Flailing Idiots

I Consume: H&M Wrap Dress

2012-02-01T01:09:00.000-05:00

I tried to find a picture of this wrap dress from H&M on the internet since I seem to be unable to take a not-crappy picture of it. Alas, I failed. I know you can't tell from where you're standing, but this dress was a fantastic find. I bought it for $7 at an after Christmas sale. It's made out of a questionable polyester and had lots of string hanging off of it when I bought it. It was also missing its belt (which it really could use). But for $7 it was worth a little risk, and I'm so glad I took it. Once I cut off the ugly strings, it didn't look at all damaged and the material looked like silk. It even felt pretty much like silk. It's covered in a tiny abstract floral pattern made up mostly of shades of peach, cream, tangerine and navy with little specks of sky blue. I paired it with my navy blue ribbed tank from Old Navy, brown leggings, an earth-tone bracelet and my trusty brown boots. I've only warn it twice, and both times I've been asked where I got it. Customers at work think it's from our store. Hooray for quick fixes and let us hope it doesn't fall apart the second time I wash it.

I Consume: Brown Not-Leather Boots

2012-01-30T23:49:00.000-05:00

I'd like to take a minute to thank these boots for being warm and delightful despite being cheap and from KMart. They are the only pair of boots I own that do not have a hole in them right now.

Game Over

2012-01-30T23:35:00.000-05:00

A week ago Saturday I met C2 on my terms. Instead of me trekking out to Manhattan or New Jersey to a restaurant or bar of his choice, I asked him to meet me at the Brooklyn Museum. I guess museums aren't really date-spots, but I wanted to engage in some sort of activity besides eating. (And it was snowing, so it didn't seem like a good day to check out the botanical gardens or wander Prospect Park.) I had been to the Brooklyn Museum the weekend before to see Hide/Seek with Elle, but I hadn't gotten to see Youth and Beauty: Art of the American Twenties. So, I figured I'd get in a date and some paintings of flappers--two for one.

Full disclosure: I enjoyed this date more than any of my previous dates with C2. I saw my 1920s art, the modern art section with a piece that looked like a 19th century landscape that had caught on fire and pieces of the painting had fluttered to the floor (but upon closer inspection, they couldn't have fluttered, as they were understandably affixed to the premises), and an exhibit I didn't even know I needed to see Work of Art: Kymia Nawabi (which I seriously recommend). I wandered through the museum, reading everything, as I do. (Erin will tell you about the time we spent three hours in the Holocaust Museum in DC and I didn't make it past the first floor.)

C2 didn't seem to have much to say. Occasionally he'd stand behind me, hold my waist, and look at whatever I was looking at, but he seemed bored. I asked him if he'd been to the Brooklyn Museum before and he said no. Neither had he been to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. It surprised me that he hadn't at least been on a field trip in school. I grew up much farther from the city than he did, and I took a field trip to the Met. I don't claim to be a museum aficionado, but I feel like I've at least covered my basics--The Met, The Brooklyn, The MOMA, Natural History...Okay, I've never been to the Guggenheim. Does having visited the relatively obscure Museum of Sex and some extremely obscure house museums make up for it?

I understand that not everyone is a museum-goer. That doesn't make a person stupid, it just makes him not-a-museum-goer and that's okay. But then we went to the mummy chamber. I already knew quite a lot about the mummy chamber as I spent a whole day there once reading about mummies and I know a little about the Egyptian book of the dead, which I've actually read (in English, of course), though I can't claim that I understood any of it, and alright, I've watched a documentary on the mummies at the Brooklyn Museum. Still, there are dead people displayed in a museum. Even though they're wrapped up so that they only look vaguely human-shaped, they are corpses on display--a person's remains become art. That's cool and creepy. So, I said, "Isn't it creepy that we're standing right here looking at a dead person and sort of mind blowing that he has been dead for all these years and still here for people to look at?" And C2 said, "You think there is really a person in there?" Oh my God, C2 doesn't think mummies are real. Dude, we're not in an amusement park. It's a museum. Yes, there is a real corpse in there.

That's when I realized that not only was I not attracted to C2, I didn't really enjoy spending time with him. I couldn't figure out why before, but I realized in the mummy chamber that C2 was a little bit stupid. He wasn't blatantly you meet him and he is obviously an idiot stupid, but he was the kind of stupid that is masked by being normal and successful that sneaks up on you a little at a time until you finally realize what you're dealing with. I tried to change the subject because I didn't want to have an argument about mummies. I pulled out the copy of The Fault in Our Stars Erin had given me and showed him that it was signed and included a Hankler fish. Even if you don't know who John and Hank Green are, a signed book is always impressive, especially one with a drawing of a fish. But C2 did not congratulate me on my acquisition of a Hankler-fished book. He said, "You brought a book?" Like it was an affront to him for me to bring a book on a date. Sometimes I forget that not all people carry books at all times, but I think anyone worth knowing carries a book most places (especially places where there is a long subway ride involved).

Full disclosure: I enjoyed my trip to the museum, but I didn't enjoy my trip to the museum with C2. I enjoyed it despite his being there. I invited him back to my apartment for tea and board games to see if he could redeem himself, but he could not. He was too serious about the game and made a joke that offended my sister. He seemed frustrated to be drinking tea and playing board games. I don't know where he wanted to be, but it wasn't there. Still, he didn't seem to want to leave. I offered to walk him to the train on my way to the grocery store (I did need to buy groceries), and he understood that I was kicking him out. It wasn't graceful on my part, but I needed him to go home. Clearly, no one was having fun. Later, he texted me to ask how I felt about him. He said that I had rejected his attempts to be affectionate, and he was wondering if I still wanted to date. I had planned on seeing him one more time to tell him that I didn't want to see him anymore. I didn't want to say it in my apartment or on the walk to the train. In a text message felt totally wrong, but since he asked, I figured it was alright to reply. It was actually a huge relief.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a bitch.

I Don't Like Dating

2012-01-20T00:04:00.001-05:00

I've been out with C2 a total of three times now, and I've realized that the reason I'm not in a relationship might be that I don't like to date. My second date with C2 was at a fondue restaurant. I like cheese and I like C2, but I was sort of indifferent to being there. I thought maybe I was worried about the money. So, I laid it out: I do not make much money, I have student loans to pay, I am willing to pay for my portion of this meal, but I cannot afford to eat out often. He graciously offered to pay the bill, which I excepted (because OH MY GOD, it cost $40 for a pot of cheese), but he seemed concerned that I had student loans and made light of my worries by saying, "I think it would be fun to live from pay check to pay check." I said nothing because I'm not the confrontational type, but what? Do you realize that I do live from pay check to pay check? That it is not an adventure or a choice, but just the way it is for many, may people including myself? I think there is a fundamental difference in the way C2 and I live and the way we grew up. He does not have student loans because his parents paid for school. I cannot hold that against him. If my parents had had the means to help me with school, they would have and I would have taken it. But he seemed surprised that I had student loans, and that's what worries me--the assumption that I am like him. What will he think when he finds out that I'm not?

Despite everything, C2 still wanted to go on a 3rd date. I couldn't think of anything really wrong with him (he had now spent quite a bit of money on me and had been nothing but perfectly nice), so I agreed. I said that I had plans on Saturday (a trip to the Brooklyn Museum with Elle to see the Hide/Seek exhibit followed by a game of hide and seek in Prospect Park), but would see him after. Sunday really would have been better, but he was busy. He suggested we meet in Hoboken, where he lives. I was not excited and kind of nervous about going to New Jersey, but it seemed like the polite thing to do since we had previously met in Manhattan. Mostly, I didn't want to go because it was a different transit system and I would have to buy a ticket, but a three dollar bus ticket wasn't much to ask after all he'd spent on me.

I arrived in Hoboken all bundled up in my hide and seek clothes, two pairs of pants (I had wiped the dirt off the outer layer rather than wasting time going home to change). C2 and I ate pizza at a nice Italian restaurant. He paid again. I didn't even offer. Now we've set a precedent: he picks the restaurant, he picks what we eat, he pays. Really, he decides everything. I realized that at the Italian restaurant and thought "this is not a good habit to get into," but then I didn't feel like I had the right to complain--his money and all. After the restaurant, I really could have gone home. I don't like to be out late, and it takes quite a while to get to the part of Brooklyn where I live, but C2 had somewhere else for us to go. He didn't tell me where, just that we couldn't go yet, so we went back to his apartment and awkwardly watched a movie until it was time.

It turned out that we were waiting for a limo--a free limo that this bar has--to pick us up and bring us to the bar. I'll admit, it was pretty cool. The only other time I've ever been in a limo was Junior Prom. And, though I don't really like loud, crowded places, the bar had a live band that played music I liked and C2 bought me a drink and we danced badly. There was a black light on the dance floor that glowed off of people's white t-shirts and neon bracelets and bright orange bras under thin black tank tops and all the cat hair on the lumpy sweater I was wearing because, as you'll recall, I was dressed to play hide and seek.Two pairs of pants, and I was very very warm and definitely not the prettiest of the girls on the dance floor.

When we finally headed out, I wasn't sure if I was happy or if I'd had fun. I had liked the band, but I didn't want to be in New Jersey. It was late and I wanted to be home in my bed. I was thinking about all the time I had spent and how I could have been on the internet or reading a book or sleeping, and then I thought that maybe I didn't really like this person who I was spending time with. But, again, he was so nice. How could I not? Then he asked me to see him the next day, the day he supposedly was busy, and I said yes because I didn't know what else to say. But the more I thought about it, the more upset I became because why did I have to go to New Jersey on Saturday if he was going to be in Brooklyn on Sunday and could see me after his plans. And two days in a row was too much. I needed to spend more time alone in my apartment. I had only seen him three times, but it seemed like much more. I felt overwhelmed. And so I texted him and told him that I couldn't see him on Sunday. I needed to do my laundry and buy groceries--that really was the truth.

So, I've concluded that I really don't like dating. I don't like spending money unnecessarily even if it's someone else's money. Really, especially if it's someone else's money. It seems so fake, so forced. And really, I'd rather be home. I'm seeing C2 again on Saturday, but I'm not sure what to do from there. I'm definitely not his girl friend and I don't want to be his girl friend, so I feel like I'm leading him on, which is mean. But not seeing him anymore after he has invested in me is mean too. And there is no reason for me not to like him. I don't not like. I'm totally indifferent. Maybe that's worse.

I need to stop being so stupid and wishy washy and easily manipulated. But I have so many excuses.

I Consume: Does Your Face Hurt?

2012-01-19T22:55:00.000-05:00

...Because it's killing me.

Okay, that joke isn't funny. It's a favorite of my uncle's, and to be honest, it has never been funny. But sometimes my face does hurt, especially in the winter. Walking through the city, the cold wind feels like steel wool scraping against my skin. It leaves my face feeling tight and raw. The worst part is face dandruff. You think that's gross, but you know exactly what I'm talking about: those little bits of dead skin that pill up on your face like fuzz on a sweater. Not only is it disgusting and uncomfortable, but it make it nearly impossible to properly apply make-up. So you gob moisturizer onto your face, you smear it into your foundation until you are good and greased and you get some momentary relief. Still, by the time you get to work, your face is dry and burning, and there is nothing you can do about it except try to massage some hand lotion into the really dry spots without messing up your eye shadow. This is a sucky problem I thought had no solution.

Then last winter, I was introduced to a very exciting product. I was late meeting up with some friends (as I often am), and I explained that my lateness was due to a problem with my face. No matter how much lotion I put on, my face still felt dry. My friend Elle (not to be confused with my sister Elle) said, "Your face does look dry," pulled a bottle out of her purse and sprayed me in the face. "Um, I'm wearing make-up," I said, but she said that it was alright. A person could spray this product on his or her face before or after make-up, whenever the face felt dry, and it would not mess up the make-up. The spray provided immediate relief to my burning face, and somehow it did not cause my mascara to run down my cheeks. For the rest of the day, I was surprise attacked. Elle would squint at me, apparently deciding I looked dry, say, "Close your eyes," and spray before she had finished talking. I needed to get myself some of this stuff.

So, this is the part where I mention that the event just described took place in Korea, which I left very soon after without much notice. I returned to the US with the desire for a Korean product I knew only as "face moisture spray." The salespeople at the stores (drug stores, bath product stores and cosmetics shops) I tried did not know what I meant. Though I suspected a similar product to the Korean product must exist, I gave up and soon forgot about my quest.

Then a few weeks ago I was in Sears with Elle (my sister), and I came across Mineral Essentials Antioxidant Hydrating Mist. Could it be? I read the description on the back: "for thirsty skin," "part bliss," "soothe your skin and uplift your mood," revitalizing dose of moisture alone or over [...] make-up." My brain immediately categorized this as a need. "You're paying $16 for something you spray on your face?" Elle asked. Yes. Some things are worth the money.

Contestants Two and Three

2012-01-10T22:22:00.003-05:00

I took some time off from OkCupid during the holiday season, and I only recently got in touch with two guys I had agreed to meet, one with whom I actually wanted to go on a date and another with whom I did not (more on that to come). The way my schedule worked out, I was available on both Friday and Saturday, so I figured I'd set up dates for both nights and get them both out of the way in one weekend. It sounds slutty, but really it's just that I think of meeting men like completing homework assignments. If you're a therapist, maybe you can tell me why that is.

Anyway, Friday night I met the first guy. We'll call him Contestant Two, or C2 (if you're wondering what happened to C1, it's this guy). Based on his profile, he seemed intelligent and maybe even witty. I wasn't totally sure that we had common interests, but he at least seemed worth meeting. He suggested a coffee shop in the East Village, and after a little internet research, I concluded that it was exactly the sort of place I would enjoy spending time, but that a person who spent time in such an establishment might be a hipster and therefore cooler than me. I also learned that the establishment did not take debit cards and armed myself with cash. I ate pizza before I went, intending to buy a coffee and drink it very slowly to minimize spending. I became a little worried when he texted me multiple times before our date. If he was someone who needed to be in constant contact with everyone he knew, things were not going to work out. Had he texted anyone during our date, I might have left.

When C2 arrived at the locale I had three first impressions of him (no, I don't think that's too many). One: he had a beard. I believe I've made it clear that I'm not a fan of beards, but it seemed to suit him. And despite the beard he was rather good looking. Really, it only struck me because why does every guy I meet have a beard? Two: he was wearing a suit. I later learned that he had just come from work, but I felt a little out of place in my jeans and button down blouse even though I was technically in place and he was the one who was out of place wearing a suit in a coffee shop. Three: he hugged me. I am not against hugging, but I felt a little uncomfortable. Dude, I don't know you. Take a step back.

Once we got past the awkward hug and into the restaurant, I felt quite comfortable with C2, though he did touch my arm a few more times than I thought was appropriate. We had a good long conversation, learned a lot about each other and caught the flower in the vase on our table on fire via the small candle sitting next to it. I passed up food, explaining that I had already eaten pizza and ordered a chai latte. He had tea and a sandwich. It was a decidedly unpretentious order. I approved. Somehow we ended up talking about board games and switched venues to a bar with board games. We played Connect Four over cocktails.

All in all it was an enjoyable evening with someone who was easy to spend time with, and I am no longer worried about the texting (I think he was just confirming). But, here is what I am worried about: C2 bought my tea at the coffee shop and my appletini at the bar. Perhaps he was just being gentlemanly, but I think he also has significantly more money than I have. He has a career at a major financial institution. He owns his own home. Why would he be interested in dating someone with no career, with a low paying job, with incredible debt? Economically, at least, I am not his equal. I can't afford to go out all the time, but I can't let him pay all the time either. Then I'm indebted to him. He's not going to sacrifice going out because I can't afford it. Perhaps I'm worried about nothing, but it is a foreseeable problem.

Anyway, I'm meeting him again tomorrow.

To explain my date with Contestant 3--C3, if you will, I will refer you to the first 14 seconds of the following clip from Scooby Doo.

I was not enthusiastic about meeting C3. I honestly cannot remember why I ever agreed to meet him in the first place. He was one of the first people to message me on OkCupid, and I deleted the message because he didn't sound that interesting. Then he messaged me again and I responded. Maybe it was because I was new to the site and he was paying attention to me. I can't really say. But I agreed to meet him. I think this was in October. Then I thought about it and decided I didn't want to meet him. Then I stopped going to the site for a while and totally forgot about him, but when I returned to the site, there he was. I felt bad for ignoring him for months. According to his profile, we had nothing in common, but I told him to meet me at my favorite coffee shop.

I showed up 15 minutes late, which was not intentional, but was rude. We went into the shop where I bought myself a scone and he bought himself a hot chocolate. Since there was no place to sit, I suggested we walk in the park. C3 was sweet and totally nonthreatening, but it quickly became apparent that he did not know how to hold a conversation. I would ask him a question, and he would respond with one word. He did not elaborate. He did not offer amusing anecdotes. He did not even reciprocate the questions. Sometimes the answers he gave didn't seem relevant to my questions, and on the rare occasions that he spoke more than a few words, the things he said didn't make much sense. He finally started telling me about a trip he'd once taken to DC when he asked for permission to segue. I'd never felt so powerful. "Sure. Go ahead and segue," I said, but it turned out that what he meant by segue was completely change topic. He had no dazzling transition to offer.

Then he asked me what I thought of him, which was incredibly awkward. I said that he seemed nice, but I didn't think we had anything in common. He insisted that he liked books: in high school he read In Cold Blood and he often read the news paper. Luckily, I had made plans to meet a friend for dinner (and for her to hem my pants) exactly two hours after the start of my date with C3, so I wasn't lying when I said I had to leave to bring my pants somewhere.

He called today to ask me to go to a museum with him. I said, "Um............I'm okay." Poor Creeper.

Evergreen

2012-01-09T15:43:00.001-05:00

me: When do you think we should take down the tree?

Elle: When we move out?

I Consume: Essie Matte About You

2012-01-05T19:19:00.003-05:00

On Saturday Elle and I did a little post-holiday shopping at Kings Plaza (a big mall in Brooklyn). We had two objectives: find Elle a pair of boots (failure) and spend Elle's Sears gift card (success). I was not supposed to buy anything except for lunch at Panera. I was the moral support. But I just couldn't resist. While Elle was in the fitting room in Sears, I wandered through the nearby make-up section (dangerous, I know), and I spotted this one lonely bottle of Essie matte top coat. I have desired such a product since Claire informed me of the existence of matte top coat, but when it was only available on Sephora's website, it was easy to stop myself. I did not need to spend $10 plus shipping on a nail polish. Then there it was: a matte top coat made by Essie, my new love, no less. This was worth $8 at Sears. I'm painting everything matte.

My Thoughts on Babies

2012-01-04T16:49:00.001-05:00

A friend of mine (who some of you know) has a six month old baby and her friends and family have their opinions on if and when she should have another baby. I have no baby, no experience with babies, nothing on which to found my opinion and no business telling anyone else that she should or should not have babies. I don't want to add to the problem of people butting in, and that's why I did not include my opinion on babies on my friend's post. I'm writing my own post. Because I just can't help it.

I grew up with siblings, and I enjoyed their company. Siblings are built in friends and playmates. Of course, they're also built-in enemies, but I can't imagine growing up without them. I envision a sad and lonely childhood with no one to form alliances with against the adults, no co-conspirators or partners in crime. And I've heard that siblings born five or more years apart might as well be only children because they don't have the same relationship as children who are closer in age.

