The Examined Life

The millions of sperm that were racing toward the egg as the frantic game of chance that would eventually be called "Jane" was happening. It was scary how close some sperm (an entirely different set of possibilities for future Jane) got, but failed, leaving one lucky little fragment of chromosome to fertilize the egg. Jane was conceived.

Her mother, Dora, was a healthy black woman. She had won the genetic gene pool lottery with her own set of incredible fortunes. Dora was smart, pretty, tall, slim, she had straight white teeth and a strong immune system. Her husband, Rodger, was an affable white male (also a winner of the gene pool) with a full head of hair, a deep voice, and broad shoulders. Both parents were wealthy and both lived in a first world country. Jane was not even born yet and through the unbelievably small routes of the endless possibilities, she beat out the other possible "Janes" or, even, "Joes" that could have been born to Dora and Rodger and quickly, and with healthy progress, grew in the womb.

Dora gave birth with little complications as she was in a hospital with well trained nurses and attentive doctors. Given all the possibilities of birth defects, the 1 out of every 100,000 births that could be disaster for some reason or another, the slip of a shaking hand to cause brain damage, the danger of an umbilical cord; Jane was born beautiful, a healthy weight of 7 pounds 6 ounces.

Jane grew up in a healthy family environment. Dora was attentive, Rodger was supportive and thoughtful. The schools in their first world were good and cheap and Jane was sent to learn without the fear of war or starvation. As Jane learned about her world she took for granted the amazing luck that dictated her a member of the elite 20% of humans on the planet who live above the poverty line, and in the top 15% of humans who live in a first world country. She read about the people in poor countries who starved, died of malnutrition, died in conflict, died due to curable diseases, and suffered daily due to a lack of clean water. Jane had no concept of what that felt like. She never knew what it meant to be really hungry or really scared; she had hot food every day, and clean sheets to sleep in.

As Jane grew into an attractive, healthy, smart, young woman she began, with impunity, to learn all the subjects she wanted to learn about. She studied philosophy, art, music, and writing. Because of the time in history she was born in she was not ridiculed or scorned for being half white or being a woman. Jane's good grades and supportive parents got her into a university that was well respected.

Indeed, as Jane got older, her possibilities seemed only to expand. She was good at everything she put her mind to. Jane's skills were strong and she graduated with top marks, landing her a job with a well respected company.

Every day, as she commuted via a well groomed public transportation system, Jane unconsciously avoided the endless deaths that could have killed her at any minute. The small miracle of crossing the street to her job, the police who stalked the streets for mad gunmen, the planes that didn't crash on to her, even the meteor that missed earth by hundreds of thousands of miles, all gave Jane another day to live as a well fed, educated, employed, single woman.

Jane had many interests. She loved going to concerts and watching her favorite band play. She enjoyed art openings, and loved museums. In her free time, Jane would volunteer for a weekend or two, to watch the children of poor families as they parents went to trade school. As time went on, incalculable possibilities added up as well. The odds that Jane would run into Tom while walking the child she was watching across the street were staggering. Tom didn't mean to be on that street, he was lost, and when he ran into Jane he was embarrassed and in a momentary lack of ego, asked directions to the building he needed that was no where near where he needed to be.

Tom was his own set of miracles. Born in a third world country in Africa, Tom's parents had struggled their whole lives to bring Tom into a place of health and security. Tom was born small, a tiny baby of 5 pounds 7 ounces due to his mother's lack of nutrition and food. The country Tom's family lived in was being torn apart by civil war and every day from day one was a struggle for him and his family. The odds of his mother being raped her high, his father being killed were higher, and Tom and his four sisters worked hard to make life bearable. Because Tom had the luck of being born male, he was able to apply for a visa to the first world that he now found himself in. Tom used every resource to get himself away from the embittered battle that his country was floundering in and get himself to the nirvana that was where he was so he could raise enough money to bring the rest of his family over.

Tom wasn't hit by a bus on his way over to that street he was lost on, Tom wasn't struck dead by a brain aneurism, Tom knew english due to an incredible amount of luck when he first got to the new country and met a volunteer teacher who agreed to help him learn. Tom had even taken a shower that morning (which he didn't normally do) and smelled great because he had a job interview to go to.

When Jane bumped into Tom she was startled by him. Jane was 26, and had dated many men. She spent long periods of time talking about men, she wrote journals about the man she wanted to end up with. And when her bag fell on the floor as she knocked into Tom while, in a strange set of circumstantial possibilities they were both looking in the opposite direction as they collided, she realized she had met someone special.

Across the city, this kind of circumstantial meeting was happening at different times and for different people. In a library, a mile away, strangers Kim and Joey met and began a life long relationship. Stacy and Lilly met in a line for a coffee and wound up becoming best friends. Bill and Kip met while sitting on the public transportation and were lovers that night. All these meetings, culminating in a relationship with a stranger, were the result of so many chances, so many infinite possibilities that could have failed, but didn't.

Jane, 15 years later, reflected on how amazingly lucky she felt to have had the fortune of all of life's chances in her favor. The odds of meeting Tom, her husband, to have lived as long as she had, to have the job she worked hard in, and the opportunities that felt like luck. It all seemed so magical that even in the momentary lapses of her life where she wondered what her purpose was and how she could really make herself and others happy, she remembered just how slim the odds were that she even existed, when decades prior, her entire existence was left to the race of a sperm fertilizing an egg. Life was incredible, and just as delicate. Perhaps the only reason it exists at all is due to unbelievable odds. Jane examined her sleeping son, Dan, and smiled at the thought that her life seemed so blessed.

American-Hyphenated

"So, you're saying that if we, hypothetically, decided to move to New Zealand and I became a citizen there, I'd still have to pay taxes to the US on what I earned in another country?" I asked in total shock.

Jackson scrutinized his phone and re-read the BBC article again. "Yeah, I think that's what they're saying." He answered, looking up at me. "And if I get my citizenship here, I'll have to as well."

I fumed as I leaned back into the couch. Do other countries do that? Or just Amurricah?

Jackson glanced at his phone again before musing: "How many Americans have passports? According to the article over 1,100 people gave up their citizenship due to the new tax laws."

Huh? How can you be born here in the U.S., live somewhere else, then decide that legally you don't want to be a citizen anymore? My mind blew apart with the idea. "Give up your citizenship? Just like that!?" I cried. "I was born and raised here in New York. I am American to the marrow of my bones, and in this day and age, I can move to another country and renounce my citizenship!? What the very fuck!?" Crazy!

Jackson looked at me with amusement, then said "Guess how many U.S. citizens have a passport? 115 million!" I chewed over the idea. Only a third of Americans have their passport...

"How many New Zealanders have theirs?" I asked.

"75%." Jackson responded. "Oh! And there are more Americans living abroad than there are New Zealanders in the whole world." Jackson laughed. "6 million Americans are living abroad and 4.5 million New Zealanders exist."

My mind was still reeling. "I could give up American citizenship if I am a citizen of New Zealand. I could say: 'I am no longer an American.' Even though: I am no matter what. How? How does that work? That's like saying I am no longer a white woman. I am. I will always be, even if I lived in another country for 30 years, I'd still be an American!" Jackson nodded. You'll always be a New Zealander no matter what. I thought, looking at my boyfriend and then thinking back to the conversation I had the night before with a buddy of mine. We were walking and talking about accents.

"My girlfriend's sister has lived in London for years and has a bastardized American-British accent and as much as she denies she's taken on the local accent, she kinda' has. But, she'll never be a fully accented local, she'll always have her American-isms. Also like British-Mike. He's been here for years, but still talks with an English lilt." My friend said. "No matter what, you'll never be full-on local. You'd be American-hyphenated."

I'd be American-hyphenated no matter what I did with my passport. "More things to think about if we decided to move." I told Jackson. He nodded.

"It's amazing to me that we're still defining ourselves by country." He responded. "People move around so much and will continue to do so. The concept will start to make less and less sense. "

Yeah... what about all the dual citizen babies out there? All the kids that will be born in the next ten years. How many of them will be dual or tri-citizens? How do you define where they are from!? That's an interesting idea. Maybe the concept of country vs. country will start to dissolve in the next few generations. I mean, Europe is already doing it. There are certain rules that the EU as a whole must abide by and there are still separate countries with separate rules, but the EU passport gets you mobility anywhere there. Why shouldn't the international community eventually adopt that idea? In which case, I guess the idea of taxes might be more universal? Or maybe more of a fair ideal? Who knows.

"Right you are." I said with as much of a New Zealand inflection as I could.

Help Desk

Hi. Can I help you?

Yeah. I'm looking for a clue.

Ok, we have a variety of those. Is there a genre you're interested in?

Um. I was leaning toward Grad School?

Ah! School Advice. That's a popular one. We have:
"Should I Go to School? Vol. 1-15"
"Liberal Arts Grad School and You: Advice on How to Get Poor Quick"
"Delaying Real Life For a Degree."
"My Parents Hate That I'm an Actor"
and "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." Do any of these titles work for you?

Yes. Actually. The "I Don't Know What Else To Do So I'm Gonna Go To School... Again." sounds like my cup of tea.

Ok. Just be forewarned: it's a how-to guide, not a "10 Commandments" kind of book.

Yeah, I just need a guide? I'm looking for a clue, not an answer.

Ok, great. Then I think this book will work for you. May I ask, what Graduate school program were you thinking?

An MFA in Creative Non-Fiction.

Oh, interesting! I think you'd do well with that.

You do? What gives you that impression?

You look like you have a lot on your mind. You look smart. Your family values education, and your boyfriend already has a second degree, no?

How do you know?

You also write a lot, a blog, and you read a lot, and I'll bet you constantly say to yourself: "I could have written that better."

...Yes. I do.

