Am I Bad At This?

The other day I found myself at work because it was a Tuesday at 2:30 pm or something truly believable to start this story with. Anyways, we're all on board because here you are reading this. I was going through some legal documents because that is part of my job and it's probably the part of my job I'm worst at. Though, by 'worst', I really mean 'least confident in' because I don't ever have too much to do concerning the documents other than glean information from them. But I'm a Queen at second-guessing myself and a jester of exaggeration and I had one of those moments where I felt very defeated and had to ask myself, "Am I bad at this?"

And I think we all have those moments when you're 15 minutes late for a meeting that doesn't really matter because nothing at this point in our lives is (hopefully) so consequential that being 15 minutes late for it will have an Ashton-Kutcher-excuse-me-Chris-Kutcher-butterfly-effect, but you're still stuck in cellphone purgatory either 20 feet beneath the street in the subway or driving (and NOT texting) to wherever it is you're 15 minutes late for, and you have that heavy air in your lungs freak out, "Am I bad at this?"

Or maybe you've invited over new friends in the new big city you've moved to and finally have an apartment that isn't insulting to have people over in* and you decide to cook a big meal for everyone on the day the world is supposed to end, which you thought was 12-12-12 because that FUCKING makes sense, and no one feels the need to correct you that the Mayan's said the world would actually end on 12-21-12, so you're having a dinner party on an arbitrary fucking Wednesday and you make enchiladas for these new friends and the chicken you cooked at 2 am the night before to save time was never reheated and your new friends stand quietly in your kitchen eating frozen chicken in warm tortillas until one of them takes their first bite and is like "Kady, why the fuck is this enchilada cold?" and the question hits you again like a brick wall, "Am I bad at this?"

"This" can include, but is by no means limited to:
  • trying to garner what 'business casual' means
  • keeping a plant alive
  • keeping in touch with friends
  • not overdrawing your bank account
  • separating darks and whites in the laundry because supposedly that matters and people care?
Sometimes it can be really overwhelming to keep all these balls in the air, especially when we live in a world where people instagram their beautiful enchiladas they've cooked that I'm sure are one consistent fucking temperature. It's really easy to think everyone is doing more than you, and doing it better than you, and sometimes I have to remind myself that no one is uploading photos of the shit they don't do. 

To wrap this up, because one thing I am good at is not stopping talking and writing, there is this guy at 59th St--Columbus Circle, a subway station I frequent almost every day, who plays the piano on the downtown ABCD platform. He's been there for about 9 months at this point with this little keyboard and cardboard box playing some sort of freestyle jazzy music** And I used to stand there waiting for my transfer, every morning on my way to work, just watching this guy, who played the piano trying to decide if he was good or bad. Months. Is this guy a good piano player? Or a bad piano player? Months. Is he an improvised musical savant? Or a fraud? Last week he started wearing a little headphone microphone that he now sings into to accompany his piano playing and I've never seen someone look happier or more excited in a subway station (sober, I'm assuming.) And when he started wearing that little microphone, it hit me, like that lingering question, but more affirming, that it doesn't matter one bit if this dude is good or bad or brilliant or struggling. He is having a really great time and following something that excites him. The nuance of exact quality probably doesn't matter all that much because like it or not he now has a microphone accessory that he was able to buy because he stuck to something that made him happy and made enough people happy enough to throw him a dollar or two. 

*Read: "Oh, you're more than welcome to come over but you'll have to stand in the sink while we watch TV. Oh, and I hope it isn't weird, I technically don't pay rent for the sink so please jump out this 5 story window if my scary craigslist roommate walks in and there is a possibility she will see you standing in her sink, kthanks. 

**guys, I know a lot about music.


Three's Company

Ugh, hi guys. I've been a little lackadaisical about updating this blog and I could go on with a myriad of reasons why but if it isn't blatantly obvious I'm taking an SAT vocab class that's taking up all my time just shoot me now.

No actually, top secret news!! I'm developing this blog into a web series!
jk! I'm developing this blog into a themed restaurant!
One of my published instagram photographs.
jk again! I'm turning this blog into a Yankee scented candle that burns back down into an okay blog of a twenty something New Yorker.

Guys, I'm being a total jokester. But there is something I've been thinking about a ton, and it's actually a little embarrassing because I'm almost a grown woman and should know this by now. Like, not only should I be aware of this but it should be ingrained in my membrane to protect my well being and it..it isn't.

Okay, here it goes. I, I don't know, I don't know WHICH rail is the third rail. Okay?

And I'm going to argue that you can't blame me. Because there isn't a natural pairing of two of the rails that clearly indicates one is the 'third.' Like one isn't painted bright red saying ALERT ALERT third rail. All you get is a scratchy pre-recorded warning from some guy probably named Jeff who lives in Yonkers saying "Beware of the Third Rail" and I just wish it were publicly acceptable to respond and be like "JEFF, WHICH RAIL IS THE THIRD?? JEFF? JEFF!!"

At this point, the third rail is such a part of the larger zeitgeist* that I know to be afraid of it even though I don't really know how to prepare myself against it. It's like a myth. Like, holding your keys between your fist to punch a potential mugger. Does that happen? Does it work? How do I punch?

Ok, well if y'all have any thoughts, advice, SAT words you want to share, please leave them in the comments. I'll let you know where you can buy the candles once they come out.

Peace & Love

*what did I tell you about that vocab class. Ladies? Gentleman?


Pride & Prejudice & Standard Text Messaging Rates

This is the first in a series of posts combining classic literature with modern day technological habits and advancements.

Pride & Prejudice

``I dare say you will find him very agreeable.''

``Heaven forbid! -- That would be the greatest misfortune of all! -- To find a man agreeable whom one is determined to hate! -- Do not wish me such an evil.''

When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, quickly Elizabeth slipped her cellular into the side-seamed pocket, and Charlotte could not help cautioning her, in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man of ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, whose countenance she had studied for hours late into the night on his Facebook profile page, and reading in her neighbours' looks their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word,  only the faint buzz-buzzz-buzzz of her phone vibrating against her hip made a muffled disturbance; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. Perhaps he was more talkative on online chatrooms? Elizabeth tended to stray from those online congregations, but she was unable to deny that many evenings in her youth were spent conversing with lonely older men from Iowa, binded by their mutual fascination of Manga and similarly fashioned late 19th century Japanese cartoons. He replied, and was again silent. Though she was enjoying the routine, it occurred to her that the consistent caller on her phone was perhaps the cute doorman she made slutty eyes at the week before, and the buzzing of her phone only heightened that fluttering remembrance. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:

``It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. -- I talked about the dance, and you ought to make some kind of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples.''