At the same time, when people have too many babies too close together I think that those people must either be religious freaks or too stupid to use birth control (because I am judgmental like that). Of course, perfectly intelligent people can fail at using birth control. It happens. It's only when it happens three or four times in as many years that I really start to doubt a person's ability to follow instructions. And as for not using birth control for religious purposes, that is totally legitimate, and it is absolutely inconsiderate and wrong for me to disrespect and insult other's beliefs in that manner. But it would be dishonest to say I didn't feel that way.

So, I think it is appropriate to have two to four children who are one and a half to three years apart. Who cares what I think? Probably no one. And I know people who are only children who had perfectly happy childhoods who grew up to be functioning members of society. So it's obviously not necessary to a child's social development that he or she have siblings. To be honest, I'm not sure I'm fully socially developed myself.

I guess my point is, I think it's nice to have a sister or brother or two, but no one can tell anyone else what's right for their family.

I Consume: Christmas Surprises

2012-01-04T16:19:00.001-05:00

I knew my Christmas gift (my Corelle set) well before Christmas, and that really was plenty. But my mom wouldn't be satisfied without throwing in a few surprise presents. So these are the presents I unwrapped on Christmas: a hefty copy of Les Mis, a nice hardcover edition of To Kill a Mockingbird, a play for good measure--Death of a Salesman and The Help on DVD.

Les Mis is one of those books I've always meant to read, but never have. I adore the musical. I would even go as far to say that it is my favorite musical. I've seen the movie. But I've never read the book. A few years back I picked up a very pretty copy of Les Mis at a book sale--faux Victorian binding and all, but upon closer inspection, it turned out to be a condensed version of the novel, and though I cannot read the novel in its original French (due to lack of understanding of the French language), I at least wanted to read the translation in full. So this pretty volume has never left the shelf. Now that I have a more legitimate copy of Les Mis, I have to commit to reading it. I am apprehensive, but determined. (I'm currently reading The Last of the Mohicans, which is somewhat fascinating since it takes place in my hometown, but dense and slow and alright, I find it boring.)

To Kill a Mockingbird and Death of a Salesman run more along the lines of pleasure reading. I've loved To Kill a Mockingbird and desired a copy since I first read it in high school, and Death of a Salesman proves my theory that regents exams lead to death.

I had not seen the help before I received it for Christmas, but I watched it a few days ago and find it worth owning. I would be interested in reading the book.

Overall, not a bad take.

I Consume: Cherry Blossom Corelle Dinnerware Set

2012-01-03T16:18:00.002-05:00

Long before Christmas, I informed Elle that should my parents ask her what I wanted, she should instruct them to send me a real dinning set (read not plastic). Though I've been on my own for several years now and lived in a handful of apartments, I've never owned anything but crappy plastic dishes that melt if you microwave them for too long. I don't plan to get married or buy a house anytime soon, but why should this mean that I don't get nice things for my home? Damn it, I just wanted to pick out a china pattern.

Elle did very well, and my mom not so subtly suggested that I might pick out some dishes for her to buy me. I had already done my research online, and I was sold on Corelle. My parents have a set of Corelle dishes that belonged to my grandmother (she had this set that I think everyone's grandma had), and those dishes have proved themselves through years of dish-washing and microwaving and being dropped on the floor. They are magic, handsome and 100% practical. I chose this modern square shape with the cherry blossom pattern to appease my personal aesthetic, and I could not be more happy with them. I only hope they prove as durable as my grandmother's Corelle.

New Year's Eve at Times Square

2012-01-02T18:39:00.001-05:00

I've watched watched the ball drop in Times Square on TV for as long as I can remember. When I was a kid, I would go to bed at my regular bedtime, and my mom would wake me up ten minutes before midnight to watch the ball drop on TV. Over the years, it has become less and less exciting, and I've wished that I was out having fun instead of in watching TV.

This year, Elle and I decided to go out. I had to work at 10am on New Year's Day, so I made it clear that I didn't want to be out late. I set my curfew at 2am--early for New Year's Eve, but I need my sleep. When I asked Elle where we should go, she said Times Square. It seemed a little bit crazy. I'm not a big fan of crowds. The trains would probably be awful. But it also made sense. We live in NYC. We had never been to New Year's Eve at Times Square. I agreed that we should go just this once. Just to have the experience. Just to say we'd been. If we were going to do it, this was the unseasonably warm year.

But I didn't want to wait around all day. That seemed truly pointless. So, I suggested that we leave home at about 9, putting us in Times Square 2 hours before the big moment. I knew we would be far away. I knew we wouldn't be able to see anything, but I thought we would at least be able to hear the musical performances. I thought we would be able to hear the mass countdown.

I was absolutely wrong. As expected, the streets were crowded. There were police everywhere. But we could hear nothing. Where we stood at 40th and 7th, there was nothing going on. People were pushing each other, trying to see I-don't-know-what because there was nothing to see. It seemed that just about everyone present was recording the event via cell phone, but I can't imagine they recorded anything but other people holding cell phones in the air like periscopes. Of course, everyone was drunk. And people had children there, being shoved around by the crowd and falling on the ground. It was totally pointless and disgusting. The ground was covered in garbage. I wanted to leave, but Elle said that since we were in Times Square 2 hours before midnight on New Year's Eve, we might as well stay until the ball dropped. This made sense.

The two hours until midnight went by slowly, and I was bored out of my mind. We hadn't brought anything to do because we didn't think we'd need it. When midnight finally arrived, we weren't even sure it was midnight. We couldn't see the ball from where we were, only TV screen billboards, and we couldn't hear the countdown. Sections of the crowd around us counted down three different times, while pops of confetti exploded at random. We only knew that it was really the new year when we saw the fireworks go off, which was the only part of the extravaganza we experienced.

In a word: underwhelming.

I Consume: The Twelve Days of Christmas One Box Mega Set

2011-12-28T21:05:00.000-05:00

A few days before I left for my family's house for Christmas, a box arrived in the mail from one Kay. The box contained such puzzling things as magnets made from stickers of cartoon characters and a jumbled mass of colorful paperclips. It also held these items.

The first thing that I pulled out of the box was this gorgeous hollow book box with an exciting magnetic closure (hours of fun). It said that it was "for all [my] secrets," but the box did not contain secrets (I guess I have to supply my own. That's why they're called my secrets); instead the box held chocolate. Emergency chocolate. As I had been working many 12-hour shifts that week, I was having just the kind of emergency that can be solved by chocolate.

The next, and most surprising thing I excavated from the box was plant growing materials: a bulb, dirt and a pot. This worried me a little, as I do not have a great record with plants. I texted Kay asking her what I should do with the plant while I was away for a week. Should I plant it? I wouldn't be home to water it. Should I refrigerate the bulb to keep it fresh? I was told to leave it alone and plant it when I got back. Perhaps this is a plant I can handle.

The box also contained four Valentine's Day inspired ceramic measuring cups that seemed to match my plant's pot. The instructions said that they were "for cooking...or for just looking pretty." I typically choose looking pretty over cooking, but I may very carefully employ these sometime in the future.

Other things in the box were more immediately useful, such as the mug that Kay sent me because she "heard [I] like to drink out of [them]." I don't know who has been talking, but that individual is correct. I do like to drink out of mugs. This one may or may not say something in an Asian language. Plus, it looks fancy. Kay also included hot chocolate in case I had nothing to put in the mug. I have not sampled it yet, but only because I have a different hot chocolate already open. All in due time.

And in case there is a draft in my apartment while I'm drinking my hot chocolate, Kay sent a fuzzy scarf in my very favorite color.

Last, but not least, the most thoughtful gift of them all was probably this glass storage container. Despite warnings, I have been known to carry my food to work in plastic containers, which I then microwave. So, thanks, Kay. Now I won't get cancer.

Getting There

2011-12-26T16:29:00.000-05:00

The plan seemed simple: I would work an early shift on Friday, 7 to 4 instead of my typical 12 to 9 or 2 to 11. I would be home by 5, 5:15 at the latest. I would have my things ready by the door. I would scoop Izzy into his carrier, grab my suitcase and run back to the subway. I would be at Grand Central by 6:30. Perhaps, I would make it earlier and get the 6:15 train upstate, but it would be rush hour and that was unlikely. But 6:30 was realistic. I could definitely make the 6:45 train. I would be to my parents' house by 10:30, maybe 11.

In my dreams, perhaps.

I left work on time. I was out of the building no later than 4:05. I walked quickly to the subway. I boarded my train with ease. I expected crowded cars, train traffic ahead, all the things that slow down a person in a hurry when taking public transportation. I did not expect the train to stop five stations short of my neighborhood and the conductor to announce that the train had been rerouted to a different neighborhood due to an investigation a few stations ahead. This certainly sucked, but not as much as getting off the train to learn that it was not just my train that had been rerouted, but all trains going to my neighborhood and that the one and only way to reach my neighborhood (short of a taxi ride for which I did not have the money) was to take the bus. This might not sound exactly tragic, but (1) the bus is always slower than the train, as it stops much more frequently (2) it was rush hour as well as a few days before Christmas and the traffic was stop and go, but mostly stop, and (3) the bus cannot come close to accommodating the number of passengers on the train.

Instead of waiting with the masses for the bus that passes directly by the train station, I walked a few blocks to a different bus stop. I hoped that I could avoid a sardine bus and save some time. It would seem that many others had this hope. There were about 20 people waiting for the less obvious bus, which took about 20 minutes to arrive. I shoved myself onto the bus with the others and basically stood on one foot (since there was not enough room for me to put the other one on the floor) for the long crawl through the busy streets of Brooklyn.

I arrived at my apartment at about 6:30 and called my family to let them know that I would be later than expected. After feeding Izzy, I lugged my giant suitcase (full of presents for my family as well as traveling essentials) and Izzy's carrier to the subway. Surely, I thought, the trains must be running again. Surely, the trains could not be shut down in both directions. If something had happened on one track (the rumors circulating said that someone had fallen onto the track and possibly had been injured or killed), it would not prevent trains from travelling in the other direction on a neighboring track. I took the elevator to the platform and was met with yellow tape. No trains. No trains at all in any direction.

I felt like an idiot shoving my way onto a crowded bus with a suitcase and a cat, but I probably didn't feel like as much of an idiot as everyone on the bus thought I was. Maybe the polite thing to do would have been to suck it up and get a cab, but, again, I did not have the money. I would have had to charge it, and that really would have cost me. I suppose I could have waited until the morning and hoped for the best, but then it would have been Christmas Eve and a Saturday. Weekend trains are bad enough, but with the added holiday traffic, I never would have made it. I was really about to cry because if I couldn't make it upstate then, I knew I'd be stuck in the city for the weekend and would be spending Christmas alone.

Luckily, Izzy was an angel on his first ever bus ride and did not complain as he sometimes does in the car. He might have been in shock. I could feel him shivering from the cold. After the longest bus ride of my entire life, we arrived at a place where we could get a train to Manhattan. I was more than happy to make the transfer, and the train wasn't at all crowded. I had no trouble getting on with all my baggage and getting a seat. Then, two teenage girls sitting in the handicap seats started fake sneezing. Had I not been carrying so much, I might have punched them both in the face, but then I would have been arrested for child abuse.

By the time I arrived at Grand Central, I was in a truly abysmal mood, but I was just in time for the 8:30 train, which was excellent. That is the first off-peak train. Therefore, the universe saved me four bucks. Finally, my journey was on its final leg. I was comfortably seated on Metro North with my cat and my bag, heading for my parents' house. I was rather hungry, since I had taken the time to feed Izzy, but not to feed myself and had not eaten since my lunch break at 11am. But I would soon be to the train station where my siblings would collect me and take me to their nearest dining establishment--take-out, of course, since Izzy was in the car.

The train arrived, and I collapsed into Elle's car. I had gotten up at 5am to be to work at 7, had worked 12 hour shifts most of the week and was fading fast. I put Izzy in the back with Kevin, and Kevin took him out of his carrier. Izzy stretched out across the rear defroster and went to sleep, only partially blocking Elle's view out of the back window. At my request, we pulled into the first rest area we saw. We used the bathrooms and came out to find every single food vendor shut down and the place filled with firemen. No nourishment was to be obtained. Clearly, it would have been out of my idiom to be able to just walk into a place that sells food and buy food without the fire department showing up.

As Elle drove up the highway, Kevin and I scanned the road signs for sustenance. We saw nothing. Not an exit, not a gas station, not a McDonalds. Eventually, we passed a picture of a fork and knife on a plate, and Elle took the exit in search of the unspecified food. The road led into the woods. If the sign wasn't lying, it was at least fibbing a little. Perhaps, there was food somewhere in this rural area, but it was not nearly as close to the exit as a picture of a fork and knife might imply. I instructed Elle to turn around and we took a U-turn back towards the highway. By this time, I was not the only one who was hungry. I had been talking about food long enough to make someone who was in the process of eating hungry.

We were getting desperate, and that's when we saw the golden arches. Typically, none of us eat McDonalds, but we needed something. And a big cardboard sleeve of fries sounded delightful. Elle pulled into the drive-thru and we chose are weapons. I paid, since, you know, I had dragged the two of them out in the middle of the night and then complained about how hungry I was for miles and miles. Since Elle was driving, I was in charge of unwrapping an passing her her food. Since I am vastly uncoordinated, I dropped Elle's burger on the floor of the car, and since I don't like to waste food, I pretended that I hadn't. Elle took a bite of the burger and said, "Why is there dirt on this?"

When we got to my parents' house at 1am, I was never so glad to be home.

I Consume: Pretty Polaroid Notes

2011-12-09T23:27:00.001-05:00

The store that I work in is now selling third party "gift items" for the holidays. There are many pretty books and coffee mugs and other forms of kitsch, but I absolutely fell in love with this box of note cards that look like Polaroids. It's such a simple concept. It is a blank card. The front of the card is a snapshot. It's not a terribly original idea. But the cards are so pretty. I was working at the cash register and customer after customer was buying them, and I just couldn't resist. I don't really need these. I have other sets of note cards. But I do not have other note cards like these. The problem is that I don't want to give them up, which is, of course, the purpose of note cards. I will have to really like you to send you one of these cards.

The First Date

2011-12-09T22:56:00.001-05:00

Last week I took that scary, scary step out of my computer box and into New York City. I met someone I've been chatting with on OkCupid. Based on his profile, he seemed to be outgoing and outspoken, perhaps even a frat boy type. I thought I might be a little too awkward and weird for him. But, we liked the same movies, and he seemed to be able to type, spell and converse intelligently. We had some nerdy talks online. I learned that he was in law school, and it was obvious that he was super-academic. He was two years younger than me, which I wasn't thrilled about, but I was willing to work with what came my way. He seemed to be a likable enough guy, and I accepted his invitation to meet in person. I suggested that we meet at a particular Starbucks--one in the middle of the city I knew would be crowded. That seemed safe.

When I met my mystery date in person, who I will from this point further refer to as Brendan because that is his name, my fears about his youth were dispelled. Because Brendan looked old. Not elderly old or weird, too old for me old, but just wow, you're an old looking 22-year-old old. I think this was in large part due to his beard. I do not like beards, and I was not happy that he had one. In none of his online pictures did he have a beard. I posted pictures of myself with long hair, short hair and in between hair because I wouldn't want a guy to meet me expecting my hair to look a certain way. I'm a girl of many hairstyles. You have to know that about me, and you really can't get attached to any particular one. If you're a guy of many forms of facial hair, I feel it's only fair that you warn me.

All that being said, Brendan was very pleasant. And I was clearly wrong about him being the outspoken, frat boy type. He described himself as loud, but he actually seem pretty subdued. I can't say that it was love at first sight, but I would definitely meet him again. If nothing else, I think we'd make good friends. So, so far so good. Which, I guess, is better than expected.

I Consume: Green Fin Wine

2011-11-24T15:26:00.001-05:00

Unable to locate a local retailer of my favorite wine for the holidays, I visited Trader Joe's wine shop in search of a suitable replacement. I read the descriptions posted on five by seven cards below the bottles, searched the labels for something that caught my eye and, of course, glanced at the prices. After much internal debate, I settled on this bottle of Green Fin. I liked its aesthetic, and the wine sounded fruity and delicious. Also, it only cost four dollars. I intended the wine for Thanksgiving, but I thought I'd have a preliminary tasting when I got it home. My sister/ partner in Thanksgiving doesn't drink wine, and I can't (shouldn't) drink the bottle all in one day. I twisted in my corkscrew that looks like a man on a pogo stick and bent down his arms. Half the cork popped out, leaving a torn-off chunk lodged in the bottleneck. I stabbed the corkscrew in a second time, and the cork piece splashed dramatically into the wine, covering my face and sweater in purple droplets. Not deterred, I poured myself a glass. It was dry. My tongue shriveled in my mouth. This wine has not been kind to me, but at least I have a pretty bottle. Also, I find the more you drink of it, it's not that bad.

Ok Cupid

2011-11-06T01:31:00.001-04:00

Remember OkCupid? I joined yesterday. Yes, I know what I said about it. No, I don't take it back. But it's free, okay? I've already had a sort of ridiculous number of messages. It's kind of overwhelming, but so far no one seems like a total weirdo. And now I step into the world on online dating. Oh God.

Occupy Wall Street

2011-11-05T01:21:00.001-04:00

I checked out the goings on in Zuccotti Park for the first time today, and I was impressed. The protesters are so organized and efficient. Despite all the tents and people, the park is clean. There are areas for garbage and compost. There is food and clothing for everyone. There is a library with books organized in plastic bins. There is an alter--a place of worship. There is a power station--yes, a power station!--where people ride bikes to charge batteries.The protesters were playing music and displaying their signs. The park had such a strong, positive feeling. It was amazing to see the cooperation among these autonomous people who have basically set up a mini society in a city park. I think Occupy Wall Street is going to be the start of one of the most important things that will happen in my life time. I have no idea what that "thing" is going to be, but we're surely headed for something big.

I Consume: Essie BBF (Best Boy Friend)

2011-11-05T00:58:00.000-04:00

Ever since I bought Essie's Da Bush, I've been dying to buy another Essie nail polish. They cover so well, and the colors are so pretty. I didn't realize when I bought Da Bush that I was getting such a good deal. I paid three or four dollars for it on the street. When I checked Target for Essie products, they cost ten dollars and the selection was limited. Then today I walked into Walgreens and was greeted by a huge display of Essie polishes. The bottles cost eight dollars each, which is more than I ever spend on nail polish, but all those nail polishes that I've bought for a dollar or two over the years have annoyingly chipped off after a few days. This is the nicest nail polish I've ever owned, and now I understand why some nail polishes cost more. So, I just did it. I've been wanting a pale pink, and it had to be Essie. The problem at Walgreens was actually that there were about ten different pinks that all looked almost exactly the same. After much deliberation, I finally settled on this one. It's called BBF, which it tells me in parenthesis stands for "best boy friend." What does that mean? Will wearing this nail polish get me the best boy friend? I guess I can give it a try.

I Consume: Strand Mug

2011-11-02T12:00:00.000-04:00

Erin gave me this mug because she know what I like: coffee mugs and cheap used books. It's very appropriate that Strand is in a heart. This mug is actually a lot like my Lit House mug. I guess red outside, white inside is standard for literary mugs. I wonder if the white is white enough on this one.

I Consume: Crumbs Mug

2011-11-01T00:24:00.000-04:00

I don't know if I've ever mentioned that the circle is my favorite shape. Maybe that's why I like round things so much because, once again, I love the shape of this mug. I also love the cupcake juggling jester. I can't explain why. I'm just in love with that image. Of course, I'm also in love with Crumbs cupcakes.

