Sweet Tea in NYC

Dear Apple...

While I appreciate your efficiency in returning my Mac back to me, I can't help but feel you didn't even try to fix it.  Was it so beyond hope that you didn't even try to salvage any of my information?  It didn't appear completely beyond hope when I sent it away, but then - I'm not a computer scientist.  [I just date one...] 

Could you hear the sound of my heart breaking all the way in Tennessee - where I sent my Mac - this evening when I returned home to find my Mac wiped clean of everything I've put on it the last year?  All the music.  All the photos.  But most of all... all the words that I've written.  [I know I should have backed everything up, but I believed in you so much, Apple, that I trusted I wouldn't lose it all so easily.  I won't make that mistake again, of course.] 

Apple, you've made a fool of me.  I've spent the past year extolling your virtues to everyone I know.  "Forget Windows!" I proclaimed, "Apple is glorious.  I love my MacBook."  Somewhere far away I can hear Bill Gates cackling.  And it hurts, Apple.  Oh how it hurts.

I'm not abandoning you.  I know all relationships have their ups and downs.  I'm willing to try again.  I've learned some hard lessons.  It will be a long time before I can trust you again, Apple.  I held you in such high regard.  And now... well... I feel ashamed of my own feelings.  I feel betrayed. 

We'll go on.  And maybe things will one day be okay again.  But I'll never look at you in the same way, Apple.  I'll never look at you with all the love and hope and well, let's face it, naivety that I had before.  Those days are over and we just have to accept it.  The past is the past, I won't rub it in your face forever.  I won't hold a grudge.  But every time someone asks me how I feel about my MacBook, well... I guess I just won't be as enthusiastic.  Just in case I end up with pie on my face again.   

How do you fix a broken heart?  You can't completely.  But I'll try.  We'll try together.

Looking forward to a brighter future and the hope of sunny days,

Miss Parker
xo         

Our New Home

I can't believe this is our last full week in the East Village.  And though I will not be sorry to leave our hole in the wall or Avenue C, for that matter, there are certain things about the East Village I will very much miss.  [The Sunburnt Cow, the yummy Brazilian place on the corner, Tompkins Square, Union Square greenmarket, The Strand... etc.]  But I am sure there are many things I will fall in love with [have already fallen in love with] on the Upper West Side.

The East Village was a great place to start our New York experience.  Our apartment is small, but we have been happy here.  It was our first apartment together, so of course it will always be special to me.  When we moved in together, we knew right away living in such tight quarters would really make or break our relationship.  I had lived with someone a few years before I met John, [how scandalous, I know] and had kind of vowed to never do it again; I just didn't think it was for me.  [I think I can be kind of high maintenance...]  But then I met John who is so unlike any man I have ever known, and who changed my entire perception of what a relationship is supposed to be; he made me want to take a leap of faith.

Almost a year later and I haven't regretted a moment of it.  I could probably live with John in a box and everything would be okay.  [Well, it would have to be a refrigerator box to accommodate his six-foot-six frame...]  It was good for our relationship; if we can live harmoniously in a tiny two room studio for so long and not want to kill each other, I think we have a pretty bright future.

Onward and upward.

We went uptown today to peruse our new neighborhood.  It was incredibly cold, but we had a nice walk, up and down the area surrounding our new home.  I can't believe we're less than a block from Central Park.  It's so much quieter than our current neighborhood; very diverse in age with a lot of people around our age, a lot of families, and a lot of older people.  I like that mix.  It feels like a happy place.  I am so excited to move.  But I will always remember the East Village and our first tiny apartment together with extreme fondness. 

Just Like the Jeffersons...

John and I are movin' on up.  To the west side.  To a deluxe apartment in the sky.  Well, sort of.  To a deluxe apartment on the fourth floor of a walk up. 

We found an apartment via Craigslist and were approved today.  Without a broker.  It can be done!  The lease will be signed tomorrow.  A block from Central Park. Twice the space of our little closet in the East Village.

It's ours on March 1st.  And we are in shock.  Glorious, glorious shock. 

It's basically the best Valentine's Day present ever.

The Judicial System

I wish I had a jury. 

A jury of twelve unbiased people who went with me everywhere and judged questionable situations/arguments... etc.  An exchange would take place between another person and me and the jury would - of course - have all the background information since they would go everywhere with me and when things get a little out of sorts the other person and I would look at the jury, they would convene and after a few minutes would offer up their verdict.  "Miss Parker, you're out of line with this one."  Or... "Miss Parker, you're a perfectly reasonable, rational person.  You're not crazy and you didn't do anything wrong, so don't feel bad."  Wouldn't that just be the bee's knees?

