No One is Alone

I've spent my fair share of time alone on Valentine's Day. And you know what, that's all kinds of okay.  I confess I'm not alone this year, so maybe my thoughts on the subject are rendered obsolete. It's certainly nice to have someone to do nice things for, but I also feel that should be an everyday occurence. My bozo* and I won't be spending this day wracking up debt and stressing over how this day should mean more. For one, both of us have more money in the Mexican currency of pesos than we do tangible dollars. We're basically gonna get all "Gift of the Magi" on each other, buying treats for each other we don't need but refuse to buy for ourselves. It'll be romantic, in that way that poor things are.  

Valentine's Day always gets me thinking about what this day was like in years prior, where I was, or who I was with, or what I was feeling. But you know what? It also gets me thinking about all the things I had (and YOU, sweet reader, have) that mean a whole lot more than one day where you might feel a tad bit lonely. So, I compiled a list of awesome stuff that I had/have as a quick reminder that we all tend to "have" a lot more than we think we do. The things we have--and bits of our lives we share--keep us from truly being alone. And if, after reading this list, you still feel alone then you can call me and I will find you wherever you are within the five boroughs and we will drink coffee (read: Irish coffees) and giggle (read: maybe cry) for a few hours, together. But let's try this first? 

WHY (MOST PEOPLE) AREN'T REALLY ALONE (Or, A List of Awesome Shit We Take For Granted) 

1.) Netflix

2.) Legs that walk you places

3.) Arms that pick things up

4.) A place outside to walk

5.) Pizzabagels  

6.) A friend to call

7.) A mom/dad that chooses to listen to you when you need to talk  

8.) the entirety of the movie, Up

9.) Double stuffed dark chocolate Milano cookies

10.) Oysters on the half shellllllll (get one right now, I can't stop and they're only $3) 

11.) Whistling  

12.) Skipping

13.) An animal pet that loves you (perhaps only because you feed them, but let's choose to be positive here) 

14.) A pair of jeans you look like a sexy motherf*cker in

15.) Warm socks

16.) Hand written letters  

17.) Coffee

18.) People in your neighborhood who recognize you/know you by name

19.) Tropical flavored Starburst  

20.) An old picture of your grandparents when they were in the love

21.) Ben and Jerry's Milk and Cookies ice cream

22.) ANY AND ALL MUSIC. The ability to hear and appreciate music

23.) Skin (Your skin is actually so badass, it's awesome, even when it's very see-through pale.) 

24.) Comfy beds

25.) The ability to read

26.) Libraries and small bookshops

27.) A job where someone relies on you

28.) Instagram (yeah, I'll admit it. I'm addicted and grateful.) 

29.) Brothers and sisters

30.) That new Rihana and Kanye and that other guy's new song  

31.) Water

32.) A photograph or a piece of art that reminds you of something/someone 

33.) Fresh (freezing cold) air

34.) The choice to go anywhere else (if you really put your mind to it) 

35.) A corner to write in

36.) An itchy item of clothing someone has knit for you

37.) Someone that worries about you

38.) Someone you worry about

39.) Incredible (and free) street/subway performances daily

40.) Your retainer box

41.) A place that you get to call home

Some years on Valentine's Day I didn't have all of these things, or even ten. Some of you might not have all of these things. Some of of them are just that: things, and funny items that made/make me feel safe. Some are less tangible, some are relationships and moments that make us feel taken care of. But here's the real thing: if you read this and have five, or twenty, or even one, you're going to be okay. If you make your own list, you'll get to look and see how much you really *have.*  Yes, perhaps Valentine's is a silly contrived holiday and yes, perhaps others don't care about it as much as you or I do. But if the only positive action that comes out of this seemingly lonely or bleak or underwhelming or cheap holiday is that you take a minute to see all that you have, then it's most assuredly worth it.

*that's my messed up pet name for my boyfriend derived from a crazy man on the subway because, love.  

