Manchild. But in a good way.

Every so often, I feel substantially vivid pangs of nostalgia. I know that people often reminisce about their respective childhoods, but for some reason things stick in this crazy ol' brain of mine. If I see something even remotely resembling something I saw on Sesame Street or Mister Rogers' Neighborhood over twenty years ago, I'm instantly transported back there to the fantastic, WAY simpler times.

When I was a kid, everything interested me. Games. Books. Lamb Chop's Play-Along. Spinning around on the playroom floor and trying to walk through the doorway without falling down. You know, normal stuff. I've noticed recently that there is so much less that interests me. I'll be 26 years old in just over a month, and I've come again to the horrible realization that being a grownup totally blows. All I do is work and come home. Work and come home. Work and come home. It's such a paradox; you're growing up and you long for the independence and regularity of adult life... then you arrive, fully blossomed into a semi-functioning adult, and all you want to do is fingerpaint, eat Lunchables and take a nap at 3:30 in the afternoon.

It is crazy the things that do stick with you though. There's this ancient Sesame Street segment consisting of a completely black background, and a metal track with a red ball. The ball rolls through the track's obstacles in triplicate, teaching its infantile audience how to count to three. I remember having a recurring dream in high school and college of this exact scenario. I'd be dreaming of the red ball and the 1970s synthesized music with the faint tinge of circus-creep, and all of a sudden, I'd sit bolt upright in bed, throw the covers off of myself, and run full speed across the room until I realized I was just dreaming. (I've often said I would be a therapist's white whale, but it doesn't really sink in until I say weird shit like this publicly.)

The most recent catalyst of my unsettlingly accurate memory lane excursion was Kidsongs. I don't know where they came from, but I remember having almost the entire collection, copied to VHS (another throwback entirely) by my handy-dandy mother. I remember the day at Old McDonald's farm with the kid Shawn who liked hotcakes. I remember the day at the theme park where they imagined themselves back in the 1950s, singing Little Douce Coupe on the bumper cars. I remember the strange trip to Sillywillyville, where they met a Flying Purple People-Eater. There was the one where they all said what they wanted to be when they grew up. The one where they played sports. The one at the circus. The one with the bedtime songs.

I was so stricken by all the memories flooding into my cerebral cortex, that I was tempted to purchase the entire set of DVDs on Amazon. Luckily, I came back to the present long enough to stop myself from spending money on crap I don't need. The good news is that at least Amazon HAS the Kidsongs DVDs. They don't even make my favorite Christmas story anymore. Ten points if you can name it. Here's a hint

The other dwarfs//All have pretty names

They won't ever let me play//in their games

Golly gee//and woe is me

And _______//is my name

But for real, how great would it be if we could do the whole... "chocolate-milk, Nickelodeon, playing-outside-until-it's-dark, plastic-Where's-Waldo-lunchbox, and only-going-to-school-to-learn-about-what-a-square-is-or-what-September-means" thing? I'm pretty sure this would be a much more awesome planet to live on.

So I like crafts. So what?

How gay is it if I say: "My crocheting is getting exponentially better"?

I'm not one to perpetuate stereotypes, but I have recently delved into the art of yarn. I went a little crazy at Michael's a few weeks back, and have since collected 2 sets of knitting needles, 7 crochet hooks, and about 12 skeins of yarn. It does assuage my genderbent discomfiture to know that the name of the founder of the store is, in fact, "Michael."

My mother was (and I would guess, IS) an avid yarnist. Over the years, our family has had a large quantity of woven blankets in our possession, and I would be hard pressed to put a tangible number to the macrame Christmas ornaments-slash-decorations are in the basement. She taught me how to crochet when I was still in middle school. She was working on a gift afghan for someone, the hook flying in and out of loops like a precision machine. I was fascinated. I chalk it up to my motor skills having not fully developed yet, because my work was sophomoric and sloppy.

To further perpetuate the stereotype I'm trying to avoid, most of my college friends were female. A lot of these ladies had old souls, and thus they made a highly informal stitch-n-bitch circle. This consisted of my friend Erin (who had been knitting her whole life) bringing a project over to our apartment on a day she was kind of miffed about something. While she complained, she had managed to knit about 12 inches of the scarf she was working on. Needless to say, we were intrigued. We all trucked over to Wal-Mart, bought some yarn and some needles, and she gave us the crash course in knitting.

