Name: Carlene
Posts by Carlene:
- I knew she was being escorted around her Heavenly Dream House by the Man himself, and
- I knew she was finally driving my grandpa nuts, cooking him terrible goulash and making up for their 12-year separation.
- Less is more.
- Don’t leave a graphically-stricken Carlene alone with Sharpies, ever.
Church Thoughts
May 1st, 2012
On Thursday, my grandma died.
She was on the decline for a while, entering Hospice while the family emotionally prepared for her passing. While she hovered on the brink, I had a chat with Jesus; I told him that he’d better be there to personally greet her at the gates of Heaven after she attended daily Mass for nearly 90 years.
I think Jesus had a scheduling conflict, because my grandma miraculously woke up out of Hospice, was coherent for a couple more weeks, then died peacefully Thursday morning.
When I got the news, I felt at peace for two reasons:
I also felt sad, and instead of crying like a normal person (like my cousins), or looking serious and stoic (like my uncles), I did what I normally do at funerals: desperately tried to shut my brain up. Every time I’m at a funeral – and I mean, every time – my brain is all, “Hey, gurlll! You’re trying to look solemn! Here’s a totally inappropriate thought!”
The last time I attended a funeral, I spotted a woman wearing an $8,000 mink coat while carrying a $40 nylon purse. Instead of paying any attention to the ceremony, I obsessed over that coat/purse discrepancy, wondering if she had lost all her money and, if so, why she didn’t sell the coat and pay some bills.
This time, I noticed some serious streamer action as we entered the church. There were long, rainbow-colored streamers hanging two stories high, from the ceiling to floor. In fact, there were rainbows everywhere, and I turned and whispered to my mom (in true confusion), “Doesn’t the church hate gays?”
That’s definitely the question to ask in the middle of a Catholic funeral. Definitely.
I hereby ban myself from all future funeral attendance, because I’m the worst at it. The rainbows represented Easter and rebirth (or something), which I’d know if I ever went to church. At least my involuntary bad behavior stays (mostly) inside my head; if I were one of those people who giggled in stressful situations, my grandmother would have reached down from above and “hit me with a ball bat!” to remind me how a grandchild of hers ought to act in church.
…maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing.
Africana Studies, Americana Perceptions
April 24th, 2012
I have what is perhaps one of the most confusing (to other people) college degrees of all time. I went to school for English…and Africana Studies. I’m a tall, gawky white girl from Albany who grew up in the ‘burbs, and if I tell people I have an English degree, nobody bats an eye. When I mention Africana Studies, the answer is always the same. I get a super confused look and the same sentence:
“Africana Studies? Why?”
Well, why the hell not? Isn’t the point of college to learn new shit?
The fact that one course of study is accepted while the other is chronically questioned does not sit well with me. If it were Women’s Studies, Fine Arts, or even tap dancing, it would be accepted without question, just like my English degree. I’m a photographer; none of these things apply to my trade. Also, nobody wants to see me and my five miles of elbows earn a tap dancing diploma; that’s a fact.
Read the rest of this entry “
Adventures in banking
April 17th, 2012
I finally got on the late bus and joined the rest of the folks switching from evil, corporate banks to friendly, local credit unions. I wish I could say it was because I’m a socially aware nearly-30-year-old, but really, it’s because Bank of America screwed me and my little business over so hard I nearly had to declare bankruptcy last year. D-i-c-k-s.
My experience with my credit union has been good thus far; I do, however, have one serious beef. I opened both a business and personal account, and the debit cards for each account are identical. Same color, same design, same name…there is no difference between the two other than the very last digit on the card. After one drink, I guarantee I’ll be spending my rent money on booze and booze money on photography supplies and I have enough trouble with QuickBooks without my bank deliberately sabotaging me.
My teller did give me a solid recommendation: “You could try putting a sticker on it, that’s what my mom does.” Since we have a new banking relationship, he clearly didn’t know that I would rather walk out of the house without mascara (ha) than pay for camera supplies with a card sporting Charlie the freaking unicorn.
I was obviously losing sleep with this debit card design dilemma, because, well, GRAPHIC DESIGN. When Occupy Albany first moved in next door, I wasn’t offended by their politics; I was offended by their window displays. Luckily, they heard my anxious pacing and took their hand-made signs to the printer.
