Kind of Blue

Three Years Silent

2011-02-16T14:05:00.002-05:00

Seriously? Three years? Yep.

My last post to this blog was in January 2008. Of course, I meant to keep up with it, to keep writing, to, you know, DO things, but I didn't. So here we are, three years later.

I think it's human nature to want to start over. Or maybe it's more of an uniquely American thing, to want to erase the past and more forward into the space age without having to take responsibility for the things we have left behind. I am susceptible to it myself; when I look at what I've written on this blog in the last five years, I want to destroy it, take it down, and start fresh. New words, new life.

But I decided to leave my old words up, no matter how embarrassing or pathetic or self-pitying. Starting over sounds like a lot of work. And I'm not completely convinced I want to. If I started over, would I make the same mistakes all over again? Honestly, you really couldn't pay me any sum of money to start my life over. I'm not one of those folks who thinks everything in life is meant to happen in a certain way, so as to get you to one place or another, to make you LEARN something in particular (which, even if you did learn your lesson, you would probably forget it anyway). I suppose all this introspection is just meant to say that I'm trying to face up to things I have done, said, been. And I feel relieved to be at a certain point in my life where I'm not constantly trying to reinvent myself, though the urge is certainly still there sometimes. I just want to take my past, present and future and gobble them whole, and then sit back with a contented smile and loosen my belt.

Act Locally

2008-01-10T08:49:00.000-05:00

Have I told you about my New Year's resolutions?

Generally, I don't make them and dismiss them as at best, trite, and at worst, just setting yourself up for failure. But this year, I felt the need to do some things differently and since I am now settled in my own apartment, the new year just happens to fall in line with a good time for me to make some changes.

I've decided to take my top five most purchased groceries and buy them all locally and organically. My top five most purchased items are:

Apples
Salad greens
Milk
Bread
Cheese

This is actually requiring more work than I had thought, as a recent trip to the grocery store proved. Although there are apples produced locally and organically in New York state, all of the apples in the grocery store came from Washington state. As far as dairy goes, there are local dairies, but unfortunately, they aren't organic. Salad greens are also a tough one; it's easy to find organic greens, but since they're not in season right now, they have to come all the way from California. I may have to give up my addiction to greens for more seasonal vegetables. I'm still working on my research for the bread.

The other part of this resolution is to replace one poultry or beef serving a week (which I generally only eat once or twice a week) with tofu. It takes a lot of energy and acreage to produce beef, and there is a local place that grows soybeans and produces tofu, so I'm a go on that resolution.

This past year, I've gradually made some changes to reduce my ecological footprint, but I'd like to get the process moving faster in 2008. This past year, I've been bringing my own canvas bags to the grocery store, bought my mom some canvas bags so she can do the same, started using CFL bulbs in my bedroom, and begun cleaning with vinegar, water, and baking soda. I'm not going to say I should shower less than I already do, because as it is, I'm a bit of a hippie when it comes to showering and honestly don't do it unless a trip to the gym or some serious hard physical work dictates that I spare everyone around me some discomfort and just get clean.

By the way, has anyone found a good ecological footprint calculator? I've been using this one, but it's not very detailed and I don't have a clear idea of their methods.

Other resolutions that are getting back on track:

Flossing more regularly, at least several times a week
Getting back to my meditation practice, which I stopped when I was couch-surfing and had no privacy to do it.
Doing more yoga (at least a couple of times per month)

That's it so far. I'm posting these in the hopes that it will help me keep track of my progress over the next three, six, nine months and beyond. What are you changing about 2008?

In With the New, Part Deux

2008-01-07T20:59:00.000-05:00

I got a new job.

I'm scared, elated, hysterical, happy, and so anxious my stomach is threatening to give up its entire contents. I'll be working with an international nonprofit that works on preserving world monuments. I'll post a link to the place here later, when I actually start the job, but just for now, I'm keeping it private.

This is a real-person job. Not my no-benefits, take-off-when-you-want, sneakers-and-jeans job that I have at the university where I work. I will have health insurance (thank God!), more than one coworker (no more lonely at work time!), and I'm pretty sure I have to be there right at 9 am. I'm, in fact, embarrassed to tell you that my current work schedule is very cushy (11 am to 6pm) but in return for cushiness, I get pretty much nothing. As a college student, and later a grad student, I have been in and out of the workforce for a couple of years, and this is my first salaried position. Hard to believe, eh? It's all too true.

In the next two weeks then, I have a pretty tall order: get some nice clothes for work, move stuff out of storage, practice getting up and out of the house by 8 am (which means practicing getting in bed by 10 or 10:30pm), and in general, get my shit together.

I am now a Real Girl. (And it scares the shit out of me).

In With the New

2007-12-16T17:25:00.000-05:00

This year in a time capsule: Complete and total mental breakdown, i.e. crushing depression, set in, sucking up my time and energy like a vacuum for the majority of the last months. I would say, if needing to give an estimate, that 90% of this year was spent in that state of mind. And I haven't even wanted to blog about it; when you're depressed, it's depressing to think about how depressed you are. When not absorbed in depression, my energies were spent agonizing over quitting grad school, having no health insurance, looking for housing, and applying for jobs. Up until about a week ago, I hated going to parties because I had to face countless people whose first question was: So, what do you do? And feeling spiteful, I would say "Nothing. I do nothing." Conversationally, it didn't really get us anywhere.

While I still resent the question, I realize the social necessity of placing people in context. When I was in India, the questions were about what my parents did, how much schooling they had, if there were any boys in the family. And I do believe that I prefer the question of what I do versus disparaging comments about how I have no brothers. I suppose I would prefer a question more along the lines of who I am, but to ask someone "Who are you?" seems a little too blatantly philosophical for your run of the mill party ice-breaker.

At last I feel like I have something positive to add to the capsule. I have a place to live, on the border of Red Hook and Carroll Gardens, in an old apartment building with two lovely, intelligent ladies. The medications are finally starting to add up to something substantial in terms of my mood, though I am afraid to say it for fear of scaring my newfound "regular person" feeling away. Still no health insurance or job security, but I am proud to have something to show for this year, some progress. And there's still time for the rest.

More of the Same

2007-11-18T14:55:00.000-05:00

An apartment in Bushwick: $600 to live with six cats, in an apartment with crumbling cement walls, and a bedroom with no door. The cats are feral, which means that the entire time I was there, they were yowling and fighting with each other. Drunk guy on the corner slumped against the side of a deli. You couldn't pay me $600 a month to live there.

Struggling actor trying to promote himself. Screenprints images of his face on women's underwear to sell on the Internet. To whom would he sell such a thing? I HAVE NO FUCKING IDEA. His apartment is stuffed to the brim, with boxes and assorted objects stacked to the ceiling. Also, some squares of particle board painted with Oprah quotes. Once again, you couldn't pay me to live there.

I'll be happy to be in nice, normal Salt Lake for Thanksgiving. I'm leaving tomorrow. See you there.

Not so Much

2007-11-12T21:53:00.000-05:00

So NaBloPoMo was a failure. Just couldn't do a blog per day. What with looking for a place to live and trying to get my brain slash life in order, it just wasn't going to happen.

Which brings me to my next topic. Apartment hunting, or rather, roommate hunting. Oh, the people I have seen:

Two unemployed filmmakers in Williamsburg who opened their closet door, explaining that "this is where we keep our cleaning supplies," and voila! It's empty! Yet somehow, they were serious. Which leads me to suppose that IF they had cleaning supplies, that's where they would keep them.

A bitter late thirties actress, who works in medical transcription by day, and had a Wall of Shame of roommates she had kicked out because they hadn't paid their rent. Imagine a wall filled with headshots of failing actresses/actors who had been kicked out by a woman who has spent way too much time working an unfulfilling day job and definitely has not been laid in a loooong time.

Then there's the nice people whom you really want to share an apartment with, and they never call you back.

Just like dating. God save me.

Out

2007-10-18T12:23:00.000-04:00

Two weeks out.

Two weeks out of a place to live. I’m staying with a lovely friend in a quiet neighborhood south of Prospect Park in Brooklyn. I love the neighborhood; it’s full of native New Yawkers with nasal accents and teenagers congregating on the corners with nothing better to do than tease each other, but at least not getting into trouble.

The only flaw of Windsor Terrace (sounds like a neighborhood in London, doesn’t it?) is that you have to truck your laundry a couple of blocks away and the laundromat is fairly expensive as these things go. I mean, $2.25 to wash a load of clothes! Also, there’s no grocery store nearby, so my back hurts from carrying milk, orange juice, and whatnot back up to the apartment (why do clerks always put all the heavy groceries in one bag? It makes for uneven soreness when you have to carry your groceries home, LIKE ALL NEW YORKERS HAVE TO DO. You’d think they’d learn.)

My mood remains touch and go. Some days are fairly good, meaning that I don’t obsess over the world’s problems or agonize over all the terrible things that can befall humankind. That doesn’t necessarily mean I’m a sunny optimist on my good days, but it’s progress and I’ll take it. Bad days? I’ll leave those to your imagination.

Reading: I was involved in a book of short stories by Hemingway. It was spare and beautiful, but the stories were eminently depressing. In the best of his stories, the major plot point is death. I could have no more of it. So I started reading Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I’m whipping through it quickly, due to some long commutes on the F train, and am quite satisfied with it.

Also: even though I’ve taken a leave of absence from Pratt, no one from either of the graduate departments I was enrolled in has called or emailed to see why I’ve taken a leave or inquired as to how I’m doing. The history of art department emailed me last week only to see if I was planning on enrolling in a course that is reserved for upper level grad students.

Thanks, Pratt. I’m glad you love me for more than my money.

Homeless

2007-09-25T11:30:00.000-04:00

I have to pack my life into fifteen boxes. Those boxes, and an assortment of furniture, will go into storage on Friday morning for an indeterminate amount of time. This weekend was sort of a kaleidoscope of shifting emotions; I was okay, even content, for awhile to be packing up my stuff and moving on from a bad living situation. The next moment I was hyperventilating; I don't have full-time employment, my health insurance runs out in November, I don't have a permanent place to live, and I don't know what I'm doing with my life. It's a tall order if you think about it too long.

Given the uncertain situation, my mood is more stable than it has been in a long time. I can look out of the windows on the train when it's passing over the bridge and see that the water is beautiful, the skyline is beautiful, and even feel a bit grateful to live in this difficult city. It's easy to fall in love with New York in the autumn and again in the springtime. Pretty much anytime else, it's just as easy to feel put upon by the palpable humidity of the summer and the drenching rains and bitter winds of the winter.

A few friends and I took a train up the Hudson River to see the Dia: Beacon Museum. The landscape is so beautiful after you escape the dirtiness of the city, particularly the ride through upper Manhattan, that you don't wonder how anyone could indulge in what can be the most dull of all kinds of genre painting: landscape painting. You see altogether too much landscape painting in Utah, which is why I generally think it's a tired art form, but some of it, particularly the Hudson River School of painters (contemporaneous with writers such as Thoreau and Emerson), starts to make a little more sense after a trip up to Beacon. Dia: Beacon, by the way, is the most incredible museum you haven't seen or heard of.

I move on Friday morning. Saturday morning at 6am I will be going to a peace march in Washington, D.C. I've never been to D.C. but I can't think of a better, or more opportune, time to visit.

Where Will I Be?

2007-09-12T21:17:00.000-04:00

I'm back in the city after a three month long hiatus in Salt Lake. The first two days back were like living under a wet blanket; the heat and humidity combined were disgusting and made the entire city smell like a sewer. I was excited to be back despite the humidity and the presence of my snippety roommate (his nickname is Tweety, if you will remember).

A couple of days later, the fear set in. I was listening to NPR today; there's new branch of neuroscience called neuroeconomics, which studies the parts of the brain people use to make investment and fiscal decisions. Ironically, investors often have the same type of neural activity that people who have addiction and depression issues do. Essentially, addiction is an urge that won't go away. Depression is a fear of risk that won't go away. Investors often have this same type of activity, an urge, or obsession that refuses to be quieted.

I can't really pinpoint that part of my brain, feel out the fear, where it comes from, what I'm even afraid of. Maybe it's just biological, maybe it's psychological. It makes the city seem big, dirty, and chaotic. Actually, it doesn't seem that way. It IS that way. The feeling is just exacerbated from having been in Utah for three months, enjoying the long, undisturbed stretches of road and sidewalk.

Anyway, I had tough, tangled, intense session with my therapist on Monday. I cried. A lot. At the close of the session, he opened his arms wide, like he was going to give me a hug, except all he did was say "Welcome back to therapy!" He might as well have said "Welcome back to New York City!"

So here I am. Welcome back, indeed.

For the Love of Men

2007-03-10T18:33:00.000-05:00

There is some sort of weird slapping noise coming from my roommate's bedroom. I'm trying to give him the benefit of the doubt; an odd-sounding home improvement project? After all, nobody beats it that hard. Or do they?

A few minutes later I walk to the bathroom and hear the sound of man giggles emanating from his bedroom. Oh.

DUDES. I AM HOME. RESPECT.

So I went into the bathroom and lightly slammed the door to get the message across. When I came out, the noise was gone. And there we have it, folks. At least someone in this apartment is getting laid.

Adventures in Craig's Land

2007-02-28T16:39:00.000-05:00

So.

Dating.

So.

I am half-assed interested in dating. I am not at all interested in having a relationship with someone, but it would be nice to go out on a date once in awhile, meet some new people, have some fun, you know, be like a regular person. I am interested enough that once in awhile (here I commence blushing) I read the personals on Craig's List and respond to one or two.

I got a reply from one guy that seemed promising, but in an email he told me he "liked to read shitty books." I'm both a reader and a librarian. This did not fly with me. I deleted his email and decided to stay off CL for awhile. Except that I cruised around a little last week and started emailing this guy who seemed promising; he had a job, an education, and was generally in my age range (see the judgment working here? I told you!).

So I chatted with him on AIM last night. And....just no. Brief transcript of conversation:

Boy: what do u want me to know about you

Lucy (inwardly hating his use of IM grammar and spelling): Well, what's important to you?

Boy: this is ur chance to sell.

Lucy: I don't sell.

Lucy (rethinking harshness of response): But I'd be happy to answer any questions you have about me, anything you want to know. I just don't do the whole selling thing.

Boy: u have to sell yourself all the time

Lucy (groaning): Okay... well, I like to read, it's what I do for fun/relaxation. And right now I'm really into good literature, not just the latest Grisham (not that that isn't valuable in it's own way).

Boy: what should i be reading

Lucy: What have you read lately that you've liked? Do you like fiction or non?

Boy: fiction

Boy: non

Boy: i just feel like i've missed out on a lot of good books

Lucy: Any preferences?

Boy: a good book

Lucy: YOU ARE OBVIOUSLY NOT SELLING YOURSELF HERE, MISTER, SO WHY DID YOU ASK ME TO SELL MYSELF?

The last bit was my inward thought process. But people, this will not fly. I'm swearing off Craig's List. At least for the next two weeks.

'Fessing Up

2007-02-24T14:05:00.000-05:00

A few weeks ago, the New York Times ran this article about people who "blog away debt." Meaning that they post all the minutiae of their financial lives online, all their spending, savings, missteps, debts, and successes in an attempt to keep themselves financially honest and responsible, and to gain support from others who have the same problems.

I myself am not clean as a whistle. My family tends to expound the "fact" that I am so financially responsible because I don't have collections agencies calling me every five minutes, but let me tell you something: just because a person can pop a piece of bread in the toaster does not make them a cook. I am not a cook.

To be precise, I have $3,128.47 in credit card debt. I've never quite added up that number before (it's a combination of two separate cards) and to be honest, I'm surprised. I didn't realize I had that kind of debt. How depressing. It's even more discouraging because I'm a student (hence, erratic income) and I worry about money every minute. Most of the time, this results in an amazing ability to ignore money and not create a budget, which I'm sure is what most of you will tell me to do. It just feels so overwhelming, I'd rather hide.

I think that most women grow up thinking that "someone" will take care of them financially, and thus are not taught sound financial skills. In my family, we were always on the brink of disaster. We filed bankruptcy when I was in high school and even though my father provided for my rent and bills in college, I had only a very small allowance for anything else, including clothes, going out, anything that could be deemed "fun." With both a job and student loans, right now I actually have the most money (in terms of being able to do fun things) and the least money (because of loans and debt) I have ever had.

When I lived with B. (because he is both a gentleman and makes a lot more money than I will ever hope to make, even upon graduating), he always paid when we went out to dinner or drinks with friends. Towards the end, I think he began to resent this and I tried to chip in more with groceries, ordering dinner in, and laundry. But still, he shouldered more of that burden than I did. Although, in my defense, I have to add that I cleaned more than he did.

In essence? I'm on my own now. I can't fall back on B. to pay the rent until my next paycheck. I have to own up to the fact that I need to learn how to take care of myself. I cannot fall into the trap of thinking "someone" (which could be boyfriend, family, or friends) will take care of me financially. Or emotionally, for that matter.

Also? I have distinctly un-stellar credit. Like barely above 600. So now you know:

I AM BAD WITH MONEY.

I AM SCARED OF MONEY.

I NEED TO DEAL WITH THIS.

(I have to use caps to get the message across to myself that this is important. I am not trying to yell at you.)

I AM TRYING TO YELL AT ME!

Long Time, No See

2007-02-17T23:37:00.000-05:00

School took off at an alarming pace this semester and I've been behind since almost the first day. Add to this: new drugs, new therapy (group), a few new friends, and on-and-off computer access, and you have carpal blogging syndrome, which prevents the fingers from processing any thoughts from the mind onto the virtual page.

I am fully back in the land of the living though; I have a new 14 inch Dell laptop named Bella. Since I have obtained this object, several ill-intentioned acquaintances from my coffeeshop (which Apple has colonized with product placement) have tried to engage me in the Dell vs. Mac debate. I have refused their advances; I do not fight, I do not discuss, I just walk away. It's a trite argument and I have decided I am Switzerland; which is to say, I just don't care to get involved.

As of late, I have been informed by a few friends that I am judgmental. In the interest of garnering friends, I have, in the last month, decided to be less judgmental and more open-minded. What did this get me? One awful first date with a forty-five year old computer systems guy who probably thought that since I was 25, I would not expect him to have the same accoutrements a woman his age might expect e.g. a job, ambitions, and social skills. I also netted a coffeeshop "friend," also in his early forties, who will talk at me even if I make very clear that I am busy or just outright ignore him. He gave me a misguided valentine with a poem enclosed and I had to explain that I was not interested. But I had to be polite and adult about it, even though I'm a little pissed that he has made my coffeeshop experience a tad uncomfortable when he is there.

Who's judgmental now?

I am, thank-you-very-much. Cynicism, sarcasm, and rude manners: check, check, and double-check.

SMRT!

2007-01-24T10:41:00.000-05:00

I made it through my bad day. I am intact. Mostly. Just to let you know.

Two things I will buying in the near future:

A new laptop (hopefully not so g.d. heavy as the last one)

A digital camera

I am now soliciting your suggestions as to best brands and models. Let me know, 'kay?

Also, I started my Information Technologies class and am learning how to code in HTML. I feel smrt!

That's Something, Isn't It?

2007-01-23T12:58:00.000-05:00

I'm feeling incredibly discouraged today. I even cried on the subway train on the way to school. How pathetic is that? I hate crying in public, but it seems to happen more often than not. I'm just not good at saving everything up for a nice little cry in the privacy of my own room.

It's so difficult to make new friends. I have a couple of really good friends in New York, and a couple in the making, but I constantly feel like I know lots of random people yet I'm not actually, truly friends with them. And for an introvert like me, having banal conversation with people who are not really my friends is discouraging and exhausting. This is the definition of an introvert, I think.

For those of my friends who know my habits and will say, exasperated, "Lucy, are you sure you're really trying to make new friends? You are such a hermit sometimes!" I will say that yes, I am really trying. Objectively, I am putting myself out there. I call people. I send emails inviting people out for drinks. I try. And it just seems like everyone has friends already, and there's no time in their lives for me.

Anyway. This is a depressing post, I know. It's that kind of day. Only 1pm and I've already written off my day. Oh well. New records are made every second. I bet someone in some other place in the world just woke up and felt like it was the worst day of their life. At least I made it about four hours into my day before I cried. That's something, isn't it?

Year 10,000 BC

2007-01-16T14:27:00.000-05:00

I returned my anvil-like laptop to Dell, so now I am temporarily offline. Living like the caveman. No cable TV, no Internet, no computer, no nothin'.

Topics of Interest in My Life:

Today is the first day of school. I am taking a computer class. I hope I don't fail.

I am going to see a new psychiatrist in a couple of weeks. Hopefully, he can clear up that nasty hole in my head where all my happiness seems to seep out of.

I repainted my bedroom, turning it from prison cell gray to an oasis of light blue, tan, and chocolate brown. Unfortunately, what I thought was going to be a day-long project turned into a three-day project, with me sleeping on the couch for three nights. Bah! Home improvements!

The insurance company is an asshole and hasn't reimbursed me for therapy yet. Evil bastards, they are. Now I have to call and yell at them.

I need a haircut.

I figure these are like the headlines of the newspaper of my life. More human interest stories to come.

Forgive Me. I'm a Leetle Off Today, You Know?

2007-01-10T11:51:00.000-05:00

So I got my laptop in the mail. It's a Latitude D620. And I like it except--mother of God, it's heavy! My shoulders hurt just from carrying it to the coffeeshop! (A mere two blocks from my apartment.)

So, I have contacted Dell and I'm hoping that I can exchange it for a lighter one, cause you put that thing in my backpack, along with the battery pack, and I feel as if I'd packed my bag for a short jaunt up Everest, it's that heavy.

At least, sweet Internet, it allows me to reach you.

I've been exceedingly lonely this past week. My mother has taken to calling me every day to make sure I'm okay and it's starting to get irritating. Well-intentioned and good-hearted, but irritating nonetheless. I don't really know how to make friends. I have a hard time finding people that want to be friends...It seems like the people I meet that I get along with already have plenty of friends and really don't need even just one more. It's been suggested to me that I try meetup.com, but when they email me the groups, none of them look really interesting. I don't know. Maybe I should just go to one just to go and see. Except that meeting people is NERVE WRACKING! And it takes COURAGE! Which sometimes, I just don't have.

Maybe I need to be more drunk to face life. Except that that would make me an alcoholic. And that would require more therapy than I have now, which is already cutting into my income quite a bit. But those AA groups do seem quite therapeutic. I went to one to support a friend who is a member of AA, and the people were quite nice. But somehow, I think this method is just not the way to meet people and make friends. Something a little off about it, you know?

Internet Free Lucy

2007-01-05T17:52:00.000-05:00

And ye shall have Internet. And it shall set you free.

My new laptop arrived in the mail today. I promptly opened the package and started the set-up process for Windows, while the set-up wizard played me a sweet, sweet computerized melody. So, here I am, pirating a connection on my new laptop, blissful as a monk who has reached nirvana.

Thank God. I was seriously lonely without an Internet connection. It was getting me down. Isn't that weird? How isolating modern technology is? If you don't have it, you're just a woman on an island. Sigh.

Today was fairly warm and muggy in Brooklyn. It felt like a Berkeley winter day, sixty degrees-ish and moist, about to rain, but not quite there yet. I felt a deep homesickness for Berkeley all of a sudden and the whole West Coast. The smell of getting off the plane in Oakland and driving home with my dad, freezing in the back of his convertible whilst all the windows are down and we're zipping around the freeway.

I suppose I never thought I'd miss the West Coast. I do like it here and I haven't been further west than Salt Lake City since June 2005. I thought for a long time that going back to Berkeley without my dad being there would just be too sad--every place would remind me of him, since he first took me to each and every place I love in Berkeley. But I miss the aging hippies, crazy homeless people, and the pretty, narrow streets lined with bougainvillea. I also miss Portland--the neatly organized grid system of the city, the trees, the lovely coffeeshops, walking around NW 21st and looking at all the cute buildings on the way.

Awww. I got to make a trip out the Best Coast sometime soon here. Whilst I absolutely abhor making New Year's resolutions and find it a terribly boring and usually useless enterprise, if I were to make a resolution for the New Year, it would be to make a West Coast tour this year.

