Thanksgiving

I've been finding it hard to actually sit down and write one of these things for a while now. Call it life, but it's been getting in the way. In the spirit of Thanksgiving, I want to share a blog I wrote after last years Thanksgiving. I must say, it was interesting.

"Desperately Seeking Santa. Thanks 2005, I Hate You.

Now don't get me wrong, I enjoyed the parade, but Santa couldn't of come sooner. Let me start from the beginning of the day, Thanksgiving Day 2005. An interesting one, if I may say so myself. My day began at 7:30 this morning, Mary coming into my room and me convincing her that I was already awake, comical I'm sure, but my pride doesn't rest, even when I do. As Margaret had fluttered to Chicago, to do the respectable thing with her family, Mary and I planned on going to the parade. So waking up unreasonably early, which two months ago I was more than accustomed to, I got on my gear, the works, scarf, hat, gloves, and layers layers layers, (it was going to be a cold one.)

Our first surprise of the day was when we swiped our Metrocards only to realize that the holiday discount fee had come into effect, 1 buck, not 2. Glorious! I wasn't overly surprised to see the empty subway chamber at this ungodly hour, but man you could hear a pin drop. (Pin with an "i", thus proving the quiet subway, for perhaps in a slightly louder environment you could still hear a pen drop.) Hipsters must have celebrated the holiday the night before and couldn't be bothered to see this fantastic display of paradism. (Maybe that wasn't a bad idea.) Well this is all beside the point, you see, I felt as if I was responsible to at least witness this once a year event, especially since there is little I have done in NY that could qualify as taking advantage of this city...raping it of its appeal. So the parade it was, and other than nearly falling asleep on Mary's shoulder, I was pumped. I'm not much of a morning person, hell, I'm not much of a person at all before noon. Again, getting off track. So Mary and I settled on 50th street, trying to steer clear of Times Square, but not wanting for go too far uptown! And there we were, in the middle of it all, luckily finding an odd little spot where everyone in front of us didn't reach the height to ride a rollercoaster. And within a few minutes the fireworks started. Okay, so I'm being a tad bit sarcastic. Fireworks no.

From the second the thing started I was desperately seeking Santa. Between the inflated Barneys and Dora The Explorers, and the clowns running around as bad excuses for entertainment, I was standing there just wishing that one of the balloons would get loose and float into the sky, explode, kill a bird, and make children cry. Scooby doo almost got pushed by the wind into the crowd around us, and my heart started beating fast, exhilarated by the possiblity of being a victim of runaway balloon manslaughter. Ahh no such luck, they straightened it out. Eventually Santa showed, marking the end of the parade, and Mary and I, without a word, fled from the crowds of people, Well I actually had an okay time, I lost all feeling in my legs and my head hurt, but all in all, I'm glad I went. I probably won't go again, but it was a cool experience.

So we get home to a crisp, warm apartment, welcoming and enveloping us in an embrace as we push the door open. I get a message from my mom, the desperation in her voice, wanting to know if I was okay. Oh no! We missed something at the parade. Indeed. I call her to discover that I was more powerful than I knew. Shit. I could have used these powers earlier in life. A balloon had in fact knocked a lamp-post sending a stray piece into the crowd, and in effect, sending a 12 and 26 year old to the hospital. Ah, relief, I hadn't killed anyone, they were only scraped and bruised. Whew. Side stepped that land mine.

Okay so the plans for the evening were set. Me and Mary were hosting a Turkey dinner for 6, only three of which I know, and those three included myself and Mary. The other three, complete and utter strangers, some of Sandy's friends. One, named Chandler, his mother, named Nancy, and a friend from out of town, Rachel. Chandler and Rachel, interesting...So I had insisted on making this pie, a chocolate pie my mom always made for holidays such as this, stubbornly I didn't listen to her as she explained the difficulty of making meringue. (The foamy white layer on pies you know...) Well Mary and I were up to the challenge, or at least me, and then Mary by default! I needed help. We whipped this stuff, by hand mind you, for like half an hour, switching as our arms decided that they were going to fall off, it slowly getting thicker and harder to beat. Even as I type now, my arms ache. Ouch. (Mental note: get a blender Thompson.) Mistake ..1-accidentally getting some chocolate into the meringue, not a disaster but an ugly topping to what should have been a lovely pie. Now normally, I would not strike this small error up as a mistake, but the stakes were high.

I know I breezed past this earlier, but there was a mother coming to our dinner. Not my mother, not Mary's mother, a mother I didn't know, a mother of someone I didn't know, a mother who had entrusted her entire Thanksgiving meal to Mary and myself. We were serving her a meal that she had eaten for like 50 years probably flawlessly, probably perfectly. And now there was chocolate in my meringue.

After the meringue incident, I decided that I was finally going to open up that bottle of store bought hair dye and cream my blonde locks to brown. I like the outcome. Continue cooking!

Okay. Mistake ..2-before I knew that we were hosting to someone who was looking for more than a "this is better than nothing" meal, I had brilliantly decided to get to the store and get some turkey from the deli, 2 pounds of thick sliced deli turkey. I was up for whipping up some meringue, but baking a turkey endlessly wasn't something that I even desired to do, just give it to me sliced, cooked, and ready to be served. And now that Mother was coming, it was too late to try and get an actual turkey. The deli slices would have to do! So Mary and I tag teamed the house, finishing cooking, cleaning, arranging tables and chairs, and placing little candles and snacks around for atmosphere. Mary turns on the classical music station on the tv. Ahh classy.

