About FrivolityOnTheEdge

I am an opera singer, actor, fledgling writer, avid reader and enthusiastic dabbler in all manner of creative pursuits.

So…now what?

I’ve been on the road for a little over a month now. That’s not entirely true. I left NY at the end of September, spent a week with my family in MA, then drove south and west for the next two days until I got to Durant, OK (always pronounced DOO-rant in my head) where I’ve been posted up at my best friend’s house for the past month.

My first two weeks in Oklahoma were spent housesitting and managing my friend’s husband’s law firm while they were away on their honeymoon. And yes, I do realize that quitting one soul-sucking office job at a law firm only to immediately start working in another is rather ironic, but the fact that it was temporary and helpful to people I love makes it okay.

Speaking of things that I love…

I LOVE not having stuff anymore. I love that I don’t have to worry about getting my broken toaster fixed, or replacing the hallway light bulb that blew out eight months ago, or the fact that the number two express cook button is the only one that ever worked on my microwave – because I no longer own any of those things!

I really do think about all of my possessions in terms of weight now. I’m constantly asking myself if the value of a particular item is worth the weight of carrying it around. The answer is typically no. Hence, I’ve lost a ton of weight lately and it feels fantastic.

Unencumbered as I am with the burdens of everyday things like a home, possessions and a steady job, you’d think I’d be starting my journey from a place of ease and complete freedom. But that’s not the case. I’ve discovered, much to my chagrin, that my new lifestyle is fraught with its own complications, like…

– Crafting a pithy response to seemingly mundane questions such as, ‘Where do you live?’ or ‘What do you do for a living?’

– Figuring out what day of the week it is.

– Creating a budget and sticking to it, so you can postpone your inevitable return to the real world.

– Learning the best methods to avoid getting stabbed to death by a drifter.

Or, wait. Since I am a drifter, am I supposed to be the one stabbing people? Ugh. I have so many questions. Who knew being a shiftless layabout was going to be so much trouble? I mean… I don’t even know how to tie a proper bindle yet! How am I supposed to survive?

Seriously though. Removing all of life’s difficulties doesn’t automatically solve your problems. Seems obvious and yet, I was oddly floored by this realization. Simply eliminating the things that make you unhappy doesn’t guarantee that you’ll necessarily be happy with what’s left.

You still have to ‘do the work.’ I apologize for the therapist-speak, but it’s true. Take away the distractions of everyday life and you’re left with a vacuum. You need to fill your time and space with something, and it’s really tempting to choose the wrong things. It’s all too easy to let the days slide past in a haze of television, Facebook, or booze if that’s your thing.

So here I am, in Oklahoma of all places, trying my best to value this time like the gift that it is. Here’s a brief recap of what I’ve been up to:

I’ve driven nearly 4,000 miles. In this car…


With this much mileage on it at the start…

IMG_8368 These are some of the places I’ve been so far…

Screen Shot 2014-11-10 at 4.54.54 PM

This is some of the stuff I’ve seen and people I’ve met…



[Austin, TX – with my favorite podcasting duo, Seth and Jonathan, from Uhh Yeah Dude.]


IMG_9632[Fenton, MO – with author and all around great guy, Patrick Rothfuss.]


IMG_8503[Oklahoma City, OK – keeping track of the score of the OU/TX game with some of my Sooner friends.]

IMG_0020[Chillin’ on the front porch at Dwight D. Eisenhower’s crib.]

IMG_9523[Hiking in Eisenhower State Park.]

I also ate what could quite possibly be the greatest meal of my life at a cattle ranch in Soper, OK. Fried okra picked from the garden that morning, fresh baked cornbread, brisket you could cut with a spoon, and the most perfect homemade fried chicken I’ve ever encountered. I’m telling you, this chicken was a revelation. My friend’s mom said she’ll teach me how to make it the next time I come back this way. That alone would make it worth the trip.

When I’m not actively adventuring, I am writing, singing, reading, cooking, eating, laughing, spending lots of time outdoors, getting exercise, helping my friends around the house or at the office, and trying not to waste too much time staring at a glowing screen of any kind.

Most importantly, I’ve gotten to spend a ton of time with my best friend. That’s been the best part. Luckily, she and her husband don’t seem to mind having me around, which has been great for me.

Though I’m loath to leave, it’s getting to be about that time. Time to keep moving. See what else is out there to see. I’m going to take one more week to enjoy the comforts of home while I figure out what comes next.

