I have 9 lives... well, probably closer to 6.

Alright, New York City.
You and I are standing on our last leg.

You set me up with horrible roommates, took my wallet, put me through a completely debilitating job hunt, laughed at my attempts to make friends through Craigslist, cursed me with a self-deprecating crush on a man who graduated from college when I was 13 years old, gave me a 48-hour deadline to relocate my living situation, and chopped off the gangrenous limb that doubled as a relationship even though I totally wasn't ready to give it up yet. Additionally, you placed me under a lawsuit, absorbed over $10,000 of my money, slaughtered my self confidence, and suffocated me with the hottest, nastiest summer I could have ever possibly hoped to endure in an extremely urban setting. Well, you know what NYC? I hate you.

Not so far from the truth.

... Sometimes.
Because when you're not working hard to find new, exciting, and totally twisted ways to leave me pondering what it would feel like to leap with wild abandon from the Brooklyn Bridge, you manage to give me some pretty funny stories and interesting experiences to keep me coming back for more.

Today, I met my future roommate. She will be my roommate starting Wednesday night. For anyone out who keeps up with my absurdly dysfunctional life (if you're bored, you're boring!), here's what it's looking like for the next week. On Monday, after work, I will pack up everything I own. On Tuesday after work, I will spend quality time with my sister for the first time in over a month. On Wednesday, after work, I will hire a car service to pick me - and all of my belongings - up in East Elmhurst, Queens, and dump me off in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, where I will be living for the next 1 to 4 months. On Thursday, after work, I will pack for Vermont. On Friday, I will spend nine hours on a train. On Saturday, I will attend the Spectacle of Sin in Burlington. On Sunday, I will rearrange my storage unit and see most of my friends for the first time in five months. On Monday, I will spend nine hours on a train. I'm tired just thinking about it all [laughs].

Do you ever think about the things you need to get done and wonder how the hell it's going to happen? My personal mantra, as of late, has been: This, too, shall pass. Maybe, with this new living situation, I will be able to relax and feel good about it enough so that I can decide whether or not I still enjoy being in New York City. Lately, Boston has been calling to me. It speaks to the part of my brain that craves a smaller populous and a simpler, cleaner subway system. And friends. Friends are good too.

Goodbye, 24.

It is the day after Halloween and I am exhausted. Do you ever feel like you need a weekend to recover from the week and then a weekend to recover from the weekend? Well, I feel like that a lot and I definitely feel like that today. However, much to my surprise, despite the fact that it was my first Halloween in New York City, I only had one drink yesterday, and it was with brunch. Perhaps my post-holiday coma is my body's disgruntled response to being forced to trundle around in heels all day? My Achilles tendons are killing me. However, there is a bottle of delicious wine in the fridge that I grabbed from the Union Square farmers market this weekend. I think a glass of wine, some cheese, and pajamas might be in line this evening. Some clean, quiet solitude would be nice. And if I'm lucky, perhaps I can catch a rerun of the first episode of The Walking Dead on AMC. Ooooh, I might even get to go to bed early!

These are the things that excite me. I feel old.

Speaking of which, I've lived to reach my silver year, which means that anxiety, stress, and misadventures haven't killed me yet. For my birthday, I got to dress up and attend my workplace's annual Halloween party. Okay, well, it took place during work hours, so there wasn't much choice in the matter. In a feat of what I felt was cleverness, I painted half my face to look like a skeleton, donned nice business clothes, did my hair and (half) my makeup, and slapped on a tag that said: Hello, My Name Is Corporate Zombie. In retrospect, I now see that my sense of humor is somehow too subtle - or dark and self-deprecating - to translate to an office party atmosphere, and though my face paint was lovely, Ronald McDonald and Mario won the cash prizes. I'm not entirely surprised, but I'm not bitter about it either. I think I've just resigned to the fact that I am, in fact, a black sheep. But that's okay. I heard a saying once that "normal" is nothing more than the setting on a dryer. I can prescribe to that way of thinking.

Acclimating (yes, still)  to New York City continues to be challenging. Post break up, my last relationship provided a great twist ending (I never saw it coming!), I've been summoned to small claims court over damages to a cheap IKEA couch that occurred during a week when I was pet sitting in Long Island City, and I - great migrant wanderer that I am - may soon be out on the street with my suitcases again, looking for the next place to live or couch to crash on. This time, I have high-rolling fantasies of an overpriced, shoebox-sized studio in a relatively safe part of Brooklyn where I can come home from work, kick off my sneakers, and play guitar if I want to. Or shower with the door open. Or cook naked. Or have friends come to visit without fear of being disrespectful by simply existing in the same space. I just want a place and things that are mine. I'm tired of needing to lean on other people. At the moment, these may seem like lofty ideals, but I'll get there eventually. New York City may chew me up, but it hasn't spit me out yet. I'll pat myself on the back for the mere accomplishment of survival. I'm still hanging in there.

On the other hand, October has been a splendid month full of strange and wonderful adventures. I went to a bohemian/gypsy-themed dance with live Balkan brass music, participated in the largest zombie crawl in New York City, and attended a vintage swing-era party at the Brooklyn Lyceum where I danced with such wild abandon that three members of the band approached me afterward to tell me how awesome I was. I checked out a steam punk picnic in Prospect Park, where I was kindly introduced to an eclectic, charismatic, and accepting group of people who I would very much like to see more of. I watched my childhood best friend, who I've known for 20 years, get married and something about that experience really got to the heart of me. Joe traveled up to visit me from Vermont. We went to a late night Brooklyn Halloween bash where we a band composed of giant, 8' alien puppets rock out on stage, went to an Edward Gorey Halloween Spectacular, and marched in the Village Halloween Parade, after which we witnessed a fight amongst a big group of bedazzled Elvises and tuxedoed penguins get broken up by the police. It was pretty hilarious.

On Wednesday, I am starting Lindyhop lessons (because if I wasn't cool already, wait 'til I can swing dance). This weekend, I'm taking a trip to Boston. In mid-November, I am visiting Vermont for the first time since I left, where I will reunite with my beloved and dearly missed friends and stir up trouble in Burlington with Daelynn, which shouldn't be too difficult.

So, goodbye, 24.
Life keeping rolling on.

Don't get on the train.

About a week ago I was on the subway, on my way back from seeing an apartment, when a guy got on the train. He was that awkward, sweet, quirky, husky sort of nerdy you see on guys who wear thick, black-framed glasses and argyle sweater vests. He was wearing both of these things. I have a soft spot for these sorts of people. He had obviously gotten caught in the rain. I watched him as he stood in front of me, holding the rail for support, and took his hopelessly tangled headphones from his pocket. Looking frustrated, he started the long and complicated process of untangling them. For a couple minutes I tried not to laugh, and then I said,

"By the time you get where you're going, you won't have listened to anything."
"Thankfully, I have a far way to go," he replied.
"How far?" I asked. He looked up.
"Kew Gardens. 'Bout 40 minutes." Then, tugging at a knot, he added, "If I fail, I'll just borrow yours."

I laughed and went back to listening to my music. Amused, I was turning this interaction over in my head when I looked up and noticed that we were at my stop. Startled, I leaped up and darted off the train, relieved that I beat the doors. Turning around, I saw him staring at me. Thinking I must have looked ridiculous, I awkwardly threw my hand up and waved goodbye. As I turned and started to walk away, laughing, I heard a sound behind me. Looking behind me, I saw that he had leaped off the train and was now standing on the platform, looking at me like a deer caught in headlights. As we regarded each other, the doors swooshed shut and the train started to pull away.

"Er, uh, did you hear something I didn't?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" I smiled.
"Like an announcement. Did you know something I didn't?"
"Hmm, no," I said, laughing. "I just hadn't realized it was my stop."
"Oh, shoot!" he yelled, gesturing at the departing train.
"It's okay," I said. "I'll wait with you."

