bird by bird

'Tootie' Smith: Nobody's going to have them, not if we can't take them to New York! I'd rather kill them if we can't take them with us! Esther Smith: Oh, Tootie, don't cry. Don't cry, it's all right. You can build other snow people in New York. 'Tootie' Smith: No, you can't! You can't do any of the things that I can do in St. Louis! Esther Smith: No, no, Tootie, you're wrong. New York is a wonderful town. Everybody dreams about going there, but we're luckier than lots of families because we're really going. Wait till you see the nice new home we're going to have, and the loads and loads of new friends we're going to make. But the main thing is, Tootie, that we're all going to be together, just like we've always been. That's what really counts. We could be happy anywhere as long as we're together.

I've been listening to this song nonstop for months, and now I get it.

My goal this week or so has been to be productive, to keep my mind occupied. I've online shopped, Christmas shopped, and window shopped. I forced myself to go to a party in far away neighborhood in the pouring rain. I even forced myself to meet visiting friends in Times Square. I wrote Christmas cards and made soup from scratch, and my email inbox has never been cleaner. I've organized my refrigerator, and I've gone to spin class. I've meet up for a happy hour with new friends. I've met up for a happy hour with old friends. You wouldn't believe how organized my sock drawer is. And now, though my life looks tidy and organized, and my to-do lists are being tackled with seriously impressive vigor, there are still cracks in my day when I get sad. I still have moments in between errands and events when I think about everything I'm trying not to think about, feel everything I'm trying not to feel. I think I need to realize that this is going to happen, no matt

“I read once that the ancient Egyptians had fifty words for sand, and the Eskimos had a hundred words for snow. I wish I had a thousand words for love, but all that comes to mind is the way you move against me while you sleep, and there are no words for that.” ― Brian Andreas, Story People: Selected Stories & Drawings of Brian Andreas

Sometimes I faint . This usually happens about once a year, and I'm just standing somewhere doing my thang, and all of a sudden something comes over me and I think, "Not this again.." And the next thing I know, I'm sprawled out on the floor of a bathroom or a music venue or in the case of last Monday, the uptown 4 train. Monday started out as a really great morning for several reasons. I made it to my bus stop just in time, and in general, I felt energized and ready to start my week. I got on the subway and was feeling fine, until all of a sudden, I felt that familiar "I'm-going-down" feeling, so I tapped on the shoulder of a man sitting to see if I could have his seat. The last thing I remember is seeing him take out his headphones to better hear me. Then there were thirty people staring down at me as I laid on the floor. Someone gave me a bottle of water and told me to take my time getting up. Ladies on the train started throwing their scarves across

"Life [is] full of loneliness and misery and suffering and unhappiness, and it's all over much too quickly." --Woody Allen

While drinking coffee. and wearing wool socks, I stood in the kitchen, on Thanksgiving morning, and spotted this  thankful deer.

The other week my iPhone 5 slipped out of my hand, and my poor screen shattered into a hundred little pieces. I grudgingly swiped my Visa and upgraded to an iPhone 6 and then began transferring my life from one Apple product to another. While sitting on the F train on my way to a babysitting job, I started editing my phone contacts, combining contacts, and deleting old numbers. It turns out that I've acquired quite the array of digits. My contacts include: Lucas (Mark's dad) and Sarit (Itamar's mom), which I assume have to be potential play date contacts from my days as a nanny; three nuns, two doctors, and a lot of girlfriends with both married and maiden names; men named Keith, Eric, and Dan, who have lived in my phone without corresponding memories or last names; "Corey from Saturday night" and "Joe the REAL American;" the Hall & Oats Hotline, whatever that is, and a Chinese restaurant in Harlem saved as "Panda;" finally one number omi

 

By Moyra Donaldson I'll have dewlaps and a hump and say what all the time in a cross voice: on every one of my bony crony fingers a ring. My lips painted with a slash of bright fuchsia, I'll drink margaritas by the tumbler full and if my dealer dies before I do, I'll just have to look for younger suppliers. I can't imagine not being interested in sex, but if it happens, so be it, really I could do with a rest, complete hormonelessness. I may forget who I am and how to find my way home, but be patient, remember I've always been more than a little confused and never did have much of a sense of direction. If I'm completely demented, I'm depending on friends: you know who you are.

