Story 25: Bone Marrow

I stayed on Fire Island for the long holiday weekend, celebrating America's independence and watching Egypt shape its future independence. We beached, bantered, biked, and bone-broke. Well, I bone-broke—my wrist. There is no where to get an X-ray on Fire Island, so I waited till I got back to a different island to see a doctor. 

As we left the beach house, I could literally hear all our bodies crashing, as if Grandma's China was smashing against the wall. I didn't expect anyone to go to the hospital with me, so I took my book as company and bantered with the resident who mummified my arm into a hard splint. I could tell he was my age: we had similar snark, the same cloud of invincible arrogance floating about. But, I was a little jealous of him. Both of us were in our late 20s, yet it seemed like he didn't have to make all the choices I need to make in the next five years: when will I get married? Should I have kids? Is living in New York sustainable? I make enough decisions throughout the day (whole wheat or sesame bagel; subway or cab; work an extra hour or meet for happy hour) that when it comes to the big decisions, I delay them. Sometimes, I just ignore them. I embrace the uncertainty as if I'm redecorating. You know when you move into a new apartment and you're consumed with what will go where, which vintage reproduction of industrial furniture defines you as a person? But in the end it all falls together anyways, just like the time I bought a curtain for my skylight but ended up using it for my window and found the matching one a year later. Or when my friend Taryn gave me that ottoman that randomly matched the dresser I custom ordered on Etsy. I don't want to pick a furniture scheme, so I won't and it will all make sense. I don't want a perfectly mapped life in the suburbs as a housewife, so I won't and, at least not yet. It always sounded like cancer and I'm far too young for terminal illness. 

The last two days stained all of this—the schemed and mismatched furniture, the planning and disorganization, the way New York City appeals to me. If and when I leave this City, I will look back on July 8 and 9 as the catalysts, the tipping points for my departure. I left the emergency room in a splint from my hand to my armpit, restraining the way I moved, but I'm vigilant and stubborn and reckless so I filled four bags of groceries and carried them for my 10-minute walk home. As I wobbled and stopped for breaks, not a single Brooklynite offered me help. A man passed around me to get to his apartment quicker, and not even my neighbor said hello. Today, three different doctors said I needed surgery, and I immediately pulled my iPhone to alert Google and WebMD.

The uncertainty might be glamorous, but maybe it wouldn't be so bad to come home to a husband who  will definitely help me carry my groceries and hold my hand as I count backwards to ten right before surgery. 

Story 24: Don't Drink That!

Sunday liquids:

Noon: 16 oz iced coffee with extra skim milk

12: 40 p.m.: 6 oz coconut water

1:30 p.m.: 12 oz bloody mary (alcoholic)

3:00 p.m.: 16 oz diet coke 

9 p.m.: 12 oz sierra mist

9:30: Something is seriously wrong with my liquid consumption. 

10:00 p.m.: What if I didn't drink anything but water for a week? Oh, but I really shouldn't start that until next week, because Dani's birthday weekend is coming up... oh, but after that, it will be Lollapalooza. Oh, then Briana's birthday.... Then.... Ugh. Fuck it. For the next week, I won't drink anything but New York City tap water. No coffee. No tea. No Coke Zero. And--especially--no wine, beer or any other type of alcohol.

I will update on obstacles, triumphs and failures.

Story 23: Dinner with Elmo

Last week, I attended the Sesame Workshop's 10th Annual Gala for raising money and being fancy and stuff. Naturally, the Muppets were there: Cookie Monster (who is my muppet alter ego as we share "gluttony" as our favorite deadly sin), Zoe (who doesn't think my jewelry is fancy enough), Abby Cadabby (who tells me magic doesn't solve matters of the heart), Oscar the Grouch (Spoiler Alert: Oscar and Big Bird are the same puppeteer), and Elmo. Oh, Elmo. Dinner with Elmo is a lot like dinner with Elvio, the 90-year-old man I met in Italy. There is a huge age difference between us (Elmo is three-years-old). He, too, had no idea what I'm talking about. And, at the end of our conversation, he also sang to me. I hate to be a pest, but I must also point out the obvious alliteration in their names: Elvio, Elmo. These things just don't happen on their own. Best two dinner dates of my life and their names euphonically sync? I would be crazy to think that the fates and the fairies ruling my destiny weren't up to something.

