Hypnagogia

I’m drowsy and confused in the early morning light as my brain struggles to piece together where I am and why I’m burning alive and my sheets are turquoise.  I remember it’s my birthday.  I turn to fully take in my human space heater in all his still slumbering mystique.  Sleep separates.  We may be in our most vulnerable state, but sleep creates an impenetrable boundary.  I’m never more aware of my aloneness in this world than when I’m next to a sleeping person; so wholly themselves, but so unreachable to me.  What’s even more isolating is that when those eyes open, the ocean between us won’t close.  As I study his copper hair and large nose and begin to subconsciously memorize the wrinkles in his neck, I realize there’s nothing obviously beautiful about this man.  His physical pieces on their own don’t suggest beauty at all in fact…but I’m taken with him. 

The alarm sounds and I pretend to stir awake in time with him as though I wrote the book on new-lover morning etiquette.   Notice me.  He pulls me to him and I’ve won.  I’m groggy and ready for anything, but his face decidedly presses against my chest and he hugs me like his life depends on breathing me in.  And there we lay until the snooze runs out on his alarm; a far too short eternity during which my feelings suddenly shift.  You know that moment when you fall off a cliff you never saw coming and suddenly you are attached to this half conscious man in your bed.  It was fun, it was light and then suddenly someone inhales and exhales on your sternum and your world is upside down.  It’s such a pity we don’t have more control over these moments- a say in the matter - but the juxtaposition of his selfish sleep and the illusion that he somehow needed me was too much for my easily duped emotions.

None of it matters now, and I’ve moved onto futures of many similar moments with new someones, but these little fleeting events in life that wake you…metaphorically or literally (and in my case both) - they’re so golden.  Even if one giant misinterpretation – it’s so worth it to be reminded that you CAN feel; that things won’t always be just fun and light. That your emotions  (though easily duped) are still a functioning part of you.  You’re human, you’re alive, and you are going to be just fine.

Boob grazes.

Tonight I went clubbing.  And it was awful.  On more than one occasion I had a random Russian man approach to buy me a vodka drink.  I don't actually know if these men were Russian and I'm sure if I had requested tequila they'd have been more than obliging, but in any case I wasn't in the mood to be "accidentally" boob grazed by a stranger as they handed me my skinny marg.  I'm actually never in the mood for a boob graze as it just reminds me how little there is to graze.  I think anyone being honest with themselves would agree that  between "the club" and a dump in North Dakota in February, the club is the bigger wasteland of the two.

Despite the drunk white boys attempting to dance and the $12 cocktails, my evening ended on a positive.  In the cab ride home we crossed the Williamsburg Bridge and I experienced that brief interim between Manhattan and Brooklyn. In this limbo over the East River I had the opportunity to look back on the city that never sleeps and rarely forgives, and had an epiphany.  We all have lofty dreams of what our lives could be...and yet for some reason most of us settle for the easiest route.  We let love or love lost or authority or self-doubt control our destiny.  Looking back on Manhattan tonight I realized how much possibility lies behind those lights.  I was reminded of how much I want to do...for myself.  There will always be negative energy and things will go wrong and you'll feel insignificant and powerless against the surge of the city.  But your journey is still important and you have to fight for it because no one else will...not your love or your love lost or the person telling you what's right or your inner voice telling you what's wrong.

Sometimes it takes being in the in-between somewhere above the East River to really see the big picture.  Sometimes the move to the big city isn't the risk.  The real risk lies in what you do once you're there.

time for the sun to finally set, Twilight.

Here with the comfort and anonymity this computer screen affords, I will admit to you all that in a galaxy not so far away known as high school circa 2007, I read the first installment of Twilight.  Not only was I hooked, but in all my 17 year old wisdom, I was convinced that Edward was my soulmate.  Nevermind that he was cold as stone and wanted to suck my blood.  It only made him more appealing.  The uninspired prose egged me on, and I read all 4 books by the time junior prom rolled around with  David Peeler.  Despite being quite dreamy, David's body temperature lingered at a consistent and boring 98.7 degrees.  Fast-forward to present day, and the woman behind this keyboard will look you in the eye and deny any and all Twilight affiliation.  No Twifiliation to speak of here. However, for the purpose of this review, I will whip out my secret Twilight expertise to deliver you a short list of reasons why you should not waste your time with such a dumb set of films.

1.  Kristen Stewart cannot act.  Kristen shows up on set in dire need of a laxative and manages to mug her way through scene after scene.  Sometimes while watching her I actually feel a little plugged up myself.  It infuriates me that this clumsy, talentless chick was welcomed aboard such a lucrative project.  With my thespian background as reindeer number 4 in the 2nd grade Christmas production, I'm very confident in my ability to make out with Robert Pattinson 1,000 times better than she.

2.  They decided to split Breaking Dawn into 2 movies so that you go to the theater for part 1 in 2011 ready for demon baby action, and you spend the $37 on your ticket and nachos and small diet Pepsi and NOTHING HAPPENS in the film.  It's one big Twilight conspiracy to rip off 13 year old screaming girls in Taylor Lautner t-shirts.  ...and the occasional 23 year old sophisticate with the box of wine and Dixie cups tucked in her handbag.

3.  Things get WEIRD in Breaking Dawn.  Kristen Stewart gets knocked up by her vampire husband.  Yes, kids, you TOO can have an evil spawn growing inside you, but just make sure you marry the fictional monster baby-daddy first.  Hello.  It's only ethical.  I haven't seen the latest movies, but in the book she starts bruising from the inside and her soul starts getting like sucked out of her or something.  The whole time you're like bitch, it's time to abort this mission...but then the thing pops out like a little angel.  The morality metaphors are flyin.

