Tuesday, December 29, 2009

We are going to starve. Or live off mini M&M's.

The holidays were lovely- my Scroogey attitude was quickly reversed when I realized I'd be getting gifts.

eek. Gift highlights; A letter written to me from my very favorite blogger/author Stephanie Klein, petitioned by my super sweet man. A month of unlimited yoga, from my parents. The box set of The Tudors (I've been speaking "tudor" for 5 days straight now, "Come hither boy!" and "What say you?" my two favorite phrases.) and plenty of goodies that smell good and make my skin soft.
...now onto bigger issues.

The other night My Love and I got in a quarrel. Just a small one. But the weight of the issue, is grand. Issue: WHAT'S FOR DINNER.

Let's preface this argument with some history: growing up with a Mother who owned a dance studio, she worked from 3pm-10pm....dinner was Taco Bell at eleven o'clock at night, or rubbery chicken that my Dad baked. Or some odd assembly of food that came wrapped in plastic. It wasn't until much later in my adult life that my Mom changed her schedule and started using the cookbooks gathering dust in our junk drawer. I learned how to "fend for myself"....if you will.

My Love's upbringing was different; he came home from school, greeted by a snack. A pb&j, crusts cut off and large glass of milk (he still will not eat anything with an OUNCE of sugar, if it isn't accompanied by milk.) He ate dinner every night with the family at 5pm. In fact, meals were planned....a year in advance at times. Impressive and also never gonna happen in my house. Eggs were on the table every morning, there was always an abundance of Icecream in the freezer and "special" bread in the bread box. AND to wrap it all in a perfectly family bow, there were placemats, seasonal and handmade placemats.

How he's even attracted to me in the slightest is by some act of God. Or confusion and desperation. But, I'd like to think God has something to do with it.

The exchange that made me realize we're going to have to find a solution for this "What's for dinner" madness went like this:

My Love, "Babe.....what are we gonna do for dinner?"

Me, "I don't know. Whatever."

Him, "How aboutttt...Stir Fry?" (first of all, I don't eat STIR FRY unless I'm ordering in and probably a little depressed.) "It's easy; just some veggies, Ground beef, rice, NOODLES and soy sauce."

Me, "Are you serious? You want me to eat rice, noodles AND soy sauce all together, in one meal? Do you want to have sex with a balloon later? I'd be able to float after that meal."

My Love proceeds to give me this dumbfounded look as if he's never heard of the affects of sodium on the human figure. Then the debate goes, well who's cooking this alleged stir fry? In all fairness, he HAS cooked more than I have in this home...but like I said, I'll just eat yogurt and call it a night. We bounce back and forth food options, his all involve some absurd caloric value, while mine carry some monetary value and a waiter.

In the most dramatic fashion, I end up crying with a spoonful of peanut butter in my mouth, as I question my ability to be a good housegirlfriend.

So what do you do about this? No one gives you a manual that says, "Here's how to live with your boyfriend: Chapter two- Change your eating habits and learn to cook, bitch."

When you're living with someone you have to find a compromise with everything; with things you didn't think twice about before. First it's peanut butter, then it's laundry detergent, then it's "I can't dry my clothes with a Downy Ball"....downy ball? Next thing you know you're at Target looking for a Downy Ball. Then there's; do we eat breakfast together every morning, do we decide dinner plans ahead of time?

The IDEA of being that woman who knows how to bake things according to altitude, and who makes a "signature" something that everyone asks for when you attend a party is all a nice IDEA. The idea of being perfect is always nice, it's just not real.

My solution is this; We cook together. TOGETHER. If we make mushy pasta, or overly salted sauce, we do it together. We chop and dice and smell and squeeze to check for ripeness, together. When we fend for ourselves, we decide together that it's a cereal night.

AND if I am going to take on some roll as cook extraordinaire.....

What's YOUR favorite meal to cook?

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The only Nutcracker this Christmas is me.

Well, Happy almost Birthday baby Jesus.

...I see he's picked up on the importance of having a "birthday month."Jesus and I, we're likethis in that regard. AND he has a mascot- talk about making sure that people don't forget your birthday. Get a big old man and plaster him everywhere, on Coca-Cola cans and toilet seat covers....then, have him say he'll be bringing gifts FOR ALL. He's sort of like Oprah, but once a year. Jesus should write a "How-To" book on throwing a month long birthday bash.

I've had sort of a rough December getting into the holiday spirit to be honest- we've been so busy moving, fixing, traveling, working and doing coupley things that I've almost forgotten that this is the time I should be searching racks for ugly Christmas sweaters and eating peppermint flavored things, while listening to the Vienna Boys Choir and amazing synth rock versions of Silver Bells. I haven't done any of those things.......

Usually at this time of year I want to cuddle up into something (that isn't a Snuggie, since I'm against the Snuggie movement....cause I'm all indie like that) and watch The Nutcracker, while shoving my face full of sticks of butter and joy. Butter=joy. I haven't done that...I've been eating normal non-Christmas human food, like eggs and Pb&J. Christmas food is; Cinnamon rolls, 7 sticks of bacon instead of 2 and banana loaf....followed by chocolate milk and mulled wine. In case you missed the memo Jesus totally condones gluttony during birthday month.

I haven't stared up at the Christmas lights hung on my tree and watched them change from green to blue like I used to when I was a kid, until I fell asleep with the lights still plugged and was woken up by my Mother saying something about burning the house down and blah blah.
I haven't made the nativity scene do inappropriate things to each other, or played, "hide the baby Jesus" somewhere amongst the Christmas decorations. I haven't watched Love Actually a hundred thousand times, or put together a janky Gingerbread house, that ended up half-eaten by the time we had company over.

I haven't adopted a family, or cried while listening to one of those radio shows about people's "Christmas Wishes." I haven't gone to any uncomfortable holiday parties where I have to act like I want to carry on a 45 minute conversation with someone about their dog, and the family members they don't like, who are visiting for the holidays.

The whole joy of picking out Christmas presents and wrapping them with paper covered in snowmen and glittery bows hasn't been a reality for me- actually, I'm not giving any Christmas presents at all this year, thanks to being what most would consider "toeing the poverty line." I've written songs for people and offered to bring cheap bottles of wine and baked goods. And obviously, my innate ability to carry-on a good semi-inappropriate, but festive, conversation at a dinner party.... this is a "gift" don't underestimate it's power my friends.

I'm no Bah-Humbug, I just haven't experienced the same excitement that I usually do.....

When you're little every light in the sky looks like a flash of Rudolph's nose. Every ornament you hang has a memory attached to it....and every full skirt with a satin sash at the waistline feels like something Clara would wear while she did Jete's across the stage. With perfectly pink pointe shoes and perfectly bouncy curls falling down her back.

