I was watching this video last night, and I couldn’t help but thinking that if someone was able to see inside my brain, it would look exactly like Anthony Pisano’s home/exhibit/hoarding episode. All the random trinkets. The things that have no meaning but are taking up a lot of space, wrapped around the things that mean the most but get lost under all the other junk. Yup, this metaphor is very astute and on target.

Pisano sits outside his apartment in the East Village and just waits for people to come and talk to him. His entire life is built around having conversations with people, and I feel connected to him in some way for that. I can appreciate living a life that’s timeline is based on going from one conversation to another.

Some of you may watch this video and think that this entire situation is weird. And I’ll admit, there was a part of me that was a little afraid watching this that one day the entire contents of my life would be on display for everyone to see and I’ll just sit outside all day waiting for people to talk to me. But then I realized, that’s basically what I do know, here, with this blog.

So please watch this video and take with you a little bit of what Pisano is telling us – “People are afraid to talk one on one…life is, you talk with people. You touch them in a sense.”

Talk, actually talk, to someone today.

“It was the stupidity of all normal people. It was the stupidity of the fortunate and beautiful, of everybody who got what they wanted in life and so remained unremarkable.” – Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot

Ok, I can’t lie to you guys any longer. I miss the C Line. I know, I know. But it’s like Stockholm Syndrome, where the relationship was so bad that – now that I’m out of it – I miss the control it had over my life. I miss the 1.5 hours it took to go the 6 miles from work to my apartment. I miss the woman who asked me every day if I could get up so she could sit down. I miss the Angry Engaged Couple and I wonder what they’re doing right now. Do they miss me? Has their relationship ultimately led to their untimely demise? There’s no way of knowing.

Now that I’m a resident of New York City, I ride the 6 train to and from work. Where the Green Line was quirky and had a mostly annoying indeterminable pluck about it, the stories of the New York subway lines go to a very dark place.

Last week, some woman was screaming about how her husband left her for a prostitute and that’s why she had to grow her hair so long. To win him back? I can’t be too sure. The other day I rode two stops next to a man who had a human-sized duffel bag full of cheese sandwiches (and we should be glad it wasn’t a human-sized duffel bag full of humans). And last month a woman at Astor Place tried to steal a bottle of wine and Sun Chips out of my Barnes & Noble tote bag. Hello? I’m bringing these to an obviously fancy dinner party and if you steal them I’ll have nothing, you jerk.

But last night my first real “Scenes from the 6 Train” experience happened – the first event that probably won’t result in someone tracking me down and murdering me if I write about it. It’s no Angry Engaged Couple, but very few things are, and I think I have to come to terms with the fact that they are no longer a part of my life and I should stop sending them letters. It’s over. Move on.

Anyway, it’s Fashion Week here and everyone riding the subway has been super glamorous and wearing wool capes and high gloves and whatever. I thought it was weird that fashion people would even deign to ride the subway, but then Anna Wintour and Victoria Beckham did it and now it’s a thing.

So last night I spotted this scrawny Asian girl, probably in her early 20s, amidst all the DVF and French cuffs that crowd my commute home. At first there was nothing too out of the ordinary about her, except that she had this ridiculous rainbow wool hat on her head, and being that it was 50 degrees yesterday, just imagining having a wool hat on my head caused me to start sweating. I was cursing her in my mind until she turned around and I noticed…is that?….I think it’s…no it can’t be…an entire roll of tape stuck to her hat. Scotch tape. In the dispenser. What. The. Eff.

There are so many questions here, so I’m going to pause and make reference to them. 1) How does a person get an entire roll of Scotch tape stuck to them. 2) How does it stay on through what was possibly blocks of walking and street crossing and maybe even a line change? 3) How do you not feel that? It’s like worlds had to collide for all of these things to happen.

So no one on the train is giving a shiz about this situation, except me. I am freaking. the eff. out. The first thought that crossed my mind was that she’s being bullied and someone did this to her on purpose as a cruel joke. But with that in mind you have to decide, do I tell her in front of all these people and have them like, notice? Or do I let her blindly walk through life not knowing that she has this tape dispenser stuck to her person and let her realize when she gets home that she traipsed around the streets of Manhattan looking like a dumbass? On the subway. Where Anna Wintour now goes. Such a tough call. But then my second thought was, she’s clearly a drug addict who has little-to-no feeling in her head and if I try to tell her about this she’s going to claw at my face and I’m going to be in the Post tomorrow. These are things that I have to reconcile in my head now. I try really hard every day not to end up in the Post.

