does this count as therapy? does this count as anything?

Thursday, November 10, 2011


Occupy Wall Street. Occupy anything, really.

Just don't be a dick about what your choices are.

Everyone is entitled to their opinion, but if you are upset about how people want "handouts" and are handing the economic crises that is upon us ALL by doing things like getting rid of your four-wheeler and boat, know that you and your money are the exception, not the rule, and that your previous middle-class standing may have to do with the fact that you live in the middle of nowhere which means that you are probably living for not very much money at all.

Don't look for the poor to give you a high-five for your sacrifices.

Not that they would. Their hand are full, holding signs that are making points so that we can ALL have better lives.

And I feel that this doesn't mean paving the way for us to gain permission to be shirking our financial duties and responsibilities. This means making getting those obligations getting met to be a realistic goal within a single person's life.

I think that the majority of the people who are against OWS simply can't relate to those who can identify the need and aren't afraid to point it out. There's a fear of poverty that seems to be making these "unrelateables" almost virulently opposed to Occupy, which is sad, because they are so afraid of being touched by the thing that is so in front of their faces, they are sharing breath with it.

I think that a lot of people's successes/not being poor have a huge amount to do with being in the right places at the right times. Those are pluralized because it's important to understand that no person is ever "made" by a single opportunity. And people should not be looked down upon because because they are not "made" by opportunity yet.

Blah blah, make your own opportunities. Yes, I agree. But only to a degree.

I've lived both sides of this that is being fought over. I grew up well. I mean, not with money dripping from the faucets or anything, but water dripping from new faucets in the kitchen, basement, and bathrooms that were re-done one after another.

We didn't budget for things like new shoes, we budgeted for new cars.

We never did without if it was a need.

Wants were another thing altogether. Wants were a 50/50 deal. Half came from us, half from them. I mean, come on. My parents didn't set out to raise a pack of assholes.

We learned the value of the almighty dollar, watching our parents model appropriate spending habits.

Well... except where my dad was concerned. We ALL knew to get him to take us shoe shopping. We could always get AT LEAST two pairs of shoes from him. Once, I even got three. One for Play, one for Dress Up, and one for Sports. I loved all of those shoes with my whole heart, though. That night, I went to sleep with one of each from two of the pairs on my feet, I was so thrilled to have so much newness for my feet. I even got up in the middle of the night to to switch out one of the shoes from the remaining pair so it wouldn't feel left out.

What? I was a weird kid. Deal with it.

MY POINT: My parents were very conscious as a team about where our money went, but luckily for us as kids, after the basics, it also went to fun things like vacations, summer camps, music lessons, etc.

Anyway. After being raised well by my parents, I still magically turned into kind of an asshole, and made some terrible choices. For a fucking WHILE, y'all.

I have been hospitalized multiple times for various things, and gotten pretty substantial surgeries, none of which I have been able to pay for. I have needed to be on food stamps once. I have applied for financial aid for school and used it. I have benefitted from various state agencies to be able to continue living a life that resembles a life at all, though sometimes not. I lived in a park bathroom for a bit, the only place I felt safe sleeping because there was a lock on the door (hey, I said I made bad choices, not that I was an idiot).

I have pulled myself out of all of that dependence on other people's resources, using them to get a hand hold on this life of mine that I lost the direction of due to addiction issues and general assy-ness (see above: kind of an asshole.), and moved forward.

However, every step forward into my own-ness, I have taken has been with the help of someone or something that happened to just be in the right place at the right time.

I live here. In New York City. I work here. In New York City. I love my job, and am really good at it.

I got here with so much help, that alone will humble me for the rest of my life.

I am living my best life, being my best self, and I can barely afford to live. Seriously. It's not a paycheck-to-paycheck situation. It's a maybe-in-three-paychecks situation. Make that four.

I'm lucky enough to have a boss that genuinely cares about me, has a no-bullshit attitude about protecting his employees and hit business, and gets it to his core that the two are related to one another in the twin-ish way. I mean, fraternal, but still.

I struggle every day.

And I know that I am one of the lucky ones.

THAT is fucked up.

Occupy the SHIT out of Wall Street. I'll be there with sandwiches on Saturday.


Saturday, November 5, 2011

Gracias, perro. Gracias.

Hello little beings of light, and GOOD DAY.

It's been a while. Yeah, yeah, I know. And you know what? I'm not even going to apologize. Not because I'm not sorry, but because I've been working my ass off, and I'm not sorry about that. I work 12 hours a day, and just don't have the energy to type in my computer password at the end of the day, much less type a long and exhaustive blog entry, haha!

So here you go. Probably about 3 in 1.

The dog walking is going really well. I have probably the coolest boss in the world. He's not the cool "Let's-get-together-and-hang-out-and-then-it'll-confuse-you-about-where-we-stand-with-each-other-in-this-professional-relationship-that-is-no-longer-professional-because-you-let-me-touch-you-or-speak-to-you-inappropriately-because-you-don't-know-any-better-because-you're-a-people-pleaser-and-I-can-see-that-about-you-and-am-going-to-go-ahead-and-exploit-the-shit-out-of-that-m'kay-by-the-way-can-you-work-all-the-time?"

Wait, did I refer to all of that as cool? Haha. Did you catch the part about me being a people-pleaser?

Well, I am.

Hello. My name is Abi, and I'm a People Pleaser.

Hi, Abi.

A manager I had at a previous job used to tell me on the regular that I was a people pleaser, or a PP, if you will. I didn't like the sound of it then, because a) that makes it sound like I avail myself to be people's bitch (which is a thing I actually do) and b) she was the least put-together person I have ever known aside from the retired prostitute named Kitten that I once smoked crack with in a bathroom that was completely tiled (like, even the ceiling) in aqua ceramic, and even SHE had clean grout.

What? The state of a person's grout says a lot about them. Go check yours. See?

Hope that wasn't too upsetting for most of you.

Dad, put down the bleach and put your pants back on. The grout looks FINE in the downstairs bathroom.

At any rate, the feeling of this woman, (not the ex-hooker) being able to see that about me didn't sit well. I would think about how completely wrong about me she was while driving her car at 10p on a Friday to go meet up with friends for drinks, she'd be already wasted in the back, having brought booze to the house in a sippy-cup of her daughters (what? It was the DISPOSABLE KIND. (that's her voice, not mine. Because it being disposable apparently made it less awful to bring rum to a solitary pre-funk situation in a child's beverage container.)), sliding around on the bench seat, responding to my admonishments to either put her seatbelt on or lie down with, "Okay, but I'm only going to do ONE of those!" and then end up doing both, but complaining the whole time about how hard it is to buckle your seatbelt while lying down.

Apparently drunkenness fucks with a persons ability to figure out the order of operation for living life and getting through shit. No. Way. Someone needs to cross-stitch that onto a pillow.

Now, what was the PP part of all of that? Well, I didn't have a license.

To drive.

I am licensed in many things that would blow your mind. But not to drive.

SO. Any other unlicensed person in my situation without the PP part to them would have probably said something along the lines of "Hey, can you wait to drink until we're AT the destination so that you'll be good to drive there? Because I don't have a legal way to get us there, and I'm feeling like it would be best if you drove. I know it's going to be hard, because Mommy gets cranky when she doesn't get her sippy cup, but if you could just bear down and do this, that would be supercool of you!" And they'd probably try to follow that with a solidarity-inferring high five.


"Hey shitheap, why don't you hold off on the boozing until we're where we need to be and then fuck up however you like, because I'll be cabbing it home. Also, it's not cool to bring consumable alcohols in your kid's cups. Just saying."


I feel like the first one was still pretty PP-y of me. Irrelevant, though, since I said neither. I drove, there AND back.


