I Enjoyed Being a Girl

 

I turned 26 in October, and so far the only change seems to be that this is the year people stop saying, “oh but you’re so young!” I am, of course, speaking from a woman’s perspective; for men that age is probably around 76, so . . . continue with that beer bong, sir.

I’m currently in a fairly typical situation for young urban adults, which is living in sin with my boyfriend of nearly five years. I guess it’s only natural (though, in my opinion, highly rude) for family, friends, acquaintances, complete strangers, flight attendants, waiters, shoe salesmen, musicians, coworkers, dog-walkers, snow-shovelers, politicians, and Neil Diamond to all ask “so when are you getting married?”

I used to answer this question with a sing-song, “ohhhh, I don’t know! Someday!” and the response would almost always be something like, “oh, but you’re so young, you don’t have to rush into anything!” and so I would go on, merrily skipping my child-like self through a happy, golden field of wildflowers. Now, at 26, I mostly get looks of concern, particularly from older women, who shake their heads and think, “what a poor, sad little idiot living with that man who obviously doesn’t really love her! Such a shame! But why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free, hahaha, right?” and all sorts of really idiotic things that people who think they’re better than you say.  

I’d be lying if I said that this doesn’t bother me. It does . . . but usually only for a minute or so. I’ll lower my head and shift in my seat and think that, ok, maybe I have been doing the wrong thing, maybe there is something wrong with our relationship, maybe we really do need to make things official. But then I remember how lucky I am to have found someone like John – my adventure partner, and how much I, we have to look forward to in life, the institution of marriage not necessarily being the most exciting of those things. In all honesty, if someone said, “you can have an all expenses paid trip to _____ OR get married”, I’d take the trip without a doubt.

I don’t think of marriage as a goal or a step; I already have a great guy, the best guy in my life and we dream about where we’ll go next, where we’ll live next, what we’ll do next, together. We’re already committed to one another and enjoy each other more than most people I know, so what does marriage mean for us? A wedding? A nice party celebrating finding each other is something I’m looking forward to, but it’s not THE thing to look forward to for us and, well, it will happen when it happens.

I like this life, and I know that I really wouldn’t want it any other way (well, except for that millionaire way, that I’d take), but that doesn’t mean that the grass doesn’t sometimes look greener on the other side. I often think about people I went to school with who are married and already have a kid or kids or one on the way. It seems so simple, like they’ve got a GPS as opposed to my directionless wandering.

There’s a song I love called “I Wanna Get Married” by Nellie McKay:

 I wanna get married, yes I need a spouse

I wanna “Leave it to Beaver”-ish golden retriever and a little white house.

I wanna get married, I need to cook meals

I wanna pack cute little lunches for my Brady Bunches then read Danielle Steele . . .

 

. . . I’ll stay home cleaning the dishes and keeping your wishes all warm

I wanna get married, that’s why I was born.

 

The first time I heard it I thought it was really funny satire, completely tongue-in-cheek. I later read an interview with Nellie McKay and she said that actually no, it was in earnest, that sometimes she does wish that she could go back to the days when her life could be that simple, nothing she expected of herself but to be a great wife and mother, concrete direction, no questions asked. When I listened to it with that perspective, it was sort of shocking, uncomfortable, and much more subversive than a played-out knock at housewives. Is this semblance of backlash something Betty Friedan predicted?

I guess I’m writing this because it’s a new-ish phenomenon that women my age in today’s world are facing and yet I don’t really hear many people talking about it very much. Sure, I’ve discussed it with friends, but not in necessarily a brutally honest way. When one of us talks about wanting babies or the desire to get married, we get embarrassed, like we’re ashamed of being “that girl” who wants those sappy, cliché things. Yet, these are biological (and still, to an extent, social) urges, so why should we feel any less of a smart, grounded, sophisticated woman for wanting them?

The thing is, we now have SO MANY OTHER CHOICES and SO MANY of those choices are SO tempting. You can have a fabulous career, follow your passions, travel the world, date a bunch of different men or none at all; we have the ability to do it all, but sometimes too many choices are just that: TOO MUCH. It’s like that Dr. Suess book where the cheerful Whos tell you that “you can go in any direction you choose!” No! No, god damn you! Just tell me which path to go down, you rhyming bastard! I don’t have time for these games! I have a biological clock and a face getting more lined by the day!

Or it’s like the menu at the Cheesecake Factory; you’re sitting there flipping through their 800 page menu, taking a million years deciding what you want because everything sounds SOOOO GOOOOD.

That’s the crisis today’s women are facing: Cheesecake Factory-syndrome. Obviously things could be worse, but sometimes I wish I only had to decide between grape and strawberry jelly.

There’s only one problem: I LIKE RASPBERRY!!!!!

The cycle continues.

Anyone else out there ever feel this way? Speak up, ladies!

Don’t Have a Macau, Man

 

Recently at dinner I asked John to recall his favorite meal of ours together. I realize that this is sort of a formal, odd question to ask your significant other, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. Plus we’ve been talking to each other non-stop for five years; creativity is essential. Of course, with raised eyebrows his response was, “well, what kind of meal? Like a homemade one or at a restaurant? Do you mean judging by the food or by the restaurant’s ambiance? Or sentimentality, like our first date?” UGGGH NEVERMIND.

So while we didn’t pick a favorite, we did have fun recalling some of our most memorable meals together, and this one pictured here was certainly a standout:

 

 

In August of 2008, John and I did a trip through China, starting in Hong Kong. On our last day in HK before heading to Beijing we decided to check out Macau, which is the Vegas of the East. In fact, Macau’s gaming revenue surpasses that of Las Vegas’, so it’s a pretty bustling little island. Though the idea of Las Vegas makes me itchy and nauseous, when given the opportunity to see America at its absolute most gluttonous through the eyes of China, you take it. This can also be done by going into any . . . well, anywhere in America and simply taking a look around. I forgot everything here is actually made in China anyway. Ok forget it, save your money.

