Castor Oil

Castor Oil

Main Use: Laxative

“A British bank is run with precision,

A British home requires nothing less.

Tradition, discipline, and rules

Must be the tools.

Without them: disorder, catastrophe, anarchy.

In short, you have a ghastly mess.” 

George Banks, of this crazy 'stache: 

What better to describe a month of homelessness & heartbreak on America’s most unforgiving island. 

I’m sorry; that’s being unfair. Let’s begin with, shall we say, an appetizer. One of happy tastes: 

• Costa Rica
• Homemade movie theatre
• New friends

Aw, look. That’s so pleasant. Now, have you had enough to tide you over? Great. Let’s move on.

Moving On: 4 Courses in Starting Over 

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl
2. “Alaska” Is Always a Punchline
3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots
4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

Ingredients

1. The Frantically Huge Apartment Search for Such a Little Girl

• 1 lost roommate (not literally physically lost, feel the need to clarify)
• 5 days of homelessness
• 3 couches
• 2 Gypsy Housing bait-and-switch roommates
• 100 min. hours spent searching on Craigslist, Facebook, & random total rip-off sites
• 75 min. Facebook messages/emails sent to strangers, including a misogynistic meme-sender who tells you to "get a real job"
• 1 roommate lost again 
• 1 confusing but sultry-sweet Grandma renting rooms
• 1.5 hours spent talking to 1 crazy rock-'n-roll woman whom you immediately decide you can’t live with but who’s nonetheless the most interesting Ohioan in NYC
• 1 new potential roommate + her attached potential 19-year-old roommate who refuses to look outside of Brooklyn = only 1 new roommate
• Your first entirely Hassidic Brooklyn neighborhood
• The G train
• Brokers named Dino, Elvis, and Fazzi 
• Feeling more and more like the boy from Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, in that you’re meeting more new, weird New Yorkers than you ever thought possible
  

2.  "Alaska" Is Always a Punchline

• In Boyhood’s plot 
• As The Proposal’s setting
  
• As The Simpsons Movie’s plot & setting
• Even in the recent Moth podcast you listen to, where it’s the farthest place the storyteller can travel without technically leaving the country
• In telling anyone where your boyfriend is moving for 9 months

3. Living with Your Ex-Boyfriend’s Best Friend, & Other Sitcom Plots

• 1 extra room in a railroad apartment 
• where you were staying with your ex-boyfriend before he moved to Alaska
• at $480 a month
• where much of your stuff currently is
• when you have nowhere else to go
• makes for a great story
• but prohibits you from doing that thing you saw in movies where you cry your eyes out and acceptably down a pint of ice cream that you’re almost 99% sure you’re entitled to do
• 2 quarts of ice cream

4. 39 Dollars (and a bitch ain’t one)

• (Please use the remains of that ‘5 days of homelessness’ from above)
• $4 left on your Starbucks card
• $0 left on your Metrocard
• Getting your debit card declined at the Metrocard machine
• Thus, $39 in your bank account
• $0.50 on-sale Nature Valley Granola Bars-- for days
• Yogurt parfaits are still $9 on the “Sides” section of a brunch menu, which is plain absurd
• No, I know, and I’m not joking: that’s $39 total in your name. 
• An $8 special for 24oz of beer + 1 shot... Note: this should be ILLEGAL. Note: this was in the East Village; you’ll find it.
• -- No, yes-- I’m aware that you just came back from a week’s vacation in Costa Rica--
• $160 acquired by taking a 11-year-old British kid to Coney Island for a day
• -- But you must remember that you fly for free and you were visiting someone who was staying in their own house, so the whole trip cost roughly $100--
• Unlocking the art of Venmo
• Canceling your upper endoscopy in fear of extra costs (which is fine with you)
• -- Which you’d probably spend in a week in New York City anyways!

Instructions

Castor oil is a nasty tasting vegetable oil most commonly known for its unpopularity among children and treatment of constipation. Thankfully, a spoon full of sugar can help me get through just about anything, and that’s exactly how Mary Poppins got this drug to go down. However, there are some things not even sugar can remedy; not all the on-sale ice cream quarts, Nature Valley clearance bars, and vegan post-hangover milkshakes in the world could have cured me from the extreme, gut-wrenching food poisoning of the above recipe.

