Thursday, February 25, 2010

The question is Admiral Ackbar, and the answer is fuck yes

So, apparently this is happening.

This is the shit. I only wish we could have done something this cool while I was at Ole Miss. The closest we got to such a social coup was when we refused to stop drinking in the Grove no matter what "policy" was instituted by the administration, but that was more second nature than anything else. But actually having hundreds of people sign on in support of having a Star Wars character become the next on-field mascot? Fucking. brilliant.

Zachary brought it to my attention yesterday that a few years back there was an Internet meme in which people added incongruous and therefore humorous captions to photos of Ackbar - not unlike the LOLcat meme with which we are all so familiar - based on his well-known "It's a trap!" scene. Lolzmiral Lolzbar. Examples include:

I decided - inspired by my blog idol Una, who recently posted about her own torrid history with school mascots - to make some of my own Ackbar creations, as a display of my undying support for this cause. I brainstormed phrases Ackbar might say from the sidelines as he shouts down bad calls, cheers for good ones and, LBO, stumbles tipsy on whiskey and coke.* Feel free to leave your suggestions in the comments.

(Bad call)

 (Boring game)

(Bad call)

 (Inappropriately gesturing to the cheerleaders and/or Rebelettes)

(Referencing huge gap in opposing teams defense, obvs)

(Taunting opposing team)

(To Tim Tebow)

*I'm sure it would only be a matter of time before people started openly referring to him as Admiral Drunkbar

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Coversations with Schmom B.: Schpop B. Edition

The following is the rough outline of an actual conversation that took place between Schmom B. and myself. I call her everyday, usually in the evenings; sometimes I talk to Schpop B. as well, but he's often traveling because he's in the military. This last part played a key role in the conversation I had with her a couple days ago, detailed below, while my dad was in Washington, DC.

Me: Hey Moooom.
Schmom B.: Hi, sweetie. How's it goin?
Me: Ohh, you know, it's fine. I'm tired. Getting ready to move, etc.
SB: Very exciting!
Me: Have you heard from dad? I haven't talked to him in a couple days. How's he doing in DC?
SB: (laughing) He's fine. He's been texting me all evening. He's at the vice president's house for a cocktail thing and he's bored.
Me: Oh. Hmmm... the vice president's house?
SB: Yeah.
Me: Like... as in the vice president of the United States? Joe Biden?
SB: Yeah.
M: And he's bored?
SB: Yeah, he texted me a few times. He said he's pretty over it.
M: So he's at the vice president's house, and he told you - via text message - that he's "over it"?
SB: Yeah, he said it's been going on for like five hours and all they have is wine and water and he really wants a beer. I know he's bored because he never really texts me during the day like that.
M: So, just to recap, he's hanging out with the vice president of the United States, he's bored slash over it, and all he really wants is a beer?
SB: (laughing)
M: Yes?
SB: Yep.

The Schfolks rock, no?

Edit: I spoke with Schpop B. the day after the above conversation took place, and he clarified that the event was not in fact "boring," but more of "a pain in the ass."

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

7 Things I'm Willing To Share With Complete Strangers Because I'm A Blogger And I Have A Psychological Thing Where I Compulsively Overshare

So, my blog idol Una over at  The Sassy Curmudgeon gave me this lovely award the other day.

Now, in general, I really appreciate and love blog awards - because they are created by loving readers - but I also acknowledge that they're not, like, official awards. The only official ones I've gotten were the Blog of Note, which Blogger so gracefully gave to me in December, and, more recently, an award in the form of a link from The Washington Post. I mean there's no badge to go along with that one, but still, I felt like I won something because it's the fucking Washington Post. (Even though someone was really punkind and told me in my comments that my puns suck. Yeah, well, you fucking suck, fucker.)

So ANYWAY. I never really understand the point of the awards except that they make me feel good. Until Una gave me this one; this one actually comes with rules. You have to follow-up and actually write stuff: namely, 7 interesting things about yourself. I fail to see how I am in any way remotely "interesting," but I'm gonna do it anyway because, honestly, I've been hurting for material recently. So, I'm gonna scrounge through the depths of my existence and find 7 things that might generally be classified as pieces of interest. Just to set the tone, here's a freebie: for a period of time in the eighth grade, I classified Final Destination as my favorite. movie. ever. And saw it multiple times in theaters. We may now proceed.

1. When I was little I stepped on a snail in my driveway and it crunched under my shoe and I still feel a shit ton of guilt about it.
The worst part about it was that I did it just because I could. I was probably like 7 or 8 - because in my childhood memories, I'm always fucking 7 or 8 - and I distinctly remember walking up my parents' driveway and seeing this approximately monster-sized snail vaguely in the path of my feet. I thought to myself, Oooh that snail is really really big. I bet if I stepped on it, it would make a loud crunching sound and feel very satisfying under my foot. So I did. Then I felt really bad and started crying and ran upstairs to tell my mom what I did. She reassured me that it was OK, and told me not to step on any more snails. But still, to this very day, I feel so fucking guilty about it. I also can't deal with any form of animal cruelty. Like I have to cover my eyes when that Sarah McLachlan ASPCA commercial plays on the television, or I just completely leave the room. I'm sure all of this is somehow related.

