Note to Self (79) Ode to New York

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There’s a lot I’d like to say about 9/11 and New York City, but I know everybody will be writing about it tomorrow, so I won’t dwell on the past and repeat the horrendous stories I heard when I was still a teenager aspiring to live the dream in the United States. Instead, I wanted to talk about love.

I grew up in another country, speaking another language and thinking differently, never really sure of what my fate would be, and how I’d ultimately end up here. I had millions of ideas, and mostly experienced the frustration of what I should do with my life. I was depressed, angry, unhappy with the world and with myself. It quickly became clear I wanted out.

My half-brother had been living in New York City for the past ten years. My parents and I, however, never had the chance to come visit. I didn’t know what awaited me, but I raved about it in my dreams. Movies didn’t help. They always painted such a glorifying picture of the Big Apple, the town where everything could happen; success, happiness, love…. You named it, New York could do it for you.

In September 2000, my father finally decided to take us to the United States. It didn’t really matter what we’d do once we landed, my half-brother had planned a lot of things for us anyway. We mostly wanted to see it with our own eyes, and experience what New York was all about. No camera kept rolling in the background this time, and it surprised us.

Coming to a new country such as the United States hit us with all the cultural shock you could imagine. We remained mesmerized before the beauty of the City, but we also misunderstood a lot of its traditions and habits. It seemed so odd to us to tip a cab driver. We didn’t know where to eat, how to order and how much to pay since the tax was never indicated on the prices we saw everywhere. We felt lost, and confused. My half brother took us to shows and concerts, and we visited the most touristic areas because that’s what you do when you come to New York. You go to Times Square, and the Empire State Building. You take the Staten Island ferry, and you never leave the boat because all you really care about is the skyline of downtown New York on your way back. You cross 5th avenue, and you stroll around Wall Street. Those are memories you cannot forget. They stay stuck with you forever.

My first impression of New York felt like the first time I saw Steve, the guy who I deeply fell in love with when I was 13. I was under the spell, completely unable to reject what this mega town kept throwing in my face. All the garbage, the smell, the crowd and the weird language and idioms I never could grasp didn’t frighten me one bit. I was blinded by it. When you’re barely 17 and you don’t know who you are yet, the smallest things can change your life forever. There’s certainly nothing insignificant about New York. Everything matters, whether you love it or you hate it.

On September 11, 2001, one special memory I held in mind played like a loop when I exited the driving school car I had been in for two hours as part of my driving lesson. I truly despised my instructor. He always yelled at me. These times were tough. I failed the driving test once before passing the second time. No, don’t laugh. Driving in France is a bit more complicated than in the United States. First, you drive stick. Second, you actually parallel park between two cars. Third, streets are really narrow. Fourth, you take the test every six months if you’re lucky. Ok, so now you understand better why getting my driver’s license in France was such a big deal, so much that I totally blocked the six weeks I spent studying for my high school graduation exam, aka Baccalaureat. Anyway…. I’m not here to reminisce about that.

I remember pulling behind another vehicle at the driving school, when one of the instructors came from inside the shop and rushed to my window to talk to my instructor. “Listen, turn on the radio, something’s happening in New York right now. It’s like a movie. But it’s not.”

A few hours later, I sat on the carpet of my parents’ living room, riveted to the TV. I couldn’t believe the images I was seeing. It really looked like a movie, except that it was real.

I felt pain. I recalled vividly standing at the bottom of the towers exactly one year earlier, filming them from below, walking from one to the other until my neck hurt so much I had to stop looking up. I witnessed the sky embrace the metallic structure with so much beauty I lost my breath for a few seconds. I was in love. New York got me so deep and so strong, there was no way I wouldn’t come back and live there one day.

I don’t care about all the people who claimed that the United States deserved such punishment because of their arrogance. When I finally left France, some of them even told me I’d regret it. Well guess what? I shaped my whole life to be here today. New York gave me the motivation to work toward that goal since I was 17. It didn’t matter how much time it’d take me, I knew deep inside I’d make it and that I’d become American.

This was what it’s all about. The flag, the pride, the power and mostly the love, that everlasting love that pierced through me like a sword, they welcomed me home. I sang along to their tune of glory they kept whispering in my ear, and I felt invincible. All the dislike I experienced growing up was finally gone. All the lies, the jealousy, the despising comments and the spite, I had forgotten about them. I was hers forever. New York wanted me to stay and I did. There’s nothing in this world that could ruin that for me, not even death.

