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#hopeless

12 Apr

tumblr_inline_mkx7ziRwCA1r79k32 Let’s talk about Twitter for a moment. It confuses me. I don’t understand it. I find it to be a constant source of Internet frustration for me.

When it first came on the scene, I stuck my English major nose up in the air and thought that its short-form expression would never last. Now it’s kind of a big deal. It’s everywhere, and I still just don’t get it.

A good friend of mine helped me sign up a couple of months ago and was patient enough to answer a bunch of questions. But it still confuses me, and I have yet to tweet anything. I’ve thought long and hard about what to tweet, what to say, and I’m at a complete loss.

I occasionally look at the Twitter app on my phone and read what other people have tweeted, but I still don’t get it. Are people having conversations with one another? What’s with ReTweeting? The tagging, the hashtagging, the mentionings, the back and forth! I’m soooo confused.

I feel as an aspiring writer I should get more comfortable with the format as it is important for self-promotion. But Internet self-promotion is something I have never been able to master. Most of my friends become shocked to find out that I have a blog as I never promote it on facebook. I just have it humbly listed under my websites on my about page, and it is my status on gchat. That’s it. I’m not comfortable with self-promotion, but I know it’s only hurting me in the long run. I really should get over that.

I digress! Twitter! Help me! What should I tweet? How do I do it? What should I know? Can anyone out there in the Internets help a girl out?!

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Cooking with Chrissy

27 Mar

That’s what I’d call my cooking show if I were every offered one by the Food Network. But that’s ridiculous, because I’m not that good of a cook. But it doesn’t stop me from talking aloud to myself when I cook, pretending there is a camera on me.

I love going out, and I do it quite a lot. But going out as much as I do makes staying in that much more wonderful. One of my favorite things to do when I have a night in to myself is to cook.

It’s odd that so many people in my generation don’t know how to cook for themselves. Not even that they don’t know how, but they almost seem proud of it. I think for women it’s some sort of defiance against traditional roles of domesticity, and for men it’s falling victim to gender stereotypes. I recently had an inebriated gentleman telling me how he knows how to cook, how he could cook amazing things for me. I could tell by the look in his eyes that I was supposed to be impressed, that most girls swoon. All I could think was, “I cook fine on my own, thank you very much.”

I used to be one of the masses that survived on boxed mac and cheese and microwave quesadillas. Then I went to Prague and met a girl in our program named Shauna. She was older than most of us by a couple of years and loved to have us over to cook us dinner. The first time she cooked for me, personally, I was blown away. Roasted potatoes, steak with homemade sauce, sauteed vegetables. I hadn’t had food that good in such a long time. She told me about how she was dating a guy in the military when she was younger and taught herself to cook on a hotplate he had. Her skills grew from there.

As soon as I got back to the States, I set out teaching myself to cook. No classes, no Food Network, no fancy cookbooks. I just found some recipes on the Internet that seemed doable and went from there. I’d say the first year of cooking I averaged 50/50. Half of the things I made were decent, and the other half were hopelessly flawed. I think this is where most people give up. They make a couple of bad recipes and decide they just don’t have the cooking gene. Not true! It’s like making a batch of pancakes, the first flapjack is always bad and must be tossed. Likewise your first lasagna might be watery, your first stir fry might be completely bland, you might burn the chicken the first time you bread it. You learn what not to do, you figure out little tricks, you figure out what you LIKE in food, and best of all you learn a way to add creativity to every recipe you touch.

Tonight for dinner I tried out a recipe for Chicken Parmesan that I found on epicurious.com. Not a difficult recipe but the results were amazing.

2013-03-27 20.18.46This was unbelievably delicious, I stuffed myself to the brim, and I have two lunches worth of leftovers. But the thing about cooking, it isn’t just the end result of a satisfying meal that makes it worth it. It’s the process. I like to put on my Professor Longhair/Muddy Waters Pandora station, pour myself a modest alcoholic beverage, and wear my polka dot apron. I shimmy around my kitchen, shaking my butt to the blues, taking swigs of my drink when I have a moment. It’s easily one of the most relaxing, enjoyable things to do at the end of the day.

