*Here's a fun game. Try to figure out which captions go with which pictures. Hint: go from top to bottom. I'm too tired and incompetent to line them up and do this for you.

Last week in Texas

Never passing up a chance to take things literally, I gave Megan the camera and told her to press the silver button.

She steals food from Mexican restaurants, her identity kept secret by a warm, doughy mask. She is...LA TORTILLA BANDITA!

Where they have all the sex and drugs in my suburb. (My house, on the other hand, is on Superego Lane).

Sometimes you can't tell if you're building up or breaking down.

Kind of Magritte-like.

HORNS UP:

*The temperature still fluctuates, but I've finally been able to retire my down coat. Woo hoo! And today I wore strappy wedge sandals and my bare toes didn't freeze off. Spring is here.

*My new digital camera, an early birthday present, takes pictures of amazing quality. Expect more photo entries from now on, especially after my trip tomorrow to the Brooklyn Botanic Garden.

*A lot of potential opportunities have come my way, as far as my search for a new teaching position is concerned. I have to weigh options, as I want to start a graduate program next year. I know something better is out there for me. I intend to sieze it.

*I started going over short stories with my Special Ed class, and they were on fire. One student who is often disengaged made the strongest inferences and owned the class discussion. It was a nice change. Wednesdays remind me why I wanted to be a teacher.

HORNS DOWN:

*This week has been extremely busy. I have so much to do when I get home that I've neglected less pressing priorities. For example, I just finished cleaning my freecycled chair. It's been in my bedroom for about two weeks, and wasn't used at all. Or I have lots of clipped newspaper articles on a table, and I just haven't had time to read them or file them away.

*I'm exhausted. I've needed a nap after school each day, but either had somewhere to go or had so much to do, I'd have felt guilty about sleeping.

*The original cast of Rent wasn't performing, though the website seemed to imply that they were going to be at the benefit and the $20 show the next night. Bleh.

*I can't believe Nnenna was voted off of America's Next Top Model! Furonda has never impressed me, though she can at least use words like "eccentric" correctly (which is more than I can say for Jade). I want Furonda gone next week.

A Story of Seduction

Warning: Allusions to the Broadway musical, Rent, ahead.

In honor of the 10th anniversary of Rent, each ticket to Tuesday night's performance was $20. I'd read weeks ago that the original cast was reuniting one last time, and I had to try to get tickets.

My soul has been rocked by three musicals in my life. Rent was one of them. Yes, I am that much of a dork. I was a very late fan of Alanis Morissette, Third Eye Blind, Jewel, and all the other popular music that was cool when I was a teenager, but now varies from cheesy-but-I-still-like-it to just cheesy. If certain songs on my ipod could collect dust, these would be the ones.

Instead of fuming to "You Oughta Know," like all the other angsty, hyper-analytical overachieving girls were doing in those days (cuz they were like, so totally long ago, for real) or for that matter, being a cool kid or just trying and failing miserably, I was wondering "Will I lose my dignity? Will someone ca-a-a-a-a-are?" How would I pay last year's rent? Sigh. Living in America at the end of the millennium was so hard.

Cade and I were on the subway before 5:30 a.m. on Tuesday morning. Our plan: We'd venture to the Great White Way together, stand in a long line, and then Cade would stay and buy the tickets once it was time for me to hightail it back uptown to teach America's Troubled Youth.

I haven't been on the train at the crack of the crack of dawn ever. It's just not how I roll. In my preparations for this feat, I packed multiple Nutrigrain bars, a book, a notebook, a flashlight, and a change of clothes lest the morning dew soil my usually late sleeping body.

To my surprise, the sun was up by the time Cade and I were waiting in line. Who knew it rises so early? The Renthead crowd was your usual theater group - gay boys and the sarcastic girls who love them, gay boys and the gay boys who love them, gay boys and the clueless girls whom they pretend to love. I generalize a bit. Cade and I were in front of a throng of teenagers who were giddy from the train ride from Long Island or Jersey. I really wanted to start a morning sing-along, but I think Cade would have given me a steely gaze of simultaneous mortification and annoyance. He wouldn't have been able to join in, either, my little pirahna out of water.

I procured fast food breakfast from the wilderness of Times Square. Cade and I parted ways after being pushed around by some truck drivers parking along the street. I waited for the 1 and saw a partially obscured sign that reminded me of a misspelled sign Cade and I found on our...second date?




During first period at school, Cade called and said he had good news and bad news. The good news was that we got tickets. Great ones, in fact - orchestra seats that would normally be $100+. The bad news was that the original cast wasn't going to be performing. The official Rent site had been a bit misleading. The original cast had performed the previous night at a benefit in honor of the 10th anniversary. Tickets started at $1,000.

"Viva la vie boheme," huh? No one even remotely like any of the people Rent celebrates could have afforded to see Adam Pascal, Anthony Rapp, Idina Menzel, Taye Diggs, etc. reunited...and NOT in a glib Hollywood package for the silver screen.

I was still so touched that Cade would wake up early and go with me to get tickets to a show he's wasn't, isn't, and will never be obsessed with. And $20 orchestra seats to one of the most powerful Broadway musicals in recent years are a blessing. I didn't let the news disappoint me too much. Besides, Adam Pascal is sporting a really lame haircut these days and I've outgrown my crush. It's over, Roger. Take your AZT, you one-song glory, you.

Megan, my dad, and I saw Rent about a year ago, and I'm happy to report that Tuesday's cast was overall much stronger. Mimi was different in a more robust, but still vulnerable, way. Mark was more wry and well-adjusted. Joanna was shrill and anal, as she should be. My only problems in casting were the fool who played Benny - he wasn't menacing or cocky or even a great singer - and the guy who played Collins. He sounded like a gospel singer, which didn't work for most of the songs, but rocked during Angel's funeral song, "I'll Cover You."

I've experienced a lot more since I first fell in love with Rent in high school. I live in NYC now, and I can't say that I have anything to do with starving artists. My generation has a dearth of them, I think. Real artists, I mean. I'm more cynical - just because no one understands you, doesn't mean you're an artist.

I realize that many of the higher-faluting people who watch Rent, who may sing every word of every song, wouldn't humanize a homeless person they see on the street, don't even know anyone with AIDS, don't really tolerate or want to recognize all the differences and stratification that tear society apart.

I also realize that there are still people who try to. And definitely people who are still inspired by the musical. No soundtrack, no matter how frequently played, will completely enlighten. But if some progressive teaching of tolerance comes from a highly commercial Broadway musical, then great.

All I know is that I felt something coming full- no, half-circle at some point in the show. I sat in front of a group of rowdy teenagers, obviously theater nerds, that reminded me of some of the people I used to associate with. I thought of my own neighborhood, my struggle to be a grown-up here, that one night I went to the Life Cafe. I sat with a person I'm willing to pay back with one thousand kisses. That's something.

Ten Things You Might Not Know About Me:

10. I generally have no sense of direction.
9. I'm a spelling and grammar snob, but I don't know if it's "familiar" or "familar."
8. Or "similiar" or "similar."
7. I couldn't tie my shoes until I was seven years old.
6. I think that guys who don't like rollercoasters aren't "real men."
5. I got a talking-to at the McNay Art Institute for touching one of Van Gogh's paintings...and being caught.on.tape.
4. I will read US Weekly any chance I get, but would never buy it.
3. Disney owns the rights to one of my stories.
2. I know not the glory of the text message.
1. I'm a hermaphrodite.

