Last One. No Really.

Months and months and months have gone by since I said I was going to take down this blog and I still haven't done it. Not because I'm too nostalgic, it's really not that, it's because I'm too lazy. I just don't want to deal with having to archive or download or copy-and-paste or whatever it is that's going to be required in order for me to not have Frosty-Licous up anymore. I just don't want to bother with it. And besides, I still dig this website. I dig the growing up I did when I was writing it, and I like to refer back to it once in a while when I'm writing A Serious Girl.

Which is why I've decided, once and for all, not to take down this blog. Also? You never know when I'll get the urge to post something supremely inappropriate on the Internet.

In case you're here for the first time, let me just warn you that what you'll find among these posts are the rantings of a Valley Girl in her early twenties, newly married, living in a tenement apartment in Hells Kitchen, Manhattan with her husband and four animals, and freaking the fuck out because she just moved three thousand miles away from everyone she's ever loved in her entire life. Of course she has her wonderful husband, so kind and gentle is he that he never even complained when she nicknamed him Poompy at one point, thank god she grew out of that. Anyway, that girl was me, and when I was thinking back over 2009 on the eve of 2010, I decided I wasn't that girl anymore and I wanted a new website.

Of course, as it turns out, I'm absolutely still that girl, I'm just that girl with a little bit more life under her belt, a better understanding of what she wants and enough confidence to finally go after it. You can read about my more recent antics on ASeriousGirl.com. Thanks for visiting!

Greenlit

All signs point to GO!

Harlem, November 2009

The wall is not on fire

Autumn, 2009

City dogs experience unadulterated joy

Yeah... pretty much no one should ever visit Harlem.

Wouldn't want to experience a serene city park, would you?

I figured it out.

This blog started long ago, on a misty, grey afternoon in May of 2007. Back when I still had hopes that "the rainy season" would end soon, when I was cutting my bangs too short and when I thought I looked good in puffy-sleeved dresses. The first post was a flippant one-liner, something I agonized over because I had no idea what I was doing or why I was doing it. What was a blog? I had no idea. I read a few blogs, blogs written by close friends, and they were all kinds of different. I decided that blogs were a little like online journals - journals you wouldn't mind everyone and their dog's mother having access to. So I started writing a little online journal. I did not censor myself at all.

I don't believe in censorship as we think of it in regards to great literary works and newspaper articles written by educated journalists and things like that. But when it comes to self-censorship? Let's just say that blogging taught me a little about not writing everything that just pops into my head. Because what you say is what you say. But what you write? It's there forever.

So that was a good lesson.

In the last year or so, this blog has almost become ... I hesitate to say it because of how much it will sound like I'm squeezing it out of a velveeta bottle, but this blog has become my friend. And the fact that you read it once in a while? That you come back and read after I've taken off and disappeared for weeks on end? And you only ever say nice things. It's kind of amazing. I wish you knew how grateful I am to you. You bring me a tremendous amount of joy. Your comments put a smile on my face for hours.

All that being said, for as long as I've been writing here I haven't really known what I was writing about. It was actually a lot easier when I was in the obnoxious-wussy-whining stage because it didn't take any time or energy, really. I'd just open my blogger page, type something like, "as;lkdfjiouwe;LKEJ; ROIU WALEKRFJ;S LKDFJ A;SOID FU;LSKDFJ S;LKDFJ!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" then write, "That's me screaming in type," and that was that. (Ah! Remember the good old days?) But since I've actually started caring about what I write and whether or not you'll like reading it, this writing has become something I'm really proud of. And don't say that I shouldn't care whether or not you like what I write because, Damnit, I am an ENTERTAINER. I LIVE TO ENTERTAIN. IF I AM NOT ENTERTAINING YOU THEN AS;DLKFJWOPIURELW K;AEJRA;SLKDF J;ASIODFUAOPSI EFJA;KLSDFJ!!!!!! I WILL JUST SCREAM IN TYPE ALL DAY LONG.

But I do care. And so I vow to never again subject you to that kind of mind-numbing irritation ever again.

