Take Only What You Need To Survive...

It's now 3am NYC time. Chris has long passed out of exhaustion, but I have a deadly combination of insomnia, creativity, Santa fever, and London fever that I cannot cure with any medicine. My family can attest to my over-excitement of Christmas because sleep is not an option. Thus, this stream-of-consciousness post that is about to occur.

Chris is like a little kid waiting for Santa with this trip...except he can sleep. I told him that the best way to get through timezones is to not sleep for as long as possible and go to bed early on the new time. This has helped me adjust very quickly to London and Hawaii and any other timezone that I have been to. Anyway, Chris and I are sharing a suitcase. One suitcase. He has tried not to take up much room in the suitcase, but I am a woman. Any space is not enough space for me. But I love him, and I understand that sharing is caring, etc. Also,  having moved to and from London by myself, I am sure as hell not bringing more than I need. We will have a washer, so technically this should help me even more with not bringing much, but....two weeks? Recycle outfits? The thought is beyond comprehension. And because Chris left me to stay up and pack, he will now have not say in what I throw in this suitcase. Still trying to figure out shoes because of my continuous healing process on the top of my foot.

Books. Another soft spot. Every vacation I bring them as a safety blanket against my ongoing fight of boredom. I never read them, but they feel better when I pack them. Everyone keeps saying---kindle, I know. Eventually, if I can ever get over paper and the importance and sacredness of the printed word then I shall convert. Right now, I don't even want to own one because the minute I get one, part of my soul will be sold. Will write more on this in a later post.

I have managed to get everything (including toiletries) down to the bare essentials, except for the shoes. These two clips from The Jerk and Spaceballs sums up my packing capabilities and what I deem as 'essential'.

Ah yes, 'essential' to me is vastly different than others. I am proud that I have successfully vetoed three rounds and have narrowed it down to my essentials....with matching accessories...and jewellery...and purses. I need to look fabulous and any moment or mood could strike me.

Well, I should try and get an hour of sleep. Will write more in a few hours.....London is less than 24 hours from happening....and Christmas.......probably not going to sleep now!

Cheers,

Jess

YOU SOUND LIKE YOU'RE FROM LONDON!

If you haven't heard by now, Christopher and I are traveling to London over the holidays! Chris has never been to Europe and he's turning the big 3-0 on December 26th.  Being with my family during Christmas has been very special to me and because Chris's family resides in Jersey and mine in Minnesota and Michigan, I was trying to figure out how make everyone happy.  One of my best friends lives in London still and so we are staying in her flat while she goes home back to Canada. We've been toying with the idea of us traveling together to see my favorite city in the world, but this seemed to perfect to pass up. Abroad! Christmas! New Years! AWESOME! 

Chris and I have been slaving away at planning this trip extensively as we only have a few precious days to see EVERYTHING. It is my goal to make sure that he gets to see a good combination of the touristy things and the locals-only things. I pride myself in showing people around my home away from home, but 14 days?! We had to plan careful.

We will be celebrating his birthday and Christmas in London. We also have a few day trips to Stratford- Upon-Avon, Bath, and Stonehenge. Then we will hit Paris for a few days after the New Year. I cannot tell you how amazing this all is going to be! 

For New Years Eve, we have booked a 20's themed costume party in Camden and then we will see the fireworks display. Below is last year's kick ass display. 

Please let me know of any recommendations that you have in any of the above places we will see. I lived there for two years and have my favorites, but Chris and I both love to explore new places and experience new things! Comment here, twitter, or on my Facebook.

Cheerio Chaps!

The Ex Factor

The Ex's. We all have the loves and the heartbreaks. They are never easy, always messy, and an emotional roller coaster.

Quite recently, one of my ex-boyfriends tried to creep on me via linkedin.com. Unfortunately for him, Linkedin tells you who has visited your profile. It made me sick to my stomach because he was about to be married to someone else. Not cool in my opinion. Therefore, I have dedicated this blog to the ex's.

Sex and the City brought up the topic of ex-boyfriends. Can you be friends with an ex? When it comes to this topic, I fall more under the Miranda way of thinking:

 Miranda: I would love to be one of those people who's all: 'We Ioved, thank you. You enriched my Iife. Now, go, prosper.' I'm much more: 'We didn't work out, you need to not exist.'

Personally, I don't believe that someone can just be friends with their ex until a SIGNIFICANT chunk of time has passed. I have witnessed many relationships, and so far I have never been proven wrong on my When Harry Met Sally/Sex and the City mentality. 

Men and Women can't be friends because the sex part always gets in the way

Here's my opinion....It doesn't matter who broke up with whom, you can't be friends with an ex-boyfriend. Especially not right away. The relationship that you have with someone struggles with the new status, and oftentimes the two people who could have been friends later (after time had healed wounds) end up re-breaking up and never talking to the other person again. The 're-break' is 90x worse than the first break-up because someone feels suffocated and trapped while the other can't let go of memories and the past. It's not fair for either person in the end. 

Also, ex's lurking about will never sit well for new boyfriends and girlfriends. This is also best explained in When Harry Met Sally.

Harry: they can't be friends. Unless both of them are involved with other people, then they can... This is an amendment to the earlier rule. If the two people are in relationships, the pressure of possible involvement is lifted... That doesn't work either, because what happens then is, the person you're involved with can't understand why you need to be friends with the person you're just friends with. Like it means something is missing from the relationship and why do you have to go outside to get it? And when you say "No, no, no, no, it's not true, nothing is missing from the relationship," the person you're involved with then accuses you of being secretly attracted to the person you're just friends with, which you probably are. I mean, come on, who the hell are we kidding, let's face it. Which brings us back to the earlier rule before the amendment, which is men and women can't be friends.

