Ground Control To Major Tom

Nothing beats a Natural History Museum. All the post-modern conceptual art I saw in the last week (and I saw a lot) couldn't hold a candle to those wacky old-school dioramas and a good old-fashioned planetarium show. My friend The Writer and I visited my favorite city's Natural Museum of History and it totally kicked ass over any other Natural Museum of History I had up to that point attended. It's like the freakin' Louvre. You could spend a few days there easy and that's not even reading all the copy the good curators have provided for us. Honestly, it was the highlight of my trip and this prolly makes me an even bigger dork than you imagined.

Due to the vastness of the museum--all its halls, floors, wings, science centers, shops, bathrooms and food courts--we got separated and I ended up attending the planetarium show alone. Oh, but it did not disappoint! Into the dome shaped room we were herded. In the true fashion of the city I was visiting, when the announcements to turn off all cell phones, pagers and other electronic devices came on over the loud speaker, the audience immediately chided back and make sure to keep breathing to a minimum, stop all heartbeats, and keep your head tilted back at all times. The lights dimmed, we simultaneously looked up and if I had been there with a certain other, I would have slipped my hand into his. From the darkness a soothing yet recognizable voice emerged. Robert Redford! Ushering us into the universe! He told a tale of a giant explosion, of debris colliding to form the moon, and of a great meteorite that wiped out entire species. We've come a long way from the Pink Floyd laserium shows of the past. It was a poignant story, filled with dramatic three-dimensional recreations, and we did, in fact, hold our breaths.

Inside the museum my friend regaled me with quotes, both his (the next Bob Dylan is not going to be a musician) and those of others (Dad, this is boring, all the animals are DEAD!) The kids were out in full effect as were the lovers. And we couldn't stop thinking of Bowie. Who else knew best how to use space as a metaphor? Entire albums devoted to outer space! We walked around singing Bowie songs (For here am I sitting in a tin can, far above the world, Planet Earth is blue and there's nothing I can do) and looking at those beautiful, panoramic Hasselblad photographs of the Apollo landing. We felt small and inconsequential, but as the same time we felt a part of things, we felt a part of the universe. And for that day, the universe belonged to us.

I'm in love

I am in the greatest city in the world, or maybe we could call it the best place in the country, or perhaps the east coast, or, uh, my exact favorite coordinates to find myself. I am on vacation in a city where I eat and walk and see art and hear really good snippets of conversations and drink and eat and rarely look up from the street. But when I do look up I still feel equally exhilarated. And oh, I also stay up late, spend lots of money, talk about literature and fantasize about how great it would be to live here. Like if I had a decent paying job--scratch that--a really well paying job, and appropriately warm yet stylish clothes (which upon arrival, I quickly realize, I never do). And it's not just the city itself. It's the people I know here. The things they like to do (when I'm in town), what great hosts they are (plying me with liquor and letting me sleep in their beds) and how they are always game fur anything (it's 2am, let's go grab some pommes frittes and watch Jon Stewart until we collapse).

I always have the best star sightings here and this one was one of the best cuz he seemed to be on a really romantic date and not afraid to show it and because I really liked this movie and he sat right next to me on the same bench throughout my entire meal. My friend The Writer claims that even the readings are better here, because let's face it this is a literary town, a town of publishers and people who read and read voraciously and read the papers and the book reviews so even if they haven't read the book, they've read the synopsis, and indeed, the one reading I attended did not disappoint during the Q & A. Because of a certain question I asked, a man with a waxy, handlebar mustache and bow tie approached me and handed me his card. He told me that if I ever wanted to talk about how best to dispose of my body after death, he could help me. His card read, Director of Anatomical Donations Program and honestly, I knew not that such a program existed.

I can't help but gush. It's just my personality. I'm sure there are other great places to be and other great things to do and other amazing things to eat. But really, for now, I'd rather be here. Even if it's just to get turned around and around on the subway system, to get knocked in the shoulder repeatedly when I am caught looking over my shoulder, to get blisters on my feet from trying to wear anything but sneakers, or to be told by a rude waitress that my choice was not the best one to make. And thankfully I am.

To whom it may concern

<sub>"Al and Mae" by Judith Wigren-Slack from learning to love you more

I hope you grow to love the house at 845 Mudville Drive as much as I have. I wanted to leave you with a few of the idiosyncrasies of the neighborhood, the house, the yard, and just random bits of information I have culled over the years. Inside this envelope, you will find a postcard for the guy who painted the mural on the steps and side door. He was really cool and lives nearby. He has been known to wear a pink cowboy hat on more festive occasions. You will also find some pictures the previous owner left me of the remodel downstairs. Those I am afraid are not terribly exciting but they now belong to you. In addition I leave you with some literature: the manual for the sump pump in the downstairs bathroom and possibly a manual for the washing machine, although, it could be the manual for the previous washing machine. Finally, I include the electrician's grid of the electrical circuits, a scrap of paper that I have never really been able to make sense of.