Nevertheless, should you choose to visit, the easiest way to get there is the TurboJet, a high-speed ferry that leaves from Hong Kong every fifteen minutes. We were leaving later that evening but we figured we’d have plenty of time to walk around, check things out, and get one of these. Mmmm.

Though technically Macau is part of China, it’s a Special Administrative Region (as is Hong Kong), so you have to go through customs. So let’s imagine that a magic high-speed boat shuttled people from Los Angeles to Vegas every fifteen minutes. That would be awesome, right? And imagine that Angelenos had the insatiable taste for gambling that the Chinese do. Are you picturing the absolutely insane customs line?

We are not so smart.

After what seemed like hours waiting to go through an extraordinarily slow line to enter a country that technically we were already authorized to enter our patience waned, and we lost a lot of time, but were still confident that we’d have enough to get a good feel for the place. We headed to The Venetian which is the largest hotel in all of Asia and the fourth largest building in THE WORLD by area. After walking through this behemoth monstrosity we naturally mustered up a Venetian Macau-sized appetite, so we chose the most gluttonous restaurant of all, a churrascaria.

There we sat in the fake St. Mark’s Square, blissfully air-conditioned in the middle of steaming Macau heat, being served endless swords of meat by several Chinese waiters dressed as Brazilian gauchos. You shouldn’t be shocked that all we could say were three words: “this is fun!”

When I say “all we could say” I mean this literally, we could not stop saying it. True, casinos are known for utilizing mind-control tactics, but this was ridiculous. “This is fuuuuun!” “Ohh, THIS is fun!!” Drool. We just looked across the table at each other, big, idiotic smiles plastered on our faces, slurring. Sure, ok maybe we had a few mojitos, but our drunkenness was mostly that of charred animal flesh and obscure passport stamps. We don’t really gamble, but we totally and completely lost track of time underneath the painted blue sky of faux-Venice. I don’t know how it’s possible, but we sat there for what I’m pretty sure were SEVERAL HOURS, saying nothing but “this is fun”, glazed over eyes, eating as though we hadn’t for days.

If I haven’t already painted a descriptive enough picture, take a look at this:

 

If you know this man at all, you know that he doesn’t just DO this kind of thing preemptively.

Finally one of us snapped out of it and checked the time. “WHAT THE?! HOW HAVE WE BEEN HERE FOR FIVE HOURS?! WE HAVE TO GO! CHECK! CHECK! CHECK PLEASE!!!”

We skittered out into the sunlight, squinting and hissing at it like rats. Luckily we were still able to see some of the “real” Macau, but that meal certainly altered our schedule. We missed our TurboJet back to Hong Kong, had to buy new tickets, and so nearly missed our flight to Beijing. Suitcases in tow, we sprinted through the streets to the airport train. “Oh, it’s this way! Come on!” I yelled. “Wait, are you sure?” “YES! Of course I’m sure, hurry!”

15 minutes later . . .

“Ok, it’s not this way. Um. Um. Um.”

“GAHHH! WHY DO I ALWAYS TRUST YOU?!

“I DON’T KNOW! WHY DO YOU ALWAYS TRUST ME?! I AM ALWAYS WRONG WHEN IT COMES TO DIRECTIONS!”

“YES BUT YOU ALWAYS SOUND SO SURE OF YOURSELF!”

Kiki trips and nearly sprains her ankle. “Go! Just go without me! I fucked up! I’m sorry!” 

Who would have guessed that mere hours earlier all we could lazily babble was “this issss fuuuuun” while staring lovingly, drunkenly, into each others eyes.

It’s how we do things.

#72 – Ice Skate in Central Park at Christmas Time

Woo hoo! The first item crossed off my Life List! It’s very pathetic indeed that this is only the first since I posted this list months ago (and there are perfectly attainable things to accomplish without traveling the world), but I’ve never really been one for pressure. Actually, in my defense, I did #72 over a month ago and just haven’t gotten around to posting it, so who knows what I’ve been up to. Maybe a covert trip to Positano? A bar fight after the rodeo?

I wish.

Anyway, my goal for these to-dos is to shoot a little video blog (or “vlog” for all you word-combining folks out there) as I’m doing the particular, uh, “thing”, explaining why it was on the list and to generally hold myself accountable. So, here I am, ice skating in Central Park’s Wollman Rink, which is now owned by Donald Trump, naturally, and a fact we’ll choose to ignore from here out. I promise the videos will get better and I will eventually look more relaxed and less like an evil clown midget holding a kitten at gunpoint is taping me . . . and not just John.

The rink at Rockefeller Center gets a lot of attention since it’s got the gigantic tree and the Today show right next to it, but it’s not very claustrophobic-friendly, being very small and super crowded. I suppose the one in Central Park is where the locals go based on the fact that Whoopi Goldberg learned to skate there, and if it’s good enough for Whoopi, well . . . let’s just say I’ve been considering dreadlocks for some time now and I used to have a huge crush on Ted Danson.

Wollman Rink is nice and big and far less crowded, and is surrounded by the Pierre, the Plaza, the Time Warner building,  and all the gorgeous landmarks of Central Park South. I love Central Park at night; in certain parts you can see the lights flashing from Times Square, but when countered by the eerie quiet and stillness, the effect is alarmingly peaceful. When you match this with Christmas songs, the ambiance is well taken care of, so all you have to do is focus on not breaking your ass.

Here I am doing my signature triple salchow double Lutz single axel sit spin . . .

. . . but John can only skate forward, so unfortunately you can’t see it. Typical.

So, first one down, 71 to go. So far. I still need to make my way to 100. Hopefully this will get the wheels in motion.  

Goodnight and Joy Be With You All

 

For Christmas John got us tickets to see The Swell Season at Radio City Music Hall, which is really a double-whammy of a gift since I love their music dearly and I’d never seen a show at Radio City. The concert was last night and I’m still kind of in awe of what I witnessed. Several of my friends who read my blog are already fans and may have seen them in concert, but I want to bring them to everyone’s attention that I can, because in a world of manufactured crap, they truly deserve it.