Our guests arrive in twos, with wine, pies, casseroles. The mother seemed very nice, very classy, Mary took her coat and hung in up on the rack. My hands were covered in hard boiled egg shells as I attempted to finish peeling the eggs for the Deviled Eggs I was going to make. I don't think she minded too much, but as she looked at both our prepared dishes and soon to be prepared dishes, I sensed disappointment! So I washed my hands and immediately went over to where she was sitting. She had found a cosy spot in a chair and pulled out an extremely thick,classy looking book and was reading. I asked her if she had ever had sweet tea. No? But she'd like to try mine. Yay! A way in to her acceptance.

Mistake ..3...oh we all know its coming. I pour her a glass of tea and politely hand it to her. Immediatly my mistake becomes obvious, the tea is wayyy too sweet. Yep, she hates it and doesn't mind telling me. "Too sweet, is this dessert?" Yep, she's going to look at my meringue and laugh and not to mention the deli turkey!!! She sticks to water for the remainder of the evening.

Well what started out as a nerve racking, self conscious crazed dinner, ended up to be, as I can find no other way to describe it, lovely. Yes lovely. We ate. We all talked! Everyone was just chatting away and Mary and I, sitting at the heads of the table looked at each other, we had pulled it off. And after dinner, I cleared the plates and no one even got up! We sat there all chatting away. Mother complemented me on the food. And the classical music. Good call Mary. After a 30 minute cool down period, I started serving dessert. The pie ended up being so messy that the chocolate in the meringue wasn't even an issue! And it was a hit! But it was at this point that I realized, hosting a dinner party was soo exhilarating. I mean I've done it before, for my friends, but never for strangers. And it worked. It was a success. People were saying things like "Happy Thanksgiving", and "I'm Stuffed". So post dinner time, after the guests had left, Mary and I turned to the Sounds of the Season music channel and talked about how we could put Christmas lights on the porch tomorrow. We both curled up at opposite ends of the couch, warm and relieved, and watched the Charlie Brown Thanksgiving Special that we had recored earlier. I dosed off happily, happy that a balloon had not crushed me, or exploded mid air, happy that no one had seemed to notice that the turkey was deli sliced. Happy to realize that as an adult, maybe I could do okay."

Thanksgiving 2006 to come.(?)

Hopper

Here's the thing people, I have a dog. Meet Hopper. Hopper is about to turn 3 years old in nine days, and that picture right there, was taken a year ago. What I'm holding in front of the camera there, that's her birthday sandwich. At a closer inspection, it looks a little like this photo below. It's peanut butter with broken pieces of dog biscut smashed throughout. She gets it once a year on her birthday. (I'm pretty strict with all table food the rest of the year. This one day is the exception.)

Because if there's one thing Hopper likes, it's peanut butter. God forbid she ever get an entire jar, or that jar's fate would be, well, not pretty. Licked clean shards of plastic would be all that remains when Hopper is done with it.

I got Hopper when I was in college. I was sure that I was responsible enough: I had a yard, the spare time, and emotionally, was looking for some campanionship. (Whether I was actually ready to get a dog is still up for debate.) Hopper's name comes from artist Edward Hopper. Not Dennis Hopper, as some so wittingly like to suggest. Edward Hopper is by all counts, my favorite artist. In every single one of his paintings, he conveys this humanly loneliness, that we all possess, at or against our own will. For this reason, the mystery of Hopper's name can begin to become less of a mystery.



Here's the other thing, Hopper has a bad past. I got her when she was six months old, and between her and her sister, she seemed to be the more calm one. A little shy when I first met her, but allowed me to rub her stomach, which is always a good sign when adopting a dog. I got her in the car when I started to notice that something was a little off. She was in the backseat, trying to get in the front seat with us. She peed in the backseat and any loud noise made her cower. When we stopped halfway home to let her use the bathroom, she nearly escaped her leash when people tried to come up to her. She was scared. And it seemed normal enough I guess, at the time thinking she was just adjusting. But that day, things went from bad to worse. She wouldn't let anyone, besides me and my friend who had picked her up, near her. She would cower under my bed, no matter how many treats I laid right outside of her comfort zone.

Yes, something was very off with this pup. She had been abused. I took her to the vet and they confirmed my fear. At the lift of a hand, she would wince thinking she was going to get hit. She trusted no one but me and my roommates. It was a sad time. I dealt with it the best I could, taking her to socialization classes and trying to integrate her with other dogs. Luckily, she had no problem getting along with other dogs, it was just the people that she couldn't handle. But she was a great dog, pretty well-behaved, sweet, not overly active. And I fell in love with her.

Today, after 2 and a half years of working with her, she has improved greatly, but is still far from "normal". She is overly afraid of strangers, sometimes so desperate to get away, knocking down any and everything in her path, including me. Loud noises or startling motions frighten her. She has gotten better, as it takes her a lot less time to warm up to people now. But her past can never completely be reversed. And it's hard. It's stressful, and sometimes it's so damn frustrating that I can't see straight. I'm 23, and this dog is hard to take care of. It's hard always wondering if I'm doing the right thing or if I'm being overly-compassionate or cold hearted. When she's scared, sometimes I just want to yell, "What's your damn problem!" Or pull her to the person in question and be like, "They are nice! People are nice!!!" Of course I don't, especially the former, it's not her fault. It's the bastards that abused her. It's their fault. And there's a high chance I made some mistakes when I first got her. Too much coddling, being the worst offense, or so I'm told. She went from an abusive atmosphere directly to me, who would cater to her every need and desire. No wonder she thinks everyone else sucks.

