DeGaetano Christmas

I went to Lancaster for Christmas last week. I overbooked at Thanksgiving and had a pretty stressful visit so this time I tried to keep my Christmas schedule breezy.

My mom picked me up from the train station at 10 am Christmas Eve. We went to the mall and spent a few hours finishing our Christmas shopping together. At 2:30 we met up with my dad at Valentino's, a little bar that my family likes to go to. My mom and I happened across their Christmas Eve celebration last year. The first round is on the house, they have a complimentary buffet and a packed house. It was nice to get a few relaxed moments alone with my parents. Mr. Valentino, who is at least 85, played the accordion to our delight. He stubbornly played marching tunes with a twinkle in his eye while his daughters begged him to play Christmas songs. Bethany and Stephen joined us for the tail end of our time there, which was a pleasant surprise.

 Back at the house, my mom put a ham in the oven and sequestered herself and my dad in a spare bedroom to wrap presents. Ben, Kara and the kids arrived and everyone worked on dinner together. I had started to make an apple crisp and my brother said that I was trying to cramp his style since he had previously announced that he was making the dessert. His dessert would be made with duck-fat (a separate blog entry would be required to properly document Ben's relationship with duck-fat), and how could I compete...what was I using...butter? A dessert-off was declared and much shit was talked to everyone's amusement/irritation.

 Fearing the crisp would not be big enough for everyone (and realizing after the crisp was in the oven that I forgot to add flour and it would probably taste like sugar and oatmeal and that was not an option since I was in a dessert-off), I also made molasses cookies. Ursa, three months shy of three, announced that she wanted to help me and I let her crack the first egg to humor her. Standing on her highchair, she tapped the egg once and neatly delivered a shell-free egg into the bowl with her tiny fingers. No big deal. When I commented, Kara said that she has been letting Ursa make her own eggs in the morning. Supervised, she added after Ben's surprised/proud/delighted/scared/high-pitched "WHATTT!!!"

 Naftali, six at the end of February, had been observing and helping quietly and at one point we looked over and he had used the chopper to chop a cup or two of walnuts and combined it with a cup or two of sugar in a bowl. Rolling with it, Kara said that he was going to make cinnamon rolls. Naftali, busily stirring the sugar/walnuts with a spoon, agreed as if that had been his plan all along. Ben welcomed him into the dessert-off and explained to him that everyone would vote after they tasted all the desserts and a winner would be named.

 Bethany made the brussel sprouts. Ben made the fingerling potatoes. My mother emerged to check the ham. Orla and Steve were playing records and scoping out the growing pile of presents under the tree and by the fireplace. I announced that I had started Christmas crafts a month ago and they were still not done yet so only the kids were getting actual presents from me. Lauren called...Christmas was not quite perfect with her and Skyler in North Carolina. Kara sliced the bread and made an antipasti tray that did not quite make it to dinner. We were hungry.

 After dinner, the presents.
After presents, the dessert-off.

The apple crisp was ok but not great due to the missing flour. The molasses cookies were really good but not amazing by Christmas cookie standards. The dessert Ben made...in the words of Orla, "tastes like cheeseburger and fries." Ben took one bite and declared it to be terrible. Perhaps the beloved duck-fat should be saved for savory dishes. The cinnamon rolls were amazing. The pastry was buttery and flaky, melting in the mouth. Bethany and I asked Kara how she did it, but then we saw Naftali. He was silent, watching everyone's reactions to the desserts. It was official and we let him know: Naftali and the cinnamon rolls were the official winner of the 2012 dessert-off. He took the news in stride with a pleased closed-mouth crooked smile.

I said I would give it a year...

My summer in NYC was spent on my bike, riding around. Drinking beers with new friends. Getting tan at the beach and while at the park with my dog. Flirting with boys and finding my way around this bulky old town. Having as much fun a broke single gal can have.

That abrubtly ended with the unraveling of my relationship with my roommate/friend/crime partner upon whose insistance I had moved to New York. The first week of September we had our third ugly, marriage-style fight that started (as the other two did) because he was being possessive of me. I put a stop to further fights by deciding to move out. He took that as a betrayal and did a couple super-shitty things as a result of hurt feelings.

