Is it having recipes to share with the world?  Is it tragedy or triumph?  Is it a sense that there are those among the great expanse of the internet interested in hearing about the day-to-day changes or sameness you experience?

I’ve tried blogging a few times now- most recently I started up a wordpress site and then within two days had completely forgotten the url I chose.  So I’ve not been back.  Each time, I end up feeling self-indulgent and overly aware of who *might* be reading what I am throwing into the ether- which inevitably affects what I’m willing to share.

But I will start here and see if I land on something that might offer, I don’t know, something interesting.

I am 28 years old.  I am in love with a man who I have loved since I was 22 years old.  This is a long time in the life of a 28 year old- C. has been by my side, and I by his, for approximately 5% (0r 4.6% if we are being specific) of our lives.  We have been together nearly half again as long as we were in college.  That, to me, is crazy.

We live in North Carolina now because I came here to study public policy at Duke.  I’m getting a master’s degree, and while I’d estimate that at least 65% of the time (I love percentages) I can easily recall and articulate what inspired me to take on the debt that I am and pursue this advanced degree, the remaining time I struggle to maintain motivated and clear-headed and optimistic about what this degree and time will mean in my life.

I am convinced that at some point, academia perpetuates unhealthy levels of self-absorbtion.  Its because, in my opinion, the sum of what you are producing in your life stands only to benefit yourself.  I realize that research, publication and teaching may all offer exceptions to this, but at least for the 1.5 years I’ve been a grad student, I have felt simultaneously obsessed with what is going on in my own world and disheartened that at the end of the day all I am doing is shooting for a grade, which will have an impact on me and me alone.  The Marxist in me longs for the day when I feel re-connected to the fruits of my labor, when I will produce something that will have a life external to my own, and when I can go to sleep at night worrying about issues and dilemmas larger than a literature review and statistical analysis.  Or when those things might matter to anyone other than me.

I am also really obsessed, these days, with eating seasonally.  I think a lot about how disconnected we have become from the way our bodies were evolved to function, including our stomachs and digestive systems.  And part of this, for me, comes from the food we purchase and consume.  I don’t know that I’ll ever be a fine gardener, sewer, or pioneer-type lady.  But I do really, really hope someday to have a home with a space where I can pickle and can produce for winter consumption.  I am convinced this can be done- my family and I may never fully subsist on the peaches of the previous summer all winter long, but I would like to do my best to try.  What’s more, as much as possible I would like this produce to be grown within 100 miles of my home.  I really believe that if we all ate more locally, any number of personal and global problems would be (at least partly) alleviated.  Of course, this may mean foregoing bananas and avocados forever…which I admit, I will probably never do.

On the other side of this is my obsession with boots and handbags.  Go figure.

I don’t feel old, but I don’t think I feel especially young anymore.  For a long time, the phrase that ran through my mind when I considered my age was “impossibly young.”  Which wasn’t meant to express an extreme youth- I think of impossible youth as being that time in your 20’s when you are ever-inching towards “real” adulthood, and when “real” adult things are sort of exciting in their “adultness.”  When you go grocery shopping and are thrilled by the very nature of performing this task on your own, as a grown up.

Anyway, I don’t feel that way anymore.  I feel pretty much…normal.  I don’t often find myself stepping outside of my own head and wondering what phase of life this particular activity places me in.  I’m just grocery shopping now, looking for honey crisp apples that are red as can be and debating whether or not to use the non-organic code for the organic produce when I go through self-checkout.

I feel more honest and calm than I ever did before, and I remember what I used to say when I was 20, 21, 22 years old- that I was looking forward, even when it was so far away, to my 30th birthday.  I used to tell people, “I think 30 is gonna be my year!”  And yes, I partly made this declaration to be different and funny (sure signs of impossible youth), but also because I had some sense that by 30 maybe I’d have a lot of things figured out.  Like a career, or a path to one.  Like a partner, or at least the kind of partner I’d want.  Like how to keep a home and host a party.  And, I hoped that by 30 I wouldn’t care so much about what other people thought of me- that I could more honestly and easily be myself without twinges of doubt and regret.

And this has happened.  When I think of myself at 20, I feel like an older sister to a silly, likeable, shaken and loud girl.  I love her and I know her, but I am not her anymore.  At the same time, I am proud of that silly insight she had back then.  Because I’m 28, and I feel more calm than ever.  I am scared of a lot of things, but I am also more empowered than I imagined.  And I honestly just don’t give a shit if people think I look ridiculous- which is a small but important triumph for 20 year old Ellen.  Believe me.