My way of handling the situation was to waste an hour of my workday with my favorite Sharpie and a ruler, obsessively customizing my business credit card to make it more easily recognizable when I’m fumbling to buy a $1.67 cup of coffee. Then, in true “If You Give a Mouse a Cookie” form, I had to customize all my cards, “So they’ll match!”
I might as well have borrowed the unicorn sticker from the teller’s mom, because now my wallet looks like Rainbow Brite threw up all over my credit cards. Definitely more professional.
Lessons of the day:
Clearly, I am the best advice-giver ever.
April 14th, 2012
Clearly, I am the best advice-giver ever. He was, of course, referring to my article about girls using vaginas as accessories. I’m more surprised by his surprise (I don’t lie, unless heavy sarcasm counts) than the fact that he ran into this at the bar.
…and I never asked Michelle about anything ever again.
April 10th, 2012
I’ve been playing it a bit safe with my more recent blog entries. Why? Two reasons.
One, I’m actually a very sensitive and delicate flower when faced with anonymous strangers who say they hate me because I don’t think/speak/act in a way that meets their approval. I’m SORRY, I’ll try better, I’m a lapsed Catholic, I promise I feel super guilty for not meeting expectations I didn’t know existed.
Two, I have this obnoxious habit of not wanting to hurt other people’s feelings, even those of complete strangers who will never read anything I write. Steve Barnes from Table Hopping fascinates me with his ability to critique the work of people he has met and looked in the eye. He is a brave, brave man. I am not a brave, brave man. I am a sensitive and delicate flower.
I basically cause Matt to pound his forehead on his keyboard every time I post up an entry about babies that is 0% snarky, so I asked myself, “Who’s my most explosive friend, so I can pick their brain and have something interesting to write about?” The answer came to me immediately – Michelle*.
*name has been changed to protect the not-even-close-to-innocent.
My friend Michelle hates everyone and everything and can explain to you in forty filthy words why your grandmother is a whore, and the best/worst part is that the way she does it leaves you pretty convinced that your grandmother is, indeed, a whore. My grandmother happens to be a great lady and does not fit this description, BUT Michelle puts up a pretty strong argument about the amount of repenting someone must need to do to go to Mass every day for 85 years. I love/hate Michelle for indelibly etching thoughts like that inside my brain.
I invited her over for a girly date, and as we settled on the couch with two beers, I asked her, “Anything interesting happen today?”
She waited less than a millisecond. “Yes; I hate Occupy Albany.” Read the rest of this entry “
Teaser!
April 9th, 2012A few people (like, twenty) have asked me what my guitarist Brian and I are going to be doing at our show this Friday. Here’s a little snippet from a rehearsal; I look super awkward as always, so just click “Play” and go look at Facebook 30 seconds instead of watching me as I try to look anywhere but at the camera or Brian.
If you want to come watch me being awkward in person, the show is at 9pm at Savannah’s (a.k.a. The Dublin Underground) this Friday, and I think the cover charge is $5. If it’s more, consider it my tip for brightening your day by writing about boobs and vaginas.
Pffffffttt, noooo, I did NOT buy new boots…
April 4th, 2012
One of the greatest and also weirdest aspects of writing for Friday Puppy is the variety of topics we write about. Craig was posting about US gun laws in the last entry, the comments were passionate and political, and here I am posting about boots.
I’m a firm believer that the world needs plenty of contrast to stay in balance. Without some silliness to break up the levity, it would be the Dark Ages all over again, to which I say, “No, thanks.” On to frivolity.
The other day, Macy’s was all, “Hey, Carlene, we’re dropping off a box at your doorstep that contains a super sexy pair of black stiletto boots (in your exact size) that are everything you’ve been looking for in a boot.”
I swear to god (no, I don’t) that I don’t know how they found their way to me (yes, I do); however, I’m super happy to make their acquaintance. And yes, I paid my taxes.
The boots and I been having a really nice time together. I’ve been showing them around town (they’re new to the Albany area), and they’ve been showing me how great they look with jeans and leggings. It’s been a great experience thus far.
Thanks, Macy’s! You know just what I like and where I live. Actually, that sounds a little creepy, so I’ll stick with, “Thanks, Macy’s!” and go prance around my living room in my new best friends.
It’s the little things…
I need a Xanax
April 3rd, 2012
I’m a lot like Matt. If you take away the Xanax prescription (waaant one), substitute gin for vodka, and swap several thriving businesses for one small business that’s more of an excuse not to get a real job, we share a special little something called anxiety.
While anxiety obviously comes in all forms, and while Google could probably diagnose my particular brand of crazy in a hot minute if I wasn’t too lazy to type that many words into the search box, what it comes down to is this:
I have trouble walking outside my front door.
It seems similar to agoraphobia, only I love people – L-O-V-E them – and god knows I love to interact with them. In fact, bring them all over to my house!! Party at my place!! I’ll talk your ear off! As long as someone else goes outside to get the ice, beer, and foodstuffs, I’m set.
It goes a little deeper than that, too, as once I’m past the barrier of my front door, I’m fine. It’s the action of changing from inside my apartment to outside that’s monumental, the act of switching from one environment to another. I don’t even like walking from one room to another if I’m happy being in the first room. Get up and get a glass of water? That’s okay, I’ll just be thirsty. Forever.
In my brain, from one room to the next there is a chance that it’s turned into Siberia in my living room, that I’ll be blinded by the too-bright or too-dim light, and that there is a silent psychopath patiently waiting in the shadows of my guest room. It’s as ridiculous to me as it is to an outsider, and that’s the annoying part; knowing I have an issue and having no idea how to fool my brain into not doing this action I dislike pretty much sucks.
I’m thinking shock therapy; thoughts?
The taxman cometh
March 27th, 2012
Soooooo, it turns out that last year I made little enough money to barely pay my bills, but more than enough money to get the taxman all aflutter. Faced with the option of selling my car or selling my things to pay my taxes, I chose my things.
Well before I knew about my “tax situation,” I decided to sell all my Coach purses on Facebook to help justify buying handmade purses from Italy. In hindsight, I should have done my taxes first, as I could have used that money to take care of the problem, buuut what’s a procrastinator to do?
Anyhow, once I said goodbye to items that were essentially my beloved children, selling the rest of my crap was a lot easier.
Right around when I started getting serious about becoming the eBay Queen, I stumbled upon an article about a guy, Dave, who decided to minimize his life to 100 items, with great results and personal happiness. I decided that instead of calling my project “Pay the Taxman,” I would call it “Minimize My Life and Be a Responsible Citizen as an Added Bonus.”
It took away a bit of the sting.
The article has made my farewell process easier. While it’s been great moving all six still-shrink-wrapped seasons of Sex and the City to seven different apartments (true story), I can probably stand to part with them. And my gorgeous Nine West python platform pumps that are a half size too big and have never been worn (except around the house 50 times while I begged them to shrink)? Well, it’s time to send them to a loving home where someone with slightly bigger feet than me can rock them with a pair of medium-dark skinny jeans with a quarter-inch cuff.
Which, coincidentally, is in the listing description as a requirement for whoever purchases them.
The good fantastic news is that it turns out the lies I’ve been feeding to my mom for years (she’s a stellar financial planner and is always on my case about my shopping “problem”) have been true, and my insistence on purchasing name-brand goods “as an investment toward my future” has actually gotten a great return; I’ve raised nearly all the money I needed to pay my dues to society. In return, I want one patched pothole somewhere in the United States with my photo and a sign that reads, “Visions by Carlene paid a lot for this.”
Here’s a link in case anyone else wants to learn more about the 100 Thing Challenge, or is sweating their tax bill and need to come up with some creative fundraisers.
St. Patrick’s Day: Albany comes back to life
March 20th, 2012
It took us three times to get this one right. You're welcome.
This suit shows a dedication to the day
This weekend had a really great feel to it, between the ridiculously nice weather and the St. Patrick’s Day festivities.
Since I had a few parties to attend and knew I’d be driving, I bypassed the booze while hanging with my friends. I love a good drink with plenty of Hendrick’s, yet lately, the more I skip the drinking, the more I seem to be enjoying myself. Drunk people falling off green stilettos are amazing, and remembering everything with total clarity the next day? Priceless.
While I was busy being sober all over Lark Street (I’m pretty sure my coffee from Caffé Vero was the only non-spiked drink in the city), I saw some outfits I loved and wanted to share with the Puppies. I figured I’d need some sort of permission before sticking photos of strangers up on the interwebs, so I’d saunter up to the partiers I wanted photos of, point to the Bombers sign, then ask,
“You know Bombers?”
They’d nod yes.
“You know the guy Matt that owns it?”
They’d pause, then nod yes again.
“You know his blog, Friday Puppy?”
Slightly longer pause, then a (dim) lightbulb would shine through the haze of alcohol. “Oh yeah, with the pictures of the dogs. My friend/sister/cousin/brother’s girlfriend’s dog got on there and I had to vote or whatever.”
“Yep, that’s the one. I write for the blog and I love your outfit…can I post your photo there?” At which point they’d say, “Yes!” and in the case of the gentleman above, ask to hold me gently for just one moment.
After personally having such a great St. Patty’s Day, (judging by the number of green-clad Walks of Shame past my apartment the next morning, everyone else seemed to have a great time, too), I’m happy spring is elbowing winter out of the way with such a vengeance. Even though it’s been mild, winter has seemed to last FOREVER, and it feels like Albany finally woke up this weekend.
I don’t know about you, but I am super excited to see her again. Read the rest of this entry “
In Which Carlene Spends Time With an Almost-Two-Year-Old
March 13th, 2012
This weekend, I spent two days practically in Canada with one of my best friends and her almost-two-year-old. I’ve realized a few things – four, to be specific.
One: Almost-two-year-olds like to be naked. A lot. They also like to take off their diapers, all by themselves, to get naked. Then, they sometimes pee on things, and occasionally poop in the tub.
Two: I find these facts to be intensely stressful. I’m a dog mom. Letting anyone, two- or four-legged, pee on the floor is not something I’m accustomed to tolerating. I apparently come equipped with one setting: “No!” as in, “No peeing in the laundry basket!” and I’m not (yet) savvy to all the niceness and “feelings words” that come with parenting in 2012.
Three: My fake culinary skills are as dismal as my real culinary skills. I attempted to “cook” with wooden “food” on a plastic “stove,” and failed to impress a child who was happily chewing on a plastic eggplant.
Four: Two-year-olds really are like little drunk people who speak a foreign language and have a less-than-basic grasp on the English language. In particular, they think it’s fantastic to repeat every last word in a sentence, WITH GUSTO.
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“BAF-ROOM!!!”
“I really like this cheese.”
“CHEEE!!!”
“What time are you leaving?”
“YEA-VIGGG!!!”
It was a fun visit. While I’m in no way prepared for kids of my own, hanging out with the tater tot was pretty okay. I’m still slightly traumatized by the tub incident; however, the mystery of why people would willingly do this to themselves is slowly starting to unravel.
Carlene’s 1998 Internet Survey
March 6th, 2012I realized that I’ve been writing for Friday Puppy for a minute or two and haven’t taken the time to introduce myself. Judging from the comments on my last article, a more thorough introduction is in order.
I remember back in 1998 when email was still exciting, and my friends and I would send 100 question-long surveys to each other. I always deleted the annoying people whose answers I didn’t care about, then memorized the answers of the boys I thought were cute, so I could be all, “Oh, my favorite color is clear, too, we’re probably soulmates, no big deal,” assuming that he’d see how much prettier I was now that we had something in common.
15 was an interesting age for all of us, I believe.
To get back to introducing myself, my name is Carlene and I have the rarest blood type in the world (AB-). If you need more insight into my personality than that (it’s a pretty accurate assessment), here are some Carlene Fun Facts.
Height: 6 feet tall. I regularly wear 3-4″ stilettos, and yes, I do it just to piss you off, Insecure Guy at The Bar.
Eye color: Blue
Hair color: Brown
Read the rest of this entry “
Saratoga Beer Week(end)
February 28th, 2012
I would have taken more pictures, but, you know, beer.
This weekend I headed up to the Saratoga Beer Week(end) with two of my friends. There was a $10 Groupon for admission that I missed, so I had to pay full price at the door.
That wouldn’t have been too big a deal, only they stopped selling the regularly-priced $20 tickets for the Groupon session way in advance (while continuing to sell $20 tickets for the other sessions right up til the day of the event), and the door price was $30.