I spent September and October feeling stabbed in the back.

Out of last minute necessity because everything of course went wrong, I moved to Washington Heights on W. 177 St in Manhattan. It was a dump but I could afford it, they allowed my dog and did not require a security deposit. Good thing: In September I earned about half the amount I had easily made in August. The door locks? Great, I'll take it.

I have been practically living on the train. It takes two hours for me to get to work and sometimes more than two hours to get home. Then Hurricane Sandy arrived the last week of October and rocked NYC. I am grateful that I did not experience power outages or flooding. But the transit system was not back to normal for about two weeks.

During this time my birthday came and went. I was so depressed that I canceled the few plans I was able to make post-hurricane. I barely got out of bed. I hate my job. I hate my commute. I am so fucking broke. I am so depressed that I am a thirty-three year old waitress. I have no man. I have no children. I have nothing.

In addition to all that, I am like the worst dog owner ever. I can't imagine what Spencer is thinking. At the park I was talking to a man whose dog was fifteen and still going strong. My heart actually sank at the thought of Spencer living seven more years. Then I was furious with myself for wanting Spencer to not have a long life because I am tired of taking care of him. At Thanksgiving I am taking him to my parents house for a few weeks or months so that he can receive care from nice people who are home enough to not only care for his most basic needs but also might even occasionally have the energy to play with him.

And then I got hit by a car while riding my bike...

Friends and family began urging me to move back home. I would call my mom and cry about being lonely and broke and homesick. I would stare at the pictures of my nieces and nephew on my phone.

But I feel like moving back at this point would be giving up. I moved here to try and use my degree. To see if this town is all its cracked up to be.

Trying to rally my battered spirit, I started to look for jobs. I cleaned up my resume and have been applying to a new place every few days. I am getting my bike repaired. I am moving back to Brooklyn and in with a close friend. The first week of December I will be living with someone I love and trust. I will be a twenty minute bike ride from work. The world will not actually come to an end.

I will reassess my relationship with New York when I am here a year, on May 1. It's a date.

Concrete Jungle

I moved to Brooklyn, NYC 2 months ago. It was time for a change. I loved Lancaster and was happy and content there but needed to have more going on. More job opportunities, more chances to have adventures, a larger pool of interesting men, etc.
My faithful dog Sir Spencer Rooney and friend Kris moved with me.
Kris and I became friends working at the same restaurant. We have both travelled quite a bit, both lived abroad for a while. We share the same longing for adventure and better career-related opportunities. We both love Belgian White beer, ice skating and smoking cigarettes. He tolerates Spencer but "doesn't do dogs" which I find to be unconscionable. I snore and he sometimes wears earplugs so that he is able to sleep.
Spencer, Kris and I moved to Brooklyn into the tiniest efficiency apartment the world has ever known. Kris and I share bunk beds. Spencer's bed is located under the desk. This desk doubles as the media stand, table and occasional ironing board.
Since moving to New York City we have been arrested, mugged and lived through a two month rolling brown-out. We went without running water for 5 days. I inadvertantly hitch-hiked at 5 am and received a free ride from a cabbie who asked me out. I went out with the cabbie.
Kris learned the true meaning of the what it is to de-louse.
I have locked myself out of the apartment three times, once for 3 hours where I finally made it into the house by conning into our upstairs neighbor into letting me climb out their window, down the fire escape where I jimmied our windown open and climbed in.
Kris passed out on the street and came home with a chipped tooth.
Spencer eats chicken bones and donuts off the street and likes to chase the rats and feral cats.
More to come.

Highs and Lows

This blog will be about three things: tickets, moving and anxiety.

1. TICKETS. Usually I am very Zen about tickets. I get a lot of them and rarely let them get me down. Speeding tickets, parking tickets, tollbooth tickets, overdue library book tickets for chrissakes! I just park where I want and drive how I please and pay the fucking fines. But tonight I got a ticket at 11 pm and I am down about it. The cop was rude to me. He pulled me over for an expired registration that I did not even know about. He told me right away that he was giving me a ticket, even though I said that I did not receive notice that it was expiring and thought that it did not expire until the end of this month. He and a cop that emerged from a second cruiser shone their flahslights into the cab of my car and asked if I had any drugs or weapons. A third police car crept slowly by and I started to feel kind of paranoid. And I am trying to save money because I am moving so I am bummed at having to pay this damn citation...........speaking of...

