Woo Me With Cupcakes

The Beauty Is...

2010-03-02T01:22:00.006-05:00

Hi friends! It's been a while since I've updated this lovely blog here, and truthfully it's because I don't like to force creativity. As graduation approaches in May, I get less and less enthused by anything that resembles work and recently, for some reason, writing anything has felt like work. Chalk it up to exhaustive amounts of journalism I don't want to do or writing about things I'm sick of learning, but I've avoided blogging and I'm not ashamed of that fact. Something tells me I may be close to outgrowing this particular blog and once I graduate I may have to start something new. If or when that happens, I will release WMWC out into the ether, a perfect time capsule of a few years of my life as a college student. If you can't tell, I'm working very hard to accept change...

Excitingly enough, there's also something else I'm working very hard on: a show.

Nice segue, huh? Many of you already know this because, let's face it, you actually know me. And if you know me, you know that I'm probably talking nonstop about this show, humming the songs, and generally living in Florence in my head while the rehearsal process chugs along. So if you're sick of it, you have my full permission to quit reading right now. I won't be offended. But for whomever is along for the ride, I want -- no, need -- to write about this show, this process, and the general way it's changing my life for the time being.

First thing's first, I am playing Clara in The Light in the Piazza by Adam Guettel. It is fully acceptable if that name does not ring a bell. Every family member I tell does the polite little nod, Oh yes maybe I've heard of that?, and then asks how they can get tickets. I will spare you all the specifics of it, but it is simply the hardest thing I have ever done in my life. I played Eva Peron in my sophomore year of high school, where I had about six hundred costume changes and died of cancer on stage a full act after screaming DESCAMISADOS from an infamous balcony in four-inch heels. Clara is harder. That's partially because this isn't high school, and singing on pitch is no longer the number one reason why you get cast in a role. It's also harder because I know how to do this now -- I've spent three and a half years preparing for this process and it would be a shame to waste the opportunity to finally put it to good use. To do something appropriate for me, a show I love -- the closest part I've ever had to a dream role. Scratch that: This IS my first dream role.

So immediately I have to admit that there is enormous pressure when playing this part. Clara has the emotional and mental capacity of a 12-year-old, due to an unfortunate miniature equine accident in her youth. (Side Note: When I saw this show on Broadway and Clara's mother, Margaret uttered the words "...And the pony kicked her..." I busted out laughing. There, it's off my chest. Judge as you will.) But you can't play Clara "dumb." Nor can you play her innocent, naive, excited, or any of the other things one might associate with the overall framework of the character. Beyond that, the program I am part of breeds wonderfully talented singers and musicians. Almost every girl I know could sing this part, and 3/4 of them could sing the shit out of it. It isn't enough to make it sound pretty -- it's a dream role for any young, bright-eyed soprano who thinks Adam Guettel is a genius. One can't help but hear the Are you good enough? voice on a daily basis when you know there are dozens of Claras waiting in the wings. What makes me good enough? Sometimes it's deafening.

And really, that's the first thing I'm learning about myself doing this show -- what makes ME good enough. First off, I'm a hard worker. I take this more seriously than anything in the world, I put professionalism above any other quality I want to be known for. When someone speaks about me, I want the first words out of their mouth to be, "She's so wonderful to work with." What else qualifies me for Clara? Essentially, I'm finding that we are eerily similar. We are both absorbed and overtaken by love and romance in a similar way. We are quick to find joy in simple pleasures, in the sunshine, in the feeling of just living and being. And I find that in playing Clara I don't have to mask my own awkward naivete on stage. She, too, is afraid and unsure when it comes to romance. I may have more experience than Clara, but to me love has never lost its ability to terrify and thrill simultaneously.

Of course, I haven't even touched on the music yet. The score of Piazza is the dictionary definition of "lush." When we add an orchestra into the mix, I know I will cry -- it is only a matter of how often and how much it will impede my singing. The music fits my voice and my range like a glove and there are moments when I am singing and I think that I might float -- just look down and see myself hovering. As if Mr. Guettel's score could work actual magic and defy gravity. There is a feeling in the room when the cast sings together that is of mutual respect, admiration, and general awe, not at our own ability to handle the music, but a sense of "I couldn't have said it better myself." Sometimes, I think that if I were to be in a particularly excited state in my own life and I were to break out into song, Adam Guettel's words and music would slip out of me naturally. He makes musical theatre make sense, makes it feel more real and raw than anything that could happen offstage.

Which is just one of many reasons why this show is a blessing in my life. For the first time since doing shows in high school, for the first time since I can really remember, I am blissful in my everyday life on a consistent basis. My life is speeding towards a goal, towards something utterly spectacular. My brain is on overdrive trying to work through the puzzle of Clara, of her life and her relationships, and sometimes I feel as if I'm coming down from a high (call it the post-rehearsal-hangover, if you will) when the pressure is off and I'm just me again, headed back to my messy little apartment where I find I couldn't be farther from the Duomo. Sometimes when I'm walking to the subway at night after rehearsal, smiling and enjoying the feeling of the wind whipping around the beautiful buildings, I wonder how I ever lived without these feelings. It's like being in a relationship with someone and finding yourself unable to picture the demise of your love -- it's so enjoyable now, how could it ever end?

But the show will end. On the evening of April 4th, this will be over. I might never play Clara again and she may be reduced to twelve italicized words on my resume that are skimmed over, attached to the thought, "Oh okay, legit soprano" by callous casting directors and the like. But right now, finding her language and playing her truthfully is enriching my life. I can never thank the universe enough for these moments, I can only hope I'm blessed with more.

I Love This Man

2010-01-06T23:52:00.007-05:00

Okay, so, it's been a while. That's the first and last time I'm going to refer to my mysterious blogosphere disappearance (read: I've just been really busy.) But, lo and behold, I have been inspired! Instead of putting up some sort of lackluster paean to, I don't know, being stressed or hating the holidays (both of which I have recently experienced) I instead want to share with you a testament -- an ode -- to the manliest man of them all. The one who doesn't so much as set me ablaze but, instead, makes me feel safe. Protected. Well-prepared for whatever life might hand me.

This guy.

If you're a Discovery Channel watcher, or an excitable 8-year-old boy, or a survival enthusiast, you recognize that snake-chewer up there as Bear Grylls of the television show Man Vs. Wild. Here is the premise of the show: Drop Bear out of a plane. Watch him fall. Watch him rock climb, slide down trees, dive into icy cold water (more on that later!), kill little animals, make fire, and find civilization. He does it all. As a former member of the British Special Forces and a certified Bad Ass (seriously, he has a license), Bear Grylls is the only person in the whole world who can keep me interested in things like Nature and, yes, even rock climbing. (Sorry, Boyfriend. Your crimps and your jugs are tame compared to what Bear does on some of those slippery, crumbling rock faces. Don't worry though, I don't hold it against you.) Still, Bear Grylls is the fluffiest of the hardcore. His sweet British pronunciations -- "I made a raahhhft out of DEH-bris and sticks!" -- and his thoughtfulness -- "I think I'll save this snake head for my little boy" -- are utterly charming. He is the perfect dichotomy of sugar and spice, of naughty and nice. A man who can slay a pig on camera but who can still tell you the proper way to slide down a knobby tree is "like a koala bear." Awww.

You may be wondering why ON EARTH I have chosen Bear Grylls as the ultimate reason for my return to blogging. Don't worry, journalism students, I haven't forgotten my hook. Today was the first episode of the new series, and though I missed it, I did watch the two reruns that followed and was quickly reminded of what Bear Grylls does to me: he makes me sit, in rapt attention, cataloguing all of the information he rattles off. Yes, Bear, I do remember what I can use to soak that turban to prevent heat stroke (hint: urine!) I am currently dropping your "how to light a fire without a flint or a match" demonstration into the safety deposit box in my brain. Instinctually, I work hard to file away each and every useful scrap of survival technique, because who knows? Life is crazy, and though I don't currently have any trips to the Mojave desert planned, you never know.

My love for Bear Grylls was sparked one night a few years ago, while babysitting my niece and nephew. My nephew, who was probably seven or eight at the time, had two current obsessions: Man Vs. Wild and Deadliest Catch, both on Discovery Channel. In fact, he could actually recite Bear's opening monologue in Bear's accent, which was both entertaining and impressive. But long after the kids had gone to sleep, I found myself transfixed, tethered to their DVR. It had never occurred to me that I might need to know how to slay a snake (bash its head with one swift blow) or locate water in the sahara. Bear knew so much, and suddenly it was apparent to me that I knew so little. Teach me, Bear, I thought, as he climbed inside the Scottish mountain goat. Teach me.

The next day after babysitting, my mom and I took the two dogs for a walk in a woodsy Connecticut park. We followed signs but soon we were wandering in circles without any hint as to where the entrance to the park was or even where we could locate picket-fenced civilization. I wish I could say it was getting dark, or late, but all I can really gripe about was the fact that we were tired and lost and the dogs were giving us looks like "Okay, walking is great and everything, but we would like some water and our beds now." That's when it came to me.

"Mom," I started, and before I knew it I was recounting Bear Grylls' every word. "If we can find moss, we'll know where the water is!" (A moot point, since we were, in fact, watching a river rush by us.) "We can extract water from elephant dung if we find a good heap of it!" (Another useless fact, considering Connecticut is home to about as many wild elephants as leprechauns.) But still, I had these facts, these tidbits of life-saving info. Eventually, we followed the sound of lawnmowers to refuge, but nonetheless I was shocked. Since when did I remember anything worthwhile or nature-y? What about Bear Grylls had stoked such a fervor for survival?

Elephant dung cocktail, anyone?

I still haven't found the answer to this riddle, to this unbridled attraction I have to Bear Grylls and his show. In truth, I don't even find him all that physically attractive. But somehow, when I watched him shed all of his clothes to wade across the icy river in Alabama, I was still interested. And then, when he came ashore, his "meat and two veg" blurred (his words, not mine), and started doing "200 press-ups" to warm his shivering body, I was in love. And not because he can do 200 press-ups, or even because he was man enough to wade across that frosty river. No. I was in love because he threw on his windbreaker and proceeded to do his press-ups pant-less, without blinking an eye, or even considering the fact that there was no need (none, whatsoever) to delay putting on his pants. It just wasn't really necessary, then and there, to wear pants. And a man who doesn't really see the value in pants... well, that's a man of my heart.

So here's to you, Bear Grylls. You swim in water with dead squirrels but you also probably drink tea and play fun games (like skin the snake!) with your little Bear cub. Because of you, I will know how to make that raft, or that grappling hook, or that animal trap when the time comes. And in my head, it will come. One day, when I am dropped out of a plane onto frozen tundra or left alone to scale mountains, I will hear you in my head, Bear, coaxing me, comforting me. "Come along, just like a koala bear," you'll say to me. Or, "Hold your kindling like a butterfly -- not too tight so you hurt it, but not too loose so that it flies away."

So profound, Bear, so profound. Not only are you a beast, but so, too, are you a poet.

Giving Thanks

2009-11-26T08:42:00.003-05:00

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

2009-11-05T12:03:00.007-05:00

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

2009-11-03T23:41:00.006-05:00

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

2009-10-20T22:07:00.005-04:00

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

2009-09-30T20:39:00.007-04:00

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?"

2009-09-23T17:21:00.004-04:00

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...

2009-09-15T00:49:00.005-04:00

...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

2009-09-04T22:15:00.008-04:00

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.)

"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

2009-08-25T09:11:00.006-04:00

... 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

2009-07-29T10:09:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-27T15:30:00.006-04:00

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

2009-07-21T14:45:00.002-04:00

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

2009-07-14T16:19:00.005-04:00

"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?

2009-07-07T13:23:00.006-04:00

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.

Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My...

2009-06-30T22:15:00.005-04:00

...Everything.

I wish I looked this cute post torrential downpour.

No, really. I've been umbrella-less for like a month, playing a dangerous game of Russian roulette that involves walking out the door every day of the week, knowing full well that it's going to rain, and just hoping to God that it doesn't between the time I walk from the subway station to work and back again.

I'd say that, for the most part, I'm doing pretty well. The rain has only beaten me, like, 4 times at the most. Granted, one time it packed quite a wallop. [Anthropologie Manager: "Uhhh, you might want to check the mirror before you go out on the floor. Your mascara is all over your face." Oops.] But for a month that is essentially a big "Eff you" to global warming disbelievers everywhere (Are the polar bears sunning themselves up there at least? That's my question...), I'd say I'm coming up even in a fight against Mother Nature that's hardly fair.

Wait. Let's pause to giggle at the idea of polar bears with sunglasses and mojitos with mini umbrellas in them. Ugh, I can't even laugh! I'm too jealous.

Unfortunately, today was one of those days that Mother Nature did NOT decide to cut me some slack and keep me dry. I wore little gladiator sandals and a dress that is, essentially, paper-thin and as cute as it is inappropriate when soaked. Which, of course, prompted a few comments during my 15 minute shower... I mean... walk to the subway after leaving my internship. And while I meandered to the subway, pausing under awnings when the downpour was simply too much to bear, I started thinking about the way the rain changes this city and the people who live in it. It's just funny how people act when they're wet.

Like me, for example. Sometimes (if it's been a bad day already) I just give in to looking downtrodden. Drowned rat. And as much as I try to tell myself I look like a goddess - Venus rising up from the sea... Bo Derek emerging from the ocean... Ariel from The Little Mermaid sparkling midair... I know it's not true. I end up looking more wet dog or floppy fish or frizzy hair. Pictures from childhood to adulthood taken at my grandparents' pool have given me stone cold proof that "wet" is never going to be my best look. I mean, Jessica Alba can dribble like a decrepit octogenarian and she ends up in GQ. Oh, the unfairness of it all.

However, this is not about Jessica Alba and her ability to make gargling sexy. (Or ridiculous. I'm not really a fan of the GQ spread, myself.) New Yorkers change when it pours. The subway station is a sad place to be, like a war zone. Like reconvening in the trenches after enemy fire has died down. Everywhere, hairdos along the platform are mussed and frizzed. Expensive suits are wrinkled and dripped on. High heels are muddied. And the funny thing is, people aren't angry. There's no typical NYC ass-kicking feistiness. They're just... sad. Today everyone mushed themselves onto the crowded downtown C train and not a single person was in a huff about being poked with an umbrella. They were all just kind of persevering, as if the musty train that smelled a little like towels that had been kept in a humid bathroom for a month was just adding insult to injury. With my face stuck in the armpit of some damp-smelling guy who looked like Lurch, I realized riding that train was like watching the straw break the camel's back, 100 times over. Poor, sad C train.

Except I wasn't really feeling sad and down. Even though I could feel my dress sticking to my legs and some stupid woman more than brushed her slimy umbrella against me, I felt kind of... primal. That's the only real word to describe it. The heavy rain breaks something in me - the desire to be perceived as a normal person with a sense of decency. Bottom line: Once my dress is see-through, who cares? Once I'm running down the street jumping puddles, I might as well jump them with style. It may have helped that between the dress and the sandals and the little braided headband I was sporting I already had a serious Flower Child vibe going on, but what I really wanted to do was take off my shoes and dance in the mud and embrace the rain. Roll in it. Splash in it. I wanted someone to sweep me off my feet in the rain and hug me and love me and enjoy how nice and cool it feels on your skin in the summer heat. That's the problem with rain in the city - you're too busy wondering if people can see your panty lines or if your shoes will be ruined to just pause and think about how good it feels. It's a race to get to the other side of the sidewalk, to the scaffolding, before the big bad rain can catch you.

