A (Biological) Clockwork Orange

During my post-finals "I refuse to leave my bed/couch" stage(a beautiful, beautiful thing), I rewatched "Someone like You," starring Ashley Judd and that hot guy whose name I can't think of right now. There was one scene in particular that resonated with me for reasons to which most people my age won't be able to relate (fortunate for them). The sister and her husband are at a dining room table. The husband futilely attempts to jab an orange with a syringe - after the wife exasperatedly grabs the objects from him and completes the task, we learn she is taking fertility drugs which require jabbing a syringe into her ass. 

Now pause. What is the connection? Animosity towards citrus fruit? Needles in my ass? (No to the first and a "I hope not" to the second. "Yes" to the Can-this-post get any-more awkward?)

You see, cancer and its partners-in-crime chemo and radiation do a funny thing to fertility. Apparently, this is supposed to worry me. And make me want to either take some period-suppression pill or rip out some ovaries and freeze 'em for Sunday dinner (no, not actually, ya weirdo). As a 20-year-old girl just trying to graduate and uh, stay alive, I am less than concerned with procreating. Actually, (most)(sane) people (not on MTV) are trying to avoid that uh, miracle of life bit as much as humanly possible. 

So, what to do about babies? To this dismay of all desperately awaiting (grand)parenthood(ie my mother), egg harvesting (stowing away eggs for a rainy day) clinics haven't exactly figured out how to uh, jam 'em back in after the fact. Still waiting for that one. So, I was given an option with an actual success: in vitro fertilization!!! (get the egg fertilized first, and then freeze it.)

Oh great!

But wait. One problem: who is fertilizing this egg? I'm not exactly set on bearing anyone's children at this current point in time. And I doubt my boyfriend would be at-all surprised by that revelation.

Which brings me to my next point: Can we just dwell on how not-age-appropriate this topic is? Ok, so with the awareness of "Sixteen and Pregnant"/"Teen Mom"/girls who got knocked up at my high school,  the I'm-too-young argument doesn't really fly. But what else do I have? This is inappropriate for my current stage in life? I already have finals and you want me to worry about SPAWNING ANOTHER HUMAN BEING? (About that...) Maybe I'm just refusing to be an adult. Be mature. Truly consider my future. To which I say: Fuck it. I'm a college student.

Now back to the syringe-in-ass. Due to the doses of fun I've received over the past semester/are going to receive over the next (because it didn't really work the first time around - just found out ya'll!!), I'm on track for the Charlotte York storyline instead of the Miranda (for those unaware of the reference, one is a woman desperate for housewife of the month/small versions of herself and the other is a workaholic who gets knocked up by accident), which perturbs me. 

Priorities can change over the course of life. We may find ourselves seeking top preschools as avidly as we once sought  top summer internships. (gasp!) And as much as I may dismiss it now, I may find myself struggling with infertility. Despite this plausibility, I can't help but think I'll be okay. As long as I have my person by my side, willing to jab a syringe in my ass. 

So there you have it folks. Love is finding someone willing to jab a syringe in your ass. Eloquence. 

Ode to Willow Smith

I brushed(whipped) my hair(back and forth) for the first time today. 


And by "hair" I don't mean the $500 haircut that requires constant upkeep - I mean my actual, inch-long, strands. Weeks after chemo, I've finally reached the stage in which I don't feel a sense of revulsion when I touch my scalp. Because for the first time in a few months, the hair (mostly) stays in place when I touch it. More importantly, I've had the audacity to try.

I never thought I'd ever appreciate the resilience of a real head of hair. Sure, I've tested its limits in the past (a chapter in my life we will refer to as "sibling throwdown" or "don't touch my socks"). But after many an episode after a shower or nap, resulting in clumps of hair on a pillow or in a drain(sorry housemates), I had forgotten the wonder that is brushing one's hair - without the concern it will leave with your brush. I won't be overly boastful - it's not planning on making any Rogaine commercial endorsements anytime soon. But at least it lacks the look of sparseness it once possessed. I can no longer clearly see my scalp through the individual strands. My spring, when everything else is winter. Things will grow, things will blossom, things will return to their desired state. 

Radiation intends to revert the forest back to scrawny saplings it was composed of (trying to hard with this, I know, run with it). But I think I can handle it; knowing that there is, in fact, a spring. 

And no matter what the groundhog says, it always comes.

"It's My Bar of Chocolate"

I am drowning in thought.


Time limits capability. Yet it does not limit the willingness to accomplish, the desire to attempt. There has been much discussion on the notion of being "merely human" - the restrictions such a notion implies. A quote on a Dove chocolate wrapper: You don't have to do it all.

But what if you want to? Pick your battles, they say. But what if you don't win the war? And to that: who defines the terms of engagement? Who says when it ends, and the next begins?

What is worse: physical or mental exhaustion? What causes more frustration: the fatigue of our limbs or our minds? Be good at something. But what thing? What is the right thing? What if it's the wrong thing?

We may be only limited by our imaginations. Isn't that a nice thought? For those with minds confined to the apparent and the expected: try a little harder. Then again, they might have the right idea. They may never have to know the frustration that can only come from the want of something more; the very realization that it exists. It has been asserted that managing expectations is the key to contentment. The dreamers must fool themselves, a ruse to be maintained and practiced. There are of course, nuances in the realm of happiness, but contentment in itself seems unsatisfactory. It reeks of settling. Then again, there are cards dealt that we often cannot evade, cannot alter for greater benefit - or any benefit. It is said that it is irrational to allow sunk costs to influence future decisions. Chase bad money with more money - but what about chasing wrong use of time with more time? A defined assembly of choices; a distinct path? Do the same stipulations apply? Some choices are less reversible than others. And being wasteful is rarely considered positive - even if the discarding of a certain assembly of choices could lead to a better path. This requires one to first be aware of said path. And then the more frightening aspect: making a decision about it.

Apocalypse COW(s)

Preface: 

This passage is based on a very loose grasp of the topics/events/concepts of basic mathematics covered. A good, solid ramble.

Further, I reserve the right to keep my room stocked with Godiva, Hershey's, Apple Jacks, other super-healthy items. I understand that my uh, "preference" (euphemism for: obsession) for chocolate(errr crack) may appear to undermine my support of healthy eating, but let's role with it. 

Major issue with Mobama healthy eating campaign: LEAVE MY BAKE SALES ALONE.

Bake sales were the go-to fundraiser at my precious high school. Science club? BROWNIES. Drama Club? BROWNIES Italian Club? cann-BROWNIES.

I reserve the right to raise money for often purely social events under the guise of "being educational". And to make 7th period slightly more endurable the best way possible: a sugar high (not to be confused with other kinds of brownies and other kinds of highs, ahem).

Despite this, I have to admit that some regulation of cafeteria slop (sorry slop) is in order. For the kid with the choice of fried this, fried that, and salad, what do you expect? (And no, it shouldn't be salad. Fools.) Kids need better options to make better choices. Obviously suppliers/budget-tight school boards aren't the most incentivized to go this route, which is why they could use a little push. 