The neighbors: The ones on your right are a great, really big Nigerian family. The father’s name is George. The children's names are Mercy, Grace, Kindness, and Precious. The father knows a lot about gardening and has a wonderful vegetable garden come summer. The kids will throw many things over into your yard and knock sheepishly at the door to retrieve them. Invite them in! They are extra curious and equally courteous. In the adjacent apartment building on the other side, the occupants are quirky but well meaning. You might hear them early in the morning, yelling from their door to the person honking their horn in the street. One of the tenants, a woman whose name I believe is Kiki, will have a modest garage sale every Sunday come summer. She will sell very little. You can be sure however, that if you ever want to get rid of any stuff, there will be plenty of takers on the block.

Across the street lives a family of brothers who bought their house in the last year or so. Don't park in their driveway even if it looks like, and in fact is, a non-functioning driveway. They are cool other than that. They plan on raising the house and doing a lot of work as soon as their permits come in. Of course, they've been saying that for a few years now. On that same side of the street, the owner of the two Rolls Royces is the same owner of the three identical white houses with the identical rose bushes. He also owns the truck full of crap that you will often find parked in front of your house. He remains a mystery to me, but he knows everyone and will let you know how he almost bought your house a few years ago for a dime, but for some reason didn't. The kids on the street are really great. You’ll see them when the weather warms. Sit on the porch or work on the front yard and you’ll meet all the neighbors, one by one.

The house: Many of the windows don't open. I've made multiple attempts and valiant efforts at unsticking them, but they do tend to settle during the winter months. Sorry. Both bedrooms face the neighboring apartment building, giving them a fishbowl feel. I suggest curtains. My favorite place has always been the dining room. It's a small room, but cheery. A little table by the window is really all you need. The stoop, of course, is another great place to hang out, even if you don't smoke. Grab a treat from the ice-cream truck or just catch up on the latest R & B hits as the cars roll by. Three o'clock, when the schools let out, is another fine time to find yourself outside.

The backyard: The climbing vine, the first thing you see as you exit the back door, is a trumpet vine. It grows quickly. Watch out. There are two jasmine bushes that really should be better trained. There are about five or six wild strawberry plants near the rosemary, but the rosemary might be crowding them out. You might get a total of a dozen strawberries per year--and that's if the birds don't get them first--but sweet they will be. Every year, a wild artichoke plant comes up in the far right vegetable planter. It never ceases to surprise me. You might see also see some wild tomato plants. If you do, consider yourselves lucky. California poppies and cosmos usually turn up throughout the yard, as will one single Echinacea flower smack dab in the middle. The lavender towards the front is getting pretty woody and is probably ready to be pulled. Beware of the river plant on the left fence towards the back. That thing will grow like crazy and I have tried unsuccessfully many times to uproot it. Good luck!

That's all I can think of. May my ex-home bring you as much joy as all of my other exes. There just comes a time--no matter how sweet the journey--when it's best to let go.

Casey</sub>

Whoever made music of a mild day?

_{photo by John Humble}

Pinch me. Okay you can stop doing that now. I'm wide awake.

Today I did what few people dare to do in my new town: I walked. In the cold. And for a long time. Sure, I could have driven and no, there was no sidewalk where I was walking and yes, my mother's jaw dropped open when I said I wanted to see how long it would take to walk to my sister's house. After mapquesting the two addresses and discovering the distance was definitely doable, I set out the door. And let me tell you the experience was wonderful. The air was brisk, my ears were cold, the sun was setting, the clouds dramatic, and the walk mostly downhill. I only got honked at 3 or 4 times, passed only one angry chained-in-the-yard Rottweiler, and got comfortably used to the smell of exhaust. Despite it all, my hour-long walk made me deliriously happy. Like the crisp air, I felt like I really saw everything in extra sharp focus. Every house, every parked car, every street sign as I neared each corner. People were friendly, engaging in short but meaningful conversations and most importantly, I remembered one can walk here, even without a dog, and not only walk but enjoy themselves while doing it.

The earlier part of the day was spent driving around in the car with my parents, checking out different neighborhoods and going to open houses--not because I can buy a house right now, but because it's kinda fun to do. I bullied my parents into stopping and loaning me the bucks to get an extremely overpriced soy latte, and then, a coupla hours later, stopping again--they waited in the car both times--to buy two tacos al pastor for the very reasonable price of $2.16. I discovered some neighborhoods that I totally adored and some houses I totally can't afford. At the same epiphanic moment, I realized I have just moved to a new place (sort of) and there are limitless things out there just waiting to reveal themselves to me (there really are). I would like to make a list. And on it would be some kind of walking tour (I hear there is a woman whose art project it is to walk here every day and she is looking for people to accompany her), getting a new library card, and eating the best ramen soup about which I read an article only today in the city's free weekly. I would also like to climb this city's famous sign, walk to as many friend's houses as possible, converse with a few cabbies, and become a regular at at least one local establishment.

