Re: From the Deck of the Pru, You Can Only See So Far...

The thing about being in New Hampshire and Massachusetts during the holiday season is that running into your past is inevitable. Since Friday I have seen several people whom I have not seen in years and each one said roughly the same thing to me during the first few minutes of our catch-up sesh: "I've been reading your stuff--thanks to Google--but I still can't believe you wrote that John sucked in bed in that article."

In each scenario, I had to once again explain that I, in no way, shape or form, publicly proclaimed that John, my high school boyfriend, sucked in bed. I wrote that when you lose your virginity it pretty much sucks for the most part, but you don't realize just how much until later in life. Had it been John or anyone else, the sentiment would have been the same, and in no way was meant to be a personal attack... because if I wanted to personally attack him for such a thing, I would have done so and not very eloquently to boot.

While my explanation has made these people agree with me temporarily, they then fire back with something along the lines of how after he unfriended me on Facebook over the "issue" (an issue that was so far under my radar it actually took me days to realize it), I wrote about how Facebook was helping me to "weed" out people in my life. So? It's true, and I've since dropped Facebook so as to avoid all the conservative twits with whom I went to high school. Although I do find them a ball of laughs when they dress their kids up in holiday gear and photograph their first shit and all that jazz...

However, in these few exchanges I've had over the last few days, it ends on a positive note where we all laugh, I'm informed that the high school boyfriend "hates" me and I'm asked if I'll be at the next high school reunion. I politely point out that I wasn't at the last, nor will I be at the next or any of the others that may follow. Our class president is running for the governor of NH and firmly believes that marriage should be between white, Christian, men and women, so I think I'll pass, thanks.

But there is some sort of satisfaction that comes from knowing that these people, the ones I've tried to forget or misplace or subtract from my past, actually took time out of their lives to Google me (obvs their existences must be severely lacking) and see what I was up to these days. To me, it doesn't make sense as I was quite invisible back then. My younger sister dated guys in my grade who didn't even know I existed. I was not popular at all, I had zero desire to be and went out of my way to not fit in with the crowd. My hair was a variety of different colors (pink always being a favorite) and I long had the desire, or rather the need, to get the fuck out of here as soon as I could.

I'm not sure how many more days I'll be at my parents' house. Since NYC pretty much shuts down this week, I'm almost tempted to stay here through the New Year. But that would mean more than a few days of possible run-ins with even more people who may try to chastise me, all while laughing of course, at one tiny sentence I wrote that I really thought no one would notice--especially that silly high school boyfriend. I mean, the kid never left this place and how was I supposed to know he had computer access in his mom's basement? I can't even get reception on my BlackBerry the second I come into town...

Oh, home for the holidays is swell.

xo.Mandy.

Re: On A Cold Christmas Eve You Promised Me Broadway Was Waiting For Me...

Despite the grey clouds and it looking like it may snow, it's quite warm here in the city today. I do not approve. Just as I don't approve of the tourists and my new neighbors rocking out to Maroon 5... a fact I had to Google since I can so clearly hear the lyrics through the wall.

There's a special place in hell for people who listen to Maroon 5 on purpose, and it's right next to those who give a damn about Coldplay and Lady Whatever.

I feel so Christmasy, apparently... I'm just busting with holiday cheer like a fucking gingerbread cookie covered in red sprinkles.

xo.

Re: Build Time Machines to Go and Get Us Back...

Much to my disdain, I have a new neighbor right next door. The crying one finally got herself hitched and officially moved out the beginning of October. I was happy that my days of being reprimanded at 4am for excessively loud music were over; and I guess I was quite certain that at the price the place was going for, there was no way in hell it was going to be rented anytime soon. Would you pay $2200 for a one-bedroom in the East Village? I wouldn't... but someone did.

Enter Gothy Hipster Guy.

Why Gothy Hipster? Because from far away he looks like your average douchy hipster, but when you get up close he's wearing black eyeliner and black nail polish to match. Someone call Jared Leto, I'm sure he'd be proud. However, at least Leto used to be Jordan Catalano, so he's almost forgiven... all others do not get off so easily.

As with my last *new* neighbor who moved in a year ago and lives directly downstairs from me and had the audacity to not only ask me for milk but brought me cupcakes his first week in the building, this one, too, is clearly not from these parts. If he were from NYC, he would know that we don't engage in banter with our building mates. Why? Because people move so often, people get old, people die and once someone thinks they're on comfortable ground with you, they'll reprimand you at 4am about your music volume.