Don't get me wrong, but I think this is a bit of a no-brainer.

Like, you're saying I should go to grad school and get an MFA in writing? And spend 2 more years in New York City and take on debt for a seemingly innocuous degree?

You used the word "Innocuous" in that last sentence: I think that says it all. You've got talent that your mother says you've possessed since you first learned to put pencil to paper. You'll thrive with the training.

But, this book? This'll help me get a clue, right?

I don't think you need a clue, Natalie.

Who are you?! How do you know this about me?

I'm just the lady behind the Help Desk counter of your sub-conscious, Natalie. I've always been here, and always will. You can take the book if you want, but I don't think there's anything in there you don't already know.

Wow. Thanks. I'll... Give this some real thought.

Okay! Come back if you need more advice or more clues!

Well, actually? Since I'm here... I was looking for a clue about long-term international relationships with members of the opposite sex.

Great! I have a bunch of those... looks like you could use a few.

How to Move in

The 10 step guide: How to Move in to Your New Place.

Step 1:

FREAK OUT!

Step 2:

Calm yourself. Take some deep breaths. Call your mother.

Step 3:

Have Mom and some friends over and watch, in a slight stupor, as they pick up your life and move it somewhere else.

Step 4:

Go on vacation with a friend for a week and a half. Forget about how upside down everything is for a while.

Step 5:

Go back to your new address from your break and FREAK OUT.

Step 6:

Do some thumb sucking, slink around pulling on your baby blanket, and then start throwing stuff out.

Step 7:

Begin unpacking. Wipe down furniture. Move couches around. Drill holes to hang pictures.

Step 8:

Tell yourself: "This is my new home." And repeat.

Step 9:

Spread the word! The new place is wonderful and you all should come see it! (When it's finished...)

Step 10:

Come back after a long shift at work, trip on your own pair of shoes that you left by the door, then sigh with relief when you lie down in what now feels like your own bed.

This is what home feels like.

Seattle

We stood on the pier and watched how the clouds hugged the mountains in the distance. The grey sky hung low, giving the impression that the sun had disappeared and gone somewhere far away to shine on smiling faces. I felt gloomy. The grey bay looked cold, the seagulls looked tired, the dark green of the firs stood in silent witness, and I wanted to leave. I leaned over the side of the damp stone wall and stared at the horizon knowing somewhere the sunset must be having a brilliant show that I couldn't see. I looked over at my friend, Jen, who also looked somewhat forlorn. Day 7 of our West Coast trip had landed us on the edge of Seattle with nothing but clouds to greet us. I shivered, feeling autumn prematurely and thinking of how warm a sun ripened apple, fresh off a tree, would feel compared to this.

There were a flock of birds twisting around the sky above our heads, their choreography simple and beautiful as they swooped in and out of formation. I watched them for a while, letting my mind wander.  I thought of how this trip may be the last one I take as a single unit, thinking to the plans I have in the future with my boyfriend. I thought of the friends I have back home I haven't seen in a while and wondered how they were. I thought of my family and how I was here without them. To my left a ferris wheel circled, its slow and steady movement a metaphor for a clock that reminded me of how much older I felt despite only turning 26 a few days ago.

Then, as if Jesus Christ stood up suddenly from the earth, the clouds ripped open over the ridge of the mountain peaks and a crack of the brightest orange-pink I had ever seen shot toward me. The entire horizon erupted into a golden pink, the like I had never seen before. The grays and blues of the bay were transformed and I was standing at what looked like the entrance to Candy Land. There were big blobs of whipped cream clouds, frothy dollops of ice cream covered with strawberry glaze, mounds of chocolate, sticks of peppermint, and a healthy dose of melted caramel. I jumped up and down and pointed. "Look! Look at the sun!" Excitedly, I raised my phone up to my eyes to capture the wonder (because who would believe I found the entrance to Candy Land?) and my phone squinted its eyes and said it couldn't take a photo.

I looked over at Jen who was having the same argument with her camera. She looked at me and sighed.  "There's no way we can capture that on these." She said. I nodded. I smiled, the sun changing the face of the entire world. We both looked out again at the blazing spectacle and stood there until the pinks began to turn purple. I looked up at the birds again, still busily swooping around. The air felt wet and chilly again. I hugged my arms for warmth.

"Lets go back to the Hotel." I suggested, looking back at Jen. She nodded and we turned to leave the waterfront. I wish I knew a better way to capture Seattle, I thought as we climbed up a flight of steps to street level. On the way back to hotel, I looked at the people on the street and then realized they all must have had a small glimpse of the beauty we saw to use as succor when the nights are cold, damp and gray. Huh, cool. I thought. But, I can't wait to get back to a place that has more sun than that.

The Blast-Off to Mugu Beach

People are walking fast, then slow, then there are tourists who don’t seem to be walking at all. The buildings that surround the street like a canyon are all flashing bright signs that move and wiggle causing even the most dedicated foot watcher to look up every so often in the anticipation of some pepsi can falling on their head. Looking down 7th avenue, the giant buildings crowd themselves to the sides of the street for what looks like miles, giving the impression that my tiny body is as significant and fragile as an ant; passing along like the other ants in a desperate rush for food, water, and a place to shit. 

There are moments, however, that I look up at the sky instead of the din of mid-town and see the sunset. The bright gold of the sun splashing across the windows and glinting its way down to street level. The light is so bright, that even the neon billboards are paled in comparison: muted in a reverence to the holy light of nature. The sky becomes purple, pink, crimson, and orange; and the dark spires of the tall sky-scrapers are lit up by the spectacle, looking more like a work of art by contrast than the scary spikes of a pig pen. 

It is in these moments that I wish I could somehow plant jet packs to the bottom of my feet and blast off of the face of the earth and follow the sun. I imagine myself pushing a button and growing the jet packs, then looking around in distaste at all that is around me, before crouching into a jump position and, within seconds, I’m atmosphere bound. The earth would fall away from my feet like I was scrolling off a page in google earth. I’d watch as where I had once been becomes small and the sun rises from the horizon to greet me, and then I’d turn west. 

Last night I sat on Mugu beach outside Los Angeles and congratulated myself on a job well done. The earth had fallen away that day and I had left New York in perfect timing to see the sun rise over Manhattan, then set over the endless Pacific. Sitting still to the sound of the rocks being raked against the sand, the wet air from the ocean spray had made me chilly, so I was wrapped in a towel snacking on raw carrots and sugar snap peas and wondering how I got so lucky. 

Miley Cyrus

My jaw dropped. Out came Miley, slinking her way down a giant teddy bear, wearing a one piece teddy-tard (instead of leotard) with a bear's face that looked like he'd just swallowed acid and was tripping balls. Miley didn't look too far behind, wagging tongue and rolling her eyes as she bounced around on stage at the MTV Video Music Awads (VMA's) screaming: "Let me hear you make some noise!" I wanted to make noise, but couldn't find words to express the sickening feeling in my gut.

What must have been millions of dollars, months of work, hundreds of people coordinating, and years of talent and experience (I'm talking the back-up dancers and stage managers who managed to pull this off) seemed to fizzle into the obnoxious gyrating of a buttless, entitled, 20 year old. I felt totally sorry for the people who were paid vast sums of money (yet not nearly as much as Miley must have gotten) who were there to witness the tacky and tasteless spectacle of a song-we've-already-heard-a-million-times get played yet again by a now even more naked Miley who ripped off the weird teddy-tard and opted for a tight, gold, spandex, bathing suit.

Then: as if the performance couldn't get more ridiculously stupid, another artist came on in a 70's style black and white suit, singing out of key, only to have the now nearly naked Cyrus bend over and rub her tiny butt on his balls. Oh yeah: fluffy, forgettable, entertainment at its styrofoam peak.

I stared at the screen long after the clip was done, wondering what I should think about all of what I just saw. My feminist side was screaming: "That just set us back by 20 years!"

My intellectual side screamed: "That whole thing said nothing but a 'big booty-big booty' song and a back-with-buns white chick just humped a man twice her age; where's the originality!?"

My young, 20-something side said: "Can't wait to see how Buzz-Feed will rip her a new asshole for that piece of hot, steamy trash"

More than anything, though, I felt deeply confused. Every year we've got songs, movies, ads and messages passed around about how to promote education, equality, respect for other humans, etc. Then, as if hurling a massive hot turd in the face of all of that, a Disney created princess (Miley Cyrus was originally a teeny-bopper 'you-go-girl!' chick back in the early 2000's) turns into a bleached, garlic-knot-haired, sex fiend whose sole purpose is to suck on the balls of trashy pop and give clearly misguided advice to young women about how to dance with the guy singing badly behind you while performing at a concert.

Did she win, however? She got me riled enough to write a post about her crotch-grabbingly bad performance. Isn't that the point, after all? Bad press is still good press, when you need views and can get people watching. And talent doesn't have to be present in the performer: all the hundreds of people it took to make Miley the lead are the real winners, having created a show so bad it'll be talked about for weeks; maybe even making its debut in a SNL sketch.

I just hope, sincerely, that my generation can watch something that atrocious and think: "Hilarious! Stupid! Can't wait to make fun of that hot bag of garbage!"

Instead of: "Where can I get a gold bikini like that? And that guy need to get his tiny penis right in between my sweet buns."

Gross.

Hand Written

He slid the note across the bar, then looked up at me. I picked up the small piece of paper and squinted in the dark.

"The people in this room are putting me in a bad mood. :( " The note said.

I smiled and nodded my understanding back at him. I pulled out my pen and shot back: "Tell me about it. There are some tables tonight that are SO annoying!" By the time I finished writing, he had walked away to deal with a problem with the sound board, so I left the piece of paper on his clip-board and walked away, my words clinging in perpetuity to the small yellow note. I felt a little nervous about the ink laying open to any eyes. Rarely now do I long hand anything I mean to show... and to see my hand writing with the incriminating evidence of my dislike of the people I was serving, laying out on the table like a naked person, made me anxious. My co-worker walked back over to the note, glanced at it, smiled, then crumpled it up and threw it out.