So, I've been on a personal journey to let go of that part of me.

Do you know what New York is good for? Well, billions of things, but among those things, bringing out the "do not fucking mess with me" part of everyone. The part that lets you say no without guilt. The part that reminds you to be aware, because your LIFE can get stolen in the middle of the day on East 86th street. And yes, by LIFE, I mean your iPhone.

What? That's what I call mine.

AND, it's unbelievably liberating to have this honesty without guilt encouraged by and from the masses. I mean, some people take it to the extreme and use it as a sort of hall pass to be complete assholes. These people, even though I am afraid of them, I admire their "go get-'em" attitude, because it takes a LOT of commitment to be that surly motherfucker all day every day.

Me? Well, I refuse to not be nice, because... I AM nice. I feel like that's one of the best things about me, that I am 90% of the time (100% would be creepy. Come on.) able to smile and engage with strangers on the street, make eye contact while saying hello and meaning what I say to people.

BUT, I've been learning that "nice" doesn't mean "be my bitch", and I'm not sure why I ever thought it did.

I've known people who have been really good at standing up for themselves, and people who haven't. I have been one of the latter until recently. I believe it's partially that I'm historically not really good at confrontation, which comes from me being someone who MOSTLY operates out of my emotional places (shut it, creeps) and so if something is important/has upset me enough for me to say something out loud, I'm usually pretty worked up about it.

I can start the exchange like a normal adult, but by the fourth word am sometimes either speaking through a throat clogged with tears, and/or have them dripping down my face. This (understandably) makes me the worst, because people who are less emotional are either confused or guilt-stricken (which also understandably turns into anger) by the amount of emotion I have about something that they have probably until now thought was not really a big deal, and why shouldn't they? It's probably been anywhere between 30 seconds to a month and a half since what the issue I'm referring to has happened.

"Hey, remember that one time you did that one thing? And I'm sure you MEANT it like "this" but it came out like "that" and I need you to know I'm just really upset about it and I can't really process it beyond just that, so I needed to let you know because I value you and our relationship and want to just keep the lines of communication open between us, because I don't want to lose what we have, and even though I totally don't blame you and it's not your fault, because how could it be, because people don't treat people like that on PURPOSE and I'm certainly not calling you an inconsiderate asshole, but just please don't do that again, and if you do, I'll be sure to tell you, but I know you won't mean it, so I'm not even mad at you really, and I'm sorry for crying so much, but one of my eyes is broken, this has nothing to do with how much I really wish you would just stop being a dick to me..."

Oh, people pleaser.

Get the fuck out of here.

Since starting project PP-must-go-go, I have:

-Gotten into a very intense discussion with a cab driver where I DID yell and DID NOT cuss.. (this seems to be a very clear distinguisher between whether you are a strong person or just an angry asshole.)

Me: "So you're refusing to take us to Brooklyn, then" (this is illegal, btw)
Cabbie: "You're on 2nd avenue. You'll catch another cab. I've already been to Queens twice tonight."
Me: (slightly louder) "That really doesn't sound like anything that is a problem of mine. And so to be CLEAR, you are refusing to take us to Brooklyn."
Cabbie: "Ma'am, this is my job, I'm just trying to make money. Take another cab."
Me: "That's so funny (not finding it funny), I happen to have money in this here debit card as well as ACTUAL cash in my wallet. That I am willing to pay you. For taking us to Brooklyn."
Cabbie: "Brooklyn is far..."
Me: "Yeah, hence engaging you for this trip. Are you going to take us or not?"
Cabbie: (like Batman's maid from Family Guy) "no... no..."
Friend: (quietly to me) "Giiiirl, you better get his numbers down and call 311..."

311 is who you call in this city if you need anything OTHER than the police. The taxis here are ruled with an iron fucking fist, so you can report them for anything shitty, as long as it's legitimate.

Me: (stage whisper to my friend, with my face directed to towards the hole in the partition so that I KNOW this turd can hear me) "Oh, yeah, I SHOULD call 311. Let me get these numbers down (typing into my phone) ...8..a..8..7..."
Cabbie: "oh, no, you don't have to do that. No. No. I'll take you."
Me: "I'm sorry, sir, I am not interested in being your passenger anymore. If you could just pull over to the right at the next light, that would be wonderful. I have a phone call to make."
Cabbie: (speaking over me a little bit) "You don't need to call. It's okay. I take you."
Me: "Sir, I'm not sure why you're still speaking, I feel like this conversation is over and there isn't anything left to say. We're done with this ride and will be getting out up ahead. Pull over at the light. To the right. Please."

We're coming up to the corner I requested, and not really slowing down, which leads me to believe he's not actually planning on stopping.

Me: "Gosh, we're almost to that corner, you'd better slow down. Because you're going to need to stop. Because we're getting out."
Cabbie: (speaking over me a little bit more)"no, no, I take you, I take you. It's okay."(drives past the corner.)

I lose it.

Cabbie: "No, it's okay, I take to Brooklyn. I take."
Cabbie: (Slowing down a little) "No, no call anyone. It's okay."
Cabbie: (comes to a stop) (in the middle of the street)

This motherfucker.

Cabbie: (pulls over to the right)
Me: "Fantastic. Thank you."
Cabbie: (just sits there)
Me: "Are you going to go ahead and close out the meter so I can pay you for that ridiculous trip? I have to find another cab."

That shenanigans cost me $4.30.

BUT, I didn't swear. I didn't attack his character. I didn't call him names. I DID get crazy loud, which is not anything I'm used to doing at any time that I'm not playing "Hey" with Jerome.

I'm pretty sure most of that volume came from me being panicked about getting kidnapped by a taxi-driver. I could just see myself being kept in a room below street-level down near Canal, being forced to sew fake Louis Vuitton, Chanel and Tory Burch bags until my fingers bled so that they could be carted around in cardboard boxes by men with dead shark-eye scary faces and sold in the musty creep-tastic back rooms of the janky stalls that line the streets down there...

Um. I worry about shit, okay?

Other instances of me standing up for myself include me telling a man I was kind of seeing that it wasn't going to work out because of the very real issues of him being homophobic and not liking dogs, and I actually scolded a man trying to drive his van through the crosswalk while I was crossing. Finger extended, wagging back and forth and everything. I think I actually said "Don't you dare" and gave him my version of the shark-eye stare which I'm sure did NOT instill any fear into him, BUT... he paused and let me cross.

The only other thing I can think of, and it may be the biggest change, is letting go of the need to have Whitney still want to be friends with me. I mean, she said awful things to me that brought me very close to ending my own life. Not her fault, as I was more depressed than I've been in years and YEARS, but still. Honestly? It wasn't that great being her friend in the end there anyway, and yet still I found myself just wishing she still loved me, still wanted me.

Because one of my deepest truths is that I want everyone to think of me when they think of what they want. Period. Not only do I want that, I expect that.

Jesus. I may be a full-fledged narcissist.

Good thing I'm only 31 and still have tons of time for therapy, right? Riiiiiight.


Story time!

Anyone need to go to the bathroom? Now would be good.


On my dog walking schedule there are currently 7 dogs. One of those dogs is Lola, who I walk 3x a day. Lola is... awesome. She is really entertaining, does hilarious things like "wave" and charges groups of people running in the park at night. Those motherfuckers part like the red sea, too. So amazing.

Central Park has off-leash time for all dogs in the mornings from whenever-you-feel-like-getting-there until 9am. This... is so good. Lola and I go every morning, Monday through Friday for an hour to this hill and she plays and wrestles and pees and jumps and rolls and just fucking EXUDES joy at how awesome it is to be a dog.

