The return of Diary Thursdays

Last week was a holiday, but today we’re back to the scribbles of a very young, very innocent Audrey. Last night I delved further into my past and discovered these priceless entries from when I was a mere ten-years-old. Pre-boys, pre-junior high, and most notably pre-boobs. Again, I have changed nothing except a few misspellings and grammar mistakes. Enjoy:

Thursday, November 19, 1987

I am ten and 9 months. Fifth grade is almost impossible. We haven’t had a single day without homework. The other day I went to Sabina’s house. It was ok. Dad is giving me and Sabina photography lessons. Well, maybe I should tell you (me) what’s going on in my life. Here are some facts:

Favorite color: blue
Cutest TV star: Kirk Cameron

I can’t think of anything else.
Oh one more thing, I’m taking up jogging.


Sunday, November 22, 1987

Hi, I’m still ten and 9 months. I can’t wait till thanksgiving. Today is Sunday, and like every Sunday, Grandma takes me Scottish Country dancing. I don’t like it that much, but it can be fun. Plus, if I do Scottish dancing then I’ll be doing three kinds of dancing: tap, folk dancing (that dad teaches) and Scottish. That means I will be a good dancing actress. When I grow up I’m going to be a movie star. I already planned the beginning of my speech when I win the academy awards – “I made this speech up when I was ten years old.” Well, that’s as far as I’ve gotten.

P.S.
I’ve stopped jogging.

Losing it

On the days when I'm not running late for work (which are few and far between), I sometimes walk the extra two blocks to go to the café that's farther away from my house. I make the trip partially because they make better lattes, and partially because that's where I once ran into Heath Ledger and I'm hoping for a second spotting.

This morning I finished my cereal before the second commercial break in the Golden Girls, which meant I was early, so I headed down to the Heath café. When it came time to pay, I looked in my wallet to discover that my cash, credit card, ATM and MetroCard were still sitting in the back pocket of my jeans that were flung across my bed at home. Serves me right for deciding to wear my fancy slacks today.

I told the lady to hold my latte while I ran home to get my money. 12 blocks later I came panting back into the café and handed them a $20. Latte in hand, I headed off to the subway, got to the station and realized that I had forgotten to get my change. Yes, New York is expensive, but it's not up to a $20 latte just yet.

When I returned to the café for the third time, the lady just smiled and shook her head as if to say, please don't come here again, dumbass. Good thing Heath wasn't there to see my mind begin to crumble. Is 29 too early to go senile? I already have grey hairs, maybe it's just the logical next step.

Combined with Sunday's shenanigans, I'm beginning to alienate myself from every café in Brooklyn. Maybe it's a sign I should cut down on the caffeine.

Pete and Repeat

Spending last week with my relatives reminded me how incredibly large our family is. Thanks to the rhythm method, or what the Catholics call "birth control" I have over 60 cousins. Sixty! We could be a small country. So I guess it's not surprising that in such big a group, some names would repeat. But what baffles me is exactly how many names repeat.

My extended family includes:
2 Petes
2 Gays
2 Ellens
2 Nathans
2 Jeffs
2 Stellas (if you count my mom's dog)
3 Matts
3 Katies
2 Annas, 1 Annie and 1 Anne
And, the sadest fact of all, TWO Audreys, making me "BIG Audrey" or "OLD Audrey" - neither of which I am too fond.

There are more than 60 American names, people... come up with something NEW.

Fleeing the scene

The irony of me writing about constipation for a living is that I'm actually extremely regular. I know, more info than you cared to know. It seems that this job is making me frighteningly desensitized to the personal nature of bodily functions. But I digress, back to my bowels and their superior voidance regularity – it's like clockwork, everyday after my morning latte. (Note to self: work "superior bowel voidance regularity" into next headline).

Sunday morning was no different. I had decided to enjoy previously mentioned morning latte at a new café near my house in Brooklyn. After sipping the latte and settling down with my laptop to do some work, previously mentioned clockwork kicked in and I got up to head to the bathroom.

We're gonna go ahead and skip ahead 5-10 minutes to when I tried to flush the toilet. It wouldn't flush. Which is not to say that I clogged it or that it was overflowing, it just simply wouldn't flush. The handle wouldn't budge.

