I feel a mess. I need an everything-makeover. You know what I would love? To go on What Not To Wear, but to have it not be televised. I had a boyfriend once that I tried to get on Queer Eye just so we could have the apartment makeover.
It's all a part of this taking control thing.
I told you I'd have a story today...I lied. More to come.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Thera-post. I'm back.
So there's no real reason that I stopped blogging over a year ago, other than that I lost momentum, and no real reason that I haven't started up again when I wanted to. Well, I suppose that I figured the first post "back" should be at least a little meaningful...but...meh. None of the rest of these ever were, so here we are.
I have a few projects that I'd like to be working on right now. The idea is to clear away the rest of the crap, both mental crap and actual clutter, and hopefully this is the time I'll really start. I made a crazy little list, the subject of which was that I need to be the person in charge of my own life. This seems simple enough, and like my therapist said, it's kind of like a trite life-coaching mantra, but whatever works, right? The list just had on it a few things I want to change. Nothing giant...nothing that's a huge process. Just little things, the biggest one being that I am going to start the process of re-getting my drivers license on Friday. Boy is going to do it with me, too, being that his foreign-ass has never had a US drivers license. I have to take the permit test on Friday, and then I have to take a five-hour driving test. The lesson: don't let your license expire for more than two years.
I'll be back. I'll have a story or something. Thanks for indulging.
I have a few projects that I'd like to be working on right now. The idea is to clear away the rest of the crap, both mental crap and actual clutter, and hopefully this is the time I'll really start. I made a crazy little list, the subject of which was that I need to be the person in charge of my own life. This seems simple enough, and like my therapist said, it's kind of like a trite life-coaching mantra, but whatever works, right? The list just had on it a few things I want to change. Nothing giant...nothing that's a huge process. Just little things, the biggest one being that I am going to start the process of re-getting my drivers license on Friday. Boy is going to do it with me, too, being that his foreign-ass has never had a US drivers license. I have to take the permit test on Friday, and then I have to take a five-hour driving test. The lesson: don't let your license expire for more than two years.
I'll be back. I'll have a story or something. Thanks for indulging.
Friday, August 17, 2007
What an abysmal blogger am I!
I've been trying to write "for real," as of late, leaving not much time for this blogshit. Today, however, I feel like being naked in public, I suppose.
Lately I've been questioning the wisdom of living in NYC. I have had frequent jaunts to New Orleans this past year, and with every trip back, I miss it more. I know something has to push into gear this year. I don't know what, but I am taking next weekend to re-asses my life. Or maybe I'll just drink alone. This remains to be seen.
Just a minor crisis, nothing to be alarmed at.
I may be doing a reading next Saturday...y'know, if you're in the NYC area...
I'll come back later.
I've been trying to write "for real," as of late, leaving not much time for this blogshit. Today, however, I feel like being naked in public, I suppose.
Lately I've been questioning the wisdom of living in NYC. I have had frequent jaunts to New Orleans this past year, and with every trip back, I miss it more. I know something has to push into gear this year. I don't know what, but I am taking next weekend to re-asses my life. Or maybe I'll just drink alone. This remains to be seen.
Just a minor crisis, nothing to be alarmed at.
I may be doing a reading next Saturday...y'know, if you're in the NYC area...
I'll come back later.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Waning...
I don't want to lose momentum on this...so I'm just going to spit out some written nonsense.
My body's been a bit of a wreck lately. What with hockey and "quitting" smoking, I've felt a bit haggard. But haggard in a good way, I suppose. Sort of a low-level form of masochism. I'd never have the guts to do the real thing, so I'm content, seemingly, to remain mildly sore at all times.
Since February 28th, the last blog day for me, I've turned 30 years old. This milestone hit with something closer to a whimper than a bang, and I wonder if it's because I've maturely and at the envy of everyone I know, been able to transcend worry about my age; that I've learned to properly prioritize. Or...(and let's be honest, this is more likely it), I'm resigned to the fact that one crap year is the same as the next. GOOD TIMES, yo.
