With Liberty & Justice for All.

I love being white.

I love it simply because my life is easier, and to use a currently popular word, privileged.

I do not live in fear of police officers. When I see lights behind me, I am stressed out because I don’t want to pay a ticket- not because I might be ____ . (Enter your own word for the various fates possible here). I can't stop reading the story of Sandra Bland. After everything that has happened I am still in disbelief that this is happening in America in 2015. 

I can hail a taxicab anywhere I want any time of day or not. I am not seen as a threat due to centuries of stereotypes. No one has ever covered their face and hung my relatives from a tree. No one mocks my accent- because I don’t have one. No one calls me slur words. My history is front and present in textbooks. No gaps are left out because they’re just too ugly for children to witness.

I worry about my brother every single day. He is 21. He is tall and when it is cold out, will walk around wearing a hoodie. He would argue with an authority figure when he believes they are out of line. He has broken the law and dealt with the consequences already in his young life. He is tall, he is strong, he has tattoos. I worry constantly about him getting into a car with someone who has been drinking- or drinking and driving himself. I worry about him not applying himself as well as he could. I worry that he is irresponsible with his money and his time.

I don’t ever worry for one single moment of my life that he is going to be attacked by someone (a cop)- especially when he isn’t doing anything wrong. It just doesn’t cross my mind as a worry. Because he is white and the odds of that happening are so much less- just because he is white.

I see young black boys in my store, on the train, in the bodegas, on the streets- they could all be my brother. But they are black and that is all that separates them. And so while my mother prays her son starts seriously thinking of his future career, their mothers pray their sons make it home alive tonight.

I can’t get on the Internet, pick up a paper, turn on the TV, or listen to the radio without hearing that someone who is a minority has been wrongly accused/attacked/shot by a white figure, often a police officer. I don’t know if the media attraction is making this more commonplace but it is like the goddamn 60s in Mississippi all over again!

So here I am. I am white. I am culturally recognized as a middle class white educated young woman. I am safe from authority figures going wild on me because I put my hand in my pocket and they thought I had a gun.

There is a reason that the phrase white privilege exists. 

BECAUSE I AM WHITE, LIFE WILL ALWAYS BE EASIER FOR ME.

My children’s lives will be better than the lives of the children born by POC.

I am so so sad that this is the case, but it is the truth. Let’s stop hiding from the truth.

Mother’s are burying their young sons too often. Police officers are committing crimes and nothing is happening! And we (white people) can't wait for pumpkin flavors to be back on the shelves in a few months. Is the value of our skin greater than the value of theirs?

“That man over there says that women need to be helped into carriages, and lifted over ditches, and to have the best place everywhere. Nobody ever helps me into carriages, or over mud-puddles, or gives me any best place! And ain't I a woman? Look at me! Look at my arm! I have ploughed and planted, and gathered into barns, and no man could head me! And ain't I a woman? I could work as much and eat as much as a man - when I could get it - and bear the lash as well! And ain't I a woman? I have borne thirteen children, and seen most all sold off to slavery, and when I cried out with my mother's grief, none but Jesus heard me! And ain't I a woman?” - Sojourner Truth’s “Ain’t I a Woman”

This is the same story we have been telling again and again. It is our job to protect each other from ourselves. Why are we failing so miserably? Why are our souls and hearts so calloused? Who raised us!? Who taught us to forgo the good Samaritan and watch black boys bleed out on the ground as we continue onto yoga and coffee.

"There are two types of evil in this world: those who do evil stuff and those who see evil stuff being done and don’t try to stop it." (What good would this be without a Mean Girls quote?)

Which one are you?

Will you hide behind the cowardice of a flag and not stand up for some who grew up under the same flag receiving a different treatment in life than you? Will you stand beside your religion and say that if they had just not stolen from that convenience store / sold those illegal cigarettes/ gotten rowdy on the train they would be fine.

Because here is the difference. Many many many people do those things. Do they deserve to die for them?

So which person are you? Do you do evil things- or do you just sit by and watch them happen with silence?

I think the second person is the more evil- and I believe that is the umbrella we all fall under more often. Grow a fucking backbone and don’t stand for the injustice anymore. Support black lives. Support the justice of those who lose their lives. Do not fall under the guise of the falseness of how a man in uniform upholds the law to the best extent. How many more young (black) lives need to be lost before someone says enough is enough.

If you won’t, I will.

Enough is enough.

And my voice is loud. My voice is loud because it is a white voice. The oppressed can scream until their vocal chords bleed, but if their voices hold no clout, if no one hears them, it is moot.

But my voice is not oppressed. Someone might listen. But my voice is one voice. And it won’t get very far. But what if you add yours. And he adds his. And she adds hers; isn’t that how we change the world?

Shylock: “To bait fish withal: if it will feed nothing else,

it will feed my revenge. He hath disgraced me, and

hindered me half a million; laughed at my losses,

mocked at my gains, scorned my nation, thwarted my

bargains, cooled my friends, heated mine

enemies; and what's his reason? I am a Jew. Hath

not a Jew eyes? hath not a Jew hands, organs,

dimensions, senses, affections, passions? fed with

the same food, hurt with the same weapons, subject

to the same diseases, healed by the same means,

warmed and cooled by the same winter and summer, as

a Christian is? If you prick us, do we not bleed?

if you tickle us, do we not laugh? if you poison

us, do we not die? and if you wrong us, shall we not

revenge? If we are like you in the rest, we will

resemble you in that. If a Jew wrong a Christian,

what is his humility? Revenge. If a Christian

wrong a Jew, what should his sufferance be by

Christian example? Why, revenge. The villany you

teach me, I will execute, and it shall go hard but I

will better the instruction.” - The Merchant of Venice Act 3 Scene 1

By no means was Shylock the most upstanding human in literary history- but that does not invalidate the points he makes in this scene. Historically, for whatever reason, majority of the world has hated the Jews. And Shylock bore the brunt of this in The Merchant of Venice. But why? Because he is a Jew? Is that the crime of his life, is this what will condemn him and lead him to his death?