When you're little the stress of Christmas, or not having enough time to get it all done, just doesn't exist to you. It really is sugarplums dancing in your head.......and I really, really miss that.


Wednesday, December 16, 2009

The first cohabitation debacle: PEANUT BUTTER

"I brought you your favorite peanut butter hunny!"

.....er....I stare at the peanut butter, it says JIF. Jif? No. No, I'm a Creamy Skippy girl, always have been and always will be. Not the little jar, the BIG jar of Skippy.

Buying the little jar is like slapping the peanut butter God's directly in the face and saying, "I will use you in moderation."


....he can see it on my face, "Isn't this your favorite peanut butter?"

Oh hell. Do I tell the sweet man he made a mistake, or do I live for the rest of our life as a couple hating the peanut butter that he buys, while he celebrates inside for doing such a good deed and being so observant, or so he thinks. Motherfucker. I'll tell him. .....let the wounded puppy face ensue. He took the news better than expected, but dear God, breaking it to him felt like punching a baby in the mouth.

Since we moved in together almost two weeks ago, we've had to adjust to; sharing covers, sharing food, compromising on brands and deciding whether we should be a Shoes-on, or shoes-off sort of house?

Luckily we haven't even had the toilet paper argument yet. We've been stealing it from public bathrooms. Actually, I don't know if that's true. But, a roll at a time miraculously appears on the dispenser, just when we're almost out.... toilet paper angels, I'm convinced. Especially during the holidays, when bathroom trips are more frequent thanks to copious amounts of Eggnog running through my bladder, or holiday party hangovers running liquids up various orifices. It's the angels. Or, My Love and I are running an underground "steal toiletries operation" unbeknownst to each other. Ah, communication- damn you again. We could turn this poaching into a business if we'd just put our heads together.


"Do you NEED to do that when you eat?"
....My Love, "Do what?"
....My Love, "ARE YOU SERIOUS? That bothers you?....."
"Yes, yes it bothers me. You sound like a caveman. You know making that noise actually requires EXTRA EFFORT, why exert yourself ? It's totally unnecessary. "

Then the conversation turns into something like; "you want me to eat like a Nun in a convent." Or,"you're totally fucking crazy"....then I spew into a monologue about how I'd rather him eat everything with the delicacy of placing a communion wafer in his mouth, than hear his mad eating skills in my presence. Communion. Wafer. Just let is dissolve, suck on that chip until it's liquid. Don't blame me, blame the people who taught me manners.

Being in love means that it isn't always warm fuzzies and polite, adoring words. Sometimes we're insensitive towards each other and we say things that are brash and untactful. We say things that hurt, or seem callous but when expressed we mean it with the best intentions. It's not to be mean for the sake of being mean, at least not in my case. My Love certainly hasn't held back some of the truths about myself I'd rather not hear and Lord knows I haven't had a hard time pointing at the unfavorable qualities he posses.

Having someone look over your flaws with a magnifying glass isn't something we'd volunteer for if it were written out so blatantly when we made the choice to stamp a title on our relationship status. That isn't the fun part, but it IS the part that makes it REAL.

It isn't fun to be told you need to "take it down about a thousand notches," or that what you're toiling away at, isn't WORKING. Sometimes, as someones love, spouse, etc. you're the only one who gets to SEE the parts that are messy and disastrous and you're probably the only person who's allowed to have an opinion on it, without being a total ass. The things we don't always want to hear are often the things that are the most important for us to recognize, or GASP, CHANGE. That's the part makes all the gritty stuff and the times when we want to choke each other with a Christmas garland, totally worth it.


Monday, December 14, 2009

I'm that chick that FALLS at the finish line. During the Olympics.

I've never been particularly good at finishing things. Unless someone offers me treats, one for each hand.

I have sort of the "get rich quick" mentality, but with actions. The faster I can get something done, the better. The shortcut, hell yes-step on it! If the project seems endless, I'd rather not even start, so that I don't give myself an aneurysm, or end up feeling like a failure and resort to binge eating Little Debbie cakes in an attempt to "stuff my feelings" of self loathing. Or something equally dramatic and superfluous. If the project doesn't have an end date, or an outcome that it's in my favor, I'd rather put it off. The problem is, half of what I DO doesn't have an end, a start, a timeline or a predictable conclusion.

So when I come home and my entire house looks like an episode of Hoarders, I'd rather sleep in my car than begin the never ending project, that has somehow caused our inheritance of a little mouse....which, for all you people that say "Aw, Stuart" I'd like you to understand that I'd rather have a snake chase me around my home, EVERYDAY, for the rest of my life with venom dripping off of it's teeth.....than have a mouse.... OR, have a tarantula take a swan dive at my face. Those two things would be better, than a fucking mouse.

....I digress. Let me finish my thought since this is after all about FINISHING (anyone thinking sexual thoughts yet? No? just me?). The point is;
If it makes me even the slightest bit uncomfortable, I JUST WON'T FINISH IT.
And when not finishing isn't an option, I throw a tantrum. Or I find a loophole. Since I'm all crafty and determined. Our home is in shambles, there's drapes hanging from strange places, there's furniture balanced like a game of Jenga all over our living room, we have a colony of little people living in our walls (I'll let you decide which of those things is true- the little people thing is totally a possibility; they steal socks and trip people, and live in walls)........so, I sit. I sit and I stare at all the things falling apart and that require nails, measuring tape, more money, or heavy lifting and I think....we're doomed. Totally. fucking. doomed.

But it isn't just my house.....and that's what really bothers me. It isn't just the "things." If the things were all that needed finishing, I'd work around it. You hire people for that shit. loophole, holllla.

The things that I need to finish are the things that MATTER the most to me. They often get the least amount of attention, because I've busied myself with a million other things, or back episodes of Bad Girls Club and coffee dates mid-workday to avoid facing the fear of finishing and failing. Or finishing and realizing that the responsibility of doing GREAT, or not doing anything at all, all falls on my shoulders. All I need are those few extra strides to get there. Having to admit fault to ourselves for not having the things we want is a hard pill to swallow. Or a hard small-sharp-jagged-object-covered in cayenne pepper to swallow.

In the homestretch when everything is just a decision short of being DONE, is when I putter out. It's almost like that burden that weighs you down has become part of the costume, it's easier to keep it, than feel naked without it.

The songs that are half-written, the to-do list of things that could, if achieved, meld the balance between the dream and the reality. The Christmas cards (send me your address if you want one! I'll only show up on your doorstep if there's free booze and cable) the thank you notes, the package sitting by the door ready to send, but without a stamp. The budget plan, the PLAN at all. It isn't the initiative that I lack, or the drive- or even the belief for that matter, but the CLOSE. The touchdown. The home run....and all those other sighs of relief and triumph.

