Live a Life Worth Telling

Adventures in second-hand

2010-06-28T10:50:00.000-07:00

For the majority of human beings-- who, for the most part, remain eternal adolescents-- sometimes it takes a disaster for us to remove our heads from the sand (for those whose heads are planted firmly up their own arses, nothing, really, will ever cause their removal). I am speaking, specifically, of the Deepwater Horizon disaster. Realistic implications of the damage we so casually inflict on our habitat become visceral every once in a while-- the Exxon-Valdez oil spill, steep increases in gas prices, my brother encountering polar bears ever-more-frequently on land in the Arctic Circle. Our attention, unfortunately, is still so easily diverted, at least for those not living on the Gulf and not feeling the effects daily. Who knows why-- ADD? Ignorance? Wayward optimism? The majority of Americans-- 59%-- remain optimistic that the U.S. will find a satisfactory alternative to oil as a fuel for our energy needs within 25 years. With a history of inadequate funding and with a bleak future where real change in energy policy remains unlikely thanks to partisan bickering, that reality is doubtful.

It comes down, for now at least, to the individual to do his or her own part to decrease our reliance on oil-- to become less of a consumer, really, in the face of mounting pressure to exceed the Joneses and buy buy buy. I, personally, am doing my best to not let the Deepwater Horizon spill to be a blip on the radar, something I discuss at my version of the water cooler and then forget about. I've been trying hard to think of ways to decrease my carbon footprint. I take public transit, I sleep with a fan, not AC, until it's unbearable, I shorten my showers, I turn off lights, I recycle. I can do more: I can take the train instead of a taxi late nights, I can bring along my Nalgene instead of buying bottled water when I'm out, I can bring home recyclables from the office, which doesn't have recycling. The biggest way in my own life to reduce my carbon footprint, to become less of a consumer, however, involves my penchant for clothes and shoes. It's an addiction, really, and it won't cease entirely anytime soon. Still, there is a way for me to decrease my carbon footprint within this aspect of my life, in a big way. My decision to make a concerted effort to do so was sealed with a recent piece about the environmental, and human, impact of fast fashion on one of my favorite blogs, Jezebel.com. It is a worthy, and disarming read.

And that was it: I live in a giant city, one of the biggest in the world, where thrift shops and consignment stores and vintage stores and markets with artists selling their own hand-made designs abound. I am not limited to moth-ball-ridden clothing from the Salvation Army. And I need to take advantage of that. So I made a decision.

I will spend the next year consciously trying to not be such a consumer. I will do my best to purchase as much as I can second-hand. It won't be cold turkey (full disclosure: I bought a dress and shoes, new, today), but I will make a fully concerted effort. An added bonus: it will get me out of the house and exploring this amazing city more. I already spent one afternoon doing so, in the East Village. The afternoon proved bountiful. Here, the fruits of my labor:

Dolce and Gabbana peep-toes. A fine beginning for a new adventure: a year of second-hand shopping. I will continue to post the fruits of my labor here.

In Praise and Celebration of Buses

2010-04-08T11:59:00.000-07:00

There is a lot of research that shows that changing one's routine, for example, the route to work, stimulates creativity. This, though, was not the reason I chose to switch things up on my way to work yesterday.

No, as I walked over to Cup, a cute little coffee shop near the train in my neighborhood, in the warm sunshine, I just couldn't bear the thought of descending down into the dank subway. I needed to extend my time in the sun.

As I crossed the street to the subway entrance, a glance over my shoulder revealed the B62 bus heading my way. The bus stop was just next to me-- impeccable timing, and my out for staying in the sun a bit longer. I hopped on, juggling iced coffee, magazine, two bags, wallet and metro card, per the usual routine, and plopped down next to the window, channeling my cat as I Buddha-smiled in the sunshine.

For most New Yorkers, the bus is a bit of an anathema. Nobody takes the bus. I was at a comedy show in the Lower East Side once with a friend. While I had stepped away momentarily to use the restroom, the comic made a mention of the MTA cutting bus routes. "What loser takes the bus anyway?" he asked. Good thing I was in the bathroom-- I had taken the bus there that evening. I was probably the only person in the room who had, and my friend most certainly would have pointed me out.