This hour of my day is HUGELY responsible for me pulling out of my nearly crippling depression, because watching dogs play and be silly with each other is so happiness-inducing and starts my day on an upswing that is so great, I almost CAN'T be depressed.

Of course, there's all the walking I'm doing. Oh, and being gainfully employed. And there's the whole being valued by my boss. Okay. Things are good. Really good. But watching a dog stretch its legs by running as fast as it can in a wide circle, crossing the dew-covered green grass in the mornings, running in and out of the tree shadows... That is a beautiful fucking thing, and I love it.

Lola usually has excellent recall, and will actually stop playing for a minute and look for me if I haven't been speaking to one of the dog owners on the hill loud enough for her to hear me. My eye is usually on her, though, so if I see her looking around, I call her name in this way that makes the L's in her name sound rounded and the O sound fully hollow. She hears it every time, and she'll usually come over to me and touch my leg with her nose and then run off to go play some more.

My feet are base for her when she's overwhelmed, and she'll sit between them and let me block any dogs from trying to get to her. She gets a little possessive if I pet another dog and will actually get on her hind legs and put her paws in their face so that they have to back away.

When we get back to her house, if I take off anything, coat, scarf, mittens, whatever, she'll steal it and take it to her bed where she'll sit on it.

She chews EVERYTHING of her mom's, and has a preference for the most expensive shit. She takes things out of the garbage, she goes into closets, I mean, this dog is crazy-go-nuts. She's ridiculous and I love her.

And yes, I took that photo. And it might have been even part of an entire photo shoot I did with her in the park on a sunny day. But I don't want to talk about it and lose focus.

Because last night, this little bitch almost gave me a heart attack.

Let me let you know.

So aside from the off-leash time in Central Park in the morning, the only other times a dog can be off leash in the park is never.


And the citation for doing that is something in the neighborhood of about 125$. Not cheap. Also? If you don't have your ID on you when you're walking the dog, the cop can actually take the dog from you AND arrest you. This would basically ruin my life.

This is all new information to me as of a few days ago, though, told to me by my awesome boss, because a potential client called him and let him know that I was letting Lola off the leash midday so that she could get some running in (I mentioned that she has excellent recall, right?) and that her dog and Lola were playing together, and that she was interested in maybe having me walk her dog in the mornings.

He told me he knew I was letting Lola off the leash in the park, and he knew WHY I was doing it, but cautioned me against doing it again, because of the reasons mentioned above. He actually said that he preferred I not do it. That was as strongly worded as he got with it. He wasn't upset at all, just gave me the information about what could happen and his wisdom.

So, because even though I'm nice AND a PP, sometimes I am still an asshole, I just thought to myself, "Okay, I'll start taking my ID with me, and if I get a ticket, THAT will be the last time I do off-leash with Lola during times I'm not supposed to."

Because what could possibly go wrong?

Oh my god. Gentle reader(s), I need you to know that I am writing about this to get it out and stop having it replay in my mind over and over, but that I will probably have no fewer than 4.5 anxiety attacks while recounting this, so I apologize if I get a little frenzied in my storytelling.

Also, right after this all happened, I tried to text someone that I was hyperventilating, and it came out on my phone as "alligator". Which makes complete sense to me.

So last night at around 7:05p, I pick Lola up and we cross from her 5th Ave apartment on the Upper East Side to Central Park, aka her back yard. I know. This dog has it rough, right?

We hit up her potty place, and walk a bit further into the park. I give her the "sit" command so that I can take off the leash. She drops her furry butt, and I reach down for the metal clasp.

At the exact instant I undo her leash, The Boathouse also has a fireworks display begin.


I, like a dumb human who is not afraid of fireworks, look up at the sparkles that I can see through the tree leaves as I stand up.

Lola, who is 2 parts fluffy entertainer, and 1 part purely instinctive being takes off faster than I can blink.

Now, because I am so used to how much Lola listens and stays with me (I mean come on, she uses me for base. BASE!), I don't process that Lola is actually gone, but as I look around for her, everything just ... seems  darker. Like there's a Lola void. And suddenly, I KNOW she's not in the park anymore. I run to the entrance of the park and someone there is all "Was that your dog?!"


Lola has run out of the park.

5th Avenue is one of the fullest and busiest streets in Manhattan. It borders the park on the east side, and has all of the entrances you can drive across the park from. There is ALWAYS traffic on 5th, and it's usually pretty formidable.

Lola crossed this street during a walk-all-ways moment and just kept going.

By the time I get to the intersection, the light has changed and the traffic is moving. In what may have been the dumbest moment of my adult life, I run out in traffic after her. I am watching myself do this, knowing it's stupid, not caring very much, and willing the drivers to understand that they need to not kill me. All I'm seeing is a picture of dead Lola in my mind, laying in the street like a crushed stuffed animal.

I get across the street. I don't die.

I am standing on the corner, calling her name. Round L's and hollow O. I know she can hear me. She must be so scared. Oh my god. Oh my god.

I see her furry ass up the block. She's on 76th St, headed towards Madison Ave, the next busiest street.


I take off running.


I pass an insanely nice hotel called The Surrey where there are people crowded around outside dressed to THE NINES.

They tell me Lola ran to Madison and turned right.

Round L's, hollow O.

I irrationally want to ask them why they didn't grab her.

I don't stop running to do this.

I get to Madison. I don't see her. People on the street are pointing towards 75th.

I am yelling as I'm running. "LOLA!"

My chest hurts.

I get to 75th St. Someone on 75th St points BACK to 5th Ave.

I can't believe I'm still running.


I run down 75th, back to 5th ave.

A doorman sees me (read hears) coming. He tells me he saw Lola running, and she took a right on 5th Ave.

I am no longer running.

Please don't be a stuffed animal. Please.

I am power walking.

Somehow I have not stopped rounding my L's and hollowing out my O's,

I get back to 5th Ave.

I run into the lobby of Lola's building and ask the doorman if Lola ran inside. He gives me the most confusing answer I have ever gotten about anything, and I have to fight the urge to grab him and shake him.

Lola is not there.

I run back out onto 5th Ave, and someone tells me she ran down 5th to 77th St.

I'm yelling, trying to sound like this:


I get to the corner of 77th and 5th, and I'm asking every one I see the following while also holding my hands aloft indicating something the size of a loaf of bread:

"Small...*gasp* Dog...*gasp* Did you...*gasp* SEE?!?...*gasp* Puerta!??"

I have no idea WHY I just said door in Spanish. I'm now embarrassed about so much more than the fact that I lost the dog I walk and that while running this whole time I've had to hold my pants up with one hand. That shit messes with your stride, y'all. Now I'm worried I'm a racist.


A couple tells me that they saw her on Madison. That someone grabbed her and is holding her.


They tell me not to worry, the person looked good.

I realize that the girl part of this couple is the woman who plays Deb in Dexter.

I thank them. I turn to run again, and I say to Deb "and I fucking LOVE you".

I'm too freaked out to realize that I am, underneath my cool exterior "one of those". Not immune to celebrity. This is disheartening, to say the least.

Stuffed animal.

Fuck celebrities.


Round L.

Hollow O.

I get to Madison.

A girl standing on the corner tells me that someone is right inside a doorway two shops down with Lola.

Still running.

As I reach the door, a girl comes out, and there's Lola. IN HER ARMS. Safe. Looking very scared, and very much non-stuffed-animal-y.

Thank you.

I say Lola's name in something akin to a steam-whistle imitation.

Thank you.

I almost fall to the ground.

Thank you.

I thank the girl over and over  between gasps. I may have gotten my breath on her face.

Thank you.

She is so nice. She makes sure I am the dog walker.

Thank you.

I promise her I am.

Thank you.

She tells me she called Lola's mom and that she's expecting her.

Thank you.