Okay, maybe not, but I've read about hermaphrodites! How about something embarrassing and true...?

1. As a kid, I briefly had a pet squirrel. He lived in a cage inside the house. His name was Bugsy.

Back in high school, Sofia Coppola's film adaptation of Jeffrey Eugenides's The Virgin Suicides introduced me to Todd Rundgren and Air. After finally reading the book, I really appreciate the film for maintaining the story's darkly comic and elegant feel.

The music communication that occurs between the Lisbon girls and the boys is the stuff of my adolescent fantasies. I spent hours listening to music that captured what I had, what I wanted, what I thought I wanted. It was the soundtrack to the music videos I longed to live. It reminded me of how much I clung to music in my vacillation between brooding torpor and goofy daydreaming. It also reminded me of this passage from Lynda Barry's One Hundred Demons (read it!):

"One day you just notice something is gone. Possibility is gone. It's so gone that everyone around you seems like an idiot or a liar. There is a mood that sets in.

The basement was the perfect place for it. I could be alone with the radio there. Music was becoming so important. What is it about a song playing in a dark room?

Why are some songs so perfect in a way that never happens again in our lives? What is it about music and being older than 12 but younger than 20?"

Re-entering New York, rain laps the asphalt, pooling in the parking lot. The suitcases at the baggage claim carousel - the one marked for an airline my fellow Flight 1334 passengers and I didn't fly in on (our carousel is broken and that burly airport worker is tired of hoisting each piece of luggage in the air and yelling, "Whose is this?") - are wet. Some drenched.

The airport worker, a tired Atlas, remains an unintended rockstar. Much of the crowd continues to throb around him. He stands elevated on the still carousel, pointing at the lady with the wrapped tennis rackets. Me struggling to retrieve the black Samsonite that looks like every other suitcase. The man who wants to offer me a ride in the limo that waits for him outside, provided that the Upper West Side is near Chinatown, which is near where he's staying.

It's not.

I shiver and wait in line for a cab. It snakes in front of the airport doors. The pursuit of home, back to you, is apparently a fire hazard. Yellow carapace after yellow carapace carries away the travelers in front of me. I realize this is the first time I have had someone waiting for me to get back here.

The grumpy cab driver zooms me through Queens to Manhattan. We cross a tollbooth and his blurred window descends with a squeak. An exchange. A journey continued. Nary a horn is honked. You couldn't hear it for the the pounding precipitation - the heartbeat of a city that doesn't want to sleep, but can't go outside and play - anyway.

I'm back home sooner than I thought I'd be. Where are you? The facade of the building grows exponentially shabbier in my lonely wait. Rain falls. The lobby is cold, greasy puddles at the threshold, umbrella splatters on the mailboxes.

Sometimes I think I made you up.

You face suddenly appears in the window. I think the sky may have just cleared, the Earth readjusts on its axis. The rain was just a lullaby. I've woken up. You're real, and another day is given to us.

Perhaps
I should
be maybe
tentative.
But when does wearing
my heart on my sleeve,
open and oozing each
zipping infatuated thought,
a self-inflicted wound
to some extent,
get realized
as merely who I am,
how I love,
and what I will do
as long as you let me?

I'd like to start
being more me
with more you.

For Megan

What my dad's living room sound system must have been thinking when it refused to play my John Legend cd:

[In a robotic voice] "Abort! Abort! Detecting music that does not suck. Must play twangy songs about pick-up trucks or Jesus."

One cheap NYC restaurant at which I enjoy dining is Empanada Mama. My own Mama is famous for quesadillas, a similar pocket-like food, albeit not deep fried. I absolutely adore her quesadillas.

While I was home, I ate chicken quesadillas, pizzadillas, and apple cinnamon-adillas. Also while I was home, I shared that I once started writing a parody of Patsy Cline's "I Fall to Pieces" called "I Eat My Feces." (My sister and I were reared to appreciate scatological humor).

"Ooh, can you imagine?" Megan asked. My mom appeared to know what Megan's big idea was; I shrugged. "Then we could make fecadillas! A feast o' fecadillas!"

I love my family.

*Today my dad and I went to Old San Patricio and bought steer horns for my friend Nick. That was easy enough, but then we had to figure out how and where to pack and ship them. Oh.dear.God. Nick, my dad and I want those hours of our lives back! In the end, the steer horns were $50. Shipping them to an office building on Park Avenue? $96!

The painful attempt at packing at home, which led to the abandonment of that self-sufficient idea, bungee cording the horns in the bed of the truck, and driving far away to Box Brothers reminded me of that time when I was an RA and my dad and I moved my stuff into Blanton residence hall for the summer... This retelling is from my defunct livejournal:

I feel dead, people.

Does anyone remember how acclaimed Haley Joel Osmont was after his role in The Sixth Sense? He was huge. Besides being hailed the next great American actor (they forgot the "child" in there somewhere), he was nominated for an Oscar...for whispering every line. I could do that for a few thousand dollars, too. Just give me a script and I'll do Haley's whispering and squinting for him.

Anyhow, yesterday was officially one of the worst days of my life. Check-out was going smoothly until Evelyn decided once again to not leave on time. I feel bad, because I know she can't afford to pay the late fees, but she didn't even start packing until 7 a.m. Of course she wasn't ready by 9! Also, she hadn't been busy with exams. Evelyn had been done with tests for awhile and had even gone out of town for the weekend. The whole ordeal was very frustrating, but...

Not as bad as my move to Blanton.

Sam and I tried to get a move on literally and take some of my stuff there. The problem was that 1) I have too much stuff and 2) I've forever damaged my frontal lobe. Sam had just snapped an insolent bungee cord to the bottom of my cart. Out of nowhere, it snapped off fast and hit me hard in the forehead. I was shocked and in pain. I have two small cuts on my head now, and the painful knot is starting to go away. It still hurts to make most facial expressions. Everyone keeps saying I'm lucky it didn't hit my eyes, but it still hurts.

My dad was upset at me from the beginning of our move, because he didn't get to go to the Vespa store. Beyond that though, he was upset that there was no place to park in San Jacinto or Blanton, it was hot as hell, there were no carts in Blanton, I had to be out of San Jacinto by three, and Blanton is a crappy dorm. He and I had to move heavy items without a cart upstairs, downstairs, and up more stairs just to get to an elevator. We bitched about ADA regulation violations and lost 15 pounds each from sweating in a hot, stinky dorm. A few times my dad would pause completely out of breath, and I was sure he was about to have a heart attack. He made it a point to curse everything: UT, me, Sam for having our cart (which he left in his trunk accidentally), and summer in general.

I missed my three o'clock check-out appointment with Lore, so she then proceeded to act offended by me. I'd never done this before! How can one be angry at someone with an excellent track record who one time gets injured, hot, and dirty and misses an appointment? Thankfully, she didn't keep that up for long. So...eventually it was all over and I'm home now and my head still hurts.

I should do a new website (HotOrNot.com)about the inconvenience of moving to Blanton. I would profile the hundred miserable individuals who will call Blanton home this summer. To be voted hot, they must exhibit a furry feeling tongue, unmasked b.o., sweat drenched clothing, and dust bunnies as accessories. Pictures are required.