Message: Deleted.

Hand written words are rarer than ever, now. I look at the words I write in my journal and marvel at their uniqueness, each day being different. When looking at handwritten letters, I can glean a certain mood from the person who wrote the words down, like their DNA is also resting in the shape of the letter "Y" they wrote or that the way they spelled my name is an indication of their hope.

As if someone planned the evening with the subject: "Special Letters To You", I got home and my boyfriend, Jackson, had a piece of mail waiting with both of our names on it. It was from New Zealand, where his family lives. "I didn't open it because it has both our names on it." He stated. "I think it's from my parents."

"You open it." I said, when he handed the mail to me.

He tore open the envelope and revealed a hand written letter, penned by his mother. He read aloud. I stared at the words. This was such a treat! She took time to physically manifest her ideas to us. This letter took time to fly across the oceans and land here, in our bedroom, in New York City. The letter was very sweet, she mentioned how excited she was to meet me when I go visit in December, and wished us the best with the move. I touched the paper she had touched and felt like I knew her more than I thought I had when we met over Skype, for the first time, a few weeks ago.

Jackson held out the note and studied it. "We'll need to keep this." He said.

"Save it for an album!" I exclaimed, excited to have a physical piece of evidence to show someone, someday. I thought of all the electronic mementos I have and wondered how to make them special while still trapped inside a screen. "We'll need to write her back." I  mused, already imagining what my signature would look like on the note, and wondering how long it would take to get back to New Zealand and what I would say. Times New Roman font wouldn't be able to mask my right hand, and spell check wouldn't be able to keep me on top of the grammatical errors I am sure to have.

The instant message I got earlier in the evening rang in my ears, and I suddenly wished I could have saved that note: a perfectly honest opinion of what the current event was, gone forever; no auto-save, no pictures, yet more of an impact than any text or whisper.

Mirrored Life

The queen sized bed we share is facing a mirror on the wall. Every morning, as the sun bounces off the buildings on the other side of the alley our room faces and comes streaming in, I wake up and in my periphery see myself moving. I find mirrors fascinating because the reflection is the original TV, the broadcast of up-to-the-milisecond news. Just look in a mirror for the latest looks of the day, see what the local celebrity is wearing and check out the state of affairs in your neck of the woods...

This morning, I shot out of bed with the usual panic of "I don't know what time it is and I need to know RIGHT NOW" and caught myself in the mirror. The soft light of the mid-morning sun gave me a glow and my puffy, mascara smudged face stared back at me. I felt very surprised. When was the last time I really looked at myself? Maybe it was the blurr of semi-consciousness, or the slight hangover from all the vodka I drank the night before, but I couldn't help but stare at my face and body. My boyfriend lay asleep next to me, his soft inhales and exhales being the only sound in the room other than the slight din from New York's ever moving traffic; he was completely unaware that I was indulging in my narcissism. My hair was disheveled, my tank top askew, my pink underwear holding my crotch together and my legs tumbling out from under me as I leaned against an empty wall; I looked like a woman.

I'm about 2 weeks away from turning 26, and also two weeks away from moving in completely and cutting my first rent check on the apartment I will share with my boyfriend. I find it ironic that all of these changes are occurring right at my birthday. Birthdays are not indicative of change, necessarily, right? They are simply markers that you have achieved another year of life. Yet, as I enter my late twenties I am shifting into a completely different chapter of existence. On my 23rd birthday, I moved into my apartment in Sunnyside, and now I'll be in another apartment with a boyfriend as a room mate.

I leaned over to my right and glanced out of the doorway of the bedroom and into the living room which is stacked with my stuff. Books, clothing, shoes, blankets, and mementos all leaning this way and that, as if drunk with their recent move. They whispered their reminder that, indeed, they will have to be sorted and put away at some point. I glanced back at the "Natalie Hour" that was on the mirror screen and noticed a somewhat nervous looking woman picking at her fingers. Whoops. Change the channel.

I picked up my journal and dumped some rather cheesy poem about my breasts on the pages before deciding to wake up my boyfriend with a barrage of kisses. Leaning in to his sleeping frame, I glanced at the movement in the mirror and saw only the fluttering of shadows and an empty wall reflecting back. Channel: changed.

Sophie in Memoriam

She was sitting under the dining room table shivering when I walked in. I didn't really know what to expect, really. I knew she would be small, but I didn't know just how small, nor did I have any clear idea of what a Dachshund looked like up close. I had seen a few of them in the street, but to have a reddish, brown, short haired one sitting like a starving, beaten child under a table was an entirely different matter. I went over to reach my hand in and touch her long nose. Mom stopped me. "She may nip at you, sweetie. She's pretty scared."

"Why is she under the table?" I asked. Why not a bed? or the couch?

"She was in the pen for longer than most dogs. I think she finds the legs and ceiling of the table comforting." Mom mused, crossing her arms and staring at the tiny brown dog.

I stared. She looked anxious. I assumed she'd probably come out of that and grow to be comfortable. I was wrong. Almost her whole life Sophie was an anxious wreck, shivering like a leaf when scared and furrowing her little doggie brows at the first sign of danger; which happened to be everywhere. The only time she seemed to relax was at home, on the lap of a male, or when running through a large empty field of grass out in the suburbs.

I felt similar to how the dog felt the first day I met her. My life seemed to be in upheaval as well: I was going through puberty, my home had been ruined by a massive fire, I was living in a new place with a new father figure dating my mother, and I was dealing with the loss of the conventional idea of family as I had known it; my parents being recently divorced.

We'd never had a dog until that point. I remember hearing about Mom getting Sophie for Step-dad, Jim's birthday and feeling a deep seeded need to be loyal to cats. CATS ARE BETTER! My mind would guiltily cry whenever I found myself petting Sophie and marveling at her ability to fit so comfortably in my lap. I had grown up with two different cats by that point... one nasty asshole cat named Ripper who loved to scratch tiny hands and bite small fingers reaching out to caress a tail. Ripper gained his name from the brutal way he dealt with the rodent problem in the building I spent the first 11 years of life in. Nermal, our second cat, was a calico-loner. A cat so totally uninterested in what was going on that the only time I felt a sense that she cared was when she was hungry. Otherwise, to pet Nermal was to catch her at a moment of rest and then tentatively stroke her back only long enough for her to tolerate before she'd swipe at the hand with her declawed paw.

Sophie the dog was a treat compared to the cats! She allowed us to pet her, pick her up, and nap with her. When young, she loved to play with the cat, allowing Nermal to torture her with hits to the face and a flicking tail. At first enemies: the two soon became companions, both rubbing their traits off on to each other until Sophie walked (and jumped) like a cat; and Nermal learned to beg for food like a dog, meowling with fervor whenever a delicious piece of steak was being devoured by the family at dinner.

Sophie was stubborn, refusing to come when called unless the call held a promise of food. She LOVED food (any flavor or ilk), getting into some serious trouble whenever my sister or I would accidentally leave candy lying around, leaving Jim to moan "Who left the m&m's on the table!? Sophie just ate half a bag! She'll have diarrhea for a week, girls!" And my favorite: "Oh my GOD. Sophie got into Nermal's litter. GROSS. She must have eaten a dozen turds!"

Near the end of her life Sophie mellowed out, allowing herself to get picked up more, and relaxing a bit whenever in new environments and not being so anxious all the time. She was a great travel companion and a wonderful sleeping buddy. Although her breath got so bad it smelled like someone farted in the room, she was a great friend to have around whenever the apartment was empty.

She'll be sorely missed, her absence feeling more like a loss of a human family member than any of the voids left by the cats. Her personality was infectious: always running to the door to say hello whenever we got home, and jumping with joy at the sound of a walk outside (until she realized how anxious it made her to be outside!) and being such a quiet, warm little being to tell secrets to. It is with a heavy heart that we say goodbye to such a great friend who lived with us for 14 years, providing my family with much needed love and support through such large changes in our own lives. Her passing is the end of an era.

Rest in Peace, Sophie.

Moving

A thin layer of dust had covered the handle. When was the last time I opened this drawer? I thought, running my finger over the dust and drawing a smiley face. It has been over a week since I stayed in my bedroom, and it's no secret. My clothing lies in unkept piles and my objects of no importance are strewn hither and yon in the frenzy I create when I've visited briefly the last few weeks. I looked around at my room and wondered at what point a room is no longer mine, but just a memory: a snapshot of what was once considered wholly mine and is now more of a place holder in the timeline of change.

I've decided that I will be moving in with the Boyfriend. The Musician is now going to be the Roommate. Now that a date is chosen (sept. 1st for the official move-in) I'm in limbo. My stuff is in two different places and I am reminded of when my parents were divorced and I had to carefully plan where I would have my stuff during the week. If I left a textbook at my Dad's on the West Side of Manhattan, it was a major pain-in-the-ass to go back over there and get it before heading to my Mother's on the East Side. I always kept a backpack packed with papers, books, special bras or underwear I wanted to wear in case I wanted it and couldn't easily get to it until Monday next week. Now, 15 years later, I'm finding myself in a very similar situation. Slowly, the piles of my stuff are accumulating at his apartment and every time I return to my room I need to carefully choose what stuff I want to take with me and have just in case I want it later.

