All of them all of them, all lined up

You might wonder what I've been doing. Well, I will tell you.

Way back at the end of February, I went to a giant party called the Bouquat that happens every year. The theme was Nomadic Neuromancer. The decorations and food were really good. The jacket situation was not so good though, it was just a big pile of jackets, and somehow my keys fell out and I had to wake my dad up to let me in to his apartment to sleep on his couch at 3 in the morning. I called the number on the party invitation the next day, and the girl who answered had found my keys! I went back to Bushwick to get them and realized she was the dorm neighbor of my 1998 boyfriend. So, I stayed to help clean up, and we talked about how we were babies back then and how weird it is to imagine that we've had ten years worth of stuff since we hung out in that dorm (which is above the Blue Water Grill and which is probs luxury loft/condos now).

Then I went to Philadelphia to meet up with Erika and "drop in" on a film studies conference. Who knew about how nice Philadelphia is? Do people who live there really call it "Philly"? I'm skeptical. The conference made me really inspired about the future. (My future, I mean. Not the world's. Although maybe Philadelphia's.) The one minus was that one of my fave professors, who I always have lunch with when I go back to Santa Cruz, was at the conference somewhere, but I could never find her. Don't tell her I was there; she might be sad -- I know I was!

Then I had to come back to New York to go to my mom's memorial service. My dad showed up an hour late, which was especially fascinating given that he'd been super controlling about planning the whole thing. I had static cling on my dress, and I sat through the whole service worrying about what I was going to say when it was my turn to speak, because I had written my "remarks" on the subway and during the musical interlude at the beginning of the service. I ended up accidentally including some minor spoilers for season three of Veronica Mars in my speech, which Nora pointed out to me later, but mostly it went over well, and it made me feel good that people seemed to take comfort in what I was saying.

The next weekend was my birthday, and I cooked birthday dinner at my house with Charlie and Eddie for a bunch of people. It was fun. I realized the downside of hosting your own birthday dinner is that no one buys you dinner! But the upside is that people will just automatically start doing dishes for you! And then at the end of the night, you're already at home!

Then I went to New Orleans with my sister. It was good. I will say, my sister has a fancier system of traveling than me, and I felt like I had one too many $18 "vegetable plate" from a fancy restaurant. Also, I'm just going to tell you: my sister and I fought constantly and horribly. New Orleans is rad, though. I would not have thought to go there had Wendy not spoken so highly of it as a honeymoon destination. I think the best part for me was walking around by myself on Easter Sunday, watching an Easter Parade of fancy-looking southern families on floats dressed up and throwing beads and candy and saying "here you go, baby!" every time they threw something. I went to the Catholic church in the French Quarter and cried a lot about my mom, and then I went and sat next to the river and cried a lot more, and then I saw a tiny lizard, had a cute conversation with a cute anarcho-punk guy, and got iced coffee. Then it was time to go.

Then I came back to NYC and Erika visited for way too short of a time, and we ate some delicious food. And Karen visited, and we had a ladies night birthday dinner at Bonita that included a discussion about being popular in high school that, upon reflection, was sort of embarrassing and unproductive. And also, Nathan visited for many days and, among other things, helped me to dispose of the drug paraphernalia left in my old uptown apartment by my subletter who had announced, back on the day that I left for Philadelphia, that he was moving to London. Except now I'm wondering if "London" is code for "a crack den." It was sad for me to move out of that apartment once and for all, because decorating and organizing my apartment was one of the last major things my mom and I did together before she started getting sick. I kept the extra shelf paper, but I threw a lot of things away. Anyway, that apartment is history now, and I got my deposit back yesterday. And since I have class, which Luann from Real Housewives says is "a way of making other people feel comfortable," that is all I have to say about these matters.

So, now you know.

Everyone is trying to get to the bar

What I'm into right now:

Real Housewives of NYC. The problem is, every time I try to talk about the hilarity of this show, I sound like an even bigger snobby, middle-brow jerk than any of the housewives. But for what it's worth, my parents did get me into their first-choice pre-school, so I think I have some authority, if not critical distance.

Staying hydrated

Getting rid of things


What I miss about 1993:

"Pavement Boy"
Tacoctober at San Loco
Autoclave
the Gap on St. Marks Place
youthful innocence
wanting to go to Scotland and Olympia
Canard and Co.

Lovely day

Family style, 1981.

Older and far away

Tonight I am cleaning out my childhood bedroom, which my mom "converted" into a place to contain her piles of purses, psychoanalytic journals, and failed electronics. I just found a credit card receipt that she signed from the Veselka, the restaurant across from my parents' apartment, that's dated December 28. She went into the hospital on the 26th. When I read that I thought, wait, has this whole thing been a mistake? It was like the dream I had, right before she died, that she came to my apartment to pick me up and drive me back to the hospital to see her. Then, I realized it was from December 28 2006. It's 2008 now!

Today I worked at my "writing consultant" job all day. Usually it's just helping undergraduates write essays for Core classes, but today I had mostly graduate students -- a big relief. Even better, they were all guys, and all cute. I know, you are probably saying to yourself, "this is a travesty, Zoe is not qualified to give advice to real graduate students." Well, I agree, but we live in an unfair world. At least I know that you "impregnate" a solution rather than "seed"-ing it, and that "World's Fair" is capitalized and has an apostrophe. At least there's that.

