I’m sad we left. I’m sad to start anew, and it’s been really difficult to view the transition as a growth instead of stagnation. No matter what positive spin I weave, our move ends up cemented in my head as an impediment to the monumental changes I was making in DC.

It was a more hate-, less love-relationship when I moved to DC in 2003. I expected feeling awkward, having to make new friends, not knowing what kind of course load I was going to have; starting college with a long-distance boyfriend in Army ROTC at BU was more than any freshman should have to deal with, but I expected that, too. I didn’t anticipate the extreme isolation I felt on the breadth of loss on the second anniversary of September 11th, when the only people who knew what it was like to lose a father were blood-related, and drove down from New Jersey so that I didn’t have to be alone.

I grew up, bigger and stronger, angry at first, though. I got a therapist, went once a week for four years, took antidepressants, found a meaningful and healthy relationship that, at first, supported me, and, at last, I was able to contribute positively toward. I moved from self-isolation and anger and sarcasm to, just recently, softness, forgiveness, gratitude and socialization. From thinking no one wanted to understand how I felt, to thinking they COULDN’T understand, to realizing I had something valuable to share about life and loss, and loving from that point on; to no longer being a victim.

I let go, inhaled, exhaled, stood to support myself, so that I could then return to others the support and compassion they had showed me. I softened—despite the exhaustion from yessing everyone, being a steady source of comfort—a parent—to my own mother, despite not having my sister to hear me out through all of this—all because she did something wrong and she got mad at me because I called her on her shit and it made her feel guilty.

How do you leave behind the best friendships you’ve ever had? That you’ve ever WORKED to maintain? That have ever been the most rewarding, real, mutual friendships possible?

I faced that question, and others, as I left DC for New York. I ruminated over them in the morning, lying in bed, and throughout the night. I woke up with a stiff jaw from clenching it all night long.

I thought about these questions in yoga, finding relief only in the movement of my limbs for the sake of supporting myself, so that I could then support others. Watching the shape of an ideal (and imperfect) person emerge before me, one who felt sadness, but also an immense gratitude toward life, and everyone in it, in the form of my yoga instructor. At the end of every day, I wondered how it was possible to feel so happy despite the frustration she felt in the middle of her divorce, of trying to maintain some equilibrium for her two daughters amid the postdiluvian remnants of their former life.

I felt sorry for myself, and angry with others in my life for not being able to guess how I felt, for not making me the center of their lives. Then I felt sorry for them, that I had expected them to KNOW without even telling them. I felt angry with myself for not savoring the blessings bestowed upon me, for not reveling in the many things I had to be grateful for—like being accepted to grad school, being granted a loan to pay for it, having the insight to know I’ve managed to make colossal changes in my lifetime.

I wanted to knock it off, to stop sulking, and I hoped it would end by the time we were settled here in New York, but it didn’t. I tried to establish support by finding a yoga studio here—the one thing I’ve done for myself in the past four years that has been life-changing—and after the first class I found myself on the side of 19th street, crying.

I missed my routine. I missed the friends who I relied on to come over week after week, to make me laugh and make me sympathize, I missed friends who I could call “best” friends. Ones who cried upon seeing me and Jer leave—as a unit—and although he had much to do with their tears, I thought that maybe along the way I had been there for them too, and with the best of my intentions and even some executed ones, maybe I had earned a place alongside their cheeks.

I cried for myself, for trying hard and feeling like it wasn’t enough. For fighting with Jer, with my mom, even with my sister. At the end of the day I believe to my core that I was not wrong, that I can take solace in my actions; but dimly-lit dreams reflected our last encounter and the heavy silence, weighed down with hurt and anger and sadness.

And I felt the resolve I longed to feel, made the vow that I would continue to establish support for myself by putting into place things I knew made me feel better—stopping myself from listening to others all the time and allowing my feelings to take the focus, cultivating a yoga practice in New York, putting my things—mental, emotional, physical—in place.

I keep pushing, not many friends here, a relationship grown weary of near-constant bickering, family distanced by miles plus one grudge, and every day out of the last eight days I’ve felt no closer. I reach and grab an inch, open myself to receive good wishes—hopes for a balanced life, lived with steady and full breaths, breaths that cease to want for more air, breaths of satisfaction; the hope that I may recognize the state of mind I’m in and work with it, shape it between my fingers and mold it into my own fulfillment.