You know, what I personally experienced through my break up and my divorce taught me one very important thing: no matter how down you are, you must fight and get up. You can’t let threats and devious attacks slow you down. You have to keep going, always harder, and show the world how strong you really are. Life, my friends, is all about love, and it’s this love that made me the individual I am today.

I love you New York, and I love you America. You’ll always have my unconditional support. I’d be nothing without you, and I thank you for that. God bless.

Guest Post (1) Wayne W. Whicher

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Hi everybody! Today we welcome a guest on the Manicheans. Wayne is a wonderful tweep. You can find him under @WayneWWhicher, and you can check his blog here.

Without further ado, I present to you his post.

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Johanna is certainly one of the most insightful, amazing people that I have connected with on Twitter.  I was new to social media a few weeks ago and she quickly became one of my favorite people to chat with.  I hungrily tore through many of the blog posts on her site.   Her writing is addictively deep, full of hurt and pain, and draws her readers into the world that she tries to trudge through every day.  I offered supportive experiences of my own, and likely paid her a few too many compliments (it doesn’t hurt that she’s both intelligent and stunning). I’ve always felt that innocent compliments simply help to make someone who is feeling down enjoy a smile and appreciate the little things.  That’s just me.

So, we moved into the subject of blogs and such.  I didn’t have my own blog, and loved reading hers, so I picked her brain a little about the subject.  She inspired me one night, and the next day my own blog was up and running.   It’s true that I am a do-er, but without her inspiration, I wouldn’t have been properly motivated.  We then stumbled upon the subject of guest posting on blogs and she offered that I could post on hers.  I considered this a very sweet offer from someone I had just met.  I guess that’s just one more reason of why she is a special person and deserves the best out of life.

However, I said no.    How many people would have said no?  Not many I wager.

No.   I didn’t feel that I could do it yet.   I wanted any words that I wrote and guest posted on her blog to be top-notch.   Brilliant.   Amazing.  Insightful.   It’s not an image or reputation thing.  It’s a sign of respect for her own deep words that pour onto her own pages.   I told her that I appreciated the offer but I didn’t feel like I was ready.  So, I went and worked on my own blog, and did a few artsy, fartsy posts on some travel websites and such.  Then one day a post that I put up on my own blog received a comment from her touting the romantic post as ‘Brilliant!’

A few days ago I emailed her and said that I was ready….

And then, POW!!!  I shot myself in the foot.  Let’s just say that it hurt quite a bit.   Figuratively of course.  My imagination could picture it with a big, gaping red hole right in the center, with the smell of cordite hanging in the air…  How did I shoot myself in the foot you ask?  Well, I had inquired to her for what theme, subject, or what-not that she would like my guest post to be about.  I told her to do her worst, I could handle anything.  I boldly stated that any man who had ever stood in line at a grocery store with a box of tampons could handle it.  She could do her worst.  Any subject she wanted… And then…

Of course, she said she’d leave it up to me for the subject.  Open-ended… Really?  Like I said… POW!  The seed, my friends had already been planted.  Any good writer worth their salt has an imagination that takes over like horses released from the gate, trampling madly along the concourse.   I had shot myself in the foot and would boldly proceed to go where man does not like to go.  My imagination had taken flight.   Come along for the journey with me below…   I did this to myself… Damn imagination.

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My feet move through the automatic door of the store, and propel themselves forward simply on auto-pilot.  Okay, I can handle this… I think.   What’s the big deal anyways?  The big deal is that my brain is over-active and wonders about the thoughts going through other people’s minds.  Imagination is a curse sometimes, but it’s not like my mission today isn’t part of everyday life.  It’s not as if I haven’t purchased my share of things that bring an upraised eyebrow from checkout people in today’s society.

In my younger years I procured many boxes of ‘Parachutes’ of course.  How many women have bought those?  Not many I wager.  I’m sure some women have, as a tangent flares off inside my mind, wondering what was going through their head as they moved through the stores that day.  A smile graces my face at that image.  Still… I think that I’ve always been a little too innocent for my own good.  I have a mind that works like any good writer, simply inventing things that aren’t there.