PS. I know we don't have to be best friends or anything, but don't you all think Tweety could at least be polite? He's from the South, so I anticipated a little more manners on his part. And manners includes introducing people to one another. It's just plain civil. Not even a friends thing, but a civility thing.

Also, Willow? Your book is on my list.

PPS. Brooklyners? Frank Warren, the creator of PostSecret, will be speaking at the Park Slope Barnes and Noble on January 9th. I will be there, so you should too.

Italicize This, Tweety!

2006-12-29T22:30:00.000-05:00

Holidays, shmolidays.

Not to say I haven't had a lovely time with my family, but there's always something about the holiday time that gets me down. I'm particularly lonely this holiday season, as I'm still recovering from the break up with B. and trying to hold my own in the new apartment. Add to these factors that New Year's is my dad's favorite holiday and the implicit expectation held by many that I am "over" (or at least should be "over") his death and it all equals some bitter holiday brew. The new roommate, whom I shalt dub Tweety (because it's amusing to call him that and for no other reason whatsoever), is also a little strange. I present my case.

The Evidence:

1. I enter the living room to find a party of people hanging out. Tweety does not introduce me or even stop to say, "Hey all, this is my new roommate, Sweet Lucy." Having no other place to go in the apartment, I am banished to my room.

2. He does clean, but never cleans quite enough. Like, he will take glasses I have cleaned off of the dishrack and reclean them, yet--he will not bother to clean up the hair he has left all over the bathroom from a recent shave (which was apparently preceded by a long period of NOT shaving, as illustrated by the amount of hair).

3. Awhile ago, I was home on a Friday night. I asked Tweety if he would like to join me for a drink. Tweety looked at me and then loudly, as if speaking to a deaf aunt, said "I am always out on Friday and Saturday nights." He paused and looked at me significantly. "There are a lot of people in New York." Meaning what exactly? That there are so many people for him to get to, there's no time for me? He then proceeds to stay at home that Saturday night. Pompous ass.

Strange? Yes. Feasible as a roommate? Sigh. I suppose so.

I am starting my reading list for the new year. I have grown disillusioned by many contemporary authors; several novels that I have read lately started out wonderfully only to end in the most trite and unbelievable ways (The Lovely Bones by Sebold and The Kite Runner by Husseini come to mind) so I am starting on the backlist of things I should read. I have recently enjoyed Age of Innocence (Edith Wharton), House of Mirth (Wharton), In Cold Blood (Capote), Washington Square (Henry James), and I am now reading The Bell Jar (Sylvia Plath), which some people say is depressing, but I don't necessarily agree.

Reading for 2007 includes:
Passage to India (Forster)
Midnight's Children (Rushdie)
Portrait of a Lady (James)
Breakfast at Tiffany's and Summer's Crossing (Capote)
Nine Short Stories (Salinger)
The Interpretation of Dreams (Freud)
A biography of Flaubert whose title I can't remember (author's last name is Brown)
Sons and Lovers (D.H. Lawrence)

Suggestions? (Please nothing trite or cheesy--I just can't do it anymore!)

Tales From Salt Lake City

2006-12-24T14:48:00.000-05:00

Mother (enthusiastically): I'm going to make homemade bread for the turkey stuffing!

Sweet Lucy (doubtfully): Isn't that a lot of work for stuffing?

Mother (explaining): Well, the bread comes frozen and all you have to do is throw it in the oven for awhile.

Sweet Lucy (dryly): Right. Homemade bread, you said? I thought you meant homemade as in creating the bread from raw ingredients like flour, yeast, and water.

Mother: Oh, no. Not that. That would be a lot of work. I just meant it didn't come from the box, like the Stouffer's kind.

Sweet Lucy is now Debbie Downer

2006-12-09T13:32:00.000-05:00

As I put off writing a paper for my archives class, this is what I will tell you:

It is so fucking cold in New York. Even my down jacket is no match for the wind. I am in the computer lab desperately trying to warm up my hands so I can write this damn paper. My fingers froze together while waiting for the bus that didn't show for 20 minutes--and then three of the same bus showed up simultaneously. I am envying Liz in Denver right now.

First impressions are not always what they seem. I used to like my roommate. And I guess I still do, on the surface. But beneath his shiny veneer is a layer of rudeness. I came home last Saturday night to a houseful of people. He neither introduced me or invited me to join them, so I was reduced to hanging out in my room while he entertained them (with God knows what kind of party tricks). This is not to speak of the total and complete rebuff he gave me on Thanksgiving and the weekend after. I am starting to stop wanting to be a good roommate and start being a bitch (Real World, right?). I guess you can polish a turd, but it's still a turd once you penetrate the polish.

Someone please, please clean my room. And tell my roommate that it's motherfucking cold, so yes, we can keep the heat to at least 65 degrees. Every time I turn on the damn heat, he turns it off. So around 3 am, I wake up and turn on my space heater, which probably sucks out more energy than the heating system itself.

Finals and I am tired, tired, tired. Can you tell how bitter I am? I can.

I am feeling ugly and fat lately. The dry winter air has reduced my hair to utter flatness and I had a dream last night that I was going bald. And that I failed chemistry because I never went to class. I often have dreams of having to go back to high school and failing my classes. Someone please tell me the meaning of this!

After the holidays, I will not only be seeing my therapist (whom I love) but starting group therapy every week. I'm terrified.

Okay, some good things:

I can pay my rent.

My friend Michelle sent me a present in the mail. It made my day. I felt loved.

Hmmm, grasping at straws here, people. Please write me with good things to think about, cause, obviously, I am getting bogged down by the bad.

Sporadically Out of Commission

2006-11-26T14:43:00.000-05:00

Combine a lack of Internet at my house with holidays and finals and you will find me sporadically out of commission.

I am trying to get Internet at the house, but it is an endeavor that requires a lot of energy and finals has reduced my efforts on all other fronts to a minimum. I barely get Grey's Anatomy on TV and cable? Cable is out of the question.

I had half-heartedly thought of posting about things I am thankful for, Oprah-style, but I'm feeling like an ungrateful little bitch right now. I'm tired and stressed, so forgive my lack of tact with words. I did however, get to see my nephew and sister over the weekend and family is always refreshing. I can't wait to go home for the rest of the holidays and veg out on the couch with the dog. Whom I bought a Santa suit. I will post pictures, I promise. And then I promise to throw the Santa suit away and stop being one of those people that dresses up their dog.

Will post more at later date. With sexy results!

I'll Follow You Into the Dark

2006-11-10T00:06:00.000-05:00

You know my life is crazy when I disappear for weeks at a time.

Items of Note:

1. I moved. About a mile from our old place, into a neighborhood called Boerum Hill in Brooklyn.

2. Brian moved. Into Manhattan, the Lower East Side.

3. I am currently at his house stealing the Internet to write this post because I don't have my beloved friend, the Web, at my own place of habitation.

4. I broke today. And just cried. I am very tired. I have moved four times in two years. I am very tired. And I would like a break.

Having dealt with depression my whole life, I have learned to function very well. I can be very sad and hopeless and still get the laundry done and the bills paid. It's a sort of facade I have built up over the years out of necessity. I needed to write a thesis when I was deeply depressed and anxious. So I just did. And the past year and a half have been a whole lot of functioning and not a whole lot of feeling. Sometimes I am able to break through in therapy and really feel something, but more often than not I just feel numb because there's too much to do to take time to pay attention to my feelings.

It's about time for bed. But I thought I should let you know that I am alive and not lying face down in a ditch somewhere or sleeping with the fishes. I am alive.

Also, two more things of note:

1. I just came from a Death Cab for Cutie concert (hence the title of the blog, one of their songs). This song makes me cry. Here, you try. If heaven and hell decide That they both are satisfied Illuminate the NOs on their vacancy signs If there's no one beside you When your soul embarks Then I'll follow you into the dark.

2. I had my first real-live for-sure celebrity spotting. I was crossing 13th Street on 5th Avenue on an errand for work, and who should be walking towards me? None other than Hope Davis, an actress I absolutely adore. I stood and stared for a minute, and then looked at everyone around me like "Hello? Why aren't you staring? It's HOPE DAVIS!" But I suppose she's not really a tabloid target so nobody stared, but I think she's brilliant. So there. The first time I saw someone on the street and was absolutely positive that that person was the person I thought they were. And no, I did not get her autograph. I was too dumbfounded.

Cold Weather, Warm Heart?

2006-10-16T20:26:00.000-04:00

It is now October 16th. And neither B. nor I have a place to live. Will we keep the apartment another month and stick out this awkward situation? At this point, God only knows.

It's not awful, living together, like you would think. I'm often grateful B. is still around at the end of the day when I need someone to share my fears with. It's kind of like the Band-Aid question: is it better to rip it off and get all the pain in one blow or slowly peel it back and spread the pain over time? I don't know.

But I'm starting to get anxious about not having a place to live. And not being able to make a new start just yet. And I'm tired of being anxious all the time about not having a place to live, sort of being in this free fall mode where I don't really know when things will end and when they'll begin.

In the meantime, work and school and life still goes on. I have a cold. B.'s parents are visiting on Wednesday. All the lightbulbs in the apartment are going out, one by one. First, two bulbs in the kitchen. Next, one in the living room. Next, two in the bathroom. I haven't seen the raccoon that hangs out on our air conditioner in a few days because it's been rainy. Hopefully she'll come back. It's always vaguely entertaining to watch her land on the air conditioner and then just sit there for awhile. I'm always wondering whether the AC will fall out of the window because of her weight. I'm totally hooked on Grey's Anatomy and I don't do my homework. It's getting cold here, but we skipped over that nice part of fall, where the leaves are all turning, but it's still kind of sunny and warmish outside.

And I'm getting by. That's how it goes, I suppose.

The Colors of People and Hair

2006-10-08T01:30:00.000-04:00

People show their colors in different ways. One thing about being single is that I look around at people with a whole different set of eyes. I used to be able to sail around, not caring what other people thought because I always had B. B. would be there. I don't have a net anymore. I feel like a superhero who's lost her superpowers; vulnerable and mooshy, like my insides are coming out.

Now I'm starting to realize that people aren't always what they seem. You can't always trust them and you should know that. And it is sad. I wish people were more like I expect them to be, but they are not. Even old friends can surprise you. Some will surprise you by not calling when your dad dies. But others will surprise you in new ways--by being open and honest and caring when they have no reason to.

It is hard to make new friends. It is hard for me to make new friends. It is hard for me to make new friends and not feel like a newly single, pathetic girl who desperately wants to make new friends.

I don't know what else to say about that.

Ooooh, did I tell you about the money? Well, here goes. A couple of weeks ago, I was walking to my favorite coffeeshop and I found a wad of money on the ground. $380 to be precise. I put up signs, got a couple of crank calls, decided to call the money my own. A week later, I was walking to the subway and found another wad of money on the ground. $250 to be precise. Did the exact same thing, and had the exact same results. So, what does a girl do when she gets some money?

Shave and a haircut! Anyway, my hair is a lot shorter and pretty vibrantly red. I will post a picture when I can get B. to take one. Also, I went and saw Jona and Claire perform at The Kitchen in Chelsea. It was so much fun! The computers talked! And sang! The rest of the performers were kind of boring. But I'm still bopping around, telling the computer I love it. Mikey was there too, so we got to have a lovely wee little conversation. And then I felt sad because I was still one step removed from Willow, like just behind her but I couldn't reach her.

Sidenote: So, while I was getting my hair done, my stylist and I talked about our dads. Hers died from cancer, too. Soon afterwards, her life was really shitty, she was three months behind in the rent, and about to be evicted. What happens next? She finds a bag full of money on the ground. $5600 to be precise. I know I sound new-agey sometimes. But I think my dad is trying to cheer me up.

Week Update with Sweet Lucy

2006-09-28T22:53:00.000-04:00

This week, I:

-Saw an apartment I might have wanted but they rejected me first. And my feelings are slightly hurt. Psht. I'm an awesome roommate. They just didn't give me a chance! But I guess I didn't know if I wanted the place either, so whatevs.

-Got through work only by counting the minutes.

-Read one of my favorite books "Dry" by Augusten Burroughs again. It always makes me cry.

-Felt on the verge of falling apart sometimes but didn't. Lots of coffee helped keep the glue in place, at least through my class on cataloguing (really, the most boring subject ever).

It looks like B. and I will be staying at our place through October, as it is September 28th and neither of us have a place to live. It's fine and all; in some ways, I hate to leave this little place we've called our home for the last year. But c'est la vie, raison d'etre, mon cherie and all that French bullshit, I guess.

Okay, I'm starting to bore myself right now. Anyone got a good book I should read? My peeps at my regular coffeehouse started making fun of me for reading adult chick lit, and I highly resent being indirectly called a chick. So I need something that at least looks substantive from the outside.

Bedtime for Bonzo, kiddos.

Say a Little Prayer for Me...

2006-09-22T16:34:00.000-04:00

So I had to delete the last post. It was just too much to look at. I mean, I am grieving for the loss of this relationship. It was like an entity all its own. But now I have a chance to take a deep breath, pick up, and learn how to be myself again. That doesn't mean I don't feel some fear and pathetic-ness in the bottommost pit of my stomach. I do. All the time. But I have to learn to keep on moving. Somehow.

So that's that for today. Say a little prayer for me to:

1. Find an apartment with adequate roommates and adequate rent (I'm not looking for perfection here, people. Just adequacy.)

2. Somehow be able to complete my schoolwork during this whole mess.

3. Not be too hard on myself, as is my normal wont.

I love you, too.

Someone Ate My Porridge! And Slept In My Bed! And Played With My Toys!

2006-09-14T23:16:00.000-04:00

I was in the shower tonight and I felt like I needed to blog. So I am. But I don't quite know what to say. I'm incredibly busy right now; working full-time, going to school full-time, looking for an apartment, but in my free moments, my mind starts to go faster than a hummingbird's wings. I search around desperately for something to think about, something to dwell on so I don't have to deal with my own feelings. I start to get anxious and panicky until I'm on the verge of tears and then I remember: breaking up is hard. It's okay to feel sad and lonely and scared of being alone.

I never thought of myself as being scared of being alone. After all, I like being by myself. I like having alone time. I like hanging out in the apartment alone on a Saturday night. But there is something in me that is scared of not having a net beneath me, scared of knowing that B. isn't going to come home and interrupt my aloneness, scared of feeling that the implicit promise that comes with a relationship, someone to be there for you, won't be there. And that I'll fall over some sort of cliff. And in my mind, I know my family is there for me, my friends are there for me, and that B. is still there for me. But still.

Maybe it's because I haven't been on my own since my dad died, and there is some sort of newness to feeling alone, having one less rock beneath me. Or maybe it's just knowing that rocks aren't really rocks at all, that human life can after all, disappear and people can die. Knowing death happens and knowing death happens are two completely different things. My understanding of that notion has changed so drastically since my dad died. The world feels like a different place now.

Okay. Was that depressing enough? Here are some other random tidbits to show you that I am not a lonely little lass after all. I still have a life to live, you know.

Tidbit #1: There is a cigarette butt in my apartment. Like in the middle of my apartment. How the fuck did it get there? Obviously, neither B. nor I smoke. Who the fuck has been in my apartment?

Tidbit #2: I looked at an apartment last night. It was above a Chinese restaurant and it smelled. The room was not big enough to even fit my bed in it, let alone anything else. Also, the girl who showed it to me was slightly cross-eyed and that distracted me. But she was nice. And she didn't rape or murder me. So that's good.

Tidbit #3: The highlight of my day occurs right before I enter work. There is a daycare center located down the block and most mornings when I am walking from the train to work, they have all these little kids out and everyone is holding hands so they don't get lost. The funny thing is that none of these kids are more than three years old, so they're still pretty unsteady. And every time the caregivers take them out on these strolls around Union Square, they put each kid in a giant neon orange t-shirt that reaches their ankles. So: twenty kids dressed in huge orange t-shirts all holding hands while they toddle down the block? Awwwwwwwww.

God Bless 'em, each and every one.

The Seventh Level of Hell

2006-09-06T12:43:00.000-04:00

The task of finding a place to live is starting to get to me. The example below is what I face on Craig's List every day. Please God, save me from roommate hell!

Furnished bedroom available in spacious 2 1/2 bedroom apartment. Doorman, high floor, city and sunset views, sunny, etc. Washer, dryer and dishwasher in the apartment. The apartment has good heat, is quiet for sleeping, has good air-conditioning, high speed internet and a spare computer for the roommate's use. It's an elevator building and there is a health club in the building. I'm looking for a female roommate who will occasionally not wear clothes when I ask in exchange for free rent. No sex whatsoever required. Otherwise the rent is $710/month, everything included.

Everything, everything, everything, everything!

2006-09-03T21:22:00.000-04:00

B. and I are still living in the same apartment. We're both leery of giving the landlord notice before either of us have places to live. This is not to say that living together as roommates is not hard. Sometimes when he zones out into computerland, I want to dance around and say, "Pay attention to me!" but I realize that is no longer his obligation.

Every time I look at my birthday presents from him, I just want to cry. We have to dismantle the home we made together and it's painful. I made some eggs this evening, and when I looked in the spice cabinet, all I could think of was how we were going to split them up. Will I get parsley because I like it so much? Will I give him the rosemary even though I want it? That's not even the issue really--I don't care enough about spices or anything we own to pick a fight over it. It's just the thought that there is no we, no ours, of anything anymore that makes me sad.

Two of B.'s sisters were here for a couple of days; one of them has a master's in theatre and was going to some auditions in the city. We didn't tell them we had broken up ten days previously. It seemed like that fact would only make them uncomfortable in our home. I really like his sisters and I felt badly about them not knowing the whole truth. But we wanted to make their short stay fun and comfortable, so we didn't say anything. And since I was barely home, it just didn't seem worth it to interrupt their trip with bad news. But still. I like them. I will miss them.

The back of my neck has been prickling with anxiety for days now. School is already getting intense, I'm working full-time right now because my supervisor's assistant is out of town, and I need a place to live. I'm worried about money, but once B. and I are living in separate places, I will need my own computer and printer. Sigh...It's like that part in the song whose title I can't remember by the Violent Femmes where the lead singer just screams "Everything, everything, everything, everything!" That's how I feel.

I Don't Know What This Post Should Be Called

2006-08-26T00:12:00.000-04:00

I know, I know. When I disappear for awhile, that's when everyone knows shit is going down in my life and I don't have the ability to deal with it, much less blog about it. I know I appear randomly in the blogosphere with absolutely no regularity, but sometimes life is what life is.

B. and I broke up. This time it's real and we're not taking it back and that's why I have to tell you. I can talk about it for precisely two minutes without starting to feel really sad, so I'll tell you what I can in your remaining minute and a half. There's no bad feelings, no hardness between us, just an acknowledgment that what we have isn't working and isn't making either of us happy. And it's sad because I do love him and he is good and funny and creative and lots of other good things. He is also my best friend and has been for the last three years. Okay. Two minutes is up. Time to move on.

My birthday was Saturday, and B. took me out for a lovely dinner (this was pre-breakup) and showered me with beautiful gifts, like these really soft lavender pajamas. As we were walking out of the restaurant, I saw my friend Ashlee across the street and yelled at her. While I said hello to her and started to chat and walk and get my bearings, there was a big shout of "Happy Birthday, Sweet Lucy!" and I saw my sweet-as-all-get-out friends yelling at me from an open bar window. There was an incredible German chocolate cake waiting for me as well as some gifts, but the best part was just to spend time with my friends. That's all. That's all I wanted and I got it. B. and Sarah put it all together and it was lovely. Liz and J. were there, so were my friends Dan, Sarah, and Ashley, plus my other friend Ashlee and then our friend Evan (buddy from Salt Lake) showed up to round us out. Free drinks, giving out slices of cake to the bartenders, and general good feelings ensued. I love birthdays.

Project Runway is going downhill, in my opinion. I can't believe Vincent won. He's such a douchebag and I mean that. Uli totally should have won. DOWN WITH VINCENT! BRING BACK ALISON! Hmph. Poor Salt Laker Robert Best got kicked off. Well, what can I say? As far as fashion goes, his early life may have been so stunted that he never got over it. But fortunately, some people can. My friend Ashlee just moved here and was talented enough to get into FIT. Therapy, Robert. Fashion therapy, that's what you need. We all have to recover from the early wounds of childhood and it's high time you did so.

Anyway. I'm signing off to cruise Craig's List for a place to live. More about that later.

Buh-bye!

Paradise Lost and Found

2006-08-14T15:47:00.000-04:00

I'm in Salt Lake City right now. It's dry and hot and spacious--and very, very quiet. I'm enjoying my vacation from the city...Salt Lake often seems to me to be a sanctuary, a little corner of goodness in the middle of the earth where not much goes on and that nobody really bothers about. I was a little worried about flying here on Friday, what with the thwarted terrorist plot in Britain, but the airport was totally fine and I have a feeling that terrorists aren't too interested in Utah.

There's a few things here that make me really sad though. A friend of mine from high school committed suicide a couple of weeks ago here and although I lost touch with him after I graduated from college and whatnot, it tears my heart out to think about what must have been going through his mind the days and hours leading up to his death. A friend of the family, who has been in our lives for years, was also just diagnosed with brain cancer. The prognosis is poor and he doesn't have health insurance. I want to extend myself to them, but I don't think I can visit him without crying and that certainly won't help. His family started a fund in his name for people to donate money for his medical bills and I wish more than anything that I had some money right now. I have absolutely none, nada, nothing until my student loans come in but I'm praying for some kind of windfall that will allow me to give them some money. It's such a difficult thing to watch people suffer and be unable to help; it makes me want to punch a wall or something equally absurd.

Anyway, I guess what I'm saying is that there is no protection, anywhere, from these things. They happen whether you're prepared or not, whether you live in Utah, New York, or a shack in Baghdad. It's just life.

Moving on to other more frivolous subjects; my poor little lamb Bradley got the axe on Project Runway. He was very sweet, but technically he just wasn't up to par and he made this god-awful outfit on the last episode. I could have made something better and I don't know how to use a sewing machine. Oh well. My other pet, Robert, better step it up--he's been reamed in the last two challenges, and while I know he has the skills to execute a great outfit, he isn't being very creative lately. Must be the Utah in him. I swear to God, this state gets into you and never leaves; you start to think that everyone around the world must love lacy-collared granny dresses and teased ponytails. Fight the power, Robert! Revolt! I know you can!

My current favorites are Kayne and Michael. They are complete opposites; Kayne designs pageant dresses and Michael is totally into hip-hop style, Kayne is high-maintenance and gossipy and Michael is quiet, but that's what makes them so good for a face-off! Sudden death fashion challenge! Yes!

Don't forget my birthday is Saturday. I will be turning a quarter of a century and officially entering my mid-twenties. Blastoff!

Days of Our Lives

2006-08-02T23:07:00.000-04:00

The past week and a half has seen some soap-opera style drama in my life. I'm not going to splurge on details right now 'cause it's a little near the heart but B. and I split up and then got back together about a week ago. We're taking it a day at a time right now and trying to be delicate with each other's hearts.

Squeamish boys, beware: In other news, I had my first real appointment/examination with an ob-gyn this week. Usually my GP does my annual, but the school nurse referred me out to a specialist because both my sisters have either had cervical cancer or near-cancerous cells. The ob-gyn herself was really nice, but she started poking around in what I will quaintly call "down there" to spare you the clinical details and it hurt like a bitch. So she sent me to the ultrasound room to get everything all checked out and the cute young woman who was the technician, promptly and without warning, stuck a large wand in my female parts. I was like, LADY!!! PLEASE!!! I refuse to make any stupid jokes about needing dinner and a movie first, but she maybe could have said "1, 2, 3" or "Blastoff!" or something to warn me. That would have been the polite thing to do. Anyway, everything's fine. I just got me a tipped uterus is all.