So...to keep my dad from regretting my birth, I've decided to move out without him this summer. Hopefully, it will be easier, since my RA room should be vacant all summer. We'll have to see.

That's all I'm meant to write about this painful experience, but I do want to include an anecdote to illustrate how crappy Blanton is. When we were finally leaving Blanton after putting pretty much everything on the floor, my dad and I were exhausted. I locked the door behind me and he said, "I don't want to take this piece of shit elevator. Let's take this other one." We walked farther down the hall toward the other elevator, when a man ran up from the stairs to that elevator and asked, "Is this the elevator the woman is trapped in?" My dad and I looked at each other as the man put his ear to the door and said, "Oh yes, I can hear her screams." My dad exclaimed "What a dump!" as we walked toward the other elevator. "We'll take the goddamned stairs!" he said.

Some Things I Saw On My Spring Break, pt. 1.

Alternatively titled: My Mom Let Me Use Her Camera.

[On hearing that my friend Nick, whom I'm buying steer horns for, foolishly asked me to bubblewrap them and take them on the plane home as a piece of carry-on/carrion luggage.]

Megan: No way. You'd be considered, like, a redneck terrorist.

[To our deaf Siamese cat, Tinker, as an explanation why he can't go outside.]

My mom: You're deaf, dumb, and stupid!

[On looking out the window and seeing drought-stricken fields.]

My dad: It's dry as a popcorn fart out here.

In a series of unforeseeable events, I've finished both books that I packed as in-flight reading. My first book was Frank McCourt's Teacher Man. My second, the one that I finished this morning, is Tamara Draut's Strapped: Why America's 20- and 30- Something Can't Get Ahead.

Does the second title seem to speak directly to you or evoke a fear you've had since you graduated from college? It should.

Realize that I don't do this often - I urge you (yes, YOU) to read Draut's book. There isn't any Barbara Ehrenreich intermittent humor, but this is an important read. You will simultaneously identify and be disgusted if you 1) are in debt, mostly from college, 2) work a crappy job, 3) realize that you need to get more expensive higher education to get anywhere in your career, 4) want to go through the big palookas of life - home ownership, marriage, kids - but seriously wonder how the hell you'll ever get there with things being as expensive as they are, or 5) a combination of any of these things.

The following excerpts jumped out at me:

"Among students who start at four-year colleges, 53 percent complete their bachelor's degrees in five years. Among students who first enroll in two-year colleges and then transfer, only 26 percent earn a bachelor's degree after five years."

"Opposition to spending money to help lower-income young adults go to college is nothing new. It's a little cognitive trick that allows people to justify their own successes and accept no responsibility to help anyone left behind."

"Over a quarter of white students who enter college will earn a bachelor's degree, whereas about 15 percent of black and Hispanic college students will complete their degrees."

"Look at the next bill or credit card solicitation that comes in your mailbox. Chances are it came from South Dakota or Delaware. Why? These states have no usury laws limiting the amount of interest on credit cards, so the credit card companies can charge any interest they want."

"According to the Center for Responsive Politics, MBNA Corp., the second largest issuer of credit cards, was the largest campaign contributor in the lending industry, and was George W. Bush's biggest campaign contributor in the 2000 election."

"According to the Census Bureau, most young adults do not leave home now until age 24."

"Four out of ten young adults detour back to the nest at least once."

"According to the USDA, which has collected data on expenditures for children since the 1960s, having a child under age 2 today costs a middle-income couple about $800 a month, or just under $10,000 annually."

"Today, in the United States, having a child is the biggest predictor of whether someone will end up filing for bankruptcy."

"As the first adults to come of age in the information society, we are remarkably tuned out of the world around us."

"[Another] reason we haven't become interested in public affairs is related to the larger social and political context in which we came of age. Unlike previous generations, there are no great political movements to feed our passion."

"...Young adults don't vote because their issues aren't addressed and policymakers don't address young adults' issues because they don't vote."

"According to the Social Security trustees report, the program can pay all benefits through the year 2042. [According to the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office] Social Security can pay all benefits through the year 2052 with no changes whatsoever."

I can resist everything, except temptation...and a good deal.

I succumbed - I bought a pair of skinny jeans.

They are Paper Denim & Cloth and currently priced at $176. I bought them for about $4. Hooray for Texans and their being behind on fashion trends!

I printed the contents of my first blog, a year long stint on Open Diary during my junior year of high school. I look back at what I wrote, at how I wrote, and I roll my eyes...a lot. I thought the silliest things were.so.devastating. This is how teenagers think, though.

I'm sharing an entry here about one Saturday night when I went out with my friend Aaron. Keep in mind that he and I were two awkward smart alecks with a love of musical theater coming of age in a culturally lacking town in South Texas. We were itchy and restless and easily amused. And self-important, oh yes.

******************

4/9/2000

Saturday nights are for the cultured, or at least people who need to stay busy. I'm a decorated member of that society. Furthermore, church every Sunday morning just isn't as much fun when you haven't had fun the night before.

After seeing American Beauty, I've noticed how little things do come together to make a beautiful moment. After being an aspriring writer for many years, I try to tie things together in symbolic, little bundles.

I was originally condemned to the worst sentence yesterday - "family time." This time isn't truly "family time," because my mom works on weekends. "Family time" too often means going to a Home Expo or catching up on yard work with my dad. I'm nearly salivating at that description. Yawn.

I talked things over with my dad about my prioritization and potential, and then Aaron's call interrupted the banal talk that always leaves me extremely burdened by possibilities.

We made plans to leave at 3:30 (4:00 capricious, or theater person, time). My curfew, now altered to accommodate even the most insomnia-plagued five-year-old, was 9:30. However, a wise man once said, "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth." (This is the sort of quote that would only make me grab the beast by its jaws and pull them apart. What is a "gift horse," anyway? Horses smell. How about a gift Volkswagen Beetle, wise man)?

Aaron was actually only seven minutes late. (Applause). I was given a check to cash at the local convenience store, but I forgot about it. Memory struck when Aaron stopped to get gas, and I couldn't cash the check there. We ended up driving to another convenience store where I had to explain the whole situation, give my driver's license number, participate in a full cavity search, and pledge allegiance to Castro. Or something like that... The lady only had a five and ones. I knew at that moment I was true Dead Bohemian, because only a street performer would have such pitiful increments of cash.

[Aaron and I were obsessed with the idea of being artsy bohemians, despite the fact that we both shopped at the Gap, among other things. Ah, naivete.]

The Artfest was our first journey. It was hot and pretty disappointing. Just a bunch of wannabe Monets one step above paint-by-numbers. There was one nice jewelry exhibit. Aaron and I spiced things up by jay-walking, me constantly fixing the velcro on one of my platforms, and Aaron gaining, losing, and regaining a British accent...

The next stop was the heritage festival. It was so much fun. First, I bought a Chinese bracelet and Aaron decided to get a bindi painted on his wrist. He got black goop to decorate himself, and we went to a vintage clothing display. This was about the time that I was telling him he shouldn't have gotten painted, since the design can last up to two weeks and we have regional competition this week.

Aaron accidentally smeared my white shirt with his body art. We were back to the booths. Aaron hoped that they would retouch his bindi design, since it now looked like diarrhea. I hoped I would be reassured that the paint was 100% washable.