Do you think I'm asking too much? 

I think I'm a perfectly reasonable, rational person, but it would make me feel better to hear it from twelve unbiased jurors.  Because every once in a while I doubt myself.  And you can't always trust your friends because that's why they're your friends... of course they're going to say you're not insane.  If they say otherwise and you get carted off to the nuthouse who are they going to watch Lost with or shit-talk with?  And if you're crazy, they can't be far behind... crazy people tend to hang out with their own kind.  Or so I hear. 

It's a Christmas Miracle!

I'm alive!  The plane was, however, extremely bumpy.  And I did cry like a little girl when we took off.  Luckily I had my wonderful Russian to take care of me for the duration.  I am now in sunny, fantastic, WARM North Carolina. 

Thank you all for your kind words concerning my fear of flying.  I'm still terrified, and I will still freak out when I have to get back on that plane again on Friday, but what can you do? 

I hope you all have a wonderful holiday!  I am thrilled to be spending the holiday in one piece.

All I Want for Christmas is Not to Die in a Fiery Plane Crash

In six days I have to get on a plane.  I haven't been on a plane since 2003 when I flew home from Ireland.  [A terrible trip home, which I will one day have to recount for you all.  I should have never left Ireland early.] 

This shouldn't be a big deal anymore.  I have traversed the Atlantic several times, and flown domestically all over the country.  I've been flying since I was two.  Nothing has ever happened.  But it is a big deal.  And, logically, I cannot explain why.  It just is.  And that should be enough.

I don't know where/when things went wrong.  I wasn't afraid of flying as a child.  And then suddenly I was, and I don't know how it happened. Maybe I just reached a certain age in my early teens and suddenly it clicked that being shot through the sky in a tube wasn't the best idea I'd ever heard of.  The source of this fear is irrelevant.  The fact is that it's there and it's unshakable, and I have had a stomachache since my plane ticket home was purchased in November.

I hadn't meant to fly home.  I have been using cars and trains to ferry myself back and forth between New York City and North Carolina.  In July I took a train from Penn Station to Fayetteville where my best friends picked me up and took me to Wilmington.  Although train travel is incredibly unreliable, it was an amazing trip.  The train takes you in such a different way than a car does.  I loved watching the landscape roll by and trying to guess which state I was in.  It was long, and I was exhausted when I arrived in North Carolina, but it was worth it at the time.  Anything so long as I don't have to go shooting through the sky.

When I went to make my Amtrak reservations for my Christmas trip home, I found that everything was sold out.  Unless I wanted to travel on Christmas Eve, and with Amtrak's unreliability, I didn't want to risk spending Christmas in Penn Station.  So I looked up Jet Blue, which was quite inexpensive, and without thinking booked a flight home.  I didn't let it register; I just did it.  I would worry about the consequences later. 

...Well.  Later is now.  And I have to get on a plane next Saturday, and I don't know how I'm going to do it.

And it doesn't matter what anyone says.  You can yell flight safety statistics at me until you're blue in the face.  I know I'm more likely to die in the taxi on the way to the airport than on the plane itself. I know.  That's not going to help.  It's an irrational fear; statistics aren't going to help, and it will just piss me off.  I wouldn't stand there and tell someone afraid of snakes how silly their fear is, and how unlikely they are to be bitten by a cobra.  Everyone does this to me, as though when I hear it for the zillionth time things are suddenly going to click, "What?  You mean planes don't just fall from the sky all the time?  Oh my goodness.  What a fool I've been! You changed my life!" 

The fact is, no amount of reassurance can help.  I know how silly it is.  The flight to Raleigh is a little over an hour long.  Jet Blue makes this flight several times a day. They're pros at it.  Logically, I know this.  I know I will probably survive.  But as soon as I step into the airport, my logical side hops a plane for Rome, and I am left standing in line at the ticket counter crying.

Yes.  I am that girl.  I am the girl in line to get on the plane who is crying hysterically and begging for whoever I am with to just rent a car with me.  God, I hate that girl.  Even going to the airport to pick someone up makes me queasy.  As though someone's going to pick me up and toss me on a plane.  It's crippling.

But I have to do it.  Because I don't want to spend the holidays alone in my tiny apartment with my Charlie Brown tree.  [Although I would rather spend the holidays alone than dead... so... hmmmm.]  And John and I are discussing going to Europe next year, and I will get on a plane then too.  Because as terrified as I am of flying, I still have a deep desire to see the world.  [And this fear has never held me back in that respect; I have to give myself credit for that.]

