It's the whole damn world turned inside out

When I was in 5th grade I won a goldfish at a local carnival . It obviously wasn't very important to me because I neither named it nor kept it alive for very long. I watched it swim around and around the small glass bowl all day long, and I wondered how horrid and dizzy a lifestyle that must be. So, I reached into the lukewarm water, pulled out the fish, and decapitated it with a pair of ridged arts and crafts scissors. This may be a metaphor, or I may have been a blood-thirsty elementary school kid--but the point is--we were all braver when we were younger.

Now, at eighteen, I find myself feeling more insecure, more unsure about myself, my friends, love, and the whole entire world, than ever. Not in a melodramatic way, earth combusts and shatters sort of way, but in a way that makes me nostalgic for the days when I didn't second guess every move, motive, or word that I produced. Maybe we just don't remember all the anxiety that once existed in our little bodies, and a few years from now, I'll long to be eighteen again.

Times are hard for dreamers

Coming home to what seems like a deserted wasteland has taken a toll (or rather, toke) on me. I'm used to returning home from vacations, and prancing into the open arms of friends. I arrived home from Alaska today, and Emily was the only one left. We self medicated for what seemed like several hours, got terrible "you're so stoned and pathetic"-stares in Turriellos. In fact, I nibbled on my slice in a state of total paranoia and fright. We drove halfway to Cathy's only to turn a street or two before. I didn't think it'd be so painful to watch the masses drop like flies. Pack their respected tastes in granola bars, their preferred booze and pot, pencils, pens, and IKEA-ware, and up and go. Embark on their next four years of collegiate bliss--whilst I sit out the next 7-weeks. In lonesome agony.

What to do

List of things to do:

(but really...)

1. Stop crushing on boys I will never see again. Ever.

2. Haircut! 

3. Stop shopping. At least until paycheck arrives in September.

4. Make time to not feel so tired and actually blog some decent reads. 

I'm sorry. I am a royal letdown. 

You're hiding underneath the smoke in the room

I visited Baltimore for my first time this weekend. Strange to say that it has taken me this long to do so. First of all, my best friend lives in Baltimore and it is certainly inherent that my lack of making the 4 and a 1/2 hour leap through Jersey and Delaware to Maryland, has taken somewhat of a toll on our friendship. And secondly, because my two adorable little cousins, aunt, and uncle moved there three years ago.

We arrived mid-afternoon on Saturday to a warm welcome from my aunt. No cousins in sight though. The house smelled incredible (my aunt is both a fabulous cook and food columnist.) "Something citrusy", Arel cleverly stated. We took a tour of their amazing house. Aside from the house being old and beautiful and full of character, I spent the whole weekend admiring their life-size paintings of popsicles and chinese takeout boxes--all simply expressing my family's love for good food. They also had a great collection of B&W photographs. Soon after the tour, my uncle, holding a giant carrier of various wines and beers, came home, tots-in-tow, and everyone suddenly became very aware of the rumblings within our stomachs.

Late lunch ensued. And much to my surprise, it consisted of nothing citrusy at all. Open face garlic aioli, avocado, and yellow tomato sandwiches. Stumped, we were. "Aunt Leah, where is the lemony smell coming from?", I asked. Kind of hoping that one of her famous and clever desserts were bubbling in the oven or on the stove. "Oh, I'm boiling lemons!", she exclaimed. She walked back into the kitchen and came out with a tray of bacon. I was puzzled. She set two pieces of bacon on her plate, my uncle's plate, and both Hanna and Noah's plates. She explained that, seeing as my family does not consume pork products, it'd be improper for her to have us enter a house smelling like crispy pig. I laughed and lent her a warm smile. I thought it was a sweet gesture.

The rest of the day was very pleasant. I had a 2-hour shopping excursion with my 11-year old cousin, Hanna. I bought her a pair of jeans at Nordstrom, and she helped me pick out a sale top at Anthropologie (someone needs to keep an eye on me when it comes to that store.)

We returned home, ate handfuls of chocolate covered coffee beans (for some reason I morbidly hate drinking coffee but really enjoy raw coffee beans.) I'm a strange character. We then headed off to Lebanese Taverna for dinner. A restaurant, which Benji explained as "yuppie Lebanese food". He was right. It was neither impressive nor authentic. And the restaurant certainly gave off a "holier than thou" vibe. Ranking high on the ostentatious spectrum.