We chatted for a few minutes, and when the next train came, he got on it. But for the briefest moment, he looked like he might not. His name was Jason. I almost asked him if he wanted to go out for a drink, on the spot, because, well, why not? I don't know anybody. I might have made a friend. Alas, I did not. But I kind of hoped I'd run into him again... however, the odds of that happening in a city of 8.5 million people? Well, they're slim.

I don't think he thought he missed an announcement.
I think he jumped off to talk to me more.
[smiles] Aw.

Tonight I move into a new apartment. My roommate is a 34-year-old music journalist turned illustrator. She's looking for a temporary roomie to split rent while she works on a children's book from home. So I can fill the bill until spring. Her place is great. It's pretty big with hardwood floors, it's clean, and it's decorated in entirety to look retro. My room is 11' x 11' with hardwood floors, big windows, and a big closet with custom shelving. The neighborhood is beautiful and the commute to Manhattan is short. The only downside? My room - and I'm not kidding - is bubblegum pink. Yes, you read correctly. Pink. Super, ultra Barbie pink. I guess it's the base coat of a larger, artistic, comic book-themed idea my roommate has for the room, but right now, it just looks like a My Little Pony threw up in there. It catches the light very nicely though. Perhaps even blindingly so [laughs].

Anyway, tonight I'm hiring a car service to help me transfer my stuff from Long Island City to East Elmhurst. I look forward to the fresh start.

Now if only I didn't lose my wallet, which contained many things, including: a $300 check, my ATM card, my license, and my original social security card. Seriously, it's an identity-theft starter kit. And now I'm locked out of my bank accounts because, without ANY form of ID, I could just as easily be the person who stole my wallet as I am the person who lost it. So, for the time being, I am a nameless, wandering human being. Hopefully nothing happens to me between now and when I get a new license because they'll have to check my dental records for identification... or wait until my face shows up on a milk carton and connect the dots.

Hm. I wonder who could be me right now.

When all else fails, there's always Joni Mitchell.

Between my compulsory trip to Boston and now, I have begun to find peace in the act of sitting in cafes with my laptop, sipping espresso and enjoying the free wifi. What's happening to me? This cliche seemed obnoxious until I started doing it. Now I feel like it's one of the only ways I can be alone with my thoughts without any outside pressures crushing down on me. Does that sound sad? It's not meant to. I'm not feeling as desperate and harried as I was when I wrote my last post, although life never ceases to be interesting.

I was speaking to a friend recently when I said, "Sometimes I feel like the cosmos are laughing at me." This is mainly because I feel like my life over the last few months has been a huge catastrophe punctuated by an occasional ray of good news. I got a real job. That was fantastic news. And I really like my job! But the news of solid employment fell into the slot between losing my boyfriend and losing my apartment [laughs].

Yesterday was an eventful day. I got screamed at for a solid 20 minutes, was called what might have been every lewd and profane name available to the English language, had my personal belongings hurled  down a stairwell after me, and was threatened to be sued for "everything" I have about four dozen times.

How much is that? About $217?

Anyway, long story short  (and vague - I'm public, here!), I was being horribly mistreated by my roommates, who were a couple (and for all intents and purposes, my landlords). For me, my limit was reached by a needless and frightening confrontation with the guy roommate. And so, instead of paying another $800 to people who were abusing their rights and mine, I generated an escape plan and left. The reaction was priceless and totally scary. But you know what?

Today I might be technically homeless (I'm crashing on someone's living room couch), but a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. And at least I know that I won't go home tonight, sneak in the front door in hopes of not being detected, skip eating dinner, and exist with constant tension as I wait for the next needless confrontation or inaccurate accusation about damaging property.

Word for the wise: really take a little time to get to know the people you meet on Craigslist. 

So, what now? I'm single, homeless, and poor. But I have a job, which means that the money will get easier as soon as things get into full swing. And I already have a couple appointments to meet with people for apartment viewings. My biggest criteria when it comes to roommates, knowing more now than I did before?

1. If it's a couple renting out to a female tenant only, it's not for me.
2. Overnight guests - both male and female - must be permitted. Not constantly, but if I have a friend who wants to visit for the weekend from out of town, it needs to be okay. I don't think I should be obligated to live in social isolation because I'm not "allowed" certain privileges.
3. Cleanliness, but not freakish cleanliness. I do not want a roommate who scrubs the kitchen floor with a toothbrush and expects me to do the same, nor do I want a roommate who demands that I vacuum my bedroom floor when it's perfectly clean.
4. As a matter of fact, if it's my bedroom and I'm not damaging it or hoarding dishes or rotting food inside, I don't want to be told to clean it, period. It's mine and I'm paying for it. I keep a neat bedroom, anyway. But the point is that the space is mine to keep as messy or clean as I choose.
5. I need proper documentation for everything. I was so naive last time. Ugh.
6. Give me people who live with me, not lord over me.

I'm so relieved to be out of that mess. God help the next poor sap.

I'll let you know if I get sued. 

[shrugs]

When all else fails, there's always Joni Mitchell.

"Blue, songs are like tattoos

You know I've been to sea before

Crown and anchor me

or let me sail away

Hey Blue, there is a song for you

Ink on a pin

underneath the skin

an empty space to fill in

Well, there's so many sinking now

You've got to keep thinking

you can make it through these waves

Acid, booze, and ass

needles, guns, and grass

Lots of laughs, lots of laughs

Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go

Well, I don't think so

But I'm gonna take a look around it though

Blue, I love you

Blue, here is a shell for you

Inside you'll hear a sigh

A foggy lullaby

There is your song from me"

Last night, I treated myself to sparkling wine. 

I toasted to me. 

Define "UP."

My "adult" life, in review:

• Living in New York City this summer has been like setting up camp in the devil's asshole. 
• I don't like my living situation. The apartment is small and hot, the living dynamic is weird, the utilities are astronomically high, and agreement on the definition of "clean" never seems to be reached.
• I don't have a job. But, oh boy, I'll be damned if I haven't sent out COUNTLESS resumes and cover letters this summer. The fact that nobody responds, even to deny me, is emotionally exhausting.
• The financial well is drying up. I moved to NYC and pissed through $7,000, just to stay floating. My nest egg is almost gone and I have nothing to show for it. This summer has been like the shittiest, most anxiety-inducing vacation ever.
• I am socially isolated. In spite of my best efforts, generating friends in this city has been difficult at best. People, in general, are not open to interaction, and they are definitely not open to building meaningful relationships unless you share a mutual acquaintance. My sister just left for six weeks in Italy and the only person I regularly hang out with just moved back to Israel until Halloween. At least my boyfriend is moving to NYC for the fall semester at NYU, thank god!
• Not. After heated debate as to when he found out and why, it turns out that my boyfriend is not moving to NYC after all. As a matter of fact, he can't start attending college at NYU until January. And actually, he's not my boyfriend anymore. That's right. We broke up. After two years of being attached at the hip.

This obviously isn't working.

This is about the time that Anne called me and said, "I see that you're single." And that's when I unloaded it all on her, long-distance, like an emotional dump truck full of dead fish. And she said, "Maybe you should come to Boston. See friends. Get out of New York for a few days." And after searching for negative excuses as to why I shouldn't, I realized that I didn't have any and that she was right. And so I packed a duffel bag with six days worth of clothes and hopped on the 6 p.m. Lucky Star bus out of Chinatown, without any clear idea of when I'd be coming back. That night, Anne met me in Boston. We went out for dumplings at a local Chinese place, caught up in pajamas, and she spooned with me at four in the morning while I had a minor emotional breakdown. I needed it. I don't allow myself to indulge in those often. 

Today is my second full day in Somerville, MA. The weather here is beautiful. In the sixties, bright, and sunny, with the kind of breeze that always seems to be blowing in the right direction, so that I'm not freezing and my hair isn't sticking to my lip gloss. Anne works a 9 to 5 job, which has worked out well for me. As much as I love seeing her, it's probably good that I also have time to be alone and process in a place that's quieter than the hectic hustle and bustle of New York City. I've been wandering up and down residential streets, sitting on park benches, and drinking coffees. It's been really good for me. I don't want to go back. 