I discovered them the way most people do, through the movie Once, which has since become one of my favorites. The first time I saw the film it was in my living room, which is usually a bad start. I have complete and total ADD, and whenever I watch a movie I’m likely to be reading something on my computer, I’ll have to go to the bathroom, my phone will ring, five minutes into it I’ll think “ooh, I’d like a cup of tea, would you like a cup of tea? Ok pause it I’ll be right back. Oh crap we’re out of tea, let’s run to the store! Just leave the movie running I’m sure I’ll figure it out.” A dark movie theater where they yell at you multiple times about using your cell phone is usually the only way I can focus on a movie. Of course, the same thing happened when I watched Once; I was distracted, half paying attention, when all of a sudden I heard this:

Say it to Me Now  

My head popped up and I stopped everything I was doing. He commanded my full attention with that song, and I probably watched the scene three times in a row. There was no tea drinking. I sat enthralled by this voice, and then stayed that way the whole movie. It only cost $160,000 to make (you know, what James Cameron spends weekly on houseplants) and it took them about three weeks to shoot. There’s no pretense, no false emotion, everything about it is just so . . . true. Honest. The story, the acting, and most importantly, the music; Glen Hansard and Markéta Irglová are so raw and passionate and extraordinarily talented that I don’t know how you cannot either 1.) be completely jealous of them or 2.) cry. If you haven’t seen it, you have to as soon as you can.

The movie, being as honest as it is, makes it hard to differentiate reality from script, and a lot of it is truthful: struggling musicians and a love story that doesn’t end the way you necessarily think it should. In concert they are just as unassuming and grateful and . . . sweet . . . as they appear in the film.  They (which was a mesh of Glen Hansard’s original band The Frames plus Markéta Irglová and a guest brass section) played for over two and a half hours, and it was so much fun seeing how excited and thankful they were to be playing Radio City Music Hall. I can’t express how unbelievably talented Glen Hansard really is. Along with their own material from various albums, he played a few Van Morrison and Bruce Springsteen songs . . . and somehow made them better, a feat which I wasn’t really aware was possible. He has complete control of his voice, loudly growling at one moment and quietly whispering the next note. Markéta Irglová’s delicate voice is the perfect balance and is the glue that holds everything together.

Like any proper Irishman, Hansard is also a master storyteller. He himself is 40, and he talked about the struggles his band, The Frames, had really becoming successful. They weren’t getting to where they needed to be, and when you’re talented and hard working and know that you’re just as good if not better than so many other people out there who are making it, you get angry. You get frustrated. You take on a “me against the world” mentality. He said they spent years like that, stuck, pissed off, bitter. And then Markéta Irglová came into the picture “like a small bird who landed on their shoulder”, and quietly provided that missing link that they needed.

It’s true, and it really spoke to me. Sometimes you fight and fight and fight and nothing changes, but then something totally unexpected comes along and quietly provides the balance you didn’t realize you were missing. I feel like John and I are in that place right now – we’re both angry (thankfully not with each other), fighting the world, unsure where we’re going to be in six months or a year or, geez, even ONE month, just waiting for that bird to fly on our shoulders.

At this point, the only thing birds tend to do with me is to take a crap on my head. I really wish that were a metaphor and that it hadn’t actually happened six times in the last two years. Oh well, at least I can listen to pretty music while I wait for them to stop being such assholes. Stupid prehistoric freaks.

The ended the night with “The Parting Glass”, and I left feeling inspired.

Of all the money that ere I had, I spent it in good company.

And of all the harm that ere I’ve done, alas was done to none but me.

And all I’ve done for want of wit, to memory now I cannot recall.

So fill to me the parting glass, goodnight and joy be with you all.

Shining, Gleaming, Streaming, Flaxen, Waxen

 

Hair is a shockingly important subject to women, and I suspect men too, or else women probably wouldn’t care so much. We have too much here, too little there, the imperfect color, the undesirable texture, and on top of all this, we have 5,000,000 products out there to attempt to remedy the situation. Demi Moore apparently didn’t go to the Golden Globes on Sunday due to a “bad hair day”, and really, if there’s no hope for disgustingly rich Demi Moore, why do mortals like us even bother?

As ridiculous as that is, I get it. I get how a good or bad hair day can completely change one’s mood. I continue to buy different shampoos and conditioners and all sorts of other crap hoping to find the miracle product that will finally make my hair look the way I think it should. For women who are as silly as I, this is an expensive (not to mention futile) mission. A cut and highlights at a mid-range salon can cost up to $250 (not including tips) and I am embarrassed to admit that yes, I have spent this much on my hair.

Current circumstances have forced me to accept that a person in my near-homeless status does not need a $250 haircut, and I have done quite a good job convincing myself that my hair will end up looking like a mess 48 hours after a haircut anyway, so it doesn’t really matter if it’s a good cut or not . . .

. . . but then a little bird told me about a little something called the Frederic Fekkai hair model program, and well . . . you know, now that I think about it, hair actually really is extremely important.

A free haircut! Doesn’t that seemingly wonderful phrase conjure up all sorts of awful images? Yes, yes it does, but they asked me to do it and against everyone’s advice, I agreed. Besides, a creative director at one of the most expensive salons in the city? I think I can probably handle that.

My appointment was yesterday morning and though I was seriously nervous, I trotted down to Soho, envisioning what was likely to go down; you know, generically foreign people fussing over me, cigarettes dangling from their mouths, severe plastic square glasses upon their noses, and deciding upon, “ahh, mais oui!!” something that looks like this:

 

Whatever, I can run, right? If I feel uncomfortable I will just scream and run away. Grow a pair, grow a pair, grow a pair, I kept chanting to myself, knowing too well of my overly polite ways. When I walked up the stairs and into the lovely salon, I started to feel slightly more at ease. Almost immediately, two men led me in front of a full length mirror as they sized me up, head to toe, boots to earrings, and fluffed, pulled, and yanked my hair while speaking far-too-fast French that was way beyond my “bonjour, je m’appele Kiki, et tois?” abilities.

