Dear Crackhead, New York City, Overload, POOP, Sarcasm, Thank You

A Thank You Note to the Crackhead in my Stairwell


Dear Crackhead in my Stairwell,

Thank you for the “good morning” the other day. I really needed that. I also really appreciated that you offered to clean up the mess you made with the toilet paper and tampons strewn all over the place. Thank you for mopping with hairspray, making the floors so sticky. And thanks for the the nasty broken earrings all over the place. How many piercings do you have?

Thank you for the puddle on the floor of the landing. I always thought that was my neighbor’s dog. I also love getting letters from my neighbors on the necessity of keeping the door completely closed so we don’t get “undesirable” people in the building. I’m glad you had a warm place to smoke your rocks and dispense your aerosol hairspray disinfectant.

Thank you for throwing the bags of garbage all over the place outside of my building. Us tenants love to wake up on Mondays and Fridays to see that you have taken up collecting cans again. It makes us feel good that toiling over sorting our garbage is going towards a good cause. The clear bags that we sort our recyclables in are obviously too much for you to handle when you are high on a Thursday afternoon. I am sorry for the inconvenience. I shall make it easier for you next time by just leaving piles of garbage loose in the streets. I will lure you there with a trail of quarters, cigarettes, and wet shit smears that have been rained on and tread through the streets by pedestrians. Nobody really likes their shoes anyway.

Thank you for breaking the glass door at our entrance when it is 18 degrees outside. I really appreciate coming home to glass and soggy shit at my front door. I don’t mind too much when the halls smell like weed, but when the halls are filled with smoke and the smell of burning plastic, I begin to worry. Please, be safe.

Yours Truly,

Apartment 4F

Adventure, Change, Journal, Memory Lane, New York City, poetry, South Bronx, This is my Soul, We're Moving

Memory Lane Journals

I always rethink the gratuitous “I’m sorry,” epsecially when I am writing, since it makes me look guilty of something. I am sorry for too many things these days that are not anything I have control of. My last two blog posts were either heavy or sentimental, and I really didn’t know how to follow with such deep, personal expression until I saw a dead pigeon outside of a restauarnt in the South Bronx last week. I saw it and thought it was a dirty hunk of ice/snow until a customer came in and was like, “hey, you know there’s dead pigeon out there.” I learned that it was s sick or super cold bird (since the high had been 18 degrees in NYC ) and he curled up and died alone. My heart broke a little (ok, a lot). I don’t ever want to be that pigeon.

Anyway. I am guilty since I haven’t posted as often as I’d like. I am only about 6,000 words into the 100,000 word goal for the year. Despite being in a weird winter funk,  I’ve been busy. You might even wonder why I was in the South Bronx…. Captain Clam and I were applying for and depositing on a little slice of heaven to rent until we can’t afford it anymore. That’s right, WE ARE MOVING! I can’t even believe how exciting that is. I didn’t want to announce it until we had signed the lease, but I am spreading confidence into the universe today and am pretty much already moved into the new place (in my mind at least).


We came home after the apartment viewing (and some happy hour wine and beer and oysters) and started organizing and throwing things out. Every time I move, it is THE BIGGEST walk down memory lane that I could ever wish for. I have been coming across some great memories these past few days. At my 30th birthday party, I had a card making station. These are cards that were made that would put Hallmark to shame. I even have a card from the Legendary DJ Jazzy Joyce, and I don’t even remember her being there! But… she was. I have come across so many things that remind me that I was super cool at one point. I even found my watch, which was missing for a week or so.

Since we are moving to the same neighborhood I used to live in, I am pretty sure I will still be “cool,” but in a 32 yr old kind of way. I am feeling so bittersweet about going back, but I really HATE Brooklyn. It’s just not for me. It’s great place, but I really don’t belong here. I lived in The Bronx for 7 years and never felt like I was out of place. I go back there to this day and am filled with disgusting amounts of energy ( and copious amounts of beer) and am surrounded by such comfortable friends, both new and old. There is no place (for the time being) that I would rather live. Plus, a two bedroom is so much more appealing than the sardine can studio Captain Clam and I are currently sharing with our animal roommates.

ANYWAY… I came across my journals from long, long ago ( like, 4 years +), and have been reading them. All secrets out, I have always wanted to be writer. This blog might be the closest I ever get… But I was reading this stuff from years ago, and was shocked at what I was saying. Of course, I had a few beers and was cleaning and thought that all of my words were complete poetry (and some of it is  poetry)… I thought I’d share with you.

