Clunky

New York is a place that makes you learn to speak your mind. You learn to stand up for yourself. Something about being drenched in rain makes me feel good about this. This is what New York taught me.

Montana...is a place where you drive up into the mountains, park the car, and...at peaks high above sea level, you learn to find something spiritual. You see stars. I can see stars in Queens, and I appreciate them, because I know they are looking at the same Big Dipper in MT, only brighter. Much, much brighter.

Stars only impress me when I know who they are.

People, though, are the same everywhere. They let you down. They love you. They love you from a distance, or when convenient, or when they remember to remind you. They give directions. They give hope. They tell you the N train isn't running on this day.

It is only because of my immersion in these two states am I able to make decisions I make now. That sentence is awkward and clunky, but I am making the best of it.

Everyday Street

Find George Aldrich

It's Christmas, folks. Every year, people go missing from their families. Let's help find this boy, and at least create awareness. This could be any one of our friends, brothers, etc.

There is also a heart-warming Facebook site documenting the search, along with prayers, encouragement, etc., for the family that is fascinating to follow. Just type "Find George Aldrich" in your search bar and add.

The family is currently trying to gain national attention--if George was abducted, it is very possible that he is in another state.

Never lose hope!
--Angie

A Novel Idea

John Lennon once said, "Life is what happens when you are making other plans." So it seems appropriate to me that I finally start that novel I've been thinking about for the past 15 years today--on the anniversary of his death.

I have no idea how this is going to go.

New York is a small town. The longer I live here, the smaller it gets. I am reminded of this on my walk to work today, reading everyone's status updates regarding John Lennon. My friend's grandfather happens to be the first person who broadcasted that he had been shot, and this particular friend happens to know a girl I work with at another restaurant. I have a feeling this small town theme will be in the novel somehow, somewhere, but themes are never my problem.

My problem, you see, is plot. I wrote and read dozens of short stories in college, and around my senior year, my professors started to talk about plot. Seriously. Quite of few of us English nerds had beautiful short stories. I was always good at dialogue, another boy in a few of my classes was good at long paragraphs of meaningless description. It turns out, you see, that we weren't really writing stories at all, not even short stories. We were, instead, writing 15-20 page character sketches in Times New Roman 12pt font.

"Where is the action, in the story? What is your character doing? What journey is she taking?"

You see, action--your character actually doing something--is an element of plot. It's a simple concept until you realize your answer is this: "Well, she's thinking about how her cousin died. And then the story goes into possible scenarios of what her cousin could have been thinking about when she died." It was a very artistic concept, you see.

"But your character isn't actually doing anything. Besides thinking about what her cousin could have been thinking."

"Uhhh..." I had a character thinking about thinking.

It was my senior year when I learned this. Fuck, I thought. I'm screwed. You see, once I fully understood plot, everything I picked up was criticized and no longer enjoyable. Plot was supposed to be easy, something anyone could master by their high school AP English class. Now it was a nagging splinter in the palm of my hand. I should have majored in journalism. But it was too late. I had one semester left, and I needed to get out of there. I decided to worry about plot later.

Later might be now, as I sit down to write. If you have ever wondered what it's like to write a novel, stay tuned. I'll need encouragement and probably a little dose of sanity and editing along the way. This blog is the perfect outlet, since most of you who read it are close friends. Thanks in advance. I'll include your avatars in the dedication page.

Kevin Smith and Fat Tuesday

I know it’s Wednesday, but something needs to be said for Fat Tuesday and all the fuss over Kevin Smith and Southwest Airlines, just because it was, coincidentally, a few days apart.

I feel like this story, in its individual context, has not been blown out of proportion, but rather, blown in the wrong direction. I by no means agree with what Southwest did—you cannot tell someone on stand-by to get on a plane and then tell that person to get off, fat or not—that was just stupid. Knowing that Kevin Smith usually books two seats, they should have made absolutely sure they had room for him before giving him the green light to board.

But airlines always do crappy things, like overbooking flights, and charging for a snackpack containing items you could have stuffed in your purse.

Now Kevin is upset, and I don’t blame him one bit. This incident does not set a good precedent for the way to treat fat people. It also doesn’t set a good precedent for the way fat people treat themselves, either—this sort of indifferent attitude that says, “I’m fat. I can’t help it.” Before you all comment and bring up type 2 diabetes and thyroid problems I KNOW. Plenty of heredity and environmental factors can contribute to obesity, and fighting it is an uphill battle.