“So, you’re okay with that?” asked the younger one of the two, who proceeded to laugh at my stunned face. “Just kidding”. Whew.

Shockingly, this went very much like any regular hair appointment would go – he asked me what I wanted, what I do, how I style my hair, if I was looking for a change, and then made his suggestions. At that point, I felt totally at ease and told him to just go for it.

There were three of us “models”, and one by one we stood in front of a group of regular stylists as the creative directors explained what they had in store for each of us and why and how they would go about doing it. I was thrilled when my stylist laid out his plans and everyone responded with “that is a great idea! Perfect!” Whew, ok. Ten people wouldn’t lie to me, right?

After our hair was washed with that luxurious Frederic Fekkai shampoo and conditioner that smells divinely of spring and rich people, we stood one at a time in front of the “students” while our stylists cut our hair. The funny thing about being a model is that people talk about you as if you aren’t a real person: “with her long, thin neck, would you ever cut shorter?” “this girl is very tall, and short hair makes one look taller” “we have here a very pretty girl, so there is not only one style for her, with her we could do anything” “she is too pretty to have a regular haircut, she cannot look like everyone else”, “is her hair colored? It doesn’t need to be, she has such a lovely base”. I sat there in awe, eyes wide open like a dork, wanting to say “ohh, really?? Wow, thank you so much! Oh my goodness!”, but I don’t think models are allowed to talk.

I soon realized why haircuts here are so expensive: “here, have some tea, relax, and let us compliment you over and over again while we make you even MORE beautiful than you already are! If that’s even possible, as you are the incarnation of the perfect woman I usually only see in my dreams!” HERE, TAKE ALL OF MY MONEY. What else do you want? Lip gloss? Gum? Keys? Here, take my whole bag. Need a green card? Sure, I’ll marry you. Compliments are just better when they come from complete strangers who happen to be charming French men who know how to make you pretty.

This, in a nutshell, is what’s wrong with the world. Society works in a way that allows rich people to feel better about themselves all the time, in nearly every possible situation, while regular people are made to feel like worthless crap. Typically when I go to my normal salon, they’ll reprimand me for using a flat iron and tell me that my hair is damaged and try to guilt me into buying some more products. It’s just not right and I for one refuse to stand for it.

And that’s precisely why I’m going back as a highlight and color model next week.

I have a dream, my friends, I have a dream.

You can check out my new dreamy look here.

I Wish I Could Quit You

 

If you’re a bit, um . . . how do I put this . . . “socially lazy”, as I am, it’s wise to pair yourself up with someone a bit more outgoing. I don’t think I’m antisocial, I honestly just never have the desire to go out to bars or clubs, and that’s what the majority of people my age enjoy doing. At heart I’m 60, so I like to do things like go to dinner or to a show or to a lecture or a museum. Embarrassed by this, for good reason, I am rarely the one to initiate plans, unless they’re with 40 year old gay men. John is far less socially anxious than I and always stuns me with his ability to connect with people.
 
He tells me that it’s a European thing; that people take relationships much more seriously there, and often times he and other Europeans will complain about the superficiality of Americans when it comes to community and staying connected with each other on a deep level. When it comes to friendships, I’m unfortunately more stereotypical American – bad at keeping in touch, flaking out on plans, and only superficially interested in getting to know people. I’ve always blamed this difficulty to connect with many people on my oddness, but John has shown me that not everything happens immediately as I’d like them to; relationships take a lot of maintenance.
 
I’m not completely learned of this lesson yet, so I’m glad to have John and other European friends who are much more proactive. Case in point, I went to a rodeo on Friday night.
 
I’m not sure I would have ever expected that phrase to come out of my mouth. I went to a rodeo on Friday night. I spent my Friday night at a rodeo. Rodeo rodeo rodeoh-what-the-hell? Rodeos? In Manhattan? I didn’t even have time to say no to my French friend – and these are precisely the kind of people I need in my life.
 
Though I wouldn’t normally think to go to a rodeo (especially in New York City in Madison Square Garden), I’m always open to trying new things, and so I decided to go for the experience and to give my country the benefit of the doubt, just like I would do with any other country’s traditions. Besides, this is Manhattan; I think it’s safe to say that the crowd would be more Brokeback than Bonanza . . . on the other hand, Bonanza was kind of . . . well, nevermind.
 
So there we sat, the Germans, the French, the Bulgarians, the American, trying to figure out what the rodeo was all about: “Oh, eight seconds! Yes, that number must be important. There is a movie about the rodeo with Luke Perry called 8 Seconds”.
 
It turns out that’s really all you need to know: a bunch of guys try to stay on a crazed bull for eight seconds each. No semi-finals, no finals, no contest to see who can stay on the longest, just . . . eight seconds. It’s the perfect sport for my short little American attention span.
 
But then we notice the sheep . . .
 
German accent: “I vondah vhat they are going to doo vith all of those sheep!”
 
American accent: “Hmm, maybe they’re going to have some sort of herding contest? You know, like on The Amazing Race!”
 
French accent: “Mebbe zay ave meedgets ride zhem!”
 
Midgets, kids, what’s the difference? Yes, they had a rodeo for the kids . . . on sheep. They weren’t exactly bucking like the bulls, but . . . well, just take a look:
 
 
 
 
Is that not the most awesome thing you’ve ever seen? I have to mention that most kids fell off immediately, but this little girl held on for dear life and then did an AMAZING victory dance which I sadly didn’t capture. Hilarious. When John and I went to see The Nutcracker a few weeks ago I whispered to him, “If we have a kid, it’s doing ballet . . . even if it’s a boy.” So naturally during the sheep races I yelled, “Oh my god, if we have a kid they are SOOO doing this! And ballet!”
 
