Well, that time of peace and joy and love for my fellow human beings has passed. We’re now in the dark winter of cynicism and sarcasm and wishing everyone else would get a clue already. However, before writing me off as a bitter Betty, consider that it is only my deep concern for my fellow human beings (and my high regard for myself) that allows me to present the following list of Resolutions for Everybody Else. Follow them, and make the world a better place (for me) this year.
1) Resolve to always take note of your surroundings. Are you walking down 8th Avenue in a throng of hurrying commuters? Then perhaps now would not be the best time to stop in the middle of the sidewalk and tie your shoe. DUH.
2) Resolve to hold the door open. It’s common courtesy. Whether you are male, female, old, young, whatever, it is very, very rude to let the door slam in the face of the person behind you. DUH.
3) Resolve to turn off your cell phone in churches, theatres, and other quiet environments. There are signs everywhere. It’s printed at the top of the church bulletin. There’s an announcement before the show starts. There is no excuse for “forgetting” to do this. Can’t miss a call? Every cell phone on the planet has a “silent” tone. Learn how to use it. DUH.
4) Resolve to have your method of payment ready at the check-out. You’ve seen those commercials for the Visa check card? They’re more accurate than you think. Don’t be the dingbat fumbling in the bottom of your pocket for and additional 12 cents. You know what that time you spend standing in line is for? It’s for you to get out your cash or your credit card, find your wallet, end your cell phone conversation, and just generally be ready for your interaction with the cashier so that you don’t hold up the rest of us. DUH. And for that matter, if you are one of the 14 people left on earth who still write checks at stores, buck up and join the 21st century. Get yourself a debit card and learn to use it, STAT. Or at least stop shopping at the places I’m shopping, because I will shoot you murderous looks and not so subtly mutter about you under my breath. DUH.
5) Resolve to send thank-you notes. Has someone done something nice for you? Did they give you a gift? Did they go above and beyond for you? Don’t you think you could do them the small honor of taking pen to paper and thanking them? Like your mother always told you, it builds character and it displays character. Be a good person. DUH.
6) Resolve to let other people exit before you enter. This applies to train cars, elevators, and buildings in general. There’s no need to shove yourself in. That seat isn’t going anywhere, that elevator isn’t going to move, until the people who are already inside get out. Make life easier for everyone and do your waiting on the platform. DUH.
7) Resolve to ask yourself, when faced with a behavioral conundrum, what would Sarah do? If in doubt, feel free to ask. I will always have a right answer for you. DUH.
So take my advice and take my help, and do your part to make my life a little less stressful this year. It’s the least you can do to make the world a little nicer!
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Monday, December 29, 2008
Holy Family Sunday=Hate My Family Sunday
I’m pretty sure that sometime, a couple hundred years ago, some pope had it in for me. I know you’re thinking, “Yeah, sure, dude. I’m sure Gregory the Eighth or whoever developed this modern liturgical calendar was deeply concerned with how it would affect your sad and pathetic little life.” But I say, “Clearly so.” How else to explain the fact that the Feast of the Holy Family falls on the Sunday after Christmas every single year, ie, the one Sunday a year that every Catholic college student and young adult is guaranteed to be sitting in church beside his/her disapproving father and grandchild-crazy mother.
Let’s face it. Most of us were raised Catholic and are now about as likely to darken a church door as reruns of Arrested Development are to show up on the Hallmark Channel. (I myself, with my Eucharistic Ministering plot to meet an eligible, non-gay bachelor, am the rare exception.) But we all go home for Christmas, to listen to our parents tell us every year that this is the last year we will be receiving gifts as we unwrap our new Ipods, to eat ham at Grandma’s house and be slipped a fifty dollar bill and a bag of chocolates on the way out the door with the admonishment to not tell our parents, and to revisit our high school days by sitting sullenly beside our parents in a pew the next Sunday, silently mouthing the words to the Nicene Creed after being elbowed by our mothers and playing a rousing game of “Can I make my sibling wince by squeezing his/her hand during the Lord’s Prayer?”
So some Pope, back in the day, was clever enough to realize that if we’re only going to make it to church one Sunday a year, they ought to make it the one where they can annually beat us over the head with St. Paul’s admonishment to obey [our] parents, and for wives to be subordinate to their husbands (reason number 612 I will probably never get married.) This in turn, seems to make our parents believe they have free license to harangue us for the rest of the day about our life choices and our crazy, liberal, hippy beliefs about gender equality and ideas that maybe, just maybe, we don’t see things quite the same way as our parents and that at the age of 25-ish, it might just be time for them to buck up and realize that the days of obedience are over, and the best they can do is offer unsolicited advice that we will at best, ignore, and at worst, openly mock before defiantly ignoring.
At least this is how it all goes down in my family. No matter what day Christmas falls on, the Sunday after is always that point where we are just about sick of each other and itching for excuses to slam doors and sulk in our childhood bedrooms, if only for old time’s sake. So thanks, liturgical calendar, for adding one more layer to the crazy family Christmas traditions that will keep my therapist in business for the next ten years. At least his kids will get a pool out of it.
Let’s face it. Most of us were raised Catholic and are now about as likely to darken a church door as reruns of Arrested Development are to show up on the Hallmark Channel. (I myself, with my Eucharistic Ministering plot to meet an eligible, non-gay bachelor, am the rare exception.) But we all go home for Christmas, to listen to our parents tell us every year that this is the last year we will be receiving gifts as we unwrap our new Ipods, to eat ham at Grandma’s house and be slipped a fifty dollar bill and a bag of chocolates on the way out the door with the admonishment to not tell our parents, and to revisit our high school days by sitting sullenly beside our parents in a pew the next Sunday, silently mouthing the words to the Nicene Creed after being elbowed by our mothers and playing a rousing game of “Can I make my sibling wince by squeezing his/her hand during the Lord’s Prayer?”
So some Pope, back in the day, was clever enough to realize that if we’re only going to make it to church one Sunday a year, they ought to make it the one where they can annually beat us over the head with St. Paul’s admonishment to obey [our] parents, and for wives to be subordinate to their husbands (reason number 612 I will probably never get married.) This in turn, seems to make our parents believe they have free license to harangue us for the rest of the day about our life choices and our crazy, liberal, hippy beliefs about gender equality and ideas that maybe, just maybe, we don’t see things quite the same way as our parents and that at the age of 25-ish, it might just be time for them to buck up and realize that the days of obedience are over, and the best they can do is offer unsolicited advice that we will at best, ignore, and at worst, openly mock before defiantly ignoring.
At least this is how it all goes down in my family. No matter what day Christmas falls on, the Sunday after is always that point where we are just about sick of each other and itching for excuses to slam doors and sulk in our childhood bedrooms, if only for old time’s sake. So thanks, liturgical calendar, for adding one more layer to the crazy family Christmas traditions that will keep my therapist in business for the next ten years. At least his kids will get a pool out of it.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Merry New York City Christmas!
Confession time: I’m a Christmas-aholic.
I love Christmas. I love wandering in and out of stores to the dulcet tones of Bob Gedolf making offensively stereotypical generalizations about the entire continent of Africa. It’s the one time of year I can forgive the tourists in Rockefeller Center, because let’s face it, I find the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree pretty damn exciting too. I break out the tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, spend hours wandering the holiday decorations aisles at Target, and annually download tons of new Christmas music from iTunes (What? I have a thing for pop Christmas music. This year’s catchiest tune? The Jonas Brothers’ “Girl of my Dreams”. STOP making fun of me.)
The entire month of December is just a whirlwind of parties and festivals and shopping and traveling and celebrating and I love it. It’s my favorite time of year anywhere, but I think there’s something especially magical about Christmas in the city. Twinkling lights. Carols in the air. Christmas trees and pretty wrapped packages in shop windows. Fluttering scarves in a rainbow of colors as the people scurry home with their shopping bags. Bags from Bloomies, from Saks, from Tiffany, Lord and Taylor, Zabar’s, the Met. Frosty bus windows from which to watch the city fly by. Light snow falling. Holiday greetings everywhere. Smiles. Laughter. Joy.
It’s so rare that I view things with this rosy perspective. I know that if I stop and think about it, I will realize that there is really no difference in the season. No one is kinder or more polite to their fellow human beings. We all race through the streets ignoring each other, caught up in our own little worlds the same as always. That big bag from Macy’s might contain a gift for your mom, but no way is anyone going to let that old lady cut in front of them in the line for the subway turnstile.
But just for one brief season, I choose to ignore my inner cynic. I choose to believe in the spirit of the season. I choose to celebrate Christmas, and to believe that everyone else will make the right choice too.
Merry New York City Christmas!
Bring it on!
I love Christmas. I love wandering in and out of stores to the dulcet tones of Bob Gedolf making offensively stereotypical generalizations about the entire continent of Africa. It’s the one time of year I can forgive the tourists in Rockefeller Center, because let’s face it, I find the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree pretty damn exciting too. I break out the tree the weekend after Thanksgiving, spend hours wandering the holiday decorations aisles at Target, and annually download tons of new Christmas music from iTunes (What? I have a thing for pop Christmas music. This year’s catchiest tune? The Jonas Brothers’ “Girl of my Dreams”. STOP making fun of me.)
The entire month of December is just a whirlwind of parties and festivals and shopping and traveling and celebrating and I love it. It’s my favorite time of year anywhere, but I think there’s something especially magical about Christmas in the city. Twinkling lights. Carols in the air. Christmas trees and pretty wrapped packages in shop windows. Fluttering scarves in a rainbow of colors as the people scurry home with their shopping bags. Bags from Bloomies, from Saks, from Tiffany, Lord and Taylor, Zabar’s, the Met. Frosty bus windows from which to watch the city fly by. Light snow falling. Holiday greetings everywhere. Smiles. Laughter. Joy.
It’s so rare that I view things with this rosy perspective. I know that if I stop and think about it, I will realize that there is really no difference in the season. No one is kinder or more polite to their fellow human beings. We all race through the streets ignoring each other, caught up in our own little worlds the same as always. That big bag from Macy’s might contain a gift for your mom, but no way is anyone going to let that old lady cut in front of them in the line for the subway turnstile.
But just for one brief season, I choose to ignore my inner cynic. I choose to believe in the spirit of the season. I choose to celebrate Christmas, and to believe that everyone else will make the right choice too.
Merry New York City Christmas!
Bring it on!
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Thank You and Good Night!
It's that time of year. Time to think about my life (as though I don't spend all my time thinking (and writing) about me and my life.) Time to reflect on the past year, consider which New Year's Resolution I will be breaking in about six weeks, and start hunting for a dress to wear to Grandma's on Christmas that will NOT be deemed "sexy" by a creepy relative. Time to start making lists (again, as though my OCD doesn't compel me to do that all year long). Lists of things to do, things I want, things I will have to give other people so that they will give me things I want in return (Hey rich big brother! I'm getting you a fabulous-but-within-my-means Christmas gift this year! Please reciprocate with something that costs the same percentage of your yearly income, not the same dollar amount! Love you!)
So before all that starts, let me take a moment to let my inner good-person-ness make a brief appearance with a list of things I am thankful for this year.
My job: I know I whine and moan about it alot, and the fact of the matter is that my boss is capital C-razy, but all in all, a huge step up from last year. I loved being able to tell people where I worked last year, loved the name recognition and the status that came with a position in that organization, but never, at any time, did I truly enjoy the work I was doing. In fact, mostly it just made me miserable. I thought that I would be the kind of person who thrives on 80 hour work weeks, but they just became an excuse, a crutch, to both explain and avoid the mess that was the rest of my life. I ruined relationships, threatened my health, and came dangerously close to losing my fragile mental and emotional stability, and the more I blamed my job for my overall unhappiness, the more I took refuge in it. If I could only work a little harder, be a little more successful, everything else would take care of itself. It never happened, and I'm thankful that I finally woke up and saw what I was doing to myself. I'm thankful that once I decided to make a change, everything fell into place. The way the economy is going now, I'm glad I made this realization when I did, because waiting even just a few more months could have been disastrous.
My apartment: Good heavens, I love my apartment. Yes it's tiny, and rather dark, and has terrible public transport links. But the fact of the matter is, it's on a respectable, middle-class block, is safe and convenient to work, has responsible and conscientious landlords, and is in my price range. You can't ask for any more than that in the city. Sure, I dream of someday having Monica's apartment in the Village, but for now, I'm just happy to be free from wacko roommates and creepy Howard's management company.
My city: I'm thankful to have the chance to live in a great city while I'm young and independent. Yes, it's been harder than I'd anticipated (see above re: my job) and there have been times I've considered packing it all in and going back to the midwest. As I've grown up, I can even see myself doing that someday. But in so many ways it's what I've always dreamed of. Always the drama, the options, the entertainment, always something going on that is not happening anywhere else on earth. It's staggering, overwhelming, amazing. The city is a sensory overload but once its ingrained in your heart it's hard to get rid of. And why would you want to? This frenzied, pulsating beat of glitz and glamour and LIFE around every corner... it's exhilirating. It's mesmerizing. And I'm a part of that. And I'm glad.
My family: Yes, they drive me crazy. Yes, they have their quirks and their issues and their sometimes downright irritating nature. But they're also sweet, and generous, and I do believe that somewhere deep down, they care about me and I care about them, even though we will probably never really understand each other. And maybe that's okay.
My friends: I'm thankful for the widening circle of friends I'm building in the city. The few friends from home who've journeyed east along with me. The co-workers-turned-friends who helped me survive my old job and the new ones who make my current job much more fun. I'm excited to have reconnected with old friends from college who've moved to the city over the last year. My undying gratitude belongs to to my inner circle of college roommates who've seen me through a variety of physical and emotional trials this year, and have never give up. They still call, they still visit, they still care, no matter how bad things got. They are my rocks.
And I guess more than anything, as I reflect, I'm thankful for one important detail. I'm thankful that MY LIFE IS NOT A MOVIE. Because if it were, it would have to be nearing completion. Surely I've lived two hours worth of entertainment in the last few years. But, baby, believe me, the adventures have only just begun.
So before all that starts, let me take a moment to let my inner good-person-ness make a brief appearance with a list of things I am thankful for this year.
My job: I know I whine and moan about it alot, and the fact of the matter is that my boss is capital C-razy, but all in all, a huge step up from last year. I loved being able to tell people where I worked last year, loved the name recognition and the status that came with a position in that organization, but never, at any time, did I truly enjoy the work I was doing. In fact, mostly it just made me miserable. I thought that I would be the kind of person who thrives on 80 hour work weeks, but they just became an excuse, a crutch, to both explain and avoid the mess that was the rest of my life. I ruined relationships, threatened my health, and came dangerously close to losing my fragile mental and emotional stability, and the more I blamed my job for my overall unhappiness, the more I took refuge in it. If I could only work a little harder, be a little more successful, everything else would take care of itself. It never happened, and I'm thankful that I finally woke up and saw what I was doing to myself. I'm thankful that once I decided to make a change, everything fell into place. The way the economy is going now, I'm glad I made this realization when I did, because waiting even just a few more months could have been disastrous.
My apartment: Good heavens, I love my apartment. Yes it's tiny, and rather dark, and has terrible public transport links. But the fact of the matter is, it's on a respectable, middle-class block, is safe and convenient to work, has responsible and conscientious landlords, and is in my price range. You can't ask for any more than that in the city. Sure, I dream of someday having Monica's apartment in the Village, but for now, I'm just happy to be free from wacko roommates and creepy Howard's management company.
My city: I'm thankful to have the chance to live in a great city while I'm young and independent. Yes, it's been harder than I'd anticipated (see above re: my job) and there have been times I've considered packing it all in and going back to the midwest. As I've grown up, I can even see myself doing that someday. But in so many ways it's what I've always dreamed of. Always the drama, the options, the entertainment, always something going on that is not happening anywhere else on earth. It's staggering, overwhelming, amazing. The city is a sensory overload but once its ingrained in your heart it's hard to get rid of. And why would you want to? This frenzied, pulsating beat of glitz and glamour and LIFE around every corner... it's exhilirating. It's mesmerizing. And I'm a part of that. And I'm glad.
My family: Yes, they drive me crazy. Yes, they have their quirks and their issues and their sometimes downright irritating nature. But they're also sweet, and generous, and I do believe that somewhere deep down, they care about me and I care about them, even though we will probably never really understand each other. And maybe that's okay.
My friends: I'm thankful for the widening circle of friends I'm building in the city. The few friends from home who've journeyed east along with me. The co-workers-turned-friends who helped me survive my old job and the new ones who make my current job much more fun. I'm excited to have reconnected with old friends from college who've moved to the city over the last year. My undying gratitude belongs to to my inner circle of college roommates who've seen me through a variety of physical and emotional trials this year, and have never give up. They still call, they still visit, they still care, no matter how bad things got. They are my rocks.
And I guess more than anything, as I reflect, I'm thankful for one important detail. I'm thankful that MY LIFE IS NOT A MOVIE. Because if it were, it would have to be nearing completion. Surely I've lived two hours worth of entertainment in the last few years. But, baby, believe me, the adventures have only just begun.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Vignettes from Visits (Part I Don't Know the French Word for 4): What's Cooler than Cool? Ice Cold!
My old college roommate A. came to visit last week. A. and I shared a 10 by 10 bedroom for 2 years, so I knew she wouldn't be fazed sharing my huge-by-comparison studio for 2 nights. She's a grad student these days and her program was having some kind of recruitment event here in the city. She was chosen to be a student representative, according to her, primarily because she convinced them that they wouldn't have to pay for a hotel for her. And I was so happy to have her!