But my mental vacation has a deadline because I got a very important phone call yesterday.

And now I'm back to reality on Saturday afternoon.

Because holy mother of Christ, I got a job. 

That's right. You heard me correctly. 

A real J-O-B. 

With a $30,000 salary and FULL benefits.

As of Monday morning, I will be a full-time production assistant at a health and beauty website company in Manhattan. Am I salivating at the mouth about working in the health and beauty industry? No, but I'm totally okay with it and think I'll do just fine. But ask me if I'm excited about finally having some structure in my life and I'll tell you: Hell, yes. And I am so relieved to have some structure in my life after four months of chaos and fruitless job hunting.

At the moment, I am sitting in a Starbucks in Davis Square, writing this blog entry. There's something about this chain that I find internally abrasive, but when I buy one of their sub-par overpriced coffees, I have unlimited access to their free wifi for the rest of the afternoon. I haven't left this town since I got here, and though I have no desire to venture into the city, I'll be going there to visit my friend, Jay, tomorrow. And the day after that, I'll be off to see my family before heading home. Because New York City is my home now. My wonderful, terrible home that will both entertain me and, ultimately, cause me to go postal or put me into cardiac arrest sometime in my mid-twenties. 

But while I'm waiting for that to happen, I'd like to go up to the counter, ask who the dipshit is who chose the "Love Actually" soundtrack to be today's musical selection, and punch that person in the face. Which reminds me: I should probably rent that movie sometime soon, buy a giant bucket of the chocolatiest-chocolate ice cream available, and cry.

Ah, perfect for making you feel warm, fuzzy,
and suicidal. LOVE this movie.

I guess things are looking... up.

Life. A little more open-ended every day.

Shitty judgement can come in a wide variety of browns. It builds up quickly and, before you know it, a heaping fecal Jenga tower stands before you. It's only a matter of time before you tug out the wrong turd and the whole crappy structure collapses. So what do you have then? A smelly pile of shit. And you're standing in it. Far beyond the point of demurely scraping it off on the curb, you realize there's no option but to throw your sneakers away. And they were your favorite sneakers.

"Hey, check it out! I've got more problems for the
problem pile!"

"Sweet! Me too!"

Excusing my in-eloquence, this is more or less what happened to my relationship. 

And now I stand before you, Hilary Hayward, single. In all my glory. 

Check out my blog. You know you want me already.

SIGH.

In all seriousness, this isn't what I wanted. We were a happy couple, most of the time. But sometimes the world has other plans for you. So here I am, sitting on my bed, typing this blog at 2:22 in the morning, wondering what to do with a life that becomes a little more open ended every day. A gorgeous flower arrangement is sitting on the night stand beside me, delivered this afternoon from a friend who wanted to offer his condolences. I don't think I've ever had Happy Breakup flowers before, in celebration of my mourning. I know this wasn't the intention, but it makes me laugh to think of it that way. I have a strange and twisted sense of humor. Sue me.

Yesterday I drank a bottle of wine in a very nice bathtub. Tonight I went to a diner and enjoyed two cups of coffee and an order of gravy fries at midnight, all the while struggling to not cry between fat-filled bites of fried potato, beef stock and melted American cheese. Can a heart still break if it's glued together with lard?

Tomorrow I am going to Boston to see friends. I don't know for how long. Until I run out of money or am ready to come back, I suppose. This plan could only be thwarted by two things: 1) My check does not arrive in the mail. 2) I get called in for another job interview on Tuesday or Wednesday. For the first time, lo and behold, I find myself hoping for an empty email box. Pardon my language, but I just want to get the fuck out of this city for a few days. I think I need to. It's high-time.

I planned on switching the subject to wittier and less depressing topics before calling it a night, but exhaustion is really setting in. I've been so tired lately. So I think I'll just cut my losses and vow to make the next one cheerier. If I were holding a wine glass right now, this is what I'd toast:

To new beginnings, to rediscovering myself by myself, and to whatever comes next.

A quarter-life crisis. Just for me.

I recently underwent a mid-twenties crisis.

After three depressing months of writing countless unanswered cover letters and sending out resumes to companies that were seeking people with the skills I learned in college, something in my brain dissolved - much like a cold sugar cube in a hot cup of coffee - and I thought, "Wait a minute. Do I even want this?"

I think the realization was something that was bound to happen, as all it took to entirely reconstruct my priorities was a Craiglist job posting in the ETC section. There I was, frustrated, unfulfilled, jobless and potentially homeless, when all of a sudden, at two in the morning, like an impossibly convenient escape hatch, I clicked on a post to find that a traveling circus was seeking workers to take on the road with them.

Three hundred dollars a week. Free room. Three meals a day.

Holy shit. I could be in a circus. 

A circus. 

A circus.

A CIRCUS.

This led to a maddeningly-cyclic, week-long, over-caffeinated, under-rested identity crisis in which I frequently found myself staring beseechingly into mirrors and asking, "Who ARE you, really?" Thankfully, my reflection didn't answer me, because then we'd know that the issue wasn't really about dropping my new life to join the circus. In all seriousness, though, the issue was whether or not, at this point in my life, I wanted to be successful or happy. And I couldn't see a way of achieving both. And so this essentially led to one big question.

courtesy of lifeaswife.com

I was really craving some crazy new shit. 

This was met by a variety of reactions. 

Not surprisingly, my close girlfriend, Daelynn, was craving some crazy new shit for me. Surprisingly, so was my boyfriend, Sam. My sister, Jen, was open to the idea of me exploring crazy new shit, so long as I was doing it for the right reasons. As was my old professor, Tyrone. My best friend, Joe, wasn't crazy about the idea as he's perpetually concerned for my safety and I constantly seem to be coming up with new and creative ways to challenge that anxiety. 

My mother thought I needed some serious therapy and, for a day or so after mentioning that the thought of the traveling circus was tumbling around in my stress-rattled brain, I pondered as to whether she might have disowned me on principal alone. I don't understand why she gets so wound up, but sometimes I worry that one of these days I'll call her and tell her something that will put her into cardiac arrest or give her an aneurism. 

Love is cruel and life is a strange adventure.

Over the course of that week, I had no reservations. I applied to be an extra in "Men in Black 3," was called in for an interview, and was amused to find out it was a scam when a sleazy man named Brad told me I have a beautiful face and said that for just $137, we could get my professional modeling portfolio started. Why, "for $50, $40, or even $20,"  I could have my head shot taken. I laughed and walked out. 

Haha, yeah. Okay.

Two days later, I went to the circus' offices in Manhattan and applied for a road crew position that would require me to be packed up and ready to go that Saturday. The woman who interviewed me asked me if I had "ever even lifted anything heavy before," and stressed that the work would be back breaking. I told her I was counting on it. They didn't call me back. I was feeling slightly disappointed until I received an email from one of the circus' animal caretakers. Turns out, the woman passed my information along and they were interested in hiring me for a less intensive position where I could travel with them and help care for and prepare the animals for the shows. As they owned 12 ponies, 4 horses, 3 goats, 6 dogs, a capybara and a porcupine, this was definitely a strange and exciting possibility. 

That night, not wanting to kill the forward flow, I applied for a full-time dog walking position in Manhattan, because I feel that spending time with dogs is a worthy way of attaining personal enrichment. Poop and tired feet are a small price to pay for making money while feeling good about what you're doing. 

The next day bore surprises. Not only did the circus offer to reimburse me for a train ticket if I'd be willing to travel an hour out of the city to visit them, but the dog walking company called me back for an interview. So did a health and beauty company that was considering me for a salary position. So now I was in a real pickle: Accept a salary position that relates to my college degree and possibly walk dogs on the side, or pack up my room, cut my losses, and join the circus? The first option would leave me feeling mentally unfulfilled, but I'd be comfy enough to go out and do things in a city where, frankly, the only draw is the ability to go out and do things. On the other hand, joining the circus would have immersed me in myriad, rich opportunities for excellent feature writing in an atmosphere that fascinates me. But the money would be crap, the work would be hard, and the living conditions would be stuffy, to the say the least. 