I'd seen Gothy Hipster Guy a few times yesterday. Based on what I noticed, he hasn't officially moved in, but is doing some sort cleaning or up-keep or whatever the fuck Gothy Hipster fellas do before they move into a joint. I originally thought he was peddling something, was a delivery boy or a friendly mid-western visitor with his whole "Hey! How are you!?" bullshit. Then bitches stepped it up and decided to knock on my apartment door, and I put two and two together.

As a firm believer in living in a no-pants world, I didn't get the door, but looked out the peep hole to see the eyeliner loving guy all up in my door's grill. I can only assume he wanted to introduce himself, share internet or hound me about something totally pointless like the fact that I'm trying to grow a Christmas tree on the fire escape. I don't care if it's blocking his view--I've already confirmed it's not a fire hazard unless it's on fire!

So yeah... that's what's going on over on East 2nd Street... well, that and I'm going to be trying to score dates in my new red sweater as a social experiment for a dating website. Considering my way with men, I should be hitched just like my recently moved-out neighbor by January. You know, because when you sarcastically tell someone that you feel bad for them because they wanted to talk to you on a Friday night in a crowded bar, it apparently just comes off insulting and they go out for a cigarette and don't come back.

xo.Mandy.

Re: What Really Matters Is What You Like, Not What You Are Like...

...Books, records, films -- these things matter. Call me shallow but it's the fuckin' truth. - High Fidelity

I'm having a High Fidelity moment. After learning on Friday that my first love is officially engaged, in that he finally compiled the necessary funds to purchase a ring as opposed to snorting it up his nose, I have decided to take stock in my past relationships. Where did they go wrong? Was I to blame? And why am I not the marrying kind?

As I rack my brain as to what adjective pops up the most, "bitch," although unoriginal and boring, seems to be a favorite of those who have graced my life with their presence. High school boyfriend John M., unceremoniously, blocked me on FB, but not before telling me he was taking some other high school "friends" with him, because I talked shit about him in an article. I may have said in passing that losing my virginity sucked... yes, it was with him and yeah, it sucked; not because of him, but because it usually sucks. John is now living in Maine with a woman who looks like a foot.

Chris S. we can't ask because most of us are quite certain he is dead, as the last time he was spotted by a mutual friend, he was drunk in a bar in Boston planning to start his career in drug smuggling.

Dan D. put me in the "bitch" category after I dumped him for being poor (I was 19, so sue me), and what became of him is also up for debate although I'm sure he's in NH somewhere with a bunch of kids. At last check-in, he had impregnated a chick. Both Todd B. and Mike G. are now married, and I'm going to chalk that up to the fact that we dated a long time ago when we were too young to marry and you can't base a relationship on bad poetry and one Sunny Day Real Estate album. Matt S. married the girl he dumped me for--she was the lead singer in his band. They have a darling daughter, live in Boston and he now likes sports. The night we broke up I asked what it was about Mary, the lead singer, that she had that I didn't... a typical question you ask in the moment, but regret later. The answer? "She's more my style."

Timothy, whom I saw this past Friday, told me I was too complicated, lovable and fun, but not "simple" enough. Ben L. pursued me and tried to get me to run away with him just before his wedding (as we've covered recently), and even after marriage continues to pop up, but not for marriage, more for, well, I don't know what.

John B. was too much younger than I.

W the Bartender, is also married and has a kid, although according to my friend Thal (she saw him on the subway), its gender is that of mystery because it's so "wonky looking," and to continue to use her words: "you dodged a bullet there." And it's not as though I was going to have something long term with someone whose favorite book is The Da Vinci Code. Thom, was one of those setup situations that went off and on for about 10 months just out of sheer boredom, and well, don't know what happened to him, nor do I care, so I'm not about to track him down and check his relationship status. And these are the ones in my life who lasted longer than 6 months... all others, will not be accounted for.

Although I would like to sit down and ask questions, as it's both self-involved and shallow to assume it was you in each equation and therefore totally up my alley, I guess the truth is I wouldn't want to have married any of them anyway. I guess I just would have wanted them to ask, since in four of these cases, it was the relationship after the one I had with these people that resulted in marriage.

So that's where I am this week: In my pajamas, a pile of freelance topics to cover and my brain focused on me, me, me... but I don't think I'm a whackjob to want to know the specifics. When all you have is "you're not my style" and "you're not simple enough," to go on, it really doesn't help...

xo.Mandy.

new Pomegranate Seeds: Irrefragable.

Re: We Got a Minefield of Crippled Affection.

Yesterday, in between writing a bit of this and that and hanging around Veniero's to pick up macaroons (I must be in some sort of depression because all I want is sex and macaroons, and ideally together), I had to go to CVS to pick up some pills. Fine; they were anti-depressants and really strong ones, too--OK?

So I'm at the CVS waiting in line to pick up my goods when the woman in front of me, who was a good size woman so one would expect her to be jolly (aka. me in 6 months if I keep up the macaroon thing), but she was not, starts yelling and screaming at the pharmacist.

Mouthy woman: "Eight-fifty! You tellin' me this here prescription is eight-fifty?! You fuckin' out of your mind?"

Pharmacist: "Yes, that's the amount and please don't use that language with me."

Mouthy woman: "Fuck you, bitch! You're ripping me off. I can't afford no eight-fifty! What do I look like to you? Some rich bitch?"

Being somewhat naive, I thought they meant 'eight-fifty' as in eight hundred and fifty dollars. You know, about the amount that one would spend on a proper pair of Jimmy Choos. But no...

Pharmacist: "Enough with the language. It's eight dollars and fifty cents and that's what you have to pay after Medicaid covers the rest."

Mouthy woman: "No way! I can't afford that! Not this week, you better put that back and I'll come back when I can *afford it."

After I paid for my prescriptions that were far more than $8.50, I called my mother to relay the story. I do this from time to time because A. I fancy myself quite a storyteller; B. I call her everyday anyway; and C. I needed her emotional support after witnessing such an event.

I made my mother promise me that no matter what happens in my life, I will never regard $8.50 as "too much." She said she couldn't make that promise, but had I been a giving person, I would have stepped forward and bought the woman her prescription.

Mom: "It would have been the decent thing to do."

Me: "Why? It's not my problem she can't afford it. I can't afford lots of things. You don't see me asking anyone for help." (complete and utter lie, of course, and my mother, who financially supports me in many ways, knows it.)

Mom: "Is your mouth full? What are you eating?"

Me: "Mom, I'm having some sort of breakdown after that shitshow... I had to stop and get Italian pastries on the way home."

Mom: "And how much did you spend on these pastries?"

Me: "They were like $25... what's your point?"

Mom: "The point is... oh, where oh where, did I go wrong with you?"

*it should be noted she did buy $10 or so in pretzels and gummi bears. #priorities

xo.Mandy.

And now the terrifying results of listening to "Memories of You" by Ryan Adams on repeat:

new Pomegranate Seeds: Ersatz.

Re: She Was Practiced at the Art of Deception, Well I Could Tell by Her Blood-Stained Hands.

I have, on several occasions, attended friends' wedding solo style. I have found in the past that I prefer it that way than dragging a male friend along who knows even fewer people than I do. If I'm being tortured as it is, why should I selfishly inflict such pain on another?

Two years ago, at my friend Thal's wedding, I was completely content in being alone and spent the majority of the evening doing shots with the married Wall Street fellas in attendance who were there with their boring wives. I learned two things that night: boring, simple, uncomplicated women are the ones who receive marriage proposals; and wives do not care for the token single gal who will drink until dawn with their husbands. At brunch the following morning, I was shunned. My sister explained that married people see single people as a threat... I'm not sure why. I was drinking with them, not fucking them. I don't fuck rich boys in oxford shirts and Hush Puppies...

This past weekend I attended another wedding. I was given the option of a +1 and decided against it. I knew my friend was trying to keep the price of the wedding down and since I've yet to procure something permanent and everlasting, I didn't see why she should have to pay for me to bring along a buddy. However, I really could have used a buddy this time around...

I was 15 minutes late. When I got to the door, I noticed this fella with whom I had the sex and who had written poems about me (we were in poetry class together), was there. He was not friends with the bride or groom, but instead was engaged to a friend of the groom's--a fact I would later find out.

This person, whom we'll call Sebastian for this affinity for the band Belle and Sebastian, immediately shot daggers out of his eyes at me, and before the night was over, he got his wife involved in the intimidation attempt. I was not intimidated, but annoyed... it's not my fault his penis is shaped funny and I may have told one or two or five people within our group of friends. I was 22... 22-year-olds do that.

Next was the best friend of my former sometimes fuck buddy, mostly stalker, fella whom we'll call Coke, for his affinity for cocaine--(I also wrote about him here). Coke, who is now married with a baby, still calls occasionally. Although I never pick up, I know it's him as the last 3 digits of his number are: 666... obviously Verizon knew what they were doing when they chose that number for him years ago. So Coke's best friend was at the wedding because he's been dating the bride's friend for like 5 years now. This best friend makes sure to keep Coke good and drunk whenever he visits Brooklyn so Coke won't find himself outside my apartment declaring love and shit as he's done, oh, 30 times before. Coke's friends have always regarded me as a home-wrecker despite my lack of interest in Coke and taking him up on his offers to "please runaway with me so I don't have to get married this weekend." These pleas continued well after the day he got married. So of course, I was told by the best friend, at the wedding where I was already drowning, that I needed to stay away from Coke for good... I can't mess up his life anymore. What I'm gathering is to this day Coke is trying to convince his friends that I'm the one in pursuit of him, although I never was in the first place. I mostly just found his need to be dramatic and stand outside my window making declarations as both entertaining and ego-boosting... but I was set straight on Saturday in case I should, you know, have the urge to track Coke down.

Then we had Bad Hair, who since I first met him in college where we were all DJs (hence the reason for all these ridiculous connections), has had the worst hair I've ever seen this side of the Mississippi. Bad Hair went and married his college sweetheart with whom I was once friends, but then she slept with a guy who worked at Tiger Style records that I was hooking up with and in that moment our friendship came tumbling down. Although Bad Hair is unaware of the reasons--as she was dating him at the time this happened--he only knows that I'm a bitch and a backstabber, which is probably true, but not in this case. No, in this case, she's the backstabber.

So when Bad Hair, who was there sans wife as she loathes the bride as well, spotted me it was more of death stares in my direction... and I'm pretty sure the middle finger too, unless he always scratches his face with his middle finger(?!?). You know, because it wasn't bad enough to be alone, standing against the wall, drinking bad beer, having been lectured about how I'm home-wrecker, and confronted with a past that involves too much vodka and bad poetry...

When it came to dinner, I found that I was seated across from Bad Hair and next to Sebastian and his twitty looking whore-bimbo thing... that would not do. I looked at the two of them and walked away, squishing myself at the end of a table with a friend of the bride's whom I had met once... where I had a fifth beer and cursed my tolerance for being so high and for being relatively sober when I could have used a lil' kick of relaxation.

Needless to say, I was the first to leave the wedding.

I'm going to say that I have never been so uncomfortable in my whole life. I'm also going to say that I feel bad for these people who are hanging on to things that are a decade old at this point. The sad thing was, my dress was so damn pretty... and all it did was stand alone against the wall making small talk with the bartender... I hate small talk.

xo.

Re: A Pursuit Some Call Outstanding... Or Emotionally Complex.

Dear Merriam-Webster:

OK, I'm not sure what your problem is, but I strongly feel that your Word of the Day yesterday was not only in bad taste, but blatantly rude. I'm not sure who picks what word will be featured, but your choice on my birthday, September 25, 2011, was simply wrong. Let's recap, shall we:

Climacteric:

1: a major turning point or critical stage

2: a: menopause

b: a period in the life of a male corresponding to female menopause

3: the marked and sudden rise in the respiratory rate of a fruit just prior to full ripening

Well then...

First of all, I find your use of the word 'critical' threatening. It's cold to the touch, it's inappropriate and I do not find anything even remotely cute or charming about it.

Secondly, 'menopause?!?' Really? On my 34th birthday? Wow. Low blow. I cried to my friends over this for hours and they tried to tell me some malarkey about you, Merriam-Webster, are sending out words to people other than me, but I don't believe it. My friends seem to think that your Word of the Day doesn't revolve around me, but I beg to differ. Case in point, August 16th's Word of the Day:

Defenestration:

1: a throwing of a person or thing out of a window

2: a usually swift dismissal or expulsion

This was a Tuesday, and I was having a bad day. I probably had cried twice and probably had an argument over gchat with Swede where he probably compared my stature to a leprechaun, granted I don't know for sure, but it seems likely. So how it is that anyone could possibly think that you're not mocking me is just plain ridiculous. Shall we give another example? Fine... Friday, July 22nd's Word of the Day:

Adumbrate:

1: to foreshadow vaguely : intimate

2: to suggest, disclose, or outline partially

3: overshadow, obscure

Granted, I don't have a clear memory of the exact circumstances, but I know that once again, you chose a word on a day that you shouldn't have.

Do you see a pattern here? Do you get what you're doing to my life? If you don't send me a detailed letter explaining why you act this way and why you hate me so, I will be forced to cut ties. It was bad enough you sent me 'Katzenjammer,' back in 2008 when I was experiencing one of the worst hangovers of my life.

