I still insist that ice skating is a viable sport to watch, but that’s a quarrel to pick another day.

On to the main concern: I care a little. Franklin took me to the St. John’s/Villanova game at Madison Square Garden this weekend, and after fifteen minutes, I started getting really irritated when the Johnnies messed up and even more irritated when Villanova picked up their pace and started winning. Maybe it was my understanding of Catholic school rivalries that opened the door, but by the time my adopted team was really fruggling (fail + struggle = fruggle), I was emotionally invested enough to feel dejected as F and I sulkily excited the premises.

And football, the sport I truly care nothing about, has roped me in via my affection for New Orleans. That, and their chants are really catchy. WHO DAT?! So, if they win the game which they are playing right this second, I will watch the Super Bowl for the first time in my almost 23 years on this planet. And if they don’t, I’ll watch something else instead. Why? Because I care.

Eat your heart out, pun-loving lit geeks. Or wait for the EBrontesaur to nom it out for you, in a non-herbivorous moment. Anything for a novel ending, right?

So, I’m a neglectful blogger. No surprises there. But, since I haven’t written here in foreverrr (imagine that being said like this and go watch The Sandlot if you never have), I figured it was time. That, and my mom is at Williams-Sonoma all day being a high-end cookware BAMF, and I can only jog, read, and edit poems for so many hours without getting antsy.

ALSO, we’re only a couple of weeks away from a whole new year. Like “A Whole New World,” but without the magic carpet. Just as uplifting, though. I’m dorkily optimistic (I literally am confused when I do not win the lottery after playing), so I’m super-duper excited about the possibilities inherent in a fresh start. But 2009 was pretty damn good. I graduated from college, worked at Poets House, helped out with the National Storytelling Festival, made new friends, hung on to old ones, always paid my rent, got a one-eyed cat, got a sweet freelancing position at Interbrand, and managed to not suck at adulthood. Pretty good, eh? I have the most wonderful boyfriend, incredible friends and family, and I live in New York City. 2009 win.

It’s important that I remind myself of these things, because I am prone to fits of anxiety that people who love me are nice enough to tolerate. I like to have all my ducks in a row, and sometimes they just won’t line up! Silly metaphorical ducks. This whole getting-bogged-down-in-ducky-details is keeping me from seeing the big picture. So, with that in mind, here’s my theme for 2010. I don’t have resolutions; I have themes.

It’s from a Katha Pollitt poem: “wondering how to write// so that what she writes/ stays written.” I love this idea, both as a call-to-action as I more directly pursue poetry, but also as a message about making an impact. I’m way too young and not nearly self-important enough to be focused on A LEGACY, but I do think that living more intentionally, with more dedication, concentration, and reflection on how my actions and choices affect my life and the people around me is a fantastic goal.

C’mon, do it with me. Wonder how what you write stays written. Keep thinking about how to be a solid person in the world. Keep thinking about how to be proud of the final draft.

Merry almost-Christmas.
Happy almost-New Year.

Onward to 2010!

Anyway, today is November 21st.  As in, Thanksgiving is later this week.  As in, in Erin World, Christmas hasn’t started yet.  We are still in Fall.  However, this morning, as I was struggling into my pants (there is a story about how I slipped in some gunky stuff outside a frat house at Vanderbilt while attempting to tackle an inflatable lawn ornament and flailed around in it for a while, and as a result had to wash my jeans at least twice) I admitted to myself that actually, yes, this has been a tough couple of weeks and actually, yes, listening to the music I traditionally associate with eating, DRINKING, and shopping, as well as with sparkly, cocoa-soaked childhood memories, would make me feel better about it all.

So I unchecked everything marked “Holiday” on iTunes the way you drag out boxes of baubles during the first week of December.  And it as good.

While looping this glorious playlist, I thought of two things: first, that ever since she did the voice of the witch in “The Emperor’s New Groove,” I can’t shake the notion that Eartha Kitt is evil.  Listening to her version of “Santa Baby,” all I could think about was this:

…waiting by the chimney with a dagger.  And now that I’ve said it, that’s all you’re going to think too.  HA.

Second:  that song is kinda dirrrty.  Maybe my mind is in the gutter, irreversibly corrupted by one too many “That’s What She Said” comments, but if you actually listen to the words…especially the way Kitt sings it…well, let’s just say that the word “stocking” takes on whole new meaning, and then you factor in the hinted sexualization of a beloved childhood figure and then your head explodes and you just want to cry but the last time you broke down in tears at a family holiday function it dredged up a lot of underlying issues that, admittedly, needed expressing but it was at the expense of the amazing dessert course your mother worked so hard to perfect and it really wasn’t your intention to let everything come to a head right then but it seems like that is just the story of your life right now and is there more peppermint schnapps–

But I digress.

There is only one known antedote to the creepily burlesque nature of “Santa Baby.”  And that’s the Taylor Swift version of the song.

I did, however, know all the lyrics to “Streets of Laredo” when I was 5. My dad taught me.

Things I grew up on:

–Masterpiece Theatre

–Mad About You

–Movie musicals

–ALL foreign films (Note: I did not know this was odd)

–Star Trek (Voyager and Deep Space Nine, mostly)

–John Irving books

–Leon Russell, Paul Simon, Joni Mitchell, Bobby Darin…

Yeah. I’m pretty cool. So, next time you make a Rugrats reference, or a joke about the Babysitter’s Club, please respect my total confusion. Thx.

