Sunday, May 29, 2017
May 30, 2017
Left my apartment in Manhattan.
With a suitcase of dirty laundry.
That I had to fold neatly to fit in the suitcase.
Ordered grande Starbucks iced coffee with soy milk.
I order the coffee plain.
Then add soy milk myself.
To decide the amount of soy milk I want to put in.
Got in taxi.
Looked out window.
Saw Brooklyn Bridge.
Rode the 8:30AM Staten Island Ferry.
On Staten Island, saw a family of swans.
Two parents, four children.
Arrived to house.
Watched an episode of Season 1 of Netflix’s The Great British Baking Show.
Drove to sister’s house.
Baby niece clapped hands.
Put baby down for nap.
Baby watched over by elephant.
And photo of Martha Stewart.
looked at baby.
Watched baby play.
I watched another episode of The Great British Baking Show.
While playing with my fidget spinner.
Papers on a Plane
April 14, 2017
I flew on an airplane today. A woman sat to my left in a two person aisle. She was about 45 years old. Her husband sat a few rows ahead and her two teenage children sat in the row behind us.
Half hour into the flight, the woman’s husband walked over and told her there was an empty seat by him. She stood up, grabbed her bag, and walked down the aisle. I put my jacket on the empty seat and spent the flight writing in my journal.
I looked on the floor and saw papers. I picked them up. The papers were printouts of the family’s flight information. The woman’s name was something like Julianne Rutherford. They were flying to Newark with a connecting to a flight to San Francisco. Text was highlighted in green. I put the papers on the chair.
Twenty minutes later a male flight attendant walked up the aisle holding a garbage bag — asking for garbage. He passed my row. I handed him a plastic cup. I picked up the papers, folded them, and threw them in the trash. I’m not sure why I threw the papers in the trash.
“We are now starting our descent into Newark,” the captain said over the speaker.
I looked toward the front of the plane. The woman who had been sitting next to me — now sitting five rows ahead and across the aisle — was searching through her bag.
She turned around. She mouthed to her daughter behind me, “Do you see our boarding passes?”
“Oh my goodness,” I thought, “I threw out their boarding passes.”
The teenage girl looked under the seat. I looked toward the ground. I knew she would not find the boarding passes.
“We have ten minutes to make our connecting flight. I don’t want to miss it,” the boy behind me said.
The girl got up. She sat next to me and started looking through the pocket on the back of the seat.
I had to say something. I didn’t want to. Maybe if I spoke up though, we could talk to the flight attendant and arrange a garbage bag search. I had questions like, How many garbage bags were there? How would we know which bag to search through first? Would I be the one doing the searching?
“I think the man threw those papers out,” I said. “The papers. I think they were thrown out.”
“Oh,” she said, “They were my Mom’s. It’s ok.”
The way she responded, reminded me of how I would respond if I was a teenager. Brushing it off because she didn’t want to make a big deal. She stood up and walked back to her seat.
“Mom I sent you something,” I heard her say to her mother, down the aisle.
“She probably sent her mother a text saying I threw them out,” I thought in my head. I wondered how she referred to me in the text. Did she say, “This lady threw out the passes. or This woman…This girl. I was curious.
I looked out the window. Then peeked over the head rest, looking at the Mother. She was looking forward.
The flight landed.
The family ran off the plane to catch their connecting flight.
Baby Reese’s Baptism
February 20, 2017
Arrive to baby’s house.
Feed baby bottle.
Baby falls asleep.
Take self-timer of me and baby.
Looks at camera.
Baby holds knee.
Baby wears first bonnet.
Baby likes first bonnet.
Walk down Church aisle.
Hand book to priest.
Baby water on head.
Dry baby’s head.
Hand cloth to priest.
Baby’s like, “Uh, Mom– what’s going on?”
Clap for baby.
Man next to me looks at son lovingly.
Baby poses with God parents.
Post baptism friend selfie.
Gotta luv smiling.
Look at my magical hand.
Designed by little cousins.
Post bath photo.
Wrapped in towel.
Clock on wall.
Baby falls asleep.
KEYS TO PORSCHE
January 7, 2017
This ever happen to you?
DOING THINGS I DON’T NORMALLY DO
February 7, 2016
In the New Year, I started Doing Things I Don’t Normally do.
Did “The Snake” on the Seaside Heights, New Jersey Boardwalk
Presented my Parents with an Anniversary Speech
Proposed to my Friend.
Roamed the Mall as Paul McCartney.
Watched myself Eat Dinner
I want to
keep Doing Things I Don’t Normally Do.
