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!

Why must all good things come to an end?

Yesterday evening as I stumbled onto my 3 hour delayed flight, juggling my jumbo canvas tote, overflowing with a variety of goodies including but not limited to, my shredded airplane ticket, the worst book ever written, the best book ever written, an assortment of food related periodicals, and an assortment of concealed non explosive liquids, as grubby handed babies tugged on my jean legs while simultaneously screeching in my ears, and flight attendants proved to be even more ignorant in terms of in flight happenings than said infants, it occurred to me that I was most likely in the most foul mood since the departure of Breaker High from early morning cable.

The day had started off famously. Streaming sunlight gently nuzzled me awake. I enjoyed a leisurely cup of java on the porch while perusing the Sunday paper after which I indulged in the pleasures of Maple Smoked Bacon. After a scintillating out door shower, I received an invitation to accompany our family friends in a morning of champagne and foie gras. This morning was the cherry (actually there were cherries as well) adorning the top of the perfect week. It was the week anyone would imagine if coming to New England.

It was truly picturesque. It began with early morning clamming and ended with Champagne. Not much was needed in the middle to make for the ultimate New England adventure. There were Lily Pulitzer speckled affairs in Coastal Maine, cool nights warmed by hot creamy chowder, quahogs, Beach Bonfires, Fireworks, Kite Flying, Baby Ogling, Whale Watching, Lobster, and further extravagance. It was essentially a week long J Crew ad without the requisite puppy. For one week I hadn’t a worry in the world, not a decision to make other than Red or White. And in one fell swoop all of my joy and bliss was extinguished with by the long road home.

I left behind my sun doused lazy Sunday for knuckle clenching traffic, filth covered security check points, and unsavory feelings for innocent flight attendants. I was lied to, delayed, swindled, and swarmed by other dissatisfied travelers and weary children. After 12 hours of exhausting and nerve abusing travel I arrived home. It is incomprehensible that people actually pay for this kind of abuse. Fortunately my travels were fabulous enough to compensate for the unacceptable travel accommodations, however not many people are as lucky as I am. I have sampled from the good life and I no longer want to be herded around like common cattle. If I am paying any amount of money for ANYTHING, it shouldn’t make me want to gauge my eyes out. It shouldn’t take me to a level of grumpiness that even a passing baby can’t subside. Furthermore, I am over it. Before I submitted to glum silence for the extent of my flight, my seatmates and I determined that commercial travel was no longer an option and we would in fact need to purchase a jet. I think they may have been joking, but I was not. I will continue to peruse Craigslist until this resourceful website begins to list jets, but until then I suppose with the masses I will be. Hopefully, strategically placed nearest to the beverage cart.

A possible Hiatus

Dear Loyal Readers (Hi Mom!),

It has become apparent by my dwindling posts and sub-par subject material that my life is no longer active enough to sustain or warrant a blog. I have been trying to translate my overactive mind onto these pages, but at this point even those discombobulated thoughts are hardly blog-worthy. But put away your tissue boxes and wipe those tears away this is not the end of Marissa Brady. My life may be boring, but my love for the pen has not yet passed. Therefore, it is only natural that I move to fiction! I have decided to focus my literary efforts towards a full length novel. I will include you on the progress of this endeavor, thus this is not "Good Bye", but more closely "See you Soon".

Warmest Regards,

Marissa Brady

Oh the Places You'll Go

I am an avid people watcher and while most people desire a night of dancing on bar tops or canoodling with sexy coeds in order to consider their night successful, I could be perfectly content to watch the world coalesce around me like an intricately choreographed ballet. However, either I am some sort of potent magnet for a pastiche of aberrant characters or 90% of this fine Nation’s population is of this sort. At first I blamed Florida (which I might add is burning down as we speak… maybe I actually am in hell??), but due to the aforementioned blaze I will cite my increased awareness as the cause of excessive saltiness.

