today’s morning off was something i was really looking forward to. having heard really good things about the carmine recreation center‘s outdoor pool, i woke up, had breakfast, pulled on my brasilian bikini (the more modest of the two), grabbed my trusty red beach wrap, and sauntered over to the west village. so far, so good. a few things i wasn’t counting on, though, ruined the whole thing:
1. the pool nazis wouldn’t let me take my red wrap into the pool area. they said a colored towel is fine, but a colored wrap might “fall in the pool and mess up the clorine”. huh?
1a. concrete? is HARD. and PEBBLY.
2. small boys shouldn’t stare at breasts. neither should lifeguards. the startling combination of both SMALL BOYS and LIFEGUARDS staring at one’s breasts will make it impossible to read one’s book.
3. watching small wet children run like drunk tasmanian devils around a concrete swimming pool shaves years off one’s life. listening to small wet children scream at each other is equally life-shaving, but in a more annoying way.
4. getting too close to the fumes off a heavily clorinated pool will make you dizzy.
5. any parks department locker room is guaranteed to smell like wet dirty towels, feet, and old people.
the combination of elements 1-5 meant i spent exactly 35 minutes within the confines of the carmine recreation center, and then fled to my lovely expensive gym to have a shower. or four.
i’m considering breaking into the soho house as a solution to my summer-pool woes.
does anyone else have any bright ideas for poolside goodness that doesn’t involve subjecting myself to old-people-smell or turning to a life of crime? better yet … does anyone have a pool?

make a doppler effect sound. sitting right there at your desk. do it. you know. nnnnnNNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnn. you can even spin your head a little, like you’re watching something incredibly fast race by.
that’s the sound my bank account makes every month on Major Pay Day. Major Pay Day is to be differentiated from Minor Pay Day, which is also known in certain circles as Woo Whee My Whole Paycheck Is Going to Pay Rent! Day.
on PD-Maj, i sit down with a nice sharp pencil, my personal notebook, and i start doing math. something i viciously hate doing. especially when the subtract button is getting such a work out. take lump sum (nice! look at that nice big number!). subtract cell phone. subtract electricity. subtract cable modem. subtract monthly parental loan payment. subtract new york times weekend payment. subtract savings account payment. subtract … subtract … subtract.
the result? after punching in my check-card number to half-a-dozen websites and automated phone services, i’m left a number often less than half the size of the original number. the whole painful process usually takes about thirty minutes.
then after staring morosely at the reduced sum, i do some division: remaining sum/days left until next paycheck = daily allotment of cash. and while i rarely stick to this budget, it’s nice to have a clear-cut sum in my mind. no matter how crappily small that sum is, or how many days i go over it. at least i can’t say i didn’t tell myself so when i have to eat ramen three days in a row.
so on a certain sickly satisfying level, i enjoy this monthly financial torture routine. it means i’m facing my responsibilities as opposed to my first instinct, which is to stick my head in the nearest sandpit and hum loudly to myself while buying too many clothes. if i’m facing my responsibilities, it doesn’t matter how poor i am – i’m not going into debt. i’m taking care of myself.
paying all my bills at the same time also means i can’t fool myself about how much money i have. or don’t have. it’s harder to live outside your means when you know exactly how paltry your means are. and living outside my means comes naturally to me … being fiscally responsible does not.
that’s the thing about this monthly financial doppler effect … it’s ear-shatteringly loud, but it’s quick. like a bandaid being ripped off, i spend a few hours mourning the sudden drop in the tides of my bank account, and then i get used to it. and getting a little dizzy from the sudden decrease in cash sure beats nasty calls from ostrich-attacking collection agencies.
of course, i guess i could spend less…
stop laughing, all of you. STOP IT.

remember how we announced this? and notice how i haven’t mentioned not one peep since then? except to point out when bad stuff happens to good people? well, i’m going to try and stick to the formula of either brevity or mocking when it comes to the impending AutoHibougraphy nupitals. in the spirit of brevity, then, an FAQ*:
so, um, are you two crazy? you just met.
yes, we are. next?
when exactly is all this happening?
well, stuart and i have viciously torn through about thirty thousand different plans in the past two months. originally, we thought this whole visa process would take a lot longer (boo). it’s actually moving quite quickly (yay). which means we need to be married sooner rather than later, making it difficult for some of stuart’s nearest and dearest to comfortably make it to the states (boo).
this sounds complicated.
it is. and it gets more so. anyone familiar with the INS and immigration-red-tape knows that the sooner a beneficiary (that’s stuart) on a fiance visa marries the petitioner (that’s me), the sooner things like “green card” and “employment” become a reality. which, frankly, is more important than tulle, bunting, and bouquets.
really?
yes. really. so here’s what we’ve settled on: we’re sort of eloping. except, everyone will know.
huh?
well, we’re going to the NYC courthouse within a few weeks of his arrival (hopefully tentatively all-fingers-crossedly likely in october). we’ll put on pretty frocks and nicely pressed shirts and get ourselves hitched in the eyes of the law. and then we’ll treat ourselves to a nice expensive meal. just stuart and i. then in the spring, we’ll have a lovely swingin’ marriage celebration with everyone we love most in the world.
what about witnesses? huh?
well, my dad said point-blank that i’d need both a shotgun AND a shovel to keep him away. so since i’m not prone to violence, that pretty much means my parents will be there.
and no one else?
not really. the point is not to throw two weddings – but simply to get the legal schmegal out of the way and then have a proper celebration at a time most feasible and convenient for everyone.
and you’re both okay with this plan?
yep. and so are our families. stuart and i have the complicated task of making this work for everyone including ourselves – and right now, we’re sort of enjoying the idea of celebrating that first evening a deux. and kate’s promised to lend me four inch heels, so that solves the “something borrowed” crisis i wasn’t really having.
can we shower you with gifts/love/money?
yeah, totally.
psshh, man, who do you think we are, donald trump? we’re all poor bloggers working on our novels!
sheesh, sorry, you asked.
so speaking of asking, then … is there anything else you want to know?
*yes, it’s stolen lock-stock-and-smoking-barrels from ariel. i’m sure Her Electroliciousness wouldn’t mind.

i’m trying to dislodge something in my brain. i’m trying to dislodge my inspiration. there’s a beautiful strain of something haunting that’s been floating out of my ears, out of my dreams, these days. there are stories clamouring to be told, a life’s work waiting to be started. i feel as though the minute we find each other, my inspiration and myself, we will leap into each other’s arms and be complete.
but as if i was walking through just the wrong part of the enchanted forest in my mind, i can only hear the pixies of this brilliance calling through the trickster leaves. and like an escher, every stairway i chase them down ends up being a climb.
i am not content to scribble away with a leaky pen at other people’s ideas. i am not content to rehash someone else’s words. i do not even like studying other beautiful strains of creativity for fear it will block my childlike appreciation of the medium.
imagine the person who has never held a brush and finds herself in front of a beautiful wall, surrounded by gorgeous colors. should she be content being told to draw stick people in black?
so i have the paints and the canvas and lately, the voices have been clamouring to be deliciously lustfully slathered all over the wall. but i cannot see them yet. so i tiptoe around my mind, carefully tapping the broom against the dusty corners, trying to find my own muse.
take these mixed mad metaphors for what you will. they aren’t really for you. this is my own yawp. and tonight in my beloved summer humidity after hours spent reading and taking notes and pushing my glasses back up my nose and eating toast, i realized i am almost, almost, almost ready to start sounding it.