In light of recent conversations, I think back to the difference I've noted between what I have experienced and what I have recorded. This blog is a kind of flimsy, volatile little container. There are some things I steer clear away from, because this blog is not that kind of blog or because I am not comfortable at this time with being that kind of blogger.

I seldom regret the boundaries I've established, except when I look back and realize how little I've recorded about some very important things in my life. People who read this blog know I don't like my super, but they don't know much about my family and the little hicktown I'm from. They don't know who Bernice is. Or my political persuasions.

That's my fault, and I think I want to work on that. The truth is, I think most people don't, can't, or perhaps won't know what is important without hindsight. I look back at my old entries from about ten months ago, and I can't believe I never Rate-A-Dated Cade. I never wrote much about him at all in the beginning, because I didn't see what was coming. The first date wasn't so great anyway. I obsessed aloud over other guys; he couldn't find the movie theater. The best thing about the night was my tights and the fact that he agreed to see me again.

And now we're here, or I'm here, he's there. Tomorrow we'll both be in another there, the usual here. New York City will scream and grunt as one year ends and another begins. Now that I know this is significant and something I want to remember forever, I lose the words. I can't do anything this big justice. Not in the least.

Unless I read all of Man Walks Into a Room on the plane tomorrow, which is highly likely, Maria Dahvana Headley's The Year of Yes will be the last book I read in 2006. The thoughts that begat this post were inspired by some of the book's ending paragraphs below:

"How do you describe what happens when you fall in love with someone? It's much easier to tell tales of brokenhearted nights, falling up the subway stairs into some sort of light. Easy to make lists of your loathing. Easy to itemize and appreciate your disenchantments.

Love is hard to pin down. There is no language for it. A glorious sparkling inside you, an alchemy. All your hurt suddenly turned into joy. Love is inexplicable. Of Dante's Divine Comedy, the Inferno is the half that gets read. The Paradiso is ignored, because it repeats those same, trite descriptions of bliss. Love is too enormous to diagram, too complex to re-create on the page... Nothing could have prepared me for it. All I could do was open my heart. I didn't understand everything that I was holding. I only knew that it was right."

*I often find myself trying to paraphrase this poem when I can't remember something. The paraphrasing is completely convoluted due to my forgetfulness, which is exactly what Billy Collins was writing about.

Forgetfulness

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediantly by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never
even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-bye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a
bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

Home is where the heart is and the dog and the embarrassing naked baby pictures, not to mention that familiar bellow of "WHO'S ON THE PHONE?!" as soon as the phone rings, minutes before it is possible to know who exactly has called. (This was actually true before caller id, now most of the time I actually can identify who has called, even if just by reading off a mysterious phone number).

In my case, home is also where the crap is. Lots of it. Old pictures and clothing, hundreds of books, and angsty poetry lamenting high school like interests or fulfilling junior high writing unit requirements, as well as the occasional snarky early college gems.

So much of it was scrawled silently on scrap pieces of paper during Food Science class. (The only other elective available was Agriculture; I opted to learn how to baste a turkey). I took myself way too seriously in my youth, and believe me, I say this with a canister's amount of salt grains and a turkey baster to boot. Someday I may very well look back at this blog and my mouth will play tug o' war with itself: should it cringe or cackle?

The answer is crackle, which is what I did when I found these:

A note on my dorm room door freshman year of college:

To Whom It May Concern:

Everyone must play.
Everyone must sup.
But if I am studying,
please shut the hell up!

Thanks.

*

From a color poetry assignment in seventh grade:

Burgundy is the color of mystery.
It sounds like the quick booming of thunder.
It smells like the burning ashes of a fire.
It tastes like hard toffee.
It feels like aged suede.

*

From an unfinished letter I wrote to my first true love, who hadn't yet materialized and whom I imagined would be super dreamy. Funny stuff, right? Even funnier is the fact that this is dated May 10, 2000:

Dear love,

I don't know who you are, where you are, how I have or will meet you, and when I'll accomplish the next big milestone of my life.

All this ignorance is buoyed by one truth that I'm concluding in naivete, but [also] a keen understanding of human relationships - I will love you.