I was already late and found that killer spot directly across from the doctor’s office, put my blinker on and pulled a u-ey. And just as I put my car in reverse, you snuck your piece of crap Chevy into the spot. Apparently, my blinker and horn were not enough of an indication that the spot was MINE. I rolled my window down—I know you heard the choice adjectives.

It never occurred to me to NOT leave a note, FYI. I tried to leave vulgarities out of it and thought about my yoga teacher (WWJD: What Would Jess Do?). She’d probably have let you take the spot and found another, all generous and good-karma like, and she wouldn’t rush to the doctor’s, but enjoy the fact that she was able to walk with two beautiful and sculpted (at a mere 39!) legs, and celebrate the fact that they WORKED!

I’m not mocking her gratitude; I wanted to be able to brush it off and be karmically right but still show my disappointment in you, since I thought that was the appropriate way to convey my frustration. My original note said “It was extremely rude of you to take my spot when you knew I was waiting for it. It may only be a parking spot [this is where I try to justify being pissed off], but perhaps one day you will know what it’s like to wait patiently, only to have someone selfishly take it from you.”

But then I remember how you waved at me, laughing, and pointed at the parking sign.

LYLAS!

I don’t care WHY you decided it was perfectly legitimate to pirate my spot, but why did you think pointing at the parking sign constituted a valid defense? Did you think I didn’t have a Zone permit? Or that the sign read “Suck It, Blue Civic”?

I hope you’ll find my response equal in maturity to your decision to hijack my parking spot.
Sincerely,

Blue Civic

http://www.southparkstudios.com/clips/221275

I was NYC this past weekend hunting for an apartment while the boyfriend studied 12 hours a day for the bar. I flew out Saturday morning, and even though Michaelnub wanted us to see Bruno with him, I was upset and stressing about the move and finding a new place, I went home, cried, ordered Thai and watched Shaft with Jer.

Flew into LGA Saturday morning & took a cab to Peter Cooper Village. MM met me (behind schedule, of course) and we looked at places there. In the interim, I got an email from BF about another place listed by New York City Apartments that looked good, so I called and drove over to their office (in MM’s beamer, with the top down, natch).

We walked into a sweltering “office” that consisted of just desks and computers in a big room. If the office hadn’t been situated in the Empire State building, I’d have thought it was a front for a prostitution ring. What an impression for my first visit EVER to the landmark.

The shitstain that is New York City Apartments spread across the east side of Manhattan, as some twit showed us apartments. They kept telling me, “For your price range, you’re not gonna find anything in the East Village that’s more than 800 square feet.” I didn’t really care, since it was my job to look and that was why I was there. But I did not expect to see some of the festering places we were led to.

After two decent but tiny places Ana showed us in the East Village, she took us to several shoeboxes. Or tried to. We couldn’t even get into the first building on St. Marks, not that we didn’t have keys. Ana tried them all and none worked. So she started buzzing everyone in the directory.

“Hello, would you be so kind to let me in? I’ve forgotten my keys, I would very much appreciate it.”

20 apartments later, someone let us in, where we passed a sign letting us know that the building is sprayed yearly to deal with infestations. Awesome. A couple apartments later, Ana wanted to show us another 10X10 cell in the same building, but MM and I just walked down the four flights of stairs in the 85-degree heat and said no thanks.

“But you haven’t seen apartment D!”
“Yeah, I’m all right with that.”

We thanked Ana and got the hell out of there, and I called BF’s sister, the Starlet, who offered to show us her boyfriend’s apartment for a basis of comparison.

The comparison showed us that most other apartments are unique, in that they actually use the air conditioning unit, are not shared by four guys (and are therefore filthy), and every room does not normally have a shrine to at least one bong. Things I learned: boys don’t know how to clean, and MM knows what a bong looks like (even a makeshift one from a Pepsi bottle and duct tape).

We headed down to Alphabet City to meet another broker, where we stepped over the homeless sleeping on the hazy street and narrowly evaded being accosted by one of the broker’s disgruntled clients.

At the end of the day with both our feet in blisters, MM and I went back to Peter Cooper where I signed the lease.