The first encounter that led me to begin my assessment of the population was my trip to an establishment called Blue Martini where scantily uniformed cocktail waitress butler out miniscule portions of the namesake for the entirety of the night. While I was reaping the benefits of said feature, I noticed an elderly gentleman occupying the stool next to my own. “How adorable”, I thought to myself “A little couple is exploring the Southern Florida nightlife after a night filled with Bingo, Bridge, and Parcheesi.” But soon this gentleman began to appear less and less wholesome and more and more seedy after repeatedly chanting “Legs are for dancing” while putting a less than Grandfatherly hand on my knee. Then there are my seemingly straight-laced neighbors one of whom accosted my non-smoking father for hours one night begging for a smoke while drunkenly shouting obscenities at neighbors passing by and the other who told me she doesn’t like “eating”, and was last seen garishly wandering around our common gym barefoot consuming potato chips as if we were meeting in her own living room rather than a less than sanitized public gym. I would also think chips might be considered food, but I let that one slide.

There was the woman in the supermarket spilling her recent hospital troubles involving a catheter and her back to the checkout worker. HELLO! Does anyone other than me understand what “Too Much Information” means??? There is Scowling Helen, seen daily walking with her battered suitcase soon to be filled with groceries. (As a side note, I think all of Helen’s problem’s may be solved by a bigger suitcase, which I may provide as a parting gift so that she doesn’t harass any other residents for rides filled with her brackish mumblings.) There was the bird-like Aussie that labeled me a Tribal African, despite my freckled ivory mug, and informed me of my need to feel the rhythm of the universe in order to be a successful dancer. Why does everyone enjoy peer pressuring me to dance? I will boogy down when I damn well please!

I’ve dealt with thong bathing suits on wrinkly men, people with countless birds and snakes gracing their shoulders, being cut off, cursed at, flashed by a male while on I-95 (fortunately my car companion began dialing 9-1-1, which was enough to scare off the perpetrator), and generally been made to feel like I need some sort of passport in order to extend my trip further. And although I previously stated I would not attribute the lunacy I encounter to my state of residence, I do often compare the population with that of the sediment in wine. It’s as if all of the nut jobs merely sink to the bottom of this fine country to intermingle with the likes of me. The sediment isn’t really bad or harmful, but if the quality of the wine could improve with the use of a decanter, then by all means decant!

Can I Get an Amen?

I said in a previous post that I had attended a church service in order to obtain a spiritual connection and a deeper understanding of my inner meaning. Although this may very well be true I realized today that I really just enjoy singing hymns. I am a full time slave to the man and at the end of each week I enjoy the slight release I get within the pages of a hymnal. I enjoy a few verses of the Lord of the Dance or perhaps a few bars of Eagle's Wings. I like to let loose and sway a bit in my pew as well and if I am particularly feisty I might even close my eyes to truly feel the connection with the music. I may not be a great singer, but what Catholic is? I have many memories growing up attending a variety of Catholic churches and there was nary a strong soloist in sight. But people would sing and it didn't matter how you sounded.

You see it wasn't how the song was delivered, but what it was about that mattered. The past few times I have attended mass in Florida, however I have been conflicted and muddled. I am not truly sure what the hymns are about anymore. First of all, half of them are in Spanish, which is nice, but I have a hard time anticipating how each word flows as I can barely say my name in Spanish, never mind bust out in tune with it. The other problem is that there is too much of a focus on the speaking portion of mass and too little of a focus on the singing portion, with exception to the part when the "Our Father" is sung to no apparent tune while hand holding. There I think there could be no focus on singing and more of a focus on independent mumbling.

I mean everyone gets the mass; as it is fairly consistent. The main variables are the Sermon and the Hymns. But recently all we have been singing is a few rounds of Alleluia and this poorly written and inevitably equivalently delivered song entitled “Muerte". I don't know if the choir is tight on rehearsal time or if perhaps a few members left them high and dry, but I desire a bit more variety in my hymnal line-up and I am pretty sure I am not alone. A week or so ago I saw two children singing and clapping their tiny hands at the airport and they were singing with brio "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, AMEN". It was inspiring. These kids were jazzed up! Wherever they had been that Sunday morning had been so zestful that the word of the Lord inspired two 5 or 6 year olds to re-enact their experience hours later in the confines of a dismal airport terminal. We need that kind of inspiration instilled within our own house of worship. Perhaps we can employ some sort of church consultant to explore our organizational structure and determine an appropriate playlist for future masses because if something doesn’t change I am ready to move to a land where the hymns are louder, more inspiring, and varied.