Sarah Palin, at least to my understanding, is vehemently opposed to Michelle Obama's campaign against eating unhealthy food. Another step towards big government, legislation infringing upon the citizen's right to be fat, doomsday. The mindset I am referring to adheres to the belief one of the four horsemen was an alleged Muslim whose wife suggested kids eat their damn brussels sprouts. Call me statist, but I can't help but think that the government may have incentive to protect its interest in this arena(which it is constitutionally permitted to do...probably?). In less PC terms, fat people are expensive. Fat, poor people are expensive. Junk food is cheaper, more convenient, all-around more attractive to the busy(or lazy, if I take the elitist tone) barely-making-breadwinner that is depicted by politicos and people who actually care (the charitable, activist sort). 

Ways to tackle a problem in my imaginary government handbook: economically or socially. (Militarily is also on the list but I don't feel it is relevant...at this time. There's an Onion article for that.) Sure, they can make soda more expensive and provide subsidies for apples. But who wants a fucking apple? So, the social approach: leverage popularity(read: influence) to change behavior. I like apples > I am cool > you should like apples. To be fair, Mobama's penchant for J Crew hasn't been the most adopted in inner-city circles. I think we may have a better shot with items that aren't marked up 400% of their original value, no? (The validity of that number is questionable, as is the assumption that this isn't the case with produce, but go with it.) Probably-more-accurate assessment: those cardigans are 5x the price of a cardigan at Conway. Beyond demand, there is also the issue of availability (or scarcity, in this case).  Shop rites tend to lose out to corner stores in the areas in question. 

But ah, the loss of flexibility. And the ability to actively choose salad over fried this/that. The decline of trust in the notion that the average American possesses and actively uses the ability to discern what is good for him/her/spawn of him/her. Should we not give them the chance?

Maybe they'll surprise us.

Yellow Paint

Recent events have had a bit more shock value than usual. Shootings, stranglings, flashings - All within a few block(to few mile) radius of our bubble. Speckling the otherwise smoothly pattern-esque splatters of sex, drugs, and power-play. The conspicuous specks are such because their inherent outsiderness. They behave differently, and as such, are suspicious. 

And from that, frightening. 

And from that, sensational.  

What to make of it? They taint the scene like any other splotch on a pristine canvas, yet they strike a different cord. They're outsiders.

The shooting. 

What shocked me is that the suspects are(were?) 18. An 18-year-old old was shot dead because his idea of a good time on a Saturday night is a car jacking. Thinking about the stupid shit my friends and I pulled in high school, car jacking just wasn't one of those choices. I guess we were pretty fortunate in that regard.

Sometimes I forget about the state of things outside of my little bubble, and then gun-toting teenagers storm the scene. What world do we live in? Well, I suppose it depends on your idea of a good time.

Then I remember this bubble is supplied with its narcotic of choice from boys in frat bedrooms, dorms left unlocked. The motivation? Just getting by, perhaps. Something to do. The cost-benefit analysis of getting ahead vs. getting caught.

Not so different, after all. 

Saturation

I encountered literary porn this weekend. 

It was the sort of occasion demanding confrontation with an old friend - the novel. With a semi-truamatizing traveling incident leaving me stripped of my father's generous donation to the chemo-doesn't-have-to-suck-that-much fund, I had to salvage the next-best distraction. I fell in rapture over the apt lines, the descriptions "just-so". I even underlined. 

I couldn't decide if my enjoyment stemmed purely from the text itself or my recently-misplaced ability to focus on such a thing. You see, chemo steals not only one's hair, sanity, strength, will to live, but also one's ability to focus. But I suppose that has some overlap with the aforementioned. It also leaves a bad taste in one's mouth(literally). I dream of days when water tickles the tongue in cascade, the way it's supposed to. When you have the association of purity with a particular substance, subtle tricks of the senses can really do you in. My sense of smell is another devil in itself, deliberately delving itself into bouquets of fetid, sharp, and overwhelming. Truly catering to the already aromatic, airy atmosphere. And by that I mean, stuffy spaces crammed with antiseptic-coated seats and McDonald's bags. 

But enough of my senses, let us get a sense of the sensual selection of text. (The alliteration was totally necessary, ahem.)

Rand has triggered my lyric-finder. Once used predominantly to capture the angst suspended above a 3-chord melody, it has found itself restless as of late. But to find what? Lines with the right flow and the right association to be tucked away for later plastering or recitation. 

Hopefully it will remain stimulated through my next journey through the tunnel of discomfort to the eventual decompress. Remain engaged until the fat lady sings(or unhooks my IV...) The very hopeful end to an end less satisfying.

Though at the very least, please let it be an end. 

"Reasons like Seasons, They Constantly Change"

Friendship is occasional, continuous; apparent and indistinct. How do you like your coffee? Black, or diluted with milk?

Sometimes it depends on the season.

Let's examine.

The type of friendship that spans periods of blankness, when awkwardness pervades hellos and wedges distance in greeting. And then they resume, back to cuddly honeymoon periods when the time is right and a branch is extended downward. The other must make the choice to climb up, despite the steepness of the fall. Sometimes branches give the appearance of reach - a weeping willow practically begs. 

And sometimes the rigidity of growth prevents a noticeable dip. 

The importance of flexibility, fair saplings, always comes into play. Some may choose to actively stretch, some may languish and toughen. Though like trees, fair weather makes one more attractive. Affection in times of starkness is a far better test of friendship. 

Funny that without the cluster of leaves, things become more clear.

All's fair in love and abbreviations

Abbreviations: shortening of the meaning, or just the phrase?

I think back to my high school freshman boyfriend who, bless his heart, was a bit of a jump start on the affection wagon. Let me break the time line down for you like this:

Day 1-10: copious amounts of "AIM convos".

Day 10: group movie venture. hand holding. (gasp.)

Day 12: New Years' Eve. Awkward cuddling infront of friends. Awkward kiss in front of friend cheerleading the moment, who we will refer to as "the instigator".
Day 12-13:

AIM profile update:

ilu ari!! <3 1.1.05

"ilu"? First of all, what the hell is that. Secondly, if you're going to spout off bits of warmth on a public electronic forum, at least keep it classy; being 15 is no excuse.(This coming from an adherent to the "fuck bitches get money" AIM-quote-post-cult. Right.) Further, we have been dating for roughly...50 minutes. We have been "involved" for 3 days. Maybe. Hand holding and forced peck later and you love me? Uh. I wonder what you tell the lunch ladies who serve you those fries you're so jazzed about. 

What made this all the more intriguing was the lack of vocal confirmation. Sure, the kid could type 3 words (Oh sorry it was letters. Letters?! Ugh.) and post it on his "every important detail you could ever know about me ever" profile, but he was lacking the personal touch. I guess sideways hearts don't translate to speech? Must look into that. 

