Thinking about 1994

My life is oddly wrapped up in 1994. Its the pivotal moment in my adolescence, a time where "me" was becoming less dependent on the decisions or influences of my parents but I was still too young to embrace the era as my own. I turned 12 in 1994. Started listening to modern rock instead of oldies and Broadway musicals. Tuned in to My So-Called Life, identifying with Angela Chase's angst even though I was still the childlike age of the character's kid sister Danielle. I threw flannels over midriff baring baby tees, sported chokers around my neck.

I've noticed that other girls my age look back wistfully at the 80s. "We are children of the 80s" they chime, recalling the days of neon and slap bracelets. But that decade had nothing to do with us. We were still in a sense dressed by our parents, given our Skip-its, our trapper keepers by adults. It is the early 90s that in some way begins to belong to us. If only slightly. This past fall when Urban Outfitters displayed a season of courderoy and flannel, I celebrated a little on the inside. Because this time, 1994 was fully mine to embrace.

Of course, my affinity to this particular moment in time may also have a lot to do with the fact that in the summer of 1994 my family packed up my childhood home on Greythorne and moved our lives to the neighboring town. My brother, the natural leader among his group of peers struggled with going from the most popular boy at Beechview Elementary, ready to enter the 5th grade as king of the playground, to a sudden and shocking nobody. I on the other hand was already a relative nobody. I had outgrown my neighborhood friends, those whom I had befriended years before because of their close proximity to my own home. Those girls who I spent my days up til age 12 who had never treated me well. Made fun of my shyness, picked on me as I grew awkwardly tall and remained preposterously skinny as they filled out. I was teased for not being normal to them. "Hey Emily, if you turn to the side, do you disappear?" they would taunt. Another would hold up the silver chain of a necklace, "Look Emily, its your long lost twin."

For years I would come home and grab a book while the other kids played. My mom would question my decision to stay home. "Mandy and Katie decided they don't want to play with me today." I never shed a tear, simply understood that this was just how things were with my friends. I was smart enough to know that it wasn't right however, and when my parents announced our move, I had little remorse about leaving them behind.

Years later I found myself in a small seminar class at university with one of these so-called childhood best friends. We smiled at each other in acknowledgment on the first day when role was called but we never spoke that semester. What was there to say? Did she know how poorly she treated me in youth, remember our friendship the same way I did? By the time I saw Ruth in that classroom I was a different person, a more accomplished and confident person. We didn't need to speak for that to be clear. It also helped that I was far better looking by then, having finally grown comfortably into my long limbs and learnt to tackle my mane of curls. Perhaps my smile had said that for me on the first day, "look at me and look at you, who's better now." Petty, I know but it felt good.

Some of the most beautiful and inspiring images i have ever seen

Explaining me

My mom is just like me, only blond. And with much bigger boobs. Whenever she comes to visit I hear the same echoing response, "Oh, this explains so much about you," or "I totally understand where you're coming from now," and so on.

I wouldn't necessarily call my mother weird (although on numerous occasions this is precisely what I have called her) but she no doubt has a quality to her personality that makes her a little, let's say eccentric.

"What in the world..." my friend Tammie exclaimed as my mom entered the basement in a battered old wedding dress, sporting a sizable baby bump. A faux cigarette which usually sat as decoration in a bathroom ashtray hung loosely from her lips. I was 15 at the time and my mom was definitely not pregnant. Tammie broke into a fit of giggles while I stared mortified in embarrassment.

"I'm having a shot gun wedding ladies!" Mom cooed in a Southern accent that forty-some years in Detroit had not naturally bestowed. I started bellowing for my father, the only other member of my family whom I deemed somewhat normal in those years. There was something more subtle in my dad's humiliating acts, like a little kid just trying too hard to impress. We referred to my dad fondly as a "funny little man" although he was neither intentionally funny nor all that little. But the name nevertheless always seemed to fit strangely perfect.

"There's my man!" Dad had entered the basement, a look of baffled amusement on his mustached face. After twenty years of marriage, this behavior was hardly shocking. Regardless, he stumbled with his words, not entirely sure what my mom was up to with this get-up on a Saturday morning in early August. Mom narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't stand there looking so shocked! You're the one that did this to me!" She pointed in exaggeration at her pregnant belly and spun on her heels to rustle up the stairs.