I don't quite know how to explain the hate. Perhaps the preference to travel underground relates to the New York neurotic sensibility. Perhaps it's because of the traffic. Maybe it's a socio-economic thing.

I understand the traffic concern. I usually limit my bus-riding to the outer boroughs, where traffic tends to be sparer. Still, two summers ago when I was interning in the 50s on the west side and then commuting to my second job in the 50s on the east side, I quite frequently took the very convenient crosstown bus, and even in thick traffic, it got me to my destination in minutes.

I've on the whole found buses to be timely, reliable and clean. And, of utmost importance, they're ABOVE GROUND! They also offer good alternatives for travel, so you can easily shake up that commuting routine and get the creative juices flowing.

As for me, I arrived to work yesterday smiling and energized, with no need for a second cup of coffee. I did ultimately have to hop on the subway during my morning commute, but those few extra minutes in the sun for sure made a difference in what turned out to be a very productive day.

Surgery

2010-03-01T19:43:00.000-08:00

I am stealing an idea from Becca and posting work I do in my Creative Writing class here. Please feel free to comment. Constructive criticism is welcome.

***

In-class assignment: Take something that happened to you, using only the facts, but making it suspenseful.

I sit alone in a chair. My bare skin squeaks against the cold blue vinyl. My clothes are locked away somewhere in a locker, down one of these mazes of corridors. If I were to escape, I would have to do so naked but for this robe that barely covers my ass.

They've pulled a curtain around me and I can't see beyond the two-foot compartment in which I am sitting. I hear voices-- two people, mid-conversation, have flowed into the room beyond the curtain. I draw myself up in the chair, as though improving my posture somehow makes up for my bare ass. I try to wipe the sweat from my palms onto my robe, hiding any sign of fear.

I jump at the sound of metal on metal as the curtain is wrenched open.

"Hello dear," the nurse says, feigning geniality. I know the real deal.

My suspicions are confirmed as a long needle and a ribbon of rubber emerge from behind her back.

"Just try to relax," she says. "It's easier to find your vein that way."

That's what they all say.

Houdini Cat

2010-02-08T08:35:00.000-08:00

At my old apartment, we had a roof deck. We lived on the top floor, and the deck was up a ladder and through a hatch. When we first got my cat Dixie, we decided to get her a leash and buy some clothesline to fix up a sort of cat run on the roof, so the little urban kitty could enjoy some outdoor time.

Dixie ended up hating the leash, but was actually quite well-behaved off the leash on the roof, so we ended up bringing her up with us and letting her hang out and enjoy her freedom. She loved it-- every time the door opened, she'd try to dash out, at times succeeding. She'd dash down the first set of stairs, then hang out abashedly, rubbing against the metal spindles of the stairway railing.

She loved being outside so much, in fact, that one day she decided to make her escape.

It was a lovely morning, mid-July, during the only month of summer weather in New York. I awoke happily, sunshine streaming in the window. Rolling over to my left side, I looked out the window, taking in the beautiful day.

Like most apartments in New York, the window looked out onto our fire escape. Metal safety bars outside the window had a pop-out for an air conditioner. We had put a flower box on top of the pop-out, and the morning glories had finally started to bloom.

My gaze drifted to the flower box to check the morning glories' progress. I saw something that didn't belong.

It took me a minute to determine what this figure was. It looked like... a cat. There was a cat sitting in the flower box. I looked more closely. It was a Dixie-shaped cat. In the flower box. OUTSIDE. Four stories up. What the...??!!

Sitting up suddenly, I yelled, "Dixie!"

And the Dixie-shaped cat jumped into the window and onto the bed, rubbing against me in greeting.

Our windows opened from the top. The damn cat, at some point during the night, had figured out how to open the screen, dragging it down with her claws and releasing herself into freedom. Who knows how long she'd been hanging out on the fire escape, four stories up.

Maybe she didn't use up one of her nine lives that day, but with the fright she gave me, I most certainly did.

There's a good joke in here...

2010-02-06T12:52:00.000-08:00

I grew up in a suburban neighborhood, like any other. Squared in by 2 commercial streets to the north and west and a park to the south and east, it was fully residential. Its grid of blocks was lined with duplexes, ranches, colonials.