If you are a man and you see a woman being attacked/harassed/drugged by another man it is your obligation to help her. You hold the position of privilege.  If you are an authority figure and for some godforsaken reason feel that a teenager is “seducing” you, it is your obligation to get the fuck out of that situation. You are the adult; you hold the position of privilege

Privilege is a circle. We each own it from time to time. It is power. And with great power comes great responsibility. Uncle Ben taught us all that.

Black lives matter.

Be on the right side of history.

Stand up for what is right or sit the fuck down and shut up- you’re getting in my way.

I Am Great.

This story has been sitting inside of me for almost a year now, it is time to tell it.

Last summer I was living in the Upper West Side, which is arguably the best place to live in all 5 boroughs. I was keeping my car in the city for a few weeks and thus began to ever present struggle of finding street parking every other day. I so far was finding a lot of luck, which I had continually said was bound to run out sooner or later. One night I left work around 10:30 and got home around 11 am. I had to be back at 8 am the next day and was already exhausted, and remembered I had to move my car (in the rain to make it that much sweeter). After circling a 10 block radius for about 30 minutes I was nearly in tears and was considering paying for overnight parking- when I see a spot.

I very unsuccessfully tried to parallel park (let me just say that I am a good parallel parker but in this particular night it was dark and rainy and the streetlight was causing and awful glare and my glasses were dirty and I was exhausted!) about 4 or 5 times, much to the dismay of other cars trying to get around me. A man in full traditional West African garb in his late 20s approaches me from the stoop where he had been watching me gives me hand motions to glide into the spot (see, New Yorkers are friendly!)

I get out of the car to check my handiwork and to thank him for his help. I sheepishly tell him that sometimes late at night I have a hard time seeing because my car is pretty big and I am so small. He turns his head so fast I thought he'd have whiplash, he looks me square in the face and says slowly with all of the power in the world-

"Never say that you are small. If you say that you are small, the universe will believe that you are small and that is all you will ever be."

He continues to look at me as I search my mind for any type of a response and completely fail.

He continues on-

"Say that you are great and the universe will believe that you are great."

A completely connected tangent:
I have a lot of confidence when it comes to certain things like... wearing red lipstick, karaoke, strutting in 6 inch high heels, yelling at people in my car safely behind plexiglass, knowing all of the lyrics to the Thong Song, navigating the NYC subway system.  However, I do NOT have a lot of confidence in other certain things like job hunting, networking, talking about what I do for a living, talking about what I want out of life... are you sensing a pattern?

I am small. I am, at 5'2, small. And I have for many years believed it, and so has the universe. Because when you are small, there isn't much to talk up. I once was at a friend's party where other guests I didn't know asked me about my job. I gave a flippant, self deprecating answer that I had barely registered as being such. My friend looked at me and said, "What are you talking about? You are someone's boss. You work really hard. You are really dedicated. You do a great job."
I had no words.

So, back to the story.

I look at this man through rain covered glasses and I guess find some words to respond. I then look at my car and realize that I had parked in a no parking zone and would have to move...again. I thanked him for his efforts but explained that I had to leave. He challenged me to believe in myself, believe that the universe will take care of me and to leave me car there and trust. I looked at him square in the face and explained that I am a New Yorker and I don't put my trust in much, especially when it comes to my car and a $200 towing fee. I got in the car and started circling again. I pulled up the street that I lived on and whispered as softly as I could,

"I am great."

And there was a spot. Right there. Within eyesight of my building.
I said it once more, still barely audible and parked perfectly.

I am small. But I am great. I am great. I am great.
You are great. I am great. You are great. I am great.

January.

January has a history of ranging from just unfriendly to incredibly cruel in its treatments towards me.

I spent some time researching in my brain every January I can recall and these are the results:

2003 (13) A very odd, dream-like memory of standing on the snow (when the snow has hardened and if you step really softly you sort of glide on top of it), and I was listening to this song on my walkman and experiencing listlessness. As more well read adult, It reminds me of Cecelia from The Virgin Suicides when the doctor asks her why she'd try to kill herself and she replies that he obviously has never been a 13 year old girl.

2004 apparently was either so awful that I blocked it out or so lame my brain felt no need to catalog it.

2005 (15) We were remodeling our kitchen and the house was in such disarray so I spent as much time in my room as possible. I spent an entire Saturday eating sourdough pretzel nuggets and reading Little Women and wishing that I was Jo. Or maybe that I was Mamie. Not really wishing to be Amy, but still considering being Amy because being anyone other than me would've been fantastic.

2006 (16) I kissed a boy for the very very first time and though that it meant that he liked me and apparently it didn't and that was just all too much.

2007 (17) was actually magic. I thought January was repenting for its ways. Lies.

2008 (18) In the midst an emotionally abusive 6 month "relationship", whilst watching The Princess Bride, I realized (as he took my hand and told me he loved me), that he was awful and gross and all sorts of bad words and I told him to go away now and I mean it!
(Anybody want a peanut?)
I guess in the retrospect, this was a good January, but it felt very sad during the time.

2009 (19) I had just returned home from studying abroad and was all types of confused about life. I wasn't working and school wouldn't start until a week or two into February and every day was just a void without sunshine and hope.

