This Is What I Do All Day....

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FML: No Shame Pink Underwear.

I took a shower and put the same jeans back on. Seemingly normal... most people do that. It's Sunday, plus I just washed them yesterday and only wore them to brunch, just to confirm that I'm not a dirtbag. I packed my bag to do work at Panera, left my apartment, and called my mom. We were talking about Avatar and baby cousins when all of a sudden I felt something on my calf, working it's way toward my shin and down to my ankle.

My first thought was MOUSE!!!!!! AHHHHH!!!, because I'm terrified and paranoid ever since I lived in that horrendous walk-up in Hoboken two years ago. Then rationality kicked in and I thought, oh, it must be my missing mitten, but that doesn't actually make sense. Half a second later, I realized it was the embarrassingly pink thong I was wearing earlier. I changed my underwear after the shower obviously and come to think of it, I never put them in the hamper. That's because it's still in my pants.

The plus side is that I'm wearing Uggs. I awkwardly stopped on the sidewalk and pretended to be waiting for someone at first, then I talked to my mom a little more intensely about scanning photos, as if I needed to stop walking in order to have the conversation. As I did that, I leaned down to fix my "sock" and pushed the stowaway skivvies into my left Ugg. Then I proceeded toward my coffee shop destination. No sense going all the way home because of a golf ball sized pair of drawers. So now I'm in Panera and they're just chillin' in my Ugg boot. Is that TMI? A little too personal for the web? I don't care, I think it's funny, plus I have to procrastinate for a minimum of 20 minutes before beginning work. No one actually saw the offending object, but I just look guilty. Another problem: the little rhinestones, dotting the i's in "Birthday Girl" are scratching my ankle. Also, it's not my birthday.

I'd like to... I'd like to say something. Something I prepared. -Alan from "The Hangover"

Anyway, I'm back finally. I sent all of my applications for school in, now I'm playing the waiting game and wondering what to do with so much free time. Well, not really. I can't even find time to do laundry this week actually. I started writing group again, which I love because only other writers "get" writers and it's like a permanent inside joke, which is sad. Today I went to an event hosted by The Economist, which took place at Sotheby's, the famous art auction house at 72nd and York... the very UPPER, EAST river side and an hour from Hoboken. The theme was "The Art of Collecting Art" and there was a panel discussion followed by a private viewing of "Important Old Master Paintings." I'm not being sarcastic. That title was written in gold on the walls. As if the more-than-my-salary price tags didn't clue me in to how important the paintings were already. The panel discussion was interesting. There was a famous art appraiser who kept dropping his microphone (drunk) and another crotchety old art dealer who kept cursing the modern art world and saying how "weird" it was, and a woman who used words like "Philistinism" and "Connoisseur." I know what both of those mean because of my recent battle with the GRE vocab sections, however she sounded pretentious. It's interesting that people invest in art these days without caring about it. They spend millions on work before they see it in person, trusting others who actually do appreciate art to choose the smartest properties for their collection they lock away in a study and brag about or something.

After the lecture, we viewed paintings while drinking "vodka and water" (said with a British accent of course.) Waiters came around with trays of food, but it was 8pm and bite size burgers (1), teeny truffle grilled cheeses, and caviar wrapped in rice paper on a lemon was not very satisfying after a 12 hour day. I actually ate the caviar and it was so disgusting I almost spit it on a $5-7 million dollar painting. Who eats that shit? Pardon my French. No pun intended except I just Googled and caviar is a Persian word, not Parisian, so it's not a pun or funny at all. I didn't think many of the paintings were something I'd want to hang in my foyer, let alone pay a million dollars for one of a bleeding Jesus or a fat courtesan or a pedophile...

I also felt out of place in my trendy Target skirt and Madden flats, while other women wore fur and blew smoke rings and men wore tweed and Burberry. It's weird to think of these impoverished (I imagine) painters who haven't showered in weeks looking down from an alternate universe on the richest investors in Manhattan admiring their works and chatting about the test of time.