She was only here for a few days but the best part of her visit was that she fixed my bathroom sink!!! See, a long time ago, I pushed the stopper down so I wouldn't drop my contact lenses down it, but then it was stuck and I couldn't get it back up and I feld dumb telling my landlord so I pried it up and propped it open just a little bit with a paper clip, and left it that way for 2 months. A. came to visit, noticed it right away, and fixed it in 3o seconds. Apparently, there is a little lever you can push up which I just never noticed (and thank GOD I didn't bother my landlord about it! They are super nice people and my rent is slightly under-market, and I want to keep it that way by being the best tenant ever and that includes not bothering them about things that directly result from the phenomenon best known as "I am a dumbass.") The worst part of her visit also involves the plumbing, namely, that I woke up on Thursday morning, stepped into the shower and discovered that there was no hot water again! This happened about a month ago and my awesome landlords got it fixed right way, but of course something else had to go wrong when I had someone visiting me on business, ie, there was no way that she could not take a shower (unlike me, who was like, "F this. It's not like my students don't stink (my students are crunchy hippies who appear to believe that showering is some bourgeouis phenomenon to be avoided at all costs. Frankly, I find my students' body odor to be something to be avoided at all costs. Especially since most of them have trust funds anyway and are just "rebellious.")) So basically, it was like a crash course in NYC living- "Welcome to my beautiful apartment. Enjoy your ice cold shower." But it was fixed by that afternoon because again, my landlords=wonderful people. The next morning A. and I had coffee and bagels at my bagel shop and then it was time for her to get a cab to the airport already! She was literally only here for 36 hours and we really only got to spend a little time together, but it great to have even just a short chance to catch up. I love when my friends come to stay!!!
She was only here for a few days but the best part of her visit was that she fixed my bathroom sink!!! See, a long time ago, I pushed the stopper down so I wouldn't drop my contact lenses down it, but then it was stuck and I couldn't get it back up and I feld dumb telling my landlord so I pried it up and propped it open just a little bit with a paper clip, and left it that way for 2 months. A. came to visit, noticed it right away, and fixed it in 3o seconds. Apparently, there is a little lever you can push up which I just never noticed (and thank GOD I didn't bother my landlord about it! They are super nice people and my rent is slightly under-market, and I want to keep it that way by being the best tenant ever and that includes not bothering them about things that directly result from the phenomenon best known as "I am a dumbass.") The worst part of her visit also involves the plumbing, namely, that I woke up on Thursday morning, stepped into the shower and discovered that there was no hot water again! This happened about a month ago and my awesome landlords got it fixed right way, but of course something else had to go wrong when I had someone visiting me on business, ie, there was no way that she could not take a shower (unlike me, who was like, "F this. It's not like my students don't stink (my students are crunchy hippies who appear to believe that showering is some bourgeouis phenomenon to be avoided at all costs. Frankly, I find my students' body odor to be something to be avoided at all costs. Especially since most of them have trust funds anyway and are just "rebellious.")) So basically, it was like a crash course in NYC living- "Welcome to my beautiful apartment. Enjoy your ice cold shower." But it was fixed by that afternoon because again, my landlords=wonderful people. The next morning A. and I had coffee and bagels at my bagel shop and then it was time for her to get a cab to the airport already! She was literally only here for 36 hours and we really only got to spend a little time together, but it great to have even just a short chance to catch up. I love when my friends come to stay!!!
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Vignettes from Visits (Part Trois): Eastside, Westside, All Around the Town
Not even a week after JL left, who should arrive but the biggest possible test of my hospitality, graciousness, and overall sanity: my mother and sister. I love them both, truly I'm sure that deep down I even like them a little bit, but when my mother has always told me to whisper little prayers under my breath when I'm stressed out, I'm not sure that she was envisioning me sitting on the bus on my way to pick them up airport doing deep yoga breathing and muttering "Please, God, don't let me commit any homicides this week."
And I didn't! It wasn't the easiest or greatest five days of my life, but I've had harder and worse (yes, yes, that's what she said!) My sister has never been to the city and my mom only once, so we did a lot of the same tourist-y things that JL and I did the weekend before. We even went to the same restaurant (what can I say? I'm a total sucker for Lombardi's! Delish!) We rode the ferry again, and I was once again struck by my ingrained desire to take pictures of the Statue of Liberty every time, no matter how many times I've ridden the ferry by now. Someday I want to take the ferry and just be one of those bored-looking people who sits inside reading a newspaper and sighing at tourists. I love sighing at tourists. And muttering "damn tourists" under my breath while elbowing past them on the sidewalk. Actually, now that I think about it, am I becoming one of those crazy city folk who mumble to themselves all the time? Do people think I'm a crazy schizophrenic homeless lady, because they're the ones that you always used to see talking to themselves. Thank goodness for all those new-fangled inventions like Bluetooth, so now you can never tell who's actually crazy and who's just on the phone.
We saw two Broadway shows while they were here, which was nice because I never do things like that on my own or with my friends who live here. Every time I have a visitor and we go see a show, I say to myself, "I've got to do this more often" but I never do. I really love musicals and plays, but to be honest, I'm not too impressed with Broadway these days. There's just nothing that really interests me. Does everything either have to be positively depraved or written for the intelligence, attention span, and sense of humor of a special-needs eight year old? I do not need to see people brutally murdered and raped on stage, I don't care how "edgy" some critic says it is. I do not need to watch Harry Potter struggle with sexual attraction to a horse. I do not want to see anything that is supposed to show me the human side of freaking pedophiles, people! There are things in this world that are just flat out perverted, and they are not okay, and I will not, cannot, as a decent human being, support them, even in the name of art, expression, or free speech. If that makes me intolerant or conservative or fundamentalist, then fine, I will wear those labels proudly. Are there no standards of decency these days? I know that it is politically incorrect to raise issues about decency and standards but come on! All my life my dad has been quoting the Bible to me and one of his favorites is "I will set no worthless thing before my eyes." He usually brings this one out whenever I am visiting him and invite him to join me in watching a Trading Spaces marathon or something. I disagree with his take on interior decorating shows, but good lord if the man's point of view doesn't make sense in light of some of the "critically acclaimed" shows playing in theatres around the city. Okay, that was kind of a long tangent there, but let me also just briefly decry the other side of the coin and beg that the next generation of Rodgers and Hammerstein, or a Cole Porter for the new millenium, or heck, even a new Andrew Lloyd Webber rise up on Broadway and save us all from anything else ven resembling "Shrek: the Musical." Have we come so far from Anything Goes, or the Sound of Music, or West Side Story that we are doomed to watch musical adaptations of entertaining yet not spectacular movies for the rest of our days? I don't go to the theatre for fart jokes any more than I go for torture and terror. Sheesh, people.
So we saw Phantom and Legally Blonde, which for all my ranting about movie-based musicals in the preceding paragraph, was actually pretty cute and entertaining, which I suppose totally undermines my previous diatribe by proving that I'm really not the most cerebral or discerning of theatre-goers. We also went to a taping of a morning show (we couldn't get Regis and Kelly tickets, and so were forced to attend the poor man's version at Fox studios, but it was still fun. And there was free breakfast.) I took them to my favorite bagel shop around the corner from my apartment (well, I consider it around the corner. It's actually about 1/2 km, which to those who aren't used to city measurements ("oh, it's just a short walk!" from a city dweller means "we should be there in about 45 minutes if we power-walk") is not quite what they're expecting. But seriously, 1/2 km? I can cover that distance in 3 minutes while wearing 3 inch stilettos. No big.)
And my favorite of all, we went skating at Rockefeller Center! I love the rink there. I know it's touristy, and Rockefeller often makes me want to stab myself in the eye, but it was early in the season (the rink had just opened that week), it was warm outside, and there were hardly any people for the lunchtime skate. It was probably the best skating I've ever done in the city. For what it's worth, it should be noted that I am also quite possibly the world's most heinously awful ice skater. I have no sense of balance, I can't master any sort of turning maneuver, and I generally find myself unable to stop without running into the wall at least once every five minutes (this is made even better by the fact that at Rock Center, there is a restaurant with big glass windows facing the skating rink where business people go to wine and dine, and I'm pretty sure I entertained a large crowd by repeatedly running into their window at various intervals. They even started waving at me. It was hot.) But how can you not have fun while ice-skating? It's like Phoebe Buffay running in Central Park (Didn't you ever run so hard you thought your legs would fall off? Like when you were running toward the swings or running away from Satan?... the neighbor's dog! Bwah! Pheebs is HI-larious!) It's so child-like and freeing... as long as you can laugh at yourself.
So, I had fun, I think they had fun, there weren't (too many) tears or fights, no one died, no one threatened to kill each other, so all in all, I'm calling it a success. At least, close enough.
And I didn't! It wasn't the easiest or greatest five days of my life, but I've had harder and worse (yes, yes, that's what she said!) My sister has never been to the city and my mom only once, so we did a lot of the same tourist-y things that JL and I did the weekend before. We even went to the same restaurant (what can I say? I'm a total sucker for Lombardi's! Delish!) We rode the ferry again, and I was once again struck by my ingrained desire to take pictures of the Statue of Liberty every time, no matter how many times I've ridden the ferry by now. Someday I want to take the ferry and just be one of those bored-looking people who sits inside reading a newspaper and sighing at tourists. I love sighing at tourists. And muttering "damn tourists" under my breath while elbowing past them on the sidewalk. Actually, now that I think about it, am I becoming one of those crazy city folk who mumble to themselves all the time? Do people think I'm a crazy schizophrenic homeless lady, because they're the ones that you always used to see talking to themselves. Thank goodness for all those new-fangled inventions like Bluetooth, so now you can never tell who's actually crazy and who's just on the phone.
We saw two Broadway shows while they were here, which was nice because I never do things like that on my own or with my friends who live here. Every time I have a visitor and we go see a show, I say to myself, "I've got to do this more often" but I never do. I really love musicals and plays, but to be honest, I'm not too impressed with Broadway these days. There's just nothing that really interests me. Does everything either have to be positively depraved or written for the intelligence, attention span, and sense of humor of a special-needs eight year old? I do not need to see people brutally murdered and raped on stage, I don't care how "edgy" some critic says it is. I do not need to watch Harry Potter struggle with sexual attraction to a horse. I do not want to see anything that is supposed to show me the human side of freaking pedophiles, people! There are things in this world that are just flat out perverted, and they are not okay, and I will not, cannot, as a decent human being, support them, even in the name of art, expression, or free speech. If that makes me intolerant or conservative or fundamentalist, then fine, I will wear those labels proudly. Are there no standards of decency these days? I know that it is politically incorrect to raise issues about decency and standards but come on! All my life my dad has been quoting the Bible to me and one of his favorites is "I will set no worthless thing before my eyes." He usually brings this one out whenever I am visiting him and invite him to join me in watching a Trading Spaces marathon or something. I disagree with his take on interior decorating shows, but good lord if the man's point of view doesn't make sense in light of some of the "critically acclaimed" shows playing in theatres around the city. Okay, that was kind of a long tangent there, but let me also just briefly decry the other side of the coin and beg that the next generation of Rodgers and Hammerstein, or a Cole Porter for the new millenium, or heck, even a new Andrew Lloyd Webber rise up on Broadway and save us all from anything else ven resembling "Shrek: the Musical." Have we come so far from Anything Goes, or the Sound of Music, or West Side Story that we are doomed to watch musical adaptations of entertaining yet not spectacular movies for the rest of our days? I don't go to the theatre for fart jokes any more than I go for torture and terror. Sheesh, people.
So we saw Phantom and Legally Blonde, which for all my ranting about movie-based musicals in the preceding paragraph, was actually pretty cute and entertaining, which I suppose totally undermines my previous diatribe by proving that I'm really not the most cerebral or discerning of theatre-goers. We also went to a taping of a morning show (we couldn't get Regis and Kelly tickets, and so were forced to attend the poor man's version at Fox studios, but it was still fun. And there was free breakfast.) I took them to my favorite bagel shop around the corner from my apartment (well, I consider it around the corner. It's actually about 1/2 km, which to those who aren't used to city measurements ("oh, it's just a short walk!" from a city dweller means "we should be there in about 45 minutes if we power-walk") is not quite what they're expecting. But seriously, 1/2 km? I can cover that distance in 3 minutes while wearing 3 inch stilettos. No big.)
And my favorite of all, we went skating at Rockefeller Center! I love the rink there. I know it's touristy, and Rockefeller often makes me want to stab myself in the eye, but it was early in the season (the rink had just opened that week), it was warm outside, and there were hardly any people for the lunchtime skate. It was probably the best skating I've ever done in the city. For what it's worth, it should be noted that I am also quite possibly the world's most heinously awful ice skater. I have no sense of balance, I can't master any sort of turning maneuver, and I generally find myself unable to stop without running into the wall at least once every five minutes (this is made even better by the fact that at Rock Center, there is a restaurant with big glass windows facing the skating rink where business people go to wine and dine, and I'm pretty sure I entertained a large crowd by repeatedly running into their window at various intervals. They even started waving at me. It was hot.) But how can you not have fun while ice-skating? It's like Phoebe Buffay running in Central Park (Didn't you ever run so hard you thought your legs would fall off? Like when you were running toward the swings or running away from Satan?... the neighbor's dog! Bwah! Pheebs is HI-larious!) It's so child-like and freeing... as long as you can laugh at yourself.
So, I had fun, I think they had fun, there weren't (too many) tears or fights, no one died, no one threatened to kill each other, so all in all, I'm calling it a success. At least, close enough.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Good Morning, Baltimore!
I got to get out of the city last weekend, a lovely change! (Only when you live in New York does something like a trip to Baltimore count as "getting out of the city." It was so quaint and quiet and tiny by comparison!)
I took Friday afternoon off from work and caught a train from Penn Station to New Jersey, an experience fraught with peril due to me cutting it extremely close on time and there being a line of really, really, freaking slow people at the Jersey Transit ticket machines. Seriously, there should be a special line for people who are not MORONS and know how to find their destination and swipe a credit card. I mean, I've probably taken NJT twice in my life, and it only takes me a grand total of 30 seconds to purchase my tickets. What are the rest of you idiots doing??! Never fear, I made the train with seconds to spare and arrived safely in Jersey where I met up with my friends who live there. One of them drove us down to B-more and we made good time, arriving around 7 pm Friday night. We checked into the hotel on the waterfront and then ate at one of my favorite places and I wish that I were saying that ironically, but alas, I just truly do love the Hard Rock Cafe. It's a remnant of a childhood spent wishing I were cooler than I ever was (or am.) Our food took forever to arrive, so to compensate, the waiter gave me a free Hard Rock Cafe Baltimore double shot glass! How cool am I now?! (Wait. Just... don't answer that.)
The whole purpose behind the trip was attending our alma mater's football game at Ravens' stadium on Saturday afternoon. We headed out to tailgate on Saturday morning armed with umbrellas and that ever-classy beacon of outdoor entertainment... the poncho, worried about what sort of weather the day would bring. It was really warm (in the high sixties!) but rain was predicted all day and the air was humid and sticky. As soon as we went outside though, the sun came out and it was really gorgeous! I was the only one of our group who decided to stick my sunglasses in my purse as we were heading out the door, and boy was I glad I did! I wore those for much longer than I wore my poncho. But sadly, I did have to break out the poncho with about 8 minutes left in the 4th quarter, when the skies gave us about 15 seconds of warning and then just opened up with a torrential downpour. Yikes! But like any good fans, we stuck it out in the stands, cheering the Irish to a victory (not that they really deserved it, allowing 2 touchdowns in the final 5 minutes or so.)
A bunch of my other friends were down there for the game, so it was awesome to see them and tailgate with them for a little while, although it was disappointing that the kickoff was so early (at noon) and then the rain made it tough to meet up with people afterwards, because everyone was soaking wet and headed straight for hotel rooms or cars to change or go home or do something to otherwise dry themselves off. The after-party isn't as much fun when you look and feel like a drowned rat (and may I just say, being a seasoned rider of NYC public transit, that I have a much clearer sense of that imagery these days than I ever, ever would have wanted.)
Sunday morning we went to the National Aquarium, which was right by our hotel and it was awesome! I really hate zoos (I'm sorry, they make me sneeze and animals just don't interest me) but the aquarium was super cool! There were sharks! (Live every week like it's Shark Week!) And rays! And a one-legged turtle! And to top it all off, I got to see a dolphin show! Dolphins are so freaking cool! (Gosh, I really am stuck back in the 80's, aren't I? I'm Stacey McGill... I love dolphins and the Hard Rock Cafe... I've really got to grow up.) But seriously, is it really my fault? I've never been to an aquarium before! I was denied an essential part of childhood. I mean, DJ and Stephanie Tanner actually got to swim with the dolphins! Next time, I'm totally going to find a place where I can do that. Maybe in Hawaii like they did.
And after all of that, it was back into the car and back to Jersey, then back on the train and back to Manhattan, then back on the subway and back to Brooklyn, then back on the bus and back to the apartment. Whew! Quite the whirlwind trip, but so nice to see my friends and take a short break. Now it's the home stretch to the holidays! Bring on the Christmas music!
I took Friday afternoon off from work and caught a train from Penn Station to New Jersey, an experience fraught with peril due to me cutting it extremely close on time and there being a line of really, really, freaking slow people at the Jersey Transit ticket machines. Seriously, there should be a special line for people who are not MORONS and know how to find their destination and swipe a credit card. I mean, I've probably taken NJT twice in my life, and it only takes me a grand total of 30 seconds to purchase my tickets. What are the rest of you idiots doing??! Never fear, I made the train with seconds to spare and arrived safely in Jersey where I met up with my friends who live there. One of them drove us down to B-more and we made good time, arriving around 7 pm Friday night. We checked into the hotel on the waterfront and then ate at one of my favorite places and I wish that I were saying that ironically, but alas, I just truly do love the Hard Rock Cafe. It's a remnant of a childhood spent wishing I were cooler than I ever was (or am.) Our food took forever to arrive, so to compensate, the waiter gave me a free Hard Rock Cafe Baltimore double shot glass! How cool am I now?! (Wait. Just... don't answer that.)
The whole purpose behind the trip was attending our alma mater's football game at Ravens' stadium on Saturday afternoon. We headed out to tailgate on Saturday morning armed with umbrellas and that ever-classy beacon of outdoor entertainment... the poncho, worried about what sort of weather the day would bring. It was really warm (in the high sixties!) but rain was predicted all day and the air was humid and sticky. As soon as we went outside though, the sun came out and it was really gorgeous! I was the only one of our group who decided to stick my sunglasses in my purse as we were heading out the door, and boy was I glad I did! I wore those for much longer than I wore my poncho. But sadly, I did have to break out the poncho with about 8 minutes left in the 4th quarter, when the skies gave us about 15 seconds of warning and then just opened up with a torrential downpour. Yikes! But like any good fans, we stuck it out in the stands, cheering the Irish to a victory (not that they really deserved it, allowing 2 touchdowns in the final 5 minutes or so.)