As I begin to walk down the aisle, my over active brain starts begins to insert narratives into the thoughts of the various women that I start to encounter on my quest.  As I pass a counter laden with ring-dings and ho-ho’s (yum!) I see a woman striding towards me purposefully with her carriage.  She is about twenty-eight and quite nice looking.   She seems to have the makings of a fabulous dinner for one in her cart.  My eye spies a bottle of wine, some buffalo mozzarella, and a lean cuisine dinner.  I look up into her face and her eyes lock onto mine.  She smiles.  God, she has a fabulous smile.  Does she know why I’m there?  I keep the smile on my face and her eyes twinkle back at me.  Grocery stores are the best place to pick up single women right?  Not today my friend, keep moving.  Feet… move forward.  One after the other.  Let’s get this done and get out of here.  A smile from a gorgeous woman would probably turn quickly to a frown if they knew that I have a list in my pocket with one of those items on it that men would rather just not ever have to pick up.   Hoping to see that woman that the next time I’m in the store when I have a bottle of merlot and some king crab legs under my arm, I pass her quickly.   She even smells wonderful.   Gee, do you think my mind is grasping at anything and everything besides my purpose?   You’d be right.

Shuffling my feet with eyes downcast, I traverse quickly through the aisles.  Aware that I am counting the interlocking diamond shaped tiles on the floor of the grocery store, I physically pull my eyes upwards.   Now I’m playing ‘shop till you drop’ in my mind as I scan the shelves.   Where is that jar of chilli peppers that will earn me $1000 extra dollars?   Okay… try to focus, silly mental tangent boy.   I realize that my hands are in my pockets, hiding the list crumpled up in a small wad… away from prying eyes.  Focus.   Now.  Move it mister.

Okay, get a grip.  Get a hold of yourself.  It’s not that big of a deal.   Really, who cares?  No one.   A smile graces my face as I realize that I’m just being silly.   I’ll be in and out of the store in two more minutes.   No problem.  If I can just find the stupid things that is.   Where the heck are they already?   My innocent heart can’t take much more of this crazy shopping mission from hell.

I finally find myself in the correct aisle, in the correct place.   Then… I see that I have a problem… a big problem.  Crap.  My eyes try to keep from going cross-eyed as they roam over the myriad of colorful boxes on the shelf in front of me.   The damn shelf must be like twenty feet wide.  Thwarted by ten million choices.   Reading some of the boxes in front of me, I see that the clever marketing people have tried to tout the special features of the contents.   Trying to narrow down the choices?  Or drive us witless guys crazy?   Wings?  Extra-absorbency?  Normal absorbency? Right.   Now what’s that going to convey at home if I bring back the wrong one?  What man wants to bring home extra-absorbency if that’s not needed?  What does that convey for a message?  Custom applicator?  Excuse me?  Applicator?   Who knew?  I’ve always considered myself an observant, sensitive kind of guy, but really there are some things that are better not to know about.   The door to the bathroom is generally shut tightly at home on those days, my friend.

Back to the choices.  Again…Focus.  Let’s go, let’s get this over and done with.  Okay.  Visualize.  I try to picture the vanity cabinet at home in my mind.   Visualize the box?  What color is it?   It’s blue with white trim and lettering.  Okay.  Now then… Brand?  Okay, I can see it in my head now.  Thank god for mental pictures stored away for just such an emergency.  Do I really have mental pictures of that box in the bathroom cabinet stored up in my brain?  Ugh.  Now then, is there any mention of the level of absorbency on the package?   No clue, I’ve got nothing.  My powers of visualization seem to have run out.  Okay, I’ll stick with normal.   Really?  It’s a Friday night and these are my choices?   Can I just run back down the aisle and flirt shamelessly with that woman that caught my eye?  Nope, my girlfriend is waiting for me at home, and hopefully will have a celebratory dinner prepared for me, once I return victoriously with the requested item.  Come on now.  Focus.

In front of me, on the metal shelving from circa 1960, the heavens open up and lights burst forth from above as the fireworks go off.   There it is. Done. Sold. Out of here. I grab the box and make like a football receiver, tucking it under my arm as I move quickly towards the check out area.

A little gremlin inside my brain makes a good suggestion as my hand reaches out towards a wire rack that I am passing, and I grab a LARGE bag of chips (see camouflage in the dictionary).  I pass through the wine aisle during my mad dash for the register and I grab a bottle of wine (see fortitude in same dictionary).

I make it to the checkout counter, probably breaking many time speed records in the process.  My luck is holding out, as I duck under the lighted plastic #4 on a pole and see that I have won a male checkout person.  I try to position the box on the rolling, black link belt just so, with the chips perched on top of it.   My hands aren’t even fumbling that much as I get out my ID should that be necessary for the wine to get me out of there quicker. I got this. I’m home free.