The next day I did a whole lot of nothing, except got myself a tingly sunburn and some time with MM’s pup, Cotton Ball, while we waited on Number 2 to return from his night of partying. He had a flight to Geneva at 7:30pm out of JFK and we needed to leave the house at 2pm to get him there. It normally takes 2 and a half hours to get there from our house, but God decided to take a dump on us in the form of SUVs clogging the Verrazano Narrows.

Number 2 didn’t even notice, since he didn’t take his Adderall and couldn’t pay attention to anything for more than 14 seconds. When we were actually MOVING, he looked at the truck next to us and said, “Oh my God, haven’t you ever wanted to just jump from the bed of one truck to another? That’d be awesome.” Later, he wondered what would happen if we slammed into the car next to us trying to edge its nose into our lane. “What if I broke both my arms and collarbone and a leg. Wonder how much money I’d get for THAT!”

Before he left I gave him a hug and three valuable gifts: a business card, a CVS version of the Oral-B brush-ups, and a condom.

But because Cement Hands’ navigation system sucks, I almost missed my flight. I don’t mean “I almost missed it” like I was there 5 minutes before boarding. I mean I almost missed it like I SPRINTED for the gate. I almost missed it like I had 2 and a half minutes before the flight took off. I almost missed it BECAUSE the goddamn GPS says “take a left onto Busy St.” and “wait behind a line of dump trucks until we get to the intersection Impossible to Take a Left,” and then “wait until you’ve been sitting in traffic for 15 minutes before you fucking kill someone before finding an alternate route.”

It was 5:15. My flight left LGA at 6:30.

We pull into LGA at 5:30, and we see a mass of buildings that are not organized. All I knew was I had a flight from Delta. As you can see from the figure below, Delta has its own terminal:

However, what you can’t see is that Delta also has flights leaving from the Central Terminal (Terminal A) and its shuttle flights leave from Area A, the Marine Air Terminal. You also cannot see the line I waited in to go through security in the Delta Terminal, until a second before I entered I was informed that I was in the wrong terminal. I was told to go downstairs & get the Route A airport shuttle to A.

6pm: I got on the Route A bus and was brought to the central terminal. 8 minutes later, first stop: Terminal A. I ran up the stairs and asked where my gate was. What? I have to get on Route B?? I have to the Delta Shuttle terminal? FUCK. I almost started to cry but settled for a nasty look instead, ran down the stairs, got on Route B at 6:10. On Route B, I looked up and saw the airport shuttle map: Route B did not go to Area A, the Marine Air Terminal, aka where the Delta Shuttle is. A TSA guy got on and I asked him if this bus went to the Delta Shuttle terminal.

6:13: “Naw, you need to git on Route A for that.” I almost punched him in the face. Marine Air Terminal is barely part of the airport. It was a 10-minute trip there AFTER I got back on Route A.

It’s 6:22 when i finally get to the Delta Shuttle security spot. “How are you, Miss?” Not good. My flight leaves in 3 seconds. “Understandable.” I shot like a load through security and sprinted to the gate. Again they wanna know how I’m doing. “Out of breath.” Ha-ha, out of breath, she says! I know, I am very fucking funny, just let me on the plane.

Finally, I get on, sit next to some stereotypically, rebellious-via-mismatched-fashion Azn girl, and collapsed in my seat. Called BF, said I made it, please pick me up on time. Don’t forget. Please don’t forget. “In fact, be there early. Please.”

Plane takes off to the worst turbulence I’ve EVER encountered with a possibly epileptic pilot and I am thinking, I ran to catch this goddamn plane and now it will crash and I will die and the last thing I said to my boyfriend was pick me up on time.  Fuck you Alanis Morissette.

To which Trish said, “You are so emo sometimes.”

So the turbulence finally evens out, the stewardess comes through, would I like somethign to drink? Yes, I want the Sutter Home, thank you very much. Chugged it in less than 10 minutes.

I wished it had come with some vodka because I would’ve had myself a red wine-vodka martini.

Trish: Ew.
Me: Yeah, well I was of the mind that death was imminent. So.

In an ironic role-reversal, Trish told me I was being crazy.

“But the turbulence was over! And wouldn’t you want a yummy drink before you died?

“I was afraid it was gonna come back and I didn’t wanna be freaking out when I died. I was so tempted to down the whole bottle of my anti-anxiety meds, but then I was like, what if the plane doesn’t crash and I accidentally kill myself instead? Then that would suck.”

