In the past few months, I've had ample opportunity to reflect on my dating life up till now. I will spare you the details of why (and save those for another blog post), but during this time of self-examination, I have felt the overwhelming urge to share my observations/thoughts/advice/experience on what I've learned thus far.
I originally came up with the idea for this post sometime in late October when I was trying to get rid of a guy who, for some unknown reason, seemed to want to date me. Of course, it is now mid-December, so for the past two months, instead of writing, I've settled for discussing my musings with friends (mostly girls) of mine. These conversations have led me to realize a few things: 1) Men need just as much guidance on dating as women do. 2) Much of that advice is exactly the same as it is for women. 3) For some unknown reason men seem less likely to actually heed such advice.
As a result, I have chosen to construct this post around specific advice, from my friends and me, to men about how to comport yourselves with young, attractive, intelligent women, like us. I also encourage other people (men and women) to share their own thoughts. This information needs to be dispersed, and quickly.
1) If a girl is taller than you (or shorter than you by less than an inch or two), do not make any snide remarks when she wears heels in your presence. Women care less about your height than they do about your attitude, and in most cases a good-natured sense of humor or ability to exude confidence and authority will make up for any *ahem* shortcomings you may or may not have. Besides, it's pretty difficult to not look like a complete asshole after basically admitting you suffer from a severe Napoleon Complex and only like to be seen with women you can, literally, look down on.
2) If you tickle a girl, and she asks you to stop, she means it. She's only laughing because of a biological reflex, not because she's having a good time or trying to be coy. But, of course, if you want to piss her off and run the risk of getting kicked in the nuts (accidentally or on purpose), by all means, proceed.
3) Never, ever say to a girl, "I want to kiss you standing up." Just take my word for it.
4) If a girl tells you she just got out of a relationship and therefore she doesn't want to date or be intimate with anyone right now, she means she doesn't want to date or be intimate with you. Period. This is not to say she's lying about just getting out of a relationship, but if she genuinely liked you, it wouldn't matter. The same advice applies to the phrases, "I just kind of want to be single for a while," and "Right now, I'm just looking for friends."
5) If you call/text/email a girl and she doesn't respond, she doesn't want to talk to you! If you continue to call/text/email her, you will still never hear from her, and, to make matters worse, she'll start making fun of you to all of her friends (and probably current lover). This rule also applies to ex-boyfriends, no matter the conditions of your breakup and former relationship.
6) It is your job, not ours, to supply the condoms.
7) Have a mind of your own. If you ask us out, make a plan for what to do. Don't wait for us to suggest something. Women want a man who can show them a good time. If we just wanted to go to our usual Thai restaurant and neighborhood bar, we would go with our girlfriends, and, most likely, have a better time than we would with you.
8) If you tell a girl she looks pretty, and she doesn't appear visibly flattered, she doesn't really like you that much.
9) If a girl wears a sexy outfit and then invites you back to your place (or goes to yours), that is your invitation to make a move. This does not necessarily mean she will sleep with you, but it does mean she has already considered it and probably shaved her legs that day.
10) Accents are nice, but they are not an excuse to talk about yourself all night. Actually, there is no legitimate excuse to talk about yourself all night.
11) Never talk baby talk to a girl or call her "mommy." (It's a sad statement on our culture that I even have to write that)
*special thanks to Sarah for some of the above suggestions
Friday, December 18, 2009
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
"A little butter never hurt anyone"
In the Summer of 2008, I read The Omnivore’s Dilemma by Michael Pollan. For those of you not familiar with this title, this book examines the American diet and the industries that have structured it for much of the last century. It spends a good chunk of its 400+ pages detailing the problems with the corn industry and the meat industry and even though Pollan never expressly calls for people to embrace vegetarianism, some of the anecdotes will make you think twice the next time you order a burger.
Overall, I found the book to be well written, informative, and thought-provoking, though I ended up skipping the last 30 pages because I had had enough of Pollan’s discourse on his adventures trying to find, cook, and eat wild mushrooms. After I had “finished” it, my boyfriend at the time, who had read the book some time before me, asked me what I thought about it. “It really made me think about what I eat,” I said. “Though, of course, that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to change the way I eat.”
“That was my reaction to it,” he said.
This is the idea I wanted to explore in this post because, since reading that book, I’ve thought a lot about what I ingest. I think living in New York has something to do with it,too. Here, everyone seems incredibly concerned with living a better life, though, admittedly, this phrase means different things for different people. But one way this concept manifests itself is through food. In Manhattan, the only decent grocery stores are wildly overpriced gourmet and/or organic outfits like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, The Food Emporium, and Dean and Deluca. All of these places are, despite their prices, always crowded. It might be one of those chicken-egg arguments: are these stores so popular because they’re the only decent grocery stores in Manhattan or did they become the only decent stores in Manhattan because people preferred to shop there over other, less high-end stores?
Hard to tell, but regardless, the fact that so many New Yorkers are willing to pay more for these products indicates at the very least a desire to cook their own food instead of relying on what would probably be a cheaper diet of take-out Chinese every day. At most, it indicates a real, concrete desire among this population to monitor what goes into their mouths and their bodies. They will pay more for something and wait in a longer line to buy it if they know it’s organic, free-range, fair trade, all-natural, and preservative-free. And they’ll lug all of their goodies home in reusable bags. Bully for them!
I can’t afford to do all of my grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Plus, there isn’t one close to my apartment. For me, it’s more important to eat a balanced, steady diet without going broke, though, I confess, I am more inclined to buy something made from actual food rather than a bunch of chemically altered compounds I can’t pronounce. To be fair, every time I pick up eggs, I think long and hard about what kind I should buy. I know, deep within my conscience, that I should buy the free-range, cage-free, organic brown eggs that cost $3 more a dozen, but frankly, I know that my omelette is going to taste just fine if I settle on the cheaper variety and those pour cooped-up chickens aren’t going to be liberated because I did the “right” thing.
Earlier this year, I was confronted with the issue of my diet even more while I dated a guy who monitored the foods he ate more closely than he monitored the time of day. Though this guy was not expressly allergic to any foods, he had chosen to give up both gluten and dairy because he said he noticed a major improvement in his health once he did so—despite the fact that his doctors had repeatedly told him that changing his diet would not affect his health. He told me this on our first date and because I am, apparently, superficial, my first thought was, “Oh shit. That means he doesn’t drink beer. What are going to do if he doesn’t drink beer?”
“But I do drink beer,” he said, as if reading my mind.
Oh, thank goodness. It turns out this guy, Claudio, wasn’t completely strict about his diet. In fact, that night, after dinner and a couple hours of beer consumption, we stopped at Artichoke for a slice of pizza. Delicious gluten- and dairy-ridden pizza.
For the next few months, as we dated, Claudio and I had several discussions about nutrition. He had studied it quite a bit and had even worked in the nutrition department at Whole Foods for a few years. He seemed incredibly well-informed and introduced me to the idea that undistilled apple cider vinegar is the cure-all for everything (in the six and a half months we dated, I used ACV—his Rachel Ray-esque term for the stuff—to cure an upset stomach and open my sinuses when I had a cold). The first time he came over to my apartment, he laughed at the Target-brand vitamins I had on my dresser and said I might as well not take anything. The first gift he ever gave me was, you guessed it, a nice big bottle of apple cider vinegar.
Over the course of those few months, I learned a lot about supplements, Claudio’s favorite being trace minerals—a compound found in salt water. I once watched him add several drops of the stuff to a glass or orange juice and down the mixture in a couple of pained gulps. “This stuff is great for you,” he said, grimacing. “But it tastes awful.”
But I had fun with Claudio. It generally wasn’t hard for him to find something to eat no matter where we went, and I began to think maybe I should try revamping my diet. I had met other people who had eliminated certain foods from their menus—at least temporarily—and they reported that they’d never felt better. What did I have to lose?
Well, in my case, a lot. I have a roommate, Bridget, whom I love dearly. I especially love it when she cooks, though, and Bridget is a big fan of pasta…and cheese…and butter…and milk, and frankly I wasn’t about to sacrifice her delicious home-cooked meals. One night, soon after we moved in together, I cam home from work to find that Bridget had made pasta. When I asked her about the sauce she had used she said it was from a jar but “I added butter to it.” There was absolutely no need for her to add butter to this sauce, but she had, and it was good. Claudio cooked me dinner once, and while it was pretty good, and I felt pretty satisfied afterward, I wasn’t about to trade Bridget’s butter sauce for tofu, sweet potatoes, and broccoli.
For a while—a couple of weeks maybe—I decided instead to “reduce” the amount of dairy in my diet. I did this by trying to eliminate dairy when possible when I cooked for myself and when I ate out. Admittedly, I held to a very loose definition of the word “reduced” so that substituting soy milk for regular milk in my cup of coffee counted as an improvement. That’s another thing. I took to purchasing soy milk to add to my coffee and cereal instead of regular milk, but then someone told me you shouldn’t drink too much soy because of high estrogen levels or something. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?
I know, it was a lame attempt, and to be fair, it was pretty easy to keep dairy out of the apartment at that time because our refrigerator was broken and all of our food kept spoiling. But here’s the thing: I like eating dairy. I like eating gluten. I like eating things with salt, and sugar, and fat, and carbs. I like ice cream. Actually, I LOVE ice cream. I like cheese (all except the kind that’s blue). I like dunking my Oreos in real milk (and, yes, I know that eating Oreos dunked in anything is unhealthy, but if they’re in the house, I’m going to eat them). I like pizza. I like beer. I like the two together. I like food. I love food. In fact, I love food more than I love having regular bowel movements, hence, why eliminating dairy—or anything else—from my diet has never actually promised much of a payoff for me.
Dairy wasn’t the only thing I had been told was an enemy. The other was caffeine. Now, I’ve never been much of a caffeine addict. In fact, I can go for days without having any and still be completely functional. Bridget and I have a coffee pot in our house. We also have an espresso maker we haven’t used since we moved in together. But a few times a week, I’ll treat myself to a nice cup of coffee, unsweetened, with soy milk while I get ready for the day. And you know what? Those are the best mornings.
Coffee generally has a profound effect on me. Not only does it give me more energy but it also puts me in a really good mood. In college, I could get a small coffee from one of the campus food courts, drink it during a class, and be buzzing for 12 hours straight. I usually had grand dreams for my future during this time as well. One day, after a particular strong cup, I decided I wanted to take a new course in my life and apply to teach English at an international school after I ran into someone who told me he had done it for several years. I went home and filled out an online application. By the time I received a letter from a school in Shanghai asking for my resume, however, the caffeine had worn off and I snapped back to reality. Caffeine is a powerful drug.
So even though I’ve never been an addict, I realized that I didn’t like the idea of relying on any drug—no matter how sparingly—to get through the day, be happy, or be inspired. So, I decided to go without caffeine for two weeks.
Here’s the funny thing about sacrifice: when you go without something unconsciously, you generally don’t notice. I’m sure there are plenty of times in my life where I’ve gone for two weeks without any caffeine, or sex, or a glass of wine, and I’ve been just fine. The second I resolved to give up caffeine, however, I began to crave it incessantly.
But I was good, and I made it a whole 13 days without any caffeine. I would’ve made it 14 but I had a sore throat, and Bridget brought home some iced tea on day 13, and I drank some of it without thinking. Whatever, it barely counts.
But I was also pretty damn miserable during those two weeks. I was grumpy, had less energy, and I missed the comfort of having a nice hot coffee in the morning while I did my makeup and listened to NPR. The thing is, for me, a modest intake of caffeine didn’t have any negative side effects. Because I drank coffee in the morning, I never had trouble falling asleep that night. I drank it sparingly, so I never had stomach problems or got heartburn. I never started shaking uncontrollably. So why not just let myself have it when I want it as long as it doesn’t become a problem? I started drinking coffee again the following week, and I’ve been a lot happier. It also made feel better when I found out, through a book I’m editing at work, that moderate caffeine consumption has been shown to induce processes in the body that scientists believe are linked to longevity. Score one for the coffee drinkers of the world! You may actually live longer than your lower-strung comrades!
I just realized that all of this may sound bad. Maybe I sound like some lucky 24-year-old without any major health issues and a pretty awesome metabolism who doesn’t really care about the repercussions of what she puts in her body. Half of that is true. Yes, I’ve never had to worry that if I eat a peanut, my body will go into a state of shock. And I’ve never had to worry that if I let myself have that donut, I will gain back that pesky pound I've been trying to lose. But I do care about my health. My point is that food—real food—is not dangerous and you should not be frightened of it. Of course, I’m saying this as someone whose expertise comes from dating an amateur nutritionist and reading a couple Michael Pollan books. But even Michael Pollan advocates this message in his favorite “food rules.”