Today was an average day at work, and there is nothing particularly stressful or bad going on in my life. But during those times, cooking becomes so important. Eating is such a primal need, and when I set out to make a recipe, my brain kind of shuts off all other worries and concerns. It’s comforting to know that sauteeing garlic and onion in butter is going to create a heavenly aroma, that breaded chicken is going to beautifully sizzle over medium heat, that if your soup is too thin, grab a bit of corn starch and fix it.

If you don’t know how to cook, don’t worry. You are totally salvageable. Just grab a recipe and start going.

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Volleyball

13 Mar

Odor In The CourtSo, this is one of the most awkward things that has ever happened to me. Naturally, I must write about it.

I’m pretty active in sports here in New York. I’m close to both my softball and soccer team, and it is how I’ve made my closest friends in the city. However, it’s winter which means no softball, and my soccer team took a season off due to varying personal reasons. I was somewhat relieved to take a couple of months off the sports scene.

In comes my co-worker, her and her boyfriend are new to New York, and I recommended joining an intramural sports team as a good way to make friends. So they joined volleyball and loved it. They loved it so much that they asked me to join another volleyball team with them. I wasn’t enthused, but I wasn’t doing anything else, so I figured why not.

The three of us are assigned to a team, “Odor in the Court.” We were paired with a group of people that have been together for many previous seasons. They were so much fun. So much fun! I spent many a Wednesday night at the bar till 1AM, drinking shitty beer, sometimes rapping along to the theme from “Fresh Prince of Belair.”

But, you know, something was always off. They’d been together for awhile, and I always felt like the new kid. Every time they happily cheered, “Odors!” I cringed a little. But they were an awesome group, and I had that weird sense that I wanted to be a part of the popular kids group. I spent my weekends with my soccer team (my favorite people in the city) and my softball team (like a weird, drunken family), and on Wednesday nights I felt just a bit out of place.

So Spring is around the corner, the soccer team and the softball team are back together, and I am beyond excited for both. My cleats and my mitt are ready to go. So where does that leave volleyball? I really wanted to stay friends with them, but shit, that’s a lot of sports in one week, and I have to study, and I’m going to Paris, and I need some me time.

No worries, though, I promptly received an e-mail from the volleyball captain entitled “Next Season.” It was sent to me, my co-worker, and her boyfriend. The main line to read is this:

“I really do like you all and hope that we can arrange to hang / go out in the future, but I don’t think we’re going to have room to accommodate everyone for next season :-\”

It was followed my a lot of nice things about how we should all be friends and everything. But I still stared slack-jawed at my computer screen and thought, “What the piss? My volleyball team is dumping me!”

I nervously giggled, re-read it, and just didn’t know what to do. I quickly got a text from my co-worker saying, “Well, that was awkward.”

What do I do? I wanted to write back with something along the lines of, “Oh, I’m already busy with my OTHER teams. Didn’t want to be on your silly old team anyways!” But that sounds pathetic. Plus, there really are no hard feelings. I really didn’t want to play volleyball again! But, oh my God, what an awkward situation. I just..I don’t…what can you say to that?! Who gets dumped by their volleyball team? Me, I get dumped by my volleyball team.

Honestly, other than the natural sting of blatant rejection, I don’t care. I love my other teams, and I get that it’s tough as an established team to fit new people into the dynamic of the group. Besides “Mayan Apocalypse” is a far better team name. I’ll never be an “Odor.” I never was.

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Slowing Down

6 Mar

 

It’s true when people say New York changes you. It’s not necessarily a bad thing either. I used to be a pushover, passive, shy. Those qualities don’t thrive in this city. I’ve learned to be more straightforward, to fight for what I need/want, and to be way more outgoing.

Some of the changes are not so good, though. It’s dog-eat-dog here in a lot of ways. I miss the laid-back, friendly attitude of the West coast where people tend to co-habitate as opposed to claw over one another. It’s a lot about survival, as Jay-Z put it, “City is a pity, half of ya’ll won’t make it.” It’s tough living here, but worth it if you can do it.

I spent this last year being fairly poor. I took a substantial pay cut to become a technician as I was in “training,” only recently has this been lifted to the point where I’m  making good money once again. But I had to survive one of the world’s most expensive cities on a low salary, somehow, someway. I took lots of little jobs, in-house nail trims, cat sitting, shave-downs. I went on lots of dates mostly for the free meal (I know I’m going to hell.) When I had to mail a letter, I stole postage from the clinic. I made food laaaast. If a client bought us sandwiches. I’d cut mine into thirds and eat it for lunch three days in a row. How do I stay so slender? The old-fashioned way, by being poor. I clock into work 15 minutes early, take only a 15 minute lunch break, which adds 1/2 an hour of pay to each day. All the little things accumulate.