Okay, no big deal. It sucks to pay 3x more than either of my friends (and $10 more than both of them combined), it sucks to feel like I got hustled, but, beer. Beer makes everything okay.
Then, I was handed my sample glass, filled with 4 tokens. The thought that went through my head was “…50+ vendors I am dying to try, and I just blew my entire beer budget on 4 tokens?”
The math worked out to about $18.75 for a 12-ounce bottle of beer. The math can suck it.
I understand the liquor laws for events like this. I know they aren’t allowed to give out more than X ounces of alcohol for free. I get it. What made me unhappy was that after the insane price jack between the Groupon and “door price,” I got stuck paying $7.50 per sample, and having only four chances to find beers I might enjoy turned out to be anxiety-producing. What if I chose wrong?!?
I’d have been a lot happier with a smaller sample size and twice the tokens, especially when many of the beers required two tokens per sample due to “rareness.” Next year’s event planners: I hope you’re avid readers of Friday Puppy and can make this happen.
In the end, I tried five beers – Mother’s Milk, which is a delicious milk stout from Keegan Ales in Kingston, NY, two beers from other vendors I ended up not liking (goodbye, $15), and one beer from Brooklyn Brewery I knew I liked, since I didn’t want to waste my last token on something gross.
I wish I could write all about the other amazing vendors there; however, aside from Steadfast Beer Co., who are awesome and gave me a token-free sample of their excellent gluten-free sorghum beer, I have no idea what delicious brews I missed.
The silver lining is that I had a great time with my friends at an event that offered a turnout of really enjoyable people. I was able to discover a single beer from a single brewery that I really enjoyed, and I’ll buy it again soon. My friends and I were able to gallivant around Saratoga after the event ended, and we drank beer at fun places all day and quite a bit of the evening. Double silver lining – turns out the Parting Glass has bottles of Mother’s Milk for $4.75, which was a much better return on my carefully allocated beer money.
Next year, I’ll just make sure I get the memo on the damn Groupon.
Changing the world.
February 21st, 2012
This weekend, I volunteered my photography services for a fundraiser. The event was in support of a woman battling stage-4 cancer, in hopes to help her family with the cost of chemotherapy and the other expenses of major illness.
I was asked to do the photos by one of my favorite clients, and I was honored to be trusted with the task. I won’t post photos; they’re too personal and it doesn’t seem appropriate. However, I’m proud to say I did some of my best event photography at this fundraiser.
The woman for whom the event was held looked beautiful in every shot, the friends and family there supporting her looked radiant, and in every photo the emotions were visible and poignant. I felt like I was providing a true gift to her family.
I’m grateful for experiences like this; they remind me that the point of being a human being is to support my fellow human beings. We need each other.
There are days when negativity creeps in when I’m not looking. It sneaks in and silently slips dirty roots into my otherwise bright, beautiful life. This negativity likes to point out that one person can’t change the world alone, so why bother?
This weekend, I remembered why I love being part of a community, why I love helping people, why I bother to give a little bit of my talent, time, or money to a person or cause I love.
Alone, I’m one person, I’m a few bucks, I’m one voice. And know what? Alone, I single-handedly created memories for a family that needs them, badly. Alone, I stood surrounded by other human beings, and we transformed from individuals into a community, into hope, into financial relief.
We showed up to lend support and a few bucks to a family in need; we stood in a room, made friends, and by doing so, we made a difference. We raised over $6,000 in three hours.
That’s pretty f*cking fantastic.
Changing the world is not a huge, impossible task. All it involves is saying “yes” when asked for help. Giving three hours of my time left me feeling like Superwoman…it turns out the gift I really gave was to myself.
I hope all the Puppies have had the amazing experience of giving their time and talents to make their world a better place; it’s so worth it. I’d love to hear stories about what you’re doing or have done, as well as ideas for future doings of good. Maybe, just maybe, your words could inspire someone else to do something spectacular.
Snobtrollers
February 18th, 2012
Over the past week, I’ve had at least one run-in per day with a complete snob or troll. You know the type – the folks who hate all over your musical taste, choice of car, preferred coffeeshop, the phone you carry. Because theirs is better.