While I was doing just that - racing to a piece of awning, actually - some guy walked past me with a humongous umbrella and decided that, obviously, by the state of my clothing and the fact that I was contemplating walking into the downpour, I needed some convincing. So as he walked past, Mr. Big Ass Umbrella said, "It's just water!" I, of course, answered "Can you leave me alone, please?" But as he walked away, I really just wanted to throw down my purse, remove my shoes, run after him and shove that big, stupid umbrella You Know Where. If you only know me from my blog, you may think this is a possibility considering my Rat Broiling fantasies. But if you know me in real life, you know for sure that I'm never going to be shoving people's umbrellas in places where the sun doesn't shine. (Even though, right now, places where the sun DOES shine are few and far between.) But after a few hours to contemplate Mr. Big Ass Umbrella and his obnoxious comment, I'm taking it to heart. It's just water. For the sake of looking semi-decent in the work place, I'm going to buy an umbrella. But maybe the next time it downpours I'll head outside to my backyard and sit in the rain and let it do what it does. Because hey, it's just water.

TBK2M #1

2009-06-17T23:59:00.003-04:00

In an effort to spice things up and update my blog more often, I'm going to try to introduce some less time-consuming fare. Here's one new addition to WMWC. I call it TBK2M (which looks unsettlingly like NKOTB to me.) What does it stand for?

Thoughts Best Kept To Myself

(I put the "2" in there for the edginess factor. Since a blog named after romance and dessert needs all the "edgy" it can muster.)

Anyway, in TBK2M I'll give you insight into the brief, mostly strange, somewhat entertaining things that pop into my head. You know what I mean. Those thoughts that make you giggle out loud walking down the street because you're like "Wow, I can't believe I just thought that!" The thoughts that are best kept to yourself. The thoughts I'm going to post anyway.

Today's TBK2M?

Leaning exhaustedly against a pole on the L train today, I thought:

Hey, would rock climbing enhance my ability to pole dance? Both activities require upper body strength. Would pole dancing enhance my ability to rock climb?

Then I remembered, oh hey, I don't know HOW to pole dance.

But how hard could it be? It's basically only done by women, and we're not really known for our buff upper bodies and superhuman arm strength.

THEN I decided that the next time I'm alone in a subway car, I'm gonna give it a go. Pole dancing is one of those weird things that's still taboo in America. The kind of thing that's only okay on cringe-worthy shows like Daisy of Love or whatever. But it looks SO fun. Like a cross between sliding down a fireman's pole and playing on a swing set.

Bottom line: Next time there's a pole and no one's looking, I'm trying it.

Coffee and a Compliment

2009-06-17T09:46:00.003-04:00

This morning on my way to work I stopped in Dunkin' Donuts to grab a medium french vanilla coffee with skim milk and two Sweet and Lows. Prior to my coffee run, I spent a good twenty minutes at home actually straightening my hair, putting on makeup, and choosing jewelry that wasn't just my go-to jewelry but, in fact, actually matched my outfit. Feeling somewhat confident and attractive, but still playing the "Compare Myself to Every Woman on the Street" game as I walked along the West Side, I entered the Dunkin' Donuts, thinking only one thought: "Make sure you say FRENCH VANILLA really loud so they don't screw up your order again."

As I was standing at the counter, fishing through my change purse for a nickel, the guy placing my order looked at me and said, "You look so gorgeous, do you know that?"

Sometimes, that's all it takes. I think it's going to be a good day.

A Promise to Someone Who Matters

2009-06-14T14:10:00.008-04:00

Me.

In the past two weeks, more than one person whose opinion matters to me has given me advice that is along the lines of "You have to take care of yourself. You have to make you happy."

Yeah, well, that's easier said than done. I like to make other people happy and tend to lose track of my own happiness along the way. I end up losing sight of what it is that I want and need.

Well you know what? To quote my mother, "Eff you very much," everyone else. I can't appease the entire world and I can't sacrifice myself in the process. I apologize for all of the italics in this (I personally judge people who overuse any kind of font change in their writing. Can't you make a point without the help of underlining or slanty letters?) but they're just necessary right now, you know? And although it's not New Years, I'm making a resolution. An official blog resolution, which makes it real, obviously. The only way it could be realer is if it was on Facebook.

Resolution: I'm going to try to be all about me.

And here are the ways I'm going to do so:

1) Not doing anything I don't want to do. I'll do you favors and I'll be kind, but if I really don't want to do something (excluding working because, well, I need money to finance Number 4 and Number 10) I just won't do it. Simple as that. And if I want to spend my Saturday night reading magazines in my bed, that is totally okay.

2) Making delicious food items for myself and the people around me. But only when I want to, naturally. Microwave cooking for one is also allowed.

3) Not apologizing. This is a big one for me. Unless I really do something mean, or bump someone on the Subway, I'm not saying I'm sorry. So I guess I should change this one to "Not apologizing when an apology isn't necessary."

4) Indulging in a lot of hobbies that include cooking, baking, crafting, exercising, reading, and possible rock climbing if the gaping holes in my fingers from my first attempt on Friday ever heal. Basically I'm going to be a very strong, buff Susie Homemaker. Which is facilitated by the fact that I'm an editorial intern at Martha Stewart Living and totally just scored her new cupcake book (shhh!) Come to my apartment, you might find cupcakes!

This is an origami dragon I made this

afternoon while watching Californication...

which, by the way, is awesome.

5) Making myself look nice for no one but myself, because it makes me feel good.

6) Giving myself things to look forward to that don't rely on other people. Like, "Today, I'm going to get a cup of really good coffee and read a magazine when I get off work." Or, "This weekend, I'm going to wear those shorts I like and go out and have a good time." I'm gonna get myself some Yankee tickets, finally see Hair, and stand in line to see Shakespeare in the Park... because I really want to see Audra do Twelfth Night.

7) Girl time. I've been seeing some of my best friends more often recently, and it's been so refreshing and rehabilitating. So, ladies, I'm going to be calling you more often and wanting to go out for sangria and Mexican and share intimate secrets. I hope you're ready to dish.

8) Letting go of things I can't control. I won't elaborate, but there are things I worry about too much that I can't fix and I can't help. So you know what? I won't worry.

9) Enjoying the way things feel in the moment without worrying about how fleeting they might be.

10) Having fun. Pure, simple, belly laugh-inducing fun.

Okay, WMWC readers. There's my list and there's my resolution. I'll keep you updated on how it goes, hopefully with pictures of successful crafting/cooking/baking/living adventures.

Oh, and I also made a really sweet origami tortoise after the dragon. Nice, right?

Uh, What Happened To Me?

2009-06-09T21:47:00.006-04:00

What just happened a few minutes ago: I walked in my front door, took off my suffocating skirt, put on comfortable pants, and sat down on the couch. Adorable Welsh Subletter offered me the TV remote since it seemed to be my turn to choose the channel. I switched on the "Guide" function of our wonderful gazillion-channel cable, and I literally had a conniption as I was presented with a terrible dilemma.

Yankees Vs. Red Sox or Lakers Vs. Magic?

And then, of course, I had a second conniption.

Why am I having a conniption!?

This is me. If you take away the couch potato bit, because I spend a lot of time out of the house.

But really. Beer? Remote? Couch? Check. Check. Check.

I mean, okay... I'm taking solace in the fact that I'm still a little bit sad that The Real Housewives of New Jersey is ALSO on and I can't possibly change the channel. But re-read that sentence. I'm choosing TWO SPORTING EVENTS over Bravo. Count 'em, two. And this is not out of the ordinary. Ever since the summer started and I got cable, I have been coming home and flipping right to baseball. Or SportsCenter. Or, with a little guidance from The Boyfriend, the NBA finals. I hated basketball! I do hate basketball! I... I... I...

Oh shit, double play. Really, Yankees?

Sorry, sorry. I know this isn't completely well thought out, but I'm beginning to feel like my quest for Sports Knowledge in order to Entrance the Male Sex has had this opposite effect where instead of luring all these beautiful, sporty men, it has, instead, transformed ME into a man. A pony-tail wearing, tight-tank-top-sporting, pink-fingernailed man. Who drinks beer. And watches sports. And then watches the POST GAME SHOW.

I think that's when you know it's getting bad.

When I used to visit The Boyfriend up at school, there was constantly some sort of sports game on TV and that was the norm. Walk into any room where there are men and they won't mind - hell, they'll encourage it - if you turn on a channel that deals with sports or games or physical activity or beating someone up. But when you live in a house with girls or are even just watching TV with females around there's just something very strange about going "Wait, wait, wait. Can I interrupt this broadcast of What Not to Wear to check the score for a second?" They look at you like... like your hair is blue. Or you pee standing up. Or something.

Want proof? Adorable Welsh Subletter just went on a cereal run to the grocery store around the corner and the first thing I did was turn off The Office and turn on the basketball game.

I'm living a double life of shame that involves ESPN gamecasts and not-so-secret desires to visit sports bars. But then again, my good friend just revealed to me today that the reason my gladiator sandals were sticking to her kitchen floor is because she and her multiple female suitemates have been practicing beer pong every night. So perhaps I'm not alone...

Stop. I have to draw the line somewhere. As my faithful readers know, the line used to be basketball. Well, I'm officially recanting that statement. Basketball is pretty good. It's sometimes exhilarating and occasionally really interesting. And you can't forget the freak factor - I mean, these guys are effing TALL. There's a certain Ripley's Believe It or Not thrill to basketball, like seeing a lamb with two heads or something. But mark my words, friends. I WILL NOT watch... are you ready for it?... Ultimate Fighting. There is too much blood, too much punching in the face, and FAR too much naked man-hugging. If I want to see scantily-clad man-grabbing, there are plenty of places in New York City I can take myself where I also don't have to hear the crunch of broken facial bones. Sure, it will probably cost ten bucks and a possible two drink minimum, but I'm okay with that.

Now that my secret's out, will you keep reading my blog? Now that you know I'm a cupcake lover AND that I drank all of The Boyfriend's beer he left in the fridge, will you still want to be my friend? (Heh, he didn't know that until now... we're just spilling secrets all over the place, now aren't we?)

Oh, and one more thing. The other night I came home from a late night work shift at Anthropologie (where I tend to wear a headband that has big cloth flowers attached to it and flouncy little skirts) to hang out with The Boyfriend, who was staying at my place. I had a lot of energy, and he seemed to be energetic as well, so we decided we should do something fun. I said "Hey, what do you want to do?" and he said "I don't know, what do you want to do?"

I thought for a second, and then offered a suggestion.

"Want to play a video game?"

Uh oh.

Nothing's Perfect

2009-06-07T11:10:00.006-04:00

I wish you could be here with me right now. It's a beautiful Sunday morning. I can hear the occasional bike rider mosey on by, the spokes of his wheels whirring as he rides. A few minutes ago, a tattoo-clad hipster placed his used crap on the sidewalk, a cigarette askew between his lips, in the hopes that someone (the garbage man?) might take it away. About an hour ago, a sad little parade traversed Powers street, making its way down Leonard to the tunes of decrepit middle school bass drums.

Ahhh, The Brooklyn Nook.

But all is not peaches and cream here in what someone once referred to as "Heaven on Earth." Although today is relatively tranquil, I have just been privy to a week that can only be described as a roller coaster ride of awfulness. I try not to be too self-indulgent on this thing and turn it into a giant forum for "This is why my life sucks," but since it IS my blog, I'm going to compromise. I'm going to write an entry about one reason why my life sucks. Just one. And then I'll move on to brighter things. Sound good? If that compromise doesn't satisfy you, I'll make it exciting... with a classic WMWC scene!

Scene: BiddyLuddy, The Boyfriend, and Cupcake Lover stumble in the front door of The Brooklyn Nook after a full day of burgers, dogs, pizza, and beer. It is only a little past midnight, but the whole crowd is sleepy and full and about ready to get to bed. The Boyfriend heads into the kitchen, perhaps to brush his teeth or to remove his contact lenses... or both... when Cupcake Lover hears a high-pitched yell from the kitchen side of the railroad style apartment...

The Boyfriend: Ohhhh my God!

Cupcake Lover: What is it? What's wrong?

The Boyfriend: Oh my God, you have RATS.

Cupcake Lover: What? What are you talking about?

The Boyfriend: I saw one picking at the garbage over here.

The Boyfriend points to the space between the stove and the wall where the garbage can IS looking a little bit out of control.

Cupcake Lover: Wait a minute, there is a very distinct difference between "RATS" and "A RAT." Did you see multiple rats? Or just one? DO NOT say we have RATS unless you saw them in, like, a pack or something. Was there a pack?

The Boyfriend: Just one, he was eating at the garbage.

Cupcake Lover: Where did he go?

The Boyfriend: He's still behind the stove! Quick! Where's your camera? We have to take a picture to show your landlord!

The Boyfriend goes to grab said camera, while Cupcake Lover takes a peek behind the stove. She discovers that yes, indeed, there IS a fat rat sitting behind her beautiful gas stove. In her beautiful apartment. She whimpers a bit.

Photo Copyright: The Boyfriend

The Boyfriend returns, camera in hand.

The Boyfriend: I can't get a good picture! Come here and look at this one. Can you see a tail?

Cupcake Lover: Stop taking pictures of the rat! Ugh. I can't believe we have a rat. We should just put some cheese in the broiler or something and lure him in.

The Boyfriend stops taking pictures, aghast.

The Boyfriend: That's horrible! You want to BROIL the rat?

Cupcake Lover thinks that yes, that's exactly what she meant. But she covers up her malicious intentions quickly, lest The Boyfriend think she's some sort of sadist.

Cupcake Lover: Uhhh, no, I just meant we could trap him in there. With the broiler OFF of course. [Whew, nice save.] Anyway, put the camera down. We'll close the door to the kitchen - it's not like rats can climb into the bed or anything. Tomorrow we'll call the exterminator.

The Boyfriend: Okay. Well, I think I got at least one good picture.

Cupcake Lover and The Boyfriend turn to leave the kitchen, knowing they can't do much of anything to amend the situation at the moment. Cupcake Lover goes to switch off the kitchen light... together they close the kitchen door. And double check to make sure it's closed. Both are a little uneasy and questioning whether or not rats, with their sticky little paws, CAN climb into the bed. No matter. It's time to sleep.

The Boyfriend: Goodnight, Lucifer.

Cupcake Lover: Do NOT name the rat!

End Scene.

This whole travesty happened a few weeks ago, but the saga of The Rat has not ended. We set out some poison for the little bastard, but for weeks he didn't touch it. Until last night, when our adorable Welsh subletter, who has been sleeping on a mattress on the floor since we have had some trouble obtaining a bed frame (but will soon!), woke up dreamily thinking there was a cat on her bed.

Needless to say, we do not have a cat.

The Rat had CRAWLED ONTO HER BED. Yes, you heard that right. ON HER BED.

The poor thing moved halfway across the world only to wind up with vermin in her bed. Granted, she seems to be way less offended than she probably should be (plus now she has a timeless New York City story to tell all her "mates"), but I still feel bad. And disappointed that my perfect little Nook isn't so perfect after all. I love living here, but I can't help but be a little upset that my third roommate is furry.