These all seem like reasonable goals, and while I don't want to get overwhelmed by reading some kind of what to do in... book, I am looking for other suggestions for what to do when you are new.

Going, going, gone

Today I officially left Mudville and drove the 5.5 hours down to my new home in Suck City. On the way, I listened to Springsteen's Nebraska, and though it wasn't the Jersey turnpike, nor the badlands which I passed, I did feel the expansiveness of the universe as I sailed down south, a coupla bags of groceries beside me, a half dozen of my favorite plants on the floor, and three suitcases thrown into the bed of my truck. Now I'm not gonna make any disclaimers about The Boss, you either know, or don't know, the brilliance of that album, but thar's a traveling album if there ever was one. I mean, c'mon, look at the freakin album cover for chrissakes. When Bruce howls my skin starts to crawl, and I'm thankful I'm not listening to this at 3AM, driving down the highway, with nothing but a cup of gas station coffee to keep me warm.

Well, the mind starts to wander when you travel, particularly so when one is leaving a place for which one--okay me--has oceans of memories, friends, and fond feelings for in general. Particularly so when the future still seems so distant, like the horizon you can never quite reach, or so indecipherable, like the disappearing ink bought from the back of a comic book. For a while I am without my stuff, not yet in my new place, and traveling back and forth. You could call it limbo. I would be lying if I said I wasn't afraid to put down roots some place else. I would be lying if I said I could completely uproot myself from my last home. I would be lying if I said I know what the hell I am doing. But again, sometimes the important thing is just doing.

I wanted to say goodbye to the people I will miss most: to The Bachelorette who is going through a real tough time and with whom I agreed to go on some kind of bold adventure when we finish the projects that are taking us forever to finish, to My Second Favorite Ex who was also my closest neighbor, the brokest motherfucker I know and subsequently the most sentimental drunk, to The Amazing Family who took me in when I most needed to be taken in and who have presented the most hopeful case of love, decent parenting and exemplorary being I know. But I can't seem to do it. And I am hoping I really don't have to.

Along with the expansiveness of the universe, the other thing I was thinking was this: if two people (energy) are traveling at the same rate (velocity) towards one another, how long before the inevitable (force) happens? Is there a quadratic formula for love? If so, what bearing would distance have on this equation? And finally, if you go too fast do you become a black hole?

The man I just met

The man I just met likes to check the weather. Last Sunday morning, the day of my barbecue, my going away barbecue, he called to say he had bad news. It's gonna rain today. For sure. It seemed there was nothing I could argue there. Well, what's the good news, then? Pause. I had a great time with you last night. Yesterday we were talking on the phone and he checked the weather online for Wednesday, the day I am driving down to my new home. The day I leave for good. Forty percent chance of showers he reads. He can't see me on the other end of the line, nodding my head. Things like checking the weather: these are things I am not very good at.

The man I just met is exactly that: a man I just met. You could call it bad timing since I have met him on the eve of my departure. But you could also call it good timing, because, after all, we did meet and like my therapist would say as far as problems go, it's a good one to have.

There are mountains of things the man I just met doesn't know about me. Like that I hate it when I can't think of anything to say. That I don't care much for eggplant. That there are certain words, I will always mispronounce. But so far, what he does know, he seems to like. He seems to get. He seems to be okay with.

I can't really say much more about it now. All I know is that he is a man I just met. A man who's not afraid to show me his quirks, a man who can't always tell when I am joking, a man who offered to loan me his computer when mine stopped working. All I know is that he is a man who thinks to check the weather, and even, to check it ahead of time. Perhaps it is because he likes the certainty of science or maybe it is because he owns a boat he would like to be sailing, and then again, maybe he likes to plan ahead, as much as one can, for disaster.

But he is a man whom I have seen noticing the patterns of the wind, a man with a pinhole leak in his house that drives him crazy, a man who has stood outside and looked up and convinced me, it wasn't going to rain.

I want to dive into your ocean

Today's theme equals rain. Wet, pouring, windy yet oddly not-too-cold rain. I have always loved the rain. I once lived in a house that felt much like a barn and when it rained I always felt like Noah. I used to hope for it to rain for 40 days but I think the most I ever counted was up to 10.

There are songs with rain in it. That old

Here comes the rain again
Falling on my head like a memory
Falling on my head like a new emotion
I want to walk in the open wind
I want to talk like lovers do
I want to dive into your ocean
Is it raining with you?

song.

And then that other one that Missy 'Misdemeanor' Elliot sampled from Ann Peebles:

I can't stand the rain 'gainst my window
Bringing back sweet memories
I can't stand the rain 'gainst my window
'Cause he's not here with me
Hey window pain do you remember
How sweet it used to be
When we were together
Everything was so grand, yes it was
Now that we've parted
There's one sound that I just can't stand...

Rain as a metaphor for loss, for love unrequited, for feeling suddenly and starkly alone. I guess the rain makes us feel small, like looking up at the canopy of stars or looking down at all the grains of sand that fit into the palm of your hand. I guess the rain reminds us of tears. How often have you sat with the car parked and watched the rain come down,blurring your windshield and thought how much can the heart take? How much can one feel before one spills over like all the droplets splashing on the glass? Moments like those and I think, this little car, this is my ark, this might be all I have to save me.