Drop me a line if you want a well-behaved house guest!

Happy trails…




Chase the Wind

In my last post I alluded to the fact that I’ll be embarking on a journey into elective homelessness in the not too distant future. This is mostly true. At the end of August I gave up the lease on my NYC apartment, where I’d been living (happily?) for the past six years.

At the same time, I took my experiment with minimalism to the next level by selling or donating roughly seventy-five percent of my belongings. I no longer own anything that doesn’t fit in my car. I’ve still got a ways to go, but I feel like I’ve lost a hundred pounds in the past few weeks. There are still several things that I didn’t get around to selling before I had to be out of my apartment, but my parents have graciously allowed me to store those things in their basement for the time being. (I promise it won’t be too long!)

I also quit my job. I gave my one-month notice a couple of weeks ago and my last day is September 26th. While, in many respects, I feel like I won the job lottery when I got this gig, it’s definitely time for me to leave. And though I’ll miss certain aspects of having a day job (namely the regular paycheck and killer health insurance plan), I’m really excited by the prospect of not being a day-dwelling office monkey anymore.


What I am going to do with all of my newfound free time, you ask?

Well, I’m going to drive across the country. Not just across, all around. I want to see America. I’ve lived in the northeast my entire life and I’ve wanted to take a road trip like this since before I could legally drive. I figure, with any luck, I’ll never be this single or childless again, so it seems the perfect time to go.

I know some might think me irresponsible for quitting a good job, particularly in this economy. But, as I explained to my family, while my day job provides financial security, it also robs me of my energy and my ability to live as a creative person. I’m sure there are lots of people out there who are able to have both a job and a creative career, but unfortunately, I don’t seem to be one of them. For me, staying at a job that leaves me feeling empty at the end of the day just so I can make enough money to be able to afford an expensive apartment in a city I’m only living in so I can keep working at the job I don’t want… That’s irresponsible.

For the past eight months or so I’ve been building up my savings little by little. In June I implemented super strict austerity measures which, when combined with the added income from selling my stuff and the fact that I’ve been living debt-free since 2006, has allowed me to set aside a nice little chunk of change.

But wait, aren’t you an opera singer? Don’t you have to be in New York to do that?

To that I say there are plenty of singers who don’t live in New York. I’m quite sure my voice will still work wherever I choose to live. I don’t particularly care that I’m leaving at the start of the NYC audition season, either. Audition season will still be there next year. Besides, I might try to arrange a few in-house auditions during my travels, though that is not the goal of my trip.

What is my goal?

Simply put, I don’t have one. No, that’s not true. I just don’t have an easily measurable one. My goal is to edit my life. To turn down the background noise in the hope that I’ll be able to hear what my heart has to say. To stay open to new opportunities as they present themselves and live in the moment, rather than getting mired in the past, or too worried about the future.

There are still so many things that I aspire to do and be, but for once in my life I want to focus on the journey rather than the destination. As I tend to be the sort of person for whom things are black and white as opposed to gray, I’m taking that sentiment literally. I have no final destination in mind and no set time limit in which to find one.

That said I’m not just going to drive around aimlessly until the money runs out. There will be a bit of that, sure. But I’ve got a whole host of amazing friends and family all over the country that have invited me to stay with them, and I fully intend to take advantage of all offers, picking up temporary, part time work whenever I can. I’ve also got a few singing gigs lined up which helps.

Basically, I’m going to chase the wind for a while. If you’ve read Patrick Rothfuss, then you’ll know what I mean. If you haven’t, then you should. Yes, I’m talking to you, Nate.

Despite the uncertainty of my immediate future, I’ve never been more sure of a decision in my life. I’ve received so many little signs from the universe telling me that I’m doing the right thing. For instance, the day I officially decided to give up my apartment, my job and my stuff I was re-reading one of my all time favorite books and I came across this passage…

“No man is brave that has never walked a hundred miles. If you want to know the truth of who you are, walk until not a person knows your name. Travel is the great leveler, the great teacher, bitter as medicine, crueler than mirror-glass. A long stretch of road will teach you more about yourself than a hundred years of quiet introspection.”

–   Patrick Rothfuss (The Wise Man’s Fear)

I sure hope he’s right.

Much love,


Dress For Success

Sometimes my life is a sitcom.

Take Friday for instance.

