Modesty

I set out on a simple journey this evening. Dog food, tampons, and cereal. I knew that the local 24 hour bodega was always hopping with young people and felt a little uneasy buying tampons there. It's not just that it's young people, it's that it's young people buying beer in groups of threes and fours and being loud and boisterous, going to their dance clubs and parties. And there's me. In my comfort clothes, buying tampons. I know that this sort of modesty is juvenile, but it's unfortunately true. I'm picky about where and how I buy my lady products.

Now that I've said all that, I decided to bite the bullet and just do it. It was cold and I wasn't wearing gloves. The next store was another block, and although it offered the comfort of being an actual grocery store, the lack of feeling in my hands, and wind blowing mercilessly against my face, I went in. Being Sunday night, it wasn't quite as crowded as usual. Confidently, I went back to the non-food section. I got the dog food and started looking for tampons. I eventually found them in possibly the worst place ever. Behind the counter. So not only do you have to buy the products, you have to alert everyone in the small store of what you're buying.

"A box of tampons."

"Wha'"

"Tampons!"

"Oh. Tampons."

"Super please?"

This is probably when the guy behind the counter yells across the store asking how much the super, heavy flow Tampons cost.

Yeah, so not happening.

I risked the frostbite and continued to the next store. All went well there. At this point, I was on the phone with one of my friends who lives down the street from me. This girl is the most "think it, say it-no filter" girl ever. She's hilarious. Our friendship is odd. When we're together, it's awesome. In a healthy way, we pick-on each other's stereotypes mercilessly, ("I've lost brain cells just talking to you", "will you do my nails/laundry/math homework?"), and we build each other up with confidence, ("those jeans look amazing on you", "you're a man magnet"). You get the point. But we both have a tendency to fall off each other's radars a lot. We'll hang out every day for a week, and then not speak for two months. Right now, we're in the friend zone. Which is good because she's a lot of fun and I want/need some fun in my life to take away from all this stress!

So as I'm walking past her apartment I tell her to come to the window because it would "be cute to talk on the phone and wave from the window". She comes and peeks her head around. I ignore the loss of feeling in my hands, and stop to chat and see. Little did I know.

She asks me if I want to know why I could only see her face. In hindsight, it should have been obvious. Of course, I came face to face with the glaring truth of my overly unmodest friend. She ripped back the curtain to give me, and probably a few unsuspecting passerbys, an eye-full. It's true. I told her I felt I should slip some money under the door. She asked, "A dollar or two?"

I corrected, "Fifty cents."

She then proceeded to show me her arse, slammed tightly against the window.

The actual price of the peep show was my fingers! When I got to my apartment, I dropped my keys and literally, couldn't feel any of my fingers, to the point where I couldn't pick them up. I couldn't curl them around the keys. It's true. It was the most excruciating thing ever! When I finally picked them up, I dropped them again. It was a cruel joke that wouldn't stop. Five minutes later, (aka an eternity), I get them in the door. I don't know what I have against gloves but I really need to start wearing them more!

Feeling has since been restored in all my digits.

To Whom It May Concern 1

Dear Hopper,

I know you are sad because it seems I've been yelling a lot today, but it's called discipline. This is something I'm afraid you've had far too little of in your life. Whenever you're ready to come out from under the bed, I'll be here.


Dear Cesar Millan,

I hope the rumors I heard about you weren't true. Anyway, I read some of your book today.


Dear Downstairs Neighbors,

I promise I'm not an abusive pet owner. Sorry I yelled earlier. But you're using my internet, remember?


Dear Jack Bauer's Father,

I hate you and hope you die soon.


Dear Steve,

If you're reading this then I commend your memory.


Dear Ice,

Feel free to melt any day now. I'm tired of slipping everywhere I go. And stop getting in my shoe.


Dear Touchy-Feely Friend,

I love you and value our friendship, but can you maybe touch me a little less please? I like affection as much as the next person, but you cross too many lines. I'm never going to sleep with you. Thanks.


Dear Boy on the Subway,

It's not me that stinks. It's the old woman standing next to me. I swear.


Dear Couple on the Subway,

You guys are really cute. The way that you make-out so openly and freely for nearly 15 minutes is very touching. You must like each other very much. As you caress each others arses, we all wish for a love as honest and true as yours. Me and the other passengers are honored that you wish to share such an intimate moment with us.


Dear Drew,

You have the one video that could, (A) keep me from ever running for office, or (B) cause a major shift in my image if, for some unforeseen reason, I become a celebrity. Please don't put it on YouTube or let it get in the wrong hands.


Dear Inquiring Minds,

The aforementioned video is NOT a sex tape.