And then there are the movies: that noir shot of the melancholic hero, a reflection of a rain-streaked window pane on his face as he suddenly realizes everything that he thought was good and true is suddenly wicked and false. Or rain-soaked lovers vulnerable and yet ready, suitcases beside them, water dripping from their shoulders as they become each other's umbrella in that final embrace as the orchestra crescendos . Or the rain pounding the pavement in some gritty city street, traffic lights and neon signs blurred, a siren wailing in the background, all clues telling us that life as we know it is about to change.

When you're a kid your parents are always telling ya to stay outta the rain. That you'll catch your death a cold. That you need to stay dry. But you know what?

That's not even true.

None more black

_{ALEC SOTH
Two Towels, 2005}

Today was one of those days where I just felt like a rock star. I can't really get into the whys and wherefores, but suffice it to say, I was in top form . The air was crisp, the tiny spring buds about to burst, and I, in my sunglasses, was doing something that I love and doing it quite well, if I do say so myself. Add to that fact that I survived some potentially undercooked yet very tasty homemade ravioli last night, polished off a decent bottle of wine, slept a handful of hours, and still felt on par with the rest of our Olympians, and you'll understand what I am talking about.

After doing the thing that I love quite well--and despite the fact that my computer along with, oh, all it's precious documents and archives, may be DOA--I came home and, like a true rock star, listened to music that I love . Gee, you might ask, what kind of music is the kind of music that Casey loves? Well, lemme tell ya. Today the album was That Skinny Motherfucker with The High Voice? and the artist of the aforementioned album is Dump. How can I articulate how much I love this album? How much it means to me? Well...I can't.

You must love Prince. I mean you really would have had to have grown up listening to those early formative albums over and over until the record wore out, until your throat was hoarse, until your thighs ached from pulling all those Prince-like maneuvers. This is an album of Prince covers. Covers you know well. So you have to like covers. You have to be able to appreciate them. Especially when they criss-cross genres. Especially when they criss-cross ones like pure pop genius (Prince) and pure indie rock eclecticism (yo la tengo) and arrive at something as special and brilliant and surprising and sweet as this album. But really for me, it's just one of those albums I can completely sing along with--unabashedly and unapologetically--shit-eating grin plastered all over my face, hips a rockin', toes tappin'. Talk about rock stars.

You can't take it with you

_{Mazatlan pinholes, Ri Anderson}

My kitchen table is gone, as is the coffee table, the sideboard and soon someone is coming to grab my supremely out-of-date stereo. The house is cold and emptying fast. I feel like those little bits of sand left in the hour glass. Every day a part of me disappears. I call up friends and it's as if I am writing my last will and testament. You'll take this chair right? My butterfly palm I bequeath to you. These records? Enjoy them. Everyone gets a little sumthin'. A little piece of little ol' me.

Time, my friends, is running out. And the cold hard truth of the matter is that I am not ready. Well, a part of me is. I mean, letting go? It gets easier and easier the more you do it. I understand how people do this over and over. Pack up and move. Leave it all behind. Search for something new, some thing else, some thing better than what's in front of them. But part of me just ain't. Ready. I like it here. It's not a bad place to be, after all. And really, who can bear to say goodbye? I can't. And so, I imagine, I won't. How do you say goodbye to a place that has become home? A place where you make sense? A place that fits like the best worn t-shirt of the last two decades?

I came here straight outta high-school. My parents drove me up. And then, they dropped me off. I was ready. I never went back. I never looked back. It wasn't until the last coupla years, the thought even occurred to me. There were flirtations with other cities. There were extended vacations. There was study abroad and temporary employment elsewhere. But mis cosas, the important ones, always stayed here. The difference is I always knew I was coming back. It's not that I'm scared. I usually land on my feet. It's not that I don't like surprises. And it's not that I'm moving some place I don't know. It's just a moment of mourning. A beautiful agony. A little bit of death.

The great equalizer

De Lauer's. Say it again. De Lauer's. Feels good dudn't it? Try on De Lauer's Super newsstand Since 1907. And it's walking distance from me. Not just a newsstand but a super newsstand. Not just a super newsstand but a cigar shop. Not just a cigar shop but a place to buy racing forms. Not just place to buy racing forms but a place open twenty four hours a day. They won't kick you out no matter how long you peruse their shelves. In fact, they seem to invite it, as there is always a warm cup of coffee just waiting for you in a styrofoam cup. Try walking by it without stepping in. Try walking by and not being enticed by all those international newspapers. There are over 100. Try walking in and not stopping to browse the literary journals. Try not peeking into the Italian Vogue, the paper thin Mexican comics, or the overpriced New York art rags. Try not dropping 10 or 15 or 20 dollars.