Some of it’s a little “debbie-downer,” but it is definitely a reflection of what I was going through during those years. I was sick and sad, stuck in a relationship that was never going to go anywhere. I was almost finished with school and had no idea what I was going to do with myself (as if that is ever gonna happen!).

So here goes. Stephanie Janecek (copy written, so don’t copy me) is open to the public: vulnerable and naked (in a metaphorical sense, of course, also, I usually have no pants on when I am writing these blogs).



The drop of a hat

The drop if a dime

You held the rhythm

I held the rhyme

How sweet life was

Back in time

When music was simple

And love was sublime




All night.

How clever of the sun

To creep through the window

So slowly

At such an ungodly hour.

My eyes hardly blink

And I find

Allah in my rolodex,

Buddha in my reflection,

And Jesus in my rearview.

They show up



The music played

And I fell in love with the night

So sexy, with arms embracing

My cold shoulders.

I flirted relentlessly

Hoping the wine

And my smile

Would  steal the show.

The harmony persisted

And my face

Became a memory

Lost in a Cabernet Cabaret.

Summer 2008

Anguished children

neighbored by the beaten



The river has dried

And driven

Nature to be a fantom memory

Along with humanity



Darwin’s theory

Takes an economical twist

Excluding the Rich,



Victory does not come to those who deserve it,

But comes to those

Who pay for it.

2009 – ish

Haiku 1

Golden sunshine sky

Lazy afternoon cocktail

Careless summer ease

Haiku 3

Optimism Chart

Northernly navigation

Exclamation points!

February 2010


The talking machine is on again.

Mundane things have become so important.

I don’t leave my house,

And yet complain about the weather.

March 2010-ish

Haiku: Cat

Golden eyes open

Greets the day with purr and mew

Then goes back to sleep.

April 2010

Haiku: Music

Save my soul old friend

Count the days until the end

You…. stuck in my head.

I’ll save some of these little gems (and longer entries from my train adventures) and share on a rainy Saturday after the move. For now, my old notebooks are headed for a cardboard box labeled “Books.”

Happy Birthday!, Love, Nieces, POOP

Sixteen Years Ago Today

It was 1998. I was sixteen. My sister woke me up at 5:30 in the morning. I asked her how she was feeling and she said “Today is the day.” I asked her how she knew and she told me her water had broken a few hours ago. I shit my pants. She told me it was okay and she already took a poop that morning so she didn’t to it “on the table.” What a relief! I wondered why the ambulance wasn’t there, but she was in no rush and calmed me down like she always did. I couldn’t stand the anticipation. Then I remembered I had Mrs. LeCann’s English midterm… I was off to school. Crap!

I had a beeper on me (it was so not mine), since this was the 90’s. I rushed through my midterm, checking my state-of-the-art device as many times as possible…. but if you know me, you know that I have a rough draft and then 6 re-writes to make before I put it in that little blue book. The buses pulled up and my pen was still going. I was the last one in the room and started to cry. Mrs. LeCann was stern but sweet (as always), “what’s wrong? she asked” I sobbed, “My sister is having a baby.” She said “They won’t leave without you.” I finished perfectly  (totally got an A+, tears and all) and got on my bus just as it was pulling out.

I got home after what seemed like hours, but no one was home. I was a disaster. Finally, my mom called. They were at St. Charles Hospital in Port Jefferson, NY, but no one wanted to leave to come get me. I was devastated until I heard my hot rod mom pull up outside the house. I hopped in the 1984 Thunderbird  T-Top Coupe and sped off towards a very different life.


Pretty much the COOLEST person ever.

She was born around a quarter after 4 pm. The doctor (finally) came to us.” She’s a healthy baby girl! Mom is doing fine.” I almost died… pretty sure I cried and almost passed out (since there was so much blood on his pants). We called my dad and let him know he was a legit grandpa. We were finally let into the room and I got to hold her at last. What an ugly little alien baby she was! She was a little lump in my arms with an open top stocking on her head… she had blood in her hair and water logged skin, and I have never been so in love!


Portrait of Love.

That first summer, I was the babysitter. We’d wake up around 8 so she could eat. Every once in a while she’d sleep until 9. I always wore a “puke shirt,” since she’d spit up all over everything. I never cared. Every morning she would sleep on my heart, like a peaceful kitten (and you know how I feel about kittens). She barely cried, since she never left my arms, and was spoiled with all the Auntie love that I never knew I had in me. Everyday she would change and grow, even if it was just a little mutant being… I saw it. She was bigger and stronger, and more loving, and curious every day. She was almost mine for that first summer.