No such luck. "Bindi" actually means "poopy design" in some language and I was told that even Clorox wouldn't get the dye out. No ethnic cleansing here.

I got my palm read by a Chinese man. If he said he saw a stain in my future, I would know it was a crock and I could declare his practice a fleecing of America. I love that term. Fleecing of America, fleecing of America, ooh... Here's the outlook: one true love of my life, good health, some sort of self-employment, at least two overseas journeys, no children, and high intelligence.

Aaron and I bought a fruit cup and fried green bananas. We pretended to like the plantains until we left sight of the vendors. Aaron left it by some car. We hope some rat really enjoys the multicultural snack.

We looked at a Western booth of belt buckles, cowboy hats, and fake jewelry, and heard the German singing group nearby announce the Chicken Dance. We waited and were inspired when I turned around to stretch and saw that the next city street was Fitzgerald Street. What a sign, double meaning intended! (Aaron later tried to convince me that I turned to think of my stained shirt, and that's why I saw our street, so it was a good thing we got the stupid bindi painted on him). By the time the accordion player started his whiny chords, we were onstage dancing the Chicken Dance. We were the only young people without leiterhosen.

[We were also smitten with the idea what we were the reincarnations of F. Scott and Zelda Fitzgerald. Yes, people really do get this nerdy in real life.]

After that, Aaron bought another fruit cup, I bought an African necklace and Aaron went to the Chinese booths again to get "Fitzgerald" written in Chinese characters. I should mention about now that we were going by the names Zelda and Scott that evening, except when I forgot. Oops.

Aaron told the Chinese woman at the booth that his last name was Fitzgerald, and one Chinese lady started saying her last name was Fitzgerald, too. Aaron told an elaborate lie with some facts about F. Scott Fitzgerald's life, like about how we was born in England and his family moved to North Caroline when his mother became ill. I introduced myself with my real name, though I should have said I was Zelda. Scott and I could be dating and she seemed to think Aaron and I were anyway.

She asked if I was from England, too, and told Aaron she had a floral shop. She was so ready to become Aaron's distant cousin-in-law that she asked for a local phone number to reach him.

I nearly died when Aaron gave her the local Dairy Queen number.

Note to readers: This is why a good literary background is important. 1) You won't be fooled by more intelligent kinds of pranksters. 2) You can be a part of the fleecing of China (and America).

Aaron parted ways with Auntie Jing-Mei Woo Ling Fitzgerald and we decided to walk down Fitzgerald Street...

*I took this interview from a website and added a few questions of my own. This is a modern version of man's search for meaning.

When is your Blog Birthday?
July 29, 2005.

Why do you blog?
I originally began this blog with the sole intention of having an account of my first year of teaching. Then the blog's purpose expanded into keeping my friends and family in Texas aware of my MsAdventures in NYC. Before Blogger, though, I had at least two other blogs that I wrote in on a fairly regular basis. I enjoy writing, particularly for an audience. I'm a natural-born blogger, I suppose.

What do you usually write about?
I write about the trials and tribulations of being a middle school teacher in Harlem. I write about daily life in NYC. I write poems. I write about books I'm reading. I write about my family...

What don’t you write about? Why?
I don't like to write too many blog entries where I just chronicle my day, journal-style, without any creative writing attempts or at least, some humor. I find blog entries like that very tedious to read and to write. Also, I don't share anything on my blog about myself that I wouldn't feel comfortable with anyone, and I mean anyone, knowing. I apply this same rule of thumb to anything involving my friends or family. I withhold all the details - no matter how juicy - if a friend or family member specifically asks me not to blog about something. I respect other people's privacy, as well as my own.

Who reads your blog?
My parents were my first loyal followers. In the beginning, I had to repeatedly correct my mom: "No, Mama, it's called a blog. BLOG, not blob." Cade reads my blog. A lot of my mom's co-workers read my blog. At least three cool people who leave signed notes read my blog. Other than that, I'm not sure who reads about me. It's exhilarating and a teensy bit creepy, no?

What is the worst experience regarding something you wrote in your blog?
I haven't had any experiences I'd deem "horrible." Some people will inevitably take things the wrong way, and that's fine. I love to get a reaction from my writing. As British poet Wendy Cope wrote, "Write to amuse? What an appalling suggestion! I write to make people anxious and miserable and to worsen their indigestion." Sometimes responses are positive; sometimes responses are negative. All are good.

How do you deal with criticism?
I enjoy receiving comments, as long as they're not from spambots. If a comment is highly offensive, I might delete it. It's my right. I keep most comments, though. It's funny, because I never get comments on the entries that I think are most comment-worthy. For instance, I innocently used the term "illegal alien" last week and one super "politically correct" person tried to lambast me. But no one called me a hick or anything when I wrote about my dad scraping up roadkill or my uncle having a pet raccoon. I was disappointed.

What is the best thing about living where you live?
There's always something to do. You could live here a lifetime and never see half of what's out there to experience. Also, NYC is the intellectual and creative capital of the U.S. Oh yes, and I love having four seasons and an extensive public transportation system.

What would you do if you were president of the US?
I'd admit the War on Terror is a sham and a waste of resources, energy, and lives. I'd start spending more money on education and public works programs.

What actor would play you in the movie of your life?
Antonio Banderas. I'd like to see him work hard (really, really hard) for the money.

What is your favorite color?
I like many colors. I only prefer they be bold colors that don't make plaid patterns.

What is your favorite food?
I love fresh fruit, brick oven pizza, barbeque, fried chicken, marshmallow cream, cinnamon bread...

What do you wish you could change?I wish I could do anything I want whenever I wanted. Novel, huh? In particular, I wish I had the financial security to get serious about my writing and start pursuing my ultimate goal of publishing a book.

What gets on your nerves?
Ignorance. Jorts. Much of popular culture. Chronic cellphone use. People who take up more than one seat on the subway. People who say "exspecially." Paris Hilton. The list could go on and on, exceeding Blogger's maximum character length.

When you were 10, what did you want to do when you grew up?
I think I wanted to be an astronaut, which would become a Rockette, which would become an actress, which would become a doctor, which would become a...?

What are your hobbies?
Writing, reading, shopping, making lists, exploring the city, keeping up with documentary films, snarkiness, and clever conversation.

Next goal/aspiration?
I'm interested in starting a graduate program and beginning a career outside of education. As I mentioned earlier, I also have a lot of writing ideas floating around my head and scribbled in notebooks.

What would your book be about?
My first one would probably be something involving my experiece at I.S. 666. They say, "Write what you know." I'm probably going to start out writing what I wish I didn't know, what I wish weren't true about my experience with the NYC education system.

What do you want to tell other bloggers?
Keep in mind that blogging is still a fairly new medium and doesn't have the mores of normal social interaction. People are capable of saying things on blogs they would never say in real life. Blogs are highly subjective. Blogs can be used for malevolent and inflammatory purposes. Despite all of this, I think blogging is fun and worthwhile and can be a great writing exercise.

This is cheesy to admit, but finishing Erica Jong's Fear of Flying made me feel like I'd earned membership into an exclusive club. By the end, I identified with Isadora and like her, felt it was time to reach my comfortable cruising altitude.

I also felt Jong perfectly captured my fascination with and inspiration from the mundane, which have largely governed what I love to read, write, and talk about.

