The State That I Am In
Everyone keeps asking me how I’m doing, and how my new life is, and the best answer I can come up with is: it’s really surreal. I’m having fun, and I’m getting to do cool new things and go cool new places and hang out with very cool new people, but it’s surreal. It’s surreal to live somewhere new when I’ve lived in one city my entire life, because even though I’m having fun and feeling adventurous, I can’t shake the fact that some hidden part of my brain is always thinking, “so, when do we go home?” It’s surreal to be away from my friends at home, especially when one of us needs comforting. It’s surreal to go from my big apartment all by myself to a small room with a leaking inflatable bed, and the majority of my belongings in storage until I get a job. I hate to sound like a stereotypical materialistic American, but I really miss my stuff. I miss my books, I miss my music, I miss my sofa, and I miss my bed. God, do I miss my bed. Some mornings I wake up on a flat plastic mattress and think, My God, what have I done?, all David Byrne-style. Except by “mornings,” I mean afternoons. It’s not really as dour as that all sounds, but I think a job and the set routine it would inevitably bring will really help. I’m supposed to hear back about one tomorrow, so feel free to cross your fingers for me, if you’re into finger crossing.
Anyway, I’m excited about Halloween weekend, which promises to be full of costume parties and birthday parties and my roommate’s band’s show, and pretty much just a big fat excuse to get out of my apartment and drink and have fun. Earlier tonight I gave my costume a test run, and spent the rest of the evening scrubbing off silver face paint, along with at least five layers of skin. I better end up making out with a really hot Abe L. is all I’m saying.
In other news, Happy Second Birthday, Que Sera Sera, which is just a silly little blog that I started on a whim late one night, but, strangely enough, has actually remained one of the few constants in my life over the past two years, outlasting many personal relationships and connecting me with many new opportunities that I otherwise never would have known. That probably says something significant about my life, but it’s too late at night for me to start thinking about shit like that. I mean, what the hell do I know? I sleep on an inflatable bed in a 10 x 10 room in one of the largest cities on the planet, and no one in the world is in love with me. 10 I should get out more. 20 GOTO 10.
Hot Rod Todd
Tonight I spent a lot of time compiling items for my Halloween costume: silver face paint, tinfoil, silver false eyelashes, battery-operated antennae, duct tape, fishnets, knee-high rubber boots.
I’m going to be the bitchingest Mary Todd Lincoln you’ve ever seen.
Something brand new for that ass
Sweet sweet Internet, did you miss me? Because I missed you, baby. Finally! Back online, and with new digs! All the credit goes to John, who is a magical, wise and very patient man.
In the twelve long days since I last posted, I’ve slept a lot, gone to movies and concerts with my excellent roommates, bought a plunger, talked Amber’s ear off, narrowly avoided being abducted by an insane cab driver, visited some not-so-secret secret bars, had a job interview, talked on the phone to Brandon Bird and asked him to be my boyfriend (he said “sure!”), experienced firsthand the magic that is H&M, discussed our preferred motor oil and saw the Mark Ryden exhibit with Kerry, met cute boys at CMJ parties, had some severe late night doubts, thought that my appendix was going to leap from my abdomen, given up on post-season baseball, missed my friends and family terribly, and watched every single episode of I Love the ’80s Strikes Back. Darling Mo Rocca, won’t you be mine?
And New York, you’re swell and all, but I’ve yet to get properly drunk or be properly kissed. Step to it.
I had a lively Saturday night out drinking with some fine new ladyfriends and dancing with my fun new roommates, but I made the fatal mistake of wearing my magic red maryjanes, which are my lucky favorite shoes, but rest atop some wholly-unsuitable-for-walking-across-Brooklyn heels. After walking home at 4 am on freshly-bloodied stumps, my Sunday morning plans—waking up at 8 to go run in an act of support for my dad, who was running the Chicago Marathon—were shot. Instead, I woke up at noon and spent the majority of my day washing and bandaging my feet and watching Newlyweds: Nick and Jessica until Bryan called and invited me to go see Kill Bill. Via his borrowed motorcycle. I accepted immediately, but once he pulled up in front of my apartment, I panicked.