A bunch of my other friends were down there for the game, so it was awesome to see them and tailgate with them for a little while, although it was disappointing that the kickoff was so early (at noon) and then the rain made it tough to meet up with people afterwards, because everyone was soaking wet and headed straight for hotel rooms or cars to change or go home or do something to otherwise dry themselves off. The after-party isn't as much fun when you look and feel like a drowned rat (and may I just say, being a seasoned rider of NYC public transit, that I have a much clearer sense of that imagery these days than I ever, ever would have wanted.)
Sunday morning we went to the National Aquarium, which was right by our hotel and it was awesome! I really hate zoos (I'm sorry, they make me sneeze and animals just don't interest me) but the aquarium was super cool! There were sharks! (Live every week like it's Shark Week!) And rays! And a one-legged turtle! And to top it all off, I got to see a dolphin show! Dolphins are so freaking cool! (Gosh, I really am stuck back in the 80's, aren't I? I'm Stacey McGill... I love dolphins and the Hard Rock Cafe... I've really got to grow up.) But seriously, is it really my fault? I've never been to an aquarium before! I was denied an essential part of childhood. I mean, DJ and Stephanie Tanner actually got to swim with the dolphins! Next time, I'm totally going to find a place where I can do that. Maybe in Hawaii like they did.
And after all of that, it was back into the car and back to Jersey, then back on the train and back to Manhattan, then back on the subway and back to Brooklyn, then back on the bus and back to the apartment. Whew! Quite the whirlwind trip, but so nice to see my friends and take a short break. Now it's the home stretch to the holidays! Bring on the Christmas music!
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Vignettes from Visits (Part Duex): Just like London, except for Funner!
So, about a month after my delightful visit from N, I had another fabulous visit, this time from a very dear college friend. I know vaguely that JL and I met during Freshman Orientation at our beloved alma mater, but my first real memory is of her coming to my dorm room one night in November to study for a psychology test with my crazy freshman roommate. Unfortunately for them, it was also election night, so I refused to be dislodged from my station in front of our 13 inch TV, holding the rabbit eared antenna out the window so I could get a fuzzy NBC and excitedly watch election results to learn the new composition of the US Congress. Somehow, my bizarro-ness didn't scare her away. We went on to become close friends, roommates, traveling buddies, and general partners-in-crime. JL is probably the only person I was friends with freshman year who I am still close with today. She's seen me at my absolute worst, and yet is still willing to come visit me.
We had so much fun being tourists in the city! We ate fro-yo, strolled the UWS, explored Central Park, rode the Staten Island ferry, went out in the East Village, walked through Chinatown, ate pizza at Lombardi's in Soho, drank wine in Little Italy, went to the Met, and finished the weekend with Tasti D-lite and a mad dash to Penn Station praying that she would be able to catch her bus back to DC.
It was so great to have a long weekend to catch up (She had that Monday off, and I took a day off of work) and to feel like we were traveling through Europe again (JL had the pleasure of accompanying me all around the continent, making sure I never walked in front of a bus or was put in charge of reading the map. I firmly believe that it is thanks to her diligent tutelage that I have so far been able to survive living in the city on my own without succumbing to my severe lack of common sense and any sense of direction.)
I love, love, love having my own studio so people can come to visit me. No worrying about roommates, or bathroom schedules, or whether an air mattress in the common space is an inconvenience. Yes, JL had to sleep on the air mattress in the kitchen area, but that is just one of those delightful eccentricities of the NYC studio. She said she didn't mind. The great thing is, I've known her long enough to know that she's telling the truth.
We had so much fun being tourists in the city! We ate fro-yo, strolled the UWS, explored Central Park, rode the Staten Island ferry, went out in the East Village, walked through Chinatown, ate pizza at Lombardi's in Soho, drank wine in Little Italy, went to the Met, and finished the weekend with Tasti D-lite and a mad dash to Penn Station praying that she would be able to catch her bus back to DC.
It was so great to have a long weekend to catch up (She had that Monday off, and I took a day off of work) and to feel like we were traveling through Europe again (JL had the pleasure of accompanying me all around the continent, making sure I never walked in front of a bus or was put in charge of reading the map. I firmly believe that it is thanks to her diligent tutelage that I have so far been able to survive living in the city on my own without succumbing to my severe lack of common sense and any sense of direction.)
I love, love, love having my own studio so people can come to visit me. No worrying about roommates, or bathroom schedules, or whether an air mattress in the common space is an inconvenience. Yes, JL had to sleep on the air mattress in the kitchen area, but that is just one of those delightful eccentricities of the NYC studio. She said she didn't mind. The great thing is, I've known her long enough to know that she's telling the truth.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Vignettes from Visits (Part Une): Breakfast at Tiffany's, Martinis Everywhere Else
I can't even begin to explain how long overdue this post is. Actually, that's a lie. I can. In this particular instance, it is approximately 2 months overdue. But in some ways, it's a lifetime.
See, I come from one of those families that might lovingly be called "charmingly eccentric." They might not-so-lovingly be called "batshit crazy." But I've got one cousin who never lets me down. She introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210 at the ripe old age of 9. She slipped me a few rum and cokes to keep me sane at family parties when I was 16. She has always wholeheartedly supported me in my quest to leave our one-horse hometown. I guess we could call her my fairy god-cousin, but she probably prefers if we just call her N.
So if we're ranking family members by coolness quotient, it goes N: 98341212457, Everyone Else: 0. You can imagine then, how excited I was to see her! She came to the city for work, but we got a few chances to hang out along the way. I love, love, love hanging out with her because she loves all the things I love, like martinis, sushi, and Fifth Avenue, but see, she can actually pull it off. I'm a poseur, a poor (semi)-recent college grad ekeing out a living in an outer borough. But when I have her by my side, I can walk confidently into the bar at the Ritz Carlton and drink the best martini ever, made for me by Norman, the head bartender. (Who, by the way, is absolutely adorable and so quintessentially Manhattan. He should be in a Woody Allen movie or something, except that Woody Allen really freaks me out.)
So N. came into the city on a Sunday morning, and the weather was picture perfect for early fall, which provided the perfect backdrop for a quick lunch in the Peninsula hotel and an afternoon of window shopping on Fifth. We have an inside joke regarding someone who doesn't know what Tiffany's is (seriously, who doesn't know what Tiffany's is? It's like an American institution!), so we took photos of ourselves outside Tiffany's looking quizzical and perplexed. Why yes, I do think we're hilarious. I never understand why people don't realize how funny we are... we certainly entertain me! Then, Nobu! Oh my gosh, it's sooooooo delicious! I mean, I know its place in the sun is fading and it's not the trendy it-spot anymore, but holy smokes is it good! We had martinis and they were amazing and then we ordered like 10 courses and I cannot believe how much I ate but it was fabulous!
The next night we had drinks and dinner at the Ritz Carlton and it was perfect. Like I said, Norman is amazing (and he used to live in Brooklyn, like me!) After the Ritz we went back to the Peninsula and had another martini on the rooftop. I absolutely adore rooftop bars. I love city views on a clear warm night, and there's nothing better than sipping a martini and looking over the railing to watch Manhattan swirl below you. It's one of those moments, like walking across the Brooklyn Bridge or an early morning on Central Park West that remind me why I moved here and what I love about it.
So with Thanksgiving quickly approaching, let me give thanks where thanks are due. I raise my martini glass (except that tonight it's just me and the meager contents of my fridge, so it's a decidedly NOT-classy glass of vodka and Cherry Coke Zero) to my cousin, for being just flat-out amazing and letting me tag along for the ride.
See, I come from one of those families that might lovingly be called "charmingly eccentric." They might not-so-lovingly be called "batshit crazy." But I've got one cousin who never lets me down. She introduced me to Beverly Hills 90210 at the ripe old age of 9. She slipped me a few rum and cokes to keep me sane at family parties when I was 16. She has always wholeheartedly supported me in my quest to leave our one-horse hometown. I guess we could call her my fairy god-cousin, but she probably prefers if we just call her N.
So if we're ranking family members by coolness quotient, it goes N: 98341212457, Everyone Else: 0. You can imagine then, how excited I was to see her! She came to the city for work, but we got a few chances to hang out along the way. I love, love, love hanging out with her because she loves all the things I love, like martinis, sushi, and Fifth Avenue, but see, she can actually pull it off. I'm a poseur, a poor (semi)-recent college grad ekeing out a living in an outer borough. But when I have her by my side, I can walk confidently into the bar at the Ritz Carlton and drink the best martini ever, made for me by Norman, the head bartender. (Who, by the way, is absolutely adorable and so quintessentially Manhattan. He should be in a Woody Allen movie or something, except that Woody Allen really freaks me out.)
So N. came into the city on a Sunday morning, and the weather was picture perfect for early fall, which provided the perfect backdrop for a quick lunch in the Peninsula hotel and an afternoon of window shopping on Fifth. We have an inside joke regarding someone who doesn't know what Tiffany's is (seriously, who doesn't know what Tiffany's is? It's like an American institution!), so we took photos of ourselves outside Tiffany's looking quizzical and perplexed. Why yes, I do think we're hilarious. I never understand why people don't realize how funny we are... we certainly entertain me! Then, Nobu! Oh my gosh, it's sooooooo delicious! I mean, I know its place in the sun is fading and it's not the trendy it-spot anymore, but holy smokes is it good! We had martinis and they were amazing and then we ordered like 10 courses and I cannot believe how much I ate but it was fabulous!
The next night we had drinks and dinner at the Ritz Carlton and it was perfect. Like I said, Norman is amazing (and he used to live in Brooklyn, like me!) After the Ritz we went back to the Peninsula and had another martini on the rooftop. I absolutely adore rooftop bars. I love city views on a clear warm night, and there's nothing better than sipping a martini and looking over the railing to watch Manhattan swirl below you. It's one of those moments, like walking across the Brooklyn Bridge or an early morning on Central Park West that remind me why I moved here and what I love about it.
So with Thanksgiving quickly approaching, let me give thanks where thanks are due. I raise my martini glass (except that tonight it's just me and the meager contents of my fridge, so it's a decidedly NOT-classy glass of vodka and Cherry Coke Zero) to my cousin, for being just flat-out amazing and letting me tag along for the ride.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
I Wear my Rose-colored Glasses at Night...
It never fails that just when I think I've got my life together, I lose it.
It's not that anything extraordinary has happened recently. In fact, I've been on a pretty even keel for a few months now. No grandiose highs, but no excruciating lows either. Sure, I've still got my melodramatic neuroses and frequent life-crises, but nothing too shamble-riffic. For the most part, I like my job, I like my apartment, I have a few friends and a bit of spending money, and I should be set.
So why do I feel kind of empty? Not empty, like all this is meaningless. And not empty, like there's nothing to live for and I'm going to off myself. Just sort of superficially hollow.
Is it the pull of the quickly approaching holidays, long my favorite time of year? Am I getting sentimental in the midst of my ongoing quarter-life crisis (I think it says something about me that I perpetually start out in a state of crisis. For me, generic crisis is the resting point. It's tare.) Whatever it is, I've got to get over it, and FAST. I mean, I've lately even found myself craving the midwest. I know! The midwest! And it's only been 3 months since I was last there. 3 months is not long enought to miss the midwest, especially when one is being fabulous and fun in the big city. 3 years is barely long enough to start missing the midwest. If only family-visit-required holidays only occurred every 3 years. I think I might enjoy them a lot more.
But for some reason, now I'm reflecting sentimentally, like I'm 75 years old and have 6 months left to live, that it's not so bad. And that, to me, is what really is so bad.
Though my life is currently quite pleasant, I'm not content, in a good way. I'm a striver and I'll always be working towards another goal, solving another problem, thinking ahead to the next obstacle that I can beat down with my own bare hands, raw talent, and superior intellect (no sense in false modesty.) This discontent, its existence, is not what's unsettling. It's that always before, I've been looking forward, and suddenly I've come full circle. I've started missing the past.
There are a lot of ways of thought, ways of life that I've left behind. I found them constricting, narrow-minded, and unimaginative. I was, perhaps I am, better than that. But I've started to miss some of the people I left behind. Not my family, who I can't seem to shake no matter what I do, but the friends and peers I walked away from. Sometimes I feel a bittersweet twinge that I don't have any idea what's going on in their lives. I see pictures on Facebook or hear third-hand accounts of people I used to know, even people I used to love, I see their parties, their weddings, their babies, and I'm sad that I'm not a part of any of it anymore. I didn't think I liked these people, didn't think I cared about them, didn't think I'd miss them. And for years I haven't. But like a kid on the playground, sometimes I still feel left out.
I'm not regretting my choices in terms of where my life has taken me. I deserve this life, I've worked hard for it, and I'm overall pleased with it. But I severed a lot of ties in my hurry to get where I am today, and sometimes I wonder if it couldn't have been done with more grace and style and fewer burned bridges.
I share a past with these people, but if we passed each other on the street today, we'd not hardly recognize each other. I can think of one person outside my family who I regularly talk to who I've known for more than 6 years. Everybody I interact with on a day-to-day basis only knows the new me, the (arguably) better me. But I've swung to two extremes over the last decade, from the old me to the new me, and now I'd like to settle somewhere in between. But I've no mirror left, no one who knew me in the old days and knows me in the new, who can help me pick the best pieces of each to find the real me. So like always, I'm going it alone!
Ok, so this is reaaaaaaallly maudlin. I mean, I'm not even a people person. Most of the time, people do nothing but annoy the bejeebus out of me. There's a reason I didn't bring most of these people with me into my future, but something lately has brought out the rose-colored glasses. Remind me to leave those sentimental glasses somewhere I can be certain to step on them or accidentally throw them across the room or leave them at a sushi restaurant and then realize it when I'm halfway back to the office but then not be able to go back and get them because I'm already late for a meeting with my supervisor (all of which have recently happened with 3 different pairs of sunglasses. This is why I never, ever, spend real money on sunglasses. In fact, for a long time, I refused to spend more than $2 for a pair. Thinking myself more mature and responsible, I recently upped the limit to $15. I then promptly destroyed both $15 pairs and am now only allowed to buy sunglasses for $5 from street vendors. End of story.)
It's not that anything extraordinary has happened recently. In fact, I've been on a pretty even keel for a few months now. No grandiose highs, but no excruciating lows either. Sure, I've still got my melodramatic neuroses and frequent life-crises, but nothing too shamble-riffic. For the most part, I like my job, I like my apartment, I have a few friends and a bit of spending money, and I should be set.
So why do I feel kind of empty? Not empty, like all this is meaningless. And not empty, like there's nothing to live for and I'm going to off myself. Just sort of superficially hollow.
Is it the pull of the quickly approaching holidays, long my favorite time of year? Am I getting sentimental in the midst of my ongoing quarter-life crisis (I think it says something about me that I perpetually start out in a state of crisis. For me, generic crisis is the resting point. It's tare.) Whatever it is, I've got to get over it, and FAST. I mean, I've lately even found myself craving the midwest. I know! The midwest! And it's only been 3 months since I was last there. 3 months is not long enought to miss the midwest, especially when one is being fabulous and fun in the big city. 3 years is barely long enough to start missing the midwest. If only family-visit-required holidays only occurred every 3 years. I think I might enjoy them a lot more.
But for some reason, now I'm reflecting sentimentally, like I'm 75 years old and have 6 months left to live, that it's not so bad. And that, to me, is what really is so bad.
Though my life is currently quite pleasant, I'm not content, in a good way. I'm a striver and I'll always be working towards another goal, solving another problem, thinking ahead to the next obstacle that I can beat down with my own bare hands, raw talent, and superior intellect (no sense in false modesty.) This discontent, its existence, is not what's unsettling. It's that always before, I've been looking forward, and suddenly I've come full circle. I've started missing the past.
There are a lot of ways of thought, ways of life that I've left behind. I found them constricting, narrow-minded, and unimaginative. I was, perhaps I am, better than that. But I've started to miss some of the people I left behind. Not my family, who I can't seem to shake no matter what I do, but the friends and peers I walked away from. Sometimes I feel a bittersweet twinge that I don't have any idea what's going on in their lives. I see pictures on Facebook or hear third-hand accounts of people I used to know, even people I used to love, I see their parties, their weddings, their babies, and I'm sad that I'm not a part of any of it anymore. I didn't think I liked these people, didn't think I cared about them, didn't think I'd miss them. And for years I haven't. But like a kid on the playground, sometimes I still feel left out.
I'm not regretting my choices in terms of where my life has taken me. I deserve this life, I've worked hard for it, and I'm overall pleased with it. But I severed a lot of ties in my hurry to get where I am today, and sometimes I wonder if it couldn't have been done with more grace and style and fewer burned bridges.
I share a past with these people, but if we passed each other on the street today, we'd not hardly recognize each other. I can think of one person outside my family who I regularly talk to who I've known for more than 6 years. Everybody I interact with on a day-to-day basis only knows the new me, the (arguably) better me. But I've swung to two extremes over the last decade, from the old me to the new me, and now I'd like to settle somewhere in between. But I've no mirror left, no one who knew me in the old days and knows me in the new, who can help me pick the best pieces of each to find the real me. So like always, I'm going it alone!
Ok, so this is reaaaaaaallly maudlin. I mean, I'm not even a people person. Most of the time, people do nothing but annoy the bejeebus out of me. There's a reason I didn't bring most of these people with me into my future, but something lately has brought out the rose-colored glasses. Remind me to leave those sentimental glasses somewhere I can be certain to step on them or accidentally throw them across the room or leave them at a sushi restaurant and then realize it when I'm halfway back to the office but then not be able to go back and get them because I'm already late for a meeting with my supervisor (all of which have recently happened with 3 different pairs of sunglasses. This is why I never, ever, spend real money on sunglasses. In fact, for a long time, I refused to spend more than $2 for a pair. Thinking myself more mature and responsible, I recently upped the limit to $15. I then promptly destroyed both $15 pairs and am now only allowed to buy sunglasses for $5 from street vendors. End of story.)
Saturday, November 1, 2008
Halloween: Night of the Living Weirdos
You know, I am a holiday buff. I love to decorate, I love to celebrate, I love to remember special days passed and special days to come. But there is one holiday I've never really managed to embrace, and that is Halloween. (For my previous musings on the subject, see last year's "Halloween: A Horror Story.")