No matter. That rat is going DOWN. How dare he disturb my happiness! As I write this, a trap is set with a little piece of hamburger bun and peanut butter. It looks enticing, sitting next to the rat poison by the stove. Mmmm mmmm mmmm. Sounds delicious, right Lucifer?

And, well, if all else fails... I'm turning on the broiler.

Raindrops on Roses, Whiskers on Kittens

2009-05-21T19:41:00.008-04:00

The name of this post refers to the song "My Favorite Things" from that Rodgers and Hammerstein gem about a nun and some Nazis - The Sound of Music. But really, this post has nothing to do with any of the hijinks that surround those adorable Von Trapp kinder. Instead, I would like to make a WMWC list (haven't you missed 'em?) entitled:

These Are a Few of My Favorite... Smells.

Is it weird that I want to buy these for my housewarming party?

Why smells, you ask? Well, first off because my sense of smell is very good. Thankfully not as good as my mother's, whose smell is so keen she is disturbed by even the faintest scent of flowery perfume. Which, you know, was great for my self confidence. (Mom: "What is on you!? You smell terrible!" Me: "Uhh... Tommy Girl?") But this post isn't about the various ways that parents scar their offspring. Or about the fact that I still wear Tommy Girl but don't tell anyone. It is, instead, about the many scents I have encountered throughout my life that can bring up vivid memories or simply please my nosebuds (those don't exist). I'm going to try to avoid the obvious (baking cookies, freshly cut grass) since, well, duh. But since I know you're all chomping at the bit (oh the suspense!) here is the official Woo Me With Cupcakes Smell List '09... in no particular order.

1) Grand Central Terminal

This seems like a strange place to start, but it is one of my most favorite smells ever. It's hard to put my finger on its exact smell, but it's a cross between home and adventure. Whether I'm stepping off the train and back into the city or leaving the hustle and bustle, GCT means exciting things, new beginnings, endless possibilities, or that beautiful three-syllable word: vacation.

2) Gasoline

I know a lot of people are divided on this issue, but the smell of gasoline is intoxicating. Agree or disagree, I'd like to know your opinion.

3) Freshly Washed Male

I don't mean to say that slightly dirty male doesn't also smell delectable, but there is something both comforting and tingle-inducing about the smell of a boy, preferably a cute one, who has just stepped out of the shower. It's a mixture of indifference (Who cares what soap I just used? I don't.) and simple freshness. A similar scent to this, though not nearly as good, is Clean Laundry.

4) Clove Cigarettes

Now, this is a weird one coming from someone who doesn't smoke anything (The Folds! The Folds!) but I really do enjoy the aroma of clove cigarettes. They're warm and inviting and exotic. And a little bit badass because, well, they ARE still cigarettes.

5) Adidas Cologne

Okay, this is even stranger than the cigarettes, and you're going to have to forgive me for it, but my high school boyfriend wore a cologne that I have somehow linked so tightly to my early high school years that one sniff brings me back to the mustard colored walls of Freshman year and I can just feel myself wearing men's pants and a Paul Frank T-shirt. Best part of college: learning to dress myself.

6) New Books

This is the secret reason why I buy books I could just as easily take out at the library. Hard cover, paperback, picture book - the smell of new books is a glorious thing. Don't sneak up on me in a bookstore... you might find me sniffing up a storm in the New Fiction section.

7) French Vanilla Coffee

For a while, I thought hazelnut was where it's at. Then I got me some french vanilla and BAM. New favorite coffee smell. The end.

8) My Grandmother's Perfume

My Grandma has worn the same perfume ever since I can remember - something floral and freesia-filled, though I could be completely wrong. But a hug from my grandma (for everyone besides my perfume-averse mother, I guess) is like a step into a garden. An expensive, classy one. Located in Bergdorf Goodman's.

9) Nail Salons

There's just something about the chemical fumes, nail polish remover, and paraffin wax that scream "relaxation." I mean, even if you're NOT about the have your feet rubbed and are instead about to have the very hairs plucked out of your follicles (My new theory: Original sin exists and women are paying for it Every. Single. Wax. Thanks, Eve.) the scent of a nail salon means at least you don't have to do it yourself. Sit back, and let someone else torture you. That's luxury.

10) Chlorine

Chlorine means a pool, but more than that, it means a clean pool. See all those kids over there wearing floaties and doing handstands? That strong chemical scent means their fecal matter bacteria is being swiftly killed off, allowing me to swim in peace without threat of E. coli. Sharks and minnows, anyone?

11) Peppermint Tea

This was a difficult one to chose, since there are a vast number of beverages that smell awesome. Other examples? Hot chocolate, hazelnut hot chocolate, beer (Yes, I think beer smells GREAT), coffee, etc... But Peppermint Tea is so goddamn soothing, you can't help but get all zen just wafting it.

12) Mall Pretzel Stores

Forget the fact that I avoid Mall Pretzels like the greasy, calorie-filled plague that they are. Mall Pretzel Stores are like food smell porn. Picture this: You've been shopping for three hours. You're exhausted, your credit cards are still warm from an excess of swiping, and you can hardly see straight because of all the scanning you've been doing for The Perfect Outfit. In a daze, you stumble toward the exit only to pass... The Mall Pretzel Store. You stand there, take it in, absorb that delicious scent of salt and dough. And then you leave. But it was good while it lasted, wasn't it?

13) The Limited Too

This store, my friends, is the scent of my youth. That bubble gum lipgloss smell in conjunction with the smell of various synthetic pom-pom doodads just makes me go "Ahh, middle school. You were awkward." In a good way.

14) Street Nuts

Clarification: I don't mean crazy people who live on the street. I mean the venders who sell those nuts that I basically never eat but almost always love to smell. Nuts 4 Nuts or whatever. Right? Either way, they smell heavenly.

15) A Stage

I'm not sure why the theatre smells so good, particularly the stage part of it. And maybe my fellow performers can understand this a little bit. But step on a stage sometime and take a whiff of the professionalism at work. I mean, it smells like the kind of place where people do what they love and get paid for it. It smells like victory. Mmm.

There you have it, WMWC readers. A good solid fifteen smells for you to sit and bask in. And the next time you see me in person, please do me a favor - tell me your favorite smell. We'll talk about it, we'll reminisce together. We'll maybe even do a little covert sniffing.

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

2009-05-20T23:14:00.007-04:00

There you have it, folks. My life is finally out of boxes and in Brooklyn, slowly settling down and making its way towards normality. Which explains why it's been so long since I've written a blog post. You know, it's hard to sit and focus when you aren't even sure what box your underwear are packed in and you're still trying to find someone to help you transport a mattress from Stamford, CT to Williamsburg on top of a Cheerio-encrusted minivan. Moving myself was a very labor and time-intensive job, and simply put: I'm beat.

But that won't curb my blogging, Cupcake Lovers! So I'll start with the inevitable question: Who helped with the aforementioned mattress? Who got up at the wee hour of 11 a.m. to snag me some discount twine and make sure I stayed below 55 mph? (Me: Omg! I forgot! There's a mattress tied to the roof!) Who risked his life letting me, the most timid driver ever, navigate various highways? Why, The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, of course. Who must be given a new title at this point since we're approaching a ridiculous level of Are We or Aren't We. I'm tempted to put it to a WMWC poll, but since you all don't seem to enjoy commenting (you're more the sneaky, stalkerish type... like me) here are some ideas:

Possible New Titles for The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend (Formerly The Boyfriend)

1. You Know You're My Boyfriend So Stop Avoiding It

2. The Ex-Boyfriend Minus the Ex

3. The Confused, Reluctant, Sort-Of Boyfriend

4. The Newly Instated (But Not Officially) Boyfriend

5. My Male Friend Who I Sometimes Like and Sometimes Want to Kick. Hard.

6. The Boyfriend*

I don't know, I can't make any decisions right now. I'm going to give it some time and possibly go for the Roger Maris-esque asterisk since the original title of The Boyfriend has been marred. Either way, things with That Guy are fine and what happens will happen. Regardless, he's been nagging me to blog (Him: You haven't posted since May 9th! Me: I didn't even know that!) so I figure I have at least one fan. And at least he likes the Internet version of me. Sigh.

But that's enough about that. Here's the more important part of this post: My. Life. Is. Awesome. My apartment is fantastic, my bed is huge, my backyard is a dream. The other night I laid out on the grass with That Guy, my roommate, and her dad while we drank beers by the light of some lanterns I grabbed at Ikea. My roommate's dad told us stories from back in the day that involved LSD, road trips, and a whole lotta hitchhiking as the four of us tried to spot stars. Besides the fact that it wasn't quite summery and warm, it was a beautiful evening. And all I kept muttering was "How did my life get so good?"

It's true though. Even though everything isn't necessarily perfect, I am so lucky to have this place to live and call my own. And I'm determined for it to be kick ass. I painted my room alone. It took me like 12 hours of straight work and precarious ladder-standing, wondering if I would fall and no one would be around to hear my cries of "I've fallen and I can't get up!" But my walls are now "Morning Sunshine" yellow (two full coats!) and I feel like a NOW-joining, womyn-writing, Ms. Magazine-reading independent woman.

Yes we can, Rosie.

Along the same lines, I guess you could say that my current mood is Empowered. My roommate and I found this apartment on our own, we've basically furnished it and made it the Brooklyn Nook together, and now I'm really living life in a Grown-Up Apartment with a Grown-Up Job and Grown-Up Friends. I would even venture to say that I'm making the transition into full blown adulthood both smoothly and gracefully. And it feels good.

I know this post isn't necessarily up to par, but I just wanted to say to you who read this that I'm here, I'm constantly brainstorming about what to put on here, and I've now committed myself to being a Blogger. Example? When I interviewed to be rehired at Anthropologie (the store, not a misspelled version of the science) they asked me what I liked to do in my spare time.

My answer? "Well, I'm really into blogging, and I like to explore the city?"

Ha. Who am I? When did I become this cool, New York City person? I think I like it.

I Would Rather Be Asleep

2009-05-09T01:19:00.001-04:00

Not to say I don't love writing on this blog - because I totally do - I just have a long day tomorrow full of an acting presentation (involving this great monologue where I get to be a crazy stalker bitch), a second round of callbacks for the fall show, lunch/dinner (linner?) with someone great, followed by putting everything I own into boxes. So some sleep would be nice. Not to mention I'll be gearing myself up for Sunday, which happens to be The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend's graduation from college. That I am attending. Weird, right?

How did that come about, you ask? I know, it's surprising. One would think from previous entries that I would not be privy to such an occasion - namely getting to see him wear a dress and a funny hat and commence. And before I tell you briefly how it transpired, I just have to answer something that I know you all lay awake at night pondering:

Does The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend read this?

The answer is yes, he does. And sometimes he quotes it to my face or my phone, which is not nearly as strange as it sounds and is generally endearing. Also, he thinks it's funny. There, now you can all rest peacefully.

But unfortunately, I cannot. Too many thoughts swimming through my head coupled with too many attempts at falling asleep early that have failed miserably. I think it's a combination of stress about moving MY WHOLE LIFE into a new apartment that is not even nearly ready to hold MY WHOLE LIFE. I mean, I don't even have a bed yet. What am I going to sleep on? When am I going to paint it? Who can I hire to do all this for me? For free? Ugh. Curse adulthood!

Beyond that though, I'm nervous and excited for this whole graduation biz. I mean, it's nothing new to see The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend at this point, but it's getting down to crunch time, and by crunch time I mean "Quit Playing Games (With My Heart)" time (Thank you, Backstreet Boys.) This sassy lady waits for no man. Except that's a lie, because I've clearly been doing a lot of waiting. It's just a matter of how long I can wait before I start to feel trampled as opposed to slightly used. It's all a balancing act. And it doesn't help that my graduation invitation essentially sounded a little something like this... (Note: Artistic liberties have been taken. Deal with it.)

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: Uhh, I'm going to pick up my graduation tickets this week and um, well, I'll probably get some extras. And I mean, I think graduation's stupid and I don't care about it but, uhh, if you want to... I guess you can come.

Cupcake Lover: [Pause] ...are you inviting me to your graduation?

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: Well like, I don't care either way because I think graduation's ridiculous but uhh... I guess it would be... it's always nice to have you around.

Cupcake Lover: [Pauses again.] So wait, do you WANT me to come to your graduation?

The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend: If you want, you're welcome to come.

Cupcake Lover: [Sighs a tired, beaten down sigh.] Ohhh, you...

Eventually, in a separate phone conversation, we got to a point where the words "I want you to come" actually came out of his mouth, which is a big step. So I bought a dress, told him to warn The Well-Intentioned Ex-Family that I'd be there, and have planned to spend my Sunday up in cow country for what is probably the last time ever. Cue shoulder shrug. By the way, it's a super cute dress - an outfit that just screams Supportive Sort of Ex-Girlfriend. And if that position didn't exist before, it totally does now.

But enough about The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, who probably no longer enjoys my blog considering I just wrote more about him than I normally do. (By the way, do you ever wonder why I don't abbreviate his long-winded title? It's because I really don't like the way it looks: TWEIB. That's so not cute. Plus, it sounds too much like "Dweeb" if you say it out loud. Say it. See?) I've been searching for other things to write about in life, ranging from ideas like "Now I drink peppermint tea. How odd!" to "How about those stupid Facebook quizzes? Ridiculous!" but nothing has really been clicking. So I opted to write about what I'm actually thinking about. I mean, for a really long time my Facebook Religious Views said "Honesty." And since Facebook dictates my life, I guess I have to stick to it.

But now, as the cartoon above clearly states, I Am Determined To Go To Sleep. For real. So I'm going to hop back in bed and give it another go, counting sheep and thinking good thoughts, etc... Have a good night, Cupcake Lovers. Sleep tight and don't let the bed bugs bite!

Behold the Mating Ritual

2009-04-30T21:14:00.000-04:00

If you haven't noticed (or have a serious Edward Scissorhands thing going on) it's finally spring. After months of trudging through snow and slush and God knows what (seriously, in NYC you never know what you're stepping in), it's warm and the sidewalks are mostly dry... unless you happen to get spat at. Which has happened to me. Multiple times. I no longer have to sleep in three layers of sweatshirt because of the draft by my bed. The city is teeming with people who have clearly been planning their kick-ass summer outfits for, well, ALL of winter. And frankly, they're impressing me.

In short: I'm 21, it's warm, and life is fun again.

But a little bit weird, too. Now that it's legal for me to go out on the town and enjoy the [expensive] nightlife this city has to offer, I'm finding that I actually AM... enjoying it. Weird, right? Typically, I'm the kind of girl whose comfortable bed starts to call to her at around 1 a.m. regardless of how fun the party is. But recently a little voice inside me has been saying "Hey, why not go out and have a beer and RELAX?" I mean, I've been working out a lot (all part of Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod)... why shouldn't I strut my stuff a little bit?

Except as much as I want to have fun, experiencing nightlife can often lead to uncomfortable situations. Which brings me to the whole "Mating Ritual" aspect of this post, because I have qualms with bars and what exactly one is supposed to DO at them. Last Saturday night I went out with a few friends and our first stop was a bar near Union Square. It was one of those wait-in-a-line, yell-over-music, $8-dollar-drink bars, which are generally not my forte. Some guy who smelled like stale beer and had a super cute (read: not cute) Neo-Nazi hairdo tried to chat me up until I made it pretty clear I didn't think he was worth all the yelling (What? I have to protect my vocal folds... or "The Folds," as I affectionately call them.) But still, the time was well spent, because I always find bars fascinating as case studies in human nature. Young, hormonal, uninhibited drunk people are just a science experiment waiting to happen. It's like watching reality television. Live. With 3-D glasses and Scratch N' Sniff.