Project Runway! Is getting more exciting by the minute! I can't stand it! Even though he went totally wrong on this last challenge, I really like Robert Best. He grew up in Utah (I mean, doesn't that make him an underdog to begin with? Utahns still wear socks with Doc Martens sandals!) and he has really nice pecs. My other favorites are Uli, a petite European cutie who has a lot of flair, and Bradley, who is just too nice for words and soooo funny. He's so cute it makes you want to pinch his cheeks and give him candy. Sadly enough, the most evil contestant, Keith, got kicked off for a rules violation, so he can't cause any more trouble. Most evil contestant runner-up Jeffrey will really have to step up his dastardliness.

And just for Liz, my sad little story of how I obtained Tim Gunn's autograph and how it now resides on the pinboard above my desk, with all my beloved photos and cards. It goes like this: I work at Parsons School of Design, where Tim Gunn is the head of the Fashion Design department. My boss needed a letter from Tim in support of a grant that the archives (where I work) is applying for. Anyway, Tim promptly sent us the letter with a note to my boss on a sticky on top. After my boss threw it away, I covertly seized the garbage and took hold of the note, kissing Tim Gunn's signature and tracing the letters with my hand. I took the sticky note home to cherish, for all eternity.

Ta da!

Lieutenant Lucy Reporting for Duty, Sirs!

2006-07-23T22:37:00.000-04:00

I realize it has been fully a month since I blogged last and rarely do I let that amount of time go between posts. The week leading up to the July 4th weekend was pretty depressing, but the higher dose of Paxil seems to be working. I mean, as much as it can. It's not like antidepressants can solve all your problems. They just even the playing field, so your problems don't feel so insurmountable. But I'm actually glad to know that people were concerned about me, 'cause it's a sign of trouble on the homefront when I completely disappear. It's a depression thing. I won't call anyone, won't email, won't blog...but I think I've got a handle on things now. I hope.

There's a list of things I have to do in the next few weeks that is totally daunting, including trying to figure out my dad's will. So far, I've let my stepmother, who is actually the executor, totally deal with it because it's very confusing but it's high time I try and discern what's going on. Which probably means hiring a lawyer, at least to read the will and tell me what it says. (I have actually read the will, I just don't understand the damn thing).

Randomly: A List of the Top 5 Shows I am attached to.

1. The new season of Project Runway. I love Tim Gunn! I even have his autograph. But don't ask me how I got it, 'cause it was kind of covert. I work at Parsons though, so my cover was easy.

2. Medium. I love, love, love Patricia Arquette. Plus, the series is based on a real medium who lives in Arizona. I read an interview with her in the OOOOOOOpppprah magazine.

3. The Dog Whisperer. Cesar Milan is my hero.

4. Of course, What Not to Wear. I keep hoping to see Stacy and Clinton around Manhattan so I can run up and babble nonsense at them about how much I adore them, but it hasn't happened yet. It's probably better that way.

5. Grey's Anatomy. How did I get hooked on this show? The woman who plays the lead character, Ellen Pompeo, is so disturbingly skinny I want to retch every time she comes on screen. But who can resist the wiles of Sandra Oh and the guy from Can't Buy Me Love? I certainly, cannot.

I shall end this post with a story. See the guy below? B. and I saw him on the subway yesterday, sleeping away, ever so innocent.

When I pointed him out, B. said to me, "Hey, you could fit a cock in that mouth! He should watch out, some homeless guy could take advantage of him!" And then of course, I had to take a picture. Seen and heard only in NYC.

Lucy Blue-cy

2006-06-26T19:55:00.000-04:00

Today, I douched the fridge. Meaning, I cleaned it from the inside out, giving it that oh-so-fresh feeling that Massengill brags about on TV.

I found a caterpillar in the fridge. This was disturbing. I think it came from the Farmer's Market blueberries I got yesterday, but still. Don't think I'm a terrible dirty, smelly person, really, I'm not. There just happened to be a caterpillar in my fridge. And he was still alive! Son of a batch of cookies, Batman! B. threw him out the window. Lucky for him he wasn't any other kind of bug. Any other kind of bug I would have squashed within an inch of it's life and then sprayed it with toxic bug killer just to be sure. Well, I guess he's only lucky if he survived the fall. If not, oh well.

As I get closer and closer to the first anniversary of my dad's death, I feel awful. Anxious, a mess, crying intermittently. I keep feeling I should be happy; my life looks really good on paper. Graduate student, living in a cute apartment in New York, has a job she likes. I can't tell if it's the time of year or just my fucked up brain chemistry. In any case, my doc is upping my dose of Paxil. I'm praying this helps because I'm really dreading having to switch meds. It's not a fun process.

I started reading Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, which has been recommended to me by several people, and I just couldn't handle it. When the narrator's father dies, I just lost it and started doing the big, hiccupy sobs. B. felt really guilty that he thought I would like it and encouraged me to read it. It's okay. It's just where I am right now. I can't do it. So I went to Barnes and Noble today and got a slew of new books that should be easier to handle.

B. made another video. I love it even though it makes me sad; he took the footage the day before I called an ambulance and took him to the hospital. I remember him showing me this footage when he got home that day and I was terrified. I didn't know where my boyfriend was and I didn't know how to help him. The video really captures a lot of the essence of that time. You should watch it.

Rock out witch ya' Cock out

2006-06-23T23:01:00.000-04:00

Sigh. More time has passed than I intended to in between blogging bouts. In that time:

The city has gotten fucking hot. And sticky. And it stinks like pee. Everywhere you go.

I went and saw RealGirl read from her new book Pick Me Up. And then I promptly read said book and I tell you, it was a fun read. Good for summer. And funny!

My tummy is still screwed from food poisoning and stress. I have IBS (ahem, embarrassing clearing of the throat, that is irritable bowel syndrome--sounds about as fun as it is) except I have the opposite problem of Ben Stiller in Along Came Polly, if you remember that scene.

I have watched a lot of the Dog Whisperer. I love that guy! He's so intense. He can go into a pack of Rottweilers and BOOM! they lay down, all quiet and calm. He just gives them the eye and like, claims the space. It's crazy and I love it.

Also, there's a brownstone (I'm not sure if it's a house or an office space) that I encounter every time I walk to the subway. It always has these quirky signs in the window that leave me feeling like, "Huh? What the fuck? Why would you put that in your window?" Here's a sample:

August of last year: "Don't let the door hit ya where the Good Lord split ya."

Christmas: "I always wanted a WATCH for Christmas."

Spring: "Don't make me put my foot up your ass." (Getting a tad violent, em?)

Currently: "It's nice out. I think I'll keep it out."

The Gods Must Be Crazy, Part Infinity times Infinity

2006-06-12T21:52:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog,

I am sorry you have fallen by the wayside in the last few weeks. But I have such a good excuse! Really, let me explain. See, first I got an ear infection and every time I took the subway, my whole head was subject to excruciating pain. Then I started taking antibiotics and my head began to feel better. So B. and I went out to my favorite restaurant. About midway through my meal, I just didn't feel so good. We came home and it just got worse from there on out. I woke up in the middle of the night and asked B. to get me 7-UP because that's my sick-person drink. It always makes me feel better. To his utmost credit, B. went to the corner store and got me some 7-UP. I felt a tad better after awhile and got a few hours of sleep. Then I woke up in the morning with violent pain and the kind of diarrhea my abroad group in India used to call "pissing out your ass." I couldn't even make it across the street to get a car. B. called 911 and I went to Long Island College Hospital via ambulance.

Once at LICH, I was seen by a doctor and given fluids and some medicines to make me feel better. Four hours later, I was still crying and in abject pain. Some doctor wandering by felt bad for me and asked me who my doctor was. I told him, and then a variety of people came by, felt my stomach and gave me something that actually did make me feel better. So then we went home and I laid around, feeling like a ton of bricks hit me in the head and in the stomach, and B. nursed me back to health. I didn't feel better really, until about five days later. While I was feeling shitty, I didn't take my antibiotics for my ear infection because they make me nauseous and Lord knows I DO NOT need any more of that. Hence, return of the ear infection. People, it never ends.

Now I have a new antibiotic to start and we will see how that goes. But every time I pass that restaurant, I feel like retching. Blech! Double blech!

I do have things to look forward to this week:

Zoe (aka RealGirl on my sidebar) is reading from her new novel at the Park Slope Barnes and Noble this Wednesday. I need me some reading material, so this will be a good thing. Plus, I met her at the Cinco de Mayo party that I went to and she was so appreciative of my nice comments on her posts for Ultimate Blogger. I think I got voted "Nicest Commenter" at that party. Which, if we're having elections here, is better than being voted "Most Likely to be the Next Joel Conrad Bechtolt." But he's another story. Anyway.

The thing rolling around in my head these days is that we're coming up soon on July 4th. My dad's wedding anniversary, if you remember, his favorite holiday, and also the anniversary of his death. Really, he died in the wee hours of the morning on July 5th. I think he was waiting for all the fireworks to be over before he slipped out. Wanted to make sure he was there for the whole party, y'know? I don't know what to do this year. Celebrate or be depressed. Probably both. Maybe I'll watch the DVD of his memorial service and dig out the old pictures. But it's just a hard time of year in general. Summers for me are always difficult, even though it's so beautiful out. The first time I experienced depression was during the summer, and I think that memory is sort of imprinted on my soul forever. My body just remembers it. Maybe it's just that I end up having too much free time on my hands and my brain goes haywire.

Really, in my heart of hearts, I'm hoping that I'll hear from him, my dad. I know it sounds silly and new age-y, but I hope he sends me a message somehow. I hope.

Anyway, blog. See how much I've had going on? You forgive me, right? That's what I thought. I love you too. Okay. Bye now.

Victory is Sweet (and well-shaped)

2006-05-30T21:08:00.000-04:00

From the living room, I can hear the lines of the show B. is watching right now, one of those awful Discovery channel shows of terror, "The river of mud is as thick as quicksand and moves at forty miles per hour. Those who can, run. Those who can't, die." Sometimes I think that with my anxiety, I'd be an ideal writer for these shows. My ideas would be much more frightening than some stupid mudslide. Not that the idea of a mudslide doesn't scare me. It's just not very creative.

I've been meaning to blog for days now, what with the long weekend and extra time, but I haven't been able to pick myself up enough to do it. It's strange how much I have had to say in my head over this past week, and yet I am looking at the screen and feeling like an incredibly dull person, with not a witty thought in her wee little curly head. I'm tired, that's what it is. This weekend was hard. I've had some awful side effects from Zoloft including: migraines, earaches, and incredible anxiety. NOT THE DRUG FOR ME. I'm switching to Paxil, which is supposed to be more sedating, but much more preferable to me than feeling like I'm about to jump out of my own skin.

It's hard to admit that I'm truly feeling depressed right now. I try to put a good face on everything and make jokes, but 3 out of the last 5 nights have ended with me crying and B. bringing me tissues. I feel wary depending on people at all--I like to think I'm totally independent, just a Great Wall of China, you know, like I could withstand anything. But we all have our limits, I suppose. It's just scary to need people sometimes. And that makes it hard for me to reach out to people when I need help. When I'm depressed, I usually hide out at home, although the presence of friends really does help. I'm not sure what I'm trying to get at here. I guess the point is that I try to pretend I'm a pillar of strength, even though a lot of times I'm a mess inside.

In other news, the weather has taken off from a lovely, brisk spring into that dreadful part of a New York summer--hot, sticky, humid. My hair has been supremely frizzy and I've been strongly tempted to just CUT IT ALL OFF. But I've spent so much time growing it out! I feel like whining and stamping my foot like a kid. Why can't I have my cake and eat it too???

B. finally let me REALLY pluck his eyebrows the other day. I have to say, they look great. I keep staring at them, admiring my handiwork and B. keeps getting confused, thinking I am staring longingly into his eyes--until he realizes my gaze is just a wee bit north of that, stopped at the lovely, manly, yet groomed brows crowning his puppy dog eyes. It took me three years to persuade him to do this, people. Let me savor the victory for a moment.

What We Say in Utah, Part 2: "Son of a Batch of Cookies!"

2006-05-22T17:59:00.000-04:00

Being in Utah was like being on vacation from my real life. My mommy pampered me, I took the dog to the doggie park, and ordered all my mochas with whole milk. Yeaaaaaahhhh! It was lovely, but I am glad to be back in Brooklyn and quasi-back to my regular life. Except it's life without school. Even better!

Because I vaguely believe in karma, I will now counter my earlier post about things I hate with a list of things I love:

1. When my mom's dog, Miles, patters over to my bedroom door in the morning, sniffs at the crack beneath the door to see if I'm awake, and then lays against the door waiting for me to wake up. Dogs are great. What a welcome to the day.

2. When my boyfriend comes back from vacation in Mexico and presents me with earrings he picked out himself that are absolutely beautiful and just my style. I was thrilled. Just for comparison's sake, let me tell you about other well-meaning but not quite on the mark gifts he has given me:

a.) First birthday celebrated together (after a month of dating): potted purple poms from the grocery store which promptly died under the care of my brown thumb. Nice thought, but roses are better.
b.) First Christmas celebrated together: a car stereo. Much needed but decidedly unromantic.
c.) Subsequent birthdays and celebrations: gifts picked out by me, thus ruining the surprise but increasing the quality of gifts.
d.) Last Valentine's Day, he gave me a pair of earrings that I really like and are classy, but these latest earrings are awesome. The picture doesn't do justice to their awesomeness, but I love 'em and that's what matters.

3. There's this graffiti artist that was featured in a Park Slope/Carroll Gardens local paper in the fall, and he draws outlines of shadows of objects on the sidewalk that have a lovely line quality.

I have been looking around for his stuff for the last nine months, and lo and behold, his outlines show up right outside my door this morning. They weren't there yesterday, the first day I was back from Utah, so he must have drawn them in the wee hours of this morning when the sun was just emerging.

4. My nephew. I went over to babysit him last Wednesday and he just cracked me up. Here is a short transcript of our conversation, which occurred shortly after he had finished the insect unit at school.

Nephew, running around the bedroom, swatting wildly: Aggggh, a fly!

Me: It won't hurt you buddy, don't worry.

Nephew: No, auntie Lucy. Flies can get under your skin and lay eggs. They can get in your mouth and lay eggs too. They're called maggots.

Me, jokingly, yelling downstairs to my sister: Hey, sister, your son is trying to gross me out!

Nephew, earnestly: No I'm not, auntie Lucy. I'm just telling you facts.

Yep, these are the facts, people. If you go to Salt Lake and want to act like a native, always ALWAYS say "frig" instead of "fuck" and never say "son of a bitch." Say "son of a batch of cookies!" instead.

What We Say in Utah is "Go Fig"

2006-05-10T22:06:00.000-04:00

Here I am, y'all, back in Salt Lake City, where the word "roof" is pronounced "ruff" and grandma-style floral print dresses with lacy collars never go out of style. Yessirree, it's a strange place, and sometimes it makes me feel full-on claustrophobic even though open space abounds. I am enjoying myself though, sitting in the backyard and playing fetch with the dog, although I do wish I could teach him to "drop it."

Also, to clarify on comments from my last post: I, Sweet Lucy, hereby swear that my friend Ashlee does not like dog balls. I apologize for all damages that ensued from such an allegation, although my error was not due wholly to my own stupidity. A couple of years ago, she and her brother showed me a catalog they had gotten in the mail and they were laughing at one of the products, moose balls hollowed out and made into bowls or something like that. The association between Ashlee and balls was clear in my head, although I now regret posting what is CLEARLY libel in a public forum. Righty-o!

B. is in Mexico with his family (two parents, four siblings with their significant others, seven nieces and nephews, and another nephew on the way, making for a grand total of eighteen and a half; now that's what I call a family!). My sister had a minor surgery today to remove some precancerous cells, which makes all of us a little nervous because my oldest sister had cervical cancer when she was around my age. A good enough reason for all the ladies out there to keep current on your obgyn visits, unpleasant as it may be. I'm going to make sure I get in to see my doctor when I get back and keep on top of those yearly visits that sometimes get put off when your life goes haywire. Everything's fine, so don't you all worry, but these are the things that can make a worrywart like me obsess for hours. Add in one article on the bird flu and someone's got to get me a sedative!

I was reading Willow's blog the other day and she had posted about how coming into your own and knowing yourself doesn't always make you happy. I very much agree. My mom tells me I'm just wise and I know I've experienced a lot more than other people my age, but my problem is that I forget how to have fun. My therapist asked me the other day what I do to have fun and I just started crying. I'm very self-aware (13 years of therapy will do that to a person, I tell you that) but I don't know how to make myself happy sometimes. Go figure.

Stop and Smell the Dog Balls

2006-04-29T20:49:00.000-04:00

B. and I ended up going on a long adventure today. It started out as a simple suggestion; "Why don't we go to the Botanical Gardens?" Liz had recommended we do this when the cherry trees were in blossom. We stopped for coffee first and walked to Prospect Park, as we both believed the gardens were in the park. This is not true. We tried as best we could to cut through the park (I drew the line when B. suggested we "hop" a ten foot tall fence), but ended up taking a meandering road that took us to the bottom of the Botanical Gardens, which were hella crowded 'cause it's the Cherry Blossom Festival this weekend.

It was, as Liz promised, incredibly beautiful. Here, you see:

I like to smell the flowers, although B. usually can't smell shit if it's rubbed under his nose. Last night however, was a different matter. We went to see Friends with Money at the Brooklyn Academy of Music theatre and about ten minutes through the movie, B. grabbed me and started sniffing my neck and head in a strangely urgent fashion. At first I thought he was going to kiss me, so I was like "Ohhh, cute," but then I realized he was serious. Then he put his mouth right on my ear and hissed that the lady behind me smelled like, and I quote, "dog balls and dirty socks" and didn't I smell it? Yeah, she smelled a little funky, but I didn't think it was that bad. B. was seriously disturbed though and insisted on moving to the other side of me to avoid the smell.

The most disturbing part of all this? THAT HE THOUGHT I WAS THE ONE WHO SMELLED LIKE DOG BALLS AND DIRTY SOCKS! I mean, come on, when have I EVER smelled like dog balls and dirty socks? Christ, man. You're supposed to be my boyfriend! Even if I do smell like dog balls, you're supposed to think that's cute! Psssshhhht. Whatevs. Dog balls, my ass. The man can't smell lilacs, yet somehow he can detect the scent of dog balls. Hmmmph.

Anyway. I'm leaving on May 7th to go visit my family in Salt Lake for two weeks and B.'s leaving May 6th to spend a week with his family in Cancun. Brooklyn is incredibly beautiful right now and I'll miss it, but I'll be glad to see the wide open spaces of Utah, just the sheer amount of room between the houses. I'll be spending lots of time in the backyard, throwing tennis balls for the dog (is that the theme for this post? dog balls? I guess it is.) and hanging out with my sisters. There's nothing like hanging out with my ladies to make me feel better.

The rollercoaster of switching antidepressants has eased up a little, but I still feel kind of like a lost soul sometimes. And just sad. Sometimes I'm just sad and scared and I can't explain it. Maybe it's recovering from all the shit I've been through in the past year (the one-year anniversary of my blog is May 17), maybe it's other things, maybe it's just the crazy chemicals in my brain. Who knows? B. and I are still going to couple's therapy and trying to work our stuff out. I won't deny that it's hard sometimes, but we're chugging away. Even though we get frustrated and upset, we still make each other laugh and try to do good things for each other. I think getting out of the apartment and cramped living quarters for an extended period of time will be good for both of us, you know, just to be able to spread out a little bit and sit back and not worry about shiyyyaaaahhhht. Doesn't that sound nice?

I think so.

On and On it Seems to Go...

2006-04-22T19:50:00.000-04:00

The Internets is working. I don't know why, I don't know how, but you learn not to ask these questions when things are going right for you in New York City.

Friday was B.'s 30th birthday. I had a little party at the apartment for our friends and it was a lot of fun to see people and play poker. It was the first time I've ever really had people over to our apartment and I felt a little spark of pride at being mostly moved in and having a place for people to sit down. You know, it's a thing. It was nice.

B. is right now watching one of those Discovery channel programs about the end of the world. I hate them because they give me anxiety and bad dreams. Even a historical program about the 1906 earthquake and fire in San Francisco has to end with a simulated video of what will happen when the next big one hits SF. The program will then proceed to end on this note and tell the viewers emphatically that THIS WILL HAPPEN and hence WE WILL ALL DIE and THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN DO ABOUT IT. You can see why I hate these programs. There was one about the moon slowly moving further out of Earth's gravitational pull and causing horrendous disasters that gave me anxiety attacks for WEEKS. (If you are anxiety-prone, let me assure that this gravitational pull thing will not happen for millions of years, so you don't have to worry about it. But if you're like me, you will anyway).

The past couple of weeks has been really up and down. Coming off my old, totally inefficient antidepressant and slowly moving onto my new one, Zoloft, is a crappy process. Said crappy process entailed: emotional crises, general lack of energy, and a strange wooziness that made me feel like I was about to fall over if I didn't focus really hard on standing up and staying there.
I think overall I just feel really tired; the end of the semester has kept me racing, and with the emotional crises and relationship stuff that's been going on, I'm just beat.

Anyway, it's one of those days where I feel at a loss as to what to write in my blog. I've been looking at some of my old blog entries because I've been writing for almost a year now and it's a little strange. It's like your life takes you so many places, most of which you could never anticipate. It's been a year of great sadness, I guess, even though good things have happened and are happening, it never ceases to freak me out that my dad is not around. It's like, wait, he died? That wasn't supposed to happen! That's not the way things are supposed to go! My sense of the world as an orderly place, a place where, even if shit gets tough, it will always get better, that sense is still lost to me. And it makes me feel fucked, like, what am I going to deal with next? But then it's like, I don't even want to know what's coming next, because if someone had told me last year what the next year of my life would be life, I think I would have gotten into bed and stayed there for at least two years, just for good measure.

Wow, that's a lot of depressing thoughts in a row. Sorry to get you down folks! Like I said, the process of switching antidepressants? NOT FUN. I'll try to be a little more optimistic next time.

I am Being Patient and Zen

2006-04-18T15:09:00.000-04:00

Actually, I'm very upset. The Internets at our house is broken, so I cannot blog until technical difficulties abate. It is likely the problem will be solved next week, so check back with me. I'm not just ignoring y'all, so don't worry.

Add to list of things I hate, by the way:

Uncomfortable shoes that are sooooo pretty they cannot be returned. They are flats with nice rubber soles, should be comfortable, shouldn't they? OH BUT NO. Cute shoes ate up my heels the other day, making it look like I have a small shark at home who follows me around in order to nip at my nice, edible flesh. Hmmph!

What a Dirty WHOOOOORE of a Day.

2006-04-07T17:03:00.000-04:00

I am feeling cranky and cynical today. Therefore, because it is my blog, I am making a list of things I hate.

And now I share it with you.

1. Taxes. Fuck fuck fuck. So confusing. Thank God my mom called and offered to send my complicated taxes to her accountant.

2. Depression. Enough said about this one, I guess. But my Lord, can it get better soon? PLEASE?

3. People who sing in the subway. Not the ones who sing for money. Just the people who sing along to their iPods. No, you will not be discovered riding the R train to Brooklyn. Because guess what? You are not J.Lo. And even if you were, hopefully the talent scout would be wise enough to leave you the fuck alone. And spare us all.

4. My iPod. My library is on Brian's brother's computer. In Utah. So now I have to start a whole new one. And guess what? It's a fucking dollar per song! I'm starting an Apple boycott, although I used to be such a big fan of their interface. No more, muthafuckas! I just want some music to work out to!!!!

5. The Internets has been so fucking slow for the last two days. It takes me hours and hours to get anything accomplished, much less work on my taxes via the web.

6. Passwords. To get my 1098 form from the University of Utah, I have to remember my student ID and password. All to write off a class I took there a year ago. One measly class. I can't remember this shit, people. I just can't. And really, should I be required to? I don't think so.

7. It is taking forever to grow out my hair. I am eternally tempted to cut it off, because I like the whole wash n' go thing, but long hair is so pretttttttttyyyyyyy! Why can't I have it noowwwww? Plus, as curly hair gets longer, guess what it does? IT CURLS UPWARD! LIKE THE IDIOT IT IS!

Things I like today: Julia's pregnancy is going well. The Roots. Someone stopped and let me pet their dog. Groceries came from FreshDirect. Umm, that's about it. God help me. What a week.

Everything's Throwing Up Roses!

