a lump in my throat cause you're gonna sing the words wrong

A list of all the places you've ever sat to think
Or sat and then thought, without having set out to.

Keep a record of every crescent moon you've pressed
into your own skin,

the baby teeth, the earring not lost,

Pretend you are a child. Explain
things to yourself so that later,
you can use it, so that later,
you can remember.

In a squashy brown recliner
with my brother. With my friend
from across the street
I'm not supposed to cross by myself,
on our knees, with our faces out the window,
with our elbows pressed
on the ancient iron radiator
on each other's.

In crayon, the grassy smell of a June afternoon
what sun smells like,
sweat and blood and bark.

Describe something else as "an afternoon in June."

we'll stay forever this way

I can't stop buying $1.99 ebooks. Right now I'm reading one about the Titanic. The story itself is kind of forced, ditto with the writing, but it has its moments and obviously I've been crying through the whole thing because we all know what happens at the end. 

On Friday night we went to happy hour in the village, at this little tapas place we like that has cheap-o buckets of beer and tiny Spanish sandwiches and tables outside, AKA everything I want after work on a Friday. While Diego went to fetch our bucket, I looked at the TV for a while and to my elation I saw John Stamos selling, like, cologne or something. I don't know. Then one of the girls at the table next to mine said, "He's kind of cute for an old guy" and it took everything in me not to march up to her and say "That is UNCLE JESSE and you will HAVE SOME RESPECT." What happy hour really means to me, I guess, is a cocktail and back-to-back episodes of Full House.

I'm not always sure when to use "were" vs when to use "was." 

I stopped writing this to go see Jurassic World. I forgot it's Father's Day, so I wasn't prepared for the nine hundred people celebrating fatherly love by watching dinosaurs tear shit up. What I was prepared for was a two-hour long commercial since all I'd heard about this movie was that it was basically one big product placement with some dinosaurs stuck in every once in a while. I have to say, I didn't think it was that bad. YouTube beauty videos are absolutely a million times worse. Now turn off your computers and go enjoy a cold, refreshing Coke! 

Go read more secrets.

to gather flowers constantly and come each time you call

As soon as I started typing this, I turned to look out the big open garage door that's attached to my "office" and made direct eye contact with two men sitting on the sidewalk across the street.

Stop. Off to a terrible start already. First of all, how can a person make direct eye contact with two other people at the same time? They can't. (I think, isn't it, you can only actually look a person in one of their eyes at a time? Or if you're me, none of their eyes at a time because intimacy makes you feel like you can't breathe? I'm pretty sure that's how it goes.) Second: I am sitting almost in the BACK of my building, looking THROUGH a garage and ACROSS the street. I have to squint to see what time it is on the giant clock across the room, and I think I can see eyeballs forty yards away? Really? Because that's like saying I can gauge distance off the top of my head, as if I can throw out measurements like "forty yards" and be anywhere close to resembling something that possibly might be kind of accurate.

Blogging at work is hard because sometimes you take three hour breaks to, you know, work. And you forget what you were on about. (By "work" I of course mean balancing Quickbooks whilst wiping away the occasional Joan Baez-induced tear.)

It turns out that those two guys just like to eat lunch on the sidewalk, but it was still kind of alarming. It really looked like they were intently watching me, and that's not just my post-adolescent imaginary audience talking. My saying out loud to my coworkers, "Are those guys watching us?" surprisingly did not prompt any gentle accusations of paranoia but did lead to one of my coworkers demonstrating how folks in some Asian countries use the bathroom.

SUNDAY CONFESSIONS, THE WEDNESDAY EDITION:

On our way out a couple weekends ago, I picked up a bottle of nail polish remover for some stupid reason and realized it was leaking. Probably because of all the heavy objects I'd piled on top of the basket where I "organize" my nail polish accoutrements. Anyway, we were sort of in a rush because we were going to the Barcelona vs Juventus game and I wanted to get there eighteen hours early as usual so I could get a seat/a beer/a grilled cheese or two before it started. (If I HAVE to watch sports, it had better be soccer and it had better be in a softly lit room with access to beer and grilled cheese and a chair. Make note.) I performed a vague groping in the general area surrounding where the bottle had been lying to make sure none of my precious things had been soaked in acetone (my dirty sweatshirts and souvenir stuffed animals were safe, thanks for asking) and then dropped the bottle in the kitchen sink on our way out the door. Okay, NOW here's the confession part: That thing stayed there for the rest of the weekend. Two days. Days during which I cooked two breakfasts and washed several rounds of dishes, all while working around the bottle. The thought to do something with it did not cross my mind once. I just accepted it as part of the landscape of the sink. And now here's the other confession part: On Monday night, when Diego was cooking dinner, he dumped the rest of the nail polish remover out and threw away the bottle. When he stuck his head into our bedroom to tell me, I was a little bit annoyed for a second. Because how DARE he remove what was essentially a bottle of poison for which I had zero plans from an area in which we prepare food. The fucking nerve, right?

Speaking of Diego, we were laying in bed together on some night in the past few weeks and he plucked a couple of longish hairs from the area just under my belly button. At first I was like, "Hey, ahh, no" but then I thought, "Maybe if I lay here long enough he'll paint my toenails and shave my legs for me, too." CONFESSION: There were more than "a couple" hairs. Salon, shmalon.

Classical music in concert is boring. We went to Vivaldi's "Requiem" at Carnegie Hall a few Sunday nights ago and it was fun for about the first hour. We filled our pockets with the complimentary cough drops (acoustics, bro) and felt cultured and people watched. And then we learned how long ninety minutes can really feel, especially when songs are in Latin. We were also overstuffed with meat from one of those Brazilian places with the red and green blocks AND coming down from Electric Daisy Carnival the day before, so. I never thought I'd say a parking lot in New Jersey was more fun than Carnegie Hall, but here it is. I think Diego preferred Requiem to when we went to see The Glass Menagerie at Player's Theater, though, based on the fact that at the end of that performance he said "THAT'S IT?" All caps, because Hispanic. Don't worry, everyone heard him. (Although, to be fair, I always have thought the ending kind of sucks. I'll marry you, Laura.) This weekend we're going mini golfing if I have anything to do with it.

OH! I just reminded myself that this past weekend, I was at my mom's house watching the entire third season of Orange is the New Black. We realized it was a beautiful weekend, though, and decided that we should spend at least some of it outside instead of holed up with Pennsatucky. So we moved the TV out to the deck. Problem solved, plus it sort of counts as a confession. (Um, anyone else finished and ready to discuss? Personally I thought the second season was better but I did love all the backstory in this one. Also, raise your hand if you still care about Piper. No hands? THOUGHT SO. )

Sorry the pictures have nothing to do with anything, these are the only ones I have access to right now.

Also, sorry for all the references to "SEVENTEEN SUNDAYS AGO" and "A FORTNIGHT FROM THE SECOND TUESDAY IN NOVEMBER 1813." It's been a while. Becky, sorry for ruining your linkup. I hope we can get past this. Also, sorry about that one time in third grade I wrote that girl a note that said I'd be her "secret friend." It's been on my mind lately. I feel bad. 

like snow, like gold

 CURRENTLY: Because sometimes you sort of want to blog but you're bad at driving thought trains and also you're supposed to be doing Actual Things, not writing into the abyss, but if you give it some form it kind of feels a little bit more productive and so you can justify doing it instead of the Actual Things. Only not really. Not really at all. 

Listening to Andrew Bird. If I started doing this five minutes ago, though, my answer would have been "YouTube tutorials on how to glue flowers to your face." As if eyelash glue is something I need in my life. Maybe should just focus on mastering "picking out pants," girlfriend.

Cooking not an ever-loving thing because my live-in chef is doing it for me. Just kidding, he's at the gym. What I do have is a 20% off Seamless coupon sitting pretty in my inbox, which I will be using so that I do not have to wash any dishes tonight. Just doing my part to conserve water. If you're wondering why I'M not at the gym, it is also in the interest of conservation and not because I don't want to. If you're wondering.