Obviously this blossomed into a steady, healthy relationship filled with many, many ilu's and the occasional hand grab. By that I mean, he refused to sit with me and my friends at lunch. We made out in a movie theatre about 5 times while my friend, the instigator, sat two seats over. (I was not allowed to go on "dates"). I ultimately had to bring the warm, gooey ilu-fest to an end after getting grounded. If we couldn't get hot and steamy on a Friday night, what was the point?

Crispy

I am looking for a full bodied experience. I'm not sure what that means anymore.

Should it touch shoulders while skirting ankles? Or is it one of those internal type of deals? How meta can we get with this, anyway?

I went downstairs seeking toast. what did I find? toast. slightly burnt bread with melted fat drizzled on, like a masterpiece of the mundane. I had the gall to marvel at its lack of satisfaction. Being hellbent on breaking the rules of reality, I tried a second round, hoping for a change. Toast is toast, and identical actions will garner identical outcomes. It would be ludicrous to assert otherwise. Require a dash of denial and a sprinkle of ...sublime? That will do, yes. 

Toast at 6:30am should be a sublime experience. It is decided.

The Art of Being Totally Selfish

I am not voting in the elections because it is too damn cold. (It's a popular sentiment.)
I am also terrified of the reality that my ANC(read: level of infection fighting bits) is so low a cough will send me to the hospital. If you sneeze near me, I will run for the hills.
Though there are plenty of germs lurking amidst the cushy carpeting and couches, I refuse to leave this house. (This is also probably due to the fact that I am incredibly lazy and my sweatpants are considered unacceptable outside wear, but pettiness is a bad look.)

There is actually a song illustrating my current state of affairs. Please see Lyrics - Frank Sinatra, "Luck be a Lady" (replace "luck" with "health")

Lyrics of note:
you might forget your manners
you might refuse to stay
and so the best I can do is pray

They insist I should be wearing a face mask to class, and despite my little HEY-I-HAVE-CANCER front page fiasco, I want to operate under the delusion that (most) people don't know. I like to think that my efforts to assimilate via appearance(read: wear make up and brush my hair like a normal, non-hopeless person) are not futile and I imagine tossing a SARS-scare-era face mask into the mix may upset that. I understand that this means I am "asking for it" and behaving in a counter-productive way (Do I want to get sick and have to drag on the chemo-ing? Do I miss having hair?), but goddammit I want to feel normal. This is a selfish and (probably expensive) desire, but it is one of the few remnants of "old self"(read: pre-cancer) feelings that I possess, so I will tether myself to it like a tree they're about to tear down. Cancer and related issues: bulldozer.

So I will continue to not draw attention to myself and instead, purell the shiz out of my surrounding areas... and refuse to leave my house, save for class. Balance? Maybe. Ridiculous? Certainly. Effective? I hope so.

(De)Mean Girls

"I have felt personally victimized by Regina George."

And by Regina George, I mean the DP. Thanks to tireless efforts to be ethical(if that clause was a wet dish rag there would be drips of sarcasm seeping from it.), the DP managed to purport my struggle with a "sexy", controversial illness into a centerpiece. Literally. As in my picture was the "centerpiece", as industry terms go, of Friday's issue. How special do I feel? SO. SPECIAL. 

The garish display, especially without proper accompaniment, made the message appear hallow and insipid. The event attempted to capitalize on the strength of the individuals who participated, yet the commentary did the opposite. 

The "beauty" of the event was the choice of the participants to share - and share in a way that they felt comfortable with(ie in a intimate setting of couches graced by 30ish of their peers). The DP, with the careless efforts of their photography department, successfully managed to completely undermine that. But a thanks is in order - now I no longer have to broach the awkward subject with friends, acquaintances, faculty, etc, myself - people are more than comfortable approaching me with a subject I was *clearly* comfortable enough with to plaster across the campus newspaper's front page. However, I will definitely think twice before participating in such events involving such sensitive subject matter, because those "in charge" of relaying these events to the greater Penn community lack the sensitivity necessary to do appropriately.

On this campus, a sorority girl pictured without her hair is as shocking as a celebrity's crotch shot. To those who suggest the public nature of the event makes such documentation(without permission) allowable: it's one thing to undress in a women's locker room; it is quite another to undress in front of a camera. 

I wish I could say it was my brave act, as it has been referred to, that graced the cover of the DP, but that feels like a sham. Yes, I willingly ripped my hair prothesis(as my prescription that was summarily rejected by insurance says) from my head in manner similar to a drunken coed flashing "Girls Gone Wild" style. However, the coeds at least do so in front of a camera and (albeit drunkenly) provide (some sort of alleged) consent. In my case, the presence of cameras at the event became overt only during the discussion afterwards - interrupting the reflective silence, each comment was accompanied by a flash. And even then, no briefing was provided on the ownership of the cameras/photos.

I understand the need to utilize the sexier aspects of events for headlines and the like - I do dabble in the marketing side of things, after all. However, this can be done with ethics in mind - an element which has been sadly lacking from an arena whose dictates require said element. An arena that has lawyers, conferences, meetings, casual reminders, etc specifically for said element. Why waste the time and energy?

A good rule of thumb regarding professionalism: act professionally. If you are going to attempt to tackle serious issues, deal with them with the dignity and gravity they deserve. In reverse, if you feel you cannot: do not. Simple. As. That.  

Fish food(der)

It has been noted that my attention span can be equated to that of gold fish with a learning disorder. This has been troublesome in the past, particularly with friends.Though I suppose acting like a pet who only wants to be fed sporadically would cause some issue. 
Gluttony at its best: my fish Caitlin died from overfeeding(aka my friend the fish was not named after - cough Jessie - dumped an entire container of fish food into the tank. I'm still bitter about it.)  
And then there are some people for whom portion size has no meaning. I'd join 5 different extra curricular activities just to have an excuse to see them. People who I want to bother relentlessly but realize under regular societal constraints it would come off fairly awkward. 

I hate needing excuses to encounter people. A person with whom I have nose-touching level of friendship calls it "creeping" and I feel it is an adequate expression of our interaction. It's love in the 3rd degree; reminder of the time when waging wars with oven mitts were the only battles worthy of fighting.

I feel tingling in places I'm not supposed to. It is one of the few reminders of the weekly dosage of sunshine and ponies captured in a syringe that makes me wish for rain. 

I know I should be more appreciative. But dammit, being thankful is hard when you fall asleep during the prayer.

Sunshine on tap

There's sunlight pouring through my window. At 9am, it makes me yearn for the curtain I forgot to purchase. At 10am, it makes me thankful for forgetfulness. At noon, it makes me feel like a bum. But that's commonplace, I think.

Body's strewn across the bed like a rag doll with crumpled limbs. Today's temperature melted my resolve and sent me crawling back to bed(with an iced caramel macchiato). I woke up knowing that it would be a war of attrition - my desire for freebies at a festival vs. my obnoxiously frequent guest, weakness. Desire held strong for a while, allowing body over here to paint a seasonal orange squash(pump...kin? yes.) and play holly hostess with some cupcake coupons. Desire's shields, fortified by ample supplies of iced coffee and sugary snacks, dissolved throughout the afternoon. Weakness was quick to strike, sending body back to where weakness resides: cushiony places with rumpled sheets.