"The wonder of everyday life fascinates me even more than the wonder of great shrines and temples. That Beethoven could write such music while living in two shabby rooms in Vienna - this was the miracle... Somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom, somewhere between eating an egg and taking a crap, the muse alights. She does not usually appear where your banal Hollywood notions have led you to most expect her - in a gorgeous sunset over Ischia, in the pounding surf of Big Sur, on a mountaintop in Delphi - but she wings in while you are peeling onions or eating eggplant or lining the garbage can with the book-review section of The New York Times."

From an email from my friend Nick, who is now employed again and working in the Chrysler Building. (He also lives in the East Village and pays about $200 a month in rent. If he weren't such a nice guy, I'd be completely envious and loathe him):

"I went out with one of my co-workers for his birthday. It was fun - we smoked cigars and pretended to be more important people that we really are. What was more interesting about the evening (you may or may not have heard about this), was that the story about that cat that was stuck between two buildings for the past 2 weeks, was actually the building right next to the cigar bar where we were. And while we were there, they rescued the cat. T.V. crews were there. It was ridiculous. The funniest part was when they held the cat up and it looked like shit and people were crying. Ya had to be there."

If your 1 train was delayed on Wednesday around 9 a.m., you can thank Cade.

Yeah, the guy I'm dating stops traffic.

I'd just stepped out of the shower Wednesday morning and continued doing some last-minute packing when I got a phone call. "Hey," Cade said. "Did you get my message?"

I hadn't.

"I'm in the hospital."

WHAT? My immediate thought was that Cade had been hit by a car somewhere in midtown. My next thought was something like, "Oh God, this is one of those horrible moments we never anticipate that changes life as we know it."

"I passed out on the subway."

Relief. I've felt faint on the subway before. Who hasn't? The downtown morning commute blows. It's crowded and hot and smelly. Cade was not dying...I think.

I got dressed and cabbed it to the hospital, despite the fact that I was flying to Texas later that day and still wasn't completely ready. Cade would do it for me; and life threatening-ness or lack thereof aside, fainting on public transportation is bad. Also, I wanted an autograph. The MTA - a system so powerful it can bring a city of commuters to its knees, err feet, during a transit strike - shut down when Cade blacked out. Okay, "delayed" might be a better word. And it only affected the 1 line, but nonetheless, this was Zeus-like power Cade wielded.

Cade lay in dress pants and a flowery blue hospital top. He was hooked to monitors and his socks, shoes, and drenched shirt were crumpled on a chair. "Cute top," I remarked. Cade's brow furrowed with great concern. "Are you going to-"

"Yes, I'm blogging about this." No need for him to finish. No one within seven degrees of separation from me can do anything interesting without me considering contemplating putting it into the blog. No aMANda alone is an island. And by "island" I mean really interesting all the time with a blogworthy coconut flava.

But I'm trying to maintain a relationship with Cade, as to keep the material a'comin'. Time to clarify some things. 1) Cade does not regularly pass out on public transportation. 2) Cade does not regularly pass out in general. 3) Cade is a healthy, virile young man with enough energy to walk to Brooklyn just to get some fresh air. 4) Cade wanted me to spin this entry so no one would think I'm dating the Boy in the Bubble and make generous donations to the Ronald McDonald House on his behalf.

I left the hospital as Cade waited for an echocardiogram, one part of a battery of tests performed on him. Carmel Car Service (I'm not advertising for them - do not let them drive you to the airport) had already postponed my pick-up once, so I hurried to the train station to head home.

"Wow," I though once I hopped onto the subway. "Mere hours ago, Cade delayed this train." One of the paramedics told him, "If it were the '80s, we'd have assumed you did coke, but you're too well-dressed for that." Cade grimaced, I'm sure. Late to work. Facing an ambulance ride, tests, and a lot of questions. Subject to my blogging and creative license.

Cade is okay. Dying minute by minute, of course, but so am I. Until he does something else more blogworthy, he's my own D-list celebrity for bringing out the kindness in fellow strap hangers (a man actually gave up his seat for Cade pre-faint; a woman cleared seats so he could recline post-faint) and shutting down a tiny part of the city for a moment.

"Like getting your high heel stuck in a grate on the sidewalk, that says you've arrived," I decided as I stood clear of the closing doors please. I hung onto a pole with the crook of my arm. The door closed on a running would-be passenger before the train whisked me back uptown.

I've had these two Maya Angelou poems in my head for the longest time, and now that I'm home where all my books are, I finally got to look them up. Guess why I'm sharing.

Here's to Adhering

I went to a party
out in Hollywood,
The atmosphere was shoddy,
but the drinks were good,
and that's where I heard you laugh.

I then went cruising
on an old Greek ship,
The crew was amusing
but the guests weren't hip,
that's where I found your hands.

On to the Sahara
in a caravan,
The sun struck like an arrow
but the nights were grand,
and that's how I found your chest.

An evening in the Congo
where the Congo ends,
I found myself alone, oh
but I made some friends,
that's where I saw your face.

I have been devoting
all my time to get
Parts of you out floating
still unglued as yet.

Won't you pull yourself together

For

Me

ONCE

******

Recovery

A last love,
proper in conclusion,
should snip the wings
forbidding further flight.

But, I, now,
reft of that confusion,
am lifted up
and speeding toward the light.

On my last night in New York, the universe reminded me of one reason why I love the crazy metropolis in which I live.

Cade and I were walking in midtown, looking for a place to buy an ice cream bar after eating Thai food at a restaurant with a high Zagat rating and low prices. We stopped at one grocery/deli, but weren't impressed by its meager frozen offerings. We never did get dessert. Instead, upon returning to the streets of Manhattan, we spied some garbage on the sidewalk. My eyes lit up. Cade groaned.

It was breathtaking. (It was a real find and yes, it smelled).

I'm an unabashed freecycler. And I like making people stoop to my level. "Ooh, I want to take it," I said in Amandese. This roughly translates in English to, "Ooh, I want YOU to take it FOR ME."

Cade hesitated and I did my best The Price Is Right showcase spiel:

Me: "Aah! It's microsuede."
Cade: "It's....covered in hair."
Me: "It can be reupholstered in a plush, art deco print!"
Cade: "I think these are semen stains."
Me: "It can be the first piece of furniture for your apartment!"

Other furniture vultures started to circle my find. I protectively stood closer to it. A man in dreads ran his hand along a cherry wood coffee table base. "It's great," I said admiringly. "Yeah," he agreed. Had our separate treasures come from the same apartment?

Cade continued to hem and haw. "He doesn't want to take it," I said, nodding in Cade's general direction. "Girl, I'd take it."

That's all the convincing we needed.

It was only logical that we cab it home. The first taxi we hailed couldn't accommodate my diamond in the rough, though Cade and I definitely tried to defy the laws of space and matter.

We needed one of the minivan cabs, so we finally flagged one down. By this time, Cade's jacket was completely covered in an unknown white dog's hair. Popping the trunk and squeezing my pilfered prize in the cab was a reverse birth. We grunted and squealed and groaned and POP! We were snug as a bug in a freecycled rug and on our way to the Upper West Side.

The notorious 39 Steps presented Cade with the final stage of the intense triathlon that started out as "Hey, wanna get a quick bite to eat?" He finished at a very respectable time, adorned with dog hair, and glowing with pride...or maybe just perspiration.