I will do it. But I won't like it.  And I don't want anyone to say, when/if I land, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"  Yes.  Yes it is.  It is that bad. 

...This better be the jolliest damn Christmas we've ever had.

I Changed My Mind: I Want to Fly Back South for the Winter

...Well.  Not really fly, as I have a terrible, severe fear of flying.  But drive or ride the rails or something, anything.

I just loaded my Google homepage, only to be told that it is SEVENTEEN degrees. My mind cannot even comprehend seventeen degrees. I am so cold, and our heat isn't working properly.  We have no control over it, our landlord decides when to turn it off and on.  It wasn't working at all when I got up this morning.  After my shower I just stood in the bathroom trembling, so cold I couldn't even move. 

Snow showers are rumored to be headed our way, depending on where you get your forecast from.  [Google says snow tomorrow; Weather.com says maybe snow on Friday.]  The only thing that could possibly make this kind of cold bearable is some snow.  I am dying for some snow. 

The terrible thing is that this is only the beginning.  I thought about that this morning while I was standing at the bus stop, wrapped in five layers and still freezing; the wind making my nose numb.  How am I supposed to make it through three or four more months?  Will I get used to this?  I don't know how this works.  I'm new at winter.  It is very rarely seventeen degrees in sunny, warm, fantastic coastal North Carolina.  [Can you tell I'm a little homesick right now?]

I just don't know about this whole winter thing.  I just don't think I have what it takes.              

New York: A Love/Hate Relationship

I was always more in love with the idea of New York than New York itself.

I imagined something quite different than what I have been living in for the past five months. I watched reruns of Sex and the City and Friends and thought we'd be living in a two bedroom in Greenwich Village or in a cozy brownstone on the Upper East Side. Not a cave on Avenue C. This is what happens when you only visit a city twice before you actually move there and rely on sitcoms to paint an accurate picture of New York. Perhaps I should have spent more time in the city before relocating my entire life, but there wasn't time or money. John and I made a decision, closed our eyes and jumped...

...And I hated New York.

I hate the subways in July. I hate that if I want to go to a really good grocery store [which "Associated Supermarkets" is not] I have to travel all the way to Union Square; which is a pain when you just want a decent avocado. I hate the squatters next door, always begging for cigarettes, and on one memorable occasion, pizza. I hate that I can't find PBR in a bottle or smoke in a bar... and don't even get me started on the lack of sweet tea. I hate the remoteness of Avenue C. I hate that my friends are 12 hours away. I hate the buildings everywhere, going to the laundromat, and our apartment which is roughly the size of my closet back home.

Of course, John loves New York.

I thought, surely I'll have to leave him. There's no way I'm going to be able to stick this out, especially considering my Southern blood is cold when it's 75, and winter is quickly headed our way. I love John, but love can only sustain a person so long.

But now autumn has settled in. It's cold and grey, but the leaves are orange and red and incredible. We walked through Central Park on Sunday afternoon, the chomp-chomp of dead leaves under our feet and that sweet fall smell in the air. It's a kind of autumn I've never experienced in the South. The skate rink is open, and I want to go even though I haven't gone ice skating in probably ten years. I love being bundled up in my new coat and hat and gloves. I love the pumpkins in all the windows all over the city. I love walking into my warm apartment, which suddently seems almost... cozy. I - dare I say - love New York in the autumn, and even find myself excitedly anticipating the snow. I want to go to the park and build a snowman; I want to have a snowball fight.

This autumn, this impending winter... these are newfound things to me. It's a different kind of cold. The seasons actually change here, and it's beautiful and something I am not at all accustomed to. The New Yorkers laugh at me when I tell them how excited I am for winter - a season that usually depresses me to no end. "Wait, just wait. You'll hate it soon." But I am imagining the Christmas lights strung all over the city, and the quiet the snow will bring. I am a snow bird in reverse, happily staying North for the winter.

New York, just when I think I can't stand another second... New York, ever surprising and ever changing.

A relationship like most relationships in my life.

We All Have Wings, We Won't Need Legs to Stand

I have been reluctant to write about the Sufjan Stevens performance John and I attended on Sunday night at Town Hall, only for the fact that my meager description could never do the evening justice.

Let me say, I have been to some amazing shows. I have seen just about every musician I have a great love for at least once. Going to shows has been my part-time job, for whatever reason. One of the major reasons I moved to New York was solely for the music; the guarantee that everyone will come through here, and I will hopefully get to go. After Sunday, however, I'm ready to retire.