So what am I writing about? Most of the blogs I read are mommy blogs written by young mom's raising little kids. Dooce is my favorite because she has the same sense of humor I do, and I like Girl's Gone Child's whole alterna-mom thing, but my blog isn't a mommy blog because I don't have kids. It isn't a blog about dogs, even though I talk about the crazy mutts a lot. It's not a blog about being an actor in New York because out of over 400 posts, only 30 are about acting. It's not about cooking or baking, electronics or photography, so what's it about?

It's a blog about family.

Did you figure this out ages ago and I'm only just now catching on?

Last year I tried to read this book my dad lent me, about managing one's time. I gave up in the first chapter because the book asked me what I would do if I found out I was going to die in six months. I didn't like my answer so I walked away from it.

Would you like to know what I would do if I found out I only had six months to live?

I would do whatever it took to spend every waking second surrounded by my family. I would move back to Los Angeles and I would spend every moment possible with the wild and beautiful clan that I was lucky enough to be born into. And of course, every private moment I'd spend in the arms of my wonderful husband.

Moving to New York taught me about family, and how to be a family with Michael. I don't know how to explain it except to say that until we moved to New York, until we went through that fucking awful year together and came out of it stronger and happier and more in love than I ever imagined was possible, we weren't really a family. Before we moved, he was my boyfriend, my partner, my team member, blah blah. We got married and that was great and relationships take work but are totally worth it. We spent years in couples counseling and had epic arguments and a storybook romance to keep it all worthwhile. We had all this great, awesome, important stuff. But now? Now he is a part of me. He is my family. Even though a forensics guy would never say so, Michael's blood beats through my heart.

This blog is about family.

Part 3 of That Nasty Post

I took a deep breath. The moment of truth had begun. One at a time, the head judge called the contestants to the stage. Each contestant was required to bring their entry to the stage, hold it up for the audience to view, then give a short speech about their work. The first person who came out was a woman who'd brought an eagle her dad's best friend's brother had killed and stuffed himself. She'd grown up dressing the eagle in baby clothes and pushing it around in a pram. She loved this eagle because she thought it was really funny that her dad's best friend's brother killed the eagle and stuffed it.

Not quite what I had expected.

The next woman works as a professional bug-pinner for the Natural History Museum. She'd brought four tiny diorama's she'd created, anthropomorphizing various South American beetles. She mentioned how she keeps the beetles in her freezer next to her roommates Skinny Cows until she's ready to use them. Based on what she said about her work, I am certain that those diorama's were beautiful and compelling, but I couldn't see them. I couldn't see them because the stage upon which the contestants work was displayed was lit for a sweaty band of boys playing bad renditions of Iggy Pop hits, not for the art I was hoping to see.

The next guy was a short, round, sweaty, fast-talking Japanese guy with an accent so thick I could hardly understand a word he was saying. He used his own taxidermied skin to create squid-baby, two-headed baby and mer-girl. He tried to explain his process - I understood that "summer is best time peal skin" but I'm still not sure if he was actually skinning himself or just using flaked sun-burnt skin. Either way, it would have been really great if I could have actually seen his sculptures. But I could not.

I also couldn't see the eight-hour old yorkie puppie that had been given to the taxidermist by a devastated breeder who'd never lost a puppy. I could kind of make out the plastic skeleton being sold off as Mickey Mouse's actual skeleton and I did not think it was funny or clever or interesting. I was also not amused by the woman who entered into the contest a skull she found on a trip to New Mexico but she wasn't sure what it was, a shellacked alligator-head she bought at a Rite-Aid in Louisiana and a "really cool rock" that she alleged might have a dinasour fossil in it, but she wasn't sure, and she'd love to know if the judges thought so. I was even less interested when the same woman proceeded to read aloud an ad she'd found on the internet for a stuffed piranha from Japan. The ad was obviously written by a person who did not speak English as a first language, yet this "really cool rock" woman seemed to feel that making vicious remarks about someone's ability to write in a language not their own had some relevancy to a rogue taxidermy contest. However, it wasn't until a woman who's contest entry was a bottle of deer's urine and her entire talk was a sales pitch for a particular brand of deer urine that her father manufactures, I decided I'd had enough. Sure, Rabmer, the soft-mounted under-sea jack rabbit was incredible, but it was after ten o'clock and we had an hour ahead of us on the train and I just couldn't take it anymore.