Thankfully, the plane did land, albeit we did a nose-dive into National (thx Delta, selling your stock right now). And my boyfriend was not only on time to pick me up, but he was early and brought puppies.

I think I’ve mentioned this every other time I’ve had too much to drink the night before, but for the sake of a defense, the BF’s bar studying is getting to me. Instead of being able to drink one glass of wine and rely on him to drink the rest of the bottle, he has just ONE drink. A disciple of MM’s “waste not, want not” indoctrination, I have had to finish the bottle on occasion. Needless to say, I have built up my tolerance.

It is with this stamina that I entered into my Saturday. Boss came down that afternoon—he needed help editing an essay that he’d written in order to get him out of the freshman English requirements at MIT. Dinner time came around and our friend Jondrea* came over for dinner.

This is the part where I tell you what we ate. Spice-rubbed roasted Cornish hens with a cucumber-yogurt sauce, grilled squash and rainbow chard. Yes, we eat like this almost every night.

We do not, however, usually break out every type of liquor in the house for my rising-freshman-in-college brother.

Boss had a sampling of the finest liquors 20-somethings can afford (with the exception of my Grey Goose stashed in the freezer—he killed that LAST weekend pregaming before the 4th of July party). He tried mini shots of Don Julio tequila (after we used the pliers to get the top off), then some wine, then some more wine, then some Bacardi that I made him take home with him (in exchange for a new liter of GG).

After dinner, Jondrea convinced us that we needed to get creme brulee, so we went to Bistrot du Coin, where none of us ended up eating said creme brulee. Instead, we had champagne and other desserts, and decided to go to her house afterward for—you guessed it—more booze.

It all began with Boss asking (for the second time) what kind of booze put in the SAFE that he was gonna buy for his dorm. The tally at Jondrea’s went something like this:

• Boss liked the Cruzan rum (Wikipedia says it’s produced in St. Croix, so I assume Jondrea & Ashua* brought it back with them when they went to the Virgin Islands)
• He did NOT like the Jack Daniels
• Did not like the Czech liquer that Jondrea brought back from Prague (that BF proceeded to light ON FIRE—I forgot about this until about 10 minutes ago)
• Can’t remember if he liked the thing that tasted like Christmas, but I do remember that BF lit that on fire as well

Let it be said that this carnage might’ve been stopped had Ashua, Jondrea’s fiance, been hanging out with us. Instead, he was off smoking hookah. I put an end to that by commandeering Jondrea’s cell phone and texting him with “come here now.” He obliged like any good future husband would.

He came through the front door to the apartment—which was kind of like FEMA leading W through the parts of New Orleans that weren’t hit THAT bad—only to see us in the kitchen with shot glasses and fire and the contents of their whole liquor cabinet lined up in front of us. He protested by pouring my brother his first “real” beer, of which Boss was’t exactly enamored. Jondrea tried to persuade Ashua with food, and thought 12AM was an appropriate for “fourth meal,” so she made pasta.

That’s some of the last things I remember. Jondrea refreshed my memory Monday morning:

Jondrea: Holy crap. I found:  full glasses of vodka, sticky stuff all OVER the walls and windows in the kitchen, eggs, burnt matches and other things, and bottle(s) of empty liquor. Because i was incapable of cleaning the kitchen until….now. Holy shit. When the night’s entertainment became the liquor cabinet itself I think that’s when things went wrong.
E: Don’t you worry, you have a bottle of Hammer & Sickle coming from me this week, considering I decided it was a great idea to pour Ashua a full glass of vodka. And then ruin it with ice cubes.
Jondrea: He found CHEESE in the glass. Said that’s why he didn’t drink it. (could this be from the pasta she had to make at midnight? The world may never know)

She also apologized for getting strawberry (from her dessert) all over the clothes I made her put on before we went to Bistrot du Coin. I didn’t remember the strawberry—in fact, the clothes are still sitting in the Georgetown Cupcakes bag that she handed to BF (I think) before we left. At that point, all I remember was laying on the couch saying “I’m so embarrassed, we need to leave.”

I told her I was sorry for messing up her house. She said I could trade her for something that resembled grappa, since she was going to cook with it but used all the Pisco when she decided everyone needed Pisco sours to go with their pasta.