In all honesty, however, I've had rare bouts of uncharacteristic optimism as of late, and I'm hoping to turn into one of those people for which their "elder" years turn out better then their younger...30 is the new 20, blah blah blah.
Anyway, this was just to get back into the habit. More to come.
I'd also like to give a special hello to the very very special folks at the Black Sheep Pub, helping to make 30 (and 29, at that), a happyhappy funtimes kind of year.
Word.
My body's been a bit of a wreck lately. What with hockey and "quitting" smoking, I've felt a bit haggard. But haggard in a good way, I suppose. Sort of a low-level form of masochism. I'd never have the guts to do the real thing, so I'm content, seemingly, to remain mildly sore at all times.
Since February 28th, the last blog day for me, I've turned 30 years old. This milestone hit with something closer to a whimper than a bang, and I wonder if it's because I've maturely and at the envy of everyone I know, been able to transcend worry about my age; that I've learned to properly prioritize. Or...(and let's be honest, this is more likely it), I'm resigned to the fact that one crap year is the same as the next. GOOD TIMES, yo.
In all honesty, however, I've had rare bouts of uncharacteristic optimism as of late, and I'm hoping to turn into one of those people for which their "elder" years turn out better then their younger...30 is the new 20, blah blah blah.
Anyway, this was just to get back into the habit. More to come.
I'd also like to give a special hello to the very very special folks at the Black Sheep Pub, helping to make 30 (and 29, at that), a happyhappy funtimes kind of year.
Word.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
The Sun Never Shines on Orange Street (Yet Another in a Series of Plotless Anecdotes)
Again, many years ago, again, NOLA. I had just moved out of my apartment, and hadn't yet given much thought to what I'd do next, habitation-wise. I was squatting at N&C's apartment about twelve hours after they had moved out (of town). They still had a few days left on their lease and a mattress, so we all figured, no big deal, I'd stay until I couldn't. This rapidly changed when that very afternoon, a note had been left on the door while I was in the shower saying something to the effect of "please get your ass the fuck on out," to which I gladly complied.
My things were in storage, and as expensive as the storage place was getting, I figured I'd better find somewhere to live (other then friends' sofa's) or else I'd have to actually move into my storage locker. There was a place I'd heard about through work at the bar, but I'd never really taken it seriously. It was offered, and I think I pleasantly smiled or something.
The place was the former apartment of a woman that worked at the restaurant. At least I think she did. I knew she was a friend of Steve's, who definitely worked there, and I know sometimes she was in the kitchen, cooking things. Her name was Karen, but spelled really strangely. I think it had a "b" in it. She was vaguely spooky....long witchy hair, tall and lanky, she wore black jeans. I think Steve had to translate for her a lot, or translate her, actually, which was (again), strange, because she was born and raised in the USofA. She spoke in what sounded, to my admittedly-untrained ear, like tongues. This is what I knew of Karen with a B, except for the fact that she had an apartment that she had to evacuate by a certain day, at which time I was more than welcome to take it over.
I'd been hemming and hawing at first, due not only to Karen's weirdness, but also to the fact that she lived on Orange St. I didn't know precisely where her apartment was, but I'd driven through the area lots of times, and knew the street was reputedly sketchy. I was in beggy, not choosy mode at that point, however, so the next time I saw Karen I told her I'd be happy to move into her place.
Because most of my friends suck, no one wanted to help me move. As had happened more than once during this period of my life, my (silent) cry for help was answered by J.BoD, known as he was for grand (read: pointless) gestures (and horrible drug contacts). He came to pick me up from work one day, the cab of his truck full of ferns (I'd said I'd liked them once, but that's another story entirely), and drove me to my storage place. In front of my storage locker, a man I'd met once only as Nick the Stick waited with a paddy wagon already (somehow) filled with my stuff. Off we went.