Things are a lot better now, and during these times, I luckily only had to dip into my savings once or twice. And I still have a bunch of lucrative side jobs that give me extra cash. One thing I do is at-home nail trims for pets for $20. Easy money and clients are more than happy to pay it to avoid the stress of taking their animals to the vet.

Today I went to do a nail trim on a cat I had never met before. I ran into work 30 minutes early to grab the clippers and go to the apartment. It was a 5th floor walk-up, and a little old lady was all smiles at the door. She welcomed me in and kept calling me Cindy even though I tried to correct her. I met her adorable cat Freddy who seemed to like me. She held him while I did the nail trim. I checked the clock and saw that I could get back to work in time to clock in 15 minutes early.

Then the lady started talking to me, offering me something to drink or eat, wanting me to play with the cat. I started getting annoyed, looking at the time, thinking about how I was losing money the longer I stayed there.

Then I had to stop. I had to pause a moment and realize I was being a true New York asshole, selfish and greedy. What is 15 minutes out of my day? How much do I really need that money? So I accepted the red Solo cup filled to the brim with orange juice and watched “Live with Kelly and Michael” for a bit. The lady was so sweet, and she quietly started telling me how she is going through a divorce and feels alone and is having hip surgery. She wiped a tear from her eye as she told me, “I’m just so happy Freddy let you trim his nails. You’re an angel.”

I laughed and told her I didn’t mind, anytime. Of all the things I could have done with those 15 minutes of my day, nothing could have been more important than that. Of all the things I do with my time, drinking orange juice and watching a morning talk show is the simplest, laziest, but to her, it was important. To me, it was important.

A lot of mornings I watch my fellow commuters shove onto the subways, elbowing each other, knocking one another over. If the train is like that, I always just stand back and wait for the next one. They come practically every 2 minutes, and the next train is always less crowded.  I think to myself, “Is that extra 2 minutes truly important to these people?” Well, call me hypocrite, because that 15 minutes this morning where I could have clocked in early was likewise inferior to becoming one little old lady’s nail-trimming angel.

Plus she slipped me an extra 5 saying, “Because Freddy thinks you’re pretty.”

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What about writing?

4 Feb
image

This Dog loves me

This is a conversation I’ve had in a variety of ways and shapes over the last couple of months with a number of friends and family.

I was at a friend’s birthday party and another friend was telling me about a hip-hop karaoke event that he’d attended and asked me why I wasn’t there as karaoke is one of my most beloved past times.

“I just got my biology text book in the mail, so I’ve been all study, all the time,” I told him.
“Oh, so this is for vet school.”
“Well, no, it’s for vet tech school. I don’t think vet school was ever for me. I’m thinking maybe going into animal behavior or zoology one day.”
A concerned look sweeps across his face.
“But what about writing?”

Well, what about writing? I ask myself that question every day. I have Mondays off of work, so I spent my entire day poring over a Biology text book. I occasionally took breaks to cook, take a walk, read, and write. I also took some time to research possible careers in animal behavior and/or zoology. It’s all interesting. I know I could do it. But it all feels like such a farce. Like who am I kidding with this shit? I feel like a square peg, shoving myself into a round hole and hoping no one notices that my edges don’t quite match up.

I’m quite ashamed of my job history. It’s something I joke about, because it is funny. But in a greater sense, it shows how little commitment I have. It’s not just the job history, it’s the things I’ve pursued. Three years ago, I thought I was going to go back to school to be a teacher. I studied an LSAT book for a couple of weeks. I took a graphic designing class. I bought an introduction to linguistics book. Nothing fits.

While I know that a lot of people my age are at a loss as to what they want to do, I don’t want to be among them. My friend who had the birthday on Saturday is my age, and she has a successful career, a stunning apartment, a graduate degree. I suppose I thought things would fall into place for me by now.

But what about writing? It’s all I’ve really wanted to do. I just don’t know how to swallow my pride, my fear and do it. I simply don’t know how.