We eventually reached 77th and Lex and I had to get off the train and I had been back and forth in my mind about what to do for at least two stops. The girl hopped off the train to make room for people getting off and I decided she can’t be too horrible of a person because she’s being considerate. She will not claw my face (probably). So I quietly tapped her on the shoulder and said “you have something stuck to your hat,” like, no big deal. Like it could have been a sticker or a leaf or something. She said thanks, giggled, took of the hat and…I bolted. I didn’t want to see the look on her face when she realized that entire roll of tape had been on top of her head for what could have possibly been hours. She had to know. But I didn’t have to be there when the atom bomb I just dropped exploded. Maybe she survived. Maybe others were wiped out with her. I don’t know. But I can sleep well at night knowing I did what I had to do. Clear eyes. Full hearts.

Editor’s Note: I hope you all have enjoyed this first installment of “Scenes from the 6 Train.” God-willing there will be more to come. In the meantime, I’m hoping to start a series entitled “NoMad Blog Investigates: Where are they Now?” and find out what has really happened to the Angry Engaged Couple. Donations are welcome to help fund what I’m sure will be a riveting three-part expose. Trench coats and big sunglasses will be involved. You’re welcome.

So Happy Valentine’s Day to all my beloveds. If you’re reading this, know that you hold a special place in my heart. And remember, love means never having to say you’re sorry for you didn’t shiv someone in the prison yard.

When she was just a junior in high school, the principal told her mother, “the good news is, Jeanette is a born leader. The bad news is, she’s leading everyone in the wrong direction.” She was subsequently expelled from school for setting the bathroom on fire with an errant cigarette butt.

When she was 17, she told her dad she was going to small concert in upstate New York. At a place named Woodstock. We all know how that weekend turned out.

When my dad broke off their first engagement, she told him to go eff himself, and they didn’t speak for two years. When he proposed again, she jammed the too-small ring on and wouldn’t take it off, even when her finger turned a bluish-purple.

When she found herself newly married, unemployed and living in a town where she knew no one, she took a 30-day temp job and ended up staying for 35 years.

When she resigned herself to the fact that kids weren’t in her future after two serious pregnancy struggles, I came along a few years later, purely by accident.

When she found me, 18 years later, crying in the library bathroom during my first weekend at college, she said, ever so lovingly, “you don’t have to stay here, but you can’t come home.”

And when she retired from the United States Military Academy just last year, her boss said, “if I had an office full of Jeanie Carrolls, it would have been terrible.” He then gave her an award for excellence.

My mom is living proof that life is what you make it. She’s honest about the fact that things didn’t always go her way. That things weren’t always easy. But if you ask anyone, they will tell you that Jeanie Carroll has lived all of her 60 years to the fullest. With her, there is never a dull moment. She sees nothing bad, only challenges to overcome. She makes everything fun and worthwhile. Her greatest lesson to me has always been to enjoy every day. And I know no better example.

My mother is the epitome of what it means to be yourself. I know no one like her, and I never will. She loves unconditionally, she fights for all things she believes are right, she’s loud, she’s obnoxious, she’s honest and she’s loyal. She is the best friend, mother, wife, sister, and daughter anyone could ever, ever ask for, and I wish her the happiest 60th birthday a person could possibly have.

Jeanie Carroll – the woman, the myth, the legend.

“Every traveler has a home of his own, and he learns to appreciate it the more from his wandering.” – Charles Dickens

Happy 200th Birthday to CD!

The NSync-Aerosmith-Britney-Mary J.-Nelly halftime show at Super Bowl 35 was voted the best in recent memory last night. And by voted I mean me and Uncle Tom drunk-analyzed it, and then fist pounded, which means it’s official. That said, it is my favorite in recent memory. What do you guys think? What was your favorite Super Bowl halftime performance?

PS – I miss this Britney.