Reading a whole lot of Jennifer Weiner-y books because if it costs 99 cents and you send me a colorful email about it I'll probably buy ten of whatever it is. Whenever I'm buying something I don't need I try really hard to channel Suze Orman and if that doesn't work I remind myself of the wise words of Juelz Santana: "I don't play when it comes to money, guess that's why I'm okay when it comes to money." But usually my desire for glitter nail polish or cat sweaters defeats my better judgment. And usually my better judgment doesn't even put up that good of a fight; it's embarrassing, actually. I feel like "The House We Grew Up In" by Lisa Jewell might have been a good investment of my dollar, though. I'll let you know. Please just sit where you are and continue refreshing this page until my review is posted. Which might be never, because I don't post book reviews. Also I might never finish another book ever again, because ever since I started walking to work instead of taking the train I read way less. I have to train myself to read at other times that were previously designated to doing other things or learn to incorporate reading into other activities that I already do a lot. Like, I can read while I'm brushing my teeth. Or while I'm dusting, although that would mean I'd have to start dusting. I guess I could read instead of writing this dumb blog post.

I don't remember what we were talking about in all these pictures, but I bet you it was "My butt really hurts, this fence is a bad chair." I forgot I was supposed to order dinner twenty minutes ago. I wish there was a 20% faster coupon. I'd pay 20% more for that.

What am I doing what am I doing.

my only complaint is how cold my butt gets in the winter.

So I was just reading xoJane instead of ordering checks and cleaning the bathroom, because the comment section there is EVERYTHING, THO. And I ended up on the personal website of one of the authors and when I realized that her blog is actually just a list of things she was grateful for I said "OH ICK" out loud. Like, real loud.

I don't know. I'd pose the "What sort of person does that make me" question to you, but 1) Don't actually care because 2) I think I would have a different reaction to a blog like that if the person writing it had to actually, you know, be intentional about finding things to be grateful for. I guess what I'm trying to say is that 21-year-olds whose parents are paying for their education who get paid to write, even if it's stupid shit for the internet, make me jealous and that's why I'm here in my pitiful corner typing this right now. (I bet when you google THEIR names the internet doesn't come up with nightmarishly edited blog posts for shitty nonprofits. NOT THAT I'M BITTER.)

In other news, (Diego sent me a text that began with "In other news" the other day. And I AWWWed and cuddled my phone a little. He also texted me that he was "inches" about his wallet that we couldn't find that morning and I had the same reaction. I guess what I'm trying to say is that he learned English in sixty seconds and I probably need to just suck it up and take Spanish I for the II time and that makes me jealous and that's why I'm here in these pitiful parentheses typing this right now. PS Diego don't get mad I said that, YOU ARE MY HEART. ERES MODELO?) I spent a long time looking at this at work today. I swear on my paycheck that my original search was work-related. And had nothing to do with office chairs.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go print out the official rules list for what I can bring in to EDC this weekend. I will not spend another minute arguing with a burly security lady about my chap stick and unopened pack of cigarettes as she roughly handles my girl parts (that will be covered by a light summer cardigan, unless my stomach flattens itself in the next five days in which case I will be wearing just two tastefully placed daisies) while fifteen people slide in around me carrying cartel-scale amounts of chemicals. I will not.

sorry sir, can't let you in with that face.

Yesterday I tried to make KonMari happen to my drawers but it got really boring so I just started rolling them up haphazardly. I didn't even attempt my underwear drawer because out of all the stupid things that cause me to be irrationally stressed out, my underwear drawer is not one of them. I may touch walls when I have an uncomfortable thought or type out secret messages on invisible keyboards on tabletops when I feel out of control, but I really don't give a shit if my socks are fraternizing with my bras. Because that would be crazy.

Also, when I went to put this drawer back into the dresser it got stuck on something and wouldn't open back up. At one point, I honestly believed that kicking the side of the dresser might help. It did not. Finally I ripped the back of it off and kicked it from behind, but the lesson I learned from the whole ordeal was: I do not "find joy" in my dresser drawers. 

I love walking by the NY public library, especially at night because who doesn't, but I feel like if I get too close sirens will go off and I will get arrested because I've owed them money since 2012. WHOOPS.

Sorry I look drunk in this picture; it's only because I'd been drinking. (As we were walking to the train, Diego said to me: "Your eyes look smaller," and also "Your hair is nice and puffy." He meant both of these things as compliments.) The confession here? I never once, as an employee of any establishment that served food, washed my anus before returning to work. I feel better now having admitted this. 