Fairness is a dose of tylenol. (I'm not allowed any.)

Let's have some cheese with that w(h)ine - ha. People are still wonderful, faster and longer lasting than  the drugs to sustain me and make me function semi-normally.
Me gusta soar, me gustas tu. (hi dara)

word vomit

(tuesday)
Today I'm feeling pretty damn good. In comparison to yesterday, which shouldn't count as a day. For you see, one of my three (yes, three) anti-nausea meds ran away, and forced me to deal with the terrible feeling of...being nauseous. But just slightly. Just enough to curl up in a ball and never move, but not enough to really do anything about it.
My nausea has a pokerface. I did not call it's bluff because that would just be a ...terrible thing to do. Decided.

I'm in an odd spot right now.

My head is the clearest it's been in days. I should write a novel.

Realization: people are wonderful.

I had missed the slightly operatic sound of collective singing. The sort of songs that fill the empty bellows of your being. The ones that, despite the hiatus, would never let you forget them if you tried.
It carries you as you find yourself echoing words in an unrepentant volume in one of the few places where even the off-key are welcome.

Home is a few words and fewer places. But they all feel right to me.

Goals and Volleys

Today I was the most athletic I have been in months. Or rather, best attempt at athleticism(in months). Let us start there. Chasing down buses(successfully...some of the time) and hurtling towards closing subway doors are activities that simply do not count. 

It was a lovely day at the park. Funnily enough, I actually live next to one and yet have managed to successfully avoid it most of the summer - work reasons or otherwise. Probably had something to do with my exercise abilities going to die there. It was a lovely ceremony, marked by some vomit after some dynamic stretches(really? really? yes. ugh.) Defeated, I put aside my love for the park and walked home, water bottle full and heavy swinging at my side. 

But today there was volleyball. And something about the ability to volley some lightweight synthetic orb over and over again, adjusting position slightly(or not so slightly...bastards) brought me back. Yes, I needed a break or two. or five. Running after a rogue toss was a bit of a strain. I was fortunate enough to have a very patient volleying-partner(our opponents sort of gave up on us and just let us fuck around with the ball for awhile). But all in all, it brought me back to days when my sticky fingers(goalie gloves are good like that) could stop (uh, mostly) anything that came near the net. Then there was the sprint up to the edge of penalty box, pause, look, and a (sometimes) successful punt to a (hopefully) open teammate. Choices. Total control over placement and play. For a brief, shining moment.

Apparently in a few weeks I'll be feeling up to a run. Public gyms are forbidden(people = germs. boo.), but at the very least I should be less inclined to cough every time I exert energy beyond a brisk walk. These are the sorts of constraints that, I imagine, will motivate me to run 5K's when the shenanigans are over. Just to prove to my ol' XC self that those Darlington meets that earned me permanent embarrassment on the cross-country highlight reel were (slightly) worth it. (Picture this: girl in uniform, practically bouncing with outstretched arm towards elderly man with whistle around neck, holding out a curious yellow object. Closeup: inhaler. As non-asthmatic runners zoom by effortlessly, girl shakes inhaler, puffs 2x, hands it back, continues on.) All is not lost.

Goals.

Many Bloodsucking Creatures

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of pokes, prods, and pre-surgical testing.  Attempting to draw me out of my latest mini-mental-breakdown (brought on by its main culprit as of late: a blood test), my dad filled me in on the latest political news. Glenn Beck was having a rally at the Lincoln Memorial on the revered anniversary of Martin Luther King Jr.'s speech.
Nice.
With a last sniffle and a "Ugh. I hate Glenn Beck.", I slipped onto the exam chair and allowed to the nurse to take what I was sure to be yet another donation to the Edward Cullens fund. My dad is a wizard.

I decided to do some follow-up on this precious display, and have a few thoughts on the matter:

- Beck has masterfully created a brand new sentence filler. Gone are the days of "um" and "like" - if you want to roll tea party style, start using "God" instead.

- Of course he was well aware of the potential controversy of the Martin Luther King speech anniversary - he was banking on it. One person's irreverent is another person's "maverick". One might infer that he hopes to have comparative statements about the impact or importance in later years. Perhaps even with quotations! He has engineered his role as leader of some sort of movement he hopes to be comparative to civil rights(of course, not the "progressive" aspects of it. just magnitude.) Beck's dreams involve textbook references with side-by-side photographs, SAT essay questions of compare and contrast. Go big or go home, I guess. And when you need to make a plate of BS big enough to feed Mama Grizzlies, such ingredients are needed.

- It's not that I feel his message is entirely worthy of ridicule. I was once an attendee of church picnic-like affairs. I can appreciate the strength of a sermon. The concept of "restoring honor" sounds as soothing to me as the next person. I just don't equate that with pro-life or pro-"marriage"(please note use of quotation marks) ideology.

-  And it's not that I don't appreciate a conservative message. When it comes to the trivialities of politics(better phrased as "things that are trivial, like politics"), my loyalty shifts based on who has the better deal.  Often enough, the Democratic party's keg is kicked and one has venture down to elephant town to get drunk. Sometimes they ID you and you have to drag your sorry ass back and hope someone makes a liquor run (though it might take a few years).

So that's it for my diatribe. Stay tuned for mosque talk, "reasons why my pediatrician sucked" and other bitterness!

Conversation Starters

I lied to two people today.

Well, technically three. But the two main victims were told directly to their faces, which I imagine is supposed to make the crime more...repugnant.

The victims? A dentist and a hair dresser.  Didn't know what hit 'em.

The aforementioned are the types of occupations in which rapport is awarded - or rather, considered part of the job. Despite hundreds of nameless mouths or heads of hair they shift and shape in a year, they are expected to maintain some sort of memory, in order to maintain the almost-ease of conversation with the annual patients whose intricacies, while inconsequential, allow them to feel more relaxed when remembered.(Though I don't imagine anyone ever feels relaxed enough for those horrid cleanings. Shudder.)

Yet, the same conversations remain in their repertoire. Targeted by age and gender, the questions are meant to elicit the small talk that creates the comfortable environment that is sought.

So, why make things uncomfortable?

When the mother hen-like dentist asks about the bandage or hospital bracelet, there is no point in mentioning the "c" word. Quite the conversation killer.

Or not so much killer, but monster-steroid enhancer. Adult sympathy, unlike it's adolescent counterpart, is experienced, hard-hitting, and often...hysterical. It asks the real questions. It has real-life comparison points and the worst: recommendations.

As much as I would love to foster intimacy with individuals who will as soon forget my teeth or hair specifications as they put away the file(or hair dryer), I feel it unnecessary. Excessive, if you will.

Why ruin their day with the knowledge that they're touching a (c word) patient?

The whole thing just seems silly to me.

So, if our encounter only merits a short or sporadic conversation, you will be told I had a minor  operation. And that I'm going back to school in week. And that everything is swell.

