Cali or Bust!


This has been an interesting year where my indecisiveness has run amok like so many A.D.D. children filled on sugar.

I knew I had to leave New York City. That much had been solidified well over a year ago. The precise direction in which I was headed was another subject altogether.

First, the idea of Oregon had crept it’s way into my labyrinth-like brain. Then there was the southbound direction of California waving it’s little flag in the air, like it just don’t care. (Because it’s a true playa, yo!) (I should stop.)

For a little while, the liberal-and-weird city of Austin, Texas beckoned at the back door of my brain. There was some timid knocking, nothing intense. After my constant whining about the heat of a New York City summer, said knocking had subsided, and Austin was sent away…kicking rocks back to the country of Texas. Even Austin knew it wasn’t meant to be.

I don’t even get a postcard.

In the beginning of ’17, it almost seemed like Rhode Island was going to be a reality, despite the fact it was the exact opposite direction of where I wanted to go. I took a bus to Providence, staying there with a guy I will refer to a Supah-Shady, and got a few surprises in quick, rapid-fire succession that were not of the happiest persuasion. So that idea was soon nipped in the bud.

I had debated whether or not to go through with the New England-bound plans, or do I trust my gut and stay put? Thankfully, I went with the latter, and it has made all the difference.


The moment I chose to stay in the city I love, my shoulders came back down to where they belonged, and I could use my ears again. Reason Pi you should always trust your gut. Plus, it always holds the best food.

Shoot to four months, a flatmate-from-hell, and one exhausting job later, and I’m at a brave-new-world kind of moment in my life.

I’ve moved out of the apartment I called “home” for the last four and a half years. I’m now in an Air BNB room for another week and change. From there, I’m off to a retreat in Vermont (thank you, Danielle!) for a few days. After that, it’s staying with my friend for a couple of days, and then?




From there, who knows where my life’s journey will take me. But as the spectacular David Bowie put it, “I don’t know where I’m going from here, but I promise it won’t be boring.”


How Something Bad Can Provoke Something Good

This past weekend was a bittersweet one.

I did not march in the protest, though I wanted to. I wanted my voice in the chorus of power, to tell the country exactly where I stood. Certain barriers, though invisible, were overpowering. Barriers like anxiety, which are overwhelming at the most inconvenient times, can get Rudolph to keep himself out of the reindeer games.

As frustration mounts, I know that simply standing by the wayside is not an option. To be mute is as unforgivable as being with the opponents. Stagnancy has no place here.

So I revert to what I know makes me feel stronger: art.

Art is a great portal to a welcoming world. It is all-encompassing, it is all-consuming, or at least it should be. It is communication without speaking.

A test run

Art is the foundation from which happiness grows. It doesn’t have to be a Degas, it only has to be a you. It has to be genuinely you. That’s the only rule.

The piece above isn’t exactly breath-taking, but it’s all me. It was a message that railed against the walls of my brain. It would not be ignored until it was let out.

This is how you can protest. Fight with your head and hands, and you will always come out the winner.

Trying To Find Peace Within When There’s Panic Without

Today feels like a funeral.  Rest in peace, Hope.  Rest in peace, Promise of Better Days.

I’ve been staring at this screen, trying to figure out what I could possibly state that hasn’t already been stated in so many ways, so many times over.  It isn’t simply a sense of being bereft.  And no, I’m not going to “just get over it”.  That’s impossible.  I’m having a hard enough time getting through it.

This new era, for lack of a better term, is not brave, nor is it encouraging.  These are scary times.  Beyond the fear of the unknown, I’m dealing with anxiety of what I am – admittedly – assuming is going to happen.  As a woman, I am scared of having my rights taken away from me just because Drumpf wants the power.  Health insurance is a human need in this day and age.  To have Obamacare repealed, with nothing supplied in it’s stead, means for me a potential slow death.  Getting health insurance from the temp agency I get a majority of my work from will take a chunk of money out of my weekly pay.