The short story of my life

As I was relaying a short tale from a recent trip to a friend I realized that it was much more than what I initially thought, as snugly nestled within its "edge of your seat" kernels was my entire life story. Since my departure from College I have become somewhat of a jetsetter, and as such I decided to take a long weekend to visit a friend in Napa (where the aforementioned six course meal took place). I travel rather frequently of late and on each trip I hold on to that fantasy of meeting my future husband on this flight. The concept is well developed in theory as most of my business flights are predominantly well employed men and, after a ring check, seemingly single. Of course however, either the ring check fails or I am always seated next to a baby or an aged couple. Which is perfectly fine, I have no prejudices against either group (as that would be ageist and cruel) but clearly said fantasy cannot take place.

Yet each time I enter a plane and begin the quest to find my seat my mind is filled with wonder of who will occupy the seat next to mine. “Oh how glorious it will be” I dream. Our flight will be filled with carefree banter, shared cocktails, and then the exchanging of vows and rings. As I hum Pachelbel’s Canon down the aisle I am inevitably met with disappointment. This time was different. As I struggled with my blatantly over the weight limit carry on I turned to notice a rather charming lad one seat to my left. Between us was the empty middle seat. I was sure that this adorable little seat partner would soon be my husband as we locked eyes and gazed at the only empty seat on the plane that happened to be keeping us apart. I could hardly wait to begin discussing our lives and then the naming of our children when all of the sudden an out of breath, flushed, rotund man gallivants onto the aircraft and stares down our seat. No sooner than I could say “I do” he was he wedged between me and my husband.

At first I was slightly devastated. “Why me?” I cried (thankfully on the inside). But then I offered to switch seats with the oversized man as it is cruel to have a man of such girth packed into the middle seat like a trapped anchovy and it is also cruel for me not to finally fulfill my dreams of an in-flight romance. It was when he declined that I knew that although romance was out of the question we would soon be best friends. As we began chatting it up I learned he was from France, in a land unbeknownst to a geographically ignorant American such as me. He had studied in New York and loved to sun himself on the beaches of Florida, which was quite clear as he was the color of a leather handbag and it became increasingly clear that he was a charming homosexual in a committed relationship to a man named Miguel. We chatted about in-flight cuisines, New York City and Europe (he slightly dominated that portion of the tête-à-tête). At the end of our brief flight to Atlanta he presented me with two free drink vouchers for use on my next leg of the journey, which I eagerly snatched from his plump hand. That is when it hit me. Will my life forever consist of the promise of romance from a distance, only to be taken over by my penchant for homosexual men and free drinks?

I then proceeded to have a slight panic attack that was somewhat Wizard of Oz-esque involving me in a cyclone swirling around with images of bags, cats, hags, and (fittingly) Judy Garland. However, after I utilized my drink coupons and I allowed my blood pressure to decrease to normal levels, my panic attack subsided. I determined the odds are in my favor that I will at least not end up as a cat lady and that I have made some pretty tangible progress. I no longer volunteer at the Humane Society due to overexposure to the fuzzy little beasts. In addition to feeling unnecessary and bored I felt slightly repulsed on a daily basis by the thought of so many cats in such a small proximity. I am actually breaking out into a sweat just thinking about it, or I may just be having a hot flash, but either way it’s not good for the little fur balls. In the name of love if I can beat cats I can beat this! I will just take my life one flight at a time and someday soon I will find my first class fiancé.

You are what you eat!

I was cursed at birth with the adoration of food. As a wee little lass I remember being crushed night after night when I was not allowed third helpings of dinner. Indeed my favorite time always seemed to be mealtime and in addition to being envious that my brother would in fact get the third helpings I desired he also seemed to remain string bean width. But as usual, I digress. As a child I associated special occasions and Holidays with specific items of food. My family would sit round our table eyes ablaze with desire as my mother would slice thick chunks of her famous cherry cake on each of our birthdays. We would dance with joy and glee as she pulled out a cast iron skillet encompassing our Christmas morning treat of pillows of dough weaving in and out of buttery cinnamon dusted apples. Thanksgiving to me is not about turkey, but my mom’s “stop your heart” stuffing.