But I’m also saying this as someone who knows that Julia Child lived a long, healthy life even though she added butter to just about everything. I don’t claim to know the secret to Julia’s longevity (it was probably just good genes), but I do know she ate real food…real, delicious food that sustained both her body and her soul. So in honor of Julia and of food lovers everywhere, Bon appétit!
Overall, I found the book to be well written, informative, and thought-provoking, though I ended up skipping the last 30 pages because I had had enough of Pollan’s discourse on his adventures trying to find, cook, and eat wild mushrooms. After I had “finished” it, my boyfriend at the time, who had read the book some time before me, asked me what I thought about it. “It really made me think about what I eat,” I said. “Though, of course, that doesn’t mean I’m actually going to change the way I eat.”
“That was my reaction to it,” he said.
This is the idea I wanted to explore in this post because, since reading that book, I’ve thought a lot about what I ingest. I think living in New York has something to do with it,too. Here, everyone seems incredibly concerned with living a better life, though, admittedly, this phrase means different things for different people. But one way this concept manifests itself is through food. In Manhattan, the only decent grocery stores are wildly overpriced gourmet and/or organic outfits like Whole Foods, Trader Joe’s, The Food Emporium, and Dean and Deluca. All of these places are, despite their prices, always crowded. It might be one of those chicken-egg arguments: are these stores so popular because they’re the only decent grocery stores in Manhattan or did they become the only decent stores in Manhattan because people preferred to shop there over other, less high-end stores?
Hard to tell, but regardless, the fact that so many New Yorkers are willing to pay more for these products indicates at the very least a desire to cook their own food instead of relying on what would probably be a cheaper diet of take-out Chinese every day. At most, it indicates a real, concrete desire among this population to monitor what goes into their mouths and their bodies. They will pay more for something and wait in a longer line to buy it if they know it’s organic, free-range, fair trade, all-natural, and preservative-free. And they’ll lug all of their goodies home in reusable bags. Bully for them!
I can’t afford to do all of my grocery shopping at Whole Foods. Plus, there isn’t one close to my apartment. For me, it’s more important to eat a balanced, steady diet without going broke, though, I confess, I am more inclined to buy something made from actual food rather than a bunch of chemically altered compounds I can’t pronounce. To be fair, every time I pick up eggs, I think long and hard about what kind I should buy. I know, deep within my conscience, that I should buy the free-range, cage-free, organic brown eggs that cost $3 more a dozen, but frankly, I know that my omelette is going to taste just fine if I settle on the cheaper variety and those pour cooped-up chickens aren’t going to be liberated because I did the “right” thing.
Earlier this year, I was confronted with the issue of my diet even more while I dated a guy who monitored the foods he ate more closely than he monitored the time of day. Though this guy was not expressly allergic to any foods, he had chosen to give up both gluten and dairy because he said he noticed a major improvement in his health once he did so—despite the fact that his doctors had repeatedly told him that changing his diet would not affect his health. He told me this on our first date and because I am, apparently, superficial, my first thought was, “Oh shit. That means he doesn’t drink beer. What are going to do if he doesn’t drink beer?”
“But I do drink beer,” he said, as if reading my mind.
Oh, thank goodness. It turns out this guy, Claudio, wasn’t completely strict about his diet. In fact, that night, after dinner and a couple hours of beer consumption, we stopped at Artichoke for a slice of pizza. Delicious gluten- and dairy-ridden pizza.
For the next few months, as we dated, Claudio and I had several discussions about nutrition. He had studied it quite a bit and had even worked in the nutrition department at Whole Foods for a few years. He seemed incredibly well-informed and introduced me to the idea that undistilled apple cider vinegar is the cure-all for everything (in the six and a half months we dated, I used ACV—his Rachel Ray-esque term for the stuff—to cure an upset stomach and open my sinuses when I had a cold). The first time he came over to my apartment, he laughed at the Target-brand vitamins I had on my dresser and said I might as well not take anything. The first gift he ever gave me was, you guessed it, a nice big bottle of apple cider vinegar.
Over the course of those few months, I learned a lot about supplements, Claudio’s favorite being trace minerals—a compound found in salt water. I once watched him add several drops of the stuff to a glass or orange juice and down the mixture in a couple of pained gulps. “This stuff is great for you,” he said, grimacing. “But it tastes awful.”
But I had fun with Claudio. It generally wasn’t hard for him to find something to eat no matter where we went, and I began to think maybe I should try revamping my diet. I had met other people who had eliminated certain foods from their menus—at least temporarily—and they reported that they’d never felt better. What did I have to lose?
Well, in my case, a lot. I have a roommate, Bridget, whom I love dearly. I especially love it when she cooks, though, and Bridget is a big fan of pasta…and cheese…and butter…and milk, and frankly I wasn’t about to sacrifice her delicious home-cooked meals. One night, soon after we moved in together, I cam home from work to find that Bridget had made pasta. When I asked her about the sauce she had used she said it was from a jar but “I added butter to it.” There was absolutely no need for her to add butter to this sauce, but she had, and it was good. Claudio cooked me dinner once, and while it was pretty good, and I felt pretty satisfied afterward, I wasn’t about to trade Bridget’s butter sauce for tofu, sweet potatoes, and broccoli.
For a while—a couple of weeks maybe—I decided instead to “reduce” the amount of dairy in my diet. I did this by trying to eliminate dairy when possible when I cooked for myself and when I ate out. Admittedly, I held to a very loose definition of the word “reduced” so that substituting soy milk for regular milk in my cup of coffee counted as an improvement. That’s another thing. I took to purchasing soy milk to add to my coffee and cereal instead of regular milk, but then someone told me you shouldn’t drink too much soy because of high estrogen levels or something. Well, what the hell am I supposed to do?
I know, it was a lame attempt, and to be fair, it was pretty easy to keep dairy out of the apartment at that time because our refrigerator was broken and all of our food kept spoiling. But here’s the thing: I like eating dairy. I like eating gluten. I like eating things with salt, and sugar, and fat, and carbs. I like ice cream. Actually, I LOVE ice cream. I like cheese (all except the kind that’s blue). I like dunking my Oreos in real milk (and, yes, I know that eating Oreos dunked in anything is unhealthy, but if they’re in the house, I’m going to eat them). I like pizza. I like beer. I like the two together. I like food. I love food. In fact, I love food more than I love having regular bowel movements, hence, why eliminating dairy—or anything else—from my diet has never actually promised much of a payoff for me.
Dairy wasn’t the only thing I had been told was an enemy. The other was caffeine. Now, I’ve never been much of a caffeine addict. In fact, I can go for days without having any and still be completely functional. Bridget and I have a coffee pot in our house. We also have an espresso maker we haven’t used since we moved in together. But a few times a week, I’ll treat myself to a nice cup of coffee, unsweetened, with soy milk while I get ready for the day. And you know what? Those are the best mornings.
Coffee generally has a profound effect on me. Not only does it give me more energy but it also puts me in a really good mood. In college, I could get a small coffee from one of the campus food courts, drink it during a class, and be buzzing for 12 hours straight. I usually had grand dreams for my future during this time as well. One day, after a particular strong cup, I decided I wanted to take a new course in my life and apply to teach English at an international school after I ran into someone who told me he had done it for several years. I went home and filled out an online application. By the time I received a letter from a school in Shanghai asking for my resume, however, the caffeine had worn off and I snapped back to reality. Caffeine is a powerful drug.
So even though I’ve never been an addict, I realized that I didn’t like the idea of relying on any drug—no matter how sparingly—to get through the day, be happy, or be inspired. So, I decided to go without caffeine for two weeks.
Here’s the funny thing about sacrifice: when you go without something unconsciously, you generally don’t notice. I’m sure there are plenty of times in my life where I’ve gone for two weeks without any caffeine, or sex, or a glass of wine, and I’ve been just fine. The second I resolved to give up caffeine, however, I began to crave it incessantly.
But I was good, and I made it a whole 13 days without any caffeine. I would’ve made it 14 but I had a sore throat, and Bridget brought home some iced tea on day 13, and I drank some of it without thinking. Whatever, it barely counts.
But I was also pretty damn miserable during those two weeks. I was grumpy, had less energy, and I missed the comfort of having a nice hot coffee in the morning while I did my makeup and listened to NPR. The thing is, for me, a modest intake of caffeine didn’t have any negative side effects. Because I drank coffee in the morning, I never had trouble falling asleep that night. I drank it sparingly, so I never had stomach problems or got heartburn. I never started shaking uncontrollably. So why not just let myself have it when I want it as long as it doesn’t become a problem? I started drinking coffee again the following week, and I’ve been a lot happier. It also made feel better when I found out, through a book I’m editing at work, that moderate caffeine consumption has been shown to induce processes in the body that scientists believe are linked to longevity. Score one for the coffee drinkers of the world! You may actually live longer than your lower-strung comrades!
I just realized that all of this may sound bad. Maybe I sound like some lucky 24-year-old without any major health issues and a pretty awesome metabolism who doesn’t really care about the repercussions of what she puts in her body. Half of that is true. Yes, I’ve never had to worry that if I eat a peanut, my body will go into a state of shock. And I’ve never had to worry that if I let myself have that donut, I will gain back that pesky pound I've been trying to lose. But I do care about my health. My point is that food—real food—is not dangerous and you should not be frightened of it. Of course, I’m saying this as someone whose expertise comes from dating an amateur nutritionist and reading a couple Michael Pollan books. But even Michael Pollan advocates this message in his favorite “food rules.”
But I’m also saying this as someone who knows that Julia Child lived a long, healthy life even though she added butter to just about everything. I don’t claim to know the secret to Julia’s longevity (it was probably just good genes), but I do know she ate real food…real, delicious food that sustained both her body and her soul. So in honor of Julia and of food lovers everywhere, Bon appétit!
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
All Grown Up Now
Recently, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of being an adult. I always kind of assumed that I would consider myself an adult after I graduated college, got a steady job, started paying my own bills and rent, and bought a salad spinner. I accomplished these things almost two years ago (though the acquisition of the salad spinner was more recent), but even though I’m 24, I still feel quite trapped in a childlike state.
My obsession with adulthood began with my quest to find a true, adult apartment. When I first moved to New York in October 2007, I lived with a young woman and her mother. I rented a room in their Queens apartment for $500. The room came furnished, which was nice seeing as I didn’t own any furniture. The only problem was, it was furnished with a twin bed and no dresser—just shelves in a closet and a large bookshelf. I made it work for six months but after I started dating someone who lived out of town, I realized sharing a twin bed and having to ask permission to have him stay over was no longer conducive to my preferred lifestyle. So, I moved.
I moved into the first apartment I could find that I could afford—about twenty minutes (walking) away from my first apartment. I shared the space with two other people—a girl and a guy in their early twenties. They had known each other from a previous job but had decided to move in together when they both moved from Long Island to New York. This new place had its faults—my bedroom had no windows and there was no air conditioning. Not to mention the fact that my room was sandwiched between the other two rooms and, due to the obscenely thin walls, I could hear everything my roommates did. I could even sometimes hear the other end of cell phone conversations. But, the place was also a bit cheaper, in a more convenient location (in terms of grocery stores and laundry services), and I could, in a certain sense, call it my own because I shared it with other people and could claim authority over the same amount of common space.
I stayed there for ten more months and then moved to my current place—an apartment I absolutely love that I share with Bridget, a girl I went to college with. Upon moving in, Bridget and I immediately began to furnish the place. She had brought a sofa and some other furniture from home; I bought a TV and wallpapered one of the living room walls with book jackets Bridget and I collected from work. (She also works in publishing). Little by little the place came together. I bought a desk, which was a very big deal seeing as I work a lot from home. Granted, the desk didn’t really match my dresser or the small bookshelf I brought from my mom’s storage unit upstate, but it functioned. I hung up some pictures, though we never got around to painting and, after a while, we admitted to ourselves that we would never have the energy to paint the apartment now that it was so lived in. After seven months of living here, I finally bought curtains, which arrived today (hence what brought this blog topic to mind). They are yellow and, I think, really complete the room.