I had the address in my pocket, but as we got closer to Orange Street, I started praying to anything holy that my key wouldn't work in the lock. Please believe: I have lived in shady areas of New Orleans before with no problem. I'd lived next to a crackhouse, and our neighbors were actually really sweet. I lived in an apartment on a street with truly nothing else on it, save for our little house; our landlord had seven fingers (total) and a dozen-plus cats. No shit. I was ok with shady. My friends and I were no strangers to unlit, crime-ridden streets. Orange Street was something else entirely, though. The street itself is surrounded on its four sides by projects, highway service road, nothing, and weeds. Anyone who's ever walked to the Quarter from "Corduroy Alley" (no, I'd never heard it called that, either--look it up), knows that there's a little area in between that you'd really rather not call home.
Once we let ourselves into the apartment, I realized that as bad as it seemed from outside, I would rather spend every single night on the front stoop than stay in there for another minute. Only the first front room could be used. There was a giant blue tarp covering the ceiling in the back room and the kitchen, I'm guessing to stop a leak (?). It was filthy, but filthy with dust that had clearly set up shop decades before. Under a tarped ceiling was a dead something being eaten by another now-dead something, which seemed to have died mid-mastication. Mmmm. I was scared to be alone for even a second, not because of what was outside, but what was inside.
I didn't lift a finger for the rest of the day, except to blow my nose mid-sobs. After I saw my things piled up ceiling-high in the front room, I made a soap-opera-like vow that I would never, ever, spend a single night there. Never, ever, in fact, set foot in there again. I may have said it out loud. I was dramatic like that at the time.
My things, however, were not as lucky as I was. While I spent the rest of the summer "housesitting" (couch surfing, again, but my friends were nice enough to pretend that I was providing this service as a favor while they were out of town...I rewarded each one with a fern), my belongings stewed away in the Orange Street apartment.
Eventually I moved into the paradise (comparatively), that was Constance Street. Still my favorite apartment, ever. MBG and I each had our own front door. We window decorated. Life was good for a very short period of time, until I ruined it by fraternizing with Satan's ice delivery guy. A story for another day.
My things were in storage, and as expensive as the storage place was getting, I figured I'd better find somewhere to live (other then friends' sofa's) or else I'd have to actually move into my storage locker. There was a place I'd heard about through work at the bar, but I'd never really taken it seriously. It was offered, and I think I pleasantly smiled or something.
The place was the former apartment of a woman that worked at the restaurant. At least I think she did. I knew she was a friend of Steve's, who definitely worked there, and I know sometimes she was in the kitchen, cooking things. Her name was Karen, but spelled really strangely. I think it had a "b" in it. She was vaguely spooky....long witchy hair, tall and lanky, she wore black jeans. I think Steve had to translate for her a lot, or translate her, actually, which was (again), strange, because she was born and raised in the USofA. She spoke in what sounded, to my admittedly-untrained ear, like tongues. This is what I knew of Karen with a B, except for the fact that she had an apartment that she had to evacuate by a certain day, at which time I was more than welcome to take it over.
I'd been hemming and hawing at first, due not only to Karen's weirdness, but also to the fact that she lived on Orange St. I didn't know precisely where her apartment was, but I'd driven through the area lots of times, and knew the street was reputedly sketchy. I was in beggy, not choosy mode at that point, however, so the next time I saw Karen I told her I'd be happy to move into her place.
Because most of my friends suck, no one wanted to help me move. As had happened more than once during this period of my life, my (silent) cry for help was answered by J.BoD, known as he was for grand (read: pointless) gestures (and horrible drug contacts). He came to pick me up from work one day, the cab of his truck full of ferns (I'd said I'd liked them once, but that's another story entirely), and drove me to my storage place. In front of my storage locker, a man I'd met once only as Nick the Stick waited with a paddy wagon already (somehow) filled with my stuff. Off we went.
