Honesty, Bing Binges and the RHCPs

Here are some musings keeping me busy today...

First of all, let's start by saying that I did that thing on a treadmill yesterday that you're always afraid of doing. You know, you're running, conscious of the fact that there are two hundred people around you, yes...but still, you're looking cool...when you change the song on your ipod and disastrously, (and for a split second before it happens, you know it's about to) the fucking thing falls from your paws and crashes onto the belt, thus being thrust into the oblivion of the undercarriage of the sweaty guy's treadmill behind you. Then you have to stop, get off, climb under there and pick up, reassemble and remount your machine. It's all a little embarrassing and it completely freaked me out. Luckily, the mp3 player and I both survived the ordeal. But I've been a little skiddish ever since.

Turns out I'm a late adapter. I only like things once they're over. (Which makes me useless to consumerism.)

On that note, the Red Hot Chili Peppers have always been awesome. I just wasn't paying enough attention. Luckily I've managed to date guys, in general, who smoke enough weed for the both of us. So I've managed to gain some sufficient exposure.

Why does everyone have an STD now? One in FOUR people? So if you live in New York, look out. That means that two of your eight roommates probably has the clap. And one of them is probably you. Now that's scary.

How do you feel about the name Auldlyn? (First L is silent I think) I need to get something so I can name it Auldlyn. Anyone have a pug puppy?

I really want a pug puppy.

Is it better to be honest, or kind? If someone tells you that they prefer the truth, and all of its consequences, to sparing their feelings with a lie, I'd be careful about believing them. And if I ever tell you this, definitely don't believe me. I'm sure I'd rather not know.

Grad school in Europe. Does this seem feasible?

I discovered today, the origination of pizza. (As reported by New York Magazine, 8/21/06 p.65) Know what a bing is? Well, that makes two of us. Until this little tid-bit fell into my knowledge fountain courtesy of Rob Patronite and Robin Raisfeld. Basically, a bing "looks like a sesame seed bagel that got run over by a taxi." Yum? So here is how the pizza came about. Ahem... "If Ting is to be believed, biting into a bing is not only delicious but carries with it a weighty historical association: During a trip to China, she says, Marco Polo became so enamored of bings that he went on a bing binge, and, upon returning to Italy, attempted to cook up a batch. But, says Ting, 'he got frustrated and messed up the dough,' so he tossed on some tomato sauce, and accidentally discovered pizza." Weird.

The creepy asexual, chain-smoking, poker-fiend IT guy in my office has the following sign posted to his cubicle wall. "Because CBGB is leaving, and TRL is not." ..... Dude. OK. Last week I saw a Midwestern tourist family of four walking through the city, completely decked out in CBGB t-shirts. So, ew, first of all. But this came only days after I spotted the Park Slope soccer mom rocking hers with pearl earrings and a baby stroller. CBGB has been gone for a long time. Yeah, the lease is up now. But you saw it coming, and with the likes of the Iowa-folk rockin' their gear...I'd say its about time. And on the topic of TRL...don't pretend it bothers you. I don't know a single New Yorker affected by it. Hopefully you're smart enough to, and/or capable of, avoiding Times Sq. altogether, let alone mid-afternoon on a weekday. What's wrong with you? And furthermore, if you hate it here so much, move.

If I were serious about that "grad school in Europe" thing earlier, I should probably quit spending all of my money on coffee drinks, cute tank-tops and mimosas. I'm a stupid girl.

A new good scent worth checking out... Black Currant & Vanilla. And though I don't know what a black currant is, (fruit, I imagine) it smells pretty damn good.

That's all for my thoughts today. I wrote them all down so you could share in my boredom. I REALLY need to get an interesting job.
Nite!

What If I Lied

What if I told you that the entire time, you've liked me more than I liked you.
I did what I did, to defend myself, you see,
against whatever lies you might've been telling too.
When we walk down the street, and you think I am listening to you,
I can only hear my own voice.
And the million reasons I'll never tell you the truth.

What if I told you that every mirror and window we pass, I declare, again to myself,
that the only solution, my only escape, is to weigh the justification of my lies against the reality I see in those reflections.
The million other girls I could be.
Every one could be better.

And what if I told you that I never really cared. If you stayed. Or went.
When you came. I wasn't mad. I didn't worry when you didn't call.
And when I wanted to be angry, and I looked at you that way...your smile broadened from your lips to the corners of your face. Across your eyes and into your hair and I never knew how to bother being angry when you smiled like that.

The only time I can write is when I'm manic.
And the only time I can think is when I'm lying.
And the only time I can feel you is when you're gone.
So what if I told you I lied.

WTC

I was @ my office this afternoon trying to commit some particularly painful episode of mentacide for whatever reason. (i.e. "even my mom hates me, I'm way too fat to be happy, no one should ever date me because I'm awful looking", etc) It probably stemmed from a series of minor, uncomfortable happenings in the recent weeks that I've been otherwise able to ignore due to distraction by the wedding for one, and distraction by the boy for another. Problem is, as everyone said the problem would be, someone finding you wonderful despite your flaws, doesn't make your flaws any less apparent to you.

