Giving Thanks

Well, folks, here comes Thanksgiving. I know a lot of people who were excited about this holiday, including myself circa 2008. But, without going into too much detail, I'm a little nervous for today's festivities, not to mention less than enthused about driving to New Jersey and back in order to attend two separate feasts (I thought you weren't supposed to have to do that until you got married and fought over which family you were having Thanksgiving with. What gives?) However, in order to pull myself out of a gloomy funk that has been looming for weeks, I am going to make a list. Consider this list equivalent to the playlist I'll probably make for the drive to Jerz - it has pump-you-up capabilities. Sometimes, things like this day are self-fulfilling prophecies, and I believe that if I list all of the things I'm thankful for, maybe I'll be able to look past whatever today is going to bring (or kill inside of me) and think about the bigger picture, about all of the things I am lucky to have.

So here it is, Cupcake [and Turkey] Lovers (except Woo Me With Turkey sounds like something you'd find on Jerry Springer... "My Secret Sex Fantasy is to Eat a Whole Turkey Off a Woman." Nevermind.)

My THANKSGIVING THANKFUL list (in no particular order):

I am thankful for...

1) YOU. This blog is over a year old now (hooray!) and I sort of feel like all of you, my readers, have been right there with me through basically everything I've written about. I am so grateful for every person who comes up to me and says "I read your blog! Is that weird?" or "I read your blog! I like it!" I think that WMWC has certainly evolved in a year, as have I, but I thank you for sticking with it, even if it's just what you do late at night when you're trying not to do productive work. Have a wonderful thanksgiving, stuff your faces!

2) Singing. That's a general one, and a big one, but I think a lot of people I know who are singers go through periods of general disillusionment with the voice. It's such a heavily mental activity, and can be a frustrating one, until you remember that there was a time when you wanted to learn how to sing simply because you liked doing it. And I think I'm definitely in a place right now where I just like doing it... I just love to sing. I don't really know what I'd do if I couldn't. Yesterday, for an experiment in physics class (ew), my professor asked for a volunteer who had a good singing voice. Of course, I didn't volunteer, because I hate physics. BUT, it dawned on me that most of the people in the class probably weren't great singers, or at least confident singers, and it reminded me that singing is what makes me special (besides dashing good looks of course. Kidding!) and I will always have that, no matter where it takes me.

3) Friends who are friends no matter how long it's been. This is a specific one, mostly because I didn't want to be like all the third graders who were also making chicken scratch "I am thankful for..." lists and be like "My Friends" with a backwards E. Although this is something I've been thinking about recently. I have a few friends, many of them from childhood, who I think will always be my friends, regardless of how much time has passed. We have an ease and a rhythm we can slip back into, and not in a bad way so that we feel like we have to be our old high school selves. The friends I have who are like this probably know who they are, but I am grateful for the ability to go months without talking, just to meet up at a bar and remember exactly why we were friends in the first place within the first thirty seconds of chatter.

4) Change. I used to hate change. I think I still do. But you can't stop from changing, especially at this age. Just when I think I've solidified who I am, I change. I look different, or I sound different, or I think in a different way. Change is a necessary evil, an obstacle, something you have to embrace in order to move forward. I don't want to be stagnant - these are the years to let yourself be swept up and taken along for the ride. I am grateful for all of the change that has been forced upon me, as well as the change I have personally forced upon myself. Here's to more.

5) My Family. This is a surprisingly difficult one to write today, on a day that's all about family. Things haven't been particularly easy for my family this year, or in terms of my own role within it. But I love them all, no matter what, because that's what families do. I love my mom, who's downstairs brining the turkey and has already made all of her Thanksgiving desserts, because that's what she does. I love my brother, even though most of what I see from him is grumpy doorslams, because I know that he means well and he's going to experience a lot of exciting things in the next few years, things I just experienced. I love my dad and my stepmom because they've been so supportive of me and genuinely nice, and because they gave me my little brothers, who scream my name and wrap my legs in a big hug every time I come over. I love my grandparents, I love how much both sets of them care about me and shlep themselves out to the city to watch me perform, and I am so grateful they're all healthy and happy. Family definitely isn't perfect, but the beauty of a family is that even when you're slightly annoyed with half of them, you can still write a touching blog post about how much you love them.

6) My Boyfriend. I know, weird, I said "My." That just seems blasphemous at this point. But I am thankful for THE Boyfriend, who was in last year's Thanksgiving post wearing converse and drinking wine with my family. This year, he'll be at his own house for dinner, not too far from me (though he'll have some turkey-shaped cookies to remember me by, at least as long as they haven't been eaten.) The one year anniversary of this blog makes me think about how much has happened since last Thanksgiving, especially concerning him, but it's all water under the bridge now. I don't exactly know what to thank him for, since he certainly has done a lot for me, but he makes me so happy, I simply can't NOT thank him. I am thankful for the days when I just lay around while he plays guitar, for when we watch Dexter together and he lets me grab his knee and make comments like "I HATE Lieutenant LaGuerta! She sets women back by decades!" while getting endlessly nervous that Dexter will finally be caught. He is both a 6-year-old boy and a 22-year-old man at the same time, serious when he needs to be and hysterically silly when he wants to be. He's kind of my best friend. But probably not anymore, because he doesn't like when I say nice things about him....

7) The Written Word. This is a weird thing to end this list with, especially because I'm not much of a therapeutic writer and I don't journal or anything. But I love words, I love to write, and I love the fact that I was feeling so down and worried about today until I told myself I should write about what this holiday is really about (besides pilgrims and stuff). Thanks words, for allowing me to express myself in intricate, subtle ways, and for playing a big part in the game Scrabble, because I love that game.

Speaking of Scrabble, I'm apparently supposed to go move the Scrabble set in the living room and help my mom clean the house for Thanksgiving Feast Number Two. Little does she know, all this time I've been sitting in my room writing nice things about her... how sneaky. Cupcake Lovers, I hope you all have beautiful Thanksgivings, that you eat a lot but not too much to make you sick, and that your return to the daily grind next week isn't too jarring or disappointing. Peace, love, and turkey.

The Let-Down Generation

Note: I actually wrote this about a week ago, so the references to the Yankees game are obviously antiquated. But still, it deals with issues that aren't going to go away. Issues that you, WMWC readers, might also be working through.

Just when I thought I couldn't possibly grow up any more, I have. Without going into too many details, all three of my parents (that includes the regular kind and the step kind) are now out of work, the victims of layoffs and cutbacks and other frightening words that invoke strong feelings of being powerless at the chopping block. The Economy, which always seemed like a mythical beast I couldn't quite comprehend -- something out of a Madeleine L'Engle book, perhaps -- is now all too real, too tangible for my tastes.

Empty pockets. What now?

I got home from work last night smelling of buttercream, with bruise-like marks on my arm that were nothing more than smudges of blue frosting, and I collapsed on the couch to watch Game 6 of the Yankees-Phillies World Series. The Yankees were already up (by how many runs I can't remember now) and I stared at the screen in a shock-induced temporary coma as I grappled with the idea that now it was official. The layoffs at Time Inc. I had read about on New York Magazine's blog were not just another news story about the impending death of all print media. I had pictured faceless suits being handed pink slips. In fact, it was my dad. And he probably wasn't wearing a suit, though I'm sure he was more than likely wearing a silly hat.

Onscreen, Andy Pettitte left the game in a torrent of flashbulbs, tipping his cap to the crowds. Andy, with his grecian features and menacing stare, whom I have watched exhibit a killer pickoff move since I was a child. Later, Damaso Marte struck out Chase Utley in a grand display of dominance and soul-crushing (the good kind). And I just watched the spectacle, not even moving to take off my hat or my shoes, transfixed by the display on the screen and the pulsing heartbeat of the new stadium. If I didn't have anything in that moment, I did have this game and these players and the hope that they might win it for New York and, more importantly it seemed, for me.

