life is beautiful.

For those that know me well, (yes I do live under the deluded notion that other people potentially read this blog) you know that my life has been a little hectic of late. The amazing portion is that I’ve recently experienced the miracle of a perfect angel entering the world. The fact that two weeks ago my little baby niece was just a concept to me and today she is a miniature human wearing the gifts I purchased for her months ago has thrown me for a loop. The best loop ever!!!!! So I am clearly in a very emotional overly sentimental mood currently. Here are more things that exist in life that I also find mind blowing, although much less meaningful than procreation.

Hibernation- especially since I can take neither the bitterness of outside nor the extreme oppressive heat of my apartment sign me up for a season long nap!!!!!

Metamorphosis- I had an odd fascination with tadpoles as a child

Root Vegetables- Hello buried treasures! Might have something to do with that wonderful book The Carrot Seed, another childhood fixation.

Beehives- Matriarchal society? Delicious honey? Count me in!

Meteor Showers- Now if only my wishes would come true…

There are millions of things I could mention here that are equally amazing; we’ve all seen the National Geographic specials. Since we are heading into the dredges of winter, i.e. my regularly scheduled depression, you may hear more from me or less. And although I am vowing not to succumb to the winter blues this year, I promise to return either way in the spring when the sunshine is back!

hot.mess.

On a recent trip of self- discovery I have uncovered the fact that I am a stress eater. Having never truly faced high levels of stress I have always assumed that I am fond of food and consumption in general, this affection tied to no particular theme overall. Our family joke is that we feed everything. We feed a fever. We feed a cold. We feed to celebrate and to comfort. All of this is true and equates to a lot of eating, however, in recent months I have noted intake levels accelerating to a level technically classified as through the roof.

Today while reflecting for a moment, I pondered to myself. “Why can’t I be one of those people that when faced with adversity finds solace in green tea and poetry and obscure yoga poses versus the girl that is continually called out by the pizza guy for my insatiable appetite?” This I do not know, but what I do know is that I better figure out this thing called a balanced life soon. Or else I will know what I will be asking for from Santa. More spandex leggings! On a different note, I hope everyone has a beautiful Thanksgiving with loved ones. Enjoy!

The Return of The Mousekewitzes

For one and a half blissful years, I’ve been with feline and rodent free. Who knows if it is the new digs or the newly acquired pet, but life has been grand. Until a few nights ago when I heard an all too familiar rustle under my kitchen sink. I performed my normal denial techniques. “It could be water dripping or something settling within my garbage can”, I thought to myself tentatively. I even hoped for a roach, but in my heart I knew the rodents had infiltrated my haven.

Needless to say I was devastated and NO the adoration of rodents within the animated world did not assist in increasing my comfort level in hosting them within my abode. Sorry Feivel, but there actually ARE cats in the new world and they WILL eat you. I am happy to drop you off for the next flight back to the Old Country. And until a little furball actually whips me up an omelet, I am not making him feel welcome here. I have been out of town for a few days, but I better return to my previously pest free oasis. The only fuzzy friend I better see is an extra fat cat, although hopefully mice do not induce Feline diabetes.

airways ADHD flipout.

Today as I was flying home from Roanoke Virginia with my 8 other passengers I became instantly hyperactive in anticipation of the Gotham skyline. With face pressed against windowpane, I enveloped myself within amorous thoughts of the city when I realized that there are an exceptional number of baseball diamonds in any given landscape. I found it odd. But that makes way more sense then the need for Temperature Controlled LED Shower Head Light found in the US Airways Shopping Mall.

Step 1. Admit you have a problem

Hi, my name is Marissa and I have a cat. I adopted Beauty Jr. about a year and a half ago and since then the two of us have been tearing up NYC like a couple of maniacs. Prior to his acquisition I worried how my friends and family would react. Would fewer people want to come over once this fuzzy creature took reign? Would my new pet impact my relationships with those whom I love?

Ultimately I decided a kitty was a must and adopted the perfect orange angel to keep me company. Despite, his perfection I found myself quickly making excuses for his arrival into my life. Phrases such as “After my previous mouse infestation, I figured a cat was necessary” and “He is more like a dog than a cat” quickly rolled off my tongue after I would warn new acquaintances of his existence.

I speak of him often, but I am quickly ashamed for fear of being eternally shunned as a cat lady. Well world, although I know you already know this, I am a proud cat owner. I love dogs as well, but unfortunately my studio does not accommodate this adoration. BJ fills my life would just the right amount of warmth, affection, and fuzziness. And hey, the fact that he takes care of pests is also quite convenient. If I get a couple more felines, feel free to intervene, but for now, just embrace it!

i love books.

The other day I found myself nestled up with a borrowed book. It was older and I delighted in the smell of its aging pages. The aroma instantly conjured images of me as a tot attending Teddy Bear picnics at my local library. The book smelled historic and important. It made an otherwise rainy day, nostalgic and charming. This feeling was because of the novel, but it was more about the feeling of the book, its weight in my hand, the feeling of turning the pages, and overwhelmingly the aroma.

It occurred to me after I reveled in this experience for a bit (I know life in the fast lane) that this might become one of those experiences that becomes obsolete. The world is tentatively adapting to a sleeker future adorned with ipads, kindles, and nooks. I am a very tactile person, but I have accepted many conveniences as such. Similarly, I enjoy the process of a record player, lifting the needle, placing the record, dusting it, and hearing the crackle of the first chords. However, I walked away from my record player years ago.

During this thrilling revelatory period, I began to realize there are certain details of my children’s childhood that will differ extremely from my own. For example they will never yearn for the brown nosing task of clapping chalkboard erasers nor will they find the need get up in the middle of a test to sharpen a pencil. They also probably won’t learn how to write cursive or be hugged by their teachers. For whatever reason, that freaked me out for a substantial amount of time. Then I realized so many other scary things are destroying childhood, which is probably going to force me to raise my kids in a hippie commune anyway, so they probably will have chalkboards and real books. And that made me feel both better and worse at the same time. Happy Monday!