Dear Friend,

I saw a different side of you yesterday. It was odd. Maybe the things people say about you are true.


Dear Landlord,

I need more than 30 minutes notice when you're going to be showing the apartment. It's in everyone's best interest as I'm packing up my things and somehow making more of a mess than I ever thought possible.


Dear Hopper,

I'm glad you've decided to forgive me. I love cuddling with you in this recliner. It makes me not want to sell it.


Dear Tina Fey,

Mean Girls is brilliant. I'm glad this is how I'm spending my Sunday night.


Dear Christie,

Thanks for being my loyal cheerleader. I love you! I hope we talk soon. I love our 3 hour conversations.


Dear Reynolds,

Don't change your mind!


Dear The King of Queens,

You've become my new guilty pleasure.


Dear David Rosenthal,

Last week's episode was great. For this season. It took far, far, far too long, but I'm glad you decided to stop the suffering of Gilmore fans everywhere.


Dear Ben and Jerry,

Thank you.


Dear People Who Are Going To Make The Subway Free,

You're two years too late!


Dear Self,

Stop walking through Times Square looking at your feet. Look around! People are here on vacation and you're too busy worrying to enjoy the small amount of time you have left here. Fight the anxious genes your mother passed down to you. Enjoy the time you have left in this city!

Carpe Diem in Review

I've been living for the day in NY lately. Quicker than quick review for elaboration later:

-Met and befriended NYPD officer! Scarily enough, he's my age. Gave me new perspective into the job. Amazing conversation.

-Sister came in town.

-Bought classic "little black dress", but of course, this one has a Betsy twist.

-Great Saturday night with hatches, strangers, dance party extraordinaires, twins, sombreros (see left), missed connections, calling a complete stranger a fashion victim to his face (Yikes!), AND nachos!



-Jack Bauer Power Hour.

-Walking through wonderful snow.

-Girl America by Mat Kearney.

Basically if my life were always this exciting, well, I'd be a busy little fun-haver. Like an heiress. Oh NY, why do you have to be so nice right as I'm saying goodbye?

ps: Anyone else know that Kiefer Sutherland's real name is Kiefer William Frederick Dempsey George Rufus Sutherland? (I did that from memory, but here's your proof.) Yeah!

He brings the hottness like no one's business. I might have to bump him up to #2 on my Top 5 over 40 list. (No one can touch Clooney.)

My Neighborhood

It's like the shirt that you love the second you're about give it to Goodwill. You suddenly remember the high school football game you wore it to, and your mind thinks of the perfect outfit in which this particular shirt, the one you haven't worn in five years, will truly shine. (I know plenty about this metaphor as I've been trying to downsize for a couple months now.)

My departure is coming quickly. In a little over a month, I'll be leaving New York for presumably forever. I've slowly been falling in love with my neighborhood. It's taken twenty months, but now, it's become my neighborhood. I know the cars on the street. I know when I get woken up by a car that just won't crank, it's the boy with the Bronco across the street. I know that when I get off the subway and walk up those stairs, without fail, someone is going to open the emergency exit door, setting off the alarm as they exit calmly, with a herd of people right behind them. I like that when I get groceries, the man who works in the bike shop next door, that calls himself Tony Montana, will help me carry them even if it's only for a block. I like that if I'm short a dollar at the store next door, they'll spot me until the next time I come in, which would most likely be the next day. I like that I can almost always guess which stop any particular person will get off of the train. I look down streets and remember the drunken night of wayward bike riding, with two on my bike and crashing into the parking meter. Laughing for hours. Or when we rode around and pretended to be a bike gang, riding all day, having so much fun that we didn't realize how exhausted we were until we got home. Sore for days. I love walking down Robling and remembering last Christmas when we walked our Christmas tree home in the snow. When we'd get tired we'd slam it into the packed snow, securing it there and proceeding to sing Christmas carols until we had regained our energy to carry it the rest of the way. I like that almost every corner brings back a memory.

I feel like this neighborhood is too safe to be scary. And too scary to be safe. For those who don't know Williamsburg, Brooklyn, it is filled with old warehouses. Williamsburg is right on the water and used to be full of factories and warehouses with a few neighborhoods sprinkled in between. Then the L train happened. A train that connects directly to Manhattan in less than ten minutes and boom, the young people started pouring in. There are now basically two types of people that live here. Older people and families who have lived here long before the L train came, and post-graduate artistic types who are often called "Hipsters". With all of the new people coming here in the 90s, lots of restuarants and bars and clothing stores came that were geared towards this new age of residents. It seems like it's a scary place, and especially at night, it looks scary. Sometimes it is. You're walking down a residential street and all the sudden, you're surrounded by big scary warehouses. Deserted warehouses. It's ugly and unsettling. But when you're walking around, there's young people everywhere. Around every corner, hanging outside of some bar in a warehouse you never knew was there. You are surrounded by people just like you, and I love it. Sure it's as dangerous as any other place, and it'll keep you on your toes, but it's outward apperance can be misleading. I like that though. I like that you don't recognize the good restuarants by their flashy advertising. I like having to be in "the know" for a lot of the best places in this neighborhood.