While I figure out what that something is, I want you all to enjoy my interviews with the Sesame Street Muppets.

Can you share some of your best barrette styling tips with us?

Well, this is very fancy. It was, like, a quarter. It cost me 25 cents, can you believe it? And this one was, like, uh,  I think it was more expensive. It was, like, 30 cents.

Where do you get your barrettes?

I find them on the street, wherever people have dropped them because they don’t like them any more. But, they complement my necklace and my bracelets. Do you have any bracelets on, Angelina?

No. I don’t.

Oh, you poor thing. You don’t have enough money to buy a bracelet? Do you want one of mine?

No. Thank you.

You don’t like them? I was sharing.

Thank you for sharing, but I don’t want to take your stuff.

We learn that on Sesame Street not to be a pig and share.

Do you have any bling on at all?

(I show her my rings)

Whoa! Stand back! That must’ve cost at least a dollar.

What’s the best jewelry to wear with a tutu?

Ballet jewelry. Anything that’s shiny. See, I got shiny stuff in my hair. All those dancers wear shiny things and you have to remember to wear your toe shoes. They’re a little clumpy looking but they get me where I have to go.

Why didn’t you wear a gown for tonight’s event?

This is my gown. What do you mean? I don’t get anything fancier than this. Are you wearing a tutu? No! This is very fancy. I’ll bet you none of the other girls are wearing tutus. I’ll bet you I’m the only one here tonight that’s going to wear a tutu. All these ladies aren’t wearing tutu’s. Zack (cameraman) is wearing a tutu under his suit. He’s wearing a black tutu.

What’s the best thing you’ve ever found in a garbage can?

Grungetta, my girlfriend.

Since you’re over 40 now, do you think it’s time to propose to Grungetta?

Not a chance.

Why?

We might spoil a good thing.

Are you scared Slimey will get jealous?

Worms don’t get jealous very much, but he might.

So, is 40 really the new 30?

Oh, yeah.

Why is that?

Well, about 30 years ago on the show, I was 42 so that still makes me 43 now.

What’s the best thing about being 40, Oscar?

You can still get dates.

What’s the best thing about being a fairy in training?

Well, first of all, you get to try again. Like, my teacher, Ms. Sparklenose, she thinks if you make a mistake, it’s almost a good thing, because you can learn things twice. You can learn from your mistakes and you get how to do it right. I love hanging out on Sesame Street. I love figuring out what you should use magic for and what you should use listen and be a good friend for. Because magic doesn’t solve everything. That’s what I’m learning a lot of.

What doesn’t magic solve?

You know, matters of the heart. It’s true.

Why? Do you have a fairy love interest?

WHAT?! I’M FOUR! Um, like do I have a crush on somebody? No, I don’t. Elmo and I are just friends. I guess people think that, but no, I don’t have a crush on anyone.

What kind of powers do you want as you get older?

Oh, wow. I would love… I always wanted the power to be able to heal people, but mostly I want the power to let children know to love who they and never have to think about anything but their truths and who they are inside. So, mostly, the power of trust and confidence.

What’s harder to learn: Dragonfly or Spanish?

Spanish. Rosita is teaching me Spanish, but because I have wings, I know Dragonfly. Like, flap-flap-flatter-flap means “hello.”

Are you tired of being tickled?

No. Elmo loves being tickled. It’s the best thing in the world. It’s the best medicine.

Were you jealous that Cookie Monster got to host Saturday Night Live and you didn’t?

No. He was good, wasn’t he? We all watched. All of Elmo’s family watched.

Did you give Katy Perry permission to wear an Elmo shirt when she hosted the show?

No! Elmo saw that. It was so funny. She’s very funny.

Which show would you like to host?

America’s Got Talent.

Why?

Because that would be really cool. Lots of talented people on there.

What advice would you give them?

Nothing. Just do your best.

What about the daily show? Jon Stewart is here.

Elmo would love to co-host for Mr. Stewart. He’s cool. He’s always fun.

If you could replace one word with “elmo” what would that word be?

“LOVE!”

Who do you want to work with next?

Barbra Streisand, because she can sing beautifully. Elmo would love to do a duet with her.  [Sings] “You don’t bring me flowers…. Any more.”