You're an asshole, M-W. We're through if I don't get that letter by tomorrow EOD.

Best,

Amanda

Re: I'm Thinking Some Wednesday, The Night We First Met.

Yesterday was my last day at The Grindstone. I had seen it coming, so I was surprisingly strong about it and had already lined up a few freelance opportunities. However, true to form, I never get shit spread out over months; no. It always drops on me at once.

I got home. Sent out some resumes and decided to go get a coffee.

My neighborhood coffee shop that I went to almost everyday, and that was there just the evening before, was no longer. The insides had been gutted, and there were signs all over it saying it had been repossessed by the landlord. I stared at the empty insides in shock and disappointment; then my phone buzzed. I looked at it to open the email. A literary agent had decided to pass on my collection of essays--so I stood there and looked up at the sky and wondered if a piano was going to drop on my head next.

The thing is when you stand in the middle of the sidewalk and stare up at the cloudless sky, it's not really helping the situation. So with the Imperial March in my head for the umpteenth time in the past several days playing in my head, I pounded my feet against the sidewalk up to 5th Street, where I turned left, hit up the liquor store, bought a small bottle of champagne, then marched on home.

And I did this very bizarre thing: I didn't cry. I didn't break anything. I didn't pass blame. I didn't even scream into my pillow. I figured, although this city tosses me down to the ground over and over, and gives me opportunities only to take them away again, I'm actually making an effort at trying to succeed at this stupid writer thing. And that's a lot further than most get...

Blah.

Re: Every Aircraft, Every Camera Is A Wish That Wasn't Granted.

I've been hanging around corners lately trying to start fights. It sort of fits me on Friday afternoons and Monday mornings when I'm exhausted and looking to take my trouble out on someone. It's hard to start fights, you see. You start yelling at someone telling them you "want to throw down," and they either give you the finger or cross the street. I wonder if I lived in Ohio, or someplace more rural, if this would be less of an issue.

Fights used to break out at the Dunkin Donuts in my town where I grew up. It was always some high school hooligan trying to impress some bimbo from the wrong side of the tracks with his vast knowledge of Maroon 5 or Maxim magazine. Taking this into consideration, I set up myself between the Dunkin Donuts and McDonald's on First Avenue Sunday morning. I stood there for a good 20 minutes hurling insults at people left and right and all I got, besides the usual array of middle fingers, was an old woman asking me why I wasn't a wearing a jacket. Fine. Maybe it was cold on Sunday, but I had yet to break out my cold-weather gear and although I stood there shivering, she didn't need to get all "mom" up in my grill. I immediately went home to get warmer clothing, but not before agreeing with her and apologizing for being so careless in my attire.

You see, despite my temper and my hot-head reputation, I'm not actually looking to get into a physical match. At 5-feet in height, I'm not exactly a force on the streets... or anywhere else for that matter. However, I have a goal. Granted, it's a tough one to fulfill, but I believe I can do it if I stick to trying to start chaos on the corners of New York City. The goal, the dream, rather is this: Ryan Gosling. I have figured out that if I cause a raucous on as many streets of this fine city as possible, he'll eventually come and break it up. It has to happen; I believe it will happen.

In between mapping out locations where Ryan is bound to show up and break up fights as he did that day in Astor Place a few weeks back, you can find me in my bedroom working on my biceps, my insulting skills, and my scare tactics.

Sometimes the greatest love affairs blossom out of a fist fight between a 33-year-old under-medicated lunatic and an elderly woman dressed in pink pants who's doling out un-asked for fashion advice.

xo.

Read: New Pomegranate Seeds: Harmatia.

Re: I'm Too Busy Being Free To Notice That You've Drifted Away From Me.

"We're going to need a sharper one," said the doctor.

"I'm sorry did I hear that correctly?" I asked. But the words had barely finished tumbling out before I began to sweat. "I'm going to pass out," I said.

"Good thing you're laying down," said the nurse. And it all went black.