Thank God Victor Cruz was one of the Giants’ players that scored last night, because if Brett didn’t get a little salsa in, no one was going home happy. The scene went a little like this:

Brett: Kelly, this dance is so easy. There’s not even steps, you just do something like this.
Me: Well, it’s actually a salsa, so there are steps, buddy. I don’t know what you’re doing but I like it.
Trevor: The steps are on the back of his shirt.

Bow. Applause.

So everyone was oohing and ahhing over David Beckham this morning, but I’m kind of over him being in his underwear all the time. Put him in a three-piece suit and I think you got a better thing going on. Other things I’m over this morning: Gisele Bundchen, Bill Belichick’s cutt-off sleeves and M.I.A. I’m also kind of over all the commercials with the babies in them and the one with the chimps. Over. It.

But when Clint Eastwood decides to make a Super Bowl commercial, you know it’s gonna be good. With a little tweaking, his halftime pep talk to America could have been a perfect fit for any locker room. Do they give Oscars for commercials? Honestly, Clint Eastwood should get an Oscar for just waking up in the morning. The man is scary talented.

This speech is now a pep talk I’m going to give myself every morning before I walk out my door. When I’m on the subway, I’m going to tell myself that my second half is just beginning. And when I sit down in my cubicle, I’m going to tell myself that people are going to hear the roar of my engines. Oh yeah, it’ll be weird, but not weirder than me drunk-crying on the couch last night when this commercial aired.

Do yourself a favor and check it out here. Just try to stop yourself from drunk crying. You won’t be able to.

So there’s these two guys, we’ll call them Mitt and Newt (I know), and they’re competing against each other to be the Republican nominee for president. I officially tuned all of this out when Newt promised people in Florida that the US was going to have a permanent base on the moon by the end of his second term. That’s right. The moon. Because our problems aren’t bad enough here, we have to spend trillions of dollars finding another place to totally eff up. Occupy the Moon! Ok, I’m done.

Instead of just listening to George Stephanopoulos in the morning, I decided I needed people on the ground in Florida to tell me what was really going on. And by people on the ground, I mean people I know who send me ridiculous text messages and then I steal them for this blog (at this point you all know you’re fair game – if you don’t like it, you should have gotten out months ago). So one brave roving reporter, who shall remain anonymous (I have to keep my minions secret, like Gossip Girl) has dutifully given us the following account of the Republican primary in Florida. Or, something.

Jan 28, 6:23PM EST: Two things – there are still McSkillets in Orlando and yes I had one. And Karen Tumulty of the WaPo gave me a piece of gum today.

Jan 29, 11:48AM EST: In today’s press stalking news, that’s Ari Shapiro’s computer. He has big feet, FYI. And is a snazzy dresser.

Jan 29, 1:53PM EST: Update – headed to Miami. Just blew by the press bus blasting Rihanna in my cherry red impala. All factual.

Jan 29, 3:45PM EST: There’s no way the cop beside me is an actual cop and not an exotic dancer.

Jan 30, 1:17PM EST: Brett Baier just walked by. Looks a lot like Phil.

Jan 30, 5:18PM EST: I just want you to know I’ve gotten 7 hours of sleep the last two nights but things are finally slowing up and I’m going to soak up the sun the next two days. I tell you this because it’s likely I’ll be hospitalized for sun stroke and I wanted it on record that it was voluntary.

Jan 30, 5:37PM EST: I can spin good yarns. I also stood 6 inches away from Herman Cain today. Too busy avoiding getting pushed out of the way to take a pic though. The media is ruthless.

Jan 30, 7:56PM EST: Made a “suicide” joke to the bar patron next to me…it did not go over well. It was in ref. to bad music #nomoresuicidejokes

Jan 31, 5:43PM EST: Q – it’s open bar; that’s not a direct invitation to partake, right?

beat

Disaster averted – apparently it’s a cash bar.

Feb 1, 12:27PM EST: I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t pounding some beers, sitting by the pool and sunning myself past check out time. Hence having to pee in the lobby and walk by the women in business suits apparently there for a conference.

Feb 1, 3:31PM EST: Gatorland. Lots o’ gators.

This transcript and the accompanying photos will in no way make you a more educated voter. But neither will the Republican primaries.