I’m coming from a different angle—the size angle.

Although some people could look at the need to buy two seats to board an airplane as an unfriendly reminder of their size, I believe the most dangerous fatties are the people who fit into those seats. The Skinny Fatties. These people might be “naturally skinny”, but because of their small size, have never picked up a weight in their lives. They might wear size 2 jeans, but everything shakes around when they walk, jelly trapped in a demin balloon.

I may sound harsh, because it is these people who scare me; they can be obese and not even know it. Believe me, I body fat tested many Skinny Fatties when working as a trainer at the gym, and it was surprising how many tiny girls were actually bordering obesity.

Why? How? It’s simple—use it or lose it. That’s how muscle works. These girls might be spending hours on the elliptical, but they have no tone to their bodies, no curviness, and no idea that their bodies have probably been on a fitness plateau since the second month after they began their gym membership.

It’s not that I expect everyone to be toned, bronzed, yogurt-and-protein-shake-eating gods and goddesses. I’m more of a pizza and beer lovin’ runner who takes pride in the fact that I don’t do girly pushups and I actually enjoy lunges. But for women, not lifting weights or even trying to develop some muscle tone is a serious threat for not just obesity, but osteoporosis.

The point is, it’s not just SIZE that’s an indicator of health risks, and if you discriminate people based on size, it propels a train of thought leading people to believe that because they are small, they are safe. Imagine how many people read all the tweets between Kevin Smith and Southwest and thought, I never want that to be me. I’m gonna go puke up my food. This is called an adverse effect, and no one wants this. It’s not what people in the health and fitness fields want, either.

Instead of discriminating people based on size, airlines should be incorporating ways to help their fellow man stay/get fit. Have planes with less seats in general that allow for, say, more movement. I would love to see the day that I get on a plane and am able to ride a stationary bike for a few hours instead of just sitting on my tush. A spinning studio in the back of the plane, next to a few racks of handheld dumbbells. Wouldn’t that be awesome?

Wouldn’t it also be amazing, if, transportation in general just made your human body do the work it was designed to do? For example, instead of an escalator for roughly twenty steps from one subway platform to another, why not let your body work? Why not design an escalator that doesn’t move up automatically; in other words—a staircase.

It seems so brilliant, yet transportation everywhere is in a state of flux between laziness and a growing obesity epidemic. On one hand, America is getting fatter (size wise and camou-size wise), and on the other hand, we live in an age where transportation competes by trying to make us as comfortable and entertained as possible.

So what can we do before osteoporosis, type 2 diabetes, heart disease, cholesterol, and now, size discrimination, take over our lives?

Walk more, move more, take the stairs, eat right, etc. It sounds so easy, but anyone can tell you it takes a lot of will power. Join a gym, or get an in-home trainer. Sign up for a local walk/run. Next step would be to not just settle for nutritional information on all of our food, but to demand products that are healthier at every deli and supermarket, including poorer neighborhoods, and to put a stop to this insane portioning that restaurants seem to think is okay. You can treat others with respect and not have a preconceived notion of what fat people may or may not have done in life. You can treat yourself with respect.

But you can start by growing a spine. 

Valentine’s Day Weekend Movie Marathon

Bring on the mushiness. I would like to thank Netflix for providing ample entertainment and encouraging my laziness on the couch fueled by at least, five cups of tea during each movie, and slices of toast. Here is a brief review of each movie that I watched this weekend.

Persuasion (1995)

This is the BBC version of Jane Austen’s classic, and here are a few key terms needed in order to watch this movie: DPE, or Dramatic Pained Expression. This is pretty self-explanatory, and the actress playing Anne (Amanda Root) has mastered this to a science. Look for this in combination with…wait for it…Camerawork Experimentation for Dramatic Effect (CEDE). This is demonstrated through a variety of zooming in and out, really super fast, mainly on Root’s DPEs. Another notable tool for CEDE is shaky camerawork. For example, in order to emphasis the unstable life out at sea, we see a lot of shaky camerawork in the opening shots of Persuasion.

What the hell was BBC thinking? Did the cameraman just discover the zoom button?

Why doesn’t Anne pluck her eyebrows? Everyone else in the movie has plucked eyebrows.