Ex's--I cannot and will not be friends with you; ESPECIALLY if you broke my heart. I don't keep my ex's around on facebook or let anyone close to my ex know how miserable I may be. If you broke up with me, it will become my personal goal to make you wish you hadn't. Thus, no miserable facebook statuses, no personal blog posts, no texting, no calling and no emailing. You will be cut off. Trust me, it is for the best overall. I want my ex to think that I am doing better than he will. Selfish? Maybe...Immature? Probably....Vindictive? ABSOLUTELY! I refuse to let the ex know what I'm doing so that they will always be thinking of me. Plus, the ex chose to not be in my life anymore, so why would they get to check up on me or see who I'm dating? What do you think? Should ex's stick around? 

And now for some Idiot Boyfriend--Jimmy Fallon

Decisions....

I came across this article written by Lauren Conrad about the pressures that single women feel especially at a certain age or time in people's lives. I thought it was pertinent and not discussed as frequently as other topics because I think women are afraid of going against the grain or choosing decisions in their lives that could cause judgement or scrutiny. I  also have been tempted several times to post certain things on my Facebook and Twitter that I know would cause backlash because I think differently than other women. If you are already feeling insulted by this post, please do not keep reading. I am by no means judging or insinuating that women are settling for life decisions because everyone else is making them at that time or stating that you made any wrong decision for you. If you get any vibe of that from this post, then you are immature.

I always felt like an alien in my town. Like I was an outcast or a freak for wanting different things at different times than that of my peers. While the people I grew up with liked the idea of weddings and babies and houses in Michigan, I longed for adventure and education. I longed for new experiences and culture. I wanted to challenge myself and be independent. I knew that none of these things would be possible if I were to stay in Michigan my entire life.

And so I've traveled. I've experienced new cultures. I have lived out of my comfort zone and have proved to myself and others that I am independent. It has been at the cost of some things like a 1st love or my mental health, but I wouldn't have been happy any other way.

For me, for my life, right now or in the foreseeable future, I do not want kids. I do not think that I am ready (if ever) to have someone's lives in my hands. I do admire those who love kids and have kids and am fascinated by how they accept and embrace that decision, but I feel like a weirdo. Having kids is a lifetime commitment and I do not want that. I want to be able to travel and see the world with someone and not worry about kids. However, I cannot go onto social media and speak of my feelings of children because I get attacked by moms who think I am the antichrist for my thoughts about children. I ran across this postsecret a few months ago and finally feel good about sharing it here.

This may seem off topic, but here is the overall reason why this makes sense with what I am trying to say.  Even though I know that I am making the right life choices for me (and have up till now), I can't help but slightly worry or long for those things. When I get invited to weddings and showers and see the people I grew up with taking the next steps in their life, I am somewhat jealous and somewhat panicky that I might be missing out on something. This is where the Lauren Conrad article makes me feel at ease:

"One thing to keep in mind while you are attending weddings, showers and other events celebrating your friends' relationships is that these aren't things you are missing out on. They are things you have to look forward to. I was in a similar place last year. Twenty-five, newly single and helping one of my best friends plan her wedding, so I know how it can feel."

And for those people who have invested in a relationship and it didn't work out, Conrad also shares this advice:

"It can be hard to feel like you have to start from scratch when you have invested so much time with a person, but shortly after my break up I realized something: I wasn't losing the chance to have love — I was getting the opportunity to do it all over again."

Be sure of yourself and the decisions that you are making and don't get down on yourself that you are taking a different path in life. Be thankful for the heartbreaks because they are opportunities for learning and self-discovery. Stop convincing yourself that you are wrong to not want other things when everyone else wants them and start accepting who you really are. Once you do this, the pressure is lifted and you can learn to truly know/love yourself and it leaves the opportunity to find love again--permanent or temporary.

Troll Hair

And now I present a story about my childhood...told through poetry.

Troll Hair

       -Jessica Masters

I’m just a girl

Who has nothing to do.

With an idea in my head

And scissors in my hands,

I go after my victim.

I look at that troll

With the wild, hot pink hair

Staring at me,

Judging me,

Reading me.

He knows what I’m about to do.

And with a reign of terror,

I pounce on him with my silver blades,

And start snipping away that untamed hair of his.

Slowly I back away from the weapon

With the clumps of hair in one hand,

My troll in the other.

I sit down and cry,

Because now I’m just a girl

Who has a pile of hair

And a bald troll.

Happiness :)