Jondrea: Don’t feel bad. It was fun. And, if you’ll remember, I was the one who turned the blender on (to make the Pisco sours) without a LID
E: I forgot about that. But I DO remember separating the eggs to make the egg white mix for them!

It was around that time that BF peeled me off the couch and dragged me home. On the way, Boss & I practiced our impeccable Vietnamese accent. And then we ran into the Real World DC cast.

E: Rook big boi! It du Real Worrrld!
Boss: Duuuuuu herrooo!!
Real World girl: Uh, hi?!

Yeah. Won’t be drinking for a while after that night, despite the fact that we have something to look forward to: Boss replaced my Grey Goose AND we bought Jondrea & Ashua a bottle of Russian Standard. Note: not intended for consumption with ice cubes or cheese.

*Names have been changed to thinly disguise the intoxicated parties involved.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with internet pseudoporn, allow me to explain:

“Commonly known as ‘Pedo-Bear,’ it hunts rural and urban environments alike, searching for unsuspecting, underage female humans.

Pedo-Bear basically boils down to an internet predator of minors.”

The site goes on to describe Pedo-Bear as being bad, blah blah. I interpret as the same sort of lure for idiot kids as puppy dogs or lolli-pops: if the kid is stupid enough to fall for it, he probably deserved it in the first place.

Just kidding!?111pwn

“The Pedo-Bear graphic is just a simple stereotype, made into a lovable cartoon character for the sake of general humor and supreme product placement.

Pedo-Bear typically is shown stealing children, running from the FBI and occasionally limping around missing a foot (From a Failed FBI Bear Trap)

Just an Added Disclaimer
For the Really Stupid People :

There are No Cartoon Bears who Roam the Internetz
looking for Children.
Only teh Human’s can be Responsible.
I think…”

Me being ironic:

I’d been anticipating the 4th of July for a couple weeks. I took off work both Thursday and Friday, spending Thursday at various doctors’ appointments (including the dentist’s, where I found out I have another four cavities for not flossing every single day. Let that be a lesson to you). Number 2 and his brofriend, Juan, came down Thursday afternoon, dressed in white and went to go play tennis and have a circle jerk while BF & I went to yoga. No homo.

Came home, cooked filet mignon and asparagus and potatoes. Lounged, introduced the boys to Mr. Yogato. Chief drove from his Boston booty call and arrived at 1am Friday morning. And then he woke up at 7am, freezing, and decided to go get donuts. They didn’t open until 8, but he waited outside anyway. Such a good brother.

BF & I woke them up at 9. We’d been planning a photo safari of the places in DC that were significant to us (so that I wouldn’t miss it too much when we leave for NYC mid-August). It was a gorgeous day, so instead of driving as we’d planned, we all rented bikes: me, BF, my two bros + brofriend, Juan. I overestimated our stamina and planned a 15-mile bike trip around DC. I wanted to visit each place we’ve lived, along with where we went to school and our favorite places to go.

Our actual route took us up the Capital Crescent Trail and into Maryland, then back to DC, UP Massachusetts Ave to AU (worst idea ever after already having biked 8+ miles), my old  dorm, then to Tenleytown. I needed to show my brothers that the Tenleytown Metro Station does not look the same way as it does in Fallout 3.

We stopped at Whole Foods to inhale pizza, and then biked down Wisconsin through Georgetown, where Chief nearly died (both at our hands, since he intentionally braked and made his P.O.S. bike squeal the whole way, and at the hands of other drivers, since he was riding like a jackass).

In my tired state after the ride, I estimated that we probably rode 12.6 miles. I rechecked my math and found that we actually rode 14.4 miles, which makes it official: I am a badass (and I cannot/should not do math). Before our bike ride my other brother, Boss, decided he wanted to join the fun at the last minute. Instead of riding with us, he rode the train down and met us post-sweatfest.

We came home and I took a nap while Number 2 and Juan jerked it to Federer before going out for Thai. We came home, they made Creamsicles (Spiced Rum and Orange Soda—aka Death in a glass) and I made a nectarine-blackberry crisp and we carb-loaded on that and my homemade ice cream  in anticipation of a day of drinking on Saturday.

Not ones to be let down, I promised my brothers a party at a law school friend of my boyfriend’s, complete with 2 full kegs and our own fireworks, courtesy of Number 2 and his cuddlebear, Juan.