And then.  My luck runs out.   “Can I get a price-check at checkout #4?”  intones over the loud speaker as the male checkout person that I was so happy to see a moment ago throws me under the bus.  All heads turn towards me, standing there in aisle #4 as the checkout guy raises the blue and white box up into the air.   The largest, most unpleasant faced, blonde female store manager that you have ever seen strides in my direction.    She inputs the price from her price book, and gives me a huge smile.   I don’t look her in the eye.   I look down at the credit card in my hand instead.  I hear her chuckle as she disappears back towards her podium at the front of the bridge.   Go back under your bridge you troll, my mind offers up.   Trip, trap, trip, trap.   Okay, enough with that, I tell my imagination to be quiet, let’s pay and get out of here.

I run for the hills with my bags tucked under my arm, the items enclosed inside the wrinkly plastic bags with the store logo on them.  Success.  Bold indeed.  Yeah right.

I was very bold to suggest that I could guest post on any topic to my friend Johanna.  Did I really think that I wasn’t ready when she first suggested it?  Really?  Reliving this torturously fun memory from years ago has reminded me that men that have run the grocery store gauntlet in search of tampons can accomplish anything.   I’d rather guest post anytime than be forced to go back into that store for that blue and white box.

Note to Self (78) In-laws

Note to Self4 Comments

In-laws. It’s like opening a Pandora box. You don’t really know what you’ll get, and once you do, you may want to run away very, very far. They’re technically your family now. By law. Certainly not by choice. They’re the extra accessory that comes with the main package – your wife or your husband, whom you love dearly.

For those who’ll claim that they have no issues with their in-laws, well, good for you. For the others who’ll recognize themselves in those words, I simply give them all my support. I had the opportunity to experience the cherishing joy of having in-laws who seemed more than excited to show me their affection through everything they did, said, and mostly, gave me.

It’s awfully odd to deal with strangers who suddenly call you their son, daughter, brother or sister just because you’re the new addition. You didn’t grow up with these people, and you have no idea how insanely nice or mean they are. It’s already hard enough to handle your own mum and dad. I still have trouble understanding them, and it’s been 28 years that we’ve been together. My brother and sister remain enigmas to me, and we don’t talk because honestly, why bother? It’s simply too much work with a hypothetical result that doesn’t give me any hope that my life will be better after (re)connecting with them.

Let’s just say it how it is. I’m not the typical chick who’s thrilled by big families. My family is big, one side’s Jewish, the other side’s German, and they don’t really like each other that much, you know. The only relatives I knew were my grandmas, a few uncles and aunts, and then my parents. The rest, well, stayed in the dark.

There are three people in the whole wide world who know me so well they can predict what I like and make me the happiest woman on earth every time they give me something: my mother, my father, and my best friend, who all still live in France. Everybody else has no effing clue what to do to please me, and this, my friends, is pathetic. I’m not difficult. I really am not. The only thing I ask is for you to think before you buy me something, if you buy me something, of course. Discarding your closet remains might not be the best idea, but it could also work if you understand my personality.

Now, let me ask you this. How hard is it to think twice before you give somebody something that you believe will make them happy? Huh? How much time does it require to forget about your selfish needs, and focus on somebody else for once? And by “forget about your selfish needs”, I don’t mean blindly imposing your will on everybody around just because your career as a despot didn’t work out for you. Well, apparently, this is the hardest thing in the world.

This I learned as a child already. How many times have I gotten crap I ended up giving away to cousins or goodwill? A million. This behavior certainly didn’t encourage me into trusting people’s ability to use their brain. A robot might have done a better job. I just gave up on receiving great little gifts – or big gifts – I don’t really care. The size and the price don’t matter.

Now… why am I talking about gifts? Love can be expressed in many ways, of course, but a gift will truly show you what the person thinks of you and how much effort they put into pleasing you. A gift shows care. And no, the intention is nice, but when it misses the mark, it can really go to the trash. I have nice intentions all the time, does it make me Mother Theresa? Nope. Sorry. So people who pretext they intended to make you happy but plainly failed because they were too lazy to move their ass and shake their dusty brain cells, move along, and try again, without collecting your $200 when you pass “Go”.

I already talked about my painful experience when I received a snuggie for Christmas. This wonderful present came from my sister in law, who even told me when she gave it to me that she just didn’t feel like thinking of anything else. Well, that’s nice. Does it give me the authorization to slap you now?