I have always said that I want exactly two things out of life: I want to do what I love, and I want to be with people I love. I want love in my life -- the kind that is so powerful it makes you wonder what you would do without the object of your affection, how you would go on living and breathing. And by that, I don't just mean reliance on another person. I mean a passion, something you have found that you can't seem to replicate anywhere else in the world.

I don't need anything else if I can have those two things.

Sadly, they're being threatened. I'm about to graduate in May, which means I'm about to have (or, perhaps, am having) the usual "What Do I Do Now?" quarter-life crisis that every other person my age has. But I'm about to have that crisis amidst the worst job market the country has seen in my lifetime (I may be wrong... I'm not a history major, so don't quote me). I don't have any money saved and my lease on my apartment will be up May 1st. So, essentially, in April of 2009 I need to figure out where I want to go and what I want to do, knowing full well that my family probably can't provide a safety net or monetarily keep me afloat until I land on my feet. This is the first time in my entire life -- and this probably goes for the rest of my generation -- that I DON'T feel generally safe.

I grew up in the suburbs, in Connecticut, where affluence was measured in "play rooms" and swimming pools and yards and labradors. But what we all mostly had in common, regardless of whether we were the wealthiest or the less-wealthy, was a feeling of security and reassurance. We hadn't seen anything really bad. We were going to go to high school, to college, and then things would work out. "You can be anything you want to be," they told me. And I never doubted for a second.

Well, world, I know what I want to be. I know what I want to do and exactly how I want to earn my money. And the only thing that makes me want to give up that dream is the idea that, through the ultimate sacrifice (no, not death...) I might find some sort of economic stability. I could possibly AFFORD an apartment, a haircut, a gym membership, and to shop at Whole Foods if only I abandoned my silly goals and accepted a life outside of this teeming, racing, beautiful city. If I moved back to the suburbs, if I based my life on a 9-5 job. Did people feel entitled to their crazy dreams during the Great Depression? No, they felt lucky if they could feed their family and avoid the breadlines.

Has it gotten to the point where I should no longer feel entitled to my crazy dreams?

It certainly seems that way. It's hard to sleep with the churning knot of fear in my stomach of what happens next? I knew I chose a difficult path when I chose it, but I couldn't have predicted just how much more difficult extenuating circumstances would have made it by the time I was on the brink of really going for it. All these years when I thought it was outrageous to work as an actor for a living, I didn't realize that people were doing it and being successful, just not quite as successful as, say, financiers. Now the financiers aren't making money... imagine how much less the actors must be making.

So I guess what the title of this post refers to is the Great Loss of Security. The economy and the country just don't keep chugging along regardless of what anyone does. The balance of the world is more fragile than I ever thought it was, and the scales could tip at any moment.

I'm not in dire straits -- not yet. The Boyfriend has assured me that he will never let me go homeless, that I can (metaphorically) stay on his couch if it gets to that point, which is a kind gesture. Plus, I don't think I'd look very good as a street urchin. I mean, my bangs are kinda shaggy right now, but if you dumped me on a street with a Dunkin' Donuts cup and told me to sing for my supper (literally) I think the bangs would become the least of my worries. Regardless, I'm at a crossroads with a big decision to make. Follow my practical, rational side and abandon the dreams? Or keep believing, like I always have, that I'll be the exception to the rule.

I'll keep you updated. I'm still working on it.

Worth My Weight In Buttercream

It's only Tuesday, but I'm already beat. Here I am, back in the world of the overworked.

It's a necessity, really. My mom is out of a job, the economy is dismal, and because I decided that I really do enjoy eating and being able to buy myself toothpaste, I got a job. Never mind that NYU offered me work-study money that I will never receive because they're in a hiring freeze. Never mind that I'm a double major with a schedule that reflects as much and a SENIOR RECITAL (in all caps, because that's how it exists in my brain) inching ever closer in my calendar. I had to find some sort of job, and find it fast.

Of course, I turned to cupcakes.

Or, really, cupcakes came to me. My mom, who graduated from the Institute of Culinary Education back when it was Peter Kump's (sorry to date you, Mom) received a job posting through ICE for a Sales Associate/Cupcake Froster and passed it along to me because, well, someone who has owned their own restaurant (her) is clearly overqualified for the job. But you know who's not? Me. The 21-year-old student and Cupcake Lover with a big, dimpled smile and a genuinely friendly demeanor.

So I applied. I interviewed. And I got the job on the spot. What can I say? Apparently working for Martha, The Queen of All Things Domestic pretty much qualifies you to hawk cookies and cupcakes behind a counter. Who knew? Although I am not, as it turns out, frosting cupcakes, I am SELLING the cupcakes, and that is fine by me. I also mop the floors when I stay till we close the store, and I almost always accidentally splash mop water on my face. Mmmm nice.

But I'm okay with a faceful of mop water... really. I grew up around this business. After my mom went to cooking school, the kitchen at home became a different sort of environment. We were taught to hold a knife vertically when we walked and to hand it, handle first, to whoever was requesting it. If I ever passed someone whose back was turned (and by someone, I mean my mother, my brother, or possibly the two unsuspecting dogs) I was to say "Behind you!" with enough gusto that they could hear it and know I was, in fact, behind them. We always had massive, industrial-size boxes of saran wrap that put limp, unsticky supermarket wrap to shame. We were told to wash our hands for 26 seconds as we said the alphabet, taught to turn the handles of the pots to the side so that they didn't stick out and endanger anyone, instructed to curl our fingers when chopping anything, so that if we were sliced we didn't lose a fingertip. And in the event that we did, we had finger cots in the medicine cabinet. Don't know what those are? Now you do.

Finger cots: for when you don't want blood to get in the food.

When I was young, I made my mom a book of "Good Chef/Bad Chef" helpful hints. Good chef, of course, brought his meat to temperature and kept his raw chicken far from his mise en place and the other components of his dish. Bad chef didn't wash his hands or know how to keep his souffle from falling. In middle school, I could have told you the symptoms of E. coli and the various ways and reasons you might get it. Later, when I worked in my mom's bakery and after, her restaurant, I learned the ins and outs of counter service and small restaurant work. I am fluent in POS systems. I know just how many crumbs one croissant can make when handled by a small child (Hint: A Lot.) And I also know for a fact that the phrase "If you can't stand the heat, get out of the kitchen" should not be taken lightly. It is hot and tough on the aptly-named hot line. If you can't take it, maybe you should be a pastry chef. (Ohhhhhh snap.)

Which brings me back to my cupcakes-and-mop-water duties. The place I work is not a bakery -- the baking is done off-premises. The cookies are tasty, but that's not why people spend $75 a pop on twelve -- YES you read that correctly -- twelve sugar cookies shaped like "Designer Handbags." This is more a novelty store than a restaurant. A place where adults' eyes widen just as much as the snot-covered children they bring with them. A place where a vanilla cupcake with vanilla buttercream can look so enticing under the bright lights with the frosting dyed hot pink that a typical New Yorker will sit, munch, and lick their fingers after picking at the crumbs.

And my job is to sell the fantasy. Today, wearing my uniform (a HOT PINK T-shirt, of course) and pigtails under my little hat, I sold my own sugar-coated smile along with the iced cookies. Sure, it's disconcerting to know that one hour of my time is worth approximately three and a half squirrel-shaped cookies (with glittery tails, no less) but I'll take it. You do what you gotta do. And I don't mind it. I like being back in a place where the aprons come back from the laundry wrapped in plastic. I like the feel of bakery tissue between my fingers, the way it feels to wipe down a coffee station with a cloth towel. Sure, I'm tired after sweeping and mopping and generally being around the scent of sugar and butter (tonight I took off my shoes when I got home and found a green sprinkle between my toes) but it's a nice job and I will work hard. Because that's the number one thing I learned growing up around well-worn recipe books and mixers big enough to hold a small child... If it's your job, you do it, and you do it well.

