I still think about Starbucks a lot, and how I want it but I just don't have time in my lifestyle for it anymore. It's like we're breaking up and it's starting to hurt the way my head does by 11AM if I haven't had any caffeine.
The thing is, I've become a person of routine, more so than when I was in Boston. New York is a city of routine, five minutes late to the cross-town bus and your whole morning is thrown off. So after my ride through the park on the m72 and then over to the 1/9 down to Houston, I don't have time to walk those extra five blocks (five, can you even believe it) to get to the closest Starbucks. I see them at a distance as I gaze out of the bus window, they flash by a blur of green and light and I can almost taste the richness of Coupage del Sol, hot and comforting.
However now, it's just not working out. I'm pretty sad about it too, but I don't know what else to do. I have (and I don't even know if I can admit this but I'm going to) been going to...well...dunkin donuts. ffftttt!!
I know. I really do. Please, forgive me. I can't even really write it without shaking my head in overall disgust at how my lifestyle is regressing to such an extent that it's as though I'm living in the middle of suburbia and not the largest metropolitan city in the world. Have I really thrown away all my good taste for the sake of routine? Is this what urban living has brought me to? I’ve already given up any semblance of a young person’s life by working all the time and being too poor to go out, so is this, now, the last thing to go, the final straw in what is going to make me a solely single routine-driven person for the rest of my life?
I’m okay.
It’s like Emerson once wrote, consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds. Whatever that means.
February 28, 2006
February 23, 2006
My First New York Celebrity Citing
I was walking down Spring street in Soho today after a long morning at work, the first in a long while that I've had the time to actually pop out of the office for at least five minutes of fresh air. I was inhaling deep the crisp air, the same air that ny1 told me this morning would be almost 50 degrees and was actually considerably less.
Digging my hands deep into my coat pockets to keep warm I looked twice at an attractive man in a pale green velvet blazer with jeans, talking to himself. It was in that moment that I realized he was talking into the earpiece microphone that was hanging infront of his mouth, and that his face looked familiar because I had seen it before. It was Liev Schriber and we made eye contact as he said "...but all of my equiptment is upstate," to the person on the other end of his hanging earpiece microphone. He then smiled at me and said hello as the person on the other end undoubtedly made some comