Inventory

Apologies on the lack of posting. I've been...yeah, doing nothing.

Let's do a little recap. Life inventory, if you will. Will you? You don't have to. You can close the window now. I don't mind *
*I mind. Stay, please?

I was supposed to move from New York to LA in August. And then in September. And then mid-September. Then end of September. Then early October. Then mid-October. And now, end of October. Am I ever leaving? Yes. Are my friends starting to think I'm the girl who cried "move" and do they no longer care that I'm leaving? Probably. Am I getting irritable and antsy? Yes. Do I just want to go? Yes. Am I saving some money? Yes.

I have another stand up show. This Thursday. I'm not above pimping my real life on my blog, so leave a comment if you're in NYC and want to come see some kick ass comedy Thursday at 9 pm in the East Village (the other guys are supposed to be kick ass, I'll be mediocre, at best).

I have a cold and thus can't exercise, and thus ate a milkshake. Life is really just one big downward spiral after another.

And just to get serious for a second, I want to take a moment to recognize the cheesy year I've had. Since last September I've really been through a lot of changes and I think they might be noteworthy, if only to feel a little bit better about myself during a period of stasis (read: I'm scared to start anything else here on this coast). So, in brief:

Last August, while in Hawaii on a family vacation I decided that my life was unsatisfying and that I needed to grow up. I flew back to New York, started writing a play (now in limbo), and decided I needed to go on real dates, not just bat my eyelashes at the guy across the bar and try to catch his eye between Jameson shots. So I tried it out. I went on a lot of bad dates and a few good ones. Dated a guy I thought I liked for a few months, until I realized that I liked the idea better. Started drinking less.  And then I started running more. And then I started losing weight. Entered into something that would turn into the pretty successful relationship that I've still got going. I ran a half marathon. And then I quit my job. And then I started this blog. I bought a camera and learned how to take pictures (sort of). I started writing again, for fun, for the first time in years. And then I finally started performing stand up. And now I'm moving across the country. And I feel okay about it. 

For some reason reflecting on the year at the end of September makes sense to me...since these changes started last September, I guess. I don't know, somewhere between the Jewish New Year and the standard calendar New Year lies my New Year. Allo.

A

I'm a Jerk-Tales From the Vault

So in my afternoon perusal of all things internet (read: shamelessly stalking Facebook status updates and judging those who write them) I received a Facebook chat from a girl I went to college with. She was a freshman when I was a senior, but we danced together a lot that year. I don't mean like grinding to "Love In This Club" (although I'm pretty sure that may have happened once or twice...don't judge me), I mean in class, like I was a dance minor. Anywaaayyys, she's a senior now and doing an evaluation of a Professor we had in the spring of 2008 (a professor that I really liked, mind you, I mean, I babysat for her children on the weekends, we were cool) and has been reading through all of the end-of-term evaluations of her classes from the past few years. These evaluations are anonymous so as to encourage students to help the department and the professor improve her or his class, and to encourage obnoxious students to be assholes.

The conversation is as follows:

k: i believe i found yours

me: how do you know?

k: it is characteristically sarcastic

me: hahaha oh man

k: "how could the class be improved?"

"it is way too early"

was the response

me: hmmm, that might be me. I don't know

k: "what did you gain from this course?"

response: "a caffeine addiction"

HAHAHAH

me: YES YES YES

i remember writing that

[continued]

k: your suggestions for improvement:

"invest in a new stereo"

jesus

me: i'm such an asshole

k: what did you find helpful?

"feet-having them"

me: shut up

omg

i must have been drunk

k: how could the method of presentatoin be improved?

"bright colors"

YOU ARE A DICK

me: HA

im the worst

do not let me be anonymous

k: i'll be like FUCKING ADRIA commented on [professor's name]'s hopelessly drab wardrobe

me: HAHAHAHA

i can't believe that

k: i can

me: clearly the mark of a second semester senior

k: i knew that the snarky ass evaluation was yours

Choose your own ending:

Moral of the story? Do not ask your hungover dance students to write evaluations of the class when it is 8 am, 75º outside and they're graduating in five days. 

Or: Moral of the story? I'm a terribly rude, vain, sarcastic human being who thinks she's just hi-larious and should be punished for her offenses.

A

PS: I really did love this professor. Gosh, now I feel bad. Sigh, where are the m&ms?

I never write about sex...