Preset answers for preset questions.

You Gotta Have Heart

"She is our flower! She is in the flower of her youth!"

rosary beads, WHY YOU!, repeat repeat repeat

she's little, but she's a heavyweight.

grandmothers are good for things like that.

Euphemisms that turn into THE words, 

circle talk and praise of good veins

We-will-fix-you's

curative, chemical, giveeeeememorepilllllls!

it's an air mask for a jet pilot. Maverick!

hospital staff is good for things like that

i got a team of people on prayers, a team of people on treatment, a team of people on fattening me up with the most delicious things possible, a team of people on sanity and awkward jokes(cuing laughter for mine). And a team of people on acting as my mouth, arms, and legs when they slack(they're called parents and they are quite the asset, let me tell you).  All of whom are on the all-star team of keeping me alive. I'm confident about my odds.

I'm ready to fight, mothafuckaaaaa!

The Stage

Headphones in a glass room. The casual ignorance of the lack of soundproof walls and tinted glass. Performance value.

There is always a song to be sung, a dance to begin at the most basic tapping of finger tips. I see figures floating across a stage in perfectly coordinated movements - swaying(or popping) to the rhythm of a sultry love song, or rapid pant of a heart-pounding club beat. The first jazz dance of Gershwin in a sequin top hat(glitter was an eye hazard) and the last twirl-and-dip on the sticky local bar floor are not to be forgotten.

Tap dancing with mirrors to match movement to tap dancing across a heart with no recollection of its happening. I miss the time step.

 

Sometimes the best expression of style occurs alone in carpeted bedroom. Doors closed, with only the mirrors to judge what is exposed. A song echoing off the basement walls - with only the pitter patter of miniscule paws to keep time. An existence in the partial secrecy the moon affords you.

 

The daily journey home involving a walk-in-the-park and a game. How close can a person get before they hear the words sailing off one's lips?

Better to be suspended above the viewers of the art, the recitation of words and movement. Blinding bright lights obscure the view of filled seats. No eye contact. Center stage squint. 

Hidden in the limelight for too long, it is time to return. 

Palm Reading

Patches, Trax, and Cupcake draped their lethargy-pumped bodies around a wooden table obscured from view of other patrons. It was humid inside the private alcove; but the importance of privacy far outstripped the inconvenience of a sweaty brow.

They nursed their drinks, musing over past days. With markings on the tops of their hands, silvery declarations of title, they were distinctive from the others. Atop the table, among the varied condense-tipped glasses, was a book.

"Put one palm on top and stroke the pages with the other. Think about your question until it feels...right. Then open to the page you touch."

Questions were asked and answered. Though many of the cryptic messages required the combined interpretations of hope and cynicism, often enough the text spoke loudly and clearly.

"Am I good in bed?"
"Don't be ridiculous."

Ouch. That's gotta burn.

The book was then unceremoniously tossed, to be replaced by another round.

Priorities.

How Stella Got Her Groove Back

I mentioned earlier how I was having some difficulty for a few weeks writing poetry. I had lost my groove. Very concerned that this was a permanent groove loss, I sought help. And then fortuitously the blog-stalking that I so oft have to do for work led me to Hannah Miet, who is a fucking g. After some feedback on the male point-of-view poem, one comment in particular: "It sounds like an Asian preteen male wrote it", I decided I should probably revamp. Or grow a penis. Those were the options provided to me. But before my sex-change in the name of poetry, I want to take another swing at it. The new version, alternatively title "the frat boy"(I'M SORRY IT WAS TOO EASY.), explores the internal monologue of a guy at the bar with drunk girl. I was told this was more accurate(feedback: "it sounds like a dyke wrote it"), so it appears I am on the right track. So once I start demanding anal sex, I think I will finally have hit it on the head. Thoughts?

And as always, feel free to stalk me if you want to read it. And by stalk, I mean email. That would be uh, cool. Thanks.

Though I'm a bit scared to post my wittle poems on the big, bad web(outside of the confines of my 15-person facebook list for all my notes), I don't really have an excuse given that I've been published a few times. And it's only fair to post in the blogoverse what I gained from the blogoverse(stab me for the use of the term blogoverse). So, here ya go. Judge away fine fellows.

Hannah Miet is my New Muse
You're fickle and volatile
you are the pinpricks of tics
which switch my desire for
a cubicle fuck to a
toss off floor 6.
I've thought of you before.
before the daydream that fades to soft tinges
that make me drowsy at desk
touch the keys as they bend
to whatever curve my mind's run down next
Useful as a post-it note without stick,
your words fall like drip drip
of a leaky faucet
I long to express
the feeling you've never felt
except when reflecting off
conquers
you dispel all cause for concern
with a look and a wink and a
left-hand turn
look away, for I'm through with the
swerve of a crash-and-burn
learn to put out your cigarettes
on someone else's arm.

Taming of the Shrew

Hannah Miet is my new muse. I thought for a time why the poetry wasn't coming, why the words remained stagnant. Or worse, neatly tucked into approved-sentence structure with properly placed punctuation AND capitalized words. The horror. the horror. I decided that my creativity had been drained from this blog business or simply leaking out of my cublicle chair(along with my will to live). I needed some help.

First, I was assisted by the-guy-with-a-gift who gave me a magical assignment: write from a male point-of-a-view. Specifically, "no feminist sarcasm". I was worried, to be sure, that some might accidently spurt out(it wells about the throat, waiting). I can't help that vast majority of men and their behavior give me ageda on a regular basis. Maybe I should hop out of the frat scene for awhile and linger among the engineers. They at least inspire some faith.

When the assignment piqued immediate interest, I realized that my writer's block may have been simply been caused by having nothing to write about. To be fair, this is a positive in real-world terms, as almost all of it is angsty in some way. Or simply angry(comedy comes from anger, according to something I read somewhere...therefore it must be true.) Or sad(read: pathetic. No one gets to read those though. Sorry, schaudenfreude fans). So, sadly for my creativity, I haven't had to bitch anyone out via free-form in awhile. Poo.

Back to the assignment, I began with the internal monologue of a guy about to approach a girl in a bar. Then realizing how risky that would be(breaking the constraints of the assignment waaaay too easy), I decided to try a different tactic. Channeling my knowledge of all that is idealistic, rom-com, wishywashy, and generally unrealistic, I wrote the internal monologue of a type b guy comforting a friend, whom he secretly loves. Mhmhm mush.  I think I successfully made males come off non-scummy, but that's probably because, as my friend aptly put, "I don't think it's male enough".

Can't win 'em all, I guess.



p.s. If you want to read the poem(or any of my other pieces), just give me a shout. I'm a bit overprotective.

Blue Moon

Some may call me the gangster of love...

Apt, because from time to time I shoot love in the foot and leave it bleeding on the asphalt.  Then, like the goomba I am, I skipped merrily away to a pat on the head and a new assignment.

Once, in a castle far, far away I knocked a guy's drink onto him while flailing my arms(they call it dancing there). Twice. Once was clearly not enough, so Fate decided to add insult to injury after the poor guy made the mistake of dancing with me and a precariously placed solo cup.

It was then decided(after profuse apologies and a make-up drink) that we should probably sit(with my arms at my sides. at. my. sides.) Among the leather couches of the ornate chamber, we had an atypical "fraternity gathering" discussion. Perhaps, for the first time, there was a genuine sense of getting-to-know-you and not getting-into-your-pants. I was taken aback. Someone was actually assessing me based on what I read on my commute and how I felt about family law. I then discovered the cause of difference: he was a GDI, not pledged to any of the local kingdoms with whose lords I had had encounters.

My ladies-in-waiting(go with it) were anxious to leave after it was discovered that a court jester(read: drunk kid passed out in his own vomit) was causing "difficulties" outside. I did not want to relieve myself of this person's presence, and fortunately he remedied the situation by suggesting we all go back for "a drink".

An apartment of scotch and beer. and a black, fluffy cat. Conversations and the understanding that one of my dear friends had to be taken home.

Though pins exchanged and facebook friendship resolved, such things come with the understanding that the likelihood of a second encounter matches that of a person spilling someone else's drink on him. twice.

Though I suppose the blue moon does appear eventually.

And now, with only myself to judge, I read the New York Times every. single. morning.

(Jersey) Girl Lament

Dear girls sitting at the table next to me at Starbucks: 

Yes, your boy(thing) is cheating on you. The girl you think he talks to about you is probably the culprit, and no she's probably doesn't know that you're going to "cut her" the next time you see her. Your friends that you think have successful relationships are, in fact, probably happier that you are, because they probably aren't spending 3 hours discussing the monotonous details of your interaction with some guy(s) who is/are probably with that girl you hate at this very moment. The repetitious conversation that you are having has covered almost every cliche comment related to boy gossip that makes even the most calm green-tea drinker's blood boil in frustration. 

I made a list for your records:

"Everyone likes what they can't have."

"It's the way it is."

"He just likes the chase."

roll eyes

"It's not you."

roll eyes

"He would just text me like randomly. On weekends."

unexpected?

"So that's life, what are you gonna do."

stop texting?

"We're nice girls, they know they can't do that to us."

oh, totally.

"He's just having his fun now, but when he meets that girl, which, like, could be me, he'll be different."

uh.

"This is what he wants to look at, that is what he wants to hear."

they are nice implants, actually.

"He says when he commits it's different, like he can only be with her so, like, that's why he won't commit."

sound logical reasoning.

"You can play the game for a little while, then everyone wants to settle down, be comfortable."

"Maybe we'll be friends in the future."

"Try it out."

read: have sex with him.

"I know he likes me, but I know he has other things, like whatever."

yep.

"I'm just going to tell him, I can't be your go-to girl. You need to leave you girlfriend....or I don't want to be involved."

you uh, tell him sister.

"I've had my fun, like .. but then again..."

"The more you look for it, the more you force it...I mean I never force anybody but..."

"I hate when they fuck around."

didn't you cheat on that other guy?

"So annoying. I hate that shit."

see above.

"I would never cheat again. When I first broke with him, like, like,likelikelikelikelikeGAAH"

STOP IT.

"Just to see what happens."

read: have sex with him.

"But like, you live and you learn."

translates to: you have sex with them and then...

"He crushed her ribs..but like he's a really nice guy, I've known him for..."

we call him bone crusher as a nickname. such a sweetheart

"They made out and like, he's a bad kisser but he pays, so like..."

dinner before dignity!

"But she made it clear that she wasn't interested, and like..."

translates to: but she'll still have sex with hm

"And then he texted me and said, 'LOL No', like what the hell, like..."

read: but then I had sex with him

"He deleted me."

boo.

"I'm glad I got to vent. You're the best."

IT'S OVER. BASKING IN THE QUIET. BASKING.

I would transcribe more, but my fingers actually have a quota for the amount of likes that can be typed in a single sentence. 

Thoughts:
-Oh dear god, you're going to eventually reproduce.

-You're 26 and having the exact. same. conversation that 16-year-old girls have about "relationships". 

-Your conversation mentioned facebook, texting, and drunken interactions about 30 times. 

-We have all had that conversation. Loudly. Probably in a Starbucks.(or cafe of choice) Fuck.

Notes to self:
Do not air dirty laundry in Starbucks. People can actually hear you.

Learn to use code names.
Kill whatever remnants of Jersey accent possible. 

As much as I want to ridicule these vapid, overly-bronzed waitresses with skinny vanilla lattes, I am stopped by the realization that they are currently having the most universal girl discussion in existence. The attempted deciphering of the male ego, and the ultimate failure. The resolve to not deal with the "bullshit," but the unspoken acknowledge they'll be answering so-and-so's texts come Thursday. 

The pathetic sort of comfort that comes from the mutually understood lie that the anxiety has an eventual "purpose". 

Resolution: NEVER HAVING THIS CONVERSATION AGAIN. If someone hears me utter any of the like-drenched words of "wisdom" above, feel free to beat me with a blunt object. 

Actually, I think if every, single girl aged 12-45 hears it from a few JersAY gravelly-voiced waitresses, the conversation(s) will cease. And across this fair nation, coffee shops goers will be saved from the stories "I just NEED to tell you, ohmygod..." 

Or we will simply continue having the same shared practices, perpetuated by a lack of good judgement and some expensive coffee.

Saviors in Boat Shoes and Stilettos

Memory:

Hustle and bustle at the house. Curling irons scorching counter tops(just kidding campus apartments!) Powders and creams; shine and shimmer coating sinks and faces. Dresses. Heels(That do not fit.) Handles of vodka. It's formal time.

Date ETA: 45 minutes. Primping: on schedule.

Discovery of plastic tag still on dress. Strong resistance to conventional means of removal. 

Screaming. Panic.

Hammer. tweezers. Swiss army knife. Ripping a hole in the thing and calling it a day.

Realization that gaping hole in dress is, well, a gaping hole.

Temper tantrum. Panic. 

Savior in pink taffeta: sew it for you?

Rejoice.

Savior in brown BCBG: peach schnapps?

Calm.

Sometimes peace of mind is a just a phone call or sewing stitch away. I've been very fortunate that I've never been lacking in the crisis-be-gone! ointment department. Y'know, the type you put on a particularly egregious zit like a break up or typical panic attack. The main person hooking me up with this salve over the years has been my dad.

So I'll admit it: I'm a daddy's girl. But instead of the typified shopping sprees for shoes, our idea of an impulse buy is a book. or five. Sadly, I appreciate these sorts of purchases infinitely more than the former. I know this makes me totally weird. And very hard to please.

Because half the time I'd rather hang out at a Barnes and Noble with my dad, laptops out, sharing articles we know the other will find interesting, relaying stories of the day about our coworkers and friends. I have blown off parties to sit and talk about Vonnegut and sip caramel macchiatos with my dad. I am in college. There is something wrong with this picture.