*

A poem about kissing. You can tell I didn't get out much...and that I was a biology nerd:

More than two mouths - it was a kiss. The total intimacy of combining two dirty and unchartered orifices in a show of affection. Braving saliva and tongues for a genuine taste of your being. Delicious. Just as I thought. We smile. Resume.

"I wonder if I could get away with fixing my hair or checking my teeth," I thought when I saw the suburban cowboy at the payphone in Bush International Airport, his manhole-sized belt buckle reflecting the surroundings.

I decided against it. "Must be discreet. Must get used to this place again. Must find my gate and wait to get home," I chided myself.

I managed to do all of that. I have a lot to write, and finally the time to write it - what a present.

Merry Christmas.

School's out for the holidays!

I'll be partying it up in Lawnguy Land for the night. I'll return to Manhattan briefly tomorrow to pack up and then head for Texas.

No posts until I'm settled in The Friendly State, ya'll.

I'm going to Cade's fancy schmancy corporate holiday party on Friday night. I had to buy a little black dress, but now I can't decide what shoes to wear.


*The rollerskates are an early Christmas present. I'm obsessed.

What I remember...

January:
I'd recently ended a tumultuous three-year relationship. I felt my ties to college, to Austin, were permanently severed. It was scary, but profoundly liberating. I felt like I could grow up now.

I was single and ready to mingle.

February:
I hate February. It's an ugly word; the weather's bad. But I lost hundreds of pounds of negativity. Grimspa, baby!

March:
To quote Dorothy Parker, "I shudder at the thought of men. I'm due to fall in love again." I went on a lot of dates and stumbled upon some guy my age who was living in Long Island. His name was Cade. "What kind of name is that?" I brusquely asked the first time we spoke. We went on a date, but couldn't find the theater or a good place to eat. He carried my bag, and I laughed a few times. Meh. I went on a second date, and he ate off my plate and apparently checked out my butt and decided he must have me.

He soon did.

I visited home and had mixed feelings about the trip at first, as my last memories of it involved ending things with the old boyfriend. It actually turned out to be relaxing and delicious. I also got a camera as an early birthday present.

April:
I started looking for a new job, as work was le suck. I had to sub constantly, and hated the feeling of powerlessness. I didn't follow my own schedule or get to work doing what I know how to do.

Cade and I spent a beautiful day in Brooklyn amongst cherry blossoms. He tried to tell me he loved me multiple times, but finally felt comfortable enough back in my stuffy Morningside Heights apartment.

My mom got really ill all of a sudden and was diagnosed with a staph infection. It was horrible, because I only found out how ill she was after the fact. My dad hadn't wanted to worry me.

May:
I turned 23. It didn't feel special, but I don't think birthdays do after the age of seven anyway.

I was searching and searching for a new job. And subbing and cursing and brewing contempt at the current one.

June:
I got really, really sick with some kind of crazy throat infection. I was sick almost a month, and had to go to the emergency room after having a bad reaction to a prescription antibiotic.

I was told I needed to move out of my apartment share by the primary renter, a woman I'll never trust again. It was very hard to find an apartment in such a short amount of time, during most of which I'd been sick.

I found the cutest little CPW studio that you ever did see!

I got a new job. It was such a godsend. I found out I'd be working over the summer and I'd need to start graduate school stat. I was eustress-ing out.

On my last day at I.S. 666 (hooray!), I played "Damn, It Feels Good To Be A Gangsta" on my ipod at least three times.

July:
I moved. It was expensive and hot and invigorating.

I worked over the summer at the new school. The learning curve was steep, but I was dizzyingly optimistic.

After a routine check-up, I got scary news from my doctor. I might have cancerous cells taking up residence in my body. I scheduled an appointment for a biopsy and freaked out about the situation for days. Cade mentioned that I could change the name of my blog to "Amanda's Cancerous Adventures" if need be, and probably get a lot of hits. That sounded cool.

Fortunately, my biopsy revealed that I was okay. (I have to get even more regular check-ups now).

August:
My dad visited me in NYC and helped spiff up the apartment.

I discovered upstate New York.

I nearly pooped my pants - or thought I might - at Central Park. In the end, though, I barfed publicly in front of Cade for the first (definitely not the last) time. It was a special moment.

September:
I started the new job and had to memorize 100 new names, faces, and predilections. (I'm still working on that last one). I also had to learn the ins and outs of a new area of education and get used to working with fifth graders. Many of my new co-workers, I slowly began to realize, were very smart, cool people.