I was brought up to avoid motorcycles like the black death itself. It’s a running joke in our family that my father, ever since I was a toddler, will use any lull in a conversation to warn me against bringing home any bikers. Once, as a little girl, I was playing outside with my best friend Ben when some neighbors working in their garage thought it would be a cute idea to pose us on their bike and take a picture. In the photo, Ben is seizing life and the handlebars with both hands, raring to go, while I’m perched behind him, frozen in terror, and you can practically see me thinking OH MY GOD WHAT IF MY DAD FINDS OUT ABOUT THIS. In our house, there was no Satan, only motorcycles, and I was sure I was going to die a fiery death at any moment like any proper sinner should.
It was hard to overcome my ingrained motorcycle reflexes once Bryan pulled up, but I was determined to act cool, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to be able to walk anywhere, so I sucked it up and pulled on the helmet and climbed on behind him. It was sort of like having sex for the first time in that I kept my eyes closed for the first five minutes and was terrified he’d find out I was terrified, but once I opened my eyes and got used to it, it was probably the best thing that’s ever happened to me. I seriously don’t think I’ll ever be able to just drive a car ever again without being sort of let down, and I really fucking love driving cars. At one point we were at a red light next to a Subaru sportswagon with a Tweety Bird shade on the kids’ back windows, and I felt so superior I can’t even explain it. The best part, aside from going across the Manhattan Bridge on the back of a speeding motorcycle, was when we went into the theater, and I got to carry my helmet with me and pretend to be a badass. However, when I got home I had to change the bandages on my raw feet and I’m still scared to mention this outing to my father, so I’m so totally not a badass. Like this comes as a great surprise to anyone.
Way You Walk II:
Yesterday, while leaving the museum, I walked past the front steps, and since it was closing time, there were all these tour groups and high school students sitting there, waiting for buses or whatever, and as I went by I thought, that’s weird, it feels like all these people are staring at me! And then I thought, oh, you’re just being paranoid, but no, they were definitely all half-smiling and watching me walk past, and I started to get a little freaked out when, out of the corner of my eye, I realized a street mime was mimicking me. So, of course, I laughed good-naturedly and then shivved that motherfucker, leaving him bleeding and silently screaming on the steps.
FRIDAY FRIDAY FRIDAY:
Re: Aforementioned dorkdom: Tomorrow I’m waking up early and spending all day at the American Museum of Natural History. You’ll pay for the whole seat, but you’ll only need THE EDGE!
P.S. If you want to make out in a planetarium or museum coat-check room, I’m your girl.
So far, the highlights of New York have included smoking with the nanny of a C-list celebrity, and this guy on the train the other night with a gold chain around his neck that said PROPER. Now you know what to get me for Christmas!
Seriously, I’m really, really excited about being here. I walked to the grocery store the other day with my mom, and I kept saying, “Man! I just live here now!” I keep trying it out over and over again in my head, like when I practice writing Mrs. Jon Stewart or Sarah Brown-Stewart or Happy Holidays! Love, the Stewarts —Jon, Sarah, Dakota, Dakota, Mackenzie and Zoe.
Yesterday I was watching TV and a movie preview came on, and it ended with, “opens in select cities October 10,” and I suddenly got really excited because I AM NOW A SELECT CITY. And on Sunday, Amber and I went to the Barnes & Noble in Park Slope to buy a map, and on the window was a poster announcing a Sarah Vowell reading next week, and I got so excited I suddenly had to go to the bathroom, because evidently I am dachshund. I’m sure the newness of this all will wear off eventually, but I’m not about to start acting disaffected anytime soon. I’m a huge dork, and I’m going to dork out as much as possible. Which, now that I think about it, is pretty much the motto I live by.
Tomorrow morning I leave for a two-day road trip with my parents. I know. The good part is that we end up in New York, where I firmly believe that things will start happening to me now. At least that’s what I keep telling myself before I go to sleep at night.
If I’m leaving you behind, I’m not really leaving you behind, and I love you dearly and miss you already. If you’re where I’m headed, batten down a hatch or something in preparation. Then please love me and hang out with me anyway, even though I’m not really hardcore enough to require any sort of battening.
If you know me well enough to do so, any and all cell phone text messages will be greatly appreciated. Two days is a long time.