Tuesday, December 15, 2009

And in keeping with the holiday spirit...

by Jyll

I am ready to never eat again and it's not even Christmas yet. This season has truly outdone itself in fried, gooey shit that I can't resist. So much for 6 months of carb-free sugar-free livin.

On Saturday, my dad picked me up at the airport with a traditional California meal:


This was followed by Going Home And Doing Nothing With my Sisters. Except by 'Doing Nothing' I mean eat cheetohs and watch Rock of Love.

It's been fun though, being back home in the mountains with my family. Last night we had my favorite: fried deer liver, cooked in the style of my late grandfather*.

*in bacon grease

It was amazing. And an excellent meal for me on many levels, because a) I adore it, 2) it reminds me of Grandpa, and d) eating it makes me know for sure that I'm not a yuppie (yet).


My dad says to note that this "big sucker" (the deer) was "shot by a woman."

After all this cheetohing and fried deer livering, I'm bound to return to New York at a healthy weight for my height and frame. Fuck that. Fortunately I found some of my mother's medifast from the 80's (best-case scenario, early 90's) in the attic, so I'll be doing that for the next two weeks. I want to look properly heroin chic when I ring in the new year.

Seriously, though, fried deer liver. You simply must try it.

Monday, December 14, 2009

Textual Healing: Jyll Leaves Town for a Week

by Jyll & Liz

Jyll: Leaving now! :)
Liz: Have a good flight! Am taking a taxi 2 wrk. So long, tip money.
Jyll: But doesn’t a manhattan cab ride feel good?

* * * * *

Jyll: Wrote a blog but no wifi in denver airport. Wtf?
Liz: Boo. Café is dead bc of hannukah. No coffee crush today. And I got baby’s cold. Wah Wah.
Jyll: Your crush doesn’t know what he’s missing, and that’s a fucking tragedy.
Liz: You are the gem that bedazzles my daily existence

* * * * *

Jyll: How are you feeling m’love?
Liz: Much better. Was in bed for 14 hours. Hows papa? NY misses you.
Jyll: He is shoveling snow in shorts. Classic.
Liz: Haha. SNOW! Raining on ave b.

* * * * *

Liz: I think today is an eat-my-face-off kinda day
Jyll: No.
Liz: Mmf.
Jyll: You could lose 5 pounds easy just by your body fighting the cold. Why jeopardize that?
Liz: Your advice is equal parts reviled and inspired.
Jyll: :)

* * * * *

Jyll: I killed a honey baked ham
Liz: Ur gross.
Jyll: No gross would be my dad trying to set me up with his friend's son!
Liz: Not grosser than my boss trying to pair me with a supremely oafish customer who suffers from adult related acne
Jyll: Ew!

* * * * *

Jyll: What are you up to?
Liz: Toasting a bagel for a sociopath. How’s home? Have you built a snowman yet?
Jyll: Naw but I have gained TWO pounds!

Sunday, December 13, 2009

Meanwhile, in The Village...

by Liz

On Sunday afternoons, Village cafés are packed with laptop-wielding college students, horn-rimmed twentysomethings typing analytic essays at a frantic clip. Carelessness is a facebook memory; the time for procrastination has ceased; the time for literary procreation (or, bullshitting) has just begun.

I remember such Sundays well, if not fondly. My housemate and I would trudge to a State Street café and plop our books dutifully onto an open table, hoping to claim a four-person booth for ourselves. Felicity read Tolstoy for a Winter semester that seemed to last for ages; I plodded through a 10 lb. hardcover on literary theory. By Monday morning, we were meant to brandish well-informed, cleanly typed analyses of our respective reading materials.

I was a shade of Sylvia Plath by the end of my college career, mostly due to the heartburn incurred on such grief-filled Sunday evenings. By 9pm, I could be found lazily eyeing a dauntingly thick packet of unread manuscript; feet extended across the well-worn leather of a booth cushion; nursing a bag of potato chips; contemplating the purchase of a chocolate bar; reasoning the nihilistic attitude I felt towards my college education.