But I love her dearly and know that I can't give up on her. It's damn hard. It is. I have to sacrific a lot for her, but I made this commitment long ago, and have no intention of going back on a promise I made to her when I first got her. "Till death do we part, baby."

I would like to believe that she doesn't hold me back, but alas, sometimes it's hard not to concede to that thinking. Moving new places is awfully difficult. And here's the last thing. I need to move to a new place. I'm as far as I believe I can go here, career wise. Or as far as I'd like to go. My time in NYC is up. I've recently realized that I must move to LA. My first thought, when I realized this was, she's not going to be able to come. It was subconscious at first. I take you back to my post from last week, "10 Hours Separates The Freshly Cleaned and Coffee Stained", where I was trying to decide what to do in March when my lease is up. Admittedly, LA was in last place. I didn't admit it then, but I will now, It's because of Hopper. I was scared she wouldn't be able to come. This realization and vocalization of this realization made me have a breakdown a few nights ago. I couldn't give up on her now.

Night time is always the time where I think less rationally. By morning light, I had a plan.

In March when my lease is up, I will return home for a short period to regroup. Hopper will be boarded for a couple of weeks, and I'm going to fly out to LA. With the help of friends already living there, I will start to try and find a place to live, a job, a life. That's right. I'm going to move to LA. After finding some sort of semblance of a place to live, I will then make the desicion if I am going to be able to have her. I'm thinking that I will. I've discussed this with many people, one of which is currently in LA with her dog, living happily. I know I can do it. If I can do it here, I can do it anywhere. That's how the saying goes right? I will return home, collecting my belongings, purchasing a car, (no easy task, but a necessity), retrieve my pup, and head cross-country. One step at a time. If, and I am going to try and make this not so, but if I discover that I would not be able to have her there, I will deal with it then. But I'm fighting for her. And for what I need in my life. It's not fair to either of us to hold each other back. I don't want to feel like by living there, her quality of life will be compromised. And same for me. So Hopper and I will have another chapter in our lives together. She can't get rid of me that easily!

And once again, I'm at peace.

Off-Kilter

I used to think I had the perfect life. Honestly, when I was younger, I'd be like, "This, all of this. It's enviable." I had the perfect family, tons of friends, I knew what I wanted in life. Everything was just perfect. I mean of course there were bad days, or days where I'd walk out of my house with my head so high, the perfect outfit on, walking around confidently, knowing I was looking good, only to trip and stumble or run out of gas a half a mile from school, for everyone to see, including my ex-boyfriend, (who didn't stop). Those were the days that I thought evened out everything that was right in my life.

Now it seems I can only have one thing good going on in my life at a time, and I constantly wait for that to implode, as they so often do. I feel like I'm in a bad place in my life currently. Like I need to make major life changes.

When I was younger, I did everything for everyone. I was the doormat that people stepped on. I took hits for people, and did embarrasingly, belittling tasks to remain a part of the "cool group". I realized I was trying so hard to make everyone else happy, I wasn't making myself happy. As it goes, I got tired of being the selfless whipping board I was convinced I was. I made a conscious desicion to be more selfish. Silly, I know. I trained myself to be selfish, which would be good for someone like me, but I did it all wrong. I didn't do it to make myself happy. I still couldn't focus on that. Instead, I got to a place where I had a hard time being happy for people who had good things going on in their life, that I didn't have. I should have focused on being a doormat no longer, instead I became this strange self-involved person who talked all about themselves and lost interest in other peoples' lives. And the worst part? Somehow, I still felt like a doormat. I could talk about myself for hours, but how other's were making me feel, not so much. I did it all wrong.

Today, I'm too selfish for my own good. I sometimes forget to ask people how their day was, and mean it. It becomes like this courtesy thing for me, and while they tell me, my mind is off thinking about what I have to do that day or the jacket at J Crew that I want and can't afford. I find myself hogging all the phone time with friends, going on and on about how I'm so tired from my day and going off about how I need a raise. I hate it. I don't know why I do it, or why I can't seem to stop doing it. And I'll catch myself doing it, but not stop. I try to make that effort, but it never works, and I end up making strange segways and apologizing for being side-tracked when they ask me a question about what they've just said, and I haven't heard a word of it because I'm thinking about how I need to be listening. But I feel like I'm losing people in my life, slowly, because of it. It becomes a sad thing when I can't grasp the concept of friendship anymore.

And I have a hard time confiding in my friends, or anyone for that matter. Me and four of my closest friends were playing truth or dare the other day, (yes we are grown women who have jobs and make salaries and still play truth or dare), and I kept deflecting the "truth" portion of the game. That bothered me. I couldn't even stand to be asked a question that may force me to confide in my closest friends. What I don't have any trouble with, is filling their heads with too much trivial knowledge of my life and day and week. It makes me sad.

I feel like my closest friends are always those that I never see, no matter which group of friends I am with. When I'm home visiting, I feel like my college friends are the people in which I belong with. When I'm here, I feel like it's the people from home. I feel like I have tons on friends, and but no extremely close, attached-to-the-hip, friends forever type of friends.

All this rambling could be the effect of me living alone for the past few weeks, and me just finding myself very lonely without a roommate. But being without a roommate is what I kept saying that I wanted. It's not all that I thought it would be. And still, I have a year of it when this lease is up. It makes coming home from work a sad thing. It makes watching my favorite shows, much less exciting.