Much to my surprise, there was no entry for the hit TLC show. But I did discover that the third possible meaning of “little bitch” is “when a guy likes making out with babies and his favorite show is toddlers and tiaras.” Excellent. Do you get my point? This show is bizarre. Tiny children are dressed in gaudy, objectifying costumes and taught to booty-shake and blow kisses before they even have permanent teeth. 5-year olds are put on diets by obese mothers in mu-mus wearing “I (heart) Dannika” shirts over their misshapen bodies. Closeted fathers in gauzy shirts and subtle eye makeup choreograph tap dances in their living rooms for little princesses in pull-ups. Even newborns, still purple from birth, are dragged onstage to dazzle the judges with their practically fetal cuteness. WTF, America?

Capitalizing on the wonderful combo of ohmygodthisishorrible + Ican’tlookaway that defines T&T, I gathered some pinktastic pieces at Buffalo Exchange, whipped out the ol’ Irish dancing wig, and made a “Lil’ Miss 4&Under” sash. Sometimes, having the face of a kid can come in handy…

Yeah, that’s right. Cringe. Now go TiVo that shit.

An Exercise.

1. Think of any problem, obstacle, or frustration in your life. In great detail. Feel really sorry for yourself. Delve into the depths of your despair. Wallow. Whine about how you just don’t know what to do.

2. Make it work.

You’re welcome. Sincerely, Tim Gunn and Emma Cofer

Little did I know that I would become one of those people. See, the result of this failed security was that HR and IT have been trying to train all of us to protect our work laptops by stealing them and hiding them whenever they are unattended. The people with desktops are fine; those who have locks are, too. I made a real effort to get a lock when I started, but IT was out. So, I’ve been locking my ‘top in a drawer when I leave for the day. I’ve learned the hard way that it also needs to be invisible if I leave the building for lunch or coffee. The hard way is coming back to an empty desk, skulking over to HR, hanging your head, and asking nicely if you can have your computer back. Yep, you feel 5.

Today, this got especially out of hand. I got up to go to the bathroom. I was gone, oh, two minutes. Maybe three. THEY TOOK IT. Then, to add insult to injury, HR didn’t have it, and I had to wander the whole IBNY building, asking various cranky assistants who might have swiped my Macbook. Guess where I found it? HR. I had actually beaten my computer in getting to them! That’s because, as I explained, I had not abandoned my laptop.

The moral of the story? Wasting people’s time is not a worthwhile lesson.

There is nothing Emma People like more than pretending to be British. Emma People also do this by spelling words the “correct” way (theatre, realise), much to the exasperation of their friends, family, and technological devices. But the hot toddy is the crowning glory of deliciousness and affectation. The EP’s benefits are twofold: she can order something unique and bypass the disdainful backup choice of vodka-tonic, and she can secretly drink tea with honey at a bar without being teased.

Perhaps it all comes down to the cool factor. Hot toddies are so uncool– evoking old, ruddy-faced men drying their Wellies by the fire– that they are, in fact, cool. Thus, Emma People can embrace culture and innovation, in a satisfyingly large, warm, and aromatic glass. Cheerio, mates!

The flash of movement three stories above my head, in the window of the brownstone by the public school, was orange and white. It was a cat, the fluffy kind that eat out of crystal in Fancy Feast commercials, and it pressed its smashed face against the mesh of the window screen. Outside the window, an orange leaf was caught. It was a fetching color scheme—the orange-and-white cat, the rusted screen, the leaf, the dusty red brick of the building. The cat wanted the leaf so badly that I knew this even though I am not a cat, and it looked both anxious and hopeful as it reached for the leaf. The leaf, of course, was freed from the screen, and it drifted down to the street. The cat stretched its whole self up, trying to peer down the sheer face of the wall, trying to find the leaf. I walked on when I saw disappointment. It seemed absurd that a cat should be disappointed. Its earlier expression of anxiety and hope was more appropriate. That is how I always feel; so must the cat. But if the orange-and-white cat is crushed by what it can’t have, then I don’t know how I or you stand a chance at happiness.

_________________________

Conversation, The Couch, October 26th

I ask Franklin what I should write a poem about:
How ducks, who depend on humans for food,
are so quick to bite. I laugh.
They have everything, he says,
They can fly they can swim on pretty days
people line up just to give them bread.

I’m captivated, now, by the memory
of walking the loop around the man-made pond
in our college town, watching ducklings line up
when their mother honked. It was sunny that day
and the sky was clear. I felt silly
bothering small animals when I had nothing
to give them. I was the reason they were called
into military formation, the shadow
that was darkening their afternoon,
and when the smallest one
fell off the back of the line, into the water,
I laughed and turned to my side,
but I had come to the park alone.
The other ducklings stumbled in after him,
and three people with bags of crust and crumbs
moved towards the rock ledge.
I remember my resentment
as I resumed my walk. I remember it like new.

_________________________

Being good at winning and its consequences

I dressed up as Jasmine for Halloween when I was eight, and so did my two best friends. We sat in a tent on Pink Jasmine’s lawn, wet from suburban sprinklers, moistening our synthetic harem pants. Pink Jasmine said she was the prettiest Jasmine. Purple Jasmine said she looked the most like Jasmine. I said I had heard their mothers say that I was the perfect Jasmine. They didn’t say anything, and we weren’t friends much longer.