2010 (20) I thought someone I loved didn't love me.

2011 (21) Someone I loved definitely didn't love me.

2012 (22)  My phone broke. The year started and about 15 minutes later someone spilled their drink on my phone. The universe was trying to tell me something.

2013 (23) Would've been a redeemable January, except my dog died. In fact, I believe it was exactly 2 years ago today. I took a bereavement day and wept until my eyes wouldn't open.

2014 (24) I was unemployed. With about $50 to my name. And I was very cold. Very sad and very, very cold.

2015 (25) This should've been a good January. There was no reason it wouldn't be a good January. I live in a cool city, I can afford to take cabs and don't have to face the impossible cold, I have a job and friends.
And then, I found myself suddenly single. And then, a few hours later after finding myself suddenly single, I found myself quoting Sally for the first time in my life in a non- ironic way.

Sally: He just met her... She's supposed to be his transitional person, she's not supposed to be the ONE. All this time I thought he didn't want to get married. But, the truth is, he didn't want to marry me. He didn't love me.
Harry: If you could take him back now, would you?
Sally: No. But why didn't he want to marry me? What's the matter with me?
Harry: Nothing.
Sally: I'm difficult.
Harry: You're challenging.
Sally: I'm too structured, I'm completely closed off.
Harry: But in a good way.
Sally: No, no, no, I drove him away. AND, I'm gonna be forty.
Harry: When?
Sally: Someday.
Harry: In eight years.
Sally: But it's there. It's just sitting there, like some big dead end.

I don't fight January anymore. It is useless. I don't know what I ever did to it. I don't know if my planets aren't aligned or if it is just all in my head or if everyone's life is like this and I am just dramatic and easily susceptible to S.A.D. and ex-boyfriends getting engaged. Who knows. Here's to February.

It's My Party & I'll Cry If I Want To

Last year, almost an exact year ago I wrote about a sad love story between a friend and I. I consider it a love story because I really loved her, she was a soul person to me, and so when we went our separate ways it was just as heartbreaking as if it had been a romantic relationship ending. It is important to note this because of the intense contrast that I have had in this year compared to last.
***

The cake of my dreams <3<3

I, like maybe a lot of other people, always assume no one actually likes me. I have probably written this before. When surrounded by friends and part of "the group", I am just waiting for someone to pop out of a corner and tell me that I am being punk'd, that it isn't real.

I turned 25 last Tuesday. It is a big deal because 25 is kind of important, but also because birthdays are special to me. From birth to 18 my mother made sure that my birthday was special - not extravagant, but special. 19-24 were up to me and I basically did an awful job and spent most of those birthdays crying alone in a corner, specifically when I turned 20.

It is embarrassing for me to ask to be the center of attention. I love it, I crave it- but not if I've asked for it. Because if I ask for it, that means that I have a 50/50 chance of it not happening. That means that there is an opportunity for me to create my own humiliation in case someone/the world/society doesn't give me the attention I ask for. Asking people to come to me, to celebrate me, to party simply because I was born, is embarrassing. So, around my birthday each year I debate on which is worse - re-living my 20th birthday eating stale cereal and doing chemistry homework alone, or biting the bullet and hoping that at least half of the people I invite say yes.

New York Friends!!

This year, I didn't want to be my usual lame self. I wanted to be fun! I was about to officially become an adult and that meant that I had to get it together and throw myself a party. So in mid October I invited about a dozen friends to come join me. And they all said no, aside from one. I was aghast. I was filled with humiliation. I did have a handful of local NYC friends who agreed to join me, but I was so mortified that everyone from out of town had said no that I didn't have it in me to make it work with those who were going to join. So I didn't make a plan, and then it was about 5 days until November and I still had no plan. I continually told the lone friend who was joining me not to come because I wasn't going to be fun and I didn't know what to do.

I can only describe my emotions in GIF/video, pop culture form, so please, let this do the talking. It was my nightmare.

Looking Fabulous, duh.

So I start calling my mom every 3 or 4 days, almost in tears about how unloved I am. About how much I have done for these people over the years and how I mean nothing to them. (As I write this out, I see how dramatic it is, but, this is my life people.) I lament about how no one should ever have to throw themselves parties because it is humiliating if no one comes to the party you personally asked people to attend and why am I such a loser?! This leads into conversations about how much of a total screw-up I am. How I am almost 25 and have nothing going for me, how I can't even manage to keep my room clean and I can't get a dog yet. I have a tendency to spiral out of control, if you couldn't tell.

Birthday Biddies 

And then my mom came to town, as she had been planning for the last month or so. She showed up to my job looking all sorts of glamorous and rushed me into a fitting room. I knew she had something planned and I had been assuming it was to go see Les Mis. She makes me put on a gold and purple sparkly dress complete with full accessories and then we rush home so I can change me shoes. I mention that it is in the wrong direction and she says it is fine, that we have time. So after a quick shoe change she hustles me into a taxi and again heads into the wrong direction. Maybe I was just exhausted (I was) or maybe I am ditzy (I am) or maybe I have abnormally low self esteem (I do) but I still assumed we were going to see Les Mis. We pull up to a family friend's bar, and I silently chide my mother for sending a text message while sitting in the stopped taxi. (Proper etiquette: You pay your cabbie, get out of the car, then send your text, but I digress.)

A (almost totally inclusive) group shot

We step into the bar, I notice a bunch of people wearing masks and the only thought that crosses my mind is that having a party the day after Halloween is kind of dumb. So I pull out a chair to sit down because my mom is just standing in the doorway and I am wearing 5 inch heels after all.