To me it has always been a joy to enjoy food and use it as a focal point in reuniting with friends and family as well as an introduction to new friends and family. It serves to bind us together and connect us with the past as well as the present. I was reminded of my feelings on this matter recently when I asked for a recommendation for an Indian restaurant from a neighbor. Instead of answering that there were not any she replied that she did not know because she does not like food. This was uncomfortable for me on many levels. The first being that I had just made us dinner, also because I really wanted a recommendation, but mostly because I don’t understand how one can function without an undying love for food!

I am not saying I commend gluttony or I preach food snobbery, but how can you not hunger for a scalding bowl of chowder on a snowy day or citrus drenched shrimp after a day of hot summer sun? I then reassessed all of my close friends and family and realized they too shared my gastronomic affection. Some of the most passionate and caring souls I have met are fueled by this desire. Chefs traveling the world trying to share and convey their obsession with the finest and best, preparing pieces of their culture and upbringing in nuggets of desirable convections, pastry connoisseurs who can’t sleep unless their butter cream is perfectly piped atop culinary delights.

It is people like these, the ones that truly marvel at the power of food and want to share it that I admire. This past weekend I was blessed to share feast with true foodies. After six courses of what only can be described as bliss, paired with the appropriate wines and accompaniments, I entered into a food coma where I immediately dreamt each course was taking place once again. One of our co-diners however was so excited by the dinner that night that he claimed he could not sleep after its consumption. Isn’t that the power food should posses? The power to ignite the passion inside your soul and get your blood pumping? Of course food is nutrition, it is meant to keep one living, but shouldn’t it also make you feel alive? I think it should and though I may not be the kind of artist that can create the kind of joy I receive from food, I do intend to keep on enjoying and I hope you will join me.

Show me the LIGHT!

A recent discussion with a close friend led us to the conclusion that the year directly following College graduation is essentially the hardest year we will ever endure. Although this may or may not be true I can attest to the fact that this year has indeed been very tough on me. The transition from school to work world is a hard one. One has to manage to support oneself financially, prepare one's meals, attempt to acquiesce with the standards of corporate America, while simultaneously trying not to take life too seriously. Needless to say it is hard! I often times feel resentful that my life filled with free food, dorm rooms, and all night parties was pulled out from underneath me and replaced with never paying auto pay cable bills, spinning class, and condo association violations.

In these dark post grad times I have tried looking deep within the depths of my soul to figure out my deeper meaning. Okay I will stop euphemizing. I have become obsessed with self help articles!!! I can’t stop. It all began with a dynamic presentation by a motivational speaker at my company sales meeting. She was energetic and filled with applicable nuggets of insight on sales skills as well as life lessons. I was enamored with her discussion, which I might add is a feat in itself due to my wandering noggin. After the meeting I felt rejuvenated, refreshed, and inspired! It was like that first hit heroin (hit? Shot? I don’t know drug terminology) I keep trying to recreate that initial high. My thirst for self help has been mildly satiated monthly with my Real Simple subscription I poached off of my sister when I bought it for her for Christmas and it happened to come with a free second subscription. Don’t you feel special Caitie?? Anyway they have a pretty useful article called “Wise Words” or something which I rather enjoy reading while on the elliptical at the gym.

Maybe I miss the quizzical environment of school or it is the uncertain period of my life, but I like anything that results in a lesson learned. I enjoy take-aways, conclusions, and bullet points. I took Philosophy 101 in college; needless to say I did not stay on for 102. My attention withered after the meditation on whether or not I truly knew that I had hands and the fact that I could feel them was not considered as a factor. The articles in Real Simple on the other hand provide me with tangible illustrations of how to better my life and understand the world around me. There is even a handy column on the left with bullet points! But once I have read the articles for the month I yearn for more. “More questions, more answers! How do I create the life I want and deserve? Tell Me Now!” I demand from my podium on the elliptical.