Moving forward a bit: All three interviews went really well. A small part of me was hoping any two of them wouldn't so that I wouldn't really have to make a choice. My last interview was with the circus in Walden, New York. The animals were cute, everyone seemed super nice, and there was nothing there that seemed so horrible that I wouldn't tolerate it in the name of new, interesting life experiences. And I got to pet a porcupine. That's right. A porcupine. His name was Percy. I scratched him under the chin. He was nuzzling my hand. The girl who was showing around told me that sometimes he tries to crawl into your lap. Really, he was like a smaller, bristly, slightly anxiety-inducing dog. 

As I was waiting for the train to pick me up and bring me back to the city, I felt torn. I continued to feel torn all through the night and all through the next day. But ultimately, I had to make a decision. And I decided to stick it out here and see if I get that salary position, even though every fiber of my being wants to join the circus. There are a few huge reasons for this. 

1. I have $19 in my bank account. If I leave NYC, I won't have enough money to come back when the circus cycle is over in January. Where would that leave my relationship with Sam, who's moving to the city this week to continue college at NYU?

2. The circus cycle would finish up one month before my student loans start rolling in. With no job, no apartment, and no car, I'd be in a really tough spot financially to contend with VSAC. 

3. If I get an interview for a writing or editing position, they would ask me what I've been doing since I graduated college, as there would be a big, blank spot on my resume. "Traveling circus," would not be an impressive answer. 

I am leading a life where I am floating in transition and hoping neither to become a nameless cubicle slave nor a vagrant wanderer, $140,000 in debt and skipping from one laboring job to the next. I want to travel and I want to see the world. I want to meet strange and interesting people. I want to work with animals. I want to write. I want to try different foods and have exciting experiences. I want to be amazed by whatever is out there. I want to live. 

A huge part of me wants to say, "To hell with it," and just get out there and start doing things. But if I want a future that will justify my college degree, for now, it seems that playing it smart is playing it safe. Before I wrote the email turning down the circus job, I emailed my old professor for some further advice on the matter.

He wrote, "You are faced with a Hobson's choice.  Either way you lose, but my best advice, and I do not offer this thoughtlessly or unaware of your circumstances, internal and external.  Take the job with the health and beauty company.  It is highly unlikely you will get 'stuck' in any one career, and this will, I imagine, lead to other things. You have practical considerations to deal with besides the immediate, dreadful dilemma.  Everyone wants to run off to join the circus, and some manage to when they're younger, others a bit later."

Later, then. Maybe if and when I decide to leave this city, because I think I will eventually, I'll call them back. There's a time for everything. I guess the time just isn't now. In the meanwhile, I'm just hanging out in Harlem, pet sitting my friend's dog at her gorgeous, air conditioned, quiet apartment, a perfect atmosphere in which to think about my life and where it's taking me. Tomorrow I'll feel better. I hope that the company I'm waiting for brings me on board. If not, maybe it's not too late to catch that train.

* * *

EDIT: There's one more incident worth mentioning in my quarter-life crisis that I couldn't seem to find a way to finagle into this entry. Thematically, it just didn't fit in with the circus. I was in Manhattan the other day, waiting for the L train to Brooklyn, and there was this guy singing and playing his guitar on the subway steps 10 feet away from me. He was maybe in his mid-twenties, and there was really nothing about him that stood out to me, but he was playing the most gorgeous music. He was so good that I ignored my train when it arrived so I could listen to him play one more song. This is typically the moment where people drop a dollar in the guitar case or go on with the rest of the afternoon, slightly brightened by their good luck of stumbling across a musician that positively affected their day (because trust me, there are subway musicians who negatively affect days too). But not me. No, I borrowed a pen from a stranger so I could scrawl a note on a piece of scrap paper to drop in amongst the spare change and dollar bills:

I sing and play too. We should jam sometime.

- Hilary

hil.hayward@gmail.com

... It's a phase. Maybe.

So Lifelike!

You know which moments speak the most about life? Ones like that time when you stopped in at your sister and her boyfriend's apartment with your new friend (expressly to use the bathroom), interrupted him as he was cleaning in his underwear, and proceeded to overflow the toilet all over the bathroom floor. Or that time when your dress' buttons flew open during rush hour on the subway. Or that time when the amateur Mariachi band stepped onto your train car and played bad Mexican music directly next to your head, just as the world bestowed upon you a teeth-grindingly bad headache. Or that time when you were eating an awesome lunch with your friend and, in a sudden fit of laughter, he rocketed tiny pieces of chewed food all over your meal and you picked one off the side of your sandwich and ate it because you thought it was a piece of Mozzarella. But it wasn't.

Especially lifelike is the fact that I now probably know more about skincare than any of my friends, but I'll be damned if - at the age of 24 - I can get my face to stop breaking out.

These are the moments that make me laugh. Oddly.

But trust me when I say things are good.

Really.

I still might not have a job, but this week, I have my best friend in town. And I got my guitar back, and no matter how much I play and how sore my fingers get, I can't quite seem to get enough. And today, I had a conversation with the doorman and he asked me how my job hunt was going. I told him that I'm honestly not sure, and he said,

"Girl, with the way you look, talk, and carry yoself, I can tell you right now you gonna be fine. You're a total sweetie. One of these days, you gonna be in a restaurant, and you gonna be talkin' and sayin' you ain't got a job, and someone big's gonna be sittin' right behind you and they gonna be all like, 'Hey, girl, I don't mean to be gettin' all up in yo business, but did I hear you say you can write?' And then they gonna be like, 'Here's my business card. Call me.' I'm from New York City, born and raised. And like Alicia Keys said, this be the place where dreams are made. Things happen here. You just gotta be tough."

That really added some pizazz to the middle of my mediocre cubicle afternoon.

On Rekindling the Passion

... Ugh. You make me tired.

New York City was love at first sight. But now we've been dating for 12 years, and since we moved in together just over three months ago, I've been discovering all these little things about him that just. drive. me. nuts. In other relationships, people might say, "How many times have I asked you not to leave the toilet seat up?" or, "For the love of god, stop leaving the sponge in the sink!" But for me, it's, "Why does the R never run right on weekends?" and "Who the hell isn't wearing deodorant?" and "Why does stepping out of my office building feel like walking into a blow dryer?" and "Can you seriously fit one more jackass on this train? Can you try?"

Sometimes I feel like our love is suffering a long, slow, relationship death.

But a few weeks ago, I was sitting at the table in my sister's apartment, mentally damning how hot this summer has been and how especially intolerable the city makes that heat - much like a lover you want to shove out of the bed when it's too humid out because every time you touch each other, it feels like flypaper and it makes you want to murder him a little bit - when I randomly started perusing Time Out New York. And lo and behold, I stumbled across something that very much piqued my interest: An event deep in Brooklyn called "The Lost Circus." Described as "circus meets dark cabaret with a steampunk twist," I was pretty much in before I even decided to go. There were only a few factors holding me back. It started at 11:59 p.m. and went until 4:30 a.m., it was located in a desolate and slightly questionable part of Brooklyn I had never been to before, and I would be going alone. Indecisive, I turned in the spinney chair to look at the TV I'd undoubtedly end up watching HBO OnDemand on all night if I decided not to go. Petra, my sister's grouchy, porpoise-like, spinster of an old crone cat let out a long, abrasive yowl. Holding back a yowl of my own, I stood up and said, "Screw it. I'm going."

"New York," I thought. "I want to be in love with you again."

We eat out every weekend.
Let's try something different.

