What Am I? A Bologna Sandwich?

As I've mentioned before, I live in Bushwick. I've resided here for almost three of the five years I've lived in New York City. I remember the day after I moved in, setting out on my own in hot pursuit of a new local laundry mat. Upon rounding the corner, leaving the nearly empty side-street of Grove for the more bustling sidewalks of Broadway, I immediately found myself the recipient of several nicknames: "Hey Princess"; "Snow bunny"; "Sugar cookie"; "Peach", which all were thrown in my direction before I had even walked an entire block.

That was 2007.

Today is different. I still walk down Broadway all the time by myself, but now with nary a call or effusive shout. At first, I thought my hair played a factor. As in early 2007 I was a shoulder-length blond, and since then my hair has been brown, red, and boy-short bleach blond. But my hair is now back to the early 2007 style, and yet the cat calls still don't compare to what I used to get.

So now I am left to wonder, since it's not the hair, what about me, or my neighborhood, has changed in the last three years?

Yes, perhaps the streets of Southern Bushwick are now more used to the sight of a fair-skinned, blond woman walking solo down the street. But also, maybe it's me. Perhaps my expression has grown more smug, and I now appear less innocent-looking. While I gleefully hope that the subtle change in my facial facade is capable of shutting the mouths of horny men, I must admit, though, that I miss them. The cat calls. A girl needs a certain amount of compliments to confirm her outfit decisions or hair style choices. I mean, if people don't say anything, how am I supposed to know if I look good? If a day passes where I'm not randomly shouted at on the street, I'll assume the worst.

Thankfully, there is still the rare and sporadic comment or remark. One weekend last summer, after I'd just switched two loads of clothing from the washer to the dryer, I stepped outside for relief from the stuffy, non air-conditioned confines of the laundry mat. I decided to head north, in search of a cool treat. I purchased a frozen strawberry popsicle from the corner deli and began consuming it on the street as I headed back toward my spinning clothing. On my way, I passed two young gentlemen, clad in baggy denim and wife beaters. They intently stared as I walked by, and somewhere deep inside I hoped that they would say something to me, make me feel like I existed. After all, despite it being laundry day, I had on my tightest pants. But they passed by, and my heart sank. But then, after they were already behind me, one of them said, "I would give anything to be that popsicle, baby."

Finally! After months of silence I at last had the confirmation I'd been waiting for. And I lived off this one simple comment for at least a week, able to again feel confident and secure in my appearance.

And then, a week later, just when the remnant feelings from the former comment were beginning to wear off, I passed two other gentlemen on the street, Bushwick Avenue this time, less than a block from my home, with my apartment building in sight. As I walked by them I began hoping. And again, once my back was to them (this apparently being an opportune moment for them), one of the men shouted, "Suck my dick!"

They couldn't see it, but I was smiling. And their simple comment, which I'm sure they forgot about almost instantly, affirmed my existence in this world for another entire month.

And it is because of these instances that I have to send out a whole-hearted thank you to the men of Bushwick. You make my life worth living.

Off to Portland --

To deliver a somewhat used cookbook with pink-speckled pages from all the beets sliced in its presence to this broad -- the loveliest little sprite with whom I share a fondness for chaise lounges and, at one point if not still, Donna Hayward-inspired skirts and sweaters.



I will deliver the cookbook, frolic in the misty woods, wear clothes that for the first time in almost a year will be within hugging reach of their original owner, and eat a donut or two. And maybe go to a strip club.

Mollycoddling the afternoon away

Molly: http://ashortwave.files.wordpress.com/2009/11/bagby_hot_springs.jpg
Get your pants of girl, this is gonna be a wet one
these guys may or may not be there
http://oregonhotsprings.immunenet.com/images/bagbytub.jpg
sorry, I meant "get your pants off." it's early. I need an editor.

Sent at 2:13 PM on Friday
Me: Oh man! Molly, I love log rides!!
and i sincerely HOPE that those guys are there!!