Countless scarves, ipod sleeves and heartbreaking pullouts, I realized that I had never learned how to complete a project. I could loop and pull and knit and purl and half-double crochet until I was blue in the face, and I would never have a finished product.

So I gave up.

Then one day a few weeks ago, while meandering through Michaels on Clark, I came across their yarn sale. I bought 5 or 6 skeins and a hook, picked up a few free pattern instructables, brought them home and started chaining my life away.

Round 1: Ch 49 Whoo hoo!

Round 2: Turn, dc in 2nd ch from hook, [dc in next st, Ch 1] across. Uh... what?

Round 3: Ch 1, turn, 4 hdc in same st, ch 5, skip next 2 st, 38 Fpdc across, ch 5, skip next 2 st, 4 hdc in same st. YOU WILL LOSE 6 ST. ohmygodmakeitstop...

It is at this point when I grab my trusty computer and go to the handy dandy google search to decipher this bizarre code. And thank god for technology. While more often than not, I curse the developments that have led to the decline of human interaction, I have a difficult time remembering when everything under the sun couldn't be found on either Wikipedia or Youtube or some other e-source.

Wikipedia brought me to entire websites devoted to crocheting and knitting and I chose to ignore how sad it was that there were entire websites devoted to crocheting and knitting. These sites told me what the crazy letters mean. Youtube showed me how to translate the crazy letter code words into actual practice. And lo and behold, I'm almost finished with my first project! A washcloth. It's pink with white and beige accents.

Screw it. Over and out... and proud.

I feel the earth move...

It's interesting how much your life can change over a certain amount of time. In just a year, I have been given several new opportunities. The natural occurrence of these opportunities has resulted in what can only be described as a complete uprooting and repotting of my life. I have been taken out of the trampled garden of my post-college life and replanted in a nice greenhouse in the Hamptons, a beefy gardener named Javier tending to my every need.

Okay, so I'm not a rare orchid. But I feel like a completely new person than I did a year ago. I lived in a hovel in New York City, I was a couch surfer with no true place to call home. I was unemployed for a much larger percentage of my time out of college than I care to remember. My bills weren't getting paid. I didn't feel in control of my life.

I reflect back and I think of the major plot points of my lifemovie. I can't be sure if it was my cousin, my parents' friends' daughter, or my 7th grade best friend who ultimately saved my life. I saw my cousin, in the chorus of Once Upon a Mattress when she was in middle school. My parents' friends' daughter was some sort of lion-type animal in a bizarre children's retelling of The Wizard of Oz or Little Red Ridinghood or something. And my best friend in 7th grade broke plans with me one day because he had to go to drama club rehearsal. Either of these three things sparked my interest in theatre. This, in turn, inspired me to take theatre classes in high school. In these classes, we took a handful of trips to North Shore Music Theatre in Beverly, MA where I saw professional theatre for the very first time. I graduated high school and progressed to Westfield State College, where I met Jack Shea and majored in Theatre Arts. Excelling in this program allowed me to participate in the American College Theatre Festival, where I met Bridget Sullivan, the Associate Production Manager at North Shore Music Theatre. This connection ultimately led me to a career opportunity at NSMT after I graduated college. During my time at NSMT, I met Ben Raffalli, a young actor who raved about this magical place called Stagedoor Manor. Stagedoor is a performing arts summer camp in upstate New York. At Stagedoor, I met the most gifted and talented young performers that impressed upon me a renewed faith in what the human spirit can be. Also at Stagedoor, a fellow staff member became a best friend, and that best friend became the man I plan on spending the rest of my life with. While at Stagedoor, he and I decided to move to Chicago together. I moved to Chicago after camp and miraculously landed a temp job at one of the fastest-growing online companies this country has ever seen. Within months, I am hired full time with salary and benefits. This, in turn, means that I have successfully been paying all my bills on time while living comfortably in between.

So whoever is responsible for that lovely abridged version of my life: Thanks. You rock my socks. Like I said, it's interesting how much your life can change over a certain amount of time.

Whipping by

Today I write to you from a speeding train. I am New York-bound yet again.

I sit in the obviously-decades-old leather bound seats of a Boston-bound commuter rail train. I munch quietly on my pack o' snacks while I gaze out the window periodically. At the Ayer station, I see two overheated hunks walking around the downtown shops without their shirts on. At the Shirley stop, I watch as Jesse, a Hispanic gentleman with a tattoo reading "Jelissa" in elegant cursive on his neck, who got onto the train at the same stop as me and was apparently unaware of the trains arrival time, meanders off the train, lights up a cigarette and marches off to his own destination.