4.  Finally, for being such a highly anticipated film for reasons unknown to myself, the graphics are laughable. It's like they forgot to install the latest update to their CGI, made 4 movies and then were like OOOPS!

My advice?  Read the series in a foreign country, on a Kindle, saved under the pseudonym "Moby Dick" so at least you are exercising your literacy and being discreet about getting all hot and bothered by a werewolf.  You're a self-respecting grown up, for God's sake.

early moments

There’s something to be said about those early moments - the getting to know you moments between two people.  Not just the first kiss…although an important milestone, it’s not nearly as crucial as the first time you walk through a street fair together.  The first time you sit in a park or the first time you dance by the river. It’s about the first time being in his element, the first time being in yours, and the first time being on mutually foreign territory.  All the while navigating earthly events, you’re learning his movements, his tendencies, his flaws.  It’s the matching of this new physical being that’s breathing in front of you to the abstract soul you swear you’ve always known.  Those are the moments that create.

But sometimes it doesn't match up, and you’re left with the heartache of breaking up with the street fair and the park and the dancing.  You reluctantly give up the hope that his movements and tendencies and flaws could be good for you, because although happy, you can’t ignore the discrepancy they’ve revealed.  You move on a little dazed from your whirlwind of early moments, but better because of them.

Speaking of Seamen...

Halloween is a beloved holiday for adult Americans.  It involves the three components on which this fine country was founded: consuming mass quantities of sugar, looking like an idiot, and getting drunk.

I like to think that I'm a fun person.  Once I took an Irish car bomb and another time I even rode Space Mountain 3 times in a row...after a plate of fried vegetables. I don't know what more you people could want from me, but on Halloween I just can't hang.  

The pressure of finding the perfect costume is debilitating to the point where I can't even show my face on all Hallows Eve due to a stomach ache and the extra 10 lbs I've put on from all the Snicker's fun sized bars I've stress eaten.  It's just not in my nature to put on a pair of spiky black ears, hot pants and a tube top and hit the scene as a slutty cat.  I don't think I've ever met a slutty cat to even know how to get into character, and if I wanted a man dressed as Superman to oggle my ass cheeks I'd go to Hollywood Boulevard on a Tuesday morning.

That leaves the witty/funny costume category as my only hope.  You'd think someone as naturally hilarious (pathetic) as myself would have this down.  Unfortunately, my humor gets a little lost in translation on the wardrobe front.  There's a terrible Seaman costume idea in there somewhere.  So as you see, I'm screwed. 

Speaking of Seamen, if we're going to get down to brass tacks, Halloween is only the second best holiday in October. Maybe this is because I'm bitter about my failure to produce a worthy costume year after year, or because I'm lazy, but Columbus Day is the real star of the 10th month.  Christopher Columbus was a damn fool.  However, each year when we celebrate his mediocrity, at least we get a day off school or work.  So go have fun with your women in various states of undress with an assortment of ears glued on their head bands.  You can have your chocolate comas and haunted houses.  Me and old Chris will be kickin back in India...I mean America...and awaiting the start of November.

NowayCupid

I joined OkCupid.  For those of you under a rock, OkCupid is equivalent to online shopping...except instead of shoes, you scout out men, and instead of Paypal, it's free.  It got it's name because whenever you're scrolling through matches you're tempted to say, "Ok, Cupid, REALLY??! There's an 87 percent chance that this bisexual man from Jersey City and I are meant for each other???"  Regardless, I'm in.  I've always been terrified of the idea of online dating.  I want a meet-cute between my soon-to-be leading man and I.  As my dear friend Andrew knows, I'm convinced this will happen in the dairy aisle at the grocery store.  I have self-gathered and highly unreasonable statistical evidence supporting these odds.  I can't help but believe in fate, but has fate evolved with the times, including the Internet in its web?  I'm just not convinced.

I'm overwhelmed, I'm confused, I'm on an old episode of The Dating Game....bachelors number 1 through 5,436: describe the 6 things you can't live without.  The profile questions are laughable, yet how to talk yourself up without sounding too pretentious?  How to say...aren't I charming answering these formulaic questions designed to unlock the real essence of me?  Allow me a couple hours to work on the essence of me, and I'll let all you potential suitors know what that is once I've hashed out a few rough drafts.

For example... On a Friday night I'm at a concert, I'm at a bar, I'm jetsetting to Bali.  On a Friday night I'm actually eating Doritos on my couch with Netflix, but no one wants to date Couch Girl.   Don't you want to be mine based on my 3 carefully chosen and Instagrammed profile pictures of me wearing sunglasses and making duck lips?

 In true form, my profile has turned out sarcastic and self-depricating, with one mention of my elbow-licking ability...and apparently that's what all the single bachelors in the NYC metropolis are looking for.  I'm fascinated by the number of men who have latched on to one specific fact I mentioned in my profile and have gone on to create messages of sonnets, novels, and short stories about said fact worth publication in The New Yorker.  I was expecting creepers throwing out sweepingly general compliments about my eyes or my smile... something more along the lines of "gurl, u sexy."  Instead I've genuinely laughed at these men's attempts to catch my attention...so witty in their hope.  But alas, my dear OkCupid love matches, I just can't bring myself to have coffee with you or grab a drink, and to that one guy who asked me to go camping - I've alerted the appropriate authorities about you.  I'm so sorry, it's been fun and silly and flattering...but my soulmate is waiting for me between the 2% milk and the Yoplait.

my greatest romances

I fell in love with its energy.  Its yellow taxis and impatient natives.  I loved the smell of the streets until I realized where that smell was emanating from.  I fell in love on a barge-turned-bar named after a piece of cookware. I loved that a barge could be named after cookware and better yet I could enjoy a bucket of Corona on it.  From the tourists rushing its tallest building to the narrowest alley containing the best restaurant at which no one north of E 65th has eaten; I fell in love.