2. I was madly in love with Justin Timberlake way before he became Justin Fucking Timberlake - back when he was in *NSYNC and had that tragic fro thing going on.
I have this bizarrely vivid memory of lying in my bed as a sixth grader, listening to Brian McKnight's Back At One - oh, you remember that shit - on my portable CD player and imagining that Justin was my boyfriend. I used to have fantasies about him kissing me on the *NSYNC tour bus. Mannnn I was so cool. And then in the 9th grade I actually saw *NSYNC live and in concert, and I was in the eighth fucking row. It was almost just as good as a tour bus kiss, LBO.

Christ, WTF Justin?

3. The very first thing I ever wrote was called "San Fransisco Kitty."
Also, it was a song. The very first memory I have of writing anything was writing a song dedicated to a cat who, for some unknowable reason, lived in San Fransisco. I think it even had a melody, though at 5 or 6 - branching out! - I obviously had no idea how to write music. All these things seem like an uncannily appropriate foreshadowing of my adult life, which is filled with music, gays and probably, at some unknown future time, lots and lots of cats. Sigh. Also, it's entirely possible that Schmom B. still has this original written manuscript stored away somewhere. I should ask her.

4. In high school I was really pretty trashy and owned lots of clothing emblazoned with the Playboy bunny insignia, including a visor, and I also had a belly button ring. 
I was on the dance team, and we performed with the marching band (I know, I just keep getting cooler) and my senior year our benevolent band director decided to let us all dress up for Halloween and perform the halftime show in our costumes. Naturally, I went as a Playboy bunny. I was told I had to cover my ass or I couldn't perform. Predictable, but prudeish. What the fuck, Alabama public school? I really wish I had a photo of this, but alas, this was before the days of Facebook, Twitter and digital photos in gen. So instead here is a photo of a vintage bunny, from back in the day when it was generally considered a badass occupation.

5. I once got called a compassionless cunt - oh yes, that's a direct quote - by someone I had never actually met via an online dating site.
True story. 'Nuff said.

6. I'm secretly a super sappy romantic, even though I may sometimes come across as cynical and suspicious of other people who are also super sappy romantics.
I also give the best gifts ever when I love someone. One of my exes told me at one point that he liked to collect little rocks from all the different places he visited, so I went around our hometown to all the places we had been - on our first date, our second date, his favorite bar, where we parked in cars, whatever - and gathered a few rocks from each location. I then bagged them all up individually in pretty little mini bags - which, PS, I crafted myself from mesh paper - and wrote a note for each one explaining where the rocks came from. There were probably like 10 bags in all. Hmmm. In retrospect, I sort of gave my boyfriend bags of coals for Christmas, but they were sweet bags of coal! Also in retrospect, he's a huge idiot for breaking up with me, and probs deserved actual coal.

7. I sometimes divide up the letters in text messages, IM conversations and tweets into multiples of 8, and count them as I type.
I like for things to be divided evenly into eights; I blame this on the fact that I've been a dancer since I was four, and in dance, things are typically divided up into 8-counts. Like 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8, then it starts over. Around middle school, I started counting in my head the letters I type in multiples of eight, starting over with each eight-count. I actively try to compose IM messages in even multiples of eight.  What?! I said sometimes, not all the time. Stop looking at me like that. 1-2-3-4-5-6-7-8.

In conclusion: I may or may not be interesting, but at the very least I am definitely a total fucking weirdo. Thanks for reminding me, Una.

Tagging a few others:

Blog Soulmate Hannah at My Soul Is A Butterfly
Successful Snarkist Jessie at 20-Nothings
Hilarious Hipster Lauren at Hipstercrite
Perfect Peter (Who also holds the distinct honor of being one of only two male bloggers I read regularly, and who also made me pick the word "perfect" to describe him here, even though I really wanted to use the word "picky") at

Monday, February 22, 2010

word doodle number two, for you

dear you

i am moving
yesterday i started
sitting on the hardwood
of my first
new york
filtering through
my nightstand
away away away
surrounded by cardboard
i found this mixtape
you made for me
"ultimate road trip mix"
i had forgotten it
the track list tucked inside
i bet you forgot too
tears welled
i laughed
how can something i forgot make me cry?
the radiator fills with
steaming hot water
trickle trickle trickle
i try to decide
away away away


he had a black eye
now i have two
they're healing (i guess)
i don't even miss you
is the crazy part
i thought you were gone
from 118
i put you in an envelope
letters, notes, cards
taped it up
and shipped you
through the dead branches
of winter
every moment together
an answered prayer
child, have you gone crazy?
(yes and no and maybe)
i was
dancing in the birmingham jail
when i met you
(we were so young)
there's no rap on this goddamn mix
love me

Friday, February 19, 2010

Hellsnow, Washington. Welcome to my blog.