I had the address in my pocket, but as we got closer to Orange Street, I started praying to anything holy that my key wouldn't work in the lock. Please believe: I have lived in shady areas of New Orleans before with no problem. I'd lived next to a crackhouse, and our neighbors were actually really sweet. I lived in an apartment on a street with truly nothing else on it, save for our little house; our landlord had seven fingers (total) and a dozen-plus cats. No shit. I was ok with shady. My friends and I were no strangers to unlit, crime-ridden streets. Orange Street was something else entirely, though. The street itself is surrounded on its four sides by projects, highway service road, nothing, and weeds. Anyone who's ever walked to the Quarter from "Corduroy Alley" (no, I'd never heard it called that, either--look it up), knows that there's a little area in between that you'd really rather not call home.
Once we let ourselves into the apartment, I realized that as bad as it seemed from outside, I would rather spend every single night on the front stoop than stay in there for another minute. Only the first front room could be used. There was a giant blue tarp covering the ceiling in the back room and the kitchen, I'm guessing to stop a leak (?). It was filthy, but filthy with dust that had clearly set up shop decades before. Under a tarped ceiling was a dead something being eaten by another now-dead something, which seemed to have died mid-mastication. Mmmm. I was scared to be alone for even a second, not because of what was outside, but what was inside.
I didn't lift a finger for the rest of the day, except to blow my nose mid-sobs. After I saw my things piled up ceiling-high in the front room, I made a soap-opera-like vow that I would never, ever, spend a single night there. Never, ever, in fact, set foot in there again. I may have said it out loud. I was dramatic like that at the time.
My things, however, were not as lucky as I was. While I spent the rest of the summer "housesitting" (couch surfing, again, but my friends were nice enough to pretend that I was providing this service as a favor while they were out of town...I rewarded each one with a fern), my belongings stewed away in the Orange Street apartment.
Eventually I moved into the paradise (comparatively), that was Constance Street. Still my favorite apartment, ever. MBG and I each had our own front door. We window decorated. Life was good for a very short period of time, until I ruined it by fraternizing with Satan's ice delivery guy. A story for another day.
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
A Mess. It's Been a While.
The molecules of the room are frantic and you're buzzing around. You're one of only two people in the room, anyway. Oh, no. Wait. There's three. There's definitely a tweaky energy in there and you're drinking after a night of drinking at five, four, sometime in the morning. You don't have that pit feeling yet, though, because the sun hasn't started peeking out yet. Still dark. You're ok.
You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.
To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.
Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.
The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.
The one who taught you to play pool.
The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.
The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.
Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?
You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.
Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.
You wait to talk...wait until the conversation or bits of loud non sequitur spin your way, feeling a good-natured, affectionate hatred towards those whose turn it is to talk. Coke's the storyteller's best friend. While it's not your turn, your head preoccupies itself with blahblahblah: men you've known, men you've more than known, men you've slept with... You then start taking a businesslike, systematic look at your dirty attitude towards men. Really dirty? Or are you just being extra judgemental of yourself due to the powder. Not dirty, you decide. Just plentiful. You think about it as if you are putting together a Rolodex. For research. Yeah, research. Except you're not researching anything.
To many of them, these men, you're not at all emotionally attached. In your mind, your fucking them isn't even a blip on their radar because it's not a blip on yours. It doesn't reach them and it doesn't reach you.
Then. Then there are the ones you never fucked, but felt more strongly towards, anyway.
The one, skinny as a rail now, who used to be fat as a child.
The one who taught you to play pool.
The one who has a class picture of himself in a pale-pink knit tie and black button-down shirt.
The one you loved, who insisted on talking about the ex. Or the exes.
Why do you have such a morbid fascination for hearing about the ex? About all of their exes? Why do you love hearing it so much when every single solitary motherfucking time you get jealous of a life that happened before you whywhywhy?