My PB Addiction and Recovery

My sister and I were unfortunately born with high cholesterol. My mom, being a nurse and the grocery shopper, had decided to limit and virtually deny my sister and me from high cholesterol foods.
This included peanut butter.
It is true that once you aren't allowed to have something then you want it more. My sister was quite okay with the strict rule, but I was at an impressionable age and wanted to experiment. During lunchtime, and when I gained a rare dollar from my grandmother, I offered to buy my friend's peanut butter and jelly sandwiches off of them. I would then eat the sandwich while on the bus ride home from school and figure out a way to dispose of the sandwich baggie covered in jelly. I hid these bags in other people's garbage cans on the walk home from the bus stop or would bury them in our trash cans outside way at the bottom.
After almost 6 months, I went from an occasional sandwich to a full blown addict. I became addicted to peanut butter and jelly sandwiches; always itching for my next fix. My mom would take me in for blood work and could not figure out why my cholesterol was not going down. I was too buried into my addiction to reach out for help at that point. I was licking the side of the sandwich bags for bits of peanut butter. I soon stopped caring about the discreetness of hiding the evidence, frequently leaving sandwich bags in my desk at school, in my room, or in my backpack.
It wasn't till my family staged an intervention one day after school where I knew I had to get help. I was out of money, my cholesterol was staggering high, and I was turning into a gremlin. I came back in after playing with my friends to discover that my family was sitting around the kitchen table. "Do you want to tell us anything?" my mom asked. I started panicking. What did she know? I shake my head and look at her with the worst poker face in the world. She then grabs my backpack off of the table and slowly pulls out a very squished peanut butter and jelly sandwich and all of the blood disappears from my face. "Where have you been getting these!?!" She demands. My dad is ex-military and can break the best of them. I, though was terrible at lying, and quickly caved. I told her all of my suppliers and the money I had spent on the sandwiches for the last several months. She grounded me and had a talk with all of my friends about not being an enabler while I struggled. I was grounded and my little sister became my shadow to ensure that I stayed sober, especially during the bus ride home and lunch hour.
I am proud to say that though I do still have high cholesterol, I have been clean and sober from the pb&j's ever since. I avoid peanut butter when I can along with any other high cholesterol food.
Being serious for a second, I do have a tiny little bit of understanding at what it might be like for you and your sobriety. Though I am making light of addiction, I know how easy it is to fall into something that may be bad for you and how difficult it is to get help. You're all in my thoughts and prayers and I hope this made you smile.

The best New York Performers (a continuation)

I wrote a previous post about the best New York Performers a month or two ago and I have left my favorites for this post because it would have been too long to read. Here is a list of my favourites of the best NYC has to offer:

The rapper +built in audience: The rapper will either be rippidity rappin' by the time you get down to wait for the subway or will walk into the subway with his friends and bust out into "song"(?). He is hard to spot if he is not already rapping. The best part of the rappers are easily his friends. They either become part of his chorus, his entourage, or his back up dancers. They all sway together, grab their junk occasionally, and make random "rap" hand gestures. The main rapper is usually the best one and I always give him money because of the poetry that he produces. It's actually just a more acceptable delivery of subway poetry in my eyes. It is definitely something that every person should look forward to for entertainment or for a few eye rolls as you get closer to your travel destination. 

The bucket bands: The bucket bands only set up shop in the subway stations as it is too hard for them to travel and produce a song from stop to stop. They have huge buckets and I like to imagine that they all wonder about the city, searching for others who are carrying buckets so that they can have a random jam session. I think though in reality, they are two stoner hippies who text one another, "Wanna bang on some buckets at West 4th?" The bucket bands will always start solo, waiting for the other people to come with their buckets and join him. These songs are always entertaining with the rare exception of a long train wait and a huge migraine. They will play for hours too just jamming in sync and you can always find them at 14th street or west 4 for sure.

The starving classical musicians: These guys/girls are some of my favorites. If you want a free concert, check these musicians out usually at west 4 or any major train station near music program universities. These musicians all decide that practicing is better in public because they can make a little money. They will start playing alone and wait for the others, and the music always puts me in a better mood. The musicians that play are always a bit disheveled, which makes me happy. They definitely make love to their instruments and usually make a lot more money then most street performers. I like to think that it is a literal charity where you can see exactly where your money goes and get something out of it. Sure these music majors are amazingly talented, but they need to think long term like "how am I going to pay for this useless degree?" or "What the hell am I going to do after I get this degree?" or "how much money do I need to survive?" I am investing in their future as well as their present. I enjoy every moment that they play because of the passion that they portray. Also, I love the moment when additional musicians get to the station and join the solo musician mid song because it reminds me of the final band scene from Titanic :)

The Hip Hop Groups: My favourite and most common act. These boy groups usually get on and off the longer stops, primarily to and from Brooklyn and Manhattan. They are always very fit, very dressed in tank tops, sideways hats, shoes with very, very loose strings, and arm sweat bands. They travel in packs of 6 or so and you always know them before they perform because of several obvious and reliable facts. 1.) They always have the built-in audience guy who can't dance. He is their number one fan and probably has a crush on his friends. He is ALWAYS the one in charge of repeating "IT'S SHOWTIME!" and making sure to press the button for the music. His eyes light up as his friends dance and he claps way too eagerly while making big noises or snaps to cheer on his friends. Things like, "OH!" and "WATCH WHAT HE'S ABOUT TO DO!" or "I DON'T BELIEVE IT!". During an average performance, he is guaranteed to hold his hand up to his mouth 5 times while screaming "OH!!!!" or he isn't legit. The performers vary in ability which is why I may or may not give them money. It is annoying when they choose to perform in the space where people are disabled or have a broken foot because they are jumping around and throwing their shoe everywhere. I also sometimes just want peace and quiet and they come on and ruin that for me.
When they are good, they will incorporate walking on the top of the subway ceiling while dangling. They will also do some sort of upside down slow pole dancing--random thought--why is that seemingly okay to do in the public but not for strippers in private? I would much rather watch strippers than these guys.....
The more athletic they are the better they are. I have seen some lame guys who just looked like really bad boy bands or back up dancers with no floor, ceiling, or pole work. This isn't the 90's guys! I also get annoyed when all they can do is try (an often fail) at either catching their stretched out shoe on their foot or their stupid hat on their head. Really? You want money for that? I do that every day after work without asking people for a dollar.

SO THERE YOU HAVE IT--my complete list of New York City performers. Let me know what ones are your favorite or if you think I should expand on any of them.