When I ordered the curtains a week and a half ago, I was extremely excited for them to arrive. Grown-ups have curtains! This will make my apartment look like that of an adult!
Then, over the weekend, I attended a wedding for one of my boyfriend’s friends from high school. It was a lovely wedding and I had a lot of fun even though I only knew about four people there. The wedding was in New Jersey, and before the ceremony, I had to kill time at the best man’s girlfriend’s apartment while Claudio (my boyfriend) went to the groom’s house to take pictures (he was in the wedding party). The girl I stayed with, Leigh, is incredibly lovely and I’m very thankful that she didn’t think it was strange when I took a nap on her couch—her brand new couch.
You see, Leigh recently moved into her own apartment and had had to furnish the entire thing from the bottom up. So, as she told us, she went around town and bought a bunch of furniture including a bedroom set, a dining room set, a living room set, and a host of decorations. I have to say, she did a lovely job, and when I walked into her bedroom, I was immediately envious. First of all, it was spotless. If you walked into my room right now, you would see stuff strewn about my desk and dresser, a pile of bags on the floor, and books aligned on the windowsill because I don’t have any shelving in my room right now. You’d see that I don’t have a headboard for my bed, my nightstand is broken, and I use that tiny little bookshelf as a makeshift dresser using canvas drawers that barely fit. I still use the bedspread I used in college even though I have a full-size bed and the spread is twin. I haven’t been able to find a bed skirt I like, so you can see all of the boxes under my bed (though, to my credit I went to The Container Store and bought storage bins so that area wouldn’t look so tacky). But, hey! I have curtains!
Leigh’s room on the other hand was adult. All of her furniture matched, and she had selected curtains and decorations that matched the bedspread perfectly. She had one plastic storage unit, but she had placed it discreetly under her desk so it was barely noticeable—much more grown up than the stacks of files I have beneath my desk.
I made myself feel better by reminding myself that my apartment was small and that I didn’t make a lot of money and had been forced to purchase my furniture piece by piece—hence the hodgepodge of items I’d collected and why I still used bed sheets I had in high school.
But my reassurances became moot when I changed into my dress for the wedding. I had selected a black spring dress I’d purchased for $30 at New York and Company my senior year of high school. I’d worn the dress to my high school and college graduations (though you can’t tell from the pictures since the dress was hidden under my gown) and probably a handful of other times. The dress still fit and was in good condition and it hadn’t really gone out of style. Plus, it didn’t wrinkle, which made it perfect to shove in a bag for a weekend trip to Jersey. Low maintenance—very grown up.
Compared to what Leigh wore, it was a rag. She had purchased a brand new, black, strapless dress especially for the occasion (though she said she had to because everyone at the wedding had already seen all of her other clothes), and when she put it on, she was a knockout. I felt like the high school kid I had been when I first wore my silly little floral-print dress next to Leigh in that superb adult number. I reflected on my own wardrobe—I owned not a single piece of clothing remotely like that one in style or class. My wardrobe was completely juvenile.
I’d been thinking this for a while. I haven’t gained or lost any weight, essentially, since I stopped growing taller, so I rarely, if ever, outgrow clothes. Hence, I have a habit of keeping clothes in my closet because they still fit, are in good condition, and I may want to wear them again one day. The result? On most days, I look like a schoolgirl. Every morning when I pick out what I’m going to wear to work that day, I want to immediately rush out of my apartment, take the N train to 59th street, and buy out Bloomingdale’s. Though, let’s be honest, we all know I can’t afford to replenish my entire wardrobe with clothes from Bloomingdale’s.
My dress was fine. No one complimented it, and I ended up looking sort of fat in most of the pictures, but whatever. I’m never going to see 98% of those people again, so who cares? Of course, as soon as I arrived at the wedding, I was met with a whole new batch of insecurities.
I love weddings. I really do. I’m actually sorry my friends haven’t started getting married yet because I haven’t been able to go to many. Weddings are celebrations. You get to dress up, eat until you’re constipated, dance until you pass out, and drink until you vomit. All in the name of love. Of course, ever since the last wedding I attended (my cousin Jennifer’s in 2007, during which my older female relatives kept telling me how I was “next”) they’ve also been something else: a reminder that I have still not settled down.
I realize I’m 24. Twenty-four is too young to get married—at least for me. Granted, this probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve never been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than six months (though I’m about to be). Even so, when you’re surrounded by people who seem to have their lives planned out, you can’t help but feel a little immature.
And as lame as I think some adults are (must you become a homebody and a crappy dancer just because you’re married and have kids?), I still want to be like them. I want to have a husband, and a home to share with him. I want to have kids (I keep having dreams that I have a young son, though they’re super disturbing and perhaps more appropriate for another blog post where I examine my psyche), and I want to take pictures with them and send them out on Christmas cards (not really). I want to have a grown-up house, with a grown-up mortgage, and a grown-up dog. I want to have matching bedroom furniture. I want to paint the walls of my living room, and I want to paint them yellow. I want to worry about retirement and life insurance and my will. I want to lose my ability to hold my liquor. Screw Toys R Us! I want to grow up.
My obsession with adulthood began with my quest to find a true, adult apartment. When I first moved to New York in October 2007, I lived with a young woman and her mother. I rented a room in their Queens apartment for $500. The room came furnished, which was nice seeing as I didn’t own any furniture. The only problem was, it was furnished with a twin bed and no dresser—just shelves in a closet and a large bookshelf. I made it work for six months but after I started dating someone who lived out of town, I realized sharing a twin bed and having to ask permission to have him stay over was no longer conducive to my preferred lifestyle. So, I moved.
I moved into the first apartment I could find that I could afford—about twenty minutes (walking) away from my first apartment. I shared the space with two other people—a girl and a guy in their early twenties. They had known each other from a previous job but had decided to move in together when they both moved from Long Island to New York. This new place had its faults—my bedroom had no windows and there was no air conditioning. Not to mention the fact that my room was sandwiched between the other two rooms and, due to the obscenely thin walls, I could hear everything my roommates did. I could even sometimes hear the other end of cell phone conversations. But, the place was also a bit cheaper, in a more convenient location (in terms of grocery stores and laundry services), and I could, in a certain sense, call it my own because I shared it with other people and could claim authority over the same amount of common space.
I stayed there for ten more months and then moved to my current place—an apartment I absolutely love that I share with Bridget, a girl I went to college with. Upon moving in, Bridget and I immediately began to furnish the place. She had brought a sofa and some other furniture from home; I bought a TV and wallpapered one of the living room walls with book jackets Bridget and I collected from work. (She also works in publishing). Little by little the place came together. I bought a desk, which was a very big deal seeing as I work a lot from home. Granted, the desk didn’t really match my dresser or the small bookshelf I brought from my mom’s storage unit upstate, but it functioned. I hung up some pictures, though we never got around to painting and, after a while, we admitted to ourselves that we would never have the energy to paint the apartment now that it was so lived in. After seven months of living here, I finally bought curtains, which arrived today (hence what brought this blog topic to mind). They are yellow and, I think, really complete the room.
When I ordered the curtains a week and a half ago, I was extremely excited for them to arrive. Grown-ups have curtains! This will make my apartment look like that of an adult!
Then, over the weekend, I attended a wedding for one of my boyfriend’s friends from high school. It was a lovely wedding and I had a lot of fun even though I only knew about four people there. The wedding was in New Jersey, and before the ceremony, I had to kill time at the best man’s girlfriend’s apartment while Claudio (my boyfriend) went to the groom’s house to take pictures (he was in the wedding party). The girl I stayed with, Leigh, is incredibly lovely and I’m very thankful that she didn’t think it was strange when I took a nap on her couch—her brand new couch.
You see, Leigh recently moved into her own apartment and had had to furnish the entire thing from the bottom up. So, as she told us, she went around town and bought a bunch of furniture including a bedroom set, a dining room set, a living room set, and a host of decorations. I have to say, she did a lovely job, and when I walked into her bedroom, I was immediately envious. First of all, it was spotless. If you walked into my room right now, you would see stuff strewn about my desk and dresser, a pile of bags on the floor, and books aligned on the windowsill because I don’t have any shelving in my room right now. You’d see that I don’t have a headboard for my bed, my nightstand is broken, and I use that tiny little bookshelf as a makeshift dresser using canvas drawers that barely fit. I still use the bedspread I used in college even though I have a full-size bed and the spread is twin. I haven’t been able to find a bed skirt I like, so you can see all of the boxes under my bed (though, to my credit I went to The Container Store and bought storage bins so that area wouldn’t look so tacky). But, hey! I have curtains!
Leigh’s room on the other hand was adult. All of her furniture matched, and she had selected curtains and decorations that matched the bedspread perfectly. She had one plastic storage unit, but she had placed it discreetly under her desk so it was barely noticeable—much more grown up than the stacks of files I have beneath my desk.
I made myself feel better by reminding myself that my apartment was small and that I didn’t make a lot of money and had been forced to purchase my furniture piece by piece—hence the hodgepodge of items I’d collected and why I still used bed sheets I had in high school.
But my reassurances became moot when I changed into my dress for the wedding. I had selected a black spring dress I’d purchased for $30 at New York and Company my senior year of high school. I’d worn the dress to my high school and college graduations (though you can’t tell from the pictures since the dress was hidden under my gown) and probably a handful of other times. The dress still fit and was in good condition and it hadn’t really gone out of style. Plus, it didn’t wrinkle, which made it perfect to shove in a bag for a weekend trip to Jersey. Low maintenance—very grown up.
Compared to what Leigh wore, it was a rag. She had purchased a brand new, black, strapless dress especially for the occasion (though she said she had to because everyone at the wedding had already seen all of her other clothes), and when she put it on, she was a knockout. I felt like the high school kid I had been when I first wore my silly little floral-print dress next to Leigh in that superb adult number. I reflected on my own wardrobe—I owned not a single piece of clothing remotely like that one in style or class. My wardrobe was completely juvenile.
I’d been thinking this for a while. I haven’t gained or lost any weight, essentially, since I stopped growing taller, so I rarely, if ever, outgrow clothes. Hence, I have a habit of keeping clothes in my closet because they still fit, are in good condition, and I may want to wear them again one day. The result? On most days, I look like a schoolgirl. Every morning when I pick out what I’m going to wear to work that day, I want to immediately rush out of my apartment, take the N train to 59th street, and buy out Bloomingdale’s. Though, let’s be honest, we all know I can’t afford to replenish my entire wardrobe with clothes from Bloomingdale’s.
My dress was fine. No one complimented it, and I ended up looking sort of fat in most of the pictures, but whatever. I’m never going to see 98% of those people again, so who cares? Of course, as soon as I arrived at the wedding, I was met with a whole new batch of insecurities.
I love weddings. I really do. I’m actually sorry my friends haven’t started getting married yet because I haven’t been able to go to many. Weddings are celebrations. You get to dress up, eat until you’re constipated, dance until you pass out, and drink until you vomit. All in the name of love. Of course, ever since the last wedding I attended (my cousin Jennifer’s in 2007, during which my older female relatives kept telling me how I was “next”) they’ve also been something else: a reminder that I have still not settled down.
I realize I’m 24. Twenty-four is too young to get married—at least for me. Granted, this probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve never been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than six months (though I’m about to be). Even so, when you’re surrounded by people who seem to have their lives planned out, you can’t help but feel a little immature.
And as lame as I think some adults are (must you become a homebody and a crappy dancer just because you’re married and have kids?), I still want to be like them. I want to have a husband, and a home to share with him. I want to have kids (I keep having dreams that I have a young son, though they’re super disturbing and perhaps more appropriate for another blog post where I examine my psyche), and I want to take pictures with them and send them out on Christmas cards (not really). I want to have a grown-up house, with a grown-up mortgage, and a grown-up dog. I want to have matching bedroom furniture. I want to paint the walls of my living room, and I want to paint them yellow. I want to worry about retirement and life insurance and my will. I want to lose my ability to hold my liquor. Screw Toys R Us! I want to grow up.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Growing Up Geeky
Twice in the past week I have been called a "geek" by superiors at work. I'm sure each of the men (yes, it was two different men) who said this to me meant it in an endearing way ("Oh, Brooke, you're such a geek. How adorable!"), but it got me thinking. I am a geek--a straight-up, straight-A, straight-laced geek.And I'm not offended by this notion. First of all, I'm self-aware enough to know that even though I may harbor some geek-like sensibilities, I have never owned a pocket protector, I don't snort when I laugh (often), and I've never had any desire to learn Klingon (though I once had the desire to learn Welsh, as evident by past posts). I also know that I don't wear my glasses because I think they're sexy; they're just easier on my eyes.
