Going Up, In or Pee?

I am going to go out on a limb and say that we, as humans, all want to have one big ol' original idea. Something that we think of that nobody before us has had the mental capacity to conceive. Something so big, so bold and soooo inventive that minds all over the hemisphere will be blown. (east or west, north or south depending completely on where you are at said conception of idea). (and yes, I give parenthetical thoughts their own sentence space. equality guys.)

But in my experience, most of the big, problem solving solutions I have witnessed have been exactly the same. So to you my dear readers, I pose a question:

Why is it, that when you walk up to an elevator, and see two or more people waiting for it, why do 85% of you push the button? Do you think that in the past 30plus seconds I have been waiting, that it honestly has not occurred to me to press the 'up' or 'down' button? If I could read your mind in the moments leading up to the unnecessary second push, would I hear--

 Heya...why uh, why are all these people standin' here? Huh. Seems weird. I wonder if they're waiting to leave the ground floor. Why are they just staring at the elevator door like that? Its not here. Don't they know you have to summon the lifting machine? Fools. Lemme give them a hand.--

and then the sound of a button being pressed? Would I??? You are not inventing the wheel here. No one is going to lift you onto their shoulders and carry you onto the elevator and chant your name for the next eight floors. Well, probably not...

Its even worse when you are waiting outside a locked classroom, or conference room, or a locked meeting place of any sort. Because chances are you know the asshole who walks up and greets you, and then proceeds to try and open the door. Which is really just a personal slap in the face. I mean, its one thing if its an impersonal slap from a stranger, but another thing altogether when its a person you know. Because then you have to assume that that person thinks, on some level, that you are in idiot. That maybe all these years you have gone through life not knowing what those shiny, silver, twisty things on doors are. Or maybe they think you aren't physically strong enough to push the door open. And that makes you feel sad on the inside and pissed off on the outside.

The one exception to the rule is when you're waiting in line for a stall in the bathroom. Girls are stupid about that for whatever reason. All the doors close on their own ladies. I promise you that a ghost is not using the toilet. Haunting it, maybe, but they can't pee. Thats a fact. So don't be offended when I bypass the line and walk down the stall isle, pushing open door after door, while playing theme music in my head to make a point. And don't think I'm rude when I shout "TA DA" when I throw open the last door and take a bow before going inside. Its just charming theatrics and I think I earned it.

Snacks on a Plane

The concept of an airport is pretty simple. There is this big building where a bunch of planes are parked. At certain times everyday, those planes will hoist themselves up into the air, and by some scientifically sound magic, the metal bird will hurl itself to its destination, where it will then smoothly (more or less) return to the ground and park at another huge building. We, as people needing to go someplace, throw down a couple hundred dollars to reserve a spot on the metal tube at a said time and place. The object of the game is to be inside the metal contraption before it departs. Easy right?

Now just hold on. There are rules. No game is fun if its too easy. You have to pass a test first, you know, to prove you really want it. You must pass through a gate. Its a lot like a combination of 'operation' and 'don't wake daddy'. You cannot touch the sides of the portal and you also cannot set the alarm off by having any metal on your person, or any shoes on. You must also send your bag through the Cave of Wonders. The bag cannot contain weapons, liquids over 3oz, or... no, thats about it. THOSE ARE THE ONLY RULES. But, a lot of people lose.

Flying is the worst. For me. Wait... okay, this is what I mean: Other people flying is the worst. For me.

Yeah, thats it. I hate people who don't know how to travel like competent human beings. If you're reading this and thinking to yourself, "I've never been on an airplane... Maybe I should go?" No. Stay where you are forever. Spare us all. Or, at the very least, give me a heads up to stay home whilst you attempt to go away. I have had my fair share of terrible airport experiences that are unrelated to other people:
1) The time I spent 16 hours in the Dallas airport trying to get on a flight.
2) The time I got a flight out of the Dallas airport and had to sit with a Rotwieler.
3) The time I spent 21 hours in the Seattle airport.
4) The time 'Battlestar Galactica' wouldn't load in the Seattle airport.

So when I went home last month, I had one of the most trying experiences to date.

I am in no way a pleasant person at 5am. I am even less of a gem when I am running on two hours of sleep. And I have NO patience for women who find it necessary to wear strappy, lace up, espadrille-esque shoes from hell through security. If they take 10min to put on, chances are they will take 10min to take off, so plan ahead lassies. So finally, after three strollers, a suitcase full of haircare products and a woman with a titanium hip, I got to my gate. As many of you know, SouthWest Airlines likes to take your travel as an opportunity to practice grade school procedures involving lines and numbers. So the gate becomes a mob of people attempting to achieve some sort of order. But no one wants to directly communicate with anyone and no one wants to be last. So one unlucky person becomes the line leader of a parade of incompetence. No, it wasn't me. I was busy shaking my head at the mother who allowed her six year old a glass snapple bottle that she then dropped and shattered, sending the contents splattering across the already sticky floor. Ugh.

Now I am on the plane. And theres and empty row! Oh joy of joys! So I settle in by the window and prepare for my well deserved nap. Suddenly, I feel some pressure all along my left side. I look over and what do I see? Nothing. Just navy blue. When I gather my wits I realize it is in fact a very large woman who wants to share my seat. I didn't pay for half of a seat, and I KNOW she did not pay for a seat and a half. But what could I say? "Excuse me ma'am, but is there any way you could get your excess body mass out of my seat and off of my thigh?" I am pretty sure that would be rude. Also she snored. And all I could think about was if this plane went all 'LOST' on us, I would still have the great misfortune of being on the same side of the island as this woman. yeesh.

I think perhaps I would prefer to share my plane with snakes and not humans. Sammy L. J, hook me up? At least SouthWest has snacks. I want some "mother f****** snacks on this mother f****** plane!" (get it? nailed it.)

Stop me if I'm rambling...

Some people view crawling back into bed at 4:00 in the afternoon as an admittance of defeat. Like the day beat you, so you have no choice but to give up and get your sorry ass back into bed. I disagree. I see the return to the best place ever as a sign that the day is going well and the only thing that could possible make it better is some attempted nap time. Taking a swing at a nap is shouting to the world 'Hey! I have great time management skills and the confidence that I'm not forgetting anything important.'

