.SOMETIMES RAW.

I heart the question, “what do you really want, Daniela?; “what do you really need, Daniela? or “really think about it hard, will you” more than one million times in the last couple of days. Also, don’t tell me what I should have, lady at Joel’s school. Thinking about it now though and being constantly reminded, I decided to make a list (I love lists) of things I have accomplished, things that make me me and some random stuff I through in here and there. 

I almost have my Masters degree in my hand. I can basically feel it but I cannot change the damn filter in my vacuum cleaner. I want a new expensive German brand vacuum cleaner that actually cleans my house. I should call the BELL phone person back but I hate being put on hold for ten hours. I should also call the university to ask if they received the cheque. My son almost mentally killed me in the last four days being at home but I love him unconditionally. In addition, I think he might have given me his cold by now, damn. I almost cried at a commercial for cat food the other day. Or at the look of my neighbour’s cat that has diabetes and dementia. I still cannot decide if Yoga pants are pants to wear on a daily basis with other clothing or just to actually work out. Then again, I am a student. 

I love my men-Birkenstocks sandals. So comfortable. My schedule is full of things to do but I procrastinate. I hope this pumpkin pie my friend Joanne dropped of today doesn’t have as many calories as I think it does. I love blueberries. And pie. 

My voicemail has 5,874 unanswered calls by now since I don’t listen to them anymore. Thank you, BELL phone company. I also cannot remember the password. I still buy fish sticks, the ones for kids and I eat them with mashed potatoes. I love to listen to “This American Life” while walking to school. I thought I have been in love a bunch of times, but wasn’t really. I love tomatoes. I love grapefruit but not the grapefruit-diet. 

And apples.

And coffee. Always coffee.

I love cooking and baking things and believe that it is important what is on the plate instead of how expensive the plate was. I made a chocolate tarte and Knaeckebrot and Hummus two days ago, just because. 

Zero fat scares me as well as food labels and ingredients lists. Butter for flavour and taste on everything. Reading is my passion. Nora Ephron and Joan Didion make me laugh, hard. I have given up on Sudoku. My iPhone fell on the floor last year and still has a huge crack on the screen. I removed all the splinters stuck in my finger(s) when swiping and still use it one year after. I definitely need to take it easy on myself and stop stressing so much. I need to start practicing Yoga again on a daily basis. I need to stick to a budget list for now to track expenses. I cannot make crêpe as thin as it is supposed to be. Love terrifies me. I love my son but I think one baby for me is enough. I can never fold fitted sheets. I hate jealousy. I don’t ever want to get Crohn’s disease. I am scared of the dentist and move around on the chair all the time so they cannot get things done. I have a tooth implant that cost me $4500 put in by a dentist who basically stood with one foot on my chest while the other leg was steady on the chair and he tried to drill this metal object into my mouth (sounds like something kinky on pornhub, I know). I love to watch the movie The Dentist before actually going to get a “deep” teeth cleaning done at my dentist’s office. Or Jaws. I love watching Jaws. 

I need to publish my book. I have to go to bed earlier and get some more sleep. I want a baby panda or a puppy. I want a coffee machine that makes awesome coffee at home so I never have to leave the house. I am very comfortable by myself at home. No music, just a book, coffee and couch. I want to spend an entire weekend in bed eating Captain Crunch Berries and Netflix and chill. I want to go dancing. I want to go to a reading again. Or a jazz concert. I want to see Joan Didion’s documentray that will come out on October 11th (Yay, tomorrow!). I think about getting a fancy skin cream and make-up but then don’t use anything but water and my skin is awesome. I love peace and quiet. I want my family around and not 8000 km away. I would move above a pho place and help out in the kitchen. I want to own a bookstore. I want to tell all women who want to have a child to babysit my son for one week whenever he has a tantrum phase, growth spurt, is sick, mean or is simply an asshole for no reason. I want to tell women to look for a partner who reads books. Not magazines. Books! Or studies. Anything that makes their brain work and one can have a decent, intellectual conversation about something awesome once in a while. Also, this person should own a passport and love road trips. The partner should have a bank account by the time he is 30 with savings in it. This partner should also not play games, makes one wonder who he is texting at night in the bathroom with, why he has a “secret” Facebook account with the name Mike Myers or lie. A partner who is nice doesn’t have to be weak. Nice doesn’t mean weak but dangerous and exciting usually means “mean”. I want to tell women they want a partner who doesn’t come home at 6 am on Mother’s day drunk if he/she promised to take care of the kids so you can chill. 