Little did I know…

One night, I was on the phone with a friend (who was a super hot boy I had known since forever), and I was babysitting my sweet little buzz kill. I had the cordless phone on one shoulder and was resting her in my lap, bouncing and playing (and probably chatting about how adorable this little lump was) when suddenly, my entire lap was filled with warm liquid. “Hmmph,” I though. “Oh, she peed on me.” But seriously, what baby pees that much? I took her upstairs to change her (still on the phone with my hunk) and I then discovered the ridiculous amount of urine was caused by a ridiculous amount of pudding textured shit in her diaper. Being the super human baby-nanny that I thought I was, I stayed on the phone and proceeded to get “pudding mush” in her hair, my hair, on both of our arms, the wall, the changing table, my shoes, my face, her face, etc. Needless to say, my phone call was cut short.


Poop Machine.

There were many nights when we’d have our “sleep overs,” She’d pass out at 8:30 and then barf or piss on me by 10. I’d always blame it on the cheddar and oreo mix that she loved so much, and really never minded that much. She once got even with one of Aunt Chrissy’s (ex) boyfriends. He was laying on the floor tossing her around like the little bear that she was… and she puked right in his mouth and all over his face. It was brilliant. Still passing around mad props to her for that one.


Sleep-over Gabby.

By the time I graduated High School, she and Annie were married and whisked away to their next grand adventure in Texas. I have (honestly) never fully recovered from the parting, but never saw how 2,069 miles (about 31 hours) could make all that much of a difference. And it sure as hell didn’t.


Texas Gabby.

My sweet little Miss grew so big so quickly. She’d come around every now and again ( and I’d travel to wherever she might be) and we would have our sleepovers, minus the puking and peeing. She once told me that I needed to “grow up,” and somehow everything made sense after that. She’d ask me hard questions like, “Aunt Stephie, is there a God?” or “What’s a period?” And I’d always answer, “Well, that’s something your parents should tell you about first, but ask me again when you’re 16. I can’t influence your ideas just yet. When you’re 16, then we can talk.” I never actually thought that she’d ever be 16. Crap! Now I have to answer these questions…. and probably a few dozen more.


Apparently, she didn’t get the memo about the Banana Face.

Well this little nugget grew and grew and wouldn’t stop. She tricked me once into taking her to Build-a-Bear. Well, $75 later, she had a unicorn named “Rosa” with 2 pairs of Sketchers sneakers, a tu-tu, a Leather Jacket, a cell phone, and a variety of t-shirts, we finally left the store. Once we got home, she stripped the thing down and started to dress up her little brother. Not sure why Rosa needed a cell phone, but her Little brother looked pretty hip in his new leather jacket.


Tyler in Rosa’s leather jacket.

Every time I’d see my little stink, she’s run up to me and jump in my arms. Around 11 years old, she was just too damn big, but she’d do it anyway. Of course, I’d oblige and swing her around like the little rag doll that she used to be. We’d try to go on adventures at Grandpa & Grandma’s house, but all the developing in the neighborhood would bore us and scare grandma, so about 20 minutes into our adventure, a search and rescue unit would come and  “save us.” Then we’d just be bored and share snarly, sarcastic remarks, reminding us that we were pretty much the same person…. no matter what, we always had each other to “get” one another.


Greatest picture day outfit EVER!

At one point she grew boobs and I grew a beer gut. We started calling each other a “bitch’ and then we’d giggle in recognition of both fact and folly. She still jumps into my arms when I see her, even though I am now officially twice her age. She introduces me to her friends (who are all such gorgeous little women) as “the best Aunt ever (sorry other Aunties, but I am the favorite).”  I told her once she was 16, I wouldn’t be  her Aunt anymore; I’d be her friend. I have always been her friend… or like a big sister from forever ago, so she could just call me by my name. She toys with it, but that might be more of an 18 or 21 year old kinda thing.


Best Pals.

Last weekend I went to VA with Captain Clam to surprise this not-so-little monster for her sweet 16. I almost cried when she came in. Her mouth was wide open in surprise of all these visitors screaming and blowing horns and shooting confetti poppers at her. She saw me and ran up with scary amounts of joy and squooshed my brains out. I never realized that she cherished the last 16 years as much as I did. Of course I popped a hernia trying to pick her up and swing her all over the place (she is just too big for all of that these days, and so am I!)… then I had as fun of a time as I could with a herd of 16 year olds in a well decorated basement.