So I'm taking a victory nap. Okay, I'm not. I don't nap. I just can't do it. It's probably because I am not a very evolved human. The more I think about it the more it becomes clear that evolutionarily speaking I am not doing too well. I'm short, just like the humans of yore. The whole trend of people getting bigger is not affecting me. At all. I have no tolerance for the sun, which I feel is something we should have all developed by now. It has been around forever. I am pretty sure I only have 'flight' instincts. Most people can now fight their instincts and enjoy scary movies or haunted houses and power through the fear, but my body is so stuck in the cave-man days that if I sense any danger I am sooooo outta there. My body is physically incapable of learning the proper way to type on a keyboard because on I primal level I reject technology. I think my appendix is useful and pulling its weight as far as being a functioning organ goes. And then, of course, theres the whole 'I can only sleep in the nighttime' thing. Because my inner self knows I should be up farming, or gathering things, or whatever, while the sun is out. In pokemon terms, maybe I need a firestone or moonstone or something to evolve? But if pokemon taught me anything, its that if you are happy being a pleasant little charmander, don't try to evolve into a charmeleon or charizard because then you will become really rude and no one will like you.

But thats not what I wanted to talk about. I want to talk about the new bed I got, and how I think it is too firm. Is it? I really don't know. I am doubting all I know to be true. Its comfy, and I slept fine on it, but I am so used to my super old, worn in the middle, mushy gushy mattress I can't tell. Its not a pillowtop, so maybe thats the problem? Are we supposed to know what makes a good bed and what doesn't? Am I at an age where I should be worrying about my back? Can I get a focus group over here and everyone take a turn testing the bed and let me know? Will it get softer over time? The cat likes it, but he also sleeps in the bathtub, so he doesn't get an opinion. Taking it back or exchanging it would be a big decision. I'll sleep on it. (see what I did there? good one right?)

This is the biggest stressor in my life right now. Guys, it is SO hard being me.

Guys, for real, I'm suuuuuuper busy.

So, as I am sure all of you (and by all of you I mean very few of you) have noticed, I haven't posted anything in quite some time. And I have a really good reason for that. I've been busy. 

Were you aware that when you get super stressed out and have a whole lot going on, only the really important things in your life get priority. And when i say 'important', i really mean to say, all the things you hate doing, but still have to do. It's true. Look it up. So amidst all the working two jobs, and the apartment hunting, and the packing, and the moving, and the unpacking, and the drinking, and the general merriment of the past two months, my writing has been on the back burner. The back burner has still been lit, but its been on more of a 'simmer' setting to keep from burning. But I'm back guys! Full force! Contain yourselves. 

Moving, am I right?!   

But for real. It's the worst. Especially when the place your moving into doesn't have an expiration date because you're preeeeety sure you are where you want to be for the foreseeable future. So all of a sudden this place you wanna live is actually going to be your real life, grown up home. So now location is an issue. Proximity to work seems to matter. Where do all my friends live again? Living next to them might be nice. So there are all the things that matter to take into consideration. Then, thee are the things that don't matter, but you have decided they do.

"Oh, I don't know. I mean its nice, but that's a Chase Bank on the corner?"

"Is there a lot of natural light? I'm used to living under an open sky."

"Yeah, I see the Chrysler Building and the Freedom Tower, but there's nothing we can do about the high rise that blocks the Empire State? Because if I don't know what color lights it's sporting tonight, how do I know what holiday it is??"

I'm kidding. About one of those. The biggest problems that will face you and your Caleb when you move are going to be closet space, counter space, cabinet height and shelves. In our new place, I have a great closet, no counter space and I can't reach any of the cabinets. I feel like the last one Caleb intentionally chose because he doesn't like me playing hunter and gatherer with his groceries. Which I just don't understand. 

Then there's the packing. Which seems fine before you actually start doing it. Then it becomes like this really long winded magic trick that no one is sure you're going to be able to pull off. Including you. You discover stuff you never knew you had, as well as things you will never know what you kept. The best way to avoid cleaning your apartment is to move out of it. Somehow, we made it work and paid two hipsters a bajillion dollars to move all our stuff. Because if I have learned one thing from my cherished and brief time lived as a privileged princess, 'don't do anything you can pay someone to do for you.' So that was my last big hurrah, seeing as now I'm back to being Cinderella pre-ball. Or I guess, post-ball, pre-wedding. When she's poor guys, get it?

But we persevered! We are in a great apartment in Long Island City, right off of 4 trains and within walking distance to culture and eating. No one is killing chickens on our street, or partying to latin techno at 3 in the morning. Our super even speaks english. The smell of latin food has been replaced by the permeating smell of curry. And we are finally moved in! After three trips to ikea in 10 days, we are also unpacked.  We made our first big, grown up, long term roommate relationship purchase of a couch, and here we are! We even bought Barry a new litter box. He didn't know how to thank us, so he peed on a pillow. How sweet. 

So that's where I am right now in life. Getting settled, watching Sherlock, working my butt off, doing improv and sometimes getting to have some semblance of a social life. 

Don't Take Advice from 'Queen'.

There are few things in life I really hate. Well, thats not true. There are a lot of things in life I really hate. But most things I get to hate from afar, so it's really not that big of a deal for me. I hate fish, but they live in the ocean, so it's fine. I hate mimes, but they live in France, so it's not really a daily concern. I hate 'Ugg Boots', but winter is rumored to be ending, so I guess I can deal. I hate bicyclists, but... but they're everywhere, so it is a big deal. It's a HUGE deal! It is the biggest deal of my day to day existence.

Now, I want to clarify, as I usually do. I don't hate bikes. Nah. Bikes? Bikes are fine. I enjoy a leisurely bike ride every now and again. You know, on a bike path. Like, on a path that's only purpose is to be trodden upon by bikes. It's a path specifically constructed for people to use as a route when a bike is their means of transportation. It's funny actually. There are signs and things that designate it as a bike trail.