I grab Lola and hold her close to me, trying to get her to fuse with part of my body so I don't have to worry about losing her again.

Thank you.

She's shaking so much, I start to cry.

Thank you.

I sit down with her where I'm standing, in the middle of the sidewalk. I hold her for what feels like forever.

Thank you.

I'm saying her name over and over.

Thank you.

That's when I realize the fireworks are still going and HAVE BEEN GOING THIS ENTIRE TIME.

She's still so scared.

I try to put her leash back on but my hands are shaking harder than they ever have before about anything. I actually can't feel my arms from my elbows to my shoulders. I have no idea how to make my hands work so that I can get this dog on her leash.

Something overrides something else in my brain and it happens.

I still carry her, though, because she's too scared to walk.

I get to the corner of 76th and 5th, and there's Lola's mom. Smiling.

I start crying and apologizing through gasps of air.

She's not upset. She's actually reassuring me, and even says that she was just telling her friend how awesome I am, and that everything is fine.

She tells me to have a good weekend, that she's going to dinner, and could I feed Lola really quick before I leave?

I would pre-chew Lola's food for her at this very moment. So yes. I will feed her before I go.

We get inside Lola's building. I hold it together until I get into the elevator. With a stranger. And weep fully and silently until I get inside Lola's apartment on the 6th floor where I take off my jacket, and immediately start to hyperventilate (or, alligator).

I feed Lola.

I leave.

I walk to Sarah's house with a friend where she's having a little pre-NYC marathon get together with her friends who are running with her, and I am greeted with such enthusiasm, I feel all the way better. I tell everyone present that everything is fine, I just did my pre-qualifying run and will be joining them all on Sunday for the marathon.

Because that's what people do when they train like I just did.

Oh, and remember my supergreat boss? I had to absent myself from the party for a minute to give him a recap of the evening. And you know what? He said was that he was so glad I had learned such an important lesson and that no one had been hurt, and that he would join the chorus of people who were singing my praises about how great I am. That he thinks I'm awesome, and that I will do the right thing with this lesson.

Thank you. Thank you. Whatever that was, thank you.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Taxes and Taxing


I might start to be one of those people who blog about being on WW. I am. On it, I mean. Weight Watchers. I just don't know if I can be THAT annoying, posting about shit I cook (Ha! Who am I kidding? I have two full time jobs. I don't cook...) and eat, BUT it seems to be effective. I think it's the accountability factor, which I'm way big on.

What I DON'T want to do is be a copycat.

I will find my own way.

I just ate these Little Debbie Swiss Rolls... They tasted like shit, which gives me hope. I still ate them, which brings about feelings of despair.

I walked over 5 miles today, though, so I don't feel THAT bad about them being inside of me.

I ate 81 points in one day last week. My current deepest shame. Overeaters anonymous may be in my future. 81 points is almost twice what I'm supposed to eat in one day. TWICE. Fruits and veggies count as NOTHING, and I ATE 81 POINTS. It may have been more. I don't know.

Subject change!

I am now an official NYC taxpayer (hold your applause, please) for the first time since moving here! I'm about to be 31, have lived here for almost a year, and JUST NOW I have a legit job.

Ah, the American Dream.

Working this much means I'm sweaty almost all the time. I. Hate. Sweating. So gross. I mean, it makes my pants seem to fit better, because they don't move around as much when the denim is basically spackled to my thighs and ass...but that is a small consolation. Small indeed.

Also? I am working on a WICKED blister on my toe that I accidentally tore open all the way to the good skin by catching it on the hardwoods in my house and I bled like a bitch-ass all over my new sheets. Not so pimp of me.

Sorry. I'm disgusting. I know.

I'm not really that sorry.

Um, let's see... what else?

Operation "Don't get caught up on people from the past" has become easier by the day.

Still, I do get sad sometimes. It hurts my feelings to just be cut off, even if it's totally one of the best things that has happened to me in a LONG time. Feelings that didn't matter, according to her.

I mean, I was basically invited to carry out plans to end my life with her blessing. I need friends like that like I need a hole in the head.

So fuck that. I'm living the best life for me, and glad to be here. AND, the people around me are glad about it, too! I forgot how very much I like meeting new people and making friends with them.

One thing that is awesome? I don't think I would have ever embraced these amazing people fully with my "BFF" friendship creating a...barrier? yeah, a barrier between myself and anyone else I have met, using her as a ruler, which is just ridiculous, aside from measuring what I DON'T want in a relationship with anyone from this point on.

I wish I could be a better person right now, instead of in time (which I know will come), and just say all that bougey shit about how I'll always appreciate the things that we had, and understand that people change, that I will honor what was, blah blah, but you know what? It's hard to be friends with someone who hates themselves for 5+ years and harder still to remember the good and hold that in your heart when the reason you're no longer friends is because the second they decided they were worth loving, they ALSO decided that you were not good enough to be their friend.

Blech. Blech, blech, blech.

I know there was so much I loved about her for so long, and I can't think of a single thing that makes me miss her today.

THIS makes me feel like a monster.

I know I sound like a lesbian, and though I would never have gone gay for her *shudder*, I did think she was my soul mate. BUT, I thought the same thing about a sociopath whose name starts with "F", so that shows how much I know, haha!

I see myself needing much therapy over this, but for now, I am done, and going to bed.

Anyway, on that note, I hope everyone is well. I am clearly still mixed up, and writing this has sucked.


Saturday, September 10, 2011


Now that the dust has settled and I see things for what they are and what they were, I am honestly feeling and practically tasting the sense of relief I have about it being over.

I am disappointed in myself that once again, someone else had to be the one to make the move to leave my life (hello, Farran. No, goodbye, Farran), but at least my clarity came much sooner this time.

I honor the things that were, and grieve the things that will never be, but am so glad to not be going through the rest of my life with someone like that as my "friend", I am at peace with all the stuff in between.


Sunday, September 4, 2011

Today I get to go and buy FURNITURE! Ikea in Redhook has my name painted on its doors this morning.

I be feelin' real grown up, y'all!

There's something about sleeping on a bed with a frame, whether fancy or not, that just... makes it feel more legitimate.

Oh, and don't worry. Since my bedroom now is the size that my future shoe closet will be, that room is going to be ALL bed. To open up the floor space in there, I'm actually going to be putting everything I can on the walls, which will include a desk/vanity, bookshelves, and night stands.

Also? When Thanksgiving rolls around I am going to buy my very first flatscreen.


Don't worry, I WILL post pics asap.



Wednesday, August 31, 2011

Brooklyn in Brooklyn

Here's my roommates' dog, Brooklyn. She is awesome and totally adorable. And a little bit of a bitch.



Morning tears

Sometimes, this is the perfect way to wake up and get going on my day.

There aren't words to express how amazing this is to me. 

Also? I miss my mom. 


Saturday, August 27, 2011

Oh Mr. Lincoln...

I am so into this, it's hard to express exactly how much.

From my Google Reader.


still attached

I know I shouldn't care.

I know she doesn't.

My best friend and I "broke up" just recently, and I miss her more than I ever missed Farran. I know that we are not going to be friends again, because even if she wanted to, the words she said to me in the end were so hurtful, I will never trust her again.

I know that this is something she doesn't think about, because it doesn't matter to her.


It matters to me. And it hurts so much.

This is on my mind right now because of some sad news from a friend, and the impending visit from Miss Irene, in the form of an angry storm. People here are either pissed that they can't get to their fave shops on 5th ave because the ENTIRE transit system has shut down in the city due to the imminent floods OR they are buying every canned good and bottle of water and putting big X's of duct tape on their windows in preparation. Building couch forts, stockpiling candles, making sure that they have fresh batteries and the like.