Another memorable gift came from my mother in law. I mentioned above that my in-laws worked their asses off to show me how much they cared for me. I had married their son, and they seemed fairly happy about his choice. They always joked about how American I was for a French girl. Yeah yeah. Lots of talking never really does the job when no action follows.

My in-laws had implemented this “tradition” that drove me absolutely crazy. I couldn’t merely ask for gift cards, because “it has to be wrapped and under the tree, otherwise, it’s not fun” (my mother in law’s own words). I’m not 5 anymore. I work, and I earn my own money, so when I need something, I don’t ask mum and dad to get it for me. I go get it myself. Forcing me to ask for stuff I don’t need doesn’t feel like fun to me, especially after celebrating two weddings (one civil and one religious), and getting tons of it through registries. We were set, and we didn’t need more “useful” things to pile up in our 1 bedroom apartment. But no…. According to “Mum”, Christmas WAS fun when a mountain of gifts lied under the tree and you spent 5 hours opening all the packages to find out that 95% of them were pure junk. But yeah, you left with 55 different gizmos that all ended up in the trash on your return from this delightful vacation. I never liked mountains of gifts under the tree because every time this happened, I ended up with crap. I’d rather get one nice gift, or plenty of gift cards. Anyway…

Christmas, the burden, has arrived, and so has the crap. I sigh of despair, wondering why you can’t call in sick with such obscure and moronic family traditions. The snuggie already hit me hard for Christmas 2009, and I really thought nothing could beat that, but I was so wrong. Christmas 2010, a new bomb is dropped. As my two sisters in law and I each unwrap a BIG box full of socks (apparently we all needed socks), I hear my mother in law say in the background: “Ya know, ya always need socks. So I thought, why not give ‘em socks and make it a Christmas present? That was such a good idea, riiiiight? They’re cashmere. Keeps you warm in the winter. They had this sale at…..” I stopped listening. I didn’t get socks as a “gift” since I was 15. I buy my own, and now, I certainly don’t consider giving socks to be a very thoughtful idea. Cashmere or gold, they’re socks for Godsake! It’s as if my mother in law had bought me underwear, you know…. Wait… Among the socks, I find two little things tightly rolled, and when I read the label, I see “Hankypanky”. “What is that?” I ask, cutting her off and showing her the pink and purple objects. “Oh thaaaaat? They’re G-strings. I thought ya might need ‘em too. Y’all need ‘em you gals, don’t cha? I thought it might be a nice touch among the socks to give ya some extra underwear….”

I stare at her in complete disbelief. She even repeated she had been “thinking” a lot. My sister in law is jumping up and down, yay, G-strings, and my other sister in law is also quite satisfied with her thongs, so I wonder: am I the weirdo here? First of all, I don’t wear G-strings. Second, why does my mother in law buy me that shit, and for Christmas???? Third, can I grab my brother in law’s newly unwrapped shotgun and slaughter everybody on the spot??

I’m no prude. I’m European. Heck, I’m French. We watch naked people on television and we know about sex when we’re 10. We curse, we drink, we eat stinky cheese, brains and frog legs, and we’re proud of it. But this… It just floored me for the rest of my life. I don’t want your bloody G-strings, and I especially don’t want YOU to buy me that stuff, knowing afterwards that I’m gonna be the one wearing it! WTF! Do I still have my privacy here? Or do you wanna be in my vagina too and get me tampons at the store? I mean seriously, how far can you go? You’re not my mother, for Godsake! If you actually were, you’d know better.

On that note, now you all know what not to give me for Christmas: snuggies and G-strings. Once I think of something else I really hate, I’ll send an update. In-laws, I’m telling you. They sometimes come from weird places and do weird things I’ll never understand. And this, my friends, is the scariest thing in the world. Forget about baby zombies and mighty Godzillas. The snuggie and G-string threat is the latest pandemic, and it’s deadly. Be safe, and remember: too much of this bullshit can really kill a relationship. THINK for real next time or just give nothing. A good hug can mean much more than all of this junk.

Note to Self (77) Words

Note to Self, WritingWrite a comment

I wanted to write. Sitting by my keyboard as I would by my piano, I let my fingers play to create a melody I’m not really sure about, but I trust my instincts… I guess it’s always been like that. I never forced it. It came on its own and it guided my hands. These words became my friends. I confided in them and they loved me more in return, building castles of beauty that my brain embraced every time I read them, over and over, more addicted to them as they ran like my blood through my veins and never drained.

