Why? Whyyyyy

Something horrible is happening all around us and I am not sure if anyone is truly ready for it. Winter has settled in. For a brief moment this past weekend when I was frolicking along Compo beach basking in the golden glow of the unadulterated sun, I thought maybe it was spring. Families were playing Frisbee, jackets were sporadic, and I am pretty sure I saw the crowning of a newborn crocus on someone’s lawn. But alas, the bitter winds have taken warmth away from us and replaced it with the harsh reality that winter is here until March 20th. So everyone should settle in for three long, horrible months, until we will be able to enjoy a few mediocre ones that will bring us back to the glory of summer. To help guide this journey, below are a few reasons why I love box wine.

1.3 bottles? One box? Hello!
2.They fit perfectly into my freakishly small fridge
3.They are environmentally conscious- we all know I am all about reducing my carbon footprint! If I need to continue to drink box wine in order to save the environment, then I will just have to do it!
4.They are extremely portable and perfect for a picnic or a long subway ride.
5.They come complete with a spigot for easy pouring and sealing.

I hereby pronounce box wine as eggnog’s replacement and the single item that will get me through winter. That- or we could figure out how the whole hibernation thing works.

Thanks and Praise

I recently had a holiday gathering at which I planned to almost solely serve eggnog and since apparently nobody really likes I it I am left with a plethora of excess nog. Since I pretty much only have eggnog in my fridge currently after I recently polished off the jar of cornichons I have been munching on, I have exclusively been drinking eggnog on a nightly basis post holiday extravaganza. And I have discovered that this little elixir is intoxicatingly delicious.

Who invented this magical concoction? What genius decided that blending eggs, milk, and sugar would make such a perfect treat? It has completed my winter nights as I doze off to sleep in front of tube and it has been a surprising addition to my morning coffee. It is also a splendid portal for consuming large quantities of alcohol. Why are we limited to eggnog just one time per year?? Will the day ever come that this could be a year round delicacy?

I still have a few more cartons, so I won’t panic just yet, but I am fearful of the day when I have to put the mug down and step away from the eggnog. What comforting beverage will fill its void? To the creator of eggnog- thank you. My challenge to you now- send me something to wean me off its sweet sweet nectar.

Fin

I envisioned this online dating venture as a thrilling topic of blogging. Since most aspects of my life chart me in the fast lane, I figured this would be the same. I pictured numerous dates per week, doubling up on certain days, confusing people’s back-stories and having wild tales of stalkers and obsessive compulsive prone perverts to bring to the girls at work. I was also looking forward to obtaining exceptional blogging material.

However, it is now that the sad truth is beginning to present itself. My forte in life is most likely not online dating. I am awful at small talk, I don’t get online chatting, and crafting a witty e-mail is not really my game. Most of all, I hate talking about myself to people I don’t know. Due to my distaste for this rather integral cornerstone in socialization, I am essentially no good at meeting new people. I thought it was just in person, but as it turns out this extends to the online world as well.

Somehow I have made it pretty far in life for being almost entirely socially awkward, so I am going to just pray that the above is not completely true. Maybe I just haven’t gotten the knack of dating online, need to devote a bit more focus, or I need a new site, but in order not to bore any of my loyal readers, I am going to hold off on any further updates until I have some that is actually interesting to share.

The day I began to fail at online dating.

So I survived my night of taking it offline- but I have overall failed my mission of taking the Internet by storm. It started off wonderfully. He checked in online to confirm the date and the day of our big date I got a friendly little text about the night. I was looking my best after spending a frantic two hour period prior to the date arranging the perfect first date outfit. And I feel like I followed first date etiquette.

I asked a lot of questions, I seemed interested in the answers. At least I think I did- I at least TRIED to seem interested in the answers. I made eye contact, I laughed. At least I am pretty sure I made eye contact and I definitely laughed. It was hard to remain entirely focused because an adorable French bulldog was patrolling the premises and I did become mildly distracted by his presence.

