on my abs.

Oh sweet, just got called to "play" a victim on SVU tomorrow. Maybe I don't have to regret that $15 sushi dinner anymore.

Time for some sit ups.

A

Westbound

Your face hurts.

I'm sorry, what?

Your face hurts.

Excuse me, but I have no idea what you're talking about.

It's going to hurt.

Are you going to hit me?

Why would I do that?

I have no idea. I have to go.

Does it hurt yet?

Sorry. Bye.

Wait.

Look, it's cold out here, I don't know you.

But you do. I helped change your tire.

I don't drive. This is New York.

You did drive.

My face is cold.

I told you.

You told me it would hurt.

Cold is a kind of hurt. It was last summer, by the bank, you were waiting for AAA.

How do you remember me?

Can I buy you a coffee?

I have one right here.

I know. Can I buy you a hot one?

I told you, I have to go.

Then why haven't you gone.

Do you see that branch there? The one by the water?

Yes.

It's completely frozen.

It doesn't look like it.

It is, I touched it. That's why I'm still here.

Because the branch is frozen?

Because I'm frozen. I think I can't move.

Do you need my help? I'll get you a cab.

No. I'm being dramatic, I get like that here.

In New York?

No, by the river.

The water makes you complain?

Very funny. I'm not complaining. The water makes me think, its why I come here.

That's kind of a cliche, isn't it?

I hate when people say that. Look at it? The sky is so intense in November, the sun is just kind of waiting around for something to happen, and there's no one here. It's a cliche because its true.

It is pretty empty here.

Have you ever been here in the summer?

No. I'm not from here.

This place is crowded from April until October. Where are you from?

Illinois.

Usually people just say Chicago.

I prefer to be unusual.

That's a cliche.

Because its true.

Touche. So how did you recognize me.

Your earrings.

My earrings?

Yeah. My housekeeper growing up had hummingbird earrings.

I was wearing these when you changed my tire?

Yeah.

I don't get it, you live in Chi–Illinois, but you changed my tire on the New Jersey Turnpike a year ago?

Right.

That explains nothing.

I've been here before.

Here isn't here, though.

It never is.

Stop. That was forty miles from this park.

Give or take, yes.

So how did you find me?

Don't flatter yourself, I wasn't looking for you. I like this park, I remembered your earrings. The world is a much more interconnected place than we like to think.

What are you, a buddhist or something?

The man laughs and readjusts his wool cap, pulling his coat collar up to his chin he stands and walks towards the river and sits on the ground near the edge. Our lady stays on the bench, her scarf flapping against her body. An old, small homeless woman pulls cans out of a trashcan nearby. Traffic on the West Side Highway buzzes in the odd silence. A frozen branch cracks and disengages from its tree. The clouds are thin whisps in the sky; they monotonously separate as the sun sinks behind New Jersey and travels endlessly westward.

Life is like a box of chocolates...

You REALLY don't ever know what you're going to get.

Gonna keep it short and sweet because I have lots of work to do.

Today was bad. Epic-bad, culminating in "bad-ness" with getting a cavity filled and having to go to a monologue workshop with a casting director with half of my face numb.

Today was good. Epic-good. Got called in to audition for the casting director who didn't notice the novocain. Got asked to be a part of a stand-up gig, without even submitting myself.

More tomorrow, time to read this script about ten times.

Like a roller coaster, baby, baby

I'm so tired I can't believe I'm even typing this. I've been working the past four days and its as if I've forgotten what its like. So. Tired. But also, still really poor. Good news: I'm working almost every day this week. Bad news: My bike got stolen yesterday and my rental car option for LA fell through. Ergo, I'm transportationally fucked. Awesome.

The problem here is that not only can I not afford a car, but I also don't really want one. I don't know anything about cars, save for how to break them, and I certainly don't care what kind of car I drive, although I'd prefer a really nice, shiny new one, but I really don't care. I want a cheap one with good mileage and preferably 21st century music-playing abilities (my last car didn't even have a tape player, I don't want to talk about the radio or the boom box I occasionally put in the front seat). Does anyone here in blog-land have a car just sitting on the west coast that they can rent me? Anyone selling their car on the cheap? Anyone want a blow job in exchange for a 1995 Camry? Kidding. I'd do that for a new bike. Kidding. I am kidding. Come on, believe me guys, I'm not that easy. No? Okay fine, for a 1995 Lexus.