De Lauer's. A local institution for sure. Let me tell you what De Lauer's is like at 2AM on a weekend night. First of all, it's bumping. A group of Ethiopian men gossip and sip coffee over a month-old newspaper from their homeland. Drunk hipsters fall in and buy, maybe an Artforum, maybe a copy of Nest. They leave change behind. A bum quietly comes in and buys a cheap cherry cigar. There are lone men in the back leafing through the porn mags, which I hear houses quite an eclectic collection. Twenty-year old hustlers will scamper in and out, happy to have an audience to bullshit. The clerk is patient. A TV blares news in Arabic behind him. There are drugstore romances. There are hobby and craft magazines beside feminist zines stapled together. You can buy monthly subway and bus passes. And outside, that same bum will sell you a half-used bus transfer for fifty cents. The bars empty and De Lauer's, in turn, fills. There is always a cab out front and there are always a few cabbies huddled inside. A cop walks out and not too much later a drug dealer will waltz in. The important thing to note about De Lauer's is that we are all there. We may be in our own worlds. We may, in fact, hate like hell to ever leave that world. But inside De Lauer's we are all welcome and we are all quite content.

The sign says

African Jamaican
Vegetarian Vegan
Soul Food Juice Bar
And really what more could you want in an establishment? The place is good. The place is home. And the place is yet some thing else that I will be leaving behind.

Every neighborhood should have one of these in it. You walk in, you order, you try the smoothie of the day, you chat with the other customers, you leave, you feel much better. Oh, that everything were that easy! You might try the tofu burger, the no meat treat, the soup of the day. You might just settle for some fresh coconut juice. No matter what you decide, there is always a lot of dill action. You will, naturally, be listening to some reggae. You may or may not get schooled as in, this Bob Marley record is about the burning, mahn, of Kingstown but all they ever wanna play is One Love. You will become a regular and you will find that satisfying. You will smile as you read the saying of the day, neatly printed on the chalk board. You will look forward to the twelve-block walk it takes to get there. And you will handle your own money at the cash register as the proprietor doesn't get involved in that business. It's not that the food is that great, nor that much of a bargain, and it's not that I plan on becoming a vegetarian; it's the whole package, the whole easy package.

_{Dinner Plates, 1998 by James Kerry Marshall}

There's no place like home

Leaving a place you have lived after 17 years is something akin to saying goodbye to a limb. There are lots of things that I will miss and never forget. I could prolly say goodbye everyday until I leave and then about 3,234 days beyond that. But for today we will start with something simple. Something lovely.

Will you look at this? This is a plum tree. This is what it looks like in Spring. This is when it looks its best. With its little pink buds, like a newborn's baby toes. So delicate. So surprising. So happy. Like a signpost telling me Holy shit senorita, it's springtime! Dust off your huaraches and don your sunglasses. This sun is about to shine.

Well, along with the plum tree we have a smokebush yet to grace us with her dramatic purple leaves. Not to mention the sweet scents of my wisteria as it blooms, not once, but twice each year. The jasmine out back, the wild tomatoes, the artichoke plant that grows back every summer. My god, the artichoke plant! That bold ghetto plant that bears fruit no matter how little sustenance it's given. No matter how many weeds crowd around it, no matter how many ants climb it's brittle stalk. Oh, artichoke plant, I can always count on your brazen, thorny purple crown to rear its head above us all.

Ah, there is always so much to look forward to. Can I tell you about the crazy trumpet vine? What about the clamouring loquat tree? Or the bees and the lavender? A cactus that will bloom? That singular echinacea flower? The dozen or so strawberries that come late summer and bring with it such sweetness in such a delicately small package? And what about me? And my hands in the dirt and my freckled skin and my bluejeans faded by the sun.

The things she carried

She no longer is.

Remember about a year ago when I started this electronic blog and ended my non-electronic relationship, I mentioned that Tim O'Brien collection of stories, The Things They Carried? It is the kind of collection that, for me anyways, makes me sob uncontrollably throughout its entire reading. Like stick-to-the-page-until-they-turn-brittle-and-yellow-and-so-seal-the-book-shut-forever kind of tears. That can be a good thing. A cathartic thing.

Well, in preparation for leaving Mudville--after seventeen years--I am hocking my wares on Craigslist. And the stuff I have been carrying around with me for all these years, I am now letting go of. Faster than I am prepared for. Faster than I can say goodbye to. So, in homage to these sentimental pieces with which I am now parting, I formally bid adieu.

The coat rack. Many people have inquired about this dandy little coat rack given to me as my good friend, The Writer, as he escaped from Mudville and headed towards that publishing capital on the Eastern Coast. The coat rack stood in the entrance to my house for many a year. People used it to hang their coats, their scarves, their purses, their hats, as they made themselves at home, and I, in turn, did the same. The coat rack had a warm presence of its own and sometimes in the middle of the night, I would think for a moment that someone was standing there. I loved nothing more that to hang my pork pie hat on it.

