When I was little I had a reoccurring fantasy about a babysitter. Before you let all your guy friends know it’s time to frequent A Gold Noise lemme clarify it’s not that kind of fantasy. Somewhere between my early discovery of Seventeen magazine and Don’t Tell Mom the Babysitter’s Dead I dreamed of going on an awe-inspiring, fashionable voyage with a bad-ass teenager.

Tell me you’ve been there! Six to eleven years old all I could wonder is, “what will I look like when I’m a teen?” When will my curves come, when will the boys knock down my door, when will I too be old enough to babysit? Until then it was a dream to have an older, stunning girl show me the ropes of growing up.

My sister Dawny was pretty darn close to my ideal only falling short in moving out when I was so young. But when she lived with us she was my perfection. She scurried around in the hippest of 80’s fashions, switching from straight out of a music video to gorgeous blonde cheerleader. She’d crimp my hair and I’d peek out the window and watch her wait for her Ken doll to pick her up.

As wonderful as it is to become an independent, accomplished adult, the whole discovery of what it is to be a carefree girl was inexhaustibly fun. I spent countless hours in my pink bedroom staring at my face and simply picturing it bigger and with makeup; what else could the future bring? I puppeteered my prettiest dolls to live out my ideal of a teen’s life. They dated imaginary cute boys and were beloved and envied by all the imaginary popular girls.

My teen years proved to be a universe away from any of my ideals- no boys, shabby fashion sense, and prototypical theater nerd- but, hey, it was fun to fantasize all the same… <3

Yes me

As I sat in a lush patch of grass today, a three year old by my side, I remembered scouring the grass with Tara for hours hoping for a single four leaf clover. I’d never be able to do that now without feeling guilt about wasting time. 

Rap makes me feel badass, even though I am so not.

The 26 year old in me envies abnormally skinny girls. The 9 year old me is exuberant about the curve of my hips. 

The “cool kids” will always exist they simply take different forms. In my world they no longer sit at a certain lunch table but in their exposed brick homes high in the hills or in between magazine covers. Best of all, now I know them. Speaking of which…

No matter how little credit I give to myself for it, no matter how I spin it, I’m a girl that went from fantasizing about the famous and glamorous to visiting their homes and hearing their hearts.

I love when my husband hates guys that like me. I bring it up as much as possible just to see those furrowed brows. 

I desperately miss childhood. I’m having a hard time coming to terms with the fact that memories simply reside in the mind and that I may never ever visit them. 

Every time I meet a celebrity it ruins the illusion I had of them in my head. There’s a few I never want to meet for that reason… like sometimes you just wanted your crush to never talk to you so he could always remain amazing and perfect. Who wants to know Cate Blancett poops?? Not me.

I have horrific posture and it is going to be difficult to remedy… or shall I say rectify.

Getting married doesn’t make you an amazing cook or spotlessly clean. 

I am obsessed with women and their emotional health. I will never understand how people sexually hurt them the way that they do. 

I am kind of a jerk. No one would ever say that but they can’t read my mind, especially in traffic.

Being served and serving cocktails makes me feel at home. I never had one at my childhood home, so I mean the “home” I’ve created here.

No one is cool. 

I used to always look out my window at the people hollering and jumping into friend’s cars and sob thinking I was missing something amazing. Now I look out my window at the chaos and snuggle in a comforter. It feels nice to miss it all. 

The thought of Drew with another woman instantly tickles my gag reflux. I don’t know how I’d react if it ever happened. 

I want to live in New York while I’m young and lovely. Sharing subway cars with models sounds terribly ill appealing otherwise. And speaking of which…

I hope to find myself increasingly desirable in friendships and romance as the years go by. God may I become wiser, successful, calm, and confident. 

I wish sex didn’t hold such a great power.

I’m glad no one desired me when I was younger. I think I would have given them anything they wanted. Chastity promises are a cinch when you’re a total nerd. 

Speaking of which, when I recall my adolescence I am amazed by how eased I am in social situations. I was given so much reason not to be. We probably all were.

I want to travel everywhere.

Sometimes I want a baby tomorrow. Sometimes I think that desire is a fear I should accomplish something “tangible” soon. 

I get unreasonably jealous of people my age that grew up with money… even though I really do often know how worthless those shoes and houses and cars and bags actually are. 

I know I should be proud of myself and driven to chase what I deserve, but I don’t know how. 

Best of all, I know that I know nothing. I even know that’s a cliche statement but it’s true and a comfort. Who should be all knowing in 26 years?

Baby me :)

Maybe it’s the wine, maybe it’s the Mobb Deep, maybe it’s the Iphoto albums but all I can think is that I can never go home.