There were subtle touches, references to future hangouts, and complimentary feedback. I left the night feeling like I was the star of online dating. I nearly felt like I could write a book on the subject with a solid level of expertise. I sent my obligatory follow up text and drifted to sleep with the notion of romantic picnics in spring and drives to the countryside dancing in my head.

So imagine my surprise when three days later, my follow up text is still dangling in the wind unanswered. And imagine that surprise exponentially increasing when I discovered that my date removed himself from Okaycupid entirely! Not only is he not interested in seeing me ever again, but also I have officially caused him to drop out of online dating completely. At first I felt mildly depressed by the thought that I caused a perfectly nice stranger to distrust the Internet, however that was fleeting. I have merely decided to continue on as if this never happened and I have launched into the newest portion of my online dating career. It is not entirely over with Okay Cupid, but chemistry.com- here I come!

The day I continued Online dating

Per the recommendation of my own fabulous resident online dating expert and the fire of yet another engagement under my ass, I have launched into the second chapter of my online dating novella. I have expanded my dating repertoire to a wonderful little site called okaycupid. Here I can answer questions on whether or not I will date a soft drug user or if I think it is acceptable to burn the American flag.

I can also mention that I am looking for a 25 -30 year old single male in NYC and that my favorite food is pretty much anything. And it is sensitive to my emotions and fear of rejection by only alerting users once they have selected each other. It isn’t entirely devoid of online awkwardness. For example this evening a 47-year-old grey haired dude wrote me a message that simply called me a “Geek.” I have also been told I have a nice neckline and also been subject to some pretty awesome pick up lines.

My favorite one was indicating that because my profile picture included a life preserver, I was intended to save the sender. Unfortunately, I sensed some ax-murderish tendencies from his profile so I deemed him a non-match. There was also the match that I was sent named CreepyMarriedude69. So far online dating is slightly like living in Southern Florida, however, there is one seemingly nice interesting single person within the range I selected so I am opting to take it offline this Thursday!

I have alerted my emergency contact of my location and timing so in case I go missing they will know from where to follow the breadcrumbs. So far I am basically a professional online dater. Stay tuned!

The time I almost did Internet dating

As my friends begin to get engaged and married I have decided it’s about time I meet my soul mate. Since certain statistics indicate I won’t be meeting said person out on the town and I haven’t yet achieved this goal, I am hitting up the Internet. I was told that it is free to look so I recently ventured over to E-Harmony to fill out my personality profile. 150 million hours later I am convinced that the only people that have found love on this site are that business owner and artist named Jake or Tom from the commercial.

The reason I believe this is because the personality profile is fairly bogus. I know some Doctor invented it and it is supposedly fairly comprehensive, however in this case comprehensive merely means long versus in depth. Essentially, the insight gleaned is that I think I am fabulous, witty, and gorgeous and I am looking for a nice, intelligent, and handsome man. Shockingly I had several matches immediately based on this intense analysis. I am all for the net, as long as it’s not some rapey type of chat room, but with the formula they apply the chances that a self proclaimed awesome person finds others that find themselves awesome are slightly skewed.

The fact of the matter is, I do find myself to be amazing and I think I should find someone great, but I am thinking E-harmony is not the spot. Considering the fact that I do not often welcome harmony into other sectors of my life, why would I find harmonious Internet love? I know that everyone knows somebody that met his or her future spouse on the E-Harm, but I am thinking I am not sweet enough to meet my match in this forum. I feel that I need a slightly grittier Internet outlet. Plus, word is they hate the gays, so that clearly will not work out. I feel that I have taken the first step in Internet dating, by ruling out one site. Now the task is to find more and then actually join them. Stay tuned- Internet boyfriend to come.

West Coast Balla Reunion

So I’ve received some requests to hear a little bit about my recent vacation to the West Coast. First of all shout out to Jeremy at Auberge! I know this mention isn’t as great as the televised broadcast from Chelsea Handler, but our visit was part of a magical time in California. For those that don’t know, last week I enjoyed a glorious interlude outside of New York City. During my travels to Napa/San Francisco, I experienced the splendor of gay bars, old friends, and wine tasting and for a few short days I was treated to a world of joy and perfection. With no e-mails and emergencies to deter me, I was able to fully dedicate myself to a weekend of awesomeness.