Late Night Ramblings

Ever just feel sad? You're in a downer mood all evening like you're expecting something dreadful to happen? And if it does, then you knew and that makes you more sad. If it doesn't happen, then you are still sad. Basically, you are sad. I am trying to figure out why I am sad right now. I should be happy because nothing terrible has happened to me for the last few weeks, but I just can't seem to remember that right now.

I have been watching rehab-type shows lately where the psychiatrist digs deep into the the addict's past and that got me to thinking that my depression might start at traumatic periods of the person's life. I am by no means addicted to anything...just want you to know. However, since I have never been to therapy, it is something that I am currently toying with. I think it's so commendable to these people who will go on tv to address their deepest reasons for their addiction and trauma. I am also proud of people that I meet who openly tell me about their anxiety, depression, and/or therapy. Taking steps to improve their health is very awesome to me. For people to be strong enough and not ashamed of working on their health with someone makes me want to attend therapy even more. No longer is it embarrassing to admit that we need help sometimes and that we don't have to suffer by ourselves.

If you suffer from stress, anxiety, or depression, you should definitely seek out some help from a doctor, therapist, or counselor. I am sad and I am going to take steps to get better. I want to work on myself and figure out ways to cope with the dark parts of my head.

Thank you all for reading...

Papa Johns- My Hostile/Hostage Pizza "DELIVERY"

I just submitted a "FEEDBACK" form for Mr. Papa himself, along with speaking with the driver, speaking with the store manager, and reaching out to this coming through Twitter. Seeing as I haven't heard back from them, I thought that I would share the lovely event with you fine people on my blog:


I think that this store needs to examine their "delivery policy" as two of the drivers from this store (most recently this evening) refuse to enter the lobby of my building.

Tonight's delivery service and problem solving technique from the manager on duty is totally unacceptable. I order online, and not only is it 15 minutes later than the "estimation" which initially I did not have a problem with, but the driver calls me to tell me that he is here. I told him that he needs to come inside and he told me that it was against the "delivery policy." After 10 minutes of arguing with him I go outside and do not see him anywhere. It is not till I walk all the way down the block that I see his car. No friendly greeting either. And this was not due to lack of parking space in front of my building as he was parked up on the sidewalk. Is that your company's definition of "delivery"? I pay a delivery fee and pre-pay a tip on my  credit card to track down your driver somewhere within a four block radius of my house? I have a broken foot which makes it even more disgusting to me that I had to walk down the street to meet him.

When I called the manager on duty, he put me on hold several times and made me repeat my complaint before just saying that he would speak with the driver on duty. Had I known how consistently poor this store's delivery service would be, I would have walked a few minutes to the local pizza place and picked up a pizza myself. I should have tipped myself! This is Papa John's definition of customer service? I find this completely unacceptable and I doubt that I will be ordering from your company or this store again. Please call me should you need any additional information or clarification.

Proposing to a Man

I am a firm supporter of feminism, but there is one thing that I do find odd. Ladies (and Gents), what are your thoughts on proposing to a man?

Here are the pros:

• Women no longer have to give men ultimatums such as shit or get off the pot. 
• Couples don't have to have an agreement that they should get married, which I find completely silly. 
• Power to the female. Breaking the patriarchal stereotypes that the man has to decide the whens of the female's life. 
• It's possible that the man might want that future with the woman but never thought about it.
• They could be shy and could appreciate the female taking charge?

Here are the cons:

• Women could be portrayed as desperate, needy, psychotic.....
• Men have one job to do technically--be creative and romantic. Do women want to do everything? Women already have to plan a wedding (with men's help sometimes) and have babies. Do you (as a woman) really want to take that moment away from men? 
• You could be rejected....bad....and ruin an otherwise perfect relationship. It is common knowledge that men need a little more time than women to be sure about something so...beautiful and permanent. 

What do you think?

A More Broken Foot

Sorry for not writing these last two weeks. I hope that you can all forgive me. Back in July I posted that I thought I had broken my foot. I went over 3 weeks before my friends and family finally convinced me to check into the ER. They took x-rays in the ER and gave me crutches and a boot and told me to follow up with an orthopedist. Out of my own ignorance, I chose to work over going to schedule this appointment because the ER hadn't told me how bad the break was and had given me a boot and crutches. I figured that was all I needed and that it would heal on my own. Well I wore the boot for two months before finally ditching it and dealing with the constant dull pain for the last 2 weeks. I finally grew concerned last week because I felt a lump in my foot and knew that something wasn't right. I saw a mean podiatrist in Brooklyn who was very upset with me because I had been walking on it so much and the boot that they gave me in the ER was a surgical boot and not an actual boot that would have helped me heal. Below are the pictures that show how serious my break was. 

It turns out that I had completely snapped the bone in two before I had went to the ER. When I was walking with the surgical boot, it was not providing any support that I needed. Instead of the bone repairing itself, I stinted it and now my toe is shorter than it was. I also grew a bone callous from all of the walking that I had done on it and the chances are small that I will make a natural recovery. 

I will be getting electric shock treatments to my bone to try and make it grow up and not out like it has been. The excess bone might go away on its own, but they will definitely have to get rid of it surgically if in the next few weeks that it doesn't disappear. They will have to shave off the bone and put a metal plate in my foot to fix it. 

I was completely devastated when he told me this. I have had a broken foot now for months and cannot come to terms with the fact that I could be broken till April because of the improper advice and ignorance. How dare I think that working is more important than taking care of my health? What, am I an idiot? Now I might not be able to work anyway because surgery is definitely looking like the only solution to get my foot fixed.