The turquoise-y bookshelves. These came in a pair and even from this slightly blurry picture you can see how sweet they are. A woman came and bought these shelves for her son's nursery. I find that a fitting ending to my relationship with them. It kinda felt like I was giving them up for adoption and that I had found them a very good home. The thing about these bookshelves was that they were always sunny, even when I was not. They often traveled from my bedroom, to the office or to the living room, depending on my needs. For the most part, they bore books. And they wore them well.

The wooden desk. Plain and simple. Comes with two drawers. This was my mother's desk when she split up with my dad and, for a brief period, lived in Florida. We were all happy when she came home. And I was also happy to be given the desk. The desk was pleasant to sit at, particularly when sitting on a wooden chair. It felt very writer-ly. There was a period when I used it as a bar in the dining room and that worked surprisingly well. It was just the right size.

The chrome lamp from Urban Outfitters. I was fine parting with this and I parted with it at a very low price. The funny thing about this lamp is that my boyfriend had the same lamp and when he moved in we suddenly had two of them and that was quite redundant. Then he moved back out and I was left with one lamp again. And that, my friends, is the short story of my life.

The ex-ex-boyfriend's heavy oak swivel chair. This chair weighs a ton. It was left to me by an ex-boyfriend, the one who broke my heart back in college. It is rather fitting that I have been lugging around this chair for all these years. But I think I really am ready to let it go. It has, however, served me well: it's been sturdy, it swivels, it rolls. It has been a reliable and handsome piece of furniture. But, a chair without a desk is a lonely thing to be, indeed.

Which leads us to the bed. The heart of the nest you could say. And a bed which has been with me through two relationships and a few other courtships. A bed which many have come to look at, but none has yet to claim. A bed I am really hoping to now get rid of. When I first laid eyes on this bed in that little furniture shop that has long since gone out of business, I fell in love with it immediately. I don't know the story behind it, why it was reupholstered with the Chinese fabric nor when, but it was my first non-futon bed and it felt at once, both grown-up and old-fashioned. This bed needs a change of scenery. $125 OBO!

Who is

There was a time when I was really broke. There have been a lot of moments in my life when I was cash poor, but for the most part, money was gonna come in some time.

Except this time.

I was just out of college. I lived in an apartment. I was the apartment manager, so my rent was cheap, like 300 bones a month. But somehow that wasn't cheap enough. So I got a roommate. And he lived in the living room of the small one-bedroom, third-floor walk up. Let's call him The Skateboarder. We were both ass broke. I wasn't working. He was waiting tables. But only a couple days a week.

This is how broke we were:

We would go to Goodwill and swap pricetags so we could get the blender we for some reason so desperately needed, for even less.

When The Skateboarder did work, he got free meals. But he would always sneak me in with the wait staff so I could eat for free, too. Then, when he knew he wasn't going to work for a few days, he would take home the bread they could no longer sell and we would eat that. For days.

We stole toilet paper rolls from the university I had just recently attended.

We paid for gas in quarters, dimes, nickels and pennies.

And still, we never had any money.

We would go to garage sales and buy up what we thought were fashionable vintage clothes and sell them back to the fashionable vintage shops by the college.

Happy Hour was an important event of the evening.

Burritos and mac n' cheese were our staples.

And still, we had no money.

The Skateboarder, since he was only paying me 150 bucks to live there, was supposed to split the jobs associated with being the apartment manager, like vacuuming the halls, taking out the trash in the laundry room, and keeping the recycling area clean. But he never did. And I guess I never pressured him.

I never made my credit card payments and my interest rates sky-rocketed. I bounced checks and was always being charged huge bank fees. Up until then, I had been living on student loans and I had been working, but I just did not have a plan. And then, my big plan was to go back to school and incur even more debt. I called and had all the application fees waived.

I drove without insurance. I got parking tickets. I drove a car that did not have any reverse for two years.

I took the greyhound home for the holidays. Once they went on strike and I had to spend the night in the downtown bus station because nobody could come pick me up and I didn't have money for a cab.

I must be thinking of all this because I am unemployed. And ineligible for benefits. And trying to do a different kind of work than what I am used to. I must be thinking of all this because suddenly the future looks like a really blank slate. And that can be scary. I must be thinking of all this because I look back to see who is she gonna be.

I heart my job

Would it be ridiculous if I said I f$#@*g love my job? And mostly I mean, I love where I work. Because mostly I mean, I am actually unemployed and in reality working for myself. And the best part is I am a great boss to work for! Thanks to a small grant from the government, I can afford to do this for approximately one month. I just need to figure out how working for myself can translate into paying the bills on a longer term.

Top Ten Reasons Why I Heart Where I Work

1. Giant Pocky
As if regular-sized Pocky wasn't good enuf.

2. Bubble Tea
Everywhere I turn my head there are bubble tea shops with a million different flavors. I love soy mango. I love the huge straws. I love huffing up the giant tapioca balls.