Isn't it fabulous? I saw a lot of potential here - a chair, an unintended workout, a blog entry, and a reason to keep Cade around indefinitely.

I'll be on sabbatical in Texas until April 22nd.
Sentimental entries rife with colloquialisms more than likely to come.

A current student and one former student of I.S. 666 have been charged with second-degree murder and attempted robbery.

The news ricocheted across the school this morning and won't quiet down. It shouldn't. The administration didn't make any remarks and no crisis counselors were called in, so teachers had to decide whether or not the incident was a teachable moment.

In a somewhat serendipitous twist, all students are currently doing a feature article unit in their English classes. One teacher I worked with read The New York Post's coverage of the crime and asked students to identify the angle and ask questions.

Racially biased? Skewed and limited? Does the group of minors (two being thirteen, two being fifteen, one being unidentified) deserve to be tried as adults? Should they be tried for second-degree murder when they couldn't have anticipated that the victim would flee for his safety and get fatally injured? Why not a manslaughter charge? How much of what happened can we really learn from the journalism at our disposal?

So many questions, so few answers.

Many students are so desensitized to violence and crime that the news of what happened to their peer didn't elicit much of a response. Some students - generally girls - were entirely sympathetic of the victim and wanted the group of boys to pay the highest of consequences. Others felt they should only be charged with attempted robbery, as they hadn't actually killed the victim.

One boy said, "That guy got himself killed when he ran." Another boy was quick to respond, "But he was defending himself! He wouldn't have run into the street if he hadn't been jumped by Denzel and those guys!" Another voice muttered, "He was twenty. They were thirteen and fifteen. That white guy should have been able to defend himself."

One against five? I don't think so.

Someone agreed: "White people are pussies," oblivious to the fact that I was the only white person in the room and feeling extremely uncomfortable.

The white victim could have been seventh-grade Denzel's homeroom and English teacher, Mr. B. That's how I met Denzel - I do push-in teaching in his class each week. I also taught him once at Saturday Prep Academy.

The race, backgrounds, and origins of the victim are unimportant. No one should fear for their safety at 8 p.m. No one should face consequences from an attempted robbery gone horribly wrong. No one should think it's acceptable to engage in the kind of behavior the boys did.

The papers paint, and will continue to paint, Denzel and the other boys as young thugs or ghetto martyrs. I think they are both. It's safe to assume that they are more than likely poor and angry, with limited social and emotional intelligence. Still, consequences have to be faced. We have to point out that the boys chose to be violent, and their choice to rob someone catalyzed a series of unplanned events that ultimately killed an innocent man.

Last week, two boys from Denzel's homeroom class were handcuffed and taken out of school by police officers for sexually assaulting another student. They'd pinned down a girl and torn open her shirt. Had this girl's mother not been outraged and pressed charges, the boys would have been given something like a two-day, in-house suspension. Maybe. Surely, they'd still be in school after merely attempting to jump and rob someone.

I wonder if I.S. 666 is partially to blame for what has happened. My school doesn't deal with discipline in a way that teaches students that negative actions have negative consequences. And students come to us with a tolerance for violence and crime. If they don't learn at school that deviant behavior is a chosen atrocity, rather than an inevitability, where will they learn it? Many of them are not being taught at home.

The incident is mired in racial, socioeconomic, and legal issues, along with the argument over who's responsible for the socialization of values.

I worry about Denzel. Why is he the leader of a pack of I.S. 666 students who will become new links in a chain of violence, poverty, and incarceration? What will become of his education, his options, his youth?

I wonder if there's something we could have done.

They say, "Rome wasn't built in a day," but recent events don't convince me. Surely, one day someone looked around, awestruck that Rome had been built. Seemingly. Finally. Completed one day.

It's safe to say that the final product is easier to see than the process leading up to it. So I seemed to miss all the construction throughout the week and then it was the weekend. The first weekend I got to sleep in. The last weekend before I head back to Texas on Wednesday.

Clock hands feverishly yoga themselves, marking accelerated hours, days, weeks. My life is like some film strip showing the elapsed metamorphosis of caterpillar to butterfly. How did I get here? I haven't written much recently, because I'm extrememly busy and happy.

Over the weekend, Cade and I basked in the weather's indecision. It rained and rained Saturday, which was perfect for our plans - a long, garrulous lunch at Blue Smoke with Bobby, one of Cade's old college friends from back when Cade was a sixteen-year-old overachiever with an obsessive computer gaming habit. We ate ribs upon ribs, meticulously cleaning the peppered beef from the bones. The boys had beer. We all had dessert. The meal was amazing.

We parted ways and I rode the N to Times Square, hopped on the 1, and buried myself in my neverending to-do list. I continued crossing out its entries on warm and beautiful Sunday when my ancillary to-do-er and I took some bags of clothes to Goodwill.

It was there that Cade spotted The Bag.

Over my mid-winter break, my dad accompanied me to the Target in Brooklyn to peruse the ninety-day Luella for Target collection. The selection was ransacked, with mostly large, disheveled garments remaining. I managed to find a cowboy boot-printed skirt in my size, but I'd really wanted one of the unavailable net bags.

Two months later, it's mine. Thanks, Cade.

My latest culinary haunt is Big Nick's. I live for the spicy waffle fries. After pondering an excursion to Zabar's to buy picnic food, Cade and I settled on Big Nick's for pizza, fries, and the half cow being advertised as a hamburger. Well, at least they call it the Sumo burger.

We rode the train to Grand Central Station to see Bobby off to Poughkeepsie. I peered in the cars, because my only real train experience prior to yesterday was one of my favorite Alfred Hitchcock films and the slow, rusty, traffic-stalling trains of my whistle stop hometown.

"Don't they have trains in Odem, Amanda?" Cade asked patiently. "Well yeah, but they don't transport people." A pause. "Then what do they carry?" "You know, things like grain and illegal aliens."

And that's my final answer.

When Bobby got settled for the train ride home (I'll admit I was disappointed to not see a single porter whistling while selling bags of peanuts and newspapers), Cade and I strolled the East Side and made our way to Central Park.

The park's verdant grounds were speckled with joggers, families, couples, and dogs. At one point, Cade walked across a tree branch and managed to not fall into the pond. It's a good thing, too - I hadn't brought my digital camera, which would have been an essential blogging tool, had he been clumsier.

Cade and I stood at the bridge overlooking the lake and watched the surface mirror our moment. The blur of happiness that was yesterday, that has been the last few weeks, grew clear. A duck swam through it. We continued our journey.

April from Rockport is among the grooviest gals I know. She sent me a link to the cartoon below, which I love immensely. Go to www.marriedtothesea.com for more.

New York City newstands are rife with yellow journalism, from the tendentious and sensationalist New York Post to the knockoff hack that is the New York Daily News. A co-worker gave me a copy of the latter early last week. I thumbed through it and found the following headlines:

1 slain, 2 hurt in Bronx club:
Woman's hair weave traps bullet as gunman opens fire

Crimes in NYC - particularly shootings in Bronx nightclubs - don't phase me at this point, but I had to learn more about the super protective weave some sista was sporting:

"Glenda Clarke, 26, was in the ladies' room at the Flamingo Lounge when the pistol-packing patron opened fire just before 6 a.m., the sources said

The Baychester joint was sprayed with nearly a dozen 9-mm. bullets, including one that sailed through the rest room door, sources said.