I Consume: Honolulu Coffee Co

2011-10-31T00:18:00.000-04:00

When we were in Hawaii for Alexis's wedding, Erin and I spent many a morning at the Honolulu Coffee Co. We made the same face as the woman on the mug. Man, I had such a fantastic time in Hawaii. Even the coffee smelt of paradise.

I Consume: Smart Women Mug

2011-10-30T23:57:00.000-04:00

This mug was given to me as a going away present by a previous employer. I think she was trying to say that it was smart of me to quit that job. It's a little weird that she gave me such a cool mug because I didn't know her that well and she didn't seem like the type. Also, she couldn't possibly have known about my obsession with mugs. Or that I happen to love the retro picture/witty saying dynamic. I think of it as "sassy bitch," which I believe is the name of a company that makes this type of kitsch, if not this particular mug. Anyway, I'm in favor. I also love the shape of this mug (the same as my Lit House mug). It happens to be my favorite mug shape. Yes, I have a favorite mug shape, and this is it. It's the perfect way to display and consume a great big latte. And the perfect size to hold a great big latte.

P.S. If this mug said "Smart women thirst for knowledge and coffee," it would be a zeugma.

I Consume: Starbucks Mug

2011-10-29T12:00:00.000-04:00

Starbucks coffee is so expensive, it hurts a little to purchase it. So here is how this happened: two years ago when I was a student at NYU I had a nighttime class in a building with a Starbucks. That's basically the whole story. I literally had to walk through Starbucks with all its wafting smells to go down the stairs to my class in the basement. On those cold fall nights, with EVERYONE else in class (including Miss Erin) drinking Starbucks, sometimes a chai latte was irresistible. One evening I felt fancy and environmentally friendly, and I ordered my latte in this adorable little mug. I don't use it that much because it's small, but I love the shape and I am a fan of the Starbucks logo. I find it mystical. Simple, clean design. That's what I like.

I Consume: Dunkin' Donuts Mug

2011-10-28T12:00:00.000-04:00

Dunkin' Donuts serves my favorite coffee, so it is only fitting that I should have a Dunkin' Donuts coffee mug in which to drink my coffee. This mug is actually is little small. It's weirdly skinny, and while I appreciate owning coffee mugs in a variety of shapes and sizes and prefer a little deviation from the standard coffee cup model, this mug doesn't hold quite as much coffee as I'd like it to. Still, it's classic, and I'll admit, I love the "America Runs On Duncan" pictograms. I think they're clever.

Fun Fact: One semester my plan for paying my tuition was to win Dunkin' Donuts' doughnut naming contest. True story.

I Consume: Rose O'Neil Literary House Mug

2011-10-27T23:24:00.000-04:00

Ah, nostalgia. This mug is from the Lit House at Washington College, a place where I spent much time. I usually collect mugs from coffee shops, but the Lit House had all the elements of the type of coffee shop I frequent: comfy couches, books and (free) hot beverages. The Lit House logo was new my senior year, and I think it's very cute. It's sort of perfectly simple. I love the red and white, and I was able to buy this mug for a dollar because "the white wasn't white enough." I'm not sure what that means, but it's what I was told. I think the white is just fine.

Hope

2011-10-27T20:39:00.001-04:00

Not many actual events have taken place in my life lately: I work, I sleep, I browse the internet. But a few things have happened that have given me hope that actual events will take place in the future. First, my cousin Rhyannon is amazing. She is a professor, which is really impressive considering she's only 30. At her job, she met a woman who works in textbook sales for a major publishing company. And because she is awesome, she brought up the topic of me. I am now in possession of the woman's contact information, and I have sent her several question-filled emails as well as my cover letter and resume. The woman has been fantastic about replying to my emails with answers to my questions and words of encouragement. It's not an interview, but it's something. At least I'm communicating with someone in the business. After a year of applying to every job opening I could find and never getting more than an automated email in reply, it's incredibly refreshing to be in contact with a real person. Like I said, it's not an interview--it's certainly not a job, but it's something. It's one person who is willing to help me, and that gives me hope.

The other thing that has given me hope is Obama's announcement about his plan to reduce student loan debt. While the plan will certainly not eliminate my debt (particularly to private lenders), it will ease the burden. And that helps. Even if it doesn't totally fix the problem, it's encouraging that someone as important as the president of the United States is listening to people in my situation and taking steps to make a difference. Hope means so much these days.

I'm sure it's partially going back on the Lexapro, but I'm feeling a little more optimistic about life in general. I feel like I'm taking a little step forward even if nothing has actually happened yet. It feels good after being stuck in the same place for so long, and it makes getting up and going to my less-than-ideal job every day a little easier.

I Consume: Paisley Dot Scarf by Gap

2011-10-19T23:09:00.000-04:00

This is the other scarf that I bought at the Gap the other day. Yes, I feel guilty, but surely you can see what drew me in? So swirly and Van Gogh-esc The pretty colors. I was hypnotized. I have a weakness for paisley.

I Consume: Bird Scarf by Gap

2011-10-19T22:42:00.000-04:00

I should absolutely not be spending money, but I fell in love with this scarf, so I thought I might as well just buy it and get it over with. Every time a customer buys something with this birdie pattern I tell them how much I love it (we have it on scarves, shirts, bras and panties; it also comes in purple). It's a popular scarf and we're starting to run out, so I just did it. I bought the scarf. I knew I'd be upset with myself if I let it go. Now I will be upset with myself at the end of the month when I realize I can't make my student loan payment, but really, the scarf will only be a small part of the payment I can't make. If I'm going to be upset either way, I might as well have the scarf now and be happy. And because I am ridiculous and have poor self-control, I also bought another scarf (since I get 50 percent off with my employee discount, I reasoned with myself that I could buy two), but I'll show that one another post. For now, let's revel in this one. I love how the birds look like they're painted on with water colors, and I love the saturation of the blue. I just adore these little hoppy birds, and the fabric is so soft. We won't talk about how I have a million scarves and do not need this and really can't afford it. That's just a side effect of working retail. I love you, bird scarf!

In Which I Give You Too Much Information

2011-10-17T23:52:00.002-04:00

Lately, things have been weird. Going off my medication. The head cold. Not being able to tell what was what. General confusion and crappiness. And I made a good show. Held out until the eleventh hour. But a week ago, I realized that I had a urinary tract infection, something I am by no means unfamiliar with, and I knew I had to seek medical help.

After a very uncomfortable sleepless night last Monday, I arose early Tuesday morning, called out of work and started calling doctors. My internet was down (we ended up having to have a repair person come on Thursday), so I had to resort to the old fashion method of finding things. I opened the phone book to "medical." There was no section for urgent care. In fact, I had never before realized how useless the organization of the phone book really was. I don't need to know what doctor starts with "A," I need to know what doctor takes walk-ins. The phone book would not tell me.

After a few pointless phone calls to doctors who wouldn't take non-patients, my sister gave me a number someone had given her for a health center for the LGBT community. I figured infected straight pee was about the same as infected gay pee and gave them a call. They were willing to help me, but had to verify my insurance. When they had not called back in half an hour, I lost hope. (They ended up calling back around 5pm.)

I set out on foot in search of a doctor. I remembered seeing a nice looking doctor's office near the post office. The receptionist there told me that the doctor did usually take walk-ins, but was not in the office that day. There was only one place I could think to go: the doctor's office where I waited three hours without seeing a doctor a few weeks ago. I was not excited by the option. Not only had I spent three hours in the waiting room to no avail, but the place had seemed dirty and run down--torn wallpaper, stained chairs. But it seemed to be my only chance.

The receptionist remembered me when I asked to be seen by the doctor, and didn't ask me to fill out any paperwork. I told her that I had a urinary tract infection and needed pills. Some doctor's offices don't like when a person comes in and tells them what they have and what they'd like the doctor to do about it, but it seemed to be to my benefit in this case. Although I was fifth on the waiting list, I was almost immediately given a plastic cup by some sort of assistant and sent to the bathroom. When I saw the doctor an hour later, it had already been confirmed that my pee was infected.

The illusive doctor was rather a pompous ass. He said that his patients don't have heart attacks or strokes and live into their nineties, like he can control that. Maybe I was a bit touchy at the time, but I felt like he was trying to make me feel guilty about my medical history or somehow responsible for having frequent urinary tract infections. He did a lot of talking and not much listening, but I didn't care to tell him much. I did feel awful enough to request more Lexapro. Yes, that's right, you can all stop holding your breath. I sucked at being off of the Lexapro and I'm now back on it. But, he drastically reduced my dosage, saying "You're not two hundred pounds." As someone who had met me a total of once, I don't feel like it was at all his place to adjust the dosage I've been on for the last three years, but I was willing to take what I could get.

He gave me a prescription for the infection, and I thought I was good to go, but he then said that I needed lab tests. All the infections I've had before, I have never had lab tests beyond the pee test in the doctor's office that confirms the infection. He said that we had to find out what kind of bacteria was causing the infection even though the treatment is the same regardless, and he needed me to get the tests before I started taking the medication so that we could capture the bacteria. Pointless torture.

I called the lab and made an appointment for early that afternoon, as there was no way I was waiting any longer than that to take the medicine. Luckily, I hadn't eaten anything, opting to head for the doctor's as soon as I woke up. Otherwise, I would have had to wait until the next day. I took the bus to the lab where the phlebotomist took four vials of my blood. I was so dizzy afterwards, I had trouble balancing enough to pee in yet another cup. I stumbled to the bus stop feeling like I was going to die and wondering why the doctor had made me get all of my blood taken out when I was sick and needed it.

I went to Target for my prescription and finally went home. It was late afternoon. I hadn't gotten to rest at all on my sick day. I took the pills and went to bed, but I shortly woke up puking. Because the pills had a terrible effect on my stomach. Whatever the doctor had given me was not what the many other doctors had given me for many other infections, it was some horribly brutal pill I couldn't stomach. I had to call out of work again. This time because I couldn't stop puking. I ate Tums and puked rainbows. Finally, I managed to stuff some bread into my stomach, and I went back to work on Thursday with a stomach ache instead of a head cold.

It's been a freaking weird few weeks. But to answer the burning question, I feel much better. The lower dose to Lexapro seems okay so far, and is a significant improvement on no Lexapro. The head cold seems to have cleared up, and I'm still taking the pills for the infection. After my ten days of pills, I get to take vaginal suppositories, which should be fun. Because, there is the chance that I will get a yeast infection when I finish the pills. I don't understand why. I've never gotten a yeast infection from a urinary tract infection before, but apparently, this time the chances are high. I think this dude just likes to prescribe weird crap. This saga is not over. I'm supposed to have a follow-up visit next month, which I'm going to cancel because I really don't want to see this guy again. Also, no one has ever made me have a follow up visit for an infection before. I get the feeling that he just wants the money from my mom's insurance.

But I guess I've learned that I do need doctors. No matter how much I might hate them. If anyone knows of a good GP in New York City who takes Empire Blue Cross insurance (hooray for being under 26 and still on my mom's insurance), I could use a recommendation.

Venn Diagram

2011-10-09T23:58:00.000-04:00

I feel disgusting.

I Consume: Spotted Sunglasses

2011-10-09T12:00:00.000-04:00

I bought these spotted sunglasses at the Gap (where else) when I crushed my previous pair of sunglasses inside my bag. In my last post I said that I was tough on bags. Okay, I'm also pretty tough on sunglasses. (These previously favorite sunglasses were lost at sea while jet-skiing in Hawaii.) The problem with being tough on sunglasses is that I am absolutely sunglass dependent. I cannot go outside without them or I will die. That's just how it is. So when I forget my sunglasses or lose or break a pair, I have to immediately replace them. This leads to owning a lot of sunglasses, but favoring only one or two pairs. This pair is currently in favor. I think they're chic.

Lucid Moment

2011-10-09T02:01:00.001-04:00

I have to apologize for the whining in my "problem" post. It's true: I do need to get a better job and to make more money and I don't think I have many options or chances, but I was also being a drama queen. I'm not going to die of my current job. I can say that right now because I'm having a clear headed moment. But the fact is that the last few days off of my medication have been to worst. There has been crying on the floor and hyperventilating. My arms are full of fingernail marks that I'm assuming are my own. And yesterday, I felt like I was melting. (I want to make it clear that I said "felt like" not "thought.")

So, I also have to apologize for anything whiny or particularly weird that I might write in the near future. Because not taking medication is turning out to suck a lot, and I'm hoping that it's just my brain adjusting to a lack of chemicals. Although, I have to say, the crying, the marks I don't remember obtaining, all that kind of crap...It's pretty familiar. (The melting is new and completely terrifying.) I'm not saying that I don't have control over what I do or write when I'm not medicated (and interestingly, I do tend to write more when un-medicated). I'm just saying that my perspective can change very quickly when I'm not taking medication. What I'm writing is true, but I see it very differently.

P.S. I pre-wrote a bunch of I Consume posts and scheduled them to post at noon every day so that I would appear interested in normal things. Did you notice?

I Consume: Strand X-Ray Bag

2011-10-08T12:00:00.000-04:00

I bought this bag at The Strand when I realized that all of my other bags were deceased. It's sad but true: R.I.P. my bags. My Bazura Bag (and possibly my favorite bag ever) died of a huge tear in the side, possibly inflicted by my hefty laptop and certainly contributed to by those by gone days of carrying around The Riverside Shakespeare. My lovely goat feed bag suffered from acute fraying of the handle-- a congenital illness, I believe. And my previous Strand bag, featuring a sepia image of the corner of 12th and Broadway, met with its last spin cycle. I am tragically hard on my bags. I went to The Strand in desperation, and it did not disappoint. No one does cheap, durable, canvass bags with more style. I selected this bag over the others because I thought it was a clever concept, loved how the colors popped out of the black background and was weirded out to realize that the x-ray depicted the actual contents of my bag fairly accurately (though I have no tiny horse). This bag has a lot to live up to.

The Problem

2011-10-07T19:01:00.000-04:00

The most pressing problem is that I don't make enough money to cover my expenses. The root of the problem is, of course, that I owe over one hundred thousand dollars in student loans, but the root of the problem cannot be fixed. I cannot take back going to college, so let's not quibble over that. The problem that I need to solve is how to make enough money to cover my student loan payments plus my living expenses. At the moment, I make just about enough to cover my living expenses, but not enough to make my loan payments in addition to that. So, I'm making reduced loan payments. Instead of the one thousand dollars a month I am supposed to pay to eliminate my debt in fifteen years, I am paying about four hundred dollars a month. This is not just all I can afford, it's all I have. This means eating nothing but breakfast cereal I buy only when it's on sale. This is working every minute I'm not sleeping. This is not having a life; it's staying alive.

Soon the time on my reduced payments will run out. I will have to pay the one thousand dollars a month or my wages will be garnished. Every penny that I make will go to my debtors. I will not be able to pay rent, and I will lose my apartment. I will work towards nothing and will be legally obligated to keep my job. My options are to quit now and resign myself to being homeless and in debt for the rest of my life or to find a better paying job before my payments go up. So then there is the other problem.

I realize that if I hadn't gone to college I could have the same job I have now without the extra burden of debt, but the fact is that I did go to college. Having not only a BA, but an MA means that no one wants to hire me. They're afraid they'll have to pay me more or that I won't stick with the job because I'll want to get a job using my degree. Having gone to college makes me effectively unemployable.

The long shot is trying to actually use my degrees, but I 1) have no experience and 2) have no connections. It turns out that college is only helpful if you come from a background of college and money. (The career center at NYU actually told me to use my parent's friends as connections, thus proving the absolute uselessness of career advisers.) You can't make connections if you don't already have connections to introduce you to those connections. You can't get a job unless you have the money to take an unpaid internship during college. You can't get a job without experience and you can't get experience without a job.

I loved college. It was the happiest time of my life, but it was naive if not stupid of me to think that I would ever be anything but working class. But now I'm a working class girl with a masters degree, and that's suicide. That means other working class people hate me because they think I think I'm better than they are. That means I have no class at all. The kids I grew up with have kids by now--nice little minimum wage lives. I don't fit in with them any more. I loved college, but it ruined my chances of ever having a life or happiness or anything but all consuming debt.

I've realized that I don't need to be happy. I don't need to like my job. I don't need to be satisfied with any aspect of my life. Those are lies told to children. But I do need to make money. I need to pay for myself so that I'm not a burden to others. A lot of people have the same problem. A lot of people have the problem much worse, and I'm grateful that I have a job at all. Still, the problem will definitely kill me if I don't solve it.

I Consume: Essie Da Bush

2011-10-07T12:00:00.000-04:00

Apparently, everyone already knows about Essie nail polish, but I just found out. It's not surprising. I've never had a manicure. I'm by no means a connoisseur* of nail polish. I don't wear it often because the chipping drives me around the block. But sometimes I just get the urge to paint me nails, and lately I've had that urge. I've been seeing a lot of women wearing soft, muted colors: pinks and greys--almost pastels, but not Easter-y, and very matte--not shiny like most of the nail polishes I've ever owned. I've been intrigued by this trend. I wanted to join in, but didn't know where to obtain these fascinating colors. Then I encountered a woman selling nail polish on the street--a conglomerate of colors and brands, and I fell in love with this particular bottle. This muted green was so perfect I tried to put it on while I was walking and ended up sitting down in a park to finish painting while a couple got married by a statue of Peter Stuyvesant. The polish turned out not only to be a great color, but to be of excellent quality. It went on quickly and covered well and did not chip in the coming days. And everyone I tell already knows. Well, now I know too, internet, and I'm a fan.

*In trying to spell connoisseur, spell-check suggested that I might want to spell cocksucker. That, I know how to spell.

I Consume: Tasty Gap Lip Gloss

2011-10-06T12:00:00.000-04:00

This lip gloss might look sad and forlorn, but that's because I carry it everywhere and my purse has beaten it up. It's from the Gap. It wouldn't normally occur to me to buy lip gloss at the Gap, but these days it occurs to me to buy a lot of things at the Gap. Unlike last time, I did not buy this lip gloss because of the packaging. It doesn't actually matter why I bought it, in this case. I grabbed it on a total whim. It matters why I love it: its nice rich color, its silky softness and most of all its delicious smell. Sadly, it doesn't seem to wear long. I'm always reapplying it, but then I have to wonder: is that because I'm licking it off?

I Consume: Burgundy Silk Scarf

2011-10-05T22:19:00.000-04:00

Fall is finally here and that means scarves. I'm not sure if you've heard, but I love scarves. This is a silk scarf that my friend Sarah bought for me on her Marco Polo trip on which she visited Japan, China, Vietnam, Thailand and Australia. (I believe she bought it in Vietnam.) She gave it to me back in the summer, and I haven't been able to wear it until now. I love the gold stitching and the iridescence of the fabric. Burgundy is my favorite fall color, and I happen to think that it looks really good on me.

Off the Wagon

2011-10-05T16:51:00.000-04:00

And by wagon, I mean Lexapro.

For those of you who are wondering how it's going, all I can say is so far so good. I've had mood swings and cold sweats. The cold sweats seem to be subsiding, and I believe that they will cease completely as the meds work their way out of my system over the next few weeks. I'm not sure if the mood swings will get better or worse. As of now, I range from happy and content to a strong urge to strange my co-workers. So far, I have been able to reason with myself that I am having a mood swing and have not done anything particularly stupid. In example: I haven't cried in public, and I haven't been fired or hospitalized. These are all good signs, but do not necessarily predict where things are headed. Honestly, I have no idea what will happen next.

P.S. I would like to know the etymology of the idiom "off the wagon." Why does it mean drinking alcohol? Because if you fall off a wagon, you get bruises and broken bones and you have to drink to cope with the pain? I wish I had access to the OED, but alas, I am a college student no longer.