To be fair to my mom, the whole thing was not entirely out of nowhere. A manager at a home decor store in the mall, that afternoon she had a meeting with her staff regarding shoplifting. Apparently, mom later explained in the car (still sporting the bump but sans the wedding garb), a common practice is actually women who sport a fake pregnancy all the while stuffing goods under their grossly expanded maternity tops. My mom thought she'd make an entertaining entrance for the meeting.

As for the wedding gown, it was the first random piece of clothing she could find big enough to fit. And she found it just plain funny.

"You're mom is so cool!" Tammie later exclaimed. She had insisted on walking my mom through the mall to her store in order to see the reactions on her coworkers faces. My dad and I, dignified as always, waited outside in the car.

It took another few years for me to realize just how much her personality had rub off on me. Certain times I've caught myself repeating her odd phrases or unintentionally impersonating her actions. As a child my mom and I were hardly very close, although looking back, even then we were more similar than we really knew at the time. Because when it comes down to it, my mom is just plain fun. And I often think that may be the greatest gene pool trait she could possibly have given me. Although I wouldn't have minded inheriting the boobs too.

Magic*

So my lovely friend Caitlin is currently residing in my home sweet home which is beyond magical to me. We're very similar souls and have known each other for many many years. 

Technically she is not my roommate. My second room is being rented out by the production company of a documentary i'm helping out with. The lead singer of the band being featured needs a room a few nights a month during production and the rest of the time, I have a spare room... enter Caitlin!

Right now we're laying around drinking coffee, writing stories and playing music. This is going to be a wonderful year!

The only political statement I will ever make...

I would never pretend to know anything about politics. I don't keep up with the debates, know little about the candidates, and basically vote democratic because it seems to be the less obnoxious of the two parties according to my peers.

However, I will make one statement regarding this past brouhaha for the democratic nomination. For as much as I know, I would have been fine with either Hillary or Obama taking the ticket. My only serious disappointment in Obama's success with the primaries is the unfair attitudes towards Hillary in the media and a tragic number of voters.

I'm not a stand on my soap box and preach equal rights kinda feminist however this election made me realize just how blase society is regarding gender prejudice. Attacks on Hillary were rarely to do with her actual politics and more to do with her sex. The wife of a former president, was she only worth electing to get Bill back in office? If she cried tears of joy or disappointment she was criticized for being an over emotive female. Put down for her dowdy suits or choice of hairstyle. Why is this ok?? Why is it that a country that can be so conscious of being racially accepting, not making stereotypical or prejudice remarks towards a black male candidate can so outwardly and unapologetically sexist. 

Its sad that this sort of discrimination and mindset is still so widely accepted.  Maybe Hillary isn't the best choice for presidency, but if thats true it certainly isn't because she may have menopausal mood swings during a UN meeting.

Stepping off my soap box now....

Counting Crows - Round Here

This song is me. Not in the lyrics or even the music particularly. There's no quote I could pull out and say it describes my life in the way that other songs so often do.

This song is me because it represents the birth of who I have become. This song was the beginning of the rest of my life. There is no other way to really define it otherwise.

Absence

I haven't written in a long time. At all. Not on my blog nor in general. Which is kind of painful for me to admit, because writing is really the thing I love. Or is it? Sometimes I think its just something that others have always told me that I'm good at, but not something I necessarily BELIEVE I have any right to do. 

"Oh I left my job and now I'm just writing," I tell the high school peers I run into in the park over the weekend. They're fascinated. They think that's so exciting of me. I think I'm just a total fraud. I know I haven't written anything worth being published, nor do I have the confidence to even attempt to get published.

I'm basically fucked.

An author I once worked with said that ideas are pretty much worth shit. Writing is all about the actual act of sitting down and typing. Which is why I can hardly claim to be a writer. Sure, the little bit of writing I do is fairly good. I imagine that if I keep going, with all the plans I have on where I want my story to go, I could have a pretty fucking awesome book. But I'm stuck on page three, not ready to go beyond because I'm afraid to be disappointed in what I actually leave on the paper. If I don't write it down, it exists only as this fabulous idea in my head. 

Which is shit. 