She was born on a Tuesday, just like me. In fact, when we are together, it’s hard to get us straight. I am called Gabby, and she is Stephanie. And we just laugh. She looks like my sister, but she acts just like me (that’s where my diligent sarcasm and wit come into play). It’s like she took all the goodness that I had and mixed it into all of everything that is just a little bit better. She is my favorite lump.



All I can say, Ms. Gabby Ann, is that I hope when I have my daughters they are just like you. I am so proud of you and the young woman you have become. I love you.  Happy Birthday, my little bitch (crap, can I say that in such a sentimental tribute? Yes. Yes I can. You’ve earned it.).


Gab, Captain Clam, and Me at the Polish Town Fair 2013. She is clearly the coolest person alive.

Death, Life

On Death


I have never handled death very well. Perhaps I should rephrase that to say that I have never learned how to handle death. When I was younger, I was sheltered from all things that my parents thought would hurt me, which somehow hurt me more later on in life.

When I was very young, we had a dog named Lady. She was a Collie who looked just like Lassie. I remember when she left for the vet and never came back. My parents told me that she had died because they forgot her water bowl and would not have made it back in time to retrieve it. For the longest time I thought she died from dehydration, when in reality they had to put her down because she was old and sick. I remember finding her bowl outside later in the day. It had a little bit of water and dirt in it and all I could think was that we would never use it again and that it was this bowl’s fault that she died. It should be thrown away because it had not done a good job being a dog bowl. It was, in fact, not a dog bowl at all. It was an 80’s style puke green tupperware. Perhaps it was never fit to be a dog bowl in the first place.

I am not an advocate for dishonesty to children in the death situation. I was at my sisters house and one of their cats was beyond repair. They could not save her and had her put to sleep. My nephew kept asking about her, since he hadn’t seen her outside in a while. They lied to him and told him that she was sick and couldn’t live outside anymore. The told him they sent her to a retirement home to keep the old people happy.

What a beautiful story! I couldn’t help but let my heart sink when I realized that it was a very well drafted excuse to not have to deal with a destroyed child that was similar to the one my parents concocted when Lady died… the difference being that I at least knew my dog had died and wasn’t left thinking that she lived happily ever after in a retirement home in Florida spreading joy and demanding belly rubs.

When my grandmother passed away, my sisters and I were not allowed to go to the funeral. I didn’t know that my grandmother was sick, and thought that perhaps it was normal for little old ladies to have Styrofoam heads wearing wigs on their dressers. Soon after she passed, my uncle passed as well. He had suffered from severe Cerebral Palsy (among other ailments) and lived at home his entire life. He was confined to a wheel chair and had speech issues, but he was sure as hell sharp as a tack.

Instead of going to the funerals, we three girls were sent to our Aunt Alice’s house down the street (she wasn’t our real aunt, just a little old lady who we would buy groceries for). I can’t remember if we were told that grandma Sophie and Uncle Buddy “went to heaven,” but we all knew that something was going to be different forever. I remember throwing a temper tantrum because I had to wear these stupid pajamas with plastic feet on them. I told Aunt Alice that my feet were itchy and sweaty. I refused to stop crying even after she poured baby powder into the pajama booties. I am confident that my distress was not caused (entirely) by the booties, but rather not understanding why I was so upset.

When I was in 8th grade, one of my classmates died in a house fire along with four other children. She had been the pumpkin in our class rendition of Cinderella in 4th grade. She lived across the street from the school and was buried in a cemetery on the other side of the school. Her life, in those 12 years, did not take her as far as she should have gone, which always made me sad. I regret the last time I spoke to her. We were in art class and she was threatening to put orange paint on everyone. I told her to stop, perhaps in a not-so–nice way. I can’t remember. It’s funny how I rarely spoke to her, but I can remember my last encounter with her.  I went to visit her grave once. She didn’t have a headstone. I wondered how many people attended her funeral.

The first wake I went to was for the grandmother of a friend. I had never seen an embalmed body before and wasn’t sure what to expect. I did not know the woman, but was good friends with my pal… friends to the point that he was like the little brother I never had. I remember being so sad there in my seat. I couldn’t figure it out. It took me years to figure it out.