Dropping knowledge. Taking down flies.

I learned a few things this past week. I will share them with you now so that I can spread knowledge like the “More you know” shooting star.

1. Gym class humiliation is easily reignited by drinking games. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that liked gym class and those that despised it. Shockingly, giant alabaster Marissa is part of the latter group of people. I know I may have some people fooled that I am the picture of athleticism, however I will admit my coordination is touch and go and I always have had my nagging heat disorder. These two factors combined with social awkwardness and lack of flexibility made for many uncomfortable years sporting filthy mesh jerseys and dangling on ropes like a disoriented sloth. Lets just say a few Sundays ago I was hanging from that rope once again, but replace the rope with a beer. I was last, people were staring, I was neon. Fortunately, we just moved onto the next game and I didn’t get a C- for my poor performance.

2. Although it may be mildly more amusing/baffling when I think the vegetable man is repeatedly saying the word penis, the relief provided by the discovery that the word in question is actually spinach, far outweighs any potential humor. I didn’t want to have to cross another food source off of the list of places I can shop. And I also learned that they do not have spinach in Bangladesh!

3. A working cat is the best cat. A few renegade flies entered the premises yesterday evening and have been swarming around like they own the place ever since. They might have enjoyed the time in Chez Marissa, however tonight my badass cat laid down the law with a swat of his giant paw and I watched it happen. I know there has been more critter action that he has tended to, but I don’t need too many details. All I know is that it is impossible that kitty has gotten this fat from the measly dry food I feed him. This is one don’t ask don’t tell policy that I support!

i'm phasing out the listening.

It’s fairly well known that I need to live a bit more dangerously. I am not talking about foraying into anything really serious, but I am thinking less pastel and more eyeliner. So although I don’t want to completely toss my life into disarray, it would be nice to recognize a celebrity or be able to stay up past midnight without turning into a pumpkin on occasion.

I say this fairly regularly, yet I find that I have a hard time truly changing my behavior. And though certain things have contributed to my less than edgy image, cat, library card acquisition, sleepy tendencies, etc. I think there is one overarching cause for my condition.

My love for Frasier was spawned out of necessity. I was living alone in Florida at the time and had a propensity for late night crime television programming. I was continuously left with the need to be coddled back into a feeling of safety strong enough to allow myself to sleep. I quickly tired of The Cosby Show, didn’t care much for Friends, and I can’t really stand Raymond. Never a Frasier fan pre-syndication, I never thought I would appreciate it now. However quickly I was swept away with its sharp vocabulary and witty banter. The episodes followed one another so fluidly and the subject matter was always PG.

Quickly I fell in love and soon grew dependent on it for slumber. And that is where I am a few years later. Kelsey Grammer opens his arms to me nightly, cloaked in his gigantic knit sweaters he cradles me into a sweet cocoon of sleep and as much as I revel in this, I think it has become mildly unhealthy. So friends, I think Frasier and I shall take a slight hiatus until I can step up media consumption. Wish me luck.

apple picking anyone?

Labor Day might technically commemorate some strike or labor uniony type situation, however for most it actually honors the end of summer and launch of autumn. To me it is the end of summer Fridays and the launch of a horrible series of months during which I am forced to don pants and leave my summer dresses behind. During this time I feel lost and confused and enter a disheveled state fueled purely by mulled cider and seasonal drugstore displays.

Actually, in all honesty although I do mourn the end of summer bliss, I cherish the days of fall most of all seasons. The cooler air allows for a clear head and the anticipation of the holidays and slew of parties that ensue create enough joy and excitement to keep me distracted through Valentine’s Day. I will then historically enter into a three to four month debilitating seasonal affective depression, upon which I will elaborate in a few months when I am well within its clutches.

I love Fall for many reasons. Fall is for crafting cornucopias and eating snack sized candy. It is for turtlenecks and leggings and gathering wood for fires. So when my sister began ordering pumpkin spice lattes this weekend on our road trip to Cape Cod I verbally scorned her premature dismissal of summer, but simultaneously relished in this occurrence. Even though I sporadically attempt to avoid carbohydrates, fall is full of them and once I spot even the slightest twinge death descending upon a stray leaf, I yearn for whoopie pies and pumpkin bread, apple dumplings, and maple candies. If it has cinnamon and nutmeg on it, I will most likely try to consume it. I am filled with a desire to be continually mulling cider and wine, while crafting wreaths of dried flowers and berries. Fall is basically the culmination of all things I love in the world.

So this past weekend I said goodbye to summer with a final trip to the Cape and a final clamming excursion. And although we were celebrating a lot more than the shifting season, Welcome Fall!

Hot Child in the City.

I am avid people watcher, which I would think is an unsurprising fact to most based on my over analytical and obsessive nature. While I am happy amidst the crowd, I am equally zealous to merely observe it. Fortunately for the world, this is how I am able to consistently provide such keen insights into daily life. As I mentioned in my previous post, my own personal life has been kicking along a pleasant rate this summer allowing me to pleasantly soak up the intricacies of New York City summers. Although these may or may not be unique to New York or summer for that matter, here are a few of my thoughts.

1.Street watering. I love how men are constantly hosing down the sidewalk. This has served me especially well when inadvertently sprayed during lengthy periods of heat advisories

2.Air drumming. I don’t know why the summer heat brings this out, but it seems as if any male at some given moment in his life engages in a solo air drumming session. It could be that summer allows itself to the more intense percussion or perhaps the heat releases an inner desire to accentuate the rhythms of Blink 182, but this both thrills and irritates me simultaneously.

3.Monster Mosquitoes. City dwelling mosquitoes clearly have a chip on their shoulder. Either they are pissed that they get the city gig versus the sands of either the Hamptons or the shore or perhaps the harsh streets have given them a bitter edge, but I have been consistently mauled all summer long only on weekends in the city. I am arming myself with Deet for any future run-ins so insects beware!