We did it, y'all! The Washington Post did indeed link to me today. For a second I thought the Weather Gang might actually be upset by my fight-picking, but I think all's fair in love and puns. And I think they got the joke.

Welcome to my blog, Washington visitors. Take a snowed off. Have a look around. You might like what you see.

And thanks for visiting!

Oh, and to the guy named Rob who posted the following comment:


Marry me? I'm sort of cute? And at least mildly punny?

I want your bad snowmance.

2010: The Year of (The Birth of) The Commune

The lucky ones amongst this group of organisms we call the human race occasionally have moments that reveal to them the purpose and direction of all their past experiences. These moments are like the flash of headlights you see as a car makes a turn toward you and then away at the far end of a long road; fleeting, flashing, and unmistakable, they simultaneously illuminate everything down the road and everything that came before. At the risk of losing it all, I have to say: certain recent events provide evidence that I might be one of the lucky ones.

For the past few months, I've been feeling very inspired and artistically anxious; like I knew I wanted to create something but I wasn't sure just what that thing was supposed to be. I've felt inspired by the era of New York embodied by Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe: the New York of the true artist. Even though I had barely even heard those two names before this year, I felt an undeniable pull toward them and their story. I had daydream fantasies of quitting my job and moving into a big empty loft with my two best friends, getting a job at Starbucks or something, working to make just enough money to pay the bills, and using all my new free time to make art and love.

I dreamed about this so many times, knowing in the back of my mind that I would probably never actually do it, because the great value of responsibility instilled in me by my parents pulses through me too prominently. This pulse bugged me. I wanted to be one of those people: one of those people who just drops everything for art and love and beauty, who takes risks in the name of creation. I saw myself crouched on the floor over scraps of paper, my hair long and messy, or maybe short and messy, surrounded by paint smears and word doodles, with my two best friends on either side taking photos and editing film or painting or talking about art. I emblazoned this image on the back of my eyelids, labeled it "desire," and went on with my normal, responsible adult life. But not even the responsible side of me could make me stop wanting it. And once I want something, that's usually just it. I just don't forget things I desperately want. I don't even think I can.

I've always been a quality over quantity kind of girl. Given the choice, I would rather have one amazing steak than lots of mediocre ones. I prefer the experience of one incredibly inspiring piece of theater over a large number of ones that are just sorta inspiring. I would rather have mind-blowing sex once every few months than so-so sex on a regular basis. And the same basic principal applies to my history with relationships: I would rather have a small number of nurturing, enriching, encouraging relationships than a large number of relationships that do nothing but keep me entertained. I've always been like that, so it's maybe no surprise that the universe blessed me with Zachary and Jenny nearly three years ago - and that, now, the universe seems to be aligning, for whatever unknown future purpose, to bring us closer and closer together.

At the end of January, inspired by a particularly exhausting roommate situation, I decided that I needed to move out by the beginning of March. I put feelers out on Twitter and had a magazine acquaintance contact me telling me her friend was looking to move around the same time. Said girl emailed me, we met for brunch, I liked her and we decided to move forward with the moving process. We started emailing Craigslist links back and forth and going to see apartments. I liked a couple places but nothing overwhelmingly called to me. On Tuesday of this week, she sent me an email that changed everything.

She said we had an appointment that night to see an apartment on 104th street. I stopped and stared at the address, reading it over and over again to make sure I was seeing the numbers in the right order. Then I started laughing. It was the upstairs apartment in Zachary's building.

Aside: I don't really believe in coincidences. If anything, I tend to fall on the other end of the spectrum, seeing meaning where there probably is none. But sometimes, stuff happens that is just too strange - too uncanny, too serendipitous, and too fucking unlikely - to be anything but meaningful. And I really believe this is one of those things. I mean seriously: of all the buildings in all of Manhattan, his literally lands in my lap via a person I just met one month ago. It's not like I hunted it out. It came to me.

Even before the apartment came to me, when I was talking to him about my hunt for a new home, Zac told me that when he first walked into his apartment, it felt exactly like when he first walked onto the Ole Miss campus: he just knew it was right. He could feel it. He said he had actually been sort of reluctant to feel as good about the apartment as he did, because at the time he didn't want to live in Harlem - but he couldn't deny just how right it felt. I have to believe that there's a reason he felt the same way on both occasions: he's been pulled in a certain direction for years - first to Oxford, then to Ole Miss, then to journalism, then to New York, then to Harlem, then to East 104th - for a specific reason. And now I'm being pulled there too. And if everything goes as planned, Jenny will move into Zac's apartment at some point this year. And then we will all be there together, being each other's home and family and hub of artistic inspiration and creation. We will be The Commune.