I’m not one to lie when someone asks “how are you?” or “what’s new in your life?”; I don’t see a purpose in hiding life’s negativities. Obviously. When I’d tell friends at home that I was in Ohio doing absolutely nothing for a month because I’d broken my foot during a tour of a show while my other foot was still in physical therapy from a stress-fracture and thus wouldn’t be able to walk around New York City on crutches, especially since my boyfriend wasn’t there to carry me on his back anymore because he’d gone to work at a non-profit in Costa Rica before moving to Alaska for 9 months, and my apartment was on the 5th floor-- more often than not, they’d respond: “wow, Anna, your life is like a movie!” 

Now, I’m sorry, but exactly what type of movie is this? Not a single thing I said was remotely positive. This sounds like a horrible movie, but, apparently, they’d want to see it. In fact, some of them would also like me to write a book about it. The newest request is short stories. 

To which I concur: people love drama.

When I was in high school, and even a little in my first year of college, I yearned for drama. I was the president of my frickin’ high school drama club and I had no idea of the actual drama going on beneath me until well after I graduated. I was immune. Yet, I desperately wanted something exciting-- anything exciting-- to happen in my life. Well, lucky me.

No, I've never read them.

If I were given the choice to go back to that naive, innocent, idealistic optimist of a small-town Ohioan who’d never fought with anyone but her sister, or to stay in my drama-filled, tenuous, complicated mess of a jobless New Yorker going through her first break-up, I’d take the obvious choice: food poisoning. Because no matter how weird and crazy stupid our lives in New York City or grad school in Kansas or leaving your corporate job in DC are, they’re something. And they’re ours. As long as we’re moving forward, even at a snail’s pace, we’re progressing. That’s something. And it’s far from boring. I’m not going to spew that bullsh*$ of “everything happens for a reason,” but I do believe we learn. No kids likes to do homework, but how else will they learn? 

These last 2 months have been arguably the most difficult in my life. I felt like everything I’d built for myself in New York City-- relearning how to walk, settling into an apartment, falling in love, gaining community and money through my jobs-- was erased, all at once. Though I’ve learned a lot about myself and relationships and have come out stronger blah blah blah, I will not lie to you by saying “I’m glad it happened”; “I’m glad I learned that.” Hell, no, am I happy I couch-surfed for a week while eating only granola bars and oatmeal! However, I’ll be damned if I do not work as hard as I possibly can to prevent anything similar from ever happening again. I’m not cured, but I survived. And that’s what I’m proud of. (In addition to the homemade movie theatre mentioned above, of which I had no hand in making but all hands in enjoying. This was in the sitcom plot apartment. Unfortunately, ironically, no romantic comedies were allowed on the big screen. Sigh.)

So, no. I’m not the same person I was when I was bored of my uneventful, cushy high school life. And I think high school Anna would really, really like that.

What do you do with castor oil? Sip it. Spit it out. Sniff it. Find ways to make it flavorful. Take out some ingredients, maybe. Drink it with a friend. Have someone tell you to drink it. Refuse to drink it. Decide to drink it on your own. Go through the process of throwing it up and being hangover-ill to make you promise to yourself that you’ll never, ever drink it again. 

(Pshyeah, good luck with that.)

“Winds in the east, mist coming in, 

Like somethin’ is brewin’ and ‘bout to begin.

Can’t put me finger on what lies in store, 

But I fear what’s to happen all happened before.”

(Oh, man, can you tell what one of the movies we watched in the apartment movie theatre was.)

WRONG:

Saving Mr. Banks

Bitter British Breakfast Boot

Ingredients

• Wine
• Cheese
• Pimm's
• French bread
• Fancy organic artisanal cupcakes (2 Yelp $ signs, if you-gnome-sayin)
• 1 dilapidated, grotesque walking boot
• An short-lived but glorious Instagram life in the boot's last appropriate days
  