Despite these interesting artistic choices BBC made while doing this movie, it’s hard not to like a Jane Austen.

Watch it When: You need your Jane Austen fix and are tired of watching Pride and Prejudice.

The Edge of Love (2008): a Movie Created to Satisfy English Nerds’ Secret Desires

Oh—MALE English nerds’ secret desires.

Bathtub scene with Sienna Miller and Kiera Knightly. Really? Yeah, I doubt that my best friend and I would take a bath together, especially if my best friend was my husband’s childhood sweetheart. Maybe when I was five years old.

But, Sienna Miller is great in this movie, and Kiera Knightley is always great in period pieces (I use that term very liberally—I’m not sure if Pirates of the Caribbean qualifies as “Period” or “Disney”). The point is, you could throw Kiera in a great costume from any decade, and she’d probably do a pretty good job.

The cinematography reminds me of Twin Peaks, which I like. I do not like all the war scenes, and I wanted more romance. But what did I expect from Dylan Thomas? He’s a typical male: “I sleep with other women, because I’m a poet, and a poet feeds off life.”

Gag me. Reminds me of a guy I dated who lived like a modern day Hemingway, smoking on his couch and listening to jazz records like he didn’t belong in this era, like he was composing scores of novels in his head that just—oh--tormented him, so, soo much that it caused him to be lousy boyfriend material. So over it.

Ignore the unrealistic bathtub scene and Dylan’s douchebaggery, and you’ve got yourself a pretty good movie with decent female characters, but I will say—this movie does not belong in a marathon with BBC Jane Austin remakes or classics off of Netflix. It would be a total buzzkill.

Watch it When: A boy invites himself over to watch movies on the couch and you want to give him the cold shoulder without appearing rude (instead, you just appear super into movies with famous poets as characters).

Gentlemen Prefer Blondes (1953)

This gem of a movie quickly became one of my new favorites. Jane Russell and Marilyn Monroe play very well off each other, and there is eye candy galore between Elliott Reid as a detective and some extras playing the US Track and Field Team. There’s dancing, music, a little bit of Ziegfeld influence, a bratty kid, and a tiara.

Oh, and they’re on a boat. I’m not sure about why boats were so awesome back in this era (it seems like every third movie from this time period takes place on a boat), but these people really know how to make a cruise look like the cat’s meow. I suppose if I could charm people into however many diamonds I wanted, I’d go on a cruise to Paris, too.

The best thing about this movie was the dialogue. My favorite quote: “Dorothy’s not bad, honest—she’s just dumb.” --Marilyn Monroe as Lorelei.

Watch it When: You are in the mood to party on a boat without actually leaving your living room.

Love Affair (1939)

Oh, confusion. I’ve heard about this movie without realizing that I’ve heard of it. Two people (Irene Dunne and Charles Boyer) are on a boat (of course), they fall in love, but are engaged to other people (wah-wah). They decide to meet at the top of the Empire State Building six months later to see if their love remains intact.

Sound familiar? Sound like a billion other movies?

I thought this movie was called An Affair to Remember (1957) with Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr. It turns out after a little research, this was the first movie upon which An Affair to Remember was based, as well as 1994’s Love Affair with Warren Beatty, Katharine Hepburn, and Annette Bening. And who can forget the film’s honorable mention in Sleepless in Seattle (1993)?

Well, this is the first, ladies and gents, but probably not the most popular film version. It was still a tearjerker, though. I tried to hold back the tears, but couldn’t.

Watch it When: You have a suitable attention span and appreciation that comes with black-and-white movies, and you want to cry.

Funemployment

Job Purgatory. Life--on stand-by.

Imagine being unemployed, today, in New York City. Not only are you competing with the professionals who lost their jobs, you’re competing with college students who are just starting to look, and hundreds of restaurant workers looking to work in places where they’re already overstaffed.

Now imagine this scenario only with one change—no Internet. You’re buying the New York Times everyday to circle jobs for which you might qualify. You’re spending hours on the subway, not for an interview, but to simply drop off a resume and cover letter at one business before you head to the opposite end of town to drop off one more resume.
And that could take you an hour or more, depending on trains. For every two jobs you apply for, you probably could have applied for five or more in an hour using the Internet.

