The thoughts in your head are just what I put down on paper.

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Tuesday, October 20, 2009

New York, New York


This piece of writing will showcase an ongoing theme in my blog. Why am I in New York? One of my friends who’s been visiting said to me today, “I’ve mentally left New York.” I knew what he meant. I’ve mentally left New York eighty times last week alone, when it was rainy and cold, and I was feeling pretty defeated. My friends in Montana were livin’ it up at Homecoming in the mountains, drinking mugs of hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps and laughing at each other’s kids, and I was schlepping through the city with my resume and rain jacket. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt that—lost, wondering why the hell am I here.

I didn’t follow a guy here. You might say I kind of followed my cousin, out of convenience. It was a lot easier to move to a big city with a room to sleep in and already knowing a few people. It’s not like I was completely helpless when I moved here, even though I had no direction (whether any direction exists today is questionable, but who's keeping track). After only offhandedly following my dream of being a writer the first two years in NY, I did the unthinkable and took a hiatus from writing for the first time in my life. It was becoming too depressing.

Many good friends that I’ve made here have now left the city, returning to their hometown versions of Suburbia, and all with good reason. The city gnaws at you sometimes. It's a terrible city to be broke in, if your parents aren't a train ride away in Long Island or Connecticut. There is no "I'll just take my laundry over to my parents' house" for us Midwest-and-further transplants. In this economy, we aren't able to buy plane tickets home, even though New York is one of the cheapest cities to take off from. Thanksgiving with family becomes a citywide network collaboration of "Okay. Who do we know that's stranded? Who has an apartment centrally located in the city with table space?" and/or "Alright. Angie has a big place in Queens, 25 minutes away from Manhattan. We just have to bring wine."

But there is a certain satisfaction you achieve each time you call a cab driver out when he's trying to take you for a sucker; when you discover you have bedbugs for the third time and instead if breaking into tears, you immediately go into survival mode and start plastic wrapping and sanitizing your apartment. There's the gratification of rushing up the subway platform just in time to make eye contact with the conductor, and the pleading, determined look in your eyes makes him open the doors--one last time--for you, before sending the train rushing away.

Best hiatus I ever took from anything. Reading through things I’ve written in the past, I was actually smiling and enjoying myself. Sure, not every piece I read through was enjoyable, but there was enough that actually made me, well, proud. It’s the same feeling I experience when I wake up with a morning run along the East River and find myself down in the East Village by the afternoon. There is something extraordinaire about the animal qualities of the city itself. The way the A Train cuts underneath the water like a racehorse, yet the N Train stutters along like a drunk mule. Concrete jungle, sure. But tree-lined streets, and a flower shop on every corner--usually attached to a deli. Newspaper, sandwich, fresh flowers--all in one stop. People are not rude per se (rude people are found in every city, size doesn't matter), but survival of the fittest is the street’s motto. They want speedy service because they are used to speedy service. They want to go everywhere as fast as possible because, well, they can. There will always be a better cabbie, a more efficient barista, a better deli with better pastrami.

But there will never be a better city. Not in the raw sense that New York is. A better Suburbia? Definitely. No question. But New York doesn't claim to be a suburbia. It just claims to be itself. Dirty. Fast. Tough as nails.

And anywhere I move from here will be a piece of cake.






Monday, October 19, 2009

Saturday, October 17, 2009

Horoscopes

So, my roommate, her friend, and I read our horoscopes today. Mine said something like, "Be prepared for a new direction, blah blah blah, don't just be enthusiastic, hard work is needed also, blah blah blah." I decided that sometimes horoscopes should just say things like "Look both ways before crossing the street. Think before you speak."

"Don't leave the milk out for too long. It will spoil."

"Turn the stove off, Libra."

"Hey, Libra--put on some pants for Pete's sake!"

You know, things that really could be useful time and again.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles

Back, and hotter than ever.

That's right. Today, I woke up around ten, and after sifting through our crappy cable, I decided on watching TMNT. Yes, I am 28 years old.

April is getting married in this episode, and these turtles are HOT. Don't tell me none of you ever had crushes on cartoons--you would be lying. Master Splinter is the only rat I'll ever love, and Leonardo is saving the day with that big brain of his. Hot, hot, hotness.

I always thought April would marry one of the turtles, though. Raphael is my favorite. I'm not sure who this Casey Jones character is, but he must have wooed April with his brawny, no brains act. I get that. Sometimes I want a stupid man I can boss around, but I wonder if I would get bored when I'm like, 80.

I know. I'm horrible.

"Heroes in a half-shell. Turtle power!"