Yet my own experience in bars is pretty repetitive and uninteresting. I sip a drink and look around and adjust my outfit while I talk to my girl friends until, at some point, some guys either build up the courage (or drink until they're courageous enough) to come over and talk to us. Which, I'm warning you, is a bad idea. Moral of the Story: I should just invest in a sign that says "You're Better Off Talking to That Drunk Floozy Over There" with an arrow pointing toward someone with a few more drinks in their system and lower self-worth.

That's not to say I'm some prize catch or pick of the litter, because I don't consider myself either of those strange animal metaphors. I just can't be won over at a bar. Whether you say "I'm an investment banker" or "I live with my parents," you've already bombed because I discount bar meetings right off the bat. Even though Mr. American History X at Union Square gained points after giving me an exuberant high five for my patronage of the Yankees, he was unknowingly up against impossible odds. (Important Update: We discussed the ridiculous amount of home runs hit in the new Yankee Stadium. Sports Knowledge!) No matter how much you coax me to talk, Anonymous Bar Man, I am just waiting for you to walk away and give up on me so I can go back to my rowdy girl chat that is far more interesting than anything you can tell me about your dead end life.

Sorry, that sounds harsh. And I guess it IS a little harsh. But those Bar Men can certainly make things even worse for themselves. Example: if you ask me to play a game of pool with you, like some guys did at a beer garden the other night, you better be good at it. Because if your pool game is equivalent to mine (Read: inbred orangutans without fingers could play better than I do) you're going to look neither confident, nor masculine. Thus: Fail. Another tip: If you're drunk enough to talk to me, you probably don't smell too nice. Fresh beer breath on someone whose company you enjoy is harmless. Stale beer breath on a staggering stranger is not. Curse my excellent sense of smell, but it's the truth.

I think a lot of people would tell me to get off my high horse - that the guys who approach me in bars aren't looking to Woo Me (hah, get it?) but instead are betting on the off chance that I'm as drunk as they are and might be easy. Which is cool, I get that. I also understand that people go to bars just because they like to talk to new people, and maybe even flirt a little bit. But seriously... what do you know of me so far, Cupcake Lovers? I like Jeopardy. I don't know how to flirt. I've been hung up on one guy for, like, forever. I like arts and crafts and I use "What's your middle name" as my pick-up line. Which of those things DOESN'T scream "Destined to be a cat lady scrapbooker"?

Point is, I'm learning to assimilate and adapt. I'm determined to memorize the steps to this elaborate, complicated mating dance. Who cares if I see myself as more of a termite, or a fox? (Note: those are two animals that mate for life. I think I'm going to go with fox over termite, for obvious reasons. Namely, wood tastes bad.) Maybe I'll even start resisting the urge to roll my eyes immediately when someone approaches me in a bar and says "Hey, I'm [Insert Generic, Unattractive Name here]. Where are you from?" Maybe instead of one word answers - "Uhh, Connecticut." - I'll actually be talkative. Imagine that.

We'll see. It's more likely that the termite in me will hinder my attempt at enjoying bar life. Which is fine. Plan B is to join a gym so that I can accomplish Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod while scanning the treadmills for potential soul mates. And I assure you, treadmill flirting is a very complex mating ritual unto itself.

From the Bottom of My Heart

2009-04-26T21:38:00.000-04:00

I've been thinking a lot about what to write here for my next entry. With each post, the pressure gets more intense, mostly because every day at least one new person comes up to me and tells me they read (and love!) my blog, usually with an air of "This is going to sound creepy but...."

I didn't make this, but if I did, I would give it to you! To eat!

First of all, I'd like to address all you WMWC readers (since apparently there are some of you! Maybe even a lot of you!) I want to say a hearty thank you, because it really warms my heart every time I hear from someone about this silly blog here. I spend a lot of time on these entries and tend to think of them as personal essays. I ruminate on them and I edit them, and I also think about YOU, Cupcake Lovers (Ooh, I like that!) I try not to whine about my life, leaning instead towards insights I've gleaned from living the Oh So Exciting life of a 21-year-old college student. And regardless of whether you know me in real life or not, I really appreciate your reading this... and even more so, I really appreciate your enjoying it! So please, keep reading, comment if you'd like, and never hesitate to talk to me about it in person because I am honored that you even take the time to wave that cursor over my URL and exert the energy to click.

That sounded sort of dirty. Something about, "Wave that cursor over my URL..."

Wow, sorry. Please ignore that.

Beyond the "thank you" that I felt was really necessary, I also want to provide a few updates that have to do with previous entries. On Friday we get the keys to our beautiful Brooklyn Nook (that's definitely its new title) and it just dawned on me that we need to somehow get furniture. And move things. And suddenly I'm not as ecstatic anymore since the prospect of moving my whole life from this dorm AND from Connecticut to Brooklyn is sort of terrifying. But still, I'm excited, and BiddyLuddy and I are trekking there on Friday to toast a glass of champagne to The Best Summer Ever and to The Brooklyn Nook.

Past the apartment news, you will be proud to know that my Sports Knowledge is working wonders. Not necessarily in the man department, but in overall adorable-ness. Also in the life department, because I'm finding intense pleasure in watching Yankee games and finally knowing all the names in the starting lineup, something I haven't been able to do since 8th grade. I figure the Yankees are the closest thing I have to a school team (NYU baseball is existent, but who cares? We're "In And Of The City" so I'm claiming the Bronx Bombers. Bite me.) And I felt super cool the other night when I really DID use my Chien-Ming Wang line... which went a little something like "Dude! His ERA is, like, 36!" It got a laugh. I'm practically a pro. I think my next line is going to be "Hey, does anybody else think Kevin Youkilis looks kind of like a serial killer? No? Okay." That one might not work as well, but I'll keep you updated.

Unfortunately, the deadly combination of Sports Knowledge and Sunny Weather is bringing out a glumness I'm having trouble fighting, all to do (of course) with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. (Side note: Someone actually referred to him as that out loud the other day. I love how my blog is taking over my life! This is not sarcasm!) It's not just that the last time it was this sunny and beautiful I was falling head-over-heels in love with him. It's also the fact that I just REALLY want to ask him what he thinks about Mark Sanchez and the Jets. That's really strange, I know, but I just want to hear him talk about their new draft pick in the way only a guy who watches too many hours of ESPN can talk about stuff like that. Call me crazy, but I find it fascinating. Oh well. I guess I'm just going to have to secretly watch ESPN when my roommates aren't home and keep reading the Sports section tucked into Arts and Leisure.

Of course, as I write this entry, the Yankees are blowing it. Again. But I don't care, maybe they'll come through for me. Plus, I have readers... and people who think I'm interesting! And it's finally getting warm out, which means I don't have to wear pants! (No worries - I'm no Lady Gaga enthusiast. I'm just all about skirts.) Thanks again, WMWC readers, and keep reading!

Someone's On To Me

2009-04-22T21:12:00.000-04:00

Sometimes it's frightening how insightful people can be by accident. There's this girl in one of my classes who can only be described as abrasive and a little scary. But the other day, she surprised me - because she saw right through me. Here's what happened...

Scene: The NYU Journalism Department, which only looks like a beautiful, fully-functioning academic building but instead is full of the usual broken computers and incompetent professors. Cupcake Lover is sitting at the table with everyone else when class begins. She has taken out a crossword puzzle, which she hopes to finish by the end of class... and usually does. The TA with a strange, unplaceable accent that involves a lot of odd vowel sounds begins to talk about an article in the New York Times that morning. Cupcake Lover is very proud of the fact that she receives the New York Times (and tries to read it) every day. Today, however, she did not read the article. So she can't strut her commitment to periodicals. Great.

Cupcake Lover: I can't believe I didn't read that article! I didn't read the front page section. I read every other section... I read the arts and leisure section, the dining section. I even read the sports section!

That Abrasive Girl: You read the sports section? Are you trying to get laid?

And that's when, suddenly, Cupcake Lover realizes.

Yes.

That IS why she reads the sports section. Of course, CL doesn't say that. Instead, she blushes and says this:

Cupcake Lover: No! Please. I uhhh... I really like baseball. I like baseball season. It's the only sport I totally understand so I read about baseball season. I like baseball!

I do like the Yankees. Pinky swear.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. And it took some weird girl in my journalism class to show me the light. Who am I kidding? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like sports. And I really and truly DO like baseball. Maybe even a lot. Okay, FINE. I like baseball uniforms... and baseball too! Whatever.

The point is that I'm a manipulative little harlot and I didn't even realize it. I read the sports section because I think it's going to be attractive and super-cute to open my mouth and be all, "Wow, so how about Chien-Ming Wang's new ERA. Sucks, huh?" Or to use little tidbits to incite more talking. Such as, "Okay, I understand the play that just happened, but can you tell me a little more about this whole line of scrimmage business?" Vocabulary words are key (such as line of scrimmage) and it's very important to get them right. I read the sports section because I'd rather be the girl who DOESN'T say "Did they just score a touchdown??" during a game of hockey, or something to that effect. But I do find myself trying to memorize little things out of yesterday's article about The Game because, well, if a bunch of guys in my class are talking about it, I want to be able to interject. With a big, fancy sports word. And a giggle.

I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I can't rely on my feminine wiles to get me anywhere in this world, considering "flirting" for me consists of smiling a little wider and feeling uncomfortable. So what do I do instead? I rely on the fact that I'm a girl and it's cuter to say "Go team!" when you're a girl. I may be setting the entire female species back by half a century, but I'm doing what I can. And I WILL watch this week's Yankee games (the ones that aren't on the YES network. Bastards.) And I WILL read the sports section. And I WILL use it to attract men.

But I WILL NOT watch basketball. Because it's boring.

11211

2009-04-22T20:38:00.000-04:00

Starting on May 1st, 2009, that is my new zip code.

It may not look like much, but that is soon to be our backyard.

Summer BBQs, anyone? You're invited!

I knew it. I knew something good was around the corner. Yesterday, when my roommate called me to say that the landlord of the very first apartment we fell in love with in Brooklyn had decided to "go with her heart" and offer it to us, I was both ecstatic and surprised. When I wrote my last (Debbie Downer) entry, I was pretty much broken by this whole apartment hunt animal. But it seems as if my abusive boyfriend (Brooklyn) decided it was time to enter the honeymoon stage and show up at my doorstep with flowers and candy. The wait is over. On May 1st, BiddyLuddy and I will be taking the bottle of champagne I got for my 21st birthday to our empty apartment to pop the cork and celebrate the end of an era - the end of living at home. For good.

Mind you, this fact only dawned on me today, after the lease had been signed. I called my grandparents to tell them about the apartment, and of course my Grandpa asked me, "When are you coming home next?" And I realized... Oh My God. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW. I'm not? I mean, I AM coming home for one of my best friend's graduation party, and I know I'll go home during the whole moving process. But I won't be living at home anymore. I'm a real grown-up. It is terrifying.

It is overwhelmingly exciting.

I was reading a Time magazine the other day (swiped from the Journalism department) when I came across an interview with Michael J. Fox. A reader asked him about how his diagnosis with Parkinson's Disease had affected his beliefs about life, death, and spirituality. He said that it's a wake-up call, but he also said, "I think that's a good thing for us to get out of the way - the earliest you can responsibly deal with the fact that this isn't a dress rehearsal." And by "this" he obviously means life. I don't know why I found this so poignant. Maybe it's because Michael J. Fox has been handed some really tough things to deal with in his life, or maybe it's because I always had a huge, inappropriate crush on Marty McFly in his Calvins. Either way, I feel like I've been really living this past year... no dress rehearsals, only closing night performances. Hopefully that makes sense to the people who read my blog besides my fellow musical theater aficionados.

I never want to sleepwalk through life, and I never want to feel numb. I want to feel each and every thing I get the opportunity to experience. This past year, I've learned that not everything feels so good or always turns out for the best. But it's all a solid reminder that I'm breathing and living and lucky enough to be here.

And all of this because 11211 is my future neighborhood. I can now hold up my fingers - the ones I use to represent the things I need to make this summer (and my life) even better - and put one down. 11211, you were well worth the distress and the worry.

Oh, and by the way, I'm going to have a kick ass housewarming get-together. And BiddyLuddy and I are totally going to get a kiddie pool for the hot New York summer. And put ice in it. Sweet!

I Think I Need a Hug and a Drink

2009-04-20T15:50:00.000-04:00

In the last few days, I have been driven to insanity, had my emotions toyed with, my heartstrings pulled, my hopes lifted, and the same hopes ultimately dashed... over and over again.

And who is responsible?

Brooklyn, NY.

So wonderful, yet so harrowing.

Aha! You weren't expecting that, were you? You thought I was going to say You Know Who, didn't you? Surprisingly enough, it is my new least favorite game called Are You My New Apartment? that is literally making me sit right here at my desk to skip class, blog, and simultaneously pull my hair out. Which, of course, requires typing with the tip of my nose, since both my hands are engaged in strenuous hair-pulling and nailbiting.

But I don't particularly want to blog about the details of this apartment hunt. Those are boring and stressful (big bathroom! bad location! broker fee!) and forcing those on you, WMWC readers, would only make the whole situation worse. I think, instead, I would like to continue with the "Brooklyn as my new abusive (hipster) boyfriend" metaphor and tell you a little story complete with (control yourself!) a SCENE.

Scene: Park Slope, Brooklyn. Cupcake Lover and BiddyLuddy are wrangling their umbrellas as the wind and rain assault them, full-force. BiddyLuddy's umbrella has seen better days as it droops in more places than one. Cupcake Lover quietly curses her decision to wear a dress that essentially covers little more than her [tights-covered] ass cheeks, considering the hurricane winds that are now threatening to expose more than she would like all of Park Slope to be privy to. Luckily, few people have braved the rain, and so CL silently makes a note that underwear exposure chances should be slim-to-none. Just then, two sketchy looking men walk in the direction of CL and BL. The two women continue their conversation.

Cupcake Lover: (About the apartment) I WANT it! I want to live in it! I want to buy it, I will put down a deposit...

Biddy Luddy: Me too! I hope we get it I hope we - Oh look! It's so close to the mall too! It's perfect, it's so perfect.

Sketchy looking men come closer, start taunting.

Sketcher #1: Oh, mamis, you're hot, you're so hot!

Sketcher #2: [Agrees with similar tone of voice]

Sketcher#1: You're beautiful, you're sooo beautiful.

At this moment, Sketcher #1 proceeds to reach out as he passes and run his hand along the side of Cupcake Lover's [wish-it-was-a-liiiiittle-thinner] thigh. She jumps a foot in the air and starts freaking out.

Cupcake Lover: AHH I hate when they touch me I hate it! I hate when they talk to me but I REALLY HATE WHEN THEY TOUCH ME I hate it I hate it I feel so dirty.

Cupcake Lover gets over it, gets on the subway, and heads home to blog about the experience, all the while wondering if perhaps she had worn pants or a skirt that wasn't so devilishly close to exposure, she would have avoided the uncomfortable borough-molestation that had befallen her.

