white flag waving, 6 a.m., New Jersey.

I don't know what's going on.
I don't know what we're doing, but whatever it is, I'm cool with it.

There's probably nothing going on, and we're probably not doing anything.

Sometimes, there comes a point with a person, at which it doesn't matter. I don't care. I'll walk into this blindly.

I don't expect anything, I don't want anything, I don't expect to do anything, and I won't, though I may want to.

Sometimes having someone physically present, talking at you, talking at anyone, or not talking, is enough. It's lonely otherwise.

He's around, and he'll stay that way for a while, in some capacity.

This apparently isn't going away anytime soon.

"On ne mort d'amour qu'au cinema."

If you've never seen this movie, we'll never be that close.

http://www.youtube.com/view_play_list?p=023E710F566D6CC7

I did things today, someone acknowledge this.

I worry that these posts are losing their fortitude and conviction, as I've become weepier and weepier in the past two weeks. There's been no actual weeping, but I think it's safe to say these have been two weepy weeks.

So, let's talk about something else.

I've managed to regain some semblance of energy in the past two days, mostly because of the presence of one Jill Caryn Kaufman. Today I went Christmas shopping for the first time. First stop was the American Girl Store on 49th, right off of Rockefeller Center. I inadvertently got to see the tree, which is okay with me. Hundreds of people tip-toeing around barricaded, snow-covered streets is not.

I was not prepared for the corporate monster that is the American Girl Store, jesus christ. I love children, but not when they're all leaving this place in tears, in spite of many red shopping bags filled to the brim.

I'm very lucky to have a very sweet and pragmatic nine-year-old sister. Nine is an annoying age under normal circumstances, but Sarah marches to her own drummer and is just generally awesome. Her mouth is that of my 46 year old stepmother, who is also awesome.
Andrew, who's five, and a BOY, and the product of my mother and stepfather's union, is a lot more difficult. I once gave him a stuffed lion wearing an NYU tee-shirt in his STOCKING, it wasn't even his REAL present, and he burst into tears and rejected it entirely. He's not difficult to shop for, but he's the kind of kid who after having opened far too many presents, for Christmas AND Hanukkah, asks "is that all?" Maybe that's all kids, maybe some are just more vocal about it.

I'm a child of divorce, and glad of it. My parents have remarried and since had younger kids, so Christmas is still a huge deal, and it's doubled. My stepfather's Jewish enough to say a prayer over a Menorah, so every year I get $5 a night for Hanukkah. So, a lovely 40 bag will result from my reverence for Judaism.

My Christmas List included the following:

1. Socks, the preferred cuisine of my building's devious dryer machine.

2. Camera film and Batteries.

3. TOILET PAPER, in bulk. Not a joke, this is extremely important.

4. Toiletries. This is not as strange as it sounds, because my mother has counted these items as stocking stuffers for years now. Toothbrushes, razors, acne medication...

5. Underwear. Better yet, THONGS. Also not so unusual, for the very same reason mentioned in #4.

6. A printer. This will likely be the customary "big present" from my dad. I'm so excited. With this, I will avoid the horror of getting up early before class to wait on line at the swarming NYU printing lab. Of course, if this thing breaks, or ever needs new ink cartridges or anything like that, I'm very screwed.

7. An electric kettle. These are excellent! My ex-roommate had one, so that counts for at least one thing I miss about my ex-roommate. My current tea kettle is dank.

8. Blank cd's and dvd's.

9. I've been very tempted to ask my mother to buy me a carton of cigarettes and call it a day, but I don't feel like talking to her.

10. A new Brita filter, also extremely dank and often forgotten and empty in our refrigerator.


Here's how I plan to spend the money collected from 92837598273598745 relatives:

1. January Rent and Utilities!

2. A handyvac, to better deal with the cigarette ash that is so attracted to my area rug.

3. A really excellent reading light.

4. Books, EXTRACURRICULAR ones.

5. Herbal supplements, which by the way, are perfectly legal in Massachusetts.

I expect that at some point, I'll be too old for Christmas presents. At least, not in excess. I'll start getting a single cashmere sweater, a scarf, maybe a watch.

