If the last decade has taught me anything, it’s that I can do everything myself. If the last month has taught me anything, it’s that this isn’t always the best approach.
Like most bad jokes, it all comes down to a lightbulb. I boast about my apartment’s high tin ceilings, but they make it difficult to change the bulbs in my overhead lights. For years I lured tall, handy men into doing my dirty work, all puns intended. Then I had Mr. Oyster, and for a brief moment thought I’d solved all my problems. In the long aftermath of that relationship, I started hiring Taskrabbits, but even the noncreeps proved too forward. Men really do love damsels in distress, or at least preying on them. Continue Reading →
This is the first Tuesday morning I haven’t had to climb into into critic drag in more than five years. My show, Talking Pictures, was cancelled along with most of NY1’s other entertainment programming. The layoff dovetails with the end of my 15-year tenure as a labor journal editor, a job that quietly conferred the bulk of my financial stability. All to say: I am at a serious crossroads. But like clockwork, I rise with the dawn anyway–make coffee and Gracie’s breakfast and putter into my office. For a minute I’m floored. What shall I do with this time? What path shall I forge forward?Then my eye falls on the flowers still blooming on my desk from last weekend’s readings. Freesia and pussy willows, still sitting pretty in my ecosystem like the most gracious of emissaries: pollenated, fragrant, soft. I sigh and take a deep soldiering breath. I can do this, I’m pretty sure. I can do this, though I don’t even know what “it” is yet. This is spring. This is not the time to fall.
Over the last month I’ve done so many readings in my space that the energy has gotten shall-we-say kerfuffly. (Yes, I made up that word; it’s absolutely necessary.) So after finishing this weekend’s readings I got the hell out of dodge. I fetched my groceries, worked out for the first time in a dog’s age, and took advantage of the pretty sunshine by visiting with various friends in neighborhoods all over the city. Basically I did the grown-up lady version of standing outside pals’ houses and screaming, “CAN ANGIE COME OUT AND PLAY, MRS. ANTONELLIS?” which is how we Boston kids used to arrange play dates back in the un-helicoptered 1970s. Continue Reading →
If the last decade has taught me anything, it’s that I can do everything myself. If the last month has taught me anything, it’s that this isn’t always the best approach.
This is the first Tuesday morning I haven’t had to climb into into critic drag in more than five years. My show, Talking Pictures, was cancelled along with most of NY1’s other entertainment programming. The layoff dovetails with the end of my 15-year tenure as a labor journal editor, a job that quietly conferred the bulk of my financial stability. All to say: I am at a serious crossroads. But like clockwork, I rise with the dawn anyway–make coffee and Gracie’s breakfast and putter into my office. For a minute I’m floored. What shall I do with this time? What path shall I forge forward?Then my eye falls on the flowers still blooming on my desk from last weekend’s readings. Freesia and pussy willows, still sitting pretty in my ecosystem like the most gracious of emissaries: pollenated, fragrant, soft. I sigh and take a deep soldiering breath. I can do this, I’m pretty sure. I can do this, though I don’t even know what “it” is yet. This is spring. This is not the time to fall.
Over the last month I’ve done so many readings in my space that the energy has gotten shall-we-say kerfuffly. (Yes, I made up that word; it’s absolutely necessary.) So after finishing this weekend’s readings I got the hell out of dodge. I fetched my groceries, worked out for the first time in a dog’s age, and took advantage of the pretty sunshine by visiting with various friends in neighborhoods all over the city. Basically I did the grown-up lady version of standing outside pals’ houses and screaming, “CAN ANGIE COME OUT AND PLAY, MRS. ANTONELLIS?” which is how we Boston kids used to arrange play dates back in the un-helicoptered 1970s. Continue Reading →