I've never lived with a boyfriend before. The idea of coming back to an apartment that is only occupied with someone I love to see and then get naked around makes me excited. My whole life I've shared a space with other people: Mom, Dad, Sister, room mates, visitors, etc. that I've lived with out of necessity. This time, I'm sharing my space with someone who is carefully chosen and selected out of a pool of worthy candidates and is not only living with me, but sharing a bed with me! We'll have to navigate groceries, rent, saving for that special piece of furniture, travel, and the occasional disagreement. He'll be family, friend, lover, room mate, and guardian all in one! What a concept!

Our stuff. Our home. Our dirt. Our food. "Ours" rings through my head every time I come back to My room and look at the stuff sitting unused and covered in neglect. This is what grown-up's do, so I'm told, yet I can't help feeling like I did at 13 when I caravanned my worldly goods around on my back and made the best out of two very different spaces to live in. I'm in limbo until the 1st, dreaming about a world where almost all things are combined and a place to call "home" is not necessarily a place, but the person I will be building it with.

Acceptance of What Is

We were sitting in the cafe we usually sit in. He was sipping his medium iced coffee and reading the latest updates of whatever it was on his phone. He looked up at me, "You ever read cracked.com?"

I looked up from my phone. "Sometimes."

"There's an interesting article on happiness." He said. "I'll read it to you." And he began.

Listening, I couldn't help but feel a sense of immense gratitude flood me. Here we were: sipping our drink of choice, on a leisurely afternoon in the middle of the week, whilst reading a freely written article on our expensive smart phones. We are not married, we're college educated, and neither one of us has any serious commitment to anything. The article went in to detail about how Happiness is not a destination, but a state of being that one goes in and out of. It is a place that one visits on occasion, but can't fully exist in all the time. There is no "When I do this, I will live happily ever after" because there is no happily ever after.  The article also went on to talk about how attachment to material things was in fact the quickest road to unhappiness as the immediate effect of having something new and shiny is rubbed away the minute that new thing is dented, scratched, or replaced by a newer model. Happiness is found more in experiences and anticipation than anything else.

I thought to the wallet and expensive sunglasses that were recently stolen from me. I had spent two hours at the DMV yesterday getting the replacement Drivers License, but honestly: it was all stuff in the end, no? I got my credit cards in the mail and cancelled all my other ones. Now, a week later, my old wallet is gone, but I've replaced everything in it: so no big deal.

My boyfriend kept reading. I listened to his voice as I looked out the window and watched Astoria walk past. The sky was cloudy with what looked like rain and I felt totally comfortable on my stool fingering my now empty plastic cup.

I thought to last night when I spent the evening with friends I hadn't seen in months. We were catching up, chatting about what our lives were like, cheering for our successes and laughing empathetically about our failures. This group of twenty-something people collectively nibbling fresh food, drinking red wine, and openly showing affection for each other despite being male or female or black or white or American or not. I thought to how lucky we all were, and how so many people are not. Is that happiness? To know what could be and what is?

I briefly thought to the wallet I lost and the sunglasses that are on someone else's head. My thoughts were interrupted by my boyfriend finishing the article. "So I guess the best thing is to spend time with people you love and to help others." He said. I nodded. Coming back to the present moment.

"I love you." I said. Smiling.

He leaned in and kissed me. "I love you, too."

We got up and left, throwing away our cups and walking hand in hand. Life is good.

On Writing

Two years ago I was absolutely certain that I would be an actress for ever and ever. Now, however, I find myself wistfully comparing myself to the work of David Sedaris and feeling that, given a little polish, I could write like that.

Where did this change come from? And why was my mother right?

I spent hours playing Barbies with my sister. We came up with an entire universe filled rules that governed the hapless lives of the barbie and ken dolls. Most of the time I drove the plot of the story, acting out characters and scenarios as my sister gracelessly chewed on the rubber foot of her favorite doll. I've written in a journal since I figured out how to put pen to paper. My whole life is now documented in pictures, short paragraphs and pages of words and symbols. I started this blog two years ago and now have two hundred published posts and 20 thousand hits. My Mother, in her mother-y wisdom, saw this creative streak in me and predicted long ago that I would wind up with a pen in my hand. I, however, was hell bent on being the next Sandra Bullock: so there. Take that Mom.

Now I see that the joke's on me.

In an attempt at clarity, I spent the afternoon looking up my favorite writers to get a feel for how they got started. Where did they go for their MFA? Yale? Harvard? Oxford? And how much was I willing to shell out for the chance at the same? To my amazement: most writers went to state schools, or small private colleges I'd never heard of. When I searched the internet for the top 25 MFA schools in writing a school in Iowa was at the top of the list! What is this blasphemy!? Here I was looking at grad programs for acting and wondering whose cock I have to suck in order to even get an interview at Yale, when all it seems I have to do for writing is just show up with some of my favorite blog posts printed on nice paper.

Plus: Hunter College, here in New York, is DIRT cheap! I can go to their 2 year program to get my degree and the tuition costs range around 6 grand a year!

My mind is buzzing with the idea of getting better and better at expressing myself through language. The only worry about that is the feeling I got when I signed myself up for sketch writing 101 at the Magnet Theatre and the UCB Theatre. I took both classes and loathed them. I thought maybe writing wasn't my thing. Yet, I'm still writing a ton. Maybe I'm not in to comedy writing. Maybe I'm in to creative non-fiction... writing about myself, for instance? That actor part of me wanting the attention and laughs; no matter how I get them.

Honestly: I don't know what I want to do yet. I feel the summer ticking away and deadlines for the fall beginning to pop up. If I am going to make a decision I need to make it relatively soon.

I'll keep writing in the meantime.

Witnessing Revolution and Renaissance.

I was asked to write about a revolution or social change that I was a part of (and maybe didn't know at the time) as a prompt for a writing group I've joined. I thought this was a fascinating question to ask, because haven't we all been a part of a major change in some way or another? As Annie (the woman who was running the group) put it: "I was alive at a time when the president of the United States was black and the number one rap artist was white."

Annie gave us ten minutes to write after showing us another example of what she meant: A hand written account of a gay man who wrote about going to the Stonewall inn back in the early 80's. What an account! This was someone who was writing about what life was like for the LGBT community which was finding a home and community at the Stonewall Inn in a society that unabashedly hated them for who they were. He was at the Stonewall right as the riots began.

I got to thinking of the revolutions and changes I'm living through that give my voice and eyewitness account meaning in years to come.... As pictures flood the media and Facebook and twitter keep up to date reactions to life's top stories, it seems that the only unique thing is to be as honestly me as I can be. What did I think? Where was I when it happened? What was I doing?

I looked around at the group of women in my writing circle when we were given the prompt. Annie said we had ten minutes and we needed to start: now. Every woman scratched her head and began to write. My mind went immediately to the uniqueness of being a native New Yorker witnessing the change in the city I grew up in first hand.

I remember I was walking out of the G train station (not too long ago) and into the heart of Bed-Sty. "Bed Sty Do Or Die" was the name my friends and I called the neighborhood growing up. I never went on the G train as a kid. My dad always said that subway line was the harbinger of the last throws of the New York City that would make Batman gulp (the city from the big bad 80's and 90's). Why would I ever get on the G? I was a middle class, Upper West Side Manhattan white girl and my whole life growing up was the red 1 train or the occasional trips of the yellow line to Coney Island.

Rappers were born in Bed Sty. Murders happened in Bed Sty. It was said that you passed through Hart and Throop streets if you were a bullet. Race riots and gang wars and cop sirens happened in Bed Sty: not white girls.

So, coming out of the G train I felt all of this weight on my shoulders. Like, I knew with every step I took up to the street, that I was the wave of gentrification. I was there to meet my black friend, Cheryl, at her newly renovated apartment to smoke some weed and then walk around Brooklyn. Had someone told me they were going to do that ten years ago I would have gotten very worried about their potential future as a functional human being. Bed Sty was the murder capital of the United States when I was a kid. Yet, here I was years later walking into a neighborhood where an apartment recently sold for a million dollars (one of the highest purchases the area has ever seen). There are cafes moving in, white people on their iPhones walking through the neighborhood with an artisan wrap clutched in their left hand. And I was no different. I was there visiting a friend. I was the Upper West Side deciding it was totally cool to go and take a romp through the heart of Brooklyn.

My city is now completely different than it was when I was growing up. Its bigger, cleaner, richer, louder, more crowded, more expensive, and more of a place full of opportunity than ever before. Witnessing the revitalization of it has been a wonder. Yet, I read about where the people who used to live in these places go. It seems that the shelters are seeing wave after wave of families who can't afford their rent. Large swaths of the city are becoming too expensive for poorer communities. Even the rents I was looking at when I got back to the city a few years ago are laughable now. "$750 a month for a bedroom?! Get fucked! I'm not paying more than 650!" Now it's more like 850/mo and you're lucky to find that. I cannot believe the prices of rent here!

Given the fact that I lived here at a time when you couldn't pay someone to live in certain areas that are now charging upwards of 1300 bucks a month for a room in an apartment there, I feel blown away at the change. I am witness to the renaissance of New York City: and what a thing to see.

The Art of Being Compulsive

I can't believe it either. Really. This whole thing did come out of the blue. One minute I am a single, somewhat bitter, 20-something who was beginning to believe that cats would be the only means of companionship after all my eggs dried up and I was left to live off the meager wage of a poor and pathetic server for the rest of my days. And then the next minute I'm...

Gone: Just like that. My room is a museum of my old life. I come home to change my bra, throw my dirty shirt onto the neglected pile of sweaty clothes and then I'm off again in his arms for another solid week.

I feel like I have given new meaning to the idea that I've been swept off my feet. In a space of three weeks I went from Single to Dating, had him meet both sets of parents, took him up to the Farm my dad owns in Upstate New York, fell in love, came back to the City and decided (at 1:30 AM on a week night) that I needed to buy plane tickets to New Zealand to meet his family and friends. Oh, and by the way, I'll be gone a month: spending the Christmas/New Year holidays down there. That all just happened in less than 4 weeks.

What happened? Is it chemistry? Why this guy and not another? I have no clear answer other than I know in my bones that this is exactly what I want to be doing and who I want to be doing it with.

I'm no stranger to impulsiveness: I've done stuff like this in the past, and maybe that's why I'm not as wind blown and freaked out as some other people in my position may be. When I was 23 I decided that I needed to buy a plane ticket to Rochester, New York, and fly up there for 5 days to spend the time with a dancer I had fallen head over heels with. Prior to that I had only known him for a weekend. Only spent a few hours with him. He told me, once I was up there, that he had no intention of dating me after I got back to New York and that I needed to move on. Heart crushing, but I valued his honesty. And felt a deep sense of accomplishment in going.

I decided, at 24, that I needed to see the world. And, rather than discuss what we would do and map out how we would do it and where: I bought two tickets for my sister and I to fly to Thailand for a month. Fuck the rest, we'd make it work, right? And we did.

At 21 I decided that Grad school was not an option, so I drove myself up to Boston, in a borrowed car, to go and audition for theatre companies I had never heard of in the hopes that I would have something to do once I graduated university. I got accepted to Actors Theatre of Louisville in Kentucky (prior to that I had never even considered Kentucky a state worth knowing) and once accepted packed up my life and drove myself down with 2 thousand dollars and a bunch of bags to get me through the 9 month apprenticeship. On my own. I'd never lived outside of New York until then.

I think, as I've gotten older, that the more I think and deliberate about things I could do, the more I feel I can't change. However, if I decide on a whim  to make a change: I'll do it. I'll deal with the repercussions later (and I've found that there never are any negative repercussions: only the feeling of accomplishment and elation). Even when we were deciding about renting a car and going upstate to my Dad's farm, my boyfriend and I decided to just rent the damn car (at 2:30 in the morning) and pick it up at noon (that day) to drive up. Fuck it. Let's just go.

And here I am: only dating the guy for two weeks and I bought the plane tickets to New Zealand.

Because: Fuck it. I want to go.

Dear New Zealand

Dear New Zealand,

I'm Natalie, a New Yorker (not an American like someone from Ohio might be). Being that I'm a New Yorker, I pride myself on having a pretty sharp sense of sarcasm and a deep love of intelligence and experience. From what I've heard of you, you seem to share these attributes as well: Great! I think we'll get along just fine.

It's funny, I always thought of you as some far away land I'd never go see. I thought if I ever did get down there I'd go to Australia which seemed to have more of a draw and even that continent seemed impossibly far away. When I was growing up my dad would tell stories of his trip to visit you. He went with his brother back in the 80's for three weeks. He made it sound like a fairy tale, not a real place; I mean, as a New Yorker, I had to work extra hard to believe that New Zealand had some of the nicest and friendliest people. Nice, friendly people? They exist!? How nice! I love friendly nice people!

I must be honest: I'm a bit nervous about meeting you and yours. I'm going specifically to meet my boyfriend's parents and family. I'm not so nervous about the meeting, just more that I could wind up getting really overwhelmed. Then again, I think about the 10,000 people I was a part of while watching the Philharmonic in Central Park and the pandemonium over meeting up with friends and coordinating beer runs through the crowd, and then eventually walking home packed together like sheep because it's so crowded and I think: New Zealand? Bring it.

Dad always said I could do anything. Mom always said I could do anything. My boyfriend says I can do anything. So, that means I can do anything: including making the leap and flying down to you to spend a month. I'm feeling pretty excited about it overall. I can do anything. Including this.

On a selfish note, I'm stoked about having another country I can say I've been to. Thailand, Cambodia, India, and others will look quite nice when I add your shiny penny to my experience wall. You'll compliment them well.

Also, I'm a really big sucker for Lord of the Rings. I'm sorry if my American core flies her freak flag a little here, but the idea of putting on a white dress like Galadriel and standing on, I dunno, a rock ledge with sweeping mountains in the background and wind in my hair while I chant some Elvin song, sounds so incredibly epic. So epic, in fact, that the entire trip could go to shit but would be worth it if I got to do that.

Anyway: I'm really looking forward to meeting you and taking a ton of photos and writing a ton of stuff about you. You're not so ethereal any more, that's for sure. I've got airline tickets that tell me where to be and a plane will take me there.

Here's to us finally meeting! I can't wait.

Best-

Natalie

Kiss

Talk. Stare. Hand touch.

Kiss.

Blush. Smile. Wink.

Kiss.

Run my hand through his hair...

Where did I go? It's been three weeks and I've forgotten I had a life before this guy.

Friends? Appointments? Things I wanted to do? I should do them...

Kiss.

I need to do them! Stop Buggering around and Get out of it ya' mongrel! I'm getting my face pashed off and with the pashing comes the forgetting, comes the bliss of relationship adrenaline, comes the "I'll do it tomorrow".

Pash. [Pa-shh.] Verb. To passionately make-out with someone. Which is what I can't seem to stop doing.

When we first met we agreed kissing in public was disgusting and we'd not subject New Yorkers to the sight.

Whoops.

Kiss.

My dad asked if I've hit any red lights with the Musician. Any bumps? Red flags? Things he's done that make you second guess? Nope.

I went onto Facebook and looked at my old crush. He seemed distant. Fuzzy. And my mind threw a blanket over him and I flipped to a picture of my boyfriend and I and I... sigh because my god this is what cocaine feels like.

Kiss. All I want to do is Kiss.

And Talk. Discuss. Chat. Laugh. Be disgusting on the train. Both groan over the ooze of cheese that seems to be created when we sit and stare into each other's eyes and the world goes away and suddenly it's all... gone.

Kiss. Watch. Repeat.

6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said

In a late night reflection of life's choices I've collected:

6 Things I'm Glad I Never Said
in no particular order:


1. "Don't marry her!"
I run up to their door, it's pouring rain, I'm soaked in my white cotton shirt, I'm shivering (even though it's summer). I peak inside to see if anyone is home. They all are: him, his fiancé, her kid, their dog, and, I dunno... a gerbil. They're all about to sit down to dinner. I knock. He answers. I say the fatal three words as the door opens thinking somehow by hearing them from my lips he'll change his life, take the devastation of our break-up by the preverbal balls and go on a grand tour of South East Asia in order to find himself. Life never works that well.


2. "I think you're a trite, ignorant, flop of-a-turd"
...anytime I've worked with someone I find incompetent. Especially bosses.


3. "Sure, I'll move in with you."
Giving up my apartment, my amazing rent, my balcony, my life; to move into a stuffy one bedroom where the guy I was willing to give my life up for would eventually wind up sleeping with another girl in a drunken night of loneliness while I was off staring at Noh theatre in Japan for three weeks. Dodged that bullet.


4. "Please don't kiss me, my breath stinks and I have to poop."
Instead I stuff a piece of gum in my mouth and gently excuse myself to "tinkle" for ten minutes. Ladies must always be dignified until you trap a man in your web of lies and reveal you're actually a filthy nose-picking slob who farts after eating the third slice of pizza.


5. "I LOVE YOU"
Except it's a totally inappropriate time to bring that up. Especially in the past when I really thought I would go under a bus for a guy who spent more time staring at his rippling pecs in skin tight tighty-whiteys than keeping track of what my life goals were. Or to get the attention of a guy I really want to date, but don't know how to get his attention.


6. "I was the one who farted"
Said no kid, ever. In grade school and middle school, if I wanted to commit social suicide, all I would have needed to do was admit that sentence. I'd be a dead bug smudge on the windshield of life for ever and ever.

Chronicles of a Cocktail Waitress Pt. 3

Helpless anger seethes in my chest. I may be working for tips, but I'm not working to please you sexually, I think as I flash another fake smile from the aisle as the older man kisses at me when I pass for the third time.

A woman with bright orange hair and a fox mask gets up on stage. She holds the mic close to where her mouth should be and begins to read poetry no one can hear. I am crying with laughter from behind the bar. The band, which is improvising music along with the reading, can't hear her muffled grunts from behind the mask either, they look at each other and decide to play a Guns and Roses song.

The poet's words still hang in the air like frozen moisture. The room is silent as he ruffles through his pages to get to the next piece. I've stopped working and am sitting: this man's poetry can't be ignored, it must be honored by listening.

The Jazz sounds like a cat in a blender to me. The saxophone is screaming the high pitched yowls of the theoretical cat as the blades rip into its flesh and I can't help but feel like the cat as the music rips into my ears. I look up at the clock and sigh as I realize there's another hour and a half to go before the night's done.

The solo performer is CRAZY. Like, totally bat-shit nuts. She can't sit still. She needs everything NOW. Her husband, a beaten looking bald man, is trying to placate her as he pulls another chunk of hair out of his head. I am not digging the energy and want to run very far away. I can't, however, as the solo performer needs a glass of water that's room temperature with a slice of lime and honey and a cup of ice on the side with a couple of pieces of bread as well and a bottle of soda water for her kid thankyouverymuch.

The bass player gives me a knowing smile and chuckle as I pick up a cup of what used to be water and quickly put it in the service bin. The cup had so much backwashed food in it I thought the whole thing was covered in vomit when I first got to the table to clean up. I had to wrap my hand in towels before attempting to pick the glass up. The bass player, who was sipping a beer after his set, watched and provided sympathetic phrases and jokes that made me laugh enough to keep my own bile down.

The smell of pot smoke is ripe, so ripe I wonder if someone is actually curing the marijuana in the room. The reggae music is amazing, however, and I let the atmosphere of the room (dark, warm, undulating currents of music) take me to a relaxing place.