So anyway, they catch up with you. The flaws and uncomfortable happenings and bad moods seem to always catch up with you all on the same day, all at once. You will be in the middle of a particularly mindless office task, while listening to your ipod trying desperately to think about your plans for the evening instead of the nasty old woman in accounting who has just sent you her 15th email of the day when everything catches up with you. And all at once, everything makes you sad. It was that feeling, that exact kind of mood that struck me, when I decided to blow off working late, blow off going to the gym, get out of my own head for a little while, and go see a movie. A movie, it seemed, would be good for me tonight.

(Note to self: try not to see World Trade Center when you're already in the throws of unexplained, gripping sadness, unless you're looking for some serious life-perspective.)

I'll make this brief, unlike the time I saw "The Passion of the Christ" and this Catholic-baptized-Methodist-raised-turned-Atheist decided to write her thesis on the experience. (Thank God my advisor talked me down to a pre-thesis research paper a semester earlier, since only two weeks into my research I began having recurring nightmares about hypovolemic shock and choking on blood.) ANYWAY... my short review is that it was good. I'd recommend it if two things are true.

1st-- you go alone. I cried, off and on, and it didn't have anything in particular to do with stellar acting, or a heart-wrenchingly sad scene. On occassion, it was quite the opposite. Sometimes it seemed an unusual time to be crying. They were alive, they were saved, they were reunited, etc. (You know the story, I'm not ruining anything for anyone.) But it's one of those things... you just need to work through to figure out how you feel about it. Cry when you need to, when it hits you because it just does. No concern over the wet cheeks and runny nose stuff. You don't need your boyfriend sighing and rolling his eyes at you. "I get it, they love their wives, whatEVER," etc. (There was one such annoyed boyfriend in my theater, and I have to admit, even I had a moment of 'let's get on with this...' but it was brief, and sympathetic to the fact that we're still dealing with Hollywood, afterall.)

2nd-- you don't expect anything from it. I don't like Nicolas Cage, and I thought the casting was crappy. (His "New York" accent sounded a little more retarded, a little less Goshen.) But I'll give it a very enthusiastic two thumbs up for not overdoing it in general. There weren't graphic depictions of death and dying, (only one person falling from the tower, at which point one man in our audience did get up and walk out. I, myself, became a little queasy at the sight of it.) Oliver didn't Hollywood-it-up to the point of absurdity, and in fact, quite the contrary. They glossed over almost everything except the actual discussions between John and Will for the nearly 24 hours that they're trapped, and the reactions of their wives to the unfolding news of their husbands' disappearance into the rubble.

It was good. And it served to put me in my place, which I needed today. Nothing, absolutely NOTHING in my life will ever compare in any way, barring, God forbid, surviving something similar, which I can't begin to imagine. I field the "aren't you scared of New York?" question pretty frequently from people who don't live here. The answer, even after the movie, is always "absolutely not." But it does humble you. It does bring you to a real sense of our mortality. Here, and anywhere. And it does, certainly, break the heart. It's a devastating, and well done film. I was not at all disappointed. And in fact, it made me better. For which I can say, I am sadly grateful.

Celebrate, We Will

As I was making my way from Penn Station, to the subway, onto Fourth Avenue, four blocks to my door-- in sadness, I'll admit-- I happened to notice something. It seemed that everyone was staring at me. I thought it strange, at first, on the train, but it'd been only one person, and he was around my age, and scribbling thoughts into his moleskine notebook. I often find myself looking around and jotting things down, so I thought that perhaps he was just feeling inspired by my boredom. I was nearly to my front door, three hours after I left Philadelphia, when I realized what they were staring at. Behind me, I lugged a suitcase, and over my shoulder was my usual huge pocketbook. I wore jeans, and a sleeveless sweater, a normal outfit. In my hand, however, I was carrying a bridesmaid's bouquet of perfect, purple flowers.

If I wanted to, I wouldn't be able to do any justice to the wedding. It was nearly perfect, and by far one of the best times I've had at a wedding in my life. Tree was beautiful, the food and champagne were excellent, the DJ was actually funny and everyone was there. There were quiet giggles in St. Laurence when the flower girl ran to the altar mid-the exchange of vows, there were bug bites on the lawn of the church as the bridal party squinted into the setting sun for photos, there was a nervous toast from one of the two best men, "Born Free" played while the bride and her father danced and sang to the entire crowd, we wore tank tops over our dresses when announced at the reception and there was pizza and beer at three am. I am confident that everything went precisely as everything should have gone.

It wasn't, however, the perfect events or even the funny moments ("Well, basically I got yanked by Wank, so, you know..." The Final Countdown, the wedding crasher catching the garter, just to name a few) that made it so beautiful.