On one block, Annie Street, stood a building that was somewhat, then, out of place-- the Polish Social Club. It was somewhat odd to randomly have, essentially, a bar situated smack dab in the middle of a bunch of single-family homes, but there you go.

Growing up, my dad would often go with his friends to "the club" to socialize. When I was a kid, I never really deduced the function of a social club. Which I suppose is a good thing, but it also meant that I came to the confident conclusion that my Dad must be going to the Polish Social Club for the single reason that made perfect sense to me.

I was in high school before I realized that I wasn't, actually, Polish.

The Hero

2010-02-01T19:34:00.000-08:00

This one's a classic from the teaching days, and is dedicated to my Spanish 3H kids, and to Leigh in particular.

---

The foreign language department at B.F. was relegated to the far end of the hallway on the basement floor. The classrooms on the north side of the building were lucky, with full length windows looking out to the woods behind the building (well, with the faculty parking lot in front of said woods, but still...) Those of us on the south side were not as lucky. The ground outside came up to within 2 feet of the ceiling of the classrooms on the south side. We were left with a ribbon of glass that let in minimal sunshine. Pipes ran up the wall, preventing 3 of the 6 windows in most of the classrooms from even opening.

During the winter, it was hot and dry. In the summer months, it was hot and unbearably humid. At all times it was stuffy and stale. Still, there were a few precious weeks, in October and late April/ early May, when the light was perfect, and the breeze from the open window and an oscillating fan made everyone refreshed and, if not alert, then at least not asleep (usually).

Our story takes place on just such an afternoon, in early spring. The weather was perfect. It was the second-to-last class of the day, when freedom was within reach and the heavy sleepiness that proceeded lunch had worn off. The faces looking up at me were open, smiling. I was feeling creative, brisk, alive. The energy was perfect.

We were all ready, then, teacher and students, to explore the wonder that is the imperfect subjunctive.

Today, the particular subject was emotion. It was a perfect day for emotion, and happiness in particular. "Estaba contenta que...," I started to write on the board.

My body reacted before my brain did-- my reflexes like a cat. The blackboard-- the old, heavy blackboard that had been in place since the 50s and still the remnants of some random prayer etched at the top as it had when I was a student-- had started falling away from the wall.

The classroom was small. The first row of students was less than a foot away from where I stood. The kids! I had visions of concussions, bloody heads, cracked skulls.

I jumped, spreading my legs on the floor, reaching my arms out, fingers extended, to hold the heavy blackboard up. I was a hero! I saved not only the precious brains of my students, but also the school from the financial ruin of numerous lawsuits.

The beating of my heart as it tried to pounce out of my ribcage seemed deafening within the hush of the classroom. Time stood still.

And then, whispers. Scattered murmurs. Muffled laughter.

I looked up.

Have you ever been on a train, when the train next to you was moving, and it made you feel like you were moving?

See, I had this scarf hanging at the top of the blackboard. It was a Real Madrid scarf-- the football (soccer) team in Madrid. It was tacked to the strip of bulletin board that was above the black board. Also, it was waving in the breeze from the fan and the open window.

I had thought the blackboard was falling down. It was really just the scarf waving. It was a mistake in perception. You know, like when the train next to you is moving...?

I tried to explain this to my students. They had just witnessed their teacher go from droning on about some weird perfect subjective thing, whatever that is, to jumping out and pressing herself spread-eagle against the blackboard, and now she's rallying on about trains? Dude, give me some of whatever she's having.

My sanity may have lost some credibility that day, but at least I got my students' attention. Hey, as teachers, we do what we gotta do.

The Underwear Nazi

2010-01-31T12:01:00.000-08:00

In my quest to realize that I do, actually, have things in my life worth writing about, I hereby commit to post a story a day, no matter how short, on this thing. I will start with the infamous, in my circle of college friends, story of the Underwear Nazi, a nickname which makes zero sense whatsoever, but has remained hysterical throughout the years.

----

Freshman year. South Hall-- a monster of a dorm, the newest constructed on the campus, where the golf course originally stood.

