add to iCal 3/28 AM: people watching with Tim question mark

I'm just joshin'. I don't have an iPhone . . . yet.

Instead I wrote that title in my good old-fashioned Peter Pauper Press Engagement Calendar. Petah Pipah . . . 

So, let's talk about Murphy's Law, shall we.

WikiPedia defines Murphy's Law as: an adage in Western culture that broadly states: "Anything that can go wrong will go wrong."

Being the cynic that I sometimes am, I totally believe in this. For example, yesterday: I get out of my first job on time and miraculously get home with lots (read: 15 minutes) of time to spare before I have to leave for my second job. Somehow I get distracted (no.way.) with this week's TONY Self-Help issue and defrosting a piece of bread (tricky), and next thing you know I'm leaving 5 minutes later than planned. So, of course the train was delayed. And of course the crosstown bus was MIA. And naturally, it was raining. And of course I had to run because I was late. In the rain. And OF COURSE I forget the museum was on 81st, not 78th (wtf?). And of course I saw a girl with sparkly gold sequined pants on the street that obviously distracted me and took up 2 more minutes of my time. But, the best part -that I am getting to- is that OF COURSE, after all that, the captain who I previously made a terrible impression upon just a mere week or two ago, was there, at the museum, checking people in. I half laughed, half shit myself. It was delightful.

And in recent news, buying that pineapple from WestSide Market might have been the best decision I've made in March (say that in a newscaster voice out loud, it's fun).

Remember when life was easy . . . in elementary school? When I lived in a world of teachers handing out assignments like 'write two haikus and think of two clever names like 'Ted E. Bear' for homework." Wait, I don't think that ever happened. And if it did, it was definitely 5th grade literature class. Either way, life was easy back then . . . especially in the summer when I used to get up at 6:00 a.m. with three things on my agenda:

(1) climb a new tree in my backyard and possibly the maple in the front yard

(2) eat a salami and provolone sandwich on white (ah, youth)

(3) try again to start a fire in my 'forest fort' utilizing just two sticks since I wasn't allowed to play with matches

Sidenote: Did you know, because of that rule, I didn't learn how to light a match until approximately my college years? I wish I was kidding . . . 

These days, my agenda is much more mature and intense:

For example, my plans for today are the following:

1. throw up (or eat more than a banana for breakfast to elevate blood sugar level)

2. work on perfecting this rap from ITH: "Hold up, wait a minute, Usnavi's leaving us for the Dominic Republic, and Benny went and stole the girl I was in love with . . . she was my baby sitter- first!"

3. learn how to say 'bullshit' in Yugoslavian . . . . complimentary lesson from the housekeepers.

4. get $10 upper back/neck massage at Indian salon on UES.

5. drink chocolate-flavored tea (ah, maturity)

I am very satisfied with my humor (humour?) in this entry.

So with that, I take leave from you. (you keep cage clean, I . . . enough with the N2N reference already)

with love and coffee jitters,

daddy.

Love will be the death of me

So as part of the 'dump, recycle, and a little saving' plan, I began tackling my basement this week. I got home from my vacation (more details and pictures later), had a snack, and immediately went downstairs and started to take out box upon box, bag after bag of all my junk I've collected over the years. For those that know me, you know I can be somewhat of a pack rat...

Like that one time I didn't have enough room in my closet anymore, and Maggie
stood there with me making me throw away EVERYTHING---at the time I was in college and still wearing clothes from 8th grade.

So I went through our gigantic storage room in the basement of my parents' house, and I removed every single thing that belonged to me and put as much as I could fit on my living room floor. I'm working in sections; I have that much stuff.

I've been sorting the shit into many different categories:
1. recyclable electronics
2. Memories I absolutely have to save
3. Greeting cards/Encouraging Notes
4. To sell at garage sale
5. Give to Jenny, Emma, Matt, or Jeff
6. Paper products
7. VHS tapes
8. Stuff I can use in my new apartment
9. Boxes
10. Magazines
11. Diaries/Scrapbooks/Journals
12. Things to mail to Lisa Gibes
13. Trash

I have a bunch of info on what to do with all the junk that doesn't sell at my garage sale, thanks to my new favorite publication: Women's Health Magazine. Check out this article for ideas on what to do with all your useless shit in a more environmentally-friendly fashion or if you just want to be a good person---like donating your prom dresses to less-fortunate girls in Chicago.