October:
A grueling month at work. The principal micro-managed her way under my skin, sending a barrage of emails to my co-teacher and me, telling us all that we were doing wrong and all that needed to be changed pronto. I was overwhelmed and seriously doubting whether I was cut out for a job at a good school.

After a cold, reckless yachting weekend in Maryland, I got sick as a [sea]dog.

November:
Work was still overwhelming, and I was consequently unhappy. Cade was in the same hole-ridden boat as me. Our relationship began to suffer. I felt I might be losing The Big Three very shortly.

Cade and I managed to get away briefly for my first East Coast Thanksgiving. I'm now obsessed with whole berry cranberry sauce.

I began to eat only Kashi Strawberry Fields Organic Promise cereal. I stopped when two grocery stores in my area suddenly stopped stocking it. I relapsed when I discovered Wegman's in Pennsylvania.

December:
O, darkness visible! I felt depressed and stressed with grad classes and lots of work to do in the test prep unit at school. Oh yeah, and my meandering, meaningless existence, too.

My relationship continued to vacillate between trying to stay afloat and drowning itself. Cade and I knew something needed to change.

I finished my grad classes and suddenly had time to do things like go to the post office and think. Things began to brighten.

I'm feeling better.

There are so many things I never told you.

My recorded thoughts and experiences in this blog don't match my personal recollections of each month. This is the case for a few reasons. One, I want to maintain a sense of privacy about certain events and relationships. Two, there are things too difficult to write about, though I know these are the things I ultimately should write about. Three, I've been burdened with a label, because I know how some people view my writing. My mom, for example, has abstained from reading my blog, because, "It's not funny anymore. All you have are pictures."

What she misses is that nothing was funny to me for awhile. I wasn't funny. The pictures were really the only thing I wanted to share. They were beautiful when the rest of my thoughts and feelings were ugly. Maybe I'm just temporarily high from being done with my graduate school courses and the fast approaching school holiday, but I suspect I'm seeing the light again after some very dark weeks. I haven't been happy for awhile, and I've felt stuck. While work is manageably stressful, I know it's not something I want to do the rest of my life. Unfortunately, the only thing I do want to do the rest of my life is breathe. And eat. And read. And take pictures. Does this makes me a settler...or just conscious?

I've also been overthinking the job thing. I don't want to pursue a graduate degree in something I don't want to do, so I will no longer be taking graduate classes. I didn't feel challenged by them anyway, well, minus the deadlines and page requirements. If I changed my career, I could expect to start at the bottom of the ladder again with a paycut. This is not appealing obviously. I already feel like I don't save any money as it is. I don't have any connections in NYC, with the exception of my boyfriend's connections. I know they aren't the only way to break into a new field, but they certainly help. And moving back to Texas, a seemingly easy out, isn't easy. I couldn't do it. I've met someone I can't walk away from. If I did, I think my heart would rip open, as would my destiny. Seriously, guys. It's shameless.

The thoughts storm in my head, leaving my feelings sodden and heavy.

I saw a woman I used to work with on the subway this morning. It was nice seeing a former co-worker at I.S. 666, one of the few I remember who really, truly loved her job. It was grueling, of course, but she made a difference and she was really concerned with her students' growth. Her heart is so firmly lodged in the right place, it's almost cheesy. Anyhow, the woman was very supportive of my getting as far away from La Escuela Seis Seis Seis as I could. I told her now there were new battles to fight, in conjunction with some of the old ones. However, I look back at today to this very day a year ago, and I cannot begin to compare them. I am so much happier to be where I am now, and I hope that next year I could maybe, just maybe, say the same thing.

Sometimes I wish Cade were more Jewish.

His dad is non-practicing; his mom's a Buddhist. That's interesting, I guess. Still. I want to know the mysteries of the yarmulke. How does it stay on without clips or bobby pins? (I don't like when guys wear clips or bobby pins I can see. It's just wrong, and makes the yarmulke look like something faddy from Wet Seal).