I remember one time I dragged a guy to my favorite haunt. Poor kid didn't know what hit him. We sat in the fiction aisle, and I tried to explain to him how boss Anne Rice is. Apparently vampire novelists aren't the best topic of discussion for dates, who knew?(Stephanie Meyers YOU DO NOT COUNT.) After making him uncomfortable for a wee bit longer, I let him take me for ice cream. 

When I think of our ventures - almost always involving food(Hey. Hey. Want to get dessert? YES. I'm on my way.), I remember I am very fortunate to have people like him in my life  - those waiting to rescue you from whatever crisis comes your way. I can only hope I've been a least a fraction of the white knight he and other dear people have been. 

At least, as these things go, I have time to make it up. 

Marriage Should be a Gay Affair

"Let them get married and be as miserable as the rest of us."

Amen.

I found out at dinner tonight that my friend's boyfriend proposed to her. Actually, "attempted to propose" is more accurate. At the will of both her and the dear boy's mother, the diamond engagement ring that graces her left hand is now a "promise ring". This, of course, did not stop the increase in pitch or added fluster when describing/defended it to the open-mouth expressions of her two oldest friends.

We just left it with us planning the eventual bachelorette party, and unspoken understanding that those participating may not survive. 

There's been a lot of marriage talk lately - who's allowed and who's not seems to be a conversation that's not only gracing my friend's boyfriend's living room. Sure, I'm all for preserving "tradition" and letting the faithful do their thing.

...and then i read WSJ's article explaining the spousal abuse of cell-phone tracking systems, in which men program their wives' phones in order to drag them back(by the hair, of course). And about yet another study of how men are apparently *incapable* of remaining monogamous, and I think: what are we trying to protect again? the *sanctity* of marriage? If someone can find it somewhere please let me know.  I think it's run off with common sense and prudence - and they most certainly aren't coming back anytime soon.

The argument is about protecting children, and how same-sex couples are apparently less capable of child-raising.

We apparently have a thing for divorce. We get bored, you see. Why bother hanging around some old hag when there's a 20-year-old secretary ready to bang(Mr. Sterling)? these are things we know, but let us stress again: children from divorced homes don't do so well(around brilliant study). apparerently, cynicism can breed early(who knew?!) and this makes them overwhelmly more likely than their happily-married-parented counterparts to get a divorce too. Hooray for perpetuating a system of utter misery and destruction.

This is not to say that same-sex couples won't also take to this divorce concept like the bubbling trend it has become, but I think we should give them a shot. Who knows, they may actually like eachother(enough).

And one must also remember the thousands of children banging their heads' against the wall in orphanages across the globe - places where child-care for infants is to the extent of being held once a day for 5 minutes. And we would let them sit, and waste away until it is their time to be bumped to a foster home, or brothel(if the location allows). Why would we limit a most wonderful expansion of much-needed potential parents?

Breeding(and bringing) these maladjusted future criminals into the world with no parents to lovingly smother the bad out of them(I think that is what does it. eh?) is just irresponsible if there is a potential solution. 

And there would be other positive effects, as well. 

The wedding industry will be booming. The influx of flowers, bands, banquet halls, and heinous-looking bridesmaids(or I suppose groomsmen, if they partake) dresses to be needed should do something for our economy, right? Though I suppose churches won't see much of an economic benefit, so that *must* be what they're bitter about.  And then the potential for divorce lawyers!(cynic, I'm sorry.) Never be a better time to be in family law, I imagine. 

Let them have their $6,000 cake and eat it too. It's only fair.
-- 

Your Love is My Drug

Oh this is so perfect, the soft feel of your lips against mine...I don't want anyone else.
"Oxytocin."

So wonderful, ah. every single word you say makes me want to just --

"Oxytocin."

The way you touch my hair, just pull me in closer, I --

"OXYTOCIN."

I love you. Only love. I can't stop thinking about the way --

OXY. TOCIN. OXYTOCIN!!!"

There should be an alarm in every girl's mind every time she potentially slips into this horribly frustrating, anxiety-driven quicksand.

This alarm could be supplemented by a boxing glove shooting out of a built-in wall. 

Or an anvil falling from the sky, a la Wile E. Coyote.

Sadly, that would probably not be enough. Because half the time we are very well aware of the stipulations and limitations of the situation, yet dance off half past the moon and whatever one can consider some version of reality. We just ignore them.

Thank you, every single love song, card, movie, novel since the creation of time.

vasopressin. dopamine. IT IS LIKE CRACK, PEOPLE.

Listen to "It's in His Kiss". Catchy right? Absolute bullshit. It is not in his kiss. It is in the evolution-produced secretions in the brain that are supposed to influence you to reproduce and protect the offspring. It is not the way he holds you, it is the oxytocin/vasopressin/dopamine released when you cuddle with another human being. It is a chemical reaction. It happens to everyone. With everyone(if you are not genetically programmed to be repulsed by them from the get-go, that is.) With anyone. It could be any member of the male species. Female, even.  We are programmed to crave affection, interaction. Anyone(or thing really) can fulfill this. We just overcomplicate with influences from cheesy romantic comedies that lead to absurd ideals about who or what we are supposed to be doing amidst the pre-reproduction song and dance(big white wedding? BUY ME A CAKE.)

And then there are those who cloak themselves in these flights of fancy to extract whatever possible from whomever possible. The manipulative types who are capable of making any situation appear to be your fault. Managing to sever all ties with reality, they shamelessly guilt-trip others into drinking their toxic Kool-aid.

I had had similar experiences once before; both of us wide-eyed college freshmen with our hearts set on being lawyers in New York. After my break with both him and the idea of being a lawyer, my favorite comment on the matter was "I'd hire him as my lawyer in a heartbeat. Manipulative bastard can convince anyone of anything."

This world would be a very cruel one if not for one (sometimes-secret)weapon:

Friends.

Primary role: "It's ok, we will hate him for you."
Often we find ourselves revelling in the fact that we can see "potential" in people; we minimize flaws and magnify positives, often at the cost of the accuracy of our memory. The manipulating type thrives in such an environment. Dearest bacteria, friends are what you have to be afraid of: they don't forgive, and they especially don't forget.

Sometimes only they are the ones capable of assessing a situation or, more aggressively, taking you out of it. Though they are often the worst enemy of our hedonist drives, our pleasure-seeking stems, at the end of the day what is good for us is not always what is convenient. Or texting you at 3am.

Often a thankless job, the friends may be the ones taking the phone out of your hand or at the very least, giving you damn good reason to put it down yourself.
Capable of being the most resilient force-field against the effects of Mr. dopamine and his friend "the douche-bag," the friend group is the disillusion task force - your karma dollars at work.

And let there never be a day when you find yourself broke.