P.P.S. Flailing Idioms.

Cold Turkey

2011-09-27T22:11:00.001-04:00

I have not lived full time with my parents since I was a high school senior lo these many years ago. So it doesn't make much sense that the doctor I consider my primary care physician is located in my home town. I say "consider my primary care physician" because I never actually see this person, but I do call the office once a year to obtain a new prescriptions for my year's worth of meds. The secretary tells me that the doctor will call in the prescription, but that I will need to be seen in the office soon to keep the pills coming. I make an appointment for whenever I'm visiting my parents next, stop by for some blood work and a quick exam, usually with a nurse practitioner, and I'm good for another year. My doctor's office has been advising me for a long time that this was not a good system, that I should have a doctor where I live. Finally, they cut me off. No more meds without coming to see the doctor. I can't say I blame them, but this forced me to seek a new doctor in my area.

I went on the website for my mom's insurance and found the list of doctors who accept it in my area. I called offices and found one that was accepting new patients. I made an appointment a month in advance for a physical to establish myself as a patient and ask for new prescriptions. I took the day off from work. I arrived at the office at 11:45 for my noon appointment. At 1:00, I began to get frustrated, but thought I must be soon. At 1:30, I had been weighed and had my blood pressure taken, but was still waiting. At 2:00, I thought about leaving, but didn't. And at 3:00 I got up and left, informing the receptionist that I would not be rescheduling my appointment.

I could find another doctor on the list. I could call and make an appointment for next month or the month after. I could try this all over again, but I don't think I'd get any different results. This is similar to the experience that I've had at most other medical facilities. The night I went to the emergency room with a fractured elbow, it was 5 hours before I got an ice pack and nearly 8 hours before I saw a doctor. And, since in this case, I don't really need medical attention, it just doesn't seem worth it. I cannot stand it anymore.

I'm giving up doctors. This means I'm also giving up things like Lexapro that I've come to rely on, but I hate relying on chemicals and having to go through this ridiculous process every time I need more chemicals. It was doctors, after all, who told me that I needed Lexapro when I told them that I didn't. I never wanted to take medication, and I'm not sure I ever needed it. I guess we'll find out. I have two pills left and then I'm done. It feels freeing. It makes me want to give up coffee and alcohol and everything alien to my body. But I'll take it one step at a time. This will be the first time since I was about 8 that I haven't had to take any prescriptions. I really don't know what's going to happen. Ideally, nothing.

Writer

2011-09-26T01:45:00.000-04:00

I wasn't the child you probably think I was. I didn't love books. I was not the smart kid in class. I was the kid who never finished anything and therefore never got to play at recess. Reading was laborious and slow. I couldn't find the stories hidden under all the terrible words. So it's strange that I started to write, and it's also not. Because I was a liar. An elaborate liar. My lies were not the wimpy lies of the average seven-year-old; they had body. If you ask Kay, my best friend then as now, I'm sure she will attest. I could lie. My lies were outrageous and unbelievable (except to Kay, who was a particularly gullible seven-year-old and my constant victim). I was always found out, but defeat did not make the lies less dazzling and attractive. I had an innate and often uncontrollable urge to make shit up.

I don't remember when I began to write stories or what my first story was, but I know that I started to write very young. I didn't see the irony of wanting to be a writer while refusing to read the writing of others. Nor did I know the word irony. Writing felt right. It felt easy. When you are blissfully unaware of all rules of punctuation, grammar and spelling, the existence of anything like plot or subject, when all you have to do is pour thoughts through your pencil into your messy two-inch-tall letters and have only a vague aesthetic notion of the paragraph, writing is joy.

For a long time, writing gave me joy. It also made me special. It was something I did that other kids didn't do. In middle and high school my friends passed my notebooks of handwritten stories around the cafeteria. They read and laughed. They wanted more. My high school had no creative writing courses and sub-par English classes at best. There was nothing to kill the ease and pleasure of writing.

College changed that. College put restrictions on writing and made it hard, but the new difficulty of writing only enamored me of it further. Past stories had rotted over time like meat left out of the fridge overnight. After a year or sometimes less, stories had to be thrown in the trash. The new guidelines of college writing provided a preservative for some (but certainly not all) of the stories I wrote in college. College brought structure to the collage of undeveloped, unexplained and often extremely confusing ideas that was my high school writing. Still, I received possitive feedback and encouragement from my peers. Writing was a great trick I could perform.

Now, at 24 years old, I'm not sure writing will ever get me anything but a nice email reply from a close friend. At 12, that's all I wanted from writing. At 22, graduating from college, I felt like one of the smart kids--that kid I never was--because my friends were smart and they were good writers and they approved of me, which made me feel like I was smart and a good writer, someone who could write for a career, rather than an average, not-terribly-smart-but-not-particularly-stupid teenager who could amuse other teenagers with her stories. I felt legitimate and more self-confident than I ever had felt before. I felt hopeful. But hope hasn't gotten me far.

I have applied to every job remotely related to writing that has been posted on the internet in the last two years. This is almost not an exaggeration. My cover letters have started to get unprofessional and sarcastic, but I am 99% sure that no one reads them. I don't write for fun any more. I don't write anything any more. I hardly even write this blog because it seems so pointless. I know that friends will comment on this post and say, "It's not pointless! Keep writing!" But writing is not going to give me a future. The truth is that I am a cashier with over 100 thousand dollars of student loan debt for an education I will probably never use. I think writing is over for me, and I need to stop pursuing it as a career so that maybe one day I can pick it up as a hobby again.

It's been lovely to reminisce, but what now?

Funeral: A Farce

2011-09-08T00:31:00.004-04:00

I had planned to visit Grandma on Tuesday, August 9th and to stay through Thursday the 11th--the day I was also scheduled to take my road test. When Grandma died that Sunday, it was strangely convenient. The funeral wasn't until Wednesday, and I got on the bus that Tuesday morning just like I had planned, only accompanied by my sister Elle instead of alone. We were retrieved from the bus by our cousin Ally, and everything about the day seemed so very typical, like nothing had happened or changed.

At my parents' house we perused boxes of pictures. Ally put together a giant poster with pictures of grandma with all her children and grandchildren, as well as a slideshow of old black and white photographs of grandma in her youth. We went to bed early, and in the morning we got up and put on our nicest black clothes. We were prepared for a proper ceremony--solemn and reverent. My cousin Debby's four children--Grandma's only great-grandchildren--were the most visibly saddened.

We arrived at the funeral home, and stood in a line while mourners greeted us--many people I'd never seen or heard of. I introduced Elle and myself as Dan's kids over and over again. "I'm Aubrey and this is Elle. Dan's kids."

Some said, "Sorry about your grandma," and moved on.

Others paused and pondered. "Aubrey and who? I thought Dan only had one girl?"

"No." I would say. "He has two."

Elle said nothing. Finally, a relative came through the line who I didn't know well but who we had visited enough times throughout my life that she would know how many kids my dad had and of what genders.

"I thought you had two boys and a girl," she said to my mom.

"No, two girls and a boy," my mom said.

"Well, I could have sworn," said the woman, "All these years..."

We said nothing. Grandma's funeral was just not the appropriate time to bring up my sister's transition from male to female to people we sort of knew. All we could do was lie. Then a cousin of my mom's came through the line, a person whose siblings I knew knew Elle had transitioned, a person who I absolutely thought knew about Elle's transition herself. She came up to me and said, "Who is this?"

And thinking that she didn't recognize Elle, I said, "It's Elle."

"Who?" she said.

"Nate?" I almost whispered.

"Oh!" she said, "Oh! Oh!"

"What happened?" asked my mom.

"Nothing," she said, "Nothing."

I thought that she was surprised that Elle looked so different or that she had forgotten all together. Turns out, she didn't know. She didn't know! I never would have said that if I had known that she didn't know.

It was no time to talk anything out. It was time for the ceremony. The minister made it quick, which was much appreciated. He hadn't known grandma, but he had incorporated what he had heard about her into his talk--the she loved to play scrabble. Then he said that she was always gracious, whether in triumph or defeat. Aunt Chris was the only one who dared to laugh out loud, but everyone else was holding it back. First of all, Grandma always won. Because she was a cheater. She made up her own rules that changed as the game went on and everyone else had to follow them. And if someone did manage to beat her, she was mad. She insisted on a rematch. She was an infrequent, yet terrible loser, to set the record straight.

As soon as the minister stopped talking cousin Tim threw his hand up in the air. He was waving a big chunk of rubber and trying to get his parents' attention.

"What happened?" asked my aunt.

"It's my shoe!" said Tim, who is 16--the youngest of all my cousins.

And we all started to laugh. It wasn't appropriate, but we couldn't help it. Everyone saw. The heal of Tim's shoe was totally detached, and he was at an absolute loss for how to handle this happening at a funeral. "We need super-glue," said Ally, and Rhyannon pulled a tube of super-glue out of her purse. Everyone stared at Rhyannon. "What else do you have in there?" asked my mom.

"What if it comes off again while I'm a pallbearer?" Tim asked.

"Leave it!" his mom said.

"Yes," said Ally, "Do not drop grandma to fix your shoe."

Someone had decided that the grandchildren should be the pallbearers. It was only ceremonial, we were told. We only held onto the casket while it was wheeled to the car. Ally, Elle, Tim and I were selected, but when the funeral director looked at the group of us, she announced that we would need more people--there was a little lifting, but just into the hearse and back out again. Where were the rest of the grandchildren? Debby was recruited. At my parents' request, my brother Kevin was skipped over (He was in no mood to be asked any favors). My cousin Eammmon was absent from the ceremony--stuck on the west coast. And, if you completely ignore Rhyannon, which, for some reason, everyone did, those are all of the grandchildren. So Debby's ex-husband and Ally's boyfriend, despite not being grandchildren by blood, were asked to add a little extra man power.

When all was settled, there were seven pallbearers scattered awkwardly around the casket. The funeral director told us where to stand. We placed our hands on the casket, and we wheeled it to the back of the hearse. All at once we lifted, and the coffin tilted dramatically to one side. I'm not going to say whose side it tilted toward, but I'm a bit smaller than my cousins and the funeral director put Elle, who isn't exactly burly, on the same side as me. Everyone gasped and held it in until my aunt said, "Well. She always liked to sleep on her side." That was the kind of funeral we had. When we were carrying the casket to the grave, there was a step up from the road, which I totally missed, and I would have fallen if Ally's boyfriend Doug hadn't given me a little push forward. We did not drop her. Tim's shoe stayed together. And there was laughter. I think it went exactly how my grandma would have wanted it to go.

P.S. I failed the road test, if you were wondering.

PAPER TOWNS

2011-08-29T01:03:00.002-04:00

I read (read: listened to on CD) John Green's Paper Towns while I was home from work for Hurricane Day. Excellent, as usual. But, I disagree with Erin, not better than Looking For Alaska. VERY similar to Looking For Alaska, but not better. It lacks Alaska's sense of tragedy.

Eulogy

2011-08-29T00:02:00.010-04:00

The last time I visited my grandmother, she said, "You're pretty. Who are you?" Better than "You're ugly. What are you doing here?" And I made that my Facebook status the day that she died, or maybe a few days after. Grandma Jane's death was anticipated, prepared for, and, to be honest--to be merciful, really, almost hoped for at the end. She had been in a nursing home for six months, before which she had lived with my parents for ten years.

It had been a long time since she had been healthy, a long time since she had been herself the way I knew her. She suffered from congestive heart failure, a condition in which a person's heart cannot pump fluid out of her lungs fast enough making it difficult for the person to breath until she eventually drowns inside her own body. It's amazing that Grandma lived as long as she did having had part of her lung removed in a Boston hospital as a 19-year-old in 1934. The odds were against her, and it was only in the last few years of her life that she needed to be on oxygen and not until nearly the end that she was confined to a wheel chair.

Not that she was particularly active or healthy. For years doctors told her that a little exercise was good for her, that she needed to walk, to eat better, to lose weight. When I was a child, she walked and bowled on a team, but she stopped doing those things as she got older. And she hated to diet. She was always cheating on diets. There are family pictures of her as a thin young woman, but during my lifetime she was always overweight. She sat and watched TV and read books. She didn't much like to go out except to eat, and although she pretended she didn't, she definitely had a sweet tooth. She had a tendency to step around or sometimes completely ignore doctor's advice.

This is probably why she did not die when she was so sick back in January that the doctors thought she had no more than two weeks to live. She said she didn't want to die in the winter, and she didn't. But, in the summer, when the doctors said that she had surprised them and rallied and did not seem to be in any danger of immediate demise, she insisted that she was dying. She screamed out in pain, despite being fed morphine every two hours.

Visiting her was hard then. Listening to her yell, listening to her delusional rantings--much worse than the confused fog she'd lived in for the last six or seven years. She was ready to be out of pain, and we were at a loss. My parents and my dad's siblings and their spouses had done everything to keep my grandma healthy and comfortable. They had driven her to doctor's appointments, kept her fed and bathed and clothed, spent many nights in the emergency room, argued with her (stubborn as she was about everything) over issues of her own safety. In the end, there was nothing anyone could do, but watch her be in pain, and that was hard because we had failed. And, although we knew it was impossible for anyone to succeed, it was a failure.

The morning on the day my grandma died I was on my way to work when I received a text message from my mom that it might be "the day." I'd heard before that it might be "the month" or "the week," but never the day. I knew that the day was coming, but since I had prepared myself for the day so many times, and she had always gotten better just to get worse again, I had started to believe somewhere in a part of my mind that believes in the impossible, that my grandma would live forever. She was stuck in a cycle of perpetual pain.

I requested text updates and checked my phone as often as I could. The messages were ambiguous. She wasn't better. She wasn't worse. It might be the day. It might not be. Should I come? No, I should stay where I was. I couldn't drop everything and run upstate every time this happened, and it had happened so many times. There was nothing I could do. I should stay where I was. During my last fifteen minute break I called my dad. Yes, I said, I was still at work. No, I wouldn't call him back when I got home. I wanted to know what was happening. Of course, when he didn't immediately tell me, I knew what had happened.

It was a strange feeling. I didn't immediately feel sad. I didn't feel anything. I just thought a lot. I wanted to go home and write. It was the first time I'd thought about writing in a long time, and it was a strange time to think about it. I was at work, I had just found out that my grandma was dead, and I wanted to be typing away at my computer--not crying, not talking, just typing. (Despite that initial impulse, it's taken me weeks to get to this.)

The more I thought about my grandma, the stranger I felt. I couldn't get it through my head that I'd never see her again. We lived in the same house for ten years. She had always been a part of my life. She was the only grandparent who I could say that about. I didn't know my mom's mom--died of cancer when I was an infant. My mom's dad is alive, but I don't see much of him, never really had a relationship with him. My dad's dad had a heart attack when I was barely seven. My memories of him are few and faint, like memories of memories.

Grandma Jane was my grandma--the only one I ever associated with the word. I slept over at her house. We stayed up late and watched Jeopardy and drank soda and I slept in a big full size bed with a blue bedspread and she always said, "Sleep tight. Don't let the bed bugs bite," and it never occurred to me that those words had any meaning. She gave me peppermint patties and brought me to McDonald's. She read me stories on her lap. Taught me how to play songs on the piano I can't remember how to play. Taught me to knit, which I also cannot remember how to do. Always gave me the best presents on my birthday.

I wasn't sad because these things were so far in the past. She hadn't been that person for such a long time. She hadn't been a capable adult for many years. Yet, it was unfathomable that everything she was was gone. Then there was the funeral, but that's another post.

Absent Blogger

2011-07-22T22:13:00.005-04:00

I have been an absolutely terrible blogger this month, and I have little reason for it. I haven't had many hours at work for the last few weeks, so I cannot claim to have been too busy. All I can say is that it's very hot and that I've preferred lying on the floor in front of the fan to activities requiring more energy than rolling over. July has really been a terrible waste.

Elle is now settled into the apartment and working at her new job. Like me, she is working in retail until an opportunity to use her expensive education presents itself. I am becoming increasingly more desperate for that opportunity. While I like my current job alright, which is more than most people can say, I am actively seeking out and applying to jobs more suited to my interests. I don't plan to quit my current job, but I really could use a second job to further my career, not to mention to supplement my income. No luck, as of yet.

So I spend the time when I'm not working or applying to jobs online or attending career fairs melting into a puddle on the apartment floor. Because that's all I can do here. Last week, after visiting my grandma for a few days, I returned to the apartment to find mold. Not just mold in the bathtub and on the bathroom tiles, but on the ceiling, on the coffee table, on my shoes, in the laundry, on Elle's bed (which she had been sleeping in, as she did not accompany me on my short trip). After much scrubbing with bleach, it became apparent that we desperately needed a dehumidifier. My mom was kind enough to provide the funds--$200 for the biggest dehumidifier Target carried (energy star certified, of course).

When I plugged the thing in, it reported the humidity in the apartment as a startling 80 percent, instead of the recommended 40 percent. How had we even been breathing? The machine began to pull buckets of water out of the air, solving our mold problem, but creating a new problem. As the dehumidifier sucks in water, it pumps out hot air. According to the screen on the dehumidifier, the room temperature has not dropped bellow 91 since we've had the contraption.

Today Elle went to Target and purchased a second fan--a fancy, oscillating thing to create a cross breeze with the clunky box fan previous-roomy-Alexis bequeathed to me upon her move cross country. Now we have one appliance blowing hot air into the middle of the apartment and two blowing whatever air they can suck up from either end. The apartment doesn't yet seem to be cooler, but at least there is another place to lie and feel an illusion of comfort.

Perhaps I have not been blogging because I have little to say except that I'm unhappily sticky. I hope your summers are going better.

I Consume: Gap Lip Gloss Ball

2011-07-06T13:48:00.006-04:00

When we got these at the Gap, I thought they were bouncy balls. When I found out that they actually contained lip gloss, I needed one. Perhaps I am too easily amused, but I love the idea of just throwing this into my purse. I was a bit concerned that the lip gloss contained within the ball would be the color of the ball. That would be a problem, as I am not ten years old and would look like a total idiot walking around with bright purple or bright green (or whatever other color I might choose) on my lips.

I contemplated the product for a few days, and then my amazing raspberry Skin Food lip gloss ran out. It was time. I chose the purple ball. Although tinted purple when I wipe my lip gloss dipping finger on a napkin, the lip gloss looks clear and shinny on my lips. I was relieved. And I was in love--not with the lip gloss itself, which is neither particularly good nor particularly bad as far as glosses go, but with the packaging. This is product marketing at its best.

Consolidating Our Resources

2011-07-06T13:38:00.003-04:00

My sister Elle is now officially living with me. The papers have been signed with the landlord, and Elle's things have been unpacked. Good bye living room. Hello financial comfort.

I May Not Be Able To Afford Raspberries...

2011-06-28T22:10:00.002-04:00

But my apples are "extra fancy."

Fractured Elbow Vacation

2011-06-28T21:14:00.011-04:00

[image from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Coney_Island_2010_109.JPG]

Last weekend my sister Elle stayed with me to help me out. While I could do must things (besides work) with my arm all bound up as it was, things like doing dishes had become a bit challenging. (I was really only rinsing them before she came.) Elle arrived on Saturday, and the helping began. Except it didn't. Because as soon as she arrived, we started planning stuff to do. I hadn't seen Elle since Christmas, and I almost never get two days off in a row, so we treated my break from work and her visit as a mini vacation.