Friday, October 16, 2009

Fall in New York

Seriously, where did it go? It's so cold, I am waiting for snow. I can't take this chill-your-bones rain. I'd rather it just snow and get it over with. Today is cloudy, and a perfect day for some light housecleaning, candle burning, and wine. Yes, bring on the vino! After a week of not going anywhere, I finally went out on Wednesday night. Disaster (Mom, cover your ears). Tonight, I am actually going for some decent conversation with one of my friends who reads. I'd say our conversations are more than decent, and even though we are both fairly intelligent people, inevitably we will have to gossip about something, and here's where we get creative.
I hope everyone has some friends who read in their stock of friends, and I also hope everyone has a friend who's a total lovable nut. For many of my friends, I'm sure I fill both categories.
I think the older you get, the pickier you become about who you actually spend time with. Everyone is so busy, and yet, how many of us do nothing at all? There's "obligation" hangouts--hangouts you have to commit a few hours to just let the other friend know you still adore the friendship. But then there's "your boys". Or "your girls". These are people you would take to Vegas on a whim if you ever were a millionaire. These are the people who can make you laugh until you snort, cry, or pee your pants, or all three. You don't need to be intoxicated for this to happen, either, because these friends of yours are just that good.

My favorite type of friend. Everyone needs a few of these hanging around.

A few of us (in our 20's) were discussing which age(s) in the 20's sucked the most. I said 26 was awful. So awful, I started to tell people I was 27 three months before my actual birthday. 27 couldn't come fast enough. Someone mentioned how 25 wasn't all that great for them, either, so I believe that 25, 26, is just not awesome. You feel like a screw up. You have a mid-twenties crisis, you hate your job, and you start to question why you spent four or five years in school for a degree you haven't used yet. But 28--so far 28 has been a beautiful age. The crisis factor is gone, and you don't even care that you are close to 30. So what if you don't have it all figured out? So what? You also start to see friendships and relationships as they truly are, instead of what you would like them to be, or what would be ideal--for you. You have come to terms with the fact that you are not going to change anyone just because you're awesome, so you'd rather be awesome with and around people who recognize your awesomeness, and to hell with mediocre relationships. You just don't care enough to worry about them.

At least, this has all been true for me, since I turned 28 (which I'm sure you guessed even though I was using 2nd person narrative).

I've been an Old Soul most of my life. I've always imagined living to be 90 years old, because I've felt I have been 90 my entire life. I was affectionately nicknamed "Old Woman" in college by a few close friends, and people who share this Old Soul quality with me agree on this--Old Souls call each other out on their Old Soulness all the time. Old Souls say, "Why, you're an Old Soul!" Yes, this actually happens. It has happened to me while I was bartending in a neighborhood bar on the Upper West Side, and it's happened to me with friends I know I'll always be friends with. But for the first time in my life, I don't feel 90. I don't feel old at all. I actually feel...younger. And it feels wonderful.

But enough about me. It's time to return to my light housecleaning.



Sunday, October 11, 2009

Apple Crisp

So, I'm in the midst of baking some apple crisp in the oven. I have a few questions: why is there so much damn sugar in this recipe? Also, everything is supposed to turn crisp, right? Right?

Well, it smells good, so I must have done something right.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Nerd

The Hub: My Roommate's Computer


Since most blogs might be constructed from my roommate's computer, I thought it would be only appropriate to name the very first blog in honor of him--Herbie.

That's right. I have named my roommate's computer without her knowledge. She will probably object, but I care very little. Herbie and I have been spending almost every day together for the past two weeks while I look for a job. I can open multiple tabs on him, and he rarely minds. He is a Mac, and a handsome one. My own Sony Vaio is jealous, but she understands. She is about six years old and just doesn't move as fast. She's a dinosaur--heavy, and if she landed on your foot, you would cry. Still, she holds ALL of my i-pod music. Every single last song. Not that that matters; my i-pod has been broken for about two months and counting. It currently sits in a bag of rice on the kitchen table next to a Hard Rock Cafe beer mug full of matchbooks.

That part is actually a lie (the Hard Rock Cafe mug being full). Hard Rock is actually only half full of matches. I recently assigned my roommate the task of filling it up to the top again, to which she has promised a speedy completion. It is her task--her duty--and she will do it with vigor, I'm sure. I'm doing my part. I brought home an Employees Only matchbook a few weeks ago and tucked it into the mug, hoping that every time I light a scented Glade candle with an Employees Only match, it will transport me back to my 28th birthday party and the surreal atmosphere of Employees Only: cocktails I can't afford, bartenders with crisp, white uniforms and Rhett Butler mustaches*, and a psychic near the curtained window (of course there's a psychic--gin + other ingredients + more gin served up = "let's go talk to the psychic").

I know what you're thinking. Shouldn't she have said "Clark Gable mustaches"? And the answer is, you are right in knowing that I am, indeed, talking about Clark's famous black mustache. And he did play the fictional Rhett Butler in Gone with the Wind. But the feeling EO invokes is that kind--somewhat unbelievable--and so, I refer to Rhett's mustache and not Clark's. And frankly, I don't give a damn.

Hahaha. Now who didn't see that one coming?
Yours Truly,
Angie

*According to some dictionaries, the word "mustache" may also be spelled "moustache".

Friday, October 9, 2009

Bri's Photography Skills Put to the Test

New Blog!

Well, this will be a treat for everyone who's missed my writing over the past few years. I promise this blog will be as random as my blog was on myspace, and maybe even a little more mature--maybe. For anyone tuning into this blog, please understand these writings as a representation of the rambling that occurs in my brain on a moment-to-moment, day-to-day basis. Expect my interpretation of humor, and please try to follow along.

Best,
Angie