Literary analysis is bullshit. What is the worth of such pretentious bullshit in the greater context of society, anyway? Words are just formalities, placeholders for purely mental concepts. I haven’t even read the novel assigned. The less words I’ve read, the further removed I am from the author’s literary concept; the further removed I am from the author’s literary concept, the less informed my mental conception of the novel will be. The less informed my mental conception, the more obscure my written analysis will be. The words, the concepts…everything becomes diluted. Literary analysis is an exercise in futility; you inevitably understand everything less, and less, and less. And if literature is a metaphor for life then, life, too is futile…

My misanthropy was my own fault; I never did a stitch of reading until 5pm on Sunday. Still, it was a kind favor that I didn’t read Nietzsche until my senior year of college; had I understood literary theory any sooner, I would have dropped out of school.

(And if I didn’t currently have my B.A., I wouldn’t be where I am today, feeding bananas to a 2 year old and washing dainty stirring spoons at a café in Alphabet City, envying the neighborhood college students who aren’t yet pressured to prove their social utility...)

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Pulling a Chei

by Jyll

10:31am (Local Time)

Why does an airport as big and new as Denver International not have fucking WiFi in the domestic terminal? There are four frozen yogurt stands in the food court, but no internet? I feel like this is the Midwest and not the Pacific Northwest. Get with it, cowboys. Oh well, I can post this later.

Just a quick update on my flight. Something Stupid and Bloggable Happened. I feel like part of it was my doing, most of it was his, and the inspiration was my dear friend in San Francisco, Chei.

Chei is gorgeous, smart, tough, and one of those general ass kicking girlfriends that make life worth living. She is also a notorious flirt and a famous (and self-described) hustler. At any given time she will have four boyfriends, two dates, and three guys that she’s simply “seeing”. And a full time job and grad school and time for a daily 4 mile run. The girl is an inspiration. She isn’t a slut, she doesn’t seek male validation through random one night stands or trysts or anything like that, she is simply a masterful flirt. I haven’t seen her in about a year, and you know how when you miss someone, you feel their presence all the more? Well, CheiChei, here’s to blaming you for what happened on the plane to Denver.

I was bored sitting in my seat so I had wandered into the cabin kitchen to swipe snacks from the business class tray. I managed to pilf a deluxe bag of trail mix and some wasabe chips, and I was trying to figure out how to jack a big bottle of sparkling water when the flight attendant, who happened to be quite cute (and long haired!) came in right as I was making my move. He grinned and handed me the bottle. We got to talking, and he told me that he was a massage therapist. I used to work as a receptionist in a spa, so blablab we use that as a premise for flirting. He asked what kind of massage I liked best, and I said deep tissue, so he was like okay, turn around, deep tissue it is. (That, by the way, is the master pickup line of all massage therapists, including Chei herself). I figured what the hell, I’ve been up since 2am, lugging suitcases and coffees all through Manhattan, I have no intention or means to shell out $120 for an actual deep tissue, go for it buddy. So I flip around and am standing against the wall between the lavatories and he gives me a killer, and I do mean killer, upper back massage. No molesting or weirdness involved, (barring the weirdness of a flight attendant giving a traveller a body massage mid-flight in the kitchen between the damned bathrooms). He said in his professional voice, “In order to reach your lower back, my hands are going to touch the tops of your buttocks, okay?” Which sounds creepy but it’s what all therapists say before they do it because people get freaked out. I was like dude, go, thinking that after the amazing 10 minute upper back he’d just given me, if he wanted to cop a feel he was welcome to it. He was really professional though, and worked my lower for another 5 minutes.

Do keep in mind that throughout this, people are coming to use the bathrooms and here I am stretched against a wall with a big retarded smile on my face and homeboy working his magic. I’m thinking that either a) he gets off on backs or b) he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. Either one is perfectly okay with me, to each his own. After he was done, he did some pressure point stuff to my upper spine, then he said, “and then, when you get to the tailbone, which is here--” and tried to touch my tailbone (which is like mid ass) I decided that things had gone far enough and said, “Yes, I’m well acquainted with my tailbone” (yes, I did say ‘acquainted’) and thanked him and went back to my seat.

What an odd end to an otherwise uneventful-to-the-point-of-misery flight. Thank you, Massage Fetish Flight Attendant with No Sense of Boundaries, my back neck and upper buttocks feel great.