And they yelled surprise.
And I looked around, just for a moment, because I didn't know who the surprise was for.

And it was for me.
And it was everyone that I thought didn't love me.
And my mom, my poor mom that I had abused via my own self-pity and hate for two weeks, had planned the whole thing.

I kind of wanted to write thank you notes, but that is a very grown-up thing to do, and I am not very grown-up yet. So this is a big thank you note.

Thank you to my family, my brother, my dad (although I still wish you had brought the dog along), my grandmother, and my mom. Everything is impossible without you.

with my family!

And thank you to my friends! To the ones who traveled not so far (although I do know what it is to travel across boroughs on a Saturday night, ugh.) Thank you Ariel & Di (and your men!), Andrew, Joanna, Lisa, Kara, and Vickie. And to the friends who did travel quite far- Bryanna, Paige & Flynn, Kristy & Tim, Kelsey, Kate, Sarah, Juleeann.



Thank you for starting my 25th year of life without tears, without whining. With joy and with friendship and with lots and lots of sparkles!

(Also - shout out to the people who couldn't make it. I love you too! There's always my 30th ;) )

Take a breath, take a step, take a chance, take your time.

"Um, well, I guess I'd like to be an actress."
...
The pause was just long enough to be awkward. And then she laughed.

That's honestly all I remember. My mind lacks the characters of a pensieve and I honestly forget details.
She, in this scenario was my high school guidance counselor. I have no idea what her name was. I think, that in the 4 years that I attended the school, that was the first conversation that she and I had together.

I don't know if she gave me advice as to what a better career might be. I don't know if she gave me pamphlets for colleges, or information to looking things up on the Internet. She very well might have.
All I can remember is the intense shame that came with her laughter. In a series of various happening within the 6 months before and after turning 17, all I can recall is shame when it came to my future.

Shame because the (only) career that interested me was laughable. Shame because I couldn't think of anything else to do. Shame because I didn't know how to apply to college. I mean literally (not figuratively) didn't know what to do. I didn't know to tour campuses, I didn't know to contrast and compare tuition, extra curricular activities, etc. It was foreign territory to me, and since my life's dream had become a joke (in my very dramatic 17 year old mind), I had no idea where to start. So, to spite the world, I abstained from all things college - and as many of my one woman protests go, in the end I was the only one who ended up feeling the hurts of my actions.

Thankfully, my parents quickly became scary and threatening and helped me get my act together and I scraped together a few acceptance letters.

But this isn't a story about college.

This is a story of a wasted life.

The few months surrounding my high school graduation and entry into college I would quite often be asked what I was going to do with my life. And I would stutter out some BS answer and the person who asked the question would quickly realize how this friendly question was a gateway to some awkward silence. They'd eventually shut up my ramblings with something along the lines of "Don't worry, you've got plenty of time."

And I'd remind myself how right they are. Who knows what they wanted to do with their life at 17? I would ignore the nagging voice inside of me that would respond with, "well, pretty much everyone but you."

So pretty soon I was 18. But hey, 18! Just a kid! I can barely make a political influence, how could I possibly have the next 60 years figured out?

And then I was 19. But I was studying abroad! Life was mine! I was a travelin' girl without a care in the world. And all of these experiences would mould me into a better person who knew stuff... about stuff.

And then I was 20. And 20 was scary because I wasn't a teenager. I was "in my 20s" which I knew was supposed to hold some type of weight, I just didn't know what. But I mean, I was still in college, this wasn't the time to figure it all out. I was supposed to be like, sneaking wine coolers into class. (Just kidding, Mom & Dad - never did that!)

And then I was 21. Aaaaand I had just graduated college! And I was blonde! The world was mine to conquer! Plus I had a job all lined up and so basically I was fabulous. Who knew if it'd become a career? They were gonna pay me about 50 billion times more than I made at any previous job and I got to buy clothes on a great discount so....

And then I was 22. Just a mere "freshman of life" - I was supposed to be making mistakes and such. Learning experiences, right? But things were okay - nothing too great, but nothing too awful. Did I know what was happening in my life? Absolutely not. But Taylor Swift was singing about being 22 and I was trying to go with the flow.

And then I was 23. And 23 started to feel good. I was like, a real adult. I had a job, I was somewhat decent at it- but it had to end. It wasn't what I wanted. (Not that I knew what I wanted, I just knew what I didn't want.) Plus, I had a plan! I was gonna more to New York City. 

And then I was 24. And it was shitty. My hair was a weird length. NYC was giving me the cold shoulder. I felt stupid for ever even trying to try. (But it got better.)

And now, I am (almost) 25.
And nothing has happened. Nothing. I feel exactly the same as I did 8 years ago.

When I was 17 and everyone said that I had time, we all agreed. No one said when the "time" ended. There wasn't an explicit expiration date. But I think I'm gonna call it. 25.

I'm starting to run out of time.

Let's just look at the facts:

At least half of my closest friends are married.
I am single.
A chunk of those friends have homes/permanent living situations.
I have moved 3 times in 1 year and rent a room for more money than my parents' mortgage.
Most of my friends have a career that they believe in.
I have a job - that I quit and went back to. And if I tilt my head and squint I can picture a world where the job becomes a career, but it isn't easy.
I eat cheese and crackers for dinner. I wash my hair every 5 days. I can't get anywhere on time.

It's not that I need a husband - or a home, or a career. I just need... something. Something real. Something that isn't just a far away someday dream.

In fact, I take that back, I'd love a far away someday dream. Because I don't have that either. I don't have anything to aspire to anymore. I have no hopes. I have no ambitions.