2006-04-02T20:25:00.000-04:00

Pink is my favorite color.

B. brought me these roses on Saturday. They're beautiful and smell up the whole kitchen, although B. says he can't smell them.

We're trying to fix up our relationship. We haven't been connecting much lately, and we're going back into couples therapy on Wednesday. I have a new individual therapist too, and he's great. I really look forward to my sessions with him. It sounds very strange to say that, but it's like I've been trying to hold everything together for about a year now, first with my dad and everything, and then moving out here so soon after his death, and then B.'s illness. Everything got kind of packed down deep and my therapist helps unpack it. Afterward I see him, it's like the relief you feel after you throw up. For those of you that haven't done or don't need therapy, that is. It's a comparable physical feeling, enjoyable afterwards but kind of nasty in the middle part.

I'm also trying to get back in touch with friends after a hiatus in which I was either hiding out doing homework or feeling too fucking anxious to do anything. So, to all my friends that I haven't been in touch with in awhile, my apologies. The anxiety is slowly going away with the help of Clonopin and I'm slowly healing enough to be able to reach out, a little bit each week. When I get depressed and anxious, my natural reaction is to become a recluse and turn inward. I don't think that's necessarily a bad reaction, although some people would think it's unhealthy. It's just what I do, and what I need to do sometimes. Sometimes it's all I can do to drag myself to school and before spring break, I was taking turns, skipping one of my classes each week to make it easier on myself. I feigned migraines because I know a lot about them (my mother gets very severe ones) and it's not flu season anymore. It's easier than explaining the status of my mental health.

OOoooooh! There has been a couple of good developments in my school/career life. I got an internship at the Parsons/New School archive (I got passed over the first time I interviewed, but then another position opened up and I got the job). It's totally what I want to be doing; working with drawings and other materials from artists and designers like Claire McCardell (who introduced the ballet flat as a shoe during WWII) and other people who have taught at or attended Parsons (which is pretty much almost everyone in American fashion; Donna Karan, Tom Ford, Marc Jacobs, etc.).

Also, after getting up really FUCKING early on my Saturday morning to go register for school, I navigated the herd and was able to get into the classes I wanted to take, no easy feat with ninety students in mob mentality, pressing forward and elbowing weaker students out of the way.

Speaking of crazy mentalities, on my way to school I had rushed down the subway station stairs, hearing a train arrive. While all these people streamed out the turnstiles, there was this idiotic lady who kept running her card through the subway turnstile and it obviously was not working. Desperate to catch that train and knowing the next one would not arrive for fifteen minutes, I kind of shoved my way in front of her and ran toward the train. Unfortunately, the train left without me and I was stuck in the station with a pissed-off woman who wanted to kill me. Then I felt really bad, but she was so rude to me afterwards that I decided to be angry at her. I came home and told B. the story and he started laughing hysterically like, "You shoved some woman out of the way? And you're irritated with her?!!!" Then I realized how awful I had been and started laughing too. I have weird instincts sometimes. I don't know what happens to my brain. Remember the time I stuck my umbrella in the subway door? Exactly. Funny instincts, I tell you.

B. and I went to breakfast with Liz and Jay this morning at one of my favorite restaurants.

I don't know what happened to my hair this morning. Why didn't someone tell me? Whatevs. Breakfast was lovely and Liz got to tell me all about competitive eating. The topic still kind of grosses me out, but I have a morbid interest in it. She posts her articles about the competitions on Digest.

Spring in Park Slope is beautiful.

Curly Sideburns and Sexism

2006-03-31T18:37:00.000-05:00

Ummm, okay, I have a question. There are a lot of Orthodox Jews in NYC, in Brooklyn in particular. You all should know this. I am Jewish, I know a fair amount about Orthodox Jews, but there is this one thing that bugs me whenever I see a guy with the sideburn curls (peyos).

Do they use a curling iron to get them into such perfect curls? And hairspray? 'Cause on the Sabbath, Orthodox Jews are not supposed to turn on/off anything electrical (it's considered "work" and that is the one thing you don't do on the Sabbath), so how could one curl one's little locks on the Sabbath? Maybe they pin them up at night so as not to disturb the perfect curl. It does seem strange though--many of the rules that Orthodox Jews follow are so as to avoid vanity (women shave their heads when they get married and are supposed to wear wigs for the rest of their lives to avoid the vanity of long hair, as well as to avoid attracting other men), but using a curling iron to get that perfect lock in its place? Seems kind of vain to me. I think of this question almost every time I see an Orthodox Jew on the train or something. I know it's a weird question, but these are the things I think about.

Speaking of this topic, I will bring up something that might be offensive to some of you. There is this reggae recording artist who is also an Orthodox Jew--he goes by the name of Matisyahu. I first read about him in Rolling Stone, and one of my questions about him was answered--that is, he does not sign CDs or autograph anything for women because Orthodox men are not supposed to come into contact with foreign women, as they do not know whether this woman is on her period or not. Because being on your period is to be contaminated, and a woman, even a man's own wife, has to go through a cleansing ritual after her period to be able to touch her husband again. In addition, usually men and women are separated during religious services, and there are pretty specific rules about the role of women inside and outside of the home.

The reason for separation during services is usually given that the sexes are not supposed to be tempted during prayer. I know this. And I know I'm supposed to respect other cultures and blahdy blah blah (I was a Sociology major, I know all the PC shit like the back of my hand). But there is something in me that is so irritated to know that if I saw Matisyahu in person, he wouldn't give me an autograph. Because I'm a woman.

While B. and I were looking for an apartment in Brooklyn, we were shown apartments by a lot of Orthodox men. They would not shake my hand, and usually ignored my questions. And haven't we gotten past that all by now? The whole idea that women are "impure"? There's a place for tradition, I agree. And there's a place for "Live, and let live." But for some reason, on this issue, I can't take on the cultural relativist stance that I'm just supposed to respect the Orthodox tradition and not "judge" it.

I had this conversation with a friend awhile ago about Matisyahu and we disagreed about it (in a friendly way). But even though I've been thinking of it since then, I still hold my position. I don't really have a whole lot of respect for the Orthodox traditions as far as gender relations are concerned. And I'm not going to listen to Matisyahu because I don't respect where he's coming from.

Anyway, this is pretty much my first post related to anything at all political. You can give me your thoughts or whatever. Just keep 'em civil, righty-o? Agreed.

(PS. If you have not watched me and B.'s travel video by now, you really should. Watch me do interpretive dance! See it HERE.

Let's Stay Together. . .

2006-03-27T18:30:00.000-05:00

Is the song I am listening to right now, moments after my sister, Becky, got into a car to go back home to Utah. I have this mixed relationship with living away from home--it's good for me to learn to be independent and not be involved in family drama, but I still mourn the times I'm missing with them right now.

B. made this really great video of our exploits driving a U-Haul crosscountry to get to NYC. I uploaded it onto YouTube, so you can watch it HERE. When I tried to embed it in the post, it turned out all fucked up and covered like my whole blog, so you'll just have to click on the link.

I love it, and I think you'll love my interpretation of modern dance. Didn't know I was that talented, eh? Well, now you do! (Also, when I uploaded it onto YouTube, it turned out kind of pixillated and not very focused--any suggestions, bloggers? Piu piu?)

What NOT to Wear for Real Girls

2006-03-20T11:27:00.000-05:00

So, my friend Zoe (who writes the blog RealGirl) is in the final three of Ultimate Blogger!

But, like Tinkerbell, she needs our help. No, don't clap your hands if you believe in real girls. If you want to fill out a short (4 question) funny survey about your worst outfit in the history of all the shit you wore in the eighties, follow this link:

Help RealGirl!

Help a sistah out, and let us create the biggest, baddest version of "What NOT to Wear" that ever was.

Oh, and the deadline is Tuesday (March 21) at 12 PST.

Tickle me EMO!

2006-03-14T20:48:00.000-05:00

Yes people, I think it's time for EMO BLOGGING!!!!

Here we go.

I've been in a kind of introspective mood lately about everything, a result of starting treatment with a new therapist and wanting to make my life better. And one of the things that I have been thinking about lately is relationships. Let's face it, I have no good role models for healthy, loving relationships. Child of several divorces, sister is also divorced (but God bless her, infinitely more happy now), father and stepmom had some sort of weird symbiosis that revolved around her being a housewife and them having loud disagreements about almost everything... All of this results in the fact that I feel like I have no mentor, no one to talk to about relationship stuff, you know, to check out, see what's normal, what's not, etc.

My friends who are in long-term relationships would be a good source, except that B. and I have been through so much more infinitely difficult times than most of them have that they can't really relate to me. Living together has been a giant change for me and B., not to mention living together in a city that's totally foreign to both of us. When he's in a bad mood, or I am (more likely), there's nowhere to go. When we were in Salt Lake, we just wouldn't go out that night. B. would unload on his roommate and his brother, or play poker with the boys, and I would sit at home and play fetch with the dog. But here, there are no poker boys. And I can't make friends for B., as much I would like to find a group of guys for him to hang out with.

I was reading some stupid magazine the other day (think Marie Claire or Mademoiselle) and even though I know you shouldn't take relationship advice from these type of magazines, they quoted some girl on her relationship with her partner. She had said, "When it's right, it's easy." And I got so incensed by this comment, because it's so not true. There are hard times for everyone, even the most in-love people you can find. You just wait, missy, God has some tricks up his sleeve for your relationship, you can bet on that!

Anyway, so I guess I was just wondering what you all and your significant others have been through, especially living together. Hard times? Easy as pie? Money struggles? Family struggles? I'm not looking for reassurance as much as just some sense that people can relate to me, to what B. and I are going through and working on. Things have been getting easier, to be sure, and that's what allows me to look back and think about things, but I don't feel like we've reached a point where it's all play and no work.

So. That's that. Tell me your stories, 'kay?

PS. Sonny, since I can't leave comments on your blog, I hope you read this entry. What's ranger school? And did you ever tell that lady friend of yours that you harbor a secret flame? Update!

PPS. Chloe won Project Runway!!! Go girl! Dark horse sweeps all! One of my favorite blogs Dooce wrote that her collection looked like the clothing from Dynasty. I was so offended I didn't check her site for days. Beeeyatch! (Said in an affectionate, if slightly irritated tone of voice)

Make Like a Graffiti Artist and TAG

2006-03-06T19:40:00.000-05:00

I decided to take Liz up on her tag challenge. Mostly because I am home by myself tonight and I am refusing to do homework today. Too much anxiety and stress. I haven't even gotten dressed today, much less brushed my teeth. Some days are like this, peeps.

4 Places I have lived:
1. Salt Lake City, Utah
2. Portland, Oregon
3. Berkeley, California
4. Brooklyn, New York

4 TV Shows I love to watch:
1. Project Runway! Yay! Finale is this Wednesday! (Sidenote: Unfortunately, I think that Santino will win. After seeing brief glimpses of Daniel and Chloe's collections, Santino's seems to be the best constructed, and, I hate to admit, his collection is actually lovely. Who knew he had anything beautiful inside? He never let on!)
2. What Not to Wear (Real People, Real Fashion Disasters, and Real Ways to Dress People who Aren't Model Thin)
3. Grey's Anatomy. It can be bad. Very bad. But somehow, I am addicted. They are controlling my brainwaves.
4. World Series of Poker. After learning how to play poker and knowing the initial ins and outs of the game, I love to watch this show. With prize winnings in the millions of dollars, don't you want to know who's bluffing and who's not?

4 Places I have been on vacation:
1. Puerto Vallarta, Mexico
2. Maui, Hawaii
3. Cancun, Mexico
4. New York City, New York (although actually living here is not so much of a vacation).

4 Websites I visit daily:
1. Dooce
2. Here be Hippogriffs (I am anxious to know if this pregnancy turns out).
3. Ultimate Blogger 2
4. Go Fug Yourself

4 of my favorite foods:
1. Kentucky Fried Chicken's mashed potatoes and gravy
2. Grapes
3. Creme Brulee
4. A nice, juicy hamburger (This is NOT anything you will ever get at a fast food restaurant).

4 Places I would rather be right now:
1. Anywhere if I were getting a massage
2. With my dad (not necessarily wishing I were dead, just that we could share the same place and time for awhile).
3. Snoozing on a beach somewhere it's warm and sunny. Screw winter, man.
4. In a hot tub. Anywhere, so long as I am in a hot tub.

4 Friends I have tagged that I think will respond:
Tagging is illegal. So I don't do it. I'm all about the rules.

4 hobbies I enjoy:
1. Reading a damn good book
2. Running (yeah, sometimes it hurts bad, but you feel so good afterwards!)
3. Shopping (how girly of me. But yes, I enjoy a good shopping venture).
4. Having a nice cuppa coffee with friends or family. There's nothing like the taste of java to get a good conversation going.

So that's it for now. Maybe someone else will do this little tag thingey and then I won't feel like such a moron doing it (that's a prompt, friends).

Also, PS. NYC residents: How the FUCK do you find a good tailor? I took my pants to the lady across the street and she hemmed them like Hurricane Katrina's making another stop!

Have You Seen Me Lately?

2006-03-01T15:58:00.000-05:00

I know I've been kind of neglectful of my blog as of late and there are several reasons for my willful disobedience of the blogging commandment. I'm in the middle of midterms, WHICH I DESPISE. And my applications for Hunter College and Columbia are due today and tomorrow. I also had a job interview on Monday. So basically, who knows what the fuck I'm doing?

Anyway, there's one main reason that's difficult for me to discuss. B. and I were having some heavy duty issues there for awhile, and I didn't feel like I could blog without exacerbating those problems. And yet, I didn't want to be dishonest and make like my life was fabulous and party central. Things have evened out a little bit now, but I still have been experiencing some extreme anxiety, which causes me not to want to leave my bed in the morning even though I can't sleep worth a damn. It gets especially bad later in the evening and I start worrying about things I have no control over. Global warming? Check. World war? Check. Asteroids hitting earth? Check. I know they sound totally absurd, but somehow at the time, these worries feel so incredibly real I can't even describe it.

The other thing I totally worry about is the health and safety of me and my family and friends. I know it's understandable because I lost my dad, but it's hard to deal with. If B. is not home from work exactly on time, I start thinking that maybe the subway crashed or he got hit by a car. If my sister calls me too often, I start thinking that something's wrong, she's called to tell me that someone died or something. It's totally awful and I'm not sure when I'm going to get over it. I just don't want to lose anyone else. I feel I can't lose anyone else. It just feels so unfair that I lost my dad in the first place. I wish he could just miraculously be sent back.

Sigh. At least I am enjoying me some Internet blogging competition on UB2. So far, RealGirl has outshined the rest by a long shot and I'm laying my bets on her. Also? First part of Project Runway finale airs tonight. I hope Daniel V. kicks some lanky, greasy-haired Santino ass. Chloe is also very nice--if she'd show some more passion, I bet she could totally rip Santino a new one. He must not win! He must not win!

HOO-HA!

2006-02-20T19:21:00.000-05:00

Totally Unrelated Blurbs and Some Pictures:

Brooklyn in the snow last weekend was lovely. I forgot how much I miss snow, at least when I don't have to dig out my car or shovel the walks. My route to school did entail some complicated maneuvers with Loch Ness-sized puddles of melted snow (and questionable movements from the depths of said puddles) but I am happy to report that no foes from the deep got hold of me and I live to blog, once again.

My life currently consists of the following activities: studying for midterms, preparing a presentation on directories (like, the phone directory) for my library science class, crying because I'm such an anxiety-filled wreck, filling out applications for Columbia and Hunter College, and watching the Olympics. Brilly, eh? I seem to have a talent for making myself appear exciting, don't I?

You Shalt Laugh and It Will Do You Good: So, last weekend, B. and I were headed home from watching a play performed by high school kids that my friend S. directed. If you don't live in NYC, here's the deal: the subways are always fucking fucked up on weekends because that's when they do construction. Uptown trains go downtown, everything goes express, and you have to be extra careful about what train you get on, lest you will never be able to get off. So, Sweet Lucy and B. are on the train, and Sweet Lu is carrying a jaunty umbrella, the kind, which, if you are a dapper gentleman, can double as a cane and will match your monocle. The train is stopped at a station and the doors are still open, and B. and I are busy contemplating whether we need to transfer now or later. Just as the doors close, B. and I decide we need to transfer NOW! So Sweet Lu, HOO-HA! jams her jaunty umbrella in the subway doors so our heroes can still escape and transfer trains. The doors reopen, and Sweet Lu, anticipating they will open ALL THE WAY, jumps through the door, only to have the doors close whilst half her body still be on the train. The various New Yorkers aboard the train laugh hilariously at my half in-half out plight, while another guy looks at me and is like, "Ooooooh, that looks like it hurts!" The doors finally open and deposit me and B. onto the platform. He starts to laugh like a maniac and at first I feel myself reddening, embarrassed at my antics, but eventually I'm leaning on B. because I cannot support myself while laughing so hard I can't breathe.

Some poor sucker had to dig out this car.

Santino Hatred Update: Santino Go Home! I cannot believe that Nick got kicked off, and your nasty-ass, crappy jumpsuit-making ass still got to stay! Please, someone put Project Runway out of its misery!

Anyway, I considered applying to Ultimate Blogger but ultimately decided I don't have enough time right now as it is, let alone time to create posts of perfection that will entertain the masses. However, I do look forward to great writing, conspiracies, and skirmishes.

HOO-HA!

This is Why I Came to New York City

2006-02-10T16:04:00.000-05:00

To hear a woman on the corner of 42nd Street and 5th Avenue say to me, "Ma'am, safe sex is always in fashion. Would you like a catalogue of Trojan products?"

I wish I could transplant her to the entrance of the LDS Temple and watch chaos ensue; God Bless New York City!

I Definitely Do Not Have the WOW Factor And It's a Good Thing

2006-02-05T21:37:00.000-05:00

I just ate an enormous bar of dark chocolate and damn! It was good. Which is good, because my life is not always good.

I'm still trying to recover from the depression that had been building up for awhile and exploded while I had the flu. Depression often manifests itself in me with insomnia and some bitch-ass crankiness, which is no help to B. Upping my dose of Effexor has seemed to help, but I still can't sleep and I'm kind of pissed about it. Those of you who know me know that I LOVE to sleep and I NEED to sleep or else I get sad and angry. B. and I have been raking each other over the coals about every other minute and yesterday he retreated deep into computer/headphone world for most of the day. I was so sad and lonely and frustrated about it all day. Finally, it built up into a long conversation where he vented all the things he was upset about (not just with me, but with life) and I listened and realized I could not fix his problems or carry him through them and it made me feel sad, but also like we have a grown-up relationship--and we can't solve each other's problems all the time. But that doesn't stop me from wishing I could.

It's definitely a feeling I had a lot while my dad was dying. Every day I would just hold his hand and wish I could do something, just take it all away from him, either let him go or cure him so he could go on. And I couldn't. I couldn't do anything but give him his Morphine injections and sit there and wait. Being patient is very, very hard.

Also, for those of you readers who have ever completely uprooted yourself and moved to a new city, here's a question: How does one go about making new friends? I have some friends here already that I love, and B. has a few friends but I have a feeling he needs more bros to hang out with. Bros are just not like the wimmin friends, you know? They snort and grab their crotches and swear at each other and think it's fun. The wimmins aren't really into that, you know?

BTW, I have sunk to a new TV low. I just watched the sickest example, to date, of any reality show, namely Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders: Making the Team. At first, I thought it was funny, watching all these klutzy, orangu-tanned women dance around and smile brightly and blankly after every sentence. Then I just felt sickened and demoralized, and commenced hurling the contents of my stomach at the television, screaming for B. to save these poor, enslaved women.

Premise: Watch 1,000 women try out for the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading team. Watch 950 of them get cut immediately, and the remaining 50 get whittled down to 36 at training camp. At "training camp," where they transform the girls into hideously cartoonish versions of themselves, the coaches take all the girls to beauty salons and to the powerhouse that be called Mystic Tan. The head coach takes special delight in informing one of the girls, "You are the best candidate for a makeover I've ever seen. I know you've been blonde all your life, but now it's time to go brunette!" The poor girl just smiled widely and looked about to cry. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her.

All of the girls were shown how to do their make-up the good ol' fashioned Southern way, with the key points being: liquid eyeliner and clumpy mascara, bright pink blush positioned on the cheekbones instead of the cheeks, and foundation about a million times too orange for ANYONE's skin. The evil bitch in charge of the cheerleading team had some sort of Darwinian control complex, and relished eliminating the girls she deemed "too thick-waisted" (as in, weighing a total of 118 pounds) or "not having the WOW factor" (another way of saying that the girls' implants weren't big enough). One of the girls who got cut was from Utah, and boy did she make me proud! Talking to the camera afterwards, she said, "I know this means my Heavenly Father wants me in Utah now, so I'm going to go home and marry the man of my dreams." REPRESENT, BEEYATCH!!!

What I have learned from this experience: a prerequisite for auditioning for the Dallas Cowboys cheerleading team is a massive frontal lobe lobotomy, in order to make one as docile, yet inspirationally whorish, as possible. GO COWBOYS!!!

Chocolate Covered Poop

2006-01-31T22:19:00.001-05:00

If you remember, when our heroine last left off, she had just brought her boyfriend back from the hospital. The deadly foe named FLU had struck and left a wave of destruction in his path. Unfortunately, our girl was beaten pretty badly in a vicious fight with said villain FLU and spent several days in a near comatose state, half crying at the unfairness of it all and half crying because she felt like a Mack truck had hit her straight on.

I have not been that sick in a long time. Sick where even a heavy dose of Nyquil won't send you off to la-la land and you just start to hate life because you can't sleep and it sucks being awake. It left me feeling really depressed afterwards, and even now still I'm dragging. I'm seeing the psychiatrist who works at Pratt and hoping that a change in medications will help me lift myself out of this spot. Everything just feels so hard, even just taking the subway and the bus to school feels like this incredible task. On top of that, I had three papers left over from last semester. I had taken incompletes when B. got sick and the agreement was that I finish everything by February 1st or automatically fail. So I feverishly finished all my papers (albeit not very well) and handed them in today. Hallelujah! (Is that how you spell that word?)

Right before I got sick, I got to meet the notorious twins Mimi and Piu-Piu. They are both more petite than I had presumed, and Mimi was less intimidating than she is on her blog. It was great fun to finally meet Piu-piu in person and afterwards I felt a little more cheery, like I had had an adventure. My friend Ash was here and I am very satisfied that the people at FIT liked her portfolio and seem keen to accept her. I kept telling her she could sew circles around that evil Santino and his less-evil ilk, but it was enormous fun for her to hear it from people who know a thing or two about fashion (which I don't).

That said, why for is Santino not gone, banished to the seventh level of hell? His skating was dress resembled a half-plucked chicken, and his graffiti-inspired evening wear was just fucking boring. I know he's only on the show because he's so evil he keeps the general public coming back for their weekly dose of his eye-rolling, but STILL! You wouldn't know it because I seem so bitter, but I truly love cable, I do. America shore knows how to do TV, folks, maybe we ain't so hot at democracy, but we know how to do our TV.

In other upheaval news, you have all heard my rant about not liking Pratt for various reasons. Lately, I've been tossing around the idea of applying to other schools in New York for a master's in art history. I haven't felt very intellectually challenged at Pratt, and the rigmarole I have been through in the last two weeks to find a class that was actually just okay instead of horrible has been insane. My options would most likely be Hunter College or Columbia. Most other programs around here are Ph.D programs, and I just don't feel ready for a seven-year commitment yet. Plus, I am not the sort who would enjoy teaching AT ALL. I hated grading papers for a course last semester, and watching undergraduates snore and drool during lectures would not be my idea of fun for a living. Hopefully, people who work at other schools might be happier with their jobs. People who work at Pratt, in almost any administration office, tend to shake their heads when they see you coming, yell at you from their desks across the room, and generally be assholes if there's anything they can find to be assholes about.

Life is like a box of chocolate covered poops, that's what I always say--looks like a real nice gift at first, then you open it up and it stinks like hell! Just kidding. Maybe I should work on that pessimism, you think?

The Gods Must Be Crazy, Part Infinity

2006-01-17T18:44:00.000-05:00

I promised sexy results, didn't I? Well, here they are!!!