Today I will braid my hair,
go to the gym for an hour,
paint my nails orange.
Thanks for reading this
WALKING DOWN THE STREET
November 18, 2015
I was walking down the street tonight and accidentally dropped a dollar.
“Excuse me, you dropped a dollar,” a girl walking behind me said.
She handed me the dollar.
“Thank you so much,” I said to her.
She started to walk away.
“Wait,” I said. She turned around.
“Would you want to reenact the interaction we just had. I’ll get a stranger to videotape us. I’ll anonymously upload the video to the internet. And you’ll become a famous hero?” I asked her.
“I have to get home and watch The Flinstones,” she said to me.
“The movie?” I asked.
“No. The TV series. TV Land is running a marathon.”
“Do you have a DVR?” I questioned.
“Yeah,” she said.
“Why don’t you use the DVR to record The Flinstones?” I asked.
“I guess I’m stubborn,” she responded.
“Stubborn against the DVR or stubborn against someone who wants you to or doesn’t want you to use the DVR?” I asked.
“Both,” she said.
“I gave three options,” I said.
“I gotta go,” she said.
“Ok. I understand,” I told her. “But before you leave can I ask you one more thing?”
“Sure,” she said.
“What would you do if you knew you couldn’t fail?”
“I guess start an ice skating dumpling company,” she said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I would ice skate on lakes, handing out dumplings,” she said.
“Oh, that sounds stupid,” I said. “Just because, would anyone have a need for that service?”
“I gotta go,” she said.
“One more question,” I said.
“Does grave reviews mean a show got good reviews or bad reviews?”
“I think the phrase is ‘rave’ reviews,” she said.
“Oh. What does rave reviews mean?”
“Rave reviews means a show did well,” she told me.
“Ok. I always think the opposite. I hear a show got rave reviews and think it did badly.”
“I have to go,” she said.
November 12, 2015
Over the past few weeks, videos on my Facebook feed would freeze in pretty glitches. I took screen shots when they did. And used them as backgrounds for photos.
September 29, 2015
On Sunday I ate breakfast at Red’s Sandwich Shop in Salem, Massachusetts.
I sat alone at the counter.
Across from this man.
He seemed nice. Smiling and making conversation with the waitress.
He ordered hot coffee.
And put the most sugar I’ve ever seen anyone put in their coffee.
He held the sugar shaker [see yellow arrow for reference] upside down over his coffee for six seconds.
Six seconds of sugar pouring into his coffee.
He looked up. Saw me staring at him. I smiled. Then looked away before I saw his reaction.
I did not want to over step the social boundary of two people eating alone looking at one another.
For breakfast I ate a vegetable omelet with swiss cheese.
Whole wheat toast.
A cup of coffee with milk.
I photoshopped a tomato out of this photo of the omelet. I do not like tomatoes. They gross me out.
A woman arrived and sat to my right.
Use the photo below for perspective of the seating situation.
I was sitting on the stool the yellow arrow is pointing to.
“Beautiful day out today isn’t it,” she said to me as she sat down.
“It is,” I said. Looking at her.
I got the feeling she wanted to make conversation with me.
I looked at my food.
I looked around the diner.
Looked at the people.
It was fascinating to be somewhere I’d never been.
Sitting close to many people.
Not knowing anyone.
“Do you want any sweetenah?” The waitress asked me in a Massachusetts accent.
“No thank you,” I said. Smiling in appreciation of the accent.
Who were these people?
They all lived lives. Different than my own.
Coming from and going to different places.
I would never see these people again.
It felt surreal.
A 50-year-old man and woman couple entered and sat at the counter. The waitress leaned over the counter and gave the woman a hug.
Two 50-year-old women sat to my left. One didn’t need to look at a menu to know what she wanted to order. The other wanted to look at a menu.
I finished eating.
“Have a nice day,” the woman to my right said to me. Very friendly. As if she knew me.
“Are you from around here?” I asked her.
“Yes. Live across the street. Thought I’d come have some breakfast,” she said.
“Oh nice,” I said. “I’m from New York. I’ve never been here.”
She told me to walk around. Look out for the Witch House and the Statue of Samantha. If I walk left I’ll go to the water and to look for the willows.
“Thank you,” I said. She was nice. I walked away. Paid the bill at the front counter. Walked back to my seat to leave a tip where I had sat.
“You have a good day now. And have a safe trip home,” the woman said to me.
“Ok, thank you. You too,” I said to her. I told her to have a safe trip home. Even though she lived across the street.
I left the diner.
I walked around the town for an hour on the beautiful Fall day.
CAN I BORROW YOUR PEN?
