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?
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Monday, February 01, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
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.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 18, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 11, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, January 04, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Why? Whyyyyy
Something horrible is happening all around us and I am not sure if anyone is truly ready for it. Winter has settled in. For a brief moment this past weekend when I was frolicking along Compo beach basking in the golden glow of the unadulterated sun, I thought maybe it was spring. Families were playing Frisbee, jackets were sporadic, and I am pretty sure I saw the crowning of a newborn crocus on someone’s lawn. But alas, the bitter winds have taken warmth away from us and replaced it with the harsh reality that winter is here until March 20th. So everyone should settle in for three long, horrible months, until we will be able to enjoy a few mediocre ones that will bring us back to the glory of summer. To help guide this journey, below are a few reasons why I love box wine.
1.3 bottles? One box? Hello!
2.They fit perfectly into my freakishly small fridge
3.They are environmentally conscious- we all know I am all about reducing my carbon footprint! If I need to continue to drink box wine in order to save the environment, then I will just have to do it!
4.They are extremely portable and perfect for a picnic or a long subway ride.
5.They come complete with a spigot for easy pouring and sealing.
I hereby pronounce box wine as eggnog’s replacement and the single item that will get me through winter. That- or we could figure out how the whole hibernation thing works.
1.3 bottles? One box? Hello!
2.They fit perfectly into my freakishly small fridge
3.They are environmentally conscious- we all know I am all about reducing my carbon footprint! If I need to continue to drink box wine in order to save the environment, then I will just have to do it!
4.They are extremely portable and perfect for a picnic or a long subway ride.
5.They come complete with a spigot for easy pouring and sealing.
I hereby pronounce box wine as eggnog’s replacement and the single item that will get me through winter. That- or we could figure out how the whole hibernation thing works.
Monday, December 21, 2009
Thanks and Praise
I recently had a holiday gathering at which I planned to almost solely serve eggnog and since apparently nobody really likes I it I am left with a plethora of excess nog. Since I pretty much only have eggnog in my fridge currently after I recently polished off the jar of cornichons I have been munching on, I have exclusively been drinking eggnog on a nightly basis post holiday extravaganza. And I have discovered that this little elixir is intoxicatingly delicious.
Who invented this magical concoction? What genius decided that blending eggs, milk, and sugar would make such a perfect treat? It has completed my winter nights as I doze off to sleep in front of tube and it has been a surprising addition to my morning coffee. It is also a splendid portal for consuming large quantities of alcohol. Why are we limited to eggnog just one time per year?? Will the day ever come that this could be a year round delicacy?
I still have a few more cartons, so I won’t panic just yet, but I am fearful of the day when I have to put the mug down and step away from the eggnog. What comforting beverage will fill its void? To the creator of eggnog- thank you. My challenge to you now- send me something to wean me off its sweet sweet nectar.
Who invented this magical concoction? What genius decided that blending eggs, milk, and sugar would make such a perfect treat? It has completed my winter nights as I doze off to sleep in front of tube and it has been a surprising addition to my morning coffee. It is also a splendid portal for consuming large quantities of alcohol. Why are we limited to eggnog just one time per year?? Will the day ever come that this could be a year round delicacy?
I still have a few more cartons, so I won’t panic just yet, but I am fearful of the day when I have to put the mug down and step away from the eggnog. What comforting beverage will fill its void? To the creator of eggnog- thank you. My challenge to you now- send me something to wean me off its sweet sweet nectar.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Fin
I envisioned this online dating venture as a thrilling topic of blogging. Since most aspects of my life chart me in the fast lane, I figured this would be the same. I pictured numerous dates per week, doubling up on certain days, confusing people’s back-stories and having wild tales of stalkers and obsessive compulsive prone perverts to bring to the girls at work. I was also looking forward to obtaining exceptional blogging material.
However, it is now that the sad truth is beginning to present itself. My forte in life is most likely not online dating. I am awful at small talk, I don’t get online chatting, and crafting a witty e-mail is not really my game. Most of all, I hate talking about myself to people I don’t know. Due to my distaste for this rather integral cornerstone in socialization, I am essentially no good at meeting new people. I thought it was just in person, but as it turns out this extends to the online world as well.
Somehow I have made it pretty far in life for being almost entirely socially awkward, so I am going to just pray that the above is not completely true. Maybe I just haven’t gotten the knack of dating online, need to devote a bit more focus, or I need a new site, but in order not to bore any of my loyal readers, I am going to hold off on any further updates until I have some that is actually interesting to share.
However, it is now that the sad truth is beginning to present itself. My forte in life is most likely not online dating. I am awful at small talk, I don’t get online chatting, and crafting a witty e-mail is not really my game. Most of all, I hate talking about myself to people I don’t know. Due to my distaste for this rather integral cornerstone in socialization, I am essentially no good at meeting new people. I thought it was just in person, but as it turns out this extends to the online world as well.