Just kidding.

Actually, it's just more drama. B. got super-sick with the flu on Friday. His psychiatrist warned us if it got any worse we should go to the nearest emergency room, because his new medication might be decreasing his white blood cells, thus hastening the onset of a potentially dangerous infection.

Saturday, B.'s temperature rose to 104 degrees. 104 degrees! Oh, to the hospital we will go! I sang to him, as we hopped in a cab that rainy Saturday. I purposely steered us to a different hospital than last time, and we did get better service. We were only at the hospital for about five and a half hours, and B. got blood tests (all normal), some sort of breathing treatment, IV fluids, and Tylenol for his diagnosis of the flu. He is recovering nicely, but now I am feeling vaguely scratchy throated and woke up this morning feeling murderous, as B. had kept me up all night by alternately hacking up a lung and snoring so loudly I thought for sure he would wake himself up. I hath commanded him to sleep on the futon until further notice.

Please, god/gods/goddesses, let up on me!

In other news, I have been totally addicted to TV lately. My favorite shows (in no particular order) are:

The Dog Whisperer (National Geographic Channel)
What Not to Wear (TLC)
Project Runway (Bravo)
Celebrity Fit Club (VH1)

If you watch Project Runway (I guess I'm really only talking to Liz here), let me just say I hope that Santino doesn't win. Everyone keeps saying how creative he is, but honestly he's pretty much a dick and his designs are mostly just okay and sometimes completely insane. Plus, his hair scares me.Doesn't his hair scare you? I mean, if he's a fashion designer and all, shouldn't he do something about it?

Also, for the last year and a half I have been completely addicted to my Dansko clogs. Comfy, sturdy, good for all weather types. I am really picky about my shoes and generally only add about two pairs to my collection per year. And since I'm a student and often walk/run as needed to get to transportation, comfort is key. But ever since I watched Clinton Kelly on "What Not to Wear" throw some woman's clog at a wall and describe it as a "baked potato shoe," I have been feeling ashamed of my feet and wanting to try something new. Oh, the wide world of women's fashion. Here are a couple of pictures of women's shoes that I am thinking of trying out (these are baby steps, mind you, I'm not headed for the fashion fast lane or anything):

What do you think?

Abracadabra!

2006-01-12T14:41:00.000-05:00

Someone help me! The Internet is still out and it's driving me crazy! Why am I so attached to it? Why is its absence creating such anxiety for me?!!??? Welcome to the 2006, where people are now not only neurotic about their dogs, their germs, and their personal space, but also their Internet. Who knew the Internet could cause such an emotional reaction?

Anyway. I just read Willow's post about being happily baby-less, followed by reading that Angelina Jolie is now pregnant with Brad Pitt's baby. B.'s sister and brother-in-law were just here with their seven month old baby and last night I heard that a friend of mine was pregnant. No babies here, folks, no sirree and like Willow, I am absolutely thrilled by this. There are no plans for any babies within the next five years either, so don't ask. The recent spate of pregnancies, though, are making me feel pruney and sterile. I can still appreciate babyhood though. B.'s sister and brother-in-law do have the absolute cutest baby I have ever seen (besides myself at age eight months). Here is a picture to cheer your day and make YOU feel sterile:

B. seems to be doing very well these days. Yesterday was particularly good and I felt all glimmery inside at the prospect of our life returning to normal after months of insanity (on my part as well--grief can drive you insane, yes, it shore can). Our house is still a raucous mess, especially after having guests (I found a dirty diaper underneath the futon yesterday.... EWWWWWWWW) and now I'm able to start dealing with my own emotions. I haven't been sleeping for shit lately, and although I see the school psychologist, she's not as good as I would like her to be. She's really nice, but she tends to just affirm whatever I say. I mean, I've been in therapy on and off for thirteen years and I've got this shit down pat. It's time to call in the pros.

Anyway, I'm starting to feel like an annoying groupie because I've been hanging out at this coffeeshop so long. One last thought for you small-space dwellers: SPACE BAGS! I saw an infomercial for these things and then ordered mine from Bed Bath & Beyond. What you do is put all your pillows, blankets, sweaters, and other valuable-space-occupiers and stuff them in this bag, zip it up like a Ziploc, and then use the port to vaccum out the extra air, thus reducing the volume of the bag to a quarter of the size it was, allowing you to stuff it under your bed or in some other equally inconspicuous place. Witness the magic:

At one point, B. asked me, "Wouldn't it be easier just to move to the suburbs?" To which I valiantly whipped out the vacuum and said, "No, man! We will survive in New York with the help of these handy-dandy SPACE BAGS!"

What brilliance the world offers.

Someone Needs to Save New York...From Itself

2006-01-10T13:30:00.000-05:00

Ack!

Upon returning to New York, there are a host of problems awaiting me, the most frustrating of which is B.'s broken desktop, the computer I use for everything. So now I am in a loud, cold coffeeshop, drinking a too-sweet mocha, cramping my hands onto a laptop, trying my best to ignore my rigid nipples and the man talking loudly on his cell phone behind me; "You're killin' me! When can you fax it to me? Where are you now? When can you get to the bank?!!!?"

Dammit.

Oh well. Such is New York life. Nothing is easy here. Friends and family keep asking B. if he's ever been mugged and his response is "Yeah, I get mugged every day. Rent here is almost 2K a month, utilities and cable are likewise ridiculous, not to mention the money that gets sucked out of you just by stepping out your front door." New York is like a mugger that works by distraction and confusion. "Look over there! You're gonna miss your bus! Look over here! The Empire State building! The best restaurants! Crazy subway people! Now give me fifty dollars! Bye!" By the end of it all, you have no idea where your money is and what you're supposed to be doing about it.

It's quite an adjustment from little ol' Salt Lake, with its wide streets, slow moving traffic, and friendly, polite inhabitants. On Sunday at the Target, I accidentally ran over some person's foot (unknown whether female or male) and the person turned around and threatened to beat my ass. I just kind of stood there, like okay, you're going to beat my ass. Right. The person walked off, muttering loudly, and did not beat my ass, but I was pretty mystified by the whole thing. Why beat my ass? Shouldn't we beat George Bush's ass? Saddam Hussein's ass? If we're really going to kick some ass, we should at least make it worth our while.

I witnessed another such incident at the Health Center at Pratt yesterday. The receptionist and a student got into it with each other and both ended up walking off, muttering obscenities at each other. People here got a lot of resentment built up and not a lot of communication skills other than your basic, boring cuss words. So I guess what I'm trying to say here is that the inhabitants of New York weren't exactly sobbing in my absence and the city didn't give me quite the welcome I wanted.

Ah well. Such is life. This is why we humans make up such things as THERAPY!

So This is the New Year...

2006-01-01T20:30:00.000-05:00

I'm trying to figure out how to blog.

I like Willow's philosophy of being honest and open, but I have to admit that sometimes it doesn't work for me. I like being honest, but sometimes when I'm feeling emotional or hot-headed, putting it out where everyone can read it doesn't seem like the best idea. Right now, I'm trying to navigate a fine line between being honest and respecting B.'s privacy.

B. and I are good conflict resolvers. We are generally the epitome of respectable adults envisioned by the phrase your older sister used to throw at you when sibling rivalry broke the ranks; "Grow up!" We are grown-ups when we fight. But the last six weeks, and really, the last six months has pushed us to our absolute limits.

"Did you call your psychiatrist?"
"Have you picked up the medication yet?"
"Are you going to therapy this week?"

I'm sure I'm irritatingly involved in B.'s mental health, but there's a part of me that just can't help it. When B. is having symptoms of bipolar disorder, I am the first to experience the ramifications. And it's hard. It's hard to know when I should be angry with him, or when I should remind myself to be patient, that he has bipolar disorder and it affects his behavior and we're still trying to figure out the medication dosage levels.

We seem to have the same disagreements every couple of weeks. I'm tired; he's defensive; I start to cry; he doesn't know what to do. I want him to continue therapy; he insists that it doesn't truly help (though he is quick to dispense therapy prescriptions to his friends). I'm worried; he thinks I'm overreacting. We weave a tangled web, but in the end we both just want things to be normal again. I have a sense that sometimes he is disturbed by the sudden role reversal in our relationship; for the past six weeks, he has needed to lean on me, whereas I am usually the one needing to lean. It's hard to relearn the dynamics of our relationship, hard to reinvent the dynamics of our relationship so that we both can lean and be leaned upon at the same time.

I have resolutely resolved to have no resolutions for the new year. But that doesn't mean I am without hopes for 2006. I hope that it will be easier, more light-hearted, more fun; I hope that it will be less filled with anxiety and that I will start to feel the ground solidify beneath me. I hope that there will be less tears and more acceptance. More rolling with the punches and less being knocked out by them. More assurance of life's inherent goodness and less fear that the next door will open out onto a cliff. More friends and less loneliness. More up-up-up and less down-down-down.

Good year and good luck, my friends.

Cleanliness is a State of MIIIIIIINNNNNDDDDDD

2005-12-16T16:48:00.000-05:00

Finals are finally over.

My generally clean apartment has turned into a hellish mess, reflecting, I think, my state of mind. When the going gets rough, cleanliness is always first to be shunted off the list of priorities.

Right now, I'm looking at the computer screen and feeling ambivalent. I'm happy to be going back to Utah for a break, but without the distraction of finals, I have the time to indulge my worries. For anxiety prone people such as myself, being busy is better than medication.

Speaking of medication, yours truly takes three medications every day: 75 mg Effexor XR accompanied by 10mg Lexapro, followed by the necessary birth control measures. My medication keeps me pretty stable and levelheaded, which I enjoy, though depending on the drugs, in philosophy, is not something I particularly like. B. doesn't like it either; he's always been someone who doesn't even like to take Tylenol for a headache, much less anything more serious than that. But-- in the last few weeks, we have had to face this issue because B. has been diagnosed with bipolar disorder, the main symptom of which he has experienced being mania.

I will clarify this, because people who don't have mental health issues tend to think about mental health in terms of Clockwork Orange, or some other such dated nonsense. The type of mania B. experienced is not a psychotic break, nor is it filled with hallucinations. B. did stop sleeping for the most part and started to talk really fast and furiously, often coming up with grandiose ideas and plans. He experienced some paranoia, but was mostly very excited, talkative, and full of some sense of the cosmic totality underlying the universe.

The Monday night before Thanksgiving, I walked into the kitchen at 2am, and found him, wrapped in blankets, on the floor, sobbing and crying.

I was terrified. I panicked. I had only ever seen B. cry once. He wasn't sad, he said, but was working through some of his childhood issues. Nevertheless, I was frightened. Something was clearly wrong, and though I suspected bipolar disorder, I am not a doctor and was unsure of what to do.

I called an ambulance. Unfortunately, with the ambulance, came the police. The police were more terrible than I could have imagined. They asked me questions, and then cut me off with more questions while I was answering their initial questions. After talking with B., who persuaded them I was the one who was acting oddly, they really looked at me with the conviction that I was a waste of their time, albeit a frantic and hysterical one. I honestly can't help but believe that part of this reaction was because I am a woman. All the police and emergency personnel were men and the insensitivity with which they treated me made me feel like I had been transported back to the 19th century, when women were treated for such illnesses as "hysteria."

After seeing me break out into tears, B. agreed to go to the hospital with me at least to get me to shut up about being worried about him. We were in the ER for over eight hours, waiting to see psychiatric personnel. B. saw both a psychiatrist and a psychologist, who prescribed him some Seroquel, both to control the mania and regulate his sleeping habits.

He is now far more normal than he has been in a while. The Seroquel helps him sleep, and he has been able to go to work for the past two weeks. We're still working towards a plan for him to be able to manage his bipolar disorder, and the road has been chock-full of roadblocks, but we are making progress.

I don't know why I decided to write all this down now, except for the fact that I am through with finals and have a few moments, at least, to gather my wits about me. So here I am, a gatherin' away. The full story of the last month of my life will surely come out in time, so just bear with me here, folks. For, to be sure, there will be SEXY RESULTS!!!

Confessions on a Subway Floor

2005-12-10T17:08:00.000-05:00

Like the omnipresent Madonna, I am back. Hopefully, you all will want to stick around much longer than I want her to stick around, which is not long. I wish she would take her alarmingly small body off of all media outlets and go home and feed it some grease and fried sugar. That's what I do to stay in shape!

Anyway. That's an aside. What I really want to tell you about is my life. Actually, I do not prefer to tell you about my life, but I will because I feel it will cover the necessary potholes in my blogging road. B. experienced a manic episode over Thanksgiving, during which he was not sleeping and acting... very not himselfish. It was terrifying and demanded my immediate attention, which is why I had to neglect my nearest and dearest (the Internet, if you will). But I feel that we are making progress on his health front and wish to keep the details in the dark until some far away time when they will be looked upon with less emotion and feeling than I have now.

All I wish to relate right now is a story that embodies the hardships of living in such a place as New York. I was walking to a subway train in a large station when the man walking up the stairs toward me, a sandwich in his hand, sort of tripped up the stairs. The sandwich briefly touched the ground and when he straightened up, he just sort of stood there for a minute, staring at the sandwich. I watched him contemplate his life right then and I thought I KNOW! Everything's so fast, we never get a chance to eat! YOU NEED THAT SANDWICH! But have you seen the subway? There are HUMAN FECES on the walls! And RATS! And germs of all varieties!!! And I knew he knew all the things I was thinking about.

But, alas, living in New York demands both risk and the mastering of a Paul Giamatti-like defeatist attitude.

And so I watched him tentatively bite his sandwich and make his way to his train, and I felt sad for him. Because this is what we will do to get by in New York.

We Interrupt Your Regular Programming to Bring You This Important Message

2005-11-24T23:41:00.000-05:00

Hi Y'all.

I realize I haven't posted in awhile. There is a serious issue that B. and I have to tackle and I will not be able to post any more about it until we can work it out. I'm sorry this is such an obscure way to describe my situation, but I don't feel I can post without exacerbating the issue.

Check back with me in a couple of weeks, 'kay guys?

PS. Piu, we should get together in January. I'll keep checking your blog for updates on when you'll be in NYC.

SWF Seeks Other Humans for True Friendship. No Psychos, Please.

2005-11-16T20:02:00.000-05:00

Dear Diary: Why is it so hard to make new friends when you're older?

When you're young, it's like anyone and everyone is your friend. But when you get older, people don't want to make friends anymore. I suppose it gets to be too much trouble to be a real friend. When you're little, friends don't think about such things. They just want to know if you want to play dollies. Which is cool, but I guess it's not the true definition of a friend.

I don't know. Maybe I expect too much too quickly, but I feel like I can't make any new friends here. The other day in one of my library classes, I went over to this lady who works at Pratt Brooklyn and was going to ask her about an assignment. Before I could say anything, she just looked at me and was like, "Oh hey! How ARE you?" It was just so nice, but it made me feel even lonelier because I go through my day and no one ever asks me this.

Anyway. If you can answer this question, please tell me. I ain't got it, so let me in on the secret here.

The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

2005-11-13T21:10:00.000-05:00

Argh.

Usually I love Sundays, but today, what with the church next door having an extra-specially loud evangelical session and the neighbor upstairs playing boring, plunky, piano, I'm feeling pretty cranky.

It's also been a weekend full of thwarted plans. Friday, I went to the New York Public Library to do some much-needed research for upcoming papers, only to find the library closed for Veteran's Day. I didn't realize that anything closed for Veteran's Day anymore, not that it shouldn't, mind you, but I thought shit would stay open. I decided to walk down to the coffeeshop where my friend S. works (and which has the only decent coffee in NYC) and some friendly tourists asked me directions to the Banana Republic. I, the badass-recently- transplanted-Utahan, gave them directions. But...a few blocks later...realized... I gave them the wrong directions. Shite! My inflated badass ego promptly deflated and I went back to feeling like a directionless loser (I truly do have a fucked sense of direction; B. often reminds me how hilarious it is that I walk so confidently in the opposite direction from my destination). Sigh. Upon arriving at S.'s work, I then found her off for the day. Oy! My friend! I again am a loser.

Oh well. Sometimes the best thing to do in this city is to not expect that things will work out, you know, take the defeatist route from the start. Then you don't get as cranky. Like when I'm looking for resources at the New York Public Library. I've learned not to expect I will get them, to expect instead that I will be shunted off into some other poor sap's hands or to some other department in the library. This way, when the library employee does tell me all of the above, I just shrug and say, "Okay. Guess I'll do that."

Usually they see the disappointed look on my face and end up apologizing, but I just respond, "What can you do?" because really, in New York, what can you do? Sometimes it's best just to cut your losses and go back and hide in your apartment.

Corpse Groom

2005-11-09T02:07:00.000-05:00

There's nothing like sitting front of a blank blog template to get you staring off into space like a moronic zombie. Always works for me, at least.

Speaking of the NIGHT OF THE LIVING DEAD, B. has not slept in about a week. It makes him look slightly askew, like B. 5.0 has accidentally been replaced with B. 1.1. This morning, he was hunched over cereal, eyes closed, rock star dark circles down to his chin, occasionally bringing the spoon up to his mouth to slurp whatever may lie there. I ate my cereal and ran like hell to the coffeeshop fearful that he was chasing me, arms out, drooling, wanting to suck the life out of me.

When B. cannot sleep, this often means Sweet Lucy cannot sleep, as B. likes to thrash about in the covers and chase his tail before settling in a good sleeping spot, like a dog. Of course, all this thrashing about is bound to wake girlfriend who is NOBBUT two inches from him. Therefore, girlfriend gets jittery with lack of sleep, and together, we make good crazy.

Seriously, folks, we have tried everything. Today, I went out and bought B. Nyquil, Kava sleeping tea, and some other herbal remedy, which he proceeded to use in a combination that would have been lethal to anyone else, but sadly left him still awake and insane. I have, like a good girlfriend, lent him use of my Xanax, fed him TylenolPM, whispered stories into his ear in soothing tones, cuddled him and rubbed his back, but ALL TO NO AVAIL.

FOR GOD'S SAKES, SOMEONE HELP US HERE!

When B. and I first started dating, I was the one with the insomnia problems, and I would wake B. up to make him tell me a story, upon which I would promptly fall asleep, and he would lie awake staring at the ceiling for the next five hours. Therefore, I know lots of good stories about Brian's ex-girlfriends, his childhood friends (Chris, mainly, whose dog B. accidentally killed. I'll tell you about that later), all his crazy neighbors, and in general, all the stories one collects from growing up in suburban slash wrong-side-of-the-tracks Utah valley.

B. always contends that he doesn't know the same stories about me. He claims, actually it's not a claim because it's true, that he always learns something new about me when I am chatting up friends and talk about crazy times in my life that he knows nothing about. B. doesn't know a whole lot about my childhood, and for good enough reason.

Most people cherish their childhood, I suppose, but I don't. It was kind of painful, actually. I never felt I fit in at school because I was shy and a bookworm, and added to the fact that I had early onset depression (in fifth grade), I feel like I was an adult at about age 13. Unfortunately, the rest of my friends weren't adults by that time, and I got subjected to a lot of battering for not being a regular kid. It didn't really get easier, either. My mom and dad had been divorced since before I was born, but my mother and stepfather divorced when I was about ten, and just like that, my stepfather was out of my life. Gone, no choices, that's the way it was. The divorce started getting brutal and after my mother started hating my stepfather, it was like no turning back. It makes me sad to think of it now because although my stepfather cheated and lied his way through the divorce, depriving us of much needed funds, he was at heart a very lonely person.

I'm really not feeling bitter right now, but after I told B. some stories, I just got to thinking about things I usually avoid thinking about. And then I wanted to write them down so I didn't have to think about them anymore.

So there they are. I swear the next installment will pop out of nowhere, just like this one. I can't give you any "Scenes From the Next..." but I assure you there will be sexy results.

The Animals Have Gone Crackers, Part Two: The Suburbs

2005-11-05T20:11:00.000-05:00

I have to be in B.'s family picture. This, in itself, not so bad. B.'s mother has been bugging us for months already to set our return-home dates for Christmas so she can schedule a picture with the clan (I say clan and I mean it; B. has one brother, three sisters, all married, seven nieces and nephews, as opposed to my family--two sisters, one mother).

Like I said, this is okay.

Until today.

B.'s mother called and wanted us to reserve our "color." Apparently the clan is getting pictures taken at Kiddie Kandids. Not only this, but each couple/family is wearing COLOR CODED T-SHIRTS with JEANS!!! ISN'T THAT GREAT??!!?? Because, you know, plain shirts always look better in pictures. And, she enthused, B. and I can get couples pictures done afterwards. I desperately tried to dissuade her from the matching colors idea, but she was adamant. Absolutely unmoveable. The Incredible Hulk of Matching Colors.

LORD SAVE US ALL.

100 Times the Fun, 100 Times the Insanity

2005-11-05T03:04:00.000-05:00

The thing that sucks about posting after two weeks is that there's so much to write about, you start getting more and more fearful about writing. Where will I start? How will I explain it all? Jeepers, Andy, what'll I say?

So, when Liz came back from the land of the Honeymoon, she just started with a list. I like lists. They are organized and easy to read. I will make one too.

List of Things I Do When I Fall off the Face of the Communications Planet:

1. Visit with my family. My mom and oldest sister came to visit me--they stayed on my and B.'s bed, while we slept on the futon in the living room (we have a one-bedroom). We went and saw Avenue Q, a musical with Sesame Street puppets singing fucked-up songs (such classics as Everyone's a Little Bit Racist and The Internet's for Porn) and having kinky sex. I loved it.

2. Write term papers on really obscure and difficult to research topics, like the history of fine press books (limited edition books made using letterpress printers, hand-sewn bindings, etc).

3. Grade midterm papers for unsuspecting freshman dolts. I give them all the benefit of the doubt and yet--THEY STILL FAIL!

4. Go nuts from studying inside the apartment too long, get bored and lonely and chat up people I meet on the train, try to read Lives of the Saints (Then St. Francis was afflicted with impure thoughts. He saw the demons and flung himself naked into the snow. He made seven snowballs and called them his wife and six children. The demons were confused and went back from whence they came. THIS IS WHY HE'S A SAINT??? You're killin' me, folks!)

My life with B. has been pretty over the top lately. B.'s job is incredibly stressful, and he just kind of had a breakdown last week (yes, while the family was here). My family's really chill (we've all been through decades of therapy) but it was pretty intense. B. is being stretched to the hilt by his job, and I never want to burden him with my stuff when he gets home, all tired and anxiety ridden from work. He can't sleep because he's always thinking about his job, and that makes him even grumpier. Not to mention that it's just FUCKING HARD to live together sometimes; no space, the dishes are stinky, please don't touch me now, omigod I have to vent at you or I will die, you want to watch TV now? I'm doing homework!, but your family's in my bed, for godsakes!, the toilet has shit stains, and when are we supposed to have sex if we're always so tired??!!!?

B. and I have been having some pretty serious heart to hearts and we're sticking by each other. But it's pretty much trial by fire. We've both agreed that New York is 100 times everything that we've experienced before: 100 times harder to get anything you need, 100 times easier to find a great restaurant on your street, 100 times more expensive, 100 more sighs of relief when you enter the apartment at the end of the day, 100 times more frustrating when nobody will ship you anything because you live in an apartment, 100 times more hurried, 100 times more beautiful when you see a lovely tree turning with the seasons, 100 times more lonely, 100 times more wonderful to be completely unknown and on your own, 100 times more fulfilling when the coffee girl remembers your name and your order.

I'm going to try and write more because I've been so lonely lately. Sometimes I go through my days at school and I don't know anyone and then I realize it's been seven hours since I talked to someone. It's strange and lonely sometimes, but also suits my quietness. I do really miss an open ear though. So guess what? You're it!

Animal Crackers (as in, Animals Have Gone Crackers)

2005-10-22T20:30:00.000-04:00

Can't someone make them shut up?

It's the question of the week. I have been discussing it with my neighbors, in reference to the evangelical church next door. They have services there all week and when there's not a service, the band is practicing. It's like a real band--drums, electric guitar, everything. They play John Mellencamp-style God music and I'm downright sick of it, day in and day out. I've looked inside the place too, and it's only twenty feet square. You'd think with that kind of space they could turn off their amps and spare us all. But no one wants to ask them to quiet down because they're a church and we'd look like godless savage New Yorkers if we asked people praising the Lord to keep it down.