• A pair of the kindest, sweetest, softest grandma Dr. Scholl's sneakers you can find; please wear them with a dress
• Three days running (if only) around like a madcowdiseasewoman to hunt an apartment
• Hours upon websites upon emails upon wasted time looking for apartments; you'll never get your dignity or innocence back
• The satisfaction of bitchingout standing up for yourself in a 100% warranted way against a broker who dares to go by the first name Gurkan: Good ol' Gurk leaves you waiting 40 minutes in a median of Broadway  at 9 AM on a Saturday morning. (I left! OK, Gurkan?! I wasn't waiting another 20 minutes for you to arrive, Girdle, because you have poor communication skills, Garkofit!)
• One long trip to a Brooklyn apartment that you don't reach because who puts apartments >15 minutes away from any train station. Who. (*Was it Gurko?)
  *No. Regardless, it was the end. Because, in that walk, you (& your roommate in your cellphone) decide that you're done looking for apartments. Only after 3 vigorous days spent solely delving into online apartment databases, meeting Gurkans upon worse Gurkans, finding an apartment without a sink in the bathroom, and venturing upon a 15 minute walk to an apartment you never reach. As you descend further into Crown Heights and wonder if you'll ever see the light of subway again, all reality disappears and subletting suddenly seams sublime. Your thoughts bleed together-- finally-- and the solution becomes conversely clear: September 1st. Just WAIT. 
• (I could've simply put it this way: ) Trying to hunt for a New York City apartment in 3 days on a broken foot right before leaving the country
• 1 box of breakfast cereal because you have to use up your almond milk before going to COSTA RICA
• Speaking of Costa Rica, a random non-profit I've never heard of called Far Corners Community Musical Theatre put on a translated Spanish version of The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee this past weekend in Monteverde, Costa Rica. In spirit of organizations that have nothing to do with my boyfriend or why I'm going to Costa Rica, I give you your last ingredient: Confidently mispelled words. Mispelled.        Things I've spelled wrong this week:
• Vission (4 times)
• Monsterously
• Laundry mat 
• Cappicinno/cappacinno
• Happenning
• (just now) Delapidated

Instructions

The title pretty much says it all: Have a great British birthday, wobble on the struggle bus with your Boot, be broadly Bitter about brokers, and buy some Breakfast cereal. ...? Try again:

Three days ago, my foot hurt so bad that I gave up free play tickets to avoid leaving the house again. Two days ago, I officially retired my 3-month boot-- not necessarily because that's a good idea, but because it makes me look homeless. Two nights ago, my heart was pounding so quickly that I thought it might generate electricity to lift my bed into space. Yesterday, I ate a microwaveable meal. Today, I got a new boot. I mean, what do you think this says? Let's talk about stress: Forcing myself through the pain of a thousand warriors in my heel; re-learning how to walk-- in public, too, which is great because I look like a just-born giraffe; individually searching for an apartment as an unaccompanied, small young woman; and rounding out the almost 3 months I haven't seen my boyfriend are, combined, strangely taxing on my uneventful & unemployed daily life. 

Isn't it strange how sometimes having less to do makes you more anxious? You're so concerned about filling every second of your time with grand efforts to have something to do. I was less stressed on tour, not (only) because I was in sunny California, but also because I finally felt free to do the thing I was doing and do it well and just do it. Just... Nike. 

We can't always Nike. I rarely do. But, man, when you finally get to Nike-- without any preoccupations or guilt of not doing something better-- that's the stuff. My birthday was like that-- and I didn't even care that the day after was spent catching up to all the emails & crap I'd avoided on my Nike day! In 3 days, I get to wear my Nikes again, as I fly to Costa Rica to spend totally unplanned days with this kid at the non-profit I've never heard of. He doesn't even have WIFI in his house. 

It doesn't take much to stress you out in this city-- or anywhere, really. Just give yourself a monthly rent, mortgage, kids, clients, or a Netflix queue you feel obliged to take advantage of and you'll be anxious in no time. It's called having a life. Sometimes what's stressing you out boils unnoticed until you actually sit down and try to relax-- only to find you can't. Sometimes it pops up when you think you're sufficiently happy. Ya never know when one of these little bitch stressors will try to get out, or if they'll all boil over! Unbalance your flow! They're stupid little Bitter British Breakfast Boots and, unfortunately, they're like replacing the battery in your laptop: inevitable. Going to Costa Rica helps, but there are other ways.

If not, we're all screwed. Except me.