Top Five Places to Cry in NYC

When did crying in public become cool again? I think it must've happened right around the time we started sharing viral proposal videos. You know, the kind that start with some sort of very determined, generic classical piece (heavvvyyy on the stringed instruments) that drums up excitement while the malefiancé  tells a story about how he's known Jenny* for seventeen years but four years ago he went to Bonnaroo and got SUPER lost coming back home and she was dating someone new when he returned and it took months of playing a painfully mediocre, yet heartfelt version of Mumford and Son's "I Will Wait" on his uke outside her window to win her back? Those ones. This is why it's cool to cry again. So, I guess, I'm cool biddies. 

I love a good cry. My very favorite cry is when I can get into pajamas, drink wine from a coffee cup, open my iPad and watch each and every sad looking trailer at http://trailers.apple.com/. Also, soldiers coming home and their dogs freaking out. Those are my jam. My dearest friends enjoy a solid cry, too. One friend indulges in a quick "get it all out" cathartic cry while watching the last ten minutes of Step Mom. Seriously, google "last ten minutes of step mom." It'll come up. I love the internet so hard.

People think New York City is the best city in the world for so many obsolete reasons. The REAL reason New York City is the best is because of the plethora of perfect places you can (if the spirit moves you) publicly cry. There are a few places you shouldn't cry (anywhere in Times Square) but everywhere else is fair game. I would like to share with you, if I may, some of my very favorite places to publicly cry. I foster the idea of a luxury public cry, not because I want you, dear reader, to be wrought with sadness and the need to cry. But more because a quick cry in a sweet setting never hurt nobody. And, like a tape worm, better out than in.

TOP FIVE PLACES TO PUBLIC CRY IN NEW YORK CITY

                                                                                            1) Central Park

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Change "macaroons" to "can of dark chocolate frosting and a spoon" and this man/woman and I are most assuredly soul mates.

People are always like, "Oh my gosh Sheep Meadow! So much fun! Frisbee and shit!" but the best part of Central Park are the benches. Have you read any of the dedications on the benches? THEY ARE DEVASTATING. One time I didn't even have to cry and I made myself by reading some of the bench dedication plaques. You can sit, put your sunglasses on (please be in the park crying during the day, at night it's no longer cathartic as much as it's dangerous) and let it all out. The wonderful part is there are benches EVERYWHERE so there's bound to be a subway stop that takes you to the park and helps you publicly purge. And when you're done you can grab a big pretzel or a hot dog and live in your truth.

2) Any Greek Cafe/Diner 

Baklava= my anti-drug.

It's a Greek belief dating back to the first Olympics that hard crying for twenty minutes steadily is the emotional and physical equivalent to running a marathon.** See, now you won't miss that answer on Trivia Crack. You're welcome. I think Greek diners are awesome. Sometimes a lady needs four to five pieces of baklava and a release of emotion in the form of crocodile tears. You might've  deduced that the Greeks are comfortable with tears, based on their loud, emotional conversations and passionate hand gestures but they are actually very stoic people. If you cry in their establishment they will most likely leave you alone until they send over another piece of baklava, on the house. 

3.) Port Authority 

A picture I took for you guys of Hell.

Port Authority is the worst place. Port Authority smells like dashed dreams and Cool Ranch Doritos that someone urinated on and left in a corner. It feels like, maybe, it's not a real place at all but perhaps a movie set from the 1970's that someone forgot to break down after filming wrapped. The florescent lights leave nothing to the imagination. If you are tired, Port Authority knows and will expose you so hard. I caught myself crying at Port Authority recently trying to catch a Peter Pan bus (because I am LUXURY) to Massachusetts to see a therapist who believed he could cure my tension by playing Tibetan singing bowls.*** I was at that seventh layer of hell disguised as the the Authority of the Ports at 7am, on time, but was denied a seat on the bus because they overbooked. It was a perfect storm of frustration and exhaustion and it most certainly all came to a teary halt. But, here's the beauty of Port Authority crying: it never lasts that long. It's not a place that facilitates a comfortable, glamorous cry. It's the quick, dirty release that it needs to be, and then you buck up and you get your ass on the next bus to somewhere vaguely near your desired destination. You get a big Snapple and a trashy magazine and you COMMIT to being a part of that gross place while chalking over the money for your Amtrak ticket back home. 