Too many aspects of my life are off-kilter right now. I feel like I'm losing touch with my family, friends, and even, excuse the over-dramatic sentiment, myself. I don't even know what I want right now. The only aspect of my life that I am happy with is my job, and that's slowly losing it's greatness as the weeks keep going by without that promise of a raise coming to fruitition. I'm waiting for the fallout that leaves me on my face, wondering where I went wrong and how I'm going to dig myself out of this hole, (that I fear I am already halfway in). I feel like I'm having a quarter-life crisis, where I'm wondering what I have to show, beyond my professional life, for my almost quarter-of-a-century life on this earth. And just fear that I'm going to wake up in the same place in another twenty-five years. I feel like I'm pushing so hard for things that I think I want in the future, I'm forgetting about the here and now.

I need to make some changes in my life. I know that. I need to send people birthday cards and call to see how they are doing. I need to call my brother and talk to him about his life, and school, and girlfriend. I need to try and focus on what makes me happy, which is ultimately, my friends and being with them. I need to tell them that. I need to stop the self-pity party and make things happen in my life. I need to stop throwing myself in my work because it seems like it's the only aspect of my life that I can be successful in. I know all this. Now, I just need to do it. Why is that always the hardest part?

I Have A Crush On John Mayer

In his, "Your Body Is A Wonderland" days, my heart was far from soaring. It's now, when he sings of how our generation will one day take over the world and how we are waiting for the world to change, that I truly begin to fall head over heels.

I admit this announcement comes on the heels of going to a bar last night with a doorman that looked strikingly similar to Mr. Mayer, only a little bit more tired, a little more worn, a little more about to tie up his upper arm with elastic between his teeth. What does this have to do with me acknowledging my obsession for John Mayer? Well I kept picturing fake!John Mayer with a guitar and his trademark smile, walking under a beautiful bridge in black and white and I couldn't stop myself from getting giddy. I think I freaked fake!John Mayer out a little bit.

I've been trying to push aside my crush--writing it off as my uncanny ability to fall for any guy who holds that guitar just right. But no, this crush extends my mere fascination with musicians. Sorry Chris, Tyson, that guy who played at The Knitting Factory on August 3rd of last year, Nic, Brandon, Jason, and even you Rhett. There's a new man on the block.

When he put on that bear suit and walked around in the parking lot where people were tailgating for his own concert... hilarious.

It's official: I have a crush on John Mayer.

A Few Comical Videos To Start The Day

My favorite You Tube videos of the week....errr...month? Well, these really made me laugh today.



Language is no barrier for brillance. If it is, please take advantage of the wonderfulness that is the internet to decipher foreign languages.






That's right. I know it's old by now, but did you see this chapter? Did you see it? Oh god. He's serious isn't he?

Take This Day and Shove It!

I woke up this morning in an exceptionally odd mood. I wouldn't say any worse than any other Monday morning by any means. But as always, the allure of coffee made me rise. My dog was in a fantastic mood. Staring me down, trying to lure my gaze away from my computer, smiling and panting when successful. When not, she'd let out a playful howl. Then she'd snuggle down into the covers and try to get to my body beneath the sheets. And then on our walk, she was exceptionally outgoing and everytime she'd turn around at me and smile, my heart would soar! She's sooo happy!!

Now if you know me, you know the problems I've had with my dog, or rather, the problems my dog has. She's a rescue and to an extreme that is rare, she is afraid of most anything that is new. People, plastic bags blowing in the wind, car doors slamming two blocks away. She jumps, and is on edge, and her whole life is filled with this anxiety that fills me with anxiety and I love that today she was having a good day.

And at the beginning of the day, I thought that maybe my day would be extraordinary as well. Think again. Now I know in comparision to some people's bad days, this was nothing, but I couldn't find anything to wear. Immediately this caused warning lights in my head to go off. I knew these days. I hate these days. You know, the days where you can't find anything to wear because that shirt makes you look fat, or you saw someone on the subway wearing those pants, or those shoes give you blisters. And you think of a shirt that would maybe suit this day perfectly, only to realize it's dirty, along with all the other clothes that you wanted to wear today because throughout your weekend of rest and relaxation, you failed to do laundry.

Blah.

So I throw on something comfortable, because let's face it, I wasn't going to be having a "You look fabulous! Where did you get that?!" day. And I didn't shower. I admit it! I showered yesterday, and I wanted to sit in bed and drink coffee and ponder what I was supposed to do on September 22nd a little longer.

I really set myself up for this day to be bad. I didn't do laundry, I didn't shower, and now I wonder why I feel blah? I wish I could go back and get up a little earlier and shower and dig a little deeper in my closet and find something that I haven't seen in months. But I can't. Instead, I find solace in being a bitch to those around me, and complaining when my boss gives me work to do!

I hate this day. I hate it because it's my fault that it's sucky and I can not really do anything to change it. My face feels greasy, my headband is pinching behind my ears uncomfortably, and I know when my boss says he wants to train me to do this other show so some weeks we switch off, he really means, even though you work your ass off four days a week, putting in more hours than anyone else in this office, yet you get paid less than everyone in this office, I can't stand for you to have a light Monday, when I have to be here. So I will train you to do this show, so on the rare occasion you have a chance to catch your breath, you can do my job too and I can sit back and be the boss.

It's really just one of those days. So yes, I could try and cheer myself up and not be bitchy to people around me, but I'm a freaking ray of sunshine compared to ninty percent of this office on any given day. Let me have my day to gripe and be pissy.

September 22nd

You know when a date comes and goes with a nagging feeling that something special is happening on that day? Where you go through your list of acquaintances, thumbing off their birthdays and anniversaries. Check the calender, that you hardly keep up with, knowing that something is happening on that day. This year, September 22 was, or rather is, that day. It is three days later and I have yet to figure out what I missed.