Today, I'm going to FINISH what I START. Even if it's a painfully awkward conversation that I initiate with the checkout girl wearing reindeer antlers. I'm going to wrap up the ends....make them a pretty little bow of holiday cheer and GET 'ER DONE.

What do you need to FINISH?

Monday, December 7, 2009

Fix This Shit Up- A Coldplay Remix

Remember how me and My Love were moving in together? Ya know cohabitation, peeing with the door open, picking paint swatches and burning grilled cheese together? All that lovey shit.

Well, we finally did. Initially after that blog post, we put it off for a few months due to finances, fears, confusion, etc. etc. Then, with a little push from recent events and a dire need for independence and spending money on cleaning supplies and Pinot Grigio- we just said, fuck it (since that's my favorite phrase; When in doubt, say Fuck it!)- let's do it. Here's the catch....we moved into my Granny's apartment, that's attached to her house. It's completely separate from where she lives; it's own entry, kitchen, etc. etc. However, her things, were still in it. Until we came in and performed Operation Fix This Shit Up.

My Grandpa Jerry smokes a few packs a day and has for years, so the smoke, and the former furry Dog that lived there when my Cousin inhabited the place gave the whole apartment a nice blanket of.......grime? and well, fur.

I don't do grime. Let me tell you what I also don't do; WOLF ART. Native American sculptures. Western....anything (unless they're vintage cowboy boots or salsa), dog hair, mess, or sports paraphernalia. I've only acted like a gave a fuck about sports very few times in my life and I believe it was motivated by a reward in beer and jalapeno poppers.

When we moved all of our things in I thought- well, at least I know I'm dying of second hand smoke and not decapitation from a car crash, or melanoma. We've got that covered. Then, because I'm unreasonably impatient, we went to Home Depot painted, shampooed the carpets, washed the walls, put in crown molding, spent a gross amount of money at Hobby Lobby, replaced the curtains, the air filters and spruced the place up like we were Ty Pennington and that irritating team of cry babies with tool belts.

There's something about FIXING things with your love that's incredibly gratifying. Look what we did! It makes you feel like your team effort could certainly win the finale of Amazing Race, or you could make a kick ass winning Trivial Pursuit team. Or find a way to make a multi-room fort. Why we don't these things more often, I have no idea?

It's my first time living with a man, ya know one that isn't related, or temporarily crashing on my couch disguising himself as my friend and thinking of me as his hotel/maid. I've already told him to put down the toilet seat, a million times. He's already told me I'm annoying as "shit" and that I "never take his suggestions" to which I replied, "well, make better suggestions." And all of this....is out of love.

The mundane, the bickering and the feeling of can-you-not-cuddle-me-I'm-trying-to-sleep, are all just truths when someone becomes a part of your life, through and through.

After four days of "Operation Fix This Shit Up" while sitting on our vintage, newly shampooed couch, watching wedding cake show marathons on WEtv, I realized our home is finally a reflection of what we've gone through internally. Peeling back the layers, scrapping clean the tarnished ideas and scars that we've allowed to gather dust and sit there, permeating through every inch of our belief systems about ourselves, love, men, women....life.

When you meet that other person they help, "FIX YOU", they pull out their emotional Clorox wipes and help dust off the parts of you that over time shined a little less....they just needed a little assistance to reveal the natural sparkle. It isn't just carpet and cushions that need a good date with scrubbing bubbles.

We FIXED this home- together. We've fixed each other sometimes together, and other times completely solo, pulling the weight while the other floundered (or went to jail). Our house, our spirit, our love- sparkles and all it needed was a little deep cleaning.


Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Remember that time you got ARRESTED? God, this screams CLASSY.

"What do you mean you don't know where he is??"

"Well, we were recording and he just never came back........we think he got arrested."

I don't generally wake up thinking, where is my boyfriend? Who got arrested? and I wonder if this outfit is appropriate for jail visits? It usually goes something like, yogurt or cereal and do I feel skinny today?

The past 48 hours have been pure madness. I wake up to find a Facebook status update from my boyfriends roommate that says, "blah blah, arrested? blah." Since these men have absolutely no way of knowing how to communicate, no one called to fill me in?! that there was a possibility I now had a boyfriend who was an INMATE? WHAT. THE. FUCK. is my life.

At around 3am, my classy man left the recording to studio to run and grab some beer and cigarettes, you know in true rockstar form you don't drink Yerba Matte mid-recording session. 2 minutes out into the drive, he sees the sirens- OH HERE WE GO.........

To say that My Love isn't "good" at remembering "little details" like; court dates, not leaving the house without a cell phone, closing cabinets, or what he's supposed to do for the day- is a massive understatement. He's the definition of, if-my-head-wasn't-screwed-on-I'd-be-headless, he's that guy.

Since The Man is not generally a fan of poor people (us artists, or ahem, delinquents?) My Love hasn't been able to fix this pesky tail light that almost ALWAYS gets him pulled over, but that's just minor- he also hasn't been able to pay his car insurance (insert note where readers start making judgements like, "Girl you better get yo'self a man who has his finances straight." Then you start singing Bills, Bills, Bills. Here here, don't mention it-separate blog entirely)....fast forward, beerless boyfriend is getting thrown in the clinker for missing a previous court date that involved driving without proof of insurance.

I had no knowledge of any of this when I woke up, so Chelsea Talks Smack i.e. Sherlock Holmes drove around looking down ally ways for dead bodies (since, we didn't know for sure if he was arrested or just missing) simultaneously calling jails, "Um, hi- did you arrest a Ryan.....no not Brian, RYAN,.....No not B, RRRRR....the computer crashed? You don't know? What do you mean you don't know? HOW DO YOU NOT KNOW WHO IS IN CUSTODY?" The entire time thinking; I don't do this. This isn't my life. I go to champagne bars.

Not only did I learn that we have an incredibly inefficient system-what the fuck is this, computers crashing? your "One phone calls" not going through? One minute he's shown as an inmate in custody, the next, there's NO SIGN OF HIM!? Ridiculous. We have iPhones that can do everything but bake a cake and vacuum, but we don't have adequate computer systems in detention facilities?! And we make people call COLLECT? It's jail, it isn't the Stone Age.

After talking to about 60 people, running around in my pajamas through various courthouses, Sheriffs offices and jails, avoiding eye contact with the sketchy folks (who could kick my ass) and wondering if I shouldn't have been "repping" blue or red- all the while wearing my NYPD HOODIE from the night before (IRONIC) and getting asked multiple times for my Cadet badge. (I told you I'm a bad ass. Or look like a lesbian. Or a boy.) I found him.