There could be a lot at play here. I'm not much of a horror fan. I'm easily grossed out by special effects and easily terrified into having to leave the lights on at night. I'm uncomfortable with things considered "evil" and don't understand why I'd want to celebrate them. Perhaps most of all, it's that I simply can't deal with bizarre people, and Halloween is when the freaks come out. Especially here in the city.
Last night I ventured to the Halloween parade downtown. It was one of those things that I agree to do knowing full well that I'll hate it, but feeling like it's a cultural experience I must complete, like ticking things off of a list. In fact, I once read that attendance at this particular parade is one of "100 things to do before you die." Having now attended, I can't really imagine why. The crowds, the outfits, the weirdos... and yet, why did I have to come to a special parade to see this? It didn't seem all that different from any Saturday night on the L train or the Lower East Side.
Is it that I'm too traditional? Too conventional? Too corporate? Is it wrong that I cannot embrace this carefree bohemian spirit? That when someone observed my black sheath dress, tights, and flats and asked what my costume was, I icily replied that I was dressed as "Girl who actually has a job and pays her taxes"? That when my friend Jo and I stopped in to a bar after the parade for a drink, I had to make a quick escape when it began filling up with law students in gorilla suits?
Whatever it is, it was another day that consisted of me shaking my head at the rest of the world and wondering, "Where are my people?" I can't be the only one out here whose idea of an excellent Halloween involves attending a cocktail party in a fabulous 1920's flapper dress a la Zelda Fitzgerald, or a delightfully perky pink suit and pearls a la Jackie Kennedy, drinking martinis with men in suits, rather than being hit on in an East Village bar by a guy in a Viking headdress a la Flava Flav (oh, my feelings on VH1 programming are a topic for another day.)
Someday maybe I'll figure this holiday out. In the meantime, excuse me while I start looking forward to Thanksgiving.
There could be a lot at play here. I'm not much of a horror fan. I'm easily grossed out by special effects and easily terrified into having to leave the lights on at night. I'm uncomfortable with things considered "evil" and don't understand why I'd want to celebrate them. Perhaps most of all, it's that I simply can't deal with bizarre people, and Halloween is when the freaks come out. Especially here in the city.
Last night I ventured to the Halloween parade downtown. It was one of those things that I agree to do knowing full well that I'll hate it, but feeling like it's a cultural experience I must complete, like ticking things off of a list. In fact, I once read that attendance at this particular parade is one of "100 things to do before you die." Having now attended, I can't really imagine why. The crowds, the outfits, the weirdos... and yet, why did I have to come to a special parade to see this? It didn't seem all that different from any Saturday night on the L train or the Lower East Side.
Is it that I'm too traditional? Too conventional? Too corporate? Is it wrong that I cannot embrace this carefree bohemian spirit? That when someone observed my black sheath dress, tights, and flats and asked what my costume was, I icily replied that I was dressed as "Girl who actually has a job and pays her taxes"? That when my friend Jo and I stopped in to a bar after the parade for a drink, I had to make a quick escape when it began filling up with law students in gorilla suits?
Whatever it is, it was another day that consisted of me shaking my head at the rest of the world and wondering, "Where are my people?" I can't be the only one out here whose idea of an excellent Halloween involves attending a cocktail party in a fabulous 1920's flapper dress a la Zelda Fitzgerald, or a delightfully perky pink suit and pearls a la Jackie Kennedy, drinking martinis with men in suits, rather than being hit on in an East Village bar by a guy in a Viking headdress a la Flava Flav (oh, my feelings on VH1 programming are a topic for another day.)
Someday maybe I'll figure this holiday out. In the meantime, excuse me while I start looking forward to Thanksgiving.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Rampant Narcissism
aka I've Been Tagged!
Oh this is so exciting! I love things like this, ever since I was 14 and I got my first email address and shortly thereafter recieved one of those chain surveys that circulated around and around where you were supposed to answer such deep questions as Lipstick or Chapstick? Chili's or TGIFridays? Joshua Jackson or James Van der Beek? (For the record, both, neither, and always, always, always Joshua Jackson. James Van der Beek has the largest forehead I've ever seen and it is not attractive.)
So, I've been tagged by my very awesome cousin, Nicole (but I'll always call her Nicki!) Here goes:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
About me? Hmmm... my favorite topic!
1) I'm constantly experimenting with my handwriting. Although most would consider my natural penmanship just fine, I don't like it and I'm constantly trying to improve it by changing little things. The way I write one letter, whether I use capitals or lowercase, the size, slant, angle, etc. I'm always jealous of people whose wonderful handwriting seems so effortless.
2) I'm always reading something, and I have been since I learned the alphabet. Although I enjoy non-fiction, particularly biographies, current events, and analyses of pop culture, I hate cerebral fiction. If it smacks of pretentious intellectualism, I'm not reading it. What am I reading? Well... when asked, I wax poetic about Dickens and Austen and Eliot and Fitzgerald, and it's not a lie, I love all them. But teen fiction is my passion. I also love the Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley Twins (but not Sweet Valley High) and it's entirely possible that the book I have read and re-read most often is one that I got at a garage sale when I was about 10. It's called Malibu Summer and it's about a 15-year-old girl from Wisconsin named Amber who moves to Malibu to be a nanny for a rich family for the summer and falls in love with the handsome older son of the Hollywood producer she works for, whose name is Jason and who is in an advanced accelerated filmmaking program at UCLA. Only, see, Amber thinks she is in love with Brett, the producer's other older son by his first wife, but Brett is a little odd and emotionally stunted and it's not until the very, very end of the book when Amber is leaving Malibu the next day that she and Jason realize their love for each other, but Amber has to leave because she misses her family on the dairy farm in Wisconsin even though Madeleine, Brett and Jason's stepmother and the Hollywood producer's 4th wife, has already begged her to stay and help care for Kyle, the younger child of the producer's deceased 3rd wife for the whole year, going so far as to offer her tennis lessons and to fly her family out for the Rose Bowl. In the end, Amber leaves Malibu with the promise to return after graduation to go to college in LA because Madeleine and the producer have offered to pay for it, and because that way she and Jason can be together forever. Am I the only person to see the genius in this book? It's incredible! Go write something like that, Bret Easton Ellis, and then come back and I'll try reading your work again, you pretentious nitwit. Also, I wish I was Amber.
3) I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the hairdryer and the vaccuum cleaner. The person who invents a silent vacuum cleaner will have my undying gratitude. It's so loud! The only redeeming value to the ugly tile floors in my apartment is the fact that I no longer have to vacuum. As for the hairdryer, I solved the problem by getting one of those quiet dryers. Unfortunately, the quiet motor means it doesn't have much ooomph, which typically leaves my hair looking and feeling like limp macaroni, but that's a trade-off I've so far been willing to make.
4) I am obsessed with the modern Olympic games. Obsessed. It's almost frightening. For two weeks every two years, I sit glued to my television, deeply engrossed in events no one else has even heard of. (Men's Skeet Shooting? Watched it. Table tennis? Watched it. Luge, Rhythmic Gymnastics, Winter Biathlon? Once again, watched them all.) For two weeks I put my life on hold. I refuse to go out with my friends. I resent the fact that I have to go to work during the Judo finals. One year, I even briefly considered an attempt on a classmate's life after finding out that she had tickets to the opening ceremonies. I know. Sad but true. So, every two years, I get a real treat. The Olympics!!! There's nothing better than watching all the countries come together for good, friendly, quality competition...Yeah, RIGHT! But what is pretty sweet is making fun of the "cultural" aspects (anyone remember the "Child of Light" from Salt Lake City? or how about those creepy little oompah-loompah like creatures from Lillehammer?) Uh-huh, I thought so. And those great sappy biographies on the poor tortured athlete, usually from some dreadful communist country, forced to live and train solely for the glory of his/her country, and not even allowed to go home when his/her beloved mother/grandfather/significant other/pet turtle (take your pick) suffers a tragic and sudden death. Still though, there is something almost magical about gathering around the TV to watch the sparkle and fire of the opening ceremonies, to feel the awe at the lighting of the torch, to for just a few weeks forget our differences and enjoy the spirit of competition and camaraderie. Sure, we don't get the whole story. Tales of corruption and trouble spill out of Olympic Village at an alarming rate. But for some of us, the joy will always be there, the love, the excitement of children. That is perhaps the most important thing that the Olympic Games do for us. I know that it's cheesy, and there's performance art, and children singing, and obnoxious, arrogant athletes, and all sorts of things that I usually hate, but I can't help but love it. The Olympics- there's just nothing better.
5) I believe the world is split into two kinds of people: Condiment people, and no-condiment people. I am a no-condiment person. I tell people I'm allergic to mustard, but the reality is, I just think it tastes disgusting. I can only stomach mayo if it's in a salad (tuna salad, potato salad, etc) and sometimes not even then. I put salt and pepper on my green salad in place of any sort of dressing. The bigger issue, besides just condiment preference, is that I also prefer the world to be split in two. I like black and white, yes and no, right and wrong, 90 degree angles, compartmentalization, and never, ever chaos. As I get older, I see more and more how unrealistic this preference is, but nonetheless, I continue to chase the dream. Perfection is always, always the goal.
6) This is no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to travel. I love to experience other cultures. I loved my time as a student in London, my backpacking trips around Europe, and my summer service projects in Latin America. I believe that these experiences influenced my life in so many ways, introduced me to new people, cultures, and ways of life, gave me skills that have helped me in my professional life, and provided me with cherished memories. But every so often, especially now that I'm older, I start to crave a relaxing vacation rather than a non-stop action, always moving, as cheap as you can get it whirlwind tour. Rather than experience the true culture and people of the caribbean, would it really be so bad for me to just spend a week at an all-inclusive resort, sipping margs on the white-sand beach? No, it wouldn't be a real cultural experience, and I could never admit it to my adventurous and travel-snob friends, but can anything that involves free all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages and non-motorized watersports really be so bad?
7) I have exactly 3 special talents. They are: parallel parking (really, I don't get why so many people think this is so hard), reciting the alphabet backwards (ZYXWVUTSRQPONMLKJIHGFEDCBA. I've no doubt that this talent will serve me well, should a cop ever question my sobriety), and remembering names and faces. I never forget a name or a face. You're a friend of a friend? We haven't seen each other in 17 years? We only met once, it was at a party, late at night, and I was both drunk and distracted at the time? Doesn't matter. I'll remember you. In fact, this is often embarrassing, and many times I just pretend that I don't remember someone, because it is clear that he or she does not remember me, and it spares us both embarrassment if I just go along with the charade. But in the back of my mind, as we shake hands, I'm thinking, "Of course you're Muffy Carrington. We met three years ago at Evelyn Rileys wedding shower, when you were sitting on that old green sofa and wearing purple leggings and we discussed the weather and the fact that we both like white cake better than chocolate." Do you see how the level of detail that I am able to instantly recall brings with it large potential for mortification? And furthermore, why is it that I can remember ridiculous amounts of detail like this at the drop of a hat, and yet I have been missing my left sneaker for the last two weeks?
Wow! Clearly I'm a narcissist! So much to say about me! Um, so I don't really know many other bloggers, and I don't really know who takes the time to read my drivel, so let's just say, if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged! I want to meet you/know who you are, so leave me a message and start writing your own novel-length introduction, just like me!
(So this is pretty long... it sort of makes up for 3 weeks of blog-silence, right? No? Well, don't worry, I've got lots of catching up to do!)
Oh this is so exciting! I love things like this, ever since I was 14 and I got my first email address and shortly thereafter recieved one of those chain surveys that circulated around and around where you were supposed to answer such deep questions as Lipstick or Chapstick? Chili's or TGIFridays? Joshua Jackson or James Van der Beek? (For the record, both, neither, and always, always, always Joshua Jackson. James Van der Beek has the largest forehead I've ever seen and it is not attractive.)
So, I've been tagged by my very awesome cousin, Nicole (but I'll always call her Nicki!) Here goes:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 7 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 7 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are tagged by leaving a comment on their blog.
About me? Hmmm... my favorite topic!
1) I'm constantly experimenting with my handwriting. Although most would consider my natural penmanship just fine, I don't like it and I'm constantly trying to improve it by changing little things. The way I write one letter, whether I use capitals or lowercase, the size, slant, angle, etc. I'm always jealous of people whose wonderful handwriting seems so effortless.
2) I'm always reading something, and I have been since I learned the alphabet. Although I enjoy non-fiction, particularly biographies, current events, and analyses of pop culture, I hate cerebral fiction. If it smacks of pretentious intellectualism, I'm not reading it. What am I reading? Well... when asked, I wax poetic about Dickens and Austen and Eliot and Fitzgerald, and it's not a lie, I love all them. But teen fiction is my passion. I also love the Baby-sitters Club, Sweet Valley Twins (but not Sweet Valley High) and it's entirely possible that the book I have read and re-read most often is one that I got at a garage sale when I was about 10. It's called Malibu Summer and it's about a 15-year-old girl from Wisconsin named Amber who moves to Malibu to be a nanny for a rich family for the summer and falls in love with the handsome older son of the Hollywood producer she works for, whose name is Jason and who is in an advanced accelerated filmmaking program at UCLA. Only, see, Amber thinks she is in love with Brett, the producer's other older son by his first wife, but Brett is a little odd and emotionally stunted and it's not until the very, very end of the book when Amber is leaving Malibu the next day that she and Jason realize their love for each other, but Amber has to leave because she misses her family on the dairy farm in Wisconsin even though Madeleine, Brett and Jason's stepmother and the Hollywood producer's 4th wife, has already begged her to stay and help care for Kyle, the younger child of the producer's deceased 3rd wife for the whole year, going so far as to offer her tennis lessons and to fly her family out for the Rose Bowl. In the end, Amber leaves Malibu with the promise to return after graduation to go to college in LA because Madeleine and the producer have offered to pay for it, and because that way she and Jason can be together forever. Am I the only person to see the genius in this book? It's incredible! Go write something like that, Bret Easton Ellis, and then come back and I'll try reading your work again, you pretentious nitwit. Also, I wish I was Amber.
3) I absolutely cannot stand the sound of the hairdryer and the vaccuum cleaner. The person who invents a silent vacuum cleaner will have my undying gratitude. It's so loud! The only redeeming value to the ugly tile floors in my apartment is the fact that I no longer have to vacuum. As for the hairdryer, I solved the problem by getting one of those quiet dryers. Unfortunately, the quiet motor means it doesn't have much ooomph, which typically leaves my hair looking and feeling like limp macaroni, but that's a trade-off I've so far been willing to make.
4) I am obsessed with the modern Olympic games. Obsessed. It's almost frightening. For two weeks every two years, I sit glued to my television, deeply engrossed in events no one else has even heard of. (Men's Skeet Shooting? Watched it. Table tennis? Watched it. Luge, Rhythmic Gymnastics, Winter Biathlon? Once again, watched them all.) For two weeks I put my life on hold. I refuse to go out with my friends. I resent the fact that I have to go to work during the Judo finals. One year, I even briefly considered an attempt on a classmate's life after finding out that she had tickets to the opening ceremonies. I know. Sad but true. So, every two years, I get a real treat. The Olympics!!! There's nothing better than watching all the countries come together for good, friendly, quality competition...Yeah, RIGHT! But what is pretty sweet is making fun of the "cultural" aspects (anyone remember the "Child of Light" from Salt Lake City? or how about those creepy little oompah-loompah like creatures from Lillehammer?) Uh-huh, I thought so. And those great sappy biographies on the poor tortured athlete, usually from some dreadful communist country, forced to live and train solely for the glory of his/her country, and not even allowed to go home when his/her beloved mother/grandfather/significant other/pet turtle (take your pick) suffers a tragic and sudden death. Still though, there is something almost magical about gathering around the TV to watch the sparkle and fire of the opening ceremonies, to feel the awe at the lighting of the torch, to for just a few weeks forget our differences and enjoy the spirit of competition and camaraderie. Sure, we don't get the whole story. Tales of corruption and trouble spill out of Olympic Village at an alarming rate. But for some of us, the joy will always be there, the love, the excitement of children. That is perhaps the most important thing that the Olympic Games do for us. I know that it's cheesy, and there's performance art, and children singing, and obnoxious, arrogant athletes, and all sorts of things that I usually hate, but I can't help but love it. The Olympics- there's just nothing better.
5) I believe the world is split into two kinds of people: Condiment people, and no-condiment people. I am a no-condiment person. I tell people I'm allergic to mustard, but the reality is, I just think it tastes disgusting. I can only stomach mayo if it's in a salad (tuna salad, potato salad, etc) and sometimes not even then. I put salt and pepper on my green salad in place of any sort of dressing. The bigger issue, besides just condiment preference, is that I also prefer the world to be split in two. I like black and white, yes and no, right and wrong, 90 degree angles, compartmentalization, and never, ever chaos. As I get older, I see more and more how unrealistic this preference is, but nonetheless, I continue to chase the dream. Perfection is always, always the goal.
6) This is no surprise to anyone who knows me, but I love to travel. I love to experience other cultures. I loved my time as a student in London, my backpacking trips around Europe, and my summer service projects in Latin America. I believe that these experiences influenced my life in so many ways, introduced me to new people, cultures, and ways of life, gave me skills that have helped me in my professional life, and provided me with cherished memories. But every so often, especially now that I'm older, I start to crave a relaxing vacation rather than a non-stop action, always moving, as cheap as you can get it whirlwind tour. Rather than experience the true culture and people of the caribbean, would it really be so bad for me to just spend a week at an all-inclusive resort, sipping margs on the white-sand beach? No, it wouldn't be a real cultural experience, and I could never admit it to my adventurous and travel-snob friends, but can anything that involves free all-you-can-drink alcoholic beverages and non-motorized watersports really be so bad?
7) I have exactly 3 special talents. They are: parallel parking (really, I don't get why so many people think this is so hard), reciting the alphabet backwards (ZYXWVUTSRQPONMLKJIHGFEDCBA. I've no doubt that this talent will serve me well, should a cop ever question my sobriety), and remembering names and faces. I never forget a name or a face. You're a friend of a friend? We haven't seen each other in 17 years? We only met once, it was at a party, late at night, and I was both drunk and distracted at the time? Doesn't matter. I'll remember you. In fact, this is often embarrassing, and many times I just pretend that I don't remember someone, because it is clear that he or she does not remember me, and it spares us both embarrassment if I just go along with the charade. But in the back of my mind, as we shake hands, I'm thinking, "Of course you're Muffy Carrington. We met three years ago at Evelyn Rileys wedding shower, when you were sitting on that old green sofa and wearing purple leggings and we discussed the weather and the fact that we both like white cake better than chocolate." Do you see how the level of detail that I am able to instantly recall brings with it large potential for mortification? And furthermore, why is it that I can remember ridiculous amounts of detail like this at the drop of a hat, and yet I have been missing my left sneaker for the last two weeks?