 And when my summer romance turned sour, it was a park bench under an arch that comforted me.

I fell in love with its overwhelming beauty.  I swore by goat cheese crepes on the street at any time of day.    I fell for museums as historic as the works they hold.  I came accustomed to looking up from wherever I was at 11 at night to search for the sparkling tower.  I wanted to know every charming man and be every pursed lipped woman.

And when I didn't know how to grieve, it was a seat in St. Paul's Cathedral that showed me.

I fall in love with locations.  Places can't break your heart...the decision to leave will always be yours.  

geek is chic

Geek is the new chic, and suddenly its “cool” to wear oversized, grandma glasses and love obscure art and British underground music.  In fact, the more obscure you are in your tastes, the cooler you are.  Do you have the latest gadget?  Have you paid $500 to waste away in the desert at a music festival lately?  How many cat pictures featuring misspelled WordArt dialogue have you laughed at today?  The anti-cool is now the longed after goal; which leaves us all scrambling and competing to be the snarkiest, the most old fashioned, the most ironic. The anti-cool is now the cool. This is a lot of work.

I find that I naturally hit the cool mark on some things right away - my claustrophobia somehow manifests itself when I don’t have the maximum field of vision resulting in huge glasses that I’ve worn in various shapes for the majority of my life.  Huge glasses are also in order as I’m legally blind and have chronic dry eye – a debilitating combo on the quest for sex appeal.  I love The Perks of Being a Wallflower, and Mumford & Sons really speaks to my soul.  I always have my SLR camera with me, even though conversely, and very uncoolly, I like to spend hours alone in the dark enlarging them.  I speak French fluently... which helped me name this blog post.

However, I also naturally miss the cool mark on MOST things.  I crave People magazine and I can’t get enough Bravo reality television.  I’m not rich enough to dress like I’m poor; my wardrobe consists mostly of black and beige and I hate wearing accessories.  I like that my ancient Dell laptop’s hinge is completely broken, tilting the whole screen to the left so that my head’s now permanently cocked to one side giving the illusion when you speak to me that I’m engrossed in whatever you’re saying.  I like my iPhone 3G, released circa 2009.  I have brown hair, but unlike Zoey Deschannel, my eyes are also brown; a thoroughly boring combination…that I like.  I’m addicted to social media - Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, Pinterest - you name it.  I can’t get enough and I’ve wasted hours on these sites so now I sometimes even think in statuses.  I don’t like cats whether in real life or in funny poses on the Internet.  I take that back—there was one cat with a smushed-in face admiring himself in a giant pair of Dior sunglasses that I actually have saved on my phone…it kills me.

I would find it absolutely exhausting to eradicate all my nuances that make me too much of a girl or too neurotic or too shallow or too boring.  I like my tendencies, and why shouldn’t I?  I have no desire to be cool…even if that actually means being uncool in a very specific way.  Maybe someday it’ll all swing in my favor and everyone will be striving to be the short girl from the sticks of Pennsylvania with untamable hair, a refined taste for refrigerated mashed potatoes, inappropriate feelings toward most male news broadcasters, and a fetish for puns.

Confessions of an FNO Newb

My first Fashion’s Night Out was pretty memorable, and based on my experience, I’m here to give you a tutorial on how to survive this glamorous evening.

If you’re going to show your face on the streets of Soho on the one night where fashion so graciously opens its doors to us mere mortals, you better turn it out.  To a girl originally from the sticks of Pennsylvania, who most recently surfaced from the surf of Southern California’s coast, this meant New Yorking up a bit.  In order to fit in on Fashion’s Night Out as a woman, you’ll need to complete The Look.

First and foremost, you’ll need a killer little black dress.  Not the LBD you’d wear to a club in LA- the one that gives the “producer” lurking at the bar an impromptu audition for his next film every time you uncross and recross your legs.  With this dress on FNO, think more along the lines of your great aunt’s funeral mixed with something Lady Gaga might wear to the VMAs.  If you find this balance hard to strike, or if you’re a vegetarian, stick with a designer whose store you might be visiting that night.

Next, you need some bright red lips.  The color will liven up your otherwise morbid ensemble, and create a statement.  The statement being: I have a mouth… and it’s red…despite my otherwise very un-model-esque face. Since you’ll be looking so sexy on this occasion, the lipstick will also deter your many male admirers from spontaneously making out with you.  Just the thought of the clown-mouth aftermath that accompanies an encounter with your red smackers will hopefully keep the hoards of clambering dudes at bay and on their best behavior.  You haven’t time for such shenanigans.  There is free champagne to drink.

Lastly, you need to master The Face.  The Face is the most important part of The Look.  To practice, you’ll need some expired milk and a mirror.  While looking into the mirror, slowly raise the milk carton to your nose.  Memorize the way the muscles in your face feel when whiffing the bad dairy, and replicate once you are in a mob of fashionistas.

