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.