I waited for his trial curled on the bench, all twitchy, shaky and WHY THE FUCK AM I SITTING IN A COURT ROOMy, all I want is a flippin' latte and a boyfriend who pays his bills. The line up looked like this; Wife beater. Robber. Illegal. Definitely on drugs. Drunk Guy. WTF is that sweet innocent baby face doing up there. Another drunk guy. Runaway. Wife Beater. Prostitute. Wife Beater/Shoplifter.

Sweet innocent Love gets up, pleads his case; the outcome- FOUR MORE NIGHTS IN JAIL and a second trial, with a maximum of a year in jail and fines, unless he posts bail. THIS is where I begin to... LOSE MY SHIT COMPLETELY!!!! Long story short....I find myself calling his brother in a panic, sobbing, naturally, since there always has to be one crying person in court rooms, haven't you seen tv? ....the next thing I know, fast forward nearly 10 hours- we're in a bail bonds office.

My bail bondsmen???? DOG THE BOUNTY HUNTERS SISTER. No lie. True-fucking-story. To make it even better, I call my Granny to tell her what's going on and she says, "OHHHHH,.....I know Dog....I used to be his bartender." CLASSIC. Classic. Only I would have a one degree separation from a bail bondsmen.

Nearly 48 hours have gone by and My Love is finally out of the CAN. By the end of the day I had an entire new GARDEN OF STRESS ZITS, the guards knew me and were calling me "Baby" and "Honey Love" which was oddly comforting and I had enough empty I.O.U.'S for My Love to fill out he could make a fucking Bible, in which I would star as the Jesus character, but her name would be, "Best Fucking Woman on the Planet, she will live in a land of getting eternal foot massages without asking."

Needless to say, Jail doesn't look good on me. I mean, I wear floral prints, I have enough glitter eyeliner to paint Colorado and babies smile at me. Strangely enough that makes me sound like a hooker, but on the contrary, jail is not my scene. Or My Love's- he looked like a puppy who got kicked in the face......not cute. Sad. and never happening again.

Now I can say; Remember that time you got thrown in jail? Or, Remember when we went to that bail bonds office and they had a bucket of Tootsie Rolls? Or, Remember when you were in lockdown? Or, At least (insert horrible situation here, i.e. flaming diarhhea or being out of Garlic) isn't as bad as the slammer. Or, baby I kinda wish I left you in the pen.

Any jail stories worth sharing? Bail....or no bail....?!

Sunday, November 29, 2009

Dinner with my family is like visiting the mental ward.

It's a short drive to crazy with my family. You couldn't even find a detour if there was construction, it's that short. It's arms reach. Crazy just is with my family.

The holidays are obviously the perfect magnifying glass to shine a little more clarity on the madness. Let me sum up some of my family to paint a nice family Christmas card for ya:

Granny-Italian/recovered breast cancer/thyroid problems/diseases that don't even have names/multiple ex-husbands/longtime dancer and amazing bartender. She chipped a tooth once- her solution? Why, a Lee Press-On of course, a nice french manicured fake nail is a good substitute for tooth enamel! Uncle #1-Gay Buddhist. Uncle #2- Cop/biker. Uncle #3- Writer of screenplays/Works for the government his drunk name is "Salty."....can't talk about his job, literally, it's all underground and lie detectors and spies and shit. Aunt #1- dance teacher/Irish/fiery as fuck. She'll kick a bitch. Aunt #2- Formerly single mom, slightly out of control, turned put together Martha Stewart type. Nana- Former court secretary, turned traveler; African safaris, Europe, the Amazon River and so on. She pulls pans out of the oven with her bare hands. BARE. HANDS. Bampa- bless is heart, passed away a few years ago, Gay, the father of my mother. It was the 50's. Granddad-There's a laundry list here of issues. Grandpa Jerry-Best story teller, chain smoker and cherry pie giver known to man.

....then there's a sprinkling of serious Italian Soprano types, crazy cousins, lesbian aunts, Christians, Rebublicans, Canadians, Democrats, and ex-wives, who are boxers. In rings, not the pants.
They're ALL characters. Brilliant, VIBRANT, CERTIFIED, characters. Then of course, there's the biggest characters of all; my Mother and my Father, who joined together in a rage of hormones and unprotected sex and created another burst of spirited existence. i.e. slightly insane little person named me!

My Father and I got into a massive blowout the other night over a birthday party (I cried if I wanted to, don't you worry) a few glasses of champagne, a gigantic restaurant tab and some low blows. Thrown, initially, by him and rebuffed by my quick tongue and shrill screaming. This was the kind of fight I thought we wouldn't recover from..... my Dad, is easily one of my best friends, I admire and look up to him....and I didn't want to look him in the eye ever again.

....after nearly 48 hours a part, some frantic/cry/scream calls to friends to come get me before I "drove my car through the living room!!! and CRUSHED EVERYTHING." My little sister reasoned with us, that we both had "crazy emotions" and needed to apologize. So we did. I told him he was a "out of line and had problems" and and he told me I was "ungrateful and naive" then we hugged it out and I pointed out his new gray hairs.

When you put together the family dynamics we have there's the opportunity for fatal blowouts, and the same opportunity to break seemingly impossible barriers and learn better compassion and understanding for your differences. When people are so vastly different, but their blood is the same, you have two choices; to embrace them, or create a greater wedge by denying them and allowing your differences to determine your relationship, instead of the opposite. Anger happens, it's how you deal with it that's the part that either breaks the family apart, or makes you closer.

Sentences like, "your ignorance astounds me!" have been thrown across our tables and so have, "I'll pray for you." That last one didn't come from my immediate family, oh hellll no and so on......but the truth is, at the end of the day, THESE PEOPLE ARE THE PEOPLE I LOVE. I love their off-color comments and tempers. I love their opinions, their cluelessness, their intelligence. I love that they're geniunly, above all people, the ones that I WANT to spend my time with.

My Dad is the best man in the World and also the person you don't want to fuck with, ever. He's hot headed. He screams from time to time, and thank God I was born with good lungs- cause I'm the only person brave enough to scream back. He's the only human being who I actually believe has the ability to STEAM. Like a cartoon bull, or an iron.....that burns.

But....we all can burn and too often we burn the people we love the most, cause they're the only ones willing to reach out and touch the fire. We're all steaming, flames of ridiculous bursts of light that are both blinding and beautiful in the same glance. The holidays are always such a reminder that we can learn to exist with each other, without judging each other's life choices, spouses, financial decisions, religions, sexual orientation, or career paths. Or heinous holiday earrings. Learning to LOVE it all, even if it's foreign to you is what makes you family, it isn't just the title of sister, or cousin, or the bloodline. We can scream and disagree, but we are family. And you know how Italians feel about family....