I should sort out some stuff in my life. I should stop cutting my hair at this point (especially my bangs). I should listen to my voicemail and get a new password. I should stop wasting all this money on Starbucks lattes and the damn egg white flatbread. I should throw away my 10,000 year-old black jeans that my mom stitched up pretty well but they ripped on the other side now. I should stop buying things at the University Bookstore (so tempting). I should read all the books I haven’t read in my bookshelf before purchasing another one. 

This could be me after I dropped off my son enjoying a book and cup of coffee on the porch. 

When I walked home from school today to pick up my son I realized the colour-changing of the leaves and thought that the new school-thing is already in full swing and two weeks old. This made me think of a podcast I listened to the other day when I heard the term “momiform”  for the first time. Things just pop in my head out of nowhere. I am weird. I know. This word basically means this dress code (official or unofficial) that is supposed to communicate a certain statement to other moms. Almost like an unspoken rule. 

I was at school a bit early today and was able to observe other moms and their drop-off rituals. One mom in particular mentioned several times that her son looks especially handsome today since he is wearing his new shoes, pants and t-shirt. “You look great in your CHANEL shirt, ” she said very loud to make sure everyone can hear her clearly while I quizzically stared at her. This alone could be a post on its own but I want to focus on the moms today since this mom triggered this post. She wore high-heels, nothing wrong with that, a super tight mini-skirt and something that I later learned is a “see-through top” that is in style right now revealing her black bra. Her hair done at 8.30 am in the morning and with perfect makeup she dangled her CHANEL purse on her lower arm kissing her son goodbye who quickly wiped away the red lipstick stains on his cheek. She then assembled with moms who dressed and looked like her. Nothing wrong about her clothes. If this makes her happy, cool. But the whole show around it, why?! I turn around to my friend who just arrived and told her that I own one pair of high heels but I haven’t worn them in ages. Maybe I should. 

Now that the fashion week in New York is pretty much over I feel like the runway show is right at my son’s school. This is the scene and each school has its own look I reckon. Drop your child off and a private school and it might even be worse. I don’t want to clothes-or mom shame (did I just invent this term?) anyone because who am I and what do I know about style. Other moms arrive in their pyjamas to drop off their kids while desperately holding a cup of coffee. This is another thing that makes no sense to me. Coming from Europe, this seems so weird. You sit down and drink your coffee. Period. You enjoy it. You take your time. Or you drink it when you get back home AFTER you dropped of your kids. You don’t take a coffee mug, no? Not talking about “to-go Starbucks here”. So mom’s bring their coffee mug with them in pyjamas. Maybe it’s a new thing. 

So basically and in a nutshell, to each his own. These were just observations I made today in ten minutes and I can easily put moms into a bunch of categories like: The cool moms, the mom-moms, the CHANEL moms, the arrogant moms, the know-it-all-way-better-than-you-ar-moms, the soccer/baseball/hockey moms and so on. The CHANEL lady dressed unreasonably in my eyes BUT for her it must have been totally appropriate. Maybe she was in a hurry in the morning, maybe she forgot that she has to drop off her son before going to work or maybe she really wants to wear this outfit. Maybe she is stressed, depressed or needs a mood booster or hates short and long pants. So, who the hell cares. I don’t want to ridicule her or be rude. It was all more about the message she communicated to her son. It is important to look good, be dressed in expensive clothing and blablablab. He was about five years-old. Yeah, because he cares what he is wearing. He is going to be covered in dirt and sand by the time you pick him up. It is just an expensive piece of clothing with because of the name on it but it is also made in China. And most importantly, your son probably doesn’t even care what he wears. I know my son does not. He does not even know what a brand or label is. He likes to be comfortable. 