Oh, Brooklyn. I include this scene because it is a perfect example of the way our apartment hunt has made me feel these past few days. I feel used and dirty... put through a vicious spin cycle and hung out to dry on a windy day. I've been to so many apartments and fallen in love with them, only to realize that we may not secure them and that we may not secure ANY place. Each lovely little affordable Brooklyn nook gives me wonderful visions: Me, at a Natural Foods store, inevitably wearing plaid. Me, lounging in a park in Ray-Bans. Me, barbecuing in the backyard or on the roof. Me, jogging along the residential streets. Me, in the local coffee shop with Wi-Fi. Me, working at some adorable hipster bar.

And the ever popular: Me, opening the charming door of a lovely brownstone to welcome The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, knowing full well that there is a parking space outside for him to put his shiny car and a sunny, beautiful apartment we can hang out in.

Yeah, that last one is the most far-fetched (except for maybe the Ray-Bans... those are expensive!), but I am, as usual, hopeful and utterly hopeless (insert shoulder shrug here). I'm not going to apologize for it - I figure by now you must be used to it.

I also hope that by now you understand what it is I'm feeling. I have all those previously described visions for my summer, my school year, my LIFE, and I just can't seem to get any of them to come true in this moment. My life is currently filled to the brim with potential - potential for gorgeous living space, for exciting summer job, for romantic bliss. And yet when I hold up my fingers, hoping to slowly fold them down one by one, I can't reduce my checklist at all. It is utterly exhausting. What does a girl do?

Well, I happen to think the question is really, "What choice do I have?" I don't have one. I can't go back to Connecticut for the summer only to amuse myself with awkward high school run-ins and typical suburbia fare that includes, but isn't limited to: mall, movies, and cheap beer. It's find an apartment or bust. It's get a job or bust. And if The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend isn't going to be showing up on my doorstep (that I WILL secure!) well, then, someone else will be. I'm on the verge of so many great things. I just know it.

I'm crossing my fingers and saying a little prayer that maybe - just maybe - something good is coming.

Le Prof de Français Parfait

2009-04-14T22:51:00.000-04:00

So this entry may strike a lot of you as creepy, but I'm really hoping that instead of freaking everyone out to the point where they stop reading my blog and also stop thinking of me as a sane person, I'll instead tap into something that every woman - or even every person - feels at some point.

I want to temporarily see what it's like to be you.

First of all, I really hope my French teacher doesn't read this, because she is who I want to be. Granted, she's French and her English is adorably mal, so even if by some stroke of universal craziness she DID happen upon WMWC, hopefully she wouldn't exactly understand that her and her je ne sais quoi are the reason for my posting. I'd say the odds are slim that she'll see it, so, throwing caution to the wind, I'll take my chances.

Another french women I would like to be.

In typical blog fashion, I'm providing you with a list entitled...

Why I Want to Wake Up, Freaky Friday*-Style, In the Body and Brain of My French Teacher:

*Disclaimer: I hate Freaky Friday. Hate it. I hate any and all movies where the stupid miscommunication scenarios could be solved by a simple "Oh, hey! You're in my body. I'm in yours. Let's just, you know, chill out for a while till we figure this out and not go running around, ruining each other's lives by accident. Whew, good talk. I'm so glad we spoke before zany chaos ensued!"

Apologies. I digress.

THE LIST:

1. My Perfect French Teacher must be close to 6 feet tall and rail thin. Not in a, "Yikes, eat a hamburger way!" but in a, "Look at that fine specimen of beauty who is so sinewy and willow-like I can't take my eyes off of her." My 5 feet, 6 inches pale in comparison.

2. Perfect, porcelain doll skin. With rosy cheeks. To die for.

3. I kid you not - tendrils of curly hair. Like, each piece falls in perfect spirals that, regardless of humidity or temperature, seem to stay completely intact. Sometimes, when she glances down at her lesson plan, a single tendril falls in front of her face. This is going to sound certifiably nuts, but they look like a pasta my mom used to make. A pasta which, after careful research (read: a 2 second Google search) is called cellentani. See below. Oh, except her hair is waist length, and manages to avoid that "I'm home-schooled and my mom trims my bangs and I wear scrunchies" look. How does she do it?

4. The French-ness. Duh. When she speaks English, all her "th" sounds come out like "z"s. One day, she made a mistake on the board. Immediately, she raised her graceful hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and cried out, "Oh, Mon Dieu!" Suddenly, my fervent cries of "Eff my life!" seem so... banal.

5. She wears high heels and pencil skirts and tops that are clearly made by fancy Parisian shirt-makers who specialize in tasteful lace and sparkly little bows. My dirty Converse - hell, even my adorable Anthropologie wear - just don't cut it next to her snazzy ankle boots.

6. She speaks beautiful, perfect, Parisian french. Complete with that thing French people do with their mouths when they say "o." You know, that pouty lip thing that looks like you're about to kiss someone. Starting now, I'm practicing in the mirror. No literally, I just did it. It's not as good as hers.

7. Her Perfect French Childhood. Okay, this is more fantasy now than reality, but I just imagine her as an enfant, running through the halls of some antique-filled French home screaming "Maman, maman!" Complete with the tendrils, of course, only tied with little pink bows. Compare and contrast: I used to wear leggings and Wile E. Coyote sneakers and was totally denied the experience of even having those frilly white fold-over socks. Plus, my hands were always covered in magic marker. I bet she never had dirty hands.

I could go on for a while and add a few more reasons, but I think those will suffice. The truth is, I'm not obsessed with my French teacher (whose name, by the way, sounds like some sort of wonderful fairy-tale creature I want to name my first born daughter after) but I am feeling a little insecure and wishing I could walk a few miles (or kilometers...) in her black platform ankle boots.

In all honesty, I may be using Perfect French Teacher as a means of escapism. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that no matter how skinny I am at the moment, no matter how clear my skin, no matter how chic my new haircut, and no matter how good a person I try to be, I can't immediately remedy the situation with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, which can only be defined as I Am Being Strung Along Whether I Like It Or Not. Which, you know, essentially sucks. But what I CAN do, somehow, is instill a little bit of a mademoiselle's je ne sais quoi in my own life, and perhaps channel Perfect French Teacher. I don't have to incorporate "Oh Mon Dieu!" into my everyday vocabulary (can you say prétentieux?) but I may just walk down the street imagining I am a tall, willowy, beautiful thing and that every American man I pass is ogling me... but only in that unattainable, French perfection sort of way. It's a coping mechanism, and mark my words, it WILL work.

From now on, I wear nothing but ankle boots.

Update: I don't own ankle boots. Now what?

Well, This is The Epitome of Ridiculous

2009-04-09T08:07:00.000-04:00

I laughed out loud at my New York Times Thursday Styles section when I saw this.

Here's the article:

Doggy Yoga, or "Doga" if you will.

I mean, I can just imagine how my dogs would react to this. My greyhound would just stand there and give me this dopy look like, "Seriously? I can't even sit on my hind legs without looking like I might topple over. Now you want me to do what?" And then she'd lay down with a "clunk" that usually sounds when her hip bones meet with the floor. My other scrappy little mutt won't even sit on command, let alone go into Warrior 1. Plus, she'd be way too busy sniffing butts to get any exercise.

So basically this is completely unreasonable and utterly ridiculous. But how adorable is that dog sitting on TOP of its owner's back bend? I'm going to go with really adorable.

Death By Cement Truck, And Others

2009-04-06T11:28:00.000-04:00

Last night, I had one of those really fantastic experiences (Note: The sarcasm has returned) where I didn't sleep. I spent at least three hours staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of a few BIG things including, but not limited to:

Impending Apartment Hunt

What Do I Do With My Life?

I Am Poor

I Need To Lose Five Pounds

And the ever popular: Will Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend Re-Break My Heart? ...which is generally paired with Would I Let Him? and the unfortunate Yes, I Probably Would. Ugh, cue the self-loathing.

But that's besides the point. Essentially, I am sleep deprived. And caffeinated. And feeling it. My hands are literally shaking as I type, which makes this experience feel like an odd parallel to drunk texting.

This heavily caffeinated state of mine is not a side note though - it's actually the catalyst for this post. My head is reeling with all sorts of crazy thoughts (such as, "I'm moving at super human speed!") but one especially struck me as something that might be good blog fodder...

Irrational fears.

I was walking home in the dreary rain this morning when I passed a rotating cement truck. My first thought, before anything else, was, "Gee, I hope it doesn't disconnect, roll off, and kill me."

Is that normal?

See? There's danger in everything! Even gates!

The answer is no... at least, I don't think it's normal. I see potential death in everything, every time I encounter it. I never stand on a subway platform without thinking I'm going to fall off. Or be pushed off. I never walk through the subway doors without thinking I'll fall through the crack (which, like, isn't even possible.) I never ride the subway without thinking we're going to crash and I'm going to die in a fiery ball of twisted metal and breakdancers and bad-tempered mouth-breathers. Every subway ride is my last... well, in my head anyway.

I'm also afraid of planes. I keep a white-knuckled grip on the armrests at all times. I glare at anyone who dares use their electrical appliances when they shouldn't. If your iPod is the reason we crash, I'll take it upon myself to kill you with my bare hands before we even make it to the ground.

I'm afraid of big, scary bodies of water. You can thank The Perfect Storm for that one. I don't care if I'm drowning alongside a rugged, perfectly-stubbled Fisherman George Clooney. I don't want to drown at all, thank you.

I'm afraid of heights. And being shot (especially point-blank). Every time I'm in a car I think it will tip over, or I'll inadvertently fall off the bridge we're crossing, or someone will pummel into me, or a dim-witted woodland critter will decide now is a really good time to savor the plant life on the other side of the highway. I'm even afraid of the dark. I saw the movie Gremlins when I was a kid and slept with my light on for like 7 years because I was convinced poorly cared for gremlins were going to crouch in the corners of my bedroom while I slept, waiting to do scary gremlin things. (Seriously, what DO gremlins do? I don't even remember.)

But the odd thing about all of this is that I still do everything I want to do... I just happen to think, "Well, I might die doing this. That sucks." Every little hint of turbulence makes me jump, but that's not going to stop me from traveling. I take the subway every week, even though each screechy little bump makes my stomach churn. I just happen to spend a good portion of my thoughts accepting the fact that death might befall me in that moment. Trust me, it's sort of time-consuming.

And you know what? I'll take constant threats of death and bodily harm over all the stupid italicized fears above... because those are scarier. Bring on the imminent cement truck squash. That's WAY less scary than "Oh My God I'm About To Sign My First Lease On A Grown-Up Apartment." Plane crashes pale in comparison to another round of that super fun game called, "Oops! Turns Out I Still Don't Want to Date You." And you know, a subway pole through the abdomen is hardly as terrifying as the G word. (I shudder to say it, but here goes: Graduation. That one deserves to be capitalized, bolded, and italicized... but I'm very much anti-font-overkill.)

Now after all that rumination on fear, I'm sorry to say my caffeine high is slowly departing, leaving in its wake an overarching feeling of anxiety. Yikes. A literal buzzkill.

Maybe I'll go make myself another cup. Or four.

Next Benchmark: AARP?

2009-04-01T09:07:00.000-04:00

Well, I survived it. The Big 2-1. I haven't bought myself a single drink yet, which of course makes me the lamest 21-year-old on the planet. But I did it - I made it 21 years on this planet, and I think I deserve a pat on the back for that.

The cupcakes I decorated for the cast of Candide!

Please, excuse the lackluster introduction. I have to say that yesterday was one the of the best birthdays I've ever had... ever. I guess it sort of slipped my mind that 21 was big and important, which produced low expectations that were consistently blown away by all the amazingly kind things my friends and family did for me.

To simplify, I was just praying my birthday wouldn't suck too hard, and it happened to rock.

Similar to my Thanksgiving review, here is a typical WMWC list of why my birthday was pretty much awesome, in no particular order.

1) Beautiful, sunny weather. It could have been warm, but hey - I'll take sunshine over gross any day.

2) Wearing a fabulous (far too expensive) shirt paired with perfect little turquoise flats and my current favorite pair of jeans. Great outfit, if I do say so myself.

3) No less than THREE "perishable packages" arrived at my dorm unexpectedly. Flowers, a bottle of champagne, and a big ol' Edible Arrangement, which will act as all of my meals for the next few days. That, and cereal.

4) Gotta love the constant Facebook wall posts. Thanks for those, everyone.

5) Lunch with my mom. To be fair, that was the day before my birthday, but we went to Todd English's restaurant, Olives, in Union Square, which was sufficiently swanky and delicious, so it belongs on this list.

6) Obtaining, decorating, carrying, and giving away cupcakes at rehearsal. As much as those damn cupcakes took forever to decorate and made my arms burn walking to and from campus, there was something so rewarding about feeding the people I love who are working on this production right now. I don't know, call me crazy, but making people happy is a present in itself.

7) Knowing my best friend was having her birthday on the other side of the island. Even though we played phone tag all day, I like to think she was enjoying her birthday as much as I was.

8) Removing my fake ID. Replacing it with my real ID. Sweet.

9) Little things - text messages from friends I haven't heard from in a while. Being treated to a skinny vanilla latte (which is becoming an increasingly expensive present!). Hugs.

10) Hearing the cast of Candide sing "Happy Birthday" even though it was like 11:30 p.m. and everyone was completely exhausted. Really, I almost cried.

11) Coming home from rehearsal to find my Edible Arrangement refrigerated and my roommates waiting, card in hand, to give me champagne-infused Jacque Torres truffles. Mmmmm.

12) Finally, and most confusingly, a long overdue, refreshingly honest conversation with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Oddly enough, he was the first person to wish me a happy birthday at midnight (via text), and the last person I talked to when the clock struck midnight and my birthday was over. The lines are blurred and it's all pretty much a mess, but it may be a good kind of messy... although I can't say for sure. All I can say is that it felt very natural to begin and end my birthday with him, in spirit.

I apologize, my WMWC readers, for the lack of sarcasm in this post, which was hardly even the least bit humorous. But I guess I'm just feeling too grateful to be spiteful, you know? So I want to say to everyone a big hearty thank you. Thank you roommates, castmates, family members, friends, and even thank you to The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. If I could, I would reach out through the blogosphere and hug each and every one of you.

Strong As An Ox... Literally

2009-03-29T11:48:00.000-04:00

Inspired by my frequent trips to the gym in the last few weeks, and based on the fact that I decided what I want for my birthday - abs and arms - I'd like to ruminate on something that plagues me as much as it would any (nearly) 21-year-old woman.

My Body.

I've never really considered myself an athlete, but I have always been somewhat athletic. Still, no matter what I do, my body insists on being what people might call "curvy" or "shapely." Whatever. Tomato, Tom-ah-to.

But I've accepted my curves and, in what seems to be a blog theme, have formulated a theory about them...

Pioneer Life. Some serious Oregon trail shit.

I'll explain. I'm strong and I'm healthy. I've never seriously injured myself. I rarely fall ill. I have an ample chest and hips that are the same size - hourglass, if you will. So what exactly does that mean?

It means that I am SUPPOSED to be a baby-making, log-hauling, covered-wagon-dragging, butter-churning, rabbit-shooting pioneer women.