I mean really when does all of this come together? There is no answer. I have been thinking that the people that seem to have the most peace within are people that have a strong faith in God. Unfortunately I was brought up Catholic which resulted in a strong harboring of resentment and hatred towards said fellow through most of my childhood. But due to my recent ambiguity about the state of my life and future I figured it can’t hurt to have something solid on which I can rely when the going gets tough. Despite all my moans and groans things are pretty great. What will I do when I am actually faced with adversity? I was thinking I could turn to God.

On Easter Sunday I threw on a sweater set and my rosary bracelet and I headed over to my local church for some spiritual refection. And I have to say I was disappointed. I am used to intellectually opposing most of the cornerstones of the Catholic faith, but I am not used to the utter clown act that the priest put on for the congregation. I felt that feeling of shame and embarrassment like an audience member at a poorly attended and executed comedy act. He fumbled through the order of the service and at one point asked us to vote on whether he should “sprinkle the holy water or just skip it”. But worst of all was the sermon. I will paraphrase it here. “Easter is about new opportunities”. I felt good about this message and could not wait to see how he would apply this to our lives and the current state of the world or at a minimum the community. Unfortunately, the remainder of the sermon was merely a slew of the words new and opportunities repeated over and over again until I became so enraged I almost had to excuse myself to avoid rushing the alter and drop kicking the alleged "Priest". Needless to say, I was not inspired, but I did get sing a few hymns, which I always enjoy. I guess I did learn something. Looking for inspiration is like watching the water boil. It doesn’t work and it will make you crazy in the process!

moderation what?

The past two weeks have been the truest test of my strength and independence since my move to the bottom of the country as I have had to endure both my very first company sales meeting as well as my first sales trip as a Sales Manager respectively in that span of time. It was there that I was forced to grapple with serious life issues such as the definition of "resort casual" dress and what the appropriate etiquette is for a business lunch. With the assistance of others as well as a little fancy footwork with Google I was able to somehow get by without being called out as the impersonator I truly am. Somehow nobody publicly pulled back the curtain revealing that in actuality I am not a seasoned hospitality professional, but really merely an overgrown student shaking in her boots.

In these past weeks I have gained skills pertinent to my career in sales as well as my life happiness. I learned how to craft an effective presentation, how to resolve objections, as well as overcome obstacles, and how to enable a safe environment to conducive to buying behavior. The most important step in my growth came after a very hard day with my boss after I came to the realization that I was completely ill prepared to begin handling the accounts given to me on my own. I spent the night feverishly preparing making myself sick with worry for the appointments I had set the next day. Four hours of sleep and three semi productive appointments later I was feeling weary. I had decided that I would forgo the standard take-out in the frigid hotel room evening and I would treat myself to delicious meal at a well regarded restaurant.

Initially I was unsure if this would cause me more strife or provide me with the release I needed after my emotionally straining days in the recent past. Would I feel awkward dining alone in a restaurant described as “cozy and romantic”? Would I cause other diners to feel sorry for me and my single status? Should I bring myself a book or my laptop? After contemplating these factors I opted to go for it bringing nothing at all, ready to forget my sorrows and focus all of my thoughts and energy on the savory treats I was about to enjoy. Driving to the restaurant I felt strong and empowered. “I am a single independent woman and I will enjoy this dinner for all that it is worth”.

The warm scent of seasoned meats and vegetables welcomed me as I was led to the only table for two in the small 30 person farmhouse-esque restaurant. It was by the window and I was surrounded by jovial families and intimate couples. As I perused the menu it immediately became clear that I would need to order the oyster appetizer. The oysters were lightly poached in a creamy broth with pancetta, Napa cabbage, topped with parmesan and then braised and garnished with a dollop of caviar. They were heavenly to say the least. The oysters were soft and fresh. They were healthy and plump like little sea angels. They melted in my mouth like golden nuggets of joy. With each slurp and slither my stress dissipated into the back stacks of my mind. I stated to myself dreamily that everything that had gone wrong in the past few days was worth it since I was able to eat these oysters. In addition I chose to order what I thought was an entrée composed of lobster, chanterelle mushrooms, and fingerling potatoes, but was actually almost entirely Charr, a delicate flavor fusion of both salmon and trout. When my entrée was presented, my heart sank. Instead of the rouge claws and tail I desired there was precariously balance a blackened piece of fin fish. Although it was tasty and well prepared (although a bit dry despite the shellfish emulsion) it rapidly displaced my residual euphoric feelings from the oysters with feelings of over overindulgence and guilt.