The doctor gave me the boot and suggested crutches and not walking for a month but, like I said, crutches in the city is damn near impossible. Plus they hurt me, frustrate me, and I am very bad on them. 

My Broken foot. The huge bump on the second toe is the bad part. 

You can see on the right a slight shadow of the bump on my foot.

Running really helps my depression. Without being able to run, I have sunk into a pretty deep depression. And finding the truth about my foot and having the doctor tell me that I might always have pain in my foot and will struggle to ever run is the worst news in the world to me. Along with this, it might affect my holiday plans to go home and see my family at Thanksgiving and also my London trip over Christmas. I am just devastated by this whole incident. I should have gone in to see a doctor sooner. I urge others not to put their health on the back burner. It is really easy to do when you are younger because you assume that you are invincible or that you know your body better than you do. Please keep me in your thoughts and prayers!

Writing Advice

The Cremation of Man

The first time I visited London back in 2008, I was part of a class at Grand Valley State University and Kingston University in Surbiton. We were assigned to study various cultures that immigrated to London. I was in a very unfortunate group project with three other students--one who claimed they wanted to marry Hitler, one anime enthusiast, and one older student who was very....curious I guess for lack of a better word. Now, had we gotten a culture like afro-carribean or even Muslim, the group dynamic would have been fine. However, the culture that we were assigned to was the Jewish immigrants. It was very uncomfortable for me because the older student was very sympathetic and outspoken as was the Hitler lover girl. I acted as peace keeper amongst the group.

We decided that one of our outings should go to Golders Green, a very hasidic community of London. I was very nervous to be there with my group, primarily because of the nazi-enthusiast. We tried to go around the neighbourhood and interview various people from this community, but they were very, very nervous about speaking to us Americans. While in Golders Green, we discovered that Freud was cremated and his ashes were visitable in the mausoleum. Cool, right!?! We all agreed that we wanted to go check this out and pay our respects. We found the cemetery/synagogue/crematorium pretty easily where it was discovered that it was one of the only Jewish crematoriums in Europe as the Hasidic Jewish community is pretty firmly against cremation. The cemetery is pretty amazing and I was very moved by the culture and the rituals that this community holds dear. To pay respects to graves in this culture, you place a small, flat stone upon their headstone. These flat stones are then stacked one on top of another on each headstone. It's a pretty amazing site to see with all of these stones. 

We headed towards the synagogue to request permission to pay our respects to Freud's ashes and we met a very nice cremator who was more than willing to speak with us and learn more about the culture. My dark group members wanted to discuss more with him about what the process was for cremation. His face then lit up and he said that he actually had a cremation that he was about to do if we wanted to watch. I said no at the same time as the rest of the group said yes. I turned to them with a fearful look. I have a slight fear of dead bodies--what the hell were they thinking?! I didn't want to ruin any of their rituals, but I was quickly outnumbered. We followed him to the back of a different building and I was mentally preparing myself to be in a room where I was surrounded by death.

The room was very clean and orderly, with two huge (again for lack of a better term) brick furnaces, large brooms, and other tools I have no idea how to describe. These were all used to move the body in the furnace and I was immediately intimidated by these tools. He had a desk with a very organized scheduling system of when to cremate whom. It was impressive. He took us over to a tv where there was a hidden camera of a funeral taking place. I saw the figures dressed in black and I was sad for them. It was all so surreal. The cremator said that they were just finishing up with the funeral, and minutes later after everyone exited the room, the coffin was placed on a conveyor belt and it went from the tiny screen and was suddenly in front of us.

"How are you going to get the body into the furnace?" I asked with a whole array of feelings. I was terrified that they were going to need my help to remove the body from the coffin.
"All we do is just take the whole coffin and put it in the furnace. Pretty straight forward. The coffin is a special coffin that burns easily and is made with very thin wood," he said non-chalently.

And with one quick motion, he placed the coffin inside with his tools. "The tricky part is to make sure that coffin is placed in the right spot."
"How long does the process take?" one of my group members asked, a little too fascinated for my comfort level.
"Well, the first one of the day takes the most time because the furnace is so large that it takes a while to get them up and running. After three or four in the day, I can get them done in under an hour."
We peered hesitantly at the burning coffin through the glass but saw nothing. I was scared that the coffin would break down and the body would be exposed but that never happened. We chatted more with him about his job (none of this we were able to put in our final report) because we knew how rare this experience was. I mean who else can say that they have seen what I was seeing? Not many. And this crematorium was the oldest in London and one of the oldest in existence of Britain. Pretty amazing experience.
"What happens if you leave ashes in there?"we asked.
 "Well, most of everyone gets into the right place as we clean these pretty well. However, there is a variable degree of inaccuracy that not all of everyone gets put in the right place or that maybe a few ashes that are impossible to get out of the corners get placed in a different urn. Usually the ashes just burn away from person to person."

When the cremation was done, he opened the door to the furnace on both sides and swept the furnace and placed the ashes in a clear plastic bag. "We do this until the family picks out the urn," he explained. "The sad part is when the family never picks up their family member."
We all gasped. "Has that happened before?"
"Oh yeah, it's more common then you would think, unfortunately," he said.
He then led us into a supply room with large metal shelves. "We have some bags that have been here for over 50 years."

We looked at all of the people, essentially, on the shelves and I felt sick. How could their family just leave them there? I couldn't even fathom it. "The saddest ones to me are these little bags," as he pointed to them. "These are babies, still-borns, and small children. Obviously they don't have as many ashes..." he trailed off. We all looked at the small bags and wanted to cry. It was one of the saddest moments in my life.