All in all it turned out to be a fun night. It’s funny how things I would normally be inclined to run away from turn out to be worth the experience. The next morning I remembered that tidbit, and decided to head over to Lincoln Center to wait in line for discounted tickets. It had been a late night and though I had planned to get there by 9 when they started handing out wristbands, I just couldn’t pull myself out of my nice warm bed. Finally around 11 I jumped up, threw on some clothes, and yelled “what am I doing?! $20 tickets! I have to go!!”
 
The box office opened at noon, and while people had been waiting since much earlier, I was still able to get a wristband and so it looked like I would still be able to get tickets to something that night. I waited and waited and waited. Two and a half hours went by, and my first choice, South Pacific sold out. “That’s ok”, I thought, “I really want to see Turandot too.” So I waited and waited and waited and another hour went by and it was finally my turn to get in the ticket booth line. I was so excited, “Turandot produced by Franco Zeffirelli for TWENTY DOLLARS! I am SO glad I got my stupid ass over here!” So I waited and waited and I was almost to the window, just a couple people away, when “Ladies and Gentlemen, this evening’s performance of Turandot has just sold out.”
 
WHAT?! NO! ARE YOU SERIOUS?!
 
I went John McEnroe on the Lincoln Center . . . but I kept it all inside. I left the line and stomped my way across town through Central Park in a big, angry, teeth-gnashing, Hunter boot stomping huff, cursing the rodeo and my friends who made me stay out so late and drink so much so I didn’t get up to my 8 AM alarm, frustrated that I wasted nearly five hours of my Saturday eavesdropping on middle-aged Upper West Side-rs.
 
Clearly my rodeo antics upset the art gods, so I just want to put it into the universe that it was a one time thing. I’m ready to be elitist again. I probably won’t really enroll my future children in a junior bull-riding league. Ok ok, I definitely won’t enroll my future children in a bull-riding league. If you find you need to make a human sacrifice to make up for this shift in axis, I recommend Luke Perry. I promise I will never do anything like this again, and I most certainly am not looking at working ranches in Montana as vacation destination for this summer . . . no way.

I Say Potato, They Say Vodka

 

John and I were away for about ten (10) (ten?) (TEN!!!!!!) days around Christmas, and with all of the days off of work, etc., I feel like things are just starting to get back to normal. Plus, I finally did laundry this past weekend so nothing smells like cigarettes anymore – a sure sign that the holidays are over, thanks to my faux-in-laws. I mean, smell is supposedly the most sentimental of all senses, so now when I think of Christmas, I’ll think of trees, freshly baked cookies, & tobacco. It’s new, but I’m trying to be very Euro and play along like it’s as second nature as, I don’t know, an uneaten fruitcake.

People tell us that we’re lucky because Christmas-related logistics seem easy for us: John’s family celebrates on Christmas Eve in the German tradition, so we’re able to fly to DC on Christmas morning to celebrate with mine. No hurt feelings, no one sad about missing their own traditions, easy peasy. Right? I guess, but it was definitely more convenient when we lived near my parents, and going to DC from Florida was the same as going home. Exhausting. I think it’s probably the reason most people end up having kids – to have something to blame. “Oh, yeah, you know we’d love to visit, but man, this kid is REALLY high-strung. I read it has something to do with mercury in fish? I don’t know, but we have her in a therapy group/meditative yoga class for newborns so hopefully next year she’ll have worked through her issues.”

I love John’s parents (and I certainly can’t complain about getting to visit Florida) but like any family besides your very own, they just do things a little bit differently, and unlike most “other” families, you can’t just leave their house after an evening. You’re there. For life. I’d just like to say up front that the only reason I’m even writing about this is because I think it’s entertaining and harbor absolutely no ill-will. I think it’s funny, plus John doesn’t read my blog, and I should probably take advantage of that sometimes.

Anyway, so John’s parents are a bit older than mine, are retired, and living in Florida. John is an only child (which, honestly, is just flat out weird) which means that all eyes are on him. He knows it no other way but I feel badly for him. No offense at all to my parents (or other only children, sorry), but I’m glad that I have siblings (and tons of cousins for that matter) to take the focus off of me and my issues most of the time. Plus, there’s hardly any yelling or crying or insult-slinging in John’s family . . . I mean, what kind of holiday is that? My cousin is in town from California this week, and we were laughing about how she and her siblings will regularly tell their dad to shut up or tell him that he’s bipolar or their mom that she is acting like a total bitch . . . you know, at the dinner table. That’s just the way our families work – we’re extremely close and therefore loud, rude, and insulting to one another. Maybe it’s because the kids outnumber the parents. Any “normal” family who “respects” each other (such as John’s) might find this unbelievable – I find it comforting.

Ok, so maybe I’d find that in most homes I’d visit, but the other main difference in my family and John’s is what exactly constitutes a day – like, as in the hours one is active and/or constructive. Since John’s parents are retired, they have the added luxury of basically doing whatever they want, whenever they want, and however they want, and for them this means that cocktail hour starts at midnight. It’s five o’clock somewhere? Eh, all I know is that it’s a sad state of affairs when your retired “in-laws” can party harder than you. I’m not new anymore so I’m not shy about calling it a night and going to bed alone at the pitiful hour of 2 or maybe even 3 AM , but they’re Lionel Richie-ing it up and partying, Karamu-ing, fiesta forever-ing, all. Night. Long.

Ok, it’s not like they’re exactly doing lines off the coffee table, I’m exaggerating slightly, but they do stay up all night and therefore sleep through a pretty good chunk of the day . . . like until 3 PM. You can imagine after you get used to that schedule how INCREDIBLY LOUD my dad’s singing along to whatever ridiculous 70s song he’s currently revisiting at 9 AM can be, hence, exhaustion.