More interesting is what I see in between stops. Have you ever noticed, while a passenger in a moving vehicle, how the trees along the side of the road seem to spin in and out of your perspective? It's as if the whole rest of the world was orbiting around some distant point, and the edge of this orbit reached just outside the window of whatever you were riding in at the time. The big trees dance by the window as if they're on their own personal tilt-a-whirl. The small ones wear their dresses in pretty colors, and they want to spin around so you can see every inch of their dazzling display.

The train slows as we halt jerkily into Littleton 495 station. In the arms of his mother, perched upon a post, a small child with chocolate ice cream dribbled down his otherwise clean yellow shirt waves goodbye to his Daddy with one hand, and clutches a stick in the other; this is a keepsake from some brilliant imaginative adventure he was going on. We're off again and the conductor walks through the door at the front of the car. He snaps his gum and eases through the aisle, taking tickets and jovially greeting the riders.

I gaze out the window again. We pass a farmstand. An elderly woman is standing on top of a rock with her iPhone in its pink silicone case. Believe me, I appreciate the juxtaposition. She is taking a picture of me as I speed by her in the big purple train. I glance at her for the brief seconds she is within my field of vision, and then I go back to the dancing, spinning trees. I guess the trees and I are both on a journey.

Bon voyage, les arbres. Et bon été.

Particularly eloquent

When I send someone a link to this blog, I tell them I haven't written here in a while, because I only post something when I'm feeling "particularly eloquent." I think it's sad that I haven't felt "particularly eloquent" since July.

Particularly. Eloquent.

Much has changed in my life, and I suppose that has taken the front seat over something as silly as blogging. I've had to leave New York. This is a six-word version of: I withstood a bedbug infestation, was forced to leave my apartment, my job, the new friends I've made and any future opportunities to regain financial standing and resorted to couch surfing at my alma mater and struggling to find a job while I (for lack of a better term) mooch off of my friends and family.

Particularly. Eloquent.

I think the joy one gets out of blogging stems from happy events in their lives. Though I am surrounded with nothing but hardships and life-altering hurdles, I can't help but stay positive. I haven't had a happy event happen to me in a very long time, but I cling to the little things in life that give me at least SOME satisfaction. I am in the company of friends. I am currently residing on the campus I once called home for five years -- a significant chunk of time, if you really think about it. Also, I think it's fitting that I am on Westfield soil again. It inspires a learning atmosphere. And above all, at this moment in my life, that's exactly what I need to be doing -- learning. It's been said many a time that one never stops learning all throughout one's life. I never realized the philosophy and sheer poetry behind that, harsh as it's been for me to realize. I am learning.

Particularly. Eloquent.

I think it's fitting that Thanksgiving is right around the corner. This situation has really shed some light on the real value of things. I haven't been home in quite some time. It will be the first time I've seen my mother in months. I'll get to spend some quality time with my family. It's been too long, and family's where it's at anyway. I miss Eugene. I miss Tim. I miss New York. And I want to get back there. But right now, I think I need to be with family.

Particularly. Eloquent.

It gets difficult sometimes to maintain the rose-colored-glasses, glass-half-full kind of outlook on life when you feel trapped and unable to get anywhere but where you are. But I have always had the opportunity to rely on the support of my friends. There are times when the support is hard to hear. For example, incredulity at the fact that I still have not procured employment for myself. But on the other side of the coin, I haven't truly been doing all I can possibly do. I'm treading water, but the sharks are circling, which means I'm okay for now, and for a while. I feel strongly that I can pull together the strength, willpower and guts to swim towards shore.

Particularly eloquent. Happy events. I guess not. I'm reminded of a quote from a favorite book of mine.

"Dear Friend, I want you to know that I am both happy and sad. And still trying to figure out how that can be."

My Beef With Bagels

Normally, I wouldn't dream of titling a blog post so blasphemously. Because, really, when you think about it, bagels are the glue that holds the world together.

A bagel, as defined by the New Oxford American Dictionary on my computer, is a dense bread roll in the shape of a ring, made by boiling dough and then baking it. But to anyone besides Noah Webster, the boiling and baking is replaced with magic. Bagels are universally adaptable to most anything you can imagine to put on top of them. They come in a variety of, well... "flavors" so to speak, leaving the possibilities endless.