The entire trip embodied perfection, but it was after an idyllic day, sampling the sweet god given nectar of the vineyards, it was determined that I am going to need to immediately win the lottery so that I can move to the West Coast and open a winery of my very own. My dreary New York existence has run its course and it has become clear that rather than devote myself to an office on a day to day basis, I should be strolling through my own plot of vines, plucking ripened fruit, meeting with cheese vendors, and sampling barrel upon barrel of vino.

Within moments I am skipping through rows and rows of trellised grapes of my very own in my mind. I have selected the perfect piece of bucolic bliss and designed the perfect contemporary farmhouse. I have planted vegetable gardens, installed window treatments, and hired a staff. Just as I am about to harvest my 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon, I am torn from my reverie by the need to move on to our next winery. As disappointing, as it was to realize I was in actuality not a vintner at all, but still a tourist, our following destinations somehow continued to outperform the previous.

All in all it was a perfect getaway. The sun was a little brighter, the air a little warmer, and the people just a touch nicer. Although, I am East Coast through and through, it was sad to leave behind my little slice of heaven. I will miss all the wonderful little San Franciscans, the elusive hilliness, the fabulous day drinking, and the enviable lifestyle. Most likely I will remain in NYC for the foreseeable future, but do know that the moment I hit gold, I will be returning to proliferate the Brady Vineyard empire.

I am a hot streaky mess

To celebrate my oldest best friend in the world’s birthday this weekend, I decided I wanted to look extra snazzy. Due to the fact that I am essentially translucent, a large part my party preparation included a hefty application of self-tanner. So on my thrilling Friday evening between the washing and drying cycle of my laundry I busted out my newly procured self-tanning lotion. I figured an hour would be enough time for me to acquire the desired level of bronzness so I put on some trashy entertainment TV and got to work.

It seemed easy enough. The lotion was tinted so I could see exactly what I was doing to avoid streaking and the bottle did mention that it wouldn’t stain my clothes post application. “Perfect!” I thought to myself . It seemed foolproof. “What kind of a self tanning novice could screw this up?: It was just what I needed in order to gain a hue darker that white chalk. Minutes later I was shimmery and bronzed just like a Greek Goddess in my professional opinion. The bottle didn’t mention anything about drying time so I preemptively waited about a half an hour for good measure and merrily proceeded along with my evening.

I fell asleep in my newly cleaned apartment with dreams of a gloriously tanned future. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning amidst an orange sticky mess. Slowly I opened one eye to notice a giant orange splotch to my right. In horror I tore off my sheets only to notice orange streaks down the entire length of my body. Orange splotches covered my innocently by standing stuffed rabbit. I jumped up in a panic. Orange prints blanketed nearly every surface of my apartment, as I made my way to the bathroom frantically to gaze at my carrot hued face. The sexy glow I was seeking has gone to the wayside and I now more closely resemble my orange striped cat. I am hoping to be able to bleach and exfoliate away this mess but in the event this is not possible, I am sorry Andre! Happy Birthday!

The Streets.

Walking in NYC presents several challenges and eccentricities, which I typically adore, sometimes abhor, and other times sprint away from in humiliation. Interestingly, this week, I had a little of all three.

It all started when I saw David Duchovny. Apparently this recently appointed sex addict has a new series on television, but it is Fox Mulder that gets me riled up. So I am prancing down 77th street when I noticed him with his wife, with whom my Mom informs me he is” working it out” with, and two kids. I waddled past him in full on bag lady attire complete with two overloaded shopping bags, an overnight bag, and an ill-fitting sweatshirt. As we made eye contact, a familiar feeling greeted me. Every time I see a celebrity I get a little shimmer of satisfaction that affirms my city of choice. Even if that particular celebrity stares you up and down like a liability to said city of choice.


