Astoriabout bubble wrap. pop. pop. pop.

The Lost Girl.

I got lost today. A little. Lost means something different to me these days. Being from Atlanta, I couldn't always picture my whereabouts from a bird's eye perspective. But here in New York it's not too tough. Like today, I knew I was in the middle of Central Park around 96th Street. So, "lost" I was, temporarily, maybe ten minutes or so. I just needed to find the North Meadow Recreation Center. Found it! 32 minutes late. Can't blame that on being lost, I blame that on not really caring much about the content of the training I was to attend there.

The content of the training is less important than the fact that after four hours, I had gained a jam packed binder, 24 owl pellets (dried, sanitized owl vomit --also jam packed, but with mice skeletons and stuff), a stack of paper plates, Dr. Seus's The Lorax book, and a flat cardboard box that was taped shut with a round sticker. Had I known that I'd be 84 pounds of supplies heavier, I'd have brought a bag, or not attended at all.

Think back to 12:30pm today. If you were both awake and above ground, you saw the rain. You braved the rain. You cheered it on or broke down, one or the other. A glorious down pouring of fall! Being in the middle of the jungle, I was elated to see the green all around me, I even saw a hawk soar overhead. The Earth was alive with life and stuff and animals and water and whatever, happy Fall to me and to you! But then it sank in. Literally, my shoe. It sank into the ground at my first attempt to leave from this training center. And let me tell you, Ashley Buffa Pearce, who gave me those shoes 6 years ago, they are incredibly awkward and painful to walk in. Dr. Scholls needs to check his facts. I'll only say a few brief words about them: wooden, knobby, plankton, clydesdale. My fault, you say? Check the weather, you bark! I might just after today.

So, I hmm and haw and ho, do I take a cab from here, or do I just walk? Maybe I'll make this like a Goosebumps "choose your ending" book. You can choose "I took a cab from this desolate jungly training center" or you can turn to page 68 (about how long Goosebumps books were) and choose "I walked, without an umbrella, in clydesdale shoes, in the down pour, with a 50 pound Staples box (which if you know your paper supplies is RED), with a super nice leather Italian bag that I only take out when I'm trying to impress people."

Page 68: So, I walked, without an umbrella, in clydesdale shoes, in the down pour, with a 50 pound Staples box (which if you know your paper supplies is RED), with a super nice leather Italian bag that I only take out when I'm trying to impress people! And boy were they impressed.

I'd like to think my decision to walk was a product of my spirit, my boldness, and really, my desire to be different. The rest of the trainees were complaining, and chattering as if they couldn't imagine a single way out of our predicament. In the middle of NOWHERE in this monsoon! Hmph, I snorted, I'll walk it. Clomp, clomp, clomp. Oops, lost a shoe. See you guys later! Clomp, clomp. Bye! Clomp, clomp, shit, this was a bad idea. But it was too late, I'd already gained the respect of my elders and peers. I couldn't turn back to call a cab. So I pioneered on.

By the time I arrived at the diner 12 minutes later, I was drenched like that-time-I-college-we-all-thought-it-would-be-funny-to-stand-in-the-rain-with-our-clothes-on drenched. I almost felt like an outcast I was so wet. Could it have been the blood stained tee shirt I was wearing? It wasn't blood, I had to explain, it was dye. Dye from the Staples box. It had bled all over me. I was carrying a wounded box. Everyone's in the same boat in a rainstorm, but I felt alone in my hardship today. I knew with the right attitude, supplies, and skill set, I could be reborn in this diner, a new September-23rd-2011-Jennifer (you only have one chance at these things)! What I needed was a little perspective. From the moment I decided to walk it, I knew what would save me. I knew I'd get frustrated and wet, I knew I'd ruin all the supplies I'd just acquired. But I wanted it. And here's why.