Decisions

2am: Decide to go to Atlantic City
4:30am: Purchase bus tickets
2pm: Wake up
5pm: Bus to Atlantic City
6:30pm: Arrive
6:30pm-7:30am: Steak and crab legs, Boston cream pie, daiquiris, silver people with silver beads, heels, $2 shots, $20 kamikaze, a dentist and an accountant, BOBBAY!, craps and slots, Australians in white, sand, funnel cake and cheese fries, seagull attack, breakfast(in bed).
8:50am: Bus back to Philly
11am: Brunch
12:30-4pm: Intermittent sleep/cuddling/pillow talk


When deciding whether to take the comped room in AC, several arguments were batted around. But one that comes to mind in particular is the "What other opportunities are you going to have to do this?" or rephrased as "It's not everyday that..." or simply "Dude. Free hotel room." The 21st birthday celebrations that were in full force at the time may have contributed to the "FUCK YEA" decision.


Needless to say, it works on me. I like living in the moment. Or the 15 hour stretches of "moment". Hours of conversation with people you may never see again in a city where people actually DO NOT sleep (sorry New York). All I can picture is the eventual "settled down" version of myself who will have legitimate excuses to tone down the fun. Or have a new concept of it - Legoland? Mr. Magee's Wonder Emporium? Sunday night HBO? I feel personally responsible for ensuring that the "settled down" version has enough memories of shenanigans to look back on. (There needs to be something to explain the account balance.)

The women shine like the twinkling lights of the slot machines, and are expected to tolerate the staring one typically associates with evaluating a particularly complex painting(no but really there is some finesse to this, people). With stilettos and vodka-cranberries they teeter like the last tumble of the die before settling on a number - which may make or break your heart(bank account). Beyond that, grannies with pennies pull the night shift while sipping whatever drink is placed at their side. Mohawked men pick up tabs for the underaged without interaction beyond a "you're welcome". Children run around in circles with beads jingling around their necks - incentives given to their parents to remain faithful to their casino of choice. A world of insomniacs. My kind of place.

And then I come back to the cocoon of my dearest friends, the kind of people that have love spelled out as chocolate-chip pancakes and 5-person-bed-parties. I'm trying to soak up as much as I can before I have to "go without" for an entire semester. By that I mean, I'm going to have less people to smother with affection. This places me in the "spontaneously combust" level of worry. I might actually have to get a boyfriend.
Ehh. I think I'll be fine.

Purity and the Art of Gettin' Dirty

Sitting on a most assuredly filthy side of a statue near Central Park in a pristinely white sundress, I noticed my chocolate chip cookie had decided to lightly decorate the front. I dwelled for a moment on my general lack of white dresses then remembered my wonderful capacity for staining, which rivals that of a five year old on a muddy playground with a melting ice cream cone.

I guess you could say I'm not afraid to get a little dirty. (oh the innuendo!) Or maybe I just get a little too engrossed in experiences to notice silly things like the front of my shirt. Or my Tide-to-go pen is my ultimate cop out. (Though I did not have it with me at time of need. Of course.)

I had visited MoMa earlier in the day with a dear friend, and we had viewed some splatter paintings(my terminology expresses the expanse of my modern-art knowledge). We both could recall times in our lives when we decided to create one(she, church mural - you go girl; me, summer camp circa '96), either intentionally or otherwise. I just thought it was the least effort/most fun way to paint. My idyllic summer camp outfit would speak to this, except it did not survive the incident. That did not go over well at home. (Acrylic paint is some pernicious shit.)

I think of the beauty of dilution. Often a saving grace when it comes to preserving the purity of a garment, dilution has saved my ass quite a few times in the laundry room. Though dilution may remove the chocolate from my white sundress, it does not preserve the purity in all situations. It possesses a double-edged sword-like quality(cue Billy Mays chiming in with: CUTS THROUGH STAINS) outside our dear laundry rooms.

I think of Volcker and the concept of compromise. And the beautiful fundraising focus of our elections. And a most interested deep-pocketed party: banks! Diluting the stipulations of what-is-allowed to make some pockets smile and of course, "serve the American people". It's nice to no longer have to consider myself a politician(note: if I ever really was) when I reflect on chewable tidbits like that.

To be fair, I should have prefaced this brief foray into ethics with: this is coming from an accessory to an umbrella theft at the MoMa museum earlier today.(It was raining, we were wearing white. I think that grants me Greek politician level of impunity. Zing!)

Fortunately, there are some people that don't get as engrossed as I do when eating a chocolate chip cookie. They keep their hands clean, and maintain some shred of purity in our splatter-painted world.

Want your khakis to be stain-resistant? Slap some on Glass-Steagall. It's an old-fashioned remedy.

Gershwin me over

I want to feel the noize.

Screw the mashups of the year-whatevers-DJ-sick-bEaTz. Take me back to the days when songs didn't require three collaborators or a dirty thumpin' beat to be successful.

I will take a hair band with men in leather pants and eyeliner over those gimmicks any day. Yes, it's wonderful that the top 40-ers of our time have learned to play nice on autotune for the sake of selling a single on itunes, but I want a goddamn brass section. Hey big spender, give me the trombones and trumpet that made you so damn irresistible. I crave poison. I need nothin' but a good time.

I'm sorry Guys and Dolls, I've been on a showtunes/oldies/classic rock binge as of late, so sue me(sue me, what can you do me...)

I will stop with the totally obvious allusions now.

Only these gems on high volume in a pristine upper east side apartment could adequately complement an all-morning dish washing session. Complete with dirty dancing, the twist, and Aretha Franklin-style belting(I helped dry).

There is a recording of my sisters and me running around(Sue). The type of shenanigans one might find occurring in our living room on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Or we might be running(with the Devil). But that's more of a Saturday night type of deal.

Red Nose Bulldog

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Friendly People.

There are some things that never fail to make my day. One of which is visiting my coffee truck guy(yes, mine. because it's totally ok to arbitrarily declare ownership over another human being. uhhhh...) I tend to leave my desk at obscure times, so that there is less of a chance of a line, or as I view it, a potential interruption in our brief chats(miiiiiiiine). It is also entirely possible that I have an irrational fear of seeing his interaction with others. (In case he is as nice to them as he is to me.) But we will just assume that that is not the case and move right along.

Delusions aside, today there was a line. Ruining the wonderful repetition of our encounters. Although very tempted to duck around until it cleared up, I had spreadsheets(read: spreadshits. thanks Sara.) to attend to.

I saw him interact with the three women ahead of me - all matter-of-fact, all business.

Walk up. Medium, two sugars, skim milk. Money. Leave.

I know that it shouldn't have, that it really, really shouldn't have...BUT it made me pretty happy. Perhaps slightly pathetic that I gain fulfillment from flirting fidelity in my coffee-truck-guy relationship, based on barely five-minute conversations, but whatever. It is the little things in life. Or as a fellow intern pointed out "Aww at least somebody likes you!"

I walked up to a "Good Morning" and left with an invite to stay and enjoy the rare, cool breeze on Hudson St. with my always hot cup of coffee.(Large hazelnut. He does not even have to ask anymore.)

I had to decline - a spreadshit awaited me.

Yea, it's the little things.