6 months: resetting.

I was going to entitle this entry “6 months in hell,” but it hasn’t truly been totally hellacious. In fact, some of it has been downright amazing. Some memorable goodness: making new and damn amazing friends, realizing that I’ve grown more as an individual in these last six months than I have in the last 10 years combined, graduating from school (finally!), the joy of having my first party at my own place—the first in too many years, talking and listening to music all night long with someone and watching the sun come up over the Manhattan skyline, waking up in a bed not my own, realizing that I can change any situation that isn’t making me happy, getting a job as a bartender, Superman, Late Nights at Lysa’s, identifying a suitor to be a closeted homosexual and subsequently making him wear my most glittery girlie dress (and painting his toes red), bringing Khan into my life, realizing that happiness is not found exclusively in a pair of Manolo Blahniks and most importantly, being able to feel emotions again, even though most of it is sadness; it’s all delicious.

Most days are so damn hard to get through. I’ve never felt such misery and discomfort. But this is a good thing; if things are comfortable, then I’m not moving forward; I’m not challenging myself. If things are comfortable, I’m finding solace in the mundane, and while that might be ok for a short term, it is unacceptable for discovering my full potential. Things must progress forward, and to that end, I must make sacrifices I don’t necessarily want to make and shake up the stuff in my life that’s settled and moldy. This is not a comfortable process.

I told some family members (who were skeptical of my choices) that now is the time for me to get a little crazy and push myself to the absolute limit. I don’t own property. I don’t have any children. I don’t have any real responsibility to anyone right now. I have a few bills, though admittedly haven’t been paying them with the deftness I’d prefer. And as long as I keeping getting them paid, albeit slowly, anything I can dream up is a possibility for me.

Now is the time to see what I’m capable of, and if it doesn’t work out, I can certainly settle myself and get all moldy and enjoy all the comfort that this would bring me. A house in the ‘burbs. A nice car. A disposable income with which to buy all the material possessions required for the appearance of metro middle-class normalcy (the Ann Taylor wardrobe, furnishings from Pottery Barn, kitchen tools and appliances from Williams-Sonoma, gym membership at Club H, a baby dressed by some acceptable baby fashion line I haven’t even heard of yet, weekly manicure/pedicures, hair colored and cut at Bumble and Bumble or Fekkai, Blahniks or Choos, a Coach bag, accessories from Barneys, etc, etc, etc). No thinking required. Follow the formula.

So, while I’m getting a little crazy, I’ve realized that I’m currently a blank canvas, resetting my whole existence. Becoming a new bloom, someone other than what I was.

I had a conversation with K the other day, about traveling and so forth, and how I had a lot of dreams with the soon-to-be-ex that died right along with a certain major event. While I was talking, I could feel the color of dreams start to bleed into my head for the very first time in years; I could feel myself becoming intoxicated by the possibilities of everything that’s out there. And no, it wasn’t the margarita we were sharing. I was so shocked by my inner liveliness that I couldn’t speak properly. My mind was racing; my mouth couldn’t keep up. I realized that I hadn’t even considered any kind of personal forward momentum since 2001. Everything stopped back then. The dreaming ended. And that’s when the mold started.

Now, I’ve hit the reset button and I’m suddenly dreaming again. The colors are fantastically bright. Where will I end up? Will I stay in Hoboken? Will I move to Vermont? Will I buy a house? A condo? A loft? A farm? A bar? Whether I pursue anything by myself remains to be seen. I hope not. Dreams are so much sweeter when the enthusiasm is a shared experience. But if I end up by myself, I know now that it won’t be the end of the world. I can do “by myself.” Didn’t think that I’d ever be a “by myself” kind of person, and really don’t prefer to be, but here I am. Some days are hard, some are beautiful and some I’d just rather sleep through.

All this, and only six months in.

Lo-fi Y

So a month after my computer zonks, I think I'm all cool and shit, ready to go, open for business, working my ass off. And then. My internet goes out. Not just internet, mind you. The entire suite of the Cablevision cable-based connection to humanity as we know it. Internet. Phone. TV.

At first, I'm thinking, not bad. I'm not staying up until 4AM watching Elimidate anymore. This is a good thing. And I'm getting a lot done. Cleaning. Reading. Actually designing my very own website. And my cell phone is really the only immediate connection I have to other people at this point. Other than knocking on doors. Not bad.

But then, I go to turn on channel 61 ("Know BEFORE You Go!") to get the weather, you know, to figure out the wardrobe, and that's when it hits me. I am disconnected. After the reality of not being connected sinks in (I've been "connected' for the last 10 years), and I commit some small episode of hairy-cairy, I realize that I still have options.

I have a radio. I listen to it. Weather and Traffic Every 10 Minutes on the Eights. I have my cell phone. Ok, not the most lo-fi piece of equipment in existence, but neither was my "land line," which in effect, was not a land line at all. It was a cable line. Power goes out, so does my phone.

I read books now. Crazy right? I actually go to the library to email people, do shit like this, and take out books. I can even read the paper here. Nuts. I feel so very academic.

I have 3 minutes left on this computer, so I must bid you adieu. For now.

Shelf life of Twinkies.

When I entered college (Part I), I collected items to take with me, necessary items, things like a stereo turntable, my precious albums, a percolator (spelled Perk-O-lator) I found in my parents' attic. This coffee maker was my grandmother's, who insisted that percolators made the best coffee. Judging by the swishy brush-lettering logo and the futuristic/modern styling, I would put the age of this coffee maker at about the late 1950's.

I used this coffee maker on a daily basis even though such things were forbidden in our dorm rooms. But then, so was pot, and that never stopped anyone from smoking it. It was a veritable free-for-all. Some kids even had hot plates!! We were truly living on the edge.

After college (Part I), I shacked up with my then-future ex-husband (Part I), and continued using my Perk-O-lator. Husband (Part I) brought his own Mr. Coffee into our little apartment, and we chucked it in favor of the delicious coffee provided by the antique percolator.

One fine day about 6 years later, we got into an argument and he flung it at a wall. Hard. It cracked, brusquely ending the 40-year career of Perk-O-lator.

Six months ago, I moved into my new digs. I bought a bunch of new stuff in lieu of conflict, things like a pot, a pan, a TV, and some shit from IKEA. I loved to cook, and leaving all my supplies behind was not easy. (The TV purchase was however, rather enjoyable.) The pots and pans and etc. I left behind were items I had purchased over the years, good pots and pans that cost a bundle but had lifetime warranties, were perfectly seasoned and would have lasted me through my old age.

By contrast, my new shit came from Target, and were brands I thought were "trustworthy." Brands like KitchenAid (For The Way It's Made) and Magnavox (Smart. Very Smart.). Well, after six months, my KitchenAid (For The Way It's Made) heavy-duty non-stick pan is kicked. The non-stick coating is flaking off, and I'm now making the most delicious Teflon omelettes. Ever had one? They're great. And about a month ago, my Magnavox (Smart. Very Smart.) TV/DVD player lost the ability to play DVDs. This was especially upsetting to me since I don't have any premium cable channels, and I loathe commercials. In addition, the sound is now cutting out of one of the speakers.

It's totally laughable. I think of that 40 year-old percolator. And of the 20 year-old Hitachi turntable I brought with me to college (Part I). It sounded so much better than those new shit plastic faux stereo stacks. I think of my beloved collection of pots and pans that I had to leave behind. I think of the console TV my parents inherited from my grandfather. It was probably about 40 years old before it lost the picture. And the tube sound was delightful.

And now, SIX MONTHS into newness, I have to replace a pan. And spend a small fortune to get my new TV fixed. My new TV fixed.

Interesting that these things can't even outlast a Twinkie.

Spill a drink on your head.

So, my friend Karl does this thing where he enlists peeps to submit Top 7 lists. He posts them on his site as the "TG7," TG being "Tough Guy." Because he is.

So, one of the more recent entries lists 7 things/people that "if you think are funny, my opinion of you will suffer," or something like that. Pretty funny. The first thing/person on this list is Dane Cook. I have never heard of Dane Cook. Apparently, Dane Cook is a comedian. Or something.

So I'm at the bar last night, you know, working, and a couple of dudes walk in. Most of the patrons at my bar are of the button-down shirt/baseball cap variety. This dude had a button-down shirt and a baseball cap. I was wearing one of my Superman t-shirts, to perhaps incite some more discussion about the film (success), but mostly because I'm not ready to put them away yet.

So this dude goes, "Hey. Did you ever hear of Dane Cook?"

I'm thinking, gee. I know that name from somewhere... but I can't remember, so I answer, "No."

"Oh, he's a comedian.. and he has this joke, where if you see someone walking down the street in a Superman t-shirt, you should shoot them.."

"Sounds funny. Are you going to shoot me?" I ask.

He laughs. "It looks good on you, though," he says.

You bet it does, buddy. Because you and I both know that I have total control over whatever you do or don't drink at this bar, and by the looks of you, you're going to be wanting a lot more of that bud light. I did not say this. Instead, I got him drunk and he left me a 70% tip.

Dane Cook. Now on my developing list of "7 People that I would totally accidentally spill a drink on if I were to ever meet them at a party. Because they're stupid." Title is pending.

The importance of being Frank.

I was walking around today and caught a whiff of some music. It was coming from the window of a passing car like a passing gust of wind. It was Frank Sinatra. Fly Me to the Moon. The heat, the sun, the strappy shirt I had on, the volume of people walking around, and Frank.

Suddenly, I'm 16. At our summer rental on the boardwalk at Point Pleasant. My sisters are painting shells outside and will offer them up for sale later, using the badge checker station as a podium to announce their wares: 10 cents a she-ell! And who, really, would deny a 4 and 6 year-old blonde-haired, blue-eyed, super-cute couple of girls, a measly dime? Not many. They made a killing. They took their earnings straight to skee-ball and won enough tickets to get stuffed animals that were too big to carry home. All from some stupid shells they found on the beach.

So, I couldn't spend a lot of time outside during the day, because I would blister in a half hour. Sunblock bought some extra time, but generally, I would have to stay inside during the day and read, maybe go for a quick swim (oh how I loved to swim!), provided I slathered my entire body with a whole tube of Coppertone SPF 30. Needless to say, I missed out on the whole sunbathing experience that most teens my age were enjoying. Though even at the time, I really don't think I missed out on much. Especially since I see these women today who are my age, and whose skin has that leathery quality thing going on. Yummy.

Down the boardwalk, there was a large house (still there). It was owned by an older gentleman who installed an amazing sound system and had Frank Sinatra's entire collection of studio recordings on CD. I know this because he had them playing all day, EVERY day. His house became known to the boardwalk regulars as the "Frank Sinatra House." It was a comfort to come down every summer, and know that, no matter what new ugly condos went up, or how trashy the boardwalk got, the Frank Sinatra House would always look nice, and would always be providing some great tunes.

Sometimes, late at night, I would sit on a bench just in front of this house, close my eyes, and listen. The ocean waves surged before me. Cool winds coming off the water flicked my hair and cooled my often sunburned body. The gentle lullabyes of Frank billowed out from the house behind me. I fell in love. In love with life. In love with the ocean. In love with the salty night air. And if I had died at that moment, everything would have been just fine.

Frank has appeared in other indelible moments of my life. My dad playing records for me when I was a kid (I never stopped listening to records after that). "Our song" for my first wedding, The Way You Look Tonight. Well, it was more like "my song," since he wasn't such a Frank person. "Our song" for my second wedding, Fly Me to the Moon. Same deal. He wasn't such a Frank person either. IF there is ever to be a third wedding (there'd better be a very, very, very good reason), not only will there NOT be a Sinatra song, but there won't be a reception, either. What a waste of money.

So Frank Sinatra is poking holes back into my life. I'm now living in Hoboken, for one. This is one of the few places to which I've felt a calling, like it's supposed to be an important place for me. (There are two other places like this, which I may go into another time.) Essentially I felt, even years ago, that I belonged here. That whatever it is I'm supposed to do, it will be realized in Hoboken. I'm just happy that I finally made it back. And on my terms.

A friend of mine visited me at the bar the other night to tell me that he just bought a place next to where Frank was born, and he seemed pretty proud of that. I was pretty excited for him. So were other people in the bar. And thus began an hours-long discussion on Frank, and why he was the most important pop music icon ever. Some interesting counterpoints were Elvis Presley, the Beatles, and Bing Crosby. Hm. I say, close, but no, no and no. No one else has the catalogue, the stylings, the staying power, the cross-genre interest. No one else had Vegas like Frank. Elvis ran a close second. He certainly had the bling. But Vegas will always be Frank's turf. Classic-style. Someone made the argument that Frank was also the coolest pop icon ever. This argument was immediately put to rest when we started talking about Miles Davis.

In addition to this bar-chatter, most of my friends have brought up Frank in one form or another in the past two months or so. These were conversations that they started, or observations they made. All on their own. With no instigation at all by yours truly. Even though secretly, every time I heard/saw one of them bring it up, I got all excited. It's almost like I'm on the verge of something Franky. My inner Frank is aligned with the stars and something great is just underfoot.

Everyone loves Frank. From punkers to rockers to jocks to beboppers.. etc etc. My 93-year old nana loves Frank. My 23 year-old sister loves Frank. Hell, even Khan likes Frank. I'm not kidding. Whenever I play it, he comes in and sits on my lap. Tell me that's not love.

I went visiting my parents on their boat recently, and we went walking on the boardwalk. It was bittersweet; I was overcome by nostalgia (that big word again) for the tetherball we used to play in the sand, for the box of Hoffman's Donuts we'd get every year for my birthday, for the walks to Spike's fish market to eat THE BEST New England Clam Chowder, for the time we went for lobster and I named mine and cried when they pulled it out of the tank and the evil man took it to be killed in the back, and of course, for the Frank Sinatra House.

The old man has recently died and left the house to his children (who have children of their own). Some days, if you're lucky, you might hear Frank Sinatra coming from the speakers of that great sound system. But most days, everyone is too busy to turn it on, and instead of Frank, what you'll hear as you pass by are the squeals of children running around the house.

Sigh.