We're bored. Very few people are there to see the amazing Brazilian music that's played by incredibly talented artists. We look at each other. Nod. Twenty minutes later we're stoned out of our minds: nodding to the Brazilian music and wondering how we got so lucky.

Dark cave. Up the stairs it's summer and sunshine! Dark cave made even darker when the lights on the ceiling are on. There's something about lightbulb light in the daytime that makes a room feel even darker when the sun is shining. I dream about running up the stairs and running out of the restaurant, up the street, to the subway, to home, to pack, to run to the airport, to buy a one way ticket, to go and to never come back.

What I'm Thinking

He was looking at me, studying my face. I had just opened my eyes. It was morning (sort of) and we'd only gotten to sleep at 5am. 

I looked back at him for what felt like 20 minutes.

"What's up?" I asked, groggy. 

"Just wondering what you're thinking." He replied, keeping his eyes on mine. 

We looked at each other again. I had just spent two days with this person, taking only a few hours off at a time to do human things, but then only to go back to his bed and exist as a red-hot band of nuclear energy that kicks in when a relationship is in the throws of infancy. I felt the temperature rise in my chest again. 

I recalled the first symptoms of a new relationship: the absolute mind-crushing feeling of desire for one person. To have my entire day altered when I see them; to think about them constantly; to wish, with every piece of me, to be able to push them into me, hold them against my chest and breathe them in. The feeling is mind numbing. I can suddenly spend days doing nothing but lying in bed naked and talking about inside jokes and shared experiences. Plans I made get dimmer and priorities are not so important. I can lightly brush through life knowing someone, not so far away, is waiting for me somewhere and when he sees me will make me his universe, worshipping me and all my flaws. 

I was staring back at The Musician on the bed. Tired. Exhilarated. And a surprised at how quickly everything is escalating. This guy is pretty damn great, and getting better and better each week. I didn't think I'd get into a relationship. I assumed I'd keep meeting more Tom, Dick and Harry's for a while. And everyday that goes by spent in his arms means less and less time spent on what any of the other boys must feel like. 

I tried to convey all of that with my eyes, but instead leaned in and kissed his neck. 

"I'm thinking coffee and breakfast." I hummed from between my pursed lips, my thoughts fading into a fuzzy background noise. 

Complicated

C - Confusing. I like you! You're sweet, you listen to me, you're patient, you want to see me more, you're honest and I'm not ready to commit.

O - The "Oh, Shit." factor that happened last night when blast from the not-too-distant past, Mr. Kiss, texts me again.

M - Man, I want to have sex like that again... Mr. Kiss is flakey, a stereotypic hot-guy who repeats himself several times ("because you haven't heard that story yet, right?") and is one helluvah hot piece of ass.

P - Pausing, because I really like the Musician. He's sweet, he listens to me without any kind of "shut up, lets fuck" attitude, he's patient, and really smart. He's also not the tall, chestnut-haired prince charming.

L - Love is what I'm after. I want to love someone, desperately. And I could, if I wanted. Yet, I keep thinking of all the men who are seemingly coming out of no where, and I pause the "L" button. Example: The Friend who recently revealed he wanted to sleep with me. "YOU DO?! I guess... I could do that. Maybe. If I'm drunk and single and we're hanging out... but, I'm not attracted to you. Or am I?"

I - I'm single. I'm not emotionally. I'd feel really, really bad if I acted on an impulse and didn't tell the Musician. My friends tell me that unless we've decided that we're officially seeing each other exclusively I'm off the hook, but that doesn't mean that's a Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free card.

C- Considering my options. Because behind "Door Number 4" is the College Buddy who made out with me on my bed a few weeks ago and wants to casually sleep with me. "I'm a really good kisser, like, really, really good. And I love to go down on women. We'd have fun. No strings."

A- All of them are cute. All of them are worth considering. I'm at the point where, hell, I could sleep with them all, right? Take a chance on a college buddy I would never slept with when I was 20, a friend I never considered, an old lover I've been hoping would reach out again, and a guy I'm getting more and more comfortable with.

T - Totally loving this attention, but trying to play my cards right. Honesty is the best policy. Or is it? I'm learning, here. Being 25 has given me a sense of duty to adulthood, and adults (mature ones anyway) act on the healthiest options for everyone involved because that's the right thing to do.

E - Even if I called off everything with everyone and just chose one guy, whoever that be, would that be the right call? Mr. Kiss would probably flake on me again (the old "radio silence" never-got-your-text bullshit he's pulled in the past). Or, I start dating someone: The College Buddy, The Friend, The Musician... and even with a big fat "TAKEN" sign on my forehead I'd get surreptitious texts at 2am from other "TAKEN" guys who feel like their drunkenness is an excuse for telling me they want me to sleep over.

D- Despite the complications, I'm loving the attention. It's ego boosting. However, I'm in no way looking to hurt anyone, because I've been burned in the past and wouldn't want to inflict that pain on someone else (My ex, Serendipity, whose send off was: "I slept with someone else while you were in Thailand because I thought we had come to a 'break' in our relationship." coming into sharp focus, here). Don't know what I'll do, trying to stay in the moment as much as possible. I'm going to call a few girlfriends and get their advice. I don't have enough women in the mix.

The blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong

What does it mean to be "dating" someone versus "seeing" someone versus having a "boyfriend"?

Where does one draw a line and declare that something is indeed happening with someone? There is no definitive word that can describe it all and one is left using a lot of vague hand gestures and facial expressions (usually involving a shrug) to try and give an idea about the complicated nature of what's going on on a daily basis with another person. Who happens to be male. And not just a friend.

I'm single.
I'm single?
Wait... am I single?

So, single means I am a free agent. A gal who can look a guy in the eye and say "let's do this" and not feel a shred of remorse about hurting anyone else's feelings by making that choice.

And, therefore, by default, not being single means the opposite.

BUT WAIT! I don't have a boyfriend! Therefore: no relationship! HA!

Nope: Single.
No... I'm... not single.
Wait...

I feel a fear grip me in this regard. On the one hand: this complicated jumble of emotions toward another human being who also has complicated (or not) emotions toward me is exactly what I've wanted! And on the other hand: I'm still thinking with a single-gal brain! "He's hot." and "I'll do you, once I'm drunk, though." and "Can't wait to flirt the hell out of the room." All fly through my mind. I've also got: "You'll hurt him." and "He'll let you down, eventually." whizzing in my brain as well. Ouch.

My Mother told me to relax and live in the moment. "Enjoy yourself. Let it just be and have fun." She said, scrolling through his Facebook profile pictures and exclaiming: "He's Cute, Nat!" I felt myself relax a bit. She's right. I'm trying to define a thing that's a thing without a definition or name.

For now: I'm in a "blip-blop scoobity doo-da walla walla ding dong," with The Musician.

I don't know where it's going, but *shrug* I'm enjoying myself.

Like Father, Like Daughter.

Spent 14 years working for Barnes and Nobel right out of college, moving from suburban Long Island to New York City in the 1980's.

Devoured the history of the City and becoming an ardent New Yorker by reading book after book about the growth and change of the metropolis. He'd go for walks, taking in Brooklyn and Queens and tracing his finger over a map to show me the edge of the world he'd seen that day. Being a Manhattanite I'd only stare in awe at large swaths of the city I never thought I'd one day see change so much.

Becoming a major Yankee fan, scoring the high honor of being voted the "Biggest Yankee Fan" on MLB.com. Driving across the country to see games in foreign stadiums and collecting pins to stick in his hat, it was my first reason to ever go to Detroit: to watch the Tigers play the Yankees on Memorial Day weekend.

Decided to collect and publish the world's most comprehensive list of English language citations on King Charles the 12th, king of Sweden. Why not get a Master's degree in Library Science? Oh, and let's fly us all to England so we can get one more citation on the way.

The building we lived in burned down. We lived all over. East side, West side, Hotel, Duplex with backyard (the only one I've ever lived with), Studio Sublet... all in 2 1/2 years. My middle school years were peppered with "Time to Move" and "Gotta Unpack" days off.

Figured selling the apartment on the West Side and buying a boat to sail around the world for the rest of his life would be a great way to spend retirement. In come the sailing magazines and nautical books.

Biking enthusiast, he could hop on his trusty two wheeler and go for a 100+ mile ride every weekend.

Sold the apartment in the City, giving up the New Yorker lifestyle, bought a mini-van and built a shed (made of found flag stone from the side of the road and the local dump) in his suburban backyard. A playground for new ideas.

Bought land in the Catskills and figured he'd build his own house from the stone found in the ground, he'd be entirely self sufficient and live off the earth, being his own boss for the rest of his life. In come the homesteading books. In comes the beard.

But wait, how about starting a Lavender farm instead? Bought a stone house built in 1820, 80 acres, and set a date: he'll be a farmer and owner of a Bed and Breakfast in a year.

That's my father in a very brief nutshell.

I see his high cheek bones in my face when I look in the mirror, his hands and feet, his long arms and legs reflect in my own body.

Is it any wonder that I can't keep still either?

Chronicles of a Cocktail Waitress Pt. 2

The lights are on. Hip. Other hip. Sway with the left. Arch the back. Draw the right arm over their head. Pull the object of desire (a finished, thumb print pocked cup) closer with the tips of the fingers teasing the rim of the glass that sits on the table. Smile when they catch my eye.

I am as bright and bubbly as their amber colored beer.

I prance, I swish, I brush my butt on his back. Hit the right bosom across his head.

"Whoops. Sorry!" (Not really.)

Whisper secrets into their ears, a sultry: "What can I get for you?" Then, wait. Hover right by their cheek or squat right down to the floor and look up at them from their knees. Implore them with a smile and sometimes a wink: "Is that all?"

Swish back up the aisle. Butt brush again. Hip bounces off their shoulders. All of their heads are right at eye level with my chest.