Cookie Monster: The closest thing I would get to a soul mate. I think he had similar sentiments as it looks like he was trying to grab my boob in this picture. Or, more likely, devour it.

Story 22: Fantasy Meal

"The night is hot as hell. Everything sticks."

"It's a lousy room in a lousy part of a lousy town."

"The air conditioning's a clanking piece of junk that couldn't keep a drink cold if you sat it right on top of it."

"I'm staring at a goddess. She's telling me she wants me."

"She sounds like she means it."

"I'm not going to waste one more second wondering how it is I've gotten so lucky."

"She smells like angels ought to smell."

I used to bullshit a lot with people. I still do to a certain extend. What I learned about bullshit is that it all boils down to just asking questions. My favorite bullshit questions is: What's your fantasy meal?

No, "fantasy meal" is not your last meal on earth. For one, I'm above such questions, because people usually answer with, "Surf and turf." I usually want to shake them in response. Why would you ever to wait to die to have surf and turf? Go have surf and turf now. "Last meal on earth" is elementary. Besides, we should derive pleasure and celebratory feelings from eating, not associations of finalizing life. A fantasy meal should allow you to get lost in the idea of a meal. A fantasy meal even extends beyond the three-course gum in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the Mad Hatter's tea party or even Ratatouille with a mouse-turned-chef. (Although, this is a much better start, and I wouldn't mind having any of those, particularly figuring out the true tale--forgive me--behind that mouse.)  A fantasy meal should pick you up from the back of your neck and kick you out of whatever run-down, microwaveable takeout garbage, like you just got into a bad fight with the food gods. At your fantasy meal, you can share your bites with anyone from celebrity chefs to the most interesting man in the world. (Err, if I ever had a fantasy meal with a celebrity chef, it would probably be Guy Fieri. Not to actually dine with him, but to punch him in the face. No, Texas barbecue doesn't belong in a sushi roll, you shock-value whore of a chef.)

I digress.

I'd have my fantasy meal with Marv, the maniacal beast from Sin City's The Hard Goodbye. He's a character crush of mine. He's kind of hideous and borderline schizophrenic. And, seriously romantic. He kills his way through the graphic novel to avenge the death of this one-night-stand prostitute named Goldie. (Um, *Swoon*) This scene describes how romantic he actually is: "Ask yourself if that corpse of a slut is worth dying for," a priest demands. [gun shots] "Worth dying for." [More gun shots.] "Worth killing for." [Gun shots.] "Worth going to hell for."

My fantasy meal would start with a pre-dinner shot and brew with Marv, somewhere outside of Basin City of course. All the thugs in Basin City would probably distract him and I'd end up with blood in my beer. (I'm saving all my blood-filled meals for a fantasy meal with Barnabas Collins.) No, we'd enjoy our drinks somewhere dive-y, like a bar that you could only get to from a sketchy, drug-infested back alley. No flinching; Marv would protect me. I would demand he tell me the gruesome details of each murder before I even take a sip.

We'd head over to one of these three next: Per Se, Le Bernardin or Daniel. Marv would try to talk me into a Peter Luger steak, but he'd fit in too much at Luger's. I'm aiming for a reaction and my imagination couldn't even being to conjure the gasps and huh's that would fill the place if Marv walked into Per Se. It's my fantasy, so I would demand the chef make us something beneath them. Maybe mac 'n cheese with velveeta or a cheeseburger with condiments. Lots of condiments. Or, I'd be really cruel and have them cook me a Rachel Ray 30-minute meal. Marv would get a kick out of the irony.

Irony doesn't get you full, though. Marv is a big man, so we'd head over to some farm in France to get the freshest cut of the best beef. Man, we travel a lot in fantasy meals. I'd have the farmer grill the American medium rare (or the French "medium well," which they believe is murdering the flavor. Maybe I'll try their version of medium rare when I share a fantasy meal with a vampire.) I would demand the farmer use nothing but fire to grill the meat, and when it's ready, I'd have it sear it with the freshest butter from his healthiest cow. My side dish: cholesterol medication

When we're ready to end the meal, I imagine Marv would demand something sweet. I'm not much of an pastry gal, so I'd talk him into champagne instead. It's my fantasy meal, so he'd have no choice. I'd even let him pick it out before we headed to Basin City to enjoy it. I always drop off my fantasy dates at the end of the night.