The love I have for them cannot be explained through logic. It’s like paint under the brush of an artist. I apply my colors with the precision of an architect, letting them take shape and bring to life all the ideas stuck in my mind. I think I’m crazy, always focused on how I would talk about things, how I would describe the world surrounding me, how I would simply look at the sky and see the million rainbows that are invisible to the eyes of so many people…

My heart responds to the tempo of my imagination, singing in unison a magical song that transports not only me, but also anyone who can read. I feel so grateful for the gift I received without knowing it. I always wanted to run faster than everybody else; I guess I found a way to race at the speed of light just with the power of my words. That music sounds so soft to my ears, so balanced and so perfect, enchanting me to the point of tears. My love for them is infinite, growing stronger as I keep typing… My sorrow disappears when I write, and I forget about the solitude I never learned to live with. These words even lightened the heaviest burden I had to carry, and always took me to a better place. They will probably also save me from myself… I enjoy their company so much.

I really needed this. I know I’m an addict. Isn’t that funny? I crave my own ideas… I heard that real artists never stop creating, even when they sleep. That’s maybe why I haven’t slept so well lately. This gift has become a plight, never leaving me alone… But I can’t help it. I just love them too much to stop. I think that I’ll face death the day I won’t be able to write like that anymore, and this will be a tragic time…

I like what I composed. All these letters look so pretty. Now I can go rest… until I’ll be bothered again.

Note to Self (76) Boston

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I stand on the subway platform, waiting for my train to arrive. The old routine’s kicking in as I distract myself and glance at the several billboards displaying upcoming TV series and movies, forcing me to look beyond the white tiles of the walls of the 86th street station. A few seconds pass before I notice a rodent running between the tracks.

It’s been raining all morning. It feels like a Monday even if it’s a Tuesday, and all the fun of the long Labor Day weekend has now become a distant memory.

How did I spend this most appreciated leisure time? I went to Boston with my girlfriend. How was it? Well let me tell you how it was.

Boston is not New York. It’s smaller, quieter… simply different. I had been there before, so I thought I knew Boston. I obviously didn’t. This fourth time was my first time, and I must say, my best.

Boston has the heart of an old pirate that never gave up on the battle. It vibrates with strength and smoothness. Its buildings reflect the passage of time, remnants of an era that witnessed waves of European immigrants plant their flags onto the American soil, create a new identity, and forge a new culture that transpired into everything they touched. They’re Irish, Italian, British… displaying their colors on every street corner, and proudly chanting their anthems in their native tongues. There’s nothing pretentious about Boston. The rawness of its soul is what touched me the most.

I got utterly impressed by the Harvard and MIT campuses when we visited Cambridge. The food we ate exceeded my expectations; the beer I tasted kept me drunk for days. I let Boston charm me and I fell in love with its air, with its people, with its streets and even with its Red Sox team. You know, I’m a Yankees’ fan because I live in New York, but I’d be a Red Sox fan if I lived in Boston. This town seduced me and welcomed me with open arms showing me how beautiful she was, without too many bright lights and tall skyscrapers. Boston is just like this gorgeous girl who wears no make up, no powder, no glitter…. Boston doesn’t need all that crap to shine like a diamond.

I realized how much I liked Boston as soon as I set foot back in New York. The noise, the anger, the stress and the crowd…. It hit me like a million bricks. I yearn to go back and escape again. Yes, New York, I admit it. I enjoyed cheating on you. And you know what? I don’t even feel guilty about it.

Note to Self (75) Tail swing

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Happiness is all in the tail swing.

Believe me when I say that, because it’s true. See, I was a cow in a previous life. Don’t laugh. Cows are great animals. They have four stomachs and they eat grass all day. They stand outside, even when it rains, and they don’t care if their fur gets wet. They look very trendy, with their white and black coats that never go out of style. Plus, they feed millions. Milk, cheese, yogurt… I’m telling you, being a cow is awesome.

Now what is the best part of being a cow? The tail swing of course! Are you seriously laughing again? Listen, here’s the deal.

Imagine you’re a cow. Well it’s not that hard to imagine. Just wear a cow suit. Exactly. It’s Halloween. Nobody will question your sanity on Halloween. Bear with me. So here you are, in your cow suit, feeling like a cow (of course you ARE a cow), and then you suddenly hear that music coming from somewhere in the background. Don’t question it, just listen to it.