After jiggling, repeating flushing attempts and perhaps a few violent whacks, I decided to move to Plan B: play plumber. I opened up the back of the toilet and peered inside. This porcelain machine was like none that I had seen before. It had no valve, no squeezy rubber head thingy, and no ballcock assembly (he he, ballcock). This toilet tank was modern, streamlined, one step away from being an iPod. This was not a tank I could fix.

I was stuck. I had no choice but to go to Plan C: replace the top of the tank, close the toilet lid and leave the bathroom in shame. Luckily no one was in line when I exited. I walked over to the front to explain to the guy behind the counter that the toilet wouldn't flush. The cute guy with the hipster haircut that flashed a sexy smile when he rang me up. The hottie that made a heart design with foamed milk in my latte mug. On second thought, time for Plan D: escape. I walked over to my table, downed my half-full, heart-topped latte, grabbed my laptop, headed for the door and never looked back.

Why have I chosen to relay this embarrassing story to all seven of my readers? Because the blog is my form of confession. And I do feel a little guilty for leaving that little surprise for the next bathroom guest to discover. Guess I won’t be heading back to that café for some time.

An original Finn

My friend, Shauna, is an amazing painter. Here’s a quick little somethin’ she whipped up while I read a book (a.k.a. “modeled”) in her studio for a couple hours last week.



Isn’t Shauna talented? Check out more of her work on her new blog.

Lonely house

I got back to Brooklyn on Thursday night and have been living in my three-bedroom brownstone all alone since then. My roommates don’t return from their respective family’s until tomorrow morning.

At first it was lonely, living by myself. No one to chat with over dinner. No one to laugh with at the idiocy of the characters on Real World Denver (oh my god, did anyone watch the premiere… dude, don’t even get me started).

But after a few days, I’ve gotten used to the solitude, and I have to admit that I’m starting to enjoy the freedom of it – leaving the door open when I go to the bathroom, watching reruns of Roseanne at full volume at 3am, running through the house naked and rolling around in my roommates’ sheets.

Cate, Claire, I love you both dearly. And if there’s any weird scents on your pillows, I promise that it had nothing to do with me. See you tomorrow!

I shall not want

I felt honored when mom told me that I was chosen to do a reading at Aunt Gay’s funeral today. Great, I thought, I wrote a nice eulogy in my blog. Then my Aunt Lulie handed me a bible, opened to the page I’d be reading. Oh, THAT kind of reading.

I have nothing against the bible. My mom was raised Catholic, and most of her siblings continued to attend church every Sunday, celebrating all their children’s, and grandchildren’s first communions. My mom, however, rejected the teachings of the nuns at Sacred Heart when she fled to Berkeley in the summer of ’69, to later have a baby out of wedlock (me), and then marry a Jew (my dad). Go mom.

I was raised with parts of both religions (mainly the cheery, celebratory parts) and while I consider myself half-Catholic-half-Jewish (a growing world religion), it’s safe to say that I have never read more than a page or two out of the Torah nor the New Testament. While I don’t want to get too deep into my beliefs on God and the like (a little too personal for the blog), it’s safe to say that I’m not a very religious person, at least, not in the traditional, organized sense. So the thought of me standing at the front of a church proclaiming to over a hundred Catholics that the “Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want” made me a little nervous.

Last night I couldn’t sleep – I was having anxiety dreams about reading at the funeral. I had a nightmare that I got Tourettes and started yelling out swear words in front of all my Catholic relatives mid-prayer. I often handle my own sadness with humor, and I didn’t trust myself to not make some sort of totally inappropriate joke at the funeral before diving into the bible reading. I even debated asking my Aunt Lulie, the Catholic nun, if it would be okay if I substituted “He/She” into the prayer when it referred to God (like we do with my dad’s family when reading from the Haggadah on Passover) but I decided against it.

My heart started beating quickly while my cousin, Annie did a reading before me, something about John and the Corinthians. Then it was my turn, and as I walked up to the podium, I realized that this reading, this whole event, had nothing to do with me and my beliefs. It wasn’t about God, it wasn’t about religion. It was about my Aunt Gay. It was about her safe passage to the heaven that she believed in. While the words felt foreign and strange coming out of my mouth, I knew that it was what my Aunt Gay spent 79 years believing. And for that reason, I read them out loudly, powerfully and with absolute clarity and faith.