4.) Fancy hotel bars

The Ace Hotel or, Fancy-Town.

The exact opposite of Port Authority, the fancy hotel bar gives you a comfortable, plush, crushed velvet couch that you can call your own while you sit with whatever poor girlfriend is stuck listening to you cry about having too much work, not enough work, too many men, not enough men, too many credit cards, not enough credit cards, and various other fake problems that can only be shared over drinks where at least one of the ingredients are muddled. I love a fancy hotel bar, like that library themed bar in the Ace Hotel because everyone is trying so so hard. If you're the woman/man (because ya'll cry too) crying at the Ace Hotel bar, the facade gone. You might as well unbutton your jeans and let the mascara run free, your walls are down and the pressure is off and you can ACTUALLY ENJOY what a nice place it really is. Also, ain't nobody gonna ask to share that crushed velvet couch with you crying like that, so spread out and stretch and live your life!

5.) 59th and Lexington Subway Stop

Crying when I took this picture because, life.

This one might just be my special place so, please don't take it from me. Go find your own subway stop to cry at, this one's mine, I've cried all over it. For some reason, anytime my feelings are being felt it's at this exact station, most specifically in the underpass from the uptown to the downtown trains. It's so gross there, the rats outnumber humans 3 to 1. I think it wants to be glamorous, what with the Bloomingdale's and all, but somewhere between 1950 and today, the charm has been lost. But here's the thing: that charm and glamor are still alive within every single commuter passing through that station. Crying Bligh has been handed tissues, given seats on the bench, and even been gifted a free water from the bodega. Whenever I needed a bit of kindness it was always readily given by a person at this station. Maybe those people spent their fair share of time crying at 59th and Lex too, and they get it, and they want to pass along a good deed or two. I'd like to believe that because it makes me happy but maybe my pale blotchy-skin cry face are wicked scary and people are trying to avoid me. Whatever the reason may be, I implore you to find your own special train station where you feel free enough to cry. Just make sure it's a stop accessible during your regular commute and that the people (and rats) are kind. 

*Because all the women are usually named Jenny, and I'm sorry if that sounds rude of me I actually think Jenny is an awesome name.  

**This is a boldface lie.  

***these bowls are awesome. I'm sorry, but they're way more awesome than the name Jenny.  

Likes This Status

Hello, my name is Bligh and I am addicted to likes. It's been...36 seconds since I last liked something. I think about liking things all the time. Like, I* like everything mostly. There's just...so much to like. The things I want to like the most usually include, but are not limited to are the following: babies, anything related to Chipotle, anytime anyone mentions Beyonce, pictures of babies wearing sunglasses, love, witty comments, and any documentation of babies wearing sunglasses eating in a Chipotle while saying something witty and executing that lil handshake bit from Beyonce's "Single Ladies" video.

I'm trying to like less as I'm aware it's just a manifestation of the bigger addiction to social media. But the LIKES man! I need to click the like. It feels so good. It makes me feel like I've done something worthwhile with my day, regardless of the fact I'm still in pajamas youtubing "how to cornrow" ad nauseum. I've liked shit. I'm spreading love, one like at a time! And mayhaps, I'm like, the Buddha of Likes. I'm an Enlightened Liker! (This is now a thing. You should probably like it.)