I'm not getting the loft and the unemployment and the Bohemian freedom of Patti and Robert, but in a way, I'm getting an opportunity to create exactly what they had, on the terms of the lease of new youth.

I'm lucky - the universe saw the back of my eyelids. And I am so thankful.

April 2007

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

I'm Audrey, sort of

In lieu of an actual post today, I'm going to share with you what I did this weekend. Oh, get ready, it's thrilling. Friend and Haus member Jenny is currently obsessed with old films, and, feeling inspired by how every frame is in itself a gorgeous photograph, decided to try to re-create scenes from some of her favorites. Naturally she asked me to pose as Audrey Hepburn, because I am clearly known amongst our closest friends as the daintiest and most graceful little flower*. Here are the shots of me, re-created from probably her most fucked up film The Children's Hour, and here's a link to the rest of them. Be sure to comment on her blog if you like them! (And if you don't like them, then fuuuuuck you.)



*Especially when I'm belching

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The Haus of Meghan

It's no secret at this point that I am obsessed with Lady Gaga more than I've ever been obsessed with any artist in my life. I dressed as her for Halloween, and spent a good six hours bedazzling my bra for the occasion. I have purchased not one but two hair bows from the Internet to wear on two separate occasions. I am getting my Gaga-inspired hair bow tattoo on March 6. Whether it's right or not, in my eyes, Gaga can do no wrong. She represents, for me, everything I want to be and achieve artistically in my life. And this is all due in no small part to what she calls her Haus of Gaga.

The Haus of Gaga is basically Gaga's closest group of friends. They are all creative types and they assist her with everything she does - making her outfits, designing her stage, deciding what element of performance art to play with next, and generally inspiring her music and art - but Gaga emphasizes that these are her closest friends, from back in the day when she was just little ole Stefani Germanotta. Here's a clip of her explaining it in an interview.

The most elusive truth about artists is that no artist can work alone. Every artist over the course of history - whether a poet, playwright, painter, dancer, musician - has had a group of people around her who inspired her work and helped her be the best artist she could be. While I have only recently realized that I would like to think of myself as an artist - for a long time I found the term "writer" sufficient, but lately I've been wanting to devote my entire life to creation and art - I've had a Haus for a long time. I haven't been fully aware of it the whole time, but I started building it more than five years ago. Or, more accurately, the universe started building it for me, and now that I have a clearer idea of the things I want to do with my life, I could not feel more fucking blessed. I want to introduce them to you.


Christine is my BFFFFFF. She came into my world five and a half years ago - which is really hard to believe - when we lived next door to each other in the dorms freshman year. We seemed like polar opposites - I was really girly and wore a lot of pink and big hoop earrings and my blonde hair in stupid ponytails - and she was sort of punky and loud, with a really short haircut and a rather unique sense of style. But we were drawn to each other for some reason - I had never met anyone like her - and we quickly became really good friends. She's easily the most amazing person I know. She's unique and creative - she writes haikus and designs pillows and decorations for her house and stuff - but she also has one of the biggest hearts I've ever encountered. She's a social worker, so she spends all her time trying to improve the lives of those less fortunate than her - which is obviously very inspiring in itself - but beyond that, she treats every person she comes into contact with with an incredible amount of respect and love. She's the least judgmental person I know. She inspires me because she reminds me of the best parts of myself, even during the rough times.


Zac has been my BFF for almost three years now. For the longest time, we worked together at the student newspaper in college but were not friends; I never really talked to him because I was shy and weird, resulting in him thinking I was a huge bitch. But once I broke the seal by coming to his birthday party in August 2006, we slowly became friends, gradually building until the spring of 2007, when we became really good friends and I started to realize that we probably had the same brain. We would finish each other's sentences and sometimes say the same thing at the same time, and in the fall of 2008, after an epic dance night at a trashy gay club in Jackson, Mississippi, we realized we were dance soulmates and our relationship was basically cemented. He inspired the original name for Hautey Toddy, as well as being my co-conspirator on the Bloglossary, which (BTW) was born way before this blog in the fall of 2008. (It's still a work in progress, of course.) He continues to inspire me every single day with his biting sense of humor, incredible intelligence, and fearless pursuit of his goals. He reminds me all the time of why I'm in New York.


My friendship with Jenny was born a little later than mine and Zac's. Zac and Jenny come as a pair, basically, but right after the three of us got close she moved to New York and left Zac and me to fend for ourselves in Oxford (bitch). She and I didn't talk that much (or at least not nearly enough) the year I was at Ole Miss with Zac, but after I moved up we swiftly became BFF again. She is easily the most successful of the Haus. While in college she was the photo editor at the student newspaper, and she shot all the production shots for the theater department. Since then she has worked her way up to photo editor at, where she regularly shoots lots of broadway shows and famous people on red carpets. She also shoots a lot of stuff on the side, always working to create beautiful new images and improve her craft. In addition to being an incredibly talented photographer, she is one of the sweetest people I know. I have recently decided she is like my mom in New York, because she always hugs me and kisses me and makes me delicious food. She honestly doesn't have a mean bone in her body, which is something you can't genuinely say about many (most) people.