If I don’t get health insurance, I get fined.  If I do get health insurance, I get charged.  Whether it’s “fined” or “charged”, I still have to pay to live.  Sounds a lot like getting mugged, right?  Yeah, that’s how it feels, too.

I worry that I have to look over my shoulder now, checking to see if some asshole is going to try and put his paws on me because he assumes he can.  Is someone going to order me to “go back where you came from”, simply because they hear my accent?  Do I have to adopt an American accent, sounding cartoon-y and obnoxious again, like I did when I was a kid?  Just to try and blend in?  To ensure a new target isn’t self-drawn?

In the beginning of this year, I had silently resolved to not revert to politics in every conversation I have.

This is, apparently, harder than I thought it would be.  The politics are everywhere and in everything.  They were especially prevalent in my blog yesterday, in which I put the Girl Scouts on blast for their participation in the Inauguration march.

That’s money saved!  Now that I’m no longer giving them my money, I have to find other cookies to eat.  Hey there, Trader Joe’s!  What’s doin’?

After posting the blog on the Facebook page for Shaunta Grimes’ Ninja Writers (a closed group), someone read it and proceeded to tell me to “get over it, you lost!”  At which point, I stood up for myself and told Rainbow Brite – in no uncertain terms – that with Drumpf, we all lose.  Someone else piped in saying it was a political post, which is partially true. (It was mostly about not getting young girls involved in the politics that involve a highly publicised sexual aggressor.)

I said it.  I meant it.  I stand by it.

Ms. Grimes apparently couldn’t handle this with diplomacy, and wordlessly booted me off the page.  No warning.  No mediation.

So much for freedom of speech, eh?

No problem.

As I type all of this, the Inept-guration is happening now.  I can’t watch the nightmare.

The question now is, where do we go from here?  A part of me would like to hide in an underground bunker hidden away in a state that neither Drumpf nor his mail-order bride knows about.  Another part of me wants to expand my work and succeed, just to spite the racist xenophobe dick-tator.  Rise up and take power of my life, my career as a writer, my hobbies in art, and to live my united-colours-of-Benetton existence and treat my neighbours of all colours, creeds and religions or lack-thereof, with respect.

Except Trump supporters.  They can fuck off into traffic.  He might be their president, but he’s not mine.

And I stand by that statement as well.

A Boycott on the Girl Scouts

As someone who has spent well over two decades enjoying Girl Scout cookies (So many boxes of Thin Mints later, still not thin!), yesterday came as a blow when I had to decide they would no longer be a part of my life. Oh well. Looks like it’s just you and me, Joe-Joe’s!

Unless you’ve isolated yourself from all current events — and let’s face it, that IS a tempting idea — then you’ve heard that Girl Scouts will still be marching in the Inauguration shitshow…er, parade. Them, and every D-list celebrity you didn’t know was still alive. I suddenly can understand why Joanie stopped loving Chachi.

Back to the Girl Scouts.

I have a HUGE problem with them participating in the un-American Inept-Auguration. For an organization that is supposedly about female empowerment and teaching girls to be self-sufficient and helpful towards their fellow sisters and other people, I find it audacious that they will have any of their girls participate in this march in any capacity.

It seems as though Girl Scouts are more concerned with getting exposure than protecting the ideals, rights and honour of their troops.

While they want to state that they are a-political and do not favour one party or the other, they need to keep in mind that their customers are NOT a-political, and they DO stand on one side or the other.

Beyond that, Drumpf is a proven sexual offender, registered or not. He has been caught on a hot mic speaking about how he forces himself on women whether they want it or not. Not to put too fine a point on it, this orange POS wants to take away the rights of women who want full control of their own body, threatening to “punish them” if they go through with abortions.

And Girl Scouts is alright with this? Seriously?

On their own website, Girl Scouts indicate, “… they offered a helping hand to those in need and worked together to improve their corner of the world.”

Yet, they are supporting a very specific now-political figure who is doing his damnedest to disrespect, dishonour, and further objectify women. Drumpf has proven — repeatedly — that he cannot be trusted to treat all sexes, races and ethnicities with equality. He is working on repealing a healthcare program that has helped well over 10 million people.