Seriously. I think I would fare well in the harsh terrain of undiscovered territories. These hips don't lie - I could probably have eleven children and nothing would snap. I could till the fields and shoot some game and I wouldn't even die of dysentery. Hell, if the oxen got sick, they'd probably strap me to the wagon and make ME ford the river. I'm a pretty sturdy woman.

And those curves? That hourglass shape? They would have been good for one purpose - attracting the attentions of some rugged, bearded pioneer man who would have seen in me all my potential for the aforementioned butter-churning, log-hauling, and such. Not to mention rockin' the log cabin all night long on a bearskin rug. (Okay sorry, that was a little gross.)

Which is why, when I stand in the weight room among a lot of smelly men, suffocating from the smell and competing egos, I feel a thrill of excitement at exercising my god-given wagon-pulling muscles. And when I awkwardly do lunges between the rows of nautilus machines, I think to myself "Well, these would have come in handy for leading the oxen up the mountains!"

Okay, maybe that's going a little bit too far. And don't worry, I don't wear my best coonskin cap on the treadmill (I save that for the stationary bicycle.) But the point is that I wasn't built to exist in this world where thin and breakable equals beautiful. And I'm just hoping there's some man out there whose primal pioneer instincts are still guiding him in my direction. A man who might spot me across a crowded room and think (albeit subconsciously), "Wow, look at those hips. I bet she makes a mean rabbit stew."

The Jerk Factor

2009-03-25T09:11:00.000-04:00

Today's entry is a little bit different than previous entries. I'm not going to go so far as to call it a rant, but perhaps an exploration of something I've found true but nevertheless mind-boggling.

So here it is. The ultimate question:

Why is a certain degree of douchebag-ness in a man sometimes (gulp)... attractive?

Ok, you got me, I just wanted an

excuse to ogle Clive Owen.

Ugh, I hate that I even WROTE that sentence, mainly because I am a faithful proponent of nice guys everywhere. Nice guys, please don't misunderstand. I am steadfastly staying on your side. You know who you are. You're the men who respect women and woo them with real dates. The men who understand that compliments go a long way. The men who would offer to wash dishes if a meal was made for them. The men who hold doors. For people other than themselves.

I guess it's part of my newfound fascination with vampires (I know, gross) that brought this up. I mean, vampires are NOT nice guys. They want to suck your BLOOD for god's sakes. So why are women around the world all hyped up over pasty, cold men who may or may not want their next girlfriend to be their lover-slash-snack?

All I can say is that it's like a disease... some women have it worse than others. I won't name names (cough, my mother, cough), but I know women both old and young who have found the same information to be true. Symptoms can be as severe as spending years of your life with various men who are moody, tyrannical, and downright mean, or they can be way less pronounced. Like the ones I see in myself... hints that I'm not completely resistant to the gravitational pull assholes sometimes have. Hints that are frightening.

I have a few theories, although since my experience with jerks is (thankfully) low on the spectrum, I doubt any of them are very good. I would also like to say that for all of you covert WMWC readers out there (I suspect I may have some...) feel free to comment with your own theories.

Here they are:

1) The "Patron Saint of the Assholes" Theory.

It's been said, time and again, that women are often looking for a project (though, of course, we shouldn't be.) Sometimes I think we gaze at the handsome, brooding jerk and we think "Maybe... just maybe... if he fell in love with me, I could save him!" Oh, you mean turn him into the nice guy you really need? He doesn't need, or want, your saving.

2) The "Good In Other Departments" Theory.

This one doesn't need much explanation. Essentially, I think we subconsciously look at someone who's attractive and a terrible person and think "Well, he might be good at other things." Mostly we're thinking about, well, bedroom things. I personally blame the movies, since the "bad guys" in movies seem to fulfill this theory. Exhibit A: Vampires.

3) The "Accessories Make The Man" Theory.

Many stereotypical bad guys come with a lot of good visual accessories. You think "Good Guy" and you think... I don't know, khakis or something. Jeans that don't fit right. A hat their mom gave them. Glasses. You think "bad guy" and you think leather jacket, devil-may-care attitude, sexed-up car. Maybe if the good guys learned to dress themselves, we shallow women wouldn't have to outsource to their devilish nemeses.

And finally...

4) The "Clearly We Enjoy Suffering" Theory.

Falling in love with men who reek of "this-will-only-end-in-tears" is purely a sign of masochistic tendencies.

I know things aren't black and white, and that the entire species called "Man" can't be divided up into "Guys who will call you back" and "Guys who will wreak havoc on your life." But I think many women wouldn't deny the fact that there is a strange, exotic pull towards the men who are trouble with a capital T.

I, for one, will continue to ignore it.

Ugh, Birthday

2009-03-18T21:04:00.000-04:00

I think I should be voted the person least excited to turn 21 in the history of America.

Wait, wait, wait, back up. Let me rephrase... I am ECSTATIC to BE 21. I can't wait to stand in line at a bar and not wonder, "Hmmm, will today be the day they notice the fact that my ID has no hologram?" I'll be legal, I'll have passed the final threshold. No more, "Well at least you can buy cigarettes and porn!" No more, "So where IS Largo, Florida anyway?" I'll be entering a world of unicorns and rainbows and "Hey, you're 21, right? The world is your oyster!"

Sounds great. Now can someone please transport me past March 31st (The Day) and straight to April 1st, when I'll be legal and old and no longer haunted by this whole birthday thing?

It seems like the older I get, the more my birthdays blow. When I was a kid, it was all about presents and my birthday meal made by my mom and narcissism and cake. In high school too, birthdays were pretty awesome. I had a boyfriend all four years who made me cards and bought me presents and treated me like a princess. Plus, my best friend from high school shares my birthday (which is a freaky coincidence considering how similar we are) so we would do the whole bring-each-other-balloons thing so we could feel loved and adored and super cool.

Sure, one year in high school a pack of girls I didn't know came up behind me and my balloons and slashed them with what I can only assume was a knife, but who cares? I thought it was a testament to the kind of hard-knock high school I went to since beneath my pasty white exterior and naivete, I like to think I'm a little bit of a ghetto-ass bitch. I mean, I really like that "to-the-windows, to-the-walls" song and I do a mean ass-shaking.

But I digress.

Contrary to what has been written, this post is NOT about my penchant for shaking my ass (seriously, I'm good at it). What it IS about is my birthday, which is rapidly approaching regardless of how I wish it gone.

Allow me to complain for just a second (because it is MY blog and, well, skip ahead if you don't like whiners.) My birthday is a Tuesday... the Tuesday before the Thursday opening of the show I'm in. Which means, of course, no drinking. No wild partying. It means tech rehearsals the weekend before, four shows the weekend after, and class all week. It means I will be stressed out of my effing mind and exhausted and just trying to muster enough energy to not be a total wreck.

Oh, and one other small thing... that whole calamity with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Allow me to give you an analogy: It's kind of like I have this big, festering, pussing, throbbing wound. And now it's starting to scab over, which allows me to live my daily life without constant pulsing, agonizing pain. But it still hasn't healed and doesn't show signs of healing for a very long time. Which, of course makes it very difficult to... Oh, I don't know, have fun? Enjoy things? I spend too much time and energy trying to be all, "I'm not dying inside!" to attempt, of all things, a BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION.

Ok so let's recap:

Ridiculously Busy Schedule. Check.

Festering Emotional Wound. Double Check.

An Aversion to Spending Money and/or Consuming Too Many Calories. Check.

Ahhh, I forgot, one more thing. Last year's birthday? The big 2-0? Also dampened by heartbreak, the death of a relative, and, best of all, vomit clean up.

Woo! Let the festivities begin. Ugh*

*Okay, it felt wrong to end my blog post on such a cynical, F my L kind of note. So I'll make one admission: I AM planning on making cupcakes the day before my birthday to hand out at rehearsal. I'll sit and I'll decorate them and it will make me very happy to give them to people I love. And as long as people enjoy them, my birthday won't 100% suck.

A Cure-All

2009-03-13T21:19:00.000-04:00

Because I like to think that this blog is a place for me to be refreshingly candid, I'm going to admit something to you all...

I just did the most ridiculously awesome rendition of "Play That Funky Music, White Boy" in my undies.

WMWC readers, are you feeling a little under the weather? Here's my suggestion:

1. Strip down.

2. Turn on something old school with a good beat.

3. Shake your moneymaker. That's right, shake it.

It works wonders.

Cock-Eyed Optimist and Lover of the Undead?

2009-03-08T22:28:00.000-04:00

From Saturday to Saturday... 1,948 pages.

Yikes.

As of last night, I have officially read all four of the published Twilight books and have yet to find the movie for free online (although I'm afraid to watch it because even though I'm convinced that Robert Pattinson is, in fact, a real live vampire, I'm also convinced that Kristen Stewart's acting is, in fact, seriously awful.)

So, uh, now what?

What I really want to do is become a vampire, but since that's clearly out of the question (or is it???) I think I'll just have to turn to Real Life instead. Ugh, how boring.

However, Real Life has its perks.... like last night, for instance, when I had a REVELATORY theatre experience.

Yup, I cried during this part.

Yesterday evening, I was privileged enough to see Kelli O'Hara's final performance as Nellie Forbush in the Lincoln Center revival of Rodgers and Hammerstein's South Pacific. I'd never seen the show before, although I've read the script and sung much of Nellie's music because I'm pretty convinced R&H couldn't have written a character more like myself, minus the blatant racism (which she overcomes, of course!) and Little Rock hick-thing.

Honestly, I don't know if I've ever seen a more beautiful night of musical theatre.

Generally, musicals don't move me to tears unless they're West Side Story, but in my current emotional state (read: tumultuous and weepy) it doesn't take much. Add to that the fact that the guest I brought with me was not the guest I intended to bring (see previous post about TBU) and, well, waterworks were inevitable. But that explanation isn't meant to undermine anything about the performances, because they were sensational.

It was just so refreshing to see actors who could sing AND act, and who understood that the root of the story - the crux of it - was the honesty behind everything R&H wrote. I believed every word that came out of their mouths, every note, and I felt like I was intruding on very personal moments between fascinating people.

Not to mention the orchestra and the production value were both breathtakingly fantastic - but NOT needlessly spectacular.

And although Kelli O'Hara, bless her heart, was anywhere between 5 and 7 months pregnant, she did two full cartwheels during "I'm In Love With A Wonderful Guy," one of my favorite songs of all time. To her credit, I think I sobbed hardest (literally heaved... I would say I feel bad for the guy next to me except that he was an obnoxiously loud breather) when she was just sitting on a box in her bathing suit, singing about "the world famous feeling" she was feeling.

"Ahhh sister," I wanted to say, "I've been there." Of course I couldn't have, because I was crying too hard.

But now that I've recovered from my "Some Enchanted Evening"-induced emotional coma, I can simply say with sincerity that seeing South Pacific reminded me of why I love this art form so much and how powerful and relevant it can be. Broadway isn't dead, everyone... it's not even close. See something like this and you'll understand why.

How I Spent My Weekend

2009-03-01T23:41:00.000-05:00

Or rather, with whom.

Cheekbones much?

I'm thinking about retitling this post "Why I Am a Detestable Human Being," but I'm not going to, because that might be a little bit harsh.

Last night around 6:30 p.m. I came home from 8 hours of rehearsal to find the most glorious presents sitting on my bed, looking epic and delicious:

New Moon and Eclipse. Eek!

For all of you readers who aren't, well, teenage girls, here's the gist. Those are books 2 and 3 of the Twilight series. Yes, that one. The one written by the Mormon woman who somehow sustains close to 2,000 pages worth of sexual tension between a mortal and a vampire over the course of 4 books. The one that's clearly written for 14-year-old girls who read magazine articles about "How To Kiss A Boy" (I was TOTALLY one of them. No surprise there.)

Still, I pretty much peed my pants when I saw them sitting on my bed in all their beautiful, bloodsucking glory.

*Clears Throat*

A Scene:

Door closes. A worn out Cupcake Lover dumps her purse and coat by the door, happy to be home, thinking she could use a shower after 3 hours of waltzing at rehearsal. She ponders what she'll do tonight, and although she knows she could venture out into New York City, her poor feet are screaming No! Let us be! It is at this moment that she trudges into her room and sees two shiny books. Hardcover. Ominous red and black cover design. Could it be?

It could!

Me: AHHH! HOW did these get here!? What? Where? How?

Editors Note: My roommate, BiddyLuddy, works at the Doubletree Hotel.

BiddyLuddy: I got them from the lost and found! They were left there in November! I saw them and I was like "Oh my God! She would love these!"

Me: I love you sooooo much!!

In that moment, Cupcake Lover runs to BiddyLuddy and embraces her, an action that is both sudden and out of character for the hug-averse CL. She soon returns to glance at her books, poring over them, wondering what fate will await lovelorn Bella and Edward and their Forever Vampire Love.

Ahh, Forever Vampire Love. At least, that's what I've decided to call the ties that bind the book's protagonists. In fact, I said it out loud like ten minutes ago when I finished book two and decided my life is lacking in two things:

1. Someone to clean my room for me.

2. Forever Vampire Love.

Okay, that's totally a lie. Vampires wouldn't be any fun to love, at least not the Twilight ones. I mean, sure, they're super sexy and broody and whatnot, and I guess it's kind of hot to think that someone might want to kiss you AND eat you at the same time. But I would eventually tire of someone thinking of me as a sex kitten while also seeing me as a big steaming bowl of spaghetti and meatballs, or whatever.

Anyway, the point of this post is not to dwell on the details of Forever Vampire Love, but to get this off my chest:

I READ THE TWILIGHT BOOKS. There, I said it.

(But in all seriousness, maybe you should too.)

After Careful Research...

2009-02-26T19:39:00.000-05:00

...it turns out that breakin' up IS hard to do. Who would have thought?

Yeah, that's Bridget right there, wallowing in sadness.

Because it's been a whole week since I've written anything, I feel I deserve to bring my sunny view on life to something it's very hard to be optimistic about. The Break Up.

Side Note: Because we at WMWC (We = Me) keep things VERY classy, this isn't going to be the place where I post The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend (his new title)'s home address and ask you to wreak havoc on his life. Hardly. I only have the utmost respect for him. I'm not even including specifics, so you can go off and speculate as you please. Really, go ahead. Here are some examples of acceptable speculation: Were there five other women involved!? Was I the other woman all along!? Did I fall in love with his cryogenically frozen twin brother who was previously thought dead and gone? IS HE A VAMPIRE!? Etc., etc...

Ok, stop speculating for a moment and listen to my wisdom I've accumulated in, oh, exactly 24 hours of heartbreak. I know, I'm practically a veteran at this point.

First off, it turns out that The Break Up is an intricate, exotic animal, sort of like a Liger. As Jeffrey Lebowski (The Dude) might say, it has "a lotta ins, a lotta outs, a lotta what-have-yous." Really, Dude, I couldn't have phrased it better myself.

Alright, I do have a phrase to add: It sucks. Eloquent, I know. And although it sucks, I've decided to compile a list of reasons why it doesn't suck. Feel free to comment and add other reasons - I don't have ALL the wisdom in the world, you know.

1) To be serious for a second, you don't realize quite how many people love you (or how many people you love) until a loss occurs. I have so many wonderful friends and parents and grandparents in my life. I've never felt so taken care of and loved like I do right now... and so, so grateful.