Well, I went into this process very optimistic.
I did NOT expect the event to be so heavy.
As in emotionally overwhelming or mentally exhausting.
Some of the things I found were:
Letters from my old gal pals at Saint Anne when I transferred schools, notes and cards and fire-ups (ahahaha) from my old cheerleading coach, hand-made Valentine cards from my Nana and Papa (who just passed away this February), my very worn dual VHS of the original Mary Poppins and Wizard of Oz taped by my Papa, tons of highly-scored math tests from my favorite high-school teacher Ms. Schoenherr, a scrapbook with famous Florida postcards from Emily Groesbeck, St. Anne sausage festival ride bracelets, beanie babies, pogs, my old barbies with hand-sewn clothing, Polly Pocket houses, mini trapper-keeper planners in teal, magenta, and baby-blue, old and worn ballet shoes, my pointe shoes, pieces of recital costumes, little mementos from every fucking event in my childhood (seriously, I kept the weirdest things), tons of planners/organizers, old Delia magazines with pages tabbed (the clothes from the magazine now in my 'to sell' pile), the beginning of the fiction book I was going to write about a girl living in an orphanage, my favorite leopard-skin mini backpack I got from my Grandma Judy, my pink Minnie Mouse wallet from Disney World, lists of songs I need to download, inside jokes that me and Lisa Gibes had about basically everything including a pool ball and a 6-foot banner we made in 7th grade, my ACT and AP scores, letters from colleges, a huge print of my Mom's senior picture from the 1970s, my driver's permit, artwork with smart-ass notes on the side (like 100% with 10 extra brown-nose points) from my favorite high-school art teacher Mr. Fisher, countless cartoons, doodles and poetry I did during class usually, and my personal favorite: a note from my Dad that was all folded and smelled vintage-y already-- which I couldn't believe. It was jotted in green marker and proper grammar, and it read,

"Katie and Brian: I love you. I'm sorry I'm so protective of the time I have with you. Sometimes I let my missing you get in the way. I'm trying to do better. I'm always available for you. I hope we can learn to listen to one another. -Dad"

At this point, Regina Spektor's "Bartender" was playing in the background, as I sat Indian-style on my living room floor alone in my house except for my cats, and the lyrics "love will be the death of me" seemed to echo through the empty house. As the refrain repeated, I just sat there and cried. I smelled the note a little, still not believing it already smelled old. And I thought about how I had told my Dad I would clean out my stuff at their house this weekend too. And then a wave of inspiration came over me, and in a moment I was standing. My dance teacher had been telling us the best dancers can improv at any time, and can use music to tell a story, and that we should always be practicing this important skill. As she said, "You know, the first 7 auditions on So You Think You Can Dance were all improv-no choreography at all. They just watched you move." So I turned the song up, put it on repeat, and danced an entire story out as hard as my muscles would let me at 11:00 at night. I danced about 3 different stories, sometimes just closing my eyes and letting the music guide my movement like we used to do in movement class with Sherrie Barr. Dancing to "Bartender" is perfect because of the way Regina switches up the pacing and how strong certain lyrics are compared to other ones she almost whispers out. It's perfect to experiment with time and space with your body to it. And that I did. I just danced. As silly as that sounds to you non-artist people reading this, this is the kind of thing I used to do when I was a kid: I constantly used art as an outlet for my feelings and vulnerability, and it was usually singing, writing, and dancing. So, I get to be that kid again, and surrounded by all my childhood memorabilia, I just engulfed myself in 'love will be the death of me' and it was, for lack of better words: fucking amazing. Every time I lifted my leg into some variation of a grand battement with a flexed foot, I pretended I was that amazing modern dancer I've always emulated. By the end of the last set I was dancing with warm tears just rolling down my cheeks, but I was smiling. Talk about cathartic.

So, that's how my unraveling and unpacking project is going. It's.....going.

I'll be updating soon about my adventures to the Traverse City wineries this week.