this thing.




anytime i develop the slightest inkling of...mmm...let's call it infatuation, i experience the complete breakdown of the english language--or rather my grasp of it.

my native tongue becomes a foreign anomaly. foreign anomaly? can i say that? or is it repetitive and therefore grammatically incorrect and unnecessary? see what i mean, this thing is throwing everything off.

words do not come.

except when they do (see above rambling for example).

which is no better. because, as if collected in too small a space during their forced hiatus, they catapult out. slamming, careening and ricocheting, abutting one.in.to.the.other.

this is not the worst of it.

my hearing goes as well.

he speaks. i listen.

and do you know what i hear?

words interspersed with blips. great, universe-descending blips. holes in sound. and i am left to look questioningly and ask him to repeat himself. once.again. at which point, if i still hear more blip than word, i simply smile and nod, hoping it wasn't a question.

he must think the elevator doesn't quite reach the top floor.


but its just so hard when i so like the way his eyelashes curl.



image via daydream lily

spring is hard.


ned gains strength in the spring. the shock of not being able to cover every inch of my body in making-winter-bearable-clothing steamrolls me each and every day.

today something broke. something deep inside me. and i couldn't stop crying. so i said, to hell with it, i don't care if my tub does need a good scrub--i'm taking a bath anyway.

i climbed in, silently sobbing with my too big breasts feeling uncomfortable as they touched my crouching knees and water rose slowly around me. the tub was only half full when the warm water turned cold. so i turned the faucet. and sat there as the water quickly receded.

i never wanted big boobs. i say this and most girls balk. lucky girl, they say. and i'm forced to explain. my mother didn't have them. growing up, my standard of beauty was a small-breasted woman and i thought it was perfection. mine were small. once. and then ned showed up. and everything became bigger. and as the pounds piled on, i grew breasts. but they don't feel of me. instead i feel an impostor. they are borrowed, stolen--unnatural in some way. i'd gladly give them away. i'll always have my big butt and that's enough for me.

i keep thinking about lady macbeth's speech where she offers up her womanhood. asks it to be taken from her. i don't think lady macbeth was singularly evil or greedy. i think she hated herself. desperately. i think she hated herself so much that she put all of her energy into the one outside thing she thought would change everything--the one thing that might just fix it all: power. she wouldn't mind killing her own child for it because how could she love something born of a person she loathed so deeply? and the thing is she never had a child. so she didn't know. she didn't know that she would love that child. that that child would grant her more power than any title ever could. and so when she does attain that power and nothing's changed, she loses it. she goes off the deep end.

i feel sorry for her. because on some level (albeit a much, much smaller one {don't worry mom, don't worry dad--i'm fine, just going through it this week}) i understand. for me my panacea is weight. if only i were skinnier. if only i was thin. then all would be right in my world. then i would be confident. then i would have the guy of my dreams. the dream job. the postcard picture of a life.

but maybe the thing to be learned from lady m is this: so i get thin and then what? i realize it's not the cure-all and i'm spent spinning even further off course. there is no solitary remedy. no single spoonful of sugar. no marry poppins magic here. just life. and sometimes you just have to weather it, spring or any other season.

that's not to say i wouldn't give my big boobs back. if given the chance.

a fire red vespa. and a dream.


There's a fire red vespa that sits on the corner of 67th and Columbus. I want it. I want to steal it. I won't. But I want to. And this is not an invitation for you to do so either.

But sometimes, in my darkest moments, I dream up ways to surreptitiously flip the kick stand and peel off through the park, hair flying in every direction under the matching red helmet I just happened to have in my bag that morning.

However, if I had been riding my vespa last night instead of walking, would I have missed the gentleman in a suit stealing the tree-sized flowers from the Plaza Hotel's dumpster? Or the young boy practicing racquetball against the giant marble wall outside his doorman-guarded building?

Maybe New York is best seen on foot.

Not to worry, I'll get my vespa when I move to Rome. And all will be well in the world.