We live in a day where even Craigslist is becoming more and more outdated when it comes to finding a job; it is like looking for a needle in a haystack. Yet, in terms of patience, sites like Mediabistro and LinkedIn aren’t that better (even though I believe Mediabistro is one of the better ones). It is somewhat frustrating to just complete a profile, post a resume, and see what happens, several different times, on several different websites. It also makes it damn near impossible for someone who lost a job in a less than ideal industry to obtain a desired career.

But the good thing is, being unemployed now is completely different than what it would have meant five or ten years ago. With so many Americans collecting unemployment benefits, it sends a serious message to the government—something’s not working (and not just me--wink, wink). Maybe the people who need a bailout are everyday people like me, who only need 30,000 or so to be back on track. Also, there are so many people unemployed that social groups are popping up on Facebook, Twitter, etc., catering to this unique, demographic of media savvy jobless souls.

And really, what else is there to do, but network?

The groups with titles like Funemployment are everywhere, and I think it’s a good thing just to raise the spirits of us jobhunters. You don’t feel like your boat is the only one that’s lost in a sea of Craigslist ads. Instead, you have plenty of people who are just as bored to drink cheap beer with and spin off ideas. It makes career hiatus bearable, and saves some dignity even just to think, I’m not the only one barely surviving off of a government debit card.

So don’t lose faith, fellow jobseekers. Each rejection brings you closer to a job you’re truly meant for, and really—you’re not the only one being rejected. ;)

Tuesday Tushday

As I write this, I'm putting on my running shoes. Sentence, shoe. I'm starting a new trend, people, and I'm going to motivate the heck out of you. We're livin' the cyber life, staring at screens all day, and we're never going back.

But it's time to get real when it comes to fitness, which is the number one disease prevention you CAN do for yourself.

We're not all models. We're not all athletes. Very few of us get paid to look good (myself not included--I just happen to look good). We're human, that's all. But we need to get movin' people, or we're gonna be fatter than ever. That's why today's entry is dedicated to a few adages us normal people can incorporate into everyday life without dedicating ourselves to plans we can't really follow.

1. Change the way you think about TV. Planning on watching American Idol for a few hours? Go watch it at the gym. You've seen them--little, friendly black screens attached to every treadmill and elliptical. One episode of How I Met Your Mother=30 minutes of cardio at a medium intensity. Last night, I watched the Bachelor, and not only did I burn calories, but I saved even more calories by not being a couch potato at my apartment. If watching tv is what it takes to get you to the gym, then do it. Even moving at a low intensity is better than not moving at all.

But keep this in mind--watching the Bachelor is not going to do it. That's why I say, if you want to do a long cardio, and need something to take your mind of the monotony of doing the same thing for 40 minutes, tv is fine. But to truly kick your own butt, you need a little mental discipline, and you just need to survive on the treadmill for 20 minutes. It's a lot less boring if you challenge yourself and go faster than you ever have before, or with more resistance. Switch it up--if you can only run for three minutes, well, run for three minutes. Walk for five, then run for three minutes more.

2. BYOT (Bring Your Own Tupperware).

Seriously, I've started to carry my own around in my purse. This is a MUST for any New Yorker because we don't cook a lot at home, but for anyone else, it's a great portion control whenever you go out to eat. Besides, the take-out containers restaurants give you are usually poor quality. I always end up with pasta sauce leaking out into the bag. It gets messy, and I don't like messes.

3. Have you gotten up while reading this yet? Stand up. Get a drink of water. What does your posture look like? Bring those shoulders back, and get rid of that sloppy core.

I know. I'm mean. But it's only to make you look better than you already do.

That's enough for today, and I hope you at least take one of these ideas and work it into your Tuesday.

Spring Cleaning

It's not Spring, but I don't care. I don't even care if Spring is supposed to be capitalized or not. I threw out about ten magazines and an entire recycling can full of papers today, and I still have a sack of papers on my desk. That's right--a sack. It is a "plastic sack", people, and it's okay to use that word instead of "bag". I feel that "paper bag" goes very nicely together, as does "plastic sack". I'm only discussing this because no one on the East Coast uses the term "sack" in that way. They use "sack", when discussing football, but that is all.