It was - by far - the best show I have been to since I moved, and probably the best show I've been to ever. Sufjan Stevens is an absolute nut. And I mean that in the warmest way possible. He seems so genuine, and that comes across in his music. He had a fifteen piece band, all of which were wearing butterfly wings and masks. He had someone actually start the show by playing a saw. Yes, as in "I'm going to saw this tree down." A saw. It was beyond incredible.

He announced the themes of the evening were flight and transcendance. He spent the time in between songs telling stories about his family and the tour. He played the banjo and piano and made me feel like I wanted to laugh and cry all at once. During "The Man of Metropolis Steals Our Hearts," Superman blow up dolls were dropped from the ceiling and into the audience. During "The Worst Christmas Ever," he did the same thing with Santa dolls. Everything was bright and alive and he made everyone feel as though we were all part of something; part of the show.

As I said, my words don't depict the evening accurately enough. It's really one of those "you had to be there" things. You just have to go and see for yourself.

I Am Getting Old and Have Never Been Punk Rock

There is a fact that has been made abundantly clear in recent weeks: my party days are over.  I have been hesistant to accept this fate as, once upon a time, I made a name for myself as the girl who was still dancing long after everyone had gone home or passed out. There was a time when Chaundra and I ventured out every single night of the week, even if no one else was out.  We created a party for ourselves at all times.  These were good, but obviously fleeting, times.  A person cannot maintain that kind of lifestyle after a certain point.  The cut off date varies, I'm sure, but for me, things began declining midway through 22, and last night - not even a month into 23 - things pretty much came to a halt.

John, Chaundra and I ventured out for the Continental's final throwdown last night.  I switched my shifts around at work so that I would have today off, assuming last evening would be epic, like the days of yore.  The Continental is a legendary East Village punk club that is closing its doors this weekend for good.  Now, let's face facts, I am not and have never been punk rock.  Yes, like most girls I know I went through a "punk" stage in high school, but that really really doesn't count.  I have a lot of friends, however, who are into punk and live that strange lifestyle.  God bless them, but it's not for me.  The closest I get is The Clash, The Stooges and Velvet Underground.  [Would VU even count?  I have no idea what the strict definitions are.]

So what was I doing at the Continental last night?  Jesse Malin was playing.  It was my second time seeing him; the first was at the Mercury Lounge, right after we moved to the city.  I guess because he's kind of a punk rock guy, the Continental asked him to help them go out in style, and had this been a year ago, I would have appreciated last night a lot more.

Immediately it was made clear when we walked in that we were clearly not cool enough to be in the Continental.  Brooklyn and East Village hipsters mingled with aging gutter punks.  Two groups of people I have a deep and passionate loathing for.  But we weren't there to make friends, we were there to hear Jesse Malin, which is always a good time.  By 11 or so, Chaundra and I had pushed our way to the front.  Despite prominant no-smoking signs, the air was thick with smoke.  Everyone was rude and pushy; someone spilled whiskey on Chaundra and my back was covered with vodka.  We were not happy.  A year ago, these things wouldn't have bothered me; we would have been giddy to see Jesse Malin.  Now, I just wanted him to get on the damn stage already so I could go home and go to bed.

When he finally came on, things got much better.  People were slightly less pushy, and the music was good enough to distract from any annoyances.   He and his band rocked it, and as per usual was full of stories.  One of the major highlights of seeing Jesse Malin is that he is known for telling bizarre stories in between songs.  After about an hour and a half, however, my feet were killing me and John and I were ready to go; tired of being the only sober one in a sea of drunk punks.  It wasn't even 1am.  Jesse vowed to make it a long night, and as much as I wanted to, there was no way I could stick it out until 4am, so we left.

Sometimes I am sad that this crazy party-girl phase is coming to an end.  Sometimes I am happy.  I have no regrets, of course.  I have relished every late night with my friends that I've ever had, even those that sometimes ended in tears or vomit or both.  It's part of being a kid.  You do it now, so that you don't do it when you're forty.  Nobody wants to be "that guy."  And you know who I mean; everyone knows one.  It amazes me that I would rather hang out at home or go to dinner with friends and then call it a night.  The Katie of three years ago wouldn't even be friends with this Katie.  Go figure.  I am happy for who I am, and I am happy for who I was.

At any rate, I am getting old.  I am not punk rock.  And my party days are officially over.  But I can still have a good time; the good times just end a lot earlier now.