This weekend I stuffed myself into a new pair of jeans and headed to Williamsburg, the Brooklyn neighborhood (I don’t know why I just wanted to call it a hamlet) my youngest sister calls home with her boyfriend. Their apartment is adorable – it’s full of personality and sunlight. It’s two fresh faced kids (no no, they’re adults of the younger variety) plowing their way through new jobs, big dreams, life questions, and the pressures of city living. They’re happy, they’re normal, they found themselves a charismatic roomy place to live and neighbors to help them when they almost set their sublet home ablaze. It’s so fun to watch them together, they’re just doing the life thing. I try not to fall into “I wish this was how I started my life in New York” spirals because no matter what, the path would have led here. And it’s not always about me. It’s about how they’re starting their life together. I love it. Love it nice. So is family.
Millions of years ago in a far off big blue palace, Jessica and I worked together. We would snark and snicker and learn our coworkers inside and out and sometimes collaboratively (but mostly by the adept and witty hand and mind of Jessica) we would laugh at and with our friends and peers with comics. No one went undrawn: the cafeteria staff, security, our own sometimes very good humored execs, ourselves. It was one of those things that gave me pure joy at work. I still cry and near barf I laugh so hard when I look back at some of the shit we did.
There was one stretch of time where, in the lab we worked, people would not shut the f up about yoga. Every day someone was talking about this bowel moving experience they had at the hands of Yogi Von Yurtbalm. Stretch this, sweat that, wind relieving pose wars, downward facing tufted tit mouse. The answer to everything was “you should try yoga, you’ll love it.”
Ack, I can’t find my keys! “You should try yoga!”
I got a disappointing raise, how will I feed my stinky brats? “You should try yoga, you’ll love it!”
My ass is sore. “You should try yoga”
YOUR ass is sore. “YOOOOOOGAAAAAAA!!!”
This prompted Jess and I to brainstorm on “Fuck Yoga” tshirts. I wish I could find the jpg of that.
Anyway, on my way to work this morning I overheard a conversation that brought the memories flooding back. This is what I sent to Jessica as an illustration request:
(special note: testament to Jessica’s talent is how she perfectly captured the people I described. The resemblance to the real people is so uncanny, I had to slap my back to see if I wasn’t really carrying Jessica around like a backpack)
Today on my walk to work I walked by two women. One was tall, had a mop of purposely wild grey curls (of varying colors, for style). She was wearing cropped fashion/military boots, black leggings and a black winter trench (long). She was visibly irked. Her friend, who was counseling her, was shorter grey/blond/brunette mousy, but a bit of a hippie looking thing. She grasped grey friend’s elbows as grey friend said, “I just… I just can’t…. I can’t do yoga with someone like that!” Brown friend, still clutching grey friends elbows in that caring way said very very seriously, “She just has a completely different energy than you.”
This conversation made me want to jump in between them and fart.
I’ve been shooting my pal for her blog. She’s very naturally fashionable – one of those people who gets ready in 5 minutes and pulls off something imaginatively classic. To compensate me for my crawling on the ground during the work day here in NYC, she got me a 3 monther of Birchbox. I felt weird having her pay me, so I chose this because, dude, who doesn’t love beauty samples?
I gotta say, though, first impression is not so great, box o’ birch (no fault of aforementioned stylish buddy!!). I arrive home tonight to find that UPS, bane of my existence (walk up the fraggin stair, turds, your insurance is better than mine), had left my little pink box at the door. Well, at least they brought it through the gate.
I was sweaty with sample anticipation as I tore open my box to reveal… (click on the first photo to start the gallery – you’ll see “next”-looking arrows to scroll with)
I ask you: GRANOLA?! No, really… GRANOLA?!
Also, I’ve always hated Juicy. Early in my relationship with the ex I heard a story from a mutual friend that he had a lame gf before me (before and after will be lame, always, I promise) who had one of those horrid fuzzy looking Juicy bags and was never without it. Once, not knowing that I knew this piece of info, the ex made a comment to me about how he always liked Juicy for some reason. Something tells me this is the dumb bitch he eventually got around to cellphone-affairing on me with based on the level of class in her texts and her ridiculous name. Needless to say Juicy does not give me the warm fuzzies. So the deck was stacked against our dear Birchbox this time around with their perfume choice.
Birchbox, I expect more from you come round two.