Somehow I have made it pretty far in life for being almost entirely socially awkward, so I am going to just pray that the above is not completely true. Maybe I just haven’t gotten the knack of dating online, need to devote a bit more focus, or I need a new site, but in order not to bore any of my loyal readers, I am going to hold off on any further updates until I have some that is actually interesting to share.
Sunday, December 06, 2009
The day I began to fail at online dating.
So I survived my night of taking it offline- but I have overall failed my mission of taking the Internet by storm. It started off wonderfully. He checked in online to confirm the date and the day of our big date I got a friendly little text about the night. I was looking my best after spending a frantic two hour period prior to the date arranging the perfect first date outfit. And I feel like I followed first date etiquette.
I asked a lot of questions, I seemed interested in the answers. At least I think I did- I at least TRIED to seem interested in the answers. I made eye contact, I laughed. At least I am pretty sure I made eye contact and I definitely laughed. It was hard to remain entirely focused because an adorable French bulldog was patrolling the premises and I did become mildly distracted by his presence.
There were subtle touches, references to future hangouts, and complimentary feedback. I left the night feeling like I was the star of online dating. I nearly felt like I could write a book on the subject with a solid level of expertise. I sent my obligatory follow up text and drifted to sleep with the notion of romantic picnics in spring and drives to the countryside dancing in my head.
So imagine my surprise when three days later, my follow up text is still dangling in the wind unanswered. And imagine that surprise exponentially increasing when I discovered that my date removed himself from Okaycupid entirely! Not only is he not interested in seeing me ever again, but also I have officially caused him to drop out of online dating completely. At first I felt mildly depressed by the thought that I caused a perfectly nice stranger to distrust the Internet, however that was fleeting. I have merely decided to continue on as if this never happened and I have launched into the newest portion of my online dating career. It is not entirely over with Okay Cupid, but chemistry.com- here I come!
I asked a lot of questions, I seemed interested in the answers. At least I think I did- I at least TRIED to seem interested in the answers. I made eye contact, I laughed. At least I am pretty sure I made eye contact and I definitely laughed. It was hard to remain entirely focused because an adorable French bulldog was patrolling the premises and I did become mildly distracted by his presence.
There were subtle touches, references to future hangouts, and complimentary feedback. I left the night feeling like I was the star of online dating. I nearly felt like I could write a book on the subject with a solid level of expertise. I sent my obligatory follow up text and drifted to sleep with the notion of romantic picnics in spring and drives to the countryside dancing in my head.
So imagine my surprise when three days later, my follow up text is still dangling in the wind unanswered. And imagine that surprise exponentially increasing when I discovered that my date removed himself from Okaycupid entirely! Not only is he not interested in seeing me ever again, but also I have officially caused him to drop out of online dating completely. At first I felt mildly depressed by the thought that I caused a perfectly nice stranger to distrust the Internet, however that was fleeting. I have merely decided to continue on as if this never happened and I have launched into the newest portion of my online dating career. It is not entirely over with Okay Cupid, but chemistry.com- here I come!
Tuesday, December 01, 2009
The day I continued Online dating
Per the recommendation of my own fabulous resident online dating expert and the fire of yet another engagement under my ass, I have launched into the second chapter of my online dating novella. I have expanded my dating repertoire to a wonderful little site called okaycupid. Here I can answer questions on whether or not I will date a soft drug user or if I think it is acceptable to burn the American flag.
I can also mention that I am looking for a 25 -30 year old single male in NYC and that my favorite food is pretty much anything. And it is sensitive to my emotions and fear of rejection by only alerting users once they have selected each other. It isn’t entirely devoid of online awkwardness. For example this evening a 47-year-old grey haired dude wrote me a message that simply called me a “Geek.” I have also been told I have a nice neckline and also been subject to some pretty awesome pick up lines.
My favorite one was indicating that because my profile picture included a life preserver, I was intended to save the sender. Unfortunately, I sensed some ax-murderish tendencies from his profile so I deemed him a non-match. There was also the match that I was sent named CreepyMarriedude69. So far online dating is slightly like living in Southern Florida, however, there is one seemingly nice interesting single person within the range I selected so I am opting to take it offline this Thursday!
I have alerted my emergency contact of my location and timing so in case I go missing they will know from where to follow the breadcrumbs. So far I am basically a professional online dater. Stay tuned!
I can also mention that I am looking for a 25 -30 year old single male in NYC and that my favorite food is pretty much anything. And it is sensitive to my emotions and fear of rejection by only alerting users once they have selected each other. It isn’t entirely devoid of online awkwardness. For example this evening a 47-year-old grey haired dude wrote me a message that simply called me a “Geek.” I have also been told I have a nice neckline and also been subject to some pretty awesome pick up lines.