The evening was a crushing disappointment. I haven't been that disappointed in at least four hours, but if I learned one thing, it was this:

DON'T MAKE EYE-CONTACT WITH THE HIPSTERS.

Click here for Part 1

Click here for Part 2

That Nasty Post, Continued

And the answer to last week's Question Of The Week is:

C) You'd let a Very Boring Woman give a Very Boring Speech about a Very Boring Book she wrote, follow it with a psychedelic movie about a deer's butt and then let random people come up from the audience to show whatever the fuck they felt like showing, while they yelled into a microphone about how their dad's friend's brother was a taxidermist who preferred stuffing eagles he killed over all other creatures.

---

The contest started at nine and it did not begin with an introduction to the rogue taxidermists who's work would be on display, no it did not. Instead, it started with The World's Most Boring Woman giving The World's Most Boring Speech. Who was this Boring Woman? A taxidermist? No. She's an author trying to sell the book she just published about taxidermy. Maybe I'd buy the book, maybe if she had cared enough about her book to make a smart marketing decision and hire someone to play her, because the real and actual her was so boring that if I had to choose between having hot needles shoved under my fingernails or listening to that Boring Woman give another speech, you can bet I'd go for the hot needles.

Next, there was an art film. It's too bad I can't accurately type out the sarcasm with which I use the words art film. They played a psychadelic art film about an endangered creature known as the "rumpape". From what I gathered, a rumpape is a face made out of a deer's stomach and placed into his butt. It looks a little like a monkey, but not really. The most surprising thing about the movie was that it actually succeeded in offending me.

You read that right.

The rumpape movie offended me. Me. Me, the woman who has planned to have Valentine freeze-dried and posed as if she's humping a pillow, because that is how I will want to remember her after she dies. I was slightly offended by the rumpape.

It was then, in the after-sting of slight offendedness, that the contest finally began. At nine-thirty. A full two hours after the show was scheduled to start.

To Be Continued...

This may be the nastiest post I've written

tax*i*der*my

noun

the art of preparing, stuffing, and mounting the skins of animals with lifelike effect.

Last week I was flipping through Time Out New York --

It just occurred to me that most of my readers are related to me, live in Southern California, and have no idea what Time Out New York (TONY) is.

It is my belief that at one time, TONY magazine was a great vehicle for finding interesting things to do in the city, great places to shop, the best places to eat, et cetera. Unfortunately, the TONY that I know is a giant wad of advertisements with four pages at the end detailing all of the places to go if you want to get spanked, poop on someone's face, find someone to watch you have sex with your stuffed panda and which porn shops specialize in celebrity look-alike movies with matching dolls.

Last week I was flipping through TONY because, I don't know, it was there and, ALL RIGHT I'LL ADMIT IT. I like reading about the people who think it's hot to wear butt-plugs shaped like horsey tails. It makes me laugh. So I'm flipping through TONY and I come across an ad for:

Drumroll, please.

......

A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST.

IN BROOKLYN.

......

I almost freaked out. My first thought was, Mike will never go. And it's in Brooklyn. That's like, eight hours away.

My next thought was: IT'S A ROGUE TAXIDERMY CONTEST AND IT'S IN MY CITY.

Do you know what rogue taxidermy is? I didn't either. But I started having these visions --visions of incredible, beautiful, enchanting, bizarre creatures, sculptures made of once living flesh, two-headed rats and four-nippled snakes. I did a quick little internet search for "rogue taxidermy" and read about these artists who use donated pets, roadkill, and other animals who've died of totally natural causes or met with accidental disasters, and they create these incredible works of art using dead flesh as their medium.

Is that not absolutely right up my alley? It absolutely is!

In reality, I wasn't very impressed with the pictures of dead-things art that I saw online. They were all right, but the stuff I was seeing in my head was so much cooler. I just knew that those photos weren't even important. The photos were barely the tip of the ice berg. This rogue taxidermy contest? It was going to be the zenith of my fantasies. It was going to be the end all be all answer to my questions about life and who I am and what I should be doing and what my secret dreams are. This contest was going to change me, forever.

Do you remember when I wrote about how big my expectations get? I'm just saying.