But seriously. Can't someone make them shut the f--k up? I'm going nuts here.

Anyway. New York City is supposed to be fashion central. And true enough, sometimes I see someone who looks so astoundingly fabulous in their clothes, I want to be their groupie. New York City, though, is also What-Not-to-Wear central. Going to Pratt in Brooklyn (where all the 4,000 students think they're artists) never ceases to make me think of a fashion-wildlife zoo. White scrunchy eighties boots (which NEVER should have come back) with rolled-up jeans, topped by an apron-dress with nothing underneath, thus allowing breasts to fall out in distinctly unsexy manner, are enjoying their natural environment on your right. Hands inside the bus, folks, no giving the wildlife cigarettes. It's for their own good, you see--when the wildlife smokes more than the daily allowance of cigarettes, they get rabid for more and often attack the tourists in scavenging for an extra pack. We here at Pratt zoo always give the animals free range of the local used clothing stores, and while they might look hungry, we are always prompt with meals. The animals prefer not to eat, as it is natural for their breed to be desirous of thin bodies.

It's not just the students that astound me though.

I started a new class this week, and the teacher--well, words fail me. However, I will give it a shot. Picture in your mind, if you will, a frumpy sixtyish woman. Not so hard to come by, and not a crime in itself. But now picture her in a batikked muumuu that she is definitely not fat enough to warrant wearing (by fat, I mean muumuus are really only allowed if you're over 400 lbs). Top the muumuu with a black leather fannypack, and a haircut that is so perfectly Beatles, I don't think the Fab Four could have done it as well. Her crowning achievement is a metal cane, which she only uses for emphasis, periodically thwacking the projector screen with it and using it to point out aspects of art we should know.

Oy vey. My eyes, MY EYES!!!!!!!

Starfish and Coffee

2005-10-16T17:36:00.000-04:00

Dear Blog:

I am sorry that I have neglected you when the going gets rough. Although there are a million excuses, including midterms, I know that I have done the inexcusable. Please forgive me. And know that I think about you all the time, about all the things I want to say to you. It's just so hard sometimes.

It's not you. It's me.

Love,

Sweet Lucy

Time passes so quickly when I'm absorbed in homework that I think I have just updated my blog and I look at the date on it and it's over a week ago! Oy vey. I have been a little more lighthearted since the memorial service for my dad, but also increasingly sucked in by school. So, dear blog, here is my weekend update (though it's not presented by such a lovely persona as Tina Fey, take it for what it is):

The Friday before last, B. and I went to the Nickel Creek show at the Nokia Theater in Times Square. The day had been drizzly and dreary and I felt not a whit like going. But we went and I was utterly thrilled by their performance. It is one of the few bands that B. and I can agree on, so we both had a lovely time. Chris Thile, the mandolinist and ringleader of the bunch, is an incredibly skilled musician. The mandolin looks basically like a mini-guitar, and this guy, folks, this guy was rocking out hard--with his knees all bent up and his body hunched over the mandolin, he looked like he was doing a rockin' version of the pee-pee dance. Sometimes his legs would get dancing-like, and his upper body would be perfectly still and he looked like Michael Flatley from the Lord of the Dance. It was very entertaining.

Nickel Creek performed an instrumental song about coffee. I was in love. Do you know how much I love my coffee? I do. Chris Thile summed it up perfectly when he said, "You know why coffee is so great? Because it's something you want, a little luxury, and how often do people get what they want? Not very often. But you can get coffee, and that's great." They also dedicated the song to their favorite coffeeshop, the good ol' Stumptown, from my college-town of Portland, Oregon. I giggled with glee at that one, I did. Nickel Creek was still at the beginning of their tour, and they're still new to success, so it was fun to see their incredible enthusiasm for the audience and the show. They seemed like kids in a candy shop. The most surprising part of the show was when the bass player, a tall guy who stood in the back and wasn't introduced, popped out in the middle of the last song, the really last song (you know, after they've pretended to go off stage and be welcomed back by their adoring audience, when everyone knows the band is coming back on no matter how much they clap) and started TAP DANCING! I was absolutely enraptured. It made me want to put on my clogs and a skirt and hop around with him.

Anyway. I'll move on now. To more important topics like coffee. As I've mentioned before, all the baristas in Brooklyn are unspeakably RUDE. Especially at my arch-nemesis cafe, Ozzie's, where not only are they incredibly rude, they also have CRAPPY coffee. I hate them. But they are the only coffeeplace where you can sit down on a Sunday morning and read the Times for a good long while. But until now, our only other option on our street was Gorilla's. Gorilla's has wonderful coffee. Same rude baristas, no good food to speak of, no good places to sit, and awfully loud music. But NOW. NOW I have found something new. It's called . . . The Tea Lounge. Cute atmosphere. Good sandwiches. Nice baristas (gasp!). PLACES TO SIT!!! Heaven on Earth, we have found a Sunday morning coffeeshop. Thank the Lord.

I'm sure this post has bored most of you to death. But it's what I felt like writing about and that's what matters. The evangelical church next door is getting pretty loud right about now, so I think I'll sign off and turn up my own music to drown out the fire and brimstone shit.

See ya.

I Miss You, All of You

2005-10-07T19:11:00.000-04:00

I returned from Berkeley on Sunday night, after the memorial service and open house this weekend. I won't tell you about it because I don't feel like rehashing it all, but I published the speech I wrote for my dad in the last posting.

Sometimes I feel really fucking low. Today and yesterday were mostly disasters for me. Pratt Institute is an insanely run bureaucracy, with not much in regards for student/customer service. Everyone behind any sort of desk is almost guaranteed to be rude to you, even if your question is easily answered. I waited an hour and a half to see the school nurse today to get a simple antibiotic ointment for my skin. They fucked up the insurance, so I had to pay for my prescriptions out of pocket and get reimbursed later. Do you know how much fucking birth control is? It's FIFTY DOLLARS!!! Holy Bejesus.

The library at the art school is absolutely ridiculous for a school that has graduate students in library science and therefore FREE ACCESS TO TRAINED INTERNS. Everything is completely out of order and because the administration worries so damn much about the cost of the books, about eighty percent of them are for in-library use only. This in a library that smells like ass, is incredibly loud, and has only dim, dank places to study. Craptacular.

Add to this that my MetroCard ran out of fare as I was getting on the bus and I didn't have the exact change you need to ride the bus, so I had to get off and walk with an armload of huge art books to the subway station. And it's so fucking humid here that you walk a block and all of a sudden there's moisture dripping down your back and in your hair. Oy vey.

Plus--I am lonely. I know how my friend Willow feels. My boyfriend works all day and comes home stressed to the max. I have night classes and don't get home until around ten, at which point B. and I pretty much eat dinner and then have to get into bed because he has to get up so early for his job and he's a lunatic insomniac.

And sometimes the grief just cuts me down to the core and I want to cry all day. I want to hide from the crowds of people, and long, boring classes full of people I don't know and who don't understand me. I want to be a baby, cuddled and comforted all day long, secure in the misinformation that there is nothing my parents can't fix, that everything will be okay.

On the plus side, our Internet has been working for all of three days now. It may be fixed, but I don't want to hope for too much.

Memorial Speech for My Dad

2005-10-07T18:55:00.000-04:00

I feel privileged to be with you today, among the friends and colleagues that I consider my father's "family." He was an only child, and though several cousins of his live on the East Coast, it is the family that he created here in Berkeley of intellectuals, ex-hippies, childhood friends, and neighbors that he truly felt at home with. I feel even more privileged to be one of only two people who know my father in the way I do, as his daughter.

When I first sat down to write this speech, I felt I had nothing to say that most of you don't already know, mostly because my dad was completely honest and straightforward. With everyone he met, he always told the truth with a total lack of any cushioning. He was not pretentious or aloof in any way, and always welcomed conversations from strangers, whether it was the guy sitting next to him at the pub or a colleague at the University. The way we all, everyone in this room, the way we know him is exactly the way he was, because he didn't have any talent for bullshit and he would tell you so.

My father was not a typical dad in any way, but being average was never his forte, as you can see from his body of statistical research. In addition to his genius, he was a lovely, complex, unique human being. And he will always be a part of my life, the way he was, not just as a vague lesson, because he is truly, like the song, "unforgettable." Towards the end of last year, when he was feeling really down and out about the cancer treatment and the necessity for him to rest so much during it, which he never tried to do overmuch, I tried to reassure him that he had it, had that thing that distinguished those who carried on from those who didn't. I told him how much I enjoyed his true curiosity about life, his desire to know about the world around him. He never rested in his enthusiasm to find out. He would always know something about something I was interested in, and would start off a long discussion with a wine glass in one hand, gesturing largely with the other hand, saying "You know, it's real interesting, Jess..."

In great addition to my dad's curiousity about the world was his capacity to have fun. He loved good food, good wine, good friends, and interesting places. He didn't have a sense of fear about the world that so many of us now have, but a sense of awe and adventure. My dad had a boldness about him, that sometimes seemed reckless, but was more of an unwillingness to dwell on bad things, to give them too much care. When I was out here one summer as a teenager, I called him from the BART station to have him come pick me up. I apparently interrupted the MacNeil Lehrer News Hour and a glass of wine, because when my dad arrived, he still had half a glass of wine with him and proceeded to wave his hand at me, holding the glass of wine, when he pulled over. He simply wanted to be enjoy himself, wherever he was at the time, regardless of possible consequence.

Dad never ceased to be amazed by the world. He would often tell me stories about the most recent trip he'd been on and whether it was to Las Vegas or Venice, there always seemed to be something grand that would have astounded him. Even in the everyday, I envied his lack of cynicism about what he observed. There was always something incredible or crazy to tell me about, a new project, an exhibition at a gallery, a new work of art he'd bought on eBay. There was a certain look on his face, a gesturing of the hands as he described something lovely that he'd observed that somehow truly conveyed how amazed he was at the wonders of the world. For someone who'd built his first computer and had been to an incredible array of places and nations, there were still many things that could surprise him.

When we were children, he often took me and Becky on field trips to San Francisco to see galleries, museums, and concerts, but equally to go to FAO Schwarz and to experience the rotating restaurant. He had a childlike sense about him that truly enjoyed the games and gadgets at the toy store, but an adult sense of culture and beauty that loved to take in art, music, and theatre. I really think that he had as much fun as we did at all of those places, and he didn't waste time taking us places he didn't want to go either.

My senior year of college, about two years ago, my dad came up to visit me in Oregon because I was feeling really depressed and utterly overwhelmed by the magnitude of my thesis. While he was there, he both helped me formulate a study plan and a schedule to check in with my professors, and took me to the finest restaurants in the city, to the movies, and for a strolling tour of the local bars. He discovered the local pub for college kids and the local coffeeshop with the outdoor patio. I think he discovered as much about the city in a week as I'd seen in two years.

My dad sometimes was at a loss for how to deal with us as children, when we got sad or depressed or upset. But he always felt there was a solution to every problem and tried his hardest to find it for us. If that meant pulling clout and introducing himself as Professor Breiman from the University of California, Berkeley, so be it. Whether helping me with my thesis or calling all the psychiatrists in Salt Lake to find the local experts, he wanted the absolute best for his girls and would not take No for an answer, even from the girls themselves.

I don't know if any of this tells you anything more that you didn't already know about my dad. That he loved life and held on to it to the last, that he cared deeply about his kids, his friends, his work, and liked to have a good time wherever he was. He was incredible and brilliant, but he also liked to bop around to music in his living room and blast opera down Corona Court for all the neighbors to hear. I know that my dad was one of very, very few people who knew how to live, and even though I wish dearly that he'd be around longer, his seventy-seven years were packed to overflowing with all the life and love he experienced in that time.

The Secret Life of a Crazy Beeyatch

2005-09-28T15:19:00.000-04:00

I just reread my last night's post . . . What a crazy beeyatch I am sometimes. I think the craziness comes out when I feel trapped inside my own head, but totally unable to translate between brain and hand.

The stuff that's really going on in my brain right now is truly not very complex. I always thought that when someone died, their loved ones would have all these complex feelings about their death because relationships are complex, you know? You don't always totally love the people that are in your life, sometimes you want them out of your life. But there are really no complex feelings here. It's just kind of an utter sadness that my dad is gone. I'm not lonely, but I feel kind of alone in the feeling. There's no regret about the time we spent together, just a simple wish for more of that time, good or bad.

It's all compounded by the fact that I am trying to write this speech for my dad's memorial. I've always been taught in school that the essay or paper is sort of a summation of all the concepts and theories that you learn in class. And it feels like I am trying to write some sort of summation of my dad, like "What did I learn from you?" And I guess some people think that we should take lessons from our loved ones lives (the loved ones that have passed on, that is) and learn to LIVE FOR TODAY. Well, whatever. That's all kind of bullshit. I don't want my dad's life to be like some lesson for me. It just is what it is. I think he had a lot fun, and I envy him that. He also had a shitload of hardship in his life that started early on with his own mother, and I don't envy him that. I'm not sure he really ever got over that hard start in life and maybe he should have. I don't know, I suppose it's not really for me to say. I do hope that I can emulate his best qualities, which were a complete and absolute love of life and learning, compounded with a lack of fear about the future. I guess that's me trying to learn.

I think what I'm trying to say is that I think it's crap to try and minimize someone's life into some trite little lesson. Which is kind of what I feel memorial services generally attempt to do. So, none of that.

The other part flowing through my brain right now is a total fear of the next person I am going to lose in life. I keep worrying about everyone, but mostly I worry about me. Who else will be taken away from me? And what will happen to me once that happens? Because it is inevitable that people die. I just hope I don't fall off the deep end. This just feels like one of the hardest times so far. It's not the total and complete sadness from right after Dad died, but it's kind of a tuned out, tired, lackluster, fearful feeling that seems to stretch on for ages.

My Dad's service is this Friday. I leave tomorrow for Berkeley. Wish me luck. I'll tell you all about it upon my return.

The Crazy Rantings of A Confirmed Lunatic

2005-09-28T01:07:00.000-04:00

Things to Get Used to in New York:

1. The Nanny/Adoptee Phenomenon: Wherein the kid in the stroller does not resemble the woman pushing the stroller in any way, shape, or form. It's a little disconcerting at first, especially being from Salt Lake where most nannies are family members. It also makes me wonder if the parents ever take care of the child. But, whatevs. Their life.

2. The feeling of absolute glee as the train I am waiting for (which only comes every 12 minutes during non-rush hours) pulls up exactly as I slide my card. I don't think I'll ever get over this. It's just so thrilling, especially with the wind from the oncoming train whipping through your hair, it borders on the rush of an on-again, off-again romance.

3. The Rude Baristas of Brooklyn. I think all the baristas in Brooklyn are assholes, really and truly. When I ask them to mix skim and whole milk, thus producing low-fat milk, they groan and roll their eyes. Fine, fuckers!!! I'll go to Starbucks, they have every kind of milk imaginable!!!! Shit. There's no Starbucks in Brooklyn.

4. Actually, bad service is a hallmark of Brooklyn. Definitely. B. has a little song about George Washington (i.e. the one dollar bill) that he sings when a waitperson is terrible. It's on the verge of becoming a mantra because we sing it so often nowadays.

My dad's memorial service is this weekend. I have been dreading it. Not just because I hate to fly. But fuck, man, this is going to be hard. Okay, okay. Deep breath. Anyway. Internet is still broken, no thank you Time-fucking-Warner assholes. 'Nother deep breath. Okay.

HA HA!!! Kate Moss is a druggie!!! No wonder she's so fucking skinny! HA HA! It's so easy to hate beautiful and rich people, just so easy.

Yes, in case you were wondering, I AM a lunatic. And it's okay here in Lunaticville, lots of good company. See you soon (and in case you were wondering? If you don't know how to get here, there's a route straight through the heart of NYC, easiest way I know of to drive yourself off the edge . . .)

Will You be My Valentine?

2005-09-23T21:35:00.000-04:00

I know it's been over a week since I blogged last. Sometimes the days seem to fly by without me noticing; B. and I get so busy trying to arrange the apartment, clean out boxes, and organize, that when we're finished, I can't remember what day it is. My dad's memorial service is next Friday and I know I'm supposed to be writing something for it . . . but I've been putting it off. I will try and publish whatever I come up with.

I am really happy in our new apartment. It's my little safe haven. After six appointments with Time Warner cable company, I think/hope that our cable Internet is finally fixed. Please God, let it be so. Our across-the-hall neighbor has been dogsitting her parents' beagle, a fat little hound named Valentine. I offered to walk Valentine because neighbor H. is often gone during the day, which is working out fine, except that Valentine seems to have no cognizance of her own name. I even checked a second time with H. and was like "You're sure? The dog's name is Valentine?" and she was like, "Yes, positive." Today I invited H. out to dinner with me and B., and Valentine clambered out into the hall to say Hi. When H. had to go and called Valentine in, she just laid there on the floor, not even giving a hint that she heard H. call her. This occurred several times until H. came into the hall and dragged Valentine back into the apartment. Damn, I miss having a dog. (Mental note to self: will remember to name future dog very simple name consisting of easily recognizable vowel sounds e.g. Joe, Lou, etc.)

B. is currently in the living room watching Napoleon Dynamite. He's never seen it, and I think it's a contrived piece of hoo-ha so it's my chance to blog. B. and I have been alternately watching old episodes of America's Next Top Model (can't wait 'til Liz comes back from her honeymoon and we can discuss how horrifyingly addictive Tyra Banks is) and a Showtime original series called Weeds. Weeds is awesome; it stars Mary-Louise Parker as a widow who deals pot for income after her husbands' death. It is definitely the most quality show no one is watching right now. We order it through Showtime on demand, which we have hooked up to our cable.

I found a friend in both my library science classes. In Introdution to Information Professions, I sit next to an outspoken southern girl, M., who literally talks so loudly that I want to plug my ears like I do when the subway gets too screechy (sidenote: can't they lube up the subway or something so it doesn't squeal like that?). Nonetheless, she's friendly and cynical, like me. In my publishing class, there is Snow White, (think black curly hair, paper white skin, and rosy cheeks) who is really nice, but always gets hogged by girl-with-orange-tan-who-cracks-her-gum-overly-loudly. Orangutan, as I call her, is really so annoying that I can't bear to sit next to her. She obsesses about the incredibly easy quizzes we take each week, and tries to memorize all the formulas we learn about pricing books. Has anyone informed what a breeze the class is? That we never even talk about the reading so there's no reason to obsess about doing it all? Whatevs.

I'm thinking about using extra student loan money to buy a laptop; any advice, readers? I'm a pretty basic user, word processing, blah blah blah . . . but I do like to have the capacity to do some basic graphics and design stuff and have good picture programs. And I have no knowledge of what kind of computer I need. Yay!

If Only My Life Were a Box of Chocolates

2005-09-15T23:52:00.000-04:00

On Thursday nights, I have my course on publishing. It's taught by two professionals, one of whom is a man in his late sixties or early seventies. He's very sweet and funny, and often goes off on long, roundabout tangents about the publishing business, which is just as well anyway because the whole publishing business is not very hard and fast. I love how he says the word "buffet" like "BOO-fay" and his sloppy handwriting scrolling on a diagonal across the white board.

From the lack of muscular movement in the right side of his face, you can tell that he's had a stroke at some point. As he's getting older, he's a little hard of hearing, which some of the soft spoken women in my class don't understand. He reminds me of my dad in some inexplicable fashion, and every time I come into class I feel incredibly sad. I can't even look at the instructor sometimes, it just thrusts me into this feeling of loneliness, of desperation in wanting my dad back. Maybe it's because my dad had a stroke a few months before his death, which affected one side of his face. I don't know what it is, but there's always some lump of emotion in my throat that makes me feel like I'm going to vomit and cry at the same time.

I'm starting to feel some sort of empathy, a camaraderie of sorts with the students in my library science classes. There's the graying, fiftyish lady who sat next to me last time and saved my life by giving me Swedish fish at the break, thereby restoring my dulling senses. There's the thirtyish, severe and skinny woman who always looks kind of mean, but is actually nice, just stressed because she is serving jury duty on a murder trial. Even the girl I dislike, who has overly tanned orange skin, a HUGE diamond on her wedding finger, and asks inane questions, is starting to seem okay. Today she was having trouble communicating her idiotic question to the instructor, and I stepped in to clarify. Later, she thanked me and I told her that I didn't think he heard very well so she needed to speak up. She seemed surprised at this news; I suppose some people don't know very many adults of the senior variety.

Every time I sit down to write something about my dad, all I can do is cry. There's too much to be said and too little. Too little is the part where there's nothing to say because all I want is his return. I keep asking for some visitation, in my dreams or elsewhere, something to let me know how he is, wherever he is. The last few months of his life were so painful. It's got to be better, wherever he is.

Anyway. Things will get better, they will. Many, many good thoughts to Piu Piu tonight because I'm sorry that her project didn't get funded. Fuckers. Chin up, Piu.

Stardate: Captain Lucy Reporting

2005-09-13T21:52:00.000-04:00

Every day, I think of things that I want to share in my blog. Every time I sit down at the computer, I discover that all the birdie-thoughts in my brain have decided to fly the coop. Damn.

I'm still in a zombie-like state of grief. Now that life has settled into at least a version of manageable stress, I realize that I am still sad. I can't sleep at night and often cry into my pillow. I know that B. would rub my back and snuggle me if I asked, but most of the time the tears just feel like kind of an alone-time thing. An ongoing project. My dad's memorial service is at the end of the month, so B. and I will be flying out to Berkeley in a couple of weeks. I'm supposed to be writing something to say at the service, but I haven't started yet.

B. and I are discovering the multitude of making-life-easier services that are available to us in Brooklyn. We started getting FreshDirect and having our groceries delivered. We also started dropping our laundry off instead of doing it ourselves, although I'm not sure if you're supposed to give them your dirty undies so I do those at the local laundromat. When we were at the laundromat today, there were these two little Spanish-speaking (rather yelling, actually) kids zooming around, both of them about waist height, paying no attention whatsoever to the adults. Unfortunately, one of them lurched right into B. and put his hand right in B.'s ass crack, much to B.'s dismay. The kid didn't seem to notice though, which is good 'cause that could have been trouble.

Man, I'm really running on empty tonight. I'm just sort of sitting here in front of the screen, when usually it's just pouring out. I mean, with grad school and being in New York and everything, I feel like I've been a human sponge, just absorbing all this newness and new information but now it's like kaput . . .

Oh well. Will write more when duly inspired. Enclosed photo is for your enjoyment, as rest of post is not very enjoyable.

This is Miles the Dog. He makes me happy when skies are gray. He doesn't even whine if sometimes you accidentally shut him in the garage for long periods of time; he just yelps with joy at actually seeing you again. Now that's a good friend, right there. How many of your friends wouldn't whine if you locked them in a dark, smelly place? That's what I thought.

Yo Ho Ho and a Bottle of Rum! A Pirate's Life, Volume II

2005-09-07T22:44:00.000-04:00

Well, turns out Brown was a creepy skeeze. After he gave me a cheek kiss on my way out of the last apartment, B. and I both agreed that I would not be in contact with him and should we need some mail, B. will be the one to pick it up. It's not that cheek kisses are necessarily harmful, but simply disrespectful to a woman who has made her committed partnership with another person crystal clear.

Speaking of crystalline clarity, I ran into an ex-boyfriend tonight. I knew that he was vaguely in New York somewhere, maybe going to Columbia University but just kind of assumed that I would either run into him somewhere and be surprised, or that I would never see him and not be too concerned about it. So it's the former rather than the latter, but the twist is that he goes to Pratt too, and is in the Library Science program, as am I.

I saw him, a familiar form bobbing around in a classroom, on the sixth floor of campus and peered in discreetly to make sure it was him. I waited for him after class and he was duly surprised by my presence. We made our way down to the street below, where he offered to walk to the subway station with me to catch up on the last several years. Not so fast, though--first we had to stop and chat with three female friends of his waiting for him outside the building. One of them, frizzy-haired and glasses-wearing (ahem...just like me), was clearly enamored with him. She walked with us for a few minutes and when I talked with him about his family that I'd recently seen in Salt Lake, the girl offered up her observations on his family, making it known to me that she knew his family more intimately than I. Her enthusiasm, I'm sure, was nothing more than a cover for her suspicions about my relationship to this boy.