Normally when we visit his parents, John and I will plan little day trips or go to the beach so as to not disturb them, but on this trip John had to continue his latest hobby of working 18-hour days, and so I had to (ever so quietly) entertain myself. For an entire week. Without TV. Or WiFi. That probably sounds like bliss to lots of people, but I can only read for so long. I felt like Anne Frank, tip-toeing around, cautious of every noise I was making . . . in a house full of Germans.

Though it’s different, a quiet Christmas is kind of nice, and for some reason things seem a bit more meaningful. With my family, it’s meaningful, but more than anything, it’s fun. It’s about family and eating and drinking and doing fun things with each other. So after a week of quiet European time, we crammed in about two days of good old American insanity.

And I think that maybe it’s true, and that everything does happen for a reason. John and I were meant to be together because we need a good, solid week of quiet rest, slow and steady, in order to prepare for my family, the last leg of the race, when the adrenaline starts to kick in.

Nine nine nine nine, nine nine nine nine, hey hey hey, GOODBYE.

 

Aww, wasn’t that cute?

I wrote this big, long post yesterday in Word all about how I’m in this reflective and therefore BAD mood, and when I came back to my computer . . . it was gone. Window closed, no auto-recovery. Poof. I mean, really, how does that even happen?

But I guess it’s symbolic of just how effed-up (sorry Mom! But “eff” is not a bad word) 2009 has been. You work and work and think maybe you’ve accomplished something, maybe things are close to being done, and . . . poof. START ALL OVER AGAIN, ASSHOLE!

Ok that is a bad word, but come on . . . if any year deserves on it’s THIS YEAR.

All right all right, I’m being slightly dramatic BUT NOT REALLY. Well, I mean, I guess we have our health, a roof over our heads, food, Barack Obama is our president, George Bush is not, we moved to New York, we went to the Caribbean, we went to Las Vegas and California, John finished business school, my aunt Joanie is healthy, my cousin Kelly had a baby, my dad got a new job, I got to go to a lot of amazing concerts . . .

BUT OTHER THAN THAT, EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS YEAR SUCKS.

. . . and now that that’s done, I am all (tentative) positivity for 2010!

Things HAVE to shape up, right? No, I guess they don’t, but let’s hope. Having a positive attitude obviously doesn’t mean that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad things won’t happen to you, but it does affect how you handle them. So I’m leaving my wounded, negative, beaten attitude behind in ‘09 and am excited for this new year. Ten is my lucky number afterall, and this year my birthday will 10/10/10! If that’s not a good omen, what is?

So many horribly sad, awful things happened this decade; even now I’m really only just starting to realize how much September 11th affected so many circumstances of my adulthood. I’m so ready to do what I can to make 2010 great and put this last one behind. I became an adult this crazy, messed up decade, and while it was an extraordinarily difficult one to do so, it is what it is, and I hope that I’m stronger for it.

But now it’s time to celebrate!

A DJ created this video/audio mashup of the top 25 Billboard singles of 2009, and it’s interesting how so many of the songs focus on the word “down”. Here they’re twisted a bit to make a song about picking yourself up. I guess because of my reflective, gloomy mood this made me tear up a bit the first time I saw it, but it’s a nice, uplifting way to commemorate the year.  Miley and all.

I hope that everyone has a great New Year’s Eve (even though there is way too much pressure to have fun, and personally, people telling me what to do pretty much makes me want to do the opposite) and an even better 2010. I hope you all are able to get that negative ‘09 energy out now and start TEN! with a refreshed sense of peace and adventure.

See you next year!

Concrete Jungle Where Dreams are Made of

 

I can hardly believe it, but I’ve now lived in New York for six months. Now that I’m typing that out I’ll agree, it doesn’t sound very long, but it’s something of a milestone I guess, especially since with the headache of finding a place, huge deposits, and generally adapting to the unique ways of the city, the initial move to New York is really difficult.

John and I had wanted to move here since before we met each other almost five years ago. When the opportunity came about and the timing seemed right, we jumped at the chance to finally go for it . . . and by “jumped” I of course mean our version of jumping, which is really more like a very, very carefully executed and well-thought-out toe-tap. While there were obstacles, we’re not getting any younger, and decided that if we really wanted to do this, it should be sooner rather than later, while we still have minimal responsibilities. After a lot of planning and headache and lots and lots and lots of money, we were able to make it happen.

Like everyone, we’ve had bad luck and various obstacles in the past, but it seemed like everything in this case was going shockingly right – we’d found great jobs, a great apartment, someone to take over our old lease, sold the car, etc. etc. etc. “Wow!”, we thought, “Maybe things are finally going to start getting easier for us!”

  <click here>

I guess this is a lesson in not counting your chickens before they hatch, because everyone knows that as soon as you start to think things will go the way you want them to, the Universe decides to make you its bitch. It’s all, “let’s play fetch! Ok??! Go get it! Go get it!! Go get the ball!!” And then you excitedly, slobberingly run as fast as you can only to realize that the ball was never actually thrown and everyone is laughing at you.

I know that this is vague, but let’s just say that the job situations for both John and I have not gone according to plan. We’re both currently working, so things could be far, far worse than they are, but it’s been very stressful and very difficult having to adjust to an income that is far, far less than what we were planning on, and so now this big apartment of ours seems like a big waste of money. At least we’ll have awesome nouveau-Depression era stories to tell our grandchildren. You know, if we somehow manage to not jump out of a high-rise in a 1929 throwback.

Despite the stress and the lack of money and the depression (both with a capital AND lowercase “d”), guilt and all that jazz, I. LOVE. IT. HERE! I LOVE living here and have tried to find creative ways to stretch every dollar to the absolute max. Despite our situation, we have not been shrinking violets – we’ve done everything we can to make the most out of our time here because, though I’d like to say that we’ll be here for the next five years I have no idea where we’ll be in the next five months, so we have to take advantage of living in the greatest city in the world while we can, however we can. See why I’ve been so excited to win so many contests?!