*Weird coincidence: I talk about roadkill in that post too.*

So I get all these ideas in my head. And before I know it, I am more excited about this rogue taxidermy contest than I can remember being about anything in ages, except maybe when I booked that Life On Mars episode. (But I won't mention how that was almost a year ago, because I wouldn't want to make myself feel bad or anything.)

By last Friday I was more excited about a rogue taxidermy contest than I had been about anything in a really long time. Saturday felt like the longest day of my life. Sunday I was practically hysterical. I was showered, dressed, had walked the dogs, had my shoes on, my purse packed, ready to walk out the door by ten o'clock in the morning, a full six-and-a-half hours before it was actually time to go.

I trust you understand the weight of that small detail.

We arrived at the venue at seven-thirty on the dot, and proceeded to wait around for an hour-and-a-half because although the contest was scheduled to begin at seven-thirty sharp, it did not begin until nine. NINE. Nine. They were running an hour-and-a-half behind schedule. They might as well have ripped out my heart.

Question: If you were hosting a rogue taxidermy contest, what would be the first order of business after making your excited audience members wait an hour-and-a-half for your contest to begin?

A) You'd introduce the evening's contestants to the audience.

B) You'd give a short talk about rogue taxidermy and then introduce the contestants.

C) You'd let a Very Boring Woman give a Very Boring Speech about a Very Boring Book she wrote, follow it with a psychedelic movie about a deer's butt and then let random people come up from the audience to show whatever the fuck they felt like showing, while they yelled into a microphone about how their dad's friend's brother was a taxidermist who preferred stuffing eagles he killed over all other creatures?

To be continued...

Sidewalk Art

Somewhere in the East Village

A Express

Imagine that you are on the subway on your way home from a long day at work. Lucky you, you have a seat. However, you've forgotten your book, so instead you are looking around at the weary people in front of you. You can do that, because all of the people's faces are far above yours; they won't notice that you are watching. You are below their eye level. And, you tell yourself, people-watching is harmless anyway.

There is a woman standing in front of you. She's pretty, she's young, she's wearing a wedding ring. She has a black leather purse over one shoulder, a canvas shoulder bag over the other, a coat draped over her left arm which holds a book just below her chin. She is engrossed in the book. Her right arm is stretched up, over her head, and she is holding onto the rail. She is surrounded by people. The car bumps and you notice that her right knee just barely touches your left knee. She must have noticed too, because she takes a small step away from you, a very small step because really, there is nowhere for her to go. She is pressed into the crowd. You are grateful that you've got a seat, you've got breathing room, you are below everyone's eye level. The car jumps again and you notice that the man behind the woman, probably somewhere in his forties, 6 ft 2 or 3, around 240 lbs, is moving his hand, barely, but he is moving his hand and he places it on the woman's bottom. No, no, he isn't actually touching her, he's half a centimeter away from touching her, and then, with just his thumb, he touches her. He slides his thumb along the slope of her bottom and she flinches, slightly, but before she can look up from her book to see what's happened, he's turned his back on her. The car comes to a stop, the doors open, a flood of people pour out, a flood of people pour on, the man has backed away from the woman, there are several people between them now. The woman has buried her nose in her book. You aren't even sure if you saw what you saw. Maybe you imagined it. You must have imagined it. Of course you imagined it. That wouldn't have happened, how silly! You look over at the man. Has he moved? He's closer than before. Yes, yes, he's making his way through the crowd, he is standing behind the woman again. Maybe they know each other. That must be it. He's an old boyfriend or something, and when she finally notices him it will be a happy reunion. Of course. New York is full of random reunions like that. The man is doing something with his hand, something with his hand but he is behind the woman, so you can't see what it is. He closes his eyes. God, it looks like he's masturbating! Isn't that funny? Or, no, he's probably fallen asleep. My, you have a dirty mind! Yes, it must be that he's just exhausted and barely falling asleep, his eyes are closed and his head is nodding, his head lolls forward and the car jerks and you see the man's penis.

He has his penis out and he is fondling it and now he is stroking the woman's bottom with the tip of his penis. You look up at the woman. Her brow is furrowed. Does she feel him? Does she know what's happening? Or is she so engrossed in her book that she doesn't notice? Of course she notices. How could she not notice? Why doesn't she say something? Should you say something? Should you?