I had been too early to my appointment, and having not spoken out loud since Saturday night, I was on a roll so as to distract my mind from the blood the nurse took from my arm (I have rolling veins), from the reason I was there (I'm unperfect), from the bills on my kitchen table (I've stopped paying them), from the pain in my chest (It's stress, I swear):

"Sometimes I think I'm in love then it goes away the way things go away when you forget to tie them down and then I think I'm happy about this because I don't believe in trapping, you see, my love or the thought that I should have tied down... and I wanted to walk here, but I do a whole lot of sleeping when I can't deal and I'm not dealing very well lately and I have this pain in my chest and I can't tell if it's real or metaphorical, because a lot of things in my life are metaphors because I make it that way... do you know that I can pull metaphors out of nothing? It's part talent, part curse... I have this tattoo on my wrist as a reminder to get up every morning, but sometimes it fails me and sometimes I forget to water my bamboo and yet the damn thing keeps living, but not my basil plant, no, that one went up and died. I didn't find a metaphor in that, but rather a sign. Do you believe in signs? I don't, unless I've had too much to drink. I'm sleepy. Can I rest my head on your shoulder? I love these pants because they're a size 6, but they still make me feel not good enough and even on my toes I can't reach the bottom rung of a fire escape's ladder... I'm trying to grow out my hair, but it's taking forever, I'm thinking of shaving it, but then what will I twirl when I'm nervous? I don't have any regrets but I really wish I did, then I'd feel like a better person. My mother told me I don't know how to love unconditionally... she's right. I don't think I know how to love at all... I once met a schizo at a bar in Portsmouth, NH. That was his opening line, the schizo bit; he followed it up with the fact that he could only leave the house when his mom wasn't around... he must have been the age I am now; then I was 21. And I remember thinking: 'SHUT UP! SHUT UP! STOP TALKING!' but I never said the words out loud and he asked me for my number and I told him my boyfriend was the bass player in the band that was playing which was true at the time, but I'd probably say the same thing now and it wouldn't be true, not because I can't let go of my past, but because my past can't let go of me. So I feel like him, in the way that I can't stop chattering. I apologize for being so candid. I'll be quiet now. Just take my blood and let's not mention this later that I said everything to a stranger that I probably should have said into my pillow this morning. Did I mention I can pull a metaphor out of nothing? Yeah, you do the math..."

xo. Mandy.

Read: new Pomegranate Seeds: Elegiac.

Listen: my new love: "My Heart is the Eastern Horizon" by Clemency.

Re: It's the Sound of Fucking Parked Cars.

Today is September 1st. The summer is over and 25 days from now I'll celebrate, or rather, un-celebrate, my birthday. I'll be 34.

I do not look 34. I do not act 34. I do not understand what 34 means. Since my introduction to the Beastie Boys, they have set my standard for what is "old." In my mid-20's, they were 10 years older than me, and I remember thinking: "OK, 35 is not that old." So at 33, I can say the same about about 43... "it's not that old."

I do not have a boyfriend. I do not have an interest in having one. I do not have any major interest in marriage -- besides a party that's all about me, of course --- nor do I have any aching desire to procreate. OK, I take this back. I sometimes do, but then it passes, then comes back, then I call my nephew, Jackson, and it comes back three-fold, or subtracts three-fold depending on the accuracy or inaccuracy at which I can understand his toddler babble. According to him Swede actually likes my crazy ways; according to him I'm the best writer in all in the world; according to him I'm "very tall." Inaccuracy of toddler babble only gets you so far...

On several occasions, both my sister and parents have expressed a concern in my choice of life. "If only you had wanted something else," says my sister. She's not knocking what I am or have been or will be. I think she's just wishing for her own sanity, I had chosen something easier to handle: simplicity, mediocrity... complacency.

Had I stayed in NH, with the mind and heart I have now, I would no longer be alive. I would have offed myself long ago. I would have settled. Instead, I was not born with a mind and heart that rejects conventional life choices. I was born with something else that no one in my family can understand or define.

However, that still doesn't stop my loved ones from wishing, for my own sake, my inner make-up had be contrived of something "simpler," something "else." Of my high school graduating class, to the best of my knowledge, and not including our handful of gay men, I am one of four unmarried women. When you take babies into consideration, I am probably one of 1o. I am not a scientist. I'm basing this on Facebook and hearsay.

I regret. I do, although I promised I never would. But I do not regret that. In that regard, I did not compromise; in that regard, I gave up nothing and I sacrificed even less.

I remember the night we drove into Boston to see the Magnetic Fields. I had had too much to drink thanks to my fake I.D. After the show, I huddled in the passenger seat next to a driver who skyrocketed to indie fame for his association with the right bands and a label that would eventually acquire a status in that industry that is sometimes unheard of...

It didn't matter that he was the most beautiful and musically educated boy I had ever kissed, or the fact that Julie threw up all over her shirt in the back seat, or how at each stop light, he kissed me again and I know he's married to an indie film star now... it doesn't matter...