What Goes Around Comes Back Around... To Canarsie

Cupcake Fans, this is one for the ages.

On this blog, I've written about a number of topics, ranging from spilled coffee and broken hearts to stripper poles and "rocking the log cabin." (No really, that's in a blog post. Check it out for yourselves.) I've also, it seems, focused on some "Only in New York" moments that I have encountered since being here, since I first arrived at my NYU dorm with a typical Target extra-long sheet set and a whole lot of incorrect assumptions about college, this city, and life after high school in general.

And now, for those of you who hold the assumption that good things never happen, that New Yorkers are heartless beasts who would never dream of giving up a subway seat to a pregnant lady or helping the elderly or even extending a tiny bit of kindness, bite your tongues. Every one of you. There is kindness seeping from every nook and cranny of this sensational city. And before you gripe about the one rude person who pushed past you this morning, listen to what I think is, quite honestly, an exhilarating "Only In New York Story." And it's one hundred percent true.

First off, I haven't been blogging recently because my computer has been in a very sad, pretentious place known as the "SoHo Apple Store" where so-called "geniuses" wear witty shirts and try to get you to trade in your perfectly reasonable little iPod for some new gadget that hasn't yet had a kink-free incarnation. But that's besides the point. On Monday, I gleefully stepped out of the store with my laptop in tow, knowing that NOW finally, after $300 worth of repairs, my laptop would once again function as a laptop. It would recognized my new battery. It was clean, shiny, new, beautiful, wonderful. And in seconds, it was gone.

Well, not seconds. Minutes, maybe. After a trip to Whole Foods to pick up salmon I was planning to lovingly glaze and cook for The Boyfriend and myself, I took the V train and, consequently, found myself walking through the annals of the the 6th Avenue L stop when I heard that familiar noise -- the steaming, stalling sound of the subway waiting at the platform. I walked briskly, thinking I might catch it. As I reached the closing doors, I swung my hand out in between them, a knee-jerk reaction that might stop an elevator. It was then I realized that the hand I had put out to stop the subway doors was tightly gripped around the handle of a laptop case. I pulled my hand back, trying to prevent damage to my laptop. The computer itself exited the doors, safe and sound. The shoulder strap attached to the case did not.

I realized right away that the shoulder strap was wedged between the doors and that they were firmly closed. To my right, people watched as I tugged at the laptop case, thinking the doors would reopen. They didn't. The train began to move and I moved with it, grabbing at the grey laptop case, screaming at the train conductor along with other cries from my fellow straphangers. He watched me as I stumbled, weighing the option of letting myself be dragged with the subway train before I finally let go, and then he drove away.

With my MacBook dangling from the outside of the train.

I watched it disappear into the tunnel, watched as the train conductor looked me dead in the eyes and kept moving. The image is blurred at the edges in my memory, mostly because it's the moment when hysteria kicked in.

I decided to run to 8th Avenue. I'm not sure why. The train wasn't headed in that direction, and I could have just as quickly taken an L train. Either way, I got confused in my hysterics (sobbing while running down the street, saying "F*ck!" a lot, to the chagrin of fellow pedestrians) and somehow managed to make my way back into the same damned 6th Avenue station after much running, sweating, and panting. It was then I decided to take the subway to 8th Avenue and talk to someone -- my rational side and my optimistic side were conveniently remembering an article I read once about the subway Lost and Found, where items such as expensive technology and prosthetic limbs are dropped off and never recovered by their owners, simply because they don't think anyone could possibly have been so nice. I wondered, perhaps, if my laptop (had it not been crushed by the train and mistaken for cheese by the third-rail-dwelling rats) would find its way there too. Either way, I had to try.

I was guided by an orange-vested MTA worker to a secret door at the end of the platform and, had I not been completely and utterly dismayed at my loss, I probably would have found the whole thing bizarre. If I wasn't choking back heavy sobs, I might have likened the room behind the door to a glimpse into Santa's workshop or a peek behind the wizard's curtain -- except dirty, foul-smelling, and not particularly exciting at all. Inside, a woman with very long fingernails and a half-knitted pink scarf gave me the number for the lost and found. An MTA employee, also in the office, said he would "Check the tracks" on his way to Canarsie. He then asked me if the laptop was expensive... to which I responded with a tearful "It's--" sniffle "--the only laptop I have!"

After riding to Union Square, speaking to a police officer who told me "Things like that don't really turn up again" (gee, thanks), and checking the platform for a stray laptop, I momentarily gave up. There was nothing I could do but take the subway home and glaze my stupid salmon... salted, of course, by the bitter tears of despair.

Walking in the door of my apartment, I tried to regain composure but the sniffles and gasps betrayed me almost immediately. The Boyfriend, on the phone with his sister when I threw down my things and covered my face, hung up and grabbed me, pulling me into a bear hug. I explained what happened while being somewhat distracted by the odd fear that a rogue drip of snot would sneak out of my nose and he would finally see me at my worst, my ugliest, and my most downtrodden. I sat down, my head in my hands, when my phone started to buzz.

Thinking it was Mr. I'll Check The Tracks For Ya', I ran to answer it.

"Yes" I said, when he asked if it was me.

The gruff voice on the other line continued: "This is dispatch in Canarsie for the L train. We have your laptop, somebody dropped it off."

Someone, some WONDERFUL soul, had delivered my laptop to the depths of Brooklyn. Delirious with hunger, The Boyfriend and I hopped onto the next L we could grab, while I made sounds that straddled the line between heaving sobs and hearty guffaws. On the train, I crossed my fingers that this wasn't all a joke, that my laptop wasn't somehow in multiple pieces with cartoonish subway tracks running across the shards of hard drive.

It wasn't. It was working, good as new, and even the case was unscathed, about as dirty as it had been before. Before the train had even left Canarsie, I opened the computer and held my breath as I pushed the power button. As the screen lit-up, the famous MacIntosh reboot noise sounded like heavenly angels singing a hallelujah chorus.

I doubt that my own personal angel will read this blog. But I can only hope that this piece of good fortune is in response to something that I did sometime... that a piece of kindness I gave to someone once came back to be my saving grace. The Boyfriend seems to think that "this would only happen to someone as nice" as me. I personally think that this would only happen to someone as clumsy as I am. But no matter -- somewhere, there is a New Yorker who looked out for me. It's a tough, gritty city, I'll admit, but the symphony of kindness somehow rose above the everyday din of apathy. Thank you, NYC.

How Slim is Slim? And Other Questions

How slim is slim?

This is the question I've been asking myself for the past week. I'm in a class this semester called Audition Skills, in which we learn Skills for Auditioning (surprise surprise). The point of the class is to start translating all of the actor/singer vocabulary we've learned into showbiz vocab. Example: I'm using nasal resonance and bringing my chest voice up while still allowing a little head voice to influence the sound.

In showbiz terms, I'm "belting my face off."

Our most recent homework assignment was to prepare for a season of shows at a regional theatre slash summer stock type thing. The shows were varied on purpose, so that we would have to deal with the pressures of preparing two short pieces in order to show contrast of both the voice and the acting abilities. We were also given what are called the breakdowns for each of the shows and which roles they were looking to cast. One caught my eye immediately, and it was from a show most, if not all of you, are probably familiar with: Grease. Keep in mind that my professors took some of these breakdowns straight out of Backstage magazine, so these are things people really ask for in a job posting.

It read as follows:

Sandy: female, looks 18, the classic all-American, girl-next-door beauty, naive and thinks the best of everyone she meets, capable of turning into a hot rock 'n' roll babe at the end, lyric soprano with a high belt, should be under 5'7", slim and very pretty.