YES. YOU SHOULD. YOU SHOULD FUCKING SAY SOMETHING.

The woman flinches and takes a long step away from the man, pushing into the person beside her, who sticks out an elbow and shoves her back into the man. The car stops. He's put his penis away. He gets off the car with the flood of people who pour out. The woman's face is flushed. Her eyes are watery. She has not looked up from her book, not once. You lean over and tap her hand.

"Excuse me, Miss? You need to go home and wash."

"What?"

"You need to go home and wash. That man was doing something very bad. Very inappropriate."

"What? What? What was he doing?"

You shake your head. "Just go home and wash." And then you look away.

You don't look at the woman again, not once. She rushes off at the next stop, but you don't look up to see if there are tears on her cheeks or stains on her dress. You look away. You always look away.

Goodbye, kid.

Taken seconds before he left, the Super Shuttle guy standing right in front of us, waiting to take John's bag and hurl it into the back of the van.

All week I worried over whether or not he was having a fun time. I worried about whether or not he was too hot while he slept, if I was feeding him enough and if he liked my cooking. I worried over whether or not I listened well while he spoke. I worried if he was disappointed by how much I was working and leaving him on his own. Then I worried that he had more fun on his own than he did with me.

And I'm only saying all of this because I am starting to believe that it is perfectly normal to worry and that most people just don't talk about it as openly as I do. Or else they won't admit how much they worry. Right now I'm worried that you're judging me for being such a worrier.

My point is that when he hugged me goodbye, I knew right then that the week had meant as much to him as it did to me. He might have had a lot of aloof teenager moments while he was here, but when he hugged me goodbye, for a split second, he was two again. And he didn't want to let go.

Neither did I, baby. I love you forever. (That's a long time.)

8/17/09

Highline Park

Ever since the city opened Highline Park, Mike and I have been trashing it. With our words, not with actual trash. I mean, really? It's just kind of amazing that millions of dollars are poured into turning a neighborhood "eyesore" into a park, when that neighborhood is THE MEATPACKING DISTRICT. There are so many parks in Harlem and it's surrounding neighborhoods that are in terrible disrepair and really need some love, but no one is going to put any money into those parks because those neighborhoods aren't "hip".

Now I'm going to step down off my soap box and admit that Highline Park is actually pretty badass. The views alone are breathless. But it's also planted well. I loved the natural grasses, flowers and other plants that are growing along the edges.

Sweaty faces are a theme this week.

I mean, how often do you get to take a photo of your nephew standing that close to the back of a billboard? Without doing something illegal?

And also? I got to take this cool photo of one of those stacking parking structures. FROM ABOVE.

8/15/09

Three

Ooooooh. Looky who forgot to take any pitchers on August 14th. You're gonna get in trr0-UH-ble!

This marks the THIRD time I've forgotten to take photos since I started Project 356+ in June.

But you know what? IT DOESN'T MATTER. The whole point of the project was to get me to be a little bit more creative every day. And it's working. I haven't written this consistently EVER IN MY WHOLE LIFE. And I love it. I love writing. When I can't write because I have chores or work or other things I have to do, it pains me. Literally. It hurts. I am very in love with the writing.

And so I refuse to feel bad for missing another day of photographs. Instead, I will post a photo I took the following day, August 15, a photo that I am actually quite pleased with:

I think Ty would be proud.

My first dead thing in a while, I found this beauty while John and I were wandering the East Village on Saturday. At first glance I thought the mass of flesh on the ground was a pile of dead leaves. And the maggots? I thought those were a pile of little flower buds.

I'm not kidding.

Imagine my surprise when I realized I'd just walked through a pile of live maggots.

But the squirming, writhing maggots were not enough to deter me from photographing such a luscious dead thing. Nor were the many people who passed me, a look of utter disgust on their faces, as I crouched on the filthy sidewalk and snapped photo after photo.

Know why else John is cool? He took as many pictures of that rat as I did.

Tuesday's with Johnnie

Picnic lunch at The Cloisters, then a few hours wandering the museum.

He just added Columbia to his list of colleges to apply to.

8/11/09

OMFG

OMFG, YOU GUYS. A MICHAEL'S CRAFT SHOP IN MANHATTAN.