So I am a celebrity whore and gather sightings like a rodent prior to hibernation, giddy to bring back the loot to the nest, aka the girls at work. Okay so celebrity sightings are fun, especially when you spot same celebrity a few days later looking much less bag lady-ish. What is less fun and while abhor might be a bit strong, certain run ins with street dwellers leave me at a constant state of unease. I am all about the homeless don’t get me wrong. I am not one of those never give a dollar, just get up and get a job ranters, however it does leave me mildly uncomfortable to know that I am essentially walking through someone else’s living room at any given moment of any given day.


Anyway case in point, I am gallivanting home from work today having a glorious time when I noticed a little abandoned bed on a church stoop. There was a nice soft rolled up pillow and a cozy looking sleeping bag. There was even a newspaper for pre bedtime reading. I wondered for a moment why anyone would abandon this glorious abode until I looked about30 degrees to my right to notice the apparent tenant urinating on a parked car. I couldn’t believe someone would openly expose himself like this and allow himself to public humiliation, until I remembered what happened to me just days earlier that still has me feeling a shade of maroon I have never seen on human flesh.

As anyone who knows me is aware, I hate pants. I wear skirts and dresses as a general rule and when the weather allows, the lighter and more flowing the better. On this particularly gusty day I decided to head out to the flea market in my lightest and flowiest dress of all. For the majority of my perusing I held a white knuckled fist around a bulk of my gathered dress so that I would not flash all of New York City and frighten small children. So I traveled to Brooklyn and back with out baring my buns and I was feeling pretty great until I got out of the subway. There I am walking along the grate when suddenly I was met with a trifecta of a giant gust of wind, subway grate air up flow, and a speeding traffic.

The result was the entirety of my dress over my head. In seconds I was essentially nude in front of hundreds of people. After fighting my way out of a tangle of fabric I was met by pointing fingers, scarred tourists, and bemused pedestrians. My apologies were greeted by horrified looks of shock and disdain. Needless to say it was mildly embarrassing and I am working on replenishing my wardrobe with sturdier fabrics. Lesson learned, although I am sure this is not the last time I will be greeted by any of these scenarios. All one can do is try to remain fully clothed, look like somewhat of a non criminal, and try to remain reasonable calm. Although I pretty much fail these tasks on a daily basis, don’t fret; I will continue to dream big.

I can't wait for porch swings and mahjong

So this past weekend my first friend got married and as I was openly weeping during the ceremony, I realized I am old. It’s inevitable that once any type of shower invitation starts to arrive in the mail with some level of regularity that one will feel mildly uncomfortable, however it is more than a case of the wedding weepies that is making me feel slightly senior. For one I find myself often time using the phrase “kids these days” throughout the day. Although I don’t think that should actually count based on the fact that kids these day do warrant quite a the bevy of comments. So disregarding that, below is the top ten list of things that prove my senior citizenship or at least far more into the comfort of adulthood than I would prefer.

1.I essentially can hear nothing over the phone, or in person for that matter, and am forced after three unobtrusive “Whats” to nod and smile a minimum of four times a day.
2.I legitimately cannot stay awake after three glasses of wine. It is absolutely impossible.
3.Loud music actually does make my ears hurt. Even though I am deaf.
4.The other day I am pretty sure I found some balled up Kleenex in the sleeve of my sweater.
5.I have an intense affinity for BINGO and church potlucks.
6.I have a crock-pot for one.
7.I also have more aprons than pants.
8.My idea of the perfect night includes it ending with watching Frasier reruns on Lifetime.
9.With the cat.
10.I have a bowl of candies on my coffee table. And although there are no doilies surrounding it,I am told this still counts.

Not that it was really imperative that I prove how lame I am on via blog, but I am publicly vowing to amp up my street cred. Gang sign tutorials and meth dealer references would be appreciated.