First off, for those of you who are not actors or singers or performers, think about this for a second. Can you imagine a job posting that, instead of asking for "Experience with Microsoft Excel a plus," requires "girl-next-door beauty" and the capability to turn into a "hot rock 'n' roll babe." It's a strange, twisted, yet cool industry, I know. When I first read the description, my initial thoughts were, "Wow, those words describe me." I'm not trying to toot my own horn here, but what I'm really referring to are the personality points. I am somewhat naive, very all-American, and almost always assume the best when I meet people. If I met Danny, I'd totally have fallen in love with him over the summer, expected him to be my buttoned-up boyfriend when school started, and would have been heartbroken and betrayed when he acted as though what we had under those docks wasn't anything special. Plus, I happen to think I have a little naughty glimmer in my eye that hints towards -- dare I say it? -- rock 'n' roll babe. I AM Sandy. Sandy is Me.

Except for one word, one four-letter, self-esteem killing, she-devil of a word. SLIM. Slim.

Slim. What IS slim? What constitutes this word, this quality? Sure, we can quantify the phrase under 5'7" but can we also quantify slim in a sort of body-height-to-weight-ratio? Is there a specific definition for the word, something along the lines of "Slim, adj., stick-like, pencil-thin, underfed, chest ribs must be visible"?

Or, more importantly, am I too fat to play Sandy Dumbrowski in Grease?

Don't answer that question, please. It's rhetorical. Trying to answer it also brings up all kinds of questions of social and historical context. Because as far as I know, the definition of "slim" in the era of Marilyn Monroe is quite different from the definition of the word in this, the era of Spanx and "Skinny Bitch." Does slim refer to a streamlined, muscular physique? I wouldn't think of Sandy as a toned, hard-bodied gym rat. Where do we draw the line between slim and just... well... normally fit?

The other day, I met with my journalism class to do an assignment that included "field work" on Park Avenue. One of the girls in the class joined us in our group, fresh off the subway, with a big smile on her face. "Guys!" she said, "That's Andy Samberg over there, on that corner!" We all looked and, lo and behold, it was he.

But he wasn't alone. The young, geekily handsome star of such Saturday Night sensations as "Dick in a Box" and "Jizz In My Pants" was cuddling a blonde with the physique of a 12-year-old ballerina. She had a long mane of blonde hair tied up at the top of her head, and it ran down her back like a straw-colored stream, coming to rest somewhere below her shoulder blades. It was windy, her skirt was short, and so I can honestly say to you that I've seen London, I've seen France, and I have seen Andy Samberg's girlfriend's underpants. (Truth be told, I've seen only the last of the three). But that's besides the point. What I was most interested in was the commentary...

"Ugh, she looks like she's 12, she's sooo skinny." (A variation of this was said by many of the girls in the group.)

"She's probably a model, or a ballerina, but she's not that tall. And her posture's kind of hunched."

"Anyone who's not Amish and has matured beyond the age of 11 should seriously not have hair that long." (Me.)

"Maybe she's his sister. Except he just kissed her on the lips. Ew."

"Of COURSE Andy Samberg would date a model. Of course."

"Isn't she cold? Her skirt is so short."

And so on...

The reason I bring this up is because every girl in the group was -- as I put it right then and there -- seriously hatin'. And I'm not trying to get up on my high horse here. I was, like, Queen of the Haters. I had nothing nice to say about her chest ribs, her ponytail, and the circles under her eyes we saw when she crossed the street and we actually realized she looked 35, not 12, but was even skinnier than we thought. Although, for the record, I did say I liked her purse AND her shoes. But no one could quite handle the fact that Andy, a semi-celeb with big teeth and floppy brown hair, seemed to be attracted to a twig who probably wouldn't know a muffin top if it plopped its way onto her (non-existent) breakfast plate or walked past her, spilling over a pair of too-tight jeans.

Oddly enough, this is neither a post about my desire to embrace my natural shape, or to dispel of it and lose ten pounds. This is more about my obsession with the look of other peoples' bodies. I am the first to admit that I study bodies, mostly female, and am fascinated by the shapes -- by the curves, the faint outlines of muscle beneath T-shirts, the slight crinkle of a patch of cellulite. Whether or not I'm weighing the shape of my own body against the one I'm studying, I'm still obsessed, still examining, still transfixed by shape.

I think that this curiosity about body shape and, especially, body image, really informs my idea of femininity. We are, as women, taught that shattering the glass ceiling is our daily struggle, our life's goal. We are also taught, of course, that raising children is just as much a priority as any of that. It is a blessing and a curse to "be able to do anything we want" because we are still expected to do what we used to have to do. We are defined by our constraints, how we flee them, and how we adhere to them. And I guess that's exactly what is in store for me in the industry I've chosen. I will submit myself to the panel behind the table who will judge whether or not I am "slim" enough for young, innocent Sandy. I will lose the ten pounds if I have to, tighten the biceps, dye the hair... all if it gets me work. If it facilitates doing what I love, I'll play the game and I will accept being defined by these constraints.

Femininity is, in my opinion, about embracing, escaping, breaking, and even building these walls, ceilings, and floors. There are sacrifices -- shatter the glass ceiling and perhaps you lose the picket fence. But I don't pretend I can have it all. These are my constraints -- these Backstage breakdowns -- and I'll embrace them if only until I can escape them.

Remedial Math, or "How Did It Come to This?"

This morning, I got off the subway at 8th street, New York's only stop that has mosaics underground proclaiming "New York University!" with happy tiled faces of students presumably milling about Washington Square. I was pretty occupied with hating the weather and all the humidity I thought had been mercifully chased away by September as I walked along towards Silver room 203... or, as I would later consider it, towards Uncertain Death.

You might know it by its more common name: Laboratory for "Natural Science I: How Things Work."

Yes, ladies, gentlemen... and others. (The GLBT at NYU is endlessly more popular than our baseball team. I'm totally cool with it if you're a dude-lady, or vice versa). Here's the deal: I'm taking Physics. I am taking Physics for the first time since, oh, I don't know... JUNIOR YEAR OF HIGH SCHOOL. Do you know what else I did in junior year of high school? I went to prom. I got my driver's license. I wore hideous sequined flats and thought leggings under denim mini skirts were a good idea. I WORE POLO SHIRTS. I spent at least three days of the week playing the saxophone in the dingy high school band room and whispering rumors down the rows of instruments about who did what in the band room closet (hint: it was sexual.) In other words, I was approximately, like, three billion light years from where I am now, sitting in Brooklyn, about to finish my undergraduate degree. Yes, that is the last time I did physics.

So today, when I swung my patterned-tights-clad legs over a stool at a lab table, I felt more uncomfortable and unnatural than I have in the past three years of college. We all went around the room and introduced ourselves as our TA, a tall, bespectacled asian man with the same proclivity for social situations as a smooth piece of balsa wood, awkwardly flailed his hands around while he spoke and tried to comment on our choice of a "favorite performance" we'd seen in the past 5 years. Me: "Well, I saw Geoffrey Rush in "Exit the King." That was really awesome." Him: "Yeah, uhh, yeah totally I think you should all, uh, like see a musical in the city before you die." Uh huh. Exit the King is a piece of absurdist theatre by Eugene Ionesco. Not a musical. Not even close. One girl even had the audacity to name "A Walk to Remember" as her favorite movie, and NOT EVEN IRONICALLY. God, freshmen. When will they learn that at NYU, the right amount of pretentiousness is everything!

Sorry, I'm off topic. What I want to tell you, loyal readers, is about what happened next. After I eye-rolled my way through some really uninspired introductions. Somehow, amidst a sea of "uhhh"s and "yeah"s our TA managed to explain that todays lab was a math review.

Wait, math review?

Yes. A Review of Math. Before I further explain this, let me review the math that I have done since the days of high school:

- Tip calculations, as in "How much should I give this bartender after he gives me this ice cold brew?"

- Clothing sales, like "How much does this dress cost if it's 20% off and I also have a coupon and almost no money in my bank account?"

- Train schedules -- "If The Boyfriend is leaving at 3:53 and his train gets in 44 minutes after that, how long must I wait to blow dry my hair so that it is at peak performance when he walks in the door?"

Yup. This is the math I do in my every day life.