Perhaps it would have been a good idea for her to have helped me to do my laundry or to clean my apartment, but we threw those things aside. We went to China Town for some very delicious, very cheap Chinese food. We walked the Brooklyn Bridge at sun set. We walked from Midtown down to Greenwich Village, stopping in Chelsea to do some shopping at Old Navy. We went to Coney Island, walked on the beach where I could not swim (since I couldn't get my arm wet), watched the roller coaster I could not ride in my splint, used the most disgusting rest rooms on the planet, and consumed some mediocre ice cream. I complained about how hot and itchy and smelly my arm was getting. And we actually had a completely fantastic time.

Then on Monday I went to the orthopedist who looked at my x-rays and confirmed that I indeed had a radial fracture. He said that the treatment for a radial fracture was to immobilize the arm for a few days and then to begin exercising it. Since I had already had my arm immobilized for a few days when I saw him, I had pretty much completed the treatment before I had even gotten there. My instructions: start using your left arm to lift things like glasses of water, use the sling if it hurts to leave your arm hanging at your side, do not lift anything heavy. I asked if I could go back to work, and he said yes. So, Tuesday morning Elle headed home and I headed back to work with an itchy rash on my arm from that awful immobilization splint.

Now I can almost straighten my arm, and I'm working on bending it fully. I still can't carry anything very heavy, but I'm working my way up from that glass of water. Basically, I'm totally fine now. The rash has gone away, and things are back to normal. For those five days I was out of work, I had a little bit of summer. The fractured elbow turned out not to be so bad in many senses.

And for those of you who are wondering, I did figure out how to shave my armpits, but I didn't figure out how to do it well.

More John Green

2011-06-27T21:55:00.000-04:00

I read another John Green book. This one is called Will Grayson, Will Grayson, and is co-written with David Levithan, who's work I've never read. It was a good read and definitely addressed the technology issue I had with Looking for Alaska, but it lacked Looking for Alaska's lasting classic brilliance. I didn't feel as connected to this book, but it still gave me a good laugh.

Broken Arm Cam

2011-06-17T21:38:00.001-04:00

Crackberry

2011-06-14T19:41:00.003-04:00

When I switched from my ancient flip phone to my shiny new Blackberry, I really didn't think I needed all of the Blackberry's features. Within a week, things had changed. I needed to be able to check my email at all times. I needed Facebook updates. Without Google Maps on my person, I couldn't find my way out of my apartment. Basically, I had been converted.

The one thing that I don't like about the Blackberry is that I have to charge it every day. Even with WIFI turned off, the battery wears down by the end of the day. My flip phone could last all week without being charged. This has been an ongoing problem with the new phone, but of late it has gotten worse--to the point where I charge my phone in the morning and it's dead by the time I get home from work.

So, on Saturdays morning, I set out for work as I do every morning, but earlier. I had to be to work at 8, when I never start earlier than 10 and often don't start until 2 or later. This was a good thing, I thought, since I was getting out earlier, and I was meeting my friend Sarah after work who was to spend the night with me.

I had told Sarah that I would be out of work at 5, and I had given her the address, but I had never actually said, "Meet me at my work at 5." I assumed that she would be in the area and that I would call her after work. However, when I went on my lunch break around 1, I discovered that my phone, charged only that morning, was already dead (leave home earlier=phone dies earlier). I panicked for a minute, and then borrowed a charger from a co-worker. Crisis averted, or so I thought.

After charging my phone on the borrowed charger for the majority of my hour break, I was able to get it to turn on, but it still didn't seem to be functioning correctly. I sent Sarah a quick text letting her know that my phone wasn't working right and where and when I would meet her. I crossed my fingers that it sent, and I went back to work.

I left work at about 5:15 (I'm not very good at watching my time) and pulled out my phone. The phone was once again dead. This time I really panicked. Why hadn't I written down Sarah's phone number when I had the phone on earlier? Now it wouldn't turn on at all. I looked around for Sarah, but didn't see her. I worried that she either hadn't gotten my message (which, it turns out was the case) or had gotten it, but had left when I was 15 minutes late.

I picked a direction and started walking. I thought, "She's a red head. How hard can it be to find a red head?" But I didn't see her. I went into an electronics store and asked how much a new charger would cost. The price I was quoted seemed unfair, so I kept walking. I looked around for a Verizon store, ready to demand a quick fix, but didn't see one (although, now that I think about it, I must have walked right by one). I popped into the library thinking that I would use the internet to contact Sarah, but then I realized that Sarah probably didn't have access to the internet where ever she was and walked back out. I didn't even know if Sarah had arrived in the city. Maybe something happened. Maybe she didn't even come.

I walked back towards work. I didn't know what to do. I had the idea to use a pay phone. I went into Duane Read and bought some pretzels so that I could get cash back from my debit card. I asked for quarters. Then I left the store in search of a pay phone. The first three pay phone blocks I found didn't work. When I finally found a phone with a dial tone, I remembered that I didn't know Sarah's number. So, I dialed the only number I knew--my mom's. As the phone rang, I developed a plan in my head: I would give my mom the password to my Facebook account on which Sarah had sent me a message including her phone number, my mom would get the number, she would call Sarah, and she would give her directions to my location. The phone rang and rang. I used four quarters. My mom did not answer the phone, nor did the answering machine pick up. I was being ignored because I was a pay phone. I felt 10 again, calling from the pay phone at the public pool, wanting to be picked up instead of waiting for the bus that wasn't for another hour (like I was supposed to), and being completely ignored.

I did not know what to do. I decided that I would walk back to work, sit out front, and wait. I would wait for hours. I would wait forever. I would wait because it wasn't in my power to do anything else. Then there she was. I held out my arms as I ran across the street to her. She had been waiting for an hour. "Why didn't you answer your phone?!" she screamed. Apparently, she had gone inside when I hadn't come out after 15 minutes, but had been there the whole time. I felt like an idiot and a terrible friend. She was worried she had no place to stay in New York City, and had contacted other people to make other plans, but called to cancel them when I arrived. I treated her to dinner at a Korean restaurant. I owed her.

Had I not relied so much on my phone working and just agreed to meet Sarah in a certain place at a certain time, this never would have happened. There was no reason for her to have to stand out there all that time other than that I freaked out when my phone didn't work. I need to reevaluate the way I live my life. Then I need to visit the Verizon store. There is obviously something wrong with my battery.

John Green's LOOKING FOR ALASKA

2011-06-06T00:34:00.004-04:00

Ever since I spent that week at Erin's house back in January I've been hooked on the Vlog Brothers, Hank and John Green, and their vlogging community Nerfighteria. The brothers alternate posting videos: one day Hank posts a video to John; the next day John posts a video to Hank. But, though they address one another, they are speaking to the whole community they've built, to all of the Nerfighters watching out there in Nerdfighteria. It might sound silly, but their videos discuss a huge variety of topics in an intelligent, insightful and entertaining way.

Having immersed myself in Nerfighteria, I'm interested in what else these two do. There are a variety of other websites associated with Nerdfighteria. It seems that Hank and John Green are involved in a little bit of everything, from charitable organizations to gaming (which I'm not really interested in) to producing music. And, John Green writes YA novels, so when I found myself at the Brooklyn Library without an adult fiction section to turn to (see last post), it seemed like the appropriate time to check out a John Green book.

The book I didn't really chose, but ended up with because it was the only John Green book the library had (on CD, no less) is called Looking for Alaska. It did not disappoint. It was full of the teenage angst and suffering I love to read about because it's so completely true--the kind of book that is incredibly relevant to teenage life, but that teen's parents don't want them to read. It has exactly the right amount mischief and emotion.

But, it also has the thing that YA novels often lack: beautiful writing. It's true of much popular fiction, but it's especially true of YA fiction. It's often all story and no writing. This book is written. The language is eloquent and full of meaning without being too heavy or academic for the words to belong to teenagers.

The book is hilarious and devastating, and I'm purposely not saying anything about the plot because you should read it. I didn't know what the book was about when I began, and I was shocked in the best possible way (although I totally cried my face off).

The one problem I had with the book was the space time continuum. The book was published in 2006, but I thought that it must be set in the mid 1990s. Because the characters are high school juniors with no cell phones. Green briefly mentions that the boarding school where they live does not allow cell phones, but the characters are able to obtain and conceal other forms of contraband (cigarettes, alcohol, porn...), so what is preventing them from having a phone? They use a pay phone. Aren't those extinct? I just cannot believe that not one of these kids has a hidden phone. The girl with the off-campus boyfriend she's always going to see? If it's 2006, that girl has a phone. Not one text message is sent in the whole book. The characters briefly use the computer to write some papers and surf the net a little, but they're not online nearly enough. None of these people have Facebook?

I knew it couldn't be 2006, so I was trying to figure out exactly what year it was when the internet existed, but wasn't such a huge part of socialization and when some people had cell phones but not everyone and they weren't essential enough to be worth hiding. Then a character was described as wearing corduroy pants, and I remembered when I wore corduroy pants. I was in 3rd grade, and it was 1995. And I was content with my theory that the book, full of timeless teen drama, took place in 1995, despite being published in 2006. Then Green gave some years, and I found out that these characters were born in the early 90s, and the novel therefore, was presumably meant to take place in about 2006. In a 2006 where teenagers where corduroy pants and use pay phones. I graduated from high school in 2005, and I think that I can safely say that that 2006 exists only in John Green's mind.

That being said, it didn't wreck the book for me. It just confused me for a while. It doesn't make the writing less brilliant or the story less true. I'm still going to read everything this dude has written. (Erin says Paper Towns is even better.)

A Ride In The Park

2011-06-04T23:02:00.004-04:00

One thing that I was really excited about when I moved into my current apartment was that there was room for my bike. I received my blue beach cruiser with its big white basket, white fenders and white wall tires as a 21st birthday present from my parents, after the purple mountain bike I'd been riding for years literally crumbled to pieces. The switch was made. My parents delivered my pretty new bike to Maryland where I was then in school (I honestly do not remember what happened to the old bike), and I rode it everywhere. Then I moved to Brooklyn, where my bike would have come in handy, but where I had absolutely no room for it in my apartment. Then I went to Korea, leaving my bike and Isador with my parents (they preferred the bike). So, when I came back from Korea, I really needed to take my stuff back, and the thing I missed most--other than Isador, although, he's not really a "thing" or "stuff"--was my bike.

In this apartment, I was finally able to have it back. But I never have time to ride it. It's not like Maryland, where I rode my bike as a means of transportation. A bike is just not as effective as the subway or a bus, and there are people and cars that one is encouraged not to hit. When I brought my bike to the city, biking became a hobby rather than a lifestyle. I'm okay with that, but I don't have much time for hobbies. Now I have to plan out time for biking like I sometimes plan out time for writing, and honestly, when I have a day off, I usually just want to sleep. Or else I have to spend the day grocery shopping and going to the laundry mat.

But Thursday was the day. I had it planned out in my mind. Since my two days off last week were Tuesday and Thursday, I decided that Tuesday would be chore day, and Thursday would be bike day, weather cooperating. So Thursday arrived, and I got my bike out of the staircase I store it in. I hadn't seen it in a while, and the tires were flat. This was to be expected after letting it sit unused, and I had a bike pump--or so I thought. It turned out that what I had only looked like a bike pump, but was actually a worthless piece of crap. My dad had given it to me, and I had never tested it. Apparently, he hadn't either. Because when I hooked the pump up to my tire and gave it a squeeze, it let out a tiny puff of air like an emphysemic spitting on a birthday cake. I would have been better off waiting for the air in the room to flow into the tire than trying to use this so-called pump. Luckily, I live just blocks from Target, where the good sales people sold me a device that looks suspiciously similar to the thing my dad gave me, but acts entirely differently.

After inflating my tires and nearly crushing myself pushing the bike up the steep narrow staircase leading out of my apartment, I set off riding toward Prospect Park. It felt strangely unfamiliar. It had been so long. I had carefully mapped out my route to the park so that I would stay on roads with designated bike lanes. The haphazard wandering could commence once I arrived at the park, when I would let myself explore unknown trails. Until then, I would try not to get hit by cars and also not to hit them.

I think I made it about half way to the park when I had to stop because 1. I was trying to follow directions that were on my phone, 2. There were pedestrians and traffic and too much going on for me--uncoordinated as I am--to safely ride a bike. (I do wear a helmet, by the way. A guy yelled at me, "Safety first!" I refrained from flipping him off.) ,and 3. My butt hurt. So, I walked the rest of the way to the park, where I sat and read for a while before riding the trails. I rode around and around the lake. There were so many people doing so many different things, despite its being a weekday afternoon--fishing, barbecuing, running, horseback riding, biking, walking, reading, sleeping...

There were many signs posted in both English and Espanol warning of thin ice. I think I'm against this. If you think you're going ice skating in June, I say survival of the fittest. There were also many signs instructing park goers not to feed the waterfowl, but I believe it should have read "Beware of attack swans." I was on a bike, but if I hadn't been, I could have been swan food. Those things gang up on you. There were no signs that read "No teenagers smoking joints in the woods," but maybe the new law that says you can't smoke in the park only applies to tobacco.

After I rode around the lake, I decided to ride up to the North end of the park. I made the excuse that I needed to go to the library located there, but this was a strategic move--I live closer to the South end of the park, but the subway is closer to the North end of the park. It would be lame to take my bike home on the subway, but what if it was just too convenient to pass up? I had been in the library near the park before, but I didn't actually have a card. I only had a card for NYPL, in Manhattan. I had never borrowed a book from the Brooklyn library system. It seemed like the right time. So, I went to the library, got a card, wandered around, and realized that there was no fiction section. I inquired about this, and learned that it was closed for renovation. I couldn't let my trip be an entire failure (as well as a pretense for taking the subway), so I decided to utilize the library's impressive children's section and borrow a YA novel. They only had the one I wanted on CD. It seemed like the lazy way out, but I took it.

So, yes, I took my bike home on the subway, I listened to a novel written for teenagers on CD, and I had an awesome time. Judge me, if you want. I love the park.

Lunch in the Park

2011-05-29T23:59:00.001-04:00

[A little girl runs about chasing a pigeon.]

Little Girl: Birdy! Birdy! Here birdy! Come here birdy!

Little Girl's Dad: What kind of bird is that?

Little Girl: Eagle.

Our national bird.

I Consume: City Flats

2011-05-23T23:00:00.003-04:00

Today marks my first Gap purchase as a Gap employee. I've been very good about not spending the money I make at the Gap on things at the Gap (although I get a pretty sweet discount). I've almost bought two things (two dresses that didn't fit correctly: this one and this one). Thus far the universe has intervened and prevented me from spending money.

Today it was meant to be, and the universe gave me permission to buy city flats. I realize this is backwards, but the customers sold them to me. So many people have told me how much they love these shoes. Women come in who already own a pair and want to buy them in four more colors. Every day people ask me if we sell "those flats that go in the bag" that they've heard about.

Now I have mine in a minty shade of green. I love the ballet inspired style. They're literally ballet slippers with split rubber soles. So, when people say that they feel just like wearing slippers to work, that's because they are slippers. But they're also shoes.

They're versatile.

I Consume: Korea Starbucks Mug

2011-05-22T22:10:00.012-04:00

One of the things that struck me upon my arrival in Korea last fall was that it looked just like New York City--American fast food chains and stores stretched down the street in all their glory. I had somehow flown halfway around the world and landed in the same place--some sort of problem with the space-time continuum.

Insadong was different. It was one area of Seoul that had maintained its "Koreaness." The names of shops that sold ink brushes and scrolls were spelled out in Hangul instead of the Germanic alphabet. There was no English to be found. The West seemed to have left Insadong as a haven in Seoul, like it left Central Park a green space in Manhattan. It didn't match the rest of the city, but it was necessary.

Yet, there was a Starbucks. Starbucks was a common enough sight in Seoul, but in Insadong, it made no sense. Nothing could be more un-Korean than Starbucks. The Starbucks was clearly self-soncious. Unlike the other Starbucks all over the city marked by signs reading "Starbucks," the Insadong Starbucks wore a sign reading "스타벅스 커피," which is "Starbucks Coffee" sounded out in Hangul.

It seemed wrong, but I bought the mug. I had to.

The Right Kind of Guy

2011-05-20T16:35:00.010-04:00

I'm 24, and people are worried. I don't have a significant other, and it's nearly too late. Friends and family ask me my reasons and demand explanations. Some let me know that it's okay with them if I'm a lesbian. The answer I've been giving people lately is that I just haven't met "the right kind of guy." People nod as though they understand, but I don't think I understand, exactly. What is, "the right kind of guy"?

I used to think that boys weren't attracted to me--and maybe they weren't, but if that was true before, it isn't true now. I'm often complimented on my eyes or my hair or my clothes or my eyeshadow, and I'm often hit on. But the men who hit on me, for whatever reason, are definitely NOT the right kind of guys. Men approach me on the street and ask for my number, and since I would never ask a guy on the street for his number (or give my number to a guy on the street), I don't think our personalities would mesh. Plus, these men don't know anything about me. I'm just a female walking by, and that's enough. These are clearly not grounds on which to build a sustainable relationship.

Men on the street say awkward things to me. When I told one man that I didn't give my number to people I didn't know, he explained to me that women usually get raped and murdered by people they do know (such as boyfriends and husbands), so since I didn't know him, it was less likely that he would kill me. I took the opportunity to say that in that case, I had better not get to know him and turn him into a criminal.

The men who hit on me are crazy. I cannot do my laundry without a proposal of marriage. I'm folding my panties and men come up to me and say things like: "I see you're not wearing a ring, could I marry you?" True, I'm not wearing a ring. What am I wearing? Well, it's laundry day, so I'm wearing my crappiest jeans and a hoody. I have no make-up on, I'm wearing my glasses, my hair is ruffled, and I'm sipping coffee out of a tumbler with a broken handle. Apparently, men find this irresistible.

One guy told me that he had three houses: one in Rhode Island, one in New York City, and one I don't remember where. He said he'd never been to a laundry mat before. He had only come to this one because of his friend who needed to do laundry. (Apparently his friend did not have three houses or a washing machine). The friend encouraged the young man to get my number, as the man offered to take care of me and teach me to drive. I declined, explaining that I never went to Rhode Island.

Another man followed me about a block from the laundry mat before I noticed him. He said that he didn't want to bother me while I was doing my laundry, but he thought maybe he'd walk me home. I told him that I'd gone home many times, and was confident that I could make it on my own. He told me that he worked at Target, and would like to meet me under different circumstances. I suggested that I might well see him under different circumstances: he would be working at Target and I would be shopping. I haven't run into him again.

I did run into one man I met at the laundry mat a second time. I was taking the train to work and a man kept winking at me. I sort of nodded and continued to read my book. When we were getting off the train, the man said, "Don't you remember me from the laundry mat?" No, I did not, but I said, "Oh yes, of course."

Most of the men who talk to me are young and black. I think that younger guys hit on me because I look their age. That can't be helped, but why black guys are attracted to me, I cannot explain. People often ask me if I'm European, maybe Polish or Irish or maybe I'm Russian. They just can't seem to believe that I'm American. They tell me that I don't sound like I'm from New York or that I have an accent or that I don't dress like an American or that I have a European bone structure or that my hairstyle looks Russian (what?). Maybe these guys are attracted to make faux exoticism? The truth is that I'm not really attracted to black guys. It's not that I wouldn't consider dating a particular black guy, it's just a general sort of preference.

So, I'm not sure at all what the right kind of guy is, but I can tell you that the guys I tend to meet are not it. And I guess that's my excuse for not dating anyone. Most of my friends are paired up, but I'm sure I'm not the only one with this problem. I'd like to hear about your creepers, if you have stories.