One of my favorite presents from Christmas this year was from my little sister (the littlest sister). I ripped into the paper and this adorable owl rolled out, his body so chubby and stumpy and round. This stout little guy hold one votive candle in his body and he is just the cutest thing. I love him. Lighting his head makes me smile. The power of cute.
Before you get your beaver in a bustle, listen, I know. I know it’s hard to know WHAT to say when you see a dear friend hurting because the boy they loved decided sexting someone named after a plastic doll with amphibious looking toilet parts was a better idea than being in a mature relationship (hey, ho, who put that bitter spoon in my mouth?).
I know it’s uncomfortable to watch someone completely break down because the boy they loved to a fault for 6+ years wanted to end things because “I was never good at sharing” – when that breakdown leaves you digging, scrambling, clawing for something, anything that will make this sad sack of slobbering snot feel just a little bit better than a flattened pigeon on University Place.
Sometimes silence is golden, especially if you’re about to pull one of these out of your deck of dispair:
- “When God closes a door, he opens a window.” Um, when did God start paying the heating bill around here? Close the fucking window. And what if I’m on the first floor without protective bars? What if God decides all this entry and exit opening trade off is going to happen in the middle of the night? Sounds more like “When God closes a door, he sets you up for a good lubeless ass rape.” How about this, I’ll figure out what stays open when, and God takes care of people in war zones, victims of child slavery, and prostitution, k?
- “When one chapter closes, another begins.” I see where we’re going with these. Endings are beginnings and all that. Phoenix from the flames. No, really, I’m with you. But listen, I don’t need any more stories like this for my not yet written memoirs. I’ve got enough from when my parents got divorced and when I was a real slutbag.
- “Greta McGibblets’ brother just turned 18 and his weener got caught in a vice and they had to remove it, things could really be a lot worse.” Ah, the ole “get some perspective” angle. When you can barely taste anything but your own regurgitated sob snot, it’s even harder to swallow other peoples’ pain. Your (and I’m obviously talking me here) pain is so all encompassing there is no pretending to NOT be self centered. It’s self centering. When I first began dealing with my break up, I was so self absorbed I wasn’t even interested in my self. I was inside out. There is no sense trying to trigger a “ah ha! Others have it worse than me, what I am thinking? OVER IT!” moment in someone that dark. It will come.
- “I didn’t like him anyway.” Oh, cool, you didn’t like the man I saw myself having 8 smoking hot babies with. Now I feel better. LET THE HEALING BEGIN! This sentence is telling someone who is already low down that they also have poor taste in people and are a horrific judge of character. Love is blind, yo.
- “You just need to get laid.” Nothing boosts wailingly low self esteem and a shattered heart like good soul destroying rando sex. I mean, after being rejected by someone who knew you in and out, who could probably id your farts in a stink line up, why not join fuzzyparts with a random and go through the cycle of shame? What am I waiting for? I should be on Craigslist right now! SEE YA, SUCKERS!!
I was lucky enough to have so many incredible trustworthy salt of the earth humans in my life at my lowest that I was safe from most of this. And I really do get it, in the heat of the comforting moment, is there anything right to say? And what’s worse, tripping over your own face and saying the phrases above with your heart in the right place, or being the once traumatized dick who writes about them?
There are no right answers when it comes to love, only power in the ability to snark at your own certainly surmountable challenges.
It was a slow work day today. One of those days where IM is your best pal and you get through some stuff lower down on the list because you have a little room to breathe. You know, because that happens when you work on MLK day. Because of such lapses in heart attack inducing stress, I challenged a friend of mine to make me lists.
“What do you want me to make a list of?” she asked.
“Whatever you want. Just make me a list,” I said.
For your enjoyment, this is what I received. Mind you, this was list #3. As soon as I can see through my tears of laughter, I’ll have to tackle the earlier ones.
10 things I would rather be doing right now
- Sniffing the undercarriage of a dying moose
- Stabbing my eyes with a ball point pen
- Opening a can of creamed possum with my teeth
- Drinking a gallon of gasoline (unleaded)
- Plucking my nose hairs one by one and trying not to sneeze
- Taking a shot of Tabasco sauce followed by a [word removed to protect the faint of heart. Just imagine something from someone's toilet parts] shot chaser
- Licking the rim of a Penn Station public toilet bowl
- Sniffing the inside of the [work] refrigerators for 10 minutes straight
- Bleeding for one month straight with no tampons
- Laying in a bed of maggots
A can of creamed possum, people. A CAN OF CREAMED POSSUM.