As I'm writing about all this in retrospect, it's needless to say that I survived. And I didn't even have to use my pepper spray! Although my sister's friend was right when she said it was in the warehouse district, and I, meanwhile, showed up looking like a bumbling mix between a failed Lolita and a high school, western cowgirl (we won't explore that any further). It's not a good sign when you stop at a diner for directions and the local cops whistle and shout out, "You can stay here with us, sweetheart!" It was that kind of neighborhood.

However, The Lost Circus was well worth the six blocks of anxiety that I click-click-clicked my way through in my sister's high-heeled leather boots. It delivered what it promised: belly dancers, stilt walkers, fire dancers, a contortionist, a dominatrix, a visual feast of fascinatingly intricate steampunk costumes, an amazing band called The Vagabond Opera (seriously, check them out), and a few strange, sweet, geeky men who - through the compliment of their company - made me feel like I didn't look quite as absurd as I thought I did. And I got to get painted up like a cat! And who doesn't like face paint? I like face paint! Maybe a little too much. And at the end of the night, as I was dragging my sore feet out of the venue, I spotted a well-known steampunk author hanging at the bar. Though I'm not very familiar with steampunk and had never read any of his work, one of my friends was a great admirer of his. So in one of my slick moments, I walked up to him, addressed him as J.D. Faulksen, and obtained an autograph to mail to Massachusetts. It was later (earlier?) that night (morning?) when I found out his name is actually G.D. Faulkens, and I wrote him an apology, to which he replied that "these things do happen."

After I left the venue, but before I got back on the subway, I was feeling a slightly more fearless, and so I went to the diner where I stopped for directions in order to mentally absorb the evening over a cup of coffee. By the time I climbed back into the bowels of the city, it was well past 5 a.m. As the train passed over the Brooklyn bridge, I looked out at the river, which was slate gray under a gradually lightening sky and I thought, "This is first sunrise I've ever seen in New York City. This is home, now."

As if on cue, however, because this is how my life works, I noticed a man sitting across the car gesturing to me. Taking my headphones out of my ears, I turned away from the river and said, "What?" After several attempts to understand what he was saying through his very thick accent, I finally got it. He wanted to know whether my cat face paint was a tattoo.

Laughing, I exclaimed, "Oh, no, no!" and to demonstrate, I licked my index finger and smudged a small spot of the paint on my cheek.

Suddenly he smiled, looked slightly alarmed and said, "Oh no! Don't do that!" Getting up, he hurriedly crossed the train, sat next to me, and then reached his hand out and gingerly attempted to fix the paint. On my face. With his unidentified-strange-subway-person-at-five-in-the-morning finger.

courtesy of hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com

My brain shorted out. After a night of tireless stimuli, all I could do was look at him awkwardly and wait. Yup. Thanks for fixing that, sir.

After that, we chatted about life for a couple minutes. As it turns out, he's a man from Egypt who makes hookahs for a living. A man from Egypt who makes hookahs for a living and reaches out to touch girls' faces on the subway at five in the morning [sigh]. When I refused to give him my number, he absolutely insisted on giving me his. When I said, "Erm, I have a boyfriend," he smiled the broadest and most genuine smile in the universe and said, "No, no, sweetie! I just want to be friends!" Then, just as I finished programming his number, because "no" was not an acceptable answer, he reached out - yes, again - placed his hand under my chin, and tilted my head up ever so gently. "Let me take a picture," he said. Cocking one eyebrow, I hesitantly smiled. CLICK went the iPhone. My cat face lives on. And then patting me on the shoulder, because I clearly have an inviting presence, he said, "Get home safe, sweetie," and got off the train. 

What a nice man... ?

I swear, these things only happen to me. 

I swear, I'm the only person who lets these things happen to me. 

Turning, I looked back out the window, but all we were passing now were graffiti-covered tunnel walls. A reaffirming experience, I thought, "Yup. This is my home now, like it or not."

Since that evening, I'm pleased to announce that New York City has taken me on several dates. I watched a Woody Allen flick on the Elevated Acre with Dana as part of a summer art festival. We spread out a picnic blanket on the plastic grass and enjoyed some cheese and fruit. I explored Governors Island and attended the Time Traveler's Picnic with Anne. I chilled out in Battery Park and took the free ferry from Manhattan to Staten Island just to see the skyline light up after sunset. I even had a job interview this week. And I have another one tomorrow! Can you believe that?

I was pretty convinced that our relationship was on the rocks. But after the last few weeks, I can safely say, I heart New York City. Like real people in love, we're finding ways to keep the passion alive. 

The Eternal Optimist

Sometimes, I think I come off as a pessimist.

This could be for many reasons.

Maybe it's because I'm often sarcastic and crack jokes that air a little on the dry side. Or maybe it's because I have a slightly self-deprecating sense of humor and always prepare for the worst. Okay, yeah. And maybe sometimes I become a little self-defeatist when things aren't rolling out the way I intended them to.
But that's not because I'm a pessimist. It's because I'm a huge advocator of self-control and it really gets under my skin when a situation spins away from me. Like employment. Or lack thereof. I graduated college - against all odds, it seems - packed up everything, moved to New York City, and found a great apartment in under two weeks. But man, I just can't find a job anywhere. Maybe the cosmic forces of the universe are holding out until I find the perfect job. Yeah. Maybe that's it. See? That's optimism!

But in all seriousness, perhaps it's a little naive, but despite my wry sense of humor and daily brushes the strange and calamitous, I honestly feel that I'm capable of accomplishing anything I want to accomplish if I work at it long and hard enough. Yes, seriously. I feel this  regardless of the fact that mass media clearly plays both sides of that coin:

America is the land of opportunity.

The economy is in shambles and everyone is unemployed.

So maybe America is just the land of opportunism?

[from top to bottom] America, My Dreams
Okay, maybe THAT's a little pessimistic...

Perhaps all I need is focus. Right now, I don't really know what I want to get out of my life, and so I'm having trouble formulating an end game. There are three tiers of employment I could try to go for right now.

1. Work that is entirely unrelated to my college career: waitress, bartender, prep cook, cashier, barista, burlesque dancer, dog walker, customer service representative, janitor, McDonalds employee...
2. Purgatorial work that is kind of connected to my college career: copy editor, fact checker, researcher, copy writer, transcriber, or really any form of organizational office guru...
3. Rewarding work that is absolutely connected to my college career: feature writer, restaurant reviewer, travel journalist, blogger about quirky events and NYC subculture...

So far, I haven't dared to make eye contact with [3], and [2] is the a--hole who keeps me up waiting and never calls me back. But as far as I go out of my way to avoid [1], who I've known for a long time, he loves me no matter how much I've changed or how educated I am. I don't care. I don't like him. But after $1,000 more down the tube, he's going to start to look pretty good. But I'm still holding out for [2]. I'm still waiting. Maybe if I get with [2], [3] will start to notice me more [girly sigh].

I wish I could sit down to coffee with potential employers and say, "Listen. I'm good natured, I'm cooperative, and I work well with others. I have a great skill set and I'm dedicated. I'll complete whatever task you set in front of me, regardless of how menial or mind-numbingly boring it is, and I will do it well. And no, the fact that I went to college in cow country does not mean I am an uneducated, back road hick. I received a solid education and I worked hard to get where I am now. Hire me."

Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way. And I have a sneaking suspicion that every journalism graduate who received an education from a big, private, city university has a huge competitive edge over me, even though a highly populated journalism program undoubtedly has a greater likelihood of yielding a more watered-down learning experience.

This is not how I learned journalism.

I am ready for bigger and better things than Pizza Hut or the supermarket. If this venture doesn't work out, perhaps I'll look further into that work program in Tasmania I've had my eye on. But don't you worry. I'm not giving up yet. I am ever the eternal optimist.

Hey there, blackbird.