I feel that the most important lesson I learned in the past two weeks is two fold. The first lesson I learned is that you should never feel wary of dining alone, especially if you are an avid people watcher and food fan. But more importantly, I think I finally now grasp the idea of moderation. If I had only ordered my oysters I would have walked away from my restaurant experience in a hazy fog of absolute food obsession. Since I ordered more than what I absolutely needed and desired I left happy but somewhat food logged with food memories slightly muted. Though to some this may seem small, I think my lesson to be an important one that I hope is lasting. And I now I extend this lesson to you, Happy Eating!

I just have a lot of feelings

I have recently realized that I am relatively uptight and therefore have initiated a crusade to become a more sentient, present being. I have been going to yoga classes to try and balance my mind and soul and also become a more peaceful person. But as you are all aware I have trouble turning off the time bomb that is my brain, thus the yoga has failed to make me balanced or peaceful at all, but rather sore and sleepy. That’s when I realized that I just have a lot feelings. I am not really that uptight, but extremely emotional. The way you might feel when you experience the loss of a pet is how I may feel due to the loss of an earring. This is a mild exaggeration, but I use it as an attempt to put my hypersensitivity into perspective.

After assessing my internal imbalance I have been diligently working to make amends. I have now embarked upon a journey to desensitize myself. For years I have avoided sad movies, books, poems, and situations in general since I become too emotionally involved. To again help you empathize with this hardship consider the following; while a sad film may effect your night, it will ravage my thoughts from anywhere from a week to a month. For years I have tried to avoid these feelings, but as a result have allowed myself susceptible to more potent feelings of pain when emotional situations are unavoidable.

Therefore, “Mission: Desensitization” is in full force. I have been logging in hours of “Law and Order” “Criminal Intent” and “Special Victims Unit”, and my new personal favorite “Intervention” in an effort to mute my currently hyperactive feelings. If you haven’t had a chance to watch the latter, each week includes a unique account of a new person facing extreme addiction. The footage is raw and deeply disturbing and the final scene includes an emotional interaction with the addicted individual’s family offering an ultimatum unless the person seeks recovery. I have watched several episodes including those focused on an alcoholic so severe her children aren’t allowed to see her, a bulimic so excessive she has to strip to pay for her ice cream that she only throws up, an opiate addicted son who steals from his mother to buy Oxycontin, and everyone’s favorite crack addicted uncle. It is my dream that I will one day become so accustomed to addiction, death, and deception that when I lose that earring I don’t wallow in self pity for hours, but will be able to handle my emotions in a rational and calculated manner.

So far I have openly wept for at least 75 percent of each episode of “Intervention” and I change the channel when things get too heavy to handle on L+O, but I think my progress will soon become apparent and I will be enjoying even and stoic emotions in no time.

Get out the crackers, I'm done!

This morning I woke up to a sky filled with the majestic glitter of sunshine nary a cumulus nor cirrus in sight. I could hear the distant angelic bellows of the neighborhood feathered friends and could feel the moist warmth of the sea air. I shot out of bed, slid into my suit, and in moments I was ready for a day at the beach. After selecting a couple of glossy reads and filling my travel mug with some sweet caffeinated nectar I was on the road.

To say the least, it was a breathtaking day. The water was clear and warm, the beach selectively sprinkled with sunbathers, and the sun full exposed to bronze my skin. Unfortunately, today, much like every other day, I failed to remember that the sun has not once bronzed my skin. It does not kiss my cheeks, nor cause me to glow. Mr. Golden has not once given me a brownish hew, but more varying shades of fuchsia. But once again today I lay on my pink towel and basked in its glory waiting for the result I desired.