So, of course, when I turned the pages and saw such horrifying words as "logarithms!" and "sine! cosine! HYPOTENUSE!" I was overcome by a cold sweat and an overwhelming urge to vomit on the beakers beside me. For the past three years, I have been studying Neapolitan chords and ledes and interview tactics and Uta Hagen. For me, final assignments included papers that, I kid you not, were based less on what we wrote about than how honest we were about our feelings. I do music, I do writing. I do classes where we analyze text, where we conceptualize and shit.

You know what I don't do? I don't do logarithms.

Somehow, (and I don't know how), I survived. With the help of the freshman across from me I realized I am not as math-inept as I thought, only severely out of practice. "Oh yeah," I thought to myself, "Riiiiight, all I have to do is multiply both sides by 2" or whatever. I had to remind myself, rather quickly, that at some point I was taking calculus and knew what these words meant. "You're not an idiot," I assured myself. "You're just an artist now."

However, part of my writing this blog post is as a big, hearty, farewell. I can say with almost complete certainty that this class doesn't actually require most of what we did on that math review. This is very basic physics we're talking about, that requires more thinking and using common sense than actual hard core algebra. So, with that being said, I would like to say a "Smell ya later" (or, more appropriately, "Smell ya never!") to math of the more difficult, less useful kind. I will probably never again in my life do this stuff, this algebra stuff. I am on to bigger and better things that I actually enjoy and don't make me want to puke all over my TI-83. In fact, I never want to see another TI-83 again in my life, unless it is in the context of looking over the shoulder of my child one day as (s)he struggles with his or her own algebra homework. And even in that case, I hope our conversation goes something like this:

"Mooooom, I don't understand! Can you help me with my homework?"

"Sorry, kid. I don't do math."

You Know You're a New Yorker When...

...You have built an enormous tolerance to crazy.

You know you've lived in the city long enough to be influenced by it when you realize things that would have freaked you out, scarred you for life, and given you nightmares are now commonplace daily occurrences, things you try to block out with music in your ears and a book to read on the subway.

But every now and then, of course, they get to you... just a little bit. I thought about this the other day (where else?) but on the subway. I chose my car carefully because I saw an empty bench through the window from the platform and thought "Hooray! My ride on the train will be comfortable and enjoyable. I'll read my book and people watch a little, all while resting my feet on my way home from running errands." It was all planned, all arranged. Until, of course, I realized from inside the subway car that the "empty" bench was actually a buffer zone for a man who was having a full-on attack of some unidentifiable yet terrifying mental illness and no one knew what to do but to give him a pole and a corner of the subway to keep him at bay. All of us sat, some reading, some listening to music, some simply pretending they were doing either of those things, while this small man in flared jeans kicked the subway doors, crouched, screamed, kicked some more, and convulsed, all accompanied by sounds he was making with his mouth, beatbox-style, that resembled the soundtrack to a Wile E. Coyote cartoon.

He didn't seem interested in getting off at any of the stops, or in interacting with any human beings -- not that we gave him much choice. All of us, eyes down, were clearly afraid that he would go beyond fart noises and screaming outbursts. I think, beneath the bent-back pages of our magazines, we were all shaking in our boots that he was going to open the sliding metal door and throw himself onto the tracks to rid himself of whatever demon was in there. But we didn't outwardly show this fear. Instead we sat, quietly, in our spots, giving him space... because we didn't know what else TO do.

Some might call this apathy. About a week ago I saw a segment on a news program that was purposely set up to show just how rude New Yorkers are. An attractive blonde anchor dressed up like a pregnant woman, dropped some bags, and looked to see who helped her and who didn't. Unsurprisingly (or surprisingly, depending on how you look at it) the results were mixed. Some people ignored her feeble attempts to bend over her faux-bump and pick up her broken shopping bags. Others immediately rushed to her rescue. When her male colleague did the same thing (minus the preggers part, of course) pretty much everyone ignored her. Of course, the point of this was that New Yorkers Are So Rude and no one helps anyone anymore. It's a cruel, cruel world and no one cares for anyone but themselves.

I don't agree. I think New Yorkers are totally kind and helpful when you need them to be. Whenever I need a pick-me-up, there's always someone complimenting me (and not in a sketchy, "Hola Guapa" way, but in a "Wow, cute hat!" kind of way.) Anyone who I ask for directions or for assistance is quick to help and point me in the right direction. But if anyone ignored me, I wouldn't be offended for a second. In a city like this, it's all about self-preservation. If some guy dropped his briefcase in the middle of the sidewalk, sure, I would try to help him gather his papers. But when every other person on the sidewalk is all like "Hey, Save the Whales!" or "Where Do You Get Your Hair Cut?" we HAVE to tune out our fellow human beings or we'll go insane.

One time, I rode the subway home late at night next to a homeless man who was using the seat next to me as his bed for the night. He was fast asleep, had only a suitcase to his name, and smelled pungent. His fingernails were black from dirt and the creases on his neck were also filled with the same black residue. Until then, it hadn't occurred to me that without a place to bathe, every crevice on a body could fill with grime. I thought about leaving him money, about putting it on his suitcase for when he woke up, until I remembered I had no cash and that whatever I could give him (ten dollars maybe? I'm not doing so hot monetarily right now...) would maybe feed him for a day, but wouldn't get him a home or a job or a steady way to support himself. I wanted to cry, fought back tears, watching him sleep with his head against the metal pole, but I couldn't. If I cried every time I saw some unfortunate person without clothes or food, or a man kicking the subway in a schizophrenic outburst, I wouldn't survive.

I guess my way of dealing with it is writing it here and knowing that I'm not alone. Since I've been in the city -- three years and counting -- we've hit an economic decline that has affected this city and its inhabitants. I swear to you there are more homeless people and more sad, disillusioning sights to see everywhere you go, month by month. But I know at heart that we're all sad about it, everyone on the subway with me, everyone who passes the outstretched plastic cups jingling nickels and dimes. Certain sights and people stick with you, like the dirt-stained man whose life I can't even begin to imagine but whose path crossed with mine while he was asleep, unaware I was examining his fingernails. Whoever he is, I hope he's sleeping in a warm place when it gets colder out. I hope his life takes a turn for the best. I hope the psychopath in the L train made it safely to wherever he was trying to go. I see you -- WE see you, we do -- we just pretend not to, and we're sorry.

Friday Night Insights

I'm mostly writing this post so that on my list of things I did today I can add "Wrote a blog post" and feel less... I don't know... unproductive? Mopey? Slobbish? I mean, I DID do like a truckload of laundry, (Thought for today: Laundry looks really poetic flopping around in the dryer when accompanied by a provocative soundtrack) but really I've just been caught in a reverie of "To get things done or NOT get things done?" ...aaaand I think I went the way of Not.

Of course, an unproductive day for me still involves a lot of thinking... mulling, if you will. Sometimes I feel like I have so many creative juices inside me they just don't exactly know where to slosh themselves, like the water that washes up into elaborate sand projects little kids make but finds itself getting warm as it sits in a puddle somewhere a few feet from the ocean. I have so many IDEAS and IMPULSES and desires to write -- to write music, to write words, -- as well as desires to sing, but nothing I already have in my Black Binders (capitalized, of course, because they are tantamount to My Bible. If my Black Binder is lost, so am I.) I need school to start, I need to be pushed to create and produce and DO SOMETHING. Or else I sit and watch Say Yes to the Dress all day. Pathetic. Although it IS helping me get an idea of what not to wear on my wedding day. As in, I wouldn't be caught dead in a ball gown, thankyouverymuch.