3. Banh Mi Sandwiches
$2.75. I repeat two-fucking-seventy-five!

4. Dim Sum
Also ubiquitous. Also extremely affordable. Also fresh hot steaming dumplings and instant gratification.

5. It's bustling
OK, we've finally gotten off the subject of food. People are walking around here. And I, in turn, walk around, too. It's so bustling, in fact, people are actually shoving each other. Out of the way. And I love it.

6. Sanrio
And stationary stores. And Afro Ken. And puffy stickers. And Totoro. And gorgeously misspelled notebooks, envelopes, t-shirts that say things like the sun is gentle sea time. And then, it really makes you think about it.

7. Chinese New Year
Friends, it is about to turn year of the dog, and I, my friends, was born year of the dog. And who doesn't love all that gold foil paper and firecrackers?

8. The fortune cookie factory next door to me
It smells great all the time. I love walking by it. And a giant bag only costs a buck seventy five.

9. The office adjacent to ours teaches adults English
All day long I hear people shouting with great enthusiasm: the alphabet, my name is..., and fun 3 letter words.

10. Crazy fashions
Not only are there shops with some intriguing rhinestone, applique and florescent sweatshirts, there are people walking around in the streets rocking the same rhinestone, applique and florescent sweatshirts.

My Hero and also the woman I hate. Scroll down to CLICK HERE

The last day

Thursday was my last day of work. I am trying hard to come up with things I will miss; surfing the internet on someone else's dime, that horrible commute, my obnoxious boss, the chronic back pain from sitting in a chair all day--uh, nope. Ok, maybe that fist thing. With the advances we've made in technology, I can still surf the internet at home, but it's just not the same thing. I mean, now that I'm not getting paid for it, it's just not as much fun to see who bids on that Tony Danza tee circa Who's The Boss? I guess, I'll have to find a new hobby to fill all my time.
All my time.
Yikes.
The other thing is that I am moving. Out of my house. And I love my house. My house is cute. It's charming. It has a fireplace, for chrissakes, inlaid wood! Some would even call it a Craftsman! What the hell am I doing? The snowball is rolling and I just want to scream, stop!
I have plenty to do what with moving and looking for work and my secret project I'd really like to finish before I move. But I wanted you all to know.
It's Monday morning.
9 AM.
And I am in my pajamas and bathrobe.
Drinking coffee.
And it feels quite lovely.

Today's awkward confession

_{Ana Mendieta's "Untitled (Body Tracks)"}

There are a few things you should know about me.

I fall in love on the first date. It's not like love at first sight. It's more like, I just know whether or not I could fall in love with you. And then it's up to you, whether or not I do. I have, on occasion, been pleasantly surprised. As I have, on more than one occasion, been not. At times it seems--to me anyway--as if I am perhaps not that picky. And although I find that thought more than a little frightening, I guess it also means I am a pretty open person.

But what I really would like to confess here is that I have this bad habit. Let's call it the projection habit. It's sorta similar to when you think you are going to die and you see your life flash in front of your eyes. That happens to me with, oh say, men of a certain age. It could happen with the suit next to me on the airplane, the tow-truck driver as he changes my flat, the school teacher with the brown-bag lunch patiently waiting at the subway stop. Suddenly and quickly, I see my life flash forward with this person. I see us falling in love, I see us moving in together, I see us growing old. I see the details: the coffee I bring him before work, what he looks like asleep in bed in the morning, the empty plates after a mid-week meal. It's nothing I can stop, it's nothing I have control over, and it only gets worse the older I get.

It's rather embarrassing and I can't believe I just told you.

But it's kind of funny, too. With the suit it's me bringing him coffee. With the tow-truck driver, it's a can of Schlitz and with the middle school teacher, it's freshly squeezed orange juice.

Sigh.

There are many things to worry about. And then there are just things. I'm trying to learn the difference. I'm trying not to be one of those night-guard-wearing women. I'm trying to live in the moment. I'm trying, well, let's just stick with that: I'm trying. For the time being I have all of my fingers attached--minus the bit of an index finger I lost in a soup accident. I have one or two skills under my hat. I have wit. I have composure. And I have at least a few more mistakes to make.

Keep your fingers crossed.

Be Bold v 2.0, Now New and Improved

Last night, a friend of mine told me about an idea she pitched for a magazine. It was to be bold every day in some big or small way and then write about her experiences. Never mind that this was for some O-style women's rag, The Bachelorette and I loved this idea immediately and were begging her to be participants. Who couldn't use a good dose of Be Bold v 2.0? BB v 1.8 is so 2005!

We would check in daily, be witness to each other's boldness, and the article could be about our cumulative experiences. I'm thinking she could call it, Big, Bad and Bold. Hell, with a title like that we'd be pretty well-positioned for world domination (or at least, one helluva good name for a line of cosmetics).

So where to begin? What does BB v2.o look like? Sound like? Smell like? Uh, maybe we can skip that last one But, chances are the answers would be unique to each of us. Personally, I think quitting my job and moving to a new city without nary a plan qualifies me for about a year's worth of boldness. But you already made those decisions, The Bachelorette informs me as if I don't already know. So like the rest of them, I, too, have to start at the starting line.