Wow! Clearly I'm a narcissist! So much to say about me! Um, so I don't really know many other bloggers, and I don't really know who takes the time to read my drivel, so let's just say, if you're reading this, consider yourself tagged! I want to meet you/know who you are, so leave me a message and start writing your own novel-length introduction, just like me!
(So this is pretty long... it sort of makes up for 3 weeks of blog-silence, right? No? Well, don't worry, I've got lots of catching up to do!)
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Along Came Me (and my Furniture)
Yes, I am aware that the title of this post points to a heinously awful movie, one that not even a rom-com junkie like me even likes. Oh Jennifer Aniston, please get a better agent. You're talented. But I digress. The only reason I even bring it up is to (what else?) draw a comparison to my life. There's a scene in Jennifer Aniston's apartment where Ben Stiller looks around at the mess and the boxes and the general disarray and asks if she just moved in. She replies that she's been there for 2 years. And that is the situation I find myself in today.
Now granted, I've only been here 2 months. But the feeling is the same. I probably should have unpacked those boxes that have been sitting in the corner by now. I probably should not be sitting in a folding pink $8.99 Target camping chair watching a DVD on my laptop propped up on an upturned box while balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a saucer (not even a full size plate) on my lap. I probably should arrange things in a nice order in the closet and buy some of those nice collapsible fabric boxes to hold things on the top shelves. I should actually put my shoes on the shoe rack that I randomly put together one Saturday afternoon, but then got bored with the project before actually putting the shoes on it. And I should probably do all this before I start having visitors next week.
Apparently, my life is all about the panic. I've always been a deadline person. While I might have started a paper 3 weeks in advance, I inevitably finished it around 4 am the night before it was due in a nauseated haze of Diet Coke and Wheat Thins. Last time I was in the midwest, I nearly missed the bus to the airport because I was running through my parents' house throwing last-minute items into a half-empty suitcase 10 minutes before I needed to be boarding the bus. I've got to have that pressure.
I'm not really proud of that fact, and I'd like to change. I'd like to be the sort of person who does things in advance and then feels smug and superior watching other run around at the last minute like chickens without heads (what disturbing imagery. How did this become so ingrained in the American lexicon that we use it without thinking? Gross.) But when push comes to shove, I'm still the girl who only ordered a table, chairs, sofa, armchair, and TV this week so that when my visitors show up, they don't think I live in utter squalor. Beyond that, what's the point of having this nice apartment all to myself if I won't spend the money to make it comfortable? Ahh, money, my old nemesis. Your scarcity makes you always the root of my troubles. And the root of most of my neuroses, as well, come to think of it.
It's tough to shell out an entire paycheck on furniture when there is simply no convenient way to buy cheap furniture in this city. You could wander all day, from the Bronx to Brooklyn, and at the end of the day you'd be confused and angry and have aching feet.and still have barely been able to see anything in the few furniture showrooms that exist, still not be sure of what you want, still pay exorbitant prices, and still have to figure out how on earth to get it delivered. Almost everyone I've asked says that if you're looking for cheap, you're better off just picking something online based on the price and hoping for the best. And for me, even having done the research and decided what I'd like, there's this sinking feeling as soon as I click "purchase" that says "Are you even going to be living here that long? What if you move next year? Now you have all this furniture and extra stuff that you'll have to either sell (and deal with the hassle), dump (and feel like you just lost a ton of money) or move (and add to the nearly unbearable stress of the experience, especially in the city.)
Paralyzed by indecision and nagging doubts (two things that have not really been a problem for me in the past), it takes other people to make me move. So once the furniture arrives, we'll see whether I'll love it all and want to thank my visitors for forcing me to take the plunge, or curse them for sticking me with some ugly crap that looks nothing like what I saw online. I guess if worst comes to worst, I can always sell it on Craigslist... those weirdos will buy anything.
Now granted, I've only been here 2 months. But the feeling is the same. I probably should have unpacked those boxes that have been sitting in the corner by now. I probably should not be sitting in a folding pink $8.99 Target camping chair watching a DVD on my laptop propped up on an upturned box while balancing a grilled cheese sandwich on a saucer (not even a full size plate) on my lap. I probably should arrange things in a nice order in the closet and buy some of those nice collapsible fabric boxes to hold things on the top shelves. I should actually put my shoes on the shoe rack that I randomly put together one Saturday afternoon, but then got bored with the project before actually putting the shoes on it. And I should probably do all this before I start having visitors next week.
Apparently, my life is all about the panic. I've always been a deadline person. While I might have started a paper 3 weeks in advance, I inevitably finished it around 4 am the night before it was due in a nauseated haze of Diet Coke and Wheat Thins. Last time I was in the midwest, I nearly missed the bus to the airport because I was running through my parents' house throwing last-minute items into a half-empty suitcase 10 minutes before I needed to be boarding the bus. I've got to have that pressure.
I'm not really proud of that fact, and I'd like to change. I'd like to be the sort of person who does things in advance and then feels smug and superior watching other run around at the last minute like chickens without heads (what disturbing imagery. How did this become so ingrained in the American lexicon that we use it without thinking? Gross.) But when push comes to shove, I'm still the girl who only ordered a table, chairs, sofa, armchair, and TV this week so that when my visitors show up, they don't think I live in utter squalor. Beyond that, what's the point of having this nice apartment all to myself if I won't spend the money to make it comfortable? Ahh, money, my old nemesis. Your scarcity makes you always the root of my troubles. And the root of most of my neuroses, as well, come to think of it.
It's tough to shell out an entire paycheck on furniture when there is simply no convenient way to buy cheap furniture in this city. You could wander all day, from the Bronx to Brooklyn, and at the end of the day you'd be confused and angry and have aching feet.and still have barely been able to see anything in the few furniture showrooms that exist, still not be sure of what you want, still pay exorbitant prices, and still have to figure out how on earth to get it delivered. Almost everyone I've asked says that if you're looking for cheap, you're better off just picking something online based on the price and hoping for the best. And for me, even having done the research and decided what I'd like, there's this sinking feeling as soon as I click "purchase" that says "Are you even going to be living here that long? What if you move next year? Now you have all this furniture and extra stuff that you'll have to either sell (and deal with the hassle), dump (and feel like you just lost a ton of money) or move (and add to the nearly unbearable stress of the experience, especially in the city.)
Paralyzed by indecision and nagging doubts (two things that have not really been a problem for me in the past), it takes other people to make me move. So once the furniture arrives, we'll see whether I'll love it all and want to thank my visitors for forcing me to take the plunge, or curse them for sticking me with some ugly crap that looks nothing like what I saw online. I guess if worst comes to worst, I can always sell it on Craigslist... those weirdos will buy anything.
Monday, September 29, 2008
Someone Hit the Panic Button
I shall now proceed to transcribe for you the actual conversation I had with a dear old friend last week.
Me: I have to talk to you.
Her: Oh, geez, are you pregnant?
Me: No! Geez, why do you always have to assume the worst? We just need to discuss what I did this weekend. I need perspective.
Her: Oh, geez, is X. back in town? Did you hook up with him again?
Me: No! Geez, you really do think highly of me, don't you? Besides, X. is still in Singapore. Anyway, it does have to do with dating.
Her: Oh, geez, did you--
Me: NO! Whatever you were going to say, NO! You will not guess it! Let me talk and then we can do the psychoanalysis part.
Her: OK, OK, calm down, psychofreak. What did you do this weekend?
Me: I read a book.
Her: You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you read a book this weekend?
Me: It's 10 pm! What are you, 85?
Her: Says the girl who's been shopping at Ann Taylor since she was 10.
Me: They have high-quality, classic tailored pieces! You're all just jealous that you didn't discover it sooner!
Her: OK, Betty Sue. Tell me that part about Talbot's again?
Me: We are so far off topic here. You are distracting me.
Her: Fine. I will humor you. You read a book.
Me: Yes. It was a dating book.
Her: You read a dating book?! Desperate city!
Me: It gets worse.
Her: Oh, geez, what have I told you about these self-help books?
Me: Hey, Dr. Kevin Leman helped me learn alot about my tormented soul! Someday, I will actually be able to afford therapy with him. Of course, he will probably be dead by then. Or at least in a nursing home.
Her: At risk of regressing to eighth grade, you are a FREAK.
Me: But you know you love me. XOXO.
Her: OK, Gossip Girl, finish your story. Just give me the bad news straight up.
Me: It was a Christian dating book.
Her: (snorting) Crap! You owe me a new sweater and another bottle of $6 wine! A Christian dating book? Was it like "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" or "Let Jesus write your Love Story" or geez, what else did the youth group kids read?
Me: First of all, what is this $6 wine and is it tasty? I'll buy you a box of Franzia if you ever come visit me! Second of all, no, it was not one of the youth group books. Geez, I've not completely lost my mind.
Her: So, what was it?
Me: It was a humorous look at dating by a 20-something Christian woman.
Her: (snorting) Geez, again with the wine! Did you read that off the back cover of the book?
Me: No, I made it up! That was my personal synopsis.
Her: So what on earth made you decide to pick up this book, out of everything in Barnes and Noble?
Me: Well you know, I'm well into my quarter-life crisis, and I just read "The Panic Years" and--
Her: You read "The Panic Years"? Do you not listen to me at all? What have I told you about these literary choices? Can you not just read a Jane Austen novel for dating perspective like the rest of us?
Me: I read all of Jane Austen's novels by sophomore year of high school! I am well beyond Jane's help at this point!
Her: You're barely halfway through your twenties! Calm down!
Me: But see, that's the point! Why am I like this? I don't want to get married! I don't need a man in my life to be fulfilled! I'm a feminist, damn it!
Her: Roar, woman! So, what's the problem?
Me: Well, the book kind of... made sense.
Her: If you utter the word "courtship," I am hanging up the phone right now.
Me: No! That's just it! The girl who wrote this book even said she thought the whole "dating/courtship" debate was ludicrous. I was like "Yeah! Where were you when I was getting shunned by the youth group for that perspective!"
Her: So, really, why this book? Why did you pick it up?
Me: Well, I guess I was just looking for a different perspective. At risk of being lame, a moral perspective? I mean, I love my SATC lifestyle as much as the next girl, but it's not going to last forever. In fact, if it lasts forever, I'll shoot myself. If I'm still single when I'm Carrie Bradshaw's age, I'm joining a convent. After all, I do look good in black. Although I'd have to see if there's a way around the wimple thing, because I don't do hats without brims.
Her: True, hats without brims are not a good look on you. Remember the backwards baseball cap debacle of 1998?
Me: Must you kick me when I am down? And since we're speaking of awful trends of the past, you took down that picture of us in your apartment, right, the one where we are on the beach and I am wearing those ridiculous overall shorts over a bathing suit and looking truly heinous?
Her: (shiftily) Yeah sure, I took it down.
Me: I don't believe you.
Her: Moral perspective, remember? Why the sudden interest?
Me: I don't know! I was hoping you could shed some light on it!
Her: It's not that out of the realm of possibility, Miss I attend Mass every week and recently signed up to be a Eucharistic Minister. You are a moral person. You're way more Charlotte than Samantha.
Me: OK, can we please not compare me to any of them at this point? And I did the Eucharistic Minister thing as a way to meet men! Add that to my credit towards my one-way ticket on a freight train to hell! So, anyway, then, not long ago I was talking to a friend and she said something about a friend of hers who married a youth minister, and I was like "awww, I would marry a youth minister!" I mean, where did that come from? I'm supposed to marry an investment banker! Or a hedge-fund manager! Or a jet-setting CEO of a multinational corporation!
Her: Man, you really don't dream small do you?
Me: No! I don't dream small! So why am I now so desperate to settle that I'm reading ridiculous dating books, Christian or otherwise, and planning my life as Mrs. Youth Pastor of Bumbleton, Iowa?
Her: Are you really doing that?
Me: Well, not quite. I'm totally not resigned to the Bumbleton, Iowa part yet.
Her: But it's OK to change your mind. It's OK to decide that would be OK. Or to open your mind to other possibilities than being a hard-nosed New Yorker for the next 3/4 of your life. Even if that means a youth minister. Even if it means a convent.
Me: I was kidding about the convent.
Her: I know. But you need to calm down. Stop freaking out. Open yourself to the possibilities. You are a Christian. And need I remind you that all of the guys you've seriously dated have been church-goers? I know you're running away and this whole "Christian dating book" thing seems like a blast from a past you're trying to forget, but it's not that bad. You don't have to be wacko about it, just like the girl in the book wasn't wacko about it. Just open your mind.
Me: Thanks, Oprah. I knew I could count on you.
Her: OK, Gayle. If I may continue on my soapbox for one more minute, it's just to remind you that you took a personality test in 12th grade that was supposed to tell you when you'd be ready to get married--
Me: Oh, yeah, I remember that! It sounds like something out of Cosmo, but it was totally a graded thing for religion class.
Her: Oh, 12th grade. Yes, and do you remember what your test said?
Me: Something like "28 and 6 months."
Her: It was "28 and 9 months."
Me: Why on earth do you remember that? Are you stalking me? Creepster...
Her: Oh please! You were like the only person in the class whose answer was above 24. And the teacher used you as a case study and warning against women who were too involved in their careers, and you told him where to shove it.
Me: Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Then he tried to give me detention for my language, but the disciplinarian thought it was a joke.
Her: Exactly!
Me: That's all well and good, but if I'm supposed to be married by the time I'm 28 and 9 months, and I have to be engaged for at least 9 months so I can get the pretty church and also so they can be certain I'm not knocked up, and I want to date for at least a year before getting engaged and preferably more like two years because we all know that it takes me a while to achieve a functional relationship, that means I need to meet and begin to date the person I will eventually marry, like, right now.
Her: But that's not the point! Remember that girl who spent the entire class period arguing with the teacher so the rest of us could study for the trig test the next period! The take no prisoners, kick butt, I will marry my CEO when I'm good and ready and whether I'm 28 or 38 or 88, it will be when the time is right for me and I will not live in a trailer and work for my dad and never get out of this two bit town girl. You're out! You're living the dream!
Me: But now I don't know if it is the dream. Maybe this book is a way of showing me that the dream is actually a nice church-going guy and a picket-fenced house in the suburbs.
Her: Maybe it is. That's what I told you. It's OK to change your mind. You've tried one dream. If it's not right, try another.
Me: I suppose you could be right. You're good at this. Almost as good as Dr. Kevin Leman.
Her: I know. It's why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: Believe me, if my insurance would pay for therapy, I would designate you as my mental health professional.
Her: Gee, that means a lot. By the way, don't think I'm forgetting about the box of Franzia you promised me.
Me: Don't think that I'm forgetting about the visit you promised me!
Her: Oh yeah, since we're on the topic of men and Christian dating, how's that guy you liked from your church?
Me: Do you mean "Cute Joe?"
Her: Yeah, have you talked to him yet?
Me: Um, yeah. Turns out we now have to refer to him as "Cute, Gay Joe."
Her: Oh, bummer. Not quite the dream, huh?
Me: Guess I keep looking. And reading.
Conclusion: I am insane. And in need of therapy. And lucky to have a dear old friend and a cell phone plan that offers unlimited nights and weekends.
Me: I have to talk to you.
Her: Oh, geez, are you pregnant?
Me: No! Geez, why do you always have to assume the worst? We just need to discuss what I did this weekend. I need perspective.
Her: Oh, geez, is X. back in town? Did you hook up with him again?
Me: No! Geez, you really do think highly of me, don't you? Besides, X. is still in Singapore. Anyway, it does have to do with dating.
Her: Oh, geez, did you--
Me: NO! Whatever you were going to say, NO! You will not guess it! Let me talk and then we can do the psychoanalysis part.
Her: OK, OK, calm down, psychofreak. What did you do this weekend?
Me: I read a book.
Her: You called me in the middle of the night to tell me you read a book this weekend?
Me: It's 10 pm! What are you, 85?
Her: Says the girl who's been shopping at Ann Taylor since she was 10.
Me: They have high-quality, classic tailored pieces! You're all just jealous that you didn't discover it sooner!
Her: OK, Betty Sue. Tell me that part about Talbot's again?
Me: We are so far off topic here. You are distracting me.
Her: Fine. I will humor you. You read a book.
Me: Yes. It was a dating book.
Her: You read a dating book?! Desperate city!
Me: It gets worse.
Her: Oh, geez, what have I told you about these self-help books?
Me: Hey, Dr. Kevin Leman helped me learn alot about my tormented soul! Someday, I will actually be able to afford therapy with him. Of course, he will probably be dead by then. Or at least in a nursing home.
Her: At risk of regressing to eighth grade, you are a FREAK.
Me: But you know you love me. XOXO.
Her: OK, Gossip Girl, finish your story. Just give me the bad news straight up.
Me: It was a Christian dating book.
Her: (snorting) Crap! You owe me a new sweater and another bottle of $6 wine! A Christian dating book? Was it like "I Kissed Dating Goodbye" or "Let Jesus write your Love Story" or geez, what else did the youth group kids read?
Me: First of all, what is this $6 wine and is it tasty? I'll buy you a box of Franzia if you ever come visit me! Second of all, no, it was not one of the youth group books. Geez, I've not completely lost my mind.
Her: So, what was it?
Me: It was a humorous look at dating by a 20-something Christian woman.
Her: (snorting) Geez, again with the wine! Did you read that off the back cover of the book?
Me: No, I made it up! That was my personal synopsis.
Her: So what on earth made you decide to pick up this book, out of everything in Barnes and Noble?
Me: Well you know, I'm well into my quarter-life crisis, and I just read "The Panic Years" and--
Her: You read "The Panic Years"? Do you not listen to me at all? What have I told you about these literary choices? Can you not just read a Jane Austen novel for dating perspective like the rest of us?
Me: I read all of Jane Austen's novels by sophomore year of high school! I am well beyond Jane's help at this point!
Her: You're barely halfway through your twenties! Calm down!