I'm reading a book right now. It's written from the perspective of one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. I'll tell you, one evening while reading, I got on the wrong bus and ended up far from where I had intended to go. I felt such compassion for the boy, and the other boys, that I was too ashamed to look away from their stories. Then I was ashamed that I got on the wrong bus.  What's the Q66? I thought this was the 69, yo. Naw. You gotta get off here and walk back. More walking! I love it! I could face anything after reading what this little guy went through. But I can't, I reckon. He lost his family and friends at age 8 or 9 when his village was attacked, and he walked with hundreds of boys from Sudan to Ethiopia. He walked mostly without water or food, sometimes without clothes or shoes. We're talking months of walking. Dangers: being shot down from overhead, lions, famine, dehydration, disease, and on and on and on.

It's tough to read this book around meal time. I read, "I ate the nuts quickly, first one at a time and then filling my mouth with a handful. It was more than I had eaten for weeks, I chewed and swallowed and felt the paste of the nuts fortifying my chest and arms, clarity returning to my head. The man filled the plate again with nuts and I ate them, now slower. I felt the need to lie down and did so, still eating the nuts, one by one," and look down at my plate. A feeling like guilt over comes me. I like to eat out by myself. I bring a book as a date, but not this one. It reminds me that my life is not normal. To just throw around $25 like it's nothing. To order a meal that would, from the looks of it, feed 200 Lost Boys for a week. Are you kidding? Boys! You're walking in the wrong direction! Come here, to Michaelangelo's in Astoria. They'll feed you thin crust pizza with mushrooms and white sauce. And they'll cater to your every need, and all you have to do is....what? What do you have to do to get here? Did I earn it? Did I win a prize? Girls, show her what she's won! A life of ease! 14,000,000,000 feet of bubble wrap to cushion your life until you die. Which will probably also be nice. You'll drift off after 100 years on a bed of feathers and candy bars. You won't: die from being eaten by a lion (unless you CHOSE to put yourself in that situation), or from hunger, or from a preventable disease. You'll never have to go more than three hours without eating, and clean water will ALWAYS be accessible to you. No matter what happens to you, you will always be enclosed in bubble wrap. Invisible as it may seem, it's there until you die. Pop. Still safe.Pop. Pop. safe. pop. pop. pop.

I guess that's why I chose to walk the 12 minutes today. I am so privileged that a story about a 12 minute walk in the pouring rain, in painful shoes, with a heavy box, was worth telling.

pop.

Astoriabout chronic cringing.

I've got to get something off my chest about the boob tube.

First note: I sold my TV for $100 to a man named Eddie. Not because I didn't use it, because I needed $100.

Second note: I am paid a meager salary as an After School Program Director. I try to keep the griping to a minimum because, somewhere in the world, I'm a millionaire. So, I take odd jobs.  I babysit for sweet, precious angel-babies once or twice a week. Let's call it professional in-home child care. As a professional in-home child care provider specialist, I: talk on the phone, order take-out, and watch TV.

TV is a treat, like soda. I flip through that channel guide as if I have four minutes to live and need to watch at least 12 seconds of every show on the list. Chopped, Office, Daily Show, Chopped, Office, Daily Show, Seinfeld, Friends?--never again, Office. Repeat, flip, guide, exit, jump back to Office...hold the phone! Sleepless in Seattle!? Thank you TBS and other brilliantly crafted networks, for addressing my needs. The comfy chair, the four remotes, I'm a Queen for two hours.

This evening I hit a snag. I was professionally and expertly caring for a 3-month old, Anabelle. I tucked her in, whispered the usual to her (as I do all the children I work with): "when you grow up, make sure to vote." Num, num, num, tuck, tuck, tuck. I walk back to the couch, snuggle up with the remote, my hands trembling from excitement. I don't usually babysit on Thursdays, so I don't even know what to expect! Maybe even Sex and the City!

I start with How I Met Your Mother. Classic, seen them all, feel at home when I'm watching them, laughing aloud - sorry Anabelle. It ends right on time, and I move forward with the plan I'd created during commercials: HIMYM will be followed by It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia, genius! I'll move from there to Food Network, then Comedy Central. I'll lap around and come back to Seinfeld and more HIMYM. Bathroom and water on commercial breaks only.