Shout out to CH for passing this little nugget of wisdom on two months ago in an email to her closest city singles. It recently came up in conversation, so I thought I'd pass it along to the next round of city singles. The bad news is: it's all a myth. But that's also the good news.

October has been... whew. I packed more in the 31 days of October than I have many months combined. I was here and there. I stayed up late and woke up early. I took classes at NYU to get my certificate in Fundraising. I tutored an Israeli photography student in the Upper West Side. I spent time with a tall, grammar-conscious chef. I babysat. I organized. I didn't get enough sleep. I drank too much wine. I went to Bear Mountain for Octoberfest and to Sleepy Hallow Lake for Halloween. I stayed in bed too many hours with migraines. I felt happy and homesick and tired and full. I read books, but I didn't blog. I remembered 6 autumns ago, when I fell in love with Brooklyn for the very first time. I've felt like I'm falling in love with Brooklyn all over again.

by Matt Mason Dad would come home after too long at work and I'd sit on his lap to hear the story of Ferdinand the Bull; every night, me handing him the red book until I knew every word, couldn't read, just recite along with drawings of a gentle bull, frustrated matadors, the all-important bee, and flowers— flowers in meadows and flowers thrown by the Spanish ladies. Its lesson, really, about not being what you're born into but what you're born to be, even if that means not caring about the capes they wave in your face or the spears they cut into your shoulders. And Dad, wonderful Dad, came home after too long at work and read to me the same story every night until I knew every word, couldn't read, just recite.

GG introduced me, and I can't stop listening. 

I'm so excited that my favorite grad school girl and soul sister is coming to my city for the weekend! I wanted to blast this news all over my social media this morning.. Facebook it and tweet it and Instagram it .. but KG is too cool for such mediums. She does read this cob-webby 'ol thang from time to time though, so I figured I could express my excitement here. I GET TO SEE YOU SO SOON, KG!!! My relationship to KG is similar to what I imagine relationships are like between Vietnam veterans who fought together in the war and came out on the other side. I admit that this may be a slightly insensitive comparison. KG and I did not fight in war together, but we did go to grad school together. We taught English 101 to bratty freshman together, and we [barely] survived a brutal South Dakota winter together. We read a ton of books and wrote a ton of papers and were mildly depressed for the winter of 2009/10. Thank GAWD for funk nights at Carey's and boxed wine and her camera a

It's Amy Poehler's birthday, so as tribute I'm posting some of my favorite nuggets of wisdom from the bossy smart girl. It was hard to narrow it down to three (like, really hard), but these are the three that really spoke to me today. I hope they speak to you too. “You know my code: hoes before bros. Uteruses before duderuses… Ovaries before brovaries." “Vulnerable people are powerful people. Opening your heart and sharing it means you’re going to get so much love in your life.”  “Girls, if a boy says something that isn’t funny, you don’t have to laugh.”

I didn't feel great this weekend, so I gave myself a pass to be lay-zee. I slept well, and I ate well. I was basically a 67 year old woman for two days, and it was glorious. I have no regrets. I made green soup, walked all over Brooklyn (in both rain and sunshine), and stood in line at the Post Office for an hour while I talked to EH on the phone. Saturday night I sniffed scented candles along side a hunched over old man in Target, and then I went home and painted my nails while watching the entire first season of Louie in bed. On Sunday I saw V from Orange is the New Black at the cafe where SS works, and I'm pretty sure a bird peed on only the very tip of my nose. (I know both things sound unlikely, but I swear that they happened). Sunday night I babysat, which really just consisted of watching Dumb and Dumber and eating a frozen burrito while a baby slept in the other room. I rode my bike back to my apartment with my bike lights flickering as I peddled down Dean street.

13 years ago, I watched on TV as the twin towers fell in a city 1,500  miles away.   As an American, it felt close. But as a South Dakotan, it felt very far away. 13 years later, that big, far away place is now my home. The people that 9/11 affected most are now my coworkers, my fellow commuters, my neighbors, my friends. This date has taken on such a new meaning for me, and it's hard to articulate the pride, respect, and gratitude I feel for those who keep me safe here every day. I'll never forget.      

“Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk — real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious.”  ― Jack Kerouac, On the Road

My mom sent me this picture on Sunday while I was on a bike ride . I check ed my phone while I was stopped at a red light, and when I saw it, I clutched my phone to my che st , like it was a hug. Man, I love this little woman. 