When I was a teenager, my dad started buying me self-help books for Christmas. Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul, and the like. I think this was his way of saying "Aren't you supposed to be more visibly fucked up and rebellious? I'm not sure how to address your occasional bitchiness, maybe it's a sign of some undetectable manic depression that I myself am prone to. I can't tell you that you won't find a job on Wall Street without a college diploma, so let these people talk at you."

When I'm 40, still single, and surrounded by my little family of French bulldogs, I suspect this giftie may recur.
Chicken Soup for the Spinster Soul.

Here I am, a woman of fortitude and conviction.

Books are good and all

but I don't need to keep reading the story of the withdrawn, brooding, yet secretly impassioned romantic who can neither accept nor express his love for a particular woman. This woman is usually emotionally vacant, but specifically extraordinary and inscrutable.

I am not this woman.

Instead I need to be reading about the heroine who falls out of love with said withdrawn, brooding malcontent and finds herself contented to be terrifically alone. Terrifically.

And no, she doesn't find a shiny, healthy new love to replace the former. There is no initial dismissive banter, followed by swelling cathartic epiphany.

That just doesn't happen, and won't.

Maybe instead she knocks herself up with a turkey baster and a nice gay friend's biological contribution. There's some question of whether or not this is feministic of her, but it probably isn't.

And it's not to say she'll never love again, but that she'll decide not to be in love under these circumstances, because they are shitty. She'll have a routine, she'll learn a strategy and reteach herself to think. She'll defend herself against him. And it will WORK--clear, clean, decisively. Yes, self-awareness is overrated.

Today, outside the club, two couples descended from a cab. One of the men carried his lady over the frozen sidewalk like a bride. The other couple started fighting.

"You wouldn't do that for me. Not even last night."
It was much snowier the night before.
"When you were wearing your crocodile shoes..."

Everything is so depressing.

So, any reading recommendations, absentee audience?

this explains everything!

http://jezebel.com/5112428/field-guide-to-guys-lhomme-fatal?skyline=true&s=i

Well, a lot of things. Amazing!

Here's the actual article.
http://www.observer.com/2008/o2/beware-l-homme-fatale

but jezebel has a more succinct way of putting things that i like about blogz.
...and you know that by putting that z there, I think all this is ridiculous, but refreshingly and starkly accurate.

Right? Hooray manifest personal blogz!

I'm a little bit of a drama queen.

Obviously.
I thought I should point out that I'm well aware of this fact, and that I embrace it. What can I say? I am hyper-emotional and high anxiety, which makes for a somewhat pathetic but infinitely more interesting existence.

Someday someone, most likely of a similar nature, will discover this and find it endlessly endearing. And he will carry me through a lot of doorways. Why is this sort of practice only associated with the wedding night? I want to be carried across all kinds of thresholds, at any moment of any insignificant day.
"Honey, will you help me carry in all these groceries?"
"Let me carry you through the doorway first."

I want someone to read with me. I like the idea of being apart all day long, reading the same book during the miserable commute, waiting to come home and compare notes. And if there's a a really sexy passage, I want that person to text message me the following:
"Page 187, paragraph 3."

Is this kind of thing SO much to ask? Sheesh.

collected wisdom post-employee christmas party

Owww, my brain.
I'm not really a fan of alcohol, but it seemed obligatory for this very special occasion.

I learned a lot from this particular foray into the adult world.
I wonder, are staff get-togethers always so embarrassing? Is it just me? It doesn't help that I work at a bar, in a constantly raucous environment, sure. But is there always so much chaos involved? There's always alcohol, dammit, harder things too. I just don't understand why all of my shit blew up in my face, all at once, and so publicly.

I'd like to just take some notes here, as a reminder to myself more than anything, for future reference during the holiday season. It's not like I've made this blog public knowledge in any way. Kate doesn't count, we live together in the world's tiniest ikea showcase.

1. Whiskey. So, you've found that the brown liquids treat you best. I don't care how uncomfortable you feel, remember your height and weight, and how often you drink. Cut that number in HALF next time.

2. Really? You're REALLY going to do that in the green room, NOW, after you've had that much to drink? You're an idiot.

3. Don't bum cigarettes from polyamorists. 72's suck anyway, hold out.

4. Don't smoke aforementioned cigarette alone in the rain, when aforementioned polyamorist is equally if not more wasted than you are. You feel terrible having to say no, that's why you always pretend to be so much more naive and oblivious than you really are. You know that drunken, one-on-one cigarette conversations with oversexed males are always a terrible idea. YOU KNOW THESE THINGS.