4.Improperly clothed people. Nothing bothers me more than people that overdress for warm weather. This summer has been so obscenely hot and humid that my wardrobe has literally been limited to three less than appropriate dresses. I wear as little as is somewhat socially acceptable, armed with several spritzer bottles filled with ice water and the occasional cloth to towel off during my travels. Here I am shvitzing the day away and then I turn over to see some emaciated chick clothed in a turtleneck, boots and a scarf. Seriously? It is 100 degrees out and you need a scarf? Eat a cookie!!!

All in all I love you summer. I love you in New York City and I love you everywhere else. Whether sporting my Lilly Pulitzer on the streets of Manhattan or the sands of the Cape, margaritas are just as delicious!

Negative Nelly.

Lately, I have been feeling pretty optimistic about life. I am young, employed, surrounded by the best friends a gal could want, in the best city in the entire world. I have been coasting through the summer enjoying the fruits of life nary a complaint in site. But fortunately, I am back to reality and I have once again been stumped by the apparent idiocy that is human nature.

On a recent night out I had the displeasure of meeting a very unfortunate individual. One so bad, I would nearly say he put a damper on my night. On the outside he seemed like someone to whom I would typically be drawn. Curly brown hair, tall, Jewish, glasses, and sketchy facial hair. However, within five minutes of conversation it became immediately apparent that this was indeed NOT my soul mate.

What did it? You ask. Was it his immediate expression of his love for lesbian porn mid introduction? Was it when he called me an idiot for living in Florida (admittedly true)? Was it when he racially profiled my friend? These were key signs, but it was when he openly admitted to wanting to rid the world of fat people I knew we were through.

Everyone knows I love a little bit of meat on everyone’s bones and although I am not promoting unhealthy lifestyles I love all things squishy. It was a rough Saturday night, but I did leave grateful for one thing. After an hour of painful “conversation”, I now know what types of generalizations I am willing to make. I do not like racist people. I do not like people that hate fat people. And overall, I especially do not like racist people that hate fat people. So for that, I thank you anonymous stranger!

Go Fish.

This Sunday night was host to one of my favorite kinds of meals. Filled with wine, my family, and freshly caught seafood. Dad had caught Striped Bass and dug a bucket of steamers the day before and Mom and I had filled out own bucket with quahogs. We feasted on our hand caught bounty under a sky filled with stars normally obscured by skyscrapers.

Maybe I listened to too much Phish in high school, but this night bestowed upon me a kind of hippie euphoria that only self-sufficiency can provide. It gives me a certain amount of pleasure to know that, without any kind of modern convenience, we gathered and produced our own meal. Barring of course the automobile and motorboat taken to procure our protein.

I guess one could say I do possess this bohemian agrestic nature that allows me to love the earth in this way. And really fresh fish. Okay so basically gardening and shell fishing are the only two hobbies I have had any real success at, so I am just going to roll with this. Can’t wait for Scallop and Oyster season to begin!

Marissa goes to the community pool.

Somehow I have disappeared for about a month. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I got heat stroke; maybe I’ve been busy collecting material. All I know is that about two weeks ago a friend (and neighbor) mentioned to me that there happens to be a community pool just a few blocks away from my apartment. Quickly my initial thoughts of renegade Band-aids and incontinent toddlers were replaced with more aspirational ones including cabanas and a swim up bar.

“How had I never heard of this oasis?” As a fairly intuitive individual with a severe heat disorder, I typically trust my ability to sniff out swimmable water within a 10-block radius. How did this tropical haven pass me by? Instantly I began planning my trip to the pool. I spoke of it constantly for the next two weeks and selected the perfect day to test its glorious chlorinated waters. Read: everyone left town and I was left with unrelenting heat and zero plans.

Turns out it is more like my previous vision, but I think it could be helped by a less abrasive security unit guarding the pool. Seriously? Three guards at the entrance and seven lifeguards? For the 77th St. community pool? I am thinking this could be a unique opportunity for a survival of the fittest or perhaps more accurately a sink or swim life lesson. Aren’t there places with sharks that need a touch more coverage? An actual cop with a badge and a gun and everything? I am no crime scene investigator, but I imagine some type of alleyway or desolate park corner is calling your name. Although who knows what would go down at the community pool without him.

In sum, I’m not sure I’ll be back unless plenty of alcohol or some type of sedative is administered prior. Although if that heat wave returns, who knows what will happen.

Best news ever!!

Everyone knows that everything is better as a baby. Sheep and cows taste better, puppies are cuter, and carrots? I wouldn’t consider even touching an adult. It’s not that I don’t like adult humans, but I must say the tinier, squishier version elicits a far more extreme range of emotions. I can’t help it, but anytime I see a baby I immediately must be tickling/nibbling this wee little creature until the unsuspecting parent carts away the subjected tot. *

Pretty much at the exact moment my brother and sister in law announced their engagement I have been vying for a baby of my very own. Images of me being the cool young aunt that takes said baby to get her ear pierced or buys the first set of hot wheels have been dancing through my mind for the past four years. Now although I won’t exactly be the coolest youngest aunt in the history of time, it is official that I will have a baby of my very own just in time for Christmas!

December 2nd not that I want your seasonal temperament, but I am anxiously awaiting your arrival. I have begun to accrue a small collection of onesies until I know the gender of my little nugget and then I can transition to miniature seer -sucker suits or pint sized Lilly Pulitzer dresses. Watch out world, the cutest little bundle of joy and wonderment is en route!

*No worries parents, I am mildly kidding, I won’t touch your baby until you grant me permission

Delayed Response.

Pretty much every time I get together with my girlfriends with whom I went to high school we discuss how we need to do it more often. Mostly we have a sporadic hour spanning several months at a holiday party, housewarming, or birthday dinner and it never seems to be enough. So we recently determined a weekend getaway was in order.