I started wondering Saturday night when Cade and I saw Matisyahu in concert. Matisyahu is an Orthodox Jewish reggae/hip hop artist. I hadn't heard of him until I was being driven around Pennsylvania a couple visits back. I think he sounds like the late Bradley Nowell of Sublime, which is a compliment, in my opinion. The hat, beard, and curls sooo don't prevent Matisyahu from rocking out. (Neither did the fact that it's Hannukah - he lit the menorah during the concert). He did have to put his hand over his yarmulke when engaged in some of said rocking out, though. Meanwhile, Jewish teenagers in front of me were crowd-surfing and gyrating against random booties with no worries. Being a taller shiksa, I checked for signs of clippage and found none. Perplexing. Is there some kind of adhesive, Semite cement or something, that the Jewish guys use?

*On a related note, is it okay to dry hump strangers during Hannukah?

I asked Cade, self-deprecating half-Jew that he is, how the yarmulkes could stay on without sliding off. They're not even dense enough to fit the curve of one's cranium. "Silly, Mandy," he replied. "Jewish hair is like velcro." If his head is in any way representative of that of the chosen people, I'd have to agree.

Oy vei. I think my desire to have a more Jewish boyfriend comes from a few places, namely my own state of white bastardhood, love of Annie Hall and Judy Blume, and For Your Consideration. I saw FYC Friday night, and really enjoyed it. I loved the Yiddishisms, the casting, and the ridiculous movie-within-a-movie Home for Purim. I only wish I knew what the hell Purim is exactly. Or that Cade did and could have told me in a whisper, bringing his yarmulked head to my goy ear.

Okay. Perhaps Cade doesn't have to convert. Maybe I'd be happy with a mere yarmulke. A nice woven one, nothing that looks like a baseball. (Yes, those do exist). Cade could wear it around my apartment for starters, and gradually get comfortable wearing it on runs to the video store and Subway. This is the first time I'm mentioning it, and I don't expect him to go along with my idea. Maybe with time, though... Until then, I'll have to settle for just playing with his dreidel.

An update: I have just submitted my final projects to one of my professors. I have to see the professor one last time tomorrow and I'm finished. "Relief" doesn't describe what I feel. I am elated.

*The first sentences of each month of almost a whole year of blogging. They really aren't as random as I would like.

January:
Happy New Year's Eve, everybody!

February:
Bertram, the new permanent substitute at I.S. 666: You know, I have the reading virus.

March:
You say "...but also..." in the raspy, halting voice of disclosure, but it sounds like nails on a chalkboard.

April:
Getting out of New York for the weekend was just as refreshing as I thought it would be.

May:
Dogwood flowers shone in the sun, cherry blossoms loomed overhead, and Cade and I were ushered in the gates of the Brooklyn Botanic Garden ahead of the throngs of people not affiliated with a certain investment banking firm.

June:
David Beer, my favorite college professor that I never had, told me, "You don't know if you really love someone until you go camping together."

July:
I've moved since my last post, gaining square footage, privacy, and quiet, but temporarily losing internet access.

August:
The alarm went off at 3:30 a.m. today. By 4 a.m., my dad was on his way back to Texas.

September:
Tonight's my last night upstate.

October:
I've been trying to post something from Youtube, as it is imperative that you see it before reading my commentary on it.

November:
Today, November 1, Cade and Amanda's mom are celebrating their birthdays.

December:
I'm ready for this month to be over.

Wowie. I'm exhausted. Time for a mundane blog entry!

I didn't see the sun all day. It's amazing how much that zapped my energy. I have a final project to do by Sunday afternoon. Upon its completion, I'm going on vacation. I'll be working until Friday, but I'll be baking cupcakes for a student's birthday and treating my charges with some kind of holiday party. My colleagues and I are also probably taking the kids to Happy Feet. I know I'll be in lighter spirits, and anticipate going out every night to get some Cade time in before leaving for Texas on the 23rd. Until then, though, I'm stuck in front of the computer blathering on about classroom assessment. I am so ready to be done with this class.

In other news, my school will be supplying all its teachers with a work cellphone for calling parents and walkie talkie functioning during the day. Now if only I can convince my bosses that I need a gym membership, free wireless at home, and a canoe to fulfill my duties...

The school has a field trip way downtown on Friday. It looks like three of my Advisory kids will not be going. I'm hoping this means that the trip will be painless, and I can actually enjoy learning about Native Americans. Because the trip is more than five blocks away from the school, I'm anticipating the usual questions: "Are we still in New York? What are all these white people doing? Are you sure we're still in New York?" (I can't believe that I have to accompany kids on trips to Philadelphia and D.C. later this school year. How do some of them even wrap their minds around there being states other than New York)?

