musically defined

musically defined

3:00pm on a Friday afternoon on a hot July day in the year 2009 and I can confidentially say that I can define myself musically; i.e., I know what my musical tastes are and what my musical persona is. Yes, you’ve heard correctly. I can define myself musically. I like Sia, Fiest, Coldplay, Jem, Natalie Imbruglia, Dido, Bitter:Sweet, Massive Attack, Plumb, and similar artists. I can easily define my musical tastes. I know what I prefer to listen to and what I’m most attracted to. However, I cannot say the same for everything else in my life. With music, I can clearly define myself; with other things in life, I simply can’t. I am, however, grateful that I can clearly define myself in at least one aspect of my life. For years now I’ve been struggling with my sense of self; trying to define who and what I stand for, what person I want to portray to the world, and what person I want to show to my friends. For now I’m content with knowing what I like musically. God this feels like such an achievement. Slowly, but surely, I am getting there. One baby step at a time.

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make-up?

make-up?

For about two years now music has been an integral part of my life. I groove to it. I dance to it. I bop my head to it in the streets, at work, and in class. What is it about music that has finally affected me? Is it the lyrics? Is it the melody? I find myself discovering a new world through old country classics such as Dolly Parton, Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, and Johnny Cash. For a while Janis Joplin and Joni Mitchell were my groove. I’m slowly beginning to define myself through music. I’m a fan of Diana Krall, Michael Buble, Dean Martin, Ray LaMontagne, and the like. I think my musical classification is folk, jazz, blues, Motown, and country. Ironically, most of the music I listen to seems pretty much the same. They are mellow, relaxing, and soothing beats. They are by no means back that ass up and show me what you are working with. Although I do enjoy pop and electronic beats such as The Ting Tings, The Fratellis, and Sara Barellis. Besides my new found life through music, I am also discovering an 11-year-old girl who is learning about make-up. She doesn’t know what anything is called but she wants to play with all the color palettes. For now she is content with looking as natural as possible. She does not appreciate clown make-up foundation; actually she does not appreciate any foundation. She loves playing up her eyes. She loves the drama she can create or the subtleness of a little mascara. Unfortunately, color lipstick is so not her thing either. Her teeth look weird. As any new beginner, she feels shy and embarrassed to ask the sales associate for help. Make-up sales associates are rather knowledgeable in their fields, so she feels like they won’t have any patience for her. They start throwing words at her that she feels she should get a dictionary to understand. For some reason the sales associates don’t understand the minimalist inside this 11-year-old girl. The 11-year-old girl has discovered that make-up has common color bases. They either appear yellow, peach/rosey, green, glittery or matte. She doesn’t like any of these. She just wants enhancements to her beautiful look, blemishes and all.

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morning commute

morning commute

As I walk to work this morning, I notice familiar faces and garbs. It’s the same (more or less) young girls with their hairs tied up and the nude colored tights underneath their shorts. Ballerinas! The only difference with this morning is that I finally decide to question it. Why am I seeing so many ballerinas throughout the city? And every day! Yes, I see ballerinas throughout the city. I have no clue what they are doing but this morning I’m intrigued. I know of one studio location because I see a line wrapping around the block almost every morning; but every morning? I don’t get it. Why are there so many ballerinas this summer? Is there some sort of American Ballerina Idol training going on? Who knows but I’m intrigued. Have you ever walked through Union Square where the Farmer’s Market should be on a Tuesday and/or Thursday and noticed how big the area is? Have you ever noticed that it could be a scene in a movie? Have you ever noticed that as in many movies it is a perfect scene for a shootout? I guess it reminds me of the movie where the Russians or whoever they are is chasing this guy....what's the name of that movie...or other movies that have scenes in parks that when the pigeons fly away in a hurry you know there is going to be trouble. In any case, this is my morning commute. On certain days, it does involve quite a handful of hooting and hollering from construction workers; but, ironically, when I finally decide to take a stand and report these people to the construction companies, the workers just seem to stop. Oh well. On this very special morning, with all the roaming ballerinas, I got a panic attack, or several little ones. Out of the blue, the shortness of breath begins. I feel anxious, scared, and hopeless. My eyes begin to tear up and I can’t stop. I try to calm myself by thinking of beautiful gardens but it doesn’t help. I go into the City Chow café and finally reach some serenity. The cashier asks if I want my corn muffin toasted. The question at the moment seemed odd to me. Corn muffins are eaten toasted? I never heard of such a thing. Well, I have heard of such a thing, I just haven’t seen anyone eat one like that in years or even mention it. I guess the regular cashier saw the confused look on my face and rushed to aid her colleague. She packed my muffin as I normally like it. I paid my bill. Off I went. As I step outside into the cruel New York City streets, the panic attack commences. I thought I was over this. Obviously I wasn’t. I try to calm myself once again, and again, nothing happened. I’m now at the lobby elevators. The panic is still there. I reach the office. The panic is still there. I get to my desk. The panic begins to subside. I turn on my computer. The panic is still there. I go to the bathroom to wash myself. The panic begins to go away.

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snotty I am not your mommy

snotty I am not your mommy

For someone who is constantly complaining, whining, and stressing over having nothing to do or not knowing what to do, I sure do sign up for a lot of crap. Ok, so it is not crap, it’s volunteering. Just this afternoon I signed up for a reminder for the NYC Teaching Fellows program, Big Brothers Big Sisters, and sent an email for some rape advocacy group in Chicago. Did I also mention that I sent out emails to various dig archaeologists? I did. I’m all over the map. However, when it comes time to show up I totally freeze. I feel overwhelmed. I’m always like crap…when am I ever going to find time to view my General Hospital. Oh well…I guess this is for the best. After all I seriously have spent months and months just watching TV. Besides it’s not like General Hospital is going to go off the air and as if I don’t DVR it. Yup. So that’s where I’m at. I’m always out to help others and sometimes feel too overwhelmed. I should slow down but I can’t. I need it. I need to feel useful. I feel as if I’ve retired. Nothing truly motivates me. I don’t want some snot-faced kid to call me mommy and I don’t want some tub-o-lard calling me his wife. Yuck. I grimace at the thought. Anywho…that’s my stance for now. Hmmmm seems hypocritical of me to not want some kid call me mommy and volunteer to be a Big Sister. 

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