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.

I guess one problem might be olive oil on the keyboard.

Every single morning I bring my coffee outside so I can stare at the East River for six minutes. I always stand in the exact same place, next to the exact same tree. (In case you're a murderer and you're looking for me - hope that helps narrow down my whereabouts, friend!) Even when it's raining and I have to put my coffee down in order to hold an umbrella, this is one of the times of the day I like best. No one tells me to do it. No one's expecting me to be there. It's honestly the only time all day long that I am alone. And even then, I'm not truly alone - there's the odd dog walker, the odd taxi pulling up, the odd girl standing next to a tree in semi-darkness - you know. Sometimes during those six minutes I'll have a thought, and I'll think, I ought to write that thought down. But usually as soon as I get back inside the only thing I'm thinking about is what color eyeshadow I can rub on my eyelids (because SOMEONE'S boyfriend got her Naked 3, I mean really, how thoughtful, and how did he know, you would think she showed him a picture and specifically explained to his glazed-over face why these particular shades were so desirable to her and hinted aggressively or something, my gosh) before I start thinking about what I should make for breakfast (I've been defaulting to oatmeal, so you can also find me in the oatmeal aisle at the grocery store, murderer.) 

Last week, we ate seared tuna on a bed of greens with veggies and avocado and a homemade wasabi dipping sauce on the side - in bed, like adults. This is a metaphor for what my whole entire life is like. 

That dinner was actually, like… three weeks ago. This is an example of how distracted I am from and by everything.