And there's the word like. It's completely perfect. So many different, distinct meanings and phrases wrapped into such a wee, overused, generational trend of a word! Sometimes a like is all, "thank you." And then you see a friend's funny quip and you want them to know, "good one" so you LIKE all up on it! Another friend is with child? Fantastic! I LIKE that so much for you! Not for me. I'm good. But YOU. Namaste to you and your babe in the womb! Sometimes, a like simply means, "I saw that." I'm trying to avoid these likes...but...the temptation to make sure I catch every single thing every single person I've met once at a Wicked ECC says/documents/does is just...too much for this addict.

I know I like too much. In order to work on this little problem of mine, I've devised a plan of action. For each impetus I have to "like" something on social media a friend of mine has posted, I take a deep breath, and if applicable, I call their number. The first victim? My younger brother and Draco Malfoy impersonator, Eamon Wall Voth. Our interaction went something like this:

ME: HEY! Eamon! What's going on in your life today? How're things? How's that girl you met on OkCupid who manages that froyo store at home I like?

EAMON: ...that's over...

ME: But it just started?

EAMON: Yeah, she wasn't the one.

ME: ...Okay. And ALSO, I want you to know that I really like  your new profile picture.

EAMON: Thanks, it was taken on a rooftop.

ME: I LIKE THAT. I LOVE roofs! Awesome Eamon, really great.

EAMON: Are you doing alright? Go get a Dunkin, you'll feel better...

Based on the above interaction, I think it's time to find a different way to combat the addiction to like. I can't like it all. No one can. That's just silly. And there are things outside to do! And air to breathe! And books to read! And hair to cornrow! And human beans* to truly interact and connect with. I know this might not change overnight. Addiction is a strong and rude biddie that will vomit on your favorite pair of shoes and not even apologize. But we keep trying, every day, a little bit more. And the dream? The dream is we'll all "like" ourselves enough to not feel obligated to like or be liked by anyone else. That's the dream. I fuckin' love it.

*"human beans" is a reference from the awesome awesome book The Borrowers which I read at least three times while part of my Catholic school's elite (read: dorky) Battle of the Books Club right around the tender age of 11, and I think you should take a minute and read it, too, if you haven't already. Boom.

The Color of the Pepper is Inconsequential

Winter is a tricky biddie. This winter has been the trickiest biddie of them all. For whatever reason, I cannot stop eating. I'm eating because it's cold, that much is understood. But I'm eating like it's so cold and I'm preparing for a reality television show "The Donner Party Revisited" and I must put on the necessary weight so as to avoid eating my grandmother. Or getting gangrene. (Do not google image that.) ...you google imaged gangrene, didn't you. WHY DID YOU DO THAT? I told you not to! No matter, the problem I was getting to is that for a woman with an insatiable appetite for all food, I lack the required cash monies to support the habit. And it's causing me to do a lot of...questionable things. Like, last weekend at my home in Virginia, I may or may not have "borrowed" roughly $20 in quarters from a jar labeled, "Father Cosmos' Kids." That's right. I stole money being raised for orphaned children in Africa. And for the record, I am NOT proud of this. I'm horrified. But I have every intention of paying it back. AND my favorite guilt-ridden lapsed Catholic friend Rob told me that all is well if I pray the Sorrowful Mystery of the Rosary on the next Friday or Tuesday. He knows things. He also has the special knack for locating a Croatian mass that DOES serve coffee and donuts within a five mile radius. Which is truly, a lost art.

So I have nothing to eat. Well, that's not true I have this:

That's a picture of basmati rice, spaghetti, one red pepeper, one onion, one tomato, an egg, garlic tomato sauce, 5-layer dip from Trader Joe's, and this magic asian remedy syrup I swear by called (I think) Nin Jiom Pei PA Koa. Here it is, expertly staged, up close.

...So you can get this at most Asian markets. Just ask for "family size honey loquat" and see what happens. If that shit costs more than $5.50 and they DON'T offer you complimentary acupuncture in your right foot, you need to leave, and fast. I wish I could tell you more about Nin Jiom, but the entire packaging is in another language and the ingredient list is just a picture of herbs that, I assume, are in this concoction. Just buy it. Take it. And thank me when your skin starts to glow as bright as the sun and you sing like Jesus.