Fridays are generally good days at the office because my boss doesn’t work on Fridays so I have the place to myself and, consequently, I can wear whatever I want. Seriously. Whatever I want. As such, I have, on occasion, taken ‘casual Fridays’ to the extreme.

This particular Friday was the perfect storm of laundry day, summer seasonal clothes change over (that brief period between summer and fall when I forget about all the clothes I own and I don’t trust that it will be warm enough to go without a sweater anymore), and a general sense of not-giving-a-shit-ness.

So this is what I wore to the office, where I work as an executive/personal assistant for an attorney…


Kindly note the bleach stain, the wood stain stain, and the holes in both my jeans and shirt. Here’s a close-up for you…


On account of one too many tangos with the snooze button, I was also gloriously, disgustingly unwashed. I know. I can hardly contain my own classiness.

I rolled in to work right on time and found a package on my desk containing a lovely, though broken, pearl bracelet belonging to my boss’ daughter, with instructions to take it over to Tiffany’s (which is right around the corner from my office) to have it repaired.

I don’t know about you, but up to this point, I’ve never had occasion to shop at Tiffany’s. Let me tell you – it’s an experience.

First, there’s a strapping young gentleman in a suit and Tiffany blue tie stationed outside the front doors welcoming you to the store.

Then there’s another strapping gentleman waiting just inside the door to welcome you again, I guess.

Then there’s a third blue tie clad dude (don’t worry, he was also wearing pants) standing in the middle of the store. I’m not sure what his official job title is. He was just posted up in the middle of the store looking both charming and intimidating.

I’m pretty sure all of these men are actually well-dressed security guards, and I have no doubt that underneath the tailored suits and powder blue ties, they’re all tatted up, battle scarred ex-Navy Seals and Army Rangers. At least that’s how I like to think of them.

Then there are the hordes of other employees. Conservatively dressed salespersons wearing sheath dresses and pants suits were positioned behind sparkling glass display cases, while manager types wandered from counter to counter, some carrying clipboards.

It felt a bit like being at a casino, the way the managers were prowling around the salespeople like a pit boss hovering over the dealers at craps table. Except at Tiffany’s there was no smoking, or prostitutes and they were peddling jewelry rather than broken dreams.

But I digress.

At the back of the store, I was greeted yet again by a petite woman in a navy blue suit stationed in front of the elevators. I asked her what floor I needed to go to for repairs. She informed me it was the sixth.

Once inside the elevator, I was met with yet another helpful employee; whose sole job was to push the elevator buttons for the wealthy patrons. Fortunately, it was early in the day and there weren’t any wealthy customers in sight. It was just me and a bunch of Asian tourists who didn’t speak enough English to understand the elevator operator when she asked them what floor they wanted, so she helpfully stopped at every floor until they found one they liked.

They got off at the third floor – sterling silver jewelry.

Alone in the elevator with the button-pusher, I felt distinctly out of place. The plush carpeting, soft music and sparkling, well, everything, really set off the shabbiness of my attire. Mostly I was hoping she didn’t notice the way my flip-flops seemed to echo as I exited the elevator and stepped in to the near silence of the practically deserted sixth floor.




I thwacked my way over to a large wooden desk where I had to check in with the… I guess I’ll call her the concierge. She asked for my name and I was momentarily stymied. I didn’t know if I should give her my name, my boss’s name, or her daughter’s name. For reasons unknown, I was completely (and irrationally) convinced that they were going to think I had stolen the bracelet.

In the end I gave her my name in case they asked for identification later.

The concierge instructed me to have a seat in the waiting area, but not before a butler – a straight-up butler in a tuxedo – offered me a drink. I was tempted to ask for champagne, but as it was ten o’clock in the morning, I was dressed like a homeless person, and sweating profusely by this point, I thought better of it. Instead, I gestured vaguely to the plastic water bottle sticking out of my purse and said that I was good.


[Why can’t the waiting area at the DMV be this nice?]

As I was the only person in the room, I didn’t have to wait long.

Another woman wearing a Tiffany blue neckerchief called me over to one of the many alcoves built into the walls. It was kind of like a bank teller window, except for classy. Each alcove was made of highly polished wood and peppered with a plethora of richly upholstered armchairs.

I sat down, grateful that from her vantage point, none of the holes or stains on my clothing was visible. I took out the bracelet and handful of loose pearls that had already fallen off the broken string and emptied them into a shallow velvet covered tray.