I've been jokingly saying, "Yeah, I'll talk to you in a few days if I don't get blown away" to people. My mom, Brandy, Jerome... I signed off on my blog like that on my last post.

My mom: "Be careful walking in the wind. A tree branch could hit you... and that could be IT. You don't want to go like that. I know I'D want more drama than that..."

It's true. I do want more drama than that. I also want to be at peace with where I'm at in the world. With the people who matter to me. I feel like this is mostly true, that I am in this place.

To that end...

Yesterday, via text, I told my former BFF (W)'s sister who just had triplets (yay, JULIA!), that I am not going to come and see her in October. That trip is something that W and I were going to do together, in November, but since we are no longer speaking, the trip is obviously not something that is going to happen for us.

Julia had actually asked me a few weeks ago to come out in Oct, because her husband will be away, and she could use the help. I told her that I would, as long as she spoke to W about it, because I didn't want it to look like I was going behind her back to friend-creep her big sister. Also, who says no to a recent mother of triplets when they ask for help? Not I. Julia assured me that she would talk to her, that it would be all good, and that she would let me know what  the best dates would be as soon as she could.

So we were texting yesterday about the coming storm, and she mentioned that she talked to W about it like I had asked her to, and that it was fine.

Of course, like staring at the wreckage of a car accident, I wanted to know what W said to Julia's update about me going to Louisiana in Oct. Julia said that W "had her feelings about it", but told her that we had planned this before her and I stopped being friends.

And... I just can't do it.

I know that W couldn't give a shit about what I'm doing with my life, (trust me, I have the email) or whether or not I get hit with a tree branch and that's IT, haha, but I mean, she has got to be really upset about it if she's going to tell her sister, a recent mother of TRIPLETS, that it bothers her to have me come and help her during a time that she'll be alone with those babies.

I feel like an ass for not going, I know Julia could use the help. AND, to make things worse, she said the nicest thing to me yesterday in a text about how she trusts me around her kids, and that my and W's relationships are totally different that mine and hers. I know she's right. Even my MOM told me to go. She said that after what was said, I don't owe W anything. I know where she's coming from. I don't feel like I owe her anything, either. Not after what she said to me.

What I do feel is that I owe MYSELF. I would feel like I was dishonoring the awesome friendship we did have, and that is something that I will treasure always. More poignantly so because I don't see it ever happening again.

So. I'm not going to Lafayette, LA in October. I'll have to come up with some other birthday plans...

In other news, I WILL be going to Louisiana for Thanksgiving with Jerome! To New. Or. Leans.  I am SO excited!

Hopefully I'll miss W by a few days and can maybe swing by long enough to hear Payten (Julia's oldest) say something ridiculously funny and kiss those babies!

I hope it doesn't take me as long to get over losing the friendship I thought I had with W as it has for my relationSHIT with Farran. I didn't like or love him half as much as her, and my heart still gets achy when I think of him...


Head down, chin to chest. Forward, march!


Friday, August 26, 2011

oh my aching... errything

Holy god, you guys. Or Brandy and Heather. :) I am so SO tired.

BUT! I move in just a few days, and will have a whole day to get unpacked and settled in! SO SUPER STOKED ON THAT! Also, my early morning walk is going to be on hold for a week, so I can kind of ease into my new routine! WHOOP!


I am also super excited because yesterday I bought my first art that is going to decorate the walls of my new room.


So cute, right? They have these frames that are like a dusky blue, and really stick out from the actual picture a lot, so the pieces look more like trays, BUT they have that thing on the back that says, "Hey, hang me as a picture. I. will. pimp. your. walls." Umm, hokay! 

AND, as ever, getting them was a bit of an ordeal like only I can have something be...

So, about a week ago, I found them at Urban Outfitters, and the price was 39.99. Each. Wowza. 

I don't think I've ever paid that much for ANYTHING to be on my walls. And, since I'm (trying to be) in the money saving place instead of the money spending one, I thought to myself, "well, if I'm really supposed to have them, in two weeks they'll still be here when I come back." 

And so it was that I left the Urban Outfitters on Broadway that sunny afternoon, with the promise to come back for my arts when I was all settled in my new place. 


All the way home, I was thinking about them. I was thinking about them so much that I thought I was having some sort of retail remorse, when you just wish you had bought SOMETHING, but I knew that couldn't be it, since I HAD bought some things there, three presents and a new messenger bag for work. Also, when I left the store I went down to Fashion Ave and bought new shoes, something that always at least pushes any doldrums to the corners of my mind for a few days...

(don't worry, here they are. Thank you Terrence at Foot Action)

What? They're Nikes, so that means they're good for walking, right?

HAHA, I'm J/K, guys. Here they are. Or it is. I could only find a picture of one...

YES. I'm a lil pissed, this looks WAY orange, and while I wouldn't mind at all having tangerine dream feets, that is not the case, and I abhor misrepresenting myself. Or my feet. I know, I know. Chill, it's only shoes, right? NO. Do you even hear yourself? Ugh. Anyway. My shoes are black and PINK. With no high heels. And they are AWESOME. They are super lightweight, and kind of return the energy back to me while I'm walking. 

This was especially amazing yesterday, because I thought I was going to die at the end of the day from basically being in a working state from 8p the night before to 7p last night. Yeah, I know. I worked with Darren from 8p-7a, walked Lola from 730a-830a, headed home for a bit of a break, then puppysat a wee leetle named Rose for 4 hours. After that, I went back to Lola's and walked her again for another hour. PLUS I did my Urban painting hunt. 

I can guarantee I wanted to chop off my feet about 40% less than normal because of those shoes. I know that doesn't sound like much, but we're talking about me voluntarily giving my own feet. 40%? SO GOOD. 

When I lived here in 2007 and was walking non-stop for The Brothers, by the end of the day I would be in so much pain I would question every decision I was making. I would have serious battles with myself about taking the bus or train home, when I ALWAYS had to take both. I would be halfway to the bus stop (a block away) and realize that I had forgotten my bus pass at the shop. I would stop walking in mid-stride, not even bringing my feet together, and say "fffuuuuuuuuucccckkkkkk". I mean, "say" is a little strong. My energy would be so low, I would just sort of emit the word. Total hopelessness would consume me and I would feel the tears coming, you know the ones, they actually start right behind your shoulders which you drop and sort of fold into your chest, and work your way into your throat, which gets all thick. You know if you try to clear your throat, you'll choke on a sob, and everyone will hear, so you elongate your neck in an attempt to swallow them, or at least stave them off, because no one wants to be the girl on the sidewalk crying to herself while looking like she's poised to take off running, like it's something that is about to happen against her will. Hell, I wouldn't want to see that, much less be it. How do you even assist someone like that?

You don't. 

Well, maybe a hug would've been nice, but WE'LL NEVER KNOW, BECAUSE NO ONE EVER DID. 

*sigh* Thanks a lot, NY.  

At this point, still at the halfway mark between the store I worked out of and the bus stop, I would have turned my body 45 degrees toward the store, and would now be just standing there, sticking my neck out, and straddling the sidewalk. 

Jesus. No wonder I never got mugged. People were probs afraid of ME. Nice. 

Anyway, I would sort of listlessly raise my hand in the direction of the doors to the shop, like I could make my metropass slip itself under the double doors and flutter down the street into my hand.

Now I looked like one of those living statues. Fucking fantastic. 