I ate Subway for dinner, and now I think I need to take a bubble bath. Rest assured those two things are completely unrelated. Yawn. I'm tired and out.

*Cade and I have made a deal. If I have 30,000-plus blog hits before January 1st, he will treat me to an expensive dinner at Smith & Wollensky. I love S & W, so I need your help. Read me. Tell yo mama to read me. Tell yo mama's mama to read me. I need the protein.

I stepped out of the school today during my prep period in order to get something to eat. As I rounded the corner, I noticed the crowd of people blocking the sidewalk. Across the street, another crowd stood parallel to them. Old women in lawnchairs, people with cameras, moms with small children.

Something silver and massive was on the ground, hooked to a mechanical arm that was to lift it high into the heavens. It was the steeple of a church. A new one for an old church. It's been under construction since I started working.

It was refreshing to see so many people take time out of their day to oversee the addition. I don't think they were all necessarily church-goers, though they probably all admit that the church is a landmark of the block. It's been around since the Renaissance and the civil rights movement and the crack and now, what we are told is the incipient boom.

There was the church, there was the steeple, out on the streets stood all the people.

By the time I walked away with lunch, the steeple had been mounted. It happened so quickly. The community was more beautiful; Harlem stood taller. People were taking pictures and talking. I was the only white person - the only person who doesn't live in the neighborhood - around, walking in the sea of pride and togetherness. Somehow, I didn't feel disconnected. The rejuvenation was my experience, too. It felt like a new kind of history.

*I love writing parodies, especially completely weird ones that have nothing to do with the tune they're derived from. I also love my John Denver impersonation.

To the tune of John Denver's "Annie's Song," which I always thought was titled "You Fill Up My Senses":

"Your pubes are so crunchy,
like some grass in the winter.
So coarse and so scratchy,
like the West Texas plain.

So sharp and so prickly,
like the great cacti's needle.
Your pubes are so crunchy,
let me crunch them again."

The fifth was the eleventh anniversary of my grandfather's death. I never once had an extensive conversation with him, though I remember spinning round and round on the barstools at his house. I remember going with my mom to deliver a Father's Day cake every year, too. Who the man was, I mean, besides Mama's dad, was something I never knew.

I had a meltdown a few days ago. Stress, frustration, and ennui have been festering in my life for some time, and I just suddenly lost it. I don't know what triggered it. I was talking to my mom on the phone and she needed to get off the phone. I hadn't heard her voice in awhile, and I felt so cold and alone. I called her back bawling and let it all spill out: I don't want choices, I feel lost in them, I don't know what I want to be, I am so afraid of being alive but not really living.

My mom mopped up my weepy mess over the phone. Quite magical, really. She told me to get out of the apartment and walk around. The wind quickly extinguished the fire of my tears. I ate and found no answers. I thought of her dad, calling him "grandpa" sounds so foreign and affected. She could never confide in him, to my knowledge. At one time, she mopped up his tears. Hers always fell undisturbed by others.

Do moms follow their own mom advice? Did she ever take a walk and look into the twinkly night sky and feel kind of relieved that at least she knew something - that it is dark and cold and she knows where this one road leads?

I don't know. I'll have to ask when we talk again. I just feel so lucky that my mom is still with me, that there will be an again this December.

I recently read Not Buying It: My Year Without Shopping by Judith Levine. It's an interesting read about a writer's 365 days without buying luxuries i.e. almost everything she would normally buy.

Levine went to the library to rent a movie or get a book. Forget going to the movies. She didn't buy any clothes, until she slipped up and bought some pants at a thrift store. She didn't eat out or buy presents or even score more Q-tips when they ran out. It all started after getting caught up in the NYC Christmas shopping nightmare known as December.

Cade and I spent most of yesterday afternoon adrift amongst the thousands of other dim-witted, tri-state consumers. Never have I felt so misanthropic at the end of the day. Cade and I ate lunch at Island Burger and Shakes, elbows poking those of patrons next to us as we bit into our respective burger and churasco. Then we jabbed and got jabbed by more of those, plus feet, arms, and strollers. We struggled to Daffy's, the Gap, and the treacherous East Side. Somewhere between shielding my ears from the tourist shrieking in a foreign language at the Timberland store and collapsing from exhaustion in the men's coat department of not one, but two, stores, I lost the urge to celebrate via consumption. What little I had, that is.