In the cavernous basement, a place where you nervously glanced over your shoulder while walking to the stairs, trying to play it cool until you shrugged off the act and bound up to the first floor, praying your story doesn't end up on an episode of SVU, there were about 10 washers and 10 dryers. South Hall has 158 doubles and 51 singles. Competition for the laundry room was fierce and the price was steep. It costs less to do my laundry in New York City over a decade later.

I was relieved, then, to find an empty dryer on a Saturday afternoon. There were even people in the basement rec room, so no need to bound upstairs (needlessly) fearing for my life. It was my lucky day, then.

Which made it all the worse when, an hour later, keen on being timely and polite so as not to piss off whomever needed to use the dryer next, I gathered up courage to descend to the cavern and retrieve my laundry.

Which I found. On the laundry room table. Soaking wet. There were 2 minutes left in my dryer. Where someone else's clothes were spinning around. On my dime.

I was furious. Jerking open the dryer door, I grabbed the clothes of this evil, rude stranger and threw them on the table. This was not satisfying revenge. I now had to pay a further 3 bucks or however insanely much those dryers cost to dry my clothes, AGAIN, and waste another hour of a precious Saturday, because some b**** stole my dryer time. This person deserved more than just their clothes thrown messily on a table.

I poked through the pile of clothes. What could I do? There were an overwhelming number of granny panties in the pile. The answer became clear. It was like an enlightenment. I promptly picked out all of the ugly undergarments, walked over to the trash, and tossed them in.

An hour later I returned diligently to retrieve my clothes. There was a girl, folding the clothes I recognized as the evildoers. (Really? She was an hour late to get her clothes out of the dryer? Laundry room etiquette, anyone? Were you raised by wolves?)

It was my good friend's girlfriend.

If anything, then, I did him a service by throwing out all her god-awful underwear.

And that, my friends, is the true tale of the Underwear Nazi, who, incidentally, I see quite frequently, and randomly. She still has no idea.

Where does the personal end and professional begin?

2009-07-14T18:24:00.000-07:00

Even Con Edison ads on the subway entreaty the reader to "join us on Facebook!"

Social networking is omnipresent and unavoidable.

First I used Friendster to keep in touch with college friends. Then I used Myspace to find old high school friends. Then I used Flickr to share photos with family, friends, and people I met in my travels. Then I joined Facebook to keep in touch with aforementioned travel buddies, being that its popularity globally was much bigger than locally-- outside of college populations.

Now we've seen the largest migration ever encountered: the entire world, it seems, joining first Facebook and now Twitter, which have become more than social networking. They are a means for branding, marketing, publicity, public relations....

It was strange enough when my former students "friended" me and, no longer being a teacher, I accepted their requests.

Then last summer, in conjunction with my position at a publishing company, I used my personal Facebook profile to appeal to groups of users who were fans of a particular author, as a means to market and publicize a book.

I was uncomfortable with the invasion of my professional life into my personal, and decided to never use my profile again in such a manner.

But the fact remains, the personal and the professional spheres are more and more seeping into each other, not always seamlessly. Media outlets from the Wall Street Journal to Bloomberg to the New York Times face some very strict policies limiting, or at least guiding, their use of social networking site. Staffers are urged to keep their profiles professional, censor comments from friends and post promotional links.

(As a side note, one can understand concerns from higher-ups over what professionals in the public sphere put out there. Just have a look at the multiple politicians showing their true colors on Facebook. The jury is out, however, on whether such racist stupidity will actually impact their professional career at all.)

But back to why this is concerning me in particular right now.

So, by now there are a few things published out there now with my name in the byline. The ball's rolling; I need to keep momentum. The writers I speak to encourage me to write everyday, no matter what. Hence the increase in posts here as of late. If I am not writing as a freelancer for someone, I should at least be creating material I can use for writing samples.

Meanwhile, as I peruse popular blogs in fashion, in food studies, in wine, there everyone is, advertising themselves-- follow them on Twitter, friend them on Facebook, check out their photos on Flickr.

Web 2.0 offers some fantastic opportunities for self-promotion. I am not always pleased with the results (Julia Allison really bothers me), but if it's done right, without violating any principles or self-respect, seizing the opportunity to brand oneself certainly presents a thoroughly modern avenue to success or, at least, exposure, which, with talent, could lead to success.