No matter what I believe, I know that Aunt Gay was somewhere watching me today, and I hope that I made her proud. For today, her religion is my religion. And I thank God, in all His/Her glory, for that. Amen.

Funeral in Detroit

The land of Eminem and Kid Rock, General Motors and... um... the Tigers.

As if Detroit wasn’t a depressing enough as it is.

Actually, despite the somber circumstances, this has been a great visit so far – seeing my dozens, hundreds, thousands of cousins. It’s a rare treat that we’re all together. Last night we toasted our beloved aunt/grandmother with Irish car bombs at the local pub (you’ve gotta love the Catholic way of mourning).

The irony of it all is that Aunt Gay would be having such a good time if she were here. I know she’s somewhere super pissed off that she can’t be a part of the fun. She used to leave family gatherings by saying “I’m leaving, but don't you DARE say anything funny while I’m gone.”

Eulogy

My Aunt Gay had the world’s greatest voice. Her deep rasp reflected her wry humor, her spunk, and a lifetime of smoking. Whenever she said, “Oh that’s daaarling!” (which she often did) I couldn’t help but smile. That phrase, that voice, conjures up fond memories of wading together into the Atlantic surf and enjoying lemon-sugar crepes on Rehoboth Beach Boardwalk.

Aunt Gay brought our family together. She organized our reunions for years – renting out three giant houses near the Delaware shore. If it wasn’t for that week every other summer, I wouldn’t know my sixty-odd aunts, uncles, cousins and 2nd cousins. For that I will always be thankful.

When Aunt Gay came to visit us in California, my mom would clean the whole house three times over to try and impress her big sister. Still, a look of horror would cross Gay’s face when she saw the state of our messy, Berkeley household. But that didn’t make her love us any less. With her six children, six children-in-law, thirteen grandchildren and countless nieces and nephews, it was always a treat to spend some time alone with her.

She signed the cards that she sent for every birthday and holiday “Old Gay,” even though she was only in her seventies. Cancer took her swiftly, but she managed to maintain her sense of humor until the end.

Aunt Gay died last night and it makes me sad for reasons that are beyond expression. I’m sad because my mother lost her sister. I’m sad because my cousins lost their mom and my second cousins lost their grandma. But most of all, I’m sad because I’ll never hear that voice again.

Good bye Aunt Gay. I’ll miss you.

Sunset over the Hudson

And thus concludes another week of writing about poop. But I'm telling you, the view from my office is just too good to give up. They don't even have to pay me, as long as I get to gaze out my window between constipation taglines.



"Over-the-counter remedies don't treat the problem at its source"



"You have a real GI disorder and you deserve real relief."



"Talk to your doctor today!"

Thirteen-year-old Thursday

Continuing with Diary Thursdays, here is an excerpt that needs little intro. I call it, the Ben Saga, and these are just five entries of many, many in a long series that does not conclude until 8th grade when Ben moved to Nigeria.

February 14th, 1990

Well, I didn’t have the greatest Valentines’ Day ever! Ya know Ben, the guy I like (I really do like him now) well, I found out he doesn’t like Amber! He likes Liz. They’re going together or something. They danced together the whole Valentines’ Day dance.

February 15th, 1990

So, it turns out that Liz’ friend Julie set them up. I guess what happened is Liz liked Ben, so Julie wrote him a note telling him so. And I don’t know if Ben liked Liz before that. She’s not particularly cute or anything. What if I told Ben that I liked him, would he go with me? We’re kinda friends, I always talk with him in History.

February 16th, 1990

I’m so happy! Guess what? Susannah (who it turns out is the one that set Liz and Ben up, not Julie) said that Liz liked Ben, but Ben didn’t like Liz! Well, just as a friend. But I know he likes me just as a friend, and I think maybe a little more. By the way, it wasn’t like my heart was totally broken or anything. I was just a little mad when I saw Liz and Ben together.

February 17th, 1990

I went to see a movie yesterday with Annie and the other Susannah. It was pretty dumb. But almost all the people there were from school (including Ben). Buy the way, I told Susannah (B.) that I liked Ben. She didn’t really say anything.