I pile my tray with drinks, steaming with perspiration, dripping sweat down the sides of the glass. Each drink holding a promise I made to them: "I can get that, no problem."

Back out to the tight rope walk, this time holding 15 pounds of beverages above their heads. A small Clink! as the glasses kiss each other as I pass through the sea of chairs and human heads, looking for a place to set down the cold cups.

They watch me as I pass, eyes follow my movements, some faces eagerly checking my hands for an order they made.

The lights go down. It is dark. Candle light is the only way to see, except for the glow of the stage lights that cast shadows on their eye sockets, making it hard to follow their gaze. I keep my gaze on the slippery, wet glasses as I hand out each drink to the darkened faces.

I bite my lip, furrow my brow, my wrist aches from holding the tray, my hand shakes from the strain of being quiet. I must not disturb the show or the trance the music or poetry can hold on the crowd. I must become a ghost, a ninja, quietly passing by once the show begins, only to return in full splendor once the entertainment ends. In the dark I don't have to smile, saving my energy for the lights to come on again.

In the dark, I diminish, the show holds their attention and I can relax; rubbing my sore back and massaging my arms in preparation for the next round of orders and flirts.

Bathroom Wait

I was waiting in line for the restroom. There was pandemonium going on around me as I waited. Little children were running amok with no pants on, women were washing their faces in the sinks, then hogging the space to look at their non existent pimples in the scratched and tagged mirrors. The bathroom was so crowded, even the baby changing station had a queue of poop-filled, diaper wearing, red faced toddlers, who were screaming in their mother's arms; while the parent with the babe on the changing station shouted into her cell phone as she deftly wiped a urine soaked butt.

I watched the progress of the line for the changing station with envy. My line for the stalls was moving much slower. I looked down the long line of black and white flecked plastic doors which ran the length of the cream colored, highway rest-station powder-room. Three of the doors had an "Out of Order" sign hanging on the front that looked like it was written with crayon, mustard, and the blood of a busted mouth (probably from the fight that broke out over who had to clean the tampon stuffed toilet which was now overflowing water into the drain at the center of the room, and rather than deal with it, an improvised sign was smacked on the front).

I watched as the ladies in front of me dodged the pantless children and, like lithe gazelles, leapt for the sound of a toilet flush. No where in the world is a toilet flush a sacred sound, save for the inside of a packed ladies room. Every time the sanctimonious whooshing sound of soiled water being sucked into a filthy sewage pipe hits the air, it's as if a call to the bladder to begin to relax is sounded. A sigh of relief becomes audible every time another woman can take a step forward to await her fate in whatever stall she may be lucky (or unlucky) enough to get after the toilet has drained, and the lock turned, releasing an unassuming woman from its dark and secretive enclave.

There's a gamble when waiting for your turn in the stall. If all the cards fall the right way, then the toilet seat is clear, the floor is dry, there is toilet paper in the dispenser, your lock clicks into place without hassle, and there is no brick-wall-of-shit smell when you first enter. Unfortunately, any one of those things could go wrong, leaving one with the unpleasant task of having to do her duty in circumstances that make relaxation extremely difficult. Not to mention the pressure from every second spent in the stall is another second some other poor schmuck needs to wait to get in.

I was lucky enough to be in and out of my stall with as little harassment as possible, save for the toilet flushing automatically before I was really finished. Aw well, if that's the worst that'll happen, then I'll consider myself lucky. I stepped out to wash my hands. No one can fault me for leaving anything nasty behind me, there was a little wad of TP left behind, but that was harmless.

I watched the next gazelle leap for my stall in the bathroom mirror I was washing up in front of. She read the "Out of Order" sign on the door next to mine and then pushed my door open. She paused, looking in, and considered her options. She looked back at the mustard and blood spattered sign and then back at my stall. What? Is my stall not good enough for you? I found myself thinking. I left that stall in great condition! I wanted to go over and sell that girl my stall: "Look! I wiped the seat! There's no smell! The lock, locks! That wad of toilet paper was the result of an automated pre-flush! That's not my fault! USE THIS ONE I'M NOT FILTHY!"

Instead, I hogged a sink by looking in the mirror and pretended to pop a pimple that wasn't on my face before I got the hell out of there.

Day-Lay

After giving each other a big hug at the subway, The Musician thanked me again for the wonderful day. I agreed, feeling really excited about life in general. That was exactly what I wanted and needed.

When I got home I got on the phone with my buddy from Chicago.

"So you just left when you were done?"

"...No. He made me dinner and we relaxed a bit. He even walked me to the subway. He was really sweet."

"But, you're not sleeping over?"

"Ha! No! I have to wake up at 5:30am. I wasn't going to sleep over. I couldn't."

"Wow. I've never done that before."

"What? Had sex with someone and then left once it was over?"

"Yeah."

"Really!?"

"Wait... lemme think... yeah, no, never. I always slept over."

"That's because I had a Day-Lay. We were all wrapped up before 9pm. And I had to go."

We chatted for a while longer before I hung up the phone.

Day-Lay [Dey-layeeee.] Verb. An action describing a homerun with a person during "Afternoon Delight" hours. (See: Afternoon Delight for reference.)

I don't think "Good Girls" have Day-Lays. However, I think if a date went really well and all the ingredients add up (work gets cancelled, the day out is beautiful) and there was a 4+ hour discussion involving feminism, philosophy, religion, science, long international flights, point of views on naked neighbors and all happening over the refreshing taste of cold white wine, then... well... Life's a peach. And "Good Girls" who would walk out on that can be so boring.

The Musician

Sitting at a bar with my sister, I survey the room.

Nope. Nope. Uhhhhh... nope. 

I sip at my bourbon and twist my hair between my fingers. I fiddle with the tank top I'm wearing and try not to think about the self doubt that keeps creeping into my subconscious.

Does my hair look okay? Do I look like I have a gut? Am I easy looking? 

I think about all the times I've felt forgotten, and try to ignore those thoughts. What the hell do those thoughts have to do with the eyes of the guys on the bar looking at me now? I feigned disinterest and felt the big smile on my face protect me like a blanket.

I'm here to meet people.

The jazz band strikes up again. The bar fills with swing music. My sister gets up to dance. She loves to dance. I smile. I love to smile.

The singer announces a break for the group. My sister winks at me. "Go talk to them, Natty." She says.  I felt the bourbon filling my head and the self doubt begins to be muffled behind my smile. I think, as I flounce across the room toward the musicians: IDontKnowWhatI'llSayButI'mGonnaFlirtHard.

"Great Set." I begin, locking a pair of blue eyes in the face. I smile. A waiter brings over a steaming plate of food. "I'll let you eat." I say, and turn on my heel to flounce back to my spot.

"Let's get out of here." I say, once back, checking my phone. It's getting late, and I have to be up at 8am to prepare for a callback. My sister groans. She wants to dance. I smile.

We walk toward to exit. The band has started up again. The musician I made eyes with is eyeing me as I walk out. We locked eyes all the way across the bar. On the street I turned around and saw through the window that he was still looking. He waved. I blushed.

My sister and I walked a block. "I don't know what to do, Cait. Was he cute? Should I do something?"

"YES." She demands. She taps her foot, and the orange glow of the street lamp gives her a halo.

"Whuddoaydo?" I ask. I bite my lip. I don't have to smile with my sister. She knows.

"Leave your number in the tip jar!" She suggests, hands on her hips, fingers tapping.

I love her so much I could hug her forever and ever.

I pull out my business card. "Would this work? You think?" I ask. I look at my smile printed on the small piece of paper in my hand. "You gotta pen?"

I walk back into the bar. The hot air of the joint hits my face. The band's playing still. I look at my musician briefly and then toss in my business card. I leave quickly.

Outside, I exhale the bar's air from my lungs. "I did it, Cait!" I make a getaway as I squeal.

"You think he'll call me?" I ask the night sky.

"Maybe." My sister responds. "If he doesn't, you're no worse off than before."

I think of the men who have asked me out and my "No, thank you's" and not so direct "Uh, not now's" and feel guilty. I think of an idea I read in a book L Is For Lion  By Annie Lanzillotto who got it from Soren Kierkegaard: The opposite of freedom isn't slavery: it's guilt. Being trapped in a jail of my own beliefs. Stunning. I listen to my sister's heel tapping the rhythm of our walk home. I try to bat away the self doubt that continues to nibble at my cuticles and make my fingers bleed in protest.

I put my number in the jar. I did that. 

"Let's walk a bit." My sister suggests. I agree. It's late, but those dancing heels of my sister need a place to click, and I felt like smiling in the quiet dark, thinking about the musician playing his tunes with his eyes on me.

Cocktail Waitress Chronicles

The European Proposal


A man I've never seen before hails me over. "Where are you from, beauty?" He asks.

I've played this game before, I think. I smile. "I'm from here." I say.

"From here? From New York?" He repeats, his european accent getting more defined the more I listen. He holds out his hand for mine. I hesitate. He gently takes my hand and begins to kiss up my arm, slowly, planting a soft kiss up, and up and up... "Are you married?" He asks. At this point the men around him are chuckling. Such a fun game for them! I pull my arm away as politely as I know how. I smile a big, fake, Fuck-You smile.

"No. Not married." I say, wishing that the facade I am putting forth would burst, spewing the acid I was holding in my chest all over the smiling faces of the older men who were listening intently to the bobbing of my chest as I breathed.

"Such a shame. A beauty like you... I bet you have men throwing themselves at your feet! Listen, beauty, I would marry you, no? Could I marry you? Would you think about my offer?" The men at the table chuckled again. "How old are you?" He asks.

"I'm 25." I say. "I'm sorry, but I have to get the orders from other tables. It was nice meeting you. I'll be back around to take any drink or food orders you guy may have, okay?"