New Yohk

by Jyll
LaGuardia Airport

I've been here since 4:30am. I SuperShuttled it to the airport ($15 + tip) and they dropped me off on grandparent time. Who shows up to a domestic flight two and a half hours early? It seems the answer to that question is broke grad students who are at the mercy of shuttles and subways, and old people. I almost roughed it on the subway/bus track this morning but realized that I could instead sleep in and not freeze my face off/get mugged/knifed/raped/talked to by alpha drunks waiting for public transit in Queens. Naturally I only slept an hour last night and of course the shuttle was late, thus rendering my early wakeup useless, but hey, here she is at the airport, the sun isn't up yet, the coffee is decent, and I get to watch the sunrise from the plane. I'm excited. Also, I'm flying to Denver, and so far there are 6.5 hot cowboys and counting waiting for this flight. Tthe one in front of me is cute from the side but I haven't seen his face full on yet and from this angle I can't tell if all the shapes will merge into a pleasing aesthetic. Oh, and my outfit is adorable and my makeup is flawless because I'm too tired to make facial expressions (movement = mussing) so I'm quite pleased with that.

On the way to the airport today I thought about how sad I would be if I were really going to leave New York. I'm only going home for the week, and generally I don't get so attached to a place, but New York City is my home, and I don't think it's just the sentimentality that comes with having watched a Sex and the City marathon last week. New York is such an alive city. The energy here is palpable, and I've never felt anything like it in my own country before. I've travelled a lot in Europe but not much outside of California, so this exploration of my home turf is really an adventure for me. I've felt the energy in other major cities that I've lived in, but they were abroad and there's just something about feeling a vibe in your own country that makes it completely different. Thus far I've found the weather in New York to be freezing, the to be women incredibly (intimidatingly) beautiful, and the men to be short, but its energy alone makes it worth sticking around in.

Provided I don't fall in love with one of the hot cowboys on the flight and relocate to Denver. You never know.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Misadventures in Babysitting - Chapter 2: Lessons on Texting While Pushing a Stroller

posted by Liz

Felicity: hi. Read your blog. Liked it. Snow day today. At café reading alone. I have an urge to text joey and have him join me at café. Sigh

Liz: It’s raining in manhattan. With anna banana all day. Did u text joey?

Felicity: No. For sure no. Must be resolute to emotional well being. Like a diet, ha.

Liz: Ha, I like that. A mental diet…restricting where your mind wanders. Strolling baby in meatpacking district. Ironic.

Felicity: Ha. Had crazy sex dreams last night. Odd since libido is feeling dead.

Liz: My face feels like a pressure chamber. I realize now how much i’ve taken free coffee 4 granted. I would cherish a PB&J and double espresso right now

Felicity: Ha ha. I’m making carrot soup with carrots from bobby’s garden.

Liz: HA. That sounds like a metaphor.

Felicity: Not blow job bobby. Different bobby.

Liz:…I can blog this conversation, right?

Felicity: Ha ha yea.

Misadventures in Babysitting - Chapter 1

by Liz

In a modest Greenwich Village loft I clumsily stood, hands burrowed deep in the pockets of my winter coat. I awaited the verdict of a 2 year-old.

Anna Banana didn’t want to be taken to the library. Maman, pregnant with her second child, was on the verge of tears. I, the new babysitter (i.e. innocent bystander), anticipated direction from the child’s mother. The 2 year-old Anna, however, seemed to have more leverage over the situation.

Baby was insistent. Mother was pleading. Babysitter was bored with the scenario; I couldn’t fathom spending the afternoon in a small apartment with both Anna Banana and her mother. I spoke the words before knowing that it was I, in fact, who was speaking them.

“Sometimes,” I addressed the pig-tailed Anna, “we must do things that we don’t want to do. You can’t always get what you want.”

Both mother and toddler paused; the sudden stillness in the kitchen was palpable. Maman looked up at me in awe. Kneeling on the wood-paneled floor, her position seemed one of make-shift supplication.

“WHERE did you learn that?” she inquired, clearly impressed that I would possess such sense at the age of 24.

I stiffened; I offered an abashed smile, suddenly embarrassed. I had no analytic response, no explanation for my ground-breaking insight into parental pedagogy.

Its common sense, I wanted to tell her. It’s life. It’s a well-known lyric to a song by the Rolling Stones.

I quickly realized that any of these answers would offend maman. So instead, I demurred.

“Um. My parents, I guess,” I replied, quaintly. I wrinkled my nose.

“Are you sure you’ve never babysat before?” she continued, almost breathless.

Meanwhile, Anna Banana climbed into her stroller. “I want to go to the library with Liz!” she suddenly decided. Once content, the toddler proceeded to bite, quite calmly, into an apple roughly half the size of her head.