And I think that those crafty Jehovah's Witnesses could have signed me up when Cade and I suddenly became frozen in a crowd. We couldn't see the streets or the sidewalks. Cops were everywhere. "This," I yelled, "would be the perfect time for some terrorist action. I mean, people from all over the U.S. could be vaporized right now." Cade agreed, a stroller ran over my foot, and I realized what all the commotion was about.

The tree. The big-ass Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center was ablaze and the entire state of New Jersey had come to partake in its glory. We somehow crossed the street to escape the rubber necking, plastic paying masses and found ourselves even closer to the festive tree, a gigantic Swarovski crystal star, and Spongebob Squarepants. My sagging spirits rose a bit - I thought I was the biggest Grinch around. I stood (and photographed) corrected.


A security guard rushed forward to make sure I wasn't actually pummeling Nutso's junk.
Notice the Grinch's hood. That patchy costume wasn't warm enough for a wind chill in the teens. Brrr humbug!

So America's Next Top Model.

Let me start by saying that somewhere in the underwhelming blah that was the finale, I decided that I have spent too much of my life watching cliche-ridden women compete for contracts that will not catalyze a successful career in the modeling industry. I wanted Caridee to win, but when she did, I wasn't satisfied. In fact, I felt kind of sad for Melrose. She won it all, except the big prize. It kind of reminded me of the time I didn't get that one Rotary Club scholarship, despite having the best grades, being the most articulate student to interview, and wearing a really dorky sweater set. I really didn't believe there could be any justice in the world after that loss. Or after George W. Bush took office that same year.

Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I don't think I can hate Melrose. Sure, she got the bizarro bitch edit. Like the other girls, though, she's spewing the same reality competition cliches: "I'm here to win," "I'm not here to make friends," "No one can stop me." And she delivered almost every time. Why begrudge her that? Her strategy was really not original or bad.

Caridee came across in the finale as really dumb. Her behavior during the runway show was ridiculous. Why spend so much effort getting in Melrose's face? It was silly. She also seems to have no control over the emotions cast on her face. Believe me, it takes one with this problem to know one. I, fortunately, am not a model or too much of a yes-woman, so I get by.

And Eugenia should have been gone a long time ago. "A real long time ago - feel me!" Production must have paid an insane amount of money just on the airbrushing for her. I'd have preferred to see A.J. in the final three, but alas, ANTM is operating under a Tyra Banksable agenda, which includes both repping the sistahood (someone had to say it) and unabashed self-promotion.

That's really all I have to say about it. I watched a few seasons and spent an hour last night utterly disinterested. It's time to move on. In the last year, I have had only two television shows that stood before me. But now, I only have one show on my hands. It's time for the trite catfights, Miss Jay, and Tyra "weave 'em and leave 'em" Banks to pack their belongings and leave.

This is old, and I'd kind of forgotten about it since I graduated from college. One of my co-workers triggered the memory, though. Her crotch appears to be hungry on a regular basis.

Last night, I was standing outside of the open entrance to the Columbus Circle subway station. I saw the escalators gliding up and down, and I stood studying the circled alphabet letters that indicate what lines the station serves.

Suddenly, everything went black. The Time Warner building and all that surrounds it. The entire subway station. Everything, as if the city were just another twinkling light on a Christmas tree, its cord unplugged for the night.

In my dream, I thought to myself, "How would I get home from here? How cold would it be at night? What would the world be like if no one could live as they normally do? No cell phone conversations? No tv? No subway to get where everyone needs to go?"

I imagine everyone would walk and start to really see things in front of them, beside them. If anything, they'd be jumpy when all the street lights go out. But I really think they would live, really live, in the moment for the first time out of necessity. There'd be no other option.

The last thing I remember was being back at my apartment, surrounded by the tea lights in the cabinet above my kitchen sink. No one could call me. I couldn't be anywhere but where I was.

I woke up feeling refreshed.

Tomorrow night is the season finale of America's Next Top Model. This season, I've decided to write a blow-by-blow commentary as I watch. Tune in tomorrow.