I Consume: Rosary Bracelet and Pouch

2011-05-13T21:38:00.010-04:00

When I was in Korea last fall and didn't plan to be home for the holidays, my grandma sent me an early Christmas present: a blazer from LL Bean. It was a nice green wool blazer with leather buttons--very professional and grown up. The one problem with it was that it was enormous. As a size 4 petite, the jacket theoretically should not have been so big on me, but apparently LL Bean believes in boosting self confidence by making women think that they are ten sizes smaller than they actually are. I went on the LL Bean website and found the jacket. I saw that my grandma had paid a lot of money for it, which made me both sad and determined to make the jacket work. However, a 4 petite was not only the smallest size the store carried in that particular jacket, it was the smallest size they carried in any jacket, or anything else for that matter. I tried the children's section, worried that the items wouldn't fit my curves quite right, but realizing that it was my only choice if I didn't want to wear a tent. However, the children's section was not one of those where everything is the same as the women's section only smaller; it was decidedly childish.

I was disappointed, but then someone told me that it was inexpensive to get clothing tailored in Korea (compared to in the United States). So, I set off for a tailor recommended by a friend. When I put on the jacket, the tailor looked skeptical. He said that it was so big that it would need to be completely taken apart and reassembled. In short, it would be a lot of work, and the price he quoted me was nearly as much as the jacket was worth and more than enough to give up and buy a jacket that fit. Then a friend offered me one last option: a woman her family knew from church took in sewing. This woman, my friend assured me, would give me a very good price to tailor my jacket.

My friend accompanied me to the home of a woman more than old enough to be my mother, but too young to be my grandmother, who invited us into her sparsely furnised apartment. The woman spoke no English and I spoke no Korean, so my friend did most of the talking as the woman led us into her sewing room where she expressed that I should put on the jacket. She measured and pinned and finally quoted my friend a price nearly a quarter of what the tailor had asked, to which I quickly agreed. I assumed our business was done and was happy to leave the jacket in the woman's hands, when my friend told me that we would stay for tea.

I awkwardly sat down at the table with my friend while the woman prepared peeled apple slices on a plate with little forks and three cups of green tea (I was glad when I tasted it and found that it wasn't barley tea, which was perhaps the most awful thing I tasted in Korea). My friend and I talked to the woman about her family and about me and my stay in Korea (with the help of my friend's translations and a lot of hand gestures.) Then the woman went back into her sewing room and returned with what I thought were two little triangular change purses.

My friend told me that they were actually pouches for rosaries that. The woman sewed them and gave them out at church, and these two covered in purple flowers were for us. I thanked the woman and started to put the pouch away in my bag, but my friend told me that the woman wanted us to put our rosaries in them. Although I was raised Catholic and have a rosary at home (my maternal grandmother's), I don't think I've ever carried one. I remember my church school teacher handing out glow-in-the dark rosaries which she encouraged us to carry. I also remember trying to see if I could make it glow brighter by looping it around the lampshade to "charge it." And I remember how it melted to the lampshade and how I got in trouble. Honestly, I don't even know all of the prayers included in a rosary.

When I expressed to the woman that I didn't have a rosary on me (my friend didn't either, by the way), she went to a drawer and took out a pretty rosary bracelet like I had never seen made of orange glass beads. At first I thought she was showing it to me, but my friend told me that she was giving it to me. For some reason, that made me really sad. I didn't want to take the rosary bracelet from this woman who obviously thought a great deal of it, but it would have been rude to refuse it. So, I took the rosary and zipped it in its little pouch. I wanted to give the woman something in return--something meaningful. I went back to my apartment and the best I could do was an I Love New York mug. I wrapped it up and sent it to the woman via my friend. Somehow, it didn't seem to measure up.

Now that I'm back in the states, I keep the rosary in my jewelry box with my grandmother's.

The Steps of My Day

2011-05-13T21:14:00.005-04:00

Step 1: My alarm sounds.

Step 2: I hit snooze.

Step 3: I repeat steps one and two an indefinite number of times.

Step 4: I finally slide out of bed and ready myself for work as quickly as I can.

Step 5: Hopefully, I feed the cat and remember to grab something for myself as I run out to catch the train.

Step 6: I work for an indefinite amount of time.

Step 7: I wait for trains that have been delayed for various reasons. I try to get a seat on the belated train so I can read without tipping over.

Step 8: I put on my pj's and sit down at my computer to find out what dumbass thing has gone wrong with my finances.

Step 9: I call a 1-800 number and argue with various people for an indefinite amount of time.

Step 10: I fall asleep with the cat on my pillow and my head next to the pillow.

I like my job well enough, and I'm glad that I'm getting hours (read: I need the money). But no matter how many hours I get, my pay is too low for me to realistically live on, let alone make my student loan payments. I have to get a better job. I have to start writing again. I have to do something besides work and sleep. I've been stressed because off a situation with my bank account that would not allow me to pay my bills and would not receive my direct deposit from work, effectively freezing my account and screwing me over with my debtors through no fault of my own. I think it's better now, but I've become incredibly paranoid about my finances.

Blog readers, I apologize, but this is my life right now. My biggest accomplishment in the last month is making soup.

I Consume: Met Magnets

2011-05-01T23:02:00.006-04:00

A friend who was moving and apparently unable to take these magnets from the Metropolitan Museum of Art asked me if I wanted them. Little did she know that every time I go to the Met, I check out the magnets in the gift shop (I'm quite found of the Degas that come in little square glass bubble form). Now I have a world of art on my fridge. I think the Renoir girls are my favorite. I like 19th century portraiture; it makes me want to learn to play the piano.

Elle

2011-04-27T19:08:00.001-04:00

There is a film about my sister Elle featured on this website. The name of the film is "Elle." Please go watch it, and vote for it if you want to!

http://sony.mardenkane.com/voting_splash.cfm

I Consume: Clear Plastic Elephant

2011-04-19T22:24:00.004-04:00

I never knew my maternal grandmother, but I know that she loved elephants. She collected them, and her collection has long outlived her. I don't know how I came to have this little guy, but I think he must have belonged to my grandmother. Probably, my mother gave him to me when I was a child. Miraculously, he's never been damaged, and I still have him on my dresser. He's somehow managed to move with me from place to place. I imagine it's tiring for him. I think he must be a very old elephant. He's only plastic, but I'm fond of the way his angles catch the light.

I Consume: New Technology

2011-04-18T17:00:00.021-04:00

I am absolutely not someone who owns the latest technology. It's not because I don't like change. It's not because I don't care about having the latest thing. It's because I don't have the money to keep up with technology. That new whatever-it-is is probably on my list, but it's under rent and food and a few other things, and honestly, it's probably not going to happen. So, I make do with what I have because the technology, while a bit prehistoric, serves its purpose.

That was true until very recently. Until two or three weeks ago, the most up-to-date gadget I owned was my Kindle--now a couple of years old, and that had been given to me for a very unexpected Christmas present. But, within the last month, a lot of new things have come into my life: two new jobs, a new haircut, a new apartment, and some new technology. I had had my flip phone since high school, and was prepared to hang onto it for the rest of my life. I'll grant you: it was lame. It didn't even have a camera, which I think is standard on even the most basic phones now produced. The phone made phone calls, and occasionally (when it was in the mood), sent and received text messages. It was basically okay. But then a chunk of plastic broke off of the hinge, and suddenly the two parts of the phone were only attached on one side. That made me nervous because I don't have a land-line (nor do I want one). This was my one and only phone. What would I do if it just stopped working?

I was going to get my number switched to my mom's old phone--the same phone I already had, but in better condition. She had a new phone and didn't want it. But on our way to the Verizon store (from my road test, which I hadn't been able to take because the car hadn't been inspected), my mom asked if I wanted her to buy me a new phone. I said no, of course. I didn't want her to buy me a new phone when she could just give me her old phone. So, we walked into the Verizon store, my mom feeling bad about my not being able to take my road test and me feeling like she shouldn't be spending money on me, and the man at the Verizon store said, "You have so many free upgrades coming, you could get a Blackberry for twenty bucks." "Is that the kind of phone where she gets the internet and can look at the train schedules?" My mom asked. "Yes," he said, "It has an unlimited data plan." So that was that. All I had to do was pick black or pink: of course I picked pink. And, while I never thought I needed a smart phone, I now cannot imagine life without having access to my e-mail, the weather, and a GPS application at all times. And how on earth did anyone ever text before full key boards. I'm now a full Blackberry convert.

But that's not all of the new technology I've recently acquired. I also have a brand new I Pod Nano--the touch screen kind, and once again, I did not buy it or expect to get it. I've wanted an I Pod for countless years, but it was just never in my budget. I bought my first MP3 player sophomore year of college when it just became too embarrassing to use a Disk Man, but it was a cheap MP3 player with the capacity to hold about six CDs and poor sound quality. Since I bought it however-many-years ago, the paint has warn off, and it's overall appearance and performance can only be described as craptastic.

I was having a conversation about this with a girl (Dani) who I met at NYU and who was staying with me for a bit while she was in between living situations, and she said, "Oh, would you like this I Pod," pulling out the green I Pod Nano, still in it's original packaging. I was very confused about why she wanted to give me an I Pod, but she explained that her I Pod had broken and both her cousin/roommate and her parents had given her new I Pods for Christmas. The one from her parents was nicer, so she never even opened the one from her cousin, and just happened to be carrying it around. I asked her if she was sure she didn't want to give it to a family member or close friend, but she said that she wanted to give me something for letting her stay with me (I had previously suggested that some groceries would be suitable), and she gave me the I Pod. It was way more than I ever would have imagined asking for, but I'm excited to have it.

The one small problem was that my elderly computer had given up on I Tunes several years back--refusing to install the latest update, but not allowing the older version to play either. On the off chance that things had changed, I went to the I Tunes website and found that I was able to install a version of I Tunes specifically for older computers, and to my surprise my computer cooperated in uploading my CDs and syncing them to my I Pod.

To listen to my new I Pod, I have these fantastic purple Skullcandy earphones. I wouldn't have bought them, if I had known that I was getting an I Pod, which, of course, comes with it's own earphones. However, after a parade of broken dollar store earphones, I recently purchased these at my brother's encouragement. My previous attitude had been why buy ten dollar earphones, when I could buy one dollar earphones? It took me perhaps longer than it should have to learn that it was because the one dollar ear phones didn't sound good and broke often. So, it didn't seem unreasonable to shell out ten dollars on better quality earphones that would last longer, and I was assured that these were the earphones to buy. Even though I didn't technically need to buy them, since I only used them a few times before receiving the I Pod with it's I Pod earphones (which I will save for backup), I now feel that I'm putting them to much better use than I was with my ultra-lame MP3 player.

I'm moving up in the world.

I Consume: Kitchen Island

2011-04-17T20:37:00.009-04:00

When my parents asked if I needed anything for my new apartment, I said: counter space. Because I've lived in so many different apartments now (two in the U.S. before this one, and one overseas), that I've accumulated just about everything an apartment dweller needs. Counter space, however, is not something one typically accumulates, and it was one thing this apartment severely lacked. So this kitchen "island" came from K-Mart. It's a little beached in my kitchen, but serves its purpose: a place to put my new pink coffee maker and blender (since all of my kitchen's built in counter space is taken up my my drying rack and toaster) and a place to prepare food. It also has a great place to display my tea set, and, for now, a suitable place for my recycling (although I'd like to find a more aesthetically pleasing solution to that). This feels like a very adult piece of furniture to own--far more mature than a futon. I think it's a real step forward.

P.S. I'm still waiting for the microwave fairy to return from Hawaii and take the bus from Maryland to deliver a microwave to my New York City island.

The Tour

2011-04-17T20:09:00.007-04:00

You've seen the apartment pre-move in. Here it is after two weeks of being lived in.

Here is my welcoming front door. It's welcoming if you're 5 feet tall. If you're 5 and a half feet tall it's more like "do-able." If you're 6 feet tall it poses a challenge. But, to me: welcoming.

Here is my cozy living room.

And here, it is from a different, but equally cozy angle.

This is where my living room begins to become my kitchen. I know you think it's classy how I'm using an empty kitty litter pale for my recyclables.

This is unquestionably my kitchen, and not my living room. Though such things can be difficult to distinguish in a studio apartment.

But, wait, my kitchen is also my hallway.

This is my bedroom. Thus, the bed.

And, this is the other side of my bedroom--my fabulous built ins now filled with books. (That door is an extra exit/fire exit. Unfortunately, it is not a closet.)

The tiny bathroom is still tiny.

But now it has a shower curtain.

And a bath mat (courtesy of Dani who staid at my place for two weeks but, has gone now).

This room is my office, closet, and cat room. The office corner:

The closet corner:

The kitty corner:

And that's my space. Comfy, right?

Fall Into The Gap

2011-04-16T20:58:00.002-04:00

The second interview at Gap went well, and I am once again employed. I start training on Wednesday.

I Consume: Pink Appliances By Sunbeam

2011-04-15T19:04:00.015-04:00

Sometime during the summer, when I thought I was going to be in Korea for Christmas, I found this pink coffee maker and pink blender at Target on sale for $18 each. I announced that I wanted them for Christmas. I've never owned a coffee maker, but have always lived with coffee-maker-owning roommates or used my little travel French press, and I have never owned a blender, but have often spoke of my desire to own one and have come very close to purchasing them in the past. So when I came across both the appliances my life was lacking for a great price and in a cheerful shade of pink, I couldn't pass them up. My parents purchased them for me for an early Christmas present to be used upon my return to the United States in my next American apartment.

I returned to the states much earlier than anticipated--in time for Christmas, and knowing that these two items were packed away in my parents' basement for my future use made a happy Christmas indeed. I thought about digging them out and opening them, but my parents have both a coffee maker and a blender. It would have been ridiculous for me to insist on using my own, and I wasn't about to dig through the basement just to look at my appliances. So, they sat. But now that I've finally gotten back into my own place, they are in their glory, matching on my kitchen island. My favorite thing about the coffee maker (other than its being pink) is that it has a timer, meaning that I can load it up with raspberry mocha before I go to bed and awake to its scent, already brewing when my alarm goes off. I actually haven't used the blender yet, but I will. A milkshake? A pesto? Something fruity involving crushed ice and rum? The possibilities are endless and tasty.

Jobmore

2011-04-15T15:03:00.002-04:00

Monday: last day of work at old job

Tuesday: visit career center at NYU, make phone calls

Wednesday: spend whole day applying to jobs online

Thursday: attend job fair, interview at Gap

Friday: receive call back from Gap, receive paycheck from old job

Saturday: be at Gap at 11:30 for second interview, maybe start training?

If tomorrow works out (and I don't see why it wouldn't), I'll only have spent four days without a job. Not bad if I do say so.

I Consume: Vitafusion Raspberry Flavored Gummy Vitamins For Adults

2011-04-13T15:01:00.007-04:00

I was picking up a few essentials at Target the other day when these vitamins caught my eye. At the time, I was still employed and worried about getting sick from standing outside all day. My bottle of Up and Up brand (comparable to, but cheaper than One A Day) women's multi-vitamin was near the bottom, and I intended to pick up more of the same. But, perhaps because I was hungry, these raspberry gummies sounded delicious.

My doctor once reprimanded me for taking chewable Flintstones vitamins. He said that, while they might be tasty, they were not providing me the the proper nutrients required by a grown woman (as they're made for pre-schoolers). These vitamins, however, advertise that they are for adults; not for children and okay for adults, but specifically for adults. There was an assortment of flavors and specific nutritional needs, all for adults, and I selected the one labelled energy--something I often lack.

I once tried an "energy" version of One A Day for Women, which did nothing for my energy, and, as it turned out (when I read the label), was full of caffeine. So, it was basically like taking a little extra coffee with my vitamin. These new vitamins, however, do not appear to contain caffeine, but claim that the vitamin B12 will give me energy. I've been telling my doctor about my chronic sleepiness for years. I've had a legion of blood tests, and he hasn't found anything. Nothing has been able to wake me up. Well, I've been taking this vitamin for about three days now, and I feel more rested and alert than I have felt in several years. Wherever B12 comes from, I must have a serious lack of it in my diet.

Jobless

2011-04-12T17:11:00.005-04:00

I'm not really sure if I quit or was fired, but either way I'm out of a job. As I mentioned in my last post, I was very close to being fired and really needed a sign up on Monday to pull through. Monday was a gorgeous day and I signed one person, but at the end of the day, I just didn't feel like I was getting better at my job. Three sign ups in six days is not very good, and things didn't seem to be getting easier. All along my co-workers and superiors have said that they liked me, I was a hard worker, they thought I could do this job, and they didn't want to fire me. But they also said it was a matter of confidence: if I didn't believe I could do the job, I couldn't. And after a week of relative failure, I didn't have much confidence.

So, when I sat down and talked to my (now ex) boss last night, I had a choice. He said that I could come back on Tuesday (today) and try again, but if things didn't go better I would be let go, or I could walk out right then, no hard feelings. Everyone had been honest with me so I was honest with them: I didn't think another day was going to make a difference. I had been given every possible chance along with ample encouragement and support, and I hadn't improved. I couldn't go in every day wondering if I was going to be fired that day. It was my call not to come back, and we parted on good terms. I still fully support the organization.

But this leaves me back on the job market, where I've been for months. Ever since I came back from Korea in November, I've been looking for a job, but there was never as much urgency as there is now. I was okay with living with my parents, volunteering at the library, and giving myself time to find something. I applied for probably hundreds of jobs and only had a handful of interviews. Now things are different. Expecting this job to last more than the six days it lasted, I moved into my own apartment. I have obligations I didn't have a month ago, and I don't want to lose my new apartment.

I went to the career center at NYU today to obtain career advise. The woman I met with told me to apply to fewer jobs. This seems counter intuitive. I had been applying to anything and everything just trying to get an interview. I've now been advised to only apply to jobs in which I'm really interested and to spend more time tailoring my cover letter and resume to the positions for which I apply. This is something I'm definitely going to try. The other piece of advise she gave me was to use my connections. Do any of you have connections? This advice makes sense, but it's a little harder to follow. I'm afraid I'm not connected with the right people, but I'm sure going to try and dig up some connections. I do have a ton of third cousins.

In the near future, however, I see myself pouring coffee.

Canvassing New York

2011-04-10T21:17:00.005-04:00

It has been a long, long week. After moving my life back to Brooklyn last Saturday and scrubbing clean my new apartment on Sunday, I started my new job Monday morning with enthusiasm and excitement. I knew that canvassing would be difficult: I knew that the general public would not want to take time out of their busy days to talk to me and I knew that those who did stop to talk would not readily part with their money. But I knew the pitch and was ready to work hard. Everything seemed so simple then, but things changed quickly.

By the end of my first day, I had spent seven hours standing in Port Authority bus terminal, was absolutely drop dead tired, and had only one sign up to show for it. But this was not for lack of trying. I had put every ounce of my energy and then some into getting people to stop and care. I couldn’t possibly have understood before I started this how entirely emotionally and physically draining this job would be. I really would have felt bad about myself at the end of day one, if it weren’t for my team leader and other teammates, who where nothing but positive and supportive. They assured me that one sign up on my first day was a good start. I left tired, but confident. Unfortunately, it was basically down hill from there.

Tuesday got off to a rough start: a train delay made me half an hour late. Then the morning’s warm weather turned into gail force winds with leaves blowing everywhere, followed by biting rain and cold, after which the sun came out and teased of warmth while the rain continued, and I didn’t sign a single person. That’s pretty much how the week went. On Wednesday, I woke up with no voice, leaving me unable to work. Thursday was better, less tiring than the first two days, and I signed one person. Friday no signups. And, despite the beautiful weather, no one signed up on Saturday (I worked Saturday to make up for Wednesday). If you were keeping track, that’s two sign ups in five days—not a very good average--and I’ve been working my butt off.