Una LaMarche is literally the singular reason this blog is what it is now (um, sort of good? or all right at least?). I met her through work, and discovered she had a blog after we became friends on Facebook. I can remember last September, sitting at work on slow days and reading every single post she had ever written. That is not an exaggeration. I saw myself in her, and quickly realized that she's the person I want to be when I'm 29. Her amazing voice - hilarious, truthful, nerdy, at times awkward - helped me to find mine, and was the catalyst for taking BtoA from a journal-y type personal blog to a broader conveyor belt for the human experience, at least as I encounter it in New York. She is a brilliant writer. Remember her name: U-n-a L-a-M-a-r-c-h-e. She also writes for the Huff Po. You will see her name again, if not on the next big sitcom or semi-reality-mocumentary-but-it's-actually-fake television series then on the cover of a bestselling book over a somewhat awkward photo of a child with a unibrow.


Jessie is without a doubt the most go-get-'em writer I know. She's the creator and writer of 20-Nothings, a blog dedicated to the sometimes-funny-sometimes-really-fucking-sad trials and tribulations of single/dating 20somethings in Manhattan. Since I've known her, she's written several plays, penned at least 12 monologues, and published a book based on her blog. So she's a blogger, a playwright, and a published author. What the fuck? Oh, and she's 26. Oh, and she also got her blog optioned to be turned into a television show at some point. Oh, and she has an "agent." I don't even really know what that means. Bottom line: the girl can write, and not only that, but she knows how to make shit happen. She is one of the main reasons I was inspired to write a play based on one of my blog posts, the production of which (PS) is still TBD.


Hannah Miet is my blog soulmate. I discovered her blog randomly last August, clicking on it from another random blogger's list of favorites. I quickly realized this discovery was not random at all, but something along the lines of fate: the first things I learned about her were that she lives in New York, she's attracted to women in addition to men, and she loves Beyoncé. Um, duh. I stayed late at work one day and read through post after post after post, and realized we had too many uncanny things in common. I e-mailed her that we should meet for drinks, and we did, and we got drunk, and we talked about love and life and writing. Since then we've met for drinks an additional time, and kept in touch via twitter and e-mail and all that. She inspires me because she openly dabbles in the darker sides of life and New York, and because, of course, she's a brilliant writer. She's inspired me to explore parts of myself and my writing that I probably would not have otherwise, and to be open about my feelings on my blog. Her words also helped me through a tough emotional time, and I still sometimes recite them to myself when I'm having a hard time of things (true story, Hannah). Remember her name too. You will see it in black and red someday.

Brittany Bell

Brittany is another fellow Ole Miss graduate, but we weren't really good friends in college since she was a year above me and I didn't really run with most of the theater kids. But we've gotten close since I moved to NYC, and I feel confident saying she's a total, hilarious, crazy mess. An amazing actress, she can distort her face like no one else I've met in my entire life. You scoff, but it's really fucking impressive. Oh, and she can rap. Like legitimately, she could have a rap career if she really wanted to. She has also been known to cry whenever Empire State of Mind comes on in the bar, which just means she has a huge heart and she loves this city just as much as I do, if not more. She wholeheartedly believes in her dreams and in her craft, and for these reasons she is truly inspirational.

Last but most definitely not least is Susan, the amazing lady who gave me my first-ever paying magazine job (read: internship) in the city last March. We worked together for a few months before I got hired full-time in June, and now she's moved on to bigger and better things with a kick-ass job at The Knot. Since she left my company, we've gotten closer as friends (weird how that happens) and I've grown to like her more and more as I get to know her better - an extremely rare and therefore meaningful experience for me - and I learn that she is hilarious, quirky and painfully honest. Yesterday, she sent me the following text message: "I just bought two trays of Vday cupcakes because they were BOGO. New low??" To which I responded: "Girlllllll. You are seriously my soulmate." And anyone who knows me knows how true that statement is. I kind of owe her everything about my life in New York, because if it weren't for her I may still be - shudder - unemployed. And if I were unemployed, I would be spending all my time on Craigslist instead of writing blog posts and plays and going to staged readings of my friends' monologues and posing for photos and shooting video and generally living an amazing art-filled life. So thanks, Suz.

Love and art,
Lady Meghan

Thursday, February 11, 2010

In which The Washington Post tells me they might link to my blog

So, remember yesterday when I wrote that post about all the terrible snow puns propagated by the people known as the "Capital Weather Gang" over at The Washington Post? Well, I also sent them the following e-mail, because I'm sneaky like that.