Needless to say, branding alone does not a successful writer make. In fact, I think it makes an obnoxious and annoying one. Just because you can manage multiple social networking accounts and have lots of friends and hits on your blog does not mean you are a force to be reckoned with in the literary world. But the exposure from increased blog hits will help. And in order to increase blog hits, two things are helpful: a recognizable and established identity and a means for self-promotion. Hence, linkage of worlds: the professional (if I begin to look at this blog as such) and the personal-- my social networking profiles.

Sorry for all the circular logic. Bloggers are bloggers, not journalists. I think back to my first "blog"-- an e-zine, really, that I circulated throughout the AOL community back when the internet was a baby for us commoners. I called it Brainspew. I find that to be representative to blogging in general.

But back to my point, which I do have.

I am considering jumping off the deep end. Actively seeking increased traffic for this blog-- taking it from something I share with friends and family to something I share with a larger, anonymous-to-me community. Taking it more seriously and using it to build skills as a reporter, establishing my name. My brand.

But how? Should I go full-on anonymous? Or do I go all out? If I go anonymous, I'll probably create a second blog and try to conceal identity-revealing details. Readers who follow me here (few though they are, given my frequent lapses), will know who I am at my new blog, so it's not like I'd stay fully anonymous. And I'd still probably post links to new blog entries on my Facebook profile. But my anonymity would pretty much be controlled by me--I'd reach out to those I wanted to reach.

On the other hand, if I do go public, how public do I go? Do I post a link on my blog to my Twitter? To my Facebook profile? I understand the value of the former-- I can tweet when I've updated and what-not, but I never really understood people who make FB profiles public. Seems a bit stalker-ish.

All this exposure warranted by Web 2.0 really fascinates me. Everyday people become celebrities a la Perez Hilton (whose model is one I most certainly will not follow). It's funny to think of people I don't even know reading my ramblings (note to self: I am not Jack Kerouac. Keep away from the red wine while writing.) Will people really care about who I am, be curious about my personal life, or will they just want to read what I write? Do I even want to broadcast my personal life? I'm sure there's a middle ground, I'm just not sure if the identity I've established with this blog is already a little too personal to bring fully public.

These are the things I think about, with my name out there attached to a few articles, with designs for this blog that would increase my visibility and provide me some more fodder for writing samples. It's like I'm navigating the same waters as the staffers for the Times, the Journal and Bloomberg, but without some higher-up sending me a memo on guidelines, I have to create my own.

Where will my personal life end and my professional life begin?

What say you?

Our Morning Routine

2009-07-07T15:57:00.000-07:00

One of Dixie's obsessions is my hair elastic. If I have my hair in a pony tail, when I am sitting on the couch, she will jump onto the back of it and try to claw the elastic out of my hair.

We have also developed a morning routine around the elastic.

Every morning, the second she hears the shower stop, she starts scratching on the door. I open it and she, knowing that when I take the elastic out of my hair to shower, I place it in the soap dish, lithely leaps onto the sink.

Within seconds she has knocked the elastic off the soap dish and into the sink.

Normally, she'll snatch it up between her teeth, jump down, and take off running and jumping to the bed, where she'll drop it in front of sleepy Karel, hoping to initiate a game of fetch.

However, as I am sick of losing hair elastics to kitty fetch, I have learned to place the real elastic I use in my hair with an impostor: the elastic I've given her as her permanent toy.

Thing is she KNOWS when I use the impostor. And she views it as entirely inferior.

Once she knocks into the sink, she sniffs it, sits back up and stares at me.

I'll go into the kitchen, put some water on to boil from coffee, and walk back, and she'll still be there, giving the evil kitty eye, this time from the other side of the sink so as to best magnify the effectiveness of the kitty curse.

And who said cats weren't smart? Mine is-- frighteningly so at times. Good thing she's cute-- even when she's trying to control my mind.

The agony and the ecstasy

2009-06-12T16:50:00.000-07:00

Being a near-30, well-educated waitress, bartender and, let's not forget, freaking intern, I have my good days and my bad days.

