Dating Tip #1: Always poop before your date.

I know it's been a while, but there's been a lot of changes in my life. I have moved to Boston for grad school and it's been a trip. I can blog more about those things at a later date. I have dated here and there since my move, but I went a first date just this last Friday and I learned a very important lesson: Always poop before your date.

I took a one week intensive class this last week and I got out of class about an hour before said date was supposed to begin. I'd known I had to poop for a while before class ended, but I surely thought I would have plenty of time to release the troops before this date. Well class ends at about 4:15 and the date is set to begin around 5. We had some great guest speaks and teachers who I wanted to speak to and wouldn't you know it the next time I looked at the clock it was 5!

I am late to everything in life and I do make an effort to not be the first person to show up, but I didn't want to be too late. For those of you that know me my poops are often unpredictable and I just can't sit down and expect everything to go smoothly and quickly. I opted just to go for being on time to the date and not dropping the kids off at the pool. (I'm seeing how many poop euphemisms I can squeeze in here).

We grabbed some hot cocoa and as the coffee shop was busy I suggested we "walk around" even though it was 30 some degrees outside...DUMB. We walked around for a while and it was delightfully awkward. I'm totally the type of person to talk about my poops so I had to keep that in along with the turtle heads dying to poke their heads out! Of course along with needing to poop comes needing to toot, but I didn't want to scare this poor young man so fast.

Well after two hours of nonsensical, awkward first date talking I was so cold I could no longer squeeze my butt together to hold in my toots and I had to poop like you wouldn't believe. On a side note the reason I didn't opt to get a drink inside somewhere was because than I wouldn't have an out and I didn't want to go in a bathroom while he was waiting because as I said...you just never know what kind of time you'll need to invest.

So two hours later I couldn't feel my toes and couldn't hold in my farts. I had to cut out. I made up some excuse about needing to get ready for a birthday party than asked him to "hug it out." Yes, those were my words that's why I put them in quotes. It is probably also why I'm single.

Follow Up: I got home and pooped and it was delightful. I do have a second date. I have no photo I was comfortable with sharing on this post.

Boobing the clergy

I have a secret for all three of my dedicated readers...NYC subways are crowded. Shhhh, come on let's keep this between friends. Even though I knew this little tidbit I am still constantly surprised when I get crammed into a small subway car on a weekday morning. Well this particular weekday morning must have been orchestrated by the Baby Jesus himself, because I have no other explanations for it.

A Thursday or two ago I was headed onto a cramped 1 train in the early morn' about 9:30 or so. I had a work party after work, so I had my lip gloss poppin' and my work-friendly slut gear on. As I enter the train I am sort of shoved on the train. This is not all that abnormal, but today I was pushed right into a dudes arm (as he held onto the subway bar) that happened to fall right below my breasts, so that they were quite literally perched on this poor guys arm. I looked around and tried to back up, but nothing, could not move anywhere. We gave each other an awkward, "yes, I know my boobs are 'on' your arm" look, but he was courteous enough to try move since I could not.

We were all finally able to adjust a little and he was able to hold onto the subway pole behind him, but I noticed as he turned around he has a "Princeton Theological Seminary," backpack on. Perfect! I looked at the sky and said God, it's me Jules, and I finally realize why I was given large breasts.

At least I can say that I finally blessed a priest, as I myself, have been blessed by them throughout my life. See God, I give back to the community too!

P.S. Once again I just googled "boobs priest" and this popped up, so I'm going with it.

St. Patrick, the Patron Saint of Drunk 22 year olds

So being unemployed can be inspiring. I would like to say it has inspired me to play bingo, learn a trade, or do something crafty. Instead it inspired me to celebrate St. Patrick's Day on the actual holiday.

Now this sounds very fun in theory. Goin' out, getting drizzunk, throwing small plastic cups at taxi cabs...

Well I bought a cheap ticket to this pub crawl on Groupon. The pub crawl was Friday night, Saturday, and St Pat's. I skipped Friday, but I had a group of friends going on Saturday. I got a gig last minute for Saturday, so by the time I met up with my friends they were wasted and I was never going to be as drunk as they were.