I scanned IMDB to see if it was a celebrity's birthday or death day, only realizing that besides the birth of Bonnie Hunt, it's probably the most uneventful day in movie history. I just can't figure this out. I have faces in my head, one's I can not reconcile with this day at all, but my brain won't let them go. I know I missed something, this day plagues me, and I can't, for the life of me, figure out why.

September twenty-second, September 22. What a quandry. I give my sincere apologies to whoever I stood-up on this day. Was it a birthday? Did I have plans that, due to my lack of organization, I forgot? Maybe I did something memorable on this day last year? Nothing. I'm getting nothing.

Putting The "Woman" In Manual Labor

Our office is currently expanding into a space next door. It is almost completed and we already have two guys employed for when it's done. They've been here for like six weeks playing Halo and answering phones. We get on quite well. My Halo game has improved quite a bit and it's nice not to have to answer phones anymore. (We've been between receptionists for 4 months now.) Today was the day that the carpet was being put in.

I walk to my transfer train and as usual, see Ben, one of the two guys mentioned above. He has headphones on and as I approach him he starts to take them off. You know when you have your music on pretty loud and you speak louder than usual to compensate, which is pointless only because no one else can hear your music and you just end up talking unnecessarily loud? Well that's what he did. And what were these loud words he decided to speak? "I got hit by a car!" Everyone looked at us, and if i weren't so stunned by his announcement, I would have been embarrassed by his outburst. He took off his sunglasses to reveal the nastiest black eye I've ever seen. That was his only visible injury and so immediately my mind started wondering how exactly one would get hit in the eye by a car. And moreover, how one might survive such an attack. He explains how a cab hit him on his bike and he hit his face on the windshield and bounced off into the road. People walking by saw and pulled his unconscious body onto the sidewalk. He'd be dead if he weren't wearing a helmet. (Now I don't know about you, but this is the point where I'd take two months off of work and curl up in the fetal position on my parents bed, screaming anytime anyone mentioned a "C" word.) He had a concussion and spent the better part of his weekend in the hospital getting CAT-scans and x-rays. Why exactly was he going into work? One may never know. I ordered him to turn around and go back home, (as if I have such authority), but alas, he insisted he was fine.

We get to work and he fills everyone in on his eventful weekend. Comparatively, we all concluded that our weekends were pretty awesome. The other guy reveals with a hearty cough that he has bronchitis. My boss turns to me and pats my back, "Ready to do some manual labor?" ECCCCKKKK.

The three rooms need to be cleaned out of all the junk-including large scraps of dry wall. Ladders, paint cans, nails, shelves, a computer, wood, need I go on?? Then the floors needed to be vacuumed. It was not going to be an usual Monday. (An usual? A usual? Word has lost all meaning.)

There was an awkward moment when drugged up Ben, (from painkillers), said something about how amazing the vacuum is, "it sucks better than you've ever sucked-". Of course this was directed towards me, and with my boss at my side, blush rose to my cheeks and I couldn't help but crack a smile at the obvious unintended double meaning there. I would have slipped in a "dirty" or a snide remark but bossman beat me to it, "Please stop there." I agreed, "Yes please!" That is one thing that I love about our office. We're all pretty young, even bossman, and the atmosphere is so laid back that these potentially funny moments never pass us by. Someone is sure to point out a "dirty" or tell a coworker to "stop being an asshole". The latter is usually me. I work with three boys! I'm the only girl and someone needs to keep them straight.

I digress, due to the extraordinary circumstances, I started my manual labor. Sweat and all. And I was wearing my new jeans! I've never felt like more of a girl. But I did it and cleaned out the whole space. Then I took the super-sucking vacuum to the floor, filling the bag with drywall powder. A thick, flour-like mess. At the end of the day, the carpet was laid, the stuff was moved, and I was tired. My last, seemingly easy task was to return the vacuum. Just getting this thing on the elevator was work enough. I finally get it down there and the tall man with the cover-alls tells me I have to empty the bag because "The boy from Savannah borrowed it last week and didn't clean it out. Once is okay. Today he borrows it and I tell him he has to clean it out, and no, he has to clean it out." I didn't have the heart to tell him that "The boy from Savannah" left work early cause he got hit by a car this weekend, so instead I tredge back upstairs with a gas mask and a frown. He provided me for the gas mask because of the dust that was surely going to be let loose. Remember my "ECCCKKK" from earlier? Insert it here as well.

I take the 260 lb. vacuum to the end of the hall. Me, exaggerate? Maybe a little, but it is unbelievably heavy and doesn't roll easily. I have to unzip the bag, immediately making dust fly into my face. If I had been with a significant other baking a cake in a cheesy romantic comedy, my face would have been perfectly made up for the scene. I comically dumped the bag into the trash bag, tipping the entire vacuum and shaking it, stirring up a cloud of dust that is so thick, it takes an hour to settle. Needless to say, I was covered in the white dust.

One day of womanual labor was enough for me, I'll return to the working world tomorrow.

I Love TV

Is it just me or does the Fall TV schedule kick ass? Below is what I'm going to be watching. I'm also going to try and pencil in a life. Whew, this is a lot of good television.

Scared.

At brunch yesterday, I got into a Champagne-laced comversation with an almost complete stranger.

He said, "Is it because you're scared? Maybe they'll laugh?"

I assured him, "No. No."

And I believed myself then. Now, I think that a complete stranger saw what I couldn't. Damn. He is right. I hate it when that happens.