Everything changes. Nothings stands still. I have moved so many times in my life  that I can pack an entire house into boxes with a smart, efficient system within a very short period of time. My moving-highlight and easiest move “accumulated items-wise” is still from Munich to NYC; the “the city that never sleeps” even though I found that I actually did sleep quite well in Midtown Manhattan. I also lived in New Jersey (sigh!) which is a whole other chapter and story on its own. One gets used to anything? In any case, I moved again, and again, and again. All the way to Canada. 

I have to add that there was also a short time in my life when I used to live with a “roommate” who let me stay at her place. There are always compromises to be made which has its good and bad sides. For example my roommate used to go to bed very early while I am a night owl and my writing “process” usually takes place while staring at a blank word document and waiting for the words and sentences to pop up magically. In the meantime I might drink a glass of wine or two (for inspiration) or eat some dry Captain Crunch cereal by the handful. This for some reason did not work out with my roommate so our ways parted. Before we parted I thought I am able to write and work at a coffee shop since there were quite some nice cozy, relaxing ones around where she lived. But for some reason, writing at a coffee shop never works out for me. 

My attempt to write at coffee shops: I do love Starbucks’ lattes but even with headphones on, I cannot concentrate. There is just so much going on. There is people watching and glancing around wondering what this and that person is working on. I live close to a university so this blue haired girl with her beige cotton pants, tattooed arms and green Greenpeace T-shirt saying “we are all equal” is definitely writing her “term paper on indigenous rights”. I also looked at my “emergency book” that I always carry around just in case. This is the book I read when I have writer’s block while my laptop is seemingly frozen on a blank white word document with the cursor sadly but continuously blinking.

I am on my second cup of grande latte at this point when I pack up all my things because I need to pee. I don’t want anyone to walk out with my laptop but I also have no clue about Starbucks/coffee shop etiquette. I know I won’t trust the guy who is first of all using my outlet to charge his phone and curses the entire time two meters next to me. He types aggressively now (while still cursing) so I won’t ask him to watch or keep an eye on my computer while I am at the restroom for three minutes (two minutes according to my brother!). Is there a moral obligation? I am an anxious, traumatized  PTSD person in general so would I trust anyway taking care of my laptop, my latte or my handbag? Most likely not. 

What’s with people hogging the outlets at coffee shops anyway? They come over and crawl around between my legs to plug-in their cable (sounds weird, I know) without even saying one word. Now I am in this dilemma. I had way too much coffee, I need to pee and I don’t trust anyone to keep an eye on my things. So I take everything with me. The cord dangling from my shoulder, everything else stuffed loosely in my pocketbook while I try to balance my latte cup (grande) to the bathroom like a trophy fumbling for my phone to check if I put in my jeans pocket or if I left it on the table. 

“Where do I put everything now”, I ask myself while looking for a hook on the door to at least put my handbag. I know deep inside that someone took over my awesome table and outlet already. I finish what I needed to do at the bathroom and head back out to the café. I see a guy placing his unpronounceable giant fancy coffee (I understand dark roast but I am rather irritated and confused by most of the coffee combinations and creations they offer) a blueberry muffin and a cake pop (?) nicely, artfully  arranged on “my” table to just instagram it. 

Long story short, having my own place to write and work is awesome, salient and necessary. Moving again will be fun and exciting. I enjoy moving. I can declutter, minimize and rearrange again which is good. 

Also, roommates are okay if you are like 20-something and in college. Moving out and breaking up with someone who doesn’t have his own checking account by the time he is 30 or 40 is only reasonable and necessary. Nobody wants to really live with someone who occasionally gets arrested for X, Y or Z and is brought home by an officer who drives as slowly as if he is in a parade all the way to the front of your house for the neighbours to see who might be sitting in the backseat. 

Moving does not wipe away all the problems but new destinations are great and usually improve or change aspects of my life. I am not sad or anxious about the move. I just do it. Or as my son said the other day, “I am done here”.