Paper bag. Plastic sack.

http://wordsarefood.com/2010/02/02/help-i%E2%80%99ve-fallen-into-a-rut-can%E2%80%99t-get-out/

http://wordsarefood.com/2010/02/02/help-i%E2%80%99ve-fallen-into-a-rut-can%E2%80%99t-get-out/

Blogs from the Past: A New Series Brought to You Via Ye Olde Myspace Blog

Introductory:

You thought my blogs were lost, but heidoho! I am transferring them one-by-one over to this site so that they may be enjoyed by all. And soon, my friends, I will be able to delete my myspace account and begin a whole new era sans Pimp My Profile!

It will be epic.

Now, my question is...I have a Halloween blog that is nothing short of pee-your-pants hilarious...should I wait for Halloween to transfer it over, or should I just do it now?

Enjoy.

Blogs from the Past: The Man in My Life

Originally posted on March 16, 2007:

Every morning (or afternoon), I take him for granted. His name is Loofah, and let me tell you--this morning, he was wonderful. Loofah is mint green and tender, and he feels like rose petals when I caress him all over my body with a little bit of soap. I love him. I guide him across my skin, inhaling scents of jasmine and lavender--there is nothing better than feeling Loofah and the shower water spill over me. And he only cost a dollar at Target.

Blogs from the Past: A Theory on Men Between the Ages of 24-35

Originally posted on November 5th, 2007:

"I am 16, going on 17--they say that I'm naive.

Fellows I meet may tell me I'm sweet, and willingly, I believe."

--The Sound of Music

I am 26. I am an old maid in Montana, yet too young to think about marriage in New York. I am fine with this. The theory that I am about to impose onto your brains can easily be reversed and applied to women. But since I am a heterosexual woman who has been dating men, this theory is directed towards them based on my findings.

Men in this age group can be divided into two sectors--men who want to date to find a wife and men who feel their later 20's, earlier 30's are their golden years and want conquests. I have dated 24 year olds who wanted to get serious and 34 year olds who act like they are 19 and just discovered girls (and maybe for some of them, they have).

Enter what I call, the Trophy Wife Fantasy. Every single guy that I have asked if this is when they want, has lied, to my face. And the reason why I say they lie, is because no man who wants the T.W. will ever admit that they are looking for the T.W. because it sounds like they are stuck in the 1950's. But these are all the guys any girl has dated around whom she felt she could not truly be herself. This is the guy who tells you how beautiful you are, then tells you that you should never tell that joke again because "it sucked", or who puts down any idea that you have of bettering yourself and following your passions. This is the guy who will tell you what you should and shouldn't like. Unfortunately, I have found myself in this situation one too many times, and just recently, I called a guy out on what he really wanted from a woman:

"You want a beautiful, trophy wife who will always look nice because that is her job. To you. You don't want a wife to have as a friend; you want a prize."

No. That's ridiculous. No one wants just a prize anymore. Really? Have you ever dated a woman who you know was more intelligent than you, even just a little? Did that bother you, even the tiniest bit, ever?

Now, before everyone gets worked up, I am definitely not saying that the T.W. is what all men want. It isn't. I know plenty of men who like girls that are funny, and smart--"sugar, spice, and everything nice"--girls who aren't afraid to look silly in front of someone they happen to also be sleeping with.

But the kind of men who do want the Trophy Wife have never admitted it. Which brings me to the next question, is this because they don't really want that but have been trained to want a certain type of woman who looks good and does a fine job of sending the kids off to school or choosing a nanny? What does marriage mean to this type of man?

This guy came at my friends and I in a bar not too long ago with some pick up line. I asked him, and I wasn't trying to be mean or vicious, or embarrass him at all--"What are you looking for?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, what are you looking for, in a woman?" I paused. "Are you looking for someone to go home with, or someone you might want to date? Are you looking for someone who could also be a friend to you, or just someone who looks good? What kind of girl do you want?"

The guy blushed. "Uh, I was just asking a question. Excuse me." He turned and said something to his friend and practically ran out of the bar. They didn't even try to hit on another group of girls--they just wanted to leave the premises as soon as possible.