Blue neckerchief proceeded to ask a lot of questions for which I was thoroughly unprepared to answer:

BN: When did you purchase it?

Me: It was a gift.

BN: How long have you owned it?

Me: A couple of years I think? I don’t really remember.

BN: How often do you wear it?

ME: Um…not very. I work in an office and it gets in the way when I type. I wouldn’t want it to get scratched.

She proclaimed that the pearls were in excellent condition, and continued with her lengthy examination of the bracelet. She looked at each individual pearl through the jewelry equivalent of a microscope, checked the little gold Tiffany tag for authenticity, and counted each pearl. Twice.

Then she asked for my hand and wrapped the remains of the bracelet around my wrist, asking if I liked the fit. I said that I was sure it would be fine. Thankfully, my boss’s daughter and I have a similar build and I was hopeful that the repaired bracelet would still fit her.

I signed several forms, agreeing to pay their exorbitant (per pearl) price to restring the bracelet and made my way through the waiting area. Both the concierge and the butler wished me a pleasant day as I passed. I smiled and did the same.

To their credit, all of the employees treated me with the utmost politeness. Any perceived awkwardness was one hundred percent in my head.

I was relieved to be back on the elevator though. This time there was an older gentleman manning the buttons. The elevator was packed full of tourists who were also dressed casually. They weren’t on my level of grunginess, but they made me feel marginally better.

The elevator stopped on the second floor for an attractive young couple that had obviously been perusing the engagement rings. Once on the elevator, they huddled close together, each putting a hand in the other’s back pocket. I was at once revolted and seething with jealousy.

My job done, I decided to wander around a bit and check out some of the displays. I took a few covert pics with my phone. There were tourists everywhere taking all kinds of pictures, but I tried to keep it discreet, partly out of a sense of pride for being a New Yorker who wanted to look unimpressed by everything, and partly because I kind of wanted them to think I was casing the joint, if only to have the opportunity to get tackled by one of the hot security greeters.


Even I couldn’t pretend to unimpressed by this though…


Admittedly, it’s not the greatest photo, but I wasn’t about to stand there all day trying to get a good shot, lest I be mistaken for a tourist. Because honestly, I’d rather be mistaken for a homeless person.

I guess that saying about dressing for the job you want rather than the job you have is true, because I absolutely don’t want to be an assistant anymore. Apparently, I want to be a homeless gypsy. Which is convenient, because that’s exactly what I’m going to be at the end of the month.

More on that later.

Stay weird, everyone!


Call me Yoga Bear


Remember around this time last summer when I published that handy guide on how to make it look like you’re exercising without actually having to do anything?  Apparently I didn’t either, because I went to my first ever yoga class this week.  (Not counting those trial classes of Bikram yoga I took three years ago. That was less about exercising and more about not dying from a heart attack, heat stroke, or the stifling stench of hipster B.O.)

Besides, this yoga class was free!

As it happens, I’m away for an opera gig for the next three weeks. One of the perks of this particular contract (apart from getting to stay in a fabulous estate on Martha’s Vineyard) is a free gym membership. So despite my hated of all things exercise, I decided to take advantage of the opportunity. Because honestly, the only thing I hate more than exercise is turning down free stuff.

I chose yoga class because I already own a mat with matching bag (both of which have been languishing in the trunk of my car for the last eight months) and I thought it was high time I got some use out of them.  Also, because my only other option was to hop on an elliptical machine for an hour, which usually ends with me becoming so engrossed in watching my fellow gym-goers or a Maury Povich marathon on TV, that twenty minutes will go by before I realize my legs have stopped moving.

So I went to yoga. It had a fancier name, but I don’t remember what it was called. I only know of two types of yoga anyway: the unbearably hot, imminent death-inducing kind, and regular. This was regular yoga.

As expected, I fell down a lot.

The instructor’s name was Sian.  Not Sean or Shawn, but SheAhn.  She was lovely, and British and impossibly flexible with wild hair and lots of tattoos – the epitome of cool.

The way I see it, if your parents name you Sian, there are only two possible career paths open to you: yoga instructor or massage therapist…possibly a nutritionist or an herbalist or a life coach, but you’re for sure going to be working in the health and wellness sector.

Sian had us put our mats in a circle so we could make eye contact with one another, and so no one (namely me) could hide in the back.