I'm going to the dentist tomorrow and the receptionist is going to ask me to pay my bill and I'm going to tell her to mail it to my parents. I'm totally not kidding. I have no other solution as to how to pay for the cavities that I most certainly have (I can literally feel the holes in my teeth, it's disgusting).

Now, I'm going to fall asleep listening to Band of Horses and pretend its winter 2008/2009, when I had a job, a savings account, and cried listening to "No One's Gonna Love You" just about every day. At least one of those things has flip-flopped for the better.

Why are moments so much more beautiful in retrospect?

A

But someone
They should have warned you
When things start splitting at the seams and now
The whole thing's tumbling down

Alienation

It's now and I'm here–which, if you think about the world, and I mean really think about it in its entirety, the oceans, the milky way, the fucking cosmos–is all that actually matters. My physical presence is sitting on this beige sheet that I monotonously picked out for myself at Kmart like some cheesy, pathetic loner is all that actually matters because because some fucking terrorist or religious fanatic acting in the name of some prophet who died before modern society even existed is going to fly a plane into a nuclear power plant or we're just simply going to "need" ourselves into oblivion. Needing things and contact and notoriety until our Twitters fuck our Blackberrys and everyone's iPads overdose on organically produced methadone.

What's hilarious is that I'm an optimist. I never think about hating the color of my sheets and I always try and keep my tone upbeat and pleasant, especially in the morning. I just know the reality of the situation as a whole now. And there's some interplanetary super spy staring at me right now through my window, only by the time he sees me the earth will be nothing but a detonated bottle of overpriced perfume.

********

I have a routine-which is hardly odd by animal standards-I get up each morning, start the coffee pot, microwave myself a bowl of steel cut oats with light brown sugar, open up my laptop and turn on CNN. Now, I am by no means a "well-informed citizen" as they're so affectionately referred to, but I try to absorb as much daily world updating as possible while checking my various internet sites. See, at one time I collected vintage cameras, and now I sell them on eBay. So each morning I check my order status and organize my inventory online. It's fairly boring and this particular morning was no different, until it was, suddenly, drastically different. 

The sun does a nice job of flooding my kitchen with light in the early part of the day and as I got up to pull a spoon for my oats out of the drawer, it happened. A particularly strong ray of light reflected off of the spoon and bounced right over to the coffee pot, swiftly cracking and breaking the glass. Knowing that this would undoubtedly make me late to work I scrambled to clean the mess, when again, a reflective beam of light shot through my window and hit me square in the eyes. Frustrated and nearly blinded I reached up to the counter, put on my sunglasses and went to the window. It was early fall and the sun was still strong but I had never encountered anything like this before. There is no way for me to explain what happened next and for your to believe me, but I don't know how a person could ever-if ever he wanted to-make up such a story.

When I got to the window I looked up toward the sun, or what I thought was the sun until the light was gone. I realized only then that the morning light comes through the opposite window. I looked towards the spot where the reflection had come from and it passed by my window twice more before I saw that it was a star. Or what seemed to be a star, but could really be anything-a moon, a meteor, a space station, or a planet. I don't know how to describe the feeling I had at that moment other than "unwaveringly solid intuition". I knew I was being watched. I could feel it, like in the third grade when you could feel the nun creeping behind you in chapel, just ready to force you to swallow your chewing gum.

That's when it occurred to me that the world was already over, or might as well be. You see, light travels quickly, but even so, the closest possible planet harboring life would have to be millions of light years away. This means that the thing staring in my kitchen window that morning was seeing me now, but from millions of years in the future. Just like the stars that we stare up at have probably long since burned out, the image of me eating my breakfast in my boxer shorts has long since evaporated. Makes you wonder why we bother.

all writing on this blog, copyright of Adria, 2010.

A

Moments

New York has always been a city where moments are memorialized. Even with cliched expectation, the moments that occur on this island are unique and stick with you. You can sit, stare at your computer screen and wonder why I would make this up, or you can simply understand that the things happen here. Just the things. Maybe the kindness is met with greater shock when juxtaposed against the harsh reality and rapid-fire pace that is daily life, but there is no mistaking these flashes in time for what they are.

