sac·cha·rine

For anyone following along at home, through my spastic, sporadic social media updates, you can guess I’ve had some big change and relatively shit luck lately.

The big change is just more job stuff. I quit two of my three gigs to take on one full-time at a coffee shop a few blocks from my apartment. It’s a great, chill spot I knew previously from writing (so new spot suggestions in Greenpoint welcome). The clientele is comprised of folks from my neighborhood—something I hope will eventually bloom into an opportunity to score free pizzas and tattoos. I work with cool people and am sinking some serious time into building right hand wrist strength (HJs [JK, “espresso stuff”]). Without spending two hours a day commuting, I’ll have more time to write on my computer and not tiny scraps of receipts on the train. That’s the dream, right?

But then about the computer. The Friday night before last, both my phone and wallet got swiped. Two nights later, I spilled enough water on my laptop to render it useless. So for a shade over a week now, I have been pretty impossible to reach. By the middle of the week, though, I hope to be back up and running with a new phone ($$ouch$$) and Katt’s old MacBook. I mean, I even got a new debit card in the mail Saturday so I’m lacing up the jazz shoes with which to valiantly dance back onto the grid.

I haven’t hated life as an MIA. It has certainly been inconvenient as the only one out of touch, but not impossible. The curveball forced me to work on little idiosyncrasies I have and am not wild about—like not keeping plans, getting distracted by countless Tupac GIFs, things like that.

And although no one turned in my phone or wallet*, this experience has given me a bit more faith in humanity. Friends and colleagues have been enormously understanding and helpful—one even lent me his wife’s old laptop for a few days in the meantime. Others let me use their phones to coordinate crapola. My roommates encourage me to leave my day’s spazzy, neurotic itinerary up on the fridge. I really only see a few people outside of work, and it’s cool.

The weather’s turned warmer lately, too. Sun spilled in Cafe Royal’s windows warm enough we opened the doors and no one complained. Most of the snow lumped in corners at McGolrick melted. People started talking about popsicles again.

Here’s to new whatevers. 

*Someone did, however, anonymously mail me a bunch of ATM receipts, friends’ business cards, a DC metro pass, foreign currency and other seemingly useless stuff from my wallet last week. I was a little upset it didn’t also contain my license or UNF ID, as those two also seem of no value to the criminal. I mean, I understand keeping my Qdoba card because I was two burritos away from a free one. That I get.

I don’t consider myself much of a cold weather hard-ass, but after three years in the northeast I’m much tougher. (Also, I visited Atlanta this past weekend and felt like a leathery John Wayne of relatively wimpy-style winter compared to my local buds.) But I couldn’t have done it without Five Dope Keeping Warm Tips I authored myself to maintain life during unavoidable moments outdoors (in addition to obvious stuff like, don’t skip drying your hair when it’s 16 out, try a jacket, etc.). Today I’ll share them with you. (#philanthropy) Try them and stay toasty, babes.

1. Booze. Yeah yeah yeah, alcohol, like, lowers your core temperature but it makes your skin feel warmer. (Science told me so.) And also, it’ll make you care a little less about your stupidly long walk to the train and why the fuck did you move to Greenpoint again this is such a stupidly long walk and oh hey there’s a cutie carrying an Ames book OK this is alright. Also, trust this dog.

2. Coffee. The daytime appropriate (I guess) alternative to Tip No. 1.

3. Flannel-Lined Shit-Kicking Boots. After a little Twitter official research with some of my NY lady pals last fall, I learned the majority agreed Doc Marten combat boots were the beeeeeeeeeeest. Then I got a pair on sale on the Internet and they arrrrrrrrrrre. I’m sure whatever brand works, but as long as your boots include flannel lining and goes up to your shin at least, you’re set. Plus cold wet socks are only slightly more comfortable than sharing a subway car with The Dell Dude. Avoid those.