Here's one way: 

The other day, I put both shoes on for the first time in over 2.5 months and I took a walk down the street. After buying some ankle supports and heel cushions at Duane Reade, I was almost home until I saw Lincoln Center. I don't usually think much of it during the day, but at night it's a palace of chandeliers and fountains, vast glass windows and arched columns. There are many people on the steps, but it's peaceful. Quiet. I've always wanted to see it at night but have somehow missed it, so I hobbled over from across the street. Twenty minutes later, I make it. After months of not walking, I walk up the steps-- I could've ended right there. Yet, I spent time sitting on the edge of the fountain, staring up at the sky, looking out into the city nightlife, taking photos of my two shoed feet. And I could've ended there, too. Then, something purple, blue, and red caught my eye-- there was a free concert going on. Eh. I thought I'd meanderwobble over, just to check it out; there must be some sort of cool booth or giveaway, seeing as there were so many people but these free acts are many times estranged ensembles no one's heard of. However, the deeper I walked into the activity, the more unbelievable it got-- stringed lights, food booths, people picnicking on the ground, a VIP drinks lounge, and the humungous purple, red, and blue-lit white tent swarmed with the happiest of chill people without being in Williamsburg. I sat down, again, and deeply appreciated how lucky I am to be staying here. To be walking. (Ish.) And I could've stopped there! But this is a story so it keeps going. 

I hear a recognizable tune and frantically Google search the free concert schedule: Jose Gonzalez!! What the what! I listen a bit longer, then notice signs of a mass exodus as huge applause begins-- AKA I need to get my giraffe legs the heccckkk out of there. I could've ended here-- You know I didn't. I stopped. I waited. And, yes. He began to play an encore-- his most famous song and also one of my favorite songs ever. I'll admit that I teared up-- because, amongst the samurai swords in my foot & whatever drama occurred that day, I'd actually relaxed. 

I've heard that not everyone has heard of Jose Gonzalez. Remedy that. I've heard that not all people know that an NYC broker shouldn't be charging you a 15% fee and you shouldn't accept higher than 12%. Remember that. I've heard that some people have not yet experienced Pimm's. Drink it. This is a post simply to remind you to stay sane; that the need for your absent air conditioner is almost through; and that, when the chips are down, you can still see the Non-Dog Dog.

LOOK HE'S LOOKING RIGHT AT ME! HOW AM I SO LUCKY.

Guys, it's our first recurring character.

PS: The boot photos that didn't quite make the Instagram cut.

There's an edition of Arthritis Today in there. I read it. 

Fountain failz

Mm. Trendy.

That's from today, when I got another boot. Just another failed elevator selfie.
Or, I guess, just another failed fracture healing. YOLO!

A Toast

A Toast, written in & inspired by Central Park

On this 17th day of July, let us raise our glasses: 

• To not leaving your apartment for approximately 44 hours
• To Century 21 stores, who provide free WIFI... in your apartment... shhh...
• To the moment when you think you feel your phone vibrating, only to realize it is your broken foot
• To Peapod, and this: Postmates. Even though it just began, it is "everyone's favorite delivery service." Hipsters deliver things to you on bikes. 
• To dogs that don't look like dogs 

  

  Guys, I couldn't get a picture because she/he was so far away and I suck at being a major creep, but trust me. 

• To Central Park: the perfect mixture of poops you do & don't mind
• To pigeons as roommates
• To casting notices like these: 
  "Male and female actors, any ethnicity, 18-35, who have the ability to sit in a cafe and drink coffee. You must be capable of sitting in a chair and drinking coffee. If you cannot drink coffee, art department can put water in your cup and you can drink water, but you must be able to act like you are drinking coffee. While sitting down. Please list any prior experience sitting and drinking you may have."
• To Ubers not in lakes

  

  Brought to you by my intentional mistakes & Cleveland

• To the sights (brick walls & windows through your windows, with the only imagery coming to mind being Hunchback of Notre Dame), sounds (the horrific cooing of your other roommates, the pigeons), & smells (amateur rooftop BBQs) of a new NYC apartment
• To everyone else having a job
• To wondering who the people who actually take those horse-drawn carriage rides are
• To very expensive French sandwiches via counter service that just aren't worth it

  

• To making artwork out of Whole Foods bags
• To FINALLY getting a picture of that fake dog
  (I'm sorry but I have to share them all)

   

Instructions
The giant cartoon dog's owner walked back around! He originally walked past while I was crutching, thus zero opportunity for photographic evidence. Over the 10-15 minutes until he arrived again, I was deeply & seriously depressed by my poor timing, and ergo lack of non-dog dog photo. However, as if by miracle alone, the dog returned. And that's when I knew-- I KNEW-- this toast was over.