Tuesday, November 24, 2009

What AREN'T you thankful for? Me: motherfuckers that don't return emails.

I've written four separate blogs and deleted all of them. I have a feeling that it's the shitty one that stuck.

Not inspired. Not inspired. BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Still feel like reading?!

It's almost Thanksgiving, it's also almost my birthday.... which just so happens to fall on Thanksgiving this year. Like, what the fuck is that? I'm not down with sharing the spotlight for thankfulness. I mean, gratitude and pilgrims definitely trump "Look at me it's my birthday!! Jazz hands!"

I have to bake two...three? (I should check up on that) pies tomorrow. I have 5 articles to finish. I'm waiting on four checks. I can barely fit yoga into my schedule, so my toxins are all fucking curled up into places they shouldnt be and they're derailing my CHI. Fuck.

I need a haircut. I need about 40 people to respond to my emails that aren't. I need 10 extra hours in my day. I need my scale to not tell me that it's physically possible to gain four pounds in a day when I've eaten virtually nothing but yogurt, powerbars and coffee. I need a new phone, a chill pill, a manicure and a pedicure, a new computer (did I ever mention that I have to use my sister's computer, since mine crashed on me a few months ago? AND I DON'T HAVE ENOUGH MONEY TO BUY A NEW ONE??? Which in turn makes her feel like it's ok to go through my underwear drawer and borrow ones that apparently, "I don't ever wear", and undermine me by kindly giving me her old bras, since she's too busty to fit into them anymore. Holla tiny titties for me!)

OH, I know WAHHH me, there's people dying in Africa Chelsea stop crying. I get it. But let me stomp around a little bit before we get all McJudgey, I care about Africa too. Sometimes we're granted the right to throw a self-involved baby fit. Especially during my birthday week (boyfriend inserts, "AND DURING YOUR PMS....") k? k.

I went through old emails and deleted about 200 that I've sent out to potential freelancing opportunities, music opportunities, etc. in the last MONTH. 200 that haven't responded! grrrr. In my mind, I'm that person that gets whatever she wants, in reality, that's only true some of the time. But who I am in my head, is who I am. So fuck, Universe, work with me! Which is part of the problem....

There's days when I feel like throwing in the towel and then I get even more angry because I know I'll never do that.

I don't feel like opening another rejection letter. I don't feel like trying to find anymore openings through a tiny crack in some random window, hypothetically.

I can't focus today. I can't decide what I want. Other than a gigantic chocolate chip cookie, but lately, I've been losing weight. I mean rapidly and a lot of it. I'm a small person, in general, but when you start getting positive affirmation for "how thin" and "great" you look all of a sudden you start to think, well fuck, was I really Jabba the Hutt before or something? So then every fucking cookie you look at resembles old "fat you." Even though old you wasn't fat?

I'm thankful that tomorrow and Thanksgiving, I can just RE-FUCKING-LAX, because I won't have to refresh my inbox, or worry that I'm "missing something" because most everyone are sitting behind a big fat turkey, just like me.

I'm done throwing a fit now. Thanks.

What AREN'T you thankful for this THANKSGIVING?!

Wednesday, November 18, 2009

I've been having consistent sex for a year- Yay me.

It was a year ago last week, that My Love and I decided to "make it official" to stamp a label on it and stop drunkenly (er, desperately?) kissing strangers and flirting with fuglies for a little admiration.

...we met, I say, "accidentally." I had a little "Glee" in my step, had just returned aimlessly from Europe and thought next I'd be India bound, or sipping caipirinha's in Brazil, or living in Santa Barbara with "Luca" who I'd met on a train ride (he could've been a figment of my imagination, he looked like an Italian Jude Law, 6'4 and was a personal chef- why we didn't bone, I have no idea?)- that is, after the holidays. So, WTF would I do until my next "big adventure," i'd sing in a show!! Genius.

One evening, my Europe-inspired-cockiness and I went unprepared to an audition- that, if I booked, would keep me occupied for the winter and give me the chance to flex the golden pipes three times a week in public. No music, no appointment- I showed up, I booked the gig. I booked the lead character, get this; an impregnated, Catholic school girl- knocked up by a gay boy. Brilliance right? There was even a sex scene. Very Spring Awakening, just less awesome.

Turns out, my wayward Love needed something to do for the holidays too- he accepted the gig through a friend and played guitar in the show.....the rest, as they say- is history, i.e. an amazing year of unparalleled orgasms, life-changing conversation and someone to watch The Kardashians with.

I knew that first night, as he fumbled with my bracelets across the table, finding an excuse to touch my skin and mustered up the courage to ask if I'd want to go "grab a bite," which latter turned into "makeout like horny 16 year kids in my car" fest, that he'd be my boyfriend, that I could stare at those brilliant curls and sparkly eyes everyday. Fuck, going to India! I'm in LOOOOVE!

A little over a year ago- I was convincing myself I'd be "ok" semi-dating potential suitors, who would prove to be less than charming and fantastic, and that at the end of the night I wouldn't cry in bed, wishing there was a warm body next to me. I would be that Single Girl who wore lingerie just because and picked up men who wore nice suits, then leave their high-rise with heels dangling from my hand, before they woke up to take my-satisfied-self for french toast and a mimosa. I didn't need their company, I was confident- people wanted me. I had a bevy of admirers. I would talk about, how "I'd just adopt" if I never got married, or knocked up. I'd take long bubble baths alone and live in my bathrobe like it were a pair of his boxer shorts. I'd impress my relatives at the holidays when they asked why I didn't have a "man," with my audacious self assurance and wit, then like a snake charmer I'd weave stories they'd live vicariously through as they lapped up spinach dip and tall tales, only to go home wishing to be single for one. more. day. I would star as the Eva Mendas in my own life......

...this of course, was what I thought- I could be. But a year ago, I wasn't that. I wanted kisses and snuggles, someone to tell me they loved the baby hairs around my temples. Single Girl wasn't having fun cooking single-serve dinners (hi, I'm not good at math, try changing recipes) and Single Girl certainly didn't dig on the awkward front-door-kiss. What the hell Eva Mendes movie is this? One where she's fucking 16 and going to prom. FUCK. THAT. I'll be a spinster.

I'd given up. My white flag was raised. And I applied coats of Mac Lip Glass to make that plastered smile SHINE, betch. Then he was there.....

He listened. He wanted to be there for every moment, good and bad to toast a glass with me, or let me scream like a lunatic while he "shhhed" me quietly, like a baby, back to sanity. He watched me when I slept...and I didn't think that'd happen again unless someone was checking to see if I was dead. He calmed me, centered me- made me present. He made me feel weightless, talented, validated- dare I say, perfect even?