Boom boom boom, the beat overcomes you and your behind starts shaking as you dance on the groove of this melody that you recognize instantly. The rhythm takes control of your hips  while you’re doing some small circles with your arms just to look coordinated, and then, you work your asset: your tail. No, I’m serious. A good tail swing will take you very far, I swear to you. Yes, I have first hand experience. Back to practice.

So here you are, working the dancefloor like a pro (cameras are on, maybe you will achieve posterity as a cow by being put on youtube); now comes the best part: the solo of your tail swinging to the chorus of this memorable song by Queen, We will rock you. Oh you know you want it!  “We will, we will, rock you, boom, boom, We will, we will, rock you, boom, boom”. You can’t help yourself now, can you? I knew it. And here it goes, your crazy tail is swinging, moving up, moving down, to the left and to the right, as you quickly and surely become the star of the party.

To be a bit more original, I may suggest complementing the look of the cow suit by adding a cowboy hat, and a guitar, maybe boots too, but I leave that up to you. It might be a bit too much on the style side. Oh, and last but not least, dip some tobacco, and spit every two minutes just to look funnier. You don’t trust me?

Listen, if somebody really makes a nasty comment, just tell them that cows are revered in India. Here. Problem settled.

Then watch Steamboat Willie by Walt Disney.

If after that you don’t want to be a cow, then I don’t know what’s wrong with you.

Note to Self (74) I just need to write and I’ll feel better

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I’m feeling sad tonight. I’ve been feeling sad all week actually. It’s hard to explain why I get to such low moments like that, especially when there’s nothing wrong with me. Everything’s going fine in my life. But I still ache. My mind cannot stop thinking of all the things I’d like to say to be at peace but I just keep emptying myself to be filled up with more sorrow to deal with.

What’s up with me? I thought I was strong. I convinced myself it would be nothing, yet this is the hardest experience I had to go through. All the stress, all the pressure, everything is slowly deflating like a big balloon of anger, leaving me with nothing but tears, and words.

So I write. I put it out there for the world to read, and understand my pain. Will it make me feel better? Yes. I need to talk in order to heal. Will it make me happier? I don’t know.

I’m so lost right now. I’m falling down a cliff and I see no bottom. The air doesn’t even support me, and as I keep moving down, I see the world above laughing at me. I hear them say “Oh how tough she think she was! Now look at her!” and their grins haunt my dreams for days onward.

I’m reaching a system overload. All the crap I had to go through, and it didn’t stop after I left, it kept coming at me like a wave of filth, wanting to just push me down until I drowned.

I can’t even reread my words because they hurt too much. I don’t know what to do. I’m crying like stupid and I don’t know how to let it all go.

I’m totally depressed. I feel dirty and weak. I feel little and insignificant. I feel used. I feel abused. I feel so tired of fighting against the ghosts of my past. Tonight I feel like a part of me is dying, and it hurts like hell.

I want to find peace. I just want to be left alone. God please help me… Give me the strength to go on without struggle, without fear and misery. Keep me smart and grounded, make me laugh and shine, and give me love. I promise I’ll be a good girl from now on.

That thought made me smile. Thank you.

Note to Self (73) Random thoughts before bed

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When I mentioned how much I was hurt because I missed the love I lost, somebody told me to move on. There was nothing to save from the past, and I just had to stop looking back. These times were gone. Forever.

So this is an adieu to my love. Even if it aches. Even if I don’t want to let go yet. I’m saying goodbye and I’m closing this chapter of my life.

The book is shut.

Note to Self (72) Hurricane Pt. 2

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I just came back from the gym, after spending three days under a stressful cloud that did nothing good neither to my mind nor to my muscles. Anxiety increased as I tried to relax, waiting for the worst to happen. I kept watching TV, glancing from time to time at my Twitter wall, writing my thoughts with the impulse of a hockey player, chasing the puck, looking at the goal, wanting to aim and score, endlessly waiting….

It really felt like time had slowed down as I exchanged tweets with fellow friends living somewhere else on the East Coast, motivating each other that things would be ultimately fine for all of us. After a breaking news overload, I decided to distract myself and watched Ghost Adventures… I think ghosts are much scarier than hurricanes, because we don’t really know whether they exist, and what we would do if we faced one. Probably scream and run away, right? Or wave our arms really fast catching nothing but air. A hurricane simply leaves us powerless, impatient, eager for the deluge to be over so we can all finally breathe again…

I fell asleep around 1 am after checking the weather outside. It wasn’t really raining, and the wind was weak. I couldn’t see much of the street, because my apartment faces a courtyard and a softball field. Nothing seemed unusual. Only the big Xs taped on my neighbors’ windows reminded me that something was coming, something that we were all worried about.