5. Don't make any grand gestures, or relay any huge confessions in this situation, in order to distract from whatever's going down. You will always regret it.

6. If you're trying to avoid someone you love and obviously can't have, because maybe you're just terrified by what you might say at this point, TRY to act natural. If you're going to avoid that person, you have to avoid everyone just a little bit. He will notice when you're having conversations with everyone but him, and avoiding eye contact.
He's the smartest person in this room, isn't that why you want him in the first place?

7. You are a MASOCHIST, and binge drinking is a sort of corporal punishment. Why are you so crazy? Get over it.

8. Confrontation is scary, yes. It can also be sexy. It's not in this case, be scared. You being this drunk is not sexy, remember that.

9. One word answers are great, especially in your current state of mind. Dishonesty is too exhausting at this point, don't even try. Running away is cowardly, but certainly not the worst thing you COULD be doing right now. You could be crying, it's a good thing you save tears for dead people. (**When he doesn't stop you from running away, or call within the next 24 hours, you have your answer. Proceed accordingly.)

10. Don't start dancing as a means of distracting yourself. You know you can't dance. You're only making things worse. Don't start, it's really hard to stop.


Here's a picture of my daddy at HIS annual Christmas party!
And yes, that's a penis statue.

Making light of my own emotional turmoil is a terrible crutch of mine, but it's less expensive than smoking cigarettes, so shut up. I'd like to quit soon, I don't want to die of lung cancer, so this will have to do.

not this christmas.

I got my period, no baby jesus in here.

I found my flowers!

people don't know how to behave

I'm against disciplining children and animals physically.

I think that people who hit their children, or pets, and think it's somehow beneficial to that child or animal in the long run, are basically reprehensible. Maybe it's wrong to say that, obviously it's a huge personal misconception on their part, because of however they may have been treated. I wouldn't call that person evil, but certainly stupid. Losing your temper is one thing. But in practice? Jesus Christ.

(For the record, not to attract pity, but to accredit myself a little more on this subject--my mother liked to use a wooden spoon, so as not to break her nails.)

As for adults, seemingly capable ones, who walk into the cafe where I work and act like completely socially incompetent pieces of shit, they should be smacked.

It should be perfectly okay for me to keep a rolled up newspaper behind the counter, and rap these people over the head. I'm providing you a service. These french fries do not wash, peel, cut, dry, pre-fry, re-fry, toss and season themselves. How dare you.

If you snap at me, I will treat you like a five year old. This theoretical five year old wouldn't know any better, and can't really be held responsible.
You are middle aged.

I'm a little messed up right now. Can I say that on the internet? I definitely shouldn't. I won't go into the details of the extent to which I am fucked up.

I found these flowers in front of Key Food, they weren't roses, they were weirder. Those are my favorite flowers in the whole world. I didn't have enough money to buy them, and I tried to figure out the name from whoever was selling them, but he didn't speak English. Dammit, I'm never going to find those flowers again.

Anyway, tourists.
Do you really think I'm charmed by your accent? I love French and Italian men, they always come in with a swagger because I, as a 20 year old American female will undoubtedly be dazzled by your European dress and manner of speaking. Absolutely not. I watch foreign films, I know what that's about, and sorry, black leather will only get you so far. I don't have any kind of inferiority complex about being American. You aren't cool because it's two dollars to the pound, and you just discovered Century 21.

I hate today's Brits.

Did that rant sound patriotic? If it did, that's unfortunate, disregard that notion. I won't explain myself because it will take too long.