Don’t worry guys, I haven’t been holed up in my childhood bedroom crying over old photo albums and high school “love” notes. I have, however managed to engage in a bunch of pretty mundane activities over the weekend. I chopped my hair off on Friday. I used a Groupon for a Mexican meal. I sat around drinking beer and listening to people play the guitar. I slept until mid-afternoon. I walked around Greenpoint/Williamsburg. I ate a grossly over-budget, albeit delicious dinner in Cobble Hill. I cased, snooped, er, stared lovingly, adoringly, and jealously through the windows of brownstones. I watched roughly nine episodes of The OC, Season One. And I did this all alone.

Just kidding. That would be pretty sad. Or maybe reflective? But definitely a waste of money.

I’ve had long hair for the past eight years. Jesus. I thought it was six years, but I just did the math and it was eight. EIGHT YEARS of roughly the same haircut. I guess I had some bang action thrown in the mix, but other than that: nada! So I cut it. Honestly, it hasn’t been as dramatic as I thought it would. I still feel like me, which is sort of depressing (is it? Oh man, that’s bad). Maybe that’s just because I don’t have access to a blow dryer so since I washed it I’ve more resembled a wet black lab than someone with a “fabulous” (ugh) new haircut.

I think I’m looking for change in all the wrong places. I can’t feel hopelessly nomadic because my laptop weighs next to nothing and I can just pop in a Starbucks (now equipped with FREE WI-FI. Blegh, you won me back as a customer, Starbucks. For now) and for the price of one $4.93 Grande Soy Latte I can sit for three hours, Facebook stalk my 93 year old great-aunt (no joke), Twitter stalk Chelsea Handler and the cast of Community, take the entire three hours to write this pathetic excuse for a blog post, peruse Epicurious.com for dinner ideas, and worst of all, do what I’m about to do; are you ready for it? I’m going to watch Boardwalk Empire online in Starbucks on 9^th avenue, with an empty cup in front of me. I might buy a pastry or something, honestly, just settle in. Although, they have the calorie count and I’m not sure that in good faith I can put a 400 calorie cookie the size of my thumbnail into my body right now.

I do have a stand up show next week, though, so at least I’m not a complete waste of life. Right?

A

PS: Fuck you coffee cake.
PPS: This post isn't about sex at all. Are you upset?

FreeDumb

In an effort to be a healthier, happier human being I've been trying to cut back on my drinking lately. It's not like I walk around with a Ketel 1 IV or anything, but I've been known to throw back my fair share of Malbec and I'm trying to turn it down a notch. Training for another half marathon, moving to the "skinniest city in America" (I made those quotes up, by the way, it just seemed right), and just generally trying to stop poison myself as often have led me to this decision. It was all going really well until last night. The problem I have is when the word "free" enters the mix. If its free I have to drink it. Rule #1, people, "never turn down free alcohol", or is that rule #3? Never waste alcohol is rule #1. I don't know, someone help me out with the rules, I have a hangover, I can't think.

I always used to silently make fun of my "older" friends when they'd complain about how being hungover stays with you longer as you get older, and I used to think that they were full of shit and trying to make excuses for the fact that they'd simply grown older and less fun. False. I recognized my breaking point last night, three free glasses of some delicious French, full-boded red. That was enough. That and the cheese plate and I should have been set. I was set. I was happy, buzzed and satiated. But, being the indulgent moron that I am, I headed downtown for dinner with friends. Yes, dinner. Another two bottles of red, a glass of moscato, a bowl of pasta, a chocolate souffle, and an after dinner rose at the wine bar down the street later I wanted to write an apologetic eulogy to my liver. 

On the upside, my cousin has bequeathed me the keys to her east village apartment for the next few days, so I'm back in my old "stomping ground". (God, I hate that phrase). On the downside, I've already locked myself out once. 

Oh man, I'm starting to feel like I may fall over. It's 5 pm and the hangover still ranks #1 on my list of priorities. Even a viewing of Bridget Jones' Diary and three episodes of the first season of The OC couldn't ease the pain. 

I'll be back on a better day. Excuse the shitty pun for a title. 