In the past few weeks, I've had ample time to reflect on my geekiness. A few months ago, my boyfriend and I were hanging out with a couple of my girlfriends who were actively and eagerly discussing the upcoming release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (the film). I, naturally, was also thoroughly engaged in this conversation, and I had more than a few words to say on the subject. ("I really never liked the whole Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley thing. Am I the only person who feels this plot line was just sloppily contrived?") Several hours later, after the conversation had waned and my friends had gone home, my ever-patient and mild-mannered boyfriend said, "So, those are your friends, huh? You guys are a bunch of nerds."
Thanks, sweetie. I'll consider that your version of a term of endearment.
A few weeks later, I went to Nashville for a week to visit the city I'd lived in for ten years as well as some old friends I hadn't seen since I moved away. I stayed with my friend Jana--one of my best friends since the sixth grade--and at one point, we began discussing high school.
A side note, if you will. My experience in high school was very similar to my experience visiting the Museum of Sex for the first time: it's fine while you're there, but once you leave, you never feel the need to do it again. I definitely was a nerd in high school--straight-A, AP, Honors student, valedictorian of my class, member of the drama club and the speech and debate team, and, to top it off, one of the lead violins in our school orchestra (as it happens, Jana was the other lead).
This was my existence in high school; it was all I knew. But that was perfectly fine because it was all my friends knew too. Our typical Friday nights consisted of a small group of us getting together for cheap Mexican food at Las Palmas (a place I visited a total of three times during my recent visit), a trip to the Starbucks across the street for a Frappucino and some girl talk (though occasionally our friend Tien, who also happened to be my junior prom date, attended), and occasionally, a late-night trip to Walgreens where we once bought a three-pack of condoms just for shits and giggles. (I ended up unwrapping one and placing it conspicuously in our bathroom trashcan so my mom would see it and think the worst. Of course, she knew me well enough to know that I was not getting laid and actually thought it was hilarious.)
I've heard urban legends about how kids nowadays get together and have "rainbow" parties (a concept that, I must say, I desperately hope is a mere myth) and have drunk sex with one another. I'm sure this happens somewhere, and I'm sure plenty of kids in my high school got together on weekends, drank, smoke, and copulated, but, as Jana and I both noted during our recent conversation, this lifestyle was completely foreign to us. In fact, it wasn't until I got to college and actually met people who had already lost their virginity that it dawned on me that, perhaps, my high school classmates had done just the same. I didn't have my first kiss until my senior year of high school. It had never even occurred to me that thousands of 17-year-olds had already "done it"--for realsies.
Sleepovers were particularly fun for my friends and me. In the eighth grade, my friend Stacy had a birthday party where the tradition of the traveling story was born. We had recently been given an in-class assignment where each person started a story and then passed it to the person who sat behind them. That person would add a few sentences and then pass it further down the row until it had reached the hands of about five or six people. The result was a full-blown nonsensical story that some students were asked to share. (I have vague memories of one involving a cheese man.) I found this whole thing fascinating.
So, I suggested we try it out at the party. We each took sheets of paper and developed some rules. Each person would start their own story and pass it to the next person. After every person had written something in each story, the person who started the story had to read it out loud to everyone. Just imagine what you might have to say!
For some reason, this caught on like wildfire among my friends and me, and we continued doing it at basically every sleepover until we graduated high school. As time went on, the stories got more and more raunchy, and my friends would often describe PG-13 sexual scenarios between one of the members of our group and some unsuspecting male peer whom we all pretended to hate but secretly had a crush on. The entire process could take hours depending on how many people were participating. At my 15th birthday party, about seven friends and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning churning out stories, one of which generated the classic line, "There's always the horse." Trust me, it was funny in context.
If this wasn't geeky enough, I still have about 80 of those traveling stories stored in a Trapper Keeper somewhere. They really are timeless, let me tell you, though I have to say that all of those hours of free-writing gave me the preparation I needed to start this blog, which, I hope is a bit more articulate. You should consider yourselves so lucky.
My geekiness did not leave me upon entering college, mostly because I ended up attracting more geeks into my inner circle. My freshman year roommate watched so many Law and Order and Star Trek re-runs that, for a while, I thought she must be majoring in it. One of my closest friends initiated conversation with my roommate and me after he walked past our dorm room and heard that we were watching Lord of the Rings (my roommate had a Tolkien poster on her closet door and a shirt that said "I went to Middle Earth and all I got was this ring"--or something along those lines). My other best friend throughout college made the two following comments at different points during our freshman year: "The Economist is my favorite magazine" and "I want Tim Russert's job." Some of my favorite pastimes from college are lip synching to "Goodbye Horses" (the song in Silence of the Lambs that the serial killer sings to when he's dressing up in his skin costume) and doing an interpretive dance to "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie at a campus bar. My senior year, I hosted a Golden Girls party, and the summer after graduation, my two friends and I made fake wands out of sticks and glitter and went to the midnight release party of Harry Potter and the Dealthy Hallows (see picture above).
Part of me wonders what it would've been like to have lived the more rambunctious teenage experience. Most of my peers who did turned out just fine and don't nurse any drug habits or venereal diseases that I'm aware of. But, to be honest, if that meant I would have to give up my life as a geek, I would say "No thanks," and go back to watching my DVDs of Quantum Leap (I own all five seasons!).
Eventually, no matter how tame our youth, we meet the real world where we all have to take the same responsibilities and suffer the same hardships as everyone else. We realize that our world isn't the only one out there and that loyalty is much more rare than it was in high school. Soon enough, we become disillusioned by the world (hopefully not completely) and we need copious amounts of caffeine to help us wake up in the morning. Knowing this, I see nothing wrong with occasionally escaping into a bubble where you get excited about things like a new book coming out or taking your weekly trip to Las Palmas with the same three girls you saw earlier that day. I hope that the day I stop deriving joy from these things is the day I die. Long live the geeks of the world, and God bless.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Camaraderie through Hate
I like a lot of popular things: Harry Potter, pop music, skinny jeans, The Office, and Barack Obama to name a few. But sometimes I find myself in the quite awkward position of deciding whether or not I want to admit to a group of people--generally comprised of a group of friends or people I want to impress--that I don't like something that they do or that is generally held in high-esteem in our culture at large.
For example, I don't like Seinfeld. In most cases, there's never any reason to admit this to anyone, but with this show (and also Family Guy since we're on the topic), I find that so many of my friends and acquaintances quote or reference it on a regular basis that I'm forced to admit that no, in fact, I have not seen that episode or, I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of George's friend to whom you are referring. With more avid fans, after I've fessed up to not particularly caring for the show, I'm met with wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed expressions followed by an exclamation of "What?!" Also, the people who do this tend to be taller than me, so it can be quite scary.
What I've found, however, is that, in general, friendships aren't busted or ruined just because one person admits to not loving the other person's FAVORITE THING EVER. And I've also found that great friendships can be formed when you discover that another person shares your distaste for something that everyone else seems to find appealing.
No one put the feeling of finding a new friend more succintly or accurately than C.S. Lewis who described the forming of friendship in his book The Four Loves:
Those of you who know me well and have spoken to me in, oh, the past nine months, might know that, since that time, I have been trying to read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Okay, so that's a lie. When I say I've been "trying" to read it, what I really mean is that I read it diligently for a couple of weeks before realizing that I kept falling asleep while reading it on my morning commute and I would be better served by finding some material that would keep me awake. So I put it down for a while, and then after several people kept telling me how much Ayn Rand had changed their lives (The Fountainhead is my boyfriend's favorite book), I picked it back up with no such luck. This is an 800+ page novel that I do not like and find extremely pretentious and boring. I understand that a lot of people disagree with me and that these people tend to disagree with me strongly. When met with such people, I generally tell them that Rand would probably be proud of me (though she might think I'm an idiot) for refusing to pretend I like something just because other people do. Touché!
But I've also found that Rand is a rather polarizing figure and there are just as many people out there in the world who don't like her writing as there are people who love it. I can think of several people with whom I've been able to bond after finding out that they agreed with me on this issue. Sure, none of these people have become my best friends because we have this one thing in common, but it's nice to have something to share. It makes me feel like part of a team. Or, I guess, an anti-team.
The other night I had drinks with a man whom I've known since my junior year of college. Our relationship is strictly professional, though we do meet every so often just to catch up with what's going on in one another's lives. He's several years older than I am, so our conversations don't generally stray far from the general "What's new with you? How's the job? Where are you living now?" line of questioning.
The night began with the usual updates on each of our lives--what was going on at work and in our personal lives--the usual small talk. At one point we came around to the topic of books. Since we both work in the publishing industry to one degree our another, this wasn't too odd of a conversation to have, but, surprisingly, it was one we hadn't had before. I told him that I tend to read fiction in my spare time and that I tend to prefer contemporary fiction over classics. He was the opposite, saying he normally couldn't stand the stuff that was written today and opted for classics in most cases. We then discussed our favorite books--he gave me recommendations of classics I should read and I told him about some of my favorite, more modern novels.
I tend to enjoy plot- and character-driven narratives to more analytical or expository novels (hence why I still haven't made it through The Fountainhead). I enjoy thinking when I read, don't get me wrong, but I hate pretension and the feeling that the author is trying to be deep for the sake of being deep. Give me a good story, dammit! If I wanted an essay or a treatise, I'd read one. But I digress.
The gentleman I was with works with very prominent and very highbrow writers on a regular basis--it's part of his job, so I figured he was probably into that kind of stuff. So, it was with some hesitation that I admitted I didn't like Ian McEwan novels. Okay, I've never actually read a whole novel of his, but I tried reading Saturday and couldn't get through it. I ended up giving it away because I had resolved so strongly to never even attempt to read it again.
"Me neither!" he exclaimed to my sheer joy and amazement. "I can't stand his writing."
Oh thank god! I was afraid he would tell me that Ian McEwan was one of his oldest and dearest friends and that he considered him the greatest novelist that had ever lived. He told me that, in fact, he has met Mr. McEwan on a few occasions and that he was actually impressed by his eloquence and speaking ability. I have no doubt, but it was so nice to know that a man I respect and like immensely shares my distaste for a novelist whom most consider prolific and profound.
After that discovery, the evening's conversation flowed even more freely than it had before. He even high-fived me when I told him that American Psycho was one of my favorite books of all time. I had earned some street-cred. Nice! At the end of the night, we hugged goodbye and resolved to "Do this again soon sometime." He said he had had a pleasant evening, and I could tell by the exuberance in his voice and the wide grin on his face that he meant it, and I truly believe that the turning point in what had already been up to that point a very lovely evening, was the discover that Yes, he too felt that same way
For example, I don't like Seinfeld. In most cases, there's never any reason to admit this to anyone, but with this show (and also Family Guy since we're on the topic), I find that so many of my friends and acquaintances quote or reference it on a regular basis that I'm forced to admit that no, in fact, I have not seen that episode or, I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of George's friend to whom you are referring. With more avid fans, after I've fessed up to not particularly caring for the show, I'm met with wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed expressions followed by an exclamation of "What?!" Also, the people who do this tend to be taller than me, so it can be quite scary.
What I've found, however, is that, in general, friendships aren't busted or ruined just because one person admits to not loving the other person's FAVORITE THING EVER. And I've also found that great friendships can be formed when you discover that another person shares your distaste for something that everyone else seems to find appealing.
No one put the feeling of finding a new friend more succintly or accurately than C.S. Lewis who described the forming of friendship in his book The Four Loves:
Friendship arises out of mere Companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till the moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, "What? You too? I thought I was the only one."...It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision--it is then that Friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.Admittedly, Lewis is speaking here of friendships forming over a shared like or interest rather than a shared contempt or loathing, but I think the sentiment still applies. Now of course, long-lasting friendships are better formed through common likes instead of dislikes. Obviously, it's easier for two people who enjoy skiing to share a meaningful experience with one another by going skiing than it is for two people who hate skiing to share a meaningful experience by not skiing. That is, of course, unless a large group of companions is on a skiing trip, and the two non-skiers decide to spend their time together in the hot tub or getting drunk on hot toddies in the lodge.