I will never again sit in my tiny pool in a neon bikini as my white blonde side-ponytail gets all the more blonde. I can never play dolls with Tara in my backyard, imagining scenarios of what life would be like right about now…

Baby Tara, bff

I’ll never again spy on my neighbor Connor and wish his “cool friends” were mine too. I can never sit in my flower-wallpapered bedroom dreaming of a California life. I can never again romp around Seaside Heights in scandalous halters with Eva as we dreamt of kisses from overly gelled Italians…

Me and Eva all grown up, with her babe

I’ll never stain my lips in black for “senior week.” I’ll never have sleepovers a short distance from any number of Wawas. Kelley’s house will never again be the sole safe-haven for making out with boys (not that I was EVER so fortunate)…

Kelley and me, all grown up enough for drinks in brown paper bags

I’ll only have one graduation poolside moment where Georgie acknowledges how much we wanted to kiss each other. I’ll never feel the insecurity brought upon by Brian, Dennis, or Dan- “does he like me, does he like me, does he like me?” I can never again cross the bridge to Philly with fantasies of the adventures I’ll have at school paired with a craving for soft pretzels and a pumpkin spice latte, laughing with Jen. I’ll never again skip wildly across my freshly mowed lawn to intercept my acceptance letter for USC from the postman: the thing that would drastically change my life.

“Home” is obviously not a place. Now I can only visit the people, whom are all spread out as a constant reminder that absolutely nothing will ever be the same.

Who would’ve thought I’d miss all the immense awkwardness and the stability of boring ol’ routine?

Sometimes I just must admit, for no specific reason, I miss home. It was oh so lovely an existence…

From my cross country trip to LA

 

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Here I sit in the pink colored den of the New Jersey home I grew up in. Classic books like Little Women fill the shelf to my left only parted by baby pictures, china vases, teacups, and dainty antique hats. A paperboy doll I sewed at 11 sits on the fireplace and the muted BET before me looks like a huge contrast against this landscape of wholesomeness. I know my Daddy-o is napping in the living room and the quiet sound of New Order is probably upsetting him as he mutters to himself, “These darned kids.” He’s gonna miss Kris and I when we head back to LA tomorrow despite our purposeful tortures to get him out of his shell. For example, talking uncomfortably openly about sex or blaring Paul Wall from his bedroom while we “dance party”. “I’M TRYING TO WATCH THIS PROGRAM!” he screamed.

“YOU ONLY LIVE ONCE AND TV SUCKS!” I scream back as Kris turns down the volume. We stomp loudly on the floor over the living room to compensate for the lowered music and I wonder, “Why do I act like a ten year old every time I’m here?”…

Kris and me, acting 10

Suddenly I realize how beautifully untainted this house is. Our older brother and sister were both married and moved out by the time I was 9, so the tone of 4 [something] Road was ours for the choosing. I simply held huge slumber parties with pina coladas and Exorcist viewings while Kris opted for video games and the occasional venturing out of his basement lair to skateboard.

In my pink floral bedroom celebrities were perfect, drugs were in distant lands, a pudgy belly was no matter, and boys were unobtainable, romantic creatures. Tara and I would play Barbies countless afternoons and, years later, finding a prom date was the biggest stress that existed.

When I was 11 my mom redecorated my room and it is in the exact same condition today. Discarding a specific place for a brand new life gives it the strangest essence. I knew so little about myself when I inhabited it so now I truly feel like nothing about it is mine anymore. When I visit home and my thrift wardrobe, racy bras, and stilettos hit the floor they seem to be intruding upon a sacred, undefiled time capsule. I’ve not kissed one boy in that room, had one argument, had to defend my life or sexuality, or had to turn down drugs in that room. I merely slept, dressed, danced, and dreamt of the woman I might someday become and how to please become her.

That woman still seems kinda far away. I can hear her rooting for me, telling me about the love of her life, and giving me a tour of the house she lives in. This distant house she has made a home.

It seems unfortunate that although that future me can be dreamt about here, she will never become alive in here. If the current girl I am remained here, that future would shrivel away and die, strangled by the securities of an ordinary life.

Extraordinary is what you make it, whether it’s a housewife or a movie star but, either way, this woman is accomplished and alive, alive beyond measure, and I am determined to become her while I hold onto God’s hand for dear life.

In my bitterest Hollywood party moments I’ll see yet another married star I grew up admiring put his hand on my inner thigh, look around and think, “Why can’t any of these filthy, stupid decadent mansions just have some freakin’ floral wallpaper?! Is all this stucco, gothic, pleatherness necessary you arrogant jerk!!?!”…

 by Corinne Day

Then I’ll breathe for a bit of solace and realize I will one day have at least one room with floral wallpaper. Whether its here or there, tomorrow or ten years from now, I will have a place to call home. Just as Kris and I set the tone of this beautiful house on 4 [something] Road, I can set the tone of where I live. I want there to be infinite laughter, open honesty, love-filled sexual pleasures, and children who aren’t afraid to shine.

 bt Eric Nehr