On days when I am missing my guitar, I stop into the local music store where George, the owner, tolerates me as I pull acoustic guitars off the walls and play them, without ever intending to buy anything. George knows this. He knows I'm new and I'm poor and I miss my guitar, which is undoubtedly falling apart in my sweltering storage unit in Vermont. I'm kicking myself for leaving it there. I haven't played in a long time, and when I chose to move without it, I never anticipated that I would miss it this much. I need an outlet and I need something here that feels intimately familiar and mine.

George is a middle-aged man of average build with wiry gray hair, a no-nonsense face, and very kind eyes. He worked as an engineer of sorts for NASA when he was younger and got to travel all over the world. But he wasn't happy, and so he decided to give it up in the '80s in order to buy a music shop in Astoria. He said it was a long process to become declassified, but that he never regretted for a second choosing to go in the direction he did. When I look at him, I can't picture him working for NASA. But I also can't picture him playing the bouzouki, which, apparently, he does. 

The other day, I was perched on a stool somewhere in the corner of the store, plucking away at a guitar when he said, "Your playing is quite lovely, by the way."

"Thanks," I replied self-consciously. "I wish I could read music."

He looked up from the guitar he was restringing and asked,
"Can birds read music?"

That made me smile.

"Don't get shot five times in the head!"

Cute. Can you run in them?

This was the goodbye I received as I left my sister's apartment at 11 o'clock on Sunday night. Thanks, sis! I'll try! That's love. Apparently, my wonderful, peaceful, little neighborhood has experienced three murders in the past three weeks, the last of which was a 41-year-old man who was shot five times in the head. Five times. In the head. Isn't once enough? Anyway, as he wasn't robbed and he had been arrested multiple times since 1987, authorities are thinking it might have been a targeted shooting, possibly related to drugs.  However, that doesn't bring me much comfort as I'm trundling the 15 or so blocks home from the N train at midnight, house keys jangling from my nervously clenched fist. However, I suppose I can take minor solace in the fact that the sheer number of people in New York City reduces my likelihood of getting attacked, at least compared to the slimmer females in the non-strategic footwear who obviously make easier targets (I'm sorry, but it's true. The wolves pick off the slowest sheep). On the flip side of that coin, though, more sheep means more wolves. I guess it's all relative. And so I'll keep my wits close and my pepper spray closer, and for the time being, that should be enough (unless someone tries to shoot me five times in the head, of course).

While I'm on the dark topic of mortality, I must mention that I saw the greatest birthday card in Papyrus a couple weeks ago. On the front was a cute picture of a puppy wearing a birthday hat. The message read: "In dog years, you're dead!"

I think that's hilarious. Is something wrong with me???

As I haven't had the chance to write in a little while, this entry is going to be kind of like a life casserole (Gross). A life casserole that got ruined the first time I tried to write it two days ago because when I hit the "publish" button, the computer gave me a "log in" screen, which clearly meant that two hours of reflective writing had been lost to oblivion. Great. Since then, my cell phone died, I bought and then returned a really abrasive alarm clock, and I got a truck load of fresh produce for really, really cheap. But that's not what I feel like writing about right now. So instead, I'll write about what prompted me to change the title of my blog.

Recently, as I was walking home from my internship, I spotted a very tiny Asian woman, who was walking toward me on the sidewalk. She was wearing an incredibly cute dress. I, a lover and collector of dresses, was feeling amiable and so I decided to brighten her day a little with a random compliment. 

"That," I said, radiantly smiling, "is a super-cute dress!"

She stopped.

"Really? You think so???" she replied happily in a thick accent, smiling back. "Thank you! That is so nice of you!"

At that point, I was feeling pretty good. But here is the conversation that ensued. Interpret as you will:

[HER]  "I actually custom make dresses!"

[ME]    "Oh, really?"

[HER]  "Yes. Let me give you my card!"

[ME]    "No, I'm sorry. I'm actually kind of between jobs right now. I don't think I can afford a hand-made dress.

[HER]  "You're just going through a change right now! Things will get easier. Here's my card, just in case."

This would have been a good place for our interaction to end. But it didn't. Employing the expressive art of hand gesture, she added, nice and slow and very emphatically, because it was crucial that I understood:

"I don't just make dresses for skinny people! No, no. Not just for skinny people! Skinny dresses are easy! I custom make for people like you too! Also very important!"

People like you.

For a second, I almost said, "That sounds like something my mother would say." And then I thought I might add to the Astoria death count. And for a brief second, I had a feeling I might break down in a horrifying display of hysterical tears right in front of her. But there she was, standing before me, very skinny in her adorable sun dress and smiling, like she was doing me some great humanitarian service. And so I grit my teeth and grinned [grimmaced?] broadly. "Thank you so much!" I gushed and accepted her stinking card. 

Now, the logical part of me says that her English just wasn't quite there enough to say with tact what she was really trying to say. After all, implying that your customers are great, ponderous sea mammals is... well, it's bad for business. And it goes without saying that I'm not quite big enough to need custom-made clothing yet. But then again, it was also suggested to me that her forwardness might have been a cultural thing or that she said "custom made" because all of her dresses were custom made. It's just that these ones in particular were custom made for people like me. Whatever that means.

But why spend tons of money on custom made dresses when people like me can buy trash bags, burlap sacks, and maternity moo moos for less than half the price?

Thanks, anyway.

After many weekends of watching bad cable TV, reading books in restaurants, and going out for drinks alone, I've decided that enough is enough and have turned to finding friends on the internet. This may seem desperate, and maybe it is a little bit, but all I need to do to remind myself that it's a perfectly sane course of action is recall a conversation I had with a couple of my fellow interns a few weeks ago. 

[GIRL] What do you mean you smile at people on the subway???

[GUY]  Yeah, that's a little weird.

[ME]     God, well it's not like I ogle them with an absent smile on my face. If I accidentally make eye contact with someone, I smile politely and break it. 

[GUY]  What do you do if someone talks to you?

[ME]     Um, acknowledge them?

[GIRL] OMG! What if they're a murderer?

[ME]     I doubt murderers frequently approach me on the subway.

[GUY]  But it's weird if anyone approaches you on the subway! 

[ME]     What's wrong with friendly conversation?

[GIRL]  Erm, with strangers?

[GUY]  Yeah, if someone I don't know approaches me, I automatically assume they're weird or trying to sell me something. I'm instantly weary.

[ME]     How do people make friends?

[GIRL]  I go to college! 

[GUY]  I already have friends.

[ME]     How do I make friends?

[BOTH] Oh, huh. Good point. I don't know. 

Well, guys, it seems I have found the answer: Craigslist. And if that makes you feel a little crusty and gross, it's okay. Sometimes it makes me feel that way too. But I have found that, upon weeding out the porn, hair weave advertisements, and clearly illiterate people, the "w4w" link in the "strictly platonic" section of the personals actually leads to some real people! So far, friend fishing has led me to four friend dates, two of which have been with the same person (ooh, getting serious)! And guess what? They've all been fun meet-ups with normal people like me. Although I do prescribe to the saying that "normal" is just a setting on the dryer...

Anyway, I think life should be approached with humor and an adventurous frame of mind. And if I get stuck sharing coffee with someone who is truly strange, creepy, alarming, off putting - or hell! All of the above - then I guess it will make all-the-better a blog post for the next time around. 

I'm no faker.

Asparagus, when dropped into boiling water, almost immediately turns a gorgeous and vibrant shade of green. Artichokes, on the other hand, are nature's horticultural straight shooters. After a few minutes of being submerged in boiling water, they just look dead. I like that. That's honesty. If I were a vegetable, I'd want to be an artichoke - tough and spiny on the outside, lovely, layered, dry, and green. Tender and soft on the inside. Of course, I love to eat artichokes, and if I were an artichoke, I wouldn't want anyone to love eating me. Nor would I want to be submerged in boiling water. But if I were, at least I'd go with integrity.