Out of all the news headlines today, only one really got to me. It reported that George Clooney's potbellied pig, Max, died. Max was nineteen years old, over eighteen years older than the two potbellied pigs my mom had when I was a teenager. Matilda, pigger #1, died after a binge on loquats. She swallowed so many loquat seeds she choked to death. The second time Penelope, pigger #2, electrocuted herself in the backyard proved to be fatal. The ill-fated death of our second pig, who looked just like our first, was shocking indeed.

No more pigs after that. We all cried, and my dad groaned as he pushed the porky corpses into the graves he dug in the woods behind our house. The ironic thing about it, though, is that pigs are really intelligent. Penelope should have known to not bite into the black cord coming from the pump in the backyard pond. Again.

Alas.

The tiny article about Clooney's pig ended mentioning that it has been a tough year in pets for Clooney, as he lost his bulldog a few months earlier. If this doesn't confirm that George Clooney is one of my many good looking soulmates, I don't know what will.

I'm sorry for your loss(es), George.

1) Two signs I'm becoming soft in my old age:

1. I started crying last week during an episode of Dr. 90210. No, it was not when the guy got a reduction surgery on his scrotal web. I hadn't even meant to watch the show. I was just flipping through the channels, and suddenly there was knock-kneed Hayley Rey, wife of Dr. Robert Rey, weeping hysterically. Turns out, the couple's beloved chihuahua suddenly died. I started thinking of the fleeting nature of existence and how someday I'll lose my pudgy Abby, who is more of a sister than a pet to me. Big, hot tears ensued. My bawling crescendoed when Hayley and Dr. Rey eulogized the chihuahua during burial at a pet cemetery. I was snotty and red-eyed for over an hour.

2. I think I want to see The Holiday. And The Pursuit of Happyness. Ssh, don't tell!

2) After living the milder autumn of the two I've had in NYC as if in purgatory, it became winter overnight. Snow was forecast, but the clouds and cold front didn't deliver. Still, it's windy and shiveringly cold. I decided, "Static be damned!" today and wore a hat, but forgot gloves. I'm surprised I was able to snap pictures that didn't come out blurry from my hands shaking.


3) There was a guest speaker at my graduate class this evening. He was visiting on behalf of the wellness center or some such office. He was supposed to talk to the class about managing stress, thought I think it's a little too late for that intervention. He was very personable and had us wearing name tags. It was the most exciting the class has ever been. He went around and asked everyone their favorite movie, as many people in the class admitted to watching movies to relieve stress. Everyone had their answers, which were all pretty normal selections. The question came to a Trinidadian woman in her mid-forties. She answered with a completely straight face, "Kama Sutra tapes. There's more than one. Also, I like documentaries about mythology."

Kama Sutra tapes? Everyone in the class perked up a little. This woman has always seemed perfectly normal, low-key even, and she just said her favorite movie to watch is a Kama Sutra tape? Oh yeah, and the mythology whatever.

Kama Sutra tapes?

The thing that killed me was that everyone was shocked and smirked a little, but tried to act as if the woman's reponse was completely ordinary. Adults are so lame sometimes. I wanted to laugh out loud and whisper things to my neighbors and watch the guest speaker blush.

No such thing happened. The guy went right on, and later I shared that I think my favorite movie is Terms of Endearment.

4)
A view from my desk right this second. Shout-outs to all my sistas eating whole berry cranberry sauce straight outta the can, despite owning bowls, tonight! Holla!

Not to get all college blogger on you, but...

I FINALLY FINISHED MY PAPER! WAHOO!

Now I just.have.one.more.

And a final. And a teacher certification exam.

Really, I'm still quite buried in work, but hey, I think the worst is over.

"Today when I was in Garden of Eden, I was looking for those crackers you like. I couldn't find them and I was in a hurry, so I was just gonna ask one of the workers where they are.

I looked around, and saw this black guy working there, but I didn't wanna ask him.

I'd sound so stupid saying, 'Excuse me. Can you tell me where the crackers are?'

He'd have a straight face, and I'd have a straight face. But you know he'd be laughing to himself, thinking, 'Right here, bitch!'"

I'm ready for this month to be over. No more test prep at school. No more finals and papers at grad school.

Happy December 1st?