I know I was overanalyzing his motivations/intentions, but I really was curious to see if this average, guy-in-a-bar had even thought about it. Because, let's face it--I may not want to be married before I'm 30, but I know damn well what I want in a man. I think every girl has a list of qualities she looks for, along with a list of "forgiveables", like if she has the perfect guy for her but he still leaves the seat up, or maybe she swore she's never date a guy who spends more time on his hair than she does, but he lets her wear sweats whenever she wants, and honestly, he does have nice hair. What I want, though, is someone I can be old with. I want someone who keeps me entertained well after my skin sags and my memory turns to shit and my wit and tongue sharpen and become as unguarded as a back window left open. Someone is going to have to pass me my dentures, and someone is going to have to remind me which grandkids belong to which son/daughter. I am going to be a great grandma, that I can tell you already. I make some mean cupcakes, and I have a book of stories going for the little ears. I might never know how to sew, but I can play Bunko! with the rest of 'em. And I think qualities such as these are excellent selling points. I don't ever want to be bored or forced to choose between a family and my passions--I believe you can have both. Life is about balance and effort. You would think that more people in general would think about the long term ramifications in choosing or not choosing someone to be your partner.

Maybe I'm just being silly.

Blogs from the Past: Clubbin'

"Apple bottom jeans, boots with the furrrr...the whole club was lookin' at her. She hit the floor. Next thing ya know, Shorty got low, low, low, low..." etc. etc.

When I first moved to New York, I remember thinking how ridiculous it was to pay someone to get into their drinking establishments and give them your business. "Yes, I would LOVE to pay 20 bucks to get inside and then another 15 on a cocktail, AFTER I wait outside for a half hour." And now, after almost five years in the New York nightlife circuit, I still think cover charges (unless you're seeing live music) are asinine. Unless, the club promises to bottle feed you liquor, and hand out free slices of pizza at closing time, then maybe I would be inclined to feel that a door charge is justified.

Yes--I do get in free 99.9% of the time because I am a girl. But this has always stunned me, too. Why is it that clubs will stockpile females into their clubs, and make all the guys wait outside until they reach a certain quota of girls?!? I don't wear cute, uncomfortable shoes to dance around an overpriced club for a bunch of girls. Guys already have it easy in the city; statistically, there are more girls than guys in NYC. Meaning--guys have more options of people to date and be douchebags for (I'm sure my mom is thrilled that I'm using that word). So why make it more difficult for girls to meet a club-going douchebag*? Can't we have a selection in the clubs? Pretty please?

And...no offense, ladies--but, from a business standpoint--guys drink to a nightclub's advantage. From working in the industry for way too long, I can tell you that girls will let the check sit on the table for 20 minutes before one person decides to be brave and reach for her credit card. And if the bill is $25 or less, girls will still try to split the bill, which baffles me.
Just buy the next round, ladies--it's called leaving pettiness at the door.
Now, this is not true for ladies all the time. Just most of the time, unless the ladies have actually been in the service industry. And please--always tip cash. If you can't afford to tip properly, then do everyone a favor and go home (this goes for guys as well as girls).

Guys, on the other hand, usually have no qualms about opening tabs and buying each other shots, and the waitress a shot, and other girls a shot, etc. And yet, they are discriminated against when it comes to getting into a club. They want to spend money--they even buy bottles of Grey Goose for $300 when they could get it at the liquor store for $30, but still--they have to wait in some BS line.

Come on, people. Enough of this madness. Next time I go to a club, I want a harem of men not wearing polos, my own table with a mini keg, and free pizza at the door. Is that too much to ask?

*I use the term "douchebag" with as much endearment and affection as possible.

Quiet Night

My roommate is asleep on the couch, and I should be in bed. It's cold outside, and my mind hums with stories in a Poe sort-of-way. There is a bag of crumbled up chips laying on the coffee table next to an empty bowl of French dip.

I hate Edgar Allan Poe mode. It makes me think too much of sounds and opium. When I find myself thinking of Edgar Allan Poe, I want to punch something, and I think of a black-n-white sketch of a house on a hill. It is not a pleasant mode. It's unsettling.

I would much rather be in an Alfred Hitchcock mode, and think of Grace Kelly and handsome leading men. And cat thieves.

Christmas lights still wrap around our window sill, and the apartment looks cozy with a bottle of wine in the wine rack and one half full on the counter. I have been meaning to paint the living room for a few months now, and am re-considering the effort knowing we want to move in September. Celery Green might be a hard color to commit an entire wall to.

I'm going to bed knowing there are dishes in the sink and unopened mail on my desk, but I care not tonight; it can wait for morning. I would rather turn on some music and do these light chores in the daylight before work, to make it feel like I've accomplished something before an eight hour shift. That is a good feeling--accomplished. "Accomplished". "Polished". Both good words and good feelings.