But then! The sweet baby began to move around in her sleep, nothing major, just some tossing and turning. She's usually quite peaceful, so I took note. I watched the baby monitor so closely that I became jumpy at each of her arm flails. Why did she just make that face, are those locusts hovering above her? (Parents, if you'd like to hire me, dial 555-BABY) Was she in sleep-pain? Is she having a nightmare? What do I do?! I'm her only chance at survival! Sure, she's safer than 99% of the children alive today with her soft bed, camera poised over her pillow, cabinets full of baby blankets, milk, toys, and soft things to chew. She keeps scrunching her face up and rolling around! I'm on it! I go and hover, placing my hand on her chest, phew! Still rising and falling. She seems to be smiling in her sleep, now. I'm a good babysitter. All your child has to do is move an elbow and I'm there with a thermometer. All this to say, I was a little on edge tonight.

So, I let her be, twists and turns abounding, and I get back to the plan. I'm on to 'It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia'. Great! Lots of laughing coming my way -- I bet! I laughed out loud a bit, checked the baby monitor, pinky movement, I let it slide. Back to Philly. The crew on the show has taken a vacation to The Jersey Shore, and it has hardly lived up to their memories of drunken crowds and fun in the sun. It's desolate, boring, and as they pointed out, there were more dogs on the beach than humans. They decide to revisit the spot known for the action: under the boardwalk. We all know it's going to be a let-down. But what no one expected was a colorful and long-lasting scene with two homeless people having anal sex. Listen, I'm no prude. It just caught me off guard. I wasn't in the mood, my insides already a little tense. It wouldn't have phased me, but this evening---no, it would phase me at anytime. It was graphic.

Flip. On to Food Network. BORING. Comedy Central for Tosh.O. He's walking around a college campus with a black light, looking for semen. OK. He opens a dorm room and what comes flying through the air but luminescent sperm, which lands right in his mouth. Fine. I get it, I'm queasy, but I get it. It wasn't until the camera panned to the pantless kid with a too-small blur over his penis in his hand that I reached for the remote.

Moving. Right. Along. Baby is still fidgety, but snoozing. I am starting to feel better, she's fine. I can do this, I said. I flip back to Philly. I can take it. Now the two are on their way up a roller coaster. The kind where you're in a seat, feet dangling, climbing up a vertical structure, just to be dropped at full speed.  The woman's hair somehow becomes stuck in the apparatus, a single braid, in fact. Her buddy won't help her, and the ride takes off. The braid is ripped from her scalp, blood squirting, their faces are shown, she's screaming in pain, and her buddy vomits mid-air.

Power, cable, video1, TV, off, system unit, power, video3, power, unit 2, off-mode, screen 5, power, TV again, power, power, power.  Finally, it's off.

At this moment, I yearn for the days of just: "Power."

I'm happy for the great strides we've made in television. No more keeping one foot firmly on the floor when sitting in bed with your wife, Dick van Dyke. Today, you can have anal sex with her, shoot projectile sperm into her mouth, rip her hair out, and vomit. Cue audience laughter and theme music.

That flip sound? It's not you falling over the ottoman, it's my tummy. Next time, I'll bring a book.

Astoriabout finding the one.

I've spent my whole life looking for this guy:

To think, he was a block away from my After School Program the entire time.

Guess I won't have to brave the crowds anymore.

Astoriabout Camerin's Clay.

A charming pair of turtle-loves, hand crafted by Camerin for Stefanie. She's currently working on a life-size sculpture of Stefanie and James. Stefanie is to look like Venus in a half [turtle] shell. Donate clay now.

Astoriabout a project.

