by Bianca Ozeri
I haven’t posted on A Brie Grows In Brooklyn for a while, so I decided to do a life update before I launch into my 2013 commitment to Brienne to give her a post every single Friday for the rest of my life. My apologies to those of you who rely on her to pump up the start of your weekend.
I’m moving into my own apartment on December 1st, which is great news because for the past yearI’ve been my mother’s spouse. Home is currently a two-bedroom apartment that lives my mom, Denise, my sister, Chelsea, and me. Chelsea is getting her masters in social work and spends three days a week counseling inner city children with autism, dyslexia, and Aspergers. She has been afforded the spare bedroom. I fill the extra space.
The extra space includes a corner behind Chelsea’s door where I keep a mass of clothing in a suitcase that I can’t move because there is tar on the wheels; the second sink in my mom’s bathroom; and—here it comes—the right side of her king size bed. It took me about three weeks to say that to my therapist. I’m hoping that airing it to the faceless audience of the interweb will help me heal from it more easily. Help me laugh at its absurdity, anyway.
I’m not sure how they always manage to do it, but right when I’m doing completely fine, my family always manages to steal my happiness from me.
Through a chain of events this week, they’ve weighed me down with a familiar weariness. The kind of thing that makes it hard for me to lift my arms. My chest, it’s heavy, right at the base of my throat. In the morning, I think I can’t get up, but then again, I also can’t sleep. Even writing is becoming impossible.
Still, I’m going to write on this stupid fucking blog! Forgive me.
So, Cannes has been this past week. Although it used to be a classy affair—or at least it used to seem like that to me—it now seems an eddying point for the flotsam that jams the flow of news in the tabloid media.
I have six articles due this week. Six. I will make probably $50 total after taxes from writing them all.
So what am I doing? Thirty seconds ago I was looking at pictures from the red carpets at the Venice Film Festival, and now I’m writing about them on my stupid fucking blog.
In my humble opinion, the fashion was killer this year—all of the stars I saw went super glam, I haven’t seen a single picture of Anne Hathaway, and Cindy Crawford looks as hot as the days when she was married to a man who kept gerbils as pets…