Slow and Steady Doesn't Necessarily Win the Race

I have been joking for the past few weeks that the idea to do a triathlon seemed like a good idea before I realized that I hate swimming, biking, and running. Well two weekends ago was the triathlon and although the aforementioned statement might not be true, I definitely do prefer lazing about, drinking, and eating. I considered bailing on the entire event under the pretense that I was concerned about the weather, however ultimately I determined I was committed to my original goal and hence was forced to journey to Long Island to complete the race.

When I first signed up to take part in the triathlon, my vision was grand. I would train hours a day, drink power shakes, and sport sweat suits around town. I would wake up early to run and greet the day. I would eat granola and poached salmon. I would avoid alcohol and. That is pretty much where the plan came to a screeching halt. Summertime is filled with fruity pool drinks, sunset wine drinking, and happy hour margaritas. My plan to opt for vitamins over tannins was bunk. So I opted for a more moderate plan of action.

Soon my plan to transform my lifestyle itself transformed to be more of a plan to get through the day of the event. I settled into a surviving the day frame of mind. I became consumed with the thought of dedicating an entire weekend to the race; traveling outside of NYC and waking up far earlier than preferable. It wasn’t until race day that I reassessed once again. I decided to just go with the flow and have a good time. And though typically waking up before sunrise is not part of a good time in my life, I’ll try anything once.

So there I am, hours before dawn, in my Speedo, ready for a day of fitness and fun. Some parts were better than others, but it wasn’t until I was lapped on the bike trail by not only a Grandma, but also a 400 pound woman, a women who was practically crippled, and a passerby in a walker, that I realized how great the event actually was. What was a nuisance to me was really a miracle for many people. How could I complain about doing something that is not only much more of a challenge for others, but for some (clearly not present that day, but elsewhere), impossible? As I got further and further behind in the race, the more I was amazed by the performance of others and ashamed at my initial feelings towards the day.

So I might not be the fastest racer in the world, but it gave me a lot of time to think. Ultimately, I am happy I completed the race, not because I achieved the pinnacle of fitness I desired, but because it humbled me. It also reminded me of several goals I have that remain unaccomplished. The main one being the novel, for which I curtailed my blogging over two years ago. Rumor has it that November is National Novel Writing Month. And although I will not fully be taking advantage of the project by writing an entire novel within the month, I have decided that during this time, I will be finishing it. The challenge is on! And look out for the entire Brady clan on the triathlon course next September!

Love Note

Dear Air Conditioning,

I love you. I love everything about you. I love the way you greet me after a long day. You hold me close and never let me go. I love the way I miss you the entire way home. As I drip sweat in an overcrowded subway car. As I hip bump elderly tourists and wayward homeless wanderers. I think of you and smile. I love the way I walk in the door and you are there to greet me. To envelop me in your comforting embrace. I love the way you cloak me in your essence and calm and soothe me.

I love you in my office. I love you in my bed. I love you in the hardware store. And I love you in assorted sidewalk cafes. Doors propped open, you slither out and tease me, inviting me to stop for a drink and a rest. The fact of the matter is, I love you. You complete me. I honestly cannot live without you. I know I should be able to cut you out of my life. Open a window and sweat it out. But I simply can’t. My very existence relies on you and my happiness rests on your shoulders.

You carry me. You are my everything. You allow me to work in peace, to sleep the night in contentment. You make me feel safe and free. You empower me to do the best I can do. I know there are purists out there that would likely deny me my love, but they have never felt the heat I have and do not understand my premature menopause. So therefore I feel free to love you unconditionally and invite you to be a permanent part of my day to day existence. In heat and humidity, in assorted winter warm spells, and in moist fall days. I look forward to our continued happiness and an eternity of cool dry nights.

All of my love,

Marissa

Suburban Delight

I am a twenty five year old girl, well I guess at this point I could be considered a woman, but anyway not the point. So I know I am supposed to be interested in things such as sample sales, bottle service, and the South Beach diet, but alas everyone is a little different so clearly I barely know what these things are and had to Wikipedia them in order to figure out I should be interested in them. The truth is as much as I love New York City and all of the fabulousness it offers, my deepest love and passion is actualized in suburban lands and the pastimes of those that are middle versus quarter aged.