And therein lies the crystalline clarity. I know so exactly what this boy is about that I simply looked at this girl and felt sympathy for her. No, I wanted to tell her, no, he will never be serious about you. Get real. The dark mysterious exterior hides nothing of interest, so don't bother. I could imagine that she was eyeing me, sizing me up in terms of what he has told her. In fact, she mistook me for someone else he had told her about, saying "Lucy? Is this Lucy..." before he interrupted her and shook his head. No, I'm not that one. I'm the other one.

We chatted for a few minutes and I told him about my dad and he invited me to a party on Friday. I'm hoping to get in touch with his sister, who lives with him in NYC, so me and B. will probably show up. But this time I made myself absolutely clear from the get-go.

"I moved here with my boyfriend. Haven't you met him? I think your sister has, and so has your dad. Oh, yeah, and your mom's met him too. Anyway, we've been dating for over two years now and he's a musician."

I could have told him more. I could have told him about how B. wakes me up with coffee or toast, how B. lets me use his shirt as a tissue when I cry, or how I woke up in the old gross apartment one day to a surprisingly fresh lemon scent and discovered that B. had pulled out the fridge, dishwasher, and oven to clean it all up and put down roach traps. All so I could live there for another ten days. So I suppose I could have told him all this and said, "This is a BOYFRIEND. A person I love and who loves me back."

But instead I just sat there and savored for a minute. I savored the fact that I have been over him for years and that I know there's better out there 'cause I have it.

Thar She Blows!

2005-09-02T23:40:00.000-04:00

B. and I are feeling a little bit embarrassed right now.

Walking around our neighborhood today, running errands, we both decided that we actually-gasp-kind of enjoyed the area. It's friendly and bustling even in the evening, and though it does get kind of sketchy late night, I think our initial judgment was too harsh. That said, our hatred of our current apartment has been growing every day. The more traps we set out, the more brown goop we spread in cracks, the more holes we caulk; the roaches are a determined foe and seem to be reproducing with greater force than our counterattacks. The fumigator has come and gone to no avail, and inexplicably, I see more roaches every day. They have now spread into the living room and I am feeling guilty that I have not mentioned this problem to the incoming tenant (which is technically not my purview; the landlord is required by law to disclose these sorts of issues).

The incoming tenant, let's call him Brown, stopped by last night somewhere after 11 p.m. Since our doorbell doesn't work, he knocked on the window and we buzzed him in. He's a forty year old techie, fresh off a divorce and vulnerable looking. He looks as though he weighs in at about eighty pounds, and the long sleeves of his business casual shirts cover up full sleeve tattoos from his younger days. I have enjoyed a few conversations with him, having run into him at the local coffee shop, enough to sort of establish a rapport as fellow dog lovers. Last night we (including B.) got into an involved conversation about our histories, and I found out that he lost his dad when he was in his twenties, too. Somewhere in the midst of all this, he starts inquiring about me and B.'s relationship. Are we married? Are we a couple? Etc. I, very naively, do not find this strange and assume that he was trying to find out if we are squares or not (sidenote: this is a typical conversational occurence when living in Utah and meeting possible new friends--you find out if they are married, which if you are my age, usually connotes LDS Church membership and therefore non-boozers).

Later, B. tells me to keep an eye on Brown. Though I was growing fond of the idea of Brown as a new friend, B. suspects that he was inquiring about our status with the idea of asking me out. I did not think of this, being that I thought my relationship with B. was clear and also that Brown is forty--I suppose I thought him too old to ask out a twenty-four year old. But now, previous conversations with Brown become more clear and I realize that this is true and also that I may have been overly friendly and given him the wrong idea. I do this a lot.

I often assume strangers have the purest, friendliest of intentions for me, though this is often not true and feelings get bristled. B. says not to worry too much about it, but instead to envision single men having a large, erect penis whispering in their ear while they converse with me. B. insists that penises think as well as brains do, and while I would like to believe this is not so, all my experience only tends to belie B.'s point. Readers--what do you think?

Anywaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay. B. and I are moving tomorrow, with the much appreciated help of lovely friends. We are again delving into uncharted Internet waters, but I am always spying for ships I can loot. With any luck, we will again have a pirated connection!

The Motley Crue

2005-08-30T19:30:00.000-04:00

I have dubbed my graduating class the Motley Crue and I think you'll agree with me. There's not a whole lot that unites us, apart from the fact that we go to school together.

We are led by aforementioned adviser who made me cry in her office. Today she was wearing a sort of brightly flowered muumuu type dress, as she is wont to do, loads of black eyeliner, long fake red nails, and some sort of copper coil around her neck.

One girl is from Portland, Oregon. I will not publish her name, but it's very hippie-esque; for now, we shall call her Garden Bird. Garden Bird has a small, upturned nose, long pale face, and wears drapey garments and wooden jewelry. She promptly invited me to go to the food co-op with her in Park Slope. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I am an evil capitalist and will be using Fresh Direct to get my groceries delivered.

Another girl, whose name escapes me, is from South Carolina. She has frizzy blonde hair, and is always raising her hand to ask for details. As in, "Professor, you mentioned an internship? Who do we talk to about that? Where are they located? Do you have their phone number? What about email?" She always looks kind of cold and superior, not very forthcoming at all. Today she wore a bright pink mesh shirt over a black tank top and a matching pink butterfly clip in her hair. It was truly a flash from the eighties.

Yet a third girl I both envy and despise. Probably the second because of the first. She is Asian and has beautiful hair that refuses to frizz in the heat, remaining stick straight and impossibly shiny under all circumstances. She seems to know everyone (it's only the first week of school!) and has absolutely no extraneous fat on her body, whatsoever, allowing her to wear clingy, revealing clothes that look stunning on her. When I walked in, sweaty and frizzy from the heat, she was having a discussion with an acquaintance about how much she loves the heat and how good it is for her yoga. Sure thing. Good for yoga. Right.

Fourthly is the friendly girl. She's from Pennsylvania, and this is her first foray out of the woods. She is always friendly, but never fashionable, in mom pants and flowered t-shirts. She has a severe underbite and just received her bachelor's degree this year.

Then there's me. Frizzy, cynical, and fresh off the boat, just like everyone else.

I'm Working on Being Grateful (But It's Still in Progress)

2005-08-25T16:52:00.000-04:00

My first official day of school will be this Monday. Until then, there are all sorts of "Introduce Yourself" functions of the type I exactly despise. I'm trying hard not to be cynical, but no, I do not want to think of a word that rhymes with my name.

I did go to a reception for incoming Art History graduate students today, which was somewhat interesting. There are a total of twelve of us, and of those twelve, there are three (including me) that are dual degrees in Art History and Library Science. All the professors got up and spoke about their work, using huge unintelligible words to puff themselves up. "My name is Professor Edwards, and I have recently published an article on criticalist post-deconstructionist modernist bullshit, which I think you all should read." Anyway.

I guess one of the reasons that I am feeling so cynical is that I forgot what going to school is like. Colleges are insane bureaucracies, and I spent the day shuffling around from one office to another trying to figure out my financial aid. When I finally got in to see my counselor, he treated me like a child and insisted that I had not filled out the entrance exam online. When I told him every minute detail about my loans, subsidized, unsubsidized, alternative, and all the forms I filled out, he finally believed that it was the office who fucked things up.

I also had a session with the head of the Department, a heavyset woman with crazy taste in earrings and short, spiky, auburn hair. I had prayed that this woman would be nice to me, because I had a breakdown the night before and I really needed her to be sensitive. But such is my life that this cannot happen. She first chastised me for not bringing record of my Library Science classes, which I registered for in May and cannot for the life of me remember that far back. Then she criticized me for not knowing which classes I wanted to take, when I had thought she would advise me on how to register in order to fill some requirements. After she started laughing at me for not being prepared, I just started to cry. She was such a complete bitch, and I had just hoped so hard that she would be nice to me, that she would be the first friendly face I would meet at Pratt. My hopes fell pretty hard that day.

While I am looking forward to all the perks of school social life and everything, I really feel focused on the "school" aspect of all this. I just want to get my study on and then get out of Pratt. I'm ready already to be done with name games and getting to know everyone; I just want to get my degree.

PS. I'm going to be a grading assistant this semester. Watch out, froshies!!! Just kidding. I don't know what the hell I'm doing.

B. and I found this on a neighborhood watering spot. I swear I didn't put it there, swear.

Count your blessings, Sweet Lou: B. and I got a great apartment in Park Slope that I am really excited about. The landlord is a funny Italian guy who gave us a deal because he thought I was cute. He came down on the rent a bit and only made us put down first month's rent and a month's rent as deposit (usually they ask for first month's rent, last month's rent, plus deposit) which gives us a bit of breathing room as far as money goes.

We get to move out next weekend (hurrah! hurrah!). No more roaches! I shall overcome!

On another note, I found out that my dad left most of his estate to me and my sister. I wasn't expecting anything (and actually didn't desire anything past his artwork and a few objects that maybe he saw and used every day), so to receive his house, that he designed and built, just brought me to tears. I miss him so much; I would give anything for just another day. I know people say that a lot, but it's true. I would give anything for more time.

Who's Got the Crack?

2005-08-23T17:30:00.000-04:00

Sigh. I am tired, tired, tired.

I think I say this a lot, but I mean it every time. This time, I mean that I am tired of apartment hunting, being on my feet all day, thinking it's just a short jaunt over to the next viewing and later realizing it's a lot longer than I thought. Orientation for school has started, and it's a trip. Half my time will be spent at the Pratt Manhattan campus for my library science degree. Most of the other students in this program are older adults, mid-thirties to mid-fifties, returning to school in the hopes of making themselves marketable in the age of information. The other half my time will be spent at the Pratt Brooklyn campus, alongside mostly undergraduates. Most of my time in orientation so far has been spent with said undergraduates, most of whom are spending too much time trying to be the person they always wished they were because now they have the chance to remake themselves.

Sometimes when I write my blog, I find myself trying to make humorous little anecdotes out of my experiences. I forget that I'm writing mostly for myself, and I don't have to gloss anything over for the benefit of others. I look at the last two posts I've written, and it's like when I was writing them I forgot to mention how many times I've sobbed in the last two weeks, how many times I've yelled at B. in frustration, how many times I've sat down and just missed my dad, how many times I've wished I was at home. I made the decision to go to grad school last January, eight months ago. I thought I had it all figured out. Now, eight months later, I can't remember who the person was that made this decision. I can't remember what I was thinking when I decided to move away from my family, from the the humdrum familiarity of Salt Lake, from the comfort of a spacious house and yard.

Sometimes I feel like I'm caught in a glass jar. I can see and talk to my family and friends, but it's always through a barrier that I have to yell to be heard through. It's just kind of lonely like that, like no one quite commiserates with you because you're the only one in the jar. I can sort of express myself, but I am never quite fully with the world--it's always at a distance.

The good news today is that we might have an apartment. We had applied for an apartment on the Upper East Side that didn't end up working out; then I had seen an apartment in Park Slope that I loved, so we applied for that one. Liz had recommended the area, and both B. and I really liked it there. That apartment also fell through, but there's another apartment in the same building that we are hoping will work out (don't ask about the rent, 'cause it's a little higher than we budgeted, but we love it). We hear back tomorrow.

There was one apartment listed on Craig's List that sounded great. We had planned to go to the open house and take a look, but as I was surfing through more apartment ads on Craig's List, I found this. Yeah, we decided to skip that one, on second thought.

We did look at one other apartment in Park Slope today. When we walked up the steps of the building, an elderly hunched man was waiting for us, holding a cup of what appeared to be urine. Yellow, yes. Frothy, yes. Looks anything like apple juice? No, it was definitely pee-like. The inside of the apartment he showed us also smelled suspiciously like pee. He told us that only professional, quiet people lived in the building, very nice people, no trouble. He was so cute and funny, but we didn't like the place so I told him that B. was in a band and the old man just said, "No. No. We are very selective, we don't just take anybody. We need quiet people." And, apparently, people who like to drink pee.

Here is a list of weird things about New York:

If you wear open-toed shoes, your feet will be so hideously filthy at the end of the day that you will not dare sully your sheets with them.

Sometimes there are human feces smeared on the walls at subway stops.

It is so humid that even when it isn't hot, you still sweat 'cause the air is like water.

Sometimes there is graffiti on the posts between subway tunnels. How do those people get past the electric rails?

I'm listening to a song on the radio called "Who's Got the Crack." It goes:

I like it when my hair is poufy
I like it when you slip me a roofie
Whoooooooooo's got the crack?

I'm rocking out, my friends.

It's A New York Birthday, Sweet Lucy

2005-08-20T20:47:00.000-04:00

Bless my friends.

What I thought was going to be a lackluster, somewhat stressful, 24th birthday actually turned out to be full of surprises.

1. B. surprises me at breakfast with an adorable card--I hadn't expected anything from him because we've been so busy with apartment hunting.

2. B. got a nice job offer from a management company in Manhattan. This will make it infinitely easier to get an apartment. His former boss also agreed to be a guarantor, if necessary.

3. I had told my friends in NYC that all I wanted for my birthday was to see them, because I have been here for two weeks with not a moment to spare for their wonderful faces. Not only do we have a wonderful dinner at a quiet sushi joint in Grenwich Village, but they bring me presents!!! I know how poor they must be from living in the city, so I was doubly surprised with how nice the presents were (a certificate for an aromatherapy facial and a copy of The Ladies' Man on DVD--both the relaxing facial and the entertainment provided are appreciated).

4. After dinner, they take me over to Magnolia Bakery for the best cupcakes I've ever had. Never ones to neglect details, they take me over to the chess tables across the street, light a candle, and sing me Happy Birthday.

I have never more appreciated a birthday than this one.

Ahoy, mateys!

2005-08-18T12:42:00.000-04:00

Once again, it's been awhile since my last post. This both because a.) my life is crazy and b.) our doorbell doesn't work, so when Time Warner showed up to set up our cable internet, they thought no one was home. Shite!

I was super pleased that Alexis from yourlefthand.blogspot.com has been reading my blog. We went on a school abroad trip to India together, and I like her a lot. I will never forget the nice things she said to me when I was really depressed my senior year of college.

In other news: at some point in the time since we've been here, we decided to move to another apartment. This is because a.) we freaked out when we saw that there had been muggings in the neighborhood lately and heard some first-hand stories of such, plus B. got harassed in the subway pretty badly when he was on his way to an interview and b.) we are right above the garbage room for our apartment building, and thus we have cockroaches and who knows what else. I do not like this, sam I am. We pulled out the kitchen appliances and cleaned all the rotting shit behind them and put out roach traps, and though I haven't seen a roach in a couple of days I am still SCARED of them.

On top of all this, we get really crappy cell phone reception in our apartment, so I haven't been able to talk to anyone lately, unless I want to sit out on the stoop and have my conversation heard by the mix tape master and everyone else who sits out there.

So, for the last week we have been stressed to the nth degree over apartments and apartment hunting. For awhile, a real estate agent was showing us apartments, but then we decided that his fee was too expensive. Then we struck out on our own, but since B. doesn't have a job yet, it's been a crazy rush of trying to find a cosigner who earns over $172K per year and loves us enough to undergo the work of sending in all their financial information. This is not fun, my friends. We found a really nice apartment on the Upper East Side that we want, but I'm not sure it will work out even though we got them all our information. My mother agreed to cosign, and she makes good money, but she has a bankruptcy on her credit report from a zillion years ago and apparently that is very damaging.

We already notified our landlord that we'd like to get out of the lease, which probably wasn't such a good idea, considering we don't have a place to go yet. The landlord got really upset and started yelling at B. that he wasn't in Kansas anymore and what did he expect, etc. Then B. added in his story about being harassed on the subway for being white, and the landlord went through the roof, basically accusing B. of being racist and not liking black people. Being accused of being racist is pretty much the worst accusation you can get anymore, aside from being an accused pedophile. So, while the landlord's really lovely secretary tried to calm him down, B. and I just looked at each other. We don't know what to do anymore. Since getting another apartment has proved to be such a trial, odds are that we are staying in Brooklyn for a while.

On top of all this?

Orientation for school starts on Saturday and I'm petrified at starting school again.

I was on top of a table trying to turn on the light on the fan and took a bad spill, bumping my head, scraping my shoulder, bruising my knee, and getting a bruise the size of Texas on my ass. B. says it looks like I sat on a raspberry-grape danish and squashed the hell out of it.

My 24th birthday is tomorrow.

Sigh. Someone get me outta here!

It's A Pirate's Life for Me!

2005-08-10T19:34:00.000-04:00

Currently, I am hunched over boyfriend's computer, typing rapidly, hoping I can spit out this blog in time enough to post it using the pirated internet connection that only works a few minutes at a time. Despite my uneasiness with using someone else's connection, I am so blissfully relieved at being online again that I have overridden my conscientious and am TYPING WITH GLEE!!!

Dear Diary, where should I begin? B. and I left Salt Lake City, Utah on Tuesday, August 2nd in a 15 foot Budget moving van, packed to the brim with furniture and embossed with the words "It's Okay to Curse at Heavy Furniture." Our route led us first south, through Capitol Reef Park in Southern Utah, to pick up a nice futon donated by my mother's generous boyfriend. We made several stops to look at petroglyphs and take pictures of the scenery that is absolutely incredible through the southern end of the Rockies. B. drove for most of the windy, narrow roads in this leg of the trip, but Sweet Lou got behind the wheel in Kansas and kicked some midwest ass. People sure don't like to be passed by a Budget rental truck darting around the interstate at 80 mph.

Kansas is incredibly boring. It's not cornfields like I thought it would be, but mostly wheatfields, interrupted by hand-painted signs on the roadsides proclaiming "Pornography Destroys" or "Church Next Exit" and "Abortion Kills." We stopped for the night just outside of St. Louis and I insisted at that point that I needed decent coffee. I'd been drinking 7-11 coffee and I was missing the real stuff pretty bad. We hopped on the freeway after receiving some vague directions from the hotel clerk to a nearby Starbucks (better than 7-11, folks). After driving for a bit, I spotted a Barnes & Noble from the freeway and screeched at B. to get off the freeway, there's always a Starbucks inside Barnes & Noble. Inded there was, and I was finally a happy camper. St. Louis wasn't pretty and new like I thought it would be. I got a good picture of the arch, but I suppose I thought the whole city would be pretty and shiny like the arch. Not so, my friends. It's a kind of big city in a bland, dirty, heavy on car traffic kind of way--not old and interesting like New York at all. I was glad when we left.

Ohio was lovely and green, with huge old bushy trees shading the interstate. We skirted Cincinnati and drove through Akron, which looked charming and quaint. It was a soothing counterpoint to both the dirtiness of St. Louis and the yellow fields of Kansas. The highway crossed over several sets of train tracks disappearing down green halls of trees, reminding me exactly of the scenery in the movie "Stand By Me." Pennsylvania was pretty too, though we drove through most of it at night. We stopped in a small town called Mercer and it was booked pretty solid for the weekend because it's near this huge outlet mall. We finally stopped at a Holiday Inn and the clerk told us she had two rooms--a regular one, and a jacuzzi suite. When she said the words "jacuzzi suite" a big smile spread across my face and I started alternately clapping my hands with joy and making my irresistible puppy dog face for B. I'm sure I looked a little psychotic, but it must have been a good show because the clerk knocked ten percent off the price for the night, providing the final persuasion for B. to relent and pony up the extra dough for the room. We had a great time watching South Park whilst in the jacuzzi.

My New York friends weren't able to help us move in when we arrived the next day, so it was just B. and me hauling our shitload of stuff into the apartment. Thank God we are on the first floor--we never would have made it otherwise. The super was nice enough to help with the heavy stuff, and I hit a wall about three quarters of the way through and needed to rest. B. finished the boxes off and then we went out to dinner.

When we got back, I hit the cleaning supplies and made sense of the bathroom because the old tenant had left the apartment an insane mess. Dusty, buggy, and overall unfit for human inhabitation. Yes, I did find small dead cockroaches. Yes, I did find old mouse droppings. Yes, I am scared of both of these creatures. But I cleaned and vacuumed like a banshee the next day while B. set up our new window air conditioner, and then I set up roach traps everywhere I could think of. I found a few small bugs in the bathroom that I believe to be baby roaches and immediately quashed them. Those are the only live bugs I have found, thank God. I really REALLY hope we don't have a problem here, Houston. Many people have insisted to me that every building in NYC has roaches, but I didn't want to believe them. I'm afraid I will be proved wrong.

Tune in next time to hear about B. being harassed on the subway for being white, the mix tape man who sits on our stoop and lectures about hip-hop, and a few tales of loneliness from a small town girl who has just discovered the culture shock that is the Big Apple.

Curse the Crack

2005-07-28T23:19:00.000-04:00

Annually, on my birthday, my mother takes me shopping for a new pair of jeans. It is the one time of year I get to pick out a nice expensive pair of jeans at Nordstrom without blinking at the price tag. This year is different though. This year I went to Nordstrom, only to find jeans so low-slung my ass is hanging out the back and my belly is hanging out the front. I am an average sized woman: 5'5"--132 lbs (give or take a few at any time) with my weight spread in the way that women's weight is usually spread, namely through the hips, ass, and stomach. I am not an hourglass, and could not be without some plastic surgery. I do not regret this. All I regret, at the moment, is that I can look over my shoulder and down the back of myown pants.

Curse the low-rise jean! Curse the companies who make them! Curse the magazines and the models who made them so inexplicably popular! Curse them all!

In other news, I finished Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince today. Then I cried. Now I have been feeling kind of low all night, Harry Potter having reminded me of my own loss. But I have been roaming over the details of the novel all night; fellow HP readers, who do you think R.A.B. is?

Bittersweet

2005-07-28T14:31:00.000-04:00

I cried last night at the family barbeque for me and my sis' birthdays (we're both Leos, she's July 25 and I'm August 19). I am going to miss them like the dickens. I feel like a little chickadee leaving the nest, even though I'm almost 24 . . . I do feel pretty fragile right now, which is why I used the chickadee analogy, I suppose. Kind of raw and babylike, scared at the big bad world but needing to prove my mettle.

Boyfriend and I leave on Tuesday morning for NYC with all our stuff in a U-haul. We'll arrive on Friday night and unpack on Saturday morning with the help of friends, who actually offered to help us unload though I thought it would be too mean to ask them! They are great. I have to remind myself that their sweet lovin' awaits me.

Clockwise: Sweet Lucy and sister (S.L. is nerdy girl with glasses), Sweet Lucy and friends in NYC restaurant, Sweet Lucy's sister and her son, Sweet Lucy and nephew.

Have Mouse, Will Travel

2005-07-24T22:31:00.000-04:00

I sit down at the computer and immediately, the ten thousand things I wanted to tell you race out of my head. Grieving is like existing in a vacuum; you can't remember what you did five minutes ago, you can't think of what you will do five minutes from now, but you know you must have done something . . . Otherwise, where did the days go? It's the same thing with thoughts; grieving will abruptly wipe the end of a sentence out of your mouth and leave you searching for something that seems like it was just here . . . somewhere . . .

B. and I went down to Torrey, a small community in Central Utah, to take a mini-holiday and celebrate our two-year anniversary (official as of today). The red cliffs in Torrey are not just red, they are brilliantly fiery, and no matter how many times you pass the same cliffs, they never lose their ability to startle you with their color. Time has whittled them into crazy shapes; some of them look like people, maybe ancient saints or shamans, huddling in clusters, and others are lined with caves, looking like coral just emerged from the sea.

On the way home, a small field mouse somehow got into B.'s car, actually underneath the hood. We drove for three and a half hours without stopping, and when we reached the city stop-and-go traffic, the little guy poked his head out and darted up the windshield. I couldn't believe he had survived under there, but apparently it was possible. I wonder what he feels now; an obviously country brown and white mouse, entering the city, only to encounter gray mice hereafter. He will stick out like a sore thumb, that's for sure. I hope he finds some way to survive up here; maybe some kindred city mouse will show him the ropes. This is what I hope for him.

