Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Death. Pastries and Swine Flu.


"How embarrassing- if the plane were to go down they would find that my last meal was DRIED MANGO and Gardettos."

...these are the kinds of thoughts I have. While scanning the isles at La Gaurdia airport, I couldn't find a decent "last meal." I have this thing with flying- if any songs mentioning PLANE come on my ipod before boarding, I'll consider not getting on the flight,or getting drunk enough to "not feel it when we combust"- So when, "Fiery Crash" by Andrew Bird came on, I talked myself down out of impending doom by convincing myself I wouldn't die because, well, I need to reproduce. My children will be brilliant Mozart freaks, with good looks and I can't die without having some. Period.

My thing with flying is, I'm almost always certain it could be "my last trip", because I'm a dramatic, semi-morbid, freak..... so, when I saw that the only feasible options for a meal were dried mango's and Gardettos- I knew I wouldn't die. Simply, no one dies on a half-full stomach of packaged goods. If your last meal had been say, a slice of John's pizza and a cupcake- you could be going down. Or something more fancy, i.e. a meal at Le Cirque (Tom Colicchio, aren't you worried about immanent death? Your daily meal plan is a "last meal" dream.)

The trip to NYC was amazing. Exactly what I needed- I also brought back a rounder face and a wicked cold -or swine flu, since I keep joking about it I'll probably be the sucker who dies from it, but that's just my neurosis talking.

So, let me sum up the awesomeness:
Ate more pizza than my body weight. Visited MOMA. Was equally inspired and confused by some of the art in the Chelsea Galleries. Drank with Nicole is Better. Went a comedy show at Upright Citizens Brigade. Saw HAIR on Broadway (and ended up dancing on stage at the end- no I was not on drugs.) Cried at Ground Zero. Drank fancy champagne cocktails in SoHo. Saw Gavin Degraw sing an impromptu show at National Underground. Went to CMJ; lost count of the incredible bands that played. Ended up on set watching the filming of a major film (thanks to a friend) with Emily Blunt and Matt Damon. Ate at 'ino. Found the best black and white cookies at William Greenbergs. Drank vino in Little Italy. Went to seminars for CMJ at NYU. Made new friends! Marveled at Central Park in the fall, my favorite.....and, got a new job! (no, I'm not moving to NYC again..not yet anyway)WEEEEE!!!

....and that's just a taste of my 6 day trip. I need a vacation from the vacation.

My Love also came with me, he was a New York virgin- watching him walk with his head up at the sky was part of the fun. As I've mentioned we've been going through "a rough patch" a really rough patch, in fact, the night before we left for NYC I wasn't sure if he was going to come at all. We screamed. Cried. Spoke at each other but not necessarily to each other. The trip was a band-aid, that allowed us to speak honestly- without out fingers hovered over the defense button anytime we felt attacked. I admitted fears that I didn't even realize I had, until I felt safe enough to tell them. And now that we're home, band-aid off, we'll see if the band-aid actual did any healing. It was a good thing. A really good thing. I have to reverse some of my bad habits, let go of the reins a bit, and trust- no matter what the outcome.

....there's an incredible amount of OPTIONS and things, exciting and scary on my horizon- New York reminded me that there's so much beyond our personal dramas. There's choices. Down to the simplest things; subway or cab, big fish or little fish, hustle or observe- Lobster Tail or Cannoli (naturally, I end on a pastry note.)

So, I'm back- five pounds bigger, with a head cold (or swine flu), some clarity and a million and one exciting opportunities to choose from. Which leaves me with this question......



If today were your last day- what would be your "Last Meal???"



Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Balls, meet New York City. NYC, meet Chelsea and her balls.


When I lived in New York City, I used to self medicate with melted cheese.

......and it didn't stop at cheese; it was mammoth sized black and white cookies, spicy chorizo, anything drenched in butter, thick slices of bacon and maple syrup-Marsala sauce, 24 hr doughnuts and Hollandaise. Truffled toast, lavender creme brulee, copious amounts of sweet Sangria and fried mushrooms.

New York City gave me anonymity. Anonymity to be BOLD, or brash, snarky or FAT. Fearless, or completely inadequate and green. Whatever the fuck I wanted, New York let me be it. If it mean eating myself into oblivion while crying over ex-musician, staring at his phone number in my cell, waiting for the courage to press send and beg, one. last. time. to come back to me- then, I was allowed to wallow. I was allowed to be pathetic and then wake up the next morning without having to justify my pitiful actions, or convince someone that I didn't need meds. Or a fucking slap in the face and some big girl panties.

If I wanted to be mediocre I could. I could lose myself in a sea of people and surrender into my plain, uninspired self- or I could call up an editor, completely unqualified and brazenly ask for a job, while sitting in my apartment wearing sequined leggings, eating a pb&j, watching The History Channel with my 6inch platforms kicked up on the couch- looking unnecessarily Club Kid fierce.

When you're home- where you're accountable, and watched- where people are asking questions and making judgements, it's a lot harder to keep that sense of invisibility where you can FEEL IT ALL, do it all- in some cases, EAT it all.