My roommate stirs on the couch, and for a moment I wonder if she will wake up. Should I wake her up?

Nah. I think I'll just toss a blanket on her and unplug the lights for the night.

Old Ghosts

It all began when I went for a run early this evening around the track in the park. The leaves have turned colors, and there was a small puddle at the start of the track. I had already been running for about a mile--the streetlights between my apartment and the park were gentle ushers showing people home from work. The track was its own life form, nestled on the edge of the park by the river with a view of Manhattan, and surrounded by trees. There were still several people on the track--I knew there would be. Runners, soccer players, a woman pushing a stroller and doing lunges, and a few people roller blading.

I started my first mile, and for some reason the crisp November air reminded me of running in track in the seventh grade. For some reason, Ms. Sutliff put me on the Mile, even though I had asthma, and I believed myself to be the worst runner in the history of middle school. A mile, four times around the track, felt relentless and like a form of purgatory. The only track practice I remember fondly was the ending of one where I experienced my first French kiss. The only track meet I remember was the one where I puked in the grass after finishing my event--the Mile. I came in fourth.

I was the fastest person on the track tonight, which made me feel good, even though I didn't have much competition. I wondered what it would feel like to run so hard I actually puked in the grass again, like I did when I was thirteen. Back then, I was running because all of my friends were in track. I hated running. Why did all of my friends have to pick such a stupid, boring sport with no ball, no goal, and no points? No strategy except to put one foot in front of the other as fast as humanly possible?

But now, now I ran for myself. Now there were many strategies. Concentrating on holding a breathing pattern, reaching one more lap and then another, letting the view of the treetops take me a few feet further. But tonight I was thinking about that kiss, and other thoughts ensued.

It seems surreal that a nobody like me kissed the star football player after my track practice. That he sought me out, though I was sweaty and no doubt feeling nauseous, and his one clear mission that afternoon was to French kiss me in front of a handle of young track and football athletes. Okay, fellow seventh graders. That was the best first kiss of my life--awkward, embarrassing, completely awful, and completely promising. It might as well have been a scene from a movie.

My love life to follow has proved to be nothing less than movie quality. I think of it in black-and-white, with a soundtrack that includes Janis Joplin, Heart, and Fleetwood Mac. My mother has always said, "You're in love with Love", and she's been right. But right now, I am not in love. I'm in fascination with past meets present, and the question "what if".

Once in awhile, I receive an email or a phone call from someone I have not seen nor heard from in years (yes, I am old enough now--have loved enough--to say years). And lately, I've received more than usual, from people I didn't think remembered me in that way. Some are from men that, as boys, I felt they were kings. Some were troubled souls I wanted to rescue, and some are ones who mutually respected me and nothing romantic ever happened when the opportunity was there. Reading between the lines is all I do during these phone calls and emails, and there is a romantic haunting quality to them that fascinates me.

Most of these ghosts are friendly Casper versions. They call, we chat, and it's just understood that we are where we are in life. But few and far between in my hauntings, boxes of feelings are opened that have been locked inside my mind for years. These ghosts (maybe two or three) are people who I will try to keep as far from my heart as possible because at one time, they ruled tyrannously, and they ruled over a girl who doesn't exist anymore. When I was in love at that time, I was overlooked by them. I was taken for granted, and I enjoyed every minute of my misery.

But not anymore. Not now that I know there is more to life than being in love. There's death and grief, and living week-to-week off of cash that isn't steady. There's deciding what you truly want to do with your life, and there's a self-discovery process where you realize how capable you are of being everything you want to be. I'm not ashamed to say that for the first time in my life, probably at the beginning of last summer when I was considering declaring bankruptcy, I stopped caring so much about love, and started to care about myself.

It is bittersweet to hear from some of my past. The only sad thing (more so for them and not me) is that I am not capable of giving the kind of love for them I once did. I am just not that girl anymore who likes to be miserable. I'd rather laugh and joke around. I guess you could say it's a no-brainer.

I'm not sure how to end this entry, and maybe it is appropriate given the subject matter to leave it hanging, let my thoughts linger off, and leave you the reader with your own reflection. Yes, I believe that will be best.

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.

Astoria Park: Today's Run

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!"