Due to my cheapness and the need to feel like I spent my money appropriately I decided to try and go to the Wednesday portion of said pub crawl.

I was the only one with a ticket for Wednesday, so I went by myself. I walked in to a super loud club-y bar known as "The Yard." I was really only interested in the $3 drafts (cheap in NYC mind you) only to find out that they were sold in glorified Dixie cups. Since I really only had the goal of being kinda drunk, these baby beers were not going to work. I paid $5 for some coronas, two to be exact, and then remembered that I was alone in a bar drinking.

So, I did what anyone alone at a bar drinking would do...I went into the bathroom and chugged my beers so I could leave immediately and not have to talk to anyone dressed like a Marine (well, to be fair they were probably real Marines, but I didn't want to talk to them nonetheless). After leaving the bathroom with an underwhelming buzz I made my way through the crowd of wasted 20 year olds making out with each other and dry humping on the dance floor. It was only 8pm. I don't think I've ever felt more old in my whole life. All I could think about was the fact that I had just been accepted to a great grad school and I was watching people in Celtics jerseys do it on the dance floor. I knew that I would not make it out of this bar with any dignity, so I decided to wait for my friends outside.

After craftily dodging the drunk creepy men at The Yard I met up with some friends and proceeded to have a pretty good time. Thank God I can sleep until 1pm the next day! Being unemployed can sometimes be a hard job.

Does One Have to be Crazy to Be Creative?

So I was doing some research for fun on good ol' JD Salinger. I am cliche and he is a very favorite of mine. I can't tell you what Franny and Zooey does for me and reading Teddy gives me an indescribable feeling like no other piece of literature can. That being said after doing some reading on Mr. Salinger I have realized that he was kind of bat shit crazy.

To those of you that know even the slightest bit about him this is of no surprise as he is a known recluse who hasn't been seen in many many years. However the extent of his reclusiveness and case of the Madonnas (as he switches religions as she switches personas) was unknown to me up until now. He forced his second wife to stay in their home and really cut her off from her family. His daughter wrote a memoir about him that wasn't too pleasant and I believe he even sued to have it stopped being published. At any rate why is it that the most creative minds are the CRAZIEST?

I am a little crazy and I'm okay with admitting it. I am OCD and fairly ADD (apparently they only diagnose ADHD anymore, but I don't think I'm all that hyperactive so I will stick with old school, because no one really reads this anyway). I have anxiety, however, I function well in society and am pretty good at hiding my crazies or making them endearing enough for people to love! (I like to tell myself anyway). So that being said I like to think I'm also mildly creative, but that might be up for debate. Some of the most creative people I know are the most unstable. I'm not sure why these things are so closely related. As so many of us long for the ability to write lyrics like Elliott Smith or write verse like Poe or write amazingly beautiful stream of consciousness like Salinger would you take it if it came with such crazy consequences?

I'm not sure that I would as I have enough crazy on my own and as much as I revere those particular men they probably do not revere themselves. I'm okay with being completely mediocre if it comes with some sanity and ability to cope with day to day life. Perhaps some of you would disagree, but I wish great talent could come without all of the baggage. Misery certainly does breed creativity though.

Finding yourself in a city such as New York can be challenging. As I arrived here on the boat through Ellis Island...okay that didn't happen, but I feel the story would have more depth if it had. Whatever, fine, truth. I came here on a 747 from Kansas, yes Kansas. I'm not from the country, far from it. I'm from a land of the homogeneous home with matching humans to coordinate. Is was a great bubble to grow up in and I met some wonderful people, experienced some shit, and made it through with a great family and friend base with which to plan my escape route.

When I moved to New York I was pretty damn excited. I had what I thought was an awesome job. I was fulfilling a dream my best friend from middle school and some high school and I had devised and as she died I had to do this on my own. I was supported, yet I knew that most people thought it was dumb to move to an expensive city with no real permanent job. Of course these same people were not incorrect, however, that is not how I flow and as the people around me know...I do what I want (said in a Cartman voice for good measure). I did it though, I came here, made something of a career and then decided to switch careers. Blah blah everyone knows all of this. The point is with all of this trepidatious (this isn't a word, but I like it) decision making I have come out all right...pretty poor, but great actually.