Hi Weather Gang,

I'm a blogger based in New York and - inspired by the snowstorm now hitting the city - I wanted to start a fun little fight with you about your puns. You know: snowpocalypse, snomageddon, snomgasm. I feel strongly that while your puns are cute and funny, they lack creativity. I think I have a list of even better puns. Or at least more creative.

If you are so inclined, check 'em out here.

All in good jest. Puns were never meant to be taken seriously.



So then, a few hours later, I get the following response e-mail. Yes, a response. I. know.


Thanks for visiting the Capital Weather Gang blog.  We hope to a fun post on storm names next week (assuming we can fit it in to our mix of content) and may well refer to your blog.  Check back next week...


Capital Weather Gang

You heard it here first, y'all. The Washington Post is telling me they may or may not link to my blog in an upcoming post about storm names. 

So, here's what I want to happen. I already have a list of 15 puns I came up with myself, plus a few amazing ones contributed by y'all in the comments. But I want more. I want to blow The Weather Gang away, like a measly little snowdrift in the wake of a light-speed wind gust. Here's the list so far.

Snowcaine hangover (or "hangsnowver," but that feels a bit forced, no?)
Apocalypse Snow (sorta like the one from the bad list above, but more well thought-out, yes?)
Snowmygod (c/o Jenny Anina)
SNOWMG (Abbrev of Snowmygod, obvs)
You're a blizzard, Flurry
We're off to see the blizzard (the punderful blizzard of blahs)
Firn Gully: The Last Rainsnowrest (Look it up, bitches)
Graupeling with the snowtion
All flurried up with snowhere to go
Snowmena vs. phesnowmena (holler, Kant)
WWSD? (What would Snowbama do?)
Brrrrzie Snowre (What would Snookie do?)
Snow Country for Cold Men (from reader Tocalabocina)
Snowtrocity (from reader soft nonsense) 
Blizzkrieg (from reader Amanda)

Come on y'all. Eat some Wheaties and drink some p(r)un(e) juice and let's show the Weather Gang what we're made of. 

My inaugural word doodle

So I wrote another poem. This time it's very stream of consciousness, first-drafty type writing - sometimes I feel all these mysterious feelings and have all these confusing thoughts bouncing around inside my brain, and the only way I can think to relieve myself is to jam it all out through my fingers. Sort of like creative Tourette's or something. My new blog friend and inspiration Peter calls these word doodles. And since he sort of encouraged me to start posting my own, I don't feel bad about stealing his nomenclature. So there.

when i feel like this
all i can think
to do
is write about it
it's the only thing that
makes sense
to me to
make sense
of it all
the snow is falling
outside my window
and inside
though it is warm
i don't know you
i don't understand you
i just know
head on my pillow
i don't want to be a(nother) cheap thrill for you
i don't want to be seduced
by you
this is so
not like me
i sense i know you
i sense i know things
you don't want me
i can feel them in your voice
you're so quiet
i feel pain
i feel loneliness
i feel animosity?
i feel i don't know what
then when you mmmhmmmmmm
i see light
i see children playing
i hear music
i see a car driving
and a beach
a cliff
windows down wind in hair
a well-placed foot on the dash
(word hangover)
i wake up confused
i should feel happier
i want to know you
to touch you
to make you
but i don't know
what you want
from me
and it makes me

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

In which I brainstorm better puns involving the word snow

As I'm sure we allllllllll know by now, in the past week or so there's been a string of bad snowstorms pounding the Mid-Atlantic/Northeast region. DC got hit hard last week, and now the snow has made its way to NYC. I get that people are all like, "OMG WTF IT'S SO MUCH SNOW WE DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DOOOOOOO!" But that's no* excuse for another phenomenon this ridiculous amount of snow has caused: a group of terrible, half-assed, (s)no(w)-good, horrible snow puns.

Not only is this sort of a popular Internet meme amongst not-so-clever-yet-think-they're-so-fucking-clever 20somethings, but even official news sources (ahem, Washington Post) are also using these puns in their headlines and even polling people to find out what the storm should be called. Unfortunately, their options really blow - nay, they gust - and I'm here to amend that.

Here is my bad list of the terrible puns I've seen, just in the past couple weeks, to describe what is happening with the weather in America.

"Snomgasm" (This. is. the. worst. It sounds like a sneeze.)
"Snowzilla" (Hey y'all: "snow" and "god" don't remotely resemble one another. They don't rhyme. They don't even have the same vowel sound. Badzilla.)
"Snowfecta" (Again: "Tri" vs. "snow." Let's sound them out together. Goooooood. You see where I'm coming from, yes?)
"S'now joke"

And here is my brainstormy list of snow puns. Prepare to die, Wash Po.