After I personally felt I had completed The Look to the best of my ability, I got in the elevator to begin the 18-floor descent from my apartment to the street.  Around floor 12, an elderly woman boarded the elevator with her equally ancient bichon.  She gave me a once over and declared me “stunning”.  Despite the fact that this appearance-based complement came from a senile woman wearing a floral muumuu and bunny slippers while toting a pink-skinned dog with cataracts, I felt stunning.  I felt empowered.  I felt ready for battle…I mean FNO.

I also suggest having a kickass itinerary for the night.  Just like with The Look (grandma-approved), I had this detail covered as well.  I had the privilege of meeting Outasight and seeing him perform at French Connection.   As he sang the anthem to my 23rd year, “Now or Never”, I suddenly felt just fine among the who’s who in fashion...LBD or not.  FNO was just another example of making my own luck in my own way in the unpredictable string of events I’ve created as my life.  And you know what?  I don’t care what the people say and I don’t care what they wanna do and I don’t care about them anymore because I do what I want.

So go ahead - venture out on the most intimidating evening of the year with confidence.  Whatever that evening may be for you in your life.  If all else fails, bring a flask and a cheeseburger in your clutch.

in loving memory of Marley.

"Good dogs are with us for a little while to teach us how to love like it's our job..."

Two days ago I probably couldn’t tell you just how much of my life was aligned by him.  How I was his moon, and not the other way around.  He was more than a pet, he was more than a family member; he became an instinct.  Waking up to take him outside, attributing any noise to his wandering the house, expecting his enthusiasm upon returning home - like a reflex hammer to the knee, his pervasiveness in my mundane daily thoughts was second nature.  It's only after his absence that the (now useless) habitual reminders have left an unimaginable emptiness and ache.  I owe him so much.  A source of comfort and unconditional love, I will always miss my running partner, hogger of my bed, and best friend.

Diary of a Former Wimpy Kid

Every Labor Day weekend, the good people in my neighborhood gather together for a block party.  I've been MIA for the past 4 of these occasions as I've been at school in California, and so I was really looking forward to the event.  I spent my time answering questions from neighbors about my painfully dull life at the moment, eating various pasta salads and an assortment of shredded meats, and failing miserably at the water balloon toss- a white dress was not a good choice.  And suddenly, it happened.  A finger poked me on the shoulder as I sat trying to remember if the brownie in my hand was number 7 or 8, and before I knew it I was being escorted to the backyard of a neighbor's house by a 6th grade girl.  There in front of me sat The Cool Crowd of Nittany Ct.

The Cool Crowd consists of 4 boys and 1 girl, some in third grade, most in sixth.  It dawned on me as I stood before them on a patio away from the adult folk that I was being invited to join their 12 and under gang.  Despite being on the precipice of my 23rd birthday, I couldn't help but desperately want to prove myself worthy of such an invitation.  And so began the initiation.  I don't know if it's because I'm going through an almost-quarter-life crisis, or if it was because the most nutritious thing I'd eaten all day was a barbeque potato chip, but I was prepared to do whatever it took to gain their miniature approval.

I have "Call Me Maybe" on my iPhone. Yes, this is an actual iPhone, not just an iTouch.  Yes, I do know who Weird Al is - "White and Nerdy" is my jam. I've been known to watch Spongebob from time to time; I agree, Squidward should pop a Percocet.  Did you hear about the "Finding Nemo" 3D rerelease in theaters??  I laughed at 12 year old boy YouTube cult classics with titles like "Chicken Nugget Biscuit", I commiserated over gross school lunches, and I didn't once over think anything.

This fitting in thing is a breeze.  So what if my witty quip about Dr. Dre was met with blank stares? Who cares because I have REAL iPhone (a non-phenomenon that never seems to gets old with this crowd).  Within me all this time were the key ingredients to being cool, and I'm just now discovering them.  One of the third grade boys even drew a life size chalk replica of me on the driveway...complete with my phone in hand and dimples.  And I gotta say...I look damn good on pavement.  There was an ease to hangin with this crowd, and I can't remember the last time I had so much fun.  These kids are comfortable with themselves; they're surprisingly well articulated, and have no other agenda apart from having as much fun as possible.  I am drawn to their unjaded, carpe diem attitude, and really think we should all attempt to integrate ourselves into their silly world for awhile if only to just remind ourselves of how carefree life should be.

Maybe I should be concerned that I mesh so well with preteens...and prepreteens, but who doesn't want to be immortalized in chalk...until it rains?

Lisa Frank never warned me about this

Guess what , kids?  It's that time of year again!  BACK TO SCHOOL!  Every year at this time, we ask ourselves and everyone around us one very poignant question.  "Where did summer go?"  We've all successfully personified summer into our dear friend or lover who, the night before school starts, decides its had enough of our cut off shorts and late nights at the beach, packs its bags and leaves for Mexico.  We're heartbroken and left stumped, looking around wildly for any explanation as to why summer may have deserted us.  Did the past 3 months of sun bathing and whining about the heat mean NOTHING to summer? I really thought we had something special.  But it's time to move forward into that next chapter of our year....ya know the one that smells like eraser marks and bus emissions.

However, this particular fall has actually caught me completely off guard.  For the first time in my entire cognizant life, I will not be returning to school.  Scanning those aisles of school supplies in Walmart that crop up like shanty towns somewhere around the much too premature second week of August has always evoked a nauseous feeling in the pit of my stomach.  But this year as I felt the urge to buy a 50 pack of Bic pens and a Lisa Frank notebook, I realized that I really had no use for them.  If I thought I knew metaphorical school supply panic before, I was sorely mistaken.  You see, the day you graduate college, you most likely haven't slept in the past 3 weeks what with finals, packing, and saying goodbye the only way you know how...drinking yourself into a stupor on a Tuesday night at a bar named after a drunken farm animal with your friends.  And so you return to the sanctuary of home nursing the bags under your eyes and your malnourished body after 4 years of a strict diet of Lean Pockets, toaster strudel, and tequila.  A job??? Psh. You'll get one of those.  You have two whole Bachelor degrees, Neil Young once said "Hi" to you, and your hair is extra shiny.  No probs here.