I'm not sure when the rest of the population "found" themselves, but oh how I hate saying it that way. I don't think there is some magic age for these things to happen. I can say with confidence that it's an ongoing process, but being happy with yourself is a constant challenge. There are always things I am working on, but you know, I am really happy with my life and myself. I'm sure this will change and things will be tossed my way that could shatter this reality for me. I can only say that I wish this for everyone that I love. I write this because I feel like I write about the city a lot and I wanted to say that this city really helped me find me, because nothing can make you question your own sanity like the smell of human fecal matter and a cab coming centimeters from taking out your knee caps.

New York City can be a conniving bitch, but she comes around and once you find the magic of this great city she can really become your BFF. With such great history and so many secrets to tell I think I know what an Empire State of Mind is (and yes, I quoted a Jay-Z song and no, I'm not ashamed of it).

PS I must apologize for my unusually optimistic posting. I'll go back to hobo stories shortly.

Narcissus and Jules, The Gods of Vanity

So once again it has been a while, but I'm trying to be better about writing down my ideas so I can remember them and tell you all about my funnies!

So I have been told more than once that sometimes I can be a bit narcissistic (I can safely say all of those times have been from my sister), however, I think everyone occasionally catches their own reflection in the mirror and stares for a bit. Typically this behavior is not really seen by anyone or if it is people know what you're doing and just roll their eyes (or admire you as well). But sometimes when you don't realize the reflective surface you are gazing into is actually not a mirror, but a window it can cause a very awkward situation.

Okay, okay, sometimes I look at myself in mirrors and there is that ocassional time when the mirror happens to be a window and there is someone on the other side visibly creeped out by your extraordinarily long gaze at them, when it is really an extraordinarily long gaze at oneself. So this particular time the person on the other side of the mirror (window) was a young woman probably about my age, so I'm not sure if she thought I was hitting on her or not. So when I noticed her staring at me because I was staring at me as well I gave her an awkward wave and turned back towards the front of the table I was sitting at. (I felt the awkward wave told her I was really staring at my own reflection when actually it probably solidified her thought that I was checking her out). I then tried to pretend nothing happened.

The moral of the story here kids is if you are going to be vain please make sure no one is on the other side of the mirror/window. Feel free to do it on the subway or in the bathroom or perhaps in the counters at your local department store, but be careful because you never know what is on the other side.

( I googled mirror window and this creepy photo is what popped up so I went with it!)

Are we crazy or are we dancing?

As you walk the streets of New York City you will see and hear a variety of sights and sounds. More often than not you will see people singing, dancing, talking to themselves, and an assortment of other things that seen anywhere else would make a "normal" person think they were watching crazies. I have found in my four years of living here that just because someone belts out Whitney Houston in a Target or dances along to their Ipod while walking down the street does not make them "crazy." It just means they are about to audition for Alvin Ailey's biggest show...in their head.

I know that there a good amount of legitimate dancers, actors, singers living in NYC. I don't think they often practice while walking down the street, but in the end you really just never know. I saw this guy dancing all by himself while walking down my street, my first reaction was...he is batshit crazy, but then I looked at him and he looked like a normal young man. This does not mean that he's not crazy, but upon further inspection I decided that he was probably just rehearsing something or coming up with new dance moves for a special performance of some sort. Why people find the need to do this in public is beyond me, but I am not one to judge (okay I am and I did).

I think dancing is one thing, but when people belt it out when they are walking down the street is something I will never understand. Do they know people can hear them? Do they know they're not in a subway with guitar and no one will give them a quarter? Are they aware that they are a really bad singer? So many questions and so many seemingly crazy people to ask. I saw this perfectly normal young woman walking down the street busting out Leona Lewis...She did not look crazy, but that is crazy lady behavior if you ask me.

When you live in New York you constantly ask yourself if you are going crazy. The stress, the people, the nutjobs surrounding you, it can really make you question your own sanity. However the second I see a man in Target singing Whitney Houston at the top of his lungs as he wanders through the aisles allows me to remember that I have not yet reached that point.