Benji and Adam rolled around the house at around 1 AM, and I was overjoyed to spend time with my insomniac counterparts. Sleep came around 3--after a good video chat with Cathy.

Today, I slept in--possibly to Hanna's dismay (she gave me the cold shoulder for most of the day.) Benji and Adam picked me up later on and we went for lunch and gelato at Fells Point--which can only be described as the Soho of Baltimore. Except, it's on the water. And less expensive. Not much like Soho at all, save the cobblestone.

It was a nice weekend.

In the wise words of Raquel Marlena Gruber:
"youve abandoned your blog
july 22nd..
thats just neglect, tawya."

So, here I am, sixteen days later, updating all of you on the goings on.

Raquel and I have been chronic nymag.com fanatics over the past few days. We like to read the "Sex Diaries" section that Ben introduced me to a week or so ago. It really is amusing. So, rather than going into a whole long process of reacquainting you with the past few weeks of my life, I will use the Sex Diaries numerical format. Only, you know, without quite as much raunchy stuff.

Total: One grave disappointment, two consecutive acts of intercourse, a good deal of sushi, one non-date, one encounter with a real psychic, one act of hand-holding, two finished books, six horror movies, one encounter with a celebrity, three bites of Mochi (round II wasn't any better than round I), four train rides, one bus ride, two trips to Westchester, one act of sleeping on a rug, one act of staying up 'til 5, one pregnancy test (with, of course, "NOT PREGNANT" results), one act of swimmer's ear, five acts of swimming, one screaming phone brawl, one act of semi-stealing, several job applications, two acts of backing out on jobs, one act of real job, one new/overpriced/Ella Moss tank top.

Tell me all about what keeps you ticking

I have never been one for sentimentality. I don't even like chick-flicks like a normal girl should (save the occasional Meg Ryan flick.) I have never felt the need to possess any souvenirs. A glance at a photograph is almost always enough to remind me of a time, a place, a scent. However, this summer I have picked up the habit of "borrowing" (or in some cases, swiping) the clothing of people I long to remain close to. 

In my opinion, there is one particularly great thing about this whole clothing-taking ordeal.

Scent. Scent is my favorite of all five senses. Probably because scents are almost always indescribable and certainly distinct. While I may love words, there is something truly great about not being able to describe something. Being completely and utterly, word-free. 

The problem is, as this summer is flying by, I am finding that I can simply just not wash the borrowed clothing, and the distinct scents can linger on my collection of apparel (whilst they become increasingly soiled), or I can wash away the scent of my friends, lovers, and old flames, and all that remains will be some fabric, a slogan or design, and a size. I think without the scent, a little bit of the borrowed magic floats away. And eventually, people just want their stuff back. 

"I understand why people sometimes want to kill their lovers, eat their lovers, inhale the ashes of their dead lovers. I understand that this is the only way to possess another person with the kind of desperate longing that I have." 

Arel

Arel came home from camp today and for the first time this whole summer, I feel content. I am undoubtedly aware that my contentment will probably disappear come Sunday--when he ships off to his next adventure--skateboard camp. 

There are absolutely two reasons why I feel at ease with him home:

1.) I love my brother. Sibling rivalry hardly ever takes place in the hallways and rooms of the Blau household. It may sound strange, but Arel and I barely fight these days. And even when we were much younger, we rarely fought. Bickering over who gets the last NutterButter or the remote control happens on occasion, but never a real, sitcomesque, bruise and punch fight that I so often observe amongst my friends and their siblings. He takes my side when I fight with my parents, he is the most pleasant passenger to have in my car, and we often agree on what we want for dinner. He is my best friend. 

2.) A part of me isn't sure what to do with myself now that high school is over. To an extent, I am trying desperately to live vicariously through his entrance into high school oblivion. I know that Kivunim and college are bound to be the greatest five years of my life. However, I suck with change and I'm well aware of that. My anxiety is boiling and penetrating into my veins. I'll get over it as I ease into these next few months, but I psych myself out like crazy. I'd like for him to be able to make me real tiny with like, a shrink-ray or something and tuck me into his backpack. I could live with another four years of Mr. Gross, mechanical pencils, and MLA format.