Outta Mind, Outta Sight

I just remembered why I love Wilco. It was one of those occasions where you are playing your iTunes at random and a song comes on that you haven't heard in a while. Excitement runs through your veins and you immediately narrow the search window to said artist.

That's what I did tonight and for the last hour I've been listening to Wilco. Currently on the air? California Stars. Oh Wilco, how you make me feel so good. The music just makes me smile.

You know what's embarrassing? Knowingly leaving your window open while you change because you're too tired, (read: lazy), to close it, and then walking out the front door and walking to the subway with the cute across-the-street neighbor who has surely seen your goods, or Thompson twins as mine are affectionately known. In the brightness of day, my inhibitions ruturn to the upright position and the tray tables stay secured. Blush rises to my cheeks and I curse my lazy ways. I gotta start closing that window!

Dishes! Must do dishes tomorrow!

Why am I still awake? Because tomorrow is Saturday and I can and will sleep in? Great friend from home is here with her old college friends. She's coming for brunch in the morning-afternoon. I have a feeling that it's going to be more like afternoon. She doesn't exactly rise with the sun. She's more akin to rising as the sun starts to make it's descent. Maybe subconsciously I'm protecting my hunger and hoping that when I wake up, it'll be sometime closer to when she's ready to eat. Because if there's one thing I have to say about brunch that's negative, it's the time frame is so wide on when brunch actually ends, people seem to drag their heels, usually hungover, and my stomach eats itself, or worse, I give in and cook some eggs, thus dulling the initial pleasure of the coveted brunch when it finally does roll around.

Well, I'll leave you with something comical.

Last night, I was talking to my very paranoid and protective mother on the phone. I think she was trying to convince me to move home, (so I can meet a nice man and my house can act as a storage garage for her parent's old furniture), and as always I told her, "We'll see what happens." (Man, I need to post about my huge upcoming decision.) I was in a cab and halfway talking to her and halfway helping this guy navigate through Brooklyn. Here's what she heard. She freaked !

"I just don't know yet. I'm actually starting to---take a left here---get to a point where I can fully support myself, --three blocks up---and to where I feel comfortable here."

"But it's so dangerous!"

"Mom don't be silly---there, you can drop me off behind that dumpster!"

I'll Stand By You

Umm, I don't know if this needs an introduction. I was going through my old videos and saw this...had to post!

Boredom + Silliness =



Starring Me and Maggie!

Song by The Pretenders....ironic eh?

This is proof that putting anything in slow motion is epic.

Some Thompson's Suck!

While most of the Thompson's I know are quite amazing, beautiful, intelligent, extraordinary, etc, etc, :) , some, apparently aren't so great. I mean, I should have gotten this watching Kenan and Kel when I was younger. Huh, you'd think! My intention of this post was not to rant about how much I dislike Kenan Thompson, or his comedic style I should say. (Maybe he's a nice person with no taste, judgement, or self-awareness?) No. I'd rather turn my attention to another 'Thompson' that seems to be wreaking havoc in the world. Ahh, yes. This Thompson doesn't know the great responsibility of the Thompson name. People like Emma Thompson, oh yes, they get it.

So a friend of mine, Sally*, has recently been put into a situation where she is working very closely to said traitor of The Thompson name. Let me give you a play by play of conversation as it was related to me:

"Hi Sally, thanks for coming."

"No problem. It's a great party."

"Thanks." A fake laugh and a disapproving, (disgusted?) glance towards Sally's hair, "Wow, your hair is like tons of different colors."

Sally self-consciously puts hand to hair trying to remember if she had any buckets of paint dropped on her in the last few minutes. Nope. All clear, just her usual brown hair. Sally tries to make a joke, "What is it like green and purple?"

A snort, and a snobby remark is her reply, "What did you run out of money when you were getting your hair dyed?"

Excuse me! Sally's hair is brown/almost a dirty blond, but by no means does she have anything extraordianary like dark roots or blond tips. Not even to mention that Sally is the nicest person ever. She's one of those people who just radiate happiness!

This Thompson is going on my LIST. Right there with Brandon Davis. And I could care less about the whole Lindsey Lohan debacle. Just some people rub me the wrong way. I have some serious issues with people who think because they have the fortune of being overpaid and overadored, that they have the right to belittle others whose income doesn't rival a small countries budget. Celebritiy kills me. Especially when it's those 'famous' people who don't really do anything, or they do but are awful at it. Those that are famous for their pretty face or how much money they inherited. I don't mean to sound holier-than-thou here. I understand the whole concept, I myself have totally fallen victim to idolizing famous people. And you know, it's always bothered me a little. Even when I was writing to the Jonathan Taylor Thomas fan club and waiting by the mailbox for my autographed photo to come. And even now, I'm pretty sure if I saw some of my favorites I would lose the ability to speak and to do that whole 'standing' thing. I do it too. All the time. But my deal-breaker is when the celeb takes that adornment and starts confusing their high status as the norm. Just because you're up in a tree doesn't mean we get to call that the ground now. I equally love you and hate you, celebrity. We can get married, but we probably shouldn't have any kids.

Did I Say That?