Then after weeks of practically stalking employees on LinkedIn who work your dream job, scouring Monster.com, and therapeutically shopping your way into credit card debt, you realize this job hunt might kill you.  Or get you a restraining order.  And then come the interviews.  The soul-sucking, bullshit-inducing questions like "tell me about a time you were a great leader", "how would your friends describe you?", "how do you feel about data entry slavery? Pro? Anti?"  Which leads to greater questions within yourself like, What the hell am I doing with my life?, Should I just run away to Guatemala and cultivate cocoa beans?  Where do cocoa beans grow? ....The bottom line is, though, you just want someone to like you and your shiny hair enough to pay you and your two degrees above the poverty line.  Thank you for your kind offer, sir or ma'am, but I feel like that ditch on the West Side Highway off Canal St. is too much of a fixer upper for my real estate taste.

So fellow graduates, this beginning of fall, when you WOULD be headed back to school in that fluffy land of learning, you are instead back home fighting with your mom over when you will detonate the dog crap minefield called the back yard...and by the way, the pooper scooper is broken.  This fall stirs a panic far more frightening than anything a 3 ring binder can induce.  This fall marks the end of carefree, you-still-have-time summer.  This fall means one thing: we are officially unemployed.

50 Shades of Confused: A book review.

In the lull and laziness of my family beach vacation last week, I was in my usual voracious reader mode.  I tackled a great classic because I feel that everyone should have a grasp on some truly genius old literature, a witty best-seller recommended by Anderson Cooper because I want to slip it into conversation the night we meet, compelling him to have no choice but be straight and fall in love with me since our reading habits are so in tune, and FINALLY...Fifty Shades of Grey because I needed to see what all the damn fuss was about.  I gotta say that I was actually a little embarrassed to be reading the thing.  Every time I heard some horny old lady talk about it at the hair dressers or my horny best friend blush over the fictional sex addict, I felt a sense of superiority in that I hadn't read it...and yet secretly I was dying to join their smutty world.  And so on an undisclosed beach in North Carolina, with my visor pulled over my eyes and 50 Shades downloaded on my Nook so no one could identify a cover, I started.

Now I don't describe myself as a prude...not even close... but this book really rubbed me the wrong way...sexual innuendo absolutely included.  First and foremost, this book is TERRIBLY written.  I would love to purchase that woman a better thesaurus with an instruction manual outlining, in cave man English and a few subliminal messages, how to use it.  (Find word. See more word. Stop writing. Forever.) She also attempts to recreate how hip, young Seattleites might talk when in reality every character reads like the same 73 year old woman from Surrey.  I don't THINK I'm a literature snob, but I only read well-written books.  This isn't necessarily by chance, but more just through good judgement.  For example, if you're in line at the grocery store and you see a book with the cover featuring a bare-chested Fabio with hair longer and blonder than your own, I would suggest skipping over that one and opting for something on the Pulitzer Prize list.  Hell, consult Oprah if you must.  I once accidentally skimmed a Lauren Conrad novel in a Barnes & Noble and lost 13% of my brain cells and could only speak with a valley girl accent for the next 48 hours.  Poorly written books are no joke and should be banned.

With this said, the book sort of mind-ninja'd me somehow.  Christian Grey seeped into my consciousness without me realizing and suddenly I couldn't tell the difference between reality and fiction.  I went shopping and picked up a card that I thought Christian might find funny.  I made mental notes to tell him about pieces of my day.  I went to text him wondering why he wasn't listed in my contacts ...oh yes. BECAUSE HE DOESN'T EXIST.  I was mortified that such a shitty book could actually affect me.  I was also mortified that I was highly disappointed to come back to reality.

But no, Christian Grey is not real because he lives among the pages of a novel written by a kinky old bat.  And the brass tacks fact is that if Christian Grey WERE real, I don't think I'd actually be into him.  I don't know...call me old fashioned, but if a dude shows up at my house unannounced without me previously giving him my address and then proceeds to smack me and stick metal balls up my beaver, I'm sorry but I'd be running...no wait...SPRINTING for the hills.  Probably even beyond the hills.  No guy is hot enough to stick around for that crap, it's not hot.  It's not even kinky.  It's DEMEANING.  Sure Ana battles with "the right thing to do", but honestly, the right thing to do is have a little respect for yourself and move on.  In math terms, anything times zero always equals zero. No exceptions.  In man terms, ostentatiously rich, power hungry, emotionally unavailable men who get off with you on your knees avoiding eye contact, always equals douchebag.  No exceptions.

Despite all my qualms with the mindless protagonist, I know I have to read the second one. I can't just leave her hangin', especially in such a  fragile state!  Not to mention since I'm a single, unemployed woman with one friend to my name in a 50 mile radius, I'm obviously not gettin' any myself.  Might as well read someone else's tedious description of their fictitious canoodlings.  And maybe on my way to the library to reserve the next installment, I'll pick up a few hundred cats as well.