Okay.  I’m going to stop now, because I’m not sure to what end any of this is intended, and I’m delaying the long day I have of studying and writing ahead of me.  When all I really want to do is make chili, bake some bread, clean the house and go out with friends.  I think there was a time when those activities either bored or impressed me- and now, they are just truly what I want to do.

4 1/2 years ago, in October, 2005 I had three months left in college, a house I shared with best friends in East Middlebury, a baby blue Volvo 240 DL,  a copy of Sufjan Stevens’ album “Illinois,” and a big crush on a new guy.  I remember driving to campus one day, heading over the bumpy, bucolic pass of Quarry Road into Middlebury, listening to “Chicago” on that romping, free-wheeling album.  The windows were open, it was a beautiful autumn day, brisk and sunny.

I was nursing growing disappointment from the news a friend has passed along that this boy Conor who I thought was good lookin’ and interesting was destined for another.  I felt my heart slinking into some of the darker, sadder places it had been dwelling for the last year, and was sorry to see him disappear before I’d had time to enjoy the butterflies and excitement of a  new crush.  I thought of this latest missed opportunity and the picture of him I’d seen, his hair longer and curlier than I knew it to be.  And I thought of the girl he was allegedly destined for, a girl I knew and liked.  And then, I thought of the card my mother had just sent to me which read “Good things happen when you go for it.”

Sufjan Stevens and “All things go!” and the trumpets and drums and violins of that song carried me over the hills past the Happy Valley Apple Orchard- and I said out loud “I’m going for it.”  Which, of course meant, “I’m going for him.”

If you’re familiar with that song, you know it repeats the line:  “I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”  That day wasn’t one of them.

I find myself wondering, on this bright and sunny day in March, looking outside from our Brooklyn home, where that assurance and boldness has gone?  I don’t feel as though I’ve shrunk in recent years, but I’ve certainly had less straight aim focused on unclear targets.  Its as though I’ve been typing away but with my hands shifted too far to the right- I’ve tried to make my words as I want them, but they end up jarbled and indecipherable.  Giq ri fwr ie jbiq qgqr u qqbr?- How to get or know what I want?

We are all here, the people who I love and trust and who I grew and learned with- we are all slightly dizzy from the confusion and whirlwind of young adulthood.  We want more than anything to be sure of what we want- even to have just the notion of a home and a career and a future that feels right.

Conor and I ran together yesterday and we came to a great big hill in Brooklyn Heights.  I had run this hill before alone and told him I’d have to take it slow, with my head down- because that is how I’ve been running up hills lately.  And Conor remembered a lesson learned from his high school track days- “Hills are your friends” he said.  He told me to look up at the top, so that my lungs would be open and I could breathe deeper.  He told me to focus on the top because it would help me get there stronger and faster.  And he told me that most people slow down on the hills, which makes them opportunities to take the lead- if only you can push yourself.

Leaving college, paying rent, finding jobs, leaving them, losing friends and making new homes has all felt like a series of  hills.  And I think for too long I’ve kept my head down.  I haven’t focused enough on the top, I haven’t breathed deeply enough, and I’ve slowed myself down.  Perhaps its time to look up.

Not sure why I’m back to this blog- it was something that always made me a little uncomfortable- but here I am.

I have become a more avid blog-reader over the last months, and have come to appreciate that they are not all exercises in self-centered nonsense.  There are some that are just lovely, that examine the world through a theme or with a perspective that I value and enjoy reading.  I’m wondering if there is a way for me to do the same here- we shall see.  To that end, I am in the process of figuring out what the focus of this can be.  In the meantime, a couple of quick thoughts:

1) I can’t wait for the first sociological study of the Facebook to be published.  Its a fascinating world online, and I am constantly amazed by what I can discover about a person without actually interacting with them.  Sometimes it makes me sad while other times I am overwhelmed with the knowledge people throw out there for their “friends” to digest.

The most fascinating thing about it, to me, is the whole middle-school aspect of it all.  The language, the constant self-assertion, the lazy communication and information gathering- to say nothing of the thousands of quizzes and games people are constantly playing.  Its like we’ve all regressed back to 12 years old, and even more incredible is that no one seems at all self-conscious about it.  Or few do, I guess.  Its amazing!