Because I was allowed to explore anonymity, unabashedly......

New York gave me balls.

Balls to argue, to fight when I didn't agree, to own my words, to get lost, or soft. Balls to admit that I knew nothing, but was as ferocious as a piranha and ready to learn- fast. Balls to tell myself that I was WORTH being adored and to turn down a date with a super.famous.musician. (all for the sake of my own vagina not wanting herpes and deciding being number #267 on his list of chicks didn't validate my WORTH) and to say:

"No one else cares what you're doing- so why not do EVERYTHING YOU WANT and do it FULL. OUT." I wavered between extremes and that was OK, because I started to figure shit out. Or at least started to figure out what doesn't work for me.

I ordered glasses of champagne by myself, I talked with strangers at bars and sometimes even joined them for dessert and an awkward full-bellied walk to our respective subway stops.

If we want something, we need enough BALLS to try and get it.....we need enough balls to ASK, to fall and to laugh at ourselves we do try and end up ass-up with a crowd full of people pointing and laughing at your hysterical failure. And to operate from a inconspicuous place of "Well, FUCK IT."

Next week, my balls and I are returning to New York for a little week long vacation and ohhhh do we have so much catching up to do.....


DO YOU HAVE BALLS??? And how did you get them.....?




Monday, October 12, 2009

R.E.S.P.E.C.T....it isn't just an Aretha song.


"Do you respect me?"

....when someone asks you something in the pitch black of night, when you're half asleep, you know it's even more important. Whatever that "something" was on their brains was plaguing their thoughts and wasn't going to let them sleep and dream of sugar plum fairies, or trapeze swinging in Cirque Du Soleil, or sex with Megan Fox. This "something" was the itch and was going to be scratched. My Love's something was "respect."

..."Yes, I respect you."

"WHY?....."

And here's the problem kids......

"I shouldn't have to tell you why....you should know why. And if you don't know why I should respect you, then that problem has nothing to do with US, that has to do with you."

Sometimes we need someone else to tell us WHY we're lovable. Or worth it. When need someone to remind us that we're the most magnificent part of their lives because we're "what completes them." but.... when you can't answer those things, somewhere, hidden in the back of your little heart- no matter what that beaming person in front of you says, won't matter.

We're a mess. We're a mess because we love each other, but love doesn't solve problems. Love doesn't make a to-do list and give you a sharpened pencil to cross everything off. Love doesn't make sure that you're going to be able to pay rent on time, or buy me a birthday present. Love doesn't help you get a new pair of shoes when it's the dead of winter and you only have flip flops. Love doesn't bring home the bacon- working your ass off, getting calluses and earning the right to yawn because you've been balls to the wall for 14 hours, brings home the bacon. Respect is given when you believe you deserve it, you can only "fake deserve" for so long...

Love doesn't give you self worth, if the love isn't coming from YOURSELF.

Love doesn't have words, or actions, or kisses hard enough to make someone feel that you RESPECT THEM. In all their brilliance, discombobulation, and good intentions- love isn't going to make them feel something if they refuse to discover it on their own.

I could say "I love you" a million times, but that isn't going to feed you at night. I could focus all of my energy as intensely as physically possible on loving you, but that doesn't mean you're going to look at yourself in the mirror and think ANY differently about yourself.

I could say, "good job." or "You're on the right track" or "it's all going to work out...." but it's all only going to be true if we meet in the middle. Somewhere HALF WAY. Even if it's just our finger tips touching, that's close enough. Meeting in the middle is more than a paycheck; it's a drive, an effort, a look in your eye that says you aren't going to let me walk out.

LOVE doesn't tell you that you're beautiful, magnificent, genius- CAPABLE and strong, if you don't REALLY believe it on your own, without me.

I'll look into those perfectly blue eyes and say it....600 more times. 6,000 more times. Until my throat is hoarse and the words lose their meaning, they just become sounds. Because I do. I love you and I respect you......now it's your turn.



CAN SOMEONE LOVE YOU, if you don't love you......?











Wednesday, October 7, 2009

When things fall apart, I make a wicked Mosaic flask.


In hindsight, we always see when it's "coming to an end."

It's like the precarious chandelier in the corner of the room, that you hung with just one hook- you know it's going to fall, it's just a matter of when. So you let it hang, you eye it when someone skips too closely, or stomps too loudly while gyrating to "Imma Be" by the Black Eyed Peas with a Jack and Coke in their hand- you watch it, you watch it tremble and applaud its strength for holding on through one more shaky evening and not knocking out an unassuming guest. Until one day....when you're spreading strawberry cream cheese on an everything bagel, humming "Three Little Birds", before you've checked your emails, or put on mascara- before you've allowed the World permission to come in to your space and potentially, fuck up your day.....it FALLS. It shatters to the ground leaving you vulnerable, in a robe and with a big fucking mess and not enough time to clean it up.