What matters is the sound of fucking parked cars... they linger, in case you didn't realize. If you drive down a street corroded with them, you hear them. They are a silent, complacent like the person I should have been. But fuck, when life whizzes by them, they ache, they scream and not because they have the vocal chords... but because they were there.

I was 20 years old that night. I was far younger in numbers than I am today, but I remember it with everything I have. For me it summarized life: I never wanted to be something that only existed in sound because someone else was running by them. I would never wanted to be a parked car on Mass Ave in Boston.

I have often written about the sound of parked cars... if only to prove that everything, even silent things, have a purpose.

xo. Mandy.

Re: Those Were the Reasons and That Was New York.

I had never been privy to what might be called mass hysteria until this past Friday. As Hurricane Irene made her way up the coast, and I watched those around me freak out and people get turned away from grocery stores, I figured we were all doomed. Not doomed as in The Rapture type shit, but doomed as in weeks without electricity. I never lost it.

On my way home that night, I walked past a man whom I've been seeing around the neighborhood for years. He looks just like John Updike, before he died, of course, and as this man, whose name I do not know, but what I like to think is Charles, hobbled past me with his dog, he smiled at me for the first time ever.

Both he and his dog are old and dirty, scraggly and unkempt, and although I hope they have others who love them, besides each other, I also find some sort of beauty in the fact that they may have outlived or outgrown everyone else they once knew. I think I feel this way because I like to imagine this man, besides being named Charles, is a writer; and my romantic heart likes to imagine most writers, at least the ones worth giving a damn about, as tortured, flawed beings with a weak spot for bad habits.

So when "Charles," and his grungy mutt, whom we'll call, "Paul," for the sake of argument, looked at me and smiled, I assumed a tree would be crashing through my window during the storm, and my life, which I've never cared for much anyway, would be over. It's exhausting finding non-existent meanings in everything.

However, with some wine and sleeping pills, I slept through the whole thing, and when I awoke Sunday morning, the world, the one I had known before I'd fallen asleep, was still there. I was rather unmoved. I mostly just wanted a croissant.

xo.Mandy.

Read: new Pomegranate Seeds: Indite.

Listen: "Montana" by Youth Lagoon... painfully gorgeous:

Re: That's Great It Starts with an Earthquake, Birds, Snakes, an Aeroplane... Lenny Bruce is Not Afraid...

We survived the earthquake here in NYC, now the hurricane is ahead. However, despite all this worrying, I realized this morning, on top of having a 2-year-old for a therapist, I'm very much like a 6-year-old girl.

Scenario:
I wake up too late to get cash to tip the Fresh Direct guy this morning. He comes to the door.

Me: I'm so sorry. My boyfriend forgot to leave me cash this morning for a tip. (blatant lie)

Five minutes later.

I stare at my kitchen counter and wonder why I don't have a cupcake for breakfast.

***

Scenario:
Six year old girl on the train this morning.

Girl: Mom, there's a seat right there! I can see it! (blatant lie)

Mom: Please stop lying, Vanessa, it's a bad habit to get into.

Five minutes later when they're exiting the train.

Girl: Mom! Let's go to that cupcake place for breakfast.


And now I must harass my landlord about fixing my fireplace before the hurricane...

xo. Mandy.

Re: I'm Somewhere Between the Small of Your Back and Any Good Sense.

I never had a Magic Eight Ball. My freshman year of college the girl across the hall had one, and I'd occasionally (read: several times a day) ask it if I were going to end up with Conor Oberst, if I'd be a published writer by the time I was 25, and if I'd ever have the patience to grow my hair long... just to name a few inquiries. It answered 'yes' to all of the above. And when I asked it if it was a lying whore, it told me 'no.' Obviously, it was a lying whore.

My 2 1/2-year-old nephew, Jackson, has become my human Magic Eight Ball. When I need advice, I turn to him.

Example 1.

Me: Jackson, do you think my heart is dead?

J: (long pause) No, Bob.

Me: Are you sure? I mean, do you promise me it isn't?

J: Bob, it's okay. I will fix it and then there will be no 'owie' for you. OK?

Me: OK. Thanks, monkey.

(An hour later I got a lecture from my sister about how she had to explain what 'dead' meant to the toddler)

Example 2.

Me: Jackson, should I go on the Weezer Cruise with Swede?

J: (long pause) No, Bob.

Me: Do you even now what a cruise is?

J: Um, no, Bob.

Me: It's a big boat that goes in the ocean! Isn't that nice?

J: Bob, I'll go on the boat. You stay home.

Me: So I shouldn't go?

J: Bob, no. That boat sounds too big.