2) I want to buy things, and I don't feel bad about it. Today I went to Sephora with a gift card and bought a new lipstick. I'm wearing it now. It's really, really pretty and pink and I feel like a totally new woman.

3) I've lost four pounds. Ok, that has nothing to do with TBU, since anxiety doesn't generally quell my appetite (if only...), but it doesn't hurt things either. Example:

Scene: Walks into the bathroom, looks in mirror.

Mirror Self: "You look hot. And thin. Wallowing totally becomes you."

Glance at side view, makes a sexy-face. (Ladies, don't pretend you don't have a mirror-sexy-face.)

Regular Self: "Hey! You're totally right! I'm going to put on jeans that make my butt look nice and get myself out of the house!"

Four pounds lost, problem solved. See?

4) I've stopped fidgeting. If you know me in real life, I'm a really fidgety person. I bite my nails, I crack my knuckles, I DON'T STOP MOVING. It drives my mother crazy, she's always asking "Why are you so nervous." Well, it turns out it was because I was HAPPY. Weird. Sadness took care of that habit!

5) Train ticket and gas money for trips to see The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend can now be spent on new clothes. I mean, sure, he was worth every penny. But it doesn't mean a new spring wardrobe isn't worth it either... I'm thinking a bright colored trench coat would be LOVELY.

6) Time. Right now, I don't know what to do with myself. I'm always so busy and crazed, these weekends ahead of me without a trip (or a visitor) scheduled are looming, empty and desolate. But I think I finally need to learn how to fill time and RELAX. So maybe it's a blessing in disguise, after all.

I apologize to you, readers, if this entry was too personal for what you've come to expect from me, but I like to think you've all been there, or known someone who's been there, and that you can appreciate a humorous, positive take on TBU. And who knows, maybe some day I'll be writing an entry about The New Guy or even The Un-Break Up with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Only time will tell.

OR maybe I'll become some weird spinster who wears lipstick when she's alone and watches Jeopardy all the time (TOTALLY a possibility.)

But please, send well-wishes so that doesn't happen.

25 Things, But In a Not-So-Creepy Way

2009-02-16T09:35:00.000-05:00

Recently, I've been having this weird desire to see if I could do one of those "25 Things" lists, mostly because I don't think I'm interesting enough to put something down for every number. And although I read everyone else's lists like a total creepy stalker, I just couldn't bring myself to do it on Facebook. So I thought, quite logically, that I'd try it out on my blog, where people specifically go (correct me if I'm being narcissistic here) to read about me and the things I think about. Therefore, this is a pretty good forum for it.

Here they are:

1. I have three brothers, ranging in age from 2 to 16 (going on 17). I'm the only child in the family with a first name that has more than one syllable.

2. When I'm not at school, I drive a standard transmission fire engine red Jeep that I've named Jeepy... and I don't care if you think naming cars is stupid. Half the irony is in the fact that it's just Jeep with a Y. I get it. Do you?

3. My favorite color is Fire Engine Red.

4. I'm the Co-Author of three books, two of which are currently in bookstores.

5. I can turn my feet in all the way but have always wished they turned OUT instead. My left foot is slightly pigeon-toed when I walk. It's not cute.

6. I'm half Italian, and the other half is a hodge-podge of Ukrainian, Russian, and Latvian (I think...)

7. I like pasta in all forms. Meaning I eat it hot, cold, AND dry (mmm, crunchy).

8. The other day, I was asked what super power I would have if I could have any super power I wanted. My answer was "The ability to eat anything and not gain weight and not get too full."

9. I HATE cream cheese. I've never tried it, but I hate the smell of it, the look of it, and what seems to be the texture of it. And when I was a kid, I hated every child who had it for breakfast and had shmears of it left over on his or her face. GROSS.

10. I'm a music major, but I rarely actually listen to music. I sing music, I learn about music, and music is one of the things I feel most passionate about in life. But I can't do anything very well while I listen to it (I guess it's a brain coordination thing) and most times it doesn't even occur to me to try.

11. I like to start things from square one and see them all the way through. Like laundry. I prefer to wait till everything is dirty, then wash ALL of it. One small load to get through the week? That's not okay with me.

12. I'm good at drawing. And coloring. I can teach myself any craft and master it pretty swiftly, but I'll get tired of it half way through and throw the materials (yarn? glitter? origami paper?) into this big box of reject arts supplies I have in my closet. My favorite craft is jewelry making. I have some pretty sweet earrings I made years ago.

13. Sometimes I talk to myself. Out loud. Usually behind the wheel.

14. I am SO gullible. My best friend when I was young used to tell me lies like "My house burned down!" because she knew I would believe them in a heartbeat. We're still friends, so clearly I'm also forgiving.

15. I hate confrontation. I avoid it at all costs.

16. I love love. I am at my happiest when I have someone to love.

17. I have a lot of fears... I would venture so far as to say I am afraid of almost everything, but not to the point where it prevents me from doing things that require a dose of bravery. I'm afraid of death and of dying young. I'm constantly scared of any and all public transportation. If you see me make a wide-eyed, terror-stricken expression on the subway sometime, it's nothing you said. I'm just convinced, at that moment, that I'm going to end up like some victim I saw on a Grey's Anatomy episode who had a subway pole driven through her abdomen. Just keep talking, I'll snap out of it.

18. But not on planes. I'm really scared of planes. The Boyfriend's mom was a flight attendant, and unfortunately I've had to veto listening to all of her exciting airplane stories.

19. For years, I had my mom (who's a chef) make me a birthday dinner that consisted of linguini with white clam sauce and greek salad. It was always the same thing and it was always delicious.

20. I like to be alone and I like to do things alone. I really enjoy going to restaurants myself, sitting with a book or a crossword puzzle, and having a salad and a cup of coffee.

21. I ran Cross Country and Indoor Track in high school for two years and I did middle distance. I started Cross Country because my friend asked me to, and I did Indoor Track as a way to get to know a boy... who I dated for four years after that. But I hated the sport. To this day, the sight of a distance race makes me want to vomit.

22. I am really, REALLY competitive. Over the years, I've been able to calm some of the overwhelming rage I feel when someone beats me in something, but I know it's still there. Little things, like a game of Trivial Pursuit at a party or a random sports event will bring it out. It scares even me.

23. I used to (and still can) play Alto, Tenor, and Baritone Saxophone. Bari is my favorite. I wish I played piano.

24. My middle name is Filomena. A lot of people know this about me, but the ones who don't are always surprised.

25. Along those same lines, I use "What's your middle name?" as a conversation starter/pick-up line. I know, I know, Number 25 should actually be "I'm totally pathetic."

And there you have it, 25 Random Facts about myself. None of them particularly interesting or exciting, but hey, at least you haven't been tagged and forced to do this yourself!

...As a side note, I love all past, present, and future presidents for making this holiday possible. Have a good President's Day, WMWC readers!

I Unabashedly Love Valentine's Day

2009-02-08T22:32:00.000-05:00

And I always will.

I know it's super cool to be all edgy and anti the big V-Day, (or National Single Person Awareness Day, as a friend referred to it) but I just don't have it in me. First of all, I like chocolate too much. I get so bubbly and happy just looking at the pink and red Hershey's kisses I bought and put in a little bowl with a heart-shaped post-it note that says "Help Yourself! Someone Loves You!" (Yeah, I did that. Mostly I think I'm the one eating them.)

I'm a sucker. I can't help it. I just can't.

You can go ahead and think I'm stupid, but I don't care. I think a holiday that's all about love isn't such a bad thing, if you think about it that way. Yes, full disclosure: I'm currently IN love. But I have plenty of other people in my life to love. Don't you? Didn't your mom ever give you a Valentine? Or your friends in elementary school? I mean, everyone clearly was forced to bring cards for the whole class, but didn't you secretly enjoy getting all those valentines in your little bag you got to decorate? Didn't you like making them?

I know what you're thinking. "Well, this girl has clearly never experienced why Valentine's Day can suck so exquisitely hard." Not true. Here's a story:

When I was in 2nd grade, I gave a Valentine to a boy I liked - but not just ANY Valentine. I liked to make my cards by hand (to add personal flair, of course) but for this boy, I put extra care and time into it. I used the prettiest doilies, cut the most perfect red heart I could, and then wrote a special message: "Love Ya! ...For Real."

Valentine's Day 2nd Grade: The First Time I Got My Heart Broken.

Here's how it went. My little crush thought my lovely handmade valentine was nothing short of hilarious, so he showed the whole class. Everyone. They laughed at me and teased me and I cried and cried and cried. For years, it was one of those memories that brought on an awful twinge of regret mixed with anger and hurt. Mmm, gotta love those memories. You know what I'm talking about.

But I got over it. These past few Valentine's Days, which I have spent single, have included no flowers or chocolate (bought by someone besides myself) or kisses or whatever. Yet the lingering possibility that someone, somewhere would come out of the woodwork and declare undying love for me made that day a little bit special. And getting Valentines from a few friends warmed my heart enough to make it a little bit more special.

So now here's the fun part: This year, I have a boyfriend (previously referred to as The Boyfriend... I like to keep continuity so you don't get confused.) He's amazing and sweet and handsome and, well, I'm not going to continue with any more starry-eyed, general terms. But he's perfect, he's mine, and he's going to be with me for Valentine's Day. And although that may make you, my WMWC readers, groan and make an "Ew, gross, blech, vomit, hate-my-life" face, please don't get down about Valentine's Day. Someone loves you - I do! I love you, whoever you are, so buy some chocolate, get yourself a rose, and do something nice for yourself.

If all else fails, the candy goes on sale February 15th. And I think THAT should be cause for celebration.

What Would You Do?

2009-02-05T00:00:00.000-05:00

Yes polar bear, you may has an iceberg, but I has a fan!

I've been prompted to write again, because "the people" are dying for more! I've had requests (okay... request, singular) to put my exceptional prowess with the written word to work once again (sarcasm?).

So I decided to write about yet another thing I saw on television. Inspired right?

Okay, cut me some slack. Tonight, while on the phone with the Boyfriend, I said something along the lines of "Tomorrow won't be a very difficult day for me! It'll be a pretty easy day, in fact." Then I recounted all those things I had to do tomorrow and realized I have a 9:30 A.M. to 9:30 P.M. day ahead of me... at least. And I STILL considered it an easy day.

Needless to say, I'm really effing busy. (We keep it clean here on WMWC, no actual F-bombs allowed. Although, if you know me, you know I have a really awkward habit of crying out "EFF!" instead of the actual word, so it's really staying true to my own natural tongue.)

But no more silly chatter. Now for the meat of the story.

I was watching some TV with my roommate (BiddyLuddy is her blog, so BL is what I'll call her, from here on) when we started watching this weird show where they put (fake) babies in hot cars or abused (fake) nannies in public to see what people would do... Would they call the cops to save the baby? Would they smash the window in? Would they tell the nasty employer who was abusing her nanny to back off? Would it make a difference if she was a white nanny or a black nanny?

So many moral dilemmas. SO MANY. And my reaction was simple:

I wouldn't.

Go ahead, judge me, but I'm just not that way. It's not like I don't have a moral compass, I just don't have the balls to say "Hey, you spoiled bitch, step away from that nanny and treat her with dignity!" It's not in my makeup. I'm not genetically composed to stand up for strangers or break into cars to save babies. Sure, I'll alert the cops, but I'm no super hero.

But I guess what got me about this show was the fact that they made me feel GUILTY for that. Here's an example of a scene, in a Brooklyn coffee shop, done by actors:

Obnoxious young brat child: You're MY nanny! My mom pays you! You're worthless and stupid and you DO WHAT I TELL YOU TO!

Nanny (of varying ethnicities) in a calm voice: Your mom pays me to take care of you.

Obnoxious young brat child: YOU'RE STUPID! I'LL TELL MY MOM YOU DIDN'T DO THE LAUNDRY AND SHE WILL FIRE YOU!

Announcer: Amazingly enough, the man sitting in the corner of the store doesn't approach the little girl. In fact, not a single person comes to the nanny's aid. You terrible, terrible people.

Okay, he did not, in fact, add the "Terrible people" line. But that's what I heard in my head, because I knew that that little 12-year-old tyrant would have scared me away. And I guess this blog post only goes to show that I'm still grappling with my own mild-manneredness, and possible curiosity as to whether the (aforementioned) girl-fight side of me would show up and kick some bratty child ass. Or grab the nearest metal pole and save that poor overheating baby! I don't know it because I've never been put in a situation like it, but maybe I AM the type to spring into action!

Yeah, I'm going to go with that...

...except I'm also just going to advise everyone out there not to test this theory either. Because chances are, if your baby's in that backseat, it's turning purple before I break a window.

This Time Last Year...

2008-12-30T15:40:00.000-05:00

...I was getting ready to head off to Peru for ten days with my scholars group. In honor of that, here's a story I've written that's going to be featured in an upcoming Chicken Soup book, entitled, Chicken Soup for the Soul: Campus Chronicles about college life. Enjoy.

More Mud, Please

The landscape view from the back of the pick-up truck in the story.

The stench in the suffocating room was almost unbearable, made worse by the skittish guinea pigs circling my feet and squealing like they knew they would be dinner that evening. I tried to wipe the mud off my face, forgetting my hands were completely caked in the stuff. Giving up on cleanliness, I threw a big hunk of mud, full of hay, hair, and what looked an awful lot like feces, onto a brick. I glanced down - we had run out of mud.

"Mas barro, por favor," I said to the family. More mud, please.

Only a week ago I was on winter break in Connecticut, where my idea of filth had been the dust collecting on the top of my dresser. Now I was in the Andes mountains with my college scholars group, building a clean burning stove for a Peruvian family who owned a lamb that was allowed to saunter through the kitchen whenever it pleased. The family (and the lamb) watched me as I worked, standing by the door with shovels, ready to bring me more mud the minute I ran out of the vile substance.

I tried to slap away a persistent fly buzzing in my ear and started hacking away at the wall of the kitchen with a pickaxe. The soot from the old stove caked on the adobe had made the wall crooked and not conducive to chimney building. Every time the pickaxe struck the hardened soot, the guinea pigs squealed along in time, creating a strange cacophony of hand tool and rodent noises. I turned around to my stove-building partner and asked, for what felt like the hundredth time that week, “Are we really here right now?”

The minute we landed in Cuzco after almost twenty-four hours of traveling, I felt my heart race from the thin Andean air and knew that my coddled existence was about to change. For a week and a half, I stayed with the Chihuantitos, my middle class host family of four. Marulyn, the mother, spoke only Spanish and I spoke only English, so our communication was based around my affinity for her food and her pitying looks as I walked in through the front door covered head to toe in barro.

“Oh, Madeline,” she’d sigh, with the look of a concerned mother that transcended any language barrier, and she’d gesture to the laundry basket, offering to wash my muddy clothes.

My outfit certainly wasn’t the only dirty thing in Peru. A thin layer of grime seemed to cover everything in the city of Cuzco, from the tables in the restaurants to the lukewarm shower in the Chihuantito’s apartment. Up in the mountains in the town of Ancahuasi, the people we built stoves for often went barefoot down the dirt paths to their houses, leading the way to the stove-building site. The matriarch would walk ahead of me, her white top hat bobbing up and down with each step, her baby staring blankly from underneath folds of cloth on her back.