This year we've grown in love with each other and I knew from the first date where we downed truffle oil fries, that I could be happy with him. We've created music together, toured, recorded, sold out shows and bombed others. We've hiked mountains (literally), confessed the worst of secrets, panicked and overcome together. We've built on dreams and created new ones. We've jaunted all over New York, New Mexico, Washinton, Oregon, Vail, Breckenridge and Colorado. We've tried walking out, then walked back out of guilt and fortitude. We've consumed too much PBR and even more walnut pizza (if you haven't had it, do it- add walnuts.) We tried hot tub sex, not worth it, but we tried and I even have a sex scar. Call me, hardcore.

Daggers have been thrown, but never more than "I love you's." I know, you're gagging. What it all comes down to, is; I love his fucking face. I admire his spirit. I'm awed by his intelligence. I am lucky.....that he found me. And I like his penis. The end.

Stop throwing up on your keyboards now. Happy Anniversary Baby.

Monday, November 16, 2009

I'm gonna lose my shit for FIVE SECONDS

"TALKS SMACK" that is in my name- and since I rarely, GO THERE, I decided I should. Also, I'm writing for SmakNews.com, twice a day you can see smack talking of mine on all things pop culture, sex, relationships- all that good stuff. As well as articles like THESE. If you like TMZ, PerezHilton, Pinkisthenewblog.com- you'll love Smaknews. Without out further adieu.......

I’d like to take a few minutes to cry, out loud for Miss. Carrie Prejean, for the conservative party (since she’s making you all look even more terrible) and, for blonde people ( though I love you, she’s making all you hot blonde's look terrible too- by association). In fact, let’s all cry together, for humanity. There hasn’t been a single woman that I’ve despised more since Sarah Palin, so it’s no shocker that she would would “love” and I quote, Sarah Palin and her equally fucked political ideals.

After a week long PR campaign in accordance with her new book
Still Standing, which, in my opinion would sell more copies had it been aptly titled Down on my Knees, Carrie has been making a mockery of herself on nearly every media outlet from Today, to Larry King Live where she stormed off the show for Larry asking “inappropriate” questions, i.e. INTERVIEWING her, like he’s supposed to do. Carrie said to Meredith Viera of the Today show, “The biggest thing and the reason I wrote this book is Americans believe their beliefs are under attack, and this is proof,” adding that the sex tape is another example of what her enemies will do to attack her. She goes on to say,”.... it’s unfortunate that conservative women are attacked for their beliefs. It’s unacceptable and it shouldn’t happen. So many Americans are frustrated.”

Their beliefs? Their beliefs that don’t support WOMEN, or
love, or FAMILY, but rather the opposite. How about the gay couples who want to raise a child and have equal rights if one of them passes, to their posessions, family, etc- (when my Bampa who was gay passed away, he was left with NOTHING, even though him and his partner were together for 30+ YEARS and their home, belongings, etc. were rightfully HIS) if they aren’t given those rights, their family could be torn apart and that- is not what my God, or my country would want to do. For “those women” let’s make one thing clear, being AGAINST gay marriage, or the woman's right to chose, is only being against half of the world you’re living in- which in turn, creates more strife, more hatred, more discontent. THOSE WOMEN, are not the American women that our little sisters, daughters and youth should be looking up to.

But I digress....the hypocrisy that is Carrie Prejean ensues, she said, writing, “Our bodies are temples of the Lord. We should earn respect and admiration for our hearts, not for showing skin to look sexy.”

OH, the hilarity, gag me- or wait,
gag you. So, I’m assuming Carrie was possessed by the Devil when she created her X-rated sex tape? That according to Nik Richie of TheDirty.com, was “very graphic” so much so, he didn’t even want it. Oh Carrie, the price you don’t get paid for being a raunchy, fame-mongering whore. So what does she do? She turns that sex tape into an “underage” sex tape, because nothing outrages conservatives, and people alike more than an “innocent 17 year old who was taken advantage of and didn’t know any better” right Carrie? Please, keep denying responsibility- it's proving your ignorance.

Wonder what she'll say to her ex-boyfriend—the one who dropped the bombshell sex tape—when she hears he told TMZ that she urged him to "lie" and say she was 17 in the raunchy video. He claims, however, to have received the tape in 2007, when she was 20-years-old. Aren’t there any quotes in the Bible about being HONEST? Truth? No? Did Jesus skip those details? Didn’t think so.

REAL women of faith, or for real conservative women who actually have a functional brain inside their heads- no party would want to claim Carrie, because she defames even their beliefs. At least with the settlement she’s taken from pageant officials, (who would like their $5,200 dollars back for your breast implants, no I’m not kidding this is an actual lawsuit), she can buy a bottle of Prozac when the only people showing up at her book signings are men clutching their penis in one hand and Googling “Carrie Prejean Sextape, FREE” with the other. Even they wouldn’t pay to see you give a blow job. Go on with your conservative activism Carrie, the only people listening are picturing you naked.

SO- What do YOU think about Carrie Prejean?

Or, if you could give a flying EFF, which celebrity do you wish had a sex tape? :)

Friday, November 13, 2009


Denver, is officially my home.

The manager at Starbucks knows my name, he even makes nice comments on my hair when it's different (he's trying to pedal me pumpkin scones, but I forgive him), i.e. messy bun, unshowered. My yoga instructors know me, "NIIIIICE adjustments Chelsea" and the guy at Brakes Plus remembered my name when I went in for a routine oil change yesterday. I have "favorite" bars, breakfast joints and driving paths. It's creeped up on me like a stretch mark and sure enough, there it is- Denver is HOME.

Yesterday was brilliant. If you haven't read 4 Hr. Work Week, you absolutely should- and if you refuse to apply it, then you may as well cut off your feet, down a bottle of Advil, or sleep all day- or something equally debilitating.

After an incredible yoga practice, "dancer's pose" toes overhead and all, I read this book from front to back and did one exercise that changed my perspective on everything, called DREAMLINING , where you target your yearly, monthly, DAILY income for your DESIRED lifestyle. You want to install a stripper pole in your home? Google the cost, write it down. You want to own a fucking Wombat? Google the cost, write it down. You want a 4 million dollar home? Write it down. Or maybe, you'd just like to have a condo and a weekly manicure, whatever is IDEAL to you.

His philosophy is that "GOALS HAVE TO BE UNREALISTIC TO BE EFFECTIVE" if everyone is applying for option A. because it's closest to them and most "realistic" the competition is likely the fiercest, and the number of people shooting for option Z. at the very tip-top are a smaller percentage. "Ninety-nine percent of people in the world are convinced they are incapable of achieving great things, so they aim for the mediocre." thus, realistic goals are harder to achieve.