My eyes would be full of tears that had made their way there from my throat, and I would have them open wide to avoid having the tears spilling down my cheeks. This was only a temporary solution, though, and the tears would eventually fall. The only good thing about this is that the action of my tears streaming down my sweaty-then-dried-then-sweaty-then-dried face would propel me toward what was going to get me home. The bus pass. Even without me consciously choosing, I would be moving forward toward the shop, not aware of actually moving my feet, wiping my eyes, scrubbing my cheeks, and smoothing my hair in one smooth (not so smooth) movement. This was self-preservation, as I would rather have looked sweaty and just-mugged than like a girl who lost the will to keep herself upright over her trip home in front of The Brothers. I would be in and out with minimal groaning, as the stairs in front of the shop felt like something put there to torture me specifically, clutching my metro pass in my wee  hand, that much closer to home. 

So yeah, I feel a little less like that this time, which I am super into. 

Still, though. Yesterday was rough. 

I was on my way to puppysit for Rose and saw an Urban Oufitters on or around 60th and 3rd on the East Side, so was like "fuckyeah I am totally going there after I'm done with this pup and getting those paintings" BECAUSE YOU GUYS, the day that I found them, found them but resisted buying them, I was so excited about them, I told my friend B all about them, and we perused the UO website together. Thing was, they weren't on there. They weren't ANYWHERE online. I Google searched my ass off, and found nothing. Do you have any idea how many times in my life I haven't been able to find something on Google? 4 times. In my WHOLE LIFE. That's an average of once a year for the time I've actually had internets. Do you understand how good it is to not be able to find something only ONCE every FOUR YEARS?!?? Come ON!

This of course put me into a further state of panic, and I became sure that I would never see those paintings again. I mean, do you REALIZE how many people are in Manhattan at any given time? And that's just the people who live here. The tourists? Forget about it. Also, we're having a RIDICULOUSLY awesome August (minus the possible hurricane and evacuation orders, of course, haha), so it's like everyone has decided that staying longer is ideal. Whatever. 

About tourists... well. I practically JUST got here, so am not going to talk shit, but can I just say that the wrong thing to do is come out of the train and stop AS SOON AS your feet hit the sidewalk to consult your map? Oh, you thought you were the only one on the train? And therefore you must be the only one who needs to get out of the steamy stink that is the underground here. So then it would NATURALLY stand to reason that you are the ONLY person who has somewhere to be. Ah. I can see how that could happen (NOICANNOT), so I forgive you (NOIDONOT). It's cool. That kidney shot I "accidentally" gave you with my yoga mat (What? It's a YOGA MAT! It's not like I'm swinging a baseball bat!) will help you remember for next time. You're welcome!

Here's some pictures of the puppy I was with yesterday to soften your hearts towards me, since I just basically admitted to committing battery against strangers...

Yep. That's Rose. She's... 8 weeks old, I think. SO cute. 

Okay. So I was done with the wee and on my way. I get to the UO on 60th after a RIDICULOUS bus ride, and as soon as I'm in the housewares section, I see ONE dusty dusky blue frame on its side stacked with other things that wish they were as cool as my future wall art. 

I snatch that bitch off the shelf and see two things that make me want to scream with joy. One: It is the dog print. This one is my favorite, and I am instantly SO HAPPY about it, I make a strong mental note to explore getting on free anti-depressants, because while this is an awesome piece of art, it shouldn't give me the feeling that my life is more worth living than it was about 45 seconds ago. Mental post-it, applied. 

The OTHER thing I notice is that it's got a little orange sticker that says... oh my god. Could it BE?!??? It says that price that is just enough to mean something, but not so much I would ever have even a whisper of doubt about my purchase....

Oh sweet, sweet nine ninety-nine. The price that is never not-affordable. Even with tax, at a tender $10.88, you hardly put a dent in anyone's pocket. 


I do own a fair amount of things from the $9.99 family, and yes, I understand how math works. I know that shit adds up. But come on. $9.99 from $39.99? HOW IS THAT NOT SOMETHING THAT MAKES YOU SO EXCITED?! I literally start producing more saliva when I see shit like that. Just writing this post has me swallowing more than normal. 


So. Yeah. I had the dog one. Now to grab the bunny...

What? Oh, that's the only one you have, Urban Outfitters on 60th and 3rd? Well that just can't be true. Your store is call Urban Outfitters, not Urban Dreamkillers! 

Shit, now I'm sweating. My mouth has dried up with the quickness and all my extra fluids are now standing on my forehead and upper lip. 

I start rummaging through all the not-as-cool-as-what-I-want art on the shelves, hoping to catch a glimpse of the matching frame to the piece I have clutched under my left arm. Nothing. I make a halfhearted attempt to look under the folded bedding for any "accidentally stored" pieces (Bitches can be scandalous. I should know. But when I do it, it's called being RESOURCEFUL. Whatever you call it, I know I'm not the only one. DON'T YOU JUDGE ME!!!)

My search yields nothing, and I swear I am starting to be able to smell myself. I need a kleenex, I can't keep licking this salty lip of mine. 

I take a deep breath, realize that the bunny painting is NOT here, and I will have to go to another Urban to get it. 

Whatever the journey ahead of me, I instantly decide it will be WORTH. IT. Because I have a plan of how my room is going to look, and these paintings BELONG in there. I knew I could have someone check the inventory at the other stores, so I figured that's just what I would do. I made my way downstairs, heart in throat, fingers (one hand only) crossed.  

The adorable part-ginger cashier did confirm for me that my treasure was waiting for me across the lovely island of Manhattan, and that they had five. FIVE. I was so excited I almost peed. I also had him re-affirm the awesome that was the $9.99 price for my beautiful art, and lo and behold, it was Ta-RUTH! This time I did pee. A little. It's fine. I hear that happens to women as they age. Or something.  so after my last walk with Lola, I beat cheeks over there and BOUGHT THAT SHIT. 

Now they are sitting next to me on Justine and Kevin's desk, because I cannot believe how much I love something like this, and I just want them near me all the time. 


I am so weird. 

Anyway, they're going to go up on my wall with this mirror from IKEA, one on each side. 

Underneath, I am going to hang floating shelves, and this will be my vanity, y'all!

Pics as soon as this ish is up.

Anyway, there's apparently a hurricane coming, so I need to go boil strips of fabric or some shit. Talk to you again in a few if I don't die. 


Sunday, August 21, 2011

TheBrooklyn Girl


I'm moving to Brooklyn, y'all! And I might open a bar called just "the lounge" so that when people refer to going there, they'll say "yeah, we're going to the BK Lounge"...

Dream. Come. True.

Okay, not really.

I just wanted to let you know. I will post pics and such soon, when I'm moved in and all, but I am just so stoked, I had to post it.



Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Feeling This...

And I think it's about time for my anchor tattoo...

from SU


What the Future Holds...

I wish I could be more sad about this being me. But I'm not. 


I got a dollar, I got a dollar.

I got a dollar, hey hey hey HEY!

Finally. It's happened. I am employed in my first choice line of work, and it feels AWESOME.

I am now a full-time dog walker. But not just a dog walker. I am a dog walker who works for someone who knows the kind of awesome business that he has, and understands that his employees are extensions of that, that they represent him in client homes since he cannot be in a few hundred houses every day. He pays his employees on the books. He offers health insurance. He doesn't ask anyone to do anything that he wouldn't or hasn't done himself. He believes that communication is key.

To you, this may sound like a normal thing, but to me, I am seeing this guy with beams of light that happen to shine forth from behind his head.

He may be my own... personal... jesus.

Okay. He may not, but you know what I mean.

ANNND!? Today is my first day.

I'll write more about this as the magic unfurls, but just wanted to post.

Yay, ME! I get to do what I want AND be valued! I am over the fucking MOON about this, y'all! Thanks to everyone who has ever directed a nice thought my way in regards to getting what I want and need. I know it helped.


Sunday, August 14, 2011

Belly Laugh

The panic in this one is like a dream come true for me...

I can't stop laughing.


Friday, August 12, 2011

Just Caught Myself...