And with that, we thanked him for his time and left to go back home. We all had so many emotions and thoughts running through our mind and when we got back to campus and met up with the other groups, we weren't sure what to tell them. "What did you see today? We saw a cremation."

My class and professor were very enthralled in our experience and to this day, I will never forget one minute of that day. It also really got me thinking if cremation was right for me. I mean, you can't help but think of that, right? I think I would like to be cremated because it seems so beautiful to me.

Motivation for Writing

X

So this weekend has been filled with some interesting events. I was supposed to continue my blog about my performers on the subway, however, tonight I just need to write about something without a purpose. Ernest Hemingway says to write drunk and edit sober, but he didn't live to see the word vomit of blogs. Not sure what he would have said about them but I am definitely going to write now.

I am supposed to be doing a lot of things. I am supposed to be in bed right now, asleep and not thinking about my first week of school starting in less than 8 hours. I am supposed to be worrying about things that I have to do. Yet, here I sit on Chris's bathroom floor (yes, I write mostly in the bathroom) unable to sleep because I am so many random thoughts floating through my head.

First off, is my shitty living situation. I unfortunately cannot delve too much into that because it affects certain potential readers of my blog. What I can say is that I thought that the worst was over and now I realise that I was being too optimistic. Reality is that the worst is far from over. I am hoping that in the next week things will turn around, otherwise I am going to be stuck with a huge bill that I cannot afford, especially now.

I am also sitting up and worrying about my work week. Long hours, a lot of fires, new students...it's going to be intense. I really need to sleep. I am at the point of the evening where my nerves won't let me and if I take a sleeping pill then I will risk sleeping through my alarm. It really blows.

The most shocking thing that happened this evening that is compeltely throwing me off is that on this small island of Manhattan, Chris and I run into his ex. She was really nice but it was so strange to put a face with a name. I feel like Billy Crystal in When Harry Met Sally, "In a city of eight million people, you are bound to run into your ex." It seems quite unlikely, but I have seen 2 people who I went on horrible blind dates with and had to run away from. So, yeah, that happened. I am wondering who it was most uncomfortable for. Me? Chris? Her? This is not a situation that I have ever been in before. What are the emotions to feel? I'm totally lost...alright. Got that out of my system. Should go to bed now because I can't think anymore.

Performers of New York Transportation

One of the things that I love about New York and riding the subway is the performances that I am forced to see. I usually tend to avoid these by jumping on a car further down from where I see them get on because I want to get some reading done on the subway. Other times, I am thrilled when someone randomly starts performing. No matter which direction you are headed or what line you are taking, you are bound to run into these different types of performers. Here is my list of some of the best and worst types of performers, because--hey--who ever critiques them?

The Mexican Men: They travel in packs of 3 or 4 and typically wear cowboy hats, button down plaid shirts, have mustaches, are under 5'5 tall, and wear cowboy boots. One of them always plays an accordion and two usually play the acoustic guitars. They usually all sing and harmonize with one another, which I find nice. They play upbeat spanish songs and I don't think they speak a lot of English. They will stand in the middle of the train car for their minute long song before one of them branches off and slowly hits up everyone on the train for money via the large cowboy hat. They will always tell you gracias instead of thank you if you choose to make a donation. Once the train stops at the next station, they will all scuttle out and into the next train car. They do this all day on the same line, I believe. They always have this huge smile on their faces when they sing, so sometimes that is pleasant to see. Other times, when I am crabby and want to listen to my ipod, that sickening smile is the last thing that I want to see. I always wonder how much money they make riding on the train all day long because they have stiff competition with the other performers I will mention on the trains, and there are many Mexican clans that sing and ride and do the same schtick as them.

The poet/starving writer: These are few and far between, but twice now I have been graced with their appearance in my car. The poet will give long winded statement about how he keeps out of drugs and alcohol because he finds solace in writing. He emphasises frequently about how all of the poetry he is about to read is HIS OWN. Not plagiarised whatsoever. That's what he says anyway. They are pretty amateur. As a fellow writer and poet, I always cringe when I hear bad poetry. I want to give them tips and help them, but they just need to take a couple of classes I think. The poetry usually rhymes and gets pretty clunky when they add too many syllables in have of the poem. The rhymes are pretty elementary too like 'you,' 'true,' 'love,' 'above' and the like. I do commend them for being personal and getting the courage to express themselves to an audience who usually don't want to be an audience. I give them money because I know how hard it is to write, and I really enjoy the break up of other performers. The other performer I saw was basically a desperate writer/salesman who was promoting his book on the subway. It was a comedic book about weird/semi-funny observations about New York. He wanted people to buy his book from him for $20 (a ridiculous amount to ask for on the train btw). I obviously didn't invest because 1.) I didn't think it sounded that great 2.) I wasn't his target audience 3.) way over-priced 4.) He told all of the funny bits whilst trying to up sell the entire book and 5.) I felt like he should blog, not write. Call me caddy, but I could tell that he probably wasn't the strongest writer either.

The intense piano man: No, not Billy Joel. I am talking long black trench coats, stringy hair, furrowed brow, with fingerless gloves. His ensemble is the same no matter what season it is here in the city. He carries a beer stein or coffee cup with him and will bring an electronic keyboard without the stand. He sits at the end of the train car on the floor and furiously pounds out Chopin or Mozart or some upbeat saloon style song and waits for people to walk down the car and put money in his cup/stein. This is pretty ineffective though because even though these guys are pretty good on piano, the people on the car feel like not only did you assume we wanted music and not silence, but now I have to get out of my seat and almost fall in the car to put money in your little cup?! Not happening unfortunately. The piano man becomes disgruntled and storms off the train at the next stop, putting a curse on everyone in the car. They are always very intense and usually a "few fries short of a happy meal" if you catch my drift. They are on the verge of either a nervous breakdown or being institutionalised.