You know whats not a bike trail? The sidewalks of New York. You know what else is not a bike trail? The subway. You know what else? Hallways. Also, Starbucks. Elevators. These are all places for humans, sans bike, to use.

I almost get hit by a bicyclist every single day. And as much as I wish that was a gross exaggeration, it isn't. And it wouldn't be an issue if I knew how to avoid the bike people. But, this is what I have discovered since living in New York and I am gonna let you in on a little secret: there is no place you are safe from bikes. There is no escape. They are in the street and then BAM! They are on the sidewalk. They are being ridden on the subway platform and then BAM! They are being carries down the stairs. Every corner you round? BAM! Bike.

People who ride their bikes on the street: Fine. I'm okay with you. But here's the deal. If you are going to choose to be a 'StreetRider', guess what? THE RULES OF THE ROAD APPLY TO YOU! They do. I know, its crazy. Makes no sense, right? Geez. But you people cannot just ride against the traffic! You can't go through red lights! You can't go the other way down a one way street! The 'walking man' sign means I do not have to wait for you to pass. AND you cannot make the switch to being a 'SideRider' at the drop of a hat!

People who ride their bikes on the sidewalk: I'm less okay with you. And here is why. First, if you are speeding towards me as I'm a'walkin', you can't expect me to get out of your way. Where am I supposed to go!? Do you want me to jump gleefully into traffic? Because all thats going to happen is that I am probably going to get hit by some other mo'fo on a bike! Second, you are not a 10 year old in a midwestern suburb, so either get in the street and mean business, or buy a metrocard like an adult.  That also goes for you 1990's throwback skateboarding punks who always clip me as you go by. Its 2013. Skateboards are no longer a thing. I took a poll. Sorry.

Also, if you have a bike, don't bring it on the subway. You're just cheating yourself out of that extra exercise that you clearly thought you needed when you bought the bike. If you are a delivery man on a bike, I don't speak your language, so yelling at me to get out of your way does nothing. Sorry. I am about two near death experiences away from carrying a sack of bricks to knock you all off your bikes with. I just wanted to give you a heads up.

Give me Taxes or Give me Death!

Sometime after Valentines Day and before Easter, but right around St. Patty's day is one of my favorite holidays: Tax Day. Well, it's really more of a Tax Season, but I am campaigning to get it the full holiday status that it deserves. Needless to say, it is not going too well.

What? You think its weird that I like paying may taxes? Oh! You think the only reason I like it is for the tax return? The answer to those questions is yes. Yes I do. I love the tax return when I get one. And now that I make something that resembles "grown up money," I actually do get one. But the paying of the taxes is the part I like best. And I get to do it ALL YEAR!

I can explain this one. Its not as strange as you like to think it is. Lets look at this in a rational way, shall we? I, being the princess I am, never choose to do anything myself that I can pay others to do for me. Am I right? Yeah, you know I'm right.

Things I never wanna have to do:

-Arrest Bad Guys
-Clean trash off the street
-be a member of Congress
-or the House
-give White House tours
-Mow the lawn of parks
-clean fountains
-paint benches
-fix sidewalks
-decide to declare war
-know how checks and balances work
-teach kids
-serve kids food
-help people cross the street
-put out fires
-be the President
-guard prisons
-be in the army

And so many more! I am so relieved that it is not up to me to do any of that. I gladly pay taxes to take care of that shit!**

Someone asked me the other day how I felt about paying social security, when I will probably never see any of the money that I paid into it. Right. Yeah, I mean, that kind of sucks. But I say its still worth it! I like old people. They're cute! Whats more, is I'm okay with old people not working for a few reasons.

1) They probably worked longer, and definitely harder than most of us will.
2) Without them, we wouldn't be here
 and on a less adorable note
3) They are too old to efficiently do things now. Have you ever had a really old person serve you or help you? Its not fun. They can't hear you most of the time, they are kind of slow and you spend the whole time feeling really bad that you are getting suuuuuper inpatient and annoyed. They did their time! Let them drink tea and watch re-runs of 'Murder She Wrote'!

I am also really hoping that when I get reals old, some young, starry-eyed girl with skewed notions of how things should be, takes me under her youthful wing and helps me retire to a life of luxury. I figure I have 70 more years to figure that one out.

So thats why I love paying taxes. I like the standard of living that I have come to expect. I like feeling safe in my city, and clean and happy. I like knowing that there are, presumably, smarter people than most people I know running the country. I like knowing if my cat gets his tail in the candle again, and the house happens to catch fire, people will come take care of that crap. Its great. I'm so glad that we Americans got over that whole "we don't wanna pay taxes so we're gonna steep tea in the ocean!" phase.

**if this isn't how my tax dollars are used, please let me live in ignorant bliss.

I Am, what I Ham

As a species, we have a lot of things that connect us. It's really nice actually. There are so many things that we all have in common that allow us to bond and feel a real sense of camaraderie. We all have to breath, we all have to sleep, we want to feel loved, we need at least two hours of tv a day, we like to own lesser species as pets to feel powerful and we are all fat.

Yeah. You. You are fat. You soooo are. I know, its really hard to hear isn't it? But it's true. Okay, maybe thats a little harsh. I'm gonna rephrase that. We all think we are fat. Is that better? Is that a statement we can all get on board with?

I'm certain that all of us have, at one point or another, called ourselves fat. I have. My friends have. My cat has (in his case though its crazy true). But I'm not fat. You're not fat. Barry still is though...

So maybe some of you out there are like "Carly, thats real sweet and everything and I know we should all love ourselves, but I really am fat." And to that I say: "Says who?" What if its not fat. What if its just you? And what if its the best part?

To quote Woody Allen:

"For when we lose twenty pounds dear reader (and I am assuming you are not as large as I), we may be losing the best twenty pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty or, in the case of one inspector general I knew, put some unsightly flab around the hips."

                                                  -Notes from the Overfed

It really got me thinking. And the more I thought, and frankly snacked, the more I realized its true. Every pound makes us who we are. The pound I gained last week? That pound was caused by a great few days spent with friends and cupcakes. That pound is a pound full of laughs. The pound I lost this week was clearly a pound that aided with my ability to wake up on time, which I am now not able to do. So next time you look at your fat, whether or not you really are fat, remember that each five pounds are chock full of experiences and lessons and the little chunks that make you, you. Winston Churchill had productive fat. Think of what a fat Gandhi could have accomplished!  