And I also had a full bottle of Kim Crawford all to myself.

BF contributed by making a vat of pulled pork that took three days to make. He brined it for two days, and then spent all day Saturday smoking & basting it. Meanwhile, I played Suzy Homemaker, baking blueberry jam-filled lemon cookies, as well as lemon-cheesecake squares, for the party. No homo. Although, some people thought otherwise:

Several rounds of beer pong (during which Boss carried me all the way except for the one shot I made by myself), we proceeded to get sufficiently trashed. Remaining true to his manipulative-for-the-purposes-of-amusement nature, BF coaxed a kosher friend into

trying his BBQ pork, took a picture (for evidence/posterity), and promptly threatened to email it to god@gmail.com. It was worth it. That warm feeling in your belly, Rob? Those are the fires of hell.

My brothers (all of them) thought that one of our friends looks like Jeff Goldblum circa Jurassic Park, and decided we should start a website with pictures of celebrity lookalikes. We already had one celebrity lookalike sighting in 2006: we saw Gandalf/Dumbledore at dinner in Park City.

During that night, I also realized we had another celebrity impersonator: Allen from The Hangover, who politely removed his sunglasses for the picture.

The rest of the night is kinda blurry, which makes sense, given that we lost at beer pong. I remember:

• when we first got there, JB. was throwing a fit because someone had turned off Michael Jackson and put on rap. When he started threatening to punch the guy in the face, Boss got worried the cops were gonna come and asked me if it was okay that they were there, even though they were underage. So, I made the responsible decision of making him a strong drink.
• my brother trying to figure out the perfect trajectory of the ping pong ball in order to make it into the cup (excluding wind resistance, off-balanced starting position from being drunk, and the moisture from cleaning off the ball)
• some douche from UChicago going to my bro, “WOW only fucking 18 year olds try & blow into the cup to knock it out,” to which my brother said “that’s suitable, given I AM 18.” Then UChicago starts talking about how my bro is a tool, and even though Boss is going to MIT, UChicago is a “WAAAAAYYY better school.”
• how at the end of the night someone had thrown beer all over UChicago, and Chief & Boss had left, trying to get into a strip club with their obvious fakes.

I remember sending Trish 150 texts asking her when she was coming, and then she finally showed up for about 4 minutes; my brothers lighting off fireworks in the middle of the street, and some chick with double d’s macking it to Boss (he & Chief were studs that night). I remember Chief was wearing a t-shirt that said “Support Local Music: Sleep with a Musician,” and how it almost got him laid.

Perhaps the best, and least sensible, memory of the evening was when I took off my shoes mid-conversation with BF’s cousin and some other people, and then returned, causing some surprise at my stature.

Them: Wow, you are really short without your heels!
Me: Yeah, I know, it kinda sneaks up on you. Like a midget in a horror movie.

BF’s cousin bet me $5 I wouldn’t remember I said that the next day, so BF helped me cheat by sending me a text of it.

As far as I’m concerned, I not only proved myself to be not only a bike-riding menace, but also a drinking champ. Unfortunately, I can’t really remember all of it.

my heart it beats for you

farce

http://www.etsy.com/shop.php?user_id=6410587 to buy.

I was explaining the other day how I read, how I start first by appreciating the words used, the rhythm of a sentence, and how I let the words bring me to the plot. In a good story, the conceit of the plot and words that allow you to understand it are often inseparable, as if they existed for the sole point of conveying that particular story.

After I savor the verbiage and the way the author sews the words into the plot, I evaluate the plot itself. I’ve decided that a [good] plot extends beyond the last page of the piece.

For me, the best story encourages the reader to think. The reader evaluates the story, the parts and the whole. The story achieves its success when the reader feels compelled to understand it, when, upon reaching the end, the reader continues to contemplate the characters, to apply their own life experiences to the story for a basis of comparison. For me, the best story is like finding buried treasure. You look within the landscape of the story after rumors of hidden gems that lie within, hoping they will quell boredom. Upon peeking through its pages you discover golden phrases inlaid among a bed of concrete story line. Though satisfying and exciting, the best kind of story keeps you coming back, having instilled in you the notion that your journey, your efforts to understand, were rewarding, and are worth pursuing in the hopes that your labor might be rewarded by future discoveries of treasure.