Those of you who know me well and have spoken to me in, oh, the past nine months, might know that, since that time, I have been trying to read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Okay, so that's a lie. When I say I've been "trying" to read it, what I really mean is that I read it diligently for a couple of weeks before realizing that I kept falling asleep while reading it on my morning commute and I would be better served by finding some material that would keep me awake. So I put it down for a while, and then after several people kept telling me how much Ayn Rand had changed their lives (The Fountainhead is my boyfriend's favorite book), I picked it back up with no such luck. This is an 800+ page novel that I do not like and find extremely pretentious and boring. I understand that a lot of people disagree with me and that these people tend to disagree with me strongly. When met with such people, I generally tell them that Rand would probably be proud of me (though she might think I'm an idiot) for refusing to pretend I like something just because other people do. Touché!
But I've also found that Rand is a rather polarizing figure and there are just as many people out there in the world who don't like her writing as there are people who love it. I can think of several people with whom I've been able to bond after finding out that they agreed with me on this issue. Sure, none of these people have become my best friends because we have this one thing in common, but it's nice to have something to share. It makes me feel like part of a team. Or, I guess, an anti-team.
The other night I had drinks with a man whom I've known since my junior year of college. Our relationship is strictly professional, though we do meet every so often just to catch up with what's going on in one another's lives. He's several years older than I am, so our conversations don't generally stray far from the general "What's new with you? How's the job? Where are you living now?" line of questioning.
The night began with the usual updates on each of our lives--what was going on at work and in our personal lives--the usual small talk. At one point we came around to the topic of books. Since we both work in the publishing industry to one degree our another, this wasn't too odd of a conversation to have, but, surprisingly, it was one we hadn't had before. I told him that I tend to read fiction in my spare time and that I tend to prefer contemporary fiction over classics. He was the opposite, saying he normally couldn't stand the stuff that was written today and opted for classics in most cases. We then discussed our favorite books--he gave me recommendations of classics I should read and I told him about some of my favorite, more modern novels.
I tend to enjoy plot- and character-driven narratives to more analytical or expository novels (hence why I still haven't made it through The Fountainhead). I enjoy thinking when I read, don't get me wrong, but I hate pretension and the feeling that the author is trying to be deep for the sake of being deep. Give me a good story, dammit! If I wanted an essay or a treatise, I'd read one. But I digress.
The gentleman I was with works with very prominent and very highbrow writers on a regular basis--it's part of his job, so I figured he was probably into that kind of stuff. So, it was with some hesitation that I admitted I didn't like Ian McEwan novels. Okay, I've never actually read a whole novel of his, but I tried reading Saturday and couldn't get through it. I ended up giving it away because I had resolved so strongly to never even attempt to read it again.
"Me neither!" he exclaimed to my sheer joy and amazement. "I can't stand his writing."
Oh thank god! I was afraid he would tell me that Ian McEwan was one of his oldest and dearest friends and that he considered him the greatest novelist that had ever lived. He told me that, in fact, he has met Mr. McEwan on a few occasions and that he was actually impressed by his eloquence and speaking ability. I have no doubt, but it was so nice to know that a man I respect and like immensely shares my distaste for a novelist whom most consider prolific and profound.
After that discovery, the evening's conversation flowed even more freely than it had before. He even high-fived me when I told him that American Psycho was one of my favorite books of all time. I had earned some street-cred. Nice! At the end of the night, we hugged goodbye and resolved to "Do this again soon sometime." He said he had had a pleasant evening, and I could tell by the exuberance in his voice and the wide grin on his face that he meant it, and I truly believe that the turning point in what had already been up to that point a very lovely evening, was the discover that Yes, he too felt that same way
Monday, April 27, 2009
Confessions of a Workaholic
In The Shining, one of my favorite films of all time, there's a classic scene in which Wendy, played by Shelley Duvall, discovers a stack of typed papers left on a desk by her husband, Jack, played by Jack Nicholson. Throughout the film, we have been led to believe that Jack has been working on his latest book, but instead, Wendy finds that the only thing written on the page is the phrase "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." This is a very frightening scene and is pivotal in the development of Jack's character. Although Jack starts out as a rather odd and unsettling character, this scene occurs just before he goes flat-out bat-shit crazy.There's absolutely no point in me bringing that scene up except that I wanted to introduce the phrase "all work and no play" before I begin my examination of the topic at hand, which, if you haven't guessed by the title of this post, is workaholism.
For those of you who know me, you might be familiar with my deep-seated perfectionism and my inability to not overreact to the slightest stresses in my life. I will be the first to admit that this has posed some problems in my life--not any major ones, thankfully--but I'm not proud of it and sometimes I really wish there was something actually called a "chill pill."
My mother is probably more familiar with this side of me than anyone--mostly because I know I can freak out to her about the stupidest little thing and, not only will she make me feel better, but she'll still love me at the end of the day and won't seriously wonder about my sanity. My mother will be glad to know that yoga has done a good job of filling in for her since I've moved out on my own. But I digress.
Last weekend was the first weekend in several months where I haven't had any work to do. I'm not complaining about my workload. It's not like I'm the only one at my office who has to work on the weekend. In fact, it pretty much comes with the territory, and, in general, I enjoy the work, but it is kind of a pain in the ass to have to sit inside in front of your computer on a bright sunny day line-editing a book. But last weekend was perfect. The weather was gorgeous--highs in the mid-eighties on both Saturday and Sunday--and I really had not one ounce of work to do. I went to brunch on Saturday with some friends, lounged around Central Park in the afternoon, bought a box of strawberry popsicles at a Duane Reed and split them with three other girls, and later had dinner with my boyfriend. On Sunday, my boyfriend took me for a ride on his motorcycle outside of the city, and even though it was like 90 degrees or something, and I was dressed in a heavy jacket, jeans, and leather boots, I had a fantastic time. Later I came home and read for fun. I cannot complain.
Then Monday came. Monday's are fine. Today was rather busy, but nothing too crazy. I got everything done I needed to get done. But, one of my authors owed me a chapter of her book today and she never sent it to me. I emailed her to ask for an update, and even called her at the end of the day to ask her to send it to my personal email address if she was ready to send it that evening so I could start working on it tonight. I wanted to start working on it tonight so that way I could get it done by the end of the week so I could, maybe, if it's not to much to ask, have yet another work-free weekend. But I never got it, so now I'm left to NOT do work on a Monday night. This greatly disturbs me.
When I plan on having work to do, I want to have work to do. I want to get it over and done with so I don't have to worry about it anymore. When I think I should have work to do and I don't, I start to think of all of the other work-related things I might do to pass the time. Is this normal? I feel like most people in my situation would just say to themselves, "Oh well. One more free night. I'm going to watch a movie." Not me, instead, I feel the need to write about it. I haven't done work outside of the office in FOUR DAYS (I was sick on Friday, so I didn't go into the office). I feel unproductive. I feel lazy. I feel like I'm falling behind. Plus, I'm a little pissed off that the longer I wait, the more work I'll have to do this weekend. This, I believe, is a normal feeling.
So, in essence, I think that Jack and I are very different people. Where working all of the time makes him dull, playing all of the time makes me crazy. Lord knows what I'll do when I retire.
So, it's 10:16 p.m. It doesn't look like I'm getting this chapter tonight, which is fine because I'm kind of tired. I guess I'll take some deep breaths, read for a bit, and then go to bed. I'll just work some more tomorrow.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Oscar
The following piece was inspired by a conversation I heard while eating dinner at a restaurant in the Lower East Side last Saturday night. Enjoy.
“I just want to live somewhere beautiful. I want to wake up in the morning and be able to walk outside and down to the beach. I want to be able to wear sandals every day of the year, and I want to live somewhere that’s sunny and warm.”
We were in the middle of dinner. Oscar, my date, was telling me about his deep-seated desire to leave New York. He’d been at it for about twenty minutes.
“And I don’t want to live there in fifteen years. I don’t want to live there in ten. I want to live there tomorrow. As soon as I’m done with NYU, I’m getting out of here. The day I leave New York will be the happiest day of my life.”
My initial thought was to say “New York will be happy to see you go.” But instead I said, “What do you hate about New York so much?”
“It’s too much. It’s too dark. Everyone is so stressed out all the time. There’s no poetry. There’s no life. Everyone who lives in New York walks around like they’re dead inside.”
“I live in New York. Are you saying I’m dead inside?”
“Well what do you have here? You have a small apartment that you pay way too much for. You have a cat. You have a job you hate.”
“I don’t hate my job.”
“You work all the time.”
“So? That doesn’t mean I hate my job. Maybe that means I love my job.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Enlighten me.”
He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as if I had said the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He was frustrated at my inability to understand him.
“Never mind.” He reached for his glass of cabernet and took a sip. “You don’t get it.”
“Please. I beg you. Enlighten me.”
He didn’t catch my sarcasm.
“You think that because you moved to New York so many people want to be you. That you’ve accomplished something. That this is it. That you’ve made it. If only everyone could be so lucky.”
“I don’t think that at all actually. I would love to live somewhere else.”
“Well then why don’t you. If you hate it here, why don’t you leave?”
“I never said I hated it here. If I hated it here, I’d leave. I love it here.”
“You just said you want to live somewhere else.”
“I said that I would like to live somewhere else, but unfortunately you can’t live two places at once, and so I have to choose, and for now I choose New York.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you choose New York?”
“Because my job is here and I love my job. And I like the city. I like the people here.”
“You came here to work in an office all day?”
“I came here to be a book editor. And that’s what I am.”
He scoffed and took another sip of wine as if that was supposed to communicate something to me.
“What?”
“You build your life around your job?” He obviously thought this was hilarious.
“No, but my job is important to me. It’s not my life, but it’s important to me. I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing.”
“You’ve made your job your identity.”
“No. Why are you chastising me for being paid to do something I love to do? If you could get paid for being pompous, wouldn’t you?” I didn’t say that last part. I should have.
“Forget it.”
“Okay.” I was still pissed but I just wanted the conversation to end. Maybe if he shut up long enough to eat his dinner, which had been sitting in front of him for a good half an hour, we could leave sooner. I started to eat my food—chicken parmesan—in silence. I was through promoting any more conversation with Oscar. I resolved to just smile and nod at anything he said. And if, after an hour, he still wasn’t through eating, I would lie and say I had to be somewhere.
“It’s so lovely being able to talk to you about things like this.” He smiled warmly at me and reached his hand across the table as if to suggest I should take it . I almost choked.
“What?”
“You’re just so easy to talk to.”
Was he kidding? I remembered my resolution.
“Thanks.”
“You’re the most honest person I've ever met.”
“Hmm.” I nodded and pretended to be examining my fork with great interest.
“I’m so glad I met you.”
“Yeah.” I continued nodding. “It’s just too bad you’ll be leaving in May.”
Shit.
“I never said I was leaving in May.”
I looked up and met his eyes. “You just said you wanted to leave New York as soon as you graduated. Aren’t you
graduating in May?”
“Yeah, but I might stick around for a bit. I mean, I’ll need to save some money obviously.” Apparently, I should’ve been able to figure that out for myself. I guess I was just being hopeful.
“Oh, that’s not what you said.”
He chuckled. “You’re funny.” He rubbed his foot against my shin underneath the table. I was immediately sorry I had worn a skirt.
“I might take a trip to Paris in the summer.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” I had gone back to examining my plate.
“You should come.”
“Maybe.”
“Have you ever been to Paris?”
“No.”
“Really?!” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Never?”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“My family used to summer there. My great aunt has this beautiful villa about an hour outside the city. It’s
fabulous.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Paris.”
“Why? A lot of people have never been to Paris.” Not everyone has a wealthy great aunt, asshole.
“Yeah, but you pretend to be so cultured.”
“I’m sorry?” I looked at him again. Direct eye contact was the only defense I could muster that wouldn’t cause a scene in the middle of the restaurant.
“Well, I mean, you work in publishing, and you talk about literature all the time. Paris is a writers’ city.”
“So is New York.”
“Yeah, but New York is so…” he picked up his glass of wine and made a sweeping gesture with his hands before he took another sip. Once again, this was supposed to mean something to me.
“So what?”
“You know.” He smiled. I guess he actually thought I knew.
“American?”
“Exactly!”
“Ahh.”
I took the last bite of my meal. I officially had no excuse to avoid conversation or eye contact anymore. I drank some more wine.
“How’s your food?”
“It’s good.” He had still barely eaten any.
