"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:

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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...