But you'll be glad to know that I have done a few things I can be proud to tell you about in this blog. Number One: Enhancing Sports Knowledge. I spent two hours in a Barnes and Noble reading Football for Dummies. I'll tell you, the prose is not exactly top notch (but then again, who expects Howie Long to be the next Hemingway? Not I...) but I DID learn a few valuable things that are easing me along the path of Football Literacy. My time spent in B&N was one of those excellent "What are people thinking about me right now?" moments as I sat at a table, a strong cup of burned Starbucks coffee in my hand, holding Football for Dummies and Cosmo magazine at the same time. These were the thoughts I imagined swimming around me:

"Wow, that girl is so transparently desperate to pick up a man in a bookstore." (A female perspective, of course.)

or

"Damn, football and sex tips? That chick is hot." (A straight male perspective.)

In fact, what they DIDN'T know was that Cosmo was just my cover, my trench coat if you will, donned to hide the naked truth of my visit. I didn't even leaf through the glossy pages, didn't even attempt to discover what the new, hot erogenous zone on the male body is (honestly, ladies, if we haven't found them ALL by now, what have we been doing since the beginning of time and procreation?) Instead, I stayed glued to the responsibilities of the quarterback, to the different types of "backs," to the various ways you can be penalized. Admittedly, now that I know Mark Sanchez is brawny AND brainy (he has to know ALL of the plays in the big scary playbook!!), I'm considering entering Jets fandom more by the day. However, I suspect that being a Jets fan is a lot like being a Mets fan... consistently disappointing and thoroughly disheartening. So I'll weigh my decision heavily before committing. Regardless, I MUST understand football. My quest for Sports Knowledge has led me to a serious quandary... now that baseball season is nearing its end, SportsCenter is all "Football this!" and "Football that!" SportsCenter is, like, my most frequently watched show. I can watch hours upon hours of it. How can I watch if all of their main stories sound like gibberish because I don't understand how one can get a "safety"? I'll have to give up and get entangled in The Real Housewives of Atlanta!

This picture is completely gratuitous and only on here for your viewing pleasure. Me-ow. I considered a topless pic from gaysports.com (HA) but thought, no, we're classier than that. We like clothing here on WMWC. And by we, I mean me. And by "We like clothing," I mean "This is not ladies porn. This is serious blogging." Wow, too much caption? Yeah, I think so.

Ehem! Where was I? Oh right, Sports Knowledge is taking over my life and driving me to the Sports section at Barnes & Noble because apparently I can't even read real literature anymore. Ugh. However, on another, cheerier note, I did something else this past week that I consider a very "Me" thing to do. Something cool, a little artsy, a little dangerous (if you consider paint fumes dangerous, which most people don't.) I took a stencil and a can o' gold spray paint to the wall above my bed, painting a mural of golden leaves blowing their way across the wall. I think I have a bit of a leaf obsession (leaf headband? leaf bracelet? leaf necklace? leaf WALLS?) but I find them earthy and beautiful, both in shape and in color. Wearing leaf adornments makes me feel like a goddess or a grecian urn... or a goddess ON a grecian urn (ooh, did you like that?) But nevertheless, now I have fingers covered in spray paint residue but a very cool, crafty looking room. Martha would be proud, I believe.

Since this is turning into a hodge-podge of ramblings, my "I Want to Write a Novel" pipe dream most definitely stalled only moments after it began, but the desire is back! A friend of mine who is an avid blog reader specifically told me he would love to see me write a novel, and demanded that I shut myself up and write like crazy in order to do so. Hearing that made the gears start turning again, and I'm hoping that I can get something going even though my schedule this year will be hectic. So stay tuned, the dream hasn't died quite yet. Someday you'll hear about my novel, or my SOMETHING because these creative juices are just dying to burst out, Gushers-style, with none of the Head Turning Into Fruit and all of the "It'll Blow You Away!"

How I Spent My Summer Vacation

... or Kickin' it Into High Gear

Heading back to the Square for one more year.

All right folks. I know what you're expecting. Usually, people try to prolong summer, to revel in the warmth and the sun and the surf (if you happen to be so lucky.) You're waiting for me to be all, "Dear Summer, please don't end. Please don't leave me for your lesser cousin, Indian Summer, which combines the sweaty, moist heat of summer with the unfortunate addition of classes, homework, and a required daily commute." But I'm not going to say that. I'm not going to whine that I wish Summer would stick around like an unwelcome house guest. Go ahead and hate me for it, but it's officially over in my mind. Summer, even though I technically have two more weeks of you, I don't want them. We're through.

Why? Because I'm officially ready to Kick It Into High Gear. No more dreading the stressful school year or the pressure of "What Am I Going to Do When I Graduate?" or even "How Am I Going to Pay for My Groceries?" These are inconsequential problems that can be solved if I just say "Okay, summer's over. Let's do this." This morning, when I got off the subway lugging my suitcase from my weeklong vacation in Martha's Vineyard, I looked at the empty Brooklyn street, smelled the delicious stench of hot pavement and city dirt, and thought to myself, "I can do this..." whatever this happens to be. One more year of school isn't something to be feared, it's something to be EXCITED about. So I'm having my team huddle, blog-style, and giving myself a pep talk. On the count of three, I'm putting my hands in and saying "Bring It." 1...2...3... BRING IT.

But first, before I start, I think I need to pay summer its dues. Sure, I spent much of these past few months umbrella-less and penniless, but it was a memorable summer, and even an enjoyable one. This is the summer I became autonomous, did a lot of thinking, made some Big Steps. I read a few great books, watched a large amount of Sports Channels, and spent a lot of time with someone who, back in March, I thought I might never see again. So here is a list (in no particular order) of high points -- an homage, if you will -- to Summer 2009.

1. Fourth of July Fireworks

From the top of the MSLO building, right on the West Side Highway. What could be better? A bottle of wine, some cherries, and one of those "Only in New York" kinda nights.

2. Friends from Across the Pond

The infiltration of Adorable Welsh Subletter into the Brooklyn Nook was a blessing and made a fun little trio of Myself, the Welsh Cake, and BiddyLuddy. I will miss seeing her little orangey-red head sleeping in that room and now have a reason to save up my money and visit London and Wales, if only to hear her call potato chips "crisps" just one more time.

3. Reading and Writing

This summer, I finally got to do some reading, notably a few books by Wally Lamb that were really fantastic. I also got to do some writing -- and not just blogging. If you read regularly, you know that I am on a Crusade of sorts to write a novel. Well, I am FAR from writing that novel, but getting to sit and ponder and write was a luxury I know I won't have time for once the school year begins. Still, walking along the street deep in thought about characters and plot (not test material or song lyrics) is something I will miss greatly.

4. Minimal Connecticut Involvement

This isn't meant to diminish my hometown. The Constitution State was a great place to grow up, and I will never forget my New England roots that include, among other things, polo shirts, ribboned pigtails, vacations in Cape Cod and Martha's Vineyard, house parties with "beirut" and cruising with the top down through the streets of Suburbia. But that time has passed. This summer, I was a stranger in my own home -- literally. I don't fit anymore, Connecticut. I feel like a sore thumb, an anomaly, an incongruity within your confines. When the express train leaves Grand Central, I ache for the smell of the Main Concourse (see previous "Smells" post). And when I get behind the wheel of a car, I can't remember any of the street names or the simplest routes to the movie theater or the mall. Bottom Line: Although a Nutmegger by blood, I think I'm more of a New Yorker at heart... for the time being.

5. Borough Discovery

I feel as if I haven't even scratched the surface of my new home, Brooklyn, but what little I have seen of it, I love. This is the summer I learned there is life outside of Manhattan, there are places to see that extend past the East River. Who knows if I'll ever move back?

6. Paying A Lot of Money to Learn Things

As you must know by now, I did an internship at Martha Stewart Living Magazine. I am more than fairly certain that confidentiality is of the utmost importance at MSLO, so I've avoided putting much about the internship on my blog. (The last thing I need is being sued for writing something that too closely resembles an exposé ... although the internship wasn't a Devil Wears Prada sort of internship). But I really did learn about the industry, about making a magazine, and about the fact that I could -- and would -- work for a publication in the future.