“Mind if I try some? I love salmon.” My new tactic was to just try to clear his plate as quickly as possible.
“Sure.”
I took a bite. “Wow. That’s really good.” It was okay.
“Yeah, it’s not bad. Of course, it’s not like wild Alaskan salmon. I grew up eating that.”
“Are you from Alaska?”
“Ha! No. I’m from Boston.”
“Naturally.”
“But my uncle lives in Alaska so we used to visit, and he used to take me fishing.”
I realized that my strategy of making mindless small talk had backfired.
“That’s cool.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Oh shit. My grandma is calling me. Do you mind if I answer it? I want to make sure nothing is wrong.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my purse and headed outside. My phone had not rung. I put it in my pocket and walked down the street. This was tactic number three: stand Oscar up in the middle of our date so he would have just one more reason to hate New York and leave as soon as possible.
“I just want to live somewhere beautiful. I want to wake up in the morning and be able to walk outside and down to the beach. I want to be able to wear sandals every day of the year, and I want to live somewhere that’s sunny and warm.”
We were in the middle of dinner. Oscar, my date, was telling me about his deep-seated desire to leave New York. He’d been at it for about twenty minutes.
“And I don’t want to live there in fifteen years. I don’t want to live there in ten. I want to live there tomorrow. As soon as I’m done with NYU, I’m getting out of here. The day I leave New York will be the happiest day of my life.”
My initial thought was to say “New York will be happy to see you go.” But instead I said, “What do you hate about New York so much?”
“It’s too much. It’s too dark. Everyone is so stressed out all the time. There’s no poetry. There’s no life. Everyone who lives in New York walks around like they’re dead inside.”
“I live in New York. Are you saying I’m dead inside?”
“Well what do you have here? You have a small apartment that you pay way too much for. You have a cat. You have a job you hate.”
“I don’t hate my job.”
“You work all the time.”
“So? That doesn’t mean I hate my job. Maybe that means I love my job.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Enlighten me.”
He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as if I had said the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He was frustrated at my inability to understand him.
“Never mind.” He reached for his glass of cabernet and took a sip. “You don’t get it.”
“Please. I beg you. Enlighten me.”
He didn’t catch my sarcasm.
“You think that because you moved to New York so many people want to be you. That you’ve accomplished something. That this is it. That you’ve made it. If only everyone could be so lucky.”
“I don’t think that at all actually. I would love to live somewhere else.”
“Well then why don’t you. If you hate it here, why don’t you leave?”
“I never said I hated it here. If I hated it here, I’d leave. I love it here.”
“You just said you want to live somewhere else.”
“I said that I would like to live somewhere else, but unfortunately you can’t live two places at once, and so I have to choose, and for now I choose New York.”
“Why?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why do you choose New York?”
“Because my job is here and I love my job. And I like the city. I like the people here.”
“You came here to work in an office all day?”
“I came here to be a book editor. And that’s what I am.”
He scoffed and took another sip of wine as if that was supposed to communicate something to me.
“What?”
“You build your life around your job?” He obviously thought this was hilarious.
“No, but my job is important to me. It’s not my life, but it’s important to me. I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing.”
“You’ve made your job your identity.”
“No. Why are you chastising me for being paid to do something I love to do? If you could get paid for being pompous, wouldn’t you?” I didn’t say that last part. I should have.
“Forget it.”
“Okay.” I was still pissed but I just wanted the conversation to end. Maybe if he shut up long enough to eat his dinner, which had been sitting in front of him for a good half an hour, we could leave sooner. I started to eat my food—chicken parmesan—in silence. I was through promoting any more conversation with Oscar. I resolved to just smile and nod at anything he said. And if, after an hour, he still wasn’t through eating, I would lie and say I had to be somewhere.
“It’s so lovely being able to talk to you about things like this.” He smiled warmly at me and reached his hand across the table as if to suggest I should take it . I almost choked.
“What?”
“You’re just so easy to talk to.”
Was he kidding? I remembered my resolution.
“Thanks.”
“You’re the most honest person I've ever met.”
“Hmm.” I nodded and pretended to be examining my fork with great interest.
“I’m so glad I met you.”
“Yeah.” I continued nodding. “It’s just too bad you’ll be leaving in May.”
Shit.
“I never said I was leaving in May.”
I looked up and met his eyes. “You just said you wanted to leave New York as soon as you graduated. Aren’t you
graduating in May?”
“Yeah, but I might stick around for a bit. I mean, I’ll need to save some money obviously.” Apparently, I should’ve been able to figure that out for myself. I guess I was just being hopeful.
“Oh, that’s not what you said.”
He chuckled. “You’re funny.” He rubbed his foot against my shin underneath the table. I was immediately sorry I had worn a skirt.
“I might take a trip to Paris in the summer.”
“Oh, that’s nice.” I had gone back to examining my plate.
“You should come.”
“Maybe.”
“Have you ever been to Paris?”
“No.”
“Really?!” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Never?”
“Nope.” I shook my head.
“My family used to summer there. My great aunt has this beautiful villa about an hour outside the city. It’s
fabulous.”
“Sounds like it.”
“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Paris.”
“Why? A lot of people have never been to Paris.” Not everyone has a wealthy great aunt, asshole.
“Yeah, but you pretend to be so cultured.”
“I’m sorry?” I looked at him again. Direct eye contact was the only defense I could muster that wouldn’t cause a scene in the middle of the restaurant.
“Well, I mean, you work in publishing, and you talk about literature all the time. Paris is a writers’ city.”
“So is New York.”
“Yeah, but New York is so…” he picked up his glass of wine and made a sweeping gesture with his hands before he took another sip. Once again, this was supposed to mean something to me.
“So what?”
“You know.” He smiled. I guess he actually thought I knew.
“American?”
“Exactly!”
“Ahh.”
I took the last bite of my meal. I officially had no excuse to avoid conversation or eye contact anymore. I drank some more wine.
“How’s your food?”
“It’s good.” He had still barely eaten any.
“Mind if I try some? I love salmon.” My new tactic was to just try to clear his plate as quickly as possible.
“Sure.”
I took a bite. “Wow. That’s really good.” It was okay.
“Yeah, it’s not bad. Of course, it’s not like wild Alaskan salmon. I grew up eating that.”
“Are you from Alaska?”
“Ha! No. I’m from Boston.”
“Naturally.”
“But my uncle lives in Alaska so we used to visit, and he used to take me fishing.”
I realized that my strategy of making mindless small talk had backfired.
“That’s cool.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Oh shit. My grandma is calling me. Do you mind if I answer it? I want to make sure nothing is wrong.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my purse and headed outside. My phone had not rung. I put it in my pocket and walked down the street. This was tactic number three: stand Oscar up in the middle of our date so he would have just one more reason to hate New York and leave as soon as possible.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Writing Exercise Number 1
Tonight I attended a free fiction writing workshop at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble, presented by the Gotham Writers Workshop. I've been toying with the idea of taking a writing class for some time now, and I think I'm finally going to do it. I've been saving up all of this money, but I still haven't figured out what I'm saving it for, so I think I'm going to spend a little. Huzzah. It's time.
But, to get to the point of this post, I wanted to share the writing exercise I did for the workshop tonight (well, one of them) because I was actually sort of proud of it--seeing as I came up with it on the spot and had about five minutes to write it. The prompt was to write a scene in which a character we had created in an earlier exercise enters a waiting room at a therapist's office (the type of therapist was left up to us). So, here it is. It feels good to get this down.
Karen entered the room and immediately noticed how sterile it all seemed. Not sterile because it was clean, but sterile because despite the other patients in the room, it seemed lifeless.
She was out of breath by this point. She had run here from her office. She never wanted to be late--not even for an appointment with her shrink. She pulled off her scarf and wool coat, allowing her pink, hot skin to breath. She motioned toward the receptionist's desk, anxious and hesitant at the same time. She composed herself quickly and cleared her throat as she walked up to the window where a lady whose nametag read "Felicia" greeted her warmly.
"May I help you?" Felicia asked.
"Yes. I have an appointment with Dr. Schwartz for one o'clock."
"Sure. I just need you to fill out some paperwork for me," Felicia said as she handed her a clipboard. "You can sit right there."
Karen thanked Felicia and walked to the chair she had indicated. She sat down and began to write her name on the top of the first page, but instead she wrote her mother's.
"Fuck," she thought. "I'm turning into her."
But, to get to the point of this post, I wanted to share the writing exercise I did for the workshop tonight (well, one of them) because I was actually sort of proud of it--seeing as I came up with it on the spot and had about five minutes to write it. The prompt was to write a scene in which a character we had created in an earlier exercise enters a waiting room at a therapist's office (the type of therapist was left up to us). So, here it is. It feels good to get this down.
Karen entered the room and immediately noticed how sterile it all seemed. Not sterile because it was clean, but sterile because despite the other patients in the room, it seemed lifeless.
She was out of breath by this point. She had run here from her office. She never wanted to be late--not even for an appointment with her shrink. She pulled off her scarf and wool coat, allowing her pink, hot skin to breath. She motioned toward the receptionist's desk, anxious and hesitant at the same time. She composed herself quickly and cleared her throat as she walked up to the window where a lady whose nametag read "Felicia" greeted her warmly.
"May I help you?" Felicia asked.
"Yes. I have an appointment with Dr. Schwartz for one o'clock."
"Sure. I just need you to fill out some paperwork for me," Felicia said as she handed her a clipboard. "You can sit right there."
Karen thanked Felicia and walked to the chair she had indicated. She sat down and began to write her name on the top of the first page, but instead she wrote her mother's.
"Fuck," she thought. "I'm turning into her."
Monday, February 23, 2009
Why I Am Still Awake Right Now
It's almost midnight. I wanted to go to bed early tonight. Of course, I say that to myself every night and I still end up going to bed at the same time. So why? Why am I still awake right now? I am tired. I went to bed at one this morning after staying out all night to watch the Oscars, which I don't regret. But, when the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning and the guy on NPR said the high was going to be in the lower 30s today and there would be winds up to 40 mph, I wanted to cry. Seriously I wanted to cry.
So, why am I still up right now. For several reasons.
I'm blogging. I feel compelled to write as much as possible. I can't stand myself when I make excuses for why I don't write more. "One day I'll write that book." No. Shut up. You won't. You'll just keep saying that until the day you die. "One day I'll go back to Italy." When? WHEN? So I'm up right now because I'm tired of making excuses for myself. Maybe I'll buy a ticket to Florence before the night is out.
I've been online shopping. This sounds lame, but I've been shopping for things for our apartment. I'm tired of living like a refugee or like I'm still in college. I am an adult and I want my apartment to be my home. I'm desperate for home. This little apartment in Queens is the only home I have. I want it to feel like the home I knew growing up. I want to put pictures of Italy (in frames!) on my walls. I want to have proper storage for things. I want to have a salad spinner and a flour sifter. I want to have a DESK! Though I won't. Not here. My room is too small.
I had to edit tonight. I asked my boss to shadow edit a manuscript, so he gave me one. It's just what I asked for. He gave me three chapters. I read the first one. It was good. The writing was a little clunky, but overall it was good. I work at home a lot. This is what I asked for. Sometimes people look at me with pity when I tell them that. They look at me like I'm overworked or like I'm making poor work-life balance choices. But I tell them that, in life you only have time to do certain things. You can't do everything, and you can only do a few things well. You have to figure out what your priorities are. Work just happens to be one of my priorities. Don't pity me for it, damn you. Don't act like I didn't make this choice.
I'm terrified about bed bugs. One of the things we need to acquire for our apartment is a step stool so we can utilize all of the above-the-cabinet storage space we have. I was walking down my block last night and found a small, splintered wooden step stool that someone had left on the side of the street as garbage. I grabbed it and brought it upstairs to my apartment. But I left in in the hallway for two reasons: 1) it was wet and 2) I'm terrified of bed bugs and bed bugs can live in wood. So, I decided to leave it outside of the apartment so I had some time to think it over. I went online today and learned that bed bugs can live in wood. In fact, they love to live in wood. And bed bugs are impossible to kill. Well, pretty much impossible. Plus, they're disgusting. Do you know how they procreate? It's revolting. So after reading that, I immediately started to feel itchy, and I had to keep telling myself that I was only itchy because my skin was dry and I was wearing a wool sweater. Needless to say, I put that stool right back on the curb as soon as I got home.