Last Monday was a Bad Day. I was mentally formulating a blog post at work. Being distanced from the emotions now-- in fact, being contentedly on my roof deck, drinking a negra modelo, listening to Bob Marley, and admiring the growth spurt of my sunflowers-- it is difficult to re-imagine precisely what was going through my head. From what I can recall, it went something like this:

"The woman at table 3 just grabbed me by my lapel. Literally grabbed me, and asked me, menacingly, 'Did you not hear what I said to you on the way to the bathroom? Don't you know how many times I've been in here?'

She was upset because she had told me she wanted to pay the bill, but her son had asked first, so I decided to be Switzerland and placed the bill gently in the middle of the table at the end of the meal.

Shaking her off of me, I tried to recoup in the kitchen. I grabbed a chunk of bread out of the supply reserved for the paying customers, stole off to a corner, nibbled away and stared absent-mindedly at... a toilet. The filthy freaking kitchen toilet. The crapper was the capper: I am a rat. Vermin.

Disgusted, I tossed the nibbled-at bread into the trash and walked back out onto the floor, scratching my arm. And scratching more. This has been happening since the onset of spring, my arms itching at work, non-stop, hives rising up. I am allergic to this job. I am having a corporeal reaction to the malnutrition of my brain, calling out for help..."

The version running through my head last Monday was more angry, less comedic, but equally melodramatic.

And then there are nights like last night, when I remember, almost-30-year-old waitress and intern aside, I'm pretty damn fabulous. Well, at least a lot of the things I've done are fabulous.

The moment of realization came when I mentioned, off-handedly, to a couple of my bar regulars, whom I've known for a year now, how my former students have gotten in touch with me through Facebook.

"What? You were a teacher?!"

A high school teacher, yeah.

Delighted gasps of incredulity.

Moments like this, I remember: I'm not just a near-30 waitress/bartender/intern. I have this whole other life-- other lives, really. For the most part, Teaching, surviving, traveling, up-and-moving to New York because I simply wanted to. And it's all the more fun to have the ability to turn people's perceptions of me completely upside-down. There's something to be said about living an unexpected life-- the good days AND the bad days.

2009-05-31T21:03:00.001-07:00

I recently learned that pregnant female polar bears, when unable to consume the amount of calories necessary to sustain and support a cub, are able to reintegrate a fetus back into their body.

I wish humans had evolved to possess this process.

Maybe then tragedies like this could have been avoided.

A New York Moment: First in a series?

2009-05-14T21:30:00.000-07:00

Guess who's back?

So, I've been meaning to write this series highlighting crazy moments I happen upon in NYC, particularly in the subway, but didn't get around to it until now. Keep pestering until I provide more-- trust me, I could hibernate for the next year and still have tons of material to use.

A short one tonight, as it's late.

Two things spotted on the subway on my commute home tonight, on two separate platforms:

1.) Man vomiting profusely as all strolled past nonchalantly.

2.) Large rat accompanying me up the stairs to the street at my stop. Lucky for him he didn't follow me home-- Dixie would have taken care of him for sure. She's a bad-ass.

Dixie!

2009-01-22T20:32:00.001-08:00

Finally... This took a while!

No, but, really?

2008-12-29T17:23:00.000-08:00

Tripp?

I guess the habit of naming children bizarrely is genetic. Uncle Trig and Nephew Tripp. How... adorable.

Sigh...

2008-12-03T06:50:00.000-08:00

Protest leader Chamlong Srimuang and airport officials warmly shook hands and Chamlong bowed toward a Buddhist shrine featuring a portrait of the country's revered constitutional monarch, King Bhumibol Adulyadej.

The two sides embraced and shouted, "Long Live the King."

Only in Thailand...

Dixie!

2008-12-01T12:47:00.000-08:00

So three weeks ago, we got a cat for my birthday (I've been trying to post video of her, but it's taking too long to upload... Soon!). She went sans name for a couple of weeks. The past few days, we were playing with the idea of naming her Dixie, which I came to after going through the beers I've drank in my life and travels (seriously). While I'd love to call her Beerlaos, it doesn't sound all that nice, but Dixie, a beer from New Orleans, where Karel lived for a while, does.