And this is what Girl Scouts wants to support?

As a female American citizen, I cannot in good conscience support an organization that is willing to sell out and compromise the very people it states it was created for. Furthermore, I would encourage parents to look to healthier organizations for their daughters to participate in.

I’M DROWNING MY MOUTH! (And other New Year’s Resolutions.)

Like most New Year resolutions, it starts with the best of intentions.

I’m going to be a winner this year, I’m going to be a better me.  Dammit, I’m going to be the best me I can be!  I’m going to overrule me in the court of me, and my old me is just going to have to suck it!

Once all the sappy motivational-poster zingers run their course, it comes down to just one person and their one head, the argument between brain and body continuing in a perpetual loop.  Like when you’re stuck in the car with your bickering parents.

“Stop signs are not suggestions.”

“Of course they are.  I don’t pay attention to suggestions, either.”

“You’re going to get us killed.”

“Yes, but how soon?”

I digress.

My primary goal this year has been to drink the recommended 64 ounces of water a day – 8  glasses of 8 ounces.  My Nalgene bottles have been a huge help in meeting this goal, as quite a lot of their bottles have the markers on the outside of the bottle, showing you the progress you’re making.

Why, though, do I feel like I’m drowning my tongue in H20?  I knew about the constant need to go to the bathroom, because, hey, a river runs through it!  For the last week and a half, I’ve felt like I woke up without any semblance of a bladder.

The toxins are getting washed out.  Completely washed out.  It’s like a tsunami in my belly.

Drinking all this water actually segues into some of my other resolutions.  I say “some”, because I inadvertently came up with a lot of winners this year.  BECAUSE I’M A FUCKING BEAST!

“Curse less” did not make the list this year.  Maybe next year.  Maybe.

Borrowing the brilliant phrase of Lin-Manuel Miranda’s epic saga known as “Hamilton”, I am working on the gem of “Speak less, smile more.”  When I have the nozzle of my Nalgene  bottle jammed in my cry-hole, I’m definitely speaking less.  If I smile more, and keep smiling, my unwavering stare while smiling tends to creep people out, so I don’t have to say anything.  Win-win!

The concept of patience eludes me at times, so that’s a resolution that seems to be an exhausting exercise.  There’s also another angle on the topic of patience which is “when do I wait for something to work itself out?” versus “when is the right time to strike and nip this thing in the bud?”

Drinking water doesn’t answer any questions on that last one, but hey, don’t let that getcha down.


Keep swimming, swimming, swimming!


When the Fence You’re On Starts To Give Out

As we get closer to the end of the month, closer to the time where I’ll be taking all my toys and heading to a new sandbox, I start taking harder looks at the sandlot I’m currently in, and doing so more frequently. With each scan, the nagging question nags louder than the last time;

How did I get all this stuff?

Seriously, how?

I don’t even remember when I got half this stuff.

I sound like a bad revamp of a George Carlin routine. Don’t get me wrong, I love Carlin. Rest in peace, guy. You’re still in our heads and hearts.

But holy shitballs, Batman! THIS IS A LOT OF STUFF!

I keep procrastinating going through all my stuff, because it’s so overwhelming. I have watched commercials and looked longingly at print ads of homes with a minimalist feel. It’s always two thoughts that run my brain at the same time when I see them.

A) God, how I would love to have so little.

Orange) Those lying bastards. There’s a room in that house that has all their real crap jammed along the perimeters, I just know it!

And then the train does that ringing sound, and I’m pulled back into reality. I have to leave the train and do the mad dash to the office. When I work in Manhattan, I’m often in the Chelsea district, or at least neighbouring the area in Midtown.

After work, it’s a 50/50 chance I’ll be heading to The Strand.

The Strand.

That big, beautiful, spectacular beast of Biblio-Camelot. If we could marry stores, I’d be in a lifetime commitment with the brick bastard. We’re already sharing my money, so why not?