The slug scraped the side of Clarke's head, then got trapped in her hair, sources said.

'It got stuck in her weave,' a police source told the Daily News. 'It was unbelievable.'"

Sounds like we've got to get this weave all over the clubs, subway stations, bodegas, and schools. You know, just to be safe.

Here's a fabulous story from guest contributor/co-worker of Cade, A. This incident strikes me as being something that would probably only happen in New York. Enjoy.

A Night To Remember (My Life Is Pathetic)

Yesterday evening, M. and S. had organized our monthly Analytics meeting at Sabine’s lovely home in Kensington, Brooklyn. (Thank you again, S., for hosting this meeting at your home, I hope we didn’t destroy too much). As always, our meeting was filled with some interesting topics that inevitably had us talking for hours. This meeting lasted to approximately 10:15pm.

As we departed S.’s home, M., J., Cade and I bumped into an older lady struggling to get up the two steps outside S.’s apartment building. She asked us if we would kindly help her up the steps. M., being the gentleman that he is, offered his assistance while Cade patiently stood behind her just in case she fell back. Very nice of those two – I have to admit. As M. and Cade got her up the stairs, she said thank you and wished us all the best. We wished her a good night and walked a few feet ahead of her, stopped, and starting saying our goodbyes. J. offered me a ride to the G train near his apartment, but I declined as I had to make a few phone calls
on the walk to the F train. M. and Cade took J. up on the offer to drive them - M. to his place and Cade I am assuming to the LIRR.

As we wrapped up our goodbyes, M., J., and Cade went in one direction and I headed to the F train in the opposite direction. As I was turning in the direction of the F train, I saw the older lady struggling a bit, but standing right next to me. Now let me take a moment here to describe this lady. She is an older lady, probably in her 60-70’s with a hunchback, literally at a 90 degree angle and wearing a coat and what I believe was a wig. Her name is Julie or I believe it is Julie, but I couldn’t quite understand her as I, too, had to lean in a 90 degree angle to clearly understand her. So as she struggled and stood right next to me, she asked...

Older Lady (Julie or something): “Excuse me sir, do you have a car?”

A. (Leaning at a 90 degree angle): “Sorry, I do not.”

Older Lady (Julie or something): “Where are you headed?”

A. (Leaning at a 90 degree angle): “F train….”

Older Lady (Julie or something): “Do you mind walking me across the street?”

I thought for a minute. Should I? Is this lady going to mug me? I don’t know this area, and her bag looks quite heavy. She might jump up, arch up 180 style (meaning standing straight) take her bag and swing it across my head. Knock me out. Steal my wallet and my pants…(’cause she looked like a lady who would like my pants) and run laughing at the poor Indian boy sitting pant-less, crying and waiting for someone to help him. Or she could really need some help. But despite these thoughts, I responded…

A. (Leaning in a 90 degree angle): “Sure.”

I grabbed her bag, continued to stay arched 90 degrees, and put out my arm so she could hold onto something. Now she wrapped her arm around mine and we proceeded to walk down the sidewalk. Picture this: a 25-year-old arched 90 degrees with a 60-70 year old lady’s arm wrapped around him who was also arched 90 degrees.

As you can imagine, this was quite an interesting picture and I won’t even go into what was running through my head at that moment. But one thing that did come up in my head was now I know what my mom meant when she told me to always sit up straight…
Anyway, we walked five feet, then stopped so she could catch her breath while I stretched my back. Did another five feet…stopped, breathed, stretched. Did another five feet…stopped, breathed, stretched… This went on for 20 minutes. Now S. knows the walk from her apartment building to Canton Avenue, which is the street we needed to cross, is about a 45 second walk. This took 20 minutes…oh and we took one stop to sit. But nothing bad there - we just sat gazing up at the stars as the moon lit our backs, placing a gentle shadow of the two of us on the sidewalk. I can only imagine what she was thinking… I refused to ask.

So we got across the street, and trust me, I was nervous about whether we were going to make it or not. Remember, she needed to stop every five feet to catch her breath, and the street crossing was a good 100 feet. That would mean twenty stops while trying to beat the walk signal, not to mention the traffic light. But we made it, and she was a good sport about it, too. I didn’t rush her, even though I was trying to avoid getting hit by this guy in his car who was revving his engine as he gazed at
me (in a sick way) and then up at the red light, waiting for it to turn green so he could put me in a wheel chair. But that didn’t happen. Julie (again I think that was her name) and I made it sound and clear…sucks for that guy in the car! She had some spunk to cross that street. I guess she’s done it often, but when we got over the other side she needed a break and trust me, we took one.

I thought she was done and I started thinking what to do if she was “done.” Would I leave, cry, pee in my pants, call 911, steal her money???? I don’t know. I was in a moral place that I wasn’t ready to tackle mentally. But in the end she caught her breath.

At this point, I felt damn good about myself. Here I’ve done my good deed for the day and I actually feel really good about it. That wasn’t that bad - she is an old, sweet lady who just needed some help to cross the street. And here I was, helping her achieve this goal. Damn, I am a good person! As this huge smile stretched across my face, I heard a faint voice again,

Older Lady (Julie or something): “Excuse me, A. (we exchanged names, and apparently she remembered mine. Who would’ve figured, 25 and I can’t remember her name and 60-70 she remembers mine) Can you help me to my apartment building? It's right over there.”

A. (still leaning at a 90 degree angle): “Sure.”

Some of you are probably thinking, “Why did he continue on with her?” and the answer is, “I’ve already gone this far. What's another 20 feet?” Literally her apartment was 20 feet from where we were standing. So we walked up to the apartment door (it took four minutes) and got to the front door. Then she asked,

Older Lady (Julie or something): “A., do you mind opening the door and taking me to the lobby?”

Okay, now I was getting nervous. She wants to take me in her apartment building to the lobby…hmmmm? Not too sure, but needless to say, I opened the door, got her up the steps, and got her into the lobby. She sat on a chair. As I was ready to say my goodbyes I heard,

Older Lady (Julie or something): “A., do you mind taking me up to my apartment?”

Now I was freaked out! Granted my love life has not been the best these days, but this was just wrong. PLAIN WRONG! I thought for a second and directed a comment in my head to God,

A. (leaning at a 90 degree angle): “I mean God, I’ve been asking to
meet 'the one.' Someone that is kind, simple and would love me for who
I am. We would enjoy each other’s company and live a long and happy
life together. So if this is what you give me God…you gotta be kidding me.”

Anyway, I’ve got a 60-70 year old lady asking me to take her back to her apartment. I’ve got her keys and I am in her building. Still leaning at a 90 degree angle (because at this point I think my back just got used to it), what to do? What any grown, but kind man would do.

I said, “Sure.” (A mistake). So we got on the elevator, I hit 5 - mind you, I was
crying inside and hoping to God she was not going to ruin me or destroy any hope of what a beautiful girl should look like in any form - and walked to her apartment, Apt 5J. (Yes, I will forever remember this night as vividly as I am describing it right now). I opened the door and crossed my fingers that this was the end.

Not so much.

Older Lady (Julie or something): “A., do you mind taking my jacket
off?”

Oh God! I was beyond freaked out now and come to think of it, I think I was literally crying at this point. But me being me, I helped her out. Yes, yes I took her jacket off. Thank god she had something on underneath. Otherwise, I would’ve thrown up right there and passed out. But no, I was saved.