February 18th, 1990

Today was great. Ben said hi to me like seven times.


Since reading this, I've been trying to figure out how one person can say "hi" to one other SEVEN times in one day.

In which I lie to a nice man on 8th Avenue

“Hi beautiful.”
“Um, hello.”
“What’s your name?”
“Audrey.”
“I’m Rohan.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“I think you’re very pretty, Audrey, and I’d like to take you out some time.”
“I appreciate the offer, but… I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because, um, I have a boyfriend.” (lie)
“So, who doesn’t?”
“Uh…”
“It’s good to have a back up plan. We should hang out in case things don’t work out with your boyfriend.”
“Well…”
“We can just be friends for now. We’ll go get coffee, see movies. And if your relationship isn’t going so well, you have a plan B!”
“Well, that’s an interesting idea, but…”
“So, what’s your number?”
“I can’t give it to you.”
“Why not, because of your boyfriend?”
“No, because I don’t just give my number out to strange men on the street.” (lie)
“Well, we’ll hang out and then we won’t be strangers anymore.”
“True.”
“Here’s my card. It’s been a pleasure walking with you, bye.”
“Bye. Um, I’ll call you.” (lie)

A note to my male readers: While I have no intention of calling this man, I appreciated the fact that he approached me. It was flattering, provided entertainment on my two-block walk to the coffee shop (yes, he followed me for two blocks), and it made for a funny story to laugh about with my officemate. And hey guys, ya never know if you don’t try. So why will I not call him? Because he just wasn’t that cute. If you’re gonna go up to strange girls on the street, make sure that you’re cute. Also, I don’t recommend calling yourself a “Plan B.” Not so flattering.

SO not the same thing

me: are you going to the bar tonight?
Claire: I dunno, you?
me: Yeah, I think so. But I'm probably going home first for dinner.
Claire: I was gonna make a taco salad... interested?
me: a taco salad, eh? What does that involve?
Claire: oh not too much… some ground turkey, taco seasoning, cheese, refried beans, sour cream, etc.
me: refried beans in a salad?
Claire: yep
me: aren't they kind of a weird consistency to put over lettuce?
Claire: I use tortilla chips
as the "lettuce"
me: waaaaait, a minute...
This is no salad.
This is nachos.
liar!
Claire: Do you want some or not!!!!!!!!!??????
me: sure. I probably won't be home till closer to 8 though cause I wanted to go to the gym after work.
Claire: I can have it ready at 8:00.
me: thanks, honey.
Claire: your welcome dear.
geesh.

"Duh, they kill people!"

I’m back from my weekend in Durham. And, after voluntarily getting bumped from last night’s flight, I’m surviving at work on caffeine alone. Last night it seemed worth it to sacrifice my 7pm flight for a 6am flight and $250 credit. Today, after waking up at 4:30am, traveling for four hours and heading straight to work… not so much.

I had a lovely time in North Carolina: the weather was beautiful, the people friendly, and good God am I happy that I live in New York City. One of the aspects of life in the South that I found most foreign (aside from the volume of American flag suspenders and the grating southern drawl) is the strong military presence. From yellow flag stickers on car and truck, to men in uniform drinking next to us at the bar, it could not have been more different than the peaceful hippies with whom I am most comfortable.

I recognize that I have a very narrow-minded view on all things war-related. Blame it on my hippy parents, or the fact that my junior high let us out of school to march against the first Gulf War, or the pizza restaurant where I worked as a teenager whose uniforms were tie-dyed shirts that said “Make pizza, not war.” Not a lot of yellow ribbons on the VW bugs of my youth in Berkeley, Ca. But as my experience expands beyond Northern Cali, I'm realizing that this strong anti-military view is not how much of America feels. In fact, many intelligent, interesting people that I met this weekend in NC served, and in some cases went to war for, our country.

In the past, when asked why I’m anti-military. My incredulous response was always: "Duh, they kill people!" Oversimplification? Of course. Perhaps it's not entirely fair to judge something I know very little about. When it comes to matters of national defense, and war, and soldier-type people, I’m clueless. Maybe I should make an effort to learn more, and THEN I can be harshly judgmental.

