Today I:

1)    Saw Madonna’s daughter on Chelsea Piers

2)    Attended a work-related Happy Hour. I know, what?

3)    Went to Trader Joes. DELIGHT!

4)    Nearly got run over by a bus. I thought traffic was going the other way, and didn’t see it coming.

5)    Nearly got run over by a bike. I didn’t realize I was walking in the bike lane. Said biker was none to happy, and angrily shook his gloved fist at me.

6)    Mocked, and therefore, involved myself for several stops, with a set of obnoxious teenage boys on the subway. Because I was bored.

7)    Found myself admiring a sweet, not-ugly looking Jewish man who seemed to be admiring me, too. Until we stopped at the next stop and he said in a loud, honkish voice “OUT. OUT PLEASE.” Listen buddy, we’re all moving. Hold your g-ddamn horses.

8 )    Received a compliment on my new glasses, which is nice, because I was feeling sad that they are fine but sort of boring.

Sometimes, despite the size of my breasts, I am fairly certain that I look a young girl of fifteen. Apparently there are those who agree.

There are other moments when I feel quite adult, walking along determinedly in my harshly happy way, ignoring the poor Greenpeace tablers, the homeless, and that man trying to give away tickets for a free screening of Mamma Mia.

Then I get home and realize: wait, maybe I really did want to watch Mamma Mia! At least, if it’s gonna be free. (Although I don’t see how a film/musical could make better use of ABBA than Muriel’s Wedding did.) And I kick myself for not stopping only because I thought that it’s not what a real person would do. Just let yourself like musical theatre-cum-movie, and accept a deal where you wait in line for two hours with pushy suckers who end up spending $10 on popcorn anyway! (But thankfully, not).

There is much touted point in everyone’s young adulthood when you finally realize that your parents are really just people, and it’s kind of shocking and sad. I don’t know that I ever really idealized my parents to begin with, but surely at one point I did think them somehow special.

Still, I think for quite a while after that shattering of parental perfection, the illusion of almighty ADULTHOOD is maintained. It is assumed that at some moment, generally post-college (as the years progress, we seem to push back this point further and further from where we are standing), our age will grant us passage – willfully or not- into some secret society of real people with different rules about what one can and should do.

What is so startling about realizing that this is not that we are still merely overgrown children, but that EVERYONE ELSE IS, TOO.

Indeed, as we age, we get nothing but more insane and eccentric, and to top it off, less inclined (or perhaps merely less able) to hide it. Mostly, I am continuously shocked by how HUMAN people are.

For example, I had a back and forth of at least ten, uncertain emails, and four timid meetings with Cybelle, cat lady. She is a thirty-something with a real job and real life and real apartment (and thankfully, a real boyfriend- it’s the only thing saving her from being a sad spinoff of a Cathy comic). But she’s also ust as nerdy and awkward as I! I don’t know why I thought it would be anything different, really. Why do we expect grownups to somehow be superhuman? After all, they are the ones with leather and foot fetishes; mommy issues discussed ad nauseum with overpriced psychotherapists; embarrassingly overdue credit card bills; untrimmed body hair; and broken dreams.

They are, in fact, much more vulnerable and imperfect than youth, because they can no longer hide things with drum-tight skin, and their hesitancy is no longer veiled by the charm of adolescence. No wonder so many people end up getting a divorce. Or killing themselves.

Anyway, all this has really taught me about myself, for the moment, is that my giant boobs do not make me more of an adult, but rather, more of a child. They are cartoonish, and still perky enough (though not very) to make me a symbol of the flourish of youth. And that’s as good as it’s going to get, because in a few years when they hit the floor, I will merely be a sad old spinster with useless tits.

I’m not exactly sure how or why I was able to ignore the oppressive cat smell(s) of Cybelle’s apartment when I first came over to meet the perpetrators of said smells. I suppose I was just so desperate to appear normal, and a lover of felines, that I ignored the pleas of my usually astute, and opinionated, nostrils.

But now, thinking back on her statement, “They don’t smell too bad, right?…It’s this no unscented cat litter!”

No, Cybele. It is not the cat litter, because cat litter has little to do with those smells associated with pee/poo/cans of mushed up shrimp and chicken innards.

Smells are the least of my concerns, though, when I realize I have started to walk out of the house unknowingly covered in white fur, and worst of all, that I may not actually hate cats.

Yes, despite the fact that they are moody and shed non-stop, and have so little respect for personal space that I am fairly certain they would sleep on my face if I let them, I kind of like them.

Still, most of the time I find myself wishing they were dogs instead. This has made me resolute that I will never date a man whom I suspect of still being even moderately enamored of his ex-girlfriend; I never want a man to feel the same way about me that I feel about these cats.

One big plus about having cats around, however, is that there is little to no threat of vermin. On my last night at Ana Da Luna’s, I finally came face to face with the damned cockroach I had been pretending to ignore throughout my three weeks there. But then, there he was, just-a-hangalanging in the tub when I was about to get into the shower, and I was like not only are you gross, but now you are also a perv. So I let the water rain down on him, and gave him permission to haunt me as much as he likes. I guess I felt okay about it, until I remembered that I had to pick him up and throw him away, and almost puked as he crunched in my fingers (well, in the paper towel in my fingers).

I think I would be okay with it if I had to come back in my next life as a cockroach as punishment. At least I would be impervious to ice age, nuclear winter, and morals. Almost everything, except the Orkin man. And cats.

Recently, I have been having really intense moments of jealously when seeing really beautiful women on the subway and/or the street.

Not GORGEOUS beautiful women, but as beautiful as a woman can be without being called GORGEOUS, and therefore, cease to become the object of the everyman’s affection. For example, a really hot mom, or the most hipster a hot girl can be without being hipster-hot. And this is important, as generally I do not envy women because they are everyman’s object of desire, but because I just want to look like them for looking-like-them’s sake.

But this envy appears to be deeply seated in a desire not only to look like them, but also to be looked at like them. Indeed, when I see that it is not only me, but also half of the train car’s men who are staring (the other half are gay, homeless, or otherwise catatonic), I become indignant, although I cover my scorn with a smile that tries to say “Ha-ha! Yea guys, sheeee’s a hottie, huh?” This is especially bothersome because I pride myself on being jealous only of girls who are unconventially attractive, which usually makes me feel less associated guilt.

In seeking an explanation, I have come to theorize that these feelings are attributable at least in part to the fact that I have more respect for a male New Yorker’s opinion than most other men around the country, like those from, say, UVA, where the mark of a good girl is whether or not the bow in her hair matches the print of her Lily Pulitzer dress, how many times a week she can be seen jogging through campus in Soffe shorts, and how closely her nose resembles a button.

My jealously cannot be attributed to the “latent [or was it nascent?] lesbian yearning” described by Paul Bambusch in 8^th grade when he gave me an unsolicited analysis of my personality, which turned out to be in many ways quite astute. Incidentally, Paul turned out to be harboring homosexual feelings far stronger than my own.

I guess this all boils down to the fact that I just really want a fucking boyfriend, and I’m jealous of girlies who can get on a train car at one stop and leave two stops later with ten new admirers. Well, nine, not counting me, but who ever said she was straight? Maybe my latent lesbian yearning will become nascent. I wonder: am I woman enough to date someone hotter than me?

I have just spent the last few hours, and the last few days, trolling through profiles on match.com/jdate/yahoo personals/okcupid/etc, and I have a few notes:

-       Do I REALLY have to pay for these things? UGH.

-       It does not make you more appealing when you post pictures of yourself with other women.

-       I don’t get why you would specifically note power or money as a turn off; maybe you just mean that you don’t want someone who is really into these things, which is totally fine. But it sort of sounds like you would find them threatening, i.e. they would make you self-conscious about the size of your penis.

-       Sometimes, the really earnest pictures of nice looking but obviously lame guys whose profiles I would never click on make me want to cry.

-       Profile pictures men should avoid are ones where: their eyes are red; their faces/(bald) heads are shiny; they look like actor headshots; they look angry; they have soul patches, but that’s because they should not, in fact, have soul patches; they are in black and white or WORSE, sepia

-       Other things to avoid: user names that use numbers/letters instead of full words (i.e. “gr8 guy 4 u”)

-       Don’t tell me you are “just a normal, laid back guy, looking for a nice girl”. You may very well be, but that is boring and tells me nothing. Also, I am not nice.

-       Don’t misspell words like “insightful” (“inciteful”); if you misspell obvious things like “great” (“gret”) that are clearly typos, I will be more forgiving

-       Don’t say your date should be (only) “Caucasian”. Obviously, I am, so this shouldn’t affect me, but I am offended that you would not consider someone of a different race. You asshole. 

To the man with the two surprisingly cute shitzus who held the building door open for me: thanks! However, I dread the day when I will open the door and have to assess whether the person trying to come in behind me looks more like a murderer, or a fellow tenant.

To the man on the subway with the coffee table: I bet you’re rethinking doing this Craigslist purchase during rush hour. Also: one of the legs is sticking into my hip.

To the woman on the corner giving away free Frappacino samples: you made my afternoon; feel free to do that as often as you’d like.

To the men and women who sell strawberries 3/$4 and zucchinis 2/$1 on their carts at street corners: good on you. I love your produce!

To the Upper West Side: wow, you really do have a lot of Jews, don’t you?

To the sad, middle-aged man standing outside of the Steely Dan concert begging for extra tickets: hahaha. 