One of the last families I built a stove for lived very far from the meeting site we went to every morning. We trekked through hills and pastures and cornfields, holding out our arms to keep the corn stalks from whacking our sunburned faces. A cow looked menacingly at me as I passed it, standing by a stream of water, and I wondered briefly whether the hulking creature could shed the flimsy looking rope tied around its front hoof.

We came to a river with half a skinny tree trunk for a bridge. The Peruvian woman leading us charged fearlessly ahead, her gnarled feet stepping in a perfect line, one in front of the other. I stumbled across, breathing in sharp gasps as I looked at the rushing water below me. Thinking I was almost done, we came to another, smaller river.

We stopped. I looked for a bridge. The woman, whose name I can’t remember now but whose wrinkled, leathery face is etched in my memory, looked back at us, turned around, and threw herself across the river, grabbing the other side with her dirt-stained hands, grunting as she struggled up. She stood and looked at us, as if to say “Okay, your turn.”

My partner jumped. I hesitated. Was I really being asked to jump across a river? The answer was absolutely yes. I made sure my backpack was secure, rolled up the sleeves of my dirty black shirt I’d been wearing for three days in a row, and launched myself across the river.

Needless to say, I made it.

When we returned to the United States, setting foot on American soil in the form of JFK airport, it felt like much more than ten days had passed. In my mud-stained backpack was a journal I’d written in to remember my time in Peru. The other day, I opened up the journal for the first time in months as a ticket to Machupicchu, a postcard, and a map of Cuzco tumbled out. I thumbed through the pages and found an entry about riding in the back of a pick-up truck, standing and breathing the Andean air while watching the mountains pass. It struck me in its simplicity and its ability to sum up my entire Peruvian experience. It read:

It was completely unsafe, terrifying, cold, hard, rough, dirty… and one of the most indescribably beautiful moments of my life.

Looking back, that’s all there is to say about my trip to Peru. The only thing missing is this: I’ll never forget it.

Don't Be Fooled By the Fa-La-La

2008-12-23T10:02:00.000-05:00

The holidays get me down. And I know I'm not alone in that sentiment.

The other day, I was driving along in my little red Jeep (which, by the way, is more broken than it is functional at this point -- both turning signals switch the lights off, there's no rearview mirror, and the radio no longer lights up. Go ahead, steal it, you're in for a surprise!) when I heard a story on AM radio. It was about a church somewhere in the area that was offering a "Blue Christmas" service for people who are sad on this supposedly "joyous" holiday. I can just imagine -- carols that lean towards somber instead of cheery, no one in red and green, and a whole line of mopey people waiting for a cracker. Sounds delightful.

But you know what? It kind of does sound great. I want to go to the Blue Christmas mass. Somber carols? I'm down. Those are prettier than the happy ones anyway. No red and green? Fine by me. Everything lining my closet is black and grey. And mopey people? I think I'd fit right in at this point.

See, here's the thing. Holidays are a whole lot of pressure. Since Thanksgiving we've been bombarded by ads to buy The Greatest Christmas Present Ever! and make The Greatest Christmas Food Ever! But seriously, nothing on Christmas is going to be The Greatest anything. It's never as good as you want it to be. Christmas just can't live up to its own hype.

Christmas also makes me feel old. It's been years since I learned Santa was just a big, fraudulent scheme wrought by my parents to sneak me some loot. And I was OK with that, as long as the presents were still involved. But once the presents started to dwindle, I tried to convince myself that Christmas was about family. And free food (What? I'm in college. I appreciate a home cooked meal now more than ever.) "Oh," I would think, "I'm so EXCITED to get in the minivan with the little kids and go to New Jersey in Christmas Eve traffic! I'm ECSTATIC to spend Christmas in a house overrun by relatives and step-relatives and over-cooked meat! Because I'm with my family! And that's what matters!"

It didn't work.

But I'm a perpetual optimist. Last Friday I watched the snow fall on our yard full of accidental lawn ornaments (a destroyed swing set, lines of baking racks from my mom's last failed business attempt) and I turned on Elvis' "Blue Christmas" album while I made gingerbread cookies. The house was silent, the snow was beautiful, and I could listen to Elvis warble Christmas carols forever. But for a second, I thought that maybe I understood what the holiday season is supposed to be about when you start to grow up a little bit. It's about being thankful for what you have -- namely, a few days off to spend time doing completely useless things like eating too much and making cookies and playing in the snow.

So to the approximately 3.5 people who read my blog: Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy New Year, whatever. But if you're feeling a little blue, like me, it's OK. Because, answer me this: Does ANYONE actually have a Merry Christmas? Ever? I say no.

There! The pressure's off. Now go eat some cookies.

Mommie Dearest Meets the 'Netz

2008-12-13T22:14:00.000-05:00

No more wire hangers, EVER!

Well, my mother finally discovered The Internet. *Golf Claps*

Honestly, I give her a lot of credit. Two weeks ago, I'm pretty sure she didn't even know how to double click. Her desktop closely resembles the remnants of a shock-and-awe air strike. And yet here she is, on Facebook, on Blogger... I'm 100% sure she'll read this. Potentially the second after I publish it.

It's not so bad, really. I'm a good kid (adult?). There's nothing incriminating on any website about me, mostly because I avoid incriminating things and if I were to participate in them, I'd sure as hell avoid putting them all over Facebook. The worst thing you're going to find is a picture of me doing my near-infamous (in my mind, anyway) velociraptor face/pose or perhaps discover, from my information section, that I like books by David Sedaris and folk music (horror!)

That said, having Mom on Facebook has been... well... interesting. Here's a taste.

First of all, she discovered "poking."

Phone Rings

Mom: "I poked you!"

Me: "Um, what Mom?"

Mom: "I poked you on Facebook! You didn't poke me back! Why didn't you poke me back?"

Me: "Um, Mom, I haven't been on Facebook in the hour since you poked me."

Mom: "Biotch! [Editors Note: My mom's vocabulary is a blog entry unto itself] Poke me!"

Me: "Mom, I'm walking down the street. I can't poke you right now."

Mom: "I'm writing on your wall. Poke!" [Editors Note #2: In this moment, she writes "Poke!" on my wall.

Me: "Ok Mom, don't worry, I'll poke you when I get back."

Mom: "What's a snowball? Someone threw a snowball? How do I throw a snowball?"

Me: "Snowballs are stupid applications, don't respond."

Mom: "I tried to poke you again but it won't let me."

Me: "That's because..."

Mom: "I'm a poker!"

Me: "Mom, I'll poke you back, I promise. I have to go, I'll see you Monday."

Mom: "Poke!!"

She's gone Facebook crazy. Even her friends think so. She updates her status, she even made herself an Avatar on Yahoo to be her profile picture. She's a chef so of course, "It's me in my apron with a steak, but skinnier!"

And now she's made herself a blog. You might as well check it out: KitchnBitch'n. It's actually pretty good, for a fledgling effort from a technologically-impaired restauranteur with little to no free time.

But Mom, I know you're reading this, so consider yourself warned. Now that you've discovered the World Wide Web and all its vast possibilities, you will never be the same. When you find yourself awake in the middle of the night, cruising through the Facebook pages of people you never talk to, you'll regret it. When you realize that half the time something interesting happens to you, you think "Huh, could I blog about this?" you'll regret it.

I'm telling you, things are happier in the Dark Ages. But there's no turning back now.

Happy surfing, Mommy.

Thanksgiving: A Review

2008-11-30T18:33:00.000-05:00

Gobble Gobble.

Just look at that turkey, with his wonky eyes. Heh, what a stupid turkey.

Thanksgiving is an excellent holiday that only gets better and better. I give mine 4 stars, two thumbs up, and an A+. Here's why.

1. Spending Thanksgiving Day with my favorite people in the world.

I piled into the car with my mom, who took a day off from cooking for other people, my brother, who now has long locks and a generally surly attitude to match, and the Boyfriend, who dressed up all nice and pretty but who was afraid that his brown Converse with a hole in them would make a bad impression. I assured him no one would notice, and considering we were lucky my brother was even wearing clean clothes, he would look perfectly fine.

Once there, the conversation and wine flowed. We were a total of sixteen for dinner: Grandma, Grandpa, Cousins, Aunts, Uncles, Dogs. Food was excellent. My 9-year-old cousin created an elaborate "Deal or No Deal" game and marched around yelling "Attention Please! We need complete silence!" Adorably obnoxious, mostly adorable because he's not my kid. Drunken debauchery ensued when we decided to play Cahoots after dessert, a sort of mind-reading game that involves Hungarian Gypsy Magic. I'm pretty sure I baffled the Boyfriend with my Hungarian Gypsy Mind Reading. At least the little kids were impressed.

2. Reconnecting.

Saw a friend who I have not seen in FOREVER, or at least it feels that way. We ate lunch, sat on her bed, giggled, did astrology charts, and acted as though we had a combined age of 11. So great.

3. Dinner with the Boyfriend's family.

Now it was my turn to dress up all pretty and behave myself. The night quickly progressed from steak and potatoes and candlelight to sitting on the couch watching Youtube videos of kitties and hamsters and pandas with the Boyfriend's mom. Then he told me why my face is pretty. (Insert contented sigh.)

4. Played Ultimate Frisbee.

It was cold, I played poorly, but I did 2 and a half hours of cardio and my whole body hurts in the best possible way.

5. Dogs.

As Charles Schultz once said (and I know this because EVERY Chicken Soup for the Soul book has this quote in it) "Happiness is a warm puppy." Actually, happiness is a warm, scruffy little mutt curled up under the covers keeping your feet warm.

I'm taking the 7:51 train in and then it's back to the grind. But Thanksgiving, you treated me well. See you next year.

Wanna Fight?

2008-11-21T17:52:00.000-05:00

Today's thought:

I could so kick another girl's ass.

I've never had a desire to fight anyone, really. But the other day, I was standing on the always-oppressive morning NYU bus with my roommate Alex when we oddly got on the topic of fighting. I think it started out with men fighting, as in "I don't find it attractive when a guy wants to beat someone up, especially if they're slurring their words and doused in Keystone." And then I surprised myself when I said something along the lines of, "Oh yeah, I could totally win a fight. No question."

Now I wonder: why was I so sure?

Well first of all, I'm scrappy. I haven't played sports in a while but when I do, I will get in your face. I don't care if you're a six-foot man. I'm coming at you full-force and I'm not afraid of your massive body weight. I am taking you DOWN. I'm 140 pounds of muscle, baby. (But yet, I'm girly enough to balk at the fact that I just put my weight on the Internet. Eek!)

Secondly, I'm clumsy. I often find bruises from run-ins I don't remember, and not ALWAYS because I was drunk when I got them (if ever a sentence made me sound like an alcoholic, that one was it.) When you're always tripping over yourself and walking into various inanimate objects on a daily basis, you stop screaming the F-word every time and learn to control yourself. And suddenly, a tolerance to pain is formed. Amazing!

Third reason: Rage. Ok, so I'm not a foaming-at-the-mouth screamer, and VERY few things make me really angry, but the few times in my life that I've felt PISSED, I've felt very, very pissed. There is RAGE inside me, I tell you, RAGE! I'm serious!

So there you have it. This is not my e-version of standing in a Karate-stance and waving my hand like "Oh yeah, come here and just TRY to kick my ass!" But it is a warning: I may be sweet, but I'm DEADLY.*

*This theory is completely untested.

That's all.

Why Jeopardy Soothes the Soul

2008-11-18T19:57:00.000-05:00

Today at 7 P.M., the glorious cultural phenomenon that is Jeopardy was on TV, just like it so reliably is every weekday on ABC. It always comes on right before Wheel of Fortune, which I think of as Jeopardy's semi-retarded, state-school attending cousin who wears Hawaiian shirts. And just like a steaming hot mug of soup on a blustery winter day, the always classy Alex Trebek and the good ol' Jeopardy theme song soothe my soul. Ahhh, trivia.

But why is this so? Am I jealous of the contestants and their vast knowledge? Sure, they can immediately figure out that KMQT is KUMQUAT without vowels ("What is KUMQUAT!???" Good. For. You.), but sometimes, I can too. And whenever I scream out the answer a little too loudly in my roommate's ear just to find I was wrong, I can shrink back in my seat and think "Whatever, at least I don't wear 2-inch-thick glasses and arrange my insect collection on a Friday night." No, it's not jealousy that lures me to Mr. Trebek and his glittering blue boxes. Jeopardy gives me a chance to get on my high horse. When I'm right, I feel like a super genius. When I'm wrong, I just get a chance to look down my nose at the Nerd Brigade. Ha ha ha.

And that is why, on any given weeknight, regardless of what kind of day I've had, I'm happy to settle down in front of our postage-stamp-sized television and judge people. And that is truly Mmm Mmm good.

On The Day When I Don't Leave My Bed

2008-11-14T13:28:00.000-05:00

It's Friday.

This semester, that means sitting in a bed (sometimes my bed, sometimes the boyfriend's bed) and reading story submissions for my employer, Chicken Soup for the Soul. Sometimes I do really fun things like "tag" manuscripts, which means inserting little symbols like [T] and [I] into 200-page Word documents. I'm telling you, the life I lead is almost too exciting.

I've probably had like ten bowls of cereal this morning and I have only left my bed to pour said cereal into bowls along with skim milk. But still, Fridays leave a lot of time for thought and contemplation.

Tonight I'm performing in a show called King David, written by Alan Menken and Tim Rice, as a part of the on-stage choir that stands (yes, stands for the whole show) in the dark behind the orchestra. Let me translate: We sing, no one can hear us, and we don't even get to wear costumes.

But here's the thing -- as much as KD is currently making me miserable (and will cease to do so after tonight's closing performance, hooray!) it has reaffirmed something for me. I watch the people doing the roles that I covet and I'm reminded of the fierce desire I have to "make it." I know it's a cliche, and I'm well aware that every Idina Menzel-obsessed fourteen-year-old in Minnesota also wants to "make it" on Broadway, but I REALLY REALLY want to make it. No, really. I'm pretty sure if you put me in a Silence of the Lambs-esque dirt pit and told me I could originate a role on Broadway if I escaped, I would claw my way out somehow.

Ambitious, I know. But while I stand in the dark in my J. Crew sweater dress tonight, wishing I was wearing false eyelashes and that someone could actually hear me sing in the audience, I'll just be happy that there's something in this world that makes me feel that way.

I'm Feeling Good About This One

2008-11-12T21:39:00.000-05:00

Well, here it is. A blog. An empty text box and a world of possibilities.

Welcome to my personal page, something that will hopefully be filled with articles and stories I've written, occasional thoughts on things that strike me as interesting, and anything else I think is worth posting for the entire world to see. I'm going to be honest here -- I'm a little bit terror-stricken at the idea that I'm throwing myself out into the Internet. I'd like to pretend I'm thinking very hard about what interesting things to say, but what I'm really doing right now is making this awkward face where my sad, straight little eyebrows go up in the middle and make me look very forlorn. It's not my best look, I'm glad you can't see it.

About Me: I go to school in New York City. I sing, I act, I write. When I was four, I talked so loudly my parents had my ears tested to make sure my hearing was okay. Turns out I'm just a loud talker. I'm an eternal optimist and realist -- and yes, I believe the two can coexist. I want to be a professional singer and actress, I want to write multiple novels, I want to see more of the world, and I never want to stop learning about people.

I can also crack my nose. For real, no nails and teeth necessary. Now will you read my blog?