A

*cocooned*

In my childhood single bed. Listening to music in my "this might cheer you up" playlist. Wondering how many twenty-somethings are in similar situations right now. Wondering where they're going from here. Wondering why Morrisey's voice, or maybe Lou Reed's, is somehow helpful. Or maybe Paul Simon's "I am a rock"? Anything that qualifies as "vintage" by technicality and manages to be equal part pathetic and equal part hopeful. Maybe just hopeful in melody. Maybe not even that. Resisting the urge to dig through more relics of adolescence. Unable to exist as an adult self in the stifling suburban environment. Unable to exist elsewhere. Fear of feigned motivation. Fear of motivation. Fear of the motivated. Life goes on outside, probably. Gone is any type of routine. Gone is a firm sense of self. The insect once again cocoons, waiting for metamorphosis and  emergence. They are supposedly inevitable.

A

Boogers and Bruises

Unless you've been holed up for the past week you can probably tell that the seasons are kind of changing. I mean, unless you live in a place where you don't have seasons. Or you just live somewhere other than this general area. Like the general east coast region. Okay fine, I'VE noticed that it's starting to feel like fall. Jeez, tough crowd. With great change comes great responsibility. Like the responsibility to dress in layers. I don't know if any of you have been following this blog long enough to know about my "problem" with dressing appropriately for weather. You see, I just can't seem to get it right. That being said, I always get sick when the seasons change. This isn't so bad because I so rarely get sick otherwise, but it's irritating because somehow it still manages to surprise me. I mean, here I am, 10:45 on a Saturday night, locked into yet another babysitting job (something's gotta fund this cross country move, folks, and it's not going to be going out and drinking vodka tonics), huddled under a teeny-tiny fleece blanket, wearing a tank top, groping at my lymph nodes, pondering my increasingly pressurized dome-piece, and resisting the urge to shiver. And I can't stop blowing my nose. It's stupid.

Also, I bruise really easily. I'd upload a picture of my thighs but I don't want anyone filing claims of assault and battery, when really there's no one to blame but me, myself, and potassium-deprived I. It looks like someone took a miniature pogo stick and bounced around just above both my knees. This is just the result of carrying a few boxes stacked atop one another the other day, but man does it look bad. It forced me to wear pants today, which was probably a good thing considering I was ill-equipped for the chilly weather as it was, but regardless, no thanks. I don't want to walk around with strangers wondering if I have hemophelia or an abusive, drunk boyfriend.

*I just re-read the last paragraph and realized that I made it sound like I frequently go out into the world sans pants. Obviously this is true. Me and my itsy bitsy white girl ass roam the streets wearing tank tops and little mermaid panties. Truth be told, I meant a dress. Which is pretty clear at this point, but just in case I've got any naive, gullable readers out there.

I hope I didn't offend anyone by not writing a 9/11 commemorative blog post or anything, but to be honest, it's my Mom's birthday today and I try and keep the mood light for that reason. It's also Eileen's birthday, over at Eileen Eats, and she's basically like my surrogate, peer, mother, not to mention one of the smartest, most beautiful, most conscientious, worldly, and inspiring people I know. So, while I obviously recognize the reflection that must take place each year on this day as an American and especially a New Yorker, I've chosen to take September 11th back for these two, and celebrate their birthdays instead.

Mom (and Dad), 1993

Me and Eileen, April 2010

Happy Birthday!

Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to retreat back under the confines of this miniscule blanket. Ciao

A

Suburban Reflections

I hate that the world seems to be falling apart and all I can do is try to exist.

A

Another kind of Teddy Graham...Gram. Bear. arg

It's been less than a week and I already am all, like, oh my god, um, I like, totally, um, need my own space! I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm very happy to have friends who are kind enough to open their doors, beds, and showers to me, but I'm not suited to this. I like staying up as late as I want or going to bed as early as I want. I like randomly eating blackberries in bed at 3 am while watching Friday Night Lights on Netflix. I miss Really Bear. I know, it's pathetic, right? But leaving that 24 year old bear just sitting on top of a heap of my stuff was so sad.

It's funny, I babysat today and noticed that the mom (who is but two years my senior) has a teddy bear on her bed, and I couldn't help but think (ugh, sorry, the Carrie Bradshaw phrase is sometimes unavoidable) that it was sad that she has a baby and still needs to sleep with a teddy bear. Look at me again, all Judgey McJudgersauce just cause my generic Yaz prescription isn't fucked by my consumption of alcohol and I've been lucky enough to still have not dropped a pill on the street that I couldn't find. In fact, I took my pill today while sitting on a park bench holding this 9 month old. I'd like to think that the German tourists walking by muttered something along the lines of, "that skankerkraut jew seems to have learned her lesson, cackle cackle cackle." Sorry. I went there.