6. Skip This Point If You Have An Aversion to Romance

Yes, Number 6 has multiple parts. And yes, Number 6 is about That Guy, The Boyfriend, who was a big part of why I will miss this summer, whether he likes it or not.

a) Nothing Beats My Couch...: Some of my best weekends were spent glued to our Ikea couch watching 30 Rock or Dexter, drinking beer, and either laughing or biting my nails (depending on the series) along with The Boyfriend. On my last day of my internship, he came over and I roasted us a chicken that we consequently ate while watching an epic extra-innings Yankee-Red Sox game. It's true, what they say -- true love is being comfortable enough with someone to really just do nothing. Er, actually, I don't really know who says that. But I do. And I believe it. He doesn't need to be entertained, and neither do I -- unless, of course Showtime On Demand is doing the entertaining.

b) ...Except Maybe Kayaking: I took The Boyfriend on family vacation in Martha's Vineyard this past week (which is one of the many reasons why my posts have been scarce recently) and, bless his heart, he survived. Not only did he survive, he played guitar for everyone on the beach. He answered all of my little cousin's questions about baseball as well as chorus of, "Hey [The Boyfriend]! Is THAT Mustang like your Mustang?" about a car that was, always, at least 30 years younger than the beautiful creature he drives. He sat on a bench with my grandfather while my grandma and I shopped, the two "boys" sipping coffee and trading stories. He played Scrabble with me and shared my kayak and biked 15 miles and ate sea pickles. Who knows what the future holds -- lives get complicated, people get jobs, some people go back to school -- but it doesn't really matter. You can't hold on to moments or count the seconds or worry about what's to come. I had his company for this summer, nonstop for this past week, and I couldn't really ask for more.

Okay, WMWC readers. There you have it. Sure, I may do Summer-esque things in the next two weeks, but they don't count. I'm writing off summertime and bidding it adieu. I have a To-Do list of 14 things that aren't going to check themselves off.

Summer, it's been real.

Worst Intern Ever

Three simple words: Epic Coffee Fail

This morning at my internship, I went to get [really crappy] coffee at the little kitchen station when I realized both of the coffee containers were empty except for decaf... and really, who does decaf at 10 in the morning? Please. I've been sleeping like crap, mainly because it is like a humid, sticky deathtrap in my room and under my comforter and I've been watching too much Dexter - which, of course, makes me imagine that every little sound outside my windows at 2 a.m. is a sign that someone is somehow wedging themselves through the impossibly skinny spaces between the bars in order to slice me into little pieces. Nice.

Anyway, back to the coffee. I'm all alone at first, so the pressure is off - I'll just make a fresh pot, I figure. I read the directions on the coffee machine, but unfortunately I find myself in a Catch-22. How am I supposed to be able to figure out making coffee when I haven't even HAD any? I mean, I can function fine without coffee, but problem solving at 10 a.m. after a restless night without any sort of caffeinated substance is just asking for too much. That's like, superhuman.

First step: I take the little plastic bag of ground coffee out of the jar. Then, I open it. FAIL. Coffee all over the floor, all over my little red shoe. Possibly IN my little red shoe, although I haven't had a chance to check as of yet and am not looking forward to it. I give a little glance, side to side, and realize that I am still alone until a spindly redhead with an empty mug approaches. I act like, hey, there's no coffee in my shoe. No luck. "Oh!" she says. "Look at that," pointing to the spilled coffee. "Yeah," I laugh it off, "That's what happens when I try to make coffee before I have coffee!" Ha. Ha. We have a laugh.

The coffee's all ready to go, I place the coffee holder thing beneath the spout and it starts going... but not exactly into the hole, making coffee pool around the sides. I figure, why not leave it like that? Who cares? But the redhead scoots it over so that, although the holder is tipped, the drippy brown liquid is still making its way in. She has saved the day. I still look incompetent.

Redhead leaves to wait for the coffee to fill, but now there is a line of people looking forlorn, undercaffeinated, overtired. I stand by the rapidly filling coffee pot, feeling for a moment like a savior for bringing the people what they crave. A savior, that is, until it starts pooling around the hole again and dripping out of the spout... onto the counter, dangerously close to dripping down the white cabinets. "Shit!" I think, but don't say, because even my lips aren't functioning the way they will in about 10 minutes when the coffee really kicks in. I grab some paper towels, drop them, and then decide to hold up the canister so that the goddamn coffee actually GOES IN the hole. While I hold the big black cylinder up, like an idiot, a guy comes over and says, "Uh, you don't have to hold it the whole time." Oh, thank you, wise coffee master. I want to say, "I know, you greasy haired fool," but I do not. I regain composure. "It was spilling out of the spout," I say, and point to the mess that I was trying to cover up by standing close to the coffee and hoping really hard that I looked radiantly beautiful enough to distract. [Sarcasm.] The guy, who is wearing some weird button down T-shirt thing which signifies to me that he can't possibly be a member of the decorating, collecting, style, or even crafts departments (which of course leaves Food and various tech crews... and Garden, because let's be honest, Gardening people aren't known for their fashion sense) straightens out the pot and explains to me why it was spilling. I couldn't care less if there was scalding hot coffee pouring directly onto my retinas, but I act like his theory is revolutionary so that PLEASE GOD I will eventually get some coffee and get away from this table before the redhead, who has returned, realizes that I have spilled TWICE during my coffee exploits. Jesus. This is getting embarrassing.

After awkwardly making acquaintances with the man who has so graciously saved my coffee [Sarcasm Part II] and telling him I intern in the Editorial Dept. without so much as asking what part of the building he works in, the coffee sputters, drips, finishes. I put in my half and half, my skim milk, my one and a half Sweet & Lows (What? It's a very delicate procedure. Don't judge.) I stir, and I Get The Hell Out of There. But not before sweetly smiling at Mr. Button Down T-Shirt and saying, with a hint of self-deprecation, "Thanks for helping me out." Pink-lipsticked, toothy grin. I am, after all, an intern. An intern who can't make coffee. FML.

Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

I'm not generally one for zodiac astro-babble, but my NYU email home page is set up so that I get my horoscope every day and sometimes I remember to check it out.

This was today's horoscope:

Your focus for the next few days will be on one thing, and one thing only: making sure your dear ones feel warm, wonderful and, above all else, well-loved. And you'll be extremely well equipped for the job. The universe has sent several planetary envoys to help you -- but then, as fiery and determined as you are by nature, you may not need them. Defense is second only to offense on your list of specialties.

Reading that horoscope made me feel warm and fuzzy. The people I love mean a lot to me, but beyond that, I couldn't think of a better goal for a few days - or even a lifetime. I would really like to make that horoscope a reality, if only because I think it would be a worthwhile pursuit. Also, I myself have been feeling, warm, wonderful, and well-loved recently. It's weird, but nonetheless really nice. 

Plus, I always like it when my horoscopes tell me I'm "fiery." I think maybe enhancing my "fiery" nature should be next week's goal. Rar.

A Question for You

Hey readers. This is going to be a quickie post, but I really want to ask your opinions. I know you won't comment on this, but I'm hopeful that you might talk to me in real life sometime soon and help me out.

I want to write a novel.

Granted, I've wanted to write a novel for a really long time and it was one of my many goals for last summer that also included "Six Pack Abs" and "Do A Split." Obviously, I succeeded in none of those things. But recently I've been reading up a storm and thinking that I could totally write a book. Nothing grand and sweeping and epic, but something sweet and tender and romantic and funny. 

So this is where I need your help. If you read this blog, then you know the way I write at my most casual. I would probably err on the more formal side if I wrote a book because although I'm no Proust, I'm also no Lauren Conrad, and I would like any book I write to be just a teeny bit literary. So help me out:

1) What kind of book would you expect to read from me?

2) What kinds of things would you want to read in a book from someone with a writing style like mine?

3) Are there any blog entries you think I should refer to for inspiration?

4) Is there a writer you think I resemble?