Providence. It brought this "dog" to me twice, once for a picture but also, first, for the rare opportunity for true marvel. Some say there aren't greater forces at play in this world, but I challenge them to watch an absurdly created dog glide quietly past them twice in one sitting on a day when they needed nothing more than that. Just ask them. 

I lied to you. There were plenty more things I could've had happen today over that. Is that the point, though? Now that I'm back in the Toast Capital of the World (2 locations of TOAST + can you really think of a place with more toasts [speech, glass clinking] than NYC?), these blog posts can thankfully return to more fictitious farce than factual folly. It can once again focus on the one, the only, disaster that is New York City, using my misshapen misadventures as guideposts for how to fail. I look so forward to it. 

When I started this blog almost one year ago (356 days ago, to be exact), I titled it 52 Recipes for Disaster, "52" being the amount of weeks in a year, the amount of recipes I'd create in that year. Ah, Providence. It was meant to force me to keep writing, continually. We can all see that--

[As I'm sitting here watching this young adult softball league pass by, with their socks and coolers, I realize I miss softball. Everyone misses softball, right?]

We can all see that didn't happen; it's been addressed multiple times in-blog, no need to rehash. I've let it go. 

We can't control--

[Oh, gosh, another team is coming. Wow, they must've lost. Now this really reminds me of softball.]

We can't control what's going to happen to us all of the time. We can try-- we SO can try-- and I'm sure that's really helpful, but I'm a believer in timing. Fate, "meant to be", "everything happens for a reason"-- those are tricky words & phrases; they can imply a total lack of control or encourage submission to anything other than one's own self. I like to use the simple concept of timing. 

If I had not been so unbelievably unhappy & frustrated with New York City, would I have started this blog? If I had not started this blog, would I have ever had a reason to contact Julie Flygare, the writer who created the first real narcolepsy community, single-handedly spearheaded the petition that got Honda to take down their offensive commercial, and will be the spokeswoman for Honda's promised narcolepsy PSA? If I hadn't been with my roommate when I saw the casting notice for "Peter Pan", would I have asked the lifeless empty apartment to convince me to submit for an audition? If my castmates had been talking about Disney World at any other point then when I was in the bathroom, would I have had to rush out around the corner in my socks to incorrectly step on and thus break my foot? (the truth comes out...) If I hadn't have broken my foot, would I have been home to see a feature film shot in my hometown? And be Melissa Rauch's one-legged stand-in, the first one-legged stand-in for an Academy Award-winning director? (I'd left that part out... It happened.) If that hadn't have happened, would I have ever had a reason to dye my hair a lighter blonde only to have it turn out the exact same color as whence I started, equalling the best possible hair dye situation? (all this happened) If I wasn't still on crutches, would I ever have the opportunity to live at 67th and Columbus, in Lincoln Center? WOULD I EVER BE BROUGHT TO LIVE DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET FROM MY PERSONAL HERO'S SHOW "LIVE WITH REGIS AND KELLY AND MICHAEL"?! The answer to all of these is most likely hell no. 

Whatever happens to you--

[Honestly, 5 softball games must've been just ended, what is going on]

Whatever happens to you after graduation, in your first year in a new city, HAPPENS. It happens because you did something at the right time. That's right: the right time. Because I trust you. I trust that you're not an idiot.

I thought I was an idiot during most of that long period of time when I didn't write a post. Well, if being an idiot brings me Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Sonoma wineries, a major film set with Gary Cole (oh. yeah..), arm muscles I never knew existed, a boyfriend who's proven to me that he'll literally carry me on his back, and a sublet in Lincoln Center, than being an idiot seems perfectly acceptable to me. And July 26th, 2014 will pass, and I'll still keep writing 52 recipes. Until all the idiot cows come home.


And before we go, one more Aristocat:



*Very poor jokes I've managed to avoid until now, but I can't; I'm not that good: 

(both to be said in an obnoxious New Jersey accent)
- Providence? You mean Rhode Island? 
- If you try to dye your hair blonde and nothing happens, does that make you a dumb dumb blonde?

None of these are funny.