We decided a Vegas vacation would be the best way for us to reunite with the appropriate valor. Pool parties, late nights, and slot machines danced through our minds. Once we realized we couldn’t afford the flight we opted for a more accessible escape to South Beach. Cabanas, mojitos, and Boa constrictor clad street performers replaced previous daydreams of our impending trip. Upon the realization that we can’t afford drinks in Miami, we decided to nix the flight altogether.

After vetoing, the Hamptons, Atlantic City, the Jersey shore, Outer banks, Vermont, and the Catskills we opted for the ever popular “staycation” in CT. We picked berries, explored country stores, hiked up vistas, sampled cheese at miniature farmer’s markets, and then otherwise reverted back 8 years for a glorious weekend of awesomeness.

One perfect blend of high school hot spots and newly discovered attractions later, I can’t wait for the next get together. Although it would be fantastic to be in the financial state to afford a flight and a cocktail, this weekend proved the age old cliché, that it doesn’t matter where you are, but it is who one is with that matters most! Love you girls!

Dream Weaver.

My friends. It has happened. I have experienced the culinary ecstasy that is now deemed New York’s best lobster roll. It was every bit of gastronomic magic I could have imagined. The man behind the curtain wasn’t there to accept, but his precious team members were. And yes- I brought the muffins.

Although my introduction to this delectable little treasure inconveniently overlapped with my attempt to go on Atkins, I did somehow manage to sample the roll, bisque and chowder and I now know in my heart this is my new go-to spot for crustacean goodness. Walking inside Luke’s Lobster felt like walking into any number of shacks along the New England coast, but far cuter and friendlier. And not that I need to escape the UES, but what a lovely little beachy oasis. Can’ t wait to go back!

Renegade Clammer.

Since my introduction to the world as an unwieldy tot I have always followed the beat of my own drummer, never really coloring within the lines, or willing to follow rules meant to confine me. So, I might harbor a somewhat unreasonable distaste for authority figures. I have never enjoyed being told what to do and more often what not to do. For some nefarious reason something I am naturally excited to do on my own becomes contemptuous once I am ordered to do it.

I accept that it is completely unacceptable as a grown adult to feel threatened by people holding positions of power. I also accept that no one is perfect, so I am allowed this flaw. And as my father always says, “No one ever likes the police, until they need them.” Well I would like to add that "No one likes the shell fishing warden until he is finally nice to you.”

Clamming is a favorite activity of mine, however it is heavily regulated along the shores of Cape Cod, so I am subject to the shackles of authority each time I embark on a clamming excursion. Each time I show my license to the “warden” so he can ensure I am officially allowed to fish and each time I have to measure each shell to ensure the appropriate length and each time I must subject my bounty to a thorough assessment before I am released. I have a horrible memory seared into my mind about the time he made me put a scallop back since it was far before scallop season and ever since I have resented this stoic elderly fellow.

It wasn’t until he allowed my mother and I to bring our catch without his final check and told his partner that he should “let em go, these ladies are good” that I finally accepted him within my heart. That action and those words solidified our indestructible bond. So until I break another rule and inevitably get scolded, this one’s for you Clamming Warden! Thank you for entrusting me to a world of shellfish!

Ode to Bun Bun.

This past Thursday, I not only had the pleasure to accompany my boss’ daughter Addie* to school, but as an added bonus I was also able to share her joy in her beloved childhood crutch, Pink Blanky. My boss and I were dropping off Addie and then continuing on to an out of office event and as we arrived at school Addie showed me her treasured childhood blanket. I was informed that Pink Blanky was actually at one time pink, not the graying mass it now represents.

“ I used to have bunny rabbit just like Pink Blanky, Addie” I said with a mature grin as I simultaneously pictured Bun-Bun perched on my bed in my current apartment.

“And then when you turned five you had to give him back right?” My boss asked with pleading eyes, apparently trying to wean her child off of the aforementioned blanky.

“Yes. “ I said firmly without hesitation, snapping out of my Bun-Bun induced haze. “Because I became a big girl.” I said smiling at Addie to let her know that this right of passage would in fact turn out alright.

As my confident smile wavered, I wondered if little Addie would call my bluff. Hop back in her carseat and demand to be driven back to my apartment to check if Bun Bun in fact had been given away at age 5. Of course she just smiled shyly and clutched on to Pink Blanky for dear life, for fear I might snatch it away a few months early. The fact is Bun Bun is still a pretty large staple in my life. He/She/It didn’t go away at age 5, 15, or 25. In fact I am pretty sure Bun Bun will be around as long as I am.

Bun Bun came to me one Easter filled with matching pink PJs, larger than life in its pink fur and white fluffy cheeks. It now sports matted gray fur and is fairly stretched out due to years of being confused as a Popple, but remains just as much of a staple as when received as a tot. Bun Bun has traveled far and wide with me, across seas, crammed in suitcases, and attended all four years of Cornell with me. As sad as it might sound, Bun Bun is my longest standing friend. And although it might presently be taking a back seat to my newest ball of love, Bun Bun this one is for you!

*All names have been changed to preserve confidentiality.

Oh How I Missed the South.

I have learned in my vast travels that there is always one certain business type that over saturates any given destination. In New York people scoff at the bounty of Starbucks, although there always seems to be a line around the block for the nectar of an extra hot no foam soy latte. In Florida, I was astounded by the bevy of Sushi-Thai restaurants, however horrified I was by the bastardization of both Japanese and Thai cuisines. And now after a fantastic road trip from Virginia to North Carolina I have discovered yet another gem that floods the streets below the Mason Dixon Line.