Quickly, we discount dating and relationships with the mens. We can only use that, like, once, because it's simply too obvious. And that would just get boring and predictable for our readers. Yeah, we could ask the hot cashier at Trader Joe's we've been crushed out on for months for a date. Yawn. Sure, we could call that loser that dumped us back and tell him how we really feel. Snooze. And, hey, that's what Harlequin's are for. Another round of drinks and we move on to the badder of the ideas.

The Bachelorette suggests she shave her head. But you just got such cute hair cut! I shout back. I suggest moving to New York and then we decide maybe a combination of the two could work. But wait a minute, this is BB v. 2.0, why not move to Argentina, why not sell all our things and travel the globe? Why not become ex-pats? Why not make a film about it? A memoir? A reality show? We try to think about things our mothers couldn't do at our age bogged down with children and husbands and households. In the process, we end up getting off track and cursing women's liberation for giving us too many choices. We curse our high ideals, our unrealistic expectations, our empty beds. We curse our extended adolescence that leaves us still reeling like teenagers but inching towards being too old to actually having kids of our own. And then we get back on track, sort of.

There are the bigger ideas. The daily ways in which we could be bold--after all that is what we are supposed to be talking about. We could ask our neighbors over for dinner, the ones that kind of scare us. We could take the time at work to talk with someone whom we really don't know. We could ask that homeless guy about his childhood. We could have real conversations with our parents about things that really matter to us and assume they will understand. We could give a spontaneously give a friend in need 50 bucks. Not loan, but give.

We walk home in the rain. We raise our fists in the air. Tourists keep asking us questions as if we know all the answers. We fall asleep brave and proud and bold.

And then we wake up. What bold thing are you going to do today? awaits me in my mailbox. I honestly respond that I feel a little hungover and well, not terribly bold. Plus it's all rainy out, I didn't sleep well and...What about you?

No, nothing at all.

Which goes to show, we are all looking for a little bit of inspiration.

Last year's resolutions

So I have been busy quitting my job, painting my house, boxing up my things and selling a house. I have been having garage sales, looking for a new place to live, revising my career choice, making soups, watching the L Word, and oh, catching up with friends. Yeah, busy. Too busy to actually come up with any New New Year's Resolutions. So let's just stick with the old, kay?

Last Year's Resolutions

1. Learn to bake bread
Since I did not, in fact, learn to master the art of baking bread, the good news is that I can still keep this one as a resolution for '06. I would like to learn at least one extra-curricular activity that I can do really well. I think learning how to bake bread would be more beneficial to my figure than say, learning how to bake cakes , plus it's an activity that can be done standing as opposed to being hunched over a computer. And baking bread smells the best.

2. Memorize all the two and three letter words in Scrabble™
Again, did not happen. This one is part of my plan for Scrabble™ world domination. Since I have too poor of a memory for crosswords, and Soduko™ is, as of yet, not a social sport, and since my family can whoop my butt in charades, this is one game in which I actually have the chance to take someone down. So what, if it's my four-year old niece?

3. Internet date
OK, this one we actually got closer on. Interrupted periodically by non-internet dating; I think the coast is now clear, we can proceed full steam ahead. Just as soon as I take the perfect picture and write the perfect profile and come up with the perfect witty handle.

Which brings us to the more vague, chronic resolutions:

4. Figure out what I want to do with my life, get in shape, eat better food, take control of my finances, be happy.
Whew, I can check all these off my list! It's good to know I can now concentrate on more important things, like, learning calligraphy and mastering tether ball.

Just drive she said

If you know me, chances are you've heard me mention my life-changing-drive-across-the-country about a million times. The drive actually occurred what seems like ions ago, but its impression is still fresh. We took 3 weeks to reach one coast, intentionally got lost, and frequented the local watering hole every stop we made. To wit, we drank our way across this great land of ours and I danced with a lot of coyboys.

To pass the time--and since I was verboten to drive the stick shift driveaway we were delivering to Boston--I read aloud to the man in the front seat. It was odd that I didn't get car sick as normally I do. But I guess my body's equilibrium adjusted to all that constant motion. Well, one of the short stories I read was Annie Proulx's Brokeback Mountain. It has since been one of my most dearly beloved short stories. It didn't help matters much that I was extremely crushed out on the man in the front seat with whom I was driving. Oh, and that he wanted nothing to do with me--at least not in the sense I was after.

Well, the other night we went to see Brokeback Mountain, the major motion picture. Me and the same man in the front seat that I read that story to some 4 years ago. I no longer have the crush, and we have remained good friends. And the movie was good and all, but sometimes, some things are just much bigger when they can remain in your imagination. I feel like the short story I read on that road trip has been snatched away from me and replaced by something much more generic and pedestrian.

Anyway, I look forward to finding someone to whom I can again read aloud my favorite short stories. Preferably in bed.

Here's to 2006.