Snowcaine hangover (or "hangsnowver," but that feels a bit forced, no?)
Apocalypse Snow (sorta like the one from the bad list above, but more well thought-out, yes?)
Snowmygod (c/o Jenny Anina)
SNOWMG (Abbrev of Snowmygod, obvs)
You're a blizzard, Flurry
We're off to see the blizzard (the punderful blizzard of blahs)
Firn Gully: The Last Rainsnowrest (Look it up, bitches)
Graupeling with the snowtion
All flurried up with snowhere to go
Snowmena vs. phesnowmena (holler, Kant)
WWSD? (What would Snowbama do?)
Brrrrzie Snowre (What would Snookie do?)

OK, I'm spent. Brain done. Snow more puns. Leave your suggestions in the comments.

*That snow

Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Sometimes, I really just want to be a grown-up

A lot of the time, I ignore adulthood like it's optional. Like yesterday when I got home from work, as I walked up my stoop I pretended like my mailbox wasn't there - kind of like when you see an old friend but he doesn't see you, and you really don't want to talk to him for whatever reason, so you just walk quickly and sort of turn your head the other way as you pass by - because if my mailbox isn't there, then there's no way I could have any mail. And if I don't know I have bills to pay because there's no physical evidence presented to me that proves their existence, then basically they don't exist. Very solipsistic, yes? My high school philosophy teacher would be so proud. My parents, not so much.

Or how I still keep my kitchen well-stocked with things like Cocoa Krispies, mint chocolate chip ice cream and sandwich stuffs. And I don't hesitate to eat a big bowl of said Cocoa Krispies on Saturday mornings, burrowed into my covers and watching 30 Rock, which is just the grown-up version of morning cartoons. Or how I really still believe in magic. Or how I openly squeal when I see adorable babies or puppies on the street, and count amongst my most favorite films Finding Nemo and Edward Scissorhands. Oh, and not forgetting how I will openly cry at such films every single time I watch them.

But my deepest, darkest secret is that sometimes I really just want to be a grown-up. I know I'm still young and living in Manhattan, which is sort of like everyone's dream, and I feel so blessed to be able to run around the most amazing city in the world with my beautiful friends doing stupid stuff and and making art and paying more money than one should ever pay for drinks and pizza - but late at night, when I take the M15 bus uptown toward Harlem, I feel old. Not because I'm tired, or would rather be in bed by 11, or that I sometimes drink V8 - though all these things are probably true - but because of what I want.

All I really want is to meet the man I'm going to marry and start growing up beside him. I want to call him from work to see how his day is going and then - because he's a writer, clearly - I want him to tell me about his amazing idea for an essay or a story or a play. I will tell him I'm having a shitty day and that my hair looks like ass, and he will shush me and tell me how pretty I am. Then I want to go home to our adorable apartment and find him there, cooking dinner and listening to his favorite new album (TBD). I want to drop my bags on the floor and walk over to him and he will kiss me across his arms while he tosses veggies in a wok. I want to hear the sound of him sizzling in the air as I plop down at my computer to read the essay he told me about earlier. I want to cry as I read, and then I want to go to him and wrap my arms around him from behind as I rest my wet cheek against his back. He will stop cooking and turn around, wrapping his strong arms around me as he picks me up and carries me to our bedroom. The veggies will burn.

I want to wake up beside him every morning and laugh because he fell asleep on his notebook again and he has little spiral imprints on his cheek. I want to reach over and move it for him, and I want to hear him grumble sleepily in protest before he rolls over and wraps his arms around me. I want to sigh because I know he will be asleep again within a few seconds. He is. I want to slip out of the bed and start making my own coffee - something I've always so equated with adulthood, which is also why I've never done it - and while it brews I'll sit down at my computer and open it up and see his essay again. I want to write him a sticky note and press it to the screen: When I was 24, I would sit on the bus and dream about you, whoever you were. Now you're here, and turns out the universe is way better at making this stuff up than my brain was. Want to have babies? Yes/no? Circle. I love you.

Back on the M15, it's 3 a.m. and I realize I've started crying in real life. I laugh at myself and wipe my eyes. I get a text from my friend that may or may not be legible. I text her back. I remember that I am so, so young. I remember that I have dreams that need achieving. I remember all the art I want to make, all the goals I've set for myself.

My stop comes. I push the doors open and get off. They slam behind me as the wind whips my hair and dries my eyes. I walk home, alone, but happy.

I ignore my mailbox again.
I probably eat a spoonful of ice cream. Or several.
I pull out my computer and crawl into bed.
I start writing.
I smell coffee.

This post was partially inspired by my new favorite blogger, Peter DeWolf, who regularly writes letters to his future wife. Prepare to swoon, ladies.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Magic on the 6 train

I've seen a lot of things in the New York City subways. I've seen Santas. I've seen Christmas trees. I've seen child abuse. I've seen obscenely beautiful women and men. I've seen obnoxious PDA. I've seen homeless men claiming to be war vets, their army identification tags hanging around their necks, begging people for any change they can spare. I've seen dancers and acrobats swinging from the poles and overhead handholds. I've seen models and police officers and adorable puppies. But it wasn't until this weekend that I saw a real, live magician.