In my wildest dreams these are the facts:
I pay off my loans within a year.
With the money I now have since I don't pay a small fortune each month into loans, I get a dog.
I wash my hair more often.
I take trips again.
I get an apartment that is mine.
I can afford taxis when the weather is bad.
I acquire a taste for vegetables on a more than once-a-month basis.


I guess what I am trying to say is - in the 8 years since the day I was laughed at, I am still at square one. I have, in other ways, grown leaps and bounds. But that laughter still burns. It still shames me. It shames me from going after anything.

If she laughed, what is stopping anyone else from laughing?

Here's a secret (that I am telling to the universe) - I am picturing you all laughing. Even writing a blog is masochism for me. My desire to tell these stories is fiercely combated by the mental image of blank faces that I went to high school with all crowding around a laptop, reading what I write and ... laughing.

I am not placing the blame of 8 mostly wasted years on one person who's name I can't even remember. The blame is on me for not having thicker skin and for not believing in myself enough to follow through despite a stranger's opinion.

But here I am. I am (almost) 25. And yet I am 17. I pay rent. I have a college degree. I have a grown-up job. I've had boyfriends. I buy groceries. I do my own laundry. I am an adult. And yet, I am 17.

(The title was taken from a line in this song.)

Not Entirely All About That Bass

We are a rainbow of sizes AND STILL REALLY HOT

Last weekend I was in Baltimore with a group of girls all gathered for a bachelorette party. As we were braiding hair and applying lipgloss, a song started playing on iTunes radio. We were talking and distracted but got the gist of the song - some cute catchy thing about positive body image!  We being women who could be categorized in every possible women’s size, nodded in agreement that we liked the little clips of it that we heard. Today, I saw the song shared on Facebook. Not realizing it was the same song that I heard over the weekend, I clicked on it and watched the music video. I’m bopping my head to it, thinking about how I will send a link of it to my friend telling her that i found the cute song we liked and within the first effing thirty seconds it happens.

She hates on the size 2 girl.

Yeah, it's pretty clear, I ain't no size two
But I can shake it, shake it
Like I'm supposed to do
Cause I got that boom boom that all the boys chase
And all the right junk in all the right places

*but why*

Like, why?

WHY?!

Why is it a work of the devil to be of a slim build? Also, whyyyyyyy do we have to be mean about it?

I heard the line and I felt a mixture of emotions, first exasperation, then some bit of shame, and finally it rounded off with indignation. What is wrong with my body? I am a natural size small. Hence somewhere in the 2 or 4 range. And I know girls who are thinner than I am. That is just how they look. I don’t give a single shit if you are a size 12. I don’t ask you to lose weight. I don’t hint that you should eat a salad. I don’t give one solitary, tiny little shit about your weight, Meghan Trainor (yeah, I said it) so why is it so necessary for you to put mine to blast like that?!

She goes on to hate on Barbie’s perfect silicone body, which I am fine with. I am sure we’ve all seen the articles (at least the BuzzFeed one) about how effed up Barbie would be if she were a real person and how her dimensions are out of control. Plus, even if you are size two, odds are that your thighs still move when you walk. We can all collectively hate on Barbie.

I won’t even get into the awkwardness of discussing that her mother informed her that men like extra booty at night to hold on to. And I won’t get at all into the whole “we should love our bodies for us, not for men”, because I don’t even have the emotional energy to go down that road. I am hear for the size 2 girls who are not allowed to feel the same pride as the girls with the big bootys.

We are not evil! Stop making us feel bad!

Today at work I discussed with a co-worker how three particular people at our job who aren’t universally liked seem to all like me. Each time one of the people was brought up, he would respond with, “Well, you’re a pretty girl. People are nice to pretty girls.” It was funny and we laughed but somewhere I felt weird. Was he right? Was that why they had been kind to me? What if I start breaking out like it is the 10th grade again. Will they stop? What if my medicine for my acne makes me gain weight like it did in the 12th grade. What about then?

Meghan, you are really freaking cute. And like, probably a size 8 which BTW, isn’t considered fat. Or even plus sized (unless you are trying to be a Victoria’s Secret Angel). I know that you are caught in the awkward not-fat-but-not-skinny-either conundrum, but could you not take it out on me? Yell at Barbie. Yell at Vogue. Yell at advertising companies. But not at me. I didn’t do anything to you. I am not shaming you.

I am pretty positive that I have shared this story in a previous blog post but just in case I didn’t, I will share it again.

At some point in my teenage years I was shopping the clearance rack at American Eagle. It being a circular rack, the XS/S, which was my current size was next to the XL/XXL. As I leafed through overpriced tank tops, the girl next to me who is searching through the XL/XXL made a comment to her boyfriend about how all these “skinny bitches” blah blah and how it is “disgusting” how anyone can fit into a pair of shorts so small, etc. I was so embarrassed, I was so ashamed of myself. For about 30 seconds and then I was pissed.

In her song, Meghan again uses the phrase “skinny bitches”. It is so bad that I am “skinny” that now I am a bitch? Why must such language be used. It is mean. I repeat, IT IS MEAN. Please stop. Body positivity is so great, all bodies need to feel positive, but when one body type puts down another to make them seem greater... No. Because we all know if there was a song about how great it is to be a size 2 and "ew, bigger sizes are gross and unappealing" that person would maybe be guillotined.

If you google the song (called All About That Bass) you will see little blips stating that it is the body feel good song of the summer, or that it celebrates bodies of all shapes and sizes. And that is true. Unless that size is a small and then you are just a bitch who needs to eat a sandwich. Oh, and by the way, I am a fucking size 2 AND I can still shake it. So, you’re welcome.