 

 

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New Years Resolutions 2013

2 Jan

2013-01-01 02.20.12How was your New Year’s, friends? Mine was lovely. I was briefly worried that I wouldn’t have plans, but a couple of my lovely lady friends came through, and we ended up going to a fancy party in Astoria. My favorite mental image of the night was sitting on a coffee table, looking up above me to see twenty or so flutes of champagne all clinking and feeling amazed that not one drop was spilled on my $20 dress.

People can be so cynical about resolutions. But what’s so wrong about making an attempt to better oneself? Last year I wrote my resolutions on a torn page of binder paper, and taped it above my printer, and while I strayed and maybe didn’t come through on all of them, they did serve as a reminder of what I wanted to improve. I really did cook for myself more, and I wrote nearly every day! I kind of wanted to write something about the inherent hope in resolutions, but then I read what my old friend Eric wrote here, and it’s something I don’t even want to try to match.

So here are my 2013 resolutions. They are written on a fresh piece of binder paper, taped over the sheet labeled 2012, because I don’t think those old resolutions should disappear with the start of a new year.

  1. Read more Poetry.
  2. Write with abandon. Stop self-censoring.
  3. Be Patient. Keep working hard, but have a little patience with life.
  4. Commit to a volunteer project.
  5. Be more grateful.
  6. Cook more Asian food.
  7. Do Yoga. Find a studio. Buy a package. Make it happen.
  8. Read at night instead of watching television shows from the 90’s on Netflix.
  9. Make a more genuine effort to stay in touch.
  10. Finish two semesters of school

More than any of that, this Susan Sontag quote struck me as something to keep in mind:

“I want to make a New Year’s prayer, not a resolution. I’m praying for courage.”

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Mango Chutney

30 Dec

imageWelcome to a lazy Sunday in Queens. I have been a complete recluse of late, and as I’m typing this, I’m realizing by “of late” I mean one week. I haven’t gone out in one week. I’m used to going out a lot, and the last week, my bed and a pile of books is just much more appealing to me.

Today I decided to break the spell of constantly ordering in by cooking something in my crock pot. It’s a crock pot kind of day. Throw something in there, get a bunch of stuff done around the apartment, then have a beautiful home-cooked meal. I decided upon a “Sweet Chicken Curry.” I put on my winter coat and began the 10 minute walk to the nearest grocery store.

A word about my neighborhood. I live in a little-known area of Queens that is the intersection of Asian, Indian, and Latino communities. Everyone in my building is Chinese, and most everything around me is Chinese in one way or another. The markets are small and niche, they have plenty of rice noodles, but no cheese. I need cheese in my life, so I typically walk the 10 minutes to the Latino neighborhood that has a somewhat larger grocery store. It usually has what I need, but it is also niche and doesn’t have major things like fish.

So I arrive at the grocery store and find everything on my list, except mango chutney. I needed half a cup of mango chutney. I started beating myself up. How could I be so stupid as to pick a recipe with an ingredient so classicly Indian. Of course my Latino grocery store wouldn’t have it. They have bags of rice labeled “Arroz” not “Basmati.” I had left my cell phone at home (because I sometimes need to prove to myself that I’m not a slave to it) and was trying to rack my brain for what I could use to replace it. It’s just a jelly-like thing, right? Could I use jam? Could I use fresh mango and extra curry powder or something?

Then I realized how silly I was being. It’s a 15-minute walk from that grocery store to an Indian neighborhood. I can tough it out. So I put some “Exile on Main Street” on my ipod and began the journey. I stopped in every grocery store along the way, just to check and was amazed at what I found. There’s this gigantic Asian supermarket close to me with an amazing fish and meat market, free samples of dumplings, every sauce imaginable. It made me realize how foolish I am to spend so much time on American foods and not taking advantage of what is around the corner from me. I make it to the Indian markets and wander in and out, finding mint chutney, mango puree, pickled mangoes, and even more specialty markets I wish I’d taken advantage of sooner.

So I stop into my seventh market of the day, scour the aisles, until I found a promising section with glass jars. There it was, the above jar. I thrust a mittened fist in the air in victory. I was the idiot white girl in line at the all Indian-store and absolutely all smiles.