I placed my mat next to an elderly woman we’ll call Agnes.  I’d put Agnes at about eighty-three years old, roughly 5’7 and 160-170lbs. Compared to all the other toned, tanned, middle-aged women (and one dude) in the class, I felt my chances of looking like an idiot would be somewhat diminished if I sat next to someone who was both elderly and probably at least a little bit infirmed.

The class started and Agnes gave me an encouraging smile. I smiled back and before I knew it, I was ass-up in child’s pose, breathing loudly through my nose as per Sian’s instructions. I tried to quiet my mind and focus on my breath, but I couldn’t seem to shut off my inner monologue.

What the hell am I doing here? Everyone else looks like they’re a professional yogi and I’m wearing sweat pants and an old t-shirt. If I’m going to keep doing this, I should go to Lulu Lemon and buy some proper yoga clothes. I also should have gone to the bathroom on my way to class. I wonder if that hot guy will still be in the weight room when class is over? I’m really glad I remembered to put on make-up before I left the house. Man, I could go for a grilled ham and cheese sandwich right now.  Oh crap, everyone else is standing up. Get up, you mouth-breathing mongoloid!

My inner monologue can be kind of a bitch sometimes.

On top of that, I kept getting distracted by the smears of make-up and sunscreen staining my pristine new mat. I tried to wipe them away as discreetly as possible, but I didn’t have a towel or anything, so the only cloth at my disposal was my black sweatpants, which was infinitely worse.

Note to self: Wearing zinc-based sunscreen and a full face of makeup to the gym was not your best idea ever.

As the class progressed it became increasingly clear I was out of my depth. I had to take a knee, or drop into child’s pose – the yogic equivalent thereof, several times. Sian was very understanding and encouraged everyone to work at their own pace, though for most people it meant contorting their bodies into even more frightening positions in order to ‘increase the stretch.’

When we got to side planks my arm was shaking so violently I fell down. Twice. As I lay panting on my still trembling forearm, I noticed Agnes’ arm was solid as a rock. A rock with a lot of underarm flab, perhaps, but a rock nonetheless. I couldn’t help but be impressed and I silently cheered her on as I hoisted myself back up and moved into downward dog pose.

Then Sian instructed us to move into three-legged dog, which is basically regular downward dog with one leg in the air, knee bent like you’re about to take a leak on a giant invisible fire hydrant. Feel the stretch as the hip joint opens. But all I felt was hot, tired, and a little bit ridiculous. There we were, an entire room of adult women (and one dude) bent over with their legs in the air. I wondered idly if three-legged dog was a real yoga pose at all and not just some inside joke known only to yoga instructors that they trot out whenever class starts to get dull.

My musings were put to an abrupt end when Sian moved from three-legged dog to standing split, which looks exactly like it sounds – one leg straight on the ground, while the other is stuck straight up in the air…or hanging limping at an eighty-degree angle if you’re me.

Agnes couldn’t do it either.

We moved on to some standing poses after that and my confidence grew. It’s a lot harder to fall down with both feet on the ground.

I was bent over in a wide stance, my finger tips barely touching my mat and my head hanging between my legs, giving me a clear (though upside down) view of Agnes, who was in the same position except her head and forearms were resting gently on the floor.  I watched in horror as she braced her arms beside her head and slowly lifted her legs into the air until she was standing on her head. THEN rather than falling to her knees to come out of it like a normal person, she flipped her legs in the other direction, dropping into a back bend.

Bitch did a headstand AND a back bend! At eighty-three! I can’t even touch my toes! While I was hunched over on my mat in a sloppy semblance of child’s pose, head turned to the side so as not to drown in a pool of my own sunscreen-tinted sweat, there was Agnes, upside down, smirking at me, like the back-stabbing bitch that she is.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so betrayed.

I left class in a bit of a snit that day. But I was determined to go back and show that Agnes a thing or two.  So the next morning I dragged myself out of bed and, despite the fact that all of my muscles were screaming in pain, I made my way to class.

This was a different type of yoga. I think it was called Kripalu, which, roughly translated, means you will walk with a limp tomorrow.

The instructor for this class was a woman named Jennifer. Her teaching style was very different from Sian’s. Where Sian was badass, Jennifer was gentle. In Sian’s class the music ranged from Tuvan throat singing to “Purple Rain” while Jennifer seemed to prefer mostly repetitive, new age, chant-like tunes.

Jennifer’s class, while by no means easy, was definitely more my speed. Which is to say, slow. I fell down a lot less in her class. Make no mistake; I still fell down during side planks, just not quite as often.