Swan Song

You all have been so good to me.
You've allowed me to believe I have secret admirers. You've shown me that I have real life cheerleaders. You've made me feel that my words are worth hearing.

But all good things come to an end.

This is my last post. This is my swan song.

I have been reading a lot. 8 books in less than one month to be exact. The more books that I read, the more characters that I cry over, the more time that I laugh to myself while reading on the subway, the more I realize that I will never do what these people do.
And that is ok.

I have so many words. They start somewhere far down in my soul, but the time they leave my mouth (or my fingers) they are so jumbled up that I can barely get my point across. I have so much to say but no idea how to say it. I find myself to be so silent. Hours spent in reflective thinking. No clue how to exude what is only intrinsic.

I spent a few hours today with a darling friend on a long car ride to the beach. She asked me about my religion and I gave her the best answer I could (which was a very poor one). It was the answer to the question I have been asking myself for over 5 years. I could hardly articulate the emotions, the thought process, the years of anguish. My words are too jumbled. I am stuck. I am lost. I am a wander.

Putting them on paper use to sort them out. They have always been jumbled inside of me but once they left my soul, once they were things that I could see and not just feel, then I could finally have a bit of clarity.

Currently, I find it a burden just to try.

For every post I have written there are two that I have deleted. Posts with strong plot lines. Intelligent words and ideas that sit on my soul impatiently awaiting their turn to shine. I write and write and write but no matter the abundance of words, the message is still lost. Brevity and conciseness have never been my strong suits.

I hope to bring this blog back some day. Some day when I am not jumbled. Some day when my soul is eased. When I sleep peacefully and sip hot tea and watch leaves fall and feel contentment with the simple fact of being alive.

My fear though is that I will always have a jumbled soul, never understanding itself, never knowing if I believe what I believe or I believe what I have been taught to believe. I yearn for self actualization. I have felt in the past that I have achieved it and yet now as I reach adulthood it becomes elusive again.

All previous posts will be turned into "drafts" meaning that they won't be deleted, they just won't be visible to the public.

You've been so good to me.

So I leave you with this. My ever present reminder that despite my nomadic heart (and although I very often feel & say it) - I am not lost. I am just not yet found.

 I also leave you with this, something I quoted twice today. It isn't extremely applicable, but since I walk around with a black rain cloud over my head, whining about life's unfairness more days, I have to often remind myself of this:

"I wish the ring had never come to me, I wish that none of this had happened."
"So do all who live to see such times.  But that is not for them to decide.
All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us."

The Kindness of Strangers pt. 2

I woke up with the same dread that I had fallen asleep with the night before.

An entire day to myself. Not a damn soul around. 

My mind alternated between All by Myself, One is the Loneliest Number, and On My Own for hours.

I had off on a Saturday. A beautiful Saturday. The kind of Saturday that renews your hope in mankind, and I had been dreading it for days.
The extrovert in me cannot be alone. I can be alone, if I choose to do so, but if being alone is thrust upon me without my consent, I feel like I am trapped in a closet with no way out. Or, I guess I should say a city of 8 million people that I don't know.

But, for once in my exceptionally whiny life, I decided to have a good attitude.

Around 1:30 pm (after staying up until 5:30 am watching OITNB, which is fantastic), I finally decided to leave the house and take the hour ride to the beach. Two hours and 4 transfers later, I called my dad crying.

My boss had just informed me that I would be recieving the following Sunday off. Working retail, getting a full weekend off is like when you buy a special treat and open the bag and realized you got two, it is special enough to get the one, and the two is just a miracle. Except without the advanced notice, my very special full weekend off is being wasted with a 2 hour train ride in which I am doing my very very best to not have a full on panic attack.

I asked her to please give me a different Sunday, one in which I would be able to prepare and make actual plans. The truth was that although I wanted that, I did not want to have to spend an entire extra day in this very tiny, very large city all by myself. The thought of that nearly made me nauseous. I wanted to be at work, at a place where I had a purpose, where it didn't really matter that I didn't have anyone to call up because I was busy and doing something productive.

She responded by giving me Sunday AND Monday off. I knew that she thought that she was doing my a kindness, but it was enough to send me into spirals.

Typing it out now, it seems to sad and little and stupid, but in that moment, publicly sobbing on the train, it was choking the life out of me. And so I called my dad to let him know.

What is wrong with me!? Why does this always happen, again and again? Why am I always so alone?

I guess at this point, I have to add that I am single and that obviously makes it worse. This post isn't at all about being broken up, but it sure didn't help the situation.

Why can't I just be a normal person?!

My dad said all of the things dads say and I finally calmed down and found my way to a spot on the beach. I took a deep breath and opened my book. (Just a note, I read The Glass Castle by Jeanette Walls and it was fantastic, I really loved it, everyone should read it. ALSO I just read that it is going to become a film with J.Law?! Be still my heart!)

I told myself that it would all be fine. I had bought 10 books the day before and had a fridge full of food, how bad could life be? I could finish OITNB, reorganize my room, bake cookies, sit in the park, it would all be just fine.

It started to get hot on the beach, despite it being 4 pm and so I shoved all of my stuff into my bag, put my towel over it and sprinted into the water and sprinted back. I checked my bag and all was well, my things were all accounted for. I ate about a half lb of brie, read 5 or 6 more chapters and decided that it was naptime. I again shoved my belongings into my bag, looped the handle through my arm and snoozed away under the westward sun. I woke up, everything was all accounted for and I was feeling lovely. The sand in my hair felt comforting, the smell of the sea breeze felt familiar. I was going to be fine, I was being such a baby before. There is nothing wrong with being alone, I am an adult and it will all be fine. 