He rolled onto the 6 train with his red-velvet-covered pushy cart, likely purchased from American Outlet (the Harlem version of Wal-Mart, y'all). He wore a leather jacket, top hat and sunglasses. He parked in the middle of the subway car, and when I finally realized what he was doing, an audible squeal escaped my throat. A few embarrassing things that are true about me: I prefer to eat ice cream straight out of the container. I love to pick at flaky skin patches (on myself and on others). I have been known to consume icing right out of the container. And when I was eight years old, I was completely fucking in love with David Copperfield.

Like many things in life, I can't really remember how my obsession began. All I know is that when I was younger, David Copperfield was nothing short of a sensation. He had a CBS special what seemed like every other week, he was on a shit load of talk shows, and he had a national tour that I'm pretty sure was completely sold out. I'm not sure why, but from the years of like 1990 to 1995, the entire country - nay, the entire world - was obsessed with this man. He made planes disappear. He walked through the Great Wall of China. He made the Orient Express vanish. And then - perhaps as an odd foreshadowing of the "reign of terror" that would be pushed down the collective American throat starting in the aughts - he made the Statue of Liberty disappear.

More amazing than David's illusions was his ability to make everyone believe in them. Even though all these things are clearly and indisputably physically impossible, the entire world seemed to suspend disbelief for a few years while David did his thing. As a little kid who still believed in all kinds of things that were probably impossible, I never even questioned whether what he was doing was "real" or not. I saw it with my own eyes, and I never saw any evidence that it wasn't "real," so I just believed. It's easy to argue that watching his stuff on television makes believing in it even more ridiculous, due to the high likelihood of camera tricks or the participation of actors-not-real-people; but that argument won't hold up, because I saw him live not once but multiple times**. And the most impactful of said live shows occurred when I was in the second grade, and I saw David fly.

Believe it or not, I was a very logical child. My dad was really good at math, and I can remember him sitting me down to help with my math homework a lot, and it always came so naturally to me. I always thought about things logically and made decisions based on the information I had available to me. And when David flew, it wasn't just like oooh look at me I'm "levitating" - he flew through circular hoops, he did flips in the air, and he flew inside a closed see-through glass box. It's impossible for him to be attached to the ceiling via ropes or strings if he's inside a totally enclosed space, 8-year-old me thought. Even watching the video now, I don't understand how he does it.

I distinctly remember being in the car on my way to school the next day with my mom and talking to her about how I was convinced I could fly. I had dreamed the night before about flying around the halls and rooms of my school, and having seen David do it live and in person, I just knew I could do it too. She gently talked me down, probably convincing me he legitimately had a magical power I did not possess. Kinda like how there's a reason Santa can go down every single chimney* in the world in one night, but the average person cannot. Same sorta thing.

One has to wonder if David Copperfield could ever be as insanely popular in a post-Internet world as he was in the early 90s. Someone invented the Internet around like 1990, but it wasn't a daily part of people's lives until at least eight to 10 years later - so when David was flying and making huge famous objects disappear, no one could google how he did it. He fiercely guarded the secrets to his illusions, with the very tangible result of legions of fans. But in 2010, if David tried for the first time to vanish the Statue of Liberty, would he be successful? If I Googled "how David Copperfield disappeared the Orient Express" right now, I could probably find a few sites that would reveal to me the secret behind the trick.

But the thing is - and here's the point of my post, and why I got so excited when I saw the magician on the 6 train this weekend - I don't want to find out how David did all that stuff. I know there are logical explanations behind how the 6 train magician made a live dove appear under a handkerchief, or a big, fat rabbit appear in a clear box - both things he did as I watched - but I sincerely don't want to know them. I would rather be mystified, and tap into the child inside my heart who still takes unfiltered delight in seeing these things happen.

Sometimes we need to remind ourselves why we are beautiful, and why we love ourselves, and why we deserve love from others, and as I watched the 6 train magician make pen drawings appear out of thin air on the pages of an empty notebook, I was reminded of one of my favorite things about myself: I believe wholeheartedly in magic, if for no other reason than because I want to. I believe in magic on the 6 train. I believe in it in nature. I believe in it in love. And I have my parents to thank for it.

Thanks, Mom and Dad, for raising me in a very magic-friendly house. And thank you, David Copperfield, for being one of the best performers of my childhood and helping to forever instill in me a love for not only magic, but for cheesy stares, lithe women/dancers, old-fashioned romance, über-dramatic operatic and classical music, and Peter Gabriel.

*Christian chimneys, at least
**It's totally worth noting that at one of his shows I caught a piece of rope he threw into the audience. Yeah, def the happiest moment of my young life.

Friday, February 5, 2010

Nothing says TGIF like a pair of my very own razorblade glasses

Oh my fucking jesus, I found this today. Naturally, I immediately whipped out my scissors and my super glue (which I always keep handy?!?) and got to work. Have a great weekend, y'all.