I can't believe I actually just muttered the phrase, "I love Mondays". I'm pretty sure that in some circles I could be crucified for that. This includes disappointing my childhood idols: The Bangles. Why would that phrase ever be muttered from anyone's mouth? Well, I'm not sure, but my reasoning went something like this: Monday's at work there is nothing to do on the show, the work week officially starts on Tuesday, (billing wise), but I have to be here, to well, suck up oxygen I guess. (Or run errands if needed?) To make matters better, my boss is out of town allowing me to lay (very unlady-like) on all the client couches I want, watch tv too loudly, and spend hours and hours on the internet. Ah yes, fun indeed. Also, on Monday's there are a lot of new internet stories that are published, I'm assuming fruits of labor from the weekend. Hence, this Monday, I have spent my hours and hours on the internet reading said stories and constantly being laughed at for my unmoving, yet unbeatable, cozy spot on the couch. (And a random note: can I just say one of the editors here loves to walk around with a golf club, as he is doing right now, and I think it is hilarious. I don't know why, but he always does it, not swinging it or anything, just using it to punctuate sentences and stuff.) One last note about Mondays, you can really get away with doing almost anything on a Monday. You do something less than intelligent, or you make a mistake, you can blame it on 'Monday'. Four out of five times, you'll get an understanding head nod. Ahh, yes. Been there before.

Yeah, and then I figured that if I did have any interested readers, (well other than you Christie), I really left them in suspense with that last post. So you wanna know what happened with my moving day? Yep, it was a disaster. I 'Babe Ruthed' that one. There was lots of crying and meltdowns from nearly every party involved. At one point I even thought the movers were going to cry when they left their spare tire behind to fit more of my belongings in their van, and someone stole it. It was an eventful day at best. Worst. Moving. Day. Ever. But now it's like a week later and everything is a lot better, and I have my heath, (well sort of I think), but I'm definitly still alive, which is more than some Enron guy can say. Ouch.

Disaster

Let's hope today's not a disaster. It's moving day and I'm sitting on the porch for what could be the last time as a resident here. Movers are coming in 50 minutes and I feel that right now, it's the calm before the storm. First I'm worried that the movers are going to look at all my stuff and be like, "Whoa! That's more than we thought!" I have to keep reminding myself that I am paying them and that no matter what, they have to move me. I think. Then I'm worried that the girls haven't completely cleaned out their apartment. And that when I start to move my stuff in, I will be moving around their's. I'm also worried about what to do with my doggy while the cleaning lady is there and I'm gone. I don't want them to terrorize each other. Whew, it's 40 minutes now and I'm nervous. Here's to hoping it all goes okay.

Busted!

I went what, a whole two days fearing for my homelessness? Yeah, I got an apartment. Or did I? I think I did, although I have yet to sign a lease. Well I'm 75% sure I got an apartment. I mean Time Warner is coming to said apartment next week to install cable and internet, (because god knows what I do without those two things!). Well we'll see I guess.

Onto more important matters. Who gets a civil disobedience ticket at 9 am in the morning? Me that's who. Now before you start to live vicariously through me, I warn that the story is pretty boring and does not involve nudity or violence in any way. It's 9 o'clock in the morning, I'm walking to the subway with my good friend Emily. We're laughing and chatting about nothing in particular. It's her first morning in her new place, my old place as of this Saturday. I'm happy to be walking to the subway with someone I know. Well last Friday, I spent my last ride on my MetroCard and spent the weekend lazily buying Single Ride tickets. Needless to say, part of my planned to be uneventful morning was purchasing a new card. As we walk in the station, I casually walk up to the machine, only to be greeting with a "No Signal" message on the screen. I've seen many out of service messages on this very machine, but never that one. Seems more suitable for a cell phone or wireless internet connection but whatever. Technology these days, sheesh.

So in order for me to buy a card I'd have to climb the stairs back to street level, walk an avenue block, descend the stairs and potentially be greeted by the very same message on the other machines. Emily had a better idea. "Squeeze in with me!" I mean, on paper, it was a good plan. No security cameras to speak of and a seemingly empty station, I went for it. It was much more appealing than the other option, and hell, I'm a good citizen and had only done this once before, which from what I hear, is pretty honorable for someone who rides the subway everyday. Of course, as we squeeze in, push through, and head for our train, a NYPD officer walks up the stairs towards us. He came from out no where. Maybe he didn't know. We played it cool.

"Can I see some ID from you two?" Shit. "Have either of you ever been arrested?" Double shit.

As much as I wanted to cry, (to try and ease the punishment a little bit), I couldn't do anything but laugh. Call me crazy, but what the hell. Hilarious. Arrested for not paying 2 dollars? The potential cell-block conversations filled my head and I nearly doubled over in laughter. The fact that I wasn't scared of being arrested was perhaps the first sign to myself that I was an adult. Usually I'd be shaking in my mom-labeled underwear. Nonetheless, there was no arrest. He silently took our IDs and called in to check for past offenses. After finding that up to that point, we had lived law-abiding lives, he handed us a ticket for sixty bucks and told us to have a better day.

As soon as he let us go, we nearly sprinted to the train in a fit of giggles. We jumped onto a train filled with the very same people who had walked by moments earlier as we stood shamed as the PO wrote up our tickets. Some people had looked sympathetic, others, like we were the scum of the earth. And as we rode on the train, we laughed and Emily mentioned something about "not belonging", and I swear, if I didn't know us, I would have been annoyed. So I figured it was just a sixty dollar subway ride. I sat in the Priority Seating. Hell, I decided I deserved it.

Oh well, makes for a good story. Especially when I had to explain to the bossman why I was late. Even my mother laughed. And if you know my mom, you know that's quite a feat!

Woe Is Me: Being Homeless

For those of you who know me, you know that I've been trying to find housing for the past few weeks. My lease is up July 1st and I have yet to find a new place. I mean, what is up with New York real estate? It just keeps going up. One day it's going to be so high that NYC will be filled with two classes: upper and lower. Last year, my roommates and I found a place with really no big problems. Maybe I see it that way now because we didn't have a deadline. Right now, someone is planning on moving into my room in one short week. And where does that leave me? On the streets! Homeless I say!