Also, if you are considering lipo-suction, ask yourself "where does that fat go, and who is using it and to what ends?" Maybe there is a secret underground army of discarded fat full of genius cells and crafty sneak cells and war savvy! Lipo aside, where does all the fat we lose go to? Where is it lying in wait? What is it planning? When will it strike?? Has it left us with only weak and unimaginative fat and taken all the good fat with it? Oh no. Oh dear, this is terrible. I think I liked life better when I just thought I was fat. Now I am enlightened and I'm scarred.

So in order to stop what can only be the beginnings of a massive fat overhaul and uprising, we must give the fat less power. We have to stop obsessing about that weight flux that has taken over our lives. I am grossly aware that this entry turned a little sappy and self-lovey, which is frankly... well, gross. But I have alternative motives. I really just want everyone to stop being so touchy about their weight, because I want to be able to make fat jokes and not offend people. So if you care about my comedic well being, you will stop thinking you are all fat. Because I have lots of jokes waiting about, gathering dust and itching to only be mildly, and not wildly, offensive.  

***Side note: If you happen to have excess amounts of fat filled personality, its still not okay to take up three seats on the subway. I just wanna clear that up.

Roses are Red, Crips are Blue...

I don't know if you know this, but yesterday was Valentines Day. I know, right? Its so totally one of those days that you can just miss. It's like Presidents Day, or Arbor Day. Sooo weird. But, yeah, like I said, it was yesterday. If you happened to miss it, you can rest assured you didn't miss much. No parades or anything of the sort. I bet you are wondering what I did, aren't you? You're probably thinking to yourself "Oh, she most likely did something terribly romantic and noteworthy" and you my friend, would be totally right! I had a straight up Rom Com night! Unfortunately I played both the man and woman in the meet cute senario. Also, it wasn't so much a 'meet cute' as a possible 'near death' or 'kidnapping' scenario. Okay, okay. It wasn't so much a Rom Com as the beginning of a very low budget horror film. And when I say horror film, I mean one of those movies they show kids in middle school about the dangers of the real world and being out after dark. Don't worry guys! This has a happy ending. There is a dashing man involved, so strap in!

It was a night that was most peculiar for a February in New York City. It was not as cold as you would expect it to be. The weather was much like a walk in freezer thats had the door left open for quite a while.  It was like one of those beer rooms at a gas station. Got it? Man, can paint a picture or what? Am I right? Anyways... I had met Caleb and his castmates for a drink at the 'Harlem Tavern.' Getting there was fun since Caleb both told me the wrong bar and the wrong directions. But I got there, blah blah blah fast forward and we are leaving! They want to go downtown to go dance at a gay bar. What can make a single girls Valentines Day more depressing then having spent the evening watching 'The Office' with her cat? Going to a gay bar. No thanks. So, I decide to go home, taking with me the gifts Caleb had gotten for being so dapper and talented.

I cross the street to the C train and halfway down the stairs a nice homeless man informs me that the train is not running. He then wants me to pay him for this information. News flash buddy, ask for the money first. Psh. Duh. Heed that advice and you will be re-homed in no time! No big deal, I will just walk ten blocks. It's nice out. People say Harlem is really a good neighborhood. This is gonna be fiiiiinnnneeeeee.

Wrong.
No.
West Harlem is scary at night.
West Harlem is dirty at night.
And also probably trash covered in the day... I don't want to blame that on the nighttime.

So I just call Baggy and talk to her for a spell. But she was near sleep and I was getting lost, so that didn't get me far at all. I racked my brain for people to call who a) weren't in a relationship, so were clearly not busy b) people I thought would be awake c) people who don't have real people, early morning jobs. Check your phones kids! If you got a phone call, this means I consider you an unattached, evening job holding or jobless night owl! (I'm lookin' at you Rach-Face, Beecher, Marky-Mark, and T-Tay**). But alas, I was on my own.

At this point you're most likely thinking 'Carly, take a cab you stupid cow' and to that I say 'Ease up, I tried.' Fact: Cabs are full on Valentines Day because people are trying to show off. Either that, or the cabs I tried to flag were not in service. I did receive a few offers from men in vans and beat up cars. It's so strange, but they all thought my name was 'baby.' I feel like it was a weird guess at my name, and even weirder that they all guessed the same thing. So, if nothing else I learned I look like a 'baby.' This is strangely the thing that upset me the most tonight... I gave up on the cab thing and kept walking. I stopped to check my google map, when I noticed something written in the cement at my feet. It said 'Crips.'

Oh. Awesome.

I was in gang territory. I didn't and don't really know what that means, but I do know that its not good. Not good at all. Suddenly, everyone I saw I was certain wanted to kidnap me. I could finally see the 125th Street Station looming in the distance. I had to get there. If I had to defend myself, I wasn't completely unarmed. I had five long stemmed red roses that were Caleb's, so I had no qualms destroying them to aid in my self defense. I also had some chocolates that were also Caleb's, which I didn't want to use as a weapon because I wanted to eat those. I had my headphone cord for strangling, my heeled boots for bashing and my iphone to...I don't know, get it on camera?

I made it to the 125th stop, and then onto the train and then safely home. The worst thing that happened was that my 2008 ipod with no battery life died and I was sad. In the cool light of morning, as I sip my coffee, I realize that it probably wasn't as scary as I made it out to be. In retrospect I also realize that 9 out of 10 scary strangers you see do not want to kill you. They don't really care what you are doing. I also learned the true meaning on Valentines Day. Its not gifts, or candy, or presents or love. No, its none of that. Its a day to remind you that you need to choose your mate wisely. For instance, I now know to choose someone who could potentially save me from gang violence, who can hail a cab successfully, who carries something more useful that headphones for self defense and who can stave off a zombie attack. Because I know nothing about zombies and would prefer to live through an attack if it happens.

What about the dashing man at the end of my story? I didn't forget! He was at home waiting for me the whole time!