So, on Friday night, over some beers at a Chapel Hill brewery, I decided to learn as much as I could from a Captain in the army who happened to be a friend of my good friend, Carolyn. In my fascinating interview with the Captain (or Cap’n as the pirates say), I learned the following facts:

• No one refers to him as “Cap’n”
• When in uniform, soldiers are not allowed to remove their jacket and tie at anytime. Even if they’re in a bar. And it’s hot. Jacket stays on.
• The Marines are not water-related (this fact through me for a loop… doesn’t Marine MEAN “water” – poor planning, if you ask me.)
• During cold-weather survival training, the men actually have to spoon with another man for warmth.
• During this spooning, the two men are wearing nothing but underwear.
• At this point Carolyn interrupted and changed the subject.

But I feel that I am a little bit more informed. Who knew that an institution as tough as the military involved an act as gentle as spooning? And now I have that lovely vision in my head next time I encounter men in uniform.

On the road again

But this time I’m heading south.

Tonight I fly down to North Carolina to visit an old friend at Duke. I’ve never been to North Carolina, but I hear that the land is forested, the food mediocre and the locals obese. I can’t wait to eat crappy meatloaf with 200-pound children at Appleby’s. Hooray!

Actually, I’m very excited. I hear it’s lovely (North Carolina, not the meatloaf).

Why so much traveling? My goal is to have explored the entire Eastern region before I move back to California. Only eight states to go!

Ah, to be thirteen again.

Thursday is now Diary Day. Why? Because I posted an old journal entry last Thursday, and why not continue the weekly embarrassment? What I find most entertaining about these heartfelt entries is that I really truly thought I was being extremely deep.

That’s the fun thing about being a teenager – you actually believe you were the first person to have the thoughts and feelings that in fact every other teenager in the entire world has thought and felt. But you don’t know that, not just yet.

Today’s shocking revelation: “War is really terrible.”


Wednesday, October 10th, 1990, 13-years-old

Dad’s making us watch this TV program about the Civil War. It’s not as boring as I thought it would be, but it’s depressing. War is really terrible, but the show was neat because the soldiers kept diaries and they were neat to hear. Still, the Civil War was completely pointless.

I think I’m gonna be a bottle of shampoo for Halloween and Susannah’s gonna be conditioner. Jules is gonna be soap and Amy will be mousse or hairspray or something.


Yes, the Civil War – pretty much had no point. Cardboard Halloween costumes – filled with meaning for the future of America.

Fancy Pants

This weekend, I took the opportunity of being in Canada to purchase some very expensive, very fancy Canadian workout pants. These fancy pants boast all kinds of special features like "chafe-free flat seams," "4-way stretch" and "quick-dry wicking action."

None of these hyphenated features matter to me though. The reason I spent the $86 plus tax (that's 86 Canadian dollars, mind you, which is only 82% of $86 in real money), is because they make my butt look good. And that is the one and only reason for LuLuLemon's vast success. (note: not my butt pictured below.)



These fancy new gym pants are part of a ploy to get myself to the gym more often. A bribe, if you will - I'm only allowed to wear the ass-flattering pants while I'm working out.

How sad is it that I must bribe myself to perform what should be regular healthy activities? If you exercise, you get to wear the fancy Canadian pants. If you get out of bed in the morning, you get to watch Golden Girls with your cereal. If you make it through a day of writing about constipation, you get to have a vodka-soda after work.

You can already tell what kind of mother I'm going to be.

The return of old friends (and I mean old)

I have a new habit. And this one is less disgusting then biting my nails. It involves four very sexual old ladies. Okay, maybe it is more disgusting than the nail biting. No, don't get any pervy ideas, I'm talking about the Golden Girls.

See, I'm trying to be better about eating breakfast before I leave the house in the morning. This new goal has been made easier by the cable TV in our living room; a few weeks ago I discovered that Golden Girls reruns play on Lifetime everyday at 9am (with another episode at 9:30, although that's when I have to leave for work).

I hate waking up early. But I bribe myself into getting out of bed with the promise of those four lovable ladies with my bowl of cereal. It's become such a habit that my brain now associates the taste of Kashi with Sophia's witty remarks. And I can't even think of walking to the subway without first hearing Bea Arthur's sweet, manly voice.