SO- obviously, being the fame hungry, wine-cellar-desiring, travel-eager, gypsy whore that I am, I found out, occurring to my "IDEAL LIFESTYLE" that I need to be making 2 GRAND, A DAY. I also took advantage, of the word "ideal" and took a faux shopping spree on Nordstrom's, to see how much money I'd actually drop there. Then, I took a faux trip to Turks and Caicos, but those are all just little details... I maybe bought a case of Cakebread wine too, maybe.

Go on, scoff, call me greedy, or ridiculous. I find ridiculous people fairly grand.
The point is this exercise taught me what my DAILY GOAL should be, to cut the FAT, to stop waisting time and being afraid of ASKING FOR WHAT I WANT. To the leave the bullshit for the bulls. Ya dig? AND, to just trust your unrealistic desires exist for a reason, they serve you.
Being reminded of all this ACTUALLY, calmed me- made me let go and enjoy the present of the process.....as in; the outcome is already decided according to your belief, so let it be.

This morning, after enjoying my existence yesterday-embracing my HOME, living in the small moments of banter with Starbucks employees about egg sandwiches and weather..... I woke up to two incredible emails, not only actualizing some of the monetary value that I need (not nearly 2 grand, but I'll pose for Playboy to get there, ahhhh... I KID, I KID) but actualizing more of what I BELIEVE IN, all that "UNREALISTIC" bullshit.

Even though I can't always see the "light," at the end of a seemingly endless tunnel, I DO appreciate where I AM.

I appreciate that the manager at Starbucks knows my name- after years of nameless existence in big cities, where I'd spend evenings having "incredible" conversation and laughter with "new friends" that would LITERALLY not know who I was a week later, chatting with mechanics makes MY DAY.

I spent days, years, of my life trying to feel important to people that didn't even SEE ME. And now, not only will I refuse to do that, I also refuse to try fitting into "realistic", because I'M NOT. I'm not realistic. I told my Momma I wanted to be a "fairy" when I grew up, I believed I was invincible to car accidents and would "flick away," and I am convinced that 2grand, a day, is not out of reach. In fact, maybe I'm shooting too low.

If one person has done it, so can I.


Monday, November 9, 2009

Thoughts are things and my THING is a massive panic attack.

Right now, this is the only thing keeping me going. And I'm hardly inspired to write.

I am in between jobs, in between shows, in between homes, in between being incredibly being busy and then having absolutely nothing but the promise of peppermint flavored coffee and a good Hot Topics on The View to wake up to. Papers are waiting to be signed, masters are waiting to be completed and then I'm here, just waiting. We're in the middle of mastering our new album, so it's a lot of sitting around and waiting until we can push it. There's not a l other than thinking about the FUTURE that's inspiring me, motivating me, pushing me- keeping me EXCITED. I'm living completely focused the future to ignore the fact that I'm unfulfilled by the present- when maybe I should be appreciating the present to feel it's fulfillment?

I feel......blah. When I'm at the point to admit BLAH, especially on a blog- I'm "going through it." and I remind myself of this " The words "I am ..." are potent words; be careful what you hitch them to. The thing you're claiming has a way of reaching back and claiming you." BLAH, has claimed me.

When I was Little Chelsea I had a very clear vision of what I wanted, what I wanted to experience by now- where I wanted to go, and where I would've already been....there's moments when I feel content with planting the seeds to make that all happen and then there's the adverse affect of sheer disappointment in myself, terror and frustration. Which I realize, is likely canceling out the chance for anything to "bloom."

It's no secret that, I'm neurotic as fuck and this LIMBO is only making it worse. I HAVE A LOT OF IRRATIONAL FEARS. Plenty; I think bouncy balls are the worst "toy" ever invented and I'm surprised more children don't choke on them. When someone asks me if I'm allergic to something (I know I'm not), but I think- maybe, just maybe, there's some rare spice in this recipe that will kill me? I think the show Snapped is fucking terrifying and wonder if people really do just get possessed by some demon that makes them drive into oncoming traffic with a family in the car. AND, at any given time I'm terrified that I have an incurable disease, unto which I still have no recollection of. Running out of Parmesan cheese is as Earth shattering as the prospect of 2012 (no pun intended), I think people who ride horses and tame wild animals are deranged and sometimes I worry, that Madonna will die and we'll never have had the chance to be friends. Or makeout on the VMA's, since everyone digs a remake.

.....that's just a start. I'm so neurotic that I'm afraid of everything and NOTHING at all at once.

But the fear that's the WORST of all, the fear that can set off my Crazy Making unlike any tarantula, or mental person running at me with lye.....

....is the fear that somehow, I'll let my life slip through my fingers and all of my dreams will go unfulfilled.

That I'll let that Little Chelsea, sitting on a bar stool wearing a crown, a slip, and a muff singing Mr. Sandman (don't ask, just call me classy)- end up a bitter, disappointed, hopeless woman.

"Don't be a waste of talent." My favorite teacher said that to me once and I've been carrying around this fear that maybe, I will be. I can't look at my Little Chelsea self in the face and say, "Stop dreaming kid, it doesn't work out anyway." I can't say it and I'm trying to convince myself that, I won't. I won't stop. I won't stop calling, or emailing, or punching down your fucking door until I get what I want.....woa, yea- Big Chelsea turned out scary.

it's just, that sometimes... I'm afraid. Sometimes, I see Little Chelsea looking at me shaking her head with those big puppy eyes...Sometimes, I worry that no phone call will have a "yes" on the other end. Sometimes I think no one will respond. The opportunity won't arise.

Through all the positivity and mindfulness that THOUGHTS ARE INDEED THINGS, and that we are active creators in our reality- I have moments like this one, where I can't sleep, but I can't figure out what to do next- where I can't "see it happening" and yet, I can't see anything else. Sometimes, there are MOMENTS, where I'm just afraid.

Thursday, November 5, 2009

Calling ALL bloggers- I'm a needy bitch with a cause.

I don't recoil easily. I've made people cry, then looked at them stone-faced. I've perfected the "eye roll" and the "I'm going to make you feel like a total dumb fuck if you cross me" look. I'm fiercely loyal, have the memory of a fucking tyrant and generally, "I'm always right." I've hurt people that I love by being too proud and mericless. I'm compassionate, but more often than not, the compassion is going to those/that which is less close to me and those that remain the closest endure my misdirected judgement and cavalier attitude.

.....I'm terrible at saying "I'm sorry" or "I was wrong." SO: Right, I'm not getting a fucking gold star on this assignment.