** To those I mentioned above, its a travesty that you are all single. You are all fabulous people who could only have been made for fabulous by answering their cell phones at 1 in the morning.

Where's my Crown!? Buh.

I have high expectations. For everything. I honestly expect my trash not to smell and my shelves to never get dusty. I get unjustifiably mad when that turns out not to be the case. But I mainly get upset when things don't work out the way I want them to. I just don't understand why everything can't be perfect and catered to my exact needs. You know who I blame for that? My parents. Thats right mom and dad! Its alllllllll you.

Growing up, our parents tell us that we can be anything we want to be. We can grow up and do whatever it s we want. At least, that what my parents told me. Maybe your parents told you that you really aren't that bright and your options are limited. Maybe your parents suck. I don't know your life, so I really can't make a valid call on that. Sorry.

Now, I don't want you to misunderstand me. My parents did not let me do whatever I wanted growing up. No, no. I grew up with a healthy fear of my parents. Which is hilarious to me, but most likely not to you, because just as I don't know the intimate details of your life, I hope you don't know mine. But I never got beat (I say 'beat' in a socially acceptable, earned punishment kind of way) by my parents, or like locked in a closet or had my mouth washed out with soap or anything like that. I just knew them to be very capable individuals and I didn't want to ever see what sort of punishments they might dream up. But all kids should live with a solid fear of their parents. A child should direct the following feelings toward their parental figures:

40% love
25% respect
30% fear
5% skepticism

The problem is, kids today ( because clearly I'm 75 and shake my cane at them). They have too much power. I see these kids in stores throw straight up tantrums and their parents ask them, yes, ask them, to think their actions through. "Johnny, is this really the best idea? Let's think about it sweetie. What if we use our words?" You know what lady, 'what if' I walk myself over there and give your child the spanking he is obviously asking for? Then we all win! Well, not Johnny. Johnny doesn't win. But who cares what Johnny wants? He won't shut the hell up!

Sorry, I got a little off topic. Anyways, what I am saying is, because my parents spent so much time telling me I was awesome, I am really bewildered that the whole world isn't on the same page there. Seriously though, if I was half as talented as my parents think I am, I would have been crowned 'Queen of the World' by now. Okay, maybe not 'Queen of the World,' but I should of at least pulled off 'Queen of Norway' or 'Queen of Sarcasm' or 'Dairy Queen' or something.

I am also one of the lucky ladies who were raised by a mother who fully realizes and appreciates the power of women. I mean this in a completely genuine way. My mother made sure I grew up to be a strong, confident, capable, self assured woman. Mix that with my Dad's sense of humor and ability to charmingly make fun of people and you have a recipe for a woman doesn't need a man! Or is it a recipe for a woman who can't get a man... I'm still not quite sure which it is. All me best girlfriends who were raised by bomb-ass parents have the same problem! Our lack of tormented childhoods have left us as whole, happy, functioning, single, people. Its weird.

But being raised to think I am super awesome and nifty created a problem. My 'I'm better than this' attitude is not always received well. The credit card company will not accept it as a reason to not pay my bill. I am baffled. My dishes still won't do themselves. No one gives me free coffee. I can't get the train to wait for me to come down the stairs. UPS won't just leave my package at the door. Hulu still makes me wait 30 seconds through the ad for my show to resume. GOD ITS SO HARD TO BE ME!

Mom, Dad, if your reading this, I'm going to bed. Can one of you fly up here, tuck me in and bring me some ice cream? And do my laundry? Because that would be great. Can you also write a note to my boss that I should get paid and not have to come in to work? You guys rock. I love you so much. I'm still working toward being the worlds first Dragon Riding Princess Comedian and Professional Peruser of Books. But it's going well.

Things to Ponder whilst Peeing

I feel like my life is comprised mostly of prolonged periods between times I have to pee.

Its true if you think about it. It's also true if you don't think about it, because I'm telling you it is and that should be good enough for you. But seriously. Its like, I pee and then the next few hours when I am out and about I am actually stressed out thinking about when I'm going to have to go next, and where I will be and whether or not a bathroom is going to be accessible. In New York, thats never ever the case. When people are like "Carly, I'm moving to NY, do you have any advice?" I have one gem of wisdom to impart upon them:

"Pee every chance you get. Even if you don't have to, you do. Just do it."

And they don't. And they are sorry.

But besides the problem I have with bathroom being too few and far between, I have some other major issues. My biggest beef with bathrooms today is the inconvenience of how convenient everyone is trying to make my bathroom experience. I have never deemed using the restroom as something that was particularly taxing, or needed vast improvement on, but apparently I am wrong about that one thing in life. It's lucky though, that if I have to be wrong about one thing, its that. Because in the grand scheme of things its not really that big of a deal and not a lot of people care about it.

if you don't get the reference we can't sit together at lunch

...what is the grand scheme and who exactly is schemeing it? What's that persons end game? Anyway...

Now, I am on board with just having the self flushing toilette. Not for me, no. I personally like that feeling of power when you step on the silver handle and that crazy monster scream sound happens. But I do like that those nasto's who don't flush the toilettes are taking care of. (Please note that I am using the fancy spelling for the porcelain throne to give this crass entry a little class) Although, if I had it my way, I would trade the self flushing toilette for a self dispensing roll of T.P. any day. There are few things more frustrating then trying to get toilette paper from those huge industry roles of one-ply crap that rips every one square. It's absolutely infuriating. Do urinals have self flushers? That just seems messy... Are there like rogue urinals that just spew water all over? That must suck for you men out there. But hey, you never have to wait in line for the bathroom, so you win some, you lose some.

Alright, now we get to the main issue in the world of the modern bathroom: The hand cleaning regiment. Here's the way I see it: Either everything needs to be touch-less, or nothing needs to be touch-less. Because I feel like a right idiot every time I use an automatic sink, assume the soap dispenser is also automatic, and wave my hand underneath it muttering curse words for a solid 45 seconds until I finally realize its pump soap! So there I am, feeling like a moron, and I head over to the hand dryer. I press that button and BAM! The water from my hands is now all over my pants and shoes. Cool bathroom. Cool. Whenever that happens I feel like I am in "Smart House" and the house is getting back at me by making me look like I foolishly wet my pants. Except I am never in a house when I use an automatic hand dryer, so I guess it's more like "Smart Department Store."