These are just some of the performers that you will find exclusively in New York City's subway system. Will write more about the performers soon. I am saving the best for last!

Killer Grasshopper

And now I think it’s time to explain my irrational fear of grasshoppers. The first memory of my life is the sole reason why I am still deathly afraid of them. When I was about three years old, my mom packed my sister and me into the car to head for the beach. I was very excited to play in the water and perhaps bury my sister in the sand so that we could leave her and I would be an only child again. We were loaded into the car, my sister and I both in car seats.

My mom took off when I discovered that I was not alone in the backseat with my sister. Out of nowhere this mutant, prehistoric brownish creature with huge legs, crazy eyes, and legs that stretched for miles emerged from its hiding place and started approaching me. My sister was too young (a baby) and stupid to understand that this creature was going to rip our faces off and feed on our bodies. But I knew. He slowly starting crawling towards my car seat with the crazy, murderous look in his eyes. I screamed for my mom and she turned around but didn't see anything. She told me to be quiet but I was still shrieking. How could she not see this mammoth between the car seats?!!! Was she blind!!!!!? I pleading in my clearly literate baby shrieks and limited vocabulary that I was about to be eaten and to pull over and get rid of the monster but my mother didn't understand. She said that we were only a mile away from the beach and it would be over soon. A mile!? That is like 3 hours to a small child in clear danger.

The grasshopper creeped closer still, eyeing me and licking its sharp teeth. Right as my mom pulled into the parking lot, the grasshopper sprang at me and jumped on my face. I was screaming bloody murder and helplessly batting the grasshopper off my face. I was afraid it would go in my mouth. The car seat was constricting me and my mom FINALLY came in the back and got rid of the nasty bug. I was scarred for life. To this day, I hate them and they terrify me. If the apocalypse ever happens, I will die of fright from the locust infestation. I hate the feeling when they smack against my legs. I hate that when they jump then they are never quite sure which direction they are springing in. I hate the way that they land on their sides and crawl. I really hate the flying ones that chase me seriously down the street.

A few months ago, while staying with my parents in Minnesota, (AKA grasshopper central) I took a run near their house with my sister and mom. They convinced me that the grasshoppers weren't bad this year and so I went with them. Once we got a good distance from safety, the grasshoppers came out on the street and started jumping all over me along with the crickets (which I also hate because they are so similar to grasshoppers and can run and jump) and I had a full-blown panic attack. What did my caring family do? They laughed. Laughed and laughed and couldn't breathe from all of the laughing. Nice, right? NOT COOL. I'll remember that MOM when I am putting you in a nursing home. It is now a running joke that my family gets me paraphernalia of grasshoppers to always remind me of how I'm going to die. I hate them, I loathe them, and that my friends is just one of my many irrational fears.

Please Don't Hear What I Hear!

There’s always that one moment in everyone’s life when you just want to hide beneath a rock.  Perhaps it hasn’t happened yet or perhaps you are thinking about that moment, wishing you had forgotten it.  Due to my self-confidence and procrastination, I experienced a very traumatic moment as a young child.

I was an absent-minded fourth grader and I thought I knew everything. In truth though, I knew nothing.  I started voice lessons that year and had finally proven myself worthy of singing in front of my church.  For years I yearned for the spotlight and to have the approval of everyone at my church.  I wanted the recognition of a soloist and not as part of the children’s choir.

I decided to debut myself during Christmas because I knew that I could easily find a song to sing within the short amount of time.  Finally, after a couple days of searching for the perfect song I settled with the well-known classic, “Do You Hear What I Hear?"  Despite my parents constantly nagging me to practice my piece, I procrastinated because I was overconfident.  So as the weeks turned into days till my concert, I finally started to practice my piece.  I thought that since it was well known I did not have to study it as much because I should have known it.  Boy, was I wrong!

The night of the concert I was so proud to be in the program instead of watching it.  In an attempt to show off to the other performers, I started to put the guilt trip on the them saying things like, ”I am going to do terrible”, or, “Watch, I am going to forget all the words.”

The announcer called my name as I walked out to the microphone.  I nodded to the pianist, signaling that I was ready to begin and she started to play.  I didn’t even think about the words, I just sang whatever came out of my mouth.  Blank faces stared at me as I started to mesh the phrases of the song together. I sung phrases like, "The child, the child, sleeping in the night/ with a tail as big as a kite.” It was, perhaps, the worst moment of my life.  I went home and cried myself to sleep.  I was a failure and I thought that my church would never want me to sing ever again.

Even though I laugh at it today I learned a valuable lesson that night. I learned that it takes more than talent to be a performer.  Even the greatest singers must be dedicated and rehearse their songs.  Procrastination and over self-confidence will never make you a better singer.  
To this day, I hate that song and will never sing it anywhere as long as I live. My family will also never let me forget my lyrical humiliation either....I guess because I make them so proud?

THE TOILET

Let me just tell you about the toilet.

I find the bathroom the best/most creative place for me to write. I wrote my entire Masters thesis in the bathroom, which probably frustrated my flatmates. It's a small enclosed area where I can't get distracted. I like reading and writing there and it's convenient when I actually do have to use the toilet. I run out of excuses to be distracted when I am there. There are a few annoyances for me with the bathroom though, and I take to my blog to assist me in my venting.