September 16, 2015
Last night I was waiting for a comedy show to start. Sitting in the audience.
I wanted to take written notes during the show. To remember the sketches. For my Sketch Writing class.
Rushing out of my house earlier, I could not find a notebook. I did find a blank “Thank You” card. I took the card out of my purse. Felt around the bottom of the purse for a pen. Loose quarters and my car key. No pen. I forgot a pen.
A man and woman sat next to me. They were behind me online outside. Now sitting to my right. She had her right hand on his left thigh. A romantic couple.
Ask the woman if she has a pen, I told myself.
I sat in silence for five minutes. Thinking about how the interaction would go.
She will have a pen. Give it to me. And that’s it.
She will not have a pen. Say, ‘Sorry’ and I’ll ask someone else.
She will have a pen. We will become lifelong friends. And reminisce about the day I asked her for a pen. Saying, “Thank goodness I asked you for a pen.” “Imagine if I didn’t ask for the pen? Our lives would be so different. Now you are my Maid of Honor on my wedding day.”
I turned my head right and smiled.
“Excuse me, do either one of you have a pen I could borrow?” I asked.
The girl looked at me.
“A bun?” she asked. “You are asking if we have a bun?”
I laughed. “Yes. A bun to eat,” I said. Going along with the joke.
“No, a pen,” I said. Emphasizing the word pen.
“You had your hand by your mouth, that’s why I thought you asked for a bun.”
I did have my hand by my mouth. The way a chef kisses his hand and shakes it if he/she thinks the meal tastes good.
She unzipped her backpack. Pulled out a shiny blue and silver pen.
“Here you go,” she said. Handing me the pen. “It’s a really nice pen.”
I held it up. The pen was heavy. And engraved.
“It is a nice pen. I can see my reflection in it,” I said.
“I am embarrassed to use [the pen] because it is from my plastic surgeon,” she told me.
“Oh,” I said smiling. Not sure how to react. I wanted to ask her what procedure she got done at the plastic surgeon. But did not ask.
“I will treat the pen nicely,” I reassured her.
I took notes with the pen the entire hour long show.
Filling up the “Thank You” card with penmanship.
The show ended.
Lights came up.
“Thank you,” I said to the girl. Giving her back the pen.
She saw the “Thank You” card in my hand.
“Is that card for me?” She asked.
“Uh,” I said, “yes.”
Slowly handing her the note.
“Thank you for the pen.”
August 30, 2015
I made a cup of coffee.
Next to the Keurig Machine,
I noticed a folder.
I walked with my coffee
to look out the front door.
Gotta luv fresh air.
I walked upstairs.
Holding the coffee
and a pile of clean, unfolded laundry.
I kept dropping pieces of the laundry.
And my coffee spilt.
I walked into my room.
On my dresser
saw the Sylvia Plath journals
that I read last summer.
Opened to a random passage.
Sylvia Plath was an American writer.
To me, her journals are painful
in a way I can feel
I took the sheets off my beed.
I mean, bed.
Put on new sheets.
Had to spin the bottom sheet around four times.
To find the correct edges.
I folded clothes.
I changed into a tank top
so I wouldn’t get a
Stretched my leg.
to left leg.
Wearing a helmet with the number 29182 on it,
my Dad turned off the television.
We left on a bike ride.
On Hylan Boulevard,
we joined a
Saw my neighbor Eddie.
He said “hi” to us.
My Dad shot lightening from his finger
We biked for miles.
Through Staten Island.
Up a hill.
Saw three deer.
Got to Pouch Camp.
A camp ground on Staten Island.
Where my Dad attended Boy Scouts camp
as a child.
50 years ago.
The pathway was lined with
words on wooden signs.
Trustworthy, Citizenship, Compassion, Perseverance, Positive Attitude, Resourcefulness, Thrifty, Brave, Clean, Respect, Responsibility.
I think these are great qualities to have in life.
We walked to the water.
Took a photo
with my iPhone 6′s
He described memories
from the camping/sleeping area.
They slept 4 to a hut.
The hut protected them
from bears attacking them from behind.
It was great.
We walked through a
and rode more.
To a break spot.
Overlooking the Manhattan skyline.
A total of 17 miles.
My Dad found a newspaper article he put aside.
About a man who rides his bike around America.
“Forget about psychiatrists or therapists,” is his advice. “Just get on a bike. You can’t be angry, can never stay in a foul mood [after a bike ride]. You have to smile.”
After a bike ride
my Dad and I always feel great.
I made myself a veggie wrap.
while watching Alvin!!!! and the Chipmunks.