I could smell the banana boat oil drifting amongst the salt particles in the air. It brought me back to my youth when friends would use said oil to tan their skin laughing and flirting with hunky beach goers, while I miserably applied SPF 45 and huddled underneath my parent-required umbrella. Today as I was free from all judgment and apparently not enough SPF, I could hear the skin sizzling underneath the ebb and flow of the tide. I could feel the heat on my back, but I wrote it off, as merely the warmth of the sun’s rays, not the charring of my flesh. The warmth sent me into a blissful afternoon’s nap calmed by a blanket of ultra-violet rays. I left the beach warm and happy, hair tousled, and skin taut with sea salt. It wasn’t until I was home that I realized the sun hadn’t merely warmed me at the beach and allowed me rest, but had also scorched my nearly porcelain skin.

Once again I left the beach, not with the sun kissed glow I desired, but more of a lobster type look that I prefer more in my dinner than on my dermis. Someone clarify some butter, because I’m done, dinner is served!

Am I concious right now?

I remember having a conversation with a friend once and though the subject matter and participants are forgotten, I do remember the tagline. A friend said to me, "Marissa I just feel like you can't stop thinking. You just can't let go". At the time I was okay with that. I mean thinking is a good thing right? If you can't think well, then you can't do a whole lot I would say. I believe that the memory of this conversation resurfaced due to the fact that I have recently realized that I am uptight. Sure I like to enjoy life, being with people, laughing, and having a good time. But it still remains true that I have a hard time turning off the thoughts that ransack my mind. I really can't let go and I have a hard time living in the present moment. Each night I fall asleep reliving moments past or filled with anticipation of upcoming events. I am sure this is true for many, but I never simply savor each moment for what it is and in Buddha like fashion achieve harmony with the present. This makes it rather hard to get things done because during each task I am thinking of the next or daydreaming about the fun things in my life I have to look forward to, spiraling me into hours of procrastination. Fortunately I also I enjoy making to-do lists, which allow me to get back on track. This affinity for list making does sometimes cause me to include menial tasks on there that I know I have to accomplish just so that I can cross them off. For example a typical to-do list make go as such:
1. Wake Up
2. Make Coffee
3. Get Dressed
4. Call Bob
5. Finish project

Before two shakes of a lamb's tail I can cross off items one through four and I feel I accomplished enough to let my mind begin to wander. So anyway, I have been thinking a lot about how life is too short and how I should enjoy every moment of every day and flow with the wind and all that jazz, but my mind will just not comply. I have been successful in somewhat numbing my brain via excessive television watching, however once the tube is off I am on my own compulsively making lists and getting lost in my thoughts.

So since I have pretty much turned into a lunatic, I decided that today would be the day I get my life in order and I start living in the moment. Instead I spent the day perusing match.com looking for love in all the wrong places. After editing my profile, winking at two strangers, adding an additional picture that the founder Jim claims will increase my chances of finding true love, and then determining that I hate match.com, I was spent. There was no way I could start living in the moment until after 5 pm. I decided that I would give yoga another chance to help me become more present. So I gathered up my mat, put on some spandex and my giant Cornell Tee and headed to the gym. I felt weird and out of place without my sneaks and my intense spinning face, but I figured to be worth it to feel calm.

My instructor whisked into the room like a ball of serenity. Even her hair was free, curly and uncultivated, her karma oozing like molasses. She told me to focus on my third eye. So I did that. I could really get into this I thought. The sitar was crooning in the background, the lights dimmed. But then suddenly I also had to tuck in my abs and straighten my back as if I were going to shoot through the roof. Within moments this was just as bad as a day in the life of me. I had to twist, while remembering to keep exhaling, while simultaneously curling my foot around my ear! Lady you lost me at the twist. After 45 minutes of twisting and tightening, and exhaling I was told to flip my legs over my head and exhale. Finally, my head was clear. Everything was fading away. Who cares about the work? Who cares about anythingggggg…. As I drifted away to where the birds were chirping and waves were crashing, I realized that I was not breathing. As I flipped upright the instructor was informing us that we were to do this two times a day for six minutes each, but she did not have to deal with the issue of stomach fat smothering her nose and mouth. I decided I would rather lie on my back for 12 hours a day than smother myself for 12 minutes. So that’s it, I still can’t relax. I guess I am forever uptight. But at least I’m conscious and at least I know I have a brain. And I think I will return to yoga, I feel I am growing some arm muscles from all that twisting, and who knows I am pretty sure my third eye sensed some heterosexual males in the room, which may nullify my need for my recent move to match!