Also, it's 2013. Where are the stall doors that stay locked? Where are the toilette seats that have tiny porous holes on them that emit a sterilizing fog after the toilettes flushed? Why are the hooks to hang your coat on still not bigger? Why are there no Febreeze Air Effects installed on the walls? Why are the hand dryers still soooooo far away from the sinks? THESE are things that need fixed in bathrooms! Not sinks that turn themselves on. It takes way longer to wave my hands about to find the trigger spot on that damn sink than it would for me to just pull the handle up and get to business! (That sentence was headed in a definite direction, so I committed).

Now you have to pee don't you? And you're dreading it.

The Modern Family Unit: Two Twenty Somethings and a Cat

so deep in roommate love

The world is changing. Thats a fact. I read that on the internet, but I feel like it rings pretty true. The standard for normalcy has definitely altered in the past, lets say eight years. Im only saying 8 years because I don't really think I was aware of too much before I was 15. Its really hard for the twenty-somethings of today because we don't want to fit into the mold that was cast by past generations. Okay, let me re-phrase that,  some twenty-somethings don't want to do that. I think the majority of us are not going to marry young and stay in our hometowns to start families. Those of you that are doing that, thats great, really it is. I support you! I will go to your weddings, toast your happiness, drink too much and then cry with my single friends later. But when I sober up and dry my tears, I will realize that like many of my peers, thats just not what the cards hold for me. Sometimes I wish it was. Sometimes I'm glad its not. Sometimes I clarify things unnecessarily. Most of the time I am crazy thankful for auto correct because I had a real hard time with that word.

So here I am. Living in New York, in my tiny apartment, 1003 miles away from my family. And like everyone who moves away from their family, I have through some miracle, squeezed my way into a modern family unit. While so many of my friends were getting engaged and having kids, I moved to a new place with my almost-common-law-platonic-husband and our cat child.

seriously, how are we single?

It really hit me today when on his way out the door to go to work Caleb said "I left you some money on the counter, get some trash bags when you go to the gym." Its smacked me in the face so hard. Somehow, in the last seven months, Caleb and I have morphed into this best friend, husband-wife, mom-dad, brother-sister, multi-functioning family unit. We do chores without being asked, buy each other groceries, remind each other of shit we need to do, act as the worlds worst wingmen and care for our pain in the ass cat. And what have we realized through all this? What is the one thing that we have learned over all these months? We have learned that we should never, under no circumstances, ever, for any reason, ever in a million years, be allowed to have kids.

Ever.

As I mentioned before, our cat is basically our son. His name is Barry. Were he a human, child services should be alerted.

 this is a turrible picture.

Things we do to Barry that we shouldn't do to kids:

1) throw him across the room.
This isn't as bad as it sounds. But believe you me, if a 15 pound cat climbed on your face at 7am, you would grab him with your eyes closed and just hurl him as far as you could. He's fine. He lands on his feet. Usually.
2) call him names.
What? He doesn't speak english, or, as far as we can tell, anything but cat. So, when he does things like, oh I don't know, chew through my headphones like he did this morning, I reserve the right to call him all sorts of names that don't make sense, but I feel would be offensive to a cat.
3) step on his tail.
...kids don't have tails, so we probably don't need to cover this one. And this is always by accident. But Barry just lays in the most annoying places.
4) refuse to feed him and call him fat.
Cry all you want Barry, but sometimes you have just eaten enough. But you can't take away a kids food and call them cubby. Thats not nice. And thats really bad parenting.
5) pour a glass of water on his head if he's being annoying.
What water-boarding would be to a child, mildly upsetting punishment is to a cat. He's really never bothered by this and the joke is usually on me when he jumps into my lap soaking wet. But he looks like a wet rat, so that embarrassing for him.
6) lock him in a closet for 8 hours.
This was an accident... kind of. He always climbs into the closet and wont get out! So I was all like "okay Barry, haha, I'm just gonna shut the door on you and see how you like it." And then I forgot and went to work. And then five hours later I was like "ohhhhh...nooooo...."And then three hours later I went home. He was fine. He napped. I guess. I actually don't know, since, you know, he was in a closet.

cat hat

So there you have it, we are a single child home with two parents in a very open marriage. We have all the support system of a little family without the obligation to give each other a kidney if needed. It doesn't make being away from our actual families easy, but it does make it easier. I also would like to clarify that Caleb is both husband and wife, seeing as he fixes things and cooks, while I am both brother and sister, seeing how I make huge messes and fight with myself.

Thanks for being super awesome Caleb treating me as if I were a family member you know you're stuck with, but still happy to be around. I would gladly ruin a kids life with you any day. If more marriages were like ours, eating, talking about boys and watching unhealthy amounts of tv, while laughing our faces off at each other, there would be a lower divorce rate.

The Job Hunt

Finding work is hard. It really really is. I mean, I suppose they call it the "job hunt" for a reason. In many ways, I feel that me looking for a job, and me going hunting would play out in much the same way.

First off, hunting and job finding are both things that I don't want to do. Ever. They are not fun things to do for a 23 year old princess of a girl. Coincidently, they are also both things that I am terrible at. I have never been hunting, but I am sure both my lack of skill and knowledge on the matter would prove to be a possibly fatal endeavor. I am job hunting, which, by my lack of a job, I think we can also conclude I am terrible at doing.

Based on my minimal research of recalling when my brother and step-dad would go hunting, I think you prepare for animal killing and job finding the same way. You wake up early. You dress yourself so you will blend into your environment (camo or like, a blazer). You attempt to eat a large and protein filled breakfast so you won't be hungry during the journey. You drink a little coffee, but then you're like "nooo, I shouldn't have another cup because then I'm gonna have to pee..."

So off you go. Allllll day. And its BORING. And STRESSFUL. And you keep seeing what you think might be a good 'kill,' but its just a rock. And you think you got one! But then you realize that you missed completely. By the end of the day you are tired, hungry, cold, defeated and feeling like a total failure. Also, you didn't manage to forage any dinner for yourself. You have no carcass and no money. You are very sad.