When I was 18, a friend committed suicide. We weren’t great friends, but we had known each other for a long time. Our sisters were softball heroes together and we’d spend hours playing tennis on the school grounds during the games. I called him “Robe” and he called me “Step-On-Me.” He would accompany me to class sometimes, carrying the books that I pretended were too heavy. He was a good guy who got into some trouble. It seemed to be enough trouble that he saw no way out of it.

It wasn’t a pretty death. I can’t imagine that it was a beautiful death that we all seek; one where we slip into the arms of the afterlife. It was heavy and brutal and self-punished. I found out and remember feeling like it was some big joke. The days that followed were a blur for most of my friends. No one went to class. We all mourned in our own way and ended up at the beach. The wake was filled with hundreds of teenagers in Starter Jackets and baggy jeans. The casket was covered in pictures and CDs and letters and tokens of memory. I found that mourning a peer was so much harder than mourning a grandparent. Not many of us knew how to handle the death of a friend, especially by the action of his own hands.

Two weeks after graduation, there was a terrible car accident and another friend was lost to the heavens. This death felt like a horrible nightmare. I remember heading to the crash site and seeing it strewn with love from friends and family. I remember hearing that she was born with a heart defect and that it was a miracle she lived to be 18. I could never find comfort in that statement. I didn’t want to believe that. I didn’t register that she was dead until the wake. This was my first open casket of someone I knew. I felt tortured, like she was stuck in some nightmare and would wake up at any moment gasping for air. We had just been to our senior prom in the same limo. There were pictures of us in her coffin. She was buried with them. I remember looking at her hands and they looked so old. She was holding a rosary. I never knew she was Catholic.

I don’t remember how old I was when my grandfather passed, but I received the call before the sun rose and had to wake my dad up. I had never seen my dad cry, and it broke my heart. The days that followed the death of my grandpa were weighty. After all was said and done we had to go and clean out his house, fix it up, and get it ready to be rented. There were so many stories that my dad told us. I’ll never forget about this one story… when he was younger his brother wanted to be a weather man, but due to his handicap, he was unable to document his forecasts. We found the old notebooks that were full of my dad’s handwriting, but they were my Uncle Buddy’s ideas. He was forecasting the weather and my dad was his stenographer. My dad says Buddy was always accurate, and my dad never lies.

My former boyfriend’s grandparents did not pass too far apart from one another. I loved them so much and was heartbroken when they departed. I remember seeing all of the same people at both of the services and could not help but bask in the awe of what full and giving lives they had lived. His Grandfather was the finest of gentlemen, and his Grandmother was a southern firecracker. They were married for over 60 years and had shared the love they had for each other with everyone else. Now THAT is a fine way to live.

My former boyfriend’s father passed away a few years back. His dad was one of the greatest men I have ever met; witty as hell, nerd funny, atrociously smart. He passed after the break up, and I was not there for any of the services or mourning. I mourned on my own, but will never forgive myself for being too selfish and scared to show up and spread my condolences. Unforgivable.

Death never gets easy.

I received a call two Thursday’s ago from a dear friend who lives in Australia. He asked me if I had seen the news on Facebook. I had not. Then I did. One of my friends from my old South Bronx neighborhood died. It had started snowing here in New York City and I was certain that I didn’t care if I had to go to work or if we would encounter a snow day from the Snow Event named Hercules. I packed a bag for one night, threw on some boots, and trucked out to be with my friends. I was beyond anxious to get there, not knowing what the scene would be. I arrived rather late, and found a few friendly, tear stained faces at my old watering hole. I didn’t leave until Sunday afternoon.

Despite having only one change of clothing and underwear for a very long weekend, I just needed to be there. My heart broke for my friends, as they loved and knew her better than I. She was one of the staple faces of the neighborhood and touched so many lives. She was a waitress at the exact bar we were meeting at. She knew everyone. If she didn’t know them, she made it a point to know them. I arrived at a loss. What had happened? No one was saying anything. Then it came out. Suicide. The news was shattering. It still is.

Even as I sat there in the bar I expected her to walk in or come up and ask me what I wanted to eat or drink. I couldn’t imagine the neighborhood without her. As I prepare to move back there in the next few months, I still can’t imagine that she will not be part of the landscape. I smoked a cigarette with a few people. The conversation was kicked around in slow motion like a little pebble under the tip of a shoe. The big question was “why.” We all knew why, but we really didn’t understand it.