My favorite one was indicating that because my profile picture included a life preserver, I was intended to save the sender. Unfortunately, I sensed some ax-murderish tendencies from his profile so I deemed him a non-match. There was also the match that I was sent named CreepyMarriedude69. So far online dating is slightly like living in Southern Florida, however, there is one seemingly nice interesting single person within the range I selected so I am opting to take it offline this Thursday!
I have alerted my emergency contact of my location and timing so in case I go missing they will know from where to follow the breadcrumbs. So far I am basically a professional online dater. Stay tuned!
Sunday, November 15, 2009
The time I almost did Internet dating
As my friends begin to get engaged and married I have decided it’s about time I meet my soul mate. Since certain statistics indicate I won’t be meeting said person out on the town and I haven’t yet achieved this goal, I am hitting up the Internet. I was told that it is free to look so I recently ventured over to E-Harmony to fill out my personality profile. 150 million hours later I am convinced that the only people that have found love on this site are that business owner and artist named Jake or Tom from the commercial.
The reason I believe this is because the personality profile is fairly bogus. I know some Doctor invented it and it is supposedly fairly comprehensive, however in this case comprehensive merely means long versus in depth. Essentially, the insight gleaned is that I think I am fabulous, witty, and gorgeous and I am looking for a nice, intelligent, and handsome man. Shockingly I had several matches immediately based on this intense analysis. I am all for the net, as long as it’s not some rapey type of chat room, but with the formula they apply the chances that a self proclaimed awesome person finds others that find themselves awesome are slightly skewed.
The fact of the matter is, I do find myself to be amazing and I think I should find someone great, but I am thinking E-harmony is not the spot. Considering the fact that I do not often welcome harmony into other sectors of my life, why would I find harmonious Internet love? I know that everyone knows somebody that met his or her future spouse on the E-Harm, but I am thinking I am not sweet enough to meet my match in this forum. I feel that I need a slightly grittier Internet outlet. Plus, word is they hate the gays, so that clearly will not work out. I feel that I have taken the first step in Internet dating, by ruling out one site. Now the task is to find more and then actually join them. Stay tuned- Internet boyfriend to come.
The reason I believe this is because the personality profile is fairly bogus. I know some Doctor invented it and it is supposedly fairly comprehensive, however in this case comprehensive merely means long versus in depth. Essentially, the insight gleaned is that I think I am fabulous, witty, and gorgeous and I am looking for a nice, intelligent, and handsome man. Shockingly I had several matches immediately based on this intense analysis. I am all for the net, as long as it’s not some rapey type of chat room, but with the formula they apply the chances that a self proclaimed awesome person finds others that find themselves awesome are slightly skewed.
The fact of the matter is, I do find myself to be amazing and I think I should find someone great, but I am thinking E-harmony is not the spot. Considering the fact that I do not often welcome harmony into other sectors of my life, why would I find harmonious Internet love? I know that everyone knows somebody that met his or her future spouse on the E-Harm, but I am thinking I am not sweet enough to meet my match in this forum. I feel that I need a slightly grittier Internet outlet. Plus, word is they hate the gays, so that clearly will not work out. I feel that I have taken the first step in Internet dating, by ruling out one site. Now the task is to find more and then actually join them. Stay tuned- Internet boyfriend to come.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
West Coast Balla Reunion
So I’ve received some requests to hear a little bit about my recent vacation to the West Coast. First of all shout out to Jeremy at Auberge! I know this mention isn’t as great as the televised broadcast from Chelsea Handler, but our visit was part of a magical time in California. For those that don’t know, last week I enjoyed a glorious interlude outside of New York City. During my travels to Napa/San Francisco, I experienced the splendor of gay bars, old friends, and wine tasting and for a few short days I was treated to a world of joy and perfection. With no e-mails and emergencies to deter me, I was able to fully dedicate myself to a weekend of awesomeness.
The entire trip embodied perfection, but it was after an idyllic day, sampling the sweet god given nectar of the vineyards, it was determined that I am going to need to immediately win the lottery so that I can move to the West Coast and open a winery of my very own. My dreary New York existence has run its course and it has become clear that rather than devote myself to an office on a day to day basis, I should be strolling through my own plot of vines, plucking ripened fruit, meeting with cheese vendors, and sampling barrel upon barrel of vino.
Within moments I am skipping through rows and rows of trellised grapes of my very own in my mind. I have selected the perfect piece of bucolic bliss and designed the perfect contemporary farmhouse. I have planted vegetable gardens, installed window treatments, and hired a staff. Just as I am about to harvest my 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon, I am torn from my reverie by the need to move on to our next winery. As disappointing, as it was to realize I was in actuality not a vintner at all, but still a tourist, our following destinations somehow continued to outperform the previous.