The most recent example of this is the trend of changing your profile picture to that of “a celebrity everyone says I look like.”  This is maybe the most ridiculous thing I’ve yet seen on fbook (as I like to call it- see? 12 years old!).  People are posting wildly ambitious pictures of movie and music stars, with the claim that “people are always saying” that these are their celebrity dopelgangers.  Okay.  So you look like Keira Knightley…I guess I see that?  THEN, it is our jobs as readers and fbook consumers to comment on these ridiculous profile pictures and say “oh, yeah, totally!”  I honestly can’t stomach anymore of this.  Only a couple of people have used this humorously- everyone else is honestly trying to convince the rest of us that people tell them all the time that they are the spitting image of Penelope Cruz or George Clooney.  When in fact, the reason those real celebrities are famous is because no one else looks like them. I’m sorry, people, but there are enough real pictures of you out there for us to make the comparison- and why are you inviting us to do this?  The last thing I want is for people to know that I think I could be as beautiful as Julianne Moore and then to actually look at my photos and say “eh, I’m not seeing it.”

Anyway.  This is something I’ve been thinking about, and its part of a larger, ongoing conversation I have with myself about this phenomenon of the facebook.  Also, has anyone else noticed that its people aged 30 + who are sometimes the most avid fb0okers??

So- that’s all.

Be well,

e

p.s- for the record, here are the celebrities people have told me that I look like:

Because I'm pale too!

Because we both love hats!

We both have freckles!

Specifically, it is the final montage scene of AH that is running through my mind- the one where Diane Keaton is singing “Feels Like Old Times” as the scenes of Albie and Annie’s good times play across the screen.  It is a scene so filled with nostalgia, such a crooked-smile kind of montage.  Everytime I watch it I feel like I’ve just run into my great old flame, and that its me walking down 5th avenue or something, thinking of her/him and the time we lost the lobster behind the fridge….

I feel like that now, kind of.  Because in only a few short days I’m blowing this pop stand for a better job doing better work in a new place, up north.  It’s only for a few months, so its not a permanent goodbye at all…but still.  I’m leaving the place where I’ve been working for 6 months, and while I was frequently dissatisfied here, I like my co-workers a lot, and this job saw me through my first 6 months in the big scary NYC quite nicely.

I find myself now walking around SoHo, tripping on the cobblestone streets and remembering the first morning I started working here.  I was so overwhelmed with the New Yorkness of everything around me.  I actually got my first New York cup of coffee at Dean & Delucca- I was officially Felicity Porter, standing in that cozy, over-priced atrocity of a “grocery” store, staring out at Broadway and all the people- so many people- moving around with confidence and ownership and direction.

I’m kind of one of those people now.  I’ve joined the throngs of New Yorkers, and my Brooklyn is my own.  I have my coffee cart, my pizza place, my bookstores, my movie theater, my dog park and other park.  I even had a church for a while, which I shared with Sufjan Stevens, for Christ’s sake (literally)!  I have neighbors, I have friends, I have drama and I have a routine.

It’s just that now that I’m temporarily re-locating, I’m a bit surprised to say it- but I’m leaving home.

I feel like Emily at the end of Our Town.  I want to make a list of the things I’m saying goodbye to.  Except she was dead.  I’m just moving to New Hampshire until November.

Sometimes, I’m a little dramatic.

Happy Monday.  Pictures to be posted once Nick Benjamin has returned to his home and has uploaded some of those classic shots that had him all pumped on Saturday night.  So.  Pumped.

Not too long ago I was talking with someone about how much I love Richard Simmons.  And it’s not for the kitsch value of loving Richard Simmons.  It is because whenever I see him, his happy face, his bouncing hair- and hear about his triumphant struggle to love himself, his devotion to his mother, his passion for helping people lose weight- I realize that he embodies so much of what are, in my opinion, the most admirable things in humans- the ability to just be whoever the fuck you are no matter what.  Richard Simmons was unhappy because he was fat- not because he was obnoxious, or loud, or gay (right?).  Because he was fat.  So he lost the weight, but not himself.  And he doesn’t apologize for anything- he’s no idiot.  He knows how we all see him, but what the fuck does he care?

You know who else is like that?  The Nanny, aka Fran Drescher.

I also loved that show- which was, actually, really funny and witty.  But again, it featured someone who never has apologized for who she is, where she comes from- she plays it up, and while others may hate her voice, I’ve always found it oddly soothing.

And of course, the Queen of “Take Me As I Am Or Walk The Fuck Away”:

  No one has apologized less or earned as much success for being herself.

