Blame the Children

Where yesterday I was merely dipping part of my toe into the giant, sweaty vat that is head cold-ness, today I'm swimming in it...and I forgot my floaties.

I always look to place blame when I feel like a small bird scratched my throat while I slept so today, I'm setting my sights on my new workplace and the never ending stream of children that inhabit this particular library on a daily basis. I love children. They are adorable and precocious and they are the future blah blah. They are also babbling petri dishes and considering about five of my coworkers are also poorly, I feel free to blame the children. I might start a campaign along the lines of Feed the Children but instead call it Blame the Children. The campaign will do nothing except maybe collect OTC cough and cold remedies, which I will then store under my bathroom sink. Much to my chagrin last night, I scoured my drug supply to find only night time remedies so I was undrugged for my morning commute which is just as pleasant as it sounds. I'd like to take a moment to thank humanity for inventing drugs that quell the symptoms of head colds and for making them available to the general public. Thanks, humanity!

I attended a genre workshop this morning because one of best things about my new job is the access to and discussion of fiction. This genre study was focused on the differences between mysteries, thrillers and suspense novels. We were given a book to read which I did not enjoy even a little bit and it turns out it was a police procedural with some psychological thriller elements. The only police procedural I have ever enjoyed has been Law and Order, and really that is due to the acting. If I had to read one more chapter of autopsy reports or police hierarchy, I was going to sneeze all over my book and use that as an excuse as to why I didn't finish it. But I did finish it, just to make maxi extreme ultra certain that I didn't like it. I was right. It was like eating butterless toast. Ah well, it was a bestseller in France so someone likes it. The next selection seems intriguing and at some point we will be reading a true crime book which is more my speed. Still, I feel lucky to be able to participate in such a group and it really is expanding my knowledge of the genre, something that a lot of library patrons really cotton to. Side note: I want to bring back that phrase..."cotton to". Begin using at your leisure.

Since I have uninhibited, full time access to literally millions of books, I've taken to hoarding them again. Each day brings a whole stack of books I "need" to read. I'm just not going to live long enough to do it all and that's a bit depressing. But maybe they'll have a library in the next life. With heaping bowls of avocados all over the place.

So let's recap:

• My head is fully submerged in a combination of throat scratches and a vat of snot
• I blame children
• I like the drugs 
• I don't like French police procedurals
• I hoard books
• I cotton to things
• I hold out hope for both literature and food in the next life.

Man, if this entry doesn't make you happy to have spent your time reading this blog, I just don't know enough words with which to apologize and I'm really so sorry about that.

Photo Shoe-t

I was lucky enough to have the day off today from work to spend with Rowan, who is here for the week. I didn't realize this, but the British pound goes very far here so I caught a bit of Rowan's shopping fever and we went to the Ginormous Temple of Capitalism and Money or, in the common tongue: the Queens Center Mall. I've only been to that mall once before so it had slipped my mind that there are millions of stores packed into a multi-level, multi-building complex. It's all shiny and glass and well lit and large pretzel smelling. I didn't enter into the day with any set goal in mind but I did end the day by fulfilling a several month long search for Adidas shell tops in my size which is, apparently a child's 5.

I am in deeply in love with these.

We also got an assortment of other items. And now I'm getting sick with the plague that's been lurking around my social circle and all I really want to do is sleep. I feel bad b/c I have a friend from out of town, a book group to attend in the morning, plans on Wednesday night, plans on Friday night, plans on Saturday night and no time to sleep or not be doing things. I know, I know. First world problems. So that's my blog for today b/c I'm very busy watching Portlandia and then I'm going to bed to sleep for awhile. This blog was sponsored by Adidas shell tops. And I hope to come up with a decent blog post tomorrow but I make no promises. My recent history tells me not to make promises to me.

On my better days...