All in all it was a perfect getaway. The sun was a little brighter, the air a little warmer, and the people just a touch nicer. Although, I am East Coast through and through, it was sad to leave behind my little slice of heaven. I will miss all the wonderful little San Franciscans, the elusive hilliness, the fabulous day drinking, and the enviable lifestyle. Most likely I will remain in NYC for the foreseeable future, but do know that the moment I hit gold, I will be returning to proliferate the Brady Vineyard empire.
The entire trip embodied perfection, but it was after an idyllic day, sampling the sweet god given nectar of the vineyards, it was determined that I am going to need to immediately win the lottery so that I can move to the West Coast and open a winery of my very own. My dreary New York existence has run its course and it has become clear that rather than devote myself to an office on a day to day basis, I should be strolling through my own plot of vines, plucking ripened fruit, meeting with cheese vendors, and sampling barrel upon barrel of vino.
Within moments I am skipping through rows and rows of trellised grapes of my very own in my mind. I have selected the perfect piece of bucolic bliss and designed the perfect contemporary farmhouse. I have planted vegetable gardens, installed window treatments, and hired a staff. Just as I am about to harvest my 2009 Cabernet Sauvignon, I am torn from my reverie by the need to move on to our next winery. As disappointing, as it was to realize I was in actuality not a vintner at all, but still a tourist, our following destinations somehow continued to outperform the previous.
All in all it was a perfect getaway. The sun was a little brighter, the air a little warmer, and the people just a touch nicer. Although, I am East Coast through and through, it was sad to leave behind my little slice of heaven. I will miss all the wonderful little San Franciscans, the elusive hilliness, the fabulous day drinking, and the enviable lifestyle. Most likely I will remain in NYC for the foreseeable future, but do know that the moment I hit gold, I will be returning to proliferate the Brady Vineyard empire.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
I am a hot streaky mess
To celebrate my oldest best friend in the world’s birthday this weekend, I decided I wanted to look extra snazzy. Due to the fact that I am essentially translucent, a large part my party preparation included a hefty application of self-tanner. So on my thrilling Friday evening between the washing and drying cycle of my laundry I busted out my newly procured self-tanning lotion. I figured an hour would be enough time for me to acquire the desired level of bronzness so I put on some trashy entertainment TV and got to work.
It seemed easy enough. The lotion was tinted so I could see exactly what I was doing to avoid streaking and the bottle did mention that it wouldn’t stain my clothes post application. “Perfect!” I thought to myself . It seemed foolproof. “What kind of a self tanning novice could screw this up?: It was just what I needed in order to gain a hue darker that white chalk. Minutes later I was shimmery and bronzed just like a Greek Goddess in my professional opinion. The bottle didn’t mention anything about drying time so I preemptively waited about a half an hour for good measure and merrily proceeded along with my evening.
I fell asleep in my newly cleaned apartment with dreams of a gloriously tanned future. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning amidst an orange sticky mess. Slowly I opened one eye to notice a giant orange splotch to my right. In horror I tore off my sheets only to notice orange streaks down the entire length of my body. Orange splotches covered my innocently by standing stuffed rabbit. I jumped up in a panic. Orange prints blanketed nearly every surface of my apartment, as I made my way to the bathroom frantically to gaze at my carrot hued face. The sexy glow I was seeking has gone to the wayside and I now more closely resemble my orange striped cat. I am hoping to be able to bleach and exfoliate away this mess but in the event this is not possible, I am sorry Andre! Happy Birthday!
It seemed easy enough. The lotion was tinted so I could see exactly what I was doing to avoid streaking and the bottle did mention that it wouldn’t stain my clothes post application. “Perfect!” I thought to myself . It seemed foolproof. “What kind of a self tanning novice could screw this up?: It was just what I needed in order to gain a hue darker that white chalk. Minutes later I was shimmery and bronzed just like a Greek Goddess in my professional opinion. The bottle didn’t mention anything about drying time so I preemptively waited about a half an hour for good measure and merrily proceeded along with my evening.
I fell asleep in my newly cleaned apartment with dreams of a gloriously tanned future. So imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning amidst an orange sticky mess. Slowly I opened one eye to notice a giant orange splotch to my right. In horror I tore off my sheets only to notice orange streaks down the entire length of my body. Orange splotches covered my innocently by standing stuffed rabbit. I jumped up in a panic. Orange prints blanketed nearly every surface of my apartment, as I made my way to the bathroom frantically to gaze at my carrot hued face. The sexy glow I was seeking has gone to the wayside and I now more closely resemble my orange striped cat. I am hoping to be able to bleach and exfoliate away this mess but in the event this is not possible, I am sorry Andre! Happy Birthday!
Monday, October 12, 2009
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
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!
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!
Friday, August 14, 2009
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
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
Sunday, August 09, 2009
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.
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.
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