Sometimes, I get to meet up with my friend, Danielle, and we’ll go in together, soaking up wisdom and fiction. This is our happy place. Strand is the vortex from which we gain new insights. And more books. Also, t-shirts, bags, socks, magnets, candy, calendars, notebooks. The Strand is basically Target for smart people. Ooooh! Ice cube trays with the forms of octopi! Well, shit! I HAVE to get THAT!

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah! Stuff.

Danielle and I have walked through a lot of midtown, many times with the question escaping my lips, “how am I going to be able to leave here?”

“I don’t know, Carrie.”

About ten minutes have passed, and we’re likely in East Village. I ask the question again, and really I think I don’t even address it to her, but to the sky and/or myself. As if somehow clouds will form mouths, and I’ll suddenly hear the Voice of Reason. It would sound remarkably like Samuel L. Jackson.

“Shit, bitch, figure it out! You don’t have the wallet for New York. Find someplace the fuck else and regroup!”

I guess it doesn’t need to be mentioned the Voice of Reason is oftentimes cranky and impatient.

Still, on the fence I sit, and on the fence I fester. Until very recently where an opportunity presented itself, and a new city broke into my head like the Kool-Aid guy, but with less fanfare.

Providence, Rhode Island! Population — 178,042.

I think I see that many people just getting off the F train and heading into Penn Plaza. How can a city not even reach the 200,000 mark? That’s incredible.

I’m reassured by many friends that I’ll like it there a lot. The fact that there’s a library within a 10 minute range of the house is HUGE. Because priorities. The second most important thing was the guarantee of Dunkin’ Donuts.

You can see what truly matters in life where I’m concerned.

The biggest aspect to consider is that this is all brand new to me. For the longest time, my mentality was that there were two places in the world; New York City and Not New York City. I had no interest in the latter, but I was convinced I was going to live out my days in the former.

When I moved to Brooklyn 4+ years ago, I didn’t bother to get a NY driver’s licence. I decided on the state ID because I figured I’d never have to drive a car ever again.

Need a lift?

Never say never.

Now, I have to shed about 90% of my belongings (not counting for the hardback autographed, 10th Anniversary edition of Neil Gaiman’s American Gods— be real). I have to say buh-bye to the city I love, the city I will always love, unequivocally, but can’t afford.

I have to go through all my papers and deliberate on what to keep vs what to toss. I’d like to toss all of it, but I know that isn’t feasible.

Hey Siri, how do I schedule a home burglary?


I Really Need To Stop Buying So Much Cr- OOOOOH, SOCKS!



So there are a few things you should know about me if you don’t already know me.

  • I have a wicked, untreated case of ADD/ADHD/OCD/PMS/OPP (yeah, you know me).  Which essentially means that I can clean house like a demon, partially, while listening to music, and bitching about how much crap I have until Mr. Douchecanoe downstairs starts to out-decibel me in the volume department.  He always loses, I don’t know why he even tries.
  • I’m not married.  I think this really is best for everyone.  We have enough victims in the world, no?  Can you imagine waking up to a woman who looks uncomfortably like Christopher Walken, requesting more cowbell?  Methinks not.  Stop asking me when it’s going to happen. It won’t.
  • I have no kids.  See above for the reason. (Plus, really, I am my own kid.  I often give in to my own needs, just to get me to shut up.  You know that rack of candy by the register?  Yeah.  Yeah.)
  • I came into the world much later than the due date given, and I think it’s translated into every appointment, interview and check-in time ever since.  I was born 3 weeks late, my biological mother was in labour for 22 hours, AND they had to use the salad spoons.  AND IT STILL TOOK EFFORT!  I’m basically the elusive piece of lettuce that keeps sliding through the prongs.  If ever there was a child who did not want to be born – HI! – it was me.  (She probably still has claw marks along her inner walls.)  (You’re welcome.)  As a result of the over-cooked bun in the oven, some of the “stuffing” – as it were – is a little stale, a little rock hard.  Whatever.  Snoopy is still my favourite cartoon.
  • I also have the rock wall called bipolar depression.  The plus of all this is the ADD only lets me be sad for a little while, and then there’s YouTube clips, Pinterest ideas, and everything on Facebook.  (I happily discovered that I’m not the only one who calls George Takei “Uncle George”.  I have this whole huge family I didn’t even know about!)  And on top of all of those goodies, there’s the magical world of Amazon, where you can literally get ANYTHING!