As a matter of fact I am merely biding my time until the blessed day that society deems it socially acceptable for me to move back the suburbs to live happily ever after with or without hubby. For the time being I will distract myself with the late night conveniences and global cuisine that NYC offers. I will ride along in precarious subway cars shuttling me from gallery openings to roof top soirees and trundle along with the upper echelon and street wanderers until my time comes. Until I can wear my pastel dresses and aprons on a daily basis without feeling like I need to find my edge. Where I can tend to my garden and frequent farmer’s markets and design seasonal menus. Where I can finally achieve my dream of procuring a minivan of my very own!

The fact of the matter is I love taking it slow. I love bicycling along coastal towns and day tripping to orchards and wineries. I love picnicking and hosting dinner parties and obviously everything that involves eating. I have been pot lucking since College and dreaming of book clubbing for years. I love driving in cars and grocery stores that can fit more than 10 people. I love space and beaches and air that smells like salt and flowers versus the somewhat charming aroma of sewage and sour milk. I love porches and pitchers of lemonade. I love yard sales, car washes, and roadside stands that sell produce or bouquets of wildflowers.

Don’t get me wrong; I do adore NYC, which is fortunate since my suburban life truly will not be feasible for at least 7-10 years. And during that time I am sure I will continue to enjoy all of the modern conveniences ad urban grittiness that New York provides. It’s just that I know that at the end of my rambling venture throughout this concrete labyrinth, I will blissfully migrate to a more pastoral setting, where I will don a sweater set, hop in my minivan, and live happily ever after.

Runner's High

Upon further analysis I have realized that I have indeed experienced the proverbial "runner's high". It occurred to me today around mile 2. For many people I am sure this is a minuscule drop of a run in the ocean of miles to be completed. However for me (yes I was that chick walking the mile in middle school) the fact that I was alive after running two miles is nothing short of a miracle. Anyway I digress. So my heart was racing, I know this because a) it was beating so hard I could essentially see it beating outside of my chest and b) my heart rate monitor was flashing to indicate that I was nearing my maximum heart rate and I could be soon on the brink of death.

I slowed down a bit to avoid said sudden death. The abrupt change in pace must have caused some type of blood/head rush because that is when the spins kicked in. As the room was spinning I noticed the sandpaper type quality the inside of my mouth had taken on from dehydration. I stopped the tread master, chugged a bottle of water and stumbled over to the stationary bike, but as I did that it hit me! Racing heart, dizziness, disorientation, and dry mouth. Runner’s high? Achieved.

Peppers Galore!

This may over-date me by a bit, but I have an insatiable love for all things Williams Sonoma. I love perusing row upon row of Technicolor Le Creuset, Copper, and Cast Iron. I love each and every signature sauce and seasoning. I love the country linens, and kitchen soap and lotion sets. And don’t get me started on novelty pans and spatulas. I can imagine each occasion in which I turn the corner to a room filled with eager party guests as I present every heart shaped, Octopus shaped, and cupcake shaped cake perfectly adorned with branded sprinkles and funfetti flakes. I can see the admiration in my guests’ eyes as the first slice is presented to the lucky recipient. In my opinion this is what Williams Sonoma does best. They create a need before creating a product to fill it. And I am happily there waiting to find out what I need before I want it and then purchase it. And then enhance my life with it.

It all started with my jalapeno pepper roaster. This solves the basic problem of how to grill stuffed peppers in an upright position so that they grill evenly and without losing filling. Now I have never tried to grill peppers before, but I clearly remember the day when I realized that I would need to immediately begin. I was sitting on my computer, around noon when I received the Williams Sonoma Newsletter, which featured my future miracle roaster.