I'm having a quiet moment in the kitchen. And yes, there's an artichoke on the stove [three little spiders crawled out while I was washing it - oh, good god, don't let me eat my way to a nest!]. And a plate of just-baked pre-made Tollhouse cookies on the table, the only straggling survivors to make it to the oven after my cookie dough binge three weeks ago. They look a little funky. I guess the dough WAS kind of old. But they taste okay. They're sharing the table with a glass of vinho verde.  I cleaned out the fridge today. Maybe after cookies, wine, and artichoke, I'll have blackberries. They're on the edge of going over.

Ooh! I think it's done! More to come later.

[EDIT: I'm pretty positive that I did, in fact, eat my way to a nest. There's no way to tell for sure, but on my last bite - yes, seriously, my last bite - I chomped into something brittle that broke in half and crumbled in my mouth. Upon spitting it onto my plate, I saw it was a pocket filled with a whole lot of little black somethings. Morbidly curious and somewhat horrified, I looked closer. But no matter how close I put my face to the crumbly atrocity, I just couldn't tell whether the little black somethings had legs. Either way, whatever it was, it was boiled for 45 minutes. So you can call it spiders. I'll call it protein. ... and no, I didn't put it back in my mouth.]

What did you say?

Today, after work, I went to the mall to find SOMETHING to decorate my bedroom walls with.
What did I buy?
Clothes.

New York City has taught me that retail therapy really IS effective. But it would probably be more economic for me harbor a hard drug addition. Joking. I don't buy THAT much clothing. But still. More than I should.

Today, in the subway, I accidentally made eye contact with some guy as I was passing him. Politely, I smiled. Autopilot reaction for me. Almost immediately after, I realized I was going the wrong way and turned around. As I passed him again, he smiled at me and I casually said "hi" and kept walking. As I passed, he said,

"And here I was thinking you were coming back for my name or number or something."
I smiled and replied, "Nah, I'm sorry. I have a boyfriend."
To which he responded: "Well, what's he got to do with me? I ain't gonna tell him!"

REALLY? Does that work on women? I mean, he had that response ready to go. I'd of had to pause to think up something sleazy like that. But there he was, sharp as a whip. I was entertained by this.

"It has everything to do with you!" I said, laughing. "I love my boyfriend! And my dignity!"
"Oh, I see how it is," he chuckled.
I smiled, waved, and told him to have a good one.
To which he kindly told me to do the same.

Things like this didn't happen to me in Johnson.

Just a little rush hour entertainment.

I have a dress. It's a blue dress that looks like denim, but is actually made of light, airy, breathable cotton. It has a scoop neck and drops loosely down to my ankles. It's probably one of the most comfortable things I own. However, my dress has a problem. Over the last two years, I've worn it so much that the button holes have gotten pretty loose. So, sometimes the buttons just kind of fall open. Usually only the two right over my crotch, though. Go figure. So no going commando in this dress. But, hey. It's only two buttons. And so long as I'm self aware, I usually catch them in time and everything ends up okay.

Yesterday, I chose to wear this dress.
Let's set the scene. It's 5 p.m. and I'm on the subway. It's rush hour. I'm standing, holding on to one of the poles, in a moving subway car. All the seats are taken. Beside me, a rhino of a kid - who looked to be maybe about 14 - was bobbing his head to his music. The train pulls in to Grand Central. The doors open and commuters trade places on the platform. Just as the doors are above to close, rhino boy (he was a big kid) emerges from his angsty tunes long enough to realize we're at his stop. "Oh crap!" he shouts. "Excuse me." Without giving me a chance to move, he stampedes past me, scuffing the bottom on his sneaker across the top of one of my exposed feet. It hurt. I resisted the urge to holler profanities. An older woman next to me shook her head in disapproval, assumably because of the panicked rhinocerous that crushed my foot. Kneeling down, I  checked for damage. Thankfully there was none. So I stood up, peeved but okay, grabbed the pole, and waited for the next stop. About 30 seconds later, I notice a guy looking at me.

"You're, um, shirt's undone," he said, almost apologetically.
Right he was! And not JUST over my crotch!
My dress was opened up like a science project or a peep show from right below my boobs to about two inches below my panty line. My underwear and fish-white belly were out there for the world to see! And how did I respond??
"Oh, GREAT! I'm FLASHING EVERYONE!!!" I shouted. And then I smiled demurely and sweetly said, "Thank you," to the guy, who laughed, as I hurriedly refastened something to the tune of 10 buttons. It was then that I realized the older woman MIGHT have been shaking her head in disapproval at my temporary nudity [laughs].

It was like being caught with your fly down, x100.
But, other than the period of time it took to redo my buttons on a speeding, jolting subway car, I was surprisingly unruffled. I was easily embarassed as a kid, but it takes a lot to undo me now. Being upset uses up a lot of energy. Really, it's easier to just laugh. After all, every embarrassing moment makes for a good story.

Don't Tell Your Mother.

The man who sells me my iced coffees from his little booth on weekday mornings smiles more in a two minute period then anyone I've ever met. I mean, seriously. He crams those smiles in. I don't know where he stores them because his job does not look cozy. He stands in what must be a 5' x 5' metal box just outside the subway in 90 degree heat, serving coffees and sticky buns to dark suited, hectically rushed business men and women as they scrabble to make it to work in their skyscrapers by 9. But there he is, every morning. No fail. Smiling. Real smiles, too. They make it too his eyes. Maybe they're the key to his success, because I can get an iced coffee for less than $2.50 a pop, but man, he just brightens my morning. Keep it up, coffee-booth man! Maybe tomorrow I'll ask him his name and commend him on his awesome service. Maybe he'll appreciate it. Hmm.

Today, at my internship, it was extremely tough to focus. Last night was one of those nights where I was awake every 20 minutes, checking the time. Have you ever had nights like that? When, as it gets later and later (or earlier and earlier, depending on how you look at it), you become gradually more and more anxious because you know the alarm is going to go off soon and you've gotten barely any sleep. It's a vicious cycle, really. Those nights are the worst. Anyway, working today was really tough. I got done what I had to get done, but I could barely stay awake and it was super challenging to stay on task.

Oh, and word for the wise: Just because a take-out lunch deal is $5 doesn't mean you should eat it. Chinese/Vietnamese lunch buffet where they don't let you sample the food? Not a safe bet. But sometimes life is a gamble. And today I lost. I'm pretty sure my egg drop soup (complimentary with the meal!) was just mucous. I didn't eat it.

After I left my internship at 5, I headed over to Long Island City. Jen's neighbors were getting rid of a whole bunch of really cool, antique furniture, art, and glassware and I wanted to see if I could dig up anything really cool. I was pretty lucky the night before, but this time, no such luck. Jen found a really great pair of shot glasses made of peach carnival glass. They're gorgeous and I'm envious. I don't even think I'd drink out of them. They're just... pretty. Really pretty.

While I was in Jen's neighborhood, I encountered world-class parenting. As I was walking down the street, a man - maybe in his late 30's - was walking toward me, heading in the opposite direction. With him were two little boys, twins, about four or five years old. I glanced at him as I was passing to see that he was already looking at me. Really loudly, he declared,

"Boys, now THAT is a Bee-OOO-ti-ful girl!"

I kept walking, mumbling, "Ha ha, yeah. Thanks?" as I passed. But as I continued on, I overheard him say, a little warningly, "Don't tell your mother."

Super. Teach 'em while they're young, dad.

Is being a psychic lucrative? Can I be a psychic too?

Today, as I was crossing the street, a woman approached me.
"Excuse me, I hate to bother you," she started.
I had already taken it upon myself to assume she was going to ask for directions and took mental note of where I was. It made me feel a little important.
"Have you ever had a psychic reading?"
Oh.
"No," I replied, immediately skeptical.
"I just spotted you crossing the street, and there's something really interesting about your aura that just leaps out at me. You have great energy. I mean it! You're destined for great things," she said.
I smiled. "Thanks!"
And then she dropped the hook that was supposed to reel me into a consultation:
"But you have a lot of negative energy surrounding one aspect of your life that's holding you back."
"And which part is that?" I asked, now playing along.
She smiled sweetly. Very sweetly.
"Let me give you my card," she said.
Now, what I think she was probably trying to communicate right off was, "Holy crap! Look at that purple sun dress! You MUST be nonconservative enough to fall for a psychic reading! Ka-ching!"