Why would Bobby Flay create a show where he challenges poor old regular folk on their best dishes? There is no way you can come out of there NOT looking like an asshole, even if most of them time you let them win, especially when you already start out pretty much an asshole, being Bobby Flay and all.

Also: you (and Steve from sex and the city) talk like babies. Babies from the Bronx.

Speaking of jackasses who do not deserve their own shows: who the fuck is Bill Engval? People should not have to ask that question if you are going to name a show after yourself; even if it did have some generic name, it would still suck, and it would still be just another show about an ugly, overweight man and his henpeckish but hot anorexic wife.

I never watch TV, but now I have fewer friends, more free time, and unfortunately, fewer channels, which consist mainly of: Fox, TBS, the CW, the Food Network, and PBS.

It’s annoying how falsely exciting the pathetic lives of people like DSedaris (before the fame OBVIOUSLY), or Dawn on the Office, are because you know that in the end everything ends up really great and/or the people are fictional. Then you realize that your own life might be sad, but really sad, forever, not just for the interim. Working sad, stop-gap jobs is only hilarious when people are reading about it later, and making you millions of dollars in the process.

True, I will never varnish furniture, or work at a paper supply company. But I will probably be just as poor, and hopeless. And what’s worse, I will probably fail to even secure the dreamy boyfriend.

I don’t say this because I am a fatalist, and I only sort of say this because I am somewhat depressed and lonely at the moment. It is quite possible that the impending trip to the overpriced, overrated PinkBerry to meet up with my cousin and her Buddhist vegan boyfriend will be a mood lifter. He used to be an anarchist, but now has only anarchistic (and only somewhat anachronistic) tendencies. I need this human contact, even if she and I are equally indifferent to each other.

Today, I walked the 50 or so blocks home from work instead of taking the overcrowded subway, and I have to say the view from Broadway on a weekday was one of the choicest collections of weirdos this peoplewatcher has seen in a while.

It’s easy to forget how BIZARRE people can be, and I suggest such a voyage to anyone who has visions of New York as a haven of hipsters and sex and the city-like style mavens.

Other things about my day:

1)    Watching a homeless man try to steal a bike while onlookers pretended not to look, or simply did not care.

2)    Nearly all of the blackberries in my 3 for $5 packages developed mold, seemingly overnight

3)    Ana da Luna came by to flaunt her perfect skunk spot and rave about the mediocre Dan Savage.

4)    If every woman in Brooklyn has a baby, every woman in Manhattan is pregnant

Occupying oneself in New York must be difficult for someone with no money, for someone like me.

On the one hand, there are a lot of things to do for free: movies in the park, window-shopping and above all, people watching. For this, I am grateful; few other cities offer so much entertainment and ask for so little in return.

Yet New York above all is a city about money. One might argue that all cities- all of America- is about this, in fact, and in a way, it is true. In a way, too, New York is about SO much more. But at its core, all it asks you to do is to make money, then to spend it.

To start, there is Wall Street, and its midtown sisters. I believe enough is said here. But then, you are surrounding my shops and stores and people slurping down five-dollar smoothies and ten-dollar sandwiches and even when you want to do something for nothing you think “how can I walk these thirty blocks without a little fruity reward?”

Some people, the able, might think: how can I walk these three blocks, before getting into a cab for the other 27, without a little antique end-table reward? I can easily see it happening.

As I said, every city, every town even, in the US, and to some degree around the world, begs the same of us. But I think other cities have other focuses. Portland, for example: green green green, be green, and if you are going to buy, buy green, or better yet, make your own (green). Washington: politics. Boston: we are the intellectuals, at least, if we are affiliated with one of the hundred colleges in a five-mile radius; if not, we are the loud baseball fanatics.

I read a column to this effect, recently, and while it, and my own analysis, are certainly in many ways an oversimplifications, I think in many ways it speaks the truth.

I do things to try and calculate a saved bundle: I walk places; I watch pirated movies online; I spend time in parks instead of often-pricy museums; I buy iced coffee instead of frappaccinos. Pathetic efforts, with pathetic payoffs, and even then, many expenses fail to be avoided. I find myself intimated to leave the house, for fear my purse will fly open and I will end up with half of Manhattan in my pocket by the time I get home. I have even tried avoiding bringing money at all, but I always bring a credit card for emergencies, and then use it for things that are decidedly not.

I have begun to think that my conscious is not enough to battle the consumerism that consumes me. I shall need to recluse myself into the Zen woods with no grocery stores, only gardens for the planting and moments for the meditating. Yet this is artificial, in all of its “return” to pseudo-purity, and in any case, not sustainable.

Why am I, are we, so weak-willed to the deafening, dumbing cries of consumerism? Why can’t I just say no? Today I made a pledge to spend nothing but two dollars on a subway ticket; I came home having spent those two dollars, plus fifty on two new dresses from HM.