On Friday night, SS, CS, and I and helped CH put in her new air conditioner in her new bedroom window in her new apartment in Prospect Heights. Afterward, we walked to Franklin Ave for pizza and sodas. The Yankees/Royals game was on an overhead TV, and Phish was playing on overhead speakers. A guy who looked like the prince version of the beast in The Beauty and the Beast ordered a slice to eat on a stool outside, and I swooned. He had dark, rusty hair that was pulled in a low pony tail at the nape of his neck. He was tall and wearing sneakers. He ordered pizza like a boss. Before we left, SS and CH were killer wing women and coolly attempted to give him my number. I waited outside around the corner while they asked about his relationship status first, and, as the story goes--he already has a Belle. This supports my theory that real princes are out there, but they're saving stools for someone else. Regardless, I'm glad they asked him, and I'm sure it made his night. The pi

You know when you have like 5 different kinds of leftovers in your fridge and some random vegetables that will go bad any day and so you sort of put it all together to make two days worth of the most random meals ever created to avoid letting any of it go to waste?? Or, wait, is that just me? Anyway, this post is sort of going to be that. I have so many starts of drafts and they are filling up space in my draft folder and in my mind. I'm  going to put them all out there, so brace yourself. Things could get weird.

And Nebraska really, really loves football.

I don't blog, and I don't blog, and I don't blog, and BAM.. one post all about the whole month. This is that. This is August. On August 1st I woke up to a text from my mom that said, "August is going to be your month. I can feel it!" Well... she was kind of wrong. August started out rough--I didn't get the job I had intervied for and really wanted, and DB moved away, and things just got messy and weird all over the place. But people hugged me and defended me, and Tylenol PM helped me sleep when I otherwise couldn't. SS told me I could have a pity party until my birthday party, and that's exactly what I did. A week and a half later, I put back on my big girl pants and turned 28. Turning 28 turned out to be pretty awesome! My bday celebrating spanned from a birthday surprise at work (with pizza from ELM!) to an impromptu Saturday afternoon picnic with a champagne/vitamin water cocktail with the girls. Saturday night I put on a pink slip dress (hel

“When you meet a man in the doorway of a Mexican restaurant who later kisses you while explaining that this kiss doesn’t “mean anything” because, much as he likes you, he is not interested in having a relationship with you or anyone right now, just laugh and kiss him back. Your daughter will have his sense of humor. Your son will have his eyes.” ― Cheryl Strayed, Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar

This video is long, but it's everything. We have time. We're ok.  We're good this way too.

In an effort to focus less on the thorns of life and more on the blossoms, I'm going to take inventory on all the things that I have to be grateful for. I'm in such a rut, and this is me giving myself a crab-ervention. I have get it together. My life actually rulz. Eff the thorns These are my blossoms: I have two big windows in my bedroom with a view of Brooklyn backyards and giant maple trees. I fall asleep to stars and wake to the sun. This blog lets me blow of steam and save and share little nuggets of beauty, wisdom, and humor. It gives me a voice when I feel like no one really hears me. I don't have any lethal allergies or terminal illnesses, and all my limbs are exactly where they are supposed to be. Riding my bike makes me feel free. GG and I collaborate on a monthly Spotify playlist that gives me a fresh start and soundtrack to each month. This makes my commute/life significantly better. I was raised by a mother and father who loved each other. They bicke

This morning I thought I heard my bus coming so I sprinted half of a block in a dress and heels to catch it in time. Once I got to my stop, I realized that what I heard was a garbage truck, not my bus. I looked like such a fool. If this isn't a perfect metaphor for dating in NYC, I don't know what is.

 Gov't Mule at Sioux Falls Jazz Festival Sioux Falls, SD Saturday, July 19th   Montgomery Gentry at Casino Speedway Watertown, SD Friday, July 25th  Wildbone and Hubby Jenkins at Jalopy Tavern Red Hook, BK Saturday, August 2nd

"So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect , as if I’m the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase? So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds

Things I don't care about: Whether or not my socks match Clearing the remainder time on the microwave clock Germs on the fruit I buy off fruit carts Squeezing toothpaste out in an efficient way Anything related to the Kardashians Things I do care about: The avoidance of comma splices (and general observation of all grammar rules) Creative emoji application Immediately clearing the red notification on the apps on my phone Clean sheets and a surplus of pillows Making space for people who make space for me

This was my first week back in NYC after a 9 day retreat in South Dakota. It was a hard week. The city felt too big, and my space felt too small. I felt insignificant in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Then slowly, so slowly little pieces of my city-self began to fall back into place. I really do love it here, and this video was a visual reminder of why. STREETS - NEW YORK CITY from Tim Sessler on Vimeo .