This morning it rained. I'm sorry, it wasn't rain, the sky got stabbed and unleashed its pain onto the city. I was walking home from my boyfriend's at about 9:30 am when this happened. I refused an umbrella, knowing that in ten minutes I would be home, where dry clothes awaited me. Mistake. If the sloshing noises my shoes were making weren't enough I'd have directed you towards my shirt, a light heather grey American Apparel t-shirt (don't pretend you don't have the same one in your closet) turned dark grey and somewhere between the spin and rinse cycle. Still not convinced? The amount of water in my hair could have washed the dishes in your sink (yes, your sink, all of those dishes). So I stopped in the supermarket to pick up a dozen eggs and some respite and tried to avoid all of the long stares. Does everyone have an umbrella? Apparently. Well, halfway from the produce to the dairy and five steps from frostbite I found a roll of paper towels in my face and a Proactiv "before" photo of a boy stared me back. "You're going to get so sick. Here", he handed me the roll. I laughed and explained that I was only two blocks from home, but he said, "No big deal, now my good deed for the day is done, I can chill." Cool man. Cool.

•••••••••••••

Sunday was a bad day. The kind of bad where you have to stop ten blocks from your destination to make sure you're done crying in time. The kind of bad where you go home to your parents'. So I did. I rode the A train up to 175th st to meet my family at the George Washington Bridge, but the ride up was slow and my head was in what can be affectionately called "the shitty place", so I was torturing myself. You know when a song comes on your ipod and you have that moment where you think, "this is going to make me sad, I should turn it off" and then you elect not to, but instead to listen to the whole album and cry? Well I did that. Yes, on the A train to Washington Heights. I have a thing with crying on the subway, there's something about the impersonal nature of a subway car that makes it easy to let myself go and just silently weep about whatever is bothering me. I recognize that this is sick and ass-backwards, but sometimes that's just the way the cookie crumbles. So anyway, there I am wedged in the third seat between the older hispanic woman with bright red nails and lipstick and yellow terrycloth pants and the two teenagers whose knees are bumping up against mine, and I'm crying. I've pulled my hat down and have my hands in my lap and I'm listening to the sad-times music and I'm just dripping with tears, I mean they're landing all over my shorts and I'm trying to focus my eyes on my sneakers, but it's just blurry and I'm a wreck. And all of a sudden, the older, hispanic woman with bright red nails and lipstick and yellow terrycloth pants puts her hand on my leg, just above my knee and looks at me with this *look* like, "honey, I know, it's okay" and she keeps her hand there and is really lightly patting my leg, not in a pedophile kind of way, but in a the way that that loving, nurturing, hispanic aunt that I don't have would do, and then go over to the house of the boy who made you feel that way and scream at him in threatening Spanish until he hung his head like a sad beagle. When I got off the train I had stopped crying, turned the music off, and pulled the headphones out of my ears, and I looked her right in the eyes and said, "thank you."

•••••••••••••

About an hour ago I was walking up the steps to unlock the door to my apartment building when I heard someone yelling behind me, it was a homeless man. As his unkempt grey-ish hair whipped in the wind (okay fine, there is absolutely no breeze, who am I to romanticize this moment), he looked at me and yelled, "How the hell do you people afford these apartments? What does this place cost you? Ten million dollars a month, right?" To which I responded, "Umm, not quite" and he said, "Are you all doctors and lawyers? What kind of job do you have that you can afford to live here?" And I looked behind me, as I was putting the key in the lock, and said, "Not a good enough one. Bye." My apartment might as well cost $10,000,000 a month right now, it feels like it does when I'm making $0 a day.

And now, my friends, back to Patti Smith's life, because it's distracting me from my own. 

A

Goals

Okay, so if yesterday was a low point, today I'm climbing out of the hole. I'm done being Debbie Downer, even if she is the epitome of alliterative naming devices. I have a sincere list of reachable goals that I'm going to italicize for you. Just kidding, I'm sorry about the over italicization lately, I just feel like certain words really need to be stressed for my point to come across. Sorry, the last thing there was just blatant twelve-year-old-boy humor. So here you have it, a list of goals, complete with photos so that you can skim if need be:

1. Start writing every day. Not just this blog, but stories, poems, plays, scenes, letters, whatever. Every day. And then start submitting them to literary journals, etc. Because why the heck not. As it is I'm sitting around for hours every day wishing that I had a job, so what better way to fill my time than to write and try and get published. 
2. I'm going to lose 10 pounds by my cousin's wedding. (I almost just wrote cousins'...but this isn't West Virginia, despite the differences that apply to this particular case. More on that later. Maybe) It's not because I have some dress or something that I'm trying to fit into or that I really want to look fabulous for this wedding, because I don't. Not that I don't care, but there's nothing about it that makes it an event to look utterly spectacular for, after all its not my wedding. But, the plan is to go to LA right after the wedding and I figure if there's any time to look my best, it's now. Let me just put this out there, though: I am good with my body. We are friends right now, I feel great, my clothes fit and I'm in good shape, BUT I just know that I have another ten pounds that isn't really hollywood friendly and is lose-able in a healthy way. So there. Side note: I just did a Tae Bo dvd and I swear on Billy Blanks' life I have NEVER sweat that much. Ever. Yay. (Oh, and that's Shellie, her body is sick and makes me want to to speedbacks until my arms fall off)
3. I'm going to make and save money. This is vague because I don't exactly have a plan for this, but I am determined to do so. So that's that.
4. Et francais. Umm yeah, I've been talking about being able to speak french for years and I've always sucked at actually doing this. I'm gonna do it. This is a picture of me in France. Where I sort of spoke french to people.

I wrote something funny here but the storm that hit earlier this afternoon cut out my internet and it didn't save. So you'll just have to know that I'm funnier and wittier than you or I can even imagine. Cheers.

A

Double Post Mondays: An Optimistic Turn or Adventures in Juicing

That negative crap that I posted this morning is depressing me, and I've had a pretty interesting afternoon fighting with my birthday present so I thought I'd write about it.

I asked for a juicer for my birthday (well, and a new computer, but only one of them is here already) from my parents. My parents are sort of chronic necessity-gift givers, so I beat them at their own game this year by asking for two of the most practical (yeah, I know, and expensive) gifts a girl could ask for. Much to my disbelief, I've been a good girl this year and I'm getting both. But this isn't about how much my parents love me (believe me, you don't need to read about that, plus it'd end up being too much like a therapy session), it's about my new juicer.

It is beautiful, and I've already figured out why people say that juicing can help you lose weight! Wanna know the secret? Do you? Because after each use you have to spend 25 minutes–honestly–scrubbing and cleaning all the pulp out of all of the different parts so that it'll work for next time. After scrubbing and removing all of my beet and carrot pulp I really had no interest in drinking it, or eating anything else, I was ready to just declare anorexia on everyone and take a nap. But I didn't. I drank it. And it was gross, but I have a remedy, and that remedy is buying different produce and taking the skin off of my beets. I don't want comments like "eww, you didn't take the skin off! That's gross!" because I know. I washed them though, and the carrots, but the carrots were too small, they were like storybook carrots, not like big, burly steroid carrots, which are the ones you need for juicing.

So there you have it. Adventures in juicing. See you tomorrow, after I see what happens when I try and juice blueberries and hummus (what? it's all that's left in my fridge).

Fucking Perfect

This is in no way pleasant. My landlord decided to cash my rent check today, rendering me completely broke. I called one of the temp agencies I work for to find out where all my checks are and found out that they have my old address and that's why I haven't received them yet. Ergo, I have -$5.32 until I get those checks. I've prided myself on never being in a situation at all like this for a long time and here I am...that asshole.


Welcome to a low point. No really, welcome. I can only imagine that things will get better from here on out, but I can't promise anything. Well, fuck.

A Hangover Adventure

A hangover adventure, indeed. Woke up at 6:45 am in my non-air conditioned bedroom in a feverish sweat and made the executive decision to relocate. I spent the next four hours sleeping on my couch in front of the air conditioner in the living room. I'm not going to lie, it was awesome. Since then I've been super productive. I called Time Warner and fixed my cable over the phone and am now in an endless marathon of Last Comic Standing, which I thought would give me more ideas for my own stand up, but I think it's doing the reverse of helping. I keep wanting to steal their material, which is shitty. I have another show next Saturday night at Gotham Comedy Club at 6 pm, just in case you're in the New York area and want to come  giggle at my boob humor.