Story 21: Depression

I want GoogaMooga tickets. The general admission ones are sold out, and I'm too young and broke for the mega fancy $249 tickets. 

This makes me feel a lot of feelings. Mostly depressed ones.

Story 20: Bucket List

It seems every Spring, someone leaves New York, and the plumbing of our social calendars clogs with friends or friends-of-friends' New York bucket lists. Boozy brunches. Farewell parties. Oh, and trying that restaurant that we always said we would try but never managed to make time for because our lives revolve around deadlines and chores and all other sorts of planned distractions... where was I? Bucket lists depress me. I hate losing people, like losing my best set of undergarments to Chinese laundromats or ex-boyfriends. There is a faint possibility that you could get them back but in reality, we all know we won't. The very idea of a farewell bucket list reminds me of how the mundane nuisances consume our thoughts and lives and plans. Bucket lists say, "You haven't fully enjoyed yourself here, so stuff your life into a day or a week or a month, like you would stuff your feet into designer shoes on sale." That's depressing. Worst of all, bucket lists never include anything Brooklyn. Why do people discount Brooklyn? Is it the traffic and never-ending construction on the Brooklyn Bridge? Is it that more restaurants offer high chairs than dinner reservations? Or is it something as meaningless as a Sex and the City episode?

It's really NOT like that time when Carrie went to visit Miranda. It's more like the time when we all wished we could be somewhere Latin for Cinco de Mayo, but instead of spending $1700 on a plane ticket, we spent $17 on the food trucks in Red Hook. Oh, the food trucks in Red Hook.

In a stretch stuffed between housing projects and the Red Hook Park with Ikea as the back drop, starting at Bay street and court street will be approximately 20 food trucks representing all things fried and spicy and cheesy and Latin. If you're anything like me and can't stand the thought of leaving without sampling every single truck and chatting with every single vendor, you'll want to start with the chille relenos at Court and Bay street. You'll spend $5 for one pepper stuffed with potatoes and rice and beef and jalapenos and cheese. Tip: I learned the hard way that you have to ask for hot sauce and the crumbly queso, but old lady serving me this delicious snack made up for everything by saying, "incomprensible spanish, incomprensible spanish, incomprensible spanish, mi amor." How could I stay mad?

You'll be tempted to keep ordering. Don't. Move down the block and onto a tamale. Skip the sour cream, too. Just share the fluffy corn bites and a Jarritos mandarin soda with someone and enjoy the scenery, even if the scenery is a hispanic man who ironically resembles a burrito and also happens to be eating the exact same thing as the hipster sitting next to him. How Brooklyn is that?

By the time you reach El Olomega, or the self-titled "original Red Hook Salvadoran pupusas" truck, you'll have plenty of time to digest. That was my first pupusas experience. To be completely honest, I'm glad I'm writing about this experience and not telling you, because I'm not even sure how to pronouce the word, "pupusas." I just know it is the "most authentic and traditional food from El Salvador. Pupusas are grilled corn masa patties, hand shaped and stuffed with cheese and various fillings." Or so a sign tells me. My taste buds, however, tell me it's like everything you love about latin food bundled and bow tied into one dish.

Living up to every foreign and brown stereotype, the workers at El Olomega take customer orders in no particular order. You have to be prepared for this and accept it for what it is. Don't huff and complain. Don't even try to figure out when your food will be ready. It magnificent chaos is part of the experience. You can complain when you're in Manhattan and DBGB lost your dinner reservations. After all, you're paying $6 for a two jalapeno and cheese pupusas, pickled cabbage salad and fried plantain chips. Tip: Somehow make room for the cashew juice, because I couldn't.

Pace yourself now. you're almost to the corner of Court Street and Bay Street. It's time for grilled corn--extra spicy rolled in cheese and unidentifiable goodness. Tip: Squeeze some lime on it. End the journey with fresh fruit.

(Briana, my eating buddy. You should get one--a Briana and an eating buddy)

(Erect corn, quite phallic.)

(Fruit stands, we opted for pineapple.)

You'll want to walk to Manhattan after that--only to burn the calories from the corn alone.