They are a fusion between pawnshops and gun shops called Pawn and Gun Shops. (Clever I know.) Typically these are differentiated by owner. For example Hal’s Pawn and Gun might be on Rt. 7 while Jeb’s Pawn and Gun might be located a few blocks over on Rt 121. Frightening? For a gal unaccustomed to such a high volume of either, the fusion was mildly overwhelming. However, as my journey south continued, the sheer proximity of the dynamic duo caused me to temporarily consider trading in my work laptop in for a glock.

I opted against it since I would have been fired and I think I can safely assume I would be a terrible shot, however I did enjoy a brief fantasy involving me sporting a coonskin cap and riding horseback in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. I am now back in NYC gun-less and fancy free, but that sweet memory will always remain. And now time for a sporadic moment of gratitude for those things NYC. Thank you to the homeless man whose obscenities alerted me to the fact that my shirt was nearly entirely unbuttoned on my walk home today. No wonder that breeze felt so glorious…

Muffins Galore.

Although I wrote a previous post about not understanding current day technology in jest, it seems that this particular sentiment has shacked up with my declaration of love for Luke’s Lobster to produce what happened last week. Maybe common Internet knowledge temporarily escaped me or perhaps it was a Freudian memory lapse, no one can be sure- however what is certain is that my blueberry muffin offering has been made more public than initially intended.

Long story short what was meant to induce a few chuckles amongst friends may or may not have reached the subject of my profession. So after dusting off my muffin recipe and testing it out at this weekend’s cocktail party I am ready to follow through on my promise. I may not deliver on the clams since I don’t think they’ll make it past my stomach post Cape Memorial Day clamming excursion, however muffins are en route once I have confirmation those UES doors are open.

Coastal Companions

In case you haven’t heard there is a new lobsterman in town and I have been dying to get a piece. I basically can’t turn anywhere without hearing more about Luke’s Lobster, a restaurant in the East Village primarily offering Lobster Rolls, and I still have yet to get my hands on one. Despite the fact that haven’t tasted the delectable crustacean filled treat, I have determined that there is substantial evidence to indicate that Luke from Luke’s Lobster is my soul mate.

1. Hello he’s adorable, I’m adorable, and together we would just be a bundle of cuteness.
2. I am a licensed shell fisherwoman. I know they’ve been looking to expand to clam rolls….
3. He’s opening a new shop just four blocks away from my apartment! Coincidence? I don’t think so.
4. New England blood runs deep right? ME? MA? We are basically neighbors!

Okay my reasons might be weak and sparse, but I am fairly certain they might pan out to something substantial. I plan to welcome him to the UES with a basket of blueberry muffins, ones that once provoked a marriage proposal, and a bucket of clams. Stay tuned.

Digital Who What Now?

In the recent past, it has come to my attention that I am officially old. I don’t know if I somehow blacked out or entered a coma for a few years, but I have become completely out of touch with how the current world operates. It all started when I told a friend I would tweet her from St. John to let her know how my trip was going. Then I realized that I don’t think you can actually tweet someone and even if it were possible, I don’t know how to do it.

Four Square? Isn’t that a recess pastime in which a dodge ball is passed from one student to another in chalk drawn court? Apparently it is now an online tracking system in which users can run micro communities and predators can monitor one’s every move. I tried to participate, but I think I actually was thinking of the previous version and I have yet to successfully become the mayor of any online businesses.

Chat Roulette? Maybe I am just sensitive, but I don’t need another venue in which to get instantly rejected or otherwise horrified. I am not sure of the end goal for this service, but I definitely am too scared to find out. I don’t have an iphone or an ipad or any kind of berry. Other than the frozen strawberries in my freezer for a.m. smoothies. I guess I need to enter the digital era? I might start to get a little lonely all by myself in the real world.

And finally- the reason why I love New York currently. Yesterday I had a picnic in central park, played chess, and planted my very own marigold in honor of Earth day. Central Park- I love you and plan on having as many picnics as physically possible now that my picnic backpack has been replenished. See you around!

Show a little compassion.

While witnessing somewhat of a break-up last week while out dining with a friend, I had a pretty substantial revelation. Although, I cannot be certain of what I witnessed since this is in no way about me, but a stranger at a restaurant, the intimate nature of the restaurant allowed me to heavily eavesdrop and observe and my overall extraction from their painful dialogue was that this was indeed a break-up. Based on my gatherings, I reached the conclusion that there should be a dress code for break-ups.

If you know you are going to have a serious discussion that could potentially end emotionally or uncomfortably, you need to dress for the occasion. You want to look composed enough to indicate your care for the other person, but casual enough to designate that this is not a date that will end on a celebratory note. Darker colors might be appropriate and convenient in the event that you need to make a quick getaway from your venue if the recipient causes a scene.

In this particular situation the female, who I will note, in an unbiased fashion, was shockingly gorgeous, was dressed in a grey dress with black tights and flats. This is a safe choice for any occasion; however the male was sporting a glorified version of a Hawaiian shirt with jeans. I will also note here that it was clear that the male was putting the kibosh on the relationship.

If you are bringing an unsuspecting person into a negative relationship space, don’t mock the solemn tone of the event with a Hawaiian shirt. Hawaiian shirts indicate your desire to start a conga line, roast a pig, or consume a million daiquiris. It should not however, indicate the end of a romance. A button down, subdued tee or a muted sweater would be appropriate. If you have festive plans post break up, wear a little something to cover the flamboyance of your party top.

Alternatively, if I were to initiate the end of a love I wouldn’t wear anything too revealing or low-cut. I am aware that I am exceptionally considerate, however I find this similar to wearing a mini skirt to church, shorts to a funeral, or a long white dress to someone else’s wedding. It’s just inappropriate. I know I committed to focusing on my love for New York for posts moving forward so I will leave with this, the day following awkward break-up I was able to get my knives sharpened, new spring scent selected, and kitty groomed in under an hour. God I love this glorious land of convenience. I vow to remain more focused following my long awaited tropical beach getaway next week.