Tomorrow I will take an even more serious vow: no money spent, on anything at all. I will leave the house, I will make myself, but only to take a walk or to read in Riverside Park. No money spent, no money used, unless of course you count my rent and the groceries already purchased. I will not be Zen, but I will be frugal.

Wandering around the Columbia campus this evening was a refreshingly normal experience. It is quite a lovely space, and I would never have expected anything different if my sister had not insisted that it really was bizarre that I was working for their press (even if it is over 50 blocks away, and essentially a separate entity).

Anyway, I was sort of happy to be back there, and to be living so close, as familiar people and places can be quite comforting at a transitional time like this. But it is obviously easier to forestall any ill will toward a place when it is not swarming with overprivileged JAPS and WASPS.

This also makes it harder not to wonder how things would have been had I stayed on for the last three years, and I ask this not out of regret (as I have said before, I am not a regretful person), but curiosity (I am quite a curious person). Such speculation is useless, certainly, but can be quite entertaining.

I have settled in quite nicely to the apartment of Ana Da Luna, a beautiful Brazilian export who has invited me to use her bed, her paper towels, and all of her leftover garlic for the last three months of June, in exchange for a mere five hundred dollars. With wood floors, high ceilings, an absentee roommate, and even a washer/dryer, the only things I have to complain about are the one cockroach I saw skittering across the floor yesterday (it was HUGE), and the lack of cell reception (not that I like talking to people anyway).

Ana is a couchsurfer with the exact skunk spot I desire, except hers is of course au natural.

I have continued my tour of grocery stores of the upper west side, and indeed I think that I have been to the three nearest ones at least once each night this week, with a few others sprinkled in for variety. To anyone tracking my movements (or my bank statement), I would surely look insane, if still less so than the swine-man making frighteningly accurate porcine noses outside of my work on Tuesday.

I frequent these stores not only in search of foods that will service cheap, easy staple meals for my time in the city, but also because I have still yet to figure out the secret to their pricing. At times various products seem on par with what one might find at Giant, and certainly at Harris Teeter, while other seem bizarrely overpriced ($6 for Cherrios?). Furthermore, the inconsistency between stores is shocking, and I am trying to keep track of where things are cheapest, as there is no clear winner amongst the closest ones; $3 for a can of regular old blacks beans at once place, but $2 for a huge bag of lettuce, while next door might charge $0.80 for that same can of beans, but $5 for the same head of lettuce.

In any case, I have begun to worry about my new hobby, and fear for my own perspective now that Whole Foods has begun to look, at least in some respects, like quite a bargain.

I don’t know why I am such a restless soul. Nothing seems to make me quite happy, and the closest I ever get is the idea of happiness; when such plans come to fruition, however, they are almost always disappointing.

I think that at least in a small way that is part of why I stubbornly decided to come to New York to intern this summer. Yes, I think it is a wise career move, but at the heart of my decision may have been just a bit of a thrill-seek. As much as it turns my stomach, the frantic phone calls and craigslist culls put a fire under my bum, which, while terribly disruptive to my sleep pattern, also gave me a delightfully invigorating chill.

In trying to stave off the inevitable disappointment, I am trying not to think about anything, too much. Anyway, it will be what it will be. I will make it work, or I won’t, but I’ve committed myself to it, so it’s going to happen now. Here it comes!

I love plotting and planning, almost so much that I think that, if I could do any job and be quite rich, one of my top choices might be a personal assistant to someone important (but who preferably was not a bastard/bitch). (The other, more exciting choices being: cheese maker, restaurant reviewer, travel writer). I do not aspire to greatness or import, nor would it make me feel great or important to work for such people. I just like the idea of putting things in their places, and being on time.

I do not aspire to many lofty goals, only that I be content in my job, have a nice (if small) place to inhabit, and be surrounded by good friends. I do not want kids, I do not need money (just to be comfortable to the point where it is not a daily worry). I want to be able to travel with some regularity. I would like to live in a medium sized city that is both affordable and convenient. I want to be able to walk as much as possible, and eat fresh, delicious food. Most of all, I want peace: of body and mind.

I think it a bit silly to make a list of such goals, especially with ones so basic as my own, but it is also somewhat calming. Buddy says that studies show new college graduates with set goals are more likely to be successful ten years later. I wonder what they meant by “successful”, and whether it measures my primary factor, happiness.

I think they meant goals like starting your own hedge fund or making a million dollars by your twenty-fifth birthday.  I wonder where life will lead me in ten years, but I try not to think about it, just as I’m trying not to think about the next ten days. Speculation leads to disaster, and plans never come out like you think, so I am trying to let it ride- but in a subway, instead of a car, if possible.