Sometimes life reminds me of the beauty of girlfriends, friends with long legs and short legs, blond hair and red hair, girls who live in New York City and girls who live in small towns in South Dakota. This tribe of mine, my girl gang, lifts me up on bad days the way that we did when we were young at sleepovers chanting "light as a feather, stiff as a board." When I feel like I'm drowning, they miraculously help keep me afloat. My gaggle of girls make up for the guys of this city who make me feel angry, insecure, and unlovable. My girls make me feel so lovable. This week I was so thankful for them, for my "stone cold pack of weirdos" that heard me out and loved me up.

“Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled—to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world.” --Mary Oliver

Summer">http://vimeo.com/100640666">Summer day - Sommar i Leksand from Anders">http://vimeo.com/vaveron">Anders Persson on Vimeo .https://vimeo.com">Vimeo.>

I just read an old interview with Anne Lamott on Salon.com about one of her recent publications at the time, the novel Imperfect Birds . She was asked about the title, and specifically Lamott's connection to birds, and I just love love love what she says... Q: And, of course, you wrote “Bird by Bird.” Why birds? A: I said in “ Grace (Eventually) ” that if birds were the only evidence that there is another side, or a deeper, bigger reality, birds and bird song would be enough proof for me. We are so bound, and they are so free — and yet so vulnerable. The little ones you might crush, and the big ones might peck your eyes out or dive-bomb you. They’re such alien creatures, so exquisite and yet springing from dinosaurs. And you can never look a bird in the eye — their eyes are on either side of their heads, and they’re so quizzical. They have to be — they are prey, and yet so hungry. Just like teenagers. Just like us.

Three days until flat lands, open spaces, fresh air.  Three days until I hear more cows mooing than horns honking.  Three days until I have to make a conscious effort to put on shoes and lock the door when I leave the house.  Three days until I run into old neighbors at the grocery store and they ask me what life is like "in the big city." Three days until I get to be "the girl who lives in the city."  Three days until I get to sit at kitchen tables with people I love as we drink warmed up coffee and eat peanut butter on toast.  Three days until I get to go where I came from. Three days until home.  

By Katrina Vandenberg When I think of what it means not to marry the high school sweetheart, but to find each other as we did at ages thirty and forty, I think of John and I singing along to an old cassette of Jackson Browne on car trips, and how, as we sing, a part of me is hearing the song for the first time in Detroit, on WRIF with my first boyfriend in his truck as he took curves, shifting hard and fast. And probably John is making love with a black-haired girl in the carpeted back of his van in 1979, out west, the cassette new and popular, draining the battery. How unlikely that we ended up traveling together singing a song we each learned with someone else. Neither of us minds that, the way we might have then.

I moved! It wasn't pretty or fun or really efficient in any way, but I did it. The whole experience wasn't close to being as traumatic as my move from Harlem to BK two years ago.. but it was still pretty awful. Backstory: I'm moving in with a cool chick (a friend of a friend) who is moving here from DC. We found our new place a few weeks ago with the aid of the craziest broker in all the land , and I've been so excited for a fresh start, new walls, and.. wait for it.. a dishwasher! The thing is, my new place is only 5 blocks away from my current apartment. This is.. close enough for me to think that I can plausibly move all of my things alone, on foot, with the help of my bike and rolling luggage, yet far away enough for this to be a GIANT pain in the ass and huge time sucker. I make two trips from my old apartment to my new apartment with my bike. I put bags on the handlebars, and I have to push the bike because the load is too heavy to ride. This results in two

A couple weeks ago, three girlfriends and I hopped in a rental car with beach bags and an air mattress and drove out of the city to spend the weekend in Provincetown, MA. Our weekend was everything a girls-only-Cape-Cod-beach-weekend should be. We rented bikes. We ate lobster. We went to a drag show. One of the drag queens said, "Fashion is like herpes; either you have it or you don't. In P-Town, people have it." Did I mention how pro-LGBT Provincetown is?? It was so amazing, and so clean, and none of us ever had to worry about wearing make up or getting hit on. Also, when we popped into a sports bar to watch the US/Portugal game, we had the place to ourselves. It was maybe the only bar in America that had four straight girls sitting at the bar while all the men boutique shopped outside. At the end of our weekend, we swept the sand out of our cottage, returned our beach cruisers, and left P-town with sunburns and that damn Michelle William's song stuck in our head.