Sometimes working in publishing I would get annoyed. "I could write this book so much better!" I would whine about a bestselling chick lit novel. And maybe I could, hell I know I could... but I don't. That's the key. The difference between someone like me, who honestly does have the talent to write and the women writing some of the stupidest girl about town novels is that they actually sit down to type. All I do is complain that they suck.

I really need to start writing again. If only to show my parents that paying off my student loans is totally worth their hard earned money.

mylist cont'd

So i decided that I want to keep this blog site dedicating to myself, my writing, and all the things that only my family and friends who read this actually care about...

With that said, I am still totally 100% into my whole dating blog plans with CL and all the other singles events and such that could provide me with funny and entertaining writing fodder. But since I want that site to be something that the masses may find interest in, i've decided to make a new page dedicated to this project.

mylist

I just posted a dating "ad" on craigslist out of boredom and curiosity. Part of me thinks it'll be fun to go out with the freaks for writing fodder... is that totally scary of me?

Best responses may make the blog. Stay tuned! 

"Just a couple of painfully attractive Michigan kids trying to make a life in the big city" -About my buddy Kyle and me

i started "brooklyn"...

"D and B want me to meet them at a party in Brooklyn, should I go?"

"Honey," I replied. "There is no need to ever go to Brooklyn unless you're gonna get laid."

Thus, a catch phrase was born...

"How was your weekend?" "Totally went to Brooklyn... twice."

"Been to Brooklyn lately?"

"Its been a slow month, sticking around Manhattan, I need a trip to Brooklyn soon."

"Sorry i'm late for work, but i had to make a quick stop in Brooklyn."

When this hits the mainstream, just remember that I started Brooklyn. I should probably copyright it before Paris Hilton takes all the credit.

"Most people are together just so they are not alone. But some people want magic. I think you are one of those people." -Broken English

California, I'm Not Coming Home

I have this little habit. Whenever I go to California, I decide that I must immediately pack up and move there. There's sunshine and ocean, scenic drives and melting sunsets. There's also my tendency to find myself in unrealistic situations when I visit somewhere glamorous like LA. Somehow I end up there for the Oscars, at parties in the Hollywood Hills, sipping champagne at the Chateau Marmont, being escorted in a limo by a fashion icon. This is not bragging, I swear. I know full well that this would not be how my daily life would be if I were to make the move out west, and yet, something inside of me when I am there likes to think its possible. In the city of angels, you believe in anything.

When I get back to New York I snap out of the dream. Why, oh why, would I ever think that I could just pack up my life and move to a city that I don't really think I would ever fit in? 

This past December, the amazing Caitlin Krisko and I were flown out to LaLaLand for a charity benefit in Beverly Hills at which she was asked to perform. The famous Chateau became our homebase for the week. By the second evening C was performing in the hotel lobby to an audience of Ryan Gosling and Penelope Cruz. "Oh my goodness," we exclaimed over and over again, "we simply must live in LA!"

We got back and I got over it pretty quick. But how was I going to disappoint C and change our plans to hit the road?

Last week C ran into our music idol at a bar. She introduced herself and they got to talking about the industry and making it big. "Why in the world would you move to LA and start all over again? Are you fucking insane?" he asked.

C and I are staying in NYC. If you were worried, just thank the Counting Crows.

Violation

There was an incident in college where someone stole a blank check from my purse and cashed it for $800, an amount that I just barely had at the time. I noticed a week or so later when I deposited some money at the drive-through bank window and was given a total balance of the exact amount i had just deposited. I went inside, furious about my missing money. "It's because of this $800 check you wrote," the teller told me, pointing to a print out of my transactions.

At 21 years old I had never had reason to write a check for that much money EVER. Even Ann Arbor rent, which seemed abhorrent at the time was significantly less. Taking handwriting samples and making comparisons btw this check and all others I had written, they gave me the fraudulently spent $800 back. It was insured, nothing was investigated, and I forgot all about it.

My first year in New York my apartment was robbed. I was in Cannes, France for the film festival (which was already the absolute worst week of my life) when I got the frantic call from my roommate. "Did you get back early?" She asked. I assured her I had not. "Well, someone else trashed the apartment then." Gone was my lap top, video camera (with treasured video of London and Ryan, whom I had no contact with at the time), and the beautiful photography camera I had bought with all my childhood bonds. In all, several thousand dollars worth of electronics.