And all of this came to me last night when I was walking home. I was thinking about how I was leaving so soon, moving away, moving across the country, and I started to look around at the familiar streets. A Jack Osbourne look alike passed me by, and looking inside windows I could see lofts in warehouses with huge portraits on the wall and 20 foot ceilings. There were two police officers looking into a subway trap door on the street with flashlights. They were yelling, "Hello!" as I passed by. One of them cursed loudly, and I assumed it was because the bad guy had gotten away in a police chase made for the movies. One where the bad guy lifted the safety door and jumped onto the tracks, running through the tunnels for freedom. I watched the police officer pull his hand back towards him and turn his palm over. It was covered in grease and he was looking at it as if it were the most disgusting thing he's ever witnessed. (Those NYPD are tough!) If my scenario were correct, they were not going in after said subject, and were much more concerned with the grease on Number two's hand. If they aren't worried, I shouldn't be, right?

I'm going to miss this place. In the least creepy way possible, I like looking into windows as I pass by. Looking at the homes people have made themselves. I like being surrounded by tons of people who are just like me. I like watching people on the street, wondering their professions. I like laying in my bed and watching people on the street below fighting, or kissing, or singing, kicking trashcans, or just walking around aimlessly. I hate that I could never feel at home here. I love that this is my neighborhood, I just wish it were my home.

I'm going to miss this place.

We Survive The Best We Can

This blog entry is very scary. How do I sum up all the things that have been happening in my life here? It's been so long. On so many occasions something has happened and I knew I had to write a blog entry. My life is measured in blog entry ideas and gathering myspace items, (be it pictures, quotes, or even friends). After taking a good picture, it is declared, "that is your new myspace photo". Twice yesterday, things were said that immediately were assigned as "my new headline". ("Makes depression fun again" being the only memorable of the two.)

An alien, time-travler, or grandparent would be lost in this new world. The way we talk, the things we do. I read a letter from 1934 from my grandfather to my grandmother. It was the most sincere, lovely letter I've ever read. A real love letter. (Postage and all). There has to be something so intimate about receiving a love letter. The other person licked the envelope. For some reason I find that so intimate. Like they are sealing this thing that only they will share. My mother still hasn't read it. She can't bring herself to do it. I told her it was great. My grandfather calls my grandmother an angel and pledges, "we will be together until we die". They were.

My mom and her two brothers had the very difficult task of cleaning out their parents house. They found a box of similar letters. They were all in such a hurry, they all picked one and threw the rest away. One of her brother's got one to my grandmother from another man. I try not to be sad knowing that the rest of those letters are probably incinerated by now.

I wish my grandparents could have seen the Nintendo Wii. They would have thought it was the most amazing thing ever. They were mystified by their Gateway.

The people across the street painted their door yellow. That makes me feel like a character from a book. The yellow door.

I love that complete strangers say I'm a talented writer.

I love Veronica Mars now. I think it's the best tv show on television.

I often feel like a character from one of Pamela Ribon's books. I feel like I could be best friends with Pamela Ribon. That makes me feel like a crazed stalker. I'm not.

I've fallen in love with my Brooklyn neighborhood. As much as I hate New York, sometimes I love it with equal passion. Ever since I've declared I was moving to Los Angeles, this place hasn't seemed all that bad. That always happens, doesn't it? I like waving to people on the street, because we see each other everyday. I like that even though the liquor liscence of the store next door was revoked, I can still buy beer there by going into the back room and picking out my desired brand. They double bag it. I love that on New Year's Eve, they were giving out shots to all their patrons. I love that at one point in the evening, I took a shot with about fifteen strangers. I love that I see most of the same people everyday, and I've become a regular in many places. I love getting the deals that only the regulars get.

I love that when New York let me down the most, strangers were there to help.