Six years ago on the last Father's Day that I got to spend with my dad, my sister and I gave him a burnt CD and a new anchor for his boat. Though at the time they were gifts that we put moderate thought into, looking back now, I realize that the gifts we gave him were really gifts that he had given us our whole lives. He gave us music and he gave us an anchor. From the day my sister and I were born, our dad surrounded us with music. Whether he shared it or played it or taught it, music was everywhere we were. When we were little, he recorded us singing our favorite songs while he accompanied us on his keyboard. Allison sang "You Are My Sunshine" though she was 3 and had a hard time pronouncing the word 'sunshine.' I sang "American Pie" because it was our song, and he taught me every line. As Allison and I got older, we started taking piano lessons too, and though we weren't very dedicated to practicing our lesson books, Dad helped us find sheet

“I want a soul mate who can sit me down, shut me up, tell me ten things I don’t already know, and make me laugh. I don’t care what you look like, just turn me on. " --Henry Rollins

Ok, fine. I got a bike helmet. It's not cute or sexy and it smooshes my hair and leaves a red mark on my forehead. But I did it.  I do love my brain.

On Monday night after work I meet JG and her Aussie travel buddy at one of my fav Union Square spots. We sat outside, drank beers, and talked about the big (and not so big) things in our lives. JG shared a hilarious story about a tandem bike on her wedding day, and I told her about my nannying adventures with three little monsters. I smiled the whole time. JG is someone who I met at the end of my college career. We didn't take the same classes. We didn't have the same social circle. We never lived together or traveled together or graduated together or any of those typical things that friends go through that make their friendship solid. Yet, JG and I are solid. I talk to her without effort; my insides pour out because she's such an attentive listener and a thoughtful participant in conversation. I hope she feels that way too, because I'm eager to hear about her life and her heart and her day-to-day goings on. After drinks and plantain chips and guacamole, JG and her

This video makes me think of two things: 1.) My absolute favorite poem and its simple message. 2.) My dad, the music man, and why he failed as a music major. See if you see what I mean. And listen. Understand Music from finally. on Vimeo .

Do you fall to your knees weeping, clinging to the bare shins of the one walking away? Do you beg them to stay, spitting out pleas of bribery and attempts of guilt? Do you fight back tears, make stupid jokes, and kick around a stone on the sidewalk with your hands in your pockets and your heart in your throat? Do you ignore calls and ignore calls and ignore calls hoping the departing will depart without ever having to say goodbye? Do you give a big hug, say "Seeya lata alligator" and walk away with a thankful grin and a backpack full of memories? Do you write them a letter? Do you cry in the shower? Do you feel sorry for yourself and eat chocolate cake in bed to make yourself feel better? What do you do when you say goodbye? I've tried these all. I've wept and avoided and ate chocolate cake, but I'm still searching for a goodbye-giving strategy that is more "good" than "bye." How do you do that?

Someone, please watch this so we can talk about it. I'm obsessed.

This afternoon, SS accompanied me as we ran all over Brooklyn looking for a UPS Drop Box. I had ordered shoes online, but not surprisingly, none of them fit, and I wanted that big box of shoe rejects out of my apartment and out of my hair. We first lugged the box to the Post Office a block away, and we waited in line for 10 minutes. I put the box on the ground and pushed it with my foot as we chatted and moved up in the line. Once we got to the counter, the postal worker told us they don't accept UPS packages (which makes sense, in retrospect), and he directed us 6 blocks down Fulton Street. I carried the box with two arms, then one. I carried it with my arms on the side and then underneath.  I told Sam that it reminded me of  this poem , about how carrying a cumbersome box is a metaphor for dealing with grief. Eventually we arrived at the location where the postal worker had directed us. We looked down at Google Maps on our phones, and then up at a store front for an African B