At about 5:15 I turned my body toward the sun and wrapped my towel around my back and turned my attention fully to my book. I read until it really began to get chilly and I realized I should save the last 30 pages or so for the train ride home. I dog-eared the page (don't start with me, it makes my books feel like old friends when I see places I've left off in the past), and started to get dressed. I reached into my bag to check the time and realized I couldn't find my phone.

Panicking, as I usually do, I dumped my stuff out over the blanket and began to search. It wasn't there. I tore through the sand, shook everything out, dug deeper in the sand. Still no phone. I felt the tears quickly approaching.

Not now. Not today. I just want to have a nice day in this damned city.

I approach a couple and ask them to please call my phone as I am unable to find it. They look at each other, then back at me. The women speaks in broken English,

"Call... your mobile?"

They call for me and it rings twice and then goes to voicemail. I turn back with tears in my eyes and expletives leaving my mouth. They quickly pack up their belongings and move further down the beach.

 I approach a group of people my age and tearfully ask them to please call my phone, it has been stolen.
They were sympathetic and let me call. I left a voicemail, I know you stole my phone!
I later realized they won't know my passcode to access the voicemail...

I go back to my spot to go through the sand, though I know it isn't worth it and start to cry. Not tiny little tears I had been holding back before, but just wail. I have a lot of things, shame isn't one of them.

It was not my phone that I was crying for. That stupid thing had 3 separate screen cracks and was probably going to stop working any day now. I felt so stupid. I felt so violated. Someone had snuck up behind me and reached their hand into my bag. I felt so angry. If I had any damn friends, this wouldn't have happened! If I still had a stupid boyfriend, this wouldn't have happened! If I hadn't been so forceful with myself, if I hadn't tried so freaking hard to have a nice day, this wouldn't have happened!

I let my misery swallow me as the sand had (hopefully) swallowed me phone.

Hon, you ok?

I didn't think through that a young woman crying all alone on the beach would attract a bit of attention.

Yeah, it's just... I mean it's stupid, someone stole my phone.

A look of relief crosses her face,

Damn girl, I thought you were gonna say it was aboutcha boyfriend. Cuz I was gonna say, f*ck your boyfriend.

I can't help but laugh and the tears subside.

Well, no, although I do have an ex I am a bit annoyed with at the moment, but no, I am just having a day of misery and this didn't help.

Hon, you can't trust these people. You look like a girl with money, you can't be lookin like that. Did they take your wallet? Do you need money to get home?

I do? Well, that's not too true. My phone had 3 cracks in it and is two models old. I don't know how that looks like money. But no, they didn't take my wallet, thank you though.

At this point, I am near crying again because I am so relieved that beautiful people still exist.

These people are stupid. They don't know that.

They are stupid.

You gotta watch out for these people. You can't just be trusting anyone. You gotta know who to trust. You gotta know who to value. Like, you can't just break up witchya girlfriend because she found outcha man is runnin' around on you and tells it like it is. You can't be gettin' mad at her for that. She tryna tell you the truth. F*ck ya man if he runnin around on you, don't break up with your girlfriend! 

I am not sure what to do with all of this information, but I can't disagree with any of it. I respond affirmatively. And thank her for her sweetness and kindness for a stranger.

Honey, I ain't sweet. I just love God and I can't see a girl crying all alone. I am 63 years old and you wanna know what the secret of life is? I'll tell you. The secret of life is don't give it away.

 (I have no idea what this means, but she keeps going)

Don't give anything away. Don't do shit for people who don't value you. Where does that get you? How does that help you? Like, you gotta man who wants a guitar so he can be a rockstar or some shit. So what, you gotta buy him a guitar? Man, f*ck ya boyfriend and f*ck his guitar.

I am entirely lost at this point, but I love everything the woman has to say. We chat for a while longer, I find out that her name is Norma and she is with her adorable grandchildren today. She reminds me to be thankful that they didn't take my wallet, or my life (!?) and to be kind to myself.

New York, you are awful, but you have redeemable qualities.

I rush to the train (no idea how to find a train without Google Maps, mind you) and head to the only Verizon store that I can pinpoint to its exact location. About 5 minutes from my ex-boyfriend's apartment. I have no problem seeing him, everything is amicable, but at this point I am tired, hungry, dirty, tear streaked and slightly sunburned. The last person I need to run into is an ex. I find my way to the train, and 40 minutes later arrive at Canal street and sprint to the store, only to find it locked and the men waving me away to let me know it is closed. I look at the hours sign on the door and it says they close at 8 pm.

I can feel the panic arising again. It is bad enough that my phone is gone, but what if they crack my passcode? I've used banking information on there, personal contacts, my email, etc. They don't open until 11 am the following morning, meaning the asshole thief will have been able to access my stuff for over 12 hours! I knock again and they give my the same blank look. Feeling very alone and defeated, I did what I do best. I slumped along the side of the store and began to cry. In public. Again.

A girl approaches me and asks if I am ok and if I need a phone. I assume she is peddling some stolen goods (it is Canal street after all) and tell her that I am fine. She pulls her own phone out of her pocket and offers it to me, if I need someone to call. I thank her for her kindness but tell her that I just need to get my phone turned off and the damn store is closed. I ask her the time. It is 8:02 pm.

She walks away and I stand in front of the door, trying to loudly whisper through the half inch crack between the doors.

I just need to get my phone turned off! Please! It was stolen! 