Agnes wasn’t in this class so I couldn’t flaunt my vast improvements, which was a shame.

Even without Agnes the showoff, there were still plenty of opportunities for me to feel ridiculous in class. For instance, Jennifer had us do this weird breathing exercise where you take a deep breath and on the exhalation you stick your tongue out and open your eyes really wide. She called it a lion’s breath.

lion's breath yoga







I call it a Gene Simmons.













Then she gave us five minutes of free play at the end of class, or as she explained it, time to explore the ways in which your body wants to move. Then we took a ten-minute shavasana. (Which, for all you non-yoga folks, basically means naptime.) I felt like I was in kindergarten again. It was pretty awesome.

I still think I prefer Sian’s class though. She’s much more straightforward. Apart from letting us know which pose came next and how to move your body to get into said pose, Sian didn’t talk much. Sometimes she would get us into a pose and leave the room for a few minutes, whereas Jennifer gave almost nonstop encouragement and instruction.  Things like…

Let’s be in conversation with our hamstrings.  

Explore and honor each life-giving breath.

Allow your mind to focus on the space between the thoughts.

She also had an annoying habit of describing the various poses without using any articles or pronouns.

Head floats above shoulders. Shoulders float above hips. Hands press to earth.

How am I supposed to talk to my hamstrings, honor my breath and focus on the space between my thoughts when I can’t stop mentally correcting her grammar?

This is why I don’t think I’ll ever be good at yoga. I really do want to become stronger and more flexible, but I fear the spiritual aspect may be beyond my reach. For me, turning off the mind and observing without judgment is even harder than side planks.

I’ll try again tomorrow though. I’m far too stubborn to let an improbably flexible octogenarian or an undisciplined mind get the better of me. Well, that, and it’s free.

It’s Not Easy Being Green

In honor of Earth Day, I downloaded a book I’ve been meaning to read for months called ‘The Zero Waste Home’ written by one of my favorite bloggers Bea Johnson.  It’s all about sustainable living and creating less waste in our daily lives.  Zero waste, in fact.

Marjory the Trash Heap

[Remember Marjory the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock? Real trash is much less adorable.]

Because I am the highly suggestible type, this book got me all sorts of motivated to embark on a greener lifestyle.  For example…

  •       I donated all my plastic storage containers and replaced them with reusable, environmentally friendly, microwave safe glass.  (Okay, so I haven’t actually done that yet, but I fully intend to – and that totally counts.)
  •       I bring a reusable travel mug with me every time I go to the coffee shop…except on the days when I forget, or my travel mug is in the dishwasher.
  •       I recycle the heck out of my trash. By which I mean that I try really hard to put my recyclables in the designated bins in the trash room in the basement of my building, but it doesn’t always happen because the recycling bins are pretty far away from the trash room door and our trash room is REALLY gross and smelly and full of feral cats so I won’t actually set foot in there if I can help it.  I usually just stand in the doorway, throw the bags in the general direction of the bins and hope for the best. Because I care.

So yeah, I’m pretty much the best environmentalist ever.  I am all about the greenness of my environs and that of the wider world…or at least the parts of it that I hope to visit someday.  Which is why I got so mad this morning when I was confronted with an ALS – Active Littering Situation.

I’m walking down Broadway on the way to my favorite café, reusable mug in hand, when I noticed the man walking in front of me crumple up the wrapper of his disposable drinking straw and casually drop it on the ground.  I am instantly enraged, especially because on this particular section of Broadway there is literally a trashcan on every street corner.  There were two of them not twenty feet from where this lazy, careless, d-bag dropped his trash.

Naturally, I seized the opportunity to flaunt my newfound environmentalism.

However, because I was full of righteous indignation at the time and have very little patience in general, rather than engage this individual in a thoughtful conversation about his choice to sully our fair city with his refuse, I bent down, picked up the straw wrapper and yelled at him.

Hey, asshole!  Is it really so hard to throw your trash in a garbage can? I mean, it’s literally right there.

Then I marched past him, nose in the air, and in a totally passive aggressive and exaggerated manner, placed his trash in the can.

Only then did I turn to look at him to see if the message had been received.

What I saw was a thoroughly confused Mexican man…who also had Down syndrome.

Sarah – 0

Universe – 1

Even when I try to be good, I’m the worst.  Kermit was right.  It’s not easy being green.

Kermit mad face