By: Oriah Mountain Dreamer It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing. It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love for your dream for the adventure of being alive. It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon… I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain. I want to know if you can sit with pain mine or your own without moving to hide it or fade it or fix it. I want to know if you can be with joy mine or your own if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful to be realistic to remember the limitations of being human. It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disa

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"So I sent an email to seven of my friends, including Sarah, and I said, 'Does anyone want to go see  Lost in Translation  tonight?' and then I sent an email immediately afterwards to the six of my friends who weren't Sarah and I said, 'NOT YOU.' — John Green , on how he asked out his wife for the first time

The phone rings, and it's a little old lady with a little old lady name and a little old lady voice. She starts telling me all of her symptoms to relay to Dr. L. She has tried two different dietary regiments recommended by two different physicians, but she thinks it's the chocolate covered pomegranate seeds that she's been eating that have really done the trick to make her feel better.  I slightly roll my eyes because since we're on the phone, she can't see me, and because this is an absurd logical fallacy. After I take down each painstaking detail of her elaborate theory, I begin to end the conversation. I say, "I'll give this message to the doctor and nurse, and someone will be getting back to you." Then we both say "thank you" and "you're welcome" at the same time, and right before I hang up my phone, I say, "Love you." ...... DID I JUST SAY I LOVE YOU?! She says something that sounds like, "Err..?" and

This is what summer in Brooklyn looks like, in case you have forgotten. I almost did. Summer 2012 in Brooklyn, NY from Jon Edwards on Vimeo .

1. I met you around a bon fire at a bar called Hot Bird four blocks from my Brooklyn apartment. You showed me a picture of you and your brother as kids with the Pope (you somehow sneaked in to meet him). I snagged your moleskin notebook and in it wrote my favorite bird by bird quote, my name, and my phone number. I made you promise not to read it until after I'd left. My phone chirped 1 hour later with a text that said, "Hello bird, nice to meet ya :)" 2. When I got to Union Pool , you were getting two cans of Budweiser at the bar, and we took them outside because we were warm and it was cool outside. We talked about your light project and my last name, and next we went to your roommate's bar and sat on a faux stoop with twinkle lights strung above us. You told me you loved R.E.M. and I said I loved " Nightswimming ." Later you played it for me on your piano. 3. At a bar located almost exactly between our two apartments , we drank red wine by an indoor

So obviously I'm obsessed with the HBO show GIRLS (because I am one, in SO many ways), and last week's episode ended with this song playing with the rolling credits. It makes no sense, but this song.. I just.. I can't stop listening. The lyrics are not profound. The melody is not particularly catchy. I can't access it through iTunes or Spotify. And yet, I love it so freaking much. Do you??

Because a good friend once told me, "Write everything down. Even if it's just notes." So here are some notes on February..  As per my annual tradition, I cheered for the offense at the Super Bowl. I went to the boys' new Williamsburg apartment to "watch" the game, and at half time we went on the roof to see the NYC skyline. I wore SD's sweater but still shivered at the sight, and remembered, "Oh yeah, I live here!" CS, SS, and I left before the end of the game and bought cookies from Momofuku for the bus ride home. I flew to San Francisco to see my westie bestie GG! Though it rained the entire time, and I had an "incident" with the floor that I'll tell you about later, the trip was still pretty amazing. My favorite part was laying in G's bed watching "Francis Ha." There's a scene in the beginning of the film when Francis and her best friend are laying in bed watching something on their computer, and at that p

[Foreword: I had this magical plan to write and publish this post on January 26th, my three year city-versary, while sitting in the Reading Room of the New York Public Library surrounded by great literature and New York writers. Buuuut then like 7 things went wrong, starting with the closing of the library 12 minutes after I got there.. and now it's a whole month later and I still haven't published. This is, most accurately, the story of my life. So now today, on my three year and ONE MONTH anniversary of moving to NYC, and I'm just going to share what I got. It's not remotely complete nor organized, but neither is my life here. So we deal.] .... When I think about how to cohesively write about the last three years of my life, the three years that I have spent living, loving, and learning in New York City, I am as overwhelmed as the first day I arrived here. Three years ago I woke up on a friend's friend's futon on the West side of Harlem with a foot of heavy