I was born and raised in New Jersey. I am not ashamed of this at all. I love Jersey, and will defend it to the end. However, in all my travels, I have related to one location more than any other. I love it, I hate it, it is part of me, and will be forever.
I am a New Yorker.
I lived in New York for only a few years, but, growing up less than an hour from midtown, it wasn’t just “the city,” it was MY city. As a kid, I went to Broadway shows in my best Christmas dress. I visited the Rock Center tree, the Met, saw the dinosaurs at the National History museum. I’ve lit candles at St. Patrick’s, and had tea at the Plaza. As a teenager, I went to the Knitting Factory and CBGB’s for shows, in the dark, cramped, tiny spaces where you always had the chance of seeing Joey Ramone shooting up in the corner. I got served at the Bar 55 before my sixteenth birthday. I was often mistaken for homeless. Back then, this was cool.
I moved to the city from Boston after college. I love Boston with all my heart, but that’s another post for another time. I lived on the edge of lower Harlem on the West Side, in a neighborhood where I had Glatt Kosher Chinese food and Barney Greengrass and muti-millionaires living across the street from housing projects. I loved my neighborhood. I had a microscopic studio apartment with a waterbug problem and an old AC vent that was constantly leaking, no matter how many times it was patched. It was the most perfect apartment in the world. I worked thousands of temp jobs, modeled for shoe companies and makeup demonstrations. I acted in Lower East Side theaters with more rats than actors. Kevin Bacon’s kids played with my neighbors’ kids. I bought knock-off designer purses and had Dim Sum in Chinatown. I would walk from 93rd St. to the Village and back on the weekends for kicks, people-watching through Jackie-O sunglasses. I ate shady burritos and Ethiopian food. I loved every minute of it, even when I hated it.
I saw my world explode.
I left the City eight days later. I haven’t lived there since. It’s too hard, too fast, too crowded and too nerve-wracking for my often-fragile psyche. But I am still a New Yorker. Always will be.
Smithsonian Magazine puts being a “rude, crude New Yorker” in a lovely light.
This is what I look like in the morning.
Scene: CVS checkout. Feeling rather fabulous in my kick ass new t-shirt (thanks, Krista!!!) that reads: “Rehab is the New Black.” All I want is to pay for my contact lens solution and a pack of cigarettes and proceed with my day. No such luck.
Wonky-Eyed Cashier: *hushed weird whisper* Your shirt…Rehab is the New Black…I don’t get it.
Me: Oh, it’s a joke-
WEC: Is that…like…when black people call other black people n—
Me: NO! No no no! It’s like “pink is the new black” or “skinny jeans are the new black” or something – it’s a joke!
WEC: So…it’s a racial thing?
Me: Jesus, NO! Nothing like that!!! It’s a FASHION thing, don’t you watch Project RUNWAY, it’s a joke, oh my GOD.
WEC: Oh…I don’t get it. Do you need matches?
Me: I am so blogging about this.
And she wonders why I blog about her.
Happy Mother’s Day, mama. Thank you for this conversation.
Scene: Kitchen. Dad is “making breakfast”, which translates to destroying the kitchen like a whirling dervish, using every single pan, plate, and utensil, and almost setting the kitchen ablaze. Mom and I look on in horror. Over the din of crashing flatware, this conversation arises.
Mom: We’re supposed to use…chee-a-bata? Cee-a-a bata bread?
Mom: C-eye-a-bata? Cia-Obama?
Me: (head in hands) Ciabatta.
Me: That’s an antidepressant. Ciabatta. It’s Italian.
Me: That’s a Wookie. CIABATTA. CIABATTA. CIABATTA.
Mom: (triumphant) It’s like Star Wars bread!
Me: Mom, why don’t you sit down before you hurt yourself.
Michelle Duggar is pregnant AGAIN.
For the three people who don’t know, Michelle and her extremely fertile husband already have seventeen children. SEVENTEEN. They’re also Krazy Kookoo Khristians, who wear garb not unlike the (also terrifyingly fertile) polygamy sect that has so recently been inundating the news.
Now, I love kids, don’t get me wrong, and people can go and do all the wackadoodle things they want, but COME ON, LADY. I’ve had the delightful pleasure of seeing the numerous TLC specials on the Duggars and their “parenting” “methods.” Basically, the older children raise the younger ones, leaving plenty of time for Michelle and her husband (Lord help me) Jim Bob to read the bible and boink their brains out for Jesus. They have a huge compound in the sticks somewhere that they (read: the kids) built themselves, and if they are finally outed as having an arsenal of automatic weapons covered in needlepointed prayer doilies, well, you can just knock me down with a feather.
These kids don’t have a life. They’re homeschooled, they only interact with each other; hell, even their “church” is in their house. Someone’s going to snap. Hopefully, all of them will. I’d love to see them all grow up and form an 18 member death metal group, entitled “Fuck You, Mom and Dad.”
As someone more witty and astute than I once said: “It’s a vagina, not a clown car.” Close your legs, Michelle, before your whole reproductive tract falls the hell out. GAH.
Well, here it is. A real blog. Oh, I’ve dabbled. A livejournal here, a myspace there. But then I realized that I am not, in fact, fourteen years old, and should get on this whole really real bloggy thing.
I am very sick of the word “blog.”
I’ll be importing a bunch of my old stuff, but should get up to date fairly soon. Until then, hang tight, my naughty little monkeys. Mama’ll be back soon.