When those New Yorkers were staring at my flowers today, they saw them out of context. People's eyes actually lit up, and on a few occasions they even smiled, at the sight of the brilliance, of a purple bouquet amidst the gray around us. There are no flowers here. Not growing beside us, or even in windows. There aren't people walking around Fourth Ave. with bouquets and the beauty of mine, its overwhelming purple hue, its inconsistency with its surroundings, was what people noted with surprise. It isn't that I had flowers that was actually so shocking, it was where, and under what circumstances I had them.

This wedding, from the outside, would seem like any other wedding to you. It was all of the things that weddings are and for all of the reasons I listed. But what made it so catching, so outstanding above other things, was the same as for the flowers. It was brilliant, seeing such very real love in action. It was surprising to see people who would normally never be friends, dancing, laughing, hugging. I could smile, just knowing that these people were from every avenue of Tree and Bear's lives, and they were here, for two days, as a result of nothing more than the fact that they have officially become a team. And that is what struck me more than at any other wedding. And I am not a cheerleader of love, and I am a cynic, and I am not a poet, and I do not subscribe, as it were, to the theory of happily ever after. But I will tell you...sitting next to my perfect, purple flowers, that I have never seen love do such powerful work on what would have been an otherwise ordinary weekend.

People believe in things, mostly only when they see them. I saw real things this weekend. The kinds of things that cynicism forbids through my walls sometimes. (Flowers on Fourth Avenue.) We are changing, ever changing, and growth comes from that belief that you sometimes only find in others. I can't tell you how Tree has inspired me over the years; the countless times she's supported me without question, believed in me for no reason at all, given me strength where I lacked. And to be able to stand next to her, and watch those things about her being met and returned, and the celebration that that has created...

So celebrate, we will.

Back to Philadelphia

These are the best three weeks of my summer.

I haven’t been inspired to write much this season. I think that per season, Spring definitely takes the record for most entries. After the D word landed on my platter, and I undertook the job from hell, somehow my introspection and frequent New-York themed rants and ravings suddenly abandoned me. But the time has flown since then, and I have very little to show for it. But as Baller so eloquently phrased it, “shit’s going good for you now.” And he’s right.

Last weekend was Tree’s bachelorette party, which means that next weekend is her wedding. At TT’s wedding in May, it seemed like I had a year to plan for this one. Suddenly, it’s next weekend. And I haven’t done a thing. OK, I suppose it isn’t fair to say that I haven’t done ANYTHING. I dropped my bridesmaid dress off two weeks ago to be altered. And when the Vietnamese seamstress looked at me with distress and uttered, “There just… no enough fabric” I did something else. I immediately lost eight pounds. I haven’t eaten since then. Maybe it’s thanks to my having chosen to work at a place that encourages starvation as a legitimate form of self-control, (it’s the only company that I know who basically dictates that both a gym membership and mental health visits are mandatory) or maybe it’s the thought of being the fat bridesmaid that kind of makes a person lose her appetite…but either way, I’ve spent many long nights with my friends at New York Sports Club. Hopefully, in wedding pictures at the very least, it will show. (I haven’t been back to pick up the dress. I’m afraid of facing more disapproving sighs from my seamstress.)

Tonight, I’m headed back to Philadelphia (land that I love) to see MY BOYFRIEND Chris Carraba at the Dashboard Confessional concert. It’s Tree, T-Lyons and me part two. Last weekend, B-Party, was somehow just not enough drunken debauchery to sustain us. In pictures, included above, someone who wasn’t there might mistake the bride-to-be for the most drunken fool at the party. One would be wrong, as Teresa hasn’t touched a cocktail in the six years that I’ve known her. Another component of the shadiness that imbues her. (Discounting the bongo-drum playing that took place at one of the bars, I think the fact that she seemed worlds more intoxicated than the rest of us, stone sober, speaks to the reasons we love her.)

I also spent quality time with TT and her new husband in their new house. It was perfect, as all things TT are. And we made plans for the first of what may be many Thanksgiving traditions of cooking the dinner ourselves. Gasp! (My family is threatening another retreat to the wooded mountains of Blackwater Falls Virginia, which for all intents and purposes leaves me running, screaming in the direction of anything that isn’t that.) But I’m excited to have my first grown-up holiday. I guess one of the bi-products of divorce, is getting over the fact that you have to grow the fuck up. I’m over it now.
There was a moment, while planning this Thanksgiving undertaking; that T and I glanced at each other and asked, “Can you cook?”

“No, can you?”

“No.”

Well this should be interesting.

A week from yesterday, Paige and I will be taking off for the wedding. Rehearsal dinner Thursday night, wedding itself on Friday. I’m as excited as I’ve been about anything recently. And if the bachelorette party was any indication, I’m right to be looking forward to it. It’s always fun, I guess, to reunite groups of college friends (and funnier even are those who were NOT friends, i.e. K.J. and yours truly, who had to be kept from knifing each other the entire weekend) but for some reason this group is especially entertaining. It could be the spirit of shadiness that Tree likes to bestow on any situation in which she finds herself, but I digress. There will definitely be stories.

I’m leaving in a few hours. I’m only halfway through the three best weeks of summer!

Have a good weekend!