Me: But see, that's the point! Why am I like this? I don't want to get married! I don't need a man in my life to be fulfilled! I'm a feminist, damn it!
Her: Roar, woman! So, what's the problem?
Me: Well, the book kind of... made sense.
Her: If you utter the word "courtship," I am hanging up the phone right now.
Me: No! That's just it! The girl who wrote this book even said she thought the whole "dating/courtship" debate was ludicrous. I was like "Yeah! Where were you when I was getting shunned by the youth group for that perspective!"
Her: So, really, why this book? Why did you pick it up?
Me: Well, I guess I was just looking for a different perspective. At risk of being lame, a moral perspective? I mean, I love my SATC lifestyle as much as the next girl, but it's not going to last forever. In fact, if it lasts forever, I'll shoot myself. If I'm still single when I'm Carrie Bradshaw's age, I'm joining a convent. After all, I do look good in black. Although I'd have to see if there's a way around the wimple thing, because I don't do hats without brims.
Her: True, hats without brims are not a good look on you. Remember the backwards baseball cap debacle of 1998?
Me: Must you kick me when I am down? And since we're speaking of awful trends of the past, you took down that picture of us in your apartment, right, the one where we are on the beach and I am wearing those ridiculous overall shorts over a bathing suit and looking truly heinous?
Her: (shiftily) Yeah sure, I took it down.
Me: I don't believe you.
Her: Moral perspective, remember? Why the sudden interest?
Me: I don't know! I was hoping you could shed some light on it!
Her: It's not that out of the realm of possibility, Miss I attend Mass every week and recently signed up to be a Eucharistic Minister. You are a moral person. You're way more Charlotte than Samantha.
Me: OK, can we please not compare me to any of them at this point? And I did the Eucharistic Minister thing as a way to meet men! Add that to my credit towards my one-way ticket on a freight train to hell! So, anyway, then, not long ago I was talking to a friend and she said something about a friend of hers who married a youth minister, and I was like "awww, I would marry a youth minister!" I mean, where did that come from? I'm supposed to marry an investment banker! Or a hedge-fund manager! Or a jet-setting CEO of a multinational corporation!
Her: Man, you really don't dream small do you?
Me: No! I don't dream small! So why am I now so desperate to settle that I'm reading ridiculous dating books, Christian or otherwise, and planning my life as Mrs. Youth Pastor of Bumbleton, Iowa?
Her: Are you really doing that?
Me: Well, not quite. I'm totally not resigned to the Bumbleton, Iowa part yet.
Her: But it's OK to change your mind. It's OK to decide that would be OK. Or to open your mind to other possibilities than being a hard-nosed New Yorker for the next 3/4 of your life. Even if that means a youth minister. Even if it means a convent.
Me: I was kidding about the convent.
Her: I know. But you need to calm down. Stop freaking out. Open yourself to the possibilities. You are a Christian. And need I remind you that all of the guys you've seriously dated have been church-goers? I know you're running away and this whole "Christian dating book" thing seems like a blast from a past you're trying to forget, but it's not that bad. You don't have to be wacko about it, just like the girl in the book wasn't wacko about it. Just open your mind.
Me: Thanks, Oprah. I knew I could count on you.
Her: OK, Gayle. If I may continue on my soapbox for one more minute, it's just to remind you that you took a personality test in 12th grade that was supposed to tell you when you'd be ready to get married--
Me: Oh, yeah, I remember that! It sounds like something out of Cosmo, but it was totally a graded thing for religion class.
Her: Oh, 12th grade. Yes, and do you remember what your test said?
Me: Something like "28 and 6 months."
Her: It was "28 and 9 months."
Me: Why on earth do you remember that? Are you stalking me? Creepster...
Her: Oh please! You were like the only person in the class whose answer was above 24. And the teacher used you as a case study and warning against women who were too involved in their careers, and you told him where to shove it.
Me: Oh yeah. I forgot about that. Then he tried to give me detention for my language, but the disciplinarian thought it was a joke.
Her: Exactly!
Me: That's all well and good, but if I'm supposed to be married by the time I'm 28 and 9 months, and I have to be engaged for at least 9 months so I can get the pretty church and also so they can be certain I'm not knocked up, and I want to date for at least a year before getting engaged and preferably more like two years because we all know that it takes me a while to achieve a functional relationship, that means I need to meet and begin to date the person I will eventually marry, like, right now.
Her: But that's not the point! Remember that girl who spent the entire class period arguing with the teacher so the rest of us could study for the trig test the next period! The take no prisoners, kick butt, I will marry my CEO when I'm good and ready and whether I'm 28 or 38 or 88, it will be when the time is right for me and I will not live in a trailer and work for my dad and never get out of this two bit town girl. You're out! You're living the dream!
Me: But now I don't know if it is the dream. Maybe this book is a way of showing me that the dream is actually a nice church-going guy and a picket-fenced house in the suburbs.
Her: Maybe it is. That's what I told you. It's OK to change your mind. You've tried one dream. If it's not right, try another.
Me: I suppose you could be right. You're good at this. Almost as good as Dr. Kevin Leman.
Her: I know. It's why they pay me the big bucks.
Me: Believe me, if my insurance would pay for therapy, I would designate you as my mental health professional.
Her: Gee, that means a lot. By the way, don't think I'm forgetting about the box of Franzia you promised me.
Me: Don't think that I'm forgetting about the visit you promised me!
Her: Oh yeah, since we're on the topic of men and Christian dating, how's that guy you liked from your church?
Me: Do you mean "Cute Joe?"
Her: Yeah, have you talked to him yet?
Me: Um, yeah. Turns out we now have to refer to him as "Cute, Gay Joe."
Her: Oh, bummer. Not quite the dream, huh?
Me: Guess I keep looking. And reading.
Conclusion: I am insane. And in need of therapy. And lucky to have a dear old friend and a cell phone plan that offers unlimited nights and weekends.
Monday, September 22, 2008
And the Emmy goes to...
So, in honor of last night's "excitement" (or blatant lack there-of) in Hollywood, I offer the Emmy's of my last year of life.
Most Exciting but Probably Not Real Celebrity Subway Sighting: I am telling you people, I sat across from Jake Gyllenhaal on the subway. I know that it is highly, highly unlikely that he was taking the A train from JFK airport at 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening, but I know what I saw... Also, a few weeks later I rode the Q train from Brooklyn with a guy who was a dead ringer for Barack Obama. However, I'm willing to believe that it was not really him, mainly because there was no security around him, and because Barack doesn't really seem like a Q train type of guy. B train, maybe...
Most Atrocious but Definitely Legit "Celebrity" Sighting: Newman from Seinfeld outside an adult bookstore on 8th Avenue around 11:30 pm. For the record, all I was doing was walking home from work. I was not loitering on 8th Avenue, as I am neither a hooker nor a tourist.
Most Dramatic Near-Miss: I am walking down the street. Like a true New Yorker, I am texting someone, listening to my Ipod, thinking about what to order for dinner, looking for my Metrocard, and trying to blow the hair out of my eyes. I am also walking in the direct path of a Big Yellow Taxi (tm Joni Mitchell.) Kind, cute young doctor grabs my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I immediately assume he is attempting to steal my purse and hit him. We share a laugh. Light turns green. I never see kind, cute young doctor again. Life is so tragically unfair.
Store that Inevitably Makes Me Want to Hurt Myself, yet I Continue to Shop There Because I'm Too Lazy to Find Somewhere Better: Toss up between Duane Reade on 34th and 8th and the Kmart Penn Plaza. Duane Reade: Surliest employees in town, $1.79 plus deposit for a 20 oz Diet Coke, worst selection of greeting cards ever, they advertise the Visa Quickpass or whatever it's called where you just touch your card to the reader instead of swipe it and then they yell at you when you try to use it. Kmart: Always full of tourists (seriously, you came all this way to shop at Kmart?) and/or children, have to show your receipt on the way out the door, no matter how inconvenient it is (Do I really look like the type of person who steals from Kmart?), escalators are NEVER working, check-out takes at least 20 minutes, even if I am the only person on line.
First Place I Ever Had a "Usual": Oh, that sounds like a really dirty euphemism. Get your minds out of the gutter people, and get me to the red awninged Halal Pizza place, where $2 buys me a huge slice of greasy cheese pizza, a can of Diet Coke, and a flirtatious wink from the guy behind the counter (Hey, cut me a break... I worked 80 hours a week in an office full of women. Come-ons from the pizza guy were about the extent of my contact with the opposite sex.) About a month before I left my job, they upped the price to $2.25. I raised a stink and they stopped charging me the extra quarter. Considering I ate there at least 2 or 3 times a week, this could have been significant savings, if I hadn't quit my job and gotten the hell out of Midtown.
Biggest "Hell-yeah, I'm a Real Adult" Moment: Signing my own lease, no roommates, no parents. Just me, my landlord, and 3 month's rent upfront. Totally worth it. (Please excuse me while I now hum Beyonce's "Independent Woman" song, complete with illustrative dance moves.)
Biggest "WTF?" Moment: Sitting on A train on my way back to Brooklyn recently next to large, somewhat scary-looking man wearing what I am pretty sure is gang insignia, the kind of person I wouldn't normally sit next to (Good evening, racists and bigots, welcome to the First-class train to hell. My name is Sarah and I'll be your conductor this evening.) Anyway, all stereotyping is quickly proved incorrect when I realize that someone's Ipod is playing "Goodbye Until Tomorrow" from the Off-Broadway production of "The Last Five Years," which is the girliest, whiniest, most (amazingly) ridiculously belt-able ballad ever. Personally, I like to sing it while alone in the car using a Diet Coke bottle for a microphone (it really is amazing that I never get traffic tickets.) Anyway, I'm trying to figure out whose Ipod is treating us all to this lovely sound, when I turn around and realize not only is it the big scary gang member sitting next to me, but he is also mouthing the words along with the kind of emotion that normally causes me to get honked at by the 8 cars behind me because I'm so into chronicling the death of a relationship in ballad form that I haven't realized the light has been green for a full 30 seconds. I stare slack-jawed for a moment before I realize that even a big scary gang member with a penchant for off-Broadway classics is still a big scary gang member who I probably don't want to catch me staring. So I go back to my book and enjoy the music.
Most Common Saturday Afternoon Errand: The library. Too cheap for either cable or Netflix, the public library is this girls best friend. Not only can they entertain me with books, but they can provide me with hours of early 90's TV on DVD. However, Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Works at the Desk and Likes to Comment on my Choice of Entertainment, yes I do like Melrose Place, but no, it is not the "Gossip Girl" of our generation. Gossip Girl is the Gossip Girl of my generation. I don't know what the Gossip Girl of your generation was, but you clearly have a good 17 years on me, so I'm pretty sure we are not in the same generation. I might be slightly too old to enjoy Gossip Girl as much as I do, but you are definitely too old to be hitting on me. As a side note, same goes for Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Rides the Escalators at Target Alot. What part of this face (Just imagine my face here, I am not posting angry face pictures), what part of this face screams "I would be amenable to romantic overtures at the juncture"?
Most Exciting but Probably Not Real Celebrity Subway Sighting: I am telling you people, I sat across from Jake Gyllenhaal on the subway. I know that it is highly, highly unlikely that he was taking the A train from JFK airport at 10:30 pm on a Sunday evening, but I know what I saw... Also, a few weeks later I rode the Q train from Brooklyn with a guy who was a dead ringer for Barack Obama. However, I'm willing to believe that it was not really him, mainly because there was no security around him, and because Barack doesn't really seem like a Q train type of guy. B train, maybe...
Most Atrocious but Definitely Legit "Celebrity" Sighting: Newman from Seinfeld outside an adult bookstore on 8th Avenue around 11:30 pm. For the record, all I was doing was walking home from work. I was not loitering on 8th Avenue, as I am neither a hooker nor a tourist.
Most Dramatic Near-Miss: I am walking down the street. Like a true New Yorker, I am texting someone, listening to my Ipod, thinking about what to order for dinner, looking for my Metrocard, and trying to blow the hair out of my eyes. I am also walking in the direct path of a Big Yellow Taxi (tm Joni Mitchell.) Kind, cute young doctor grabs my arm and pulls me back onto the sidewalk. I immediately assume he is attempting to steal my purse and hit him. We share a laugh. Light turns green. I never see kind, cute young doctor again. Life is so tragically unfair.
Store that Inevitably Makes Me Want to Hurt Myself, yet I Continue to Shop There Because I'm Too Lazy to Find Somewhere Better: Toss up between Duane Reade on 34th and 8th and the Kmart Penn Plaza. Duane Reade: Surliest employees in town, $1.79 plus deposit for a 20 oz Diet Coke, worst selection of greeting cards ever, they advertise the Visa Quickpass or whatever it's called where you just touch your card to the reader instead of swipe it and then they yell at you when you try to use it. Kmart: Always full of tourists (seriously, you came all this way to shop at Kmart?) and/or children, have to show your receipt on the way out the door, no matter how inconvenient it is (Do I really look like the type of person who steals from Kmart?), escalators are NEVER working, check-out takes at least 20 minutes, even if I am the only person on line.
First Place I Ever Had a "Usual": Oh, that sounds like a really dirty euphemism. Get your minds out of the gutter people, and get me to the red awninged Halal Pizza place, where $2 buys me a huge slice of greasy cheese pizza, a can of Diet Coke, and a flirtatious wink from the guy behind the counter (Hey, cut me a break... I worked 80 hours a week in an office full of women. Come-ons from the pizza guy were about the extent of my contact with the opposite sex.) About a month before I left my job, they upped the price to $2.25. I raised a stink and they stopped charging me the extra quarter. Considering I ate there at least 2 or 3 times a week, this could have been significant savings, if I hadn't quit my job and gotten the hell out of Midtown.
Biggest "Hell-yeah, I'm a Real Adult" Moment: Signing my own lease, no roommates, no parents. Just me, my landlord, and 3 month's rent upfront. Totally worth it. (Please excuse me while I now hum Beyonce's "Independent Woman" song, complete with illustrative dance moves.)
Biggest "WTF?" Moment: Sitting on A train on my way back to Brooklyn recently next to large, somewhat scary-looking man wearing what I am pretty sure is gang insignia, the kind of person I wouldn't normally sit next to (Good evening, racists and bigots, welcome to the First-class train to hell. My name is Sarah and I'll be your conductor this evening.) Anyway, all stereotyping is quickly proved incorrect when I realize that someone's Ipod is playing "Goodbye Until Tomorrow" from the Off-Broadway production of "The Last Five Years," which is the girliest, whiniest, most (amazingly) ridiculously belt-able ballad ever. Personally, I like to sing it while alone in the car using a Diet Coke bottle for a microphone (it really is amazing that I never get traffic tickets.) Anyway, I'm trying to figure out whose Ipod is treating us all to this lovely sound, when I turn around and realize not only is it the big scary gang member sitting next to me, but he is also mouthing the words along with the kind of emotion that normally causes me to get honked at by the 8 cars behind me because I'm so into chronicling the death of a relationship in ballad form that I haven't realized the light has been green for a full 30 seconds. I stare slack-jawed for a moment before I realize that even a big scary gang member with a penchant for off-Broadway classics is still a big scary gang member who I probably don't want to catch me staring. So I go back to my book and enjoy the music.
Most Common Saturday Afternoon Errand: The library. Too cheap for either cable or Netflix, the public library is this girls best friend. Not only can they entertain me with books, but they can provide me with hours of early 90's TV on DVD. However, Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Works at the Desk and Likes to Comment on my Choice of Entertainment, yes I do like Melrose Place, but no, it is not the "Gossip Girl" of our generation. Gossip Girl is the Gossip Girl of my generation. I don't know what the Gossip Girl of your generation was, but you clearly have a good 17 years on me, so I'm pretty sure we are not in the same generation. I might be slightly too old to enjoy Gossip Girl as much as I do, but you are definitely too old to be hitting on me. As a side note, same goes for Mr. Creepy Old Guy who Rides the Escalators at Target Alot. What part of this face (Just imagine my face here, I am not posting angry face pictures), what part of this face screams "I would be amenable to romantic overtures at the juncture"?
Monday, September 15, 2008
xoxo You Know You Love Me
Is there anything better than meeting your idol? I mean, when one reads the amount of teen fiction that I read and aspires to someday author a series of modern classics of teen fiction, is there anything quite so awesome as a conversation with Cecily von Ziegesar? I can think of only one thing that would be awesome to a corresponding degree, and that is a conversation with Meg Cabot (Ms. Cabot, if you're out there, call me! I just know that we could be the best of friends!)
And that is why I love the city! When I can enjoy a Sunday afternoon book reading in the park by the author of Gossip Girl, get my copy of GG signed with a personal xoxo from the woman who made the xoxo what it is today, and be encouraged in my writing career, that's a fabulous good time. What can you do on a Sunday afternoon in the midwest? Shuck some corn and attend the local spelling bee? (I should be nicer to local spellers... I won the local spelling bee several years in a row. I still have the enormous red hardcover Webster's Dictionary that I won when I was 12 (what a prize!) and I use to reduce my sister to tears every time we play Scrabble (I wonder if this is why she now refuses to play?))
But can you meet a best-selling author? Can you chat at the book-signing table? Can you make everyone at work jealous because they did not meet the creator of Gossip Girl (well, I suppose that depends on what your co-workers are like. I happen to work with people who share my affinity for low-brow popular culture... we have recently discussed starting a book club, with the first book being Tori Spelling's autobiography, Stori Telling, which a) I have already read, and b) is that not the most clever name ever? I can only hope to come up with something equally fabulous when the Lifetime Original Movie of my life (starring Tori Spelling as me, if I can get my way) is ready to be filmed!)
So thank you Brooklyn Book Festival, for reminding me why I moved to this city. Thank you Ms. von Ziegesar, for writing your wonderful books and coming to talk about them. Thank you Mrs. Campbell, my first grade teacher, for encouraging a love of reading and writing that to this day draws me to places like Borough Hall on a humid Sunday afternoon to rediscover why I love words, pictures, and the New York Dream.
And that is why I love the city! When I can enjoy a Sunday afternoon book reading in the park by the author of Gossip Girl, get my copy of GG signed with a personal xoxo from the woman who made the xoxo what it is today, and be encouraged in my writing career, that's a fabulous good time. What can you do on a Sunday afternoon in the midwest? Shuck some corn and attend the local spelling bee? (I should be nicer to local spellers... I won the local spelling bee several years in a row. I still have the enormous red hardcover Webster's Dictionary that I won when I was 12 (what a prize!) and I use to reduce my sister to tears every time we play Scrabble (I wonder if this is why she now refuses to play?))