I never imagined myself in a job that actually requires me to ask "Would you like fries with that?"
"That" being a mass-produced, pre-packaged panini, or turkey burger named after some very obvious poet.
I sound like a snob, but no one should have to ask that question, something something about Americans being too fat and SuperSize Me, Fast Food Nation, yada yada yada.
There's a good spin on it.
This is not McDonald's. It's not Starbucks. It's not even Think Coffee, all you NYU campus cash enthusiasts. This is a "poetry club", a music venue, a lower east side dive bar really, that happens to have frozen mozzarella sticks in bulk. I throw things on a George Foreman grill or into a domestic deep-fryer, put it on a plate, and I'm not being paid enough to do even that. Do you think I have money, or something? Do you think I'm some kind of volunteer worker for starving artists, city college students, and downtown eccentrics in need, just for fun?
I just made you a smoothie, a breakfast sandwich, an organic personal PIZZA, a plate of jalapeno poppers, an ice cream sundae, and whatever mochalattechino bullshit you just ordered. Now I'm going to walk through a crowd of drunks so that you can enjoy your meal while listening to this god awful excuse for hip hop.
Will 3 starbucks baristas do that for you in under 20 minutes?
Right, because it's not physically possible, especially not in a space this tiny, dark, and loud. Consider tipping me.

I guess I really hate my job. It's worth it every once in a while, for reasons I'll continue to be vague and cryptic about.

immaculate conception

Where is...

1. my period?
2. Where is it.

cafe esperanto, alcoholics anonymous, 5 am

Mostly I think that blogging is masturbatory nonsense. But, I have a lot of homework to put off right now. This always happens at a certain time of year.

What to talk about?

Recently someone claimed that I was not a feminist. I was bothered at first, because the comment came from someone whose opinion I hold in high regard. Nonetheless, it came from a man.

I think, for men, there are two kinds of feminists. There’s the angry, non-shaving, bra-burning, abortion rally feminist. Then there’s the kind of predatory, over-sexed, new-age feminist who thinks that pointedly having as much sex as possible, on the first date or whenever, is the best way to promote sexual equality, and who consequently has a lot of abortions. I think men really like the latter kind.

Truthfully I’m not either of these women. I love pink. I get excited about buying household items. I coo at babies from a distance. I feel prettier in a dress than in blue jeans. I’m totally having a mess of kids, eventually. So what? All of those things are wonderful, and fuck off if you think that makes me a bad feminist.

I can go for weeks without shaving my legs, but that’s just plain laziness. There’s nothing better than a really excellent bra. Do you know that horrible achey feeling, when you have d-cups, and you sleep on your belly without a bra on? No, you don’t. You’re a man.
As for promiscuous sex, well, I don’t do that. I envy those that can.

I don’t like to flaunt my intelligence. I like to keep it to myself. I don’t mean to say that it’s a weapon or a tool for manipulation, because I’m really not a combative person. I’m more or less care-free in my relationships, or lack thereof. In everyday conversation, I keep things light and forgettable.
I have no desire to impress anyone, most of the time.
Unless you’ve wronged me or someone I love, I’m not really compelled to help you realize how stupid you sound. That’s your problem, and in turn I don’t have to prove anything to you.
I don’t like to intimidate. I’m generally approachable, inviting, trustworthy. I know how you take your coffee, and I always inquire about your love life.

Yeah, I have breasts, and I don’t care that you notice. I don’t feel special because you’re staring, or beautiful, or loved because you’re picturing me topless. I’m not offended either. I’m laughing at you a little bit, though.

I’m short, and I need you to reach things on high shelves for me. Light my cigarette if I’m fumbling in my pockets, I’ll call you a romantic. I won’t accept money from you, or presents. I will not be indebted to you in any way, unless there are extenuating circumstances.

Most importantly, I don’t want to get roped into some boring conversation about your mindless liberalism. This becomes problematic when men learn that I’m studying politics at NYU. People get so excited at that point, but guess what! You’re no better than all those misinformed voters in the Midwest that you claim to hate so much. You don’t get any points for doing everything the media elite tells you to do. You’re a baby bird, eating Rachel Maddow’s regurgitated worms. You’re not qualified to talk about anarchy, so don’t try that either. There are much smarter people in power, and they really love money. You would too, so don’t try to impress me with your rehearsed altruism, unless you have something to show for it.

Anyway, finally, the point I am making here, is that I'm the best kind of feminist. My brand of feminism is not contrived. I love being female, I don't let men fuck me over, and someday the hypothetical man in my life will be my equal. I don't really care what anyone else thinks of me, or my thoughts on gender roles, in the meantime.

Actually, Stephen Colbert is NOT the funniest man in the world.
My dad is.

Dating in New York is hard.