We drank our way into each night with tears in our eyes and an ache in our hearts. Saturday night there was a memorial at the pub. We all sat around and ate and talked and cupcake toasted in her honor. After a few hours, all was quiet and people started telling their stories to the group. Her family was there. It seemed like they knew that she was loved, but just not how much and by so many people. The air was heavy, but spiritual and healing. It was good to be a mess among friends both new and old.

I sat there soaking in the scene. I could not believe how many people came out… how many people I knew… how many people who she introduced me to. I had been in that neighborhood for so long, and there were many people who she’d bring to my apartment for Taco Art night or Mardi-Gras parties or just a random ring of my doorbell on a Wednesday.

The wake was Tuesday. I walked for 10 minutes from 18th street to 14th street and it was like walking to the North Pole.  I have never been that cold in my life. Even at -15 degrees with wind chill, there were at least a hundred people there, and that was just for the service part of the day. I can only imagine how many people rolled in and out during the course of the day.

Her best friend, brother, father and family friend all got up to speak. Her father’s speech was the hardest to get through. She had left a note and he read it to us. It is something I can never unhear. It was beautiful. It helped us to understand WHY she did what she did. She explained the affects of her Bi-Polar condition poetically. The description was dark and melancholy, but hearing it in words that belonged to her made it seem lyrical. Her decision was obvious. Inevitable.

That weekend in the Bronx changed my life. I think about death often, and it’s getting a little too morbid for my liking. The unknown can be a scary place, but just living in celebration and mourning  last weekend really made me appreciate what I have, including a whole bunch of amazing friends who really care about one another and their community.

Death is a part of life, perhaps one of the hardest things in life to deal with (aside from the IRS and in-laws). What I have learned from my experiences is that it’s the permanence of death that affect us most. It is the forever that cannot be avoided. While we love and will always cherish, it’s the pain of not having just 5 more minutes to find peace and say all that needs to be said. Ultimately, 5 minutes wouldn’t be enough time. There is never enough time.

Rest in Peace, My Friends.


Adventure, Bucket List, Change, Holiday Season, Life, New Year, Resolution, Weight Loss, Yoga

2014 Resolved

Happy New Year, everyone! You ever notice how people write “New Years” with the “s” at the end? That drives me fucking bananas. There it is. My first published curse of 2014. It’s good to be alive.

I almost hate those days between the day after Christmas and New Year’s Eve. They are forgotten days where we all scramble for no good reason. That’s when the top 20 mash-up remix of all the top songs are played over and over again on the radio ( because people still listen to the radio and LOVE mashup remixes!). There is also the magic of BuzzFeed to let you know the greatest kitten moments of 2013 and Instagram’s tribute to your top liked pictures… etc. It’s a great way to reflect on 2013 without having to think too much, but still be sentimental (but not really).


Gratuitous Kitten Picture

I don’t like to make resolutions, because I don’t keep them. I get over it after about a week… BUT THIS YEAR WILL BE DIFFERENT! I say that every year with the greatest of intentions. Somehow, as I do every year, I hope this year is different, but can’t promise myself that it will be.


A Happy Homie.

January 5 started a very long wagon ride for me. I can’t tell you how depressing my lazy 2-week vacation was and how much beer and cheese I consumed. My big plan is to detox for a bit and lose about 60 million pounds by February. I know this is unrealistic, but most New Years resolutions are, so I am in a sense, being realistic.



When I started writing this blog, I had no idea how it would make me feel; how much sleep I would lose writing things in my head all night, how angry I’d be at myself in the morning for forgetting all the ideas I had just before my dreams hit, how much guilt I’d feel when I take too long to write anything, and and that overwhelmed feeling I get when I have too many rough drafts in the queue (queue is a hard word to know how to spell correctly the first time!). I really didn’t think this blog would be a thing past one or two posts, but I find it to be a nice outlet for whatever it is that ails me, as well as my incredible sense of sarcasm, wit, self-humiliation, and Captain Clam updates. Last year I wrote 38,291 words. This year, I want to write 100,000 words. It sounds like a lot, but it really isn’t that much, not for a long-winded clam lover like myself.