I was mostly concerned about losing power. I wanted to write, use my phone and my computer… Going to work the next day didn’t really hit the top of my priority list, I must say. And yes, everything will probably be fine tomorrow with the subway system and I’ll be able to commute like every other day, as if nothing had happened.

I dreamt, but I slept peacefully. A noise woke me up at 7 am. My male cat had thrown up all over the hardwood floor – hairballs – and I had to clean up the mess after stepping into it. Of course…. But what about the deluge? I peeked outside and saw nothing. The sky looked merely overcast, and it wasn’t raining anymore. I checked my appliances and noticed that the power was still on.

Was I lucky not to be affected as much by the storm to the contrary of other millions of people living down the coast? Yes, of course. I prayed, tweeps prayed, my parents prayed that we’d be ok in the end, and we were. As if nothing had come. As if nothing ever came. Just another rainy day, that was all.

I turned on the TV and watched the news. I saw all the flooded areas down Manhattan, Brooklyn, Long Island… The storm caused damage, but we were spared. I felt the heaviness of the past few days finally leave my mind, and I smiled. My cats didn’t care either way. They slept the whole time, looking cute as pie.

All I’ll remember from Irene was this overcast sky looming upon us…and the stress, the never ending anxiety that kept me in a constant state of alert until I knew we were safe.

By the way, I have tons of water that will last me a week now. I guess that’s not so bad, right? 😉

Note to Self (71) Hurricane Pt. 1

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I thought it would be wiser to narrate the events of this weekend after the fact. Now I’ve decided to do it before and after, because I’m too damn stressed to sit still and wait.

I’ve never experienced a hurricane. I lived through little earthquakes like the one we had a few days ago (5.8 Richter scale), but I never, ever had to go through the stress of a mighty storm.

Water. Deadly violent water flooding everything in a few seconds. I just went outside to get some food for my kitties and it was barely drizzling. Now it’s pouring. I know I will have to deal with the windowsill leaks later. My mind is racing and I have to write first.

It’s like a cry for help, except that nothing has happened yet. We’re all waiting. Thursday, my office mate made a joke about looking for evacuation zones on the map specially designed by the Office of Emergency Management of New York City. It covers the 5 boroughs. When she typed her address, she laughed. She said she was ok, because her building was on top of a hill. When I entered my street intersection, I didn’t feel that lucky. I lived in a possible zone of evacuation due to heavy flooding. Great.

The subway system has been shut down since noon. The only way out is by foot. Train lines have been cut too. It feels like an apocalyptic day, except that the apocalypse hasn’t arrived yet. We’re all scrutinizing our screens, following the eye of the storm with so much nervousness that I’m on the verge of a panic attack. I’m not ready for a deluge. Not now, not ever.

All the grocery stores are closed. The price of milk and water has been raised 100% since last night. I bought water yesterday already so I’m fine. Worst comes to worst, I also have tons of beer, vodka, Black Label and Jack Daniels in my cabinets. Maybe I should drink to forget. It always seems like a good idea at first.

My kitties stayed quiet while I paced across my apartment, almost biting my nails. I stopped myself from going completely nuts by writing. If my fingers do something else, I’ll be fine, I thought.

Still… I heard from work that I was on call this weekend. Something else I don’t want to worry about. There’s so much shit happening right now, I’d like to bury myself somewhere deep until everybody has forgotten about me. I’m really on the edge. I don’t know why it’s hitting me now, but it’s slowly becoming harder and harder for me to breathe. It’s not just the hurricane. It’s everything in my life. I’m falling down a whirlpool and I’m sinking. I don’t even have the strength to fight back. Maybe it’s easier if I just let go, and see if I’ll survive.

Hurricane. The animal hospital was still open today, and it’s in the flood zone. The world has gone mad. Totally mad. Sirens of ambulances could be heard miles away down the avenues. I crossed people who went for a jog as I was walking down the street. Why are they so calm and why am so stressed? I need to chill. The hurricane is coming. I see that some the neighbors have taped their windows with a big X to prevent them from breaking. I’m just going to wait. I’m sure that things will be ok in the end. The wait is always the longest, and I’m still stressed.

Yeah, I’m ready.