...Looking online for something to send her as a housewarming gift. Something HP-related, that would be super cool, original (looking. I ain't got that kind of skrill, sirs.), and would blow her away at my thoughtfulness and generosity.

I pushed myself away from the computer table like "whoa, WHY am I doing this? Were NOT EVEN FRIENDS ANYMORE."

And then it hit me like a flash: I want her to miss me more than I miss her, and to be the one who still likes me. I want her to pine away for our friendship like I know she isn't. I know she isn't because that was always one of my favorite things about her, that she just sort of does this "cut your losses" deal when things don't work out in ANY area of her life.

What the fuck, and how manipulative of me! And how embarrassing.

Even though we're not friends, I refuse to be a twat to her, as this is not how I wish to represent myself in this world.

Thanks for listening.



Thursday, August 11, 2011


There have been some changes that have come about recently for me, and probably the hardest for me has been facing the realization that the person I have considered my soul mate and best friend among friends is no longer someone I have in my life, much less have as a compadre. 

The worst and probably hardest thing to handle is that it all started with a text I sent asking her if everything was okay, and instead of calling me, she simply texted back "I dunno, I just feel like we're in such different places in our lives right now. We have the same conversation over and over again, and we don't really relate to each other anymore."

This was news to me, and I felt (and still feel, when I think about it too much) like someone had shot a brick out of a cannon and it hit me in the solar plexus. From 3 feet away. My stomach just sinks into my thighs, like something liquifies in me and drains down my body when I remember what it was like to read those words. The cherry on the Sunday of my worst nightmare came in the form of an email addressed to me with the words, "Good luck with whatever you decide to do with yourself. Goodbye." 

These words... I just don't understand how our friendship got to this point, but I am so completely wounded, the beds of my nails are sore and my eyelashes ache. 

I don't want to hurt about this forever, and I know I probably won't, but still. 

Also? I feel like I'm mourning the loss of an actual entire human, not simply a relationship I had with said human. It's like she died. And I think it's like that because I know in my heart of hearts that I won't ever trust her enough to be her friend again, and so she actually IS dead to me. 
This is completely awful. 


Wednesday, August 10, 2011

Ice Treats and Not So Deep V's...

    It's become increasingly obvious to me that I will have to 1) Go through extensive therapy to reconcile my current relationship with food to have ANY kind of a healthy lifestyle, 2) Write about it A LOT (yes, as a form of therapy) to share and take away the shame, 3) Resign myself to being a fatass. 

#'s 1 and 2 are looking REAL good. #3 can suck it. I wasn't meant to be a fatass. When I was... 14(?) my dad told me that he didn't see me as a fat person on the inside. It took me a little while (a long ass time) to build up the self-confidence to respond by saying, "yeah no shit, Dad. NO ONE is a shape on the inside."

He had already left the room by then. 

BUT. I was NOT meant to be a fatass. And I will not live the rest of my life like this.

Story time!

Last night, I was riding the M42 bus down 42nd street last night after a brief shopping trip to Forever21 in Times Square, and talking on the phone to one of my best friends, BH. 

Yes. I know I'm 30, and not 21. And? 

What I also know is that this F21 is the only one that carries the plus size line in the store in all of Manhattan, and has been a dream come true/godsend to me. It's not that I celebrate being fat, but I absolutely refuse to be shoddily clothed while being fat. I may be a social outcast, but I will not, I REFUSE, to be a fashion outcast as well. So. I shop at F21 for the big girls. Also? It's like they know how to make the experience less... agonizing for me. You walk straight in the front doors from the heart of Times Square, hit the down escalator, and the F21+ is right off the escalator to the left, and has its own little wing of the store where you can walk around and marvel at all the choices given, some cute, some atrocious, and not have to be among the lean and lithe 12 year old girls/aliens that are as beautiful and worldly looking as women used to be when they reached their 30's. Do you know what it does to the self esteem to be intimidated by someone I am overqualified to babysit, but who's age should still indicate the necessity for parental/adult supervision? Nothing good is happening there. And I mean like, intimidated as a WOMAN. Not as like, a gymnast. 5 year-olds can tell me what's what on some damn tumbling mats all day long and I don't feel shit. I'll even high-5 the little turds. I hate feeling like I'm in a sexual competition with women who shouldn't even be sexually aware of themselves yet. IT SHOULD BE AGAINST THE LAW. Is someone looking into this?

Ahem. Back to the clothes. You with me?

Another thing worth mentioning, at the F21's. the price points CANNOT be beat. No, I am not being paid to promote. This is a personal/public journaling. Get a grip. I just have love for F21, and they have love for me.

No, the fashions are not all wins. The good stuff is awesome, but the bad... well. Some of them are literally build for super-sized skinny girls, which we all know is not how people get fat. 

You don't get to keep your long torso and your proportionate boobs. You get folds. FOLDS. I mean, it has to go somewhere, but trying to logically explain to yourself that you are beautiful while looking in the dressing room mirror at the accordion of skin, the way it's all one piece but looks like a shirt waiting to be tie-dyed... that is a hard sell. You grow spare boobs near your armpits. Your BACK gets fat. Who ever even heard of such a thing? It does, though. Your long legs that have no rubbage at the tops of the thighs? Gone. You're building fires with them shits and wearing out the fabric of your jeans in the meantime. The calves that flow to your knees to your thighs with barely a discernible widening until, OOPS, here we are at the vagine! Absent. Infidels! Who the FUCK attached these... these BALLOONS to my hips? Do I want to talk about the width of my calves and how tall boots aren't an option for me because no zipper in the world should be put through that kind of torture? Hell no I do not, and eff you for asking. Oh, do you need some cute boy-short unders for that downstairs of yours? NOPE. Your ass cheeks are too large to fit in the panels of fabric that wrap around at the same size front to back and are supposed to give you that accessibly sexy look for any boy interested. In addition, any chonies you buy that don't fully fit will actually work themselves DOWN your ass until they are rolled up in that special place where your ass ends and your legs begin. I say special because you have to get almost fully nude to remedy this particular situation, as it entails unrolling said undergarments and smoothing them over the wide planes of your ass, where you hope they will stay at least until you can get off the train at Grand Central and walk the 3 avenues and 2 streets home, because it's hard to feel anything but vulnerable and unprepared when you can't even get your underwear to stay in place. That shit shows up like a neon sign here and that is some attention you do not want. Thongs are almost a better option, but don't get me started on how that shit gets lost... I just can't.
So, I'm on the bus home from Times Square, on the phone with my girl B, and recounting MY wins during the trip to F21 this particular evening. She lives in Eugene, OR. I lived there for about 2 years. I also almost killed myself there, but that might be a story for another time. Suffice to say, there was no F21+ there.

Among my favorite scores for the night were two v-neck shirts (no, not deep V's. Regs. Who do you think I am? D.Tosh? Psh.). One is a nice blush/rose color, and the other... the other is the  color of Daiquiri Ice. 

B: "What the fuck is Daiquiri Ice?"

Me: "Uh, only the ONLY flavor of ice cream-that-wasn't-even-ice-cream I was allowed to get in public as a child."

B: *laughs* "Excuse me?"

Me: "Oh yeah! 31derful flavors my ASS. If there was a family trip that involved Baskin-Robbins, I ALWAYS got the same shit. Fucking lame. Dessert after the family goes out to dinner? Sure! We won a baseball game? Let's go! Ugh."