Since I will be writing open letters to the universe so much in the next year, I really need to learn how to type properly. I have no idea how that lesson never crossed my educational path, but it’s probably time to figure that one out. I also would like to explore different writing techniques… I mean you probably don’t want to hear me bitching all of the time, right? Over the 2 week holiday, Captain Clam and I watched 652 documentaries. I do believe it was out of guilt for being so lazy (we now want to be Organic Dairy Farmers and smuggle Raw Milk into Georgia). These movies somehow motivated me to want to read more books this year (like actual page turning ink-on-paper books (because I like it old school)). Reading more is bound to improve my writing skills, and help me stop wasting time (did you catch the pun in there?). I will also consider magazines since they break up their words with pictures and little captions that I enjoy reading.


Another gratuitous Cat picture.

Captain Clam and I bought a scrabble board from Rite-Aid over the holiday and promised each other to play more Scrabble. Of course we have NEVER played Scrabble together (ever), so then we simply promised each other to play it. Unfortunately, he has refused to play, so I have thus promised myself to be awesome and play alone as two people with their own agenda. I have been begging him to play all evening each night and even bribed him with a Netflix romantic comedy about British people road tripping (his pick). Within the first 15 minutes, a man was run over and killed by a camper. I will never fully understand British humor.


Scrabble Dabble.

Captain Clam and I have been talking about doing some yoga. He showed me how he can lie on his back and bend his body in half, touching his toes to the floor above his head. I was jealous, so I tried it too. The result was not as inspiring and I quit before my back started cramping. I kinda just want to do yoga so I can show that Clam up. I used to do Wai Lana Yoga on (surprise!) Netflix, but then I got lazy and they stopped streaming it. It really was a great exercise in stretching, relaxation, and spirituality… three things that we both could really use in our lives this year. I’m hoping a burst in movement will inspire me to stop being a lazy cow….


Yoga for Beginners and Clams alike.

Which brings me to the hardest wish ever…I’d like to be nicer to myself. As a woman, I am my own worst critic and enemy. It’d be nice to either suck it up and create the me that I want, or just be happy with who I am. I have resolved (for the time being) to stop complaining and just take life in stride with a smile on my face (since we all look so much better with a smile on).


And I Love YOU!

Moving on…. Captan Clam and I need to move. We will do so this year, hopefully before the winter thaws out. We are looking into my old neighborhood, or somewhere nearby so I can fulfill one of my favorite wishes, which is to spend more time with my friends. The last year and a half I have been lost in Brooklyn, and not in a good way. I look forward to making up for wasted time and getting to know new people who love and admire the same people that I do. A move would also help us clear our closets and heads. We can start over by simplifying our belongings and getting rid of clutter.

Once the Captain and I relocate, we can blow this Popsicle stand for the mountains in summer or white sandy beaches where everyone speaks Spanish. I need a real vacation. It’s been too long that I have been away where it didn’t involve seeing any of my family members or sleeping on a couch. We both need to get away so we can start having more realistic dreams and a broader theory of our own personal existence.


Paradise might be nice.

With all that said, I would also like to learn how to speak Spanish so I can have a more authentic time on vacation and I can also pretend not to understand what is going on in the workroom at my job as opposed to actually having no clue as to what the workers are saying.

This year I also need to get my hands on Troll 2. As part of my documentary-filled holiday, I came across an informational film about this cult movie. As a fan of really good bad movies, this is clearly a must see and I must see it.


As far as my obvious Netflix addiction goes… I’d like to nip that quickly and waste my time making art or cooking delicious meals. While documentaries and ridiculous movies are alright, every night spent in front of a computer screen is not cool, especially when most of my day is spent rotting at a computer screen as well. In an effort to cultivate more of my hobbies, I have requested quotes from various voice coaches for singing lessons. If the budget allows, I’ll invite you all to my first show and check off one of the things on my To-Do List.


Along with saving money for moving and my fancy vacation, I’d love to have this awful tramp stamp removed from my ass crack. Twelve years ago I was much braver than I realized. My braveries now consist of considering the possibility of changing my hair… like getting bangs or letting the grey grow in. Or I want another tattoo and fear I have one too many. I have no idea. But what I know is that this horror story needs to go!


Somehow a fart joke seemed appropriate here…

It would seem that we need to save a lot of money this year. My horoscope has told me that it is the YEAR for saving for Sagittarius, so I have decided to fall into a Facebook/Pinterest trap and go ahead and run my luck on a jelly jar and this:

I do not think I will save $1,378, but I have named the jar “Adventure Fund” and can’t wait to see where this jar and 2014 will take me. So here’s a toast to a New Year to all of you. May it be better than 2013 was (since 2013 can kiss my ass).


Loving puns.