With no signs of forced entry, the whole thing was deemed an inside job, but really hardly anything the police had time to care about. I'm still paranoid about my front door and petrified of my fire escape.

Today I was doing some online banking only to discover that I was violated AGAIN. ATM charges taking out $300 at a time, over and over again last Tuesday. I'm a waitress, I carry cash at all times so ATM machines to me are a thing of the past. I frantically tried calling the bank. 

"Please press 1 if this is about your checking account."

"For your benefit, please enter your account number."

"To better serve you, please enter your social security information."

"Goodbye."

CLICK

After 5 unsuccessful attempts, I gathered my stuff and ran to my closest bank branch. Within the hour I had learned that someone, somehow got access to my debit account information and had taken out over $1000 at a cash machine in RUSSIA. What was someone in Russia doing with my card information? Especially since I have my actual card still in my wallet!

When the check was stolen, I stopped carrying my checkbook in my purse. When the apartment was robbed, I changed the locks and put in a super strength dead-bolt. But this time I don't know how to protect myself. I feel painfully violated in a really creepy way.

The Sullivan Street Renaissance

BEFORE:

                       

AFTER:

:                   

Even the Cavaliers were loving it!

Photo Magic*

My photos that inspire me: Africa edition

Revisiting

I have always been an artist of words in my own right. The page has always been my canvas of expression, even when it was merely in the childhood way of diary writing. I have about 10 full journals from my adolescence. Elementary school all fits in own single diary, the kind with a little lock on the side and a pretty poem on the front (which I happen to still remember even though this particular diary I haven't looked at in years, "Sometimes I like to be alone Thinking, dreaming on my own Trying to see what makes me, me Following my own special path").  Once I hit the more anguished years of middle school and beyond I filled at least one journal per year, often an entirely new one over summer break alone. I was trying to discover myself and I left the imprint in words.

I love to read my old journals. Sometimes they are hard to take in, the lack of confidence and petty dramatics of the teenage years are often comical, and yet painful to recall. If only I could go back and tell that younger self how little it would all mean one day. How easy it really is to just love yourself and know others will follow. There have been times over the last couple years, since finding myself in New York, that I've thought how much I wish my 7th grade self could only see me now.

There was a milk commercial when I was a child that I recall. Both a male and female version, with a gawky child feeling insecure as they gaze into the mirror. But their image ages a few years, and then a few more, encouraging the younger self about their future (which of course involves being beautiful and popular by drinking milk). I think about this commercial a lot, even years later. I read my old journals and wish so much I could assure that young self about her future. If only she could see me now...

To my younger self...

in love and saddness

It was early winter (or late fall depending on your personal perspective) when it ended. I should have known, should have felt the changing wind and understood that the seasons were not the only thing in my life growing cold quickly. Even now, years later, with the wisdom of time and knowledge of the way things would eventually turn out, the remembrance of that night still brings the salty burn of tears to my eyes.

I was at Denny's, chainsmoking cigarettes and drinking cup after cup of luke warm coffee. It was cheap though, open 24 hours and just far enough off campus to escape the scene which always developed at the university library or the central coffee shops. The fact that I could smoke my cigarettes while enjoying an endless supply of coffee for the bargain price of $1.50 was the main draw though. The perfect location for the procrastinating mind.

Jules and I were studying for our African American Press mid-term but all I could thank about was my own South African who had yet to make his nightly phone call. There was a knot in my stomach as I sat staring at my disturbingly silent cell sitting next to my open text book on the table. I pulled out another cigarette, trying to calm my nerves. Jules tried to reassure me that it was still early, only 9pm, there was no need to be upset. Unfortunately though, that made it 2am in London where he was living, which I knew was a bad sign. His bar closed at 11 and I always got a call not too long after, either from a phone box outside his work or the one near his flat.

Two nights before there had been a fight. Scared and insecure I sat in the cold solitude of my car, surrounded by the black night in tears. I can't do this anymore. I'm too afraid of losing you and terrified in loving you. Are you frightened too? Are you just as lost? Am I alone?

It was perhaps the first time I admitted outloud that I feared our love may not be enough.

To be continued...

Things I love today

Six word memoirs from Smith Magazine

The work of the amazing artists from the Art Department

Fashion Week updates from NY Magazine

A good old fashion cup of coffee... mmmm...