You, you who live in a suburb, you who own a car and can drive fifteen miles in fifteen minutes and utilize glorious strip malls and chain stores, YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND THE JOY THAT THIS DISCOVERY HATH GIVEN ME.

Also? Can we just pretend that I am NOT a person who misses strip malls and chain stores? Can we just pretend that I appreciate mom&pop shops and all that Manhattan shopping has to offer? Even though I'm not and I don't? Let's definitely pretend that. Ok?

I'm on a big yellow school bus to hell, though. That's for sure.

And maybe I ought to move to Brooklyn.

7/22/09

I'm not complaining. I'm sharing.

Apparently there are parts of Brooklyn that are not unlike the suburbs from which I spawned. Only with fewer malls. Meaning, one could potentially spend an hour walking from point A to point B, and see nothing but houses. Meaning, it might be a good idea to use a car when needing to travel from point A to point B in some parts of Brooklyn.

It is true that I grew up in the suburbs of the San Fernando Valley, three malls within walking distance of my home, but nary a walk to the mall existed because THAT IS WHAT CARS ARE FOR. However, after two years in Manhattan, I've gotten quite used to walking from place to place with the occasional subway or bus ride thrown in for good measure. In Manhattan, this is what people do. The island is so small, and everything so compact, one literally passes a laundry, a coffee shop, a flower shop, a restaurant and a liquor store on nearly every block.

I wrongly assumed that all of Brooklyn would be exactly like Manhattan.

Oh, how wrongly I assumed.

Considering that I have never left Manhattan except to travel to JFK, I had no business saying, "Yes, sure! I can go small-business- door-to-small-business-door while dragging a big heavy suitcase in 98% humidity in July in Brooklyn!" Because, dear readers, this would be like going small-business- door-to-small-business-door on foot in The Valley, only more humid. And with fewer malls. Brooklyn, in my opinion, or at least what I've seen of it, is basically a suburb of NYC. (Am I going to be screamed at now, but angry New Yorkers?) In case you weren't aware, there are not a lot of small businesses for which to go door-to-door in suburbs. No, there aren't. Really. I checked. I have the blisters and sunburn to prove it.

Today I found myself drenched in sweat, my dress soaked and clinging to my body in a most inappropriate way, blistered hands dragging heavy suitcase, shoulder bag full of empty water bottles (I do not understand the concept of "rationing" apparently), maps, books, and brochures, full bladder and nowhere to empty it, thinking to myself "WHAT THE HELL AM I DOING HERE?"

And then I remembered that Johnny Cash started out by going door-to-door and so I wiped the sweat from my brow, which really was just replacing the sweat on my brow with sweat from my arm, hitched my bag further up my aching shoulder, and soldiered on.

This photo has nothing to do with my story. It was taken on July 21, this is a post for July 21, but I am writing it on July 22. On July 21, I did not have to wander in heat and humidity with blisters sweltering on my palms and a full bladder and nothing but sweet little row houses surrounding me for MILES. UPON MILES. On July 21st I did not have to cross highways while dragging a heavy suitcase in a sweat-soaked dress while smarmy men in beat-up cars whistled at me. On July 21st, as I left my quiet office temp job for the evening, I stepped into the cool evening and thought, Goodness this place is gorgeous at night! And then I took the above photo. But that doesn't make for as good a story now, does it?

7/21/09

Summer Solstice

A breeze blows through the window and I smell sprinkler water evaporating off of sun-baked sidewalk. It is a summer smell. It reminds me of Sunday afternoons when I was a little girl and it is comforting and lonesome at the same time.

Maybe because it is finally summer now, maybe because it is hot and the pavement bakes and the people sweat and the sun warms the grass, maybe that is why I walk and walk and walk and feel like I am home.

Today I stepped off the A train at the 59th Street station and moved along the platform as I waited for a downtown D train and I thought, "This subway station smells like home." And then I thought, "Why does this station smell like home?"

The lines around home as I knew it for my first twenty-something years are beginning to blur. Sometimes I walk past an elementary school and think, "that is where my children will go to school," and then I remember where I am. Sometimes I walk through my apartment and imagine how we could squeeze a nursery in and then I remember where I am. Sometimes I think I'll just swing by my parent's house to say hello and then I remember where I am. Sometimes I walk through the city and my heart swells with so much love that I can't imagine ever leaving and in the very next moment a blade of fear cuts my heart because, dear god, what if I never leave?

