Thursday, February 16, 2006

The First Cut is the Deepest

There are few things I love in life more than karaoke. Tonight my roster was fuller than I ever thought possible, especially for a night that started and ended in the West Village. No private rooms for me. My embarrassment comes at full cost.

"Bette Davis Eyes" -- Kim Carnes
"All I Wanna Do" -- Sheryl Crow (had to give some love to my post-Lance Sheryl)
"Like a Prayer" -- Madonna
"Why Can't I" -- Liz Phair
"Walkin' on Broken Glass" -- Annie Lennox
"Hey Baby" -- No Doubt
"Landslide" -- Fleetwood Mac

No girl ever gets to do seven girly songs in a night -- no protests from the ever-thinning crowd. I'm thinking this is a record. And a memory. Especially when the person you go with is a friend from high school who encourages you to keep filling out the slips. Even when she's tired.

I got home via cab. (Praise God for a residence in Manhattan after three years of trying.) My dad had sent a package in the requisite shoebox shape. Sure enough, the loot came in a shoebox: Cole Haan. (Since when do my parents buy Cole Haan shoes?) A card, with a large plastic Zip-Loc bag of chocolate chip cookies. "Tell us if the digital camera is hard or easy," my dad says. He made cookies the other day and gave them to my sisters, both still in the Midwest, but saved me a few and sent them in the shoebox. I ate one: It was too buttery, too rich, but it made me cry anyway. Mostly because if I stay out here and follow my dreams, there won't be that constant family togetherness or spontaneous weekend visit home ever again. Plane tickets to where I'm from cost roughly $450, which is enough to induce some serious homesickness, and I'm what most people would consider an extremely independent person. But we pick our comfort zone, and if it's not comfortable at first, we create it ourselves, nestling down in concrete and baking cookies when we have the time -- between Laundromat runs and hefty work schedules. And for now, that'll just have to do.


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