I digress. Back to my hunger. These are the things I can cook with tonight. My ginger bunny roommate and best friend Whitney has decided to make us chocolate chip cookies so I return that kind gesture with a BOX OF WINE. Yes, that's right. Only the best for my friend.

The man at Trader Joe's said that it was the best boxed wine he'd had all day. And who am I to argue with that? So we each get a healthy pour, save for Jackson, the dog, as he was really going through it a while back and spent most of 2013 in this wicked, alcohol-induced stupor. Bless his heart.

I found this website supercook.com where you put in the ingredients you have in your kitchen and it spurts out what you can cook. It's kinda awesome. Apparently I could make Spanish Rice?!? Well isn't that something! And it gets better because I can ALSO make over 199 recipes with my paltry pantry. God is real.

As I click on the recipe for Spanish Rice, I first hone in on the "1 hour cook time." Nope. No. It takes approximately four minutes door to door to get dollar pizza. But I guess if Donna Moore says, "I've had this recipe for awhile. It is very easy to make," then I can suck it up and wait patiently. We get it Donna, it's easssyyy for you to cook. Good for you! As I go in for my second glass of the wine that is boxed, the following conversation transpires:

WHIT: Hey, um, I see you're busy with the wine, but would you mind if I just prepped the cookie dough mix for us?

BLIGH: Ohmygodno! You do you!

WHITNEY: Also, why are you procrastinating?

BLIGH: I think I need a green bell pepper instead of a red and I have to be very quiet and mediate on that right now.

'Twas true. I was becoming increasingly stressed about the color of the pepper. Whitney dismissed it as a non-issue stalling tactic (which it was) and so I made her cut the pepper. And then I made her cut the onion because I have sensitive eyes.

All ingredients cut, oven pre-heated to 400-degrees and not the prescribed 350 because ain't nobody got time for that when I realize...I don't have enough tomatoes. I didn't even USE canned tomatoes like they asked! Will a teaspoon or two or three of tomato sauce suffice? Why not, it's worth a try! Let's add that egg in there too, for good measure.

I then added red pepper flakes and garlic powder because I do what I want. And then I prayed. Here is the before:

And what I busied myself with in between for forty or so minutes:

And here is the after.

And here it is being all presentational and fancy times with a baby bed of mixed greens and a homemade white wine vinegar/dijon mustard/garlic dressing.

It was good. But you know what was GREAT? The seemingly unnecesary (at the time) 5-layer dip purchase at TJ's earlier in the week. Because Donna was right, it was an easy recipe, but it lacked spice! Or it did until I put allll the 5-layer dip on top of it. There was a TJ's seven-layer dip option which I abstained from because five is a luxury unto itself. And as Jo March says as she gives the rag money to silly Amy for that damn orange, "We are not destitute, not yet anyways." So get your dip, however many layers your heart so desires! Use what you have in your pantry! Cook with and for the people you love! And never hesitate to accept a glass of boxed wine from a friend, even if they are gangrenous because I looked it up that shit's not contagious.

Joy. Pure, unedited family joy...or something like that.

How weird is this shit? This is my family. Merry Christmas sweet biddies.

Tis the Season...to Look Better Than Everyone Else: A Lesson in Holiday Picture Posing

The thing about the holidays is people want to take a lot of pictures. And then they want to post all about them over the internet. And so, you sweet biddie reader, need to be ready. Family is sneaky. Family is like, "Oh hey everyone get together for a picture all of us! Let's use this florescent lighting over here! OH and let's make all the women squat! GREAT IDEA! Flattering and incredibly simple to do in that holiday dress, yes?" No. I don't play when it comes to picture taking, and neither should you. Can I break it down for you? Thank you much. THE FIVE CARDINAL RULES FOR PICTURE POSING

1.) It's going to hurt. Namaste it out.