I love those people who others would have explain themselves, but are too busy being busy to bother…or to notice.  Either way, I think it is a fine quality.

Also, someone searched for “Dolly Parton old image” and came across my blog.  That warms my heart.

I’ve been really bored and dissatisfied at work lately, and as such have found myself indulging in/consuming/needing celebrity gossip more than ever.  Obviously this confirms what everyone says about celebrity, and really all gossip- you turn to it when you most want an escape from your own life, and even your own problems.  I have long justified my celebrity gossip cravings as being like the best kind of escape, becauase I get to read about people who don’t feel real to me, and who do incredibly stupid, bizarre things.

About a year ago, I gave up celebrity gossip for a full month.  I’d had this moment where I was reading (again) about Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt, and I realized a) how much I knew about them, more than I know about members of my extended family and b) how much I just don’t like them.  So I gave it up, cold turkey.  And it was great.  I was able to move away, read other things online while bored at work.  I didn’t feel the need to know what the latest headline was, who is “Just Like Us,” and all the rest.

Obviously, that abstinence gave way once more to the lust that is celebrity gossip- but for a long time, I found I cared less and less, and I felt good about myself.  However, the combination of a job that I really hate performing and figuring out how to tilt my computer so that my co-workers can’t see it has brought back the addiction full force, and I find myself digesting this crap more and more and more- its bad, friends.  Real bad.

So, today I was reading Perez Hilton online.  For a long time I resisted the lure of Perez, because I just didn’t get what was so great about him- until I realized how much information he seems to have.  It’s incredible.  The man reports on EVERYTHING and it is like a one-stop source for all celebrity news.  But still, I remain outside of the Cult of Perez, because I don’t find him particularly funny and he endorsed Hillary Clinton, like a fool, and then when she was obviously losing started to call for a “Dream Ticket.”  Point is, I maintain my skepticism.

As a somewhat objective Perez reader, I’ve long been fascinated by his seemingly random selection of celebrities he looooves and those he hates.  For example, he obviously loves Paris Hilton, and Madonna- both of whom patronize his website and interact with him.  But he hates, with real venom, people like Lily Allen and Mischa Barton.  Lily Allen in particular amazes me, because other than being young and drinking probably too much, I don’t understand the loathing for someone who makes good music and has experienced some real sadness lately.

And today, it dawned on me- something that no doubt is obvious to all those who are too good for celebrity gossip, who look down on it as plebian and invasive and terrible and the worst thing EVER.  Perez Hilton is just another fat, bitchy high schooler who needs to be loved and gains power through arbitrary criticism.  When Madonna’s source calls him to give him “inside” “exclusive” information, he eats it up and refuses to question the veracity of that information- because, after all, Madonna (the original bad ass prom queen) is talking TO HIM.  So why would he question it?  But somewhere down the line, Lily Allen must have done something (probably unknown to her) that pissed him off, or pissed off a friend of his, and now he is singularly focused on all of her mistakes and everything wrong with her.

It’s really an amazing thing to see, this “every man” who now makes his living off of becoming his own little celebrity, who wields this power over the music industry and over people’s perceptions of stars- which of course affects the business that their albums/movies/shows generate…and its all based on who pays the proper attention to him.  Madonna is no fool, she sucks up to him with an air of regality that keeps him lapping it up.  Somewhere along the line others have fallen from the grace of Perez, and his wrath is fierce and also, sad.  Because really, what does he do but give the rest of us a way to feel less bad about our boring/crappy jobs/lives by appealing to the hyenas inside of us? 

I think I’ll stop reading his website for now.  He’s just a bit too pathetic, and by extension, so am I.

I suppose that one of the reasons it is going so terribly slowly is because I’m heading up to beautiful Vermont this weekend.  Glorious, glorious, adult fairy land Vermont.  I can’t wait for the first sunset and A&W milkshake…hopefully those things will happen simultaneously.

I guess that’s it.  God, this post sucks.  But you know, I wanted to keep this thing a-live.  I’m trying to think of some song or something I can write about, but the only thing that comes to mind is the fact that I knew I was rooting for the Giants in this year’s superbowl when they said that their team word was Resilience and entered the stadium to “Stronger” by Kanye West.  That is a team I want to win.

Anyway.  That’s it.  I’m ashamed, but also too bored and too floppy-minded right now to think of anything else.  Except to say that recently, the more I read and think about Scientology, the more I’m totally freaked out.