I'm single and I know it

Last night I went out with a group of old high school friends...with their group of significant others in tow for happy hour.  Maybe I'm overly sensitive to my single status, but I couldn't help feeling like the lone Yankee fan in a sea of Red Sox hats.  Just the left flip flop.  The sore thumb.  While my best friend attempted to console my irrational fear of being singled out...no pun intended...I couldn't help but feel anything but awkward.  The happy couples were all equally charming and sweet; milling about speaking to everyone, but always coming back to each other to steal a kiss, a little reminder of their love in the crowded, noisy bar.  Once during the night, someone asked me about my boyfriend and if he still lived in LA.  I'm sure I looked a little confused as I explained that there was no Mr. Caitlin Skelly...on the west coast or otherwise.  Although she made a valiant attempt, the girl who questioned me couldn't seem to straighten her face out of her own perplexed twist in time for me to not notice, or pass it off as gas.  No boyfriend?! At one point I thought I had met a kindred single spirit in a girl who hadn't boomeranged back to any of the button down clad men for a smooch.  And then she mentioned how much her husband would love the bar...if only he could have made it.  Ah, yes. Married.  So there I stood, Chardonnay in hand in the midst of vodka cranberries and beers, warily concerned about my pinky inadvertently sticking out and any unnecessary sashaying that may increase the notion that I've become that swinger chick who moved to LA and who now thinks that she's better than everyone in her singledom - which by the way could not be further from the truth.  Well, the latter half at least.

 I'm just not used to being around large groups of relationshipped people.  My friends in California and I forge into our Friday nights with battle cries of "GIRLS' NIGHT!!!" Well of course it's girls' night.  There are no constant men in our lives to inhibit it...therefore making basically every night of our lives girls' night.  And yet we insist that this particular weekend is something singular and special...which ironically is much like how we would describe ourselves.  We cling to the comfort that we have each other to call when that guy stood me up, or the one who forgot to mention the 4 year relationship he was currently in with his girlfriend, or even the one who cheated and casually mentioned it over a dinner out while the beef bourguignon was being served.  Being single has not become a form of leprosy.  It just means that we haven't found a guy who will show up, be single himself, and remain faithful.  The right flip flop.  And above all it means that we single folk should go out and enjoy the company of those who HAVE found the match, and bask in our table-for-oneness alongside their honeymooning.  Because hey, you know you've seen this week's Real Housewives of New Jersey twice already.

hunches at lunches

I always seem to be making the wrong decisions.  I don't mean it in the broad scoped, God smiting sense of the meaning, although I've been known to make more than a few of those as well.  But between the Pick Me Summer Salad and the You'll Regret This Liver Bisque, for some godforsaken reason, I will always pick the latter.  Then I will proceed to hold it against my sister for wisely choosing the salad, and wallow in silent self pity for the remainder of the meal. On a test when the answer is quite obviously B: Canadians, my gut will nudge me toward E:  all of the above - so tempting in it's unpretentious, all encompassing attitude.  I mean, why put E as an option if there's no hope of all of the above being correct?  No matter that I read word for word from the textbook and Canadians are the only plausible answer.

 Do you want to save this document before closing? Nope.  Would you like a 6th margarita? Yes, please.  You should probably bring a jacket.  No, I'll be fine.  ...I'm starting to wonder if my intuition is out for revenge on me.  Is this some sort of conspiracy to make my life a small scaled living hell?   I suppose being a little chilly at the concert after not bringing a coat is not exactly the end of the world, but still.  I live on the small scale.  My day to day happiness, as much as I hate to admit it, rests solely in the hands of decisions like "heels or flats?"  And when my feet are bleeding and covered in blisters, I curse my intuition's sick sense of humor.  I've tried the old WWSND (uh hem, what would Skelly NOT do?!), but even then my sheisty gut feeling talks me into renting I Don't Know How She Does it on Blu-Ray.  Before I run out to make cloth bracelets with the acronym embroidered across them, I think I should try embracing the rocky daily journey I'm afforded by making awful decisions. So what if I have some digestion issues after the liver bisque, and honestly when are Canadians EVER the only plausible answer?  Obviously my hunch is there for a reason, and in this world of constant conflicting opinion, as soon as you lose that little compass within, you lose your place among that conflict. You lose yourself.

In honor of William Martin Geibel...the third.

This weekend I went to a wedding, and while I was listening to the vows, I thought to myself how unimaginable and otherwordly it seemed to feel so wholly certain about someone else.  For better or for worse as long as we both shall live. And then I started counting on my fingers...and then my toes, the years that have passed since I was last in a real relationship.

Sure I meet nice guys...good looking guys, smart guys, guys illuminated by a ray of light from the heavens and a neon blinking sign accompanying them reading I WILL SOMEDAY MAKE AN EXCELLENT FATHER.  And yet I always find something wrong.

He's too tall.
His car is really nice...too nice.
He used the wrong version of "there" over Facebook chat.
He texts back with questionable efficiency.
He texts back.
His dental hygiene is borderline obsessive compulsive.
I think he has a girlfriend already?
He's good on paper.
His friend's best friend once ran over a squirrel with no remorse.  I can't date someone connected to a cold blooded rodent murderer.  Would YOU take that chance?

I don't remember how to be in a relationship.  How to be someone's someone.  I suppose I did it at one point.  Did I say the right things?  Did I nod in the right places and yell, "That's absurd!!!!" when appropriate?  Did I mold my life around his in agreeable compromise?  Doesn't sound like me.  I don't remember how to learn someone so well that his interests become mine and mine his until there is no line separating a him from a me; until all that's left is an us.  I don't remember what it's like to go out and have the one person you could possibly ever want already beside you to fill your buzz with a contentment.  I don't remember feeling secure about someone else's intentions.