So why do I have a beef with them, you ask? Here's why.

When I'm eating one, right? Whether it be my signature Dunkin' Donuts breakfast sandwich (Bacon, Egg and Cheese on an Onion Bagel), a long-forgotten treat no longer available in stores (a BerryBerry Bagel with Strawberry Cream Cheese), a deli specialty luncheon (a Cajun Bagel with Tuna Salad), or just sliced, toasted and topped (either an Egg Bagel with Butter, a Plain Bagel with Cream Cheese, or a Garlic Bagel with Hummus), the damn thing just ends too soon.

Maybe it's just because I'm a fatass, but maybe it's just because the bagels of the world are just too darn small for connoisseurs such as myself. Either way, something should be done.

Fortuity and Coincidence and Synonyms, Oh My

You know how you have a day, or sometimes even a week, where everything just goes to shit? And while filled with moments that make you smile, you still sit in bed at night angry at something, sad about something, upset by something. no matter how many times people send you their love in every capacity they can muster: facebook posts, texts, hugs, email, a phone call... something still eats at you and there's no way to shake it.

Well, it was like that this week. But then, you know how something will happen every so often that makes you forget about life for a while, and embrace everything good? Well, it was like that today.

I received a phone call from a woman at work today. She said her name was Fran, and immediately, I pictured an ugly someone in their late 40s or early 50s. That image vanished, as I listened to her talk. She sounded no older than 35. And kind of pretty. I listened to her plight, and took it all in. She was the spokesperson for this small dance troupe downtown, that's what she was really passionate about. The fact that she skated right over the fact that she's currently producing Hair on Broadway as though it was nothing surprised me a little, but I listened even more intently after that fact was ever-so-covertly dropped. She explained that the troupe was scheduled for a performance at our theatre in September, but she desperately needed a second performance added. My boss has been out of the country for two weeks, and she's due back in a few days. Fran hadn't known this, so I handled it gracefully, and told her what I knew.

"She'll be back by Friday," I said cautiously, "I don't know if that means she'll be back in the country on Thursday, and back in the office on Friday..." My tone quivered with the air of a question. "That would be my guess. It definitely sounds like we can help you out, but Leslie is the one you'll want to speak to, and I can make sure this is one of the first things she deals with after she's home and settled."

Fran seemed more than pleased. She felt bad for leaving multiple messages on Leslie's phone, and she said, "Tell Leslie, she can just disregard all those messages I left her. I feel just awful."

"Don't worry about a thing," I said casually, "she's probably expecting hundreds of messages when she returns. It shouldn't be a problem."

Fran then asked me for my name. I told her and she proceeded to give me a gentle version of the proverbial "third degree." She wanted to know what I did at Dixon Place, how I got my position. I told her that I was the Administrative Assistant, and I took over the position from a girl I had gone to college with who had been the previous intern. Fran then asked where college was for me. After I told her, she wanted to know what I was hoping to pursue, as far as a career. Forgetting who I was speaking to, I looked around the office at the revolting people I work with who seemed bemused by the fact that anyone would be having such a conversation with me. I made a face at them as if to say, "I know you guys! Haha! This is hysterical! Who does she think she is? Haha!" Then I rolled my eyes at their absurdity, and turned my focus back to my call. I told her I was in the performing arts, and I would love to pursue a career in performance or directing.

"Well, that's fantastic," she said. "I wonder if you wouldn't mind forwarding your resume to me. I don't have anything right now, but things come across my desk all the time, and you're just so wonderful on the phone. It's really a breath of fresh air. Let me give you my email address."

I was beside myself. Three months I had spent in this office, getting nothing but grief. And here was this one phone call, ten days before I was faced with the bittersweet combination of freedom from tyranny and lack of income. I finished up the part of the project I was working on before she called, and I emailed her my resume with a tailored cover letter for a job that may or may not even exist. I thanked her for considering me for hire and asked if there was any further information about the company which I could read in my spare time, to research a little bit about what they stand for, what I'd be assisting with.

After that, the day flew by, and I haven't felt angry or sad since. Still frustrated at the ignoble poltroons under whom I diligently work - of course. But hey, I could be working for a Broadway producer. That wins.