I had forgotten all day to blog or that I was supposed to blog so I haven't been kicking around any ideas for today. Rowan arrives in t-30 minutes from LaGuardia and I'm into my first wine of the evening. So instead of waxing on about some nonsensical crap I'll just relate my favorite anecdote about John Cusack. I know it seems random to you but if you were in my living room and were in my head or if you were my sister, the continuity would hold up. So here it is:

In the movie "Almost Famous", directed by Cameron Crowe (I used to really love Cameron Crowe and I try very hard not to hold "Aloha" against him), the character Russell Hammond, lead singer of the fictional 70s band Stillwater is asked by a fan of his band, "Are you Russell Hammond?" To which he replies, "On my better days, I am Russell Hammond."
I probably got this from the extras on the "Almost Famous" DVD, but Cameron Crowe wrote that line based on a real dialogue that happened when he was hanging out with John Cusack at a bar, shortly after "Say Anything" came out. A fan approached him and asked "Are you Lloyd Dobler?" And John Cusack said "On my better days, yes, I am Lloyd Dobler."

I find that anecdote charming because I love both John Cusack and Lloyd Dobler. Also, that's my party anecdote. So now you know what to expect from me at parties.

Fin.

Hipster

As this truly bleak Saturday draws to a close, I sit in my parent's basement, doing laundry like it's 1997 and I'm just home from college. I'm even listening to Radiohead and singing along. And shopping for green Doc Martens and I'm not even joking about that.

Today I visited my Papa in the hospital where he'll be for a few days after having surgery on his knee. He's in a bit of pain and his veins have decided to play hide and seek so he was pretty attached to his bed but there is soccer on all day so at least he has that. I was unaware that hospitals have an entire wing for hip/knee/joint replacements and their recoveries. What is it about our joints? It kept coming up that when someone is older and they break a hip, it signals the beginning of the end. I always questioned that until I started yoga. Back when I was doing it on the daily, my favorite poses were hip openers. Every time I mangled my body into a position to open my hips (my favorite was always butterfly)

I would feel a sense of release and near elation. I was told that the hips act like a bowl into which your emotions are funneled and that by opening those joints regularly, you release stress, pain, sadness and distress. I don't consider myself a yoga devotee anymore (sadly, life got in the way of my regular scheduled classes and my favorite yoga teachers always quit teaching or moved away or had babies) but so much of the philosophy behind yoga makes sense to me and resonates with me. So I think there is something to that whole "mind/body being inseparable" thing. And if hip joints spend a lifespan "catching" all the stress and sadness and existential dread, all the while not lying, I suppose it makes sense that when one of them breaks, a person could be thrown of her axis. Also, I'm sure it just really fucking hurts.

Anyway, I chatted with Papa for a bit before they took him to take some more tests and then went to run errands with my parents. One of those errands was to find a Western Union to send some money to a relative in Honduras. Apparently this is a relative in name only that I have never heard of before today. But boy did I hear of him. My mother said we had to send money to him on behalf of Papa, who has been sending money to this person for years. I asked who he was and then was told an insane, Dickensian story of how this man was born to a prostitute who was killed when two men fought over her. The two men subsequently killed themselves, leaving the child an orphan. I sat in stunned silence because I have never been able to shake the feeling that my family buries the lead when it comes to stories about life in Honduras or even life in NYC in the 60s. It is a bit frustrating because the STORIES. 

What else? My day can actually be summed up in the most Long Island sentence ever: I ate too much at the Cheesecake Factory for dinner but walked it off at the South Shore Mall with my parents. It really is 1997 again.

What did you do today?

I Remember That

I distinctly remember wearing short sleeves and an accompanying frizzed out crown just two days ago. I'm only prone to one false memory in my life (making me the ideal protagonist to any story...writers, call me!) but as I layered up this morning and had a grudge match with my flimsy umbrella against Hurricane Joaquin's leavings, that old short sleeved feeling flew off and away from me like all of the city's summer garbage from the street under me. Today is a day for sleeping in and binge reading. Alas, I'm at work. And more alas, I just started working full time one month ago, which is too soon to be alas'ing anything, but I yam what I yam.

I don't want to speak of work today though because it is in my nature to assume things will always stay the same as they are right now (which would be a bad thing) and I'm trying to force my brain to change this automatic switch to a "go with the flow and remember that change is inevitable" frequency. Have you ever done that? Teach me how?