 At this point in my life, with a thousand and one more pertinent issues to attend to like crying in front of Monster.com, and drinking wine with my mom, even just being around men seems like a distant memory from another lifetime.  I've always expected the next best thing to magically waltz into my life, but then as the days pass and the only man you see is your father or your 72 year old neighbor, George, you wonder why you took for granted that guy with the nervous tick.  And then I remember that I'm actually really happy without being anybody's somebody, and I should just wait til that bolt of lightening hits.  Besides, relationships are probably like riding a bike, right??  Speaking of which...I don't remember the last time I rode one of those either...

wait, this isn't Super Mario Bros?

Around Easter time I started hearing people yell some sort of incoherent phrase at parties.  Did that guy just yell "Rollo" before jumping into the pool completely clothed?  Does he really want a chocolatey treat so badly that he needs to drench himself to prove his dedication?  I haven't had a Rollo in years, I really wasn't even aware they still made those.  I commend him on his devotion to the somewhat dated candy, and his lack of shame in making it known to all at the party.  But right before I went out to stock up on Rollo's that I was convinced had made a huge comeback,  I started realizing that the R sounded more like a Y.  And then it hit. YOLO.

This is the single dumbest acronym ever invented.  Are we really that hard up for vocabulary words that we need to resort to recycling lyrics from a man who goes by Tyga?  Is that some sort of ghetto tiger? I'm not entirely sure, and I don't like being tricked into sounding like I have a speech impediment when I go to say someone's name.  My apologies to Tyga if that's his God-given name, but for some reason I have a feeling that it's not.

You Only Live Once.  You all DO realize that this is a total rip off of Carpe Diem, and THAT is Latin ...so you at least have a chance of sounding cultured.  When you say YOLO you sound like you just got detention for fighting at the 7th grade semi-formal.  Which brings me to what YOLO has come to stand for.  In the company of Generation Y, you can now partake in any idiotic, dangerous, illegal, ethically compromising, or morally questionable act, and simply yell or tweet YOLO and all is forgiven.  Frankly, it's understood and encouraged.  I debated tweeting really tame stuff just in hopes to counterbalance this craze like, "eatin this watermelon. #YOLO" but honestly I'd rather steer clear of being hash tag associated.

I don't know, kids. Can't we just go all old school and let the idea of YOLO be a silent, abstract piece of knowledge like it was back in the day? Circa January.

hash tag gettheheckouttadodge

There are a lot of things I don't get. I don't get the point of watching televised golf. Or watching golf live.  Or playing golf for that matter. I don't get algebra, and I definitely don't get why verbally saying "hash tag" has become a thing. But what I REALLY don't understand is this idea of giving up on following passion and becoming attached to a place. We're not polar bears, we don't need a slab of ice and sub zero temperatures to survive. So why stay in the arctic?! I could go on for days filled with metaphors involving other climate specific animals and trees with deep roots, but I think you get the point. I never want to experience this self-perpetuated feeling of being "stuck". That this life I'm leading right now is all I will ever have, and I can't leave because my boyfriend thinks I'm pretty and I have a tedious yet steady job working for Mr. Man. Anywhere has the potential to be home. If we're gonna talk about this in terms of needle point, home IS where the heart is...your heart. And lucky for you, your heart is permanently installed in your sternum.

If I could have anything

If I could have anything, it wouldn’t be your love.  Love slips and slides and shape shifts too easily.   It’s never easy to grasp and because of this uncertainty it carries, often we’re hesitant to call anything by its name.  Our fears step in to disguise it as other emotions- less strong, less binding ones.  But I don’t need you to decide you love me.  I don’t need that confusing, abstract description of your sentiments.  No.  


If I could have anything, I’d want you to miss me.  I want your heart to sink into your stomach at the thought of the time stretching before we’re reunited.  I want your body to ache at the physical distance.  I want you to see something that reminds you of me in my absence and smile.  I want everything to remind you of me in my absence.  I want to move you; and love alone can’t. 


Love is just an explanation,“I’m drawn to you”, “we have a connection”, “I find you fascinating”.  But these moments that make up missing someone are concrete – their eyes running through your head, an insignificant memory spurred spontaneously, a rush of emptiness in your empty bed.  You can deny to yourself that you’re drawn to me, that you feel a connection, that you find me fascinating; but you can’t deny the physical heartache of missing me.

401Kittens?

I will be a grown up in roughly 3 weeks and I’m still not entirely sure all that entails. Do I file for a 401K? Do I start wearing Spanx and sensible shoes? When in a heated debate do I instruct someone to speak with my lawyer? Because to me, 401 is my friend Shelby’s area code, my idea of sensible shoes are my 5 inch heels with the extra strap around the ankle for drunken stability, and Law and Order should have been cancelled 12 seasons ago.

I thought I knew what I wanted, but as graduation day looms, I realize that everything I thought was the natural next step just doesn’t sit right with me. I feel like that asshole groom with cold feet, but as much as I like wood, I’m just not interested in marrying a desk. For the first time in my life I’m paralyzed by the thought of the future.