5) Is there a genre I fit into? Like, should I write something fluffy and chick-lit inspired or should I try for something even just a little bit more serious?

6) Prompts. Give me something, a scenario, a character. Anything.

And finally:

7) Do I have no idea that I am actually a horrifically bad writer and I should give up all notions of ever writing a novel?

Okay, I'm hoping the answer to number 7 is a big No, but you never know. I figured I'd leave it open ended. Please give me your help and your ideas, I want some input, and I would really appreciate anything you have to say. Thanks!

Groove Is In the Heart

"Your groove I do deeply dig..." ~Deee-lite

A Scene:

Instruments are being strummed, battered, plunked, picked, or blown. A voice, maybe a few voices, are singing, amplified by modern technology. A melody, a harmony, a bass line. Tempos fluctuate as screams punctuate the chorus, improvised vocal percussion.

Now, imagine you’re peering down on the concert scene. It’s a bird’s eye view – all you can see is a teeming crowd of people, cheering and singing along and bobbing, moving, in an amoeba-like form. Arms are raised and waving, side to side, back and forth; a crowd of music lovers, not a single one distinguishable from the rest.

Zoom in on a certain prim-looking brunette in jeans and a black tank top. She’s bobbing her head, tapping her foot. She’s got rhythm, and when she hums along it’s apparent that she isn’t tone deaf. Her fingers tap the sides of her thighs, her arms are straight-jacketed to her sides by the crowd. Every now and then she claps and gives a high-pitched half-hearted “woo!”

You’d never know that she’s a total fake, a fraud, an imposter.

Or at least, she feels that way. She, of the finger tapping and the head bobbing, is Cupcake Lover. She’s at a concert, The Boyfriend’s favorite band, and of course he is next to her, looking like he just ate his favorite food, drank his favorite beverage, was magically transported to his favorite place on earth, and immediately after found out that all of his wishes for the next 50 years will come true. Here’s a word for you: Blissful. Definition? Characterized by perfect happiness. Boyfriend looks Blissful. And me? Uhh, I mean, she? Confused. Definition? Embarrassed and not knowing what to say or how to act.

That might be an overstatement. I wouldn’t say I get embarrassed at concerts, per se, but I do feel confused. I don’t know when or how it happened, but at some point I stopped being able to listen to music. I just can’t do it. I listen to technical proficiency, I listen to the bass line, I listen to contrapuntal motion, I listen with an ear to where the music fits in historically, to what movement it belongs to, to what other artists it is inspired by.

But… [here's my confession]… I just can’t groove.

And, of course, I'm dating the most Epic Groover of all. Time and time again, I’ve been in cars and bars and my kitchen and at weird outdoor barbeques where music has played and The Boyfriend has gone all… groovetastic. And then he looks to me, like I’m supposed to do something. Like, “Okay, your turn to groove.” What do I do?

Smile through my suddenly escalated heart rate and say, “I like the time signature. Did you know it’s in 7?”

Lame, I know. But you know what the worst part is? The absolute worst part? I like listening to music and I like thinking critically about it. I really, really enjoyed myself at that concert and I actually find my own bliss in other peoples’ love for listening. But when you don’t know how to groove, people think you’re not having a good time. They think you’re miserable, that it’s not your kind of music, that you’d rather be anywhere but there. But that’s just it – I like almost ALL kinds of music. I find something charming and intriguing and fascinating in almost everything I hear. But I have lost the innate human ability to subtly groove to something. I can’t play air guitar like The Boyfriend does so skillfully (on my thigh, usually, or my arm.) I’m not going to whip out my faux drumsticks and play a little beat, or close my eyes and really feel it. Because to feel music I just have to sit still and listen for a second, and think about it.

So, yeah, I’m a big fake. Any grooving I do is totally contrived and based off of what I see other people do… because I may be bad at grooving, but I sure am good at people watching. And there's no shortage of different types of Groovers to copy from. Some favorites include the Hands In the Air Like You Just Don't Care Groover, or the perennial favorite, Sway Side to Side Like You're High On Something Groover. Obvious, I've been taking on a more subtle groove flavor, what with the foot tapping and the head bopping, but I'm getting there, slowly but surely. Making my way toward music-listening normalcy one finger point at a time. Who knows? Maybe some day I'll groove with the best of them.

As American as Apple Pie, Baseball, Fireworks... and Swine Flu?

Currently, I've got a thermometer in my mouth. I don't really know why - I'm pretty sure my temperature is normal. It was like 97.5 the last two times I checked, but I think I'm just checking again because it was sitting in front me of. It's a curiosity thing. Like a less-terrifying version of "Hey, there's a scale sitting on the ground. I wonder what I weigh?" I feel like it's also a sign of adulthood, though. Owning your own thermometer. It means I don't expect Mommy to take my temperature again, or even to supply the First Aid kit.

Wow, shocker. My temperature is 98.9 degrees now. Does that mean, like, borderline fever? My mom said I should buy the thermometer because Swine Flu is going around... and then she actually named people she knew who had it. So I bought one.

Fever or no fever, I'm pretty bored. I've watched enough SportsCenter to make my HEAD explode and just can't watch the Phillies beat the Reds 22-1 anymore. I mean, it was funny to see the Not Top 10 of the Mets' dismal season, but once you've seen it twice, it falls more into the category of "depressing" instead of "hilarious."

So I decided that even though I'm all sniffly and feverish, I'd blog about my weekend and remember the days when I wasn't confined to the couch because my attempt to get off it was unsuccessful. (Note: The attempt this morning involved getting ready for work, stepping on the L train, and only making it to 3rd Avenue before I almost passed out on the crowded subway. Everything was going black and I couldn't breath. I had to escape the subway car and squat on the ground in the subway station until I could breath well enough to make it to the wooden seats. Yup, I think the couch was calling to me to take one more day off...)

I should do this quickly - SoapNet has a few episodes of the O.C. on at 3 and I have two cartons of ice cream that aren't going to eat themselves. So here goes.

Yes, that IS the new Yankee Stadium, where The Boyfriend and I went on the Fourth of July to do some of the most patriotic things a pair of hot-blooded American 20-somethings can do: Eat hot dogs and hamburgers, sing both the National Anthem AND God Bless America, and revile people for getting paid millions of dollars and failing to do their job right. (I'm talking about YOU Robinson Cano.) It was a nice time, albeit a sunny and rather long game that went into extra innings but paid off with a win for the Yanks. It was also nothing short of hilarious to accompany The Boyfriend to a baseball event, possibly our first sporting event together, and observe the different styles of baseball-watching. [Him: It's f*cking ridiculous that he didn't just lay down the bunt. Me: I love everyone! And everything! Etc...] But I got a sunburn that turned into a sun tan and felt oddly proud to be an American on the Fourth of July. Weird, right?

This is our view from the rooftop of where I intern, at Martha Stewart Living. It was basically THE perfect place to see the Macy's fireworks. The Boyfriend and I packed a picnic of pasta that we ate out of plastic cups and watched at least four different barges set off fireworks while the station on the roof was turned to the radio broadcast of totally cheesy, wonderful American music. I've never been a huge fan of fireworks - I used to plug my ears when I was young, yes I was THAT kid - but these were just amazing. And to watch them with someone I really like was pretty fantastic... a Fourth of July to remember.

But now, of course, reality sets back in. And not even the "Oh, weekend's over, back to work" kind, because I can't even make it to work in one piece. I've watched, like, fifteen episodes of 30 Rock and have decided that I want to be Liz Lemon for Halloween. I've replaced many a meal with ice cream, all while telling myself it's to "soothe my throat." And I've traipsed about my apartment making little whimpering noises that no one can hear, looking out my window at my backyard and talking to the trees, saying "I don't feel good..." Yeah, it's weird, but maybe I DO have a fever. Maybe I should check again. I mean, the thermometer's RIGHT here....

Okay, 98.6. Totally normal. But I don't feel totally normal, so I am headed back to the couch.