She was wearing purple too.

____________________________________

Today was a day of goods and bads:

• - I must find somewhere to cram the massive white TV that is eating valuable space in my bedroom. Apparently it is a big selling point to its rentability and cannot be done away with. 
• + Good coffee served by a friendly person 
• + Air-conditioned internet cafe 
• - For some ungodly reason, the toilet had no toilet seat and the teenager who left the bathroom (after being in there for a VERY long time) before I entered had very clearly just been smoking pot with the fan on. I'm becoming so good at hovering that I could teach a seminar on it. 
• - Wasted two hours and $4 writing two very labor-intensive, impressive cover letters to jobs listed on Craigslist only to find out they were both "MAKE MILLIONS OF DOLLARS FROM THE COMFORT OF YOUR OWN HOME!!!!!!!!" scams. Fail. 
• + Was entertained by "psychic" 
• + Bought a set of wall hooks to hang my wet towels on 
• + Stopped into a guitar store just to play some tunes 
• + Found artichokes at 50 cents a piece! 
• - Lost my 30-day $90 MetroCard. It was still young. I am still grieving. 
• + Happened across a big, outdoor, private Italian party where a man - who was dressed like a lounge lizard from the '70s - sang traditional Italian music into a microphone with the musical accompaniment of a DJ. He had a surprisingly stunning voice. I hung around and listened to a couple songs. 
• + Went to a wine tasting and discovered a delicious wine from Portugal to bring to True Blood tomorrow night 
• + Found out that I can be compensated for the days I won't be able to use on my lost MetroCard 
• + Watched an episode of Big Love and enjoyed a delicious, if not odd, dinner of boiled eggs, an artichoke, and a sliced cucumber 

My room is starting to feel like a safe haven instead of a tomb, now that I have an air conditioner. Merely the change in air temperature seems to have changed the way I view the space and colors of my living space. Now it seems welcoming. Before, it was the last place I wanted to be in. I bought a notebook today. I feel tempted to keep a journal, even though I suck at keeping journals. Especially the written kind. And yet I am wary of the limitations and dangers of writing down my personal thoughts in a space that just about anyone could access if they really wanted to. Maybe I will just use it for to-do lists. I write lots and lots of those.

Now I think it's time for more Big Love.

If only the whole apartment was air conditioned...

I was talking to Joe yesterday and he made a reference to my "new life." And the phrase struck me funny because I don't quite feel like I have a new life. I just feel like I'm me, displaced. God, that sounds depressing. I mean, most of the elements are there. I live in an apartment in a neighborhood I really like. I've made friends at local haunts. Yeah, they're employees, but they still count [laughs]. I'm gaining a deeper understanding of the subway system all the time. I've even started walking faster, much to my chagrin. I don't have a job. So there's a puzzle piece I need to fit. But I do have an internship, which feels like a job, even if I'm not getting paid. Plug in another two days, and I have a 9 to 5 in midtown Manhattan. And a salary. I'd have to plug in one of those too. On the upside, rarely do I leave the apartment without something strange, interesting, or darkly humorous happening. I do glean joy from that. There were many days in Vermont where I'd leave the apartment and absolutely nothing would happen.

I guess that I feel like my life right now is made up of a bunch of pieces that don't quite fit together. Financial security would probably help eradicate that feeling, but I don't think it would fix it entirely.

... You know what it is? I think I just put my finger on it:
I don't really feel like anything I have right now is mine.

My apartment isn't really my apartment. It's Kevin and Amelia's home, and as lovely as it is, nothing here is mine except for what's in the space I'm paying for. And even that is sparse. My internship was gotten for me by my old professor. It's not something I worked to get. The people I socialize with are on loan to me from my sister, and even though I have a lot of fun, everyone's a decade older than me. And they've known me since I was 10. Even younger, in some cases. The money I have is from a nest egg that I didn't save up for, but won in a court settlement when I was 13. A lawsuit that was filed by my mother when I slipped and cut my hand on a kitchen appliance. Don't get me wrong. I've worked hard to get to where I am, and I think I've done a damn good job, when all is said and done. But for some reason, I've been feeling like all of this is lacking substance as of late.

Like, "Good, Hilary. You wanted to be here. Now you're here. So what now?"
Maybe it's just NYC. I'm not the type who dresses everyday to be noticed and I can't seem to engage in the constant, cut-throat, rat race that everyone seems to be part of on a daily basis. Or maybe I just feel like I'm 24 and want to do bigger things. I wonder if there's a city out there with which I could fall in love...

ANYWAY.

A lot has happened since the last time I wrote in this blog. Life is definitely moving much faster than it feels like it has been. I want to look back on this blog somewhere down the line and remember the journey. So I'm going to connect all the major dots. But I think I'll do it in a bulleted format so I'm not up until 4 a.m. [laughs].

• After much effort, I'm finally hooked on HBO's "Big Love."
• Sam came to visit. We had a blast. I spent way too much money. We discovered a mutual love for Mexican food, which oddly, in our almost two years of dating, we've never experienced together before. We also discovered a fiery passion for Mojitos and frozen Margaritas. We went out to eat at Keen's Steakhouse for Sam's birthday, where he had a $25 glass of scotch and I ordered a $50 cut of prime rib, which was seriously 28 oz. and about the size of my head. Last hugely expensive meal for a while. It would have been nice to cuddle more, as we hadn't seen each other in a month, but it was a scorching 95 degrees almost all week and it was often too hot to even hold hands. But at least we had Jen and Santino's place all to ourselves. 
• Daelynn came to visit the day after Sam left. We also had a ton of fun. And I once again spent too much money. The two big highlights that stand out in mind were going to see Avenue Q, which was fantastic, and going to a gay bar for the Fourth of July. Neither of us are gay, and so I felt a little like an impostor. But the evening was a blast. Piano bar upstairs, complete with show tunes, $4 Long Island Iced Teas, and all the rainbow and penis art you could ask for. Pumping techno night club downstairs, complete with nearly-naked, muscly, tan, hairless man dancing on a 3 ft. roped-off block in nothing but knee pads and a camo-print banana hammock G-string. Hilarious. Priceless. Why aren't regular bars that awesome? Maybe I'm just not looking in the right places.
• I started my internship. I like it, I think. I'm being told I'm a really good copywriter, which is great news. I was a little afraid I wouldn't be. Mainly, I work in advertising right now, which is funny because I just spent three years learning about the evils of the advertising industry! Yay! 
• A pigeon unloaded on me at Union Square. Thankfully, it did not land in my hair, or even on my skin. Also at that moment, a commercial was being filmed, some crazy woman was fighting with a passerby who was screaming, "Lady, don't f*#&%^$ touch me!" and a guy was crawling past on his hands and knees, asking if he could take pictures of people's feet. I <3 NYC. 
• I spent a good chunk of the day today in an internet cafe. It didn't serve coffee, the walls were stark and white, the floor was made of industrial tile, and the toilet and the bathroom had no toilet seat, but at $3 per hour, the price was right. I applied to be a food & wine freelancer for a website through Craigslist. I think I'll go back and do more of the same tomorrow. World: give me some friggan' money. Please. Thank you. 
• We've been in a heat wave and I've been in crisis mode. Don't ever come to this city when it's hot. It sucks. Walking out of any building in Manhattan feels like entering a blow dryer. It's just awful. Finally, I broke down and bought an air conditioner. Santino installed it, increasing the quality of my life by about 110%. Until I get a peek at the next utility bill [laughs]. 

I think that's about all I've got for now. I'm exhausted. I think I'm going to retreat to my nice, cool bat cave and catch some Zzz's.