It brings back fond memories; Golden Girls was one of my favorite shows when I was little. I’ve really traveled down the road and back again with those girls. What I'm really trying to say is: if the Golden Girls threw a party, and invited everyone they knew. They would see the biggest gift would be from me, and the card attached would say: “Thank you for being a friend.”

Bar graph tells it all

Check it out, 5% of my faithful readers are actually in Canada. Hey guys, love your country!

Now I have to figure out who's reading You Nork in Ireland. Random.

(Thanks to statcounter.com for the info)

Second-largest country in the world

I returned last night from a lovely weekend in Toronto, the largest city in the second-largest country on the planet.

This is the third city I've visited in Canada. And so far, I have to say that I’m a big fan of our peaceful northern neighbors. Aside from the fact that everyone there gets free healthcare and the government pays for education, Canada also boasts beautiful cities with good food, a fun nightlife and, most importantly, cute boys. The three things I look for in a city.

I was expressing to a Canuck on Saturday night that I was ashamed at how little Americans know about Canada and how proud I was of the fact that Ontario was, in fact, the third Canadian province that I had been to. “Three out of five ain’t bad for an American,” I proclaimed, perhaps a tad overly pleased with myself.

She pointed out that Canada actually has ten provinces. She was very nice about it though, because Canadians are always very nice.

Your guide to a healthier __________

“We can’t say ‘digestive system’ on the cover, it’s too broad”

“Hmm, how about ‘bowels’?”

“On the cover? Who’s gonna read a brochure that says ‘bowels’ on the cover?”

“And we can’t say ‘crap factory,’ right?”

“Audrey, we already went over this.”

“Ha ha. ‘Crap factory.’”

“Okay, laugh. Get it out of your system.”

“Which system would that be? My digestive system?”

Silence.

“Or my bowels?”

Silence.

“Are you sure we can’t say ‘crap factory’?”

“You had coffee for lunch, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

But does he like-like her?

Last night, I headed to Freddy’s Bar in Brooklyn for their “Cringe Night” - an open mic event where people expose their embarrassing adolescence by reading out loud from their teenage diaries. To my dismay, Cringe Night was canceled and will not resume until next month. However, the concept inspired me to review (and share) some of my own journals.

I’ve been scribbling my heart and soul into the pages of my journals almost weekly since age 7 (before blogs were invented)! I have 19 in total (so far) and I’ve always enjoyed reading through my old, almost illegible and grossly misspelled entries (my penmanship has improved, my spelling – not so much) to see how much I’ve changed, and stayed the same, over the years. The pages I read last night from 7th grade paint a painfully true picture of what it’s like to be thirteen, or, in the case of this particular entry, almost thirteen. Spelling and grammar has been corrected here, but no words (or names) have been changed:

Wednesday, February 8th, 1990, 12-years-old (almost 13)
Today in PE we got tested on these gymnastic routines we’ve been working on. There’s this new girl named Amber who came to school a few weeks ago. She’s very pretty, outgoing and good at everything. I knew the minute I saw her that she would be popular.

Anyhow, of course she’s in my PE class and so is this boy, Ben, that I kind of like. I know Ben thinks Amber’s cute, but I don’t really know if he likes her or not. So in PE, I got an 81, which is okay. And of course Amber gets a 96 (best in the class). So annoying.

I’m going to find out if I got into “Oliver!” today. If I don’t, I’ll be depressed for the rest of my life.

Incidentally, I did NOT make it into “Oliver!” And it has, in fact, plagued me with life-long depression as predicted. Why God? Why oh why did I not get cast as a workhouse orphan?!?

"Skeletons are so rad."

I'm completely exhausted. On my second latte of the day. But I guess Halloween will do that to a person. And it's well worth it.

The parade up 6th Ave. last night was nothing short of amazing. I was extremely impressed. I'm not sure that my shaky video (blame the Stella) quite does it justice, but here's a little snippet. Notice the giant dancing white spider dangling from the church tower in the background. That was my favorite touch.

Also, please try to ignore my eloquent commentary in the background on the skeletons. Though embarrassing, it's just too much trouble to take out.