Okay, so let me explain why I’m writing this blog in the first place.

I’m very likely moving to Rhode Island in the beginning of February.  By bus.  No shit, I’m literally planning on getting two huge suitcases of the crap I want/have to keep, and leaving everything else by the wayside.  I’ve been selling a lot of my stuff, like the CDs and DVDs I haven’t listened to or watched in years, because, hey, DIGITAL!  The method I’ve used to sell said items is an app called Decluttr, and they pay literally pennies on the dollar spent for such winners as Pussycat Dolls, Grammy Winners, Norah Jones, Moby, and Alice in Chains.  (The word is “eclectic” folks.  Eclectic.  Don’t judge me, you little Jethro Tull stalker!)  Don’t give me grief about The Pussycat Dolls, either.  I was in my 20’s, and they were strange and confusing times.

I digress.

In order to get these gems mailed out, Decluttr emails me a “kit”, which is basically the list of items I’ve scanned to send to them using my phone.  They also send the mailing label so that I don’t have to pay shipping, which is really what sold me on selling them, and not just tossing these plastic bastards in the rubbish.  So, I do the scanny-scan thing, hit “Save”, tap the screen a few more times, and they email me their “kit”.

The next step is to open my email.  I was terrible about opening my email last year.  I would literally go weeks before getting through the myriad of emails, thankyouverynothing, Depression.  But I vowed to be better this year about it, so here goes.  And this is where you have to pay attention because this is where ADD is the feature player.

I opened a new window, get into my email, and discover my absolute FAVOURITE blogger, Jenny Lawson, The Bloggess, has uploaded a new blog.  She has hilarious posts that almost always put me in a good mood. (Don’t read too much into the “almost”…’16 was a rough year.)  So now, my brain’s all “We were supposed to do something?  Huh?” I skip right past the very important, much needed, this-will-get-you-train-fare-for-a-day-and-a-half email, and go right into Happy Land, reading her blog.

We’re not done here.  Quit wriggling, get comfy, there’s more.

Along the left side of the screen is an ad for socks.  Perhaps one of a few highlights of 2016, was my self-discovery of a funky sock-addiction I apparently have.  I don’t know where it came from, I don’t know what broke inside me that suddenly I had to own everything that had more personality than me (this explains why I’m always scrounging for moolah) and this new ad for socks is EVERYTHING!

So I found these Asshole socks pictured at the top, but when I tried to save the picture from the Amazon site, they weren’t having it.  So I had to open ANOTHER WINDOW, do a search through Bing with the descriptor of “asshole socks” and I did not – I repeat DID NOT – see exactly what I was looking for.  I did, however, discover how flexible naked women really are with their bodies.  And some of them were wearing socks.  So Bing doesn’t get an F for the day, more a C-.  I think I’m being generous, really.  Not as generous as Gigi with her rainbow stockings and the, uhhh, lollipop.  I don’t ever want to be that generous.  Also, lollipops are officially off the list of Candies I Can Have.  Looks like it’s just you and me, Swedish Fish.

My brain is currently fighting itself for whether I really need another pair of socks.

I don’t.  But I want them.  But I don’t need them.  But I kind of do. Carrie, nobody cares about your socks, they aren’t looking at your feet.  But I care, motherfucker.  Don’t call me a motherfucker, that’s physically impossible, and you know it.  Whatever, I want these socks.  You can get them later, they don’t go away if you just wait.  If I wait, I’ll forget about them.  That just proves you don’t need them, you’re just being impulsive.  Am not.  Quit sulking.


Fine, I won’t get them… yet.

Ooooh, The Strand is having a sale!