The jacket then led to the shoes. Yes, shoes! I mean I was already leaning 90 degrees, what’s another 15 degrees to help the old lady with her shoes? This was all happening in the hallway outside her apartment.

So I thought, now what? I’d walked her .00001 miles (that took me 30-35 minutes), I’d undressed her to an extent, and I was standing outside her apartment with her keys as a tear rolled down my cheek (still leaning 90 degrees). So now what? She looked up at me and said, “God bless you” and “Thank you.” She did mention she had to go to the bathroom, but made a funny joke about it and then excused me from helping her in that matter.

THANK GOD!

I think I said something funny back, but again, I had tears rolling down my face at
this point. I am glad she excused me because I probably would’ve gone BLIND and that would not have been a pretty image to have as the last image in my mind.

Either way, I was out the door and walked down the steps, feeling good about myself. As I got to the lobby I proceeded to the front door and began to push it open. It was NOT opening!

I turned the knob and pushed… NOTHING! Oh man…now I am freaked out again, where am I!?!? Why can’t I get out of here?! Did she lock the main door so that I would have to come back upstairs to have her take advantage of me?!?!? Oh man…does she really
want me to help her pee?! Or is “pee” another meaning for something else, like that Seinfeld episode where George didn’t go upstairs to get “coffee”? “Coffee is NOT Coffee, George.”

All these thoughts were running in my head as I was rattling the door screaming inside, “LET ME OUT” for dear life!

Please open, please open!

Then I looked down….the sign said “Pull." Oh! So I pulled and off I was - back to Williamsburg… It was 11:00 (45 minutes after I left S.’s). I got home at midnight!

My growing-out hair is driving me crazy. It's not as short as it has been since June, but it's not long enough to have grown out all the short, choppy layers yet. It also has a tendency to become an afro if I go to bed with hair that's too damp and could power a small town with its intense static electricity.

Let's compare, shall we?

The top picture is from June 2005. The bottom one is from yesterday.



My point? My hair looks about the same length, but I swear it's longer and more scraggly now. I've been gritting my teeth and clipping it out of my eyes for months for nothing. (Don't think I haven't gotten my customary cheap haircut since June. I've had two cuts, but the last one was in December). Why won't my hair just grow out a bit more?

And no, I've never seen Zoolander. Surprised?

*You know you've taken ridiculous, catatonic pictures of yourself, trying for your maximum icy hotness, too . That's what digital cameras are for. Janice Dickinson has always said, "Fake it 'til you make it." I listen.

I was so thrilled by warm weather in the last few days. Now there's a chance of snow tonight and tomorrow morning. It feels like this again. Blah.

Getting out of New York for the weekend was just as refreshing as I thought it would be. Cade and I left Manhattan around eight Friday night, cut across New Jersey, and made it to Philadelphia in about two hours. We stayed in an Olde City house that Cade's dad owns. One of the apartments - a three floor spread that would be preposterously expensive in New York - is currently inhabited by Noah, one of Cade's college friends. The first night in Philadelphia, I tripped across the cobbled streets with Cade, carrying bags and water. As in any place worth going to, parking spaces around the city are hard to come by. Fortunately, Cade and I can handle long treks between parked transportation and ultimate destination.

On Saturday morning, Cade, Noah, Jill (Noah's girlfriend), and I had a mediocre breakfast at a diner. The early meal initiated some awkward encounters that would later play out between Noah and Jill. Cade and I walked around that morning to admire daffodils, cherry blossoms, and the parking ticket Cade intends to appeal. The joys of city life!

The car was moved. Showers were taken. The sky opened up and dumped rain just in time for the Phillies vs. Red Sox game we were given tickets to. I wasn't thrilled about going to the game, but the weather cleared up and Cade and I had a chance to talk and make fun of the Phillies mascot. Noah and Jill had a tiff over Noah's not waiting for Jill when they went to the concession stand.

The day got better when Cade and I left the bickerers and went off by ourselves to walk around again. We laughed, idly strolled, pet strangers' dogs, squatted in flower beds, and even had Dairy Queen. It was wonderful - and I mean everything and definitely the soft serve ice cream. (I refuse to go to Mister Softee for soft serve ice cream here in NYC, as it sounds like the name of a cartoon mascot for a toilet paper brand).

I know Cade took some really great pictures on Noah's camera over the weekend, and I'll share them as soon as I get them from him. In the meantime, I'll commence the sharing of pictures from my camera.



Saturday night, our posse ate brick oven pizza at Pietro's, which was very pleasantly reminiscent of Lombardi's, got drinks at Mad River, and then Cade and I stopped somewhere to get another slice of pizza. We eat entirely too much of that stuff. Everyone passed out upon returning back to the apartment. Jill was intoxicated and crying, because Cade and I didn't dance at Mad River. I did musical theater, woman! I dance with my shoulders and it isn't cool at all. It was an out-of-towners kind of attack. I felt somewhat stereotypically pigeonholed as a stiff, sarcastic New Yorker, and of course, relished every second of it.

Sunday, everyone woke up early to go to Washington, D.C. It was a gorgeous, sunny day. En route Jill's bowels began to act up (yes, you read that right) and all kinds of hilarity and squabbling ensued. "NOAH!!!!" she screamed. "I HAVE TO POOP!" I think she started saying this in Delaware or Maryland, at least half an hour before she was able to go. At first she was amused, but this soon became utter indisposal and discomfort.

Parking was hard to find, of course, but Jill refused to jump out of the car to use a bathroom and then get picked up later. Noah finally found a parking spot and Jill huffily hoofed it, butt clenched tightly, to the Smithsonian. Where else to deposit such a noteworthy fecal antique? Cade and I laughed and waited outside. Noah was back in the doghouse. Jill wasn't laughing anymore.

The spats were so ridiculous that they gave the weekend a Honeymooners feel, though I doubt Noah and Jill will ever really honeymoon. Such constant melodrama, no matter how hysterically scatalogical it is, must get old. I mention the silly arguments between Noah and Jill, because they served as a juxtaposition between how Cade and I acted. (Surprisingly, because we focused on doing our own thing and enjoying everything around us, the tension between Noah and Jill didn't really affect me). This weekend was supposed to be a test to see how badly Cade and I would get on each other's nerves. I have to report that as of today, we continue to like each other. More.

Cade and I trailed far behind Noah and Jill outside and spent some time at the Smithsonian. I have to reiterate that the weather was perfect. I actually wore short sleeves outside for the first time since October. Wowie.


The coolest thing: Our group ended up at a hoity toity Georgetown eatery to have dessert. I don't know whose idea this was, for Cade and I would have been happy buying a popsicle from a street vendor. Alas. Cade and I ordered some pretentious chocolate/cappucino/rare Bavarian carrot sauce dessert and didn't recognize it when the waiter placed it before us. It was truly exquisite - kind of thimble-like with a small glass sculpture stuck into its powdery chocolate top. It could have been a building from the NYC skyline.

"I was thinking more of a Reese's peanut butter cup," Cade deadpanned. We learned that the modernist "glass" sculpture was actually an artistic sugar crystal. This didn't stop Cade, overwhelmed by the hopelessness of ever liking status dining and haughty food service, from pretending to slit his wrists with it, pompous environment be damned!

Now that's a boy after my own heart right there.