4. Tropical Tunes. Dodging deceptively deep curbside puddles ain’t so bad while also deceiving your brain with summertime music. Often I pump albums I closely associate with hot months (Utopia Parkway by Fountains of Wayne is a solid standby) to trick myself into thawing.

Although the most helpful—in my experience—is…

5. Run A Little Bit Late Everywhere All The Time. I’m not advising anyone to develop a tendency with tardiness because hey, we all need jobs so we can eat (this coming to you from an “adult woman” with “three jobs” and a “real college degree”). But a little laser tag running never hurt anyone—and it’s effective cardio for the busy commuter! If you’re in a mad rush, it’s less likely you’ll find yourself bitching about freezing fingers clean off your hand because you don’t have time for that! Go! GOOOOOOO! You might find yourself with a solid sweat V on your back by the time you make it to the office or knitting club, but you made it and you are warm. Dammit.

Can we draw attention back to this film for a second? I have no idea how this re-entered my mind this too early morning but it did. The 2001 flick’s tag-line, according to IMDB, reads: “A mother and daughter con team seduce and scam wealthy men.” Naturally.

It’s a pretty fucked-up movie that takes the charming yeah-we’re-mother-and-daughter-but-we-can-still-be-frank-slash-crude-with-each-other charm of Gilmore Girls and rouses it to an uncomfortable sexy-time tag-team (SECRET-MOTHER-AND-DAUGHTER) level and… well, would you just look at how scary-skinny JLH’s arms are?

I haven’t been up to many public musings/story tellings lately (instead I’ve reserved them for private entertainment for my lucky close friends [they hate me]), so I asked for random prompts on Facebook and Twitter to get started again. Or whatever.

My former office neighbor from my NPR Music intern days, Lars, suggested simply, “bees.” So here is a post about bees.

In August 2006, I moved into my nondescript concrete cell with two idiot girls from small towns just outside Gainesville, Fla. OK, that is not nice. Only one was an idiot, but I didn’t much like either of them. Both held racist, vacant views of the world but the three of us foraged a temporary bond through alcohol and The O.C.—against all odds.

We settled into routines and branched out. I met a lot of wonderful people and spent as much time outside the dorm room as possible. The other two tended to hole up, abusing the microwave and binging on Nip/Tuck. They did not have a lot of friends besides each other, best I could tell. Even though the girls continued being generally awful, I tried to bring them out and be a pal to each. So I toted them along to a Halloween party.

If you went to UNF, you likely remember the Melrose apartment complex. If you did not, here is a quick run-down: Despite existing in a wealthy enough neighborhood, gunshots weren’t uncommon to hear in the parking lots. It was where you went to buy sketchy weed, pound grain alcohol Jell-O shots and/or meet someone with whom you may rub up against (who you could likely also count on to be secretly 38, a NARC or illegal in some way). It was busted and sucked but we were 18 and had no other choice. And it was where we were heading for Halloween festivities, like good boys and girls do.

I dressed as a bridesmaid, in junction with a theme I established with the rest of a “wedding party.” My roommates—let’s call them D and C—went as Sexy Strawberry Shortcake and Sexy Bumblebee, respectively. We stayed late, smoking menthol cigarettes and gargling banana rum. D even cleaned the host’s toilet before puking in it (I said they were insufferable, I didn’t say they had no manners). When allegations involving drunk girls and less drunk dudes surfaced, we split. I don’t remember who drove home but I do remember someone rode along in D’s white sedan’s trunk.

After the short trek home to The Crossings, D and C stumbled behind me in their heels. I led the way now barefoot. A few leftovers from Halloweens spent elsewhere or perhaps even in the campus woods lay draped across the iron benches. The sun began to inch above the horizon, glowing too bright already. It was then C adjusted her wilting Sexy Bumblebee wings and heaved, “Well. Alright.” D next dropped into a squat and decorated the sidewalk with her vomit.

It stayed out there for the next week.

Bees.

Got another prompt for me?