New Year, New Me, New Look

Okay, so yesterday, after the haircut, I went to pick up the silver/purple hair dye from Duane Reade, to kind of jooj (spelling?  I never thought I’d actually use this word) up my “look”, as it were.
I spent a good 10 minutes in that aisle, looking at a myriad of women, staring back at me with expressions of “we’re fun, we’re fabulous, and we come cheap with a coupon!”
I had been eye-balling this blonde-ish red tint, thinking, “this will be better received at job interviews than Raver-Girl-With-Daddy-Issues, maybe I should just pace myself. Maybe I was just born to be mild.”
And then my internal Carrie Fisher-like voice popped out and said “Fuck what they think! Be afraid, but do it anyway. Punk!”
Nodding my head, scaring the employee with the price-check gun, I grabbed the silver demon motherfucker and go to the register.
I’m fearless, I’m a warrior, I HAVE A COUPON!
The kid behind the counter looks at the box, then looks at me, and I can already tell he’s figured me out.  Smug little shit.
“New Year’s thing?”
“Yeah.  Scan the coupon and take my money.  Lez go!”
Transaction completed, I head out the door.  I have the phrase in my head “afraid, but doing it anyway” on a continuous loop.  A new mantra all my own.  I get home, do a 15 minute workout, because resolutions (we’ll see how long THAT lasts).
I put on the I-don’t-care-clothes.  You know those clothes.  The t-shirt you wouldn’t dare go out in public wearing, but you can’t bring yourself to part with it, due to some kind of event you wore it to that was life-changing and brilliant.  I put on the black plastic gloves, and the first thought in my head was, “these would be perfect for murder, but who to try it with first?  I’ve seen 3 seasons of Dexter, I should have a plan already.”
I squeezed Tube 1 into Bottle 2 and throw Conditioner 3 in the shower stall, so that I’m prepared for the mad dash in when I’m giving my hair the Silkwood treatment.
*Note – If you don’t understand the “Silkwood” reference, you’re too young for the demographic I’m trying to appeal to.  Go back to your tweeting and your Beliebering.  I can’t help you.
I shake that bottle the way I want to shake a coffee pot, trying to get that corner drop.
I apply it, saturating the shit out of my head, making myself look like a character from “Dragonball Z”.
I give it the allotted 20 minutes.  Okay, fine, it was more like 22 minutes, because I had to put the murder gloves back on, because I didn’t read ALL the instructions at once.  Baby steps, bitches.  Baby steps.
I’m in the shower, singing “I Got A New Attitude”, making the shower tile peel, all that good stuff,  I apply Conditioner 3, rub that shit in like I want it to go past the scalp and possibly make my brain brighter, too.  (Couldn’t hurt.  Zucchini.)  I’ve been in the shower for at least 20 minutes, making sure all the goop is completely gone.  I’m also nervous about the moment-of-truth thing happening.  What have I done?  Why did my mid-life crisis have to be like this?  Why is this shower stall so small?  Is that mold?
I finally get out and jump in front of the mirror, Jennifer-Grey-in Ferris-Bueller-scaring-the-bejeesus-out-of-the-principal-thinking-it-was-her-brother style.
(Seriously, if you don’t know this scene, how do we even know each other?  This is basic Cinema 101 Fundamentals, child!  Get out of here!)
What reflected in the mirror was a wet-head.  A slightly lighter (very slightly lighter,  a whisper, really) wet head.  Okay.  Okay.  In the immortal words of Douglas Adams, don’t panic.  Dry that noggin and hit refresh, baby!  You’re a new woman!
So.  I am not the silver/purple demon of Brooklyn that I’d hoped to be.  That chick is likely in Park Slope, reeking of patchouli and telling you how best to ride your $500 ten-speed while properly holding your rainforest-grown coffee.
No, instead, I’m the blonde-ish red tinted chick of Gravesend, who just spent an extra 3 dollars for the the Feria crap when she could’ve just shelled out for a Nice ‘n Easy box of Autumn Burst, or whatever the fuck they’re calling it now.
Stupid coupons.