Love Love Love

Reason number 85 million why I love New York City is because of the sheer volume of obscure businesses within a 2-block radius. Of course the bounty of Starbucks, pizza by the slice, and Duane Reade is exceptional, but the remaining bevy of randomness is what has captured my heart. Manhattan is essentially an oversized grocery store checkout filled to capacity with impulse purchase options.

It is nice to know if I am looking for an antique overstuffed owl shaped love seat, a rare orchid, or a palm reading I won’t have to look far, but more often than not these things are purchased simply because they are there. I can easily go to the bodega to grab some milk or a pack of gum and within moments I am the owner of a pocket watch, a phonograph, or pot bellied pig.

New York has everything I need and everything I don’t. It fuels my undiagnosed ADHD, while simultaneously keeping me grounded and sane. I literally could purchase every $5 pashmina, subway churro, and pirated DVD offered to me. Potentially, there could be a day when New York lets me down, but until then my adoration continues.

I think I’ll go with this theme for a bit. New York I love you.

St. Paddys Fatty.

Fat Cat.

Prior to the procurement of my cat I determined that I would not become one of those “crazy cat ladies”. Most people don’t like cats. In fact I would tend to think that most people would agree that having a cat is not cool or sexy in the slightest and I feared that by getting a cat, it was most likely resigning to the fact that I would be alone for all eternity. Instead of deciding against the feline, I opted to be the new vision of cat owners. I would be the cool cat lady.

I planned never to post pictures of him online, or buy him novelty toys, or talk about him incessantly. Instead he would be a chic accessory to my newly acquired studio. He would be the clever sidekick in my newest chapter of life. He would be coyly aloof or fun and spunky, but never lame. Of course if I had closely examined the patterns of my personality or been even remotely realistic, I would have known immediately that none of this would be possible at all.

It was inevitable that I would become the most over the top cat owner in the history of time; buying him costumes for every national holiday, photographing, and videoing him incessantly. He is on Youtube, Facebook and the subject of numerous chain e-mails. I am that chick in bars that pulls out cell phone pics and shares them in their entirety with strangers (if that girl exists other than me, which is improbable). It was in one such instance that I recently discovered my baby is fat.

A new colleague had fallen prey to a barrage of photo sharing in the office last week when he commented on my little angel’s size. It was the third comment that week that indicated little Beauty Jr. might be slightly overweight. At first I denied this possibility with the explanation that he is perfect in every way. After my initial refusal, another colleague and I decided to do some side-by-side comparisons of his photos over time. That motivated me to call the vet and get a professional opinion. The jury is back and my cat is fat. 6 months with Mama Brady and my poor cat is obese. Poor little guy. Our diet ensues.

What is the deal guys?

There is nothing more annoying than precipitation in New York City. It is not because of the damp cold temperatures. It is not because of the puddle filled streets or the inadvertent splashing from passing cars. It isn’t even because the influence on my hair to be even more of a frizzy mess than its’ standard sloppy appearance. The overriding reason that rainy days are so exceedingly infuriating, is because of men.

For some elusive reason men feel the need to have the most gigantic umbrellas in the entire world. This effectively causes it to be nearly impossible to navigate the streets in order to get anywhere. Seriously- is it considered emasculating to have a normal sized umbrella? Are you on your way to shelter an entire homeless population? Is it some kind of a status thing? Is it flashy for a dude to have a giant umbrella? Or perhaps the elemental shield equivalent of a motorcycle? Do guys just melt upon contact with drops of rain?

I am not sure what the answer is, but I ask one thing of all men, not that any read this blog other than my Dad, who is not flooding the streets of NYC with gigantic beach umbrellas but alas. Please consider a more modest protective layer. Now I know I have a tendency to be unreasonable, so just consider it, I would be curious to see the impact it would have on morning commuters and street walkers citywide.

Too loud.

It has recently been brought to my attention that I am somewhat loud. It happened quite abruptly, while at the gym when a be speckled man provoked a near fistfight by chastising my companion and me about a week ago. This individual was experiencing difficulty focusing on his book due to our excessive volume and decided to alert us to this fact in an extremely flippant manner, incongruous to his meager appearance.

Due to the petulant nature in which tiny gym Nazi delivered his message, I determined him to be just that and t the volume of our conversation was not the issue to be amended, but rather this horrible elf be removed. It wasn’t until yesterday when I was with the aforementioned gym buddy and we were aggressively “Shushed” by a precious little elderly woman, that I had cause to reconsider. This shush spawned a montage of similar scenarios in which I have been asked to lower the volume of my voice in the past.

At this point in my life I have been asked if I am hard of hearing, compared to a screeching owl, a pack of rambunctious teenagers, and of course aggressively shushed and nearly involved in several brawls. Since it isn’t statistically likely that all of these people have been in the wrong I guess I need to take it down a notch or two. I am very excitable, so this will be a challenge ,but I am committed to at least give it a try. Alternatively, for the next 7 days (or however long I last) don’t take my subdued demeanor as a lack of enthusiasm about your thoughts, ideas, or comments. I care very deeply, however I need to figure out how to express this without also getting knifed at the gym. Besos!

cupidless.

Historically, Valentine’s Day has been one of my favorite holidays. My love stems from its excessive use of pastels, champagne, and adorable heart shaped treats. Not to mention the bevy of prixe fixe menus involving lobster, oysters, and chocolate. Up until this point in my life, Valentine’s Day to me is equivalent to heart shaped Jell-O shots, chocolate covered strawberries, and over consumption of sparkling wine.

Perhaps it is the fact that this is my 25th consecutive Valentine-less Valentine’s Day, but this year I didn’t feel the same convivial spirit around the day of St. Valentine. I skipped my annual Valentine craft night and breezed past the pink construction paper, glitter glue, and doilies in Duane Reade. I avoided the heart shaped gummies, once a famous addition to my cherry Valentine Jell-O shots, and didn’t bake a single heart shaped angel food cake.