Meanwhile, the cat, while she purrs incessantly, just does not meow. I've heard her meow once the whole time we've had her. So imagine our surprise when, today, she issued a meow and tried to climb up my leg to check out what I was drinking. Which happened to be a Dixie beer.

The cat apparently agrees with her new name, so it is now official: new kitty is now Dixie kitty.

Awesome...

2008-11-18T15:05:00.000-08:00

Oh Tufts, you make me proud.

Maybe, in light of this new development, I should put that article I wrote for the Daily a decade ago on my resume?

An update

2008-11-14T08:41:00.000-08:00

So the great carnivore project keeps making me sick and has been scrapped.

I am curled into a ball on the couch dreaming of tofu right now.

Perhaps I was just not meant to eat meat.

Happy birthday to me!

2008-11-10T14:48:00.001-08:00

My birthday present to myself? Well...

Let's first revisit a very prodigious decision I made in 7th grade at 12 years of age. Back then I was reading Anne of Green Gables, dreaming of living on Prince Edward Island and owning lots of horses and dogs. We were up to 4 cats (I'm pretty sure) and a dog at home, and I may have had a hamster at the time. Obviously I was quite the animal lover. I was also reading PETA. And thus, at the tender age of 12, I decided to go on a solo quest to save the animals. I would stop eating meat.

Somehow, my Mom, the saint, decided to go along with the whole thing. An animal lover herself, she wasn't too far from making the decision to go veggie either. Still, there were 2, at times 3, when Dave came home from college, other people in the house, all of whom were carnivorous males. So thanks, Mom, for entertaining my whims.

Fast forward seventeen years. Somewhere in there I was a vegan, which had the unfortunate result of forever changing the proportion of my body, and later on began eating fish again in the hopes that it would increase my energy level (which has always lagged behind that of normal people). Still I never really questioned my decision, basing it on my belief that I'd like to keep my karmic footprint as small as possible-- I'd like to get through this life taking as few lives of other creatures as possible. But. I wear leather (not blatantly-- no leather coats-- but leather shoes, yes, and bags). I eat fish. I call for the execution of cockroaches. These things have started bugging me a bit (well, not really the cockroach thing, no); I've started worrying about my authenticity to myself. Should I be all or nothing?

And then there is the unfortunate thing called alcohol. Sometimes, after a couple of beers, when I am really hungry, I become lustful for others' meat. And that is meant in the least-dirty, most-literal way possible. It all started last Christmas. Karel and I were out with Ed and Elizabeth, two friends from home, in Providence, at a friend's restaurant. The kitchen sent us out a charcuterie platter. As Ed, Elizabeth, and Karel raved on and on about the wild boar and the sausage, I munched on my gherkin. Finally, it just got to be too much. I threw my hands up in surrender and then dove right in to the wild boar. It was delicious.

The second time was this past Tuesday, in the midst of election madness. The bar where we were was pretty packed, and the outlook for ETA on food was pretty dim, so we went down the street to Crif Dogs, sort of like Spike's, for all you Rhode Islanders, but with a phone booth with a fake wall that leads to a speak easy. Really. I love New York. Anyway, Karel ordered his chili dog and I ordered my veggie dog. I got a plain dog on a plain bun with cubed cucumber. It tasted like... well, nothing. Karel got a plate full of pure deliciousness, apparently. After he took a couple of bites, he grew distracted by the Galaga game next to our table. I took advantage of his distraction and pounced. I ate half of his hot dog. His chili hot dog, mind you. Double meat.

Obviously, something's gotta give. I am a much different person than I was at 12 years of age -- somewhere in the past 17 years I became an angst-filled teenage bitch, started my own online 'zine back when AOL was an infant (ah, the early days of internet. I was truly a pioneer.), worshipped Trent Reznor, lost my religion, found it again in a completely different form, went to college, ran naked across the Tufts campus in the good old days before YouTube, shouldered the responsibility of teaching and mentoring our youth for a while, almost died, got lipo, traveled around the world, and moved to New York City. And those are just the highlights.