Although now that I'm thinking about it, maybe actual hunting would be more fun. Actual hunting, or, at least the way my brother does it, would mean that I just get to sit in a tree all day and eat jerky. Job hunting on the other hand is mostly just me hauling my ass around Manhattan, being told time and time again that they're gonna "call me." Yeah, okay. Unless they are all abiding by the 'three day rule,' time like, six I think its safe to say I am still unemployed.

Maybe I will be a bounty hunter... That way I can actually hunt and be employed. I watched Star Wars, I can do that.

If anyone is reading this an wants to offer me a well, or even semi-well, paying job, I accept. That would be great. Thank you so much. To show my appreciation, I will trap you a bear.

Monday, I could wait till Tuesday...

The days of the week are a big thing for us as humans. We put a lot of pressure on our weeks as a whole, and like to do a lot of little things to the days of the week to make them more manageable. We like to write things down in boxes to tell us how to make it through each individual day. And then we try to make all the days less painful by attempting to make them... cute? Humorous? We like to do things like:

- Give the days little nick-names, like "Thirsty Thursday" or "Wine Wednesdays" or "Sunday Funday"... uhh... "Throwback Thursday?" (Thursday is clearly our favorite.)
- Wear underwear and socks that correspond with the day (FACT: I had 'Day of the Week Underwear as a child, and Meg Ryan LIES. They do make Sunday. Sunday is purple).
-We make really funny e-cards and stuff that say clever things like "Thank God its Friday!" and have pictures of creepy memes or cats with angry eyes.

Part of me really felt like we did more weird stuff with the days of the week... huh... whatever. Anyways, I'm at a really interesting place in my life right now, and that place is called "Unemployed." So the way I look at my week now is very different then the way I looked at it when I was working. Like an adult...

Never-the-less, to me, this is the week:

MONDAY- Its acceptable to be sleepy all day and a little bitchy. No one expects you to have it together on a Monday. In fact, people want you to be pissy and hate the world. Because apparently, the beginnings of all things are terrible. As a general rule, I request all Mondays off, just so I can have that extra day to be unpleasant in my own home. Also, so I could watch 'Gossip Girl", but thats over. So now I just use that hour to cry. ha... But Monday night does have football, which people seem to like.

TUESDAY- For me, Tuesdays are harder then Mondays. On Tuesdays, you have no excuse to be a)late b)tired c)anything less than a ball of sunshine. Also, Tuesday is only day 2. Out of 5. No one ever brings donuts on a Tuesday. I also feel really bad about being lazy on Tuesdays, because its almost like I am admitting defeat on day 2 of a war.

WEDNESDAY: This day always stresses me out. Mainly because I never learned how to spell "Wednesday." I would demonstrate how pathetic my spelling attempts were, but auto-correct won't let me. Also, my MacBook is super protective of me and doesn't want me to look like a moron. Which we can all agree is super sweet. Also, this is the halfway mark. But its not really. Its just halfway through the 'work week', which is great, assuming that the 'weekend' is something we are looking forward to, and not just two more days that will potentially suck.

So far it seems like I hate each day of the week, which I totally don't. I'm like, a really happy person. I thought. Until this moment? Moving on.

THURSDAY: This one I like. I don't know why, but it has always been my favorite. Its the last day before Friday, 30 Rock is on, it vaguely reminds me of Whinne the Pooh for some reason... Does Piglet at some point say that Thursdays are "Blustery' or am I making that up?

FRIDAY: Woo! Its Friday! We love this day! The obligation to go out and do things, the feeling that really exciting things are gonna happen in the two days ahead, unwarranted optimism, and the knowledge that tomorrow, you get to sleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep. All day. Its Friday right now. Im on my couch, watching Matthew Perry's new show. Falling in love with him a little more each passing minute. Trying to also think of ways not to lame tonight...

SATURDAY: This day doesn't really count as a day of the week. The Jews had it right; this day should only be for sleeping. Until sundown, then its party time. Thats what the Jewish faith is right? Upon daydreaming of the relaxing day that is Saturday, I stretched out my legs and stubbed all of my toes on my coffee table. I am in intense pain.

SUNDAY: Each and every Sunday is like the end of a vacation. Well, a two day vacation that was proceeded by 5 days of crappiness. Its a bittersweet day. In New York, its a day of Brunching, and not much else. Its kind of creepy how no one ventures out to do anything besides brunch... creepy in a 'deserted Manhattan' kind of way. Its also nice that we can all go to bed early and not feel bad about it. Because tomorrow, is the worst day ever. Again. And again. And again. And again.

So yeah. That is how I see the days of the week. Right now, its like I rotate between Friday and Saturday since I don't have a job. Did I mention I don't have a job? And then any day I get a call for a job, BAM! Its my 'Sunday'... BUM BUM!

I also like to say the days of the week by singing that 'Sting' song. You know what I'm talking about. Don't play.

When I Grow Up, I... nah

                                         

I have decided that this year is the year of the 'grown up.' Or something along those lines...Its like my version of the Chinese New Year, but different in the sense I am not Chinese and also I don't know when their New Year is... Why? Because when you get to be legitimately into your twenties, thats what you are right? Grown up?

When I was a kid (well, more of a kid then I probably still am), I would look at the college kids and think they were soooooo old. And those people out of college? Well, they were married, or having kids, or something like that. Well, maybe 10-year-old Carly would look at me now and think to herself "Wow. Thats an adult. I have to be polite to her and pretty much do what she tells me. I also am obligated to feel super awkward around her." Maybe she would think that. But then why, why do I look in the mirror and see, I don't know, this ageless, non-agey, how old am I? face???

There are times where I feel overwhelmingly adult. Like the following:

-Whenever I pay my rent. Paying rent sucks big time. Its like someone sets off a little bomb in my bank account every month. And it takes a whole 'nother month to recover.
-Grocery shopping and buying... vegetables. And eggs. And things you can't microwave.
-Every time I know anything they mention in the news.
-When I know the name of the wine I want... Or I make it a whole day without eating french fries.
-Any time someone asks me for directions and I can accurately give them. Or any time I know which was north is.