6 Word Memoirs

Everyone has a story and obviously everyone wants that story told.

When I was home over Thanksgiving my mom and I visited my brother's 5th grade class (my brother being their teacher). We had just gotten new puppies and the kids were bouncing all over themselves with excitement to pet the furry babies. And they all had their own story they were desperate to tell.

"I have a cousin that has a dog like this... well not really like this one cause its actually white not black, and its a lot bigger than this but its a dog... and one time i got to play with it and it was so cute. Like this one."

"My friend's brother wanted to get a dog but he couldn't so he got a turtle."

"I once had a puppy but it bit someone. And it wasn't really my puppy but my neighbors puppy but i liked to pretend it was mine cause it was cute and i really never had a puppy cause my dad is allergic but i did have a cat and my dad wasn't allergic to that at first but then one day he sneezed so then we thought he was allergic afterall maybe..."

The stories went on and on and within 5 minutes my head was exploding with stories that these kids were convinced were just about the most important stories i had probably ever heard. Because doesn't everyone think their story is as vital to everyone else as it is to themselves? i keep a totally self indulgent blog filled with information that pretty much has nothing to do with anyone other than myself so i know how these kids feel...

There's a tale that Ernest Hemmingway was once prompted to write a story using only 6 words. His response, “For sale: baby shoes, never worn.”

Maybe we should all start trying to tell our stories with this in mind instead.

My roommate came up with this one over breakfast, the story of her life is 6 words:
"It is all my parents fault"

To sum up my own life, i've come up with just this:
"I still don't have the answers"

Today I am productive...

Well... kind of...

While I am not actually doing any of the work I get paid to do, I have accomplished a number of little things that I have been putting off for some time now.

This morning I took the puppy out, twice. She still has not figured out that she is supposed to "go potty" (according to the books, they need a specific code always used to tell them when to go, and this somehow has become mine) anywhere other than my kitchen floor. This morning I stuck on shoes and a coat over my pajamas so I could get her outdoors before he little feet could ever even touch the floor. Bed to front of the building we ran. Outside I thought for sure this would be the moment we'd been waiting for, there was no way she could resist her first thing in the morning release! Much to my disappointment she just hopped around like a kindergarten kid begging the teacher for a bathroom pass before he wets his brand new jeans. The second we got back to the apartment the floodgates opened... why couldn't she have done that outdoors?? Alright, so maybe the first pee of the day will have to be on the wee-wee pad, but I was confident for round two, the after she eats her breakfast round. This time I went more prepared with a pad she already used so she could at least pick up her scent. Out the door we went and again it was to no avail. I quit.

Then there is the whole me wanting to be a writer thing. Unfortunately I never know what to write about other than myself and how interesting can that really be to anyone other than myself on a semi-regular basis? "Getting Personal in Print" will apparently teach me how to make my stories more engaging to others! So next time I'm trying to wax poetic about the boy that got away or my dog's potty training stats, there will be no emotional barriers, no walls between my thoughts and the blank page to overcome. Mostly though I'm doing it out of relative boredom.

So, in my world actually doing those two things has made my day into something more than a waste. I think i'm becoming even more pathetic than I feared....

To ignorance's bliss

I left my job in an effort to "be a writer" which at this point means nothing because if what i'm currently doing with my time consists of "being a writer" there must be a hell of a lot of so-called writers out there writing absolutely nothing at all. Which probably has some truth to it actually.

The hardest thing about writing is forcing yourself to get to it. A blank page is like a shark infested pool (and not just any sharks, but more like the ones with laser beams coming out of their heads like in Austin Powers) and you just stare and stare thinking "why would anyone in their right mind jump right into this?" which is actually nothing like writing anymore but the point is that figuring out what to put onto a page is just plain scary. Because once its there, it exists.

I've always been an ignorance is bliss kinda girl. What I don't know will never hurt me so I like to stay one foot away from crossing any threshold. If I don't apply for jobs then I can't get rejected from them. If I don't let myself get into relationships then no one can break up with me. If I don't write anything at all then I can keep on pretending that all these thoughts and grandoise ideas in my mind will actually lead to something amazing. If I don't fail then I can still pretend i'm talented.

Ignorance is a lonely road. And a boring one.