Dunkin' Donuts is advertising Apple Cider and Payless has replaced its gladiator-fighting sandals with knock off UGGs. Fall is upon us. Soon we'll all be murmuring our coffee orders to baristas: "ahem...I'll have the, uh...Toasted Cornucopia Gingerbread-hug Soy Latte...extra Pumpkin Whip and Nutmeg Foam...but when you call it out, could you just say, 'Straight-up Black Coffee, extra no-frills, for the intelligent woman standing here to my left'?" 

I can't, I WON'T, gush over Fall because there are more important issues to address. Fall doesn't need ME to talk about its leaves and pumpkins, and apple recipes, and mulled wine! and half gloves! and KNIT CAPS THAT LOOK LIKE ANIMALS...I LOVE FALL!

Naw, yo. I'm here to talk about kids. Cold kids; you know, the ones that aren't warm and don't have access to items they need this Fall and Winter. This evening marks the beginning of a project called Candy Coats. The goal of Candy Coats is to raise money to buy as many coats as we can for kids in need of warmth. Each coat will be personalized for the child, and its pockets will be filled with candy and treats. Coats will be placed in a basket, along with other items from the child's holiday wish list, then addressed directly to that child. The goal is to raise money for 16,000 Candy Coat baskets for each of the 16,000 homeless children in this city. Aim high.

To raise this money, I'll be selling handmade cards and invitations. Why cards? I love to make them. I love to send them and write in them and buy them and collect them. Cards will be sold on a variety of websites, at many local stores and markets, and from my very home. You won't be able to swing a roll of stamps without knocking over a stand selling these cards.

Gulp, here it goes. To advertise for more online sales, I'm going to be passing out fliers and free cards to Astoria's N-Train riders after work. Every willing rider will receive a flier, but only the lucky one-per-car-per-stop from Queensboro Plaza to Ditmars will receive a FREE, hand-crafted card. That's a $2 to $5 deal. They'll be knocking down subway doors to get them. The idea is, "Whoa I just got a cool free card...I'll check this out when I get home...stand clear of the closing door please...type type type...cool, a service project...I like kids...Oh no, they're cold?!...if I buy more cards, 100% of the profits goes to this coat project...I'll buy a 387,000!"

To follow this project, check back here, or at Astoriabout on Twitter. I'll be tallying profits, providing sneak-peaks at the day's free card, displaying candy-coated photos and more.

Interested in helping? Need a coat for your child? Get in touch.

Astoriabout painting 359 dandelions.

Using a color printer and paintbrush, I made these wedding invitations for my dear friend:

Astoriabout a date.

November 5th, 2011

Astoriabout a turtle with no shell.

Invitations for a turtle-loving bride-to-be's bachelorette party
Inside: "The shells are coming off!"

This is astoriabout shell-less turtles on bachelorette party invitations, and it begins with soup. I can't write about this bride-to-be's turtle-love (and therefore turtle-themed parties) without mentioning that I once downed an entire bowl of turtle soup. It was served to me at a rehearsal dinner. The turtles used in that soup probably looked similar to the ones drawn for these invitations. Just imagine them standing on a cutting board instead of on a card.

Stefanie is a dear friend of mine, and along with her finance James, she has developed an affinity for pets with cartilaginous protection. She's a real diamond-in-the-rough for pulling off a turtle obsession and a law degree at the same time. On May 16th, 2011 I suggested that their pet turtle, Turnip Greens, have a role in the wedding. Stefanie replied: "I had the same thought about Turnip as ring bearer. James thinks he might hiss at all the guests and run and hide in the darkest corner...I suppose it could be like a wedding ring scavenger hunt."

All this to say, Stefanie is engaged. Stefanie likes turtles. I'm Stefanie's Maid of Honor, and therefore, her bachelorette party planner and invitation-maker.  This evening, I lugged out my suitcase of paper scraps and "snapped" to it. Three turtle-themed bachelorette party invitations are signed, sealed, and waiting to be delivered.

Astoriabout Definition.

Astoriabout [a-story-about] (noun-ish?): A blog from Astoria, Queens about _______________.