And speaking of boob humor, here it is: The Adventures of Tits and Boobs. This was born last night in a little bar on 7th street. The crowd was, well, not the best, so Roommate and I spent most of the night talking to the bouncer (Dwayne) and the bartender (guy with mutton chops and "Jillian" tattooed on his wrist). Now, before I continue I'm just going to put this out there: I have some shitty nicknames. I mean as far as nicknames go, I have probably all of the most embarrassing ones.   They are as follows: Gay, Tits, and Aids. You just don't get much more offensive than that. Aids and Gay are both derived from my own name (Aids as a shortened form of ADRia, and Gay as a shortened form of GAYdria), but tits is self-explanatory. Only one person calls me Tits and it happened to be his birthday last night so as he was leaving the bar he yelled, "TITS!" and I responded and said goodbye. Now this put Dwayne into a tizzy. Dwayne the bouncer just died laughing. He launched into, "Wait, did you just respond to 'tits'? You might be the chillest girl ever. Tits!" He then continued to call me Tits for the remainder of the night and we dubbed Roommate Boobs and thus, The Adventures of Tits and Boobs was born. I'm not sure what that means but we decided that a mountain range would be our iconic image. I'm gonna roll with it. Dwayne is from Antigua and Barbados and was born on a boat between the two. He works as an executive assistant in the advertising industry during the day and bounces at night and his niece calls him "Uncle Fats". Dwayne is my new favorite person and the reason that I love New York.

Happy Saturday.

-Tits

Poignant Friday Ideas

Here are a few things I've been thinking about lately:

• What if they started doing shows with "So You Think You Can..." for almost everything? Like, "So You Think You Can Make a Casserole?", "So You Think You Can Finish Tolstoy?", or "So You Think You Can Eat Spam?" Just a thought.
• What's the best thing to do at an open bar party? Is there some sort of law of economics that can explain that? Like is it better to drink yourself silly because you can, or is it better to just have a few free drinks and enjoy them? I passed out in my clothes last night, that's why I ask...
• Can I get paid to go to the gym and blog? Because that's all I seem to be doing now. 

Okay, that's really all I have for you today, I have to get to the gym where I'm not getting paid.

A

Back in the USSR

I'm not really in the Soviet Union, folks, just to clear that up right off the bat. I just feel like that phrase more adequately suits being back anywhere, rather than saying "Back in NYC", cause that's stupid and not a song written by Sir Paul McC (that's his urban name). But I am, I am back here in the city after a very brief nap (read: flight), and undeniably worried. I'm worried because in the last 10 days I have earned $75 and spent about $700. So fuck me. And I don't have any work lined up for the rest of the week, save for a babysitting job on Sunday evening. I honestly can tell you that I don't know what to do. It seems really foolish to go out and get a new waitressing job, especially since I am planning on leaving the city in a month or so. I'm just sitting here with my lunch special delivery (thanks to the size of some lunch specials, that $13 can be both lunch AND dinner, you too can understand being totally broke in NYC. ugh) watching my dvd collection since my cable isn't working and it's too damn hot to even pretend to want to take the box in to Time Warner to get fixed and lamenting my pathetic existence. Maybe later I'll read a book and cry. And finish this fortune cookie.

But this isn't all tears and daily numbers. I got a blog award while I was away!

Here's the "rules"

1. Thank the person who gave you the award

2. Share seven things about you

3. Nominate 15 newly discovered blogs

4. Let your nominees know about the award!

So here we go! LAUREN over at Lauren vs. Reality is just...gosh, I don't know what to say. She's my new favorite ginger, that's fer dern sure. No, really, we have a little blogosphere connection going on and I dig it. So thanks, Lauren!

Seven things about me, huh? Okay.

1. I spent pretty much my entire childhood at gymnastics. I was obsessed with going to the olympics, but at the ripe old age of 12 I realized that I was already too old and would never be good enough in time, hung up the leotard and kept the duffel bag around to use on vacations and weekend trips well into June, 2010.
2. I want to write a book but have no idea how to formulate a story like that (I have about 12 documents in files on my computer titled "Novel?" "Book...", etc.)
3. I used to be obsessed with the idea of living in Kentucky. Undoubtedly this is because I read "Walk Two Moons" and the girl goes to some town in Kentucky and does something that I liked, like run around shoeless, probably. I grew up in New Jersey and would go in my backyard and pretend it was Kentucky. Pathetic? Yup.
4. Everyone who's tasted my guacamole understands that there is no better. No, that's not an innuendo, you pervert.
5. 90% of my close friends and family live in a two hour radius of my apartment. It's making it very difficult to decide to run away across the country.
6. The first concert I ever went to was Hanson, at Hammerstein Ballroom in NYC, September 11, 2000. The day I got my braces off.
7. "Work hard and you will become more wealthy" was the fortune I just got in my cookie. Guess I need to work to gain money. Thanks fortune cookie-o-duh!'

