From the ranks of the Freaks...

Melancholy always seems to set in on Wednesdays. I guess it's a good thing that I've decided to do yoga on Wednesdays. I look forward to it desperately.

I babysat last night for Mommy Dearest. The funny thing is, I actually really like the woman. It's only in regards to her son that she becomes this somewhat unbearable creature. It's very odd. And I like the kid too--he's well behaved and follows instructions well. It's just the crib thing and the obsessive attachment to his mother that frightens me.

I like babysitting. I'm good at it. I think because I was always such and old woman when I was younger, working at St. Francis School unleashed my inner child, and there's been no looking back ever since. Kids like me because I treat them as my equal, only pulling the "adult" card in necessary situations, like bathing or bedtime. The rest of the time we play and dance and laugh like whirling dervishes.

Bedtime is my favorite part of my job. I love reading stories to the kids (go figure--actress), but more importantly, I like lying with the kid while they drift off to sleep. I love how when you were a kid, you knew that Mom or Dad or Babysitter wouldn't be there when you woke up, but it was vital and necessary that they be there when you fall asleep. I love how kids fight bedtime, too.

"I'm never going to sleep! I can't sleep!"

But sure enough, give them ten minutes of silence and they're out like little angels. I love no matter how big the fight, the sheer exertion of being a child will wear them out all the same. All our exertions as adults keep us up at nights. It does with me. I'll roll over on my bed and look at my Kurt Cobain poster, or try to decipher meaning from my Rothko, and the sheer exertion of being an adult wires me in its exhaustion.

Being a kid is easier. Well, duh. But I like to be in bed with them and be a witness to the fact that there was indeed a time where it was just a matter of reading a bedtime story and the physical presence of someone bigger than you that let you know it was alright to leave the conscious world for a bit. And that, when you woke up, it would still be there. And Babysitter would be replaced with Mommy, and the world was set right again.

Yesterday was a long day. Leaving at 8 in the morning, and not arriving home till close to 10 at night. 2 jobs. I drag myself quietly and ghostlike down 86th Street and once again am faced with my "neighborhood." I like the Upper East Side. At night, it's the perfect balance of city and suburb. It lacks the glaring harshness of Midtown, the drunken, insidious darkness of Hell's Kitchen (though that could be peppered by own experiences there), the wild frenzy of the Lower East Side and Greenwich Village. At 10pm, it's not too loud, but it's not dead quiet, either, something I find very disconcerting in Brooklyn. Brooklyn is too quiet. Serial Killer lurking in the shadows quiet. But the Upper East Side just has the hiss of bus doors opening, the low grumbles of the taxis with the intermittent honks when someone veers out of their "lane." [though, to be fair, no one in New York acknowledges any such concept--if there is space and road there--and sometimes no need for road--you are clear to drive it]. It's like the fan you turn on even when it's cold out because you need the White Noise.

I like it. But it's just where I live. I don't feel it's home. Yet.

Sun salutations, here I come.