B. and I listened to Postal Service and talked about music on the way home. I watched the red rocks roll out of sight and grew more silent while he made phone calls to his buddies to set up poker night. Grieving is a lonely business, no matter who's around you. You tend to feel pretty much insane going through it, cause it doesn't feel like any one thing at once; it feels like a billion things at once. It is sadness, anxiety, insecurity, endless stream of thought about life and death and meaning, it is worry that you will never come out the other side, it is fear of everything in general and nothing in particular. It creeps down the back of your neck and makes you weep with a bodily force that stops and starts at odd times, especially around random acquaintances that have the misfortune to ask what you have been doing for the past couple of months. It is need for shelter, security, and love in great degree.

I'm getting kind of tired of all of it, to be honest. I know it's a process, I guess I just wish it would hurry itself up. I'd like to be happy now.

Untitled Loose Thoughts

2005-07-18T00:06:00.000-04:00

From day to day, I'm not sure what I'm going to experience with this whole grieving thing. Some days, life feels vaguely exciting; I'm moving after all, and will be starting school in the fall. Other days, not so good. Other days, life feels truly terrifying. Tragedy waits around every corner, has the indecency to parade around in broad daylight, relentlessly haunting my everyday life. One of my mother's friends passed away a couple of days ago, cancer. My boyfriend's boss' wife is trying new age therapeutic techniques in an attempt to shrink her eight cancerous tumors. Friends' fathers and mothers, grandparents, everyone seems stricken lately. All this, plus take into account the other ballooning fears in my life (boyfriend has red bumps on his elbow--what mysterious and fatal ailment should I chalk this up to? And why won't he see a doctor about this?!?) and we have one anxious Lucy.

It's something the grief books don't really discuss very much, the incredible anxiety that arrives shortly after the death of a loved one. But my mother assures me it's completely normal, that when her mother died, she wouldn't let us kids out of her sight for months on end. The grief books do say it might be awhile before I really experience joy and contentment again; sometimes there is a general feeling that joy might at some time reenter my life, but feeling is brief and fragile, no matter how much I try to cling to it.

Good Things:
Our new apartment in Brooklyn has one of the only dishwashers to be found in apartments in New York City.
New apartment is also pet-friendly.
I will get to reconnect with old friends from college who live in NYC, as well as possibly making the cyber world real by meeting Liz of Liz is Working fame, and/or Mimi of Mimi in New York.
The only constant in life is change; therefore, my current state of mind cannot last forever.

I wish I could think of more right now, but I'm awfully tired. I have a tendency to really zone out lately, stare out into space, get lost in thought, but then when I try and catch those thoughts, they evaporate.

One more good thing.

I am reading the new Harry Potter, the frilly fantasy being a welcome distraction.

Broken Down Palace

2005-07-12T22:01:00.000-04:00

I have now been in NYC for about six days. It's been a whirlwind tour starring slumlords, shabby apartments, garbage smells, and windows overlooking the BQE (Brooklyn-Queens Expressway). We've seen thirteen apartments, and are slated to sign the lease on a nice little two-bedroom on Washington Avenue (two blocks from Pratt). It's in a really cute area--I will be sure to post pictures in the next week. It needs a good cleaning, but I am thanking the Lord that we actually found a nice place in a nice neighborhood for a nice price.

That said, my attention has been equally split between tiresome apartment hunting and grief. The first two days were the hardest; two numbed days of sleep and tears. Every night in our cave slash hotel room, I have broken down and just sobbed. I know that my father's death was expected, but somehow that fact doesn't make the blow any easier.

I feel as if, and I know the phrase is trite, the rug has slipped out from under me. The world suddenly feels like a terrifying place; if my father can die, really only having had the "terminal" diagnosis for only two months, what else can happen? The anxiety is overwhelming. Anything seems possible, tragedy ready to strike at any minute, especially heightened by the attacks in London. Apartment hunting has been a welcome, if stressful, distraction from my grief and anxiety. I can only hope that school will be a happy distraction for me. Although it hasn't been long since my father passed away, I hope that I am in for some happiness soon. Grieving is difficult times; it is both like being hit with a baseball bat and the slow withering of a leaf, confounded by a disturbing realization that anything can happen, at any time, the good coupled with the tragic.

Sigh. I wish the world didn't have to go and break my bubble.

There Are No Words

2005-07-05T23:09:00.000-04:00

My father passed away early this morning, shown the way by an array of fireworks and celebrations of Independence.

There's nothing to say, really, about how sad I am, even though I have been expecting this for a long time. So I will leave it at that. I love him very much.

Happy Fourth of July, Everyone

2005-07-04T16:53:00.000-04:00

Fourth of July.

Sigh.

Happy Independence Day, Sonny. It's good you're coming home soon.

Fourth of July is my father's favorite holiday. It's also his wedding anniversary to my stepmother, and this year, I think, marks 16 years. Two days ago, he stopped being able to take water, and it will be a matter of days now...

Sigh.

My dad loves the U.S. It was such a big step up for his parents (see my earlier posting "There Once Was a Dream") and though the U.S. has not developed its moral conscience along with its cache of weapons, I do love this country and there is nowhere on earth I would rather be. I marvel at the opportunity I have to be able to go to school, study what I wish to study, and the fact that there is enough money in this country to lend me $100,000 to study what seems somewhat arcane (Art History and Library Science) and useless in the face of global issues (hope everyone supported World8 concerts this weekend).

But I reassure myself that beauty is never useless, and the science of information access will be exploding with interest, still, in the decades to come, as we fight for the right to privacy, issues of expiring copyrights, and pirated books on the Internet. There will be a use for me somewhere.

Boyfriend and I leave on Thursday to scout for apartments in Brooklyn. We'll be back in a week to pack up our stuff, celebrate our anniversary in Central Utah under the stars, see his nephew be born in late July, and then we'll be on our way. Wish us luck.

I love you.

Lucy the Cynic

2005-06-28T22:54:00.000-04:00

Oy vey.

I got an email from Pratt Institute the other day, saying they had set up a message board for incoming students. I took a look around today and found mostly freshpeople posting, using extended lines of exclamation points and smiley faces to express their true, unbridled joy at being undergraduate students. Good luck with that, freshies.

Seeing all that enthusiasm expressed in punctuation marks made me feel more cynical than ever. I suppose it's just today TODAY, but I'm feeling totally irritated and mean, which has been brought on by a few minor happenings.

1. My credit score is 653. When I got the report from the credit agency, it underlined the numerical score with the word POOR. And yes, they used caps for that. Fuckers. My credit is poor because of one bill from a healthcare provider that I never received, and thus never paid. Apparently, I have been taken to collections. All these years of anxiety provoked by worrying about late payments=worthless.

2. The dog threw up today. It stinks.

3. I have free floating generalized anxiety right now, normal for my life being in such upheaval. The last few days the anxiety has settled upon something solid that I can worry about e.g. my looks. Just going through one of those times when I feel terribly hideous and ugly, like the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I don't know if boys really understand this feeling very well, but I know my girls out there know what this is like.

4. I went running today. It was fucking hard. I completed a half-marathon in January, was feeling pretty bad-ass, only to return to the gym after my time in Cali and be gasping like an asthmatic on the treadmill. Taking care of yourself is a lot of work. I'm not sure I'm up to it.

5. Student loans are lovely and awful. The lovely part is that they enable me to go to grad school and even pay for my apartment while I do it. The shitty part is that they don't come in until after school starts, which means I will be broke ASS until I get them. Don't they know I need to eat and sleep the whole month of August, damn them?????

6. The Fourth of July is coming up. My dad's wedding anniversary and almost-favorite holiday. This will be the first year since their marriage (16 years now, I think) that my dad and stepmother (also starring Lucy and Sister as Free Labor) are not throwing a big bash for all their friends, for the obvious reasons. Weird and sad and relieving (remember how I don't like small-talk? Parties with lots of people I don't know well can be torturous).

I suppose I should feel better now, you know, after getting it all out. I'm not sure I do.

Weekend Update with Sweet Lucy

2005-06-26T18:44:00.000-04:00

Oh, little blog, I have missed you! This is the first time I have been able to sit down and write for a minute. Living at home, I have little privacy. This is what has happened this week:

Boyfriend moved into my house with me and my mom until we move to NYC. He was living with his brother, but his brother moved in his girlfriend and the kids, so he had to go. This necessitated making room for all his music gear in the garage, entailing vacuuming mice droppings (ew) and heavy lifting to organize all the skis, Christmas gear, and lawn equipment into a cohesive pile.

Boyfriend's brother went into the hospital, causing quite a stir with the neighbors when the EMTs rolled him out in a wheelchair. Boyfriend's brother looks nothing like boyfriend; brother looks more like a Viking, 6 feet tall, 240 lbs, blonde, just in general a big guy. So we were all pretty worried when big guy was down for the count. Turned out to be an intestinal infection caused by sketchy food consumption, of which I have had many bouts with during my stay in India and can vouch that said infection makes you feel like you've been hit by a grille front truck.

I went and saw boyfriend's sister new baby. She is very small and big-eyed. I am always amazed at how little baby things can have all those necessary organs. They are so miniature. How is this possible? (Well, I'm not dumb, I know how it's possible, but it's still fucking amazing).

I have ventured out and seen a few friends. This has been beneficial for me, but also awkward. I don't know how to sum up my whole two-month venture in California. In Salt Lake, it is impossible to avoid chance encounters with vague acquaintances, and said encounters are wearing. I try to be honest, but at the same time, I pretty much don't feel like talking about things. There's nothing to say that will properly explain it all. But I know people mean well, which is important in itself.

Being at home, I have fallen into old habits which are not necessarily my favorite ones. Saying yes to whatever is asked of me is second nature, because I truly want to support my family. But I wish that they didn't feel I was so strong, and would consider that I really need down time right now. Salt Lake is riling my nerves in the same old ways it always has, by being deathly quiet, closed-minded, and possessing an unnatural amount of unfriendly drivers. I am having elaborate nightmares, mixed in with bouts of insomnia. Boyfriend and I are trying to settle in to living together, which is an awkward transition. We are so used to making our time "quality" time, we don't know what to make of the hours when we are both in the house but doing separate activities. It feels strange, but I'm glad of quiet company.

I can't wait for New York.

Luuuuuucy! I'm hooome!!!

2005-06-21T20:51:00.000-04:00

I used to watch a lot of I Love Lucy when I was a kid.

Anyway, I am home and I feel like someone has beaten the crap out of me. I'm tired and headachey. I don't sleep right and my bones are tired. I'm pretty loopy, and I keep wandering off, looking over peoples shoulders when they're talking to me, unfocused and kind of loose in space. I can't seem to accomplish much but throwing the ball for the dog, which seems okay enough for now, at least for the dog.

I think I've done right. Being home doesn't magically make things better, but at least I can let go a little and feel like my friends and family are holding out their arms, will catch me as I fall. But I am tired, tired, tired.

Utah is desperately hot and quiet. No one can go outside when it's like this, at least not until late late at night. So everything seems eerily quiet. This makes me depressed. Berkeley was noisier, busier, and it was reassuring to me. It seems like someone hit the slow motion button on Salt Lake; people are even driving slower, as they peer over to make sure the AC is on high and fan themselves with a free hand.

My oldest sister (we're actually half-sisters; she has a different father, but I don't think of her as half of anything) is trying to cheer me up. She sends me all these forwards with funny pictures or videos in them. The latest one I got is of this old guy and he's holding up a huge fish in his right hand, and then you scroll down the page and see that his horse dick is hanging out of his shorts. The title is "Grandpa's Trout: Priceless." I didn't know what to think.

Then I decided to laugh.

Sometimes Pictures Seem More Real Than Reality

2005-06-17T15:28:00.000-04:00

The contents of my brain.

I am leaving Berkeley tomorrow.
I don't know how to grieve. Will it be like a train wreck or the slow withering of an autumn leaf?
I have written my father's obituary.
A friend has been enlisted to say the Kaddish for him when he passes on.
The Kaddish is the Jewish prayer for the dead. It really doesn't say much about death, mostly it says that the living will keep on believing in God, despite the death of a loved one.
I will never see my father again.
I am excited to go home, and I feel guilty about this.
Sometimes I feel that I will not exist tomorrow. I don't know what will happen, but I cannot see tomorrow. It's just clouded over.
I saw my father's shoes in my bedroom last night. I broke down and cried at the sight of them, and then thought about stealing them so I could look at them every day for the rest of my life.
There are still ants in the bathtub, despite that I have heartlessly killed their comrades.
How do you say goodbye to someone who is really already gone? He hasn't recognized me for weeks. I have been caring for him as if his soul is on vacation, but his body is still here.
I feel sometimes like a sleepwalker who has been awakened too abruptly. I look around, and everything feels like it cannot be true. It doesn't fit into my idea of reality.
Will it be goodbye? Or will it be something else?
The Twenty-Third Psalm makes me feel better (you know, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death...)
I hate what the Bible says about women.
What should I do?
JCB is harassing Willow. This is not right.
It will be good to be home. I miss the dog. I had a dream last night that I was taking care of all these dogs, and they kept escaping from the house and the yard into the street. There was not an adequate fence around the yard, and I just couldn't keep track of them all.
I have a scar on my left hand that resembles the acid kisses from Fight Club. It is a result of severe Itchy Skin Syndrome, and I have been scratching at it like a banshee.
I am distracted, distracting myself from the task at hand, which is too hard to contemplate.

One Hundred Years of Solitude

2005-06-16T19:01:00.000-04:00

I am a person who values solitude.

I despise idle chatter, about the flowers, about the football players over there, about how we are settling in for some nice rain. I find this kind of talk absolutely useless. While I may be pondering these same items in my brain, I have no use for including them in conversation. What for? I much prefer silence over meaningless conversation. Many people find me rude or snobbish, or are simply at a loss with what to do with a quiet person who values her own thoughts above their inane conversation pieces.

But-here is my advantage-I am the easiest friend you will ever have. I do not demand any conversation, neither do I require entertainment, excitement, nor any other stimulation. I am quite happy wandering about freely in my brain, exploring ideas, following thoughts to their logical, or illogical, conclusion. People don't seem to accept this part of me very easily, and many complain that I am secretive, avoidant of company, or that I don't like to "have fun." These people generally would rather die than sit in solitude. I believe this happens more as people grow older; it's also informed by a certain generation of people who were raised to think they needed a partner.

These are the people who yak away to themselves, about what they are doing, how they are doing it. They like to laugh out loud at the newspaper or exclaim "Oh my!" at something they are reading, in order to force others to interact with them. They make large sighs, expecting someone to ask them what they are pondering to result in such a large sigh.

I, however, hunch down, press the coffee cup to my lips, and disappear.

It's in the Cards

2005-06-15T18:51:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I went down to Telegraph Avenue to look at the Cody's bookstore. As I was headed up Telegraph to get my car, I decided to get a Tarot card reading done. Old hippies line the streets of Telly, offering this service, and this is the first time I have ever taken anybody up on it. I am a practical person and realize that the man, who introduced himself as Wizard, has no special powers of perception, no extraordinary talents, or anything of the like to offer me. I simply wanted to talk to someone who knows nothing about my life; I wanted to see myself through different eyes.

So I sat in his chair and picked out ten cards. I told Wizard all the things I was asking about life, my questions about death, about the happiness of my family. After I poured it out, he looked at me and said, "Do you want to ask anything about your own life?"

I sat there for a minute. "No. Just the others."

I can't remember all the cards he put on the table. They were pretty, soft and feathery from use, and I was mesmerized by the sound of his voice and sitting in the warm sun. The message from him, in condensed form, was simply that I needed to be decisive about my life."Mind over matter," he said, and after this period of unstability in my life, there is creativity, love, and energy, if I can convert my worried thoughts (represented in the cards as the Ten of Swords, or Ruin) into positive changes in my life.

I have to let go. Of everything. Worry is bringing me down, leaving me paralyzed about my own life; I can never seem to let go of my need to make others happier, to make their lives easier, more breathable. My worry, I think, is more of an attempt to solve my own anxiety about not being able to change their lives for them; my worry is about trying to find a resolution about my own power and responsibility in the world. In one hand is my naievete, which believes wholeheartedly that I can change the world; in the other hand is my cynicism, which shouts that there's nothing I can do ever, about anything in this world. They can't seem to come to any peaceful agreement; I hover between them, scuttling back and forth across enemy lines as needed, working as a double agent.

Give peace a chance, eh?

Painful Truth

2005-06-13T18:02:00.000-04:00

I am going to try and be as honest as I can in this post, without being unnecessarily mean or revealing about what I am going to say.

One of the reasons these past two months have been so difficult for me is that I do not get along with a family member, the person who is my father's health care proxy i.e. the person who makes decisions for him in situations where he is unable to make said decisions. My father has been without food for about three weeks now. I have thought to myself, at times, that we should do away with his water as well. It is the policy of some hospice care organizations to not give intravenous food or water if the person cannot take them by mouth, because it extends the dying process and is thought to be more painful. I have mentioned this to the proxy, who initially said that we (meaning the family) should all be in consensus about my father's health care. Now the proxy has taken this back, and has called taking away water an act of "murder." Part of this is because he has not been able to take food by mouth since November, when he was fitted with a gastric tube, being as that his throat cancer was so large, it was obstructing the passage way. So the food and water decisions have been up to us for a long time. It is a painful decision, any way you go about it. Regardless of whether the process is slow or fast, my father is dying. He seems only a shell now and has not recognized me for weeks. He is thin, nothing but bone really, and my hope is that he is so far gone that he has no idea what is happening. If he could see himself now, he would be horrified.

The proxy and I have not gotten along since the day we met, essentially my whole life. My policy while I have been here is to avoid and ignore. When the proxy is around, I retreat to my room or take the car out. When avoidance is impossible, I simply ignore the proxy, for the safety of my own mental health. Last night, the proxy mentioned a nursing home. I mentioned the water issue, which led into a very hashed out night of fighting and tears. I retreated to my room and went to bed without dinner (actually, I found some m'n'ms in my room and ate those).

After the hashing out, I have made a decision that I have been avoiding for many weeks. I have to leave. I had been hoping that God would take my father first, so I would not have to be the one that left. But graduate school in NYC is looming in two months. I have to finish my schoolwork from the University of Utah that I could not complete because I left my life so abruptly. I have to find an apartment in New York and register for classes. Because my father no longer recognizes me, I do not think I am a comfort any longer. The proxy has promised me that he will not go into a nursing home, and that they will take care of my dad. The proxy will have to sit with me and study what I do for my dad, learn the medications, the signs for medication, to check his temperature, but essentially I don't believe my father feels much anymore. Many people have told me that at the end of life, patients stop requesting pain medication because their body simply takes care of them; it shields them from the pain.

This weekend my boyfriend will be coming out to get me and bring me home. I will have to say a final goodbye to my father and after that, I am sure that I will be in no state to get myself through the Oakland Airport.

Fuck. FUCK!!!!!

PS. Willow, I'm so sorry things went downhill with JCB. Now I understand why Sonny doesn't have comments on his blog. Too bad JCB ruined it for the rest of us! You are beautiful in all ways, know that.

I Was Born This Way

2005-06-12T16:52:00.000-04:00

I have a myriad of funny habits. They include, but are not limited to:

Not mixing flavors. I order what I want at a restaurant, and if I wanted to try yours, I would have ordered it. So, no, I do not want a bite of that.

Needing to listen to booty r'n'b and gangsta rap when I go running. When you're a little white girl like me, you need something to make you feel like a badass. That's also why I go the community gym, where there are lots of old and (and this is pretty shameful, I know) overweight people. I can't handle being compared to jocks and cheerleaders--I need to go where the real people are.

Not locking doors on bedrooms. What if there's a fire, and the firemen can't get in to save us 'cause the bedroom door is locked?

Corollary: Worrying about all kinds of disasters. Do you smell gas? What if there's an earthquake and I can't get the dog out of the house? What if the dog gets stolen? Did I leave the oven on? This usually occurs either in the wee hours of the morning or during a movie that my boyfriend is enthralled with.

Reading ahead in books. Say I'm on page one; I'll read page two, and then go back and read page one. I never go very far, I just skip back and forth between a couple of pages. It's because I'm so anxious to find out what happens, once I do find out what happens, then I can relax and go back and enjoy reading without all the anxiety. I know. It's wacky.

Keeping phone conversations short and sweet, if I see or talk to the person on an almost daily basis. Guaranteed that two, probably three, members of my family will call me daily, just to see what's happening. Sometimes the nephew also calls, though he as well, promptly gets bored of the conversation and hands the phone over to whoever is with him.

Sample Conversation:

Sister: Hi!
Me: Hi.
Sister: Whatcha doin'?
Me: Working. Do you need something?
Sister: No, I just called to say Hi!
Me: Ummm, okay. I have work to do.
Sister: You're not nice. I'll call Mom. Bye!

No one around me is allowed to speak ill of any of my dogs, all past and present ones included. For example, sometimes my boyfriend will enter the house and summon Miles, the dog, by saying, "C'mere, li'l fucker!" While he insists the dog doesn't understand what he's saying and hence the joke, I still vote no. Even my basset hound Lucy, who, I admit, was not the brightest student, is still referred to with reverential awe. Dogs are good. It's humans who cause all the evil in the world.

I also don't shut blinds, whatever time of day or night, whether I am nekkid or clothed. In our current house, we didn't have blinds on any of the windows, bathrooms included, for about four months. I don't look in other people's windows, they shouldn't look in mine.

I am constantly afraid that I am somehow on the wrong side of the road. It stems from my time in India, where I rode my bike around for a month trying to keep vigilant about being on the left side of the road, while battling goats, camels, scooters, and hordes of street children. I always look around to make sure other people are going the same direction I am, but it's pretty much a fear that hovers around me every time I drive.

I'm snoopy. When I go into your bathroom, I will look in your mirror cabinet, examine your prescription bottles, and see what kind of deodorant you use. These are things that people don't usually offer up, but the little items are so revealing, I can't really help myself. It's terrible. I know.

PS. Sonny? Whatever you choose to call your marker belt, it's still hilarious.

Guns and Dreams

2005-06-11T18:40:00.000-04:00

I had a dream last night that I was in a car with some friends and we were driving in reverse on the freeway. We were still going with the flow of traffic, but we were peering out the rear windshield while everyone else around us was driving normally. We couldn't change the way we were going because we were on the freeway and everything was going so fast, there was no way to stop and turn around and drive front ways. The strange thing was that no one else seemed to think or care about this issue. I would have preferred to drive normally, but I was the only one asking why we had to drive this way.

I have studied dreams for a long time, worked on them, written them down; I tend to have really vivid dreams. I even attended a dream conference in the Bay Area hosted by IASD about two years ago. Cars in dreams are usually a metaphor for the self (though in Jungian interpretation, everyone and everything in the dream is a metaphor for the dreamer). I often have dreams where the car I am driving is going too fast, or the brakes don't work very well and I'm afraid I am going to hit someone. This is one of the first dreams I've had where I am not driving the car. . .

I ventured out in public today. Whenever I go out lately, I want to hug everyone I see. They look so normal, so content. They smile, and I just want to wrap them in my arms and tell them how beautiful they look. I adore strangers. But once they start getting too close, I realize that I have projected normalcy on them and the desire to hug fades quickly once they are revealed.

After a few days of rainy weather, the butterflies have returned to their tree. Where do they go when it's raining? Doesn't the water wash away all their important butterfly dust?

Sidenotes:

Ummm, Willow? JCB is getting a little out of control on your blog. I'm glad to see that you have a bodyguard-type friend.

Sonny? Do you know how to shoot a gun? You probably do. Does that feel weird? I am very nonviolence oriented myself (as a result, mostly, of forced childhood hunting trips, where deer were strung up in the tree outside our camping van). I just realized from your blog that you're in charge of all sorts of guns and artillery. I hope you never have to use them. Though I don't think I could find it in myself to shoot a gun at someone, I support what you're doing. It's kind of the same vein as my belief in pro-choice for women. I fully support the right to it, and support my friends who have had them. I just don't know if I could do it myself.