But I do want to keep this job. It’s such an important cause. My co-workers are fabulous. And let’s not forget the reason we all get jobs: I’ve got freaking bills to pay. I want to keep this job, but I don’t know if that’s possible. For one thing, there is a policy: three days with no sign ups equals fired. It absolutely makes sense, if I’m not signing people up, no one is gaining anything, the organization is paying me for no reason, and I am standing out on the street all day for no reason. As logical as that is, it makes me nervous since I already have two days in a row without any sign ups and could very well be fired at the end of the day tomorrow. For another thing, I’m not sure if I’m a strong enough person to do this job. The rejections were getting to me yesterday. I can’t help feeling like street trash the way people step around me. And then there are my career doubts: I’m a writer, shouldn’t I be writing? Is this going to amount to anything in the long run?

All that aside, I’d like to share some of the things I’ve learned in the past week. Take them out of my head and put them here.

No one has a minute. Everyone is in a hurry, in a rush, on the way to an appointment, and running late at all times.
Half of New York does not speak English.
Eighty percent of New York is either unemployed or attending school.
Many people don’t care who is living in poverty, as long as it isn’t them.

On the other side of all that, I've been much more assertive and outgoing than I ever thought I could be. I need to hang onto that, and hopefully tomorrow will go well.

A Note On Unions

2011-04-01T23:46:00.007-04:00

Last Thursday I attended a conference at the CUNY Graduate Center called Out of the Smoke and the Flames: The Triangle Shirtwaist Fire and It's Legacy. The conference caught my eye because I remembered learning about and being fascinated by the fire as a kid. It was part of our New York State history lessons, and I was intrigued by it both because it happened right in my own state (and who doesn't like learning and reading about things that happen where they're from?) and because I've always had a particular interest in disasters. The conference was free and, at the time, I didn't have any other commitments, so I registered.

As the conference date grew nearer, I began to hear more and more about labor unions in the news. I'm sure it had been there before, but either I didn't take as much notice of it, or it wasn't there as strongly. I'm sure everyone knows about all of the debate that's been taking place over unions and collective bargaining rights in Wisconsin and all over the country, so I won't tell you what you already know. I will just say that it doesn't make any sense to me. This year is the centennial of the fire at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory, which, I think most people know, had a huge impact on the labor union movement. I thought we decided that unions were a good idea 100 years ago when 146 people died because they had no protection in the work place. The controversy right now seems like a giant step backwards.

When I attended the conference last week, not only did it commemorate the fire and speak of working conditions in developing nations (which is what I expected it to do when I signed up), but it also made some very timely remarks on unions. And it was reassuring. Because when I read comments on articles I read on the internet, I read the most ridiculous things, and I start to think that there are very few intelligent people in the world. But, the conference had such a great turn out and the speakers were so smart, that being there gave me some hope that there are reasonable people with ideas that makes sense in the world, if only in New York City.

I just wanted to share this with all of the smart people outside of New York City who feel incredibly alone, not just on the issue of unions, but on all of the other things people argue about that you thought were common sense.

And P.S. Try this. One of the speakers, Kalpona Akter from Bangladesh, who went to work in the garment industry at the age of 12, asked the audience to check the labels of their shirts and raise their hands if they had been to the country in which their shirts were made. You probably haven't.

Hair

2011-03-28T14:03:00.005-04:00

I think of myself as a short hair girl. It might surprise some people, as I'm about as girly-girl as they come, but I don't feel like myself with long hair. Sometimes I dream of having long hair and I want to grow my hair as long as I possibly can. But when I try to grow my hair out, that is just what it does. It grows out, rather than down. I'm constantly fighting the big hair, the triangle-shape, the fluff. I feel much more chic with short hair, more groomed and put together and more mature. I feel twelve years old with a pony tail. I feel little, and I've heard that if short women have long hair, it makes them look shorter.

But for the last year, I've been trying to grow my hair, and it has been such a slow process. At Christmas, it was exciting. I received my first adult hair accessories (read not plastic), and I could comfortably wear them. But since that time, my hair has become overwhelming. It stuck on my purse straps when I pulled my bag away from my shoulder and there was nothing I could do with it to make myself feel like an adult. I wanted to cut it, but that seemed like such a waste. I had so much hair; I couldn't just throw it in the garbage. But, I still had too little hair to donate.

Then yesterday, I walked into the salon with my mom who was getting her hair done, not expecting to do anything to my hair at all, and I asked my mom's hairdresser exactly how much hair I needed to be able to donate. A friend had told me it was 12 inches, a length I didn't feel I could ever reach, but I had in my head that it was more like 7 to 10 inches. The hairdresser replied that while 12 inches is best, the absolute least usable length of hair was 6 inches. I asked her to measure my hair, and she determined that she could get 7 inches out of it, if I was willing to go short. That was all I needed to hear. I hope whoever gets my pony tails enjoys them, and I'll enjoy being rid of them. I like change too much to be a long hair girl.

Envisioning My Apartment: A Pre-Move-in Photo Tour

2011-03-27T23:50:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday, I once again took the 7am bus to New York City and met my new landlady in Starbucks where I signed the lease and immediately received my keys. I stopped by my neighborhood Target and purchased a clothing rack, a water filter pitcher, a cutting board and some picture hooks, and I headed to the apartment to drop off my purchases and survey the situation.

The first time I was in the apartment, I realized I would need to buy a rack for my hanging clothes when I saw this.

It is the one and only closet in the apartment--located in my office, and it is about the size of a dorm room closet, if it is even that big. It will fit my winter coats.

But, the second time I was in the apartment, I realized that this strange structure in the living room was probably meant to be a closet.

I initially took this floating box for an awkward shelving unit, which is what I will use it for--to display things. Upon closer inspection, however, there is a hanging rod across the top of the box. So, if I wanted to, I could hang my clothes in a magic box in the living room, next to a window that looks at darkness, or what I believe to be underneath the front porch.

I have yet to discover all the quirks of my new apartment. It wasn't until I turned on all of the lights to take some pictures that I realized that, while the majority of the apartment is a cream color, the kitchen is inexplicably yellow. When you just look at the kitchen, the yellow looks fine.

But, when you take into consideration that the kitchen and living room are actually one room, it seems like a strange choice.

Also, you might have noticed in the first kitchen picture that the kitchen cabinets are not on the wall, but in the wall. The cabinets are big, and will surly be useful, but look like doors for leprechaun.

I think it's the quirkiness, though, and, at times, just plane strangeness of this apartment, that really feels like home to me. I couldn't live in a cookie cutter perfect apartment. I don't love the wood paneling on the back wall of the kitchen or the wood paneled bathroom door.

But, I do love the bookcase in my office. I love that I have an office, and I cannot wait to slide my desk under these shelves.

I double love the huge bookcase in my bedroom, and I have big plans for organizing all of my books upon it.

I am attracted to the sconces in my bedroom and office.

I like the tiles both in the kitchen

and the bathroom.

The bathroom is hilarious. I haven't stopped laughing since I opened the door. To explain: I measured the ceiling height in the apartment to average between six foot three and six foot four, which is fine for me, as long as I don't become friends with anyone very tall. The bathroom is a step up because of the pluming that has to go underneath, and that creates this. The throne.

And the world's highest bathtub.

I stood in the bathtub to assess the height of the shower head.

And this is my favorite thing about my new apartment because I'm five foot two, according to my New York State ID, and probably shorter than that in real life, and I cannot fit under this shower head.

I think this apartment is just un-perfect enough to be perfect for me.

A Place to Call My Own

2011-03-21T23:04:00.014-04:00

The minute I got off the phone from finding out that I had been hired for my new job, I was on the internet looking for a place to live. I set a goal rent price based on my approximate salary and what I thought I could realistically afford after factoring in my other expenses (student loan payments, subway passes, fancy coffees...). And, honestly, it was really hard to find anything even remotely in my price range. I checked Craig's List and the NYU off campus housing registry. I called or e-mailed practically everyone looking for a roommate. I sent messages to every person I could think of who might know anyone who could help me out. I called every landlord about every cheap studio in every sketchy neighborhood. I heard the same things over and over again: I've already found someone, it's already rented, we don't take pets, you can't afford it.

But after much research and many, many phone calls I set up some appointments. I talked to a woman in Harlem in need of a roommate, but her building didn't allow animals. I liked her and filed her in my head as a back-up plan. Should I be unable to find a suitable alternative, I would rent her room until something else came along and board Izzy at my parents in the meantime. I saw a nice apartment on Staten Island, but it was a two hour commute to work, and doing the laundry was going to require a bus or possibly a taxi ride, as there were no laundry facilities in sight. Everyone I talked to was very nice to me and genuinely seemed interested in helping me. But nothing seemed to be working out.

My mom took the bus into the city and met me for lunch. She accompanied me to my final appointment--a basement studio in Brooklyn. I was hoping for the best, but expecting a dark, damp room, with the possibility of water problems. What we saw was totally different. Yes, it was a studio, and yes, it was in a basement, but it was big and bright with windows on three sides. Although a studio, the apartment had dividing walls, separating the space into a living room, walk through kitchen, bedroom and office. It was much more than I thought I needed or anticipated being able to afford. I really never thought I'd have an office. And, not only was it in my price range, but all of the utilities were included.

I could envision Izzy and myself in the studio. I could envision my bike parked next to the door, my couch in the living room, my pink coffee maker on the kitchen counter, my long dresser with the big mirror in my bedroom, Izzy's cat tree by the window in my office where he could sit in the sun. I knew the subway was only four blocks away, but where was the laundry mat? What about the grocery store? The land lady showed me around the block where there was a laundry mat, grocery store, dry cleaners, Target, Bank of America, Verizon, a bakery, a coffee shop, and just about anything else I could possibly need.

I pick up the keys on Wednesday.

About Face

2011-03-15T01:45:00.006-04:00

My post-college proverbial path has not been straight or obvious. It has been twisty and turny and bumpy and terrifying and surprising. It has often made me car sick. Let us recap, shall we? Since I graduated with my degree in English, I have been turned down by four MFA programs, obtained a master's degree I never really wanted to begin with and have no idea what to do with now, lived and worked in New York City (after spending my entire childhood dreaming of escape from the north east), been published a time or two, had a crazy Korean adventure, moved back in with my parents, worked as a volunteer despite mounting student loan debt, reapplied to MFA programs, and finally started learning to drive. All I ever wanted to do was be a writer (okay, and a ballerina), and I do believe that all of this will one day make me a better writer. But what does it make me now and will I ever get to use either of my degrees?

Although I've never been paid to write, I do think of myself as a writer. Having a few things published here and there helps me to feel that way. But even though I feel like that's who I am as a person, it's not my career. Or, at least, it isn't right now and I don't think it will be in the near future. I just took a canvassing for a non-profit company in New York City. It's not the kind of job I ever thought I'd apply for. For one thing, it has absolutely nothing to do with writing. I'm not using my BA or my MA. I'll be outside for 8 hours a day, asking people for money. It's not the kind of thing I've ever thought I'd want to do.

I ignore canvassers. There are so many people in NYC canvassing about so many things that I feel overwhelmed by them. I have a minute for the environment, but I don't feel like I need to spend that minute when I'm on my way to class. If I really thought being a minute late to class would help, I'd stop, but I know that's not the case. I know that those people want money, and I don't have any. I've gotten so good at ignoring canvassers that I no longer hear anything that anyone on the street says to me. Once, while walking down the street two people approached me. They said words I didn't absorb, and I waived them off and kept walking. Then I realized that I was walking into a movie set and that the people were not canvassing, but trying to inform me that I had to cross the street and go around. Since I have become so oblivious to canvassing, I can't really understand how it's effective. But it must work, or companies would not pay people to go out and canvass.

Now, I'm going to be that obnoxious person, and that's partially because I really need a job, but it's also because I find that I actually care. When I was in high school, if someone asked me what I thought about a certain issue, I couldn't begin to form an opinion. I could say, "Well, this is what I've heard: this side thinks this and the other side thinks this," but neither side ever sounded more or less reasonable than the other. Feeling strongly one way or the other seemed impossible. It wasn't just that I didn't care--I felt like I was supposed to care, but I couldn't. I couldn't care because I couldn't begin to understand the ramifications either way. I felt envious of other kids who had convictions. I thought that maybe it was because their parents discussed politics around them, and my parents never talked about anything of the kind around me. Topics like that were absolutely forbidden. But, I no longer believe that it had anything to do with what my parents said or didn't say. I think I was just too young to think politically, like my brain hadn't grown those muscles yet. Politics didn't seem to matter, anyway. Politics was something that rich old men in suits did. Something far away that I had no control over and had no control over me.

Now I have opinions. They form themselves when I watch the news on TV or read it online, and I don't have to try so hard to feel one way or the other. I know which way I feel, and often feel that way very strongly. But I often still feel powerless. I can sign petitions on the internet and sign up for mailing lists, but what can I actually do? I get mail from all sorts of organizations, and they send me stickers and envelopes in which to send them my donation. I feel like they're wasting their money sending me stickers and information because I cannot send them money. But that's all they ever want. I can agree with someone and agree and agree more than they agree themselves, but I still don't have money to spare. So canvassing gives me a way to actually go out and do something--to feel like a more active participant in society and support myself at the same time. It also seems like I'm just switching sides: asking for the money instead of being asked for it. But going out and talking to people every day--maybe that could change something. I'm not 100 percent convinced, but I'm going to try very hard.

Published

2011-03-13T23:50:00.002-04:00

The Spring 2011 edition of The Battered Suitcase featuring my short story "A Smile in Dust" is finally, finally out, after a short wait of forever. Those who are so inclined can download the pdf for only $3 or buy the real live paper version for $13.

I Consume: Butterfly Candle Holder

2011-03-01T23:00:00.003-05:00

Happy birthday to me! My parents (read, my mom) gave me this delightfully springy candle holder for my birthday. I momentarily wondered if it was too young for me--more 14 than 24. But I've decided to embrace its colorfulness. I do enjoy the little jewels, and the candle is Sweat Pea scented. It's a tiny piece of spring in this cold and snowy season.

To Claire, My Pop Culture Guru

2011-02-28T20:08:00.003-05:00

Dearest Claire,

I have certainly made progress on the 90's movie countdown. I have gone from having seen four of the twenty six movies on your essential movies of the 90's list to having seen 14 (as in more than half) of those movies. And I've really enjoyed the experience. These are not movies I probably would have ever watched without your guidance. However, at this point, I've exhausted my resources (my resources being the public library and other people's Netflix instant watch). As video rental stores are, if not extinct, at least an endangered species and I can't justify paying for my own Netflix account when I have no income, I'm not sure how to get my hands on the rest of the movies on the list. So, I think I'm ready for a new list from which to work. The 80s? The 2000s? Surprise me. I'm ready for a new decade of pop culture.

Here are the results of my 90s adventure.

Thelma and Louise (1991)
~~The Silence of the Lambs~~ ~~(1991)~~
Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead (1991)
Wayne’s World (1992)
~~The Fugitive (1993)~~
Dazed and Confused (1993)
~~The Shawshank Redemption (1994)~~
~~Interview with the Vampire~~ ~~(1994)~~
~~Forrest~~ ~~Gump~~ ~~(1994)~~
~~Pulp Fiction (1994)~~
~~Clueless~~ ~~(1995)~~
~~Mallrats~~ ~~(1995)~~
Jerry Maguire ~~(1996)~~
Trainspotting (1996)
~~Fargo (1996)~~
Scream (1996)
~~Good Will Hunting (1997)~~
Face/Off (1997)
Boogie Nights (1997)
~~The Big Lebowski~~ ~~(1998)~~
The Wedding Singer (1998)
Cruel Intentions (1999)
Girl, Interrupted (1999)
~~Fight Club~~ ~~(1999)~~
American Beauty (1999)
~~The Boondock Saints~~ ~~(1999)~~

I Consume: Gerbera Daisy In A Can

2011-02-16T17:44:00.004-05:00

On Valentine's Day, I woke up to find what appeared to be a soda can labelled gerbera daisy on my bathroom sink--a gift from my mother. I was intrigued. The gerbera daisy is my favorite flower, and this can claimed to contain one. It came with instructions telling me to peel the top off of the can and to soak its contents with water, after which I was to pop open the soda-can-tab on the can's bottom to let the excess water drain out before capping off the drain with a plastic lid. I did as instructed and placed the can in my window.

Thus far nothing has happened, save a little water leaking out the bottom and forming a small puddle on the windowsill. And I'm worried about my little daisy. I've placed it in an optimal spot for sunlight absorption, but it's also a cold spot. Because it's February and the windows are cold. Perhaps I should have waited until spring to open the can. Have I prematurely exposed my daisy to the elements causing it unnecessary stress? I'm terrible at waiting. Grow, daisy! Grow!

I like the idea of having a can garden. It's so urban.

I Consume: Blue Roses Scarf

2011-02-11T17:37:00.006-05:00

I'll be the first to admit that I have a scarf problem. I walk down the city street and the colors and patterns of the scarves pull me in. They're never more than four or five dollars, and I reason with myself that I wouldn't think twice about spending almost as much on a luxurious flavored coffee at a trendy neighborhood cafe. And unlike the coffee, that will be gone in ten minutes, the scarf is lasting. As many scarves as I have, I do wear them all.

I bought this particular scarf on my Korean adventure. The flowers are spread across the scarf so elegantly. I love that kind of elegance in a something as casual as a scarf. It just gives a tiny hint of class to whatever long sleeve t-shirt I throw it over, without being pretentious. It's not too good to hang around a messy drawer. I also love this scarf because of it's curious blue roses that remind me of The Glass Menagerie--perhaps my favorite play not written by Tom Stoppard.

2011 So Far: What I've Been Up To

2011-02-04T01:29:00.005-05:00

This is going to be one of those purely informational listing posts I sometimes make when I've been a lazy little blogger.

I applied to Hunter College, and I very much want to get in.
I applied for a job I won't bother telling you about unless I get an interview. I would very much like an interview.
I have made a dent in my 90s Movie Countdown.
I've had two driving lessons to learn the basics, but probably will not have any more lessons. The 1st lesson cost $164 and the second cost $134, which is what any extra lessons would cost. I am doing alright driving with friends, but need to practice more often.
I have not kept up with my blog.
After a month of being in and out of the hospital, my grandma is now in a nursing home. She is comfortable, but not doing very well. I now have almost no responsibilities during the day, but try to keep my parents' house clean.
I feel like I'm very busy, but don't actually do anything. I have no time because I sleep more than I'm awake. It is okay with Isador. He will sleep as long as I do.

Meeting Tom Stoppard

2011-02-03T23:54:00.000-05:00

Back in the middle of January Erin sent me a link to an article on the PEN American Center's website about a benefit for the Belarus Free Theater. I'm just going to admit right now that I don't typically keep up with the happenings in Belarus and that this event would not have grabbed my attention as it did if it wasn't for the name Tom Stoppard. As you may already know, I have a bit of an obsession with Stoppard. I've read just about everything he's ever written. I've written two theses on his work. I think Stoppard is one of the smartest people alive as well as an astonishing wordsmith. I could not sit at home knowing that he was in Greenwich Village.