Maybe because it is finally summer now, maybe because the sun heats my skin and beats my eyes, maybe because night jasmine blooms and clouds trail shadows on the grass, maybe that is why I walk and walk and walk and feel like I am home.

I'm practically peeing my pants.

It has been a very exciting week, Internet Friends. Very. Exciting. I have about a hundred-eighty-three projects (that's an exact number) going right now, including the editing of a brand-new film reel, the writing of a children's book (What-what?), auditions and call-backs gallore, and a garden. I have a garden. I live in Manhattan and I have a garden.

Ok, it isn't really a garden. It's more of a collection of potted plants that I can eat when they're done growing. BUT STILL.

Do you remember when I posted all about sustainable eating and community supported agriculture and how I lusted after large open spaces where I could grow vegetables? Well, dreams come true, folks. They really do come true.

This past Tuesday Mike and I were the proud recipients of our very first CSA share. We are members of the West Harlem Community Supported Agriculture Program, which means that every Tuesday we get a big box of organic, locally grown fruits and vegetables. AND IT IS LIKE CHRISTMAS, IT IS THAT FUN.

Look what we got this week:

Is this not the Most Beautiful bok choy you've EVER SEEN?

What the F is this? I can't even tell you. But it was delicious.

(It's called Kohlrabi)

And it comes in red, too, in case you were wondering.

Also, in case you can't tell by my husband's beard, we are hippies now.

This is a garlic flower. Did you know that garlic flowers?

And you know what it tastes like? GARLIC.

It's beautiful and wonderful and grown in New York state.

And here is a sneak-peak of our bedroom. (It's not done yet.)

Those flowers? They came from the CSA also.

F-ing-A. How happy am I?

And this? This?

LIVE HERBS WERE ALSO A PART OF OUR CSA.

Oregano and Thyme.

How badass is that?

VERY VERY BADASS.

We also got a sh** ton of kale, swiss chard, strawberries, and other stuff I am too excited to remember.

The other thing that was freaking awesome was that four days before we picked up our CSA share, our good friends Josie and Johnny came over for dinner and brought us this house-warming gift:

Basil, sweet basil and cilantro

A TOMATO PLANT! AAAAAHHHHHH!

I am ridiculously excited about the tomato plant. RIDICULOUSLY. EXCITED. And since I took this photo, our little tomato plant has grown even bigger and is even more beautiful and holy crap I am growing a vegetable. It is my very first time ever growing a vegetable or herbs. And forever and ever, wherever I live, wherever I roam, whenever I grow vegetables and herbs I will think of Josie and Johnny because they got me started.

I am so freaking happy right now. Who knew that vegetables and herbs could make a girl THIS happy? It is the little things in life, truly.

*very*happy*sigh*

And his eyes were full of soul

When I was in college, I met this boy named Reynier. (Pronounced like ray-near.) He wore about a hundred friendship bracelets around each of his wrists, all frayed and faded, you could tell he'd been wearing them for years.  I always wondered: One from each of his friends? 

Reynier was beautiful. Soulful eyes, perfect skin, full lips, a little on the scrawny side, but still. I remember sitting with him at lunch - he was a vegetarian - talking about the difference between eating meat and eating vegetables. I'd be sitting there with my cheeseburger and he'd be eating a salad and he'd be saying, "Ugh. I just think meat is gross. It's all ... squishy. Vegetarian food is all vegetables; crunchy and fresh." 

And I'd argue, "Cake is vegetarian and squishy. Veggie burgers are vegetarian and squishy. Jell-O is vegetarian and squishy." 

"Jell-O has gelatin in it." 

"So?" 

"Gelatin is made from the hooves of dead horses." 

"..... WHAT?" 

"You didn't know that?" 

I haven't eaten Jell-O since.

Reynier was born and raised in New York City, a place I had never been to. I was born and raised in The Valley, my childhood home within walking distance of three malls. He didn't have a drivers license because he either walked or rode public transit everywhere he went - and no one thought he was weird, in New York. Even though I could have walked to any of the three malls near my home, I had a drivers license and a car because if I didn't? Everyone would have thought I was weird.

One day I was driving him to the supermarket and he said to me, "How many times have you been pulled over?" 

And I, thinking that he, being a public transit-using New Yorker, just thought that every L.A. driver got pulled over on a regular basis. And since I had never ever not once been pulled over, I thought that I would really impress him. Really boggle his mind. He'd have a new respect for me, a driver who had never been pulled over. "I've never been pulled over. Not once." Then I batted my eyelashes, to remind him how pretty I was.

"Really? That's weird. Because you drive like you're drunk."

Nowadays, Reynier is a Los Angelino and I am a New Yorker. Or on my way to becoming a New Yorker, at least. Once in a while one of us will catch the other one saying something on our respective blogs that is just outlandish and ridiculous, an all encompassing sterotypism of the city that the one is from and the other lives in. I'll say something like: "All New Yorker's are lazy! They have to have their groceries delivered!" 

And he'll respond, "I was born and raised in New York, you freak, and I never had my groceries delivered." 

And then he'll write on his blog, "Los Angelino's don't know how to drive in the rain!" 

And I'll respond, "Dude..... you're totally right." 

We've each left our homes, our families and our friends, and moved to the other's city to pursue our wild dreams. Reynier has worked tirelessly to push his directing career and make movies. Every time I hear from him he's writing, writing, writing, going to meetings, making pitches, shooting something. It's incredible. He's a powerhouse. I want some of him to rub off on me. And his hard work is paying off. Several years were spent on the film Replay, two of them on the festival circuit. Now, this multi-award-winning movie is available for your on-line viewing at www.stopchasingme.com. I highly recommend checking out the chronicles page, as soon as you're done watching the movie and telling your friends about it.

This short film is a thrill. The camera work is gorgeous, the editing is flawless, the score is stunning. And I can say I knew him when.

Consilio et animis, Reynier.

And now he has a chest infection

Since I can't seem to write about much else these days, I'm going to continue on in the vein of NOT shutting the F up about my Magical New Apartment Named Rachel. Even though I totally promised I would. I'm obviously a liar.

Michael has completely dedicated his entire life, and also the use of both of his lungs, to making our apartment beautiful. What do I contribute, you wonder? I do laundry and surf the web and complain about sawdust and eat the meals Mike prepares. Ours is an equal partnership.

Most recently Mike got a bug up his ass to repair the door sills. Which are not called lintels, after all, like we thought they were. They're called sills. (Did you know there were door sills in addition to window sills? I didn't.) Our door sills are wooden, but they had been painted a sickly grey and then, because they weren't ugly enough, someone screwed horrible metal strips into them. (And this is totally off-topic, but you know what? Yesterday I pronounced "horrible" like "harrible". I think I've been in New York a while now.)

Sickly grey with harrable metal strips.

I hate to admit this, but I never even noticed the door sills until Mike pointed them out to me. I didn't really think much about them even after he pointed them out because I was thinking about all the gorgeous sunlight pouring through the many windows. And also how wonderful our bathroom sink is. And how little furniture we own. But Mike just couldn't stand the sills. Not when he knew there was wood! Glorious wood! underneath all that awful paint. It was keeping him up at night.

So my darling, wonderful, brilliant husband who has reactive airway disease, spent the next two days stripping and sanding, polishing and staining, applying urethane then sanding then applying urethane once more, to our five wooden door sills. All while NOT wearing a mask. Because masks are expensive! he argued. Is a t-shirt wrapped around your face expensive? I'm just saying.

Kitchen door sill, stripped and sanded, waiting for stain.

As a result, for the past three days Michael has come home from summer school and collapsed into bed wheezing and snarfling and coughing. And he stays there, curled in a painful sounding lump, until his alarm goes off at 6:00 a.m. the next morning. I was starting to get really worried, but this morning he swore up and down that he feels better. Something about massive amounts of eucalyptus tea he's been sucking down. I wondered why our bedroom smelled like a steam room.

And as I left for work this afternoon, leaning over to kiss his forehead, listening to him hack and squawk, I had to admit, those door sills? They are gorgeous.

Admit it. You're blinded by the sheer gorgeousness, aren't you?