All in all, it’s been a great six months so far, so I thought I’d share a list of some of the things that have made up for all of the annoying “personal” issues. This list doesn’t include things like the fact that mailing label on my issues of the New Yorker actually say ‘New York, NY’ or the superiority I feel flying home to JFK (even though it is a beyond crapular airport or that I work in the Trump Tower or how cool I think I sound when I tell people I live in Manhattan . . . because that would be embarassing. Heh. 

• Creativity – unlike DC, New York is a city that thrives on and fosters creative energy. It’s been such a breath of fresh air to live somewhere that isn’t all about work: where people consider what things look like and how much enjoyment they bring. Countless times John and I have been walking through the East or West Village and I’ll just say dreamily, “I love it here”. It’s hard not to buy a Choinkwich from the Big Gay Ice Cream Truck or watch a classic film underneath the Brooklyn Bridge or simply walk down a teeny tiny street in the Village and not completely fall in love.

 

• Parks – though it rained, rained, rained SO MUCH this summer, I still feel like we spent a ton of time outdoors. Central Park is heaven on Earth – I can’t think of many better things than sunshine, Sheep Meadow, a blanket, cheese, fruit, and a good book or copies of the New Yorker. Bliss. As for winter, I love Bryant Park, which features free ice skating and a Christmas Market.

 

• “Pay as You Wish” – One big adjustment was getting used to PAYING for museums! Oh my god – WHO does that?! In DC, John and I spent many, many weekends walking on the mall and popping into various museums . . . for free. Here, most museums cost around $20. They’re wonderful and worth it, but fortunately most of the big ones have one day a month (or even week) when you can pay as you can or wish. “Oh, why thank you, I wish to pay ZERO!” Eh, I usually get all guilt-ridden and pay $5, but still, a great deal. We went to the Guggenheim this way and it was a great perk. Next up will be MoMA to see the Tim Burton exhibit.

 

• Cars Schmars – in some ways, I feel like New York is a big college campus for adults – you can walk or take the bus everywhere. I love that I can walk outside of my building, hop on a bus right outside the door, and be in the East Village within minutes. I love that I can walk to work or Central Park in 15 minutes. Or take the train to the beach. Or carry my Christmas tree home. I use this Google feature to track the distance I’ve walked if it’s been a particularly active day and some days I’ve walked over eight miles, but I’d have never guessed! The small blocks make destinations seem attainable. For example, in Arlington, John and I could walk to Georgetown or the National Mall, but we very rarely did because it seemed SO FAR. Here, we’ve easily walked double that distance and it seems like nothing. I’m eating constantly, yet my ass has never been tighter. That’s what I choose to believe anyway. Speaking of which . . .

 

• Food, Glorious Food – The choices are endless. I suppose because rents are so high, there are a billion hole-in-the-wall style restaurants. Now, in DC, hole-in-the-wall means a somewhat sketchy-looking place, but here it’s competitive, and so even if the restaurant is only 300 square feet, it’s going to be super cute, yummy, cheap, and unique like this one or this one or this one.

 

• Hello, it’s New York ­– everything, everyone comes through New York – musician, artist, writer, actor, director, designer – whatever or whomever you’re into, you can be that they’ll be here at some point.

 

• Jay-Z – thank you for putting out “Empire State of Mind” after I’d already moved here. If I had heard it while still living in the DC area, I’d have been more depressed than any money woes can make me. Concrete jungle where dreams are made of, there’s nothing you can’t do, now you’re in New York! These streets will make you feel brand new, big lights will inspire you.

 

Let’s hear it for New York, New York, New York . . .

Now if we could only find a way to get out of our lease to move somewhere cheaper and smaller . . .

Have I convinced anyone with some money to move here?

These Are Their Stories: DOINK DOINK

 

It’s hard to believe, but I won yet ANOTHER set of exclusive John Mayer tickets. How is this happening? Why is this happening? What does it all mean? Does he have a friend like Tiger’s who hand-picks girls for him (OH MY GOD, TIGER!)? Does he have a thing for brunettes who look like they shop at J. Crew and Anthropologie? Judging by his audiences, I’d say that there must be someone on his staff who does. I know it’s becoming John Mayer central up in here, but I promise that this is the last of him for a long time . . . unless I win more, in which case, shut up, this is my site, a-hole!

If you’re really sick of him, you can scroll down towards the end where I talk about my sister and I almost appearing on an episode of Law & Order: SVU.

I’d like to first of all thank Wendy for keeping me updated and always re-tweeting these contests. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t find out about these things as quickly as I have, and I think that the rapid speed in which I have entered has been a big advantage. I also think that actually living in NYC (where these shows are taking place) has a lot to do with it. Sure, many people all over the country probably enter, but what is the likelihood of someone from hundreds or thousands of miles away actually showing up, especially on such short notice? I’m here, I’m obsessed, and I have nothing better to do, so they can count on me.

This was a taping of VH1’s Storytellers, where the musicians play their big hits and then tell the story behind them. It was taped at Steiner Studios, which is in the Brooklyn Navy Yard and is conveniently located by, oh, right, um, NOTHING ELSE. My sister, Brighid, came up from Maryland just to go to the show, and as soon as she got into town we took the bus to take the subway to take a taxi to this studio in the middle of nowhere Brooklyn. I should also mention that it was 12 degrees . . . with the wind chill, but still, BUTT-COLD. After about an hour of travel time we got there with time to . . . wait two hours until the show began. Where that time went I will never know, but thankfully it didn’t seem horrifically long.

John Mayer’s music is pretty honest and straightforward, so I wasn’t really expecting any hugely revealing stories, but he did surprise me here and there.