I turn on my heel and busy myself with collecting other orders.

I feel conflicted about events like these. On the one hand, I am flattered by their advances. When men flirt with me I feel desired, beautiful, wanted. On the other hand, I feel invisible behind my tits and ass, at the mercy of my desire for tips.

I returned to the bar to drop off the orders I've written. "A man just proposed to me." I tell Lilly, my bartender. She looks at me and guffaws.

"Who?" She asks. I discreetly point to the men at the far table. "Gotcha." She says, and rolls her eyes. I smile, feeling each unsaid sarcastic comment rolling between the two of us while Lilly shakes a martini up as if she were gearing up to punch someone in the face.

Thunder

I woke up feeling depressed. I felt like a heavy sack of watery sand was covering me head to toe. I had had a dream about my land lord kicking me out and was struggling to find a place to live. The panic of the nightmare still clung to me as I tried to rub the memory of it out of my eyes.

I struggled out of bed like a pregnant woman. Opening the door to my balcony I looked out at the world which was grey and overcast and showing very likely signs of rain later on. I tried to figure out what to do with my day before work later that evening. I had a couple of things needing my attention since I went to visit family, so I tasked myself with their completion.

It was later in the day that I began to get ready for work and the sky began to rumble.

There is a curious change on earth when the sky rumbles. The birds are hushed. The winds are slowed. The sky turns a dark purple or green or blue and light is dimmed. The streets lamps, in their confusion, think that it is evening at 4pm and come on, shining their ignorant beams on a rapidly emptying street. I was one of the only poor fools who had to go outside in order to get to the train station. As I entered the street, I looked to the west where the dark, ominous clouds were blocking out where the City should be. I looked at my small bright pink umbrella and navy blue rain jacket and prayed that what I had would be enough to keep me from the deluge that was sure to come. I had a 6 minute walk to the subway station.

The people around me were scurrying. When do New Yorkers ever scurry unless they have the impending threat of torrential downpour? New Yorkers hurry to be sure, but scurrying is an event only for summer thunderstorms. My depression became curiosity the farther I went from home. It felt like each step swept away another person into a doorway and hushed another bird. I rounded a corner and was the only person on the street. I walked like I was in a dream, but all my senses were alert. I kept looking at the sky to try and determine when the rain would come.

My mind went back to a memory of India. It was 2008 and I was in the summer of my Junior Year. I was touring a Nrityagram (dancing village) in the rural outskirts of Bangalore. The tour guide was walking us back to a dancing stage that was covered in fine green grass and surrounded by swaying trees. It was monsoon season, so at any moment the sky could open up and we could all be covered by water. The guide was explaining how the sacred the stage was when, as if a button was pushed, there was a hush on our group of two dozen people. Indians and Americans alike were silenced by what felt like a finger going up our spines. I remember the hair on the back of my neck rising. "It's going to rain! Run to the tarp!" Someone yelled, and like a group of antelope we all ran like hell to a blue tarp a few hundred feet away. I looked to my left and saw the rain, like a thin vail of white silk, coming toward us. I could taste the mist that proceeded it as I inhaled, galloping for the safety of the tarp. I remember laughing at how silly life can be when the rain comes hard and leaves all to the mercy of the water.

I was back on that empty street in New York. There was no wind, but the trees were dropping seeds. BANG! PLOP! SPLASH! SPLAT! I kept thinking the sounds were an early sign of falling blobs of rain, but on every BING! I inspected the windshield of the cars and saw no water. I pulled my pink umbrella out of my bag when I felt the finger go up my spine. My senses were on edge. I felt alert. Then, like the sound of a bag of marbles falling to the ground, the rain came. I whipped my umbrella up as fast as I could, feeling the thunder boom and the weight of the humidity that had pushed me into my bed that morning manifest itself into rain drops pounding on my temporary pink nylon roof.

I laughed. I laughed hard. I don't know what was funny. The few humans still on the street scurried from their hiding places like roaches and ran for better shelter. I felt better, more awake, my dreary mood washing off of me and soaking my jeans. I slowed my pace and took an extra few minutes to get anywhere, chuckling as I did at how quickly the sky can change life and mood.

CO2

I was flying over the swath of orange lights that, unlike sunlight, define where people aren't and are. I looked at the scope of humanity stretched out underneath my plane's wing. Parking Lot, I thought. Mall. Water. Not water. Road. Cars. Bridge. The sky we were cutting through on our way to LaGuardia was smokey in the orange glow of the city. The city was exhaling.

I thought about all of the people down there breathing out. Then I exhaled. There are SO MANY people exhaling! They're all just... expelling CO2 and not even thinking about it. I'm thinking about it. All those tonnes of gas coming out of all those millions of lungs. Each breath another reminder of how alive and how unaware of how alive each person is as they do something, whatever that is, down there on earth. I was the CO2 fairy coming in for a landing.

The woman sharing my seat row huffed and shuffled her papers around when the overhead told us all that the electronics and tray tables need to be stowed and put away. I pulled myself away from my window and looked at her for a minute. She was so busy. So busy with her stuff. She probably didn't even have time to realize she was breathing. Like I was. I was breathing. I held my breath. Now I'm not. 

I looked back at the lights below, twinkling in their false sunlight, each orb a reminder that the darkness is vanquishable. I saw cars streaming like fish in a tunnel as they rode, carrying their breathing adults and children to wherever they need to go at 11:30pm. Did anyone down there look up to see my red blinking lights and loud jets passing 7 thousand feet over their heads? Maybe.

I thought about the research I had done today while sitting at Chicago's Midway Airport, killing time for my connecting flight. Eczema has no cure. How strange and unnerving. No one really knows what causes it. Do waiters on Cruise ships have a fun time? Is 6 months at sea worth the 60 hours a week of work? All signs are pointing to yes. What the hell does the word "Za" mean? I even mourned the death of my book series I just finished. Where can I find the next Graphic Novel to read?

I picked at my cuticles, thinking about the blonde who had sat next to me when I flew from Columbus, OH to Chicago earlier today. Her left thumb was red, picked apart by her teeth. I looked my my own fingers critically and wondered if anyone who knew me would think I was picking at my cuticles any more or less than before.

I stretched in my airline seat, feeling really tired. My grandparents drove me the 4 and a half hours from Bloomington, Indiana to Columbus, OH today. My tail bone felt sore. Almost home. I breathed out, the chemical consisting of 2 small atoms of Oxygen bonded to a Carbon atom expelled from my lungs, fogging the window pane, hitting the atmosphere, and adding to the vast amount of exhaled days and dreams and moments in the lives of all the millions of people doing the same and forgetting that I was even doing it along with all of them as I concentrated on the plane landing.

Identity Crisis

I saw a play tonight in Bloomington, Indiana with my grandparents.

We sat in the center of the audience of a room that could hold maybe 60 people.

It was a solo show called "Underneath the Lintel" by Glen Berger (who has subsequently written the book for Spiderman: Turn Off the Dark) about a man researching his way around the world and out of his mundane life in an effort to catch up with the myth of the Wandering Jew. The show was fantastic. I left the theatre with a sense of awe. My grandparents did, too.

A phrase kept resonating in my brain: "I was here." In the show, the actor winds up writing that sentence all over the walls of the room. I was HERE! I found it ironic that I was wishing I could write my own signature on places I've been while in a place I am rarely in.

Let's rewind ten days: I audition for two different Improv theaters and get rejected from both. I feel like I was punched in the gut and, as a result, have been running from dealing with the extreme sense of identity crisis I feel stalking around in my head like a rat in an attic. What the effin hell am I DOING? What AM I!?

I want SO MUCH. I want love! I want marriage! I want to direct! I want to write! I want to travel! I want to teach! I want a life well lived! I want people to see me and think: She's great, I want to get to know her and hear her stories and learn from her because she's lived a life I want to lead. I want to inspire!

...And I thought  that was through the path of getting on a house team. But, as fate would have it: it is not.

I am HERE, goddamn it! Here in this sodden, slippery, worry-soaked crossroad that is my life! I could have chosen another life...

...Like my cousins. They're my age. One cousin is all of ten days older than me and is due to have a baby in October. The other cousin (14 month older than me) has a 1 and a 3 year old. They're both moving in to the stage of their lives in which they focus on nothing but wiping poopy butts, drying tear soaked eyes, and shuffling, bleary eyed, through sleepless nights to attend to nightmares and wrongfully tucked in toddlers. I got a good dose of that life the last few days and felt a flash of fear rip through my uterus. Not now. I am just passing through. I was there...

I thought that was what adults did, not twenty-somethings, and realized with horror that somewhere along the way the children I grew up with were adults.

I am HERE. I am at the wood and stone threshold of adulthood and, well, I'm not ready to step inside yet. If I was I would have married my ex boyfriend from college and would be popping out mini-me's, too.

What do I do? I can agree with myself as to what I am not, which is a mother, a professional improviser and a married woman. So what am I? What can I do? The answer screams back at me: SO MUCH! EVERYTHING! The world is my oyster and I am the pearl!

I am HERE, at the Thought-I-Knew-It-All-But-Don't intersection of Freak Out Avenue and Don't Look Back Yet Street.

I watched tonight, as the character in "Underneath the Lintel" wound up pursuing his crazy passion and, in doing so, losing his job and shedding his mundane life. Watching, I felt restless. I need to get up and go and be and I don't know how to get the courage to do so because as easy as it is to state what I am NOT it is harder to actualize what I think I am! Ah!

I am HERE at 25. And I'm sick of feeling so confused and worried about what to do next when I get back to New York City tomorrow. And the next day. And next month, and the next five years and, hell, the next 25 years! I keep telling myself to take it all day at a time. Breathe. Another opportunity is right around the corner.