This weekend promises to deliver more blustery gray wind and I'm headed out east to visit my Papa who recently had knee surgery and to plow through the veritable mountains of mail I've received since I last visited home. I am anticipating The Mail of Mount Kilimanjaro since my mother has mentioned it in every phone call we've had and I know that when things collect, her nerves get jangly. I'm certain there will be coupons and voter info and credit card offers and other nonsense that was born to be shredded. Still, it makes me a bit jumpy to think I have mail I haven't checked in a month; like someone would have decided to pick September to write me a letter. Wishful thinking. As wishful as my thinking around a year or so ago when I tried to single-handedly revitalize the custom of letter writing. No one I sent letters to wrote back.

I HAVE, however, joined Snapchat, that bastion for the short attention spanned. I'm only a little obsessed with it and I have a feeling my obsession will be as short lived as a snap. Also, I think this foray into MODERN LIFE has contributed to my proclivity for false memories. It sharpens my sense memory that I've seen and done things that I never saw or did, like that time I proclaimed in this blog that I only ever had one false memory in my life. I didn't do that. Did I?

Hurricane Chauncey

Whadda month September was! I mean amirite or amirite or amiRITE, right? I mean you wouldn't know it from this blog and its recent silence but so much crap happened in my life that it was like I was swimming in a big, boiling pot of chunky stew, scaling the grooved in walls of large, square chunks of mystery meat, bearing down hard with ALL my teeth. Whoa, that was a really weird tangent. I don't even like meat.

You know it is going to be a good month when you start off with a weird tangential metaphor.

In the past month I saw my LITTLE brother get married, started a new full time job, visited umpteen new neighborhoods in NYC that I've never been to, lost about 20 pounds, saw some dear friends whom I haven't seen in years and learned that I can deposit checks through an app on my phone directly to my bank! This world is mad modern and I'm just mad! Mad, I tell you!

There is a new surge of energy in the air today, likely due to the weather. I read today that there is a hurricane in our midst and that his name is all espanish which just means conservatives will blame it for all of the country's problems. All kidding aside, I really have always loved the name Joaquin. It's one of those names that sounds adorable on a toddler and really creative and mysterious on a full grown adult. Like Harrison. Or Tristan. Or Chauncey. Hurricane Chauncey. That should happen.

Anyway, back to my energy. I walked to the bus stop this morning and saw two young men, both with scratch off tickets, both eagerly scratching away at them, both simultaneously walking and talking on their cell phones. I felt my mood lifted because if those two can multitask like that, then so much is possible. So I'm starting a bunch of new projects, some writing, some not writing and my calendar is already solidly booked for October. That's making me sound popular but I'm not. I just make plans ahead of time. Try it! You'll like it!

I'm also going to make yet another attempt at Blog Every Day October but seeing as I've failed a few times and really only succeeded blogging an entire month ONCE, I'll content myself with calling this an attempt, while giving it the college try. Ideas are swirling around my head in that autumnal way they usually do so you never know; I may have double the nonsense to share!

Do you have any nonsense to share? Please comment. I LOVE nonsense. Happy October! I'll just be over here like

Atlas me! (Now with footnotes!)

It has been a pretty intense and amazing year for me thus far. I am reflecting on it now, even though it is still September because there are two days every year that mean renewal to me: New Year's Day and Labor Day. One is for obvious reasons and the other is because of years of institutional brainwashing (aka going to school) has indelibly ingrained the end of summer with starting over, as though I should have sweated out all my physical energy (such as it is) and focused instead on working out my brain. I also tend to assign witchy sorts of activity to September since so many significant things have happened in my life during this month.

And maybe it's all the coffee or all the running around I'm doing of late, but I find myself reflecting and lost in my head more so than normal which, if you know me at all, is already a fuckload* amount of time. I've tried to get down on paper or make note of things I want to write about and we've now reached the point where the things I want to write about and the things I want to write through are catching up with my ability/time/desire to write them out. My brain most closely resembles every long suffering bookshelf I've ever owned: never enough space for all the things I pile on top of it. I find myself often wondering how most people cope with the hyper activity of the world and, after years of close study** what I have concluded is that we are all on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram staring and focusing on image after image and soundbite after status update after photo because it helps us whittle everyone (and ourselves) down to a more manageable size. I blame no one for getting lost down those digital rabbit holes. I do recognize that my life is whizzing by while I'm Facebook stalking you doing useless things. So I came here to blog. Because I'm definitely going to write about something meaningful any day now. Ahem.