The first song he played was “Comfortable”, which he wrote and first recorded with a friend as a freshman at the Berklee School of Music. One thing I love about his music is that it’s so “in the moment” – I remember hearing this song for the first time when I was 18, and I thought it was so beautiful, so sweet, and that it captured everything that I thought love was supposed to be. Eight years later, I’ve grown out of it and never play it, but when he sang it . . . it was as if I was that sad 18 year old girl again, having never been in love, never been in a real relationship, and just wanting someone to accept me as I am, “grey sweatpants, no makeup, so perfect”.  It was so innocent I could have cried. I hope I always feel that way whenever I hear it, even if I know now that that’s only a small part of love.

 As much as I enjoyed the performance, I was really surprised that he opened with such a slow, melancholy song. He continued with his big hits (“No Such Thing”, “Bigger Than My Body”, etc.) and for some reason I wasn’t really feeling it. I certainly wasn’t thinking “this sucks” in any way at all, but I wasn’t singing along, I wasn’t dancing . . . something was off, but it wasn’t so obvious that I could place what it was. After an audience Q&A session he took a 5 minute break, and when he came back, he told us that they were having some sound issues, and compared the earlier performances to an NBA player shooting bricks. He was really frustrated and disappointed, and decided that he was going to redo some of the songs. He made a few allusions to the fact that he was really nervous and “inside his head”, and that he decided to have a drink backstage.

Well whatever he drank, it worked, because he then played “Heartbreak Warfare”, one of his new songs, and it was as if someone flipped the switch to “on”. At that moment everything changed. He should open EVERY show with that song. You could tell he was comfortable, happy, and ready to jam, and so the audience was too. When he replayed “No Such Thing”, etc. it was like they were new songs, and I remembered why I love them. I was singing, dancing, and at one point he tried to get everyone to jump up and down, but I think I was the only one who did. We were close, and so he could see me. He looked at me and smiled, almost laughed. That was awesome. He didn’t sing my favorite songs, like “Stop This Train” and “Wheel” and “I’m Gonna Find Another You”, but he did play a few lines of “The Heart of Life”, and that was good enough for me. Pain throws your heart to the ground, love turns the whole thing around – no, it won’t all go the way it should, but I know the heart of life is good. I’ve adopted it as my personal mantra.

I know that this is very Ed Grimley of me to say, but I think that part of the reason that I relate so much to John Mayer’s music is that we have very similar personalities. He talked about how he would love nothing more than to be the mysterious guy, the cool guy who only speaks when spoken to, but he just can’t help opening his stupid mouth, and that Twitter and Facebook only exacerbate the problem. I clearly suffer the same dilemma. He also talked about his fear of coming across as a “sarcastic ass” when really his intentions are always to just be amusing or funny. Hi, here, me too. Oops.

I have a strong sense of self, but at the same time I’m insecure – something kind of like, “I am so sure of who I am that I know I can’t change it, so I’m insecure that people won’t accept or like what is unchangeable about me”. From what he expressed last night, it sounds like he shares the same feeling.

. . . unlike my sister who asked one of the staffers at the show if we could have our seats changed to something better AND went up to John’s producers after the show and said, “oh, hi, I have a message for John, could you give it to him for me?” HA.

They were actually really cool and obliged to play mailman (WHY HAVEN’T I LEARNED TO BRING MY RESUME TO THESE THINGS?!?! WHAT THE?!). During the concert, Brighid and I (being the Beatles freaks that we are) came up with the idea that John should cover “Why Don’t We Do It In the Road”. Much to my shock, the producers actually looked intrigued and impressed and wanted to know what else we thought he should sing. We chatted for awhile and had fun, but what we really should have done was asked them to give us a ride home because OH MY GOD WE FORGOT WE WERE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE.

Ok, so now the already Arctic temperature has dropped significantly, and we’re like “oh shit, there aren’t any cabs”. When there aren’t any cabs, my strategy is to just start walking in the direction of my destination, thinking that eventually a cab will come by. So we did, underneath the BQE, in the dark, which is breeding ground for thuggish trolls, just like in the fairytale. Ok, so we’re walking, we’re not seeing any cabs, and lo-and-behold, we enter the projects. Number one, I’m NOT the kind of white girl that throws around the word “ghetto”, like “oh my god, you drink Powerade and NOT Vitamin Water, that is sooooooooo ghetto!!!!!!!” or “ew! Aspen Hill is like, soooo ghetto!” No. When I mean “ghetto” or the projects I mean, we were in the PEE JAYS projects.

So there we were, two cutesy little girls in our cutesy little outfits, Brighid in her Juicy Couture puffy coat, adorable little hat and ballet flats, I in my urban cowboy boots and decidedly destructed jeans, with looks on our faces as though we’d, um, just come from a John Mayer concert, walking around looking at the GPS on my iPhone. Um, hello, rape us much?

I could just imagine the episode of SVU: “two girls found raped and murdered near the Brooklyn Navy Yard under the BQE.” “What were two white girls doing in the Brooklyn Navy Yard at midnight?” <click> Everyone would think we were part of a high-end prostitution ring, would blame my boyfriend John for being our pimp, and then arrest him, my parents inevitably turning on him. <click> And then in the last four minutes it would be revealed that the two record producers saw us, offered us a ride, took us to a party with John Mayer who proceeded to reject us and toss us back onto his producers, one of which became angry at always getting John’s 3^rd rate leftovers and decided to take it out on us.

But we pressed on, dodging a one-legged woman in a wheelchair, cats, and all sorts of other characters. Meanwhile, my phone was down to 10% juice, and John (my John, unfortch) was yelling at me over the phone for being so stupid and how my parents would certainly blame him if anything was to happen to not only one but TWO of their daughters. Clearly I had to hang up on him – the GPS was OBVIOUSLY A LOT MORE HELPFUL. We finally made it to the Manhattan Bridge, and our tall, dark, and handsome savior was a Pakistani cabbie.

Ok, maybe he wasn’t tall or conventionally handsome, but one out of three ain’t bad, and more importantly, he was on duty.

So in the end we made it home alive, John had ordered us pizza, and we got to dissect and rehash and laugh about every moment of the night. Worth every nerve-wracking, cold second!