Thank God, I thought to myself. I was just pleased to flee the apartment, finally.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009


by jyll

It's been a bit since we've posted, hmm? I blame pre-holiday inertia. My mind has been a brick for the last few days, I assume that I am preparing for the stress of visiting my family next week, but it could just be the weather. New York is FREEZING. And by FREEZING, I mean 35. I spent last winter in Hawaii and the one before in SoCal, so this is all new to me. Last week I bought what I thought was a cute black felt newsboy cap to keep my lil head warm, but I usually wear a leather jacket and today I caught a glimpse of myself in a shop window and realized that I looked like a winter version of one of the village people. Oh well.

So, what's been up these last two weeks? Well, we had Thanksgiving (sushi and whiskey), we had family drama (step-great-aunt had a heart attack or something), and we invented the Coffee Diet, wherein one drinks nothing but coffee all day. If you don't have heart palpitation issues, it's killer. Oh, and there was an incident with my motocross racing ex boyfriend, namely that I found out that he impregnated one of my cousins...again...and I was actually surprised and hurt by it...again...so that was a fair bit of drama. All in all, an eventful two weeks.

How was your holiday?

Monday, December 7, 2009

TwentySomething (or, Are We Thirty Yet?)

by Liz

"Blahhhh...you can quote me on that." - Chrissy R.

The mind of a twentysomething is a precarious destination. This is especially true on a Monday at 8:00am, when no one is at hand to shake a 24 year old of her own overwrought, twentysomething thoughts.

In the early morning, the cafe remains a desolate - if warmly lit - cavern; the rare customer is generally curt, squinting against the overhead spotlights, not yet far enough removed from their bedroom reveries. At this time, I'm usually perched at a high table, spooning loose-leaf chamomile into delicate paper tea bags. Or, rather, you'll find the same faded magazine beneath my nose, chin resting upon my left palm as I lazily skim an article expounding the health benefits of folic acid.

I'm not really paying to heed the activity laid before me on the laquered cafe table-top, whatever the scenario may resemble. It's a pose. It's 8:25am, I'm 24 years old, and my thoughts are following themselves around the corners of my mind. My cranium topples over banalities, rounding shallow ideas about my own twentysomething-hood.

This isn't so terrible, warming my hands around a half-bowl of hot coffee; this isn't so terribly great, either. This is my twenties; this is purgatory. This decade is the second installment in a three-part trilogy: it lacks plotline, its not very clever, and it remains somewhat boorish throughout. The second film underwhelms; its never your favorite, not unless you possess enough pretense to appreciate tired expanses of vocational tedium interspersed with frequent lapses of social vapidity. And yet, your twenties - this undefined phase of existence, the sequel to your teenage years - are necessary to the understanding of that which has preceded the age, and that which has yet to transpire.

This is my twenties; this is a waiting room, a dubious holding place tiled with dog-eared magazines, half-read publications comprised of well-intentioned articles about personal health and spiritual energy; the best beauty buys and the best places to meet boys; the burgeoning Brooklyn music scene and Oprah's 25 favorite things. These articles might actually shift my perspective; might, that is, if I could actually absorb any of the information contained between the ledgers. I can't, though; I'm in my twenties. I'm thinking about my prior hang-ups and my post-twentysomething future. I'm thinking about a job title that I don't fully identify with. I'm thinking about a boy who doesn't identify with me. I'm thinking about a half-price sweater I wish I'd bought last weekend. I'm thinking too much. I'm thinking about how I think too much.

I sat this morning in the familiar position: legs crossed, expression pensive. I couldn't wrap my mind around anything concrete, let alone the day ahead of me. And then, serendipitously, a friendly face walked through the cafe door. Another twentysomething.

We chatted about boots and boys and bagels: things that don't really matter, but do matter, actually, in the context of our twenties. Tedious topics make all the difference when they pull you from your twentysomething reverie; they're fodder for conversation with other twentysomethings, and they lend the impression that some things in life are still easy to grasp, easy to wrap our minds around. This morning, she and I came to these certain conclusions:

  1. Good boots can be found at a thrift shop on 11th Street
  2. Boys Are Dumb (...this was a rather shaky conclusion)
  3. A buttered bagel, shared with a friend, is neccessary to sustaining twentysomething life