That unsteady chandelier is just a TINY thread of a whole fucking BLANKET. Whether it's a chandelier, a car breaking down on the highway when it's had it's "check engine" light on for months, a job loss when you saw people leaving like they could predict the inevitable storm, or a parking ticket when you saw the meter flashing red. The point is, we SEE IT COMING. We just don't acknowledge it half the time. Because that means, we might have to get another fucking hook for the damn chandelier- or take the car in when it's inconvenient, or park a mile away when you're wearing your too-small-sexy-bitch-blister-heels and still need to grab an iced coffee.

Acknowledging the presence of something "falling away" from you means you are going to either have to A. accept change. B. do something about it. or C. cry in public. And fuck, I'm a princess and would like to choose none of the above, unless option C comes with a lollipop.

Often it's right when everything is SHINING THE BRIGHTEST that the lights starts to flicker. When the marquee is ablaze, constant, blistering light is bound to burn out. Just when the peach is the ripest, when the texture is just right, is when it's merely moments away from spoiling and turning into something useless, inedible and brown.

Autumn is the perfect example- every leaf, every color is brilliant- we stop and look in awe of them, we seek out the most "beautiful" ones and then, we watch them die.

Things fall apart, or fall off. We lose screws. Both literally and hypothetically.

......Perfectly good fruit spoils. Eventually a once "bright new house" needs a new coat of paint. We need to cleanse, to start over- so allow the impending "fall" of things happen as it may and react SANELY, because it isn't like you really believed those damn leaves where going to stay that way forever. When something is hanging by a thread it has a time limit- eventually the mama Adult tooth is going to give you no other choice than to twist that wonky baby tooth out of it's way. It's growing in whether you like it or not. And you may as well avoid looking like "Shark face" in the meantime.

Luckily- I'm not actually worried about baby teeth. But hey, the metaphor fits? Or now, I'm just picturing my face if I had tiny chicklet baby teeth- ah! The horror!



SO, everything has fallen.....
Do you: cry and wish the leaves were still hanging pretty on the tree, OR make it a party and roll around in them???


Monday, October 5, 2009

What's the point of a fucking cake if I can't eat it?


Sometimes, we don't know what the fuck we're doing.

Let's be honest. Sometimes, I feel like a I'll never get it "right." Sometimes, your "gut" doesn't give you the answer. Instead it tells you two answers and you sit there thinking, "well- which answer did my MIND make up, and which one was actually my gut speaking? What does my guts voice even sound like? Is she more Sandra Oh, or Oprah?" FUCK. Then you sip down a couple more Sauv Blancs and wine, irrationality, truth and mixed emotions join the conversation making it one big- "Fuck with your brain fest! There's a punch bowl, and a DJ- come join!"

Indecision invites so many inconsiderate emotions to the party.

It is possible for us know to everything and nothing at the same time. Just FYI. Why didn't we learn THAT in school. Along with balancing a check book, How-to avoid a panic attack in Wal-Mart, Conversation starters with Christian families, and how to climax faster when you're in a time crunch. That would have been useful, E=MC.....whatever never meant shit to me. How to decide between OPTION 1. AND OPTION 2. would've been better.....A "Dealing with Indecision 101" of sorts.

Making choices based on standards, and other peoples feelings (oh yeah that?) for most of our lives gives us such a skewed perception of HOW WE REALLY FEEL. Especially when we're adults and suddenly, we're allowed to choose for ourselves. Pick your job, your location, your lover, YOU CAN DECIDE! But wait.....how do we make the decision?? When there's so many delicious flavors? I mean, Banana Cream Pie and Chocolate Mousse are both equally decadent and satisfying.....but which one should I go with? Do we try it all? Or is that "having your cake and eating it to?" And what's the point of a cake if you can't eat the God damn thing.

IT'S LIKE THIS WITH EVERYTHING; One job is amazing, but SO IS THE OTHER. One shoe fits, but so do about a million other Manolo's just sitting there waiting to be tried on. It's endless......it's the beautiful, taunting, inspiring and disturbing fact of life.

I want to have the answers. I want to be that, "Early Bird that gets the worm" because I know which worm I want, and where it is. I don't want to wake up in the morning and walk around looking like a confused Malty Poo, or a fucking unibomber cause I'm all "tortured in thought."

Half the fucking time I can't decide if I want oatmeal, or Special K for breakfast- BOTH DELICIOUS OPTIONS, I know the two exist beside each other, yet it still taunts me every morning. And that's just fucking cereal.

Life isn't cereal. It's not that simple. WHAT TO DO DO WITH MYSELF, ISN'T CEREAL.

We don't always know. We don't have "that GUT instinct." Our heart doesn't always "guide our way." And all that hogwash about a Divine Being standing by your bed, glowing, playing a harp, shirtless with perfect abs, delivering you a message, in the middle of the night, is also not true.

It is possible to have the answer and the question, the yes and the no, existing as one. Conflicted much? Yes.


Can you hear your "GUT INSTINCT"????




 
ss_blog_claim=1c43e45eb4927c96edea5f154138fe95