It was last week, my dog had been sick. So sick that on Sunday night, I got little to no sleep. I was up every fourty five minutes, almost on the dot, taking my dog outside. She had diarrhea. (Such an ugly word that I'm now immune to.) It didn't go away. I stayed home from work on Monday, and on Monday night, it seemed to be getting better. She was going about four hours without having to go. It was an improvement. I was feeding her nothing but boiled rice, and she seemed her normal self, only a little tired and wouldn't eat or drink much water. By Tuesday, I had to go to work. I left the office early and when I came home, she had used the old towel I had laid out for her. She had also used the floor, in what could only be a last resort. It wasn't her usual diarrhea, This had blood in it. A lot it seemed. In all the research I had done on doggy diarrhea, the one thing I knew was that blood was bad. Very bad. I called my vet who directed me to the Animal Hospital. They told me to bring her in ASAP. They were located on 62nd st and York Ave. I freaked. I didn't own a crate. That was the first thought that went through my mind. I didn't have a car. I needed to somehow get her there and knew that most car companies, if not all, didn't allow uncrated dogs. This is when I cursed New York. I was trapped and this was the thing I had always feared. Desperately needing a car, and not having one. I always thought this would be how I died. A natural disaster and no way to evacuate. Being trapped. One of my biggest beefs with this city. I wasn't going to let my dog die. And from the tone of the woman's voice from the hospital, this was a life or death situation.

I called my friend completely lost in what to do. I asked her to buy me a crate and I would meet her by the store. I think I was hysterical. She told me I didn't need a crate. That I should call Northside, (our local car service), and tell them my situation. I did and through my tears, explained what was happening. The guy responsed without hesitation, "I'll be there in five minutes." I grabbed my dog, (and the thinnest jacket known to man, dumb adrenaline), and jetted from my apartment. Ran into the store next door, and asked if I could bring my dog in to use their ATM. They said yes. I got money and by the time I was out, my savior was outside waiting. He was the nicest man ever. He kept telling me she'd be fine and even offering to put on his emergency lights and go in the emergency lane. I couldn't believe how great he was. I guess I didn't have much faith in strangers here in NY. He certainly didn't have to pick me up, much less be so nice about everything.

I get to the hospital in record time, and thank him profusely, trying to tip him way too much. He declines and only takes half. We can't see the hospital but traffic is so bad, I tell him I can find it. I know it's near this intersection. He starts to ask other strangers where it is, when I spot it. Once I get my dog in, I wait two hours, watching emergency dog after emergency dog go in. I sit there with my dog going to the bathroom on the floor twice, with the receptionist telling me I couldn't take her out because they were going to call my name any moment now. To just let her go on the floor and someone would clean it up. I sat there watching nearly everyone in the place crying for some reason or another. I watched people leave teary eyed empty handed. I watched the nervous glances darting around the room everytime a code anything went across the intercom system.

I rarely wish that I had a boyfriend. There are always moments, but for the most part, I have this single thing down. This evening, sitting in the animal emergency waiting room, by myself, scared and sad, I needed someone. Everyone had someone there for them, so they could use the bathroom, or step outside to make a phone call, or get them something from the snack machine. I hadn't eaten dinner, I hadn't called my mother, I hadn't used the bathroom in hours. And Hopper was getting restless. I needed to get out of the vortex of sad, but couldn't move. I had to stay there and wait for them to call my name. I needed to cry. And did a little, but not like I wanted. I wanted to be in the fetal position and with my mother patting my head saying it would be okay. I needed someone to tell me it was going to be okay. I watched all these pet owners being comforted by their significant other, and was jealous.

We finally got called in, and the doctor was great. He was nice and understanding when I told him, yes, money is an issue for me. He mentioned a possibility of an overnight stay and I tearfully explained that a two thousand dollar overnight stay isn't in the cards. There's literally no possible way for me to pay for that. I broke down at the prospect of me not being able to get my dog the best care possible because of my monetary restraints. The doctor was great and said that we'd deal with it if it was necessary, but he didn't think it was. He took Hopper and sent me back to the waiting room. I felt a little guilty to be so relived to have her off my hands for just a few minutes. I knew she was in better hands than mine at the moment, and I needed to pee. I needed something to drink. I needed to go outside and call my mom and break down. I had been holding it back for far too long.

When they brought her back out to me, she seemed happy, and normal. She was wagging her tail, and smiling, and I was relived, but felt so guiltly for having a seemingly heathly, happy dog. Especially for the couple in front of me, with the dog that was bleeding and had been waiting for far too long.

When the doctor came out to explain to me what the results showed. She had some sort of a parasite, or bacteria, or something small and unwelcome. The results were thankfully positive. She had great results. He put her on some medicine and a diet for the next 48 hours, just boiled chicken and rice. I took a doggy taxi home, (who knew such a thing exsisted), and within 48 hours, she had her first solid poop in what seemed to be a year. Cartwheels.

In some weird, twisted way, this city is livable. Things work out, and people are great in times of crisis. Faith was restored in humanity and in the backwards way things seem to work around here, I survived a crisis the best I could.

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?

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!"

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