But can you meet a best-selling author? Can you chat at the book-signing table? Can you make everyone at work jealous because they did not meet the creator of Gossip Girl (well, I suppose that depends on what your co-workers are like. I happen to work with people who share my affinity for low-brow popular culture... we have recently discussed starting a book club, with the first book being Tori Spelling's autobiography, Stori Telling, which a) I have already read, and b) is that not the most clever name ever? I can only hope to come up with something equally fabulous when the Lifetime Original Movie of my life (starring Tori Spelling as me, if I can get my way) is ready to be filmed!)
So thank you Brooklyn Book Festival, for reminding me why I moved to this city. Thank you Ms. von Ziegesar, for writing your wonderful books and coming to talk about them. Thank you Mrs. Campbell, my first grade teacher, for encouraging a love of reading and writing that to this day draws me to places like Borough Hall on a humid Sunday afternoon to rediscover why I love words, pictures, and the New York Dream.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Jersey Girl
I think I could be a Jersey Girl. A girl could get used to this life.
I spent the weekend in the Dirty Jerz with an old college flatmate. She grew up on the shore and moved back there after college in the midwest. I can definitely see why.
I'd heard all kinds of things about the Jersey Shore. Big hair, Guidos, mallrats, all those 80's stereotypes swirled in my head as I boarded my train in Penn Station (having missed the original train I should have taken because I was still drunk from a work happy hour Friday night that somehow turned into about 6 happy hours and at one point included me doing an impression of Bill Clinton during the Monica scandal and laughing my head off, as though this were still an amusing and timely cultural reference. But I maintain that missing the train the next morning was less my fault than the fault of the damn G train, which functions about as well as a lab rat that has had carcinogenic age-defying makeup tested on it.)
So I was an hour late when J. picked me up at the station, anxious to hit the beach. A quick stop at her house to drop off my stuff, then a short drive, and there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. A confession: I'd never seen the true Atlantic from America before. I've seen the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and while I was living in England I saw the Atlantic from the other side. I've seen Long Island Sound and the East River but never the wide open expanse of sparkling blue ocean stretching clear over to my old home across the pond. It was beautiful, just like I always dreamed it would be all those years ago when I first read about the Baby-Sitters' Club vacationing there and imagined that someday, I, like Stacey McGill, would fall in love with a cute older lifeguard and then have my heart broken at the end of my two week summer vacation and it would be terribly tragic and romantic, as eighth grade romances tend to be (for the record, Stacey McGill also inspired me to move to this city in the first place, but that's a story for another day.)
I was not disappointed all weekend, by the beach, the sun, the sand, the surf, the seaside outdoor restaurant we had crab cakes at, the boardwalk we wandered and bars we visited after sunset, the reunion with an old friend, meeting new people, and visiting a full service gas station for the second time in my life (it's the law in Jersey... how bizarre. I can pump my own gas, thanks very much.) It was a wonderful break from the city. I definitely understand why people get summer houses! Someday, I intend to be one of them.
I spent the weekend in the Dirty Jerz with an old college flatmate. She grew up on the shore and moved back there after college in the midwest. I can definitely see why.
I'd heard all kinds of things about the Jersey Shore. Big hair, Guidos, mallrats, all those 80's stereotypes swirled in my head as I boarded my train in Penn Station (having missed the original train I should have taken because I was still drunk from a work happy hour Friday night that somehow turned into about 6 happy hours and at one point included me doing an impression of Bill Clinton during the Monica scandal and laughing my head off, as though this were still an amusing and timely cultural reference. But I maintain that missing the train the next morning was less my fault than the fault of the damn G train, which functions about as well as a lab rat that has had carcinogenic age-defying makeup tested on it.)
So I was an hour late when J. picked me up at the station, anxious to hit the beach. A quick stop at her house to drop off my stuff, then a short drive, and there it was. The Atlantic Ocean. A confession: I'd never seen the true Atlantic from America before. I've seen the Caribbean and the Gulf of Mexico, and while I was living in England I saw the Atlantic from the other side. I've seen Long Island Sound and the East River but never the wide open expanse of sparkling blue ocean stretching clear over to my old home across the pond. It was beautiful, just like I always dreamed it would be all those years ago when I first read about the Baby-Sitters' Club vacationing there and imagined that someday, I, like Stacey McGill, would fall in love with a cute older lifeguard and then have my heart broken at the end of my two week summer vacation and it would be terribly tragic and romantic, as eighth grade romances tend to be (for the record, Stacey McGill also inspired me to move to this city in the first place, but that's a story for another day.)
I was not disappointed all weekend, by the beach, the sun, the sand, the surf, the seaside outdoor restaurant we had crab cakes at, the boardwalk we wandered and bars we visited after sunset, the reunion with an old friend, meeting new people, and visiting a full service gas station for the second time in my life (it's the law in Jersey... how bizarre. I can pump my own gas, thanks very much.) It was a wonderful break from the city. I definitely understand why people get summer houses! Someday, I intend to be one of them.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Revenge of the Target Cashiers
I did the single-girl’s-grocery-shop yesterday. It was one of those moments when you stop, look at your life, and realize that that particular moment would have been more at home as the opening line of a bad romantic comedy (probably starring Meg Ryan and written by Nora Ephron… not that I have anything against either of these amazing women or the movies they have made together. Although it must be said, I don’t really get what people love so much about Sleepless in Seattle. It just didn’t do anything for me. But I digress…) than in the often boring, sometimes difficult, where’s-my-happy-ending-and-would-Prince-Charming-hurry-up-already-endless cycle of real life.
One of the delights of my recent move and job change is my new proximity to Target. Why there is no target on the island is one of life’s mysteries right up there with “Where do all the socks go?” and “If Mike Brady was such a great architect, why’d he have six kids and one bathroom?” But venture just a few minutes outside, and suddenly behold that mecca of my suburban upbringing, the Tar-jay. Classier than Kmart, less politically incorrect than Wal-mart, and smartly lacking that beacon of lower-class consumerism, the world “mart” anywhere in the name, Target draws us like moths to flames. I spent countless hours of my adolescence roaming the aisles, purchasing everything from butterfly hairclips and bottled Starbucks Frappucino to cat toys and greeting cards. We debated for hours about whether the guys from Savage Garden were really gay and whether or not it was okay to open bottles of Wet and Wild nail polish and try it out on one fingernail to see if the color was really what it looked like in the bottle. We drove cashiers crazy, buying bridal magazines and pretending we were engaged, pretending to be foreign by talking jibberish to each other, and once, staging an elaborate love-triangle/break-up scene in the middle of the shampoo aisle, just to see how people would react. (Hey, Midwestern adolescents have to entertain ourselves, okay? Don’t judge.)
But it was just yesterday that I realized how far my shopping habits have come (or fallen, as the case may be.) I made my way to Target after work, which I normally avoid because of the crowd, but today I thought I’d just run in and out. I was after only one thing: the studio apartment dweller’s best friend: the Lean Pocket. Normally outrageously priced (what isn’t, in this city? Even at Target) but on sale for 5 for $9, I needed to stock up. I zipped through the rest of the store, but there wasn’t much that I needed, nor that I was willing to schlep the mile back to my apartment while wearing work clothes. So I ended up at the checkout counter with nothing in my basket but 8 boxes of Lean Pockets.
Now, I can cook. In fact, much to the shock of many who knew me in my old life, I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook. Much to my own shock, I actually kind of enjoy it. But sometimes, cooking for one gets old. Sometimes, there’s no milk or butter or salad dressing, and I just really don’t want to go back out to the store to haul home one thing that will probably go bad before I use it all. Now, this is when the normal person orders Chinese takeout and calls it a night, but I never pretended to be normal. Nor do I, as I believe I have made clear many times, have an unlimited income. So for less than a buck, the Lean Pocket seems like a marginal step up from a college existence based on ramen noodles and stolen dining hall cereal.
But it was at the checkout that I realized how far I’d fallen. I stood in line, I smiled at the toddler in front of me (see, I am a good person after all), I wished death upon the person behind me nattering into a cell phone in Korean at the top of her voice, I idly flipped through US Weekly with no intention of buying it but every desire to stay updated on the exploits of Lindsay Lohan. Then I got to the front, unloaded my basket, and when nothing happened, looked up into the eyes of the sassy older black lady working the checkout lane. She looked at me, looked at my basket, looked back at me, shook her head sadly, and said, in a booming voice that even temporarily drowned out the Korean nitwit behind me, while everyone in the store stopped and stared, “Honey, you gotta find yourself a man!”
Well, no shit, Sherlock. I’m doing my best. So, as I did my walk of shame out the door of Target with my two bags full of Lean Pockets, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is some kind of cosmic payback for the torture I inflicted on Target employees throughout my youth. If so, well played, Janet T. You are a worthy opponent.
One of the delights of my recent move and job change is my new proximity to Target. Why there is no target on the island is one of life’s mysteries right up there with “Where do all the socks go?” and “If Mike Brady was such a great architect, why’d he have six kids and one bathroom?” But venture just a few minutes outside, and suddenly behold that mecca of my suburban upbringing, the Tar-jay. Classier than Kmart, less politically incorrect than Wal-mart, and smartly lacking that beacon of lower-class consumerism, the world “mart” anywhere in the name, Target draws us like moths to flames. I spent countless hours of my adolescence roaming the aisles, purchasing everything from butterfly hairclips and bottled Starbucks Frappucino to cat toys and greeting cards. We debated for hours about whether the guys from Savage Garden were really gay and whether or not it was okay to open bottles of Wet and Wild nail polish and try it out on one fingernail to see if the color was really what it looked like in the bottle. We drove cashiers crazy, buying bridal magazines and pretending we were engaged, pretending to be foreign by talking jibberish to each other, and once, staging an elaborate love-triangle/break-up scene in the middle of the shampoo aisle, just to see how people would react. (Hey, Midwestern adolescents have to entertain ourselves, okay? Don’t judge.)
But it was just yesterday that I realized how far my shopping habits have come (or fallen, as the case may be.) I made my way to Target after work, which I normally avoid because of the crowd, but today I thought I’d just run in and out. I was after only one thing: the studio apartment dweller’s best friend: the Lean Pocket. Normally outrageously priced (what isn’t, in this city? Even at Target) but on sale for 5 for $9, I needed to stock up. I zipped through the rest of the store, but there wasn’t much that I needed, nor that I was willing to schlep the mile back to my apartment while wearing work clothes. So I ended up at the checkout counter with nothing in my basket but 8 boxes of Lean Pockets.
Now, I can cook. In fact, much to the shock of many who knew me in my old life, I’ve turned out to be a pretty good cook. Much to my own shock, I actually kind of enjoy it. But sometimes, cooking for one gets old. Sometimes, there’s no milk or butter or salad dressing, and I just really don’t want to go back out to the store to haul home one thing that will probably go bad before I use it all. Now, this is when the normal person orders Chinese takeout and calls it a night, but I never pretended to be normal. Nor do I, as I believe I have made clear many times, have an unlimited income. So for less than a buck, the Lean Pocket seems like a marginal step up from a college existence based on ramen noodles and stolen dining hall cereal.
But it was at the checkout that I realized how far I’d fallen. I stood in line, I smiled at the toddler in front of me (see, I am a good person after all), I wished death upon the person behind me nattering into a cell phone in Korean at the top of her voice, I idly flipped through US Weekly with no intention of buying it but every desire to stay updated on the exploits of Lindsay Lohan. Then I got to the front, unloaded my basket, and when nothing happened, looked up into the eyes of the sassy older black lady working the checkout lane. She looked at me, looked at my basket, looked back at me, shook her head sadly, and said, in a booming voice that even temporarily drowned out the Korean nitwit behind me, while everyone in the store stopped and stared, “Honey, you gotta find yourself a man!”
Well, no shit, Sherlock. I’m doing my best. So, as I did my walk of shame out the door of Target with my two bags full of Lean Pockets, I couldn’t help but wonder if this is some kind of cosmic payback for the torture I inflicted on Target employees throughout my youth. If so, well played, Janet T. You are a worthy opponent.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
SIngle White Females
Okay, this post title is a lie. Well, at the very least, it is misleading. I have had many, many roommates in my life, starting with my little sister and continuing right on up through this year. Many (most?) of them have been odd, a few have been total freaks, a very few have remained my best friends in the whole wide world. But, thank God, none of them have stolen my identity, fallen in love with me, or tried to have me killed. I like to think that that's a pretty good track record.
I mean, I, clearly, am the perfect roommate. I never do anything annoying, like date 45 year old South Bend police officers and bring them around the dorm room while my roommate is passed out on the couch deathly ill on a Saturday night, surrounded by tissues and blankets and watching a ridiculous movie (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and most emphatically not in the mood to be joined by your creepy cop boyfriend while he waits for you to get ready for the evening. I also don't make a federal case out of it when someone eats all my cheese, although I did once read my roommate the riot act after finding out that she ate the last of my bread and eggs, and I'd been planning on making French Toast and I had no other food in the apartment because my mother and sister were visiting and I'd been staying with them but then they left and it was Easter Sunday and for some reason no stores were open and I had been planning on making french toast and HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT EAT SOMEONE ELSE'S FOOD? Yeesh, I'm still angry about that.
So this time, it's adios to the roommate life. I'm striking out on my own. I found a delightful studio and I am making the leap! Sure, I have no furniture. And sure, this means I'll have to kill any bugs I might find on my own (but I already do that, so INBD). But it also means for the first time in my life, I have my own bathroom. If it's a mess, it's my mess. Same for the kitchen. No more having to wash someone else's dirty dishes before I can cook my dinner. If there are dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. No more keeping a running tally of how many cans of Diet Coke are mine in the fridge, and how many belong to my roommate, and whether's she drank one of mine or I drank one of hers. If there's Diet Coke in the fridge (and believe me, there is always Diet Coke in the fridge) it's MY DIET COKE. Does life get any better than that?
I mean, I, clearly, am the perfect roommate. I never do anything annoying, like date 45 year old South Bend police officers and bring them around the dorm room while my roommate is passed out on the couch deathly ill on a Saturday night, surrounded by tissues and blankets and watching a ridiculous movie (My Big Fat Greek Wedding) and most emphatically not in the mood to be joined by your creepy cop boyfriend while he waits for you to get ready for the evening. I also don't make a federal case out of it when someone eats all my cheese, although I did once read my roommate the riot act after finding out that she ate the last of my bread and eggs, and I'd been planning on making French Toast and I had no other food in the apartment because my mother and sister were visiting and I'd been staying with them but then they left and it was Easter Sunday and for some reason no stores were open and I had been planning on making french toast and HOW HARD IS IT TO NOT EAT SOMEONE ELSE'S FOOD? Yeesh, I'm still angry about that.
So this time, it's adios to the roommate life. I'm striking out on my own. I found a delightful studio and I am making the leap! Sure, I have no furniture. And sure, this means I'll have to kill any bugs I might find on my own (but I already do that, so INBD). But it also means for the first time in my life, I have my own bathroom. If it's a mess, it's my mess. Same for the kitchen. No more having to wash someone else's dirty dishes before I can cook my dinner. If there are dishes in the sink, they're my dishes. No more keeping a running tally of how many cans of Diet Coke are mine in the fridge, and how many belong to my roommate, and whether's she drank one of mine or I drank one of hers. If there's Diet Coke in the fridge (and believe me, there is always Diet Coke in the fridge) it's MY DIET COKE. Does life get any better than that?
Sunday, May 25, 2008
It Happened in Brooklyn...
Yesterday I ventured out to my soon-to-be borough for the second time ever. I've got to get out more! I loved it. I never, ever thought I'd like Brooklyn. Like SATC's Miranda (as loathe as I am to commiserate with such a heinous bitch) or Grace in the pilot episode of Will and Grace (as loathe as I am to commiserate with such a shrill harpy), I thought moving to Brooklyn meant giving up all hope of a life like Hollywood promised me. Afterall, no one lives in Brooklyn. No movies (at least none that I'd want to emulate) are set in Brooklyn. If the movies are to be believed, the best thing about Brooklyn was the bridge into Manhattan.
And maybe that's still true. I spent the afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge park with my blanket and my peanut M&M's, reading in the sun about Bill Bryson's travels in Europe. The park was lovely- lots of green grass, huge flat rocks to sit on, a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan skyline, a breeze off the water of the East River. They show free movies in the park on Thursday nights in the summer, and in honor of the 125th anniversary of the opening of the "Grand Lady of Brooklyn" (the bridge), each night this weekend. Last night it was "It Happened in Brooklyn," a 1947 musical romantic comedy starring Frank Sinatra. While I'm not so sure about the "comedy" part (lots of ethnic jokes at the expense of an Italian janitor), I love old movies like this. (Actually, anytime Frank sings is good enough for me.) But Frank Sinatra's character loved Brooklyn. He was proud of Brooklyn. He wanted everyone to know that he was a proud Brooklyn-ite.
And it hit me. I want to be a part of that. I want to find a place that people are proud of and I want to be a part of it. Now, this movie is sixty years old. Maybe there's not so much to be proud of in Brooklyn these days. But maybe there wasn't back then. Maybe Frank loved it anyway.
And maybe it's okay to love a place that's not perfect. I spent so long hating my hometown, for so many reasons. Its painful dullness, its nosy denizens, its painful struggle to believe in a glory long-past while refusing to acknowledge its own steady decline. I don't love it there, but I might be learning to respect it more. There's nobility in a lost cause, even if it's painful to watch those I love go down with the ship.
So I'm giving Brooklyn a try. I'm older and I'm (arguably) wiser now, and I'm no longer looking for perfection. There's a beauty in reality that gets lost in utopia, a beauty I've never recognized before. Encouraged by the movies, I thought Manhattan was utopia. It's certainly not, but I'm no longer looking for it. Here's hoping I find my beauty in Brooklyn.