Christmas in July... in my mouth

apologies to eugene. i had a bowl of your root-beer-float ice cream. not only was it delectable, it made me feel giddy inside. not since i was seven has an ice cream succeeded in doing its one assigned task. sure, there have been ice creams that come along and lead you on - tempt your palate into thinking they, too, are filled with all the wonderment and childhood fancy you once knew lived inside such a confection... but no. true, they may be sultry, sexy, pompous, or flashy... they may even a little bit boring and lackluster, but none have ever made you giggle after you take the first bite.

the cold spoon glides past the teeth and the crystals of the ice cream immediately begin to dance on your tongue. each crystal carries a feather that tickles your taste buds, or tells you a joke, or makes a funny face, wears a goofy hat, does a headstand, or maybe even shows you a magic trick or five.

this delightful dance goes on for a deceptively long period of time before it's interrupted by, what right then can seem like the most offensive sound in the world: the clink of your spoon hitting the bottom of the empty dish. appalled, you gaze into the bowl in wild wonder that someone, something, some force greater than yourself has somehow managed to put an end to such joy. ruefully, you get up and walk to the sink, a mix of residual buoyancy from the ice cream and cynicism and dejection from the fact that it's all over.

until next time, turkey hill.

Fleeting happiness

i had a hankering for some tea last night, and i have this monstrous, 24-ounce mickey mouse mug. i bought it when i went to disney world a couple years ago. it's maroon and there is an illustration of mickey, clearly having just gotten out of bed in the morning. arrows point out his "morning ear droop," "cheesy robe," "twisted tail," and "goofy old slippers. he's holding a danish in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. his eyes are half closed and his sleep mask is flopping over his forehead. splay-legged, he looks to the implied camera as if to say, "mm? whazgoingon?"

unfortunately for this tea junkie, this mug is inside of a plastic tub in which i've been keeping a random assortment of things since i moved. and this tub is underneath some shoeboxes and other such clutterfuckery-slash-debris. i move all the things out of my way to get to this opaque plastic bin with a white lid. i stumble my way back over the mess i'd just made to get back to the bed, where i have a clean surface to begin my excursion through junkish memorabilia. i find gum that, still wrapped in its packaging, is still good. a few of my quality pens have made their way into a shoebox, so i retrieve them and placed them in a more appropriate area: my pen drawer. (don't ask.) then, there it sits, my mickey mug.


















full to the brim is the unholy grail and spilling over with the little trinkets of little-to-no value whatsoever. pushpins, keyrings, paper
clips, safety pins, rubber bands, canadian quarters that have no reason to exist in this country. so i find another small box -- one which i have not been using for anything important. a circular box in which i received a christmas present a few years ago. at the moment it is holding my crappy wal-mart digital camera (that i can't very well use due to lack of usb connector cord.) and my nintendo ds charger. i gently scoot them to the side and dump the contents of my mickey mug into the circular box. i look at the now-empty mug and notice a particularly unsettling gritty veneer on the bottom... alas, i had forgotten to clean it completely when i packed.

hence distracted momentarily from my tea-making plans, i begin to plunge into the depths of my worthless treasure. and all of a sudden, my eyes fall upon it. a glint of silver... and a tiny metallic string... i thought i had forgotten it on the bureau in beverly. the only two known things i had left behind were the painting on the wall, and the crock pot in the bottom cabinet. i assumed i had left a third behind. but here it is, inches from my fingertips. one of my most prized possessions, once thought to be lost, had somehow managed to find its way into my life again at a most depressing time.

i keep it on me now, even when i sleep. the ring james gave me. on a silver chain. around my neck, the ring falls between my heart and my voice. it's comforting to know it's there. happiness comes when you least expect it, and i could not have been more grateful for its impeccable timing.

Racism vs. indignance

here's ridiculous for you:

hire an first- or second-generation indian-american with a thick accent at your federal government's financial crisis phone operation headquarters (a.k.a. unemployment). then when a customer poses a question to clarify something, this employee repeatedly snaps and retorts back with a rude and derogatory tone. this employee (after hastily spewing out two phone numbers, hence reeling the customer into not just ONE, but TWO endless webs of automated messages and 45-minute waiting periods) does not extend courteous ritual goodbyes and formalities. he hangs up, audibly muttering something indecipherable.

here's my question. how did this man receive employment in THIS particular field? or, maybe he just had a bad day.

if so - dude needs a vaca.