This exhausting reflection on my vegetarianism and my teens and twenties does lead to something: my birthday present to myself. Which is meat. And lots of it. For two weeks. After 17 years of unquestioned discipline, I owe it to myself. After those two weeks, I will revisit the decision I made at 12 years of age and determine what to do next: carry on as before or make some changes.

So, the menu so far, apart from the aforementioned wild boar and chili hot dog: pepperoni in the form of a stromboli, chicken breast, speck (smoked prosciutto), a pork dumpling, and curried turkey. Still no beef. I'm in the middle of An Omnivore's Dilemma (thanks Bennett!!!), which makes this whole turn of events all the more amusing, and also means I may not ever in the next 2 weeks bring myself to eat beef. Just read the first 100 pages if you want to see what I mean.

It's been odd so far. It feels somehow very counter-evolutionary to me and grosses me out somewhat. Which probably means that, once the 2 weeks are up, I will run away and retreat into the comfort of my semi-vegetarianism again. Which, apparently, will make some people very happy. It's funny the resistance in the form of, "No! Don't do that! You're so healthy!", I'm getting from (carnivorous) friends. :) Thanks, guys. I love you, but this is a decision I need to make for myself. I'm sure I'll make the right one.

In the meantime, tell me, what have I missed in the past 17 years? What must I be sure to not miss these next 2 weeks? (And please no Big Macs-- I still intend to go as humane and natural as possible!)

Oh, you haven't cried enough this week?

2008-11-08T09:27:00.000-08:00

Ok, then, here you go.

Where I was when history took place

2008-11-06T11:04:00.000-08:00

Thank god for YouTube as my camera was acting up and we didn't manage to get pictures of the post-election festivities on St. Mark's. Anyway, here is some random person's video of where I was after the election:

I think there's sound but I'm not positive as my BRAND NEW COMPUTER DOES NOT WORK CORRECTLY!!!!

Pictures of the night to follow tomorrow.

And Indiana went BLUE!

2008-11-05T16:29:00.000-08:00

I am so proud!

Yes we did!

2008-11-05T00:47:00.000-08:00

It's nice to be a part of history.

My vote is cast!

2008-11-04T12:59:00.000-08:00

I spent the morning checking my usual political blogs, reading the stories and comments from readers about their polling experiences. Four-hour waits or more in Park Slope and downtown Brooklyn. Lines extending around a whole block. Well, looks like we should pack a bag: cards, a book, iPod, magazine. Just need some breakfast and coffee and we'll be good to go.

After breakfast at the local diner, Karel and I headed to the vocational high school a few blocks west of us to cast our vote. The line, at around 11:30, was about 60 deep, and we ended up leaving the polls after an hour or so. We were lucky compared to other polling locations. Everyone was cheerful, in high spirits, generous, friendly, talkative. The energy was overwhelmingly positive. The woman behind us in line said she had voted in every election, presidential or otherwise, since 1968, the last decade in this neighborhood, and had never encountered a line, never mind one 60-deep. Her sentiment was echoed by a few others. It feels nice to be taking part in a positive part of history.

I had anticipated tearing up a bit when I cast my vote for Obama. I always get a little nervous before I vote for some reason. The polling machine was the type I remember from accompanying my mom when I was a little girl: the kind where you pull the big lever to one side, flip the switches horizontal for whomever you want to elect, then pull the big lever back. I was so concerned about not casting my vote for the wrong person (RI ballots now are the paper kind where you link the 2 sides of the arrow, so I'm not used to this newfangled-- well, oldfangled?-- stuff) that I had no emotional reaction whatsoever.

And that was that. History is already being made with voter turnout. It will be made later tonight (well, let's hope tonight), regardless of the winner. I hope we continue making history for the next 8 years. Plus I really hope to be able to afford health insurance in the near future.

Now I'm watching footage of Obama at polling stations in Indianapolis and wishing, for once, that we were still there. Bah!

At any rate, anyone reading this from the New York City area, look forward to seeing you tonight at Hop Devil, at St, Mark's and Avenue A, from 7 PM on!

So excited!!

2008-11-04T07:58:00.000-08:00

Feel like it's long before dawn on Christmas morning, when the anticipation is nearly making my heart burst.

Is it cheesy to say I anticipate getting emotional as I cast my vote?