The benefit was held at a venue called Le Poisson Rouge, a sort of bar with a performance space. Brother Kevin received two big black X's on his hands upon entry, as he was perhaps the only person under the age of 21 in the large crowd. I tend to feel awkwardly young at these type of events, and I suspect that Kevin did not exactly feel like he belonged. Since we stuck out anyway, we climbed up on the back of a couch to see over the group crowding the stage. To my slight surprise, no one asked us to come down, and we were able to watch the entire evening's event's from our vantage point.

The performance was incredible. I did not realize until after the Belarus Free Theater had finished their half hour excerpt from their three hour play that their play did not have any words. Their acting conveyed words without the actors actually speaking. There is so much I could say about silence and censorship and signs and signifiers and the signified and Saussurian linguists, and it would all relate back to Tom Stoppard, particularly to the play Cahoot's Macbeth. Maybe Rock 'n' Roll as well. Damn it, this would have been perfect for my master's thesis.

Moving on. A woman called Iva Bittová played the violin while singing and speaking and sometimes chirping like a bird. I make it sound weird, but it was actually very beautiful and moving. Her voice seemed to be acting and interacting with the violin to create a moving dialog. Bittová's performance was impressively seamless. Youtube her. It's crazy.

The benefit also included Belarusian poetry, read in both English and its original language, and it was punctuated by speeches about Belarus and censorship--particularly the violent type of censorship occurring under the current Belarusian dictatorship. It was fascinating to me, having just written a thesis about Stoppard and censorship, to hear Tom Stoppard speak about censorship (albeit frustrating that this didn't happen a year ago). But it was also terrifying to realize that the type of Cold War era censorship about which Stoppard writes is taking place today. On the one hand, I'm not stupid; I understand that things like what happened to the Belarus Free Theater are happening right now. But, on the other hand, to have members of the Belarus company here in New York is a much different feeling than reading about them on the internet.

When the benefit ended, I had to talk to Tom Stoppard. I couldn't be in the same room as Stoppard and not approach him. I really wanted to touch him and thought about asking him for a hug, but that didn't seem appropriate. I had a camera in my bag and thought about asking for a picture, but it was dark in the room and I was afraid the picture wouldn't come out. So, I decided to ask him for his autograph and proceeded to follow him around the room until I saw an opening.

I said, "Excuse me, can I have your autograph?" as I shoved a pen and folded up piece of paper at him.

He took the pen and paper and said, "Is this a pen?"

"Yes, it is a pen," I said.

Then he gave me back my paper and pen and said, "Thanks for coming."

I am absolutely framing that piece of paper.

I Consume: Sterling Silver Hair Clips

2011-01-21T23:46:00.003-05:00

A few weeks before Christmas my sister, my mom and I attended an open house at a new boutique in Saratoga called Frivolous. My mom told my sister and I to pick out a few things we liked and then to leave the store so that she could make some surprise Christmas purchases. I'm usually a big collector of earrings, but, due to my newly lengthened hair, I zeroed in on these silver hair clips. I thought these sort of sophisticated gripping mechanisms might be the answer to the hair-control troubles I've been having (i.e. my hair is eating me).

I was surprised to receive not one but two clips for Christmas. I really like that they are pretty and feminine without being "little girly" and that they're not plastic. But I am too stupid to properly affix them to my hair. Because they are silver, they are heavy, and their weight causes them to slide down my hair like a fire pole. In the weeks since Christmas, the clips have adorned the top of my dresser more often than my head. My hair issues are not over, but I can hardly blame these shiny clips.

I'm Still Here

2011-01-13T17:04:00.007-05:00

This is my first post of 2011. Sorry. I haven't been keeping up with the blog, and I have no excuse. I spent the last week indulging in a large serving of Erin with a delicious side of Laura and Alisha. (Perhaps I will elaborate in the coming days.) But, aside from my one recent excursion, I work at the public library once a week: shelving DVDs and books on tape, assisting patrons, searching microfilm for obituary requests... I look after my grandma, who is currently hospitalized after yesterday afternoon's tragic fall from the thrown (and by thrown, I mean toilet). And I was just offered a position previewing local theatre events for the paper at $50 an article. Like so many of us who have graduated in the past few years, I am minimally employed and living with my parents. I am home most of the time, and I still can't manage to keep this blog going at a steady pace. I wish to amend that. Not today, but in the near future. Right now, I just want to let you know that I haven't abandoned you. Thanks for reading.

Learning To Be Relevant: Essential Pop Culture According To Claire

2010-12-17T01:48:00.004-05:00

In my last post I asked your help to amend my lack of pop culture knowledge. Laura suggested NBC sitcoms, so I visited NBC.com to find out exactly what NBC had to offer. I recognized the names of two shows--The Office and Law and Order--only one of which is a sitcom. And Laura, I'm sorry, but I don't think The Office is funny. Law and Order, while not a sitcom, is an enjoyable show, but too similar to NCIS, which I like much better. I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific. Which NBC sitcoms? I like Erin's suggestion that I watch VH1's I Love the [insert decade here] to get the notes on the last few decades, but that's just a starting place. What I need is a study guide--lists of material with which I can familiarize myself. Claire has come through for me on this front with her list of essential movies of the 90s, which I have stolen for my own use. The following list of movies will serve as my starting point on my journey into pop culture knowledge. I'll cross off movies as I watch them and re-post the list with progress updates. Here's where I begin.

Thelma and Louise (1991)
The Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead (1991)
Wayne’s World (1992)
The Fugitive (1993)
Dazed and Confused (1993)
The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
Interview with the Vampire (1994)
~~Forrest Gump~~ ~~(1994)~~
Pulp Fiction (1994)
~~Clueless~~ ~~(1995)~~
Mallrats (1995)
Jerry Maguire (1996)
Trainspotting (1996)
Fargo (1996)
Scream (1996)
Good Will Hunting (1997)
Face/Off (1997)
Boogie Nights (1997)
The Big Lebowski (1998)
The Wedding Singer (1998)
Cruel Intentions (1999)
Girl, Interrupted (1999)
~~Fight Club~~ ~~(1999)~~
American Beauty (1999)
~~The Boondock Saints~~ ~~(1999)~~

Pop Culture

2010-12-08T23:56:00.005-05:00

Knowing everything about popular culture seems to come so easily to some people, but I feel like it's something I have to study. There are so many movies I haven't seen, TV shows I've never watched, songs I haven't listened to... I need suggestions.

Volunteering

2010-12-05T23:45:00.011-05:00

I knew coming back from Korea that the odds of landing a job in the U.S. were low. Since I've been back, my expectations for finding gainful employment have dropped from low to sub-zero. There just aren't any jobs, and although it would be nice to be able to live independently, it's not really a necessity. My parents' futon is fine for now, and, while my over 70 thousand dollars in student loan debt is a different story, I don't have an alternative.

And as long as I'm stuck here, I might as well make myself useful, which is why I volunteered to work at Crandall Public Library. I happen to be a big fan of public libraries. I've often borrowed class books from libraries rather than purchasing them. I've used the DVD sections of various libraries as my personal source of free entertainment. I've researched and written term papers and theses in libraries. On hot summer days I've escaped oppressive apartments and spent afternoons reading or even napping among the less traveled air conditioned stacks. I use the resources the library has to offer, and I'd like to give something in return. So, I'm giving my time. It's what I have.

I went into my interview last Monday without much of an idea of what I'd do at the library. I didn't really care--something to get me out of the house, make me feel useful. Of course, it would be nice if I could gain a job skill or two. I can use as many of those as I can get. I said I'd do whatever needed to be done.

The woman I met with spoke of a memory sharing group for seniors. They meet once a month and they each read a short essay they've written on the week's topic--neighborhoods or memorial day or pets. Then they talk. I've read the book they put out in 2006. Apparently, the person who ran the group has retired and there is no one to take over. Tomorrow I meet with the group to see what I can do for them. (I feel a little like I'm being re-elected president of Writers' Theatre.) I got a bit of a feel for the group from their book, but, honestly, I'm not sure what to expect tomorrow afternoon.

In addition to possibly teaming up with the memory sharing group, I will be working as a regular volunteer on Tuesdays. I'm not sure what regular volunteers do exactly--I've been warned that it's menial. I can do menial. But I have a feeling it's going to be so much more than that.

Long Lost Twins

2010-12-05T00:24:00.016-05:00

Isador and I have worked hard since we first teamed up. There was the senior thesis--long afternoons in our Chestertown, Maryland apartment reading books we'd acquired via interlibrary loan. Taking notes, taking naps, taking naps on notes...

Finally sitting down on the desk to write. Then there was our stint at NYU and yet another thesis--this time at the masters level. More hard work for Is and me, but we made our way through it in our usual manner--rubbing our bodies on each page as we made our final edits.

When I made the difficult decision to temporarily break up the team while I worked in Korea, Isador was understandably disheartened. Thesis writing had given him purpose in life. But I assured him that he'd find meaningful work and I'd be back before he knew it.

Several weeks later I learned that the Washington College Lit House had a new employee: Langston Hughes. When I visited the Lit House Blog to read about this new addition, a few things about Langston seemed strangely familiar. Langston claimed to be a 5 to 6-year-old male cat from Chestertown, Maryland, just like Isador. He also looked almost exactly like Isador. It was too much to be a coincidence.

I immediately Skyped Isador and accused him of having changed his name to Langston Hughes and moving back to his hometown to become the new Lit House Cat. I knew he missed the academic life, but I insisted that he come clean. Isador denied everything, of course, and blamed his long lost twin. He had never mentioned before that he was in any way related to Langston Hughes.

I returned from Korea to find Isador resting on my parents' futon. I aroused him to sit next to my laptop screen in order that I might compare him to his twin. The resemblance does not lie. It is now certain in my mind that Langston Hughes's twin brother got me through grad school.

So What, I'm Still a Rock Star

2010-12-03T23:20:00.005-05:00

I bought this last weekend and have since been pondering the important question: am I wrong in all the right ways?

Permitted

2010-11-23T22:30:00.003-05:00

I took my learners permit test today and passed with 19 out of 20. I can now operate a motor vehicle on most roads in New York state while supervised by a licensed driver over the age of 21. I even drove my sister's car home from the DMV under the supervision of my sister (who happens to be 21). I did just fine--didn't hit a thing--, but my sister suggested that I practice driving in the right lane in case there are other cars on the road next time.

I Consume: Nicole Eyeglasses in Plum

2010-11-22T22:31:00.008-05:00

As a contact lens girl, I don't typically concern myself with updating my eyeglasses. I've had the same ice blue metallic frames since I was 16 or 17, and I've often congratulated myself on having such good taste as a teenager. They've become a little worn over the years: the lenses have some small cracks and the color has rubbed off of the frames around the ears, but the glasses are still entirely functional. And since I only wear my glasses when I'm sick, snowed in, writing a thesis, or otherwise not leaving my place of residence, it really hasn't seemed worth the four or five hundred dollars to replace them.

Then I went to Korea where EVERYONE wears glasses. According to my un-researched guess at a statistic, something like 70 or 80 percent of adults wear either glasses or contacts. In the U.S., it's less noticeable because contacts are more common, but in Korea glasses seem to be the preferred means of vision correction as well as a popular fashion accessory. And, as I came to learn, glasses are far cheaper in Korea than in the U.S. So, while I probably would not have replaced my glasses for another few years had I stayed in the U.S., I believe I have saved myself some money by purchasing these flexible plastic eyeglasses for only $115 (including frames and lenses) while in Seoul. I do love a deal.

Surprise!

2010-11-15T13:35:00.006-05:00

I am back in the United States. Surprised? (My parents sure were.) As much as I loved living in Seoul, the job was not working out. It's a long story that ends with me booking a last minute flight from Seoul to New York via Shanghai, catching a bus from JFK to Penn Station, boarding another bus headed for Albany, and showing up at my parents' door step 30 hours or so later pretty much unannounced.

I'm not going to get into what happened, but I'm thinking of the whole experience as a working vacation. I got to see and do just about everything I was interested in in Seoul. (I stopped by the 63 Building, Alexis, but I only saw the lobby. I deemed it "not worth the money" to do anything else. Though, if it had been cheaper, I was a little curious to see the synchronized swimming in the aquarium.) My last big adventure was to Everland, an amusement park outside of Seoul. It had a few good rides, but, in general, wasn't as exciting as an American amusement park.

I learned a lot in Korea, but I need to put it in my past now and start thinking about my future. For the time being, I'm living with my parents. I feel pretty lame, but it's not a total waste. I'm looking after my grandmother during the day, and I've taken on much of the household cooking and cleaning. When I first arrived, my impulse was to get a job immediately, but after sleeping off my jet lag and settling in, I've become more comfortable here than I thought I could be. It looks like I'm staying a while.

I just put in an application to volunteer at the public library. I think I'll enjoy that. It's just volunteer work, so there isn't a lot of pressure, but I can get out and do something useful. But the only way I can justify doing this--staying home and volunteering--is to have an end in sight. So my goal is to move out by the summer. This gives me ample time to get myself together.

What I really want to do? I want to get my MFA in Fiction. I know I just got my MA, and I'm glad I have it. But I REALLY want my MFA. That's what I've wanted all along. So, I'm going to apply to Hunter College for the fall. It's the goal I'm working towards. The application deadline is February 1st, and I'm going to have my manuscript polished by then. I have a new one. I don't know if it's better than the manuscript I used to apply to MFA programs the last time around, but it's new. It's different, and I'm really dedicated to it--both to the manuscript and to getting into this particular program. I truly believe that it's the right program for me.

If my plan goes the best it can go, I will spend some time volunteering at the library, work on my application to Hunter and my writing in general, and in March or April I will be accepted to school. Accepted with some sort of TAship that will pay for the courses would be ideal. Then I will look for a place and move to the city--I'm thinking Queens. As much as I love Brooklyn, I'd really like to get my own studio, and I think I could better afford that in Queens. To live where I'd like to live in Brooklyn, I'd have to come up with a suitable roommate.

So, that's the plan of action--the new one. Wish me luck. I have another goal for the meantime too, and I think this will surprise a lot of you who know me. I'm taking the learner's permit test next week. I am going to attempt to operate a vehicle. I'll keep you updated on that, and I'll try not to kill anyone.

In the DMZ

2010-10-28T11:31:00.018-04:00

When I came to Korea, I didn't have much of a list of things to do or see, but the one place I knew I had to go was the demilitarized zone between North and South Korea. Not only is it an important part of history, but it's representative of an ongoing struggle in a country divided in two. On Sunday, I finally visited.

The first stop on our tour was ImjinGak. ImjinGak is as far north as South Koreans are allowed to go, as they are not permitted inside the DMZ, and it is as far north as anyone can go without a tour guide and permission. ImjinGak is a strange mix between a tourist attraction and a historic landmark. The ImjinGak building is full of restaurants and gift shops where one can buy items like a DMZ hoody with a picture of barbed wire and a dove with an olive branch. Juxtaposition, anyone?

From the observation deck on the top of the building (which you are not to dangle from),

there is a good view of the park,

as well as of the amusement park.

I'm not the only one who thinks it's CRAZY that there are rides here, right? Really, does that go with this?

It boggles my mind.

But, I think the real draw of ImjinGak has to be the Freedom Bridge where prisoners were exchanged during the Korean war.

Tourists can now walk across it...

...as far as the barbed wire fence. (Yes, the Freedom Bridge ends at a barbed wire fence.)

After taking in the many wonders of ImjinGak and passing the civilian control line, we headed to Tongilchon, also known as the Unification Village, where we took off our shoes and sat on the floor for a traditional Korean lunch. Outside, there were many large urns of what I assumed to be kimchi, but I learned that it was actually soybean paste. The unification village was basically rice patties and soybean fields. Apparently, there is ginseng too (I know ginseng is really big here), but I don't know what ginseng looks like when it's growing, so I couldn't identify it. The area really just looked like a rural farming village, accentuated by few authentic farm animals and the compulsory gift shop.

Underwhelmed by the Unification Village, but much less hungry, we headed to the third infiltration tunnel where we watched a documentary saturated in the South Korean perspective. I learned things like: though some say the South Koreans dug the tunnels, the tunnels clearly come from the North, as evidenced by the direction of the digging marks; the direction of the holes drilled for explosives show that the explosives were aimed at South Korea; though the North Koreans painted the tunnel with coal to make it look like a mine, the South Koreans know that the tunnel was meant for aggression because there is no coal in the area. Of course, I'm more prone to trust the accuracy of the South Korean perspective than that of the North, but I definitely got a strong sense of the prejudice against North Korea. And I have to imagine that were I to visit the other side of the DMZ, I'd hear a totally different story.

Cameras were not allowed at the documentary or in the tunnel itself, which is really too bad because the tunnel was the craziest part of this whole adventure. This is one long tunnel, through rock, and it is only one of four. (Those North Koreans are serious about their tunnels.) I'm short enough that I could stand up straight for the most part, but some taller people had to bend down. We all wore hard hats in case we hit our heads on the ceiling, and I could actually see where the walls had been painted with coal. Who on earth came up with that idea?

For me, the tunnel was basically the point of the trip, and it was definitely worth seeing, but man was it a long, steep walk back up. I sort of wanted to get back on the bus and curl up for a nap after that, but our trip was not complete.

We checked out the gift shop, and headed on to the Dora Observatory. The building at the observatory was cleverly disguised, but I managed to spot it.

There, we could take pictures of North Korea from behind a line. I took a picture of fog. So, here you go: North Korean fog.

When I looked through the binoculars, I could see Kesung City. It's that foggy place in front of those mountains. If I could have, I would have taken a picture through the binoculars, but it wasn't allowed. It's not that it's that exciting to see, but it's pretty cool to be able to look over and see another country.

Our last stop of the day was Doarsan Train Station, the last station to the north in South Korea. There, I got a stamp on a post-it note that says Dorasan to Pyeonyang so that I can pretend I took the train to North Korea using a post-it note for a passport.

I admit, I'm not really sure why we stopped at what appeared to be an ordinary train station. The idea that you can't go any farther north than this is more fascinating than the actual station, I think. Although, according to a sign in the station, this will not be the case forever.

I have to imagine, though, that it will be the case for a while.

Update: Friday, October 29: I just read on Yahoo News that North and South Korea exchanged fire at the DMZ today. Make that a long while.

I Consume: Purse From Insadong

2010-10-22T01:00:00.002-04:00

I bought this shiny purple purse on my first trip to the traditional shopping district of Insadong. I realized that since I am no longer in grad school, I no longer need to carry around a bag big enough to fit a stack of books. This bag is the perfect size to fit everything I need (obviously, including one book or my Kindle) without being enormous. I love the embroidered flowers. They're just so bright and cheery. I now carry this everywhere.

Tradition (Insert Fiddler music here)

2010-10-21T01:52:00.008-04:00

I don't know if I just frequent touristy areas or if there are traditional performances everywhere in Korea at all times, but I seem to run into them a lot. Perhaps because I am from America, where we don't really have our own traditional culture, I don't understand the need to celebrate it all the time. At first, I thought it was just for special occasions, but these music and dance performances seem to be common. It's very beautiful and fun to watch, but is this these people's full time jobs? If so, how is that possible? All of these performances are free.

These pictures are from a performance on Sunday. I really liked the drumming. The drummers put their whole bodies into the music. The guy broke a drum stick.

But, my favorite thing about this performance, other than the drumstick flying trough the air, was that we were near an amusement park, and I could see rides in the background. We weren't at a great angle to see the dancers, but I had a perfect view of the roller coaster. There is something about roller coasters mixed with traditional Korean dance that really makes me giggle.

Also, I accidentally set my camera to psychedelic for a while.

Really, what is this setting for?