A few days ago I joked that if we didn't find a place I'd load up a U-haul and move home for a few months, saving money for a move to LA. Now even that is out of the question seeing as the company I work for used to consist of four, and now it is down to three. The guy, we'll call him Joey, left, for practical reasons (!) but I humbly realize that if I were to leave as well, it could very well cause boss man to spontaneously combust! As I try to keep people's insides on the inside, I will not go that route...yet. But being homeless is a daunting threat that looms over my head as I look around me at all my worldly possessions knowing that being homeless might be rather hard with a dog and a truckload of stuff.



This is me when I was homeless for Halloween. The cardboard sign in the bottom right hand corner says, "Need Beer. God Bless You" On the reverse side it read, "Will Work For Beer". I went to a party that night, didn't have to shower after crew, spent zero dollars on my costume, and didn't buy a single beer. Clever and economical.

Sweaty Goats and Tap Water

I love putting two things together in a sentence that is seemingly random and may even provoke some sort of knee-jerk reaction. I guess in this instance, you'd have to have a strong aversion of goats or tap water for that to be the case. This evening brought these two seemingly random statements together in an interesting way. One minute I'm sitting in my den watching Spiderman II, the next, I'm dressed up like a nun with a goat mask on.

Long story short, a filmmaker friend of mine decided to do some re-shoots on his movie, Rock and Roll Eulogy. If you venture to the website, that might be enough to explain exactly why I was a nun dressed with a goat's mask. (It's a exploitation film, somewhat similar to Reefer Madness in the sense of style and tone.)

Anyway, I said "sweaty goats" didn't I? The masks were hot, the suits were hot. A sweet cocktail further dehydrated my poor body. At one point I thought that maybe they would somehow have to work in why one of the nuns passes out for seemingly no reason. Alas, I survived. Hopefully I can finagle some pictures. To tide you over, here's one of me as Goody Girl #1, (one of my 3(!) roles, and yes, I'm proud).

My roommates and I are all separating ways within the next few weeks. Roomie #1 left today. She took her Brita with her. After exhausting all the ice trays, (which had been filled with filtered water), I was left to drench my shriveled insides with tap water. I'm not a water snob or anything, but I have a hard time rationalizing the consumption of foggy water, even if it does clear up after a minute or two of settling. Eck!

Clarissa Where Art Thou?

I just watched the first episode of "Clarissa Explains It All". Nineties Nick was the best and this was only reconfirmed tonight.

NY and It's Strange Happenings

I've been sitting here staring at this blank box for close to two hours now. What is the first entry in a blog supposed to be like? Well I've officially decided that my first blog entry is going to be about first blog entries. You know, it's like a first impression. You want to be engaging and interesting but you don't want to disclose too much information like something horrible that's going on in your life that will immediately set the pity train a-racing. If you're having a particularly funny day, you don't want to use up all your good humorous stories on the first blog. Because really, in a few months, who is going to go back and read the first, outdated entry?

Yeah. I make a good point. The pressure is off.

The NYC subway system is a whole weird interesting world upon itself. A community almost, especially if you commute to work around the same times everyday. You see the same people and its always knowing looks, nods, sometimes even passing salutations. I've found that you can be smiling politely at a stranger one minute, but as soon as a train comes, it's a fight for who's going to fit and who's not. I've seen mothers push their toddlers out of the door so they could get to work on time. Okay, that's an exaggeration and has probably only happened like two times, but it is kind of inappropriately funny. That's the thing about subways, your kid pissing you off? Tell them you are connecting at the next station, and get out of the train with them. Right when the doors are about to shut, jump back on. That'll teach them. Yeah, I obviously don't have kids. I used to, but not anymore.

Then there's the whole subway-flirting that is completely different than regular flirting. Subway flirting is something I have come to appreciate. Here's how it works. You're on a train and standing beside you is a handsome stranger. Your left arm is grasping the rail; his right. The train veers a little and your arms touch setting off the initial sparks. Then, it happens again, but this time, the immediate response isn't to move your arm away. Shy smiles and sly movements make the small touches more and more frequent. It's simple and fun. No words exchanged, just a little bit of innocent flirting. I've also seen this done with backs and on a really crowded train, complete bodies. It's always a little awkward though when you find yourself standing face to face with a complete stranger. Four inches or less between you. That happened to me once and it's like, where the hell do you look? You don't want to look like a complete ass and completely ignore the hilarity of the awkwardness, but you also don't want to be stuck staring in this persons face for fifteen minutes. It's a tricky game this one.

The negative side of this? The subway is the only place where some strange old man has had his hand uncomfortably close to my groin. It was a crowded train and he was holding a bag, therefore placing his dirty hands right in the region of my nether region. We got squeezed together in the most unfortunate of ways. His hand, my crotch. Those five minutes were the most excruciating five minutes I've ever spent on a train. You ask why I didn't turn or move or slap his hand away? Because sardines are living a comfortable life compared to the commuters on the "L" train at rush hour.

My weird human interest story of the day:

Today at work, I was going back into my building after getting a bit of "fresh air". As I was walking past security, I heard them discussing a man who had just ran through putting on a wig and a clown nose. My initial reaction was some crazy actor late for an audition. Then I settled on disgruntled employee who was forced to take on the job of a birthday clown after being fired for taking inappropriate pictures through his peephole in the ladies room, coming back for revenge. Silly string and balloon animals. Yeah, that sounds about right.

photo from fredshead.org