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