I feel unattractive. This happens a lot. I got my hair cut on Saturday. It's shorter than I intended it to be, but it's my own damn fault because I was so eager to chop off the stringy mess that had become my hair, that I didn't give a second thought to just how short I was asking her to go. People keep saying they like it. But I feel like I look either five years older than I am or like a pre-pubescent boy. Plus, I'm wearing my glasses again. I don't feel feminine. I feel completely undesirable. And I can't help but wonder whether or not he would have liked it. And I hate myself for that. I hate that his opinion would still matter to me if he ever decided to give it. I hate the fact that I need anyone's opinion to validate me, especially his.
So I'm still up, but I'm going to bed now. Hopefully not to dream about him. Not again, not tonight. I need to rest.
So, good night. Sleep tight. And for heaven's sake, don't let the bed bugs bite.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Me vs Green Chile Peppers
First, I will spare you the agony of wondering: the green chiles won this battle.
It's the end of a three-day weekend. Last week, I was looking forward to this weekend as one that would be both productive and relaxing; I was going to budget my time just-so in order to get my work done and take a little time for myself after a long week.
Up until today, I had managed to achieve that to a certain degree. I'd managed to edit 5 chapters of the book I'm working on (which is not fun, believe me) and I also managed to go to a party, go on a date, and kick my friend's ass in pool (again). Though, admitedly, the only reason I "kicked his ass" was because he kept scratching on the eight ball, but I digress.
This morning I set my alarm for 9 am, which, if you know me at all, you know is early for me to wake up when I don't absolutely have to. But I wanted to get a jumpstart on my work for the day so I could enjoy my President's Day evening with, perhaps, a nice glass of wine and a chick flick. I managed to edit three chapters in a few hours (really only pausing to eat, go to the bathroom, and, of course, Twitter) I wanted to edit a fourth chapter before I called it a day, but I figured I should go to the grocery store and prepare some dinner before I got to be too hungry. So my roommate and I headed out to Trade Fair, which, in the two weeks we've lived in Astoria, has proven to be a pretty awesome super market.
I was planning to make a very simple recipe: chicken chili, which, according to the website from which I obtained the recipe, is one of the healthiest meals you can make because it's chock full of nutrients. Consider the ingredients:
10 oz chicken, diced
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1 1/2 tsp chili powder
2 14.5 oz cans diced tomatoes
1 15 oz can yellow, whole kernel corn
1 15 oz can black or red beans
1 small can diced green chiles
The greatest thing about this recipe to me, besides of course its nutrional value, is the fact that most of the ingredients are canned which means that the prep time is reduced by like 30 minutes. Fabulous.
I gathered all of the ingredients until the only thing missing was the can of chiles. I had never had a problem finidng these at a New York grocer in the past, and I figured, since I was at a superior New York grocery store, it would be doubly easy. Boy, oh boy, was I wrong.
I looked up and down the Mexican food aisle, figuring it was a safe bet. No go. I went into the other, regular canned veggie aisle but still couldn't locate them. I asked a stock boy where I might find a can of chiles. "Next aisle," he said, nodding his head toward the aisle I'd just left. Okay, fine. I guess I just hadn't looked hard enough.
I went back to the Mexican food aisle and found another stock boy. "Excuse me," I said. "Where can I find a can of green chiles."
He led me over to a shelf full of canned peppers that I'd already looked at. He pointed to a can of pickled jalepenos.
"These are jalepenos," I said, annoyed. "I need chiles." I wanted to say to him "You're Mexican, you should know the difference!" but I refrained because my mom taught me better manners than that.
He shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Then I got pissed. I used to work in customer service and whenever someone needed something that I couldn't find, I asked a manager or another person who had worked there longer than I had. Not this guy. He went back to shelving. Fuck.
I found my roommate who had since retrieved several other items on my list. "I can't find chiles," I said, trying to hide my annoyance since we've only lived together two weeks and I didn't want her to see that side of me yet.
She told me there was another aisle she'd just been down where there were a bunch of jarred peppers. Maybe we'd find them there.
We walked down it. Nope. There were lots of other things in that aisle - several types of canned grape leaves, a variety of pickled beets imported from Poland - but not one single, effing can of chiles.
My roommate offered to look for them while I got deli meat, but she didn't have any luck either. I looked again, especially carefully this time, but, meanwhile, I was becoming increasingly annoyed with everything around me. Ugh. People. IT SHOULDN'T BE THIS HARD!
Fnally, I gave up and went to the produce section to find some fresh chiles. I had no idea how many to get as I'd never made this recipe with fresh chiles before. Hell, I don't know if I'd ever used a fresh chile for anything. I grabbed a handful and got in line behind two women who kept leaving the line to get more stuff. I was still pissed. The chiles cost me 20 cents. I figured I'd saved about 50 cents than if I'd bought a can and I felt a little better. I felt 50 cents better.
My roommate and I lugged the groceries home, and I proceded to prepare the chili. I cut the peppers last, and then when it was ready, my roommate and I each served ourselves a bowl. "Mm. It's good," my roommate said. "It's spicy though."
I started to eat. It was spicy. Really spicy. I started to tear up, my nose started to run, and I could feel my face getting flushed. I went to get myself some crackers to help take the sting out, and in the process rubbed my eye to wipe away a tear.
Shit.
My eye instantly began to burn. The chili residue was still on my fingers, and now it was in my eye. I started yelling. "Ouch! I rubbed my eye!" My roommate, always sympathetic, suggested I flush it out with water. In order to do that, I needed to take my contact out. I washed my hands quickly and pulled out the lense.
I started screaming more. That had just made the pain worse. I began flushing out my eye with water. After a minute or two it started to feel better, but I didn't want to put the contact back in because my hands were still covered in chile residue. I now had one contact in, but I didn't want to take it out because I didn't want to burn the other eye too. Plus, my glasses were with the optometrist because I was having the lenses replaced in them and they hadn't come back from the lab yet.
I wanted to go out and get some sour cream to cut the spiciness of the chili. Plus, I needed floss. So, I decided to walk with my roommate, who was on her way to the subway, and retrieve the necessary items while my eye healed. I figured I'd do that, come back, put my contact back in, and finish the last few pages of editing I needed to do before bed.
I went to Rite Aid. They didn't have sour cream. Whatever. I wasn't going back to Trade Fair. I was still pissed at that place and needed a few days to cool off. But I got floss. What the hell.
I went home and washed my hands again before attempting to re-insert my contact. The second I attempted this, my eye began to burn again and I threw the contact in the garbage. Since that one was tainted, I figured I'd throw the other one out too, so I pulled it out quickly (though my eye still started burning) and tossed it. Now I was completely blind and I had no spare glasses, and I still had 15 pages of editing to do.
That fucking chicken chili blinded me goddammit.
So I got my editing done (though it sucked even more than usual) and now I'm sitting here typing on a blog that I can barely read (My apologies for any spelling errors). Why did I feel the need to share this with you? Well, for one thing, I had nothing better to do and for another, I wanted to share this message wth you all: nothing in life--not even a simple chicken chili recipe--is ever as easy as advertised.
God bless.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Only Child
I'm the oldest and the youngest of my parent's children. I'm the favorite and the most disappointing. I'm the best and the worst. I'm the only one.
I never really started considering my life as an only child (i.e. my life) until fairly recently. Obviously, I've always been aware of it. When I was little I used to be very conscious of the fact that I had no siblings (and, after my parent's divorced, no prospects of siblings). I used to watch my cousins and my friends play (and often fight) with their sisters and brothers. They used to look so tortured. Part of me was glad that I never had to deal with a younger sister who was always trying to steal my clothes or an older brother who called me ugly. But that never stopped me from answering "a baby sister or a baby brother" everytime my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday. Only children are generally thought to be spoiled rotten, but I never got a younger sibling, no matter how much I begged for one.
I've resigned myself now to being an only child. My mom has gone through menopause, and my dad doesn't seem interested in taking care of any more babies (plus, after me, I'm sure he'd consider any other child a letdown :) Even if one of my parents married someone who had his or her own children, I live away from home now, so I still wouldn't have to share anything with them.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. My life is fine. And the thing is, I don't know if I would be any happier with a sibling. How can I know that? People ask me "What's it like to be an only child?" I always respond the same way: by not responding. How can I answer that question? I met a girl a few weeks ago who is also an only child, and she quoted an author who said that asking an only child what it's like to be an only child is like asking a fish what it's like to breathe in water. The answer is--there is no answer. It's normal. I cannot tell you what it's like to be an only child because I cannot tell you what it's like to not be one.
I can tell you that the prevalent conceptions about only children in our society are often false--though not always. I know several only children who are bright, motivated, even-tempered, well-balanced, fair, compromising, open-minded individuals. (I like to consider myself one of those people). I also know only children who are spoiled, selfish, mean, lazy, uninspired, domineering, controlling, and impossible to work with. I maintain that this has little to do with the fact that they are only children and everything to do with the way in which they were raised.
But, by the same token, I'm also kind of glad that these misconceptions exist because when I was growing up, I was highly aware of them and, therefore, incredibly conscious of my behavior. I did not want to be a spoiled brat, and I assumed that since I was an only child, and people expected only children to be spoiled, I had a greater chance of ending up rotten if I didn't take the precautions to avoid it. So I did. I remember actually asking my mother once, "Am I spoiled?" She looked at me lovingly and, perhaps, a little worryingly and said, "No, honey. Of course not. Why would you ask that." "Because I don't want to be," I answered.
I don't deny that being an only child helped shape the person I am today. My parents were able to give me more support, attention, and opportunities because they didn't need to split their time and resources between several kids. I was also allowed a certain amount of solitude since both of my parents worked full-time, and I was often left to entertain myself. I developed a love of reading, and now I work in book publishing. This isn't to say I would've been illiterate otherwise, but I probably would've read a few less books if I'd had a younger brother or sister to pester instead.
The other thing I've only begun to consider recently is how my parents' divorce affected me. I only bring this up because I believe that the impact of my parents divorce has been exacerbated by the fact that, seeing that I have no siblings, I am the only child who had to go through my parents divorce.
I don't remember this bothering me when I was younger. But, since I've become an adult, both of my parents have become more open with me about their relationship with one another. I find myself (quite unsurprisingly) hearing two sides of each story. This is, obviously, typical, but it's especially frustrating for me because I feel I have no one to commiserate with. If I talk to other family members about it, they'll take the side of whoever they're related to. If I talk to my friends, they can't really understand the dynamic because they don't know my parents the way I do. At these times, I really wish there was someone in the world who had shared that experience with me. Someone who had the same perspective and could help me deal with things when they got rough. But it's fine. I've managed. I'm the only child of Bill and Deb Carey, and that's just one thing that makes me more unique.
I never really started considering my life as an only child (i.e. my life) until fairly recently. Obviously, I've always been aware of it. When I was little I used to be very conscious of the fact that I had no siblings (and, after my parent's divorced, no prospects of siblings). I used to watch my cousins and my friends play (and often fight) with their sisters and brothers. They used to look so tortured. Part of me was glad that I never had to deal with a younger sister who was always trying to steal my clothes or an older brother who called me ugly. But that never stopped me from answering "a baby sister or a baby brother" everytime my parents asked me what I wanted for Christmas or my birthday. Only children are generally thought to be spoiled rotten, but I never got a younger sibling, no matter how much I begged for one.
I've resigned myself now to being an only child. My mom has gone through menopause, and my dad doesn't seem interested in taking care of any more babies (plus, after me, I'm sure he'd consider any other child a letdown :) Even if one of my parents married someone who had his or her own children, I live away from home now, so I still wouldn't have to share anything with them.
Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. My life is fine. And the thing is, I don't know if I would be any happier with a sibling. How can I know that? People ask me "What's it like to be an only child?" I always respond the same way: by not responding. How can I answer that question? I met a girl a few weeks ago who is also an only child, and she quoted an author who said that asking an only child what it's like to be an only child is like asking a fish what it's like to breathe in water. The answer is--there is no answer. It's normal. I cannot tell you what it's like to be an only child because I cannot tell you what it's like to not be one.
I can tell you that the prevalent conceptions about only children in our society are often false--though not always. I know several only children who are bright, motivated, even-tempered, well-balanced, fair, compromising, open-minded individuals. (I like to consider myself one of those people). I also know only children who are spoiled, selfish, mean, lazy, uninspired, domineering, controlling, and impossible to work with. I maintain that this has little to do with the fact that they are only children and everything to do with the way in which they were raised.