My spicy chicken curry is slowly warming in my crock pot, and I feel so accomplished today. I’ve been reading a lot of books about redemption lately, about people going to far away places or doing crazy things to save themselves. But sometimes even the smallest adventures are equally redemptive.

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My two days of cat ownership

26 Nov

imageI went back to Nevada to visit my parents for a quick spell, and while I was away, one of my roommates agreed to cat sit. I was informed of this via text and didn’t think much of it. I returned to New York the evening of Thanksgiving, exhausted from the eight hour journey across the United States. I heard my roommate knock on my door, and I begrudgingly opened it to see her standing there, holding a cat. She introduced us as the cat leaped from her arms and ran under my bed. I was tired and did not want to deal with this furry creature.

For some reason, this cat would not leave my side. When I went into the kitchen, he followed me. When I put moisturizer on in front of my mirror, he likewise stood in front of the mirror gazing at his reflection. When I studied a bit on my computer, he walked back and forth over my hands, meowing for attention. And when I snuggled in my bed to watch Ru Paul’s Drag Race, he curled up next to me and purred.

So this is what cat ownership is like? In the last couple of years, I have desperately wanted a furry friend of my own. Ideally, I’d like to own a dog, but I know that I do not have the time or the resources to own one. For meager city-living, cats are really the ideal pet. As long as you leave them food and a litter box, they’ll generally take care of themselves. And oh, how I’ve craved one. It was a blissful two days with Kitty. I’d come home from work, and he’d run out from under the couch and begin following me everywhere I want. Sure, he wreaked some havoc by knocking all of my picture frames off their shelf and clawing at my scarves, but overall, it was so nice to have someone to come home to who wanted nothing more than to follow me around and do whatever I wanted.

On Saturday night, I didn’t have any plans, so I bought a bunch of ingredients to make some homemade soup and planned on watching a movie. Kitty and I. I imagined him nuzzling my ankles whilst I stirred, sitting on my lap while I picked out the movie on Netflix. But, alas, as soon as I walked in the door, I saw his litter box and carrier were gone. I was kitty-less once again. I so desperately wish I could adopt a kitty, but my landlord doesn’t allow them. My apartment feels so incomplete without one.

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The Balance

9 Nov

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’ve been feeling down lately. It’s a multitude of things, but mainly it’s the omnipresent 20-something oh-my-God-what-am-I-doing-with-my-life blues. It’s not knowing if I want to stay in New York, but also not knowing where I want to go. It’s daydreaming at work of flying to Paris, living in Montmarte, and taking real good care of a box of window flowers. It’s all nonsense, but it still gets me down.

The problem is when I’m feeling down, I feel so low to the ground, there’s no farther down to go. I’ve always thrown my full weight into sadness. I always think of a stanza from “Elegy for Jane,” one of my favorite Theodore Roethke poems,

“Oh, when she was sad, she cast herself down into such a pure depth,
Even a father could not find her:
Scraping her cheek against straw,
Stirring the clearest water.”

That’s exactly how I feel when I’m down. To get into English major nerdery, Jane takes the action of casting herself down. She does it to herself. Yet that adjective “clearest” indicates that there’s nothing mentally wrong with her. It almost seems contemplative.

Anyways, when I’m down, I like to read blogs about how to be happy, how to cheer yourself up, how to become one of those shiny women who seem to have it together. I study Buddhism. I try so hard to find ways to be more complacent, to be at peace, to wake up every morning smiling, and return to bed at night satisfied. But don’t we all strive for happiness in one way or another? Aren’t we all in one way or another trying to become happier? I’m just more type A and obsessed with it.

Then I came across this amazing post about how to survive a personal apocalypse. I was already well aware of the whole “This too shall pass” mantra. The thing where you tell yourself that struggles will eventually subside and that happiness will happen again. But what struck me is how she mentioned that sadness will come again too. That when you’re happy, you have to accept that one day, you won’t be. It sounds so pessimistic, but to me it’s peaceful.

There’s no way to be happy all the time, and it’s not healthy to strive for that. It’s all part of the balance. It’s why I love rain so much. Rainy days have their own feel, and their own sense of quiet life. When the rain clears, and it’s sunny again, we all appreciate it more, we all feel more thankful. But without the rain, the sunny days get mundane. I’ve lived in Nevada, and I’ve experienced that phenomenon first hand. So the sad days are like that as well. They make the happy days brighter.