When I use the word paralyzed, I’m not saying this lightly or figuratively. Oh no. Lately you can find me rocking back and forth in a dark room, blinds drawn, with the only light illuminating from indeed.com. I’m probably muttering, “proficient in Microsoft office” or “excellent time management skills” with the occasional f bomb thrown in there whenever I run out of Raisinettes and cream cheese and I’m forced to go to the Dollar Store again to pick up more. I’m torn between what I want to do and what I feel I must do. But although this whole graduation thing feels like THE END, it’s only AN ending, and the rest of life is for us. For us to get a 401k or rack up our phone bill calling Shelby’s Rhode Island number, or maybe do both. Maybe I don’t have to choose. They give you about 22 years to go through a structured environment with your hand held and few decisions to make, but they give you the rest of your life to figure out how to create what you want from this being. That’s some understanding leeway. Someday what I must and what I want could be intertwined, but until then I suppose I should enjoy this first dance with uncertainty…after all, I AM pretty darn proficient in Microsoft Office. Watch out, world.

A Vons club card and a can of beans

I can love. I swear I can love.

I know because I’ve loved you in reverse. Loving you wasn’t in the blinding, hypnotizing initial attraction where we swapped puns and book titles and spit. It wasn’t in the fairytale you wrote me or between our laced fingers. It wasn’t in my churning stomach at the sight of you, and it certainly wasn’t in the pieces of my heart I salvaged from under your foot. But you’re the only one I’ve ever loved and it took moving to Paris to realize it. It took moving to New York. It took being without you for a year and a half. It took trying on other men like hats. It took distractions and new obsessions and telling you every detail of my life mundane or extraordinary - your reaction be damned.

It took a trip to the grocery store together.

I thought love was all or nothing. You’re with me or you’re not. But in the middle of the produce section, there you were. You were with me. You knew every detail of my life; mundane and extraordinary. And still- there you were. And as you absentmindedly picked up a can of beans you knew were on my list, I knew. Love doesn’t attempt to blind or hypnotize. It’s knowing someone like the back of your hand and respecting them enough to pick up their beans. It’s being unapologetically yourself and being accepted for it. As I rummage through piles of men on my quest for happiness, in the corner of my heart I know I’m happiest with you.

in-face-ivebook

I was just minding my own business, sitting here at work, when I got a Facebook notification sent to my phone that sent chills down my spine. You know how Facebook these days sends you little alerts if any of your 843 closest friends on the Book is within a 3,000 mile radius of where you’re sitting? Apparently someone I was once very close to (geographically and otherwise), but am now estranged from (geographically and otherwise), is down the street from my office getting their free pancake day on at iHop. I get that Zuckerberg is just living out his weird obsession to transform the populous into stage 5 creepers like himself, but I’m not too thrilled about these alerts. Don’t get me wrong, when I’m sitting on my couch in Los Angeles, I’m so happy that Stephen from 8th grade English is "buyin grapefruits at the Giant in Shrewsbury, PA – with his mom", but I don’t necessarily need a text about it sent to my phone. Besides, if you ARE around me, do I really want to know you went to the Chili's by my house and didn't invite me?? I like a bloomin onion as much as the next girl, and after a few of those Cadillac margs I happen to sing a tribute to Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” that will take your breath away.

On this particular occasion, the notification made my hands clammy, my heart start beating in my fingertips, and I was suddenly faced with that gut wrenching decision whether or not to text the person asking why they’re practically on top of me. But what the heck would I say?? “Oh hey, haven’t seen you in 7 months, but I just got a text from the good people at Facebook indicating that you’re 480 yards away from me on Olive Ave., can you verify that?” No. In times like these I’m a firm believer in the old “what you don’t know can’t hurt you” adage. Facebook, why you gotta ruin that for me??

I’m convinced this whole social media bullshit is created for the sole purpose to make you feel like crap about yourself. We're constantly connected to everyone we've ever come in contact with and forced to look at how amazing their lives are. Whether they're posting photos from their Carribbean getaway, updating their status about their boyfriends' homemade baked ziti and its uncanny resemblance to Giada's...or nonchalantly eating pancakes 2 blocks away - I just don't want to know those things when I'm staring at a computer screen in a barren office, eating Ramen alone for the 5th night in a row, and haven't heard from your east coast ass in over half a year.

Since I'm obviously so upset I guess the thing to do would be to delete my account...but then how would I check in at my dentist appointment tomorrow? That would just be silly.

Tony Bundy

I adore Craigslist missed connections. For those of you who are unfamiliar, I highly suggest taking a break from searching for sperm infested couches and check out this feature of the site. This is where men and women in your area can create a post about someone they saw in passing, but never got a chance to talk to in hopes said someone will see it and respond. I don’t know if my obsession stems from my innate creepiness (for those who know me well…well, you know), or if it’s the romantic inside me trying to come out. I wouldn’t describe myself as a hopeless romantic, and most would probably use the word “jaded” over “dreamy” in reference to me any day. BUT! Whatever city I’m in, I religiously check the missed connections page. It’s not so much that I’m hoping I’ll see my fleece jacket and yoga pants described in detail from my trip to Walmart two days ago…”your skin glowed under the fluorescent lights in the pest control aisle.” No, I really believe it’s more that I, Caitlin Skelly, have an unfailing faith in the power of love at first sight. Today I read how some guy was absolutely taken with a woman’s smile in her Nissan outside of Dunkin Donuts and it lead him to take this small shot in the dark to get in touch with her. I don’t see missed connections as creepy…even though the dude who decided to go with “we been checking each other out...you are HOTT..get at me if you think its you " doesn’t really help my case. I see it as a little land of believers like me. People who realized that just because they lost their courage in a moment that passes in a blink of an eye doesn’t mean that it’s over. People who will do anything, no matter how small, that might help make their gut feeling a reality. People who want to believe in love. They’re not creepy or crazy or desperate…they’re just a man who can’t stop thinking about her smile.