I like art, but I prefer the process of making art. I remember an essay I read freshman year of college by Baraka (Jones) called "Hunting is Not Those Heads on the Wall." Art is a verb, not canvas in a frame, so museums are pretty dull. I left after chugging the vodka and water, and took the 6 from 68th to 14th. Then I had to walk through Union Square to get to the Path, and several gay hipsters got ashes on my stockinged legs and a girl in a cap and gown stuck her tongue out at me. Sense: it really made none. In complete contrast to Upper East Side Sotheby's, no one cares who you are in Union Square. I was nearly struck by two cabs, but I liked New York tonight because it is whatever. You can be whoever, whenever and then take a train, exit the station, and be someone else...I think NY is a verb.

ETS - Educational Testing Sucks.

There's something worse than getting teeth pulled, potentially worse than getting teeth pulled without Novocain. That something is the Graduate Record Examination, commonly known as the GRE. It doesn't matter how long you study or what you know. It matters that you answer the first 1/3 of the random questions correctly in each section. If you're lucky enough to know what the most obscure words in the English language mean (all 5 unrelated definitions), and then if you can also write logical arguments for an hour and a half, while answering geometry, trig, algebra, and 5! -2xy + 3 squared to the nth degree... you might survive. Don't forget the little countdown going on in the upper left hand corner, telling you how many seconds you have left, ticking ticking ticking your life away. Somehow it's the longest 4 hours of your life, but you still run out of time too fast. Oh yes, and you get one 10 minute break... total.

Before you enter the room, you have to remove your headband. The skinny ribbon keeping the hair out of your eyes, that has to go. No watches, no pens, no pencils, no joy. Don't remove your sweatshirt unless you raise your hand. Show us the insides of your pockets, stick your hands in your back pockets and turn around. It's all so inhumane. Then they crank the heat up in the test room and give you giant headphones that make you feel like you're trapped in a dark subway alone, under water. They yell at you because your signature looks different from your license, which was signed a year ago. At the end, they have the nerve to ask if you would like to participate in an experimental section, but you're too scared of losing the score you already have to say no. All of a sudden, your score appears after saying you don't want to cancel it...twice. $150 to take the damn test, plus $50 to change the date. $30 for the review book, $15 for the vocab review book, countless hours, and still a below average math score. Doesn't matter that I'm going to school to get a Master of FINE ARTS in WRITING. They still had to tell me I suck at math and then also tell the schools to which I'm applying. The writing section, my only hope for redemption, is scored by snotty nosed TA's who don't give a crap, so that's reassuring.

That was standardized computerized hell, and after a day in a cubicle, a night in a testing cell, and a long phone conversation with my mother that I had to tune out due to lack of brain power, I am going to sleep to pretend it never happened. In the morning, hopefully my head is no longer a pureed glob of irrelevant data.

Shut Up about New Moon. kthanksbye.

Postcards From Yo Mamma

Just now on Gchat...

Mom: -[p/================ [[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[;/7RUIF<(O)_814
Mom: that was Frida having something to say she was lying on the keyboard probably for warmth that will be fine w/me

NYC: Not So Evil All the Time

The past 18 hours have been pretty decent as far as NYC goes. This city and I have a serious love/hate relationship. It's not quite healthy, but not awful enough to break up (yet). What will likely happen is that I'll walk out on it and then cry about missing it and end up as an old lady living on Central Park wearing Burberry and walking my black cat around the block. I'll regret not ending up in Carmel, California in a stone cottage on the ocean, but I'll secretly love my life despite whining.

Last night I had writing group at the Ansonia, in a woman's condo there. The building is slightly creepy, but I love writing group. It's kind of like AA or therapy, with less debbie downers. I get this feeling of being high, walking on air because I love writing so much. I HAVE to do it. Some people have religion. I have books I guess. Whatever. Corny sap:

""There is only one great truth on this planet: whoever you are, or whatever it is that you do, when you really want something, it's because that desire originated in the soul of the universe. It's your mission on earth."

Today, just now, I discovered a new coffee shop, Birch Coffee, that is totally pretentious and down to earth at the same time and I love it. The coffee is good. It's just too bad they don't take credit cards for anything less than $8 which is just about what I have in my account. Read the "About Us" part. It's a place that should be in Ithaca or Maine, not NYC but that's why I like it. They do a daily meditation which scares me, but I know my mom would encourage me to go with gusto. Still scares me. Hippies. Yikes. Coffee is good, escaping from the city vibe is even better.