Now let's start this week off with clean consciences and, hopefully, clean everything-elses. 

i'm still trying to make my mind up, am i free or am i tied up

Last night I said to Diego, "We're almost thirty." And he said, "I know." And then we just considered the scariness of that in silence for a minute. And then we ordered Indian food and ate it in bed and fell asleep watching Parks and Rec at ten o'clock on a Friday because I had a terrible headache (possibly to do with staying late at work, more possibly to do with not enough caffeine) and - although he'd insist otherwise - we were both tired. Because of adulthood. Or something vaguely resembling adulthood. As my friends have birthdays now, the cake-and-ice-cream-related temper tantrums from yesteryears take on the form of what-am-I-doing-with-my-life crying jags. There are moments when I realize that I'm closer to thirty than I am to seventeen, which is the age I seem to think I am, and my first thought is literally: "NOPE. THAT'S NOT REAL."

The episode of P&R I happened to be watching was the one where April and Andy get freaked out about how boring they've become. (Which isn't actually what made me think about being old, we had the "we are ancient" conversation earlier in the evening, it's just a funny coincidence. "Isn't life something," I chuckle, leaning back in my rocker and smiling down at the knitting on my lap as the wind softly blows my white hair against my permanently furrowed brow.)

Everyone on the planet can relate to the feeling I'm describing, which is why I will refrain from continuing to describe it for seventeen lengthy paragraphs. You know what I'm talking about, I know that you do. It's not my impending death that worries me, and aging isn't on my mind either. It's more about All The Things I Have To Do That I Haven't Done Yet. The Things vary with everyone, but the feeling, I think, is universal.

My life is 100% different today than it was less than a year ago. I can think of at least three pretty major decisions I've made in that time, and I regret none of my choices. I chose correctly for myself every single time, BUT. The consequences of those choices present their own dilemmas on which I must act, which requires more decision-making, which means constantly adjusting to altered circumstances and coming up with solutions to eternal problems. And that, friends, is how life works - because I'm not sure anybody ever gets to "a point" in their lives at which they look around themselves and think, "I'M TOTALLY GOOD WITH ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING" and then it stays that way forever and they get a prize for winning life.

That got away from me for a minute. Back to April and Andy and their crock pot - that's what worries me most. (Not "being boring," exactly, because let's be honest. I'm not that exciting. I'm a homebody. My favorite activities are the solitary kind. If you interrupt me while I'm reading there is a very real moment where I actually have the urge to cut you. Most of the time, I get all the socialization I need just from going to work every day (granted, I've always had jobs that require a lot of interacting with people, and I live in a place where it is basically impossible to not be social on some level.) I can feel it physically when I've been "on" for too long: Everything starts to sound funny, it feels like whatever's around me is a movie I'm watching, and I zero in on just getting to a place where I'm by myself. Sometimes Diego wants to go to a party on a boat, and I have had to explain several times that I do not want to go to a party on a boat BECAUSE being part of a group of people I cannot escape for a set amount of hours is my nightmare.) What I am concerned about is falling into a routine that doesn't leave room for possibility. Not wanting to get into trouble all the time isn't the same as not wanting to get into trouble at all. I want to not be afraid of getting into trouble, I guess. I want to fully, consciously enjoy this season of my life. I want to be responsible and plan for the future too, but I don't want to be so consumed with worry about The Big Things that I miss out on everything that's awesome about where I am right now. (I also want to realize that there's really no Thing I HAVE to do; I want to be nicer to myself about the Things and the order in which I complete them. Or skip them. It's fine, is what I want to realize. It's really fine.)

The game I'm playing is called "every few paragraphs, choose a picture at random. It doesn't matter if the picture is recent or relevant or of good quality. You can tell this game is real because the name of it is so long." WE ARE HAVING FUN.

Something I'm hoping will help is to make a list of the smaller-scale stuff I want to get done. I think keeping track of these baby goals will ease some of the massive anxiety gathered in my center area. Maybe. Or I'll just get stressed about the list. Let's find out together.


Be a tourist.
Get to inbox zero.
Organize dresser drawers.
Make this list.
Find memory card.
Use that library box in the park.
Give up Diet Cokes.
Go on a girlfriend date.
Put up shelf in bathroom.
Use fake tan.

I was going to elaborate but I'm tired of this now. Also I have to go get something to annihilate this chin bump before our fancy date tonight. Also should probably wash some clothes. Also some body parts. Also have to pee.