B: *More laughter, but this time sounding distinctly uncomfortable and confused at the amount of emotion evident in my voice over some dessert-treat* 

Here's the thing:

I'm allergic to milk. Not lactose intolerant. Allergic. Like to the actual proteins in milk. I know, right? Weak sauce. In the age before diet restrictions and elective eliminations of things like gluten, dairy, sugar, and processed ANYTHING was all the rage, I grew up already not eating those things. Kind of. Now that I'm thinking back, though, I bet A LOT of my friend's parents thought that I was actually lactose intolerant. This explains their vigilance in keeping me from the various milk-laden treats provided at any one of many sleep-overs, because no one wants to be the parent in charge when one of the kids shits the room because someone didn't see them snarf a slice of cheese pizza...

Few things are worse while growing up than feeling singled out for freaky shit. Well, at least that USED to be the case. Nowadays, it's like these damn kids crave that bullshit. And you know what? More power to them, but I did not handle it well at all. To the tune of two dinners a night (one eaten in secret, one in public) for years. YEARS. Anyway, yes. I used to sneak the occasional plain slice from the pizza box. No, I never shit the room. Thanks for your concern.

Moving on. Daiquiri Ice was THE ONLY non-dairy dessert that Baskin-Robbins offered in the stone age... I mean, the 90's. What does THAT mean? I'll tell you. Dad/Mom says, "Hey Gang (Yeah, my Dad DID actually say "gang" while addressing us during my childhood, and it happened more than once. Love you, Dad. *sigh*), let's go get some cool treats!" The Gang (not including me), "YEAH!". Dad/Mom, The Gang, and I all pile in the car and head to my personal hell. Well. One of many. What? I was a mostly sullen child. I mean, I was A JOY, but a fucking sullen joy. You SHOULD be proud of my level of commitment that I could find an ICE CREAM PARLOR to be a place of torment. Talent. I had it in spades. 

The fam-bam would be in the minivan (one of three we had during my childhood), all but one of us (It was me. Just making sure you know.) already going over the choices ahead of us that needed to be made to bring about a mini emotional rainbow and unicorn frolic session on our tongues, careening (IF Dad was driving. Dad REALLY liked his sugar) though the streets of West Seattle towards our destination of the Admiral District Baskin-Robbins. Once we arrived in the parking lot, the side door of the minivan (yes, there was only one. Weren't you listening when I told you it was the 90's? I know the sliding doors these days fold laundry and put kids to bed, but back then they had ONE handle and you had to break out the elbow grease for that shit.) would slide open, and everyone would pile out of the car and into the galley-style shop that was Baskin-Robbins in West Seattle. Once inside, everyone would push to the front of the line and press their noses and hands to the glass separating them from vats and vats of delicious, shiny, cold, milky (save one!) dessert treats. 

Now, those who were a little more distractible (ALL of the kids in my family. Okay, and my Dad. Did you know ADD is hereditary? SQUIRREL!) might first look at the beauty of the ice cream cakes nestled in their pristine white boxes with the clear cellophane panels, tucked safely in orderly rows of dessert perfection in the display freezer. 

UNF! The colors! The visible sugar! We were tasting everything with our eyes and were insatiable! I think we actually physically fought the urge to blink as often when we were inside that store gazing upon those lovely things, feeling our eyeballs dry out and become cold... and it was totally worth it. When we would finally blink again, our eyes were watering so much that it looked like we were weeping in the face of such gorgeous confections, and when we would look at one another, noting the teary gazes, we would nod in solidarity. It didn't matter WHY we had tears in our eyes, DID YOU SEE THOSE FUCKING CAKES?!?? The blink-resist or welling up of emotions, no one was there to judge, and all were there to absorb even a fraction of that magic.

And right next to the beauty of the dessert cakes, wonder of wonders, there were the upside-down clown face ice cream cones, grounded by a small ruffled paper cup serving as a collar for multitudes of frosting-painted faces. So... beautiful. So completely fantastic. Everything was laid out on gold foil die-cut circle and rectangle boards with scalloped edges. I'm not sure what law of physics it is that determines this, but everything looks better when on one of those. 

We were helpless is what we were. We would stare and breathe on the glass until our views were obscured by the fog we made with our exalted exhalations. Then, and only then, would we move forward. 

Side bar: maybe I should invest in a way to make pillows out of that material... Imagine waking up every day with your head resting on the beauty of one of those bad boys? It's something about the way it reflects the light. It's so warm. So non-judgmental. Who doesn't look better with a nice golden glow about them. Hello, halos, anyone? Worked for Jesus and Mary, s'all I'm saying...

Now, I am and always have been down to look at and admire some damn sugar, and I was definitely one of the kids leaving my DNA on the glass by breathing all up on that shit. However, when the moving forward part came around, the selecting ice cream portion of the trip would find me sitting alone at a table, slightly slumped over (I say slightly because I mean, I WAS getting a frozen treat after all), and waiting. Why waiting? Well. I never had a choice when we went to Baskin-Robbins. Never. They say (no, I don't know who "they" are. Go with it.) that everything is a choice. Well, I am here to tell you that in Baskin-Robbins, that was not the case for me. My choice was made before we got in the damn car to even GO, and that was not a choice made by me. 

I mean, I guess you could say that my BODY made the choice, therefore the choice WAS made by me, but I'm not trying to get all metaphysical and shit, you hear me? Soul/self and body = separate. Clear? Good. That's where we're going with that. No further. 

Anyway. I would sit and wait for my dad or one of my brothers to bring me my Daiquiri Ice "ice cream" cone on a sugar cone. If it was my dad, the treat was usually handed over without ceremony, but if it was one of my brothers handing it to me, the statement 'I get Abi's cone!" would invariably ring out. Especially Tim. He would say it in a clear voice WHILE making prolonged eye contact with me. Why did they lay claim to my cone? 


I couldn't have anything with gluten/wheat either. 

Guess what makes cones so awesome? It's gluten. Well, and sugar. But if you've ever tasted a cone without gluten, fuck, if you've ever tasted ANYTHING without gluten, you know that shit is whack. Once, via my bro-in-leezy, I heard a comic say, "I was in the health food store, and one of those sample ladies offered me some gluten-free crackers. Now, I don't know what the fuck gluten is, but I know it's delicious, because that was the most disgusting cracker. Ever."

Spot on, sir. 

So yeah. No gluten. No dairy. AND? No citrus. There was a brief period of time where nuts were off limits too, but then my dad caught me dipping almonds in peanut butter (What? oh, the fat content on that? I couldn't tell ya.) and since I didn't die, figured nuts were probably okay. 

I did generally hand over my cone to my brothers, but sometimes would sort of slowly nibble the edges down WHILE eating my flavored ice so that by the time I was actually done with the frozen "delish", the cone was as tall as a quarter, and pooled inside was warmish melted Daiquiri Ice mixed with my saliva. I would hand it over to one of my brothers with a "What, IT CAME LIKE THAT!" expression on my face and begin to plot the first food I was going to sneak when we got back home. 

If I gave it to Tim: *shaking head* "AAAaaaaabbbiiiiiii??? Where did the rest of your coooone goooooo?" *eats cone* (Mostly dramatic effect for our parents. Hardly ever worked.) 

If I gave it to Jonas: *brow wrinkling in distaste* "Uh... what is... is that your SPIT?!??" *gags* *then eats cone*

If I gave it to Jason: "Sweet!" *eats cone*

Now that I'm an adult, I eat whatever the fuck I feel like most of the time. Sometimes this means I eat an almost completely raw food diet. Sometimes this means I buy the 20 piece chicken nugget box from McDonald's across the street and eat it in the dark. In shame. I mean, it IS only 4.99$, which since anything under 7$ in Manhattan is basically free, doesn't really cost me anything but my future... *sigh* I will figure this out, and a balance will be found. 

And for the record, my favorite frozen treat is Rocky Road. I think the closest I may ever come to Daiquiri Ice again is wearing my beautiful new t-shirt, and that is just fine with me.

Love, Abs