You start to feel like you maybe should think about this sometime, when you're sober. Try to remember to do so.
Buckup and pay attention, now, because it's your turn to talk.
Wednesday, December 6, 2006
Bodega Guys and Hook Hands
I've not been able to go into my bodega since last Monday. At the very least, the night shift (of the 24 hour place) is off-limits for me. My bodega guy asked me out. My bodega guy. Asked me out.
Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.
See where this is going?
So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.
Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.
Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.
Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.
Until.
One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."
I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.
Not that there's anything wrong with that...
Now I understand those of you not familiar with bodega culture may not fully grasp how terribly horrible it is for your bodega to be off limits. This one is the shit, too. More like a gourmet mini grocery-convenience store. And it's a good idea to make friends with your bodega people, as I did, as well. You can have packages left off there, if your building doesn't have a lobby and you don't want your packages left outside. If they're close enough to your apartment, they'll help you carry heavy stuff home. And sometimes, if they know you real well, and if you lost your bank card and it's too late to go to the bank, and all you have is a check and you really, really, need a pack of cigarettes because you just got back from a trip to New Orleans and you can't help but wondering really, REALLY, why you live in the most expensive city in the world, well, then, sometimes, they'll let you write them a check. They're not stupid, though. You have to put your phone number on the top of the check.
See where this is going?
So anyway, last Monday, I had a drink with a friend that I haven't seen in a long while. I got home fairly early, got off the subway, and went into the bodega, as I often do, to purchase a snack. Well, flirty bodega man was in there, and asked me what I was up to for the evening. Flirty is younger than most of the other bodega dudes, and chattier, too. I just smiled at him, and told him I was on my way home. He then said, "Maybe we could hang out sometime before the holidays." Since I have never ever learned how to decline gracefully (WHYWHYWHY did I never learn that??), I just made some sound like "kayhrmsph," let it trail off, and walked out.
Well, I get home, and not but two seconds later, my cell phone rings with an unfamiliar number. I don't answer the unfamiliars. Ever. But I did listen to the message. It was Flirty. He had gotten my number from the check I had written, and wanted to see what I was doing because he was on a "quick break." Actually, let's be honest. I didn't even get asked out by bodega dude, I think I got booty-called by him. Claaaaaaaasy.
Reminds me of something else (a little bit):
My mom still lives (for now) in the town in which my sister and I grew up. The town definitely has elements of small-town livin', even though it is a fairly upscale Long Island town. Everyone sort of knows everyone, which is (I suppose) nice, but also, everyone knows everyone's business. That has nothing to do, per se, with my story, but I'm painting a picture here, folks.
Anyway, there used to be (or maybe there still is) a cab driver in this town who had a hook hand. A pretty high-tech hook hand, too. It was all metal, none of that fake skin plastic bullshit. He wasn't joking around with that hook, yo. We'll call him Vinny the Hook. So V the H wound up with my mom in his cab at one point. Suffice it to say, he became smitten. Whenever a call would come in from my mom, V the H would be the first one to pick up the dispatch, and be there to pick her right on up. I'm pretty sure he asked her out once or twice. My mom, unlike me, surely did learn how to decline gracefully, I imagine, because she never did wind up going out with the Hook, nor did she have to avoid the cab company altogether.
Until.
One day he was driving her home from somewhere (I'm sure she didn't even have to tell him where she lived anymore...which now that I think about it is REALLY creepy), and pulled in front of the house. She paid him, and was about to get out. But Hooky turned around with a bunch of CDs in his hand, and said "here. Take these. They make me think of you."
I'm sure that at this point, my mom made a noise akin to the "kayhrmsph" noise I made in the bodega last Monday, but she took the CDs. My favorite part of the whole thing is that apparently, the music that made V the H think of my mom consisted of the scores of several movies that she described as "satanic." Literally so. Not a judgement call, but literally movies condoning satanic worship.
Not that there's anything wrong with that...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