I hate when American toilets are automatic. I see no point to this. I mean, you are already going to get germs on you in the bathroom. Have we become so lazy as a society that we can't flush AND wipe our asses? The automatic flushing toilets really bother me because they never work properly--ANYWHERE. I have been all over the US and Europe and have yet to find one toilet that doesn't prematurely flush. It also seems that as soon as you shift slightly on the toilet, the flush goes off and you get an enema that you didn't want. It seems that automatic flushes have a very powerful spray of water that sort of acts like a beday. The average amount of time that I use the toilet, the automatic flusher goes off at least 3 times. Finally, when you are actually finished on the toilet and you stand up, it conveniently doesn't flush. This makes you have to touch the toilet again so that it flushes. Am I the only one that finds this highly irritating? I really don't like the toilet water shooting up at me when I am not prepared. This is not a pleasant experience and often leaves me pretty cranky.

The other irritation I have in the bathroom is when you really have to go and once you reach for the toilet paper it is not there. Not even a tiny leftover piece for you to try and work with. This usually happens to me when I REALLY need toilet paper. And girls don't like peeing when other's are in the bathroom, so we wait to pee until someone leaves. By then though, it is too late for you to get any assistance in the toilet paper famine.

Finally, my last annoyance is when you can't find where the roll begins. Ellen Degeneres has a good skit on toilet paper here http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=211d75ohM8I
This is utterly annoying: I see the toilet paper but I cannot access the toilet paper because the roll is glued down. How is this convenient!?

With every creative place comes annoyances I guess. I will still continue to use the bathroom as a safe haven of distractions.

Barbie Wars

A Barbie doll to a five year old is like a new pre-packaged best friend just waiting to be unwrapped. For my fifth birthday what I had wanted more than anything was a beautiful ice skater Barbie, complete with the flowing, multicolored skirt, sequined hat, and the brightly polished plastic skates. She was just breathtaking. Every time her commercial would come on the television, I would stop whatever I was doing and just watch as she danced on the ice. She was almost all I could think about. I would sit during the day and imagine what I was going to do with her when I had her, which one of my Kens would be lucky enough to date her, and which Barbie car she would drive. Needless to say, when my birthday arrived I was more than ecstatic to open my presents.

            My birthday party could not have gone by any slower and as the other children tried to pin the tail on the donkey, I stared at the present table longingly, trying to decipher which present my Barbie awaited. Finally my moment arrived, and we all stampeded to the table of presents. I carelessly discarded every card that had meaningless green paper inside and went right for the big stuff. As with every birthday party, the children had to try to help me unwrap my presents, but I pushed their hands away as I unwrapped the rectangular box.

There she was, cleverly wrapped in the Barbie wrapping paper, staring up at me with the most beautiful smile ever. I squealed with delight as my small fingers clawed at the box, trying desperately to help my new friend out of her resting place. My mom knew better though and took Barbie out of my weak hold while telling me I had to wait until everyone left. The party dragged on after that for what seemed like days, and when the last child went home I raced to my room. Barbie was sitting on my bed, unwrapped, awaiting my presence.

Yet just as I was about to grab her, I was pushed by none other than the devil child, also known as my three year old sister Kelsy. She grabbed ice skater Barbie and started playing with her. My fists clenched, my jaw tightened, and my eyes blazed. It was MY birthday and Barbie was MY birthday present. The fury built up inside me and I immediately dove at Kelsy and started pulling Barbie out of her grasp.

            What happened next was a blur, Kelsy had Barbie’s head and I her body, when all of a sudden, we heard a loud pop. I looked down at Barbie, horrified to see her head in Kelsy’s nimble fingers, and her body in my loving hands. With that I did the one thing that will call any mother, I cried. I cried with all my might, and my mother came racing down the hall. I looked at my evil sister with rage, while she tried to figure out what had happened. My mother did everything she could to save Barbie, but after several minutes of failure Barbie was put to rest, both of her, into the garbage can.

             I thought for sure that Kelsy would get the ultimate punishment for her crime, but as the crocodile tears poured down her cheeks she was let off the hook with a simple scolding. It was an outrage! She skipped past me and went on to play with her toys. She had ruined my birthday by decapitating ice skater Barbie and her punishment was a “don’t do that again” statement! It was troubling. I knew for Barbie’s sake, I had to avenge her memory.

            Therefore, I did the only thing that I could think of. I snuck into her room and took out her box of Barbies. I was going to pull off all of their heads, but as they stared up at me innocently I couldn’t bring myself to commit such a heinous crime. Instead I grabbed each Barbie, one at a time and gnawed on their hands. I sat there and chewed at each one until I decided that I had done enough. I put them all back and went to find Kelsy.

“Kelsy, do you want to play with me?” I asked in the most innocent voice possible.

She eagerly nodded her head and followed me into her room to play Barbies. Pure horror coated Kelsy’s face when she pulled each Barbie out of the box, only to realize that they all had arthritic hands. I smirked as she cried and then my mom came bounding into the room again and yanked me off the floor. She demanded to know why I had done it, but I remained silent. I knew she was a pushover; I had seen her with Kelsy many a times. She was furious with me and she grounded me for a week with no t.v. and an hour long nap each day. That was one of the WORST punishments of all time! I tried crying, but she refused my tears. I tried begging, but she refused to listen. I was to simply go to my room and think about what I had done, and then apologize to the murderess herself.

            That was the day where sister rivalry was taken to a whole new level. I have never fully forgiven Kelsy for ruining my favorite Barbie and when she breaks something of mine, the ice skater Barbie incident is never failed to be mentioned. I thought back then that revenge would ease the pain. Since then, I have come to learn that revenge is only fulfilling when you can get away with it.