Times I know I am mostly still a kid:

-When it takes me two minutes to figure out how to turn off a public bathroom sink
-When I accidentally watch two hours of 'My Little Pony' on Netflix, or 'Teen Titans'
-My inability to order and kind of mixed drink... at all.
-Anytime my socks don't match
-When I lock the cat in the closet for 8 hours, or forget to feed him
-My refusal to own, or wear a pair of khaki pants. Never will I ever.
-Each time I reference Dr. Seuss to give sage advice

To make it all the more confusing, there are people constantly switching between calling me 'ma'am', 'sweetie', 'hun', and 'miss.' I am no 'ma'am', I will tell you that. Only people over the age of 60, or who give me their subway seat can call me 'hun', and I just reallllllyyyyyy hate being called 'sweetie.' ALMOST as much as I hate being called 'girl.' I know my gender, thank you. I'm aware. I will only accept being called 'girl', if it is sandwiched between a sassy 'hey' and one more 'hey.' Or if its said with a distinct 'u', like 'gurl.' I would prefer if each person made up their own distinct pet name for me, so get on that everyone.

Also, do I shop in the juniors section, the miss section, or the women's section??? I know I shop in the kids section for shoes...

But I really feel like we twenty-whatevers are caught in this awful vortex of faux-adulthood. We don't know what we want to do, or how to go about getting it, or at least I don't. I am torn on a daily basis between wanting to play in the park and wanting to put on some heels and attempt to 'go out.' Okay, not a daily basis, but like, once a week. Thats an awful example. I'm torn between....ummm... sleeping till noon and balancing my checkbook? Who am I kidding, I always choose sleeping till noon when I can. I count it as a personal victory every time cleaning my apartment trumps my desire to play Mario Kart. And its so hard not to be overly aware of the floating, unidentified age-sphere. By my age my mom was married, and had a kid (me, as it were), had a career, had acrylic nails and did things like, make dinner and run errands and go on vacation. I don't do or have any of those things. I run errands on my cell phone, and I make food so I don't die... but not in a very adult way. But here I am, 23, a girl with 'Little Mermaid' sheets, and a Dragon pillow, muppet underwear and a 'Labyrinth' album I count as artwork. So perhaps I am not adult at all...

Maybe I should save adulthood for my late twenties, and spend the rest of my early and mid twenties being youthful and charming. Because I want to keep listening to my Disney music, wearing three different patterns at once and having 'Lord of the Rings' marathons on my days off.

I think I have found the way to stave off wrinkles. Its not expensive eye cream, its carrying 'gushers' in your purse and coloring in coloring books. You're welcome world.

                            "Adults are Just Obsolete Children and the Hell with Them." -Dr. Seuss

New Years has the WORST Mascot...

Alright boys and girls, here we are. Two days into the New Year and I am right where I want to be: inside, curled up on my armchair, watching some BBC with Hannah and Caleb and Barrykins. The only thing standing between me and complete bliss is the slight chill in the air, and my unwillingness to stand up and retrieve the blanket I am sitting on... But, we can't have everything, now can we?

2013. Mt first New Year in a new city. And strangely enough, it does feel different. Maybe its easier to start new in a place that still feels new... I don't know... we shall see. But! I made my resolutions whilst drinking wine on my couch with Hannah, and I will stick with them! I did almost everything I resolved to do in 2012, so I have high hopes that future Carly is gonna keep it together. Which brings me to the topic of the entry: New Years Resolutions. Not mine, oh no. I know mine. I have had lengthy discussions with me about my resolutions, now I want to talk to my macbook about your resolutions. How do I know your resolutions? Because you were kind enough to post the all. over. facebook.

Now I have come to terms with the fact that by logging onto the FB, I am going to be slapped in the face with a gob of information I don't care about: weather updates, political views, mirror selfie pics, bible verses, engagements, pictures of your food... Don't get me wrong, I'm as self-centered and vain as the next 90's baby all grown up. I am incredibly guilty of posting things no one in their right mind cares about, case and point, this blog you are reading now and still trying to decide if you care enough about to keep reading. (At this point I would like to take a moment and jedi-mind-trick you into caring.... "This is the blog you are looking for.") But I was a little surprised with the number of people who posted their personal goals on the FB stalker feed. Although I feel flattered that you deem me a good enough friend to share the fact that you think you are overweight, or too pessimistic, or unmotivated, or unorganized or whatever, don't think that I don't know what you are really after. No, not 'attention.' Please, Facebook as a whole, shoot, everything we all do is an ill concealed cry for attention and affirmation. No, what I know you are after is accountability. You want to be held accountable for your declarations of self-improvement. I hear ya'. Loud and clear my friends. So what I'd like to say to you is:

Challenge Accepted.

Any time you post a complainy facebook status? Busted! Every time you post a picture of cake? Caught! So be wary. Because I am watching you... Because thats what you really want, isn't it? I mean, I can't think of another reason you would post it as your status. You neeeeeeed us all to know. If it gets bad enough, I will come and personally train you. I will make you a dating profile. I will eat an entire pie in front of you, just so you won't. Because thats how much you mean to me.

Because I have sooooo much free time to spend patrolling your profile... And I definitely have the attention span to keep that up... So this is totally gonna happen... But just in case it doesn't, and just in case you think I gave up on you and I don't care, just remember: I do see your activity through the technological window. And I do care. And I am judging. So rest easy.

**disclaimer: This post is not pointed at any one person, or any specific people at all. So don't be offended oh resolution proclaimers. I commend you. It is bold to publicly declare ones intent and be held accountable for said proclamations. Part of me envies your boldness and confidence in personal drive and successes. The other part of me is highly annoyed you think you are fat. The third part of me is slipping into a food coma as I type and is not aware of what is going on...

Happy New Years friends! To fresh beginnings, pintrest pinnings and cheshire grinnings.

also, whats the deal with 'Baby New Year?' Worst mascot ever. It makes me feel like the New Year is one big baby shower for the earth... and then I feel awkward because I didn't get it anything...