Yesterday I went to see a psychologist up at school. I was hoping she would give me some kind of emergency psychological relief package -- you know, some mood stabilizers, some coupons for Ben and Jerry's -- but no such luck. I told her I've been sleeping on my parents' couch for the past three weeks and that I'm freaked out about going home. She said, "you should go home." I told her I've been having trouble sleeping. She said, "you should go to bed earlier." I told her I think I might be depressed, and she said it doesn't count as depression if something sad has actually happened. The spin instructors at the gym I go are more helpful than that! Anyway, I was going to go home tonight, but then I didn't.

Do you have a style icon?

Maybe you don't have one -- some of my favorite friends do not have style icons.

Maybe you have more than one. I have more than one!

Tonight I am going to tell you about Cindy Wilson. Cindy was my first style icon. For many years I have said that I love the B-52s, but I think it's actually Cindy that I love. When she's performing, she is fascinating to watch -- she's not "theatrical" like, say, Debbie Harry or that girl from Metric, but she conveys a lot of emotion and looks so cool. I also feel a connection to her because she's a Pisces vegetarian, and she had a big brother who was also in the band ('til he died). Plus, she sings "Hero Worship," which is one of my top five fave songs of all time.

But maybe you know all this stuff! Anyway, it was from Cindy that I learned about thrift store dresses, eye makeup, and the importance of having your own style of dancing.

First absurd, and then commonplace.

Last weekend I discovered a cold-weather post-brunch alternative to looking at the dogs in the Tompkins Square Park dog run: looking at the rescue cats at PetCo on Union Square!

On Monday I took a spin class with my new favorite teacher, Derek -- he makes us do unusual yoga stretches at the end of class. And, he says "this song is really good, you guys" before every song starts. That new Cassie single is really good, though.

I went out on Monday night and Tuesday was hung-over alllll day. It was pleasant to go out but not 100% fun. I had this revelation about how old everyone is getting! Like, there's a definite generation gap between the people I'm used to seeing around and the 23-year-olds that are suddenly everywhere. The 23-year-olds are fatter, for one thing. And they have a lot more energy. I guess I was hoping people would start to seem more amazing to me now, if that makes sense, but instead, everyone seems less amazing than ever! And my friend who was DJing kept playing a party horn noise in the middle of songs, ugh.

Yesterday I suddenly got totally psyched about doing lots of work, which was almost a lost feeling in my life. Then, Antonia and I ate omelettes and went to American Apparel and talked about the evolution of our personal styles. I said mine is "'70s kindergarten teacher," and we also decided that hers is "'70s prep school student." I bought a cardigan at American Apparel.

Then, last night, I got a summer job offer in Madrid! And Princeton. What an embarrassment of riches. Figuratively, I mean -- the pay would not actually be that great. Then, today, I did more work. I think that's it so far.

Happy Valentines Day!

Any day now

My mom passed away a week ago. I don't really feel like talking about it or writing about it. Today my dad said to me that he feels like he has to put on a performance of grieving every time someone calls him to talk about what happened. I agree -- whenever one of my mom's friends calls to check on me, or when people bring casseroles and pies over to my parents' apartment and want to hear about how I'm feeling, I have to fake it and make a little speech, and then they tell me I sound strong.

The truth is, I think I probably am strong, and I guess I will admit that it gives me a (terrible, smug) sense of satisfaction that I'm the only one of my dad's kids who's been reasonable and sensible about this whole thing, in spite of the fact that it's my mother -- not theirs -- who's dead. But it's also true that I would trade that sense of satisfaction for someone I could count on, or even just someone who would always be around to understand what I'm feeling and tell me I'm doing okay.

And, the truth is that I am doing okay. But I'm also not doing okay. I feel like I'm already working through things, but at the same time like I'll never get through this. I don't want to think about it, but I can't think about anything else. I don't want to write about this in my blog, but I feel like it would be wrong not to, and just as wrong to write about anything else. I don't want anything anymore -- to make something good, to fall in love, to become enlightened -- but I want tons of things -- a new house, a new car, new boots, a trip to London. It feels exactly the same as any other February of my life, any other week, but also like nothing else. I'm not sure if I'm even feeling the feeling or just feeling a feeling about a feeling that's still indescribable and inaccessible even to me.

I told my dad that I think we're traumatized. The thing is, next to the abstract truth that my mother doesn't exist in this world anymore, that she's never coming back, is the reality of the terrible illness that destroyed her body. And the reality of the last month of her life in the Surgical Intensive Care Unit. I wish I could talk or write about the visions of my mother's sickness and death that are burned into my brain, but it feels too private. Like the things I said to my mom and the songs we listened to together on my ipod on her last days, all that stuff is stuck between her and me. No one else except for my dad really understands what happened, and as much as I can pretend that doesn't matter when I'm reassuring people about it, it does matter, and I can't imagine that there will ever be a time when I don't feel sad and angry about that anymore.

But I know patience is the thing. Like all feelings, this one is going to take time to develop. Something is changing in me, I think -- it must be. And in a month or a year or seven years I'll be able to look back and see that, no matter what else, today was the beginning of something.