As I moved my right hand to delete the e-mail, a little voice inside of me said, “Don’t do it, this newsletter could change your life.” Without a clear understanding of why I clicked open said newsletter and to my delight became face to face with genius. There it was; a simple metal contraption with holes to support 18 jalapeno peppers filled with bubbling cheese and chorizo. Suddenly a slow motion montage unfolds before my very eyes, “I love jalapenos, I love cheese, I love chorizo, and I love grills. How will I ever be able to make grilled, stuffed, jalapenos without this glorious gizmo?” A flow chart diagram connects my three innermost desires in a virtual cartoon thought bubble above my head. A block arrow yields the solution of the jalapeno grill pan as I click purchase and enter my order.

And hence the pepper griller, filled pancake pan, and hand held mini pie griddles were born. And now my barbeques, brunches, and soirees are all the more festive and delicious.

I am Basically a Triathlete

It is a known fact that I am hyperemotional. I have many highs and a few lows. There are times I feel as jubilant as a Sound of Music-esque child, skipping through the scenic Austrian hillsides and then there are days when I am hovering of the bottom of dark abyss of misery. I am an all or nothing kind of gal and mostly I go with the all. This becomes particularly problematic in the world of consumption. Eating is one of life’s greatest pleasures and I could be perfectly content journeying along life’s continuous smorgasbord until I am to be rolled to the juicing room to be squeezed. I often drift off into daydreams in which I have been blessed with one of those nebulous fast metabolisms that I have heard whispers of in the form of folklore legend. But alas I was not, so I have embarked on the journey of becoming equally zealous as I am in my workout routine as I am my consumption.

I have tried spinning and have been an avid cyclist since the remorseful post imbibement rides of College. Typically these workouts were either prefaced or punctuated by one of many trips to the all you can eat buffet, which fortunately through the years have minimized in volume. In addition to my overindulgence/portion control issues I also have a tendency to get mildly overheated in stress inducing situations in temperature and temperament. Hence, I have tried several times to embrace my inner yogi to become a more balanced and cool individual.

But alas, my mind wanders when supposed to be focused on breath, I have horrible balance, and I still can’t touch my toes. I even dabbled in the world of Bikram, enduring tropically inspired workouts and cult followers who believe that if one is not in a severe state of pain, the “yoga isn’t working. “ After I was told that a night’s sleep could be replaced by holding a certain pose for 30 seconds, I bailed on principle alone. Additionally, it came to light that I couldn’t actually eat whatever I wanted while my body worked out the toxins and kept only the nutrients it needed.” As one particular zealot had proclaimed one hazy Sunday. I have always felt there is something more for me in the workout world.

Above all, I have always wanted to be a runner. Runners seem smarter and healthier than any other type of exercise fanatic. They always look so coordinated and focused as they trot around scenic lakes and sculpted paths. They are dedicated, running at all hours, and in all terrains. I imagine that runners enjoy among other things, fresh squeezed juice, the New York Times crossword, and home made granola. I bet they read before bed versus watching hours of Sex And the City, and Frasier re-runs. Most likely they wake up naturally in the morning allowing extra time to make a sensible breakfast of fresh fruit and yogurt. They probably work with a charity that allows them to mentor troubled children and spend Sunday reading to the blind.

Anyway, in need of some serious motivation and perhaps a little discipline I have decided I will need to become a runner. Since I need a goal and a marathon seems too overwhelming, I have determined to devote myself to training for a triathlon. I am two weeks in and I can’t say that I have yet achieved the acme of a runner’s high, but I do feel very happy running through Central Park with my newfound compatriots. I also am not sure if it counts as running when most elderly walkers have passed me on my few outdoor runs, but I do know for a fact that when a raccoon makes a surprise appearance on the reservoir running path, I can go at least 2 miles faster per hour. So if push comes to shove, I am hoping random wildlife can help inspire a quicker pace. We shall see if I begin to wean off late night TV or become more charitable, but for now I will be happy if I can just continue to manage to chug along on the path of life without passing out. Stay tuned.

Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

SO it’s been a while, but life has taken my lemons and opted to provide me lemonade. So I have been busy drinking up. I have finally given up on being a miserable cow and opted to be surrounded by all that is good in the world by making the big move to Manhattan. It truly is the city that never sleeps and even though I am typically tucked away into bed by 10 with several hours of Frasier re-runs to lull me to sleep, I have had the blessed opportunities to share a few laughs and oddities since I’ve been here.