2. MOVING. I am moving to NYC with my best boy friend, Kristopher Horner and of course my beloved dog Sir Spencer Rooney. We are going to see if that big old city can provide some opportunities that Lancaster is not able to provide. We are certain that there will be hijinks and adventures although I have plenty of those in my beloved Lancaster. I am happy with this decision and know that if I do not like it I can always move back. I am sad about leaving but it is time.

3. ANXIOUS. My anxiety has been through the roof recently. I am really sad about leaving Lancaster. I love it here. But I have not found a fulfilling job and I really want the chance to have a more rewarding career. I am anxious that it is not the job market, it is me. I am anxious that Spencer will not be happy in New York. I told that to my parents tonight and they said that he will be happy as long as he is with me (after having a good laugh that I would worry about such a thing). I am trying to just breath and act logistically. Make a list, slowly check tasks off the list. I am trying to remind myself that once I am there I will be fine (this is true of all of my big moves). I remember the weeks leading up to leaving for the Air Force Basic Training I had feelings similar to the ones I have now. And actually now that I think about it, I was really nervous to start college. As a 27 year old freshman that had gotten out of the miitary only days before, I felt old and did not know anyone. Driving to campus at 8 am on that Tuesday morning I wanted to throw up. But after the first class I knew it would be fine and I could do it. Change is hard and scary but that does not mean it is wrong. I need to follow this through.

Straight Talk with Regina

I really love giving advice. I am good at giving both good and bad advice.

You got haters? Fuck those fat fucks.

You hate your job? Quit today and live off the land.

Is your boyfriend being shady? I will follow him in my car like the private eye I long to be. When you decline, citing that as ridiculous behavior, I might follow him anyway and perform a small background check. Don't worry, I will only tell you if I have any juicy findings. If he turns out to be a standup guy with a penchant for youtube kitten videos and late night stress snacking, then I will simply stop telling you to break up with him.

Spectacular, spectacular

How to get through a gray, drab winter:
1. Wear fancy things, diamonds if you have them
2. Take advantage of sunshiny afternoons.
3. Make new friends at work and get into a little bit of trouble here and there.

I'm feelin it

I LOVE being in my 30s. I think that it is silly that women dread aging. First of all, the process is not only inevitable and irreversible, but starts the day we are born. I feel more alive, intelligent, content, mature, sexy and beautiful than I did in my 20s. I look forward to the many years ahead of me and the process of aging, maturity, life stages, etc.

Here are a few goals for 2012:
1. Try to not get too fat this winter. I love cookies and hate cold so prior winters have been unsuccessful. Here's to portion control and the occassional wintery walk.
2. Do more drugs. I have spent a lot of time being cautious. I think I am going to experiment this year. Isn't 32 the age when most people go through this phase? Ha. Yes, I know that most of my peers are settling down and getting serious. I wanted that at 22 and it did not work out for me. So I will try to forge a path that will lead me towards MY bliss and no one else's.
3. Be open to falling in love again. I can still feel the sting of my last heartreak, but it is no longer debilitating. I am not there yet but maybe I will be again.

Back to aging...I like all the old memories and the perspective that only years can provide.

The past few years have been so difficult that I am thankful for the memories of times in my life that were blissful:
Laying on a net in the front of a catamaran sailing towards a small island off the coast of Puerto Rico. My tan legs were getting sprayed by the surf and I stared into the blue horizon. Later we would lunch on kiwi, strawberries, pina coladas and tunafish sandwiches. The sand of that beach was white and soft. The water was clear and warm. Snorkeling on a reef that was filled with fishes and other creatures I didn't even know to think about. The men sailing the catamaran were darkly tanned and muscular. I wondered how much they were paid and that everyone must be a fool to not desire a job that allows you to work in such idyllic conditions. Perhaps they were tired and headachy from the work and the sun. But then they dove into the ocean on their lunchbreak. It has to beat most of our daily grind bullshit.