In the spirit of having too much to talk about, I find myself typing frantically with nothing to say (witness my pointless diatribe above.) So instead, let me tell you about last night:

Nancy invited me to something via email earlier this week with an accompanying link explaining the event. I've made it a policy lately to accept invitations when offered, when possible; my hope is to quiet my restlessness through perpetual newness. And Nancy has never invited me to something I didn't have an awesome time doing so I accepted the invite and spent the next five days not clicking on the helpfully informative link and not knowing what I agreed to, only that we were to meet at a bookstore in Dumbo. Nothing bad ever happens at a bookstore so all was well.

Unbelievably, after living in NYC for more time than I haven't at this point, the first time I ever set foot in Dumbo was earlier this year when I was sent on a work errand to what could be the coolest publishing house I've ever been to: Melville House. At the time, I was a bit lost and just kept walking toward the water and found myself surrounded by cobblestone streets and factory facades.  I remember thinking that Dumbo was a strange place. I also remembered being jealous of the people working in that converted factory loft because that is just the epitome of coolness to me. But I digress.

Last night I got out of the subway and it was drizzling and bustling and as I walked the streets toward the bookstore, I got the strange notion that I wasn't in New York but in a Hollywood, soundstaged version of New York. That's what Dumbo reminds me of: everyone's idea of New York. And, like most ideas of things, I loved it. I temporarily forgot about how expensive everything is here and how dirty and smelly the summertime is here. I forgot about my wanderlust and that blinking pilot light inside my head that whispers always what else is there, what else is there? was quiet for a moment. I just felt grounded and present inside a tangible, realized idea. By no means do I think Dumbo encompasses the reality of NYC but it does paint a pretty picture. It probably helped that I didn't know where or to what I was going to that night; the unexpected always quickens my pulse.

I got to the Power House Arena bookstore, something I wasn't aware existed until just then and it was closed for a fundraising event. Turns out, I was there for that event. I was early but Nancy's name was on the list and I got in and headed straight for the free bar. There were book displays everywhere and, still not fully grasping what the event was or what funds were being raised for what, I started browsing the books, cup of wine in hand. I was immediately approached by a woman who introduced herself and asked if I was a writer and whether or not I had been at the conference that day. Using my unparalleled powers of deduction, I figured out that the fundraiser was for the literary magazine that had sponsored a conference for aspiring writers that was taking place all weekend. The event was a game of Jeopardy between authors, literary agents, publicity people and editors. The woman who spoke to me was a very nice person and she told me that she was writing a book based on her Instagram account. I really don't understand that sort of thing but I nodded and smiled and checked the door for Nancy.

I circulated the room and checked out the book displays, doing that dork thing I do and counted how many of them I had read (12...it gives my brain distraction from feeling awkward) and contemplated buying several more before coming back to reality and remembering that I have one bedroom right now and that bedroom is literally covered in books all over the floor. I met another woman who is an independent book editor which is a job I didn't think existed but sounds pretty awesome to me. Nancy arrived and we chatted and drank and were the bleacher creatures of the Jeopardy game. I noticed the playful, yet cutting banter between the four groups of people and it left me wondering whether or not literary agents, authors, publicists and editors all secretly (or overtly) hate each other. I'm sure someone wrote a book about that.

A highlight of the game for me was when one author was contesting an answer in the "Literary geography" category and yelled out "Let's look it up! Atlas me, someone!" I want to use that in every day speech going forward, but only regarding reference books. Almanac me! Dictionary me!

After the game was over, Nancy and I stayed for another beer and I bought a little notepad set with the promise that I would write a poem in each page. I can get SUPER creative with my rationalization. On our way out Nancy said goodbye to a former coworker who was packing up the leftovers from the event and he gave me two beers to go. They sloshed around in my purse while we walked again through the evening movie set of Dumbo. Here's a photo I took:

And...action!

And that's what I did last night. I'm awake super early after doing a fuckload *** of things this morning, blogging being one of them. How are you?


















*An actual measurement.
** "Close study"= I just had that thought right now.
*** See "*".