And maybe that's still true. I spent the afternoon in Brooklyn Bridge park with my blanket and my peanut M&M's, reading in the sun about Bill Bryson's travels in Europe. The park was lovely- lots of green grass, huge flat rocks to sit on, a perfect view of the Brooklyn Bridge and the lower Manhattan skyline, a breeze off the water of the East River. They show free movies in the park on Thursday nights in the summer, and in honor of the 125th anniversary of the opening of the "Grand Lady of Brooklyn" (the bridge), each night this weekend. Last night it was "It Happened in Brooklyn," a 1947 musical romantic comedy starring Frank Sinatra. While I'm not so sure about the "comedy" part (lots of ethnic jokes at the expense of an Italian janitor), I love old movies like this. (Actually, anytime Frank sings is good enough for me.) But Frank Sinatra's character loved Brooklyn. He was proud of Brooklyn. He wanted everyone to know that he was a proud Brooklyn-ite.
And it hit me. I want to be a part of that. I want to find a place that people are proud of and I want to be a part of it. Now, this movie is sixty years old. Maybe there's not so much to be proud of in Brooklyn these days. But maybe there wasn't back then. Maybe Frank loved it anyway.
And maybe it's okay to love a place that's not perfect. I spent so long hating my hometown, for so many reasons. Its painful dullness, its nosy denizens, its painful struggle to believe in a glory long-past while refusing to acknowledge its own steady decline. I don't love it there, but I might be learning to respect it more. There's nobility in a lost cause, even if it's painful to watch those I love go down with the ship.
So I'm giving Brooklyn a try. I'm older and I'm (arguably) wiser now, and I'm no longer looking for perfection. There's a beauty in reality that gets lost in utopia, a beauty I've never recognized before. Encouraged by the movies, I thought Manhattan was utopia. It's certainly not, but I'm no longer looking for it. Here's hoping I find my beauty in Brooklyn.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
She Works Hard for Her Money
I'm trying something new. It's called "A job that doesn't suck." Novel idea, isn't it?
That's right, I got a new job! One that doesn't require me to put in 80 hours a week for tiny, tiny wages. One that respects my right to personal time, my right to privacy, and my right to not spend my days hawking an alternate post-graduate option to college seniors who dread seeing my name in their inbox.
I had a great interview last week, and they offered me the position within two days. I'm leaving the non-profit org. world and entering the realm of higher education administration... I'm thinking this is my true calling. I love telling people what to do. If I couldn't be a college administrator, I'd be a high school guidance counselor-- or even better, a college counselor, telling students where they should go and what they should do with their lives. I can't keep my own life together, but I can certainly tell other people what's wrong with theirs. I mean, I even talk back to the characters on Melrose Place (for example, Jo Reynolds, do you really think it's a good idea to let crazy Kimberly Shaw deliver your baby in secret? Seriously? In what universe was did that seem like a good idea? Dumbass.)
So, a new job, a new start. I'm staying in the city, but as my new job is in an entirely different location, I'll be making a move. Look for upcoming stories about apartment hunting, getting to know a new area of the city, and whether or not my new job lives up to the expectations I've set for it. In my interview, my new boss made reference to himself as "The Devil Wears Prada," but only on those rare occasions that everything goes wrong. I told him I think I can live with that. We'll have to wait and see how right I am.
That's right, I got a new job! One that doesn't require me to put in 80 hours a week for tiny, tiny wages. One that respects my right to personal time, my right to privacy, and my right to not spend my days hawking an alternate post-graduate option to college seniors who dread seeing my name in their inbox.
I had a great interview last week, and they offered me the position within two days. I'm leaving the non-profit org. world and entering the realm of higher education administration... I'm thinking this is my true calling. I love telling people what to do. If I couldn't be a college administrator, I'd be a high school guidance counselor-- or even better, a college counselor, telling students where they should go and what they should do with their lives. I can't keep my own life together, but I can certainly tell other people what's wrong with theirs. I mean, I even talk back to the characters on Melrose Place (for example, Jo Reynolds, do you really think it's a good idea to let crazy Kimberly Shaw deliver your baby in secret? Seriously? In what universe was did that seem like a good idea? Dumbass.)
So, a new job, a new start. I'm staying in the city, but as my new job is in an entirely different location, I'll be making a move. Look for upcoming stories about apartment hunting, getting to know a new area of the city, and whether or not my new job lives up to the expectations I've set for it. In my interview, my new boss made reference to himself as "The Devil Wears Prada," but only on those rare occasions that everything goes wrong. I told him I think I can live with that. We'll have to wait and see how right I am.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The One Where I Learn about People like Janice...
Today I learned a very important lesson: People like Janice really do exist.
Janice, the bane of Chandler Bing's existence, who I, being a sheltered, small-town Catholic girl, always thought was a bit of an exaggeration. It was on my walk home, outside a restaurant somewhere that I heard it. This...voice. It can only be described as... nasal. She was braying, people. That's the only way to put it. The woman sounded like a donkey. She was whining to some man named Andre and it came out like "Aaaaaaaaaaannnndreee." Just imagine the high-pitched nasal whine. I had no idea that there actually are people who talk like that.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I discovered that there are people who really do talk like Tony Soprano when I met the broker who showed me the first apartment I ever saw in NYC (a $4000/month, converted 3 bedroom, 1 bath, with no living room-it was a real winner!) She had an accent that sounded like a pretentious high-school drama student from Iowa who believes that the thicker the fake accent, the better her chances of getting noticed by the Hollywood talent agents who, she is certain, have nothing better to do than attend suburban school-district productions of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." Oh please, you know exactly which girl I'm talking about. Every high school had that girl.
I always get annoyed when I go back to the Midwest and all these redneck hicks in my hometown start making passive-aggressive comments about my choice of habitat and asking me why, if I want to be a "big time city girl" so much, why I don't talk like a "New Yawker?" Now I'm starting to wonder if I should cut them some slack (actually, nah. No slack for the rednecks!) But after all, it does appear that these Hollywood accents do exist in at least a few real people. So thanks, Hollywood, for another one of those "sort-of true" facts of life that lull me into a false sense of security and seduce me into forgetting, however briefly, just what a liar you really are.
Janice, the bane of Chandler Bing's existence, who I, being a sheltered, small-town Catholic girl, always thought was a bit of an exaggeration. It was on my walk home, outside a restaurant somewhere that I heard it. This...voice. It can only be described as... nasal. She was braying, people. That's the only way to put it. The woman sounded like a donkey. She was whining to some man named Andre and it came out like "Aaaaaaaaaaannnndreee." Just imagine the high-pitched nasal whine. I had no idea that there actually are people who talk like that.
I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. After all, I discovered that there are people who really do talk like Tony Soprano when I met the broker who showed me the first apartment I ever saw in NYC (a $4000/month, converted 3 bedroom, 1 bath, with no living room-it was a real winner!) She had an accent that sounded like a pretentious high-school drama student from Iowa who believes that the thicker the fake accent, the better her chances of getting noticed by the Hollywood talent agents who, she is certain, have nothing better to do than attend suburban school-district productions of "A Tree Grows in Brooklyn." Oh please, you know exactly which girl I'm talking about. Every high school had that girl.
I always get annoyed when I go back to the Midwest and all these redneck hicks in my hometown start making passive-aggressive comments about my choice of habitat and asking me why, if I want to be a "big time city girl" so much, why I don't talk like a "New Yawker?" Now I'm starting to wonder if I should cut them some slack (actually, nah. No slack for the rednecks!) But after all, it does appear that these Hollywood accents do exist in at least a few real people. So thanks, Hollywood, for another one of those "sort-of true" facts of life that lull me into a false sense of security and seduce me into forgetting, however briefly, just what a liar you really are.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Who's the Boss?
You know, it's really not fair. I mean, Hollywood has lied to me about a lot things. Relationships, city life, college, the list goes on and on. But one of it's biggest fibs, I'd have to say, always involves the job search.
I mean, the Hollywood heroine always gets the dream job, and it always falls right in her lap. She meets someone on an elevator, and next thing you know, dream job, cute boyfriend, great apartment, life is perfect. She storms out of her crappy old job, and suddenly people are beating down her door because they respect her so much (yeah, right. Has anyone ever seen this happen? If I could think of one instance where it worked in real life, I'd have bitch-slapped my current job to the curb months ago.) Even when Hollywood purports to show the difficulty of job hunting (The Pursuit of Happyness, I'm looking at you), massive obstacles are overcome and everyone is employed and financially secure by the end of the 108 minute run time.
What Hollywood never showed me was the people who would never call back, never even acknowledge my resume. Okay, fine, I can live with that. Even worse are the people who phone interview you, and then you never hear from them again. But what really, really gets my goat are the people who drag you through hoop after hoop, make you take tests, provide writing samples, fly down to Washington DC for a personal interview that winds up being this awkward meeting in a coffee shop during which you discuss nothing of substance and nothing relating to your actual ability to do the job, but where you can tell the interviewer is evaluating based entirely on whether or not she thinks you'd fit in if she invited you to a Christmas party with all of her sorority sisters (hint: I would NOT.) Then, after all that, you still kind of want the job even though it's clear the boss is a wackjob, but the work itself would be really interesting and look great on a resume, but the manager proceeds to tell you at the end of the interview that she is then leaving the country for 3 weeks and will "try to be in touch, but can't make any promises" so you spend the next month emailing her just to try to figure out where things stand, and she takes her sweet time getting back to you, puts you off for another week, and finally emails you back to say that she just can't offer you the job because she "needs someone with more experience creating systems in an international context." and you're like "The what with the what, now? A) Why didn't you actually ask me about that sort of experience in my interview, you twit. How do you even know that I don't have it? B) You will not find any more experience than I have at the salary you are offering, you twit and C) You are a twit. That is all."
Banging my head against a wall. There's no way I can stay in the position I'm in now for another year. Something's got to open up soon, or it's back to the midwest with me... and if that happens, I'm not sure I'll ever make it out again.
I mean, the Hollywood heroine always gets the dream job, and it always falls right in her lap. She meets someone on an elevator, and next thing you know, dream job, cute boyfriend, great apartment, life is perfect. She storms out of her crappy old job, and suddenly people are beating down her door because they respect her so much (yeah, right. Has anyone ever seen this happen? If I could think of one instance where it worked in real life, I'd have bitch-slapped my current job to the curb months ago.) Even when Hollywood purports to show the difficulty of job hunting (The Pursuit of Happyness, I'm looking at you), massive obstacles are overcome and everyone is employed and financially secure by the end of the 108 minute run time.
What Hollywood never showed me was the people who would never call back, never even acknowledge my resume. Okay, fine, I can live with that. Even worse are the people who phone interview you, and then you never hear from them again. But what really, really gets my goat are the people who drag you through hoop after hoop, make you take tests, provide writing samples, fly down to Washington DC for a personal interview that winds up being this awkward meeting in a coffee shop during which you discuss nothing of substance and nothing relating to your actual ability to do the job, but where you can tell the interviewer is evaluating based entirely on whether or not she thinks you'd fit in if she invited you to a Christmas party with all of her sorority sisters (hint: I would NOT.) Then, after all that, you still kind of want the job even though it's clear the boss is a wackjob, but the work itself would be really interesting and look great on a resume, but the manager proceeds to tell you at the end of the interview that she is then leaving the country for 3 weeks and will "try to be in touch, but can't make any promises" so you spend the next month emailing her just to try to figure out where things stand, and she takes her sweet time getting back to you, puts you off for another week, and finally emails you back to say that she just can't offer you the job because she "needs someone with more experience creating systems in an international context." and you're like "The what with the what, now? A) Why didn't you actually ask me about that sort of experience in my interview, you twit. How do you even know that I don't have it? B) You will not find any more experience than I have at the salary you are offering, you twit and C) You are a twit. That is all."
Banging my head against a wall. There's no way I can stay in the position I'm in now for another year. Something's got to open up soon, or it's back to the midwest with me... and if that happens, I'm not sure I'll ever make it out again.
Saturday, March 29, 2008
Mama said there'd be days like this...
Some days, it's enough to make you want to smash your television (that is, if you are prone to rage, like me. And if your television actually belongs to you, not your roommate-- it is not a good idea to smash your roommates belongings... even if both the roommate and the offending property deserve it.)
I mean, when was the last time that you watched Carrie Bradshaw spend her Saturday popping in and out of 3 different Duane Reade's, desperately hoping that one of them would still have that life-altering Spring drug of choice, Claritin? Did she ever have to deal with surly pharmacy employees wondering why you could possibly want the box with the 50% more free (um, gnarly checkout woman, perhaps because I am going to be living off of this stuff for the next 3 months, and I do not have an unlimited income, and I will demand every single free pill that I can get. It's not like you're not gouging me already. And it's not like it's any harder for you to pull that box of the shelf instead of the other one. And finally, I would like to share with you a little saying that we from the midwest hold rather dear, and which this city could sorely stand to embrace: Because the customer is always right! And for that matter, I have every right to ask if you have the $.99 birthday cards. Do I look like I'm made of money? I'm going to wipe that sneer right off your face!) Lucky, lucky Carrie Bradshaw.
Likewise, did our intrepid friend Carrie ever, EVER, devote the remainder of her Saturday to hanging wet laundry around her 3 person, 400 sq. ft. apartment because some nitwit jammed the laundry card machine, leaving her with no way to dry the two soaking loads she had just done. Why, oh why, oh why, can't washing machines take change anymore? Did Carrie ever have to dry her clothes by hanging them off of every surface, chair and doorknob in the apartment, as well as laying them out on her bed (thereby preventing any hope of actually sitting anywhere in the apartment?) No, she did not. Lucky, lucky Carrie.
I mean, when was the last time that you watched Carrie Bradshaw spend her Saturday popping in and out of 3 different Duane Reade's, desperately hoping that one of them would still have that life-altering Spring drug of choice, Claritin? Did she ever have to deal with surly pharmacy employees wondering why you could possibly want the box with the 50% more free (um, gnarly checkout woman, perhaps because I am going to be living off of this stuff for the next 3 months, and I do not have an unlimited income, and I will demand every single free pill that I can get. It's not like you're not gouging me already. And it's not like it's any harder for you to pull that box of the shelf instead of the other one. And finally, I would like to share with you a little saying that we from the midwest hold rather dear, and which this city could sorely stand to embrace: Because the customer is always right! And for that matter, I have every right to ask if you have the $.99 birthday cards. Do I look like I'm made of money? I'm going to wipe that sneer right off your face!) Lucky, lucky Carrie Bradshaw.
Likewise, did our intrepid friend Carrie ever, EVER, devote the remainder of her Saturday to hanging wet laundry around her 3 person, 400 sq. ft. apartment because some nitwit jammed the laundry card machine, leaving her with no way to dry the two soaking loads she had just done. Why, oh why, oh why, can't washing machines take change anymore? Did Carrie ever have to dry her clothes by hanging them off of every surface, chair and doorknob in the apartment, as well as laying them out on her bed (thereby preventing any hope of actually sitting anywhere in the apartment?) No, she did not. Lucky, lucky Carrie.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
28 Days
I've finally had an epiphany. I finally figured out why I don't have a man in my life.
It's simple really. In fact, it really should not have taken me this many years of bad nighttime soap opera addiction to get to this point. But that's just it. For my addictions, there's no rehab. And rehab is where, apparently, women go to meet men.
I know. You're all thinking, "Duh."
I mean, how did this escape me? All those years of celebrity tabloid reading- have I learned nothing? All those hours with the OC, 90210, Desperate Housewives, and one day, during a routine re-viewing of Melrose Place, it hits me. I too could meet an alcoholic, sex-addicted yet hot enough to overlook these faults pro football player if I could just get to rehab.
Sorry, Grandma, I know that this is not what you had in mind at Christmas when you sat me down for the annual "When I was your age, I already had a husband and 3 children" speech and you told me to put myself out there. I know that you meant I should attend a singles' dance (do those still exist anywhere on earth outside the pages of "The Rules?") or volunteer at a hospital so I can meet a nice doctor (Clearly Grandma does not watch Grey's Anatomy, or she would know that hospitals are dens of iniquity, not places to meet "nice Christian men.") But I think rehab is the best option for me.
After all, rehab is like adult summer camp, and we all remember how the relationships flourished at summer camp. I myself snared one of Camp Takehee's most eligible sixth-grade boys (of course, if I were smart, I'd have never let him go. Depressingly, those fleeting few weeks probably constituted my last fully functional relationship. Listen up kids! It's all downhill from there!) The close quarters, the forced interaction, the lack of distractions- it's the perfect place to start! And you already have something in common. Sure, it's addiction, but no relationship's perfect.
And to top it all off, you get free time off of work! And it's (in most cases) covered by insurance! Who needs a spa when you can get an all-expenses paid 28 day vacation with plenty of vulnerable men?
So, Sandals Jamaica, cancel my spring reservation. Rehab is clearly the place to be!
It's simple really. In fact, it really should not have taken me this many years of bad nighttime soap opera addiction to get to this point. But that's just it. For my addictions, there's no rehab. And rehab is where, apparently, women go to meet men.
I know. You're all thinking, "Duh."
I mean, how did this escape me? All those years of celebrity tabloid reading- have I learned nothing? All those hours with the OC, 90210, Desperate Housewives, and one day, during a routine re-viewing of Melrose Place, it hits me. I too could meet an alcoholic, sex-addicted yet hot enough to overlook these faults pro football player if I could just get to rehab.
Sorry, Grandma, I know that this is not what you had in mind at Christmas when you sat me down for the annual "When I was your age, I already had a husband and 3 children" speech and you told me to put myself out there. I know that you meant I should attend a singles' dance (do those still exist anywhere on earth outside the pages of "The Rules?") or volunteer at a hospital so I can meet a nice doctor (Clearly Grandma does not watch Grey's Anatomy, or she would know that hospitals are dens of iniquity, not places to meet "nice Christian men.") But I think rehab is the best option for me.
After all, rehab is like adult summer camp, and we all remember how the relationships flourished at summer camp. I myself snared one of Camp Takehee's most eligible sixth-grade boys (of course, if I were smart, I'd have never let him go. Depressingly, those fleeting few weeks probably constituted my last fully functional relationship. Listen up kids! It's all downhill from there!) The close quarters, the forced interaction, the lack of distractions- it's the perfect place to start! And you already have something in common. Sure, it's addiction, but no relationship's perfect.
And to top it all off, you get free time off of work! And it's (in most cases) covered by insurance! Who needs a spa when you can get an all-expenses paid 28 day vacation with plenty of vulnerable men?
So, Sandals Jamaica, cancel my spring reservation. Rehab is clearly the place to be!
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