So in sadness, I often think how it will be over, and I will be happy soon enough. But I think in happy days, I should live with knowing that I will one day be sad, angry, frustrated. It’s all okay. It seems so simple, but it struck me as something truly important to know.

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None of Your Business

1 Nov

In the time that I’ve had this blog, I have gotten less and less personal with my posts. This has been a conscious decision, as I like to keep my personal life relatively quiet. I don’t like to talk about who I’m dating, and I don’t like to talk about private matters. But this has been bothering me, and I’m trapped in my apartment because of Hurricane Sandy, and I’m bored, and I want to write about something. So this will do.

Saturday night, I went out on Halloween as an M&M. I know a lot of girls my age subscribe to the idea that Halloween is a time to wear a skimpy outfit. This sort of thing makes me wildly uncomfortable, so I opted for the green M&M look. I still wanted to look nice, so I wore bright green and black stockings and high heels. Under my costume, I had on short shorts and a tank top. I planned on coming home that night.

My costume was a complete success. Lots of compliments, lots of laughs. Around 1AM, the prospect of going back to Queens did not appeal to me. The guy I’ve been seeing lives much closer. So we arranged to meet up. We got pizza and went back to his place where I spent the night.

The next morning, we went across the street to grab bagels and coffee. I hadn’t planned on spending the night away from home. So I ended up wearing the tank top, short shorts, my heels, and his flannel shirt to the bagel shop. I felt a bit silly, and my legs were rather cold. But there was not much else to be done.

The line at the bagel shop was loooong, and he was anxious to get back in time to watch the Jets game. I told him to run across the street to the grocery store to buy coffee grounds, and I would hold our place in line and order for him if the line moved fast. He smiled, kissed me, and ran across the street. While standing in line, I noticed a couple of girls my age in line behind me. They looked at my bare legs and the cute boy that was running across the street and snickered. I told myself I was paranoid.

But I could definitely hear them whispering. And as my ears perked up, I realized that they were definitely talking about me. And I most definitely heard the uttering of the word, “slut.”

Man, did that sting. There are few words in the English language that can make a girl feel as worthless and low as that one. I tend to dress conservatively, and it’s not a word I’ve been called often in my life. But hearing it felt like a shot to the gut.

My first reaction was to brush it off. Who were these girls to judge me? They were in sweatpants and Uggs, and I had great legs and a cute boy who was going to come back my way. I also justified to myself that I really wasn’t doing anything wrong. These girls were unfairly judging me. I’ve been dating him for months. I really like him. It’s the day after Halloween, and I didn’t have anything else to wear.

But then I had the most important thought of all. NONE OF THAT SHOULD MATTER. The fact that they felt high and mighty enough to call me a slut is unacceptable. They don’t know my situation, and they shouldn’t have to. I absolutely hate that we live in a world where women are so vilified with this double standard. Boys will be boys, but girls carry the Madonna/Whore complex around with them everywhere. One of the biggest lies people in our culture believe is that women have achieved equality. We haven’t. Please, let’s all stop kidding ourselves with this.

And the worst part of this to me is that other girls were calling me this. I thought of Tina Fey’s speech in Mean Girls

Calling each other sluts and whores just makes it okay for guys to call you sluts and whores

And that’s really the problem. It isn’t necessarily men holding women back from equality, we’re holding each other back. Every time we pick on each other for our appearance, for looking fat, for dressing scantily, we’re damning ourselves.

All I’m saying is that I want to live in a world where women don’t have to claw at each other because they feel as though they need to compete for men, social status, jobs, anything. It’s horrible. Maybe I’ve been watching a lot of “RuPaul’s Drag Race” the last couple of days, but I’d really like it if women saw other women dressed scantily and say something along the lines of “Damn, she looks fierce!” And that same woman could feel secure and proud to walk down the street, wearing what she wants to wear, without fearing the condemnation of those around her.

I don’t know why those girls felt the need to call me a slut, and I just wish it wasn’t something I heard. Can we all just not use that word anymore? Can we all just agree that it does nothing but hold us ladies down? Wear what you want to wear. Sleep with whomever you want to sleep with or don’t. And as Salt ‘N Peppa say, “Don’t keep sweatin’ what I do, cause I’m gonna be just fine.”

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