If there's one thing that's benefited me and harmed me equally- it's been my ruthless ability to make snap judgements and have an opinion before knowing the facts, or considering the back story. My ideology is admirable and contemptible at the same time. It makes me both gutsy and ignorant. Sometimes, when I just need to "put down my dukes," I can't swallow it. I fight harder and often, I lose. When it isn't a game, you risk losing more than just your pride. And in turn, realize how trivial having "too much" pride really is....

My best friend's boyfriend is serving as a Marine in Afghanistan.........

and I've never really liked him.

In my mind, "he wasn't good enough." He wasn't smart enough, or clever enough. He wasn't KIND enough, even though he was kind to her. To me, he wasn't HER COUNTERPART- she, being a beautiful, incredibly intelligent, talented, generous, KIND, fierce woman....he didn't match up. He didn't share her values, or belief system. HE'S A REPUBLICAN. And wanted guns in their home. And had meathead friends. He wasn't MY vision for a man for her....but he wasn't MINE to have a judgement about in the first place.

My pride over protecting her has, at times, almost cost us our friendship.

The other night at 2am- she called me; One of his closest friends was hit by a roadside bomb. He didn't make it. Another, lost his legs. The rest....all wounded. MY HEART instantly started aching.....if something were to happen to him; I could never forgive myself for not trying to MAKE IT RIGHT.

Him and I aren't the same. We'll never share coffee and wax poetic over life. We likely won't vote for them same presidential candidate or fucking American Idol contestant. We likely wont want to drink at the same bars, or share the same Facebook friends. He'll think I'm a weird liberal hippie freak who talks about "energy" too often, and I'll think he's not sensitive enough.
We won't be sharing a broken hearted BFF necklace, but there's one thing we will be sharing; The bottomless LOVE, respect and adoration for the same person. My best friend- his Love.

He (and thousands of others) won't be home for Christmas. Or his birthday. He doesn't get to eat sweet potatoes with perfectly-crispy marshmallow. There won't be that "too-full-to-move" feeling on Thanksgiving, or the sound of silverware clinking on plates and oversize sweaters hugging and feeling the winter-kissed faces of loved ones as they come through the door. He doesn't get to untangle Christmas lights, fill the empty spots on the tree with childhood Popsicle stick ornaments, or watch the clay animation Rudolph, and like it. He won't get to shovel the driveway, turn on the fireplace, or watch the last leaves fall before everything is desolate and bare. He won't get the perfect eggnog buzz (don't tell me you're not excited for that.) He isn't going to Google where he should toast to his 24th year on Earth, or get to open presents and BE SELFISH for one. full. day. for his Birthday. His birthday will just be SURVIVING.

So, yea- we're different. We're different, but that doesn't mean that I can't try to do SOMETHING to show that- in all of our differences, I respect what he's doing. And he needs a fucking GREAT birthday present, since I can't buy him a shot of Patron and apologize- drunk style.


I'm putting together a book of quotes, stories, pictures, etc. to send to him for his birthday- BUT, I WANT YOUR OLD BLOG POSTS.

Comment with a link, or an email of something you've written- it can be funny, lewd, inspirational, TMI, Happy Birthday, ANYTHING- It doesn't have to pertain to the war, if you're a fashion blogger- send me your favorite quote, or picture, anything. IT'S UP TO YOU.

I want to remind him that there's people out there- people at home, living, working, laughing, etc. that are a reminder to come back, ALIVE and continue on with his life.....a book of LIFE. To entertain, or simply take up some time in his day when he's wishing he were here, safe- behind a computer, wearing tattered sweats and eating a turkey sandwich.

It's never too late to MAKE IT RIGHT. To say sorry. To swallow your pride.
What's holding on to it really doing for you anyway.....? Let it go.

Is there anyone you need to "make it right" with?

Monday, November 2, 2009

If I keep singing "Don't rain on my parade" I give you permission to PUNCH ME IN THE FACE.

Just on stage- doin' my thing ;)

So. I want nice things. There....I said it.

I want to be able to buy unnecessary items like Fig scented oils, and Gingerbread shaped baking tins. But more importantly, I want to be able to LIVE. Live my life, cross off lists, live bountifully not BLEAKLY. It also just so happens that my life plans involve more than one vacation to The Mediterranean and a full rhinestone bra.
So, shoot me, I didn't "live simply" was my middle name.

This past week, I was tested- hardcore. tested. Between jobs and people- yes and no. The Universe said, "Chelsea, how much do you want to be able to spend money at The Container Store....come on, how much? You want to buy a condo eventually- well, how bad do you want it?"

I've been given OPTIONS. But every option comes with a laundry list of pros and cons. Major con being, "give up your life- to potentially have a better one. Keyword- POTENTIALLY." Not, absolutely. Just, potentially.

...could be worse, I could have been given the Gout or a lifetime supply of Cheese Whiz, which would be terrible. After the first can was gone anyway. Cause really, who needs that?

Options; you can have everything or NOTHING- it just depends on what your personal, "everything" is. Someones 9-5, or family life- someones nomadic freedom, or DIY scheduling. Someones "place of their own", or Tuesday night book club. Someones one-day-at-a-time, or someones paycheck-to-paycheck. Someones brand new Honda Civic, or someones Employee of the month. All of these things, to SOMEONE, mean EVERYTHING and to someone else, mean nothing at all. It's defining your everything- without the influence of everyone around you, societal standards included- that's the hard part. And how long are you willing to search until you find it? Without deciding that someone's Everything, should be yours too....when it isn't.

It's easy to get gold dust in your eyes when you don't know all the components. With every "perfect" man, "perfect" job, there's a price. It's easy to think, everything would be better IF....

So, I've had to look at myself- at my life- What is my EVERYTHING? Is it really direct deposit to spend on baking tins?....
Freedom. Family. Love. Kicking my Dad's ass at Monopoly (which rarely happens.) Being creative. Not knowing, I actually LIKE not knowing what's going to happen next year, or next month- because for me, that means change. Change= growth, stories, opportunity to stretch and fall and try something new, possibly even check off some of that growing "life list." Everything to me is; having someone to call anytime of the night or day, being able to say NO, or YES- because I want to, not because I SHOULD. A life without guidelines. Using my VOICE- writing it, singing it, screaming with it. Being able to say FUCK really loud- without anyone around me giving a fuck. Navigating through Rachel Ray books and accomplishing a 30-minute meal in 40 minutes (what? I'm not a chef.) Everything to me is being able to say, with my entire soul- that I have EVERYTHING I want and all of the rest, is just a few steps away....

...so do I need to take this potentially glittery opportunity? I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'm much simpler than I thought- at least for now. All I know is that, no matter what- I have everything. I'm already creating my happiness- and "sticking to my fucking guns," doing what I love- in my time. Whether it's NOW, or tomorrow. What I NEED and desire- is already mine.


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.....?