Story 19: I Even Like My Candy Butter-Flavored

We pick extremes. We're athletes or couch potatoes; dreamers or pragmatics; democrats or republicans; extroverts or introverts; savory or sweet. I lean towards savory, until of course I get a birthday present that rattles (literally in this case) how I define my self: 270ish popcorn-flavored jelly beans for my 27th birthday. I can see the little specks of butter on the jelly bean. I can even taste my gluttonous trip to Titanic in 3D a few weeks ago. (Yes, I said Titanic in 3D, judge me.)




(Uhh, I am already half-way through the bag)




(See the little specks of butter flavoring?)




My mid-20s have been fantastically awkward, and as I bravely face a new box under age-related questions, I can't myself from writing an Esquire-like 27 things I've learned in 27 years.

1. With no diet or exercise, I, too, can be a size two... if I purchase the size-two stretchy pants from Anne Taylor Loft.

2. I met Elizabeth Hurley on a Monday night; she commented on my outfit, "I see you didn't make much effort tonight." (It was a "Hot Pink Party." I, naturally, wore beige.) I met Diane Keaton the very next day; she commented on my outfit, "You look lovely tonight." I now know why Diane Keaton is so effing rad.

3. Diane Keaton told me her best on-screen kiss was Jack Nicholson. This explains why I once watched Something's Gotta Give three times in a row and, then, contemplated a fourth showing.

4. Free People owns Urban Outfitters. Those two make up about 95 percent of my wardrobe. I am now mid-negotiations to give them a percentage of my paycheck for a monthly shipment of all things flowy and doomed-to-be unstylish in a year.

5. I hate pants. People usually remember you when you hate pants.

6. I want a tattoo. I said, "When I get published, I'll get a sentence of that article tattooed on me." I'm now published with no tattoo, so I revised my inked ambitions: When I get a book deal, I'll get a sentence tattooed on me.

7. I love Bill Cunningham. I wish he wanted to be my friend.

8. I went on a Facebook hiatus for 18 months, during which I preached the joys of the Facebook-free life. I'm back now but when I leave again, I'll have one more thing to preach about: Longer battery life on your phone.

9. Another joy of a Facebook-free life: You won't remember how skinny you used to be. I peaked at 24.

10. I'm still trying to understand why Frankie Sputino's would take the eggplant parm off their menu.

11. Dr. Seuss was turned down by 27 publishers before selling his first book. I take this as a good sign to return to writing in my 27th year.

12. The Finnish word "Pilkunnussija" literally translates to "comma fucker," or a person who believes it is their destiny to stamp out all spelling and punctuation mistakes at the cost of popularity, self-esteem and mental well-being. Another possible translation: "Angelina Fanous."

13. I got lots of Facebook wall posts and tags, 160-character text messages and 140-character tweets, instagrams and pins, birthday shots and birthday kisses. But, I'm still waiting on a stamped, handwritten card in my mailbox.

14. NPR reported that spandex made us all fat. Crazy, here I thought it was the over-consumption of bacon-wrapped everything served with a side of cheese-stuffed everything followed by chocolate-drowned everything.

15. Brunch is the best portmanteau.

16. Unemployment let me catch up on the really important things in life: shampooing my makeup brushes and contemplating my self-worth.

17. My favorite restaurants in New York City all received a "B" for their health inspection grade. I'm not sure what this says about me.

18. I used to eat guavas for a man selling them out of a sack on a donkey in Egypt. No, I will not "properly" wash my supermarket-bought vegetables.

19. I don't know how I feel about the Egyptian revolution. There, I said it. If my family stayed in Egypt, I probably wouldn't have been a revolutionary.

20. There is something really sexy about the falafel delivery guy and I think it's that he brings me falafel.

21. The only thing I ever have planned is my next meal.

22. I lead a lush life, and the only thing I would change about that is the alliteration.

23. The only good thing that comes from pouring your dinner and tears into the toilet bowl is material for an ironically titled twitter account, "Classy Girl Moves." Of course, if you're pouring your dinner and tears into a toilet bowl, you're too hungover for such brilliant projects.

24. If he's just not that into you, there are always more ogres in the cave (via Kelle).

25. Is "awkward and quirky" really the new it-girl? When did this become the trend? This couldn't have happened with I was getting teased in 8th grade English class?

26. I love me. If I don't love me, who will?

27. I even like my candy butter-flavored.