But, by the same token, I'm also kind of glad that these misconceptions exist because when I was growing up, I was highly aware of them and, therefore, incredibly conscious of my behavior. I did not want to be a spoiled brat, and I assumed that since I was an only child, and people expected only children to be spoiled, I had a greater chance of ending up rotten if I didn't take the precautions to avoid it. So I did. I remember actually asking my mother once, "Am I spoiled?" She looked at me lovingly and, perhaps, a little worryingly and said, "No, honey. Of course not. Why would you ask that." "Because I don't want to be," I answered.
I don't deny that being an only child helped shape the person I am today. My parents were able to give me more support, attention, and opportunities because they didn't need to split their time and resources between several kids. I was also allowed a certain amount of solitude since both of my parents worked full-time, and I was often left to entertain myself. I developed a love of reading, and now I work in book publishing. This isn't to say I would've been illiterate otherwise, but I probably would've read a few less books if I'd had a younger brother or sister to pester instead.
The other thing I've only begun to consider recently is how my parents' divorce affected me. I only bring this up because I believe that the impact of my parents divorce has been exacerbated by the fact that, seeing that I have no siblings, I am the only child who had to go through my parents divorce.
I don't remember this bothering me when I was younger. But, since I've become an adult, both of my parents have become more open with me about their relationship with one another. I find myself (quite unsurprisingly) hearing two sides of each story. This is, obviously, typical, but it's especially frustrating for me because I feel I have no one to commiserate with. If I talk to other family members about it, they'll take the side of whoever they're related to. If I talk to my friends, they can't really understand the dynamic because they don't know my parents the way I do. At these times, I really wish there was someone in the world who had shared that experience with me. Someone who had the same perspective and could help me deal with things when they got rough. But it's fine. I've managed. I'm the only child of Bill and Deb Carey, and that's just one thing that makes me more unique.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
blog topics
Teaser blog post for the one person who follows this. (Thanks Jana!) I haven't written in forever. I'm a bad little blogger. And, actually, I can't blog now because I have to finish editing something and I want to go to bed before midnight, which is in 62 minutes. But here are possible future blog posts TK:
* why all the smart, gorgeous, young, single women I know are suddenly desperate to find men (this includes me too, I guess)
* goals (yes, goals)
* a really awesome topic that I thought of about three minutes ago and then promptly forgot as soon as I started typing this. Damn it!
* just remembered it--being an only child. this will be my next one. My friends keep asking me "What's it like to be an only child?" I will try to craft an appropriate response
More thoughts later. Right now, back to editing.
* why all the smart, gorgeous, young, single women I know are suddenly desperate to find men (this includes me too, I guess)
* goals (yes, goals)
* a really awesome topic that I thought of about three minutes ago and then promptly forgot as soon as I started typing this. Damn it!
* just remembered it--being an only child. this will be my next one. My friends keep asking me "What's it like to be an only child?" I will try to craft an appropriate response
More thoughts later. Right now, back to editing.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
I <3 New York
When I was a Freshman in college, I realized what I wanted to do with my life. Up until that moment, I really had no idea where my life was headed. I'd enrolled in one of the top journalism schools in the country where most of the students harbored ambitions of being the next Tom Brokaw or editor-in-chief of the New York Times. I, on the other hand, chose to pursue journalism through process of elimination. Seriously. That was my methodology. When deciding which colleges I would apply to, I asked myself "Do I want to be a Doctor? No. Do I want to be a lawyer? No. Do I want to be an architect? No..." This continued until I got to journalism. "Do I want to be a journalist? Hmm. I've never thought about it."
SOLD! I applied to journalism schools because I figured I'd hate journalism less than I would all of the other disciplines.
So, I got to school and quickly realized that, as ambitious as I thought I was, my aspirations paled in comparison to those of my peers. "Crap." I thought. "Now what?"
So, after a few months of going through your typical Freshman fears, I had an epiphany. I was sitting in bed reading a book for class one night, and just as my eyes began to glaze over, I turned the book on its side and noticed the logo on the spine.
"Wait a second," I thought. "Someone had to make this book! Sure, there's an author, but someone else had to publish it!"
Eureka! I'd figured it out. I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before. It was like Newton's apple falling on my head from the sky. I'd read books all of my life, and although I'd toyed with the idea of becoming a writer, I never thought about all of the other efforts that went into making a book a book. From that moment forward, I decided I wanted to work in publishing.
And so I spent the next four years doing everything I could to make that happen. And I did a pretty good job. The one thing I realized early on, however, was that, in order to get my start in publishing, I would have to move to New York City after graduation. Sure there were houses all over the country, but the Big Apple was where the action was.
So, I graduated, and immediately began my quest to move. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't know Brooklyn from the back of my hand. The subway system baffled me. I couldn't tell you how to get to the Empire State Building even if I was standing at the bottom of it. But I did it. I moved to New York five months after I graduated. Some people thought I was brave. I did it because I had to do it in order to be happy.
A month later I got a job in publishing - a really awesome job in publishing, though I didn't really know that at the time. And, as great as my life was going, I still couldn't get rid of this one nagging feeling that kept haunting me - did I really like New York or what I here because I felt I had to be?
I never visited New York until I was 18. I loved it, but the thought of living here was still so foreign to me. To me, New York was that mythical place that only existed in the movies and cultural myths. It wasn't a place where people lived. It wasn't a place where people raised their families. It was a place to visit. It wasn't a place to settle down.
And when I first got here, I figured I'd start my career here and then move on to somewhere else later - maybe San Francisco, maybe Boston, maybe London. Who knows? I couldn't imagine wanted to end my life in the same place where I'd started my adult one. I couldn't imagine growing old here. I couldn't imagine getting married, buying a home, and starting a family here. Only really wealthy people did that. I was never going to be really wealthy.
My first year in New York was also incredibly hard for me. My close friends lived out of town, and I found myself becoming less social than I used to be. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people all of the time, and yet, I felt lonelier than I ever have before. I lived with strangers (in two different places) in neighborhoods no one had ever heard of. I found myself taking the subway home late at night by myself every night. I got depressed--not severely depressed--just a little depressed.
My one year anniversary in New York was October 13, 2008. My one year anniversary at my job was November 15, 2008. Both of these dates have marked turning points in my life. I've noticed that now that I've been here more than a year, I feel like this is my home. I've made friends, started building a reputation (my name appeared in The New York Observer last week!), and, as of last week, I've found an apartment that I can call my own with a person I actually have known for a while.
It's funny how having a place to call home makes you feel so much happier. Immediately after putting a deposit down on our apartment last week, I was walking around the city with a bit of a spring in my step. I used to feel like an outsider here. Now I feel like I belong.
I met a 30-year-old lawyer in a coffee shop in the East Village tonight. He's originally from Texas and before moving (back) to New York a few months ago, he'd lived in Boston and San Francisco among other places.
"Ooh! San Francisco. I love San Francisco!"
"Yeah. I like New York better. I didn't like San Francisco that much," he said.
"Really? Isn't it like every New Yorkers dream to live in San Francisco?"
"Yeah, I think so, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else but here."
He gave me his phone number and told me that if I was ever in the area, I should give him a call because he lived nearby.
Maybe I will call him at some point. Maybe we can troll around the Lower East Side together and find little places to call our own. We can join the millions of people from all over the world who have lived here and stalked these streets, carving out neighborhoods and niches and hangouts for themselves. We can yell at tourists for walking too slow and forget that we used to look up in awe at the sheer size of the city before we called it home. We can write about how awesome this city is and pretend no one has ever said that before. We can discover it for ourselves the way countless others have. We can recreate it over and over and find new things to love about it every day. We can curse the rudeness of some of the residents, the inefficiency of the subways, the price of alcohol, food, rent, and basically everything else but then go to any other city and think to ourselves "this is a fine place to visit, but I think I'll stick in New York."
And then one day I'll pass away, and maybe I'll be famous or maybe I'll be forgotten. The important thing is that I'll be here.
SOLD! I applied to journalism schools because I figured I'd hate journalism less than I would all of the other disciplines.
So, I got to school and quickly realized that, as ambitious as I thought I was, my aspirations paled in comparison to those of my peers. "Crap." I thought. "Now what?"
So, after a few months of going through your typical Freshman fears, I had an epiphany. I was sitting in bed reading a book for class one night, and just as my eyes began to glaze over, I turned the book on its side and noticed the logo on the spine.
"Wait a second," I thought. "Someone had to make this book! Sure, there's an author, but someone else had to publish it!"
Eureka! I'd figured it out. I can't believe I hadn't thought of it before. It was like Newton's apple falling on my head from the sky. I'd read books all of my life, and although I'd toyed with the idea of becoming a writer, I never thought about all of the other efforts that went into making a book a book. From that moment forward, I decided I wanted to work in publishing.
And so I spent the next four years doing everything I could to make that happen. And I did a pretty good job. The one thing I realized early on, however, was that, in order to get my start in publishing, I would have to move to New York City after graduation. Sure there were houses all over the country, but the Big Apple was where the action was.
So, I graduated, and immediately began my quest to move. I had no idea what I was doing. I didn't know Brooklyn from the back of my hand. The subway system baffled me. I couldn't tell you how to get to the Empire State Building even if I was standing at the bottom of it. But I did it. I moved to New York five months after I graduated. Some people thought I was brave. I did it because I had to do it in order to be happy.
A month later I got a job in publishing - a really awesome job in publishing, though I didn't really know that at the time. And, as great as my life was going, I still couldn't get rid of this one nagging feeling that kept haunting me - did I really like New York or what I here because I felt I had to be?
I never visited New York until I was 18. I loved it, but the thought of living here was still so foreign to me. To me, New York was that mythical place that only existed in the movies and cultural myths. It wasn't a place where people lived. It wasn't a place where people raised their families. It was a place to visit. It wasn't a place to settle down.
And when I first got here, I figured I'd start my career here and then move on to somewhere else later - maybe San Francisco, maybe Boston, maybe London. Who knows? I couldn't imagine wanted to end my life in the same place where I'd started my adult one. I couldn't imagine growing old here. I couldn't imagine getting married, buying a home, and starting a family here. Only really wealthy people did that. I was never going to be really wealthy.
My first year in New York was also incredibly hard for me. My close friends lived out of town, and I found myself becoming less social than I used to be. For the first time in my life, I was surrounded by people all of the time, and yet, I felt lonelier than I ever have before. I lived with strangers (in two different places) in neighborhoods no one had ever heard of. I found myself taking the subway home late at night by myself every night. I got depressed--not severely depressed--just a little depressed.
My one year anniversary in New York was October 13, 2008. My one year anniversary at my job was November 15, 2008. Both of these dates have marked turning points in my life. I've noticed that now that I've been here more than a year, I feel like this is my home. I've made friends, started building a reputation (my name appeared in The New York Observer last week!), and, as of last week, I've found an apartment that I can call my own with a person I actually have known for a while.
It's funny how having a place to call home makes you feel so much happier. Immediately after putting a deposit down on our apartment last week, I was walking around the city with a bit of a spring in my step. I used to feel like an outsider here. Now I feel like I belong.
I met a 30-year-old lawyer in a coffee shop in the East Village tonight. He's originally from Texas and before moving (back) to New York a few months ago, he'd lived in Boston and San Francisco among other places.
"Ooh! San Francisco. I love San Francisco!"
"Yeah. I like New York better. I didn't like San Francisco that much," he said.
"Really? Isn't it like every New Yorkers dream to live in San Francisco?"
"Yeah, I think so, but I couldn't imagine living anywhere else but here."
He gave me his phone number and told me that if I was ever in the area, I should give him a call because he lived nearby.
Maybe I will call him at some point. Maybe we can troll around the Lower East Side together and find little places to call our own. We can join the millions of people from all over the world who have lived here and stalked these streets, carving out neighborhoods and niches and hangouts for themselves. We can yell at tourists for walking too slow and forget that we used to look up in awe at the sheer size of the city before we called it home. We can write about how awesome this city is and pretend no one has ever said that before. We can discover it for ourselves the way countless others have. We can recreate it over and over and find new things to love about it every day. We can curse the rudeness of some of the residents, the inefficiency of the subways, the price of alcohol, food, rent, and basically everything else but then go to any other city and think to ourselves "this is a fine place to visit, but I think I'll stick in New York."
And then one day I'll pass away, and maybe I'll be famous or maybe I'll be forgotten. The important thing is that I'll be here.
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