I effectively played the part of the grinch that stole Valentine’s Day. I haven’t even yet raided the half off conversation hearts, currently discarded in pharmacy aisles nationwide. It is not that I begrudge couples their undying affection and celebrations, however this year I needed to sit Valentine’s Day out. No themed libations, outfits, baked goods, or crafts were in sight. My anti-Valentine weekend ended anticlimactically with a Roseanne marathon and me receiving a jury summons. I am glad that I enjoyed a traditional bitter single female Valentine’s Day this year, however I feel a bit unfulfilled.

So next year, it is back in full force. I will have it all. Pink beer, streamers, roses, and a heart shaped piñata. I will be baking my heart shaped whoopee pies, making aphrodisiac champagne cocktails, and rolling fresh made heart shaped pasta, while reciting love inspired haikus, and sporting heart shaped potholders. The cat is getting a bedazzled heart covered sweater vest and no one in site will be without one of my handmade Valentine’s Day cards. I am sorry I missed you this year, but I'll see you in 2011 V-Day!

slow. down.

A timeless New York cliché is that everyone is constantly in a hurry. Frantic residents scurry around manically knocking over the elderly, elbowing tourists, and leaving the blind in the dust. I maintain a tortoise inspired speed based on my heat regulation issues, so I had yet to notice this as a truism until the past week. I typically get from point a to point b while tucked away in an ipod induced reverie and slower pace, however it seems to be true that all other New Yorkers have one of three things that I don’t.

a) more important places to be
b) the ability to remain a normal temperature
c) a death wish

Not only do people legitimately sprint along avenues as if there is some type of pot of gold or all you can eat pizza buffet at the end, but they gallivant in front of speeding vehicles as if they magically do not have the ability to hit them. In the rare occasion that I am not lost I do enjoy the feeling of walking boldly into the road so confident in my route that I must display to all around me. Each time I tempt the traffic gods with a brassy step, there is another that must step a little further until there launches a veritable Russian roulette hokey pokey hybrid.

Maybe this is why I am eternally 10 minutes late, but I refuse to rush or risk my life to get where I am going. Based purely on my own perception of reality and timing, I would say the average red light is about 1 minute and 30 seconds. Additionally, a 6 train comes every 45 seconds, so a sprint isn’t warranted for the daily subway catching endeavor either. I won’t claim to be right about everything, however I am fairly certain street sprinters worldwide could benefit from slowing down and giving up the 5 minutes saved daily by rushing and tempting traffic odds. Or alternatively, maybe I could benefit by hurrying up and starting to be a little bit timelier. Who knows?

Come on Phil

It used to upset me greatly when people would bail on plans due to unfavorable weather. “I see no reason why we should be cooped up all winter long crying in our soup.” I would shout, fists in the air. I for one was not to be put out of a good time based on a few snowflakes or gusts of wind. Perhaps this school of thought stemmed from my heat disorder and the idea that one can bundle for the cold by appropriately layering, however it was always a disappointment when people would hid themselves away for the winter months, leaving me to frolic by my lonesome.

It wasn’t until this weekend as I lay on the couch for the 8th hour of syndicated television, refusing to even exit the apartment for a brief breath of fresh air or to see a single fellow human being that I realized things had changed. In true comic book form, a tiny light bulb illuminated above my head and I suddenly realized I am depressed. I no longer enjoy activities that I once did, all I want to do is sleep, and I the thought of venturing into the outside world overwhelms me excessively. The cold dark days of winter have zapped every ounce of joy from my life.

Just as I resign myself to a life of solitude and gloom, with plans only to play the saxophone on fog infested street corners and to pour out my soul to price gauging therapists, I experience a faint hallucination/daydream in which I am skipping through a field of blooming wild flowers with a basket of puppies, basking in the warm glow of sunshine. And it hits me. I don’t need a therapist at all. I need one of those little heat lamps that trick your body into thinking life isn’t awful.

That is right folks, I am SAD. I am lethargic and craving carbohydrates, which the official website indicate as signals of SADness. Apparently I can either get the lamp, some antidepressants, or explore talk therapy, however I would prefer to take the route of the hibernator. So like our friends, the bear, bat, and some types of squirrel I will be stocking up on snacks and burrowing myself away for the remainder of this insufferable tundra known as winter. I will see you in 6 weeks.

Become Your Dream

I am basically in love with this crafty little UES graffiti artist. I am not sure if his "Become Your Dream" theme is a promotion for a local coffee shop or maybe gang speak for murder or something, but I am all about him (or her). He also loves to draw little fish that are either kissing or smoking cigarettes in chalk on the sidewalk, but I prefer the furniture messages. I love finding an abandoned medicine cabinet, coffee table, or mattress and wondering if I will see my favorite inspirational message painted across it.

It is definitely the little things in life, and pretty much every day in which I drag along to work and my eye catches a stray chair or bookcase I have noticed that I walk a little faster, with a little extra purpose, and the full intent to become my dream.

Picture of Health.

After hearing that a friend has lost 8 pounds in 5 days after seeing a nutritionist, I briefly toyed with the idea of visiting one myself! Even though I may have previously claimed to not need specific guidelines in order to accomplish goals, I clearly do, especially when it comes to being healthy. I wondered what secrets this elusive nutritionist could uncover for me, which lifestyle choices she would she would recommend.

Then I thought for a brief moment and realized that I don’t need a nutritionist at all. Mostly I just need to stop eating so much pizza. And stop drinking so much beer. I don’t know how it really happened, but sometime in the past year I have somehow morphed from an adult woman into a College boy. It’s not that I am inactive or sluggish. I am pretty much a gym fanatic; it’s just that I consume pretty much everything in site. And these things happen to be an even blend of carbohydrates and dairy.

I however, do not have the metabolism of a college boy, so I need to start thinking about this from a more reasonable perspective. I have broken it down into a 3-step program, which will lead me to fitness acme. This is clearly a fitness breakthrough worthy of a book deal of some sort or at least an article in Woman’s Day or some equivalent publication.