Fifteen new blogs, huh? I'm gonna just list a few that I really am feeling right now, because I feel like quality over quantity. So here goes:

1. Ali at The Way I See It, because not only does she fit the "versatile blogger" status big time, but she's a real life friend, albeit a long-distance one.
2. Annabelle at I'll Tell You Anyway
3. Sarah at SMKM who has just about the best photo blog. Ever.
4. Britney at The Why, because moving to NY and a "musical journey" are enough to win me over.
5. Erin at I'm Staying Young Forever

And now that I've had a nice significant fight with my mom about moving across the country and have enough acid in my stomach from both chinese food and anxiety, I'm gonna go hibernate next to the fan and air conditioner and start crying now.

A

Happy Vuzevulva, Y'all

9:17 am, central time.

Florida Panhandle.

Bloody Mary.

World Cup.

Clear blue water.

No oil.

Y'all.

Running tally: due to last night's trip to the grocery store, liquor store, $5.50 mojitos, and epic use of sunscreen resulting in no sunburn, we've got:

The South-4, Adria-2

At least I'm not sunburnt.

A

Ode To Vacation

I went to bed at 11 pm last night. This is no feat for those with jobs, but since I am clearly unemployable (although, I managed to get a babysitting job yesterday, so at least I can go on vacation knowing I'm $30 richer. Awesome.) this is seriously weird. Especially since the only thing I have to do today is finish packing, go for a swim, and be ready to go to the airport by 5:00. I just passed out and it felt damn good. I woke up at 9 am, because that was TEN hours of sleep. Whhhhaat?! So yeah, here I am wondering if I should start packing or don my bathing suit and hit the gym before Senior Happy Hour starts at the pool (just my personal name for every other time I've used the pool there. Geriatrics love swimming).

Before I go get on with my super busy day (haHA!) I wanted to leave you, on this holiday weekend, with a list of some favorite vacation songs and the places they remind me of. Take note, usually these songs remind me of the places I've been because of my brothers and their ipods, which I frequently borrow/inherit as I am broke and they are...apparently riddled with iPods. Here goes:

Tragic Kingdom-No Doubt (The Hamptons, 2000/2001?)
Come Sail Away-Styx (Lake Placid, 2007)-->this deserves a side note and a nod to whatever the Classic Rock station exists in Lake Placid, NY, because my brothers and I were stuck in the car waiting for my dad to come back from a fudge and dessert shop while it poured and all we had were each other and the Styx...and it was beautiful. There are videos of this day somewhere, but since my computer is a mutilated mess, I'll spare you the video, even though you'd love it.
This Love-Maroon 5 (New Jersey Shore, 2007?) Judge not, lest ye be judged. Dicks.
Paper Planes-MIA (Lake George, 2008) Twenty college friends in one house and you're bound to hear this for every round of 9 am beer pong/"Girls, make pancakes!"
Mr. Therapy Man-Justin Nozuka (Hamptons, 2008)--> Another story, sorry. My friends and I were driving back from the Hamptons and had a mystery CD that my friend's sister had left in the car with no labels on it, and this song was on the cd. We spent literally an hour trying to guess the race of the man singing. First we thought he was black, then we figured half-black, then we went for some hispanic blend. Then we called my brother, who generously googled this information for us (we didn't have smart phones yet? Maybe this was 2007, I'm starting to think it was) and found out that he was half-asian. Image our shock and pleasure at such a fact. Justin Nozuka holds a special place in our hearts now.
Mardy Bum-Arctic Monkeys (Hawaii, 2009)
Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa-Vampire Weekend (Hawaii, 2009) Okay, so my ipod broke right as we were about to go to Hawaii and my little brother gave me his and as a result Vampire Weekend and Arctic Monkeys will forever be implanted in my head as associated with this vacation, because that little 15 year old jock loves these bands. Who knew.

Someday I'll tell you about the time that I spent the 4th of July at Dustin Hoffman's house, but not today.

Just kidding, that's kind of the whole story. He wasn't even there.

Okay, time to see how many pairs of shoes will realistically fit into my new suitcase.