Whether they can hear me or not, they don't turn around. I don't know what to do. I have to get this issue resolved! I lean against the door, fighting the tears for the 4th time when someone approaches from behind the locked doors. I wipe them away, fully aware of the black streaks and explain my situation. He looks at me blankly and walks away. I stand there again, not sure what emotion to feel when a younger man appears. He opens the door for me and says he will help me. I must've looked manic when I loudly exclaimed my gratefulness and thanks because he began to look very afraid. Nonetheless he disconnected my phone, flagged it as stolen and wrote down the number for me to have a replacement phone in about 5 minutes. His name was Norman.

I get back on the train to head home. I've got about 40 minutes to go and my book is finished. I reach into my bag to grab my phone and smile to myself at my mistake. Then I realize the worst part of it all. I was on level 351 in Candy Crush. I will not be re-downloading the app.

It takes me a while to realized the coincidence, a woman named Norma and a man named Norman, two kind souls who took pity on my pathetic self. I go home, exhausted. I tell my roommates about the day and find that I am able to laugh about the ridiculousness of it all. We re-enact the scene of the crime and I realized that the person truly snuck up behind me, just an inch away while I was reading and grabbed my phone. My stupid, cracked screen, 2 models old phone. I contacted my parents who were terrified that I was kidnapped by the Russians and tell them I am coming home. I find the first bus leaving the city that morning and escape to suburbia for 2 days.

I am alive. I have my wallet. I have my family. I do have friends. I have a job that allows me to have the money to replace my phone. For every miserable SOB in the world there are 3 or 4 kind ones who make up for it. I am alive and wasn't kidnapped by the Russians. I have friends who at a moment's notice make plans to see me. I have a family who endures my ridiculous antics. I have roommates who I can come home and tell my stories to. And somewhere out there, some asshole has a 2 models old phone with a cracked screen that is disconnected and is unable to be used for anything other than playing candy crush.

New York's Not My Home

Well things were spinnin' round me
And all my thoughts were cloudyAnd I had begun to doubt all the things that were meBeen in so many placesYou know I've run so many racesAnd looked into the empty faces of the people of the nightAnd something is just not right, 'cause I know

New York's not my home. I hate myself for saying it out loud, but it is the truth.

If you know anything about it, you'll know that New York was always my thing. If you asked me where I was from I was quick to say that although I was brought up in Delaware, I was born in Queens. I had to let everyone know- New York is my place. It is where I belong. It is my home.

This morning I got on the train as I went to work and sat down in a seat and a woman across from me started to make quite a ruckus about my chair. I tried to ignore her as it was early and I was tired and I just wanted to sit in peace for the 20 or so minutes, but she wouldn't be ignored. Apparently the gentleman before me had urinated on himself whilst sitting in the seat that I was currently sitting in, the girl next to me explained. But, he had turned to the side (the side was closest to the aisle) and... I guess peed on the floor? The girl assured me that the seat was urine free and that she wouldn't have let me sit there had it not been. We chatted and exchanged names and she gave me her business card and it was quite lovely. But in the midst of our chat she asked me how long I had been here, and then how long I thought I might stay.

For whatever reason, we are most honest with strangers.

I told her that I had been here for about 14 months and ... I honestly didn't know. If you had asked me when I first moved here I would've said that I am dying in this city, (preferably in one of the parks since I refuse to die in a hospital... but more on that later), but now I can't say that for sure. Maybe I was just disillusioned by all of the slammed doors in my face or the lack of whatever I thought would happen to me once I moved here, but all of the magic is gone.

Though all the streets are crowded
There's somethin' strange about it
I Lived there bout a year and I never once felt at home
I thought I'd make the big time
I learned a lot of lessons awful quick
And now I'm tellin' you
That they were not the nice kind
And it's been so long since I have felt fine, that's the reason that

New York is mean and dirty and I don't belong here.

Yes, there is so much wonder to hold and I know that... but I feel that I have to force myself to remember that. After work I have to do everything in my power to not comeback and spend my evening binge-watching T.V. (currently catching up on this season's Call the Midwife - IN LOVE!)

The problem is, I told the girl, that where else could I possibly go?
Back home? I love my family and the 4 or 5 friends that still reside in the state, but what is there for me? What career, what future? So then what, perhaps another city? Boston, D.C., L.A., Chicago... maybe, but am I ready to uproot my whole life only to find out that they don't fit me either? I am at least beginning to conquer the demon known as the Big Apple, and as they say, it's best to stick with the demons you know.

(It also doesn't help that I just signed a 2 year contract with my job...)

I honestly feel that if I were to leave NYC I would have to leave the country altogether because after NYC, what else is there? When I was waiting to hear if I had received this job with Macy's or not, all of my back-up plans involved me leaving the country. A little dramatic? I mean, maybe. Necessary for my mental sanity? Absolutely.

But then if I don't fit in here, the most blended place on Earth, where else could I go?
This also ties in with the career bit- while I am thrilled to be employed full time again and forever grateful to Macy's for giving me a second go- I wasn't a little girl who dreamed of working in retail/fashion and/or business and management. I wanted a lot, but none were that. Twenty some years later I realize that I have a decent capacity for these things and I want to stay with it for as long as I can, but will it make me feel joy each morning (or late night)? I'm just not sure.

If my life were a novel, wandering would be a major theme. I can't ever seem to settle- not because I am adventurous, but because I never seem to find my place, and that makes me so, so sad.

If you are hoping to move here, please don't let my whining discourage you. I am a chronic complainer and glass half empty type, so maybe it isn't New York, maybe it is me. (Which is even scarier, because that leads me to believe that I will never be happy anywhere which is waaaay too much for me to swallow this late at night.)

Let me know if your city suits me better, I'll be forever indebted to you.


Many thanks to an ex-boyfriend who introduced me to this song... at least he left me with one good thing.