Step 1. Less Beer
Step 2. Less Pizza
Step 3. Fewer Bagels

Now that I am on a health kick I might be a little irritable so just let me be for a few days. Once all the cheesy, beery, carby goodness is out of my system I am sure I will soon forget how delicious it once was and turn to kale, and quinoa, and fish oil in its stead. I will keep you posted.

In case you don't know...

Anyone that has met me or been near me knows that I have a small issue when it comes to the way of temperature regulation. And when I say small issue you know that I mean pretty much a life debilitating handicap. Not to say that this has entirely impeded my day-to-day existence, however I have been forced to develope some coping techniques and employ several tactics in order to coexist peacefully with other normally temperate people.

First of all, I primarily wear dresses. This wardrobe decision not only allows for more freedom and flexibility, but also provides me with consistent airflow and breathability. Additionally, I have several purse sized water spritzers ready to provide a cooling mist, whenever needed. These are mostly useful for overheated bar or concert situations, where a quick spritz can ease the discomfort of crowd induced humidity. As an added bonus I have filled each with mineral water to provide my skin with the glow of youth as I sizzle the night away. Where my work colleagues have space heaters, I have a tiny fan. Sleeping, for me, is most comfortable when within my self-crafted wind tunnel clocking in at about 55 degrees of bliss.

One might ask, “ Is all of this really necessary?” My response might be that until I am that person wearing shorts 365 days of the year, I think so. I have been many different sizes, completed a wide range of physical activities from light walking to triathloning, and lived in a diverse collection of climates. One thing remains constant, which is my extreme warmth. So if I ever seem unnecessarily flustered, averse to physical attention, or overly aggressive, please know that it is not you. It is most likely due to the fact that I am about 9 million degrees. And if you ever see a neon red person requesting ice cubes in a bar prior to an actual cocktail, it is most likely me or another fellow heat victim. So try not to judge and enjoy the fact that you are temperature appropriate.

The day I had to beg

I was reflecting the other day about how people tend to add more details to stories and explanations when they are lying. It is as if we think that by adding what kind of soup you were picking up for your Grandma will be the final bit of information needed to convince the other party that your excuse is genuine. Any time somebody does add this kind of detail, a pleading element is introduced, begging for the recipient to just accept the lie and move on. So anytime I am about to craft a tiny enhanced version of the truth I make sure to keep it brief. And, moreover anytime someone goes into a long-winded explanation about something, I mildly tune out, immediately accepting the statement as false.

Then I recalled a particular instance, which mildly debunks this theory. It was early spring, before I had moved into the city and I was racing to Grand Central for an early morning train to CT after crashing at a friend’s the night before. I was hosting a Mother Daughter cocktail party that evening and I NEEDED to make this train in order to make a bevy of appointments and errands I had arranged prior to the event. I arrived to the terminal essentially profusely sweating, sporting a minor upgrade from pajamas, and a head of hair that looked days un-brushed, with barely five minutes until the train’s departure, when I realized I am without the wallet that houses my money, credit cards, and train ticket.

I was at a junction where I could take one of two paths. I could either accept that I would miss my train and delay my day by a few hours or alternatively I could ask for help. I decided to ask for help. I hadn’t exactly gazed in a mirror, but I am fairly certain I was a site for exceptionally sore eyes. But I am a nice girl and I think I look pretty honest so I asked the first man I saw if I could perhaps borrow 3 dollars due to the fact that I only had 8 dollars in my pocket and I just needed three more to make my fare home to see my family.

I mean… it’s pretty much a textbook example from the panhandling handbook, but I continued on to explain that I had been staying with a friend and forgotten my wallet. As if adding these additional tidbits made me more human and less… insane. I saw the man look me up and down and hold up a hand to stop me. He gave me the money, more to shut me up than anything else, and when I asked for his address to send him the money he declined in a way that clearly indicated that he thought I would murder his family and pillage his home if I had my hands on that piece of information

When the janitorial staff of Grand Central think you are a street dweller it is a slight blow to one’s ego, however seeing that kind of fear in a complete stranger’s eyes is quite thought inspiring. All of these times when folks have just needed a few more dollars for bus fare to get home to see their families or get a little gas for the broken down car, or to get a metro card, maybe that is all they really did need. I still don’t give money to people when they spin the kind of tale I did, but I guess I should think twice, considering I still owe $3 to the karma pool.

Happy New Year!

This time of year is one that is particularly dichotomous. People are left riddled with guilt due to poor holiday decision making, over-indulgence, and overspending. There is a mild depression that sets in at the start of the long months of winter and a general sense of finality. And after a respite of brief celebration and jubilance, January 1st is invariably somewhat of a let down. However, this thick darkness is combated with the optimistic hope that this year will be better than the last.

In order to make sure that this is the case, we all make resolutions that we vow to keep to improve our lives and our environment. These can range from specific, “Drop 1 tenth of second on my mile” to general, “survive”. I personally like to go the vague route as, I don’t think it is healthy to script one's life, but additionally that way I am not entirely held accountable when I fail. So in the spirit of looking forward, versus falling prey to the winter blues, my resolutions for 2010 are below.

1. Be nicer
2. Be healthier
3. Be calmer
4. Exhibit restraint

Of course there are certain specifics required to accomplish these goals, however I refuse to ruin my false sense of hope by micromanaging my plan to self-betterment. My only specific is that I give 2010 my best. So 2009, it is with mixed emotions that I am writing to let you know it is over. I have tried to reconcile our past during a period of self-reflection during the recent days and I have come to terms that our relationship has run its course.

Although there were some wonderful moments, I cannot continue with our unhealthy relationship any further. I have to believe that 2010 has bigger plans for me than you did. I have to at least believe this until it is warm enough for me to reconsider hurling myself over a ledge. So until then- show me what you got 2010! Happy New Year all!!!