-The thing about a luxury picture is, it will hurt you. Natural posing does not exist. You think all the fancy times models are comfortable while posing for Vogue? No they are not. They are uncomfortable. You need to be ok with this because the final product is worth the momentary pain. Try to cultivate friends with quick flash cameras because no one wants to sit through some 1995 Canon PowerShot long exposure bullshit whilst holding a show bevel. No. Not today, Geraldine.

2.) Find your side.

-My friend Whitney has an incredibly strong left side. Which is perfect, because I can give you a strong dimple and mischief half-smile on my right. WE POSE PERFECTLY TOGETHER. (See above, what a beautiful little ginger bunny she is, no?) I'm not saying pick friends with a good side different than yours, but I'm saying pick friends with a good side different than yours. Practice your side. Spend a little time in front of the mirror figuring that shit out. Additionally, it is imperative that you are living in truth about your weak side because during the holiday season, one's fam-jam may do sneaky things after the third or fourth bottle of Yellow Tail has been consumed. Family has a blatant disregard for your good side at this stage of the night. WORRY NOT. Just collect yourself, and finagle your way to your good side. Everyone will make fun of you. But know that history will remember this moment through the strong Instagram filter chosen. And it will remember that you look good.

3.) When in doubt, get in the middle.

-The Divine Queen (Beyonce) has made it clear time and time again that posing in the middle of a strong group of women only makes you more awesome. There's not a great deal of science behind this next statement but I FIRMLY believe that years of middle-posing with Destiny's Child is the crux of her solo career confidence. Take that as you will. I've been to three fake colleges. Below is a picture of my LUXURY show sisters at our opening night party for a show, me giving you a solid rule #3 in full effect. See what I mean here? They look great, yet, I'm winning. BUT to my right, Kellee's strong "clav-to-arm-to hip" stance is fantastic and brings me to the next rule...

4.) KNOW AND LOVE YOUR BODY.

-Kellee always gives you a strong contoured arm to hip stance. This is just one of her many gifts. Me? Clavicle FAH DAYS. No matter what. Even those days (read: weeks) where I decide dark chocolate and rose is a normal and acceptable breakfast. My dearest dear, Mike needs to teach a master class in the half-smile. He might've invented it, it's so good. But the point here is: when you know and love your body and your assets, you will always have the posing upper hand. Even at family holiday parties where your Mom nonchalantly mentions that, "last year Bligh was sadder but she was also thinner." That cannot phase you when you have that brilliant clavicle. And an Irish-coffee in your hand.

5.) Just enjoy your damn life.

-A few weeks ago in the lady's dressing room I ran this blog entry topic by the women and we laughed and posed for a good long while, just enjoying how ridiculous this all actually is. Then, last week in NYC I had luxury diner breakfast with Alex and Whitney and we further discussed the posing techniques, and laughed at ourselves all over again. I wish someone had been there to take a picture of us. Because from where I was sitting, they were both so beautiful. Same with my dressing room loves: they are most lovely when we are all just laughing and enjoying our lives. Joy is stunning. Be joyful all the time, and once in a while, take a picture to remember that joy. I am fucking brilliantly lucky to have spent the last year of life laughing with my honest and funny family, my kind friends, and my energetic and talented colleagues. Rule #5 is a picture-posing technique, but it's also my rule for the company I keep.

...feelings. Ugh. With all that being said, I need to go shower and finish Christmas shopping. So I leave you biddies with this: this holiday season, love your life. And try out this next pictured pose which I call "The Dead Rag Doll." Just do it. And Merry Christmas to you and yours.

But really....

I have two VERY ripe avocados left and I'm pinterest-ing if I can get all Amish bout it and make em into shampoo, or a face mask? Or a drink mixer? I don't know. It's about thinking outside the box. Thank you Weslie for this luxury picture:)