Speaking of going there, I found this website today on the bottomless hole of generally useless, uninteresting, super TMI information that is my Facebook newsfeed. I've taken to calling it Fah-chay book again, as if I were Italian. I mean, I am Italian, but not like, speaking Italian, Italian. OOh, seems I've gone back to my illogical, non-sensical rants again. Look at me, I'm rambling about my teddy bear, birth control, failure to look aryan, Jew-Italian status, Hitler, and made fun of all of my fah-chay book friends.

I did run eight miles today, though, so let's call it a wash, and chalk it up to the insanity that comes from deciding to train for a second half marathon. I'd be proud of myself for burning 1,000 calories today, but I rationalized a whole extra meal as a result, so again, wash.

A

A Girl

A girl sits, flanked by strangers, on the uptown 1. She registers her surroundings but is unable to focus on any one thing in particular, other than her own face staring back at her in the window opposite. Her hair is clean, but feels dirty. Her t-shirt too big, her eyes too wide and swollen from tears. A multi-ethnic tot climbs the pole at the center of the train and too tired to indulge in the humor of off-color stripper jokes, the girl forces a side smile and looks back at her own reflection in an effort to soak in the cinematic nature of the moment, and her own swelling emotions. She lives between. She notices her face shape-shifting in front of her; first her aunt, then her grandmother, her father, her mother, her brother, and back to herself. Her iPod shuffles to a weekend dance party song, she touches the button for the next, a down-tempo folk song. The train stops. Her bangs are unruly, matted from residual sex. Her fingernails uneven, in need of a file. She adjusts her too big t-shirt, pulling it in at the waist, as if anyone cares. Her eyes stare back at her; her family's eyes. Her family's hopes weigh down on her, as if anyone cares, or maybe it's just her own self-important nature. No one tells her what to think anymore. She's tired of thinking for herself. The train lurches forward, bounding uptown, emerges above ground in Harlem, the city resting below the tracks, she herself somehow over it. The train stops. She stands, gathers her collection of belongings, and exits. The air is strangely comforting, less stifling, more familiar, easier to breathe, or maybe it's just the elevation. As if anyone cares. The turnstile a friendly reminder of her place in the sea of people, in the unending count of bodies occupying the vast, unforgiving world. Her bubble of whining emotionality popped by the vibrato of her phone in her pocket. Life is back. The train rumbles on above.

Wah wah wah

This is my last night as a New York City resident. Tomorrow my subletter moves in and as a result I'm homeless after tonight. Unfortunately, its about 200º in my bedroom and I will most definitely not have a good night's sleep, but will more likely wake up several times covered in a pool of sweat. Great.

I've been crying like a two year old on a airplane all night, and it probably didn't help that I had about four glasses of wine. Whoops. Lately I feel like I've been living in an alternate reality, one where I'm no longer the fun kid at the party, but the adult who is asking everyone for advice. And believe me, I hate that person. I probably will benefit from a few days at the parentals, crying, being "artistic", listening to far too much Bon Iver and whining like a little bitch. Whatever, at least I help my mom with the dishes these days.

It's funny, usually when I'm this upset I can't sleep, and maybe its the wine, but I'm pretty much too exhausted to exert a single iota more of energy.


meh

a

Inside of a song...

If I could live inside of a song I'd pick Led Zeppelin's Tangerine. I'd want to live right in that song.

What about you?

Sitting on Babies

All I've been doing lately is babysitting. I'm not kidding you, I spent 70% of my time with people under age 10, and I've been getting some good advice from these kids.

What is not such good advice is eating half a box of Teddy Grahams and watching Scream...actually, that's the best advice, also, ironically, what I'm doing right now. Praise be to parents who put their children to bed before I arrive. And parents who don't keep ice cream in the house, because if you thought the the Teddy Graham genocide of 8:30 was bad, you wouldn't want to see what would happen if there was cookie dough up in this joint.

Additionally, I'd like to point out that Scream is hugely underrated. I think. And whatever happened to Matthew Lillard? Annndddd Wikipedia. Jesus, he's 40, and he looks like shit. Sad.

Oh, so I move out of my apartment on Friday and officially become a gypsy. But I'm going to this Saturday, so at least I'll be a drunk, porky gypsy.

A