When I first arrived, the beauty was overwhelming. Everywhere I went statuesque beauties haunted me. There was always someone more emaciated, more layered, more hidden by gargantuan sunglasses. I simply could not digest the perfection that assaulted me on my daily commute. Shiny men with strategically sculpted hair, tiny pores, and skinny jeans. Tailored women with bags larger than their shriveled frames and dogs tinier than street rats. I am not the jealous type, so playing the part of a fly on the wall of a very exclusive party was thrilling to me. I felt special by association honoring every walk along 5th Avenue and nap in Central Park as the first. I often would comment on how it was impossible for something to be this perfect. How was it that I get to live here- forget Disney- this is the most magical place in the world I would often shout from assorted rooftops.

Then I looked around and realized that really nothing is perfect at all. First I realized how sizzling hot I feel at all times, how much I hate tourists as I am forced to shimmy by their fanny packs and poorly behaved children on a daily basis, and how low my standards of living must be shifted. My once ‘quaint’ apartment is too small, too dark, but mostly infested with pests. Yes, the hell of my life is centered on what has become a very furry situation.

The first mouse had me paralyzed on the couch for a solid 45 minutes crying about the fact that I no longer had control over my life. And not much has changed. After a mouse in the kitchen, a mouse by the TV, a mouse on the counter, a mouse in the garbage, a mouse in the shower, I finally reached an all time low last night. As I sleepily stumbled into the bathroom around midnight I was forced to sprint back to my sleeping chambers before terror paralyzed me, as I spotted a brown fur ball with a gigantic tail perched beneath the bathroom sink.

Panic set in. I broke out into a cold sweat and repeated the word “no” aloud approximately 50 times. I am pretty sure I blacked out for a period of about 5 minutes during this chant. I shivered for several minutes before I mustered up the strength and courage to call my mom and whimper for nearly 20 minutes about how I had no control over my life. She gave me the power to run past the bathroom, confirm the existence of said rodent, and leap onto the coffee table to whimper for another 30 minutes about my need to end my life. My poor mother gave me several options to get out of the sticky and tiring situation of standing on a table for the remainder of the night, which I declined one after the other. After much reasoning I agreed to run past the bathroom back into my bedroom and as I did so I heard what I then determined could only be classified as a rat whimpering, frozen in fear in my bathroom. My mom pointed out that it would be more scared of me than I it, but I still vowed never to go into the bathroom again. I figured I could find away to avoid the bathroom for the rest of my days here. I could move out early, crash on my friends’ couches, shower at work or the gym, it would be fine!

It was a sacrifice I was willing to make until my roommate’s boyfriend came home and I alerted him to the pest issue. A few resigned moments later he asked me if by mouse I meant the hair dryer chord that was dangling out of the cabinet underneath the sink. It took me a few delayed moments to remember that I had in fact left a mouse sized chord dangling from the cabinet not 15 minutes before my rodent sighting.

It was then that it settled in that the mice own me so much that even when they aren’t running the halls and stealing our bath bubbles they sneak their way into my mind in by means of visual hallucination. I felt a little silly after my mistake, especially since I kept my poor mom up way past her bedtime by crying to her on the phone. But also it caused me to wonder- will I ever be able to handle issues such as these on my own? There is only one way to find out- but in the meant time I am getting a giant fuzzy feline to keep the enemy ships at bay.

So the apartment situation has been eye opening, but as I always said when friends would move to NY and complain about rent, “You aren’t paying for the apartment, you are paying to live in this glorious land.” And although I have uncovered a few imperfections, and perhaps the party I am at is really not so exclusive at all, and for every modely type I see, there are equal parts lunatic, isn’t imperfection the most interesting anyway? Besides what in God’s Green earth would I do all day if I couldn’t complain about something? SO I am back. To observe, to complain, to inspire. (Just kidding about the inspire- well you never know, it could happen!) The book is still happening, but the hiatus had gone on far too long!