(An hour later my sister called to ask me about this alleged 'big boat' and how I could justify spending money on it. I told her the kid was a liar.)

Example 3.

Me: Jackson, do you know what a secret is?

J: Yes, Bob.

Me: Do you know that our chats are private and that they're just between us? Because if you can't figure out what 'private' means, we're going to have to cease these discussions. Jackson, no one likes a rat, got it?

J: Bob, Grampy said rats live with you in N'Ork.

Me: You know, if you were smart you'd stop listening to everyone but me.

J: BOB! I gotta eat!

Me: Fine! But I know you're just jealous about the cruise... that's why you ratted me out. I'm on to you, monkey.

Example 4.

Me: Is Jackson there please?

My sister: Do you want to know how many times he called me a 'rat' yesterday, and told anyone and everyone that 'Bob said no one likes rats?'

Me: It's not my fault if you let the kid watch too much trash TV. Now let me talk to him.

J: Bob! I'm goin' to school in weeks!

Me: That's great, Jackson, but I really need you to focus on me for a change. Sometimes I feel like all you want to do is talk about you and your problems... Do you think I should cut my hair again?

J: (long pause) Yes, Bob. Your hair is big.

Me: Seriously, you really need to work on keeping secrets and knowing when to lie. How else will you make friends when you start school? You should probably work on that speech impediment, too... you're really difficult to understand sometimes.

J: Bob?

Me: What?

J: Mommy is a rat.

Me: Oh, you are a lil' man after my own heart. Now go jump on the bed and tell mommy that I told you that you could, OK?

J: OK, Bob. I love you.

Takeaway? Toddlers make awesome therapists.

Re: There's No Reason to Grieve, the World that You Need is Wrapped in Gold Silver Sleeves...

I have received the following email almost a dozen times in the last two weeks:

From: Jacquelyn.Volke@umassmemorial.org

To: mandy@gmail.com

Date: Wed, Aug 10, 2011 at 421 AM

Subject: Please Respond

Hello,
I am Mrs Mary Abery, a devoted christian. I am in the process of setting up a charity foundation but due to my health condition I would need somebody to help me finish it. This mail was sent by one of my PA (Volke, Jacquelyn) so please reply to my email address: m.abery@rogers.com for more details.
Remain Blessed
Mrs. Mary Abery

The information transmitted is intended only for the person or entity to which it is addressed and may contain confidential and/or privileged material. Any review, transmission, re-transmission, dissemination or other use of, or taking of any action in reliance upon this information by persons or entities other than the intended recipient is prohibited. If you received this in error, please contact the sender and delete the material from any computer.

-------------------------

While I know for a fact that this is spam, but having received it so many times, I felt it necessary to respond... for my own entertainment and ever-slipping sanity:

From: mandy@gmail.com

To: Jacquelyn.Volke@umassmemorial.org

Date: Thu, Aug 11, 2011 at 201 AM

Subject: Re: Please Respond

Well hello there, Mrs. Mary Abery!

I, too, am setting up a charity foundation, so your email comes at a very appropriate time for me. Perhaps, we can share ideas?

I live in a city full of rats... and I'm not talking about just the people! Hahaha... oh, that was a knee-slapping good one, eh? There are many evenings and early mornings in which I watch these carriers of disease dart back and forth across the street in search of, well, whatever rats are in search of.

Having witnessed one too many squished rats on my street, I have decided to take action. Not just because I think that rats are necessary to the eventual demise of the human race and therefore, should be saved, but because the sight of their flatten bodies, their insides pushed out through their fur and the encircling of flies is something that keeps me up at night.

Now through the end of August I will be accepting donations of popsicle sticks in the hopes of acquiring enough so I can fashion a mini-fence at the edges of sidewalks so as to keep the rats from the streets. They seem much happier crawling around in the garbage anyway, so why they insist on retreating to the streets, is beyond me. Even if their food supply runs out, they can so easily move on to the next garbage bag. I have realized that maybe rats are not very smart.

I plan to take the donated popsicle sticks and paint them a variety of happy colors so to not create yet another eyesore here in my lovely city. If you think this is good idea, I'd love your support. In fact, if you could add my cause to your outgoing emails, then even better.

Unlike you, my health is not failing, nor am I fortunate enough to have a PA, so any help from others who believe in charity would be helpful and appreciated.

Thanks so much and take care.

Best,
Mandy.

Read: new Pomegranate Seeds: Entelechy.

Listen: new Port St. Willow: "Calm" - whom I saw this past weekend for the second time, and it was, again, amazing... he is amazing.