Molly: Well, if you're going to get a log ride they're the only ones capable of giving it to you
Sent at 2:28 PM on Friday

Me: Nice.

Molly: I am happy because I just found out the roads to that place are clear. Usually it's too snowy this time of year to get there!
oh boy!

Me: oh boy(s)!!, you mean
Sent at 2:32 PM on Friday

Molly: well, of course
you'll love the men who hang out there: hawaiian-print board shorts, pit-bulls, soul patch

Sent at 2:35 PM on Friday
Me: I love me a good soul patch

Sent at 2:58 PM on Friday
Molly: a soul patch log jamb

Sent at 3:05 PM on Friday
Me: a patched log, soul jam

Sent at 3:46 PM on Friday
Molly: hawaiian soul, pit jam

Me: jam band, jimmy buffet
Sent at 3:49 PM on Friday

Molly: cheeseburger jam, paradise patch
Sent at 3:54 PM on Friday

Molly is offline. Messages you send will be delivered when Molly comes online.

Me: Ball pit, Rick Warren

Portland Oregon Women's Film Festival

The schedule for the 2010 Portland Oregon Women's Film Festival, Obvious Child's second film festival appearance. Conveniently screened right after "Whore" and just before "Bollywood". Perfect. Though, I wish we followed "Catechism". Still, we're practically famous.

Also, for local people -- there's a screening of the film this Monday, the 22nd at The Tea Lounge in Park Slope. Info here.

The World Is What It Is

These girls are of the purest gold wound in the softest silk from the most luminous worm.



G: i heart pooping with james franco
ME: can you imagine an emoticon for james franco?
G: a big smiling dick

I WANTED TO TELL YOU...YOUR VOICE FILLS MY HEART WITH DIVINE LIGHT

Dario Argento made a Phantom of the Opera film in the 90s?! Good night!

Life Lessons

I'm learning so many new things about my self out there in the real world! Like this...

Today at my internship my already torn skirt (it has a small tear on the side, which looks like an intentional modest slit) got caught on the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom and ripped all the way up to my butt.

Luckily, I have a friend in the office and after we batted around a few unsuitable suggestions (paper clip, glue stick, scotch tape, butterfly stickers) we came to the best solution: stapler. I took it into the bathroom and locked myself behind a stall. I sat down on the toilet, skirt in my lap, and began stapling the side seam back together. Very soon though, a flock of women came in and gathered around the sink and in the two stalls on either side of me. Now, if you don't know, staplers happen to have a very distinct sound, and finding myself no longer alone, I grew very self-conscious of the noise I was making. I tried to imagine what several repeated stapler clicks coming from inside a stall might sound like to other people. So I stopped and waited, and when a toilet flushed I rapidly finished the job.

Well, turns out, regular staples aren't meant to hold fabric together. I left my internship in the afternoon, staples still in tact, and got on the subway to go uptown to my other job. I'd forgotten all about my skirt mishap and when I bent over to sit down, the staples relented and the rip burst apart, exposing my entire thigh (covered in tights, thankfully) and releasing a loud rip noise that sounded like a fart. People looked at me. The staples were now noticeable, sticking out and bent, the occasional one pricking my skin. But I had seven more stops to go before I could get off. So I just sat there. I sat quietly, trying to anticipate the motions of the train in effort to keep my body still and prevent any further staple pokes. Soon enough, the people turned away from me and back to their newspapers and video games. All except the guy on the end of the train who was wearing a trash bag. He was still looking at me. And I was OK with that.

What I learned: there is nothing to be ashamed of, I am rather resourceful, and I might have a thing for homeless men.

Nonrelated:
Below, a google earth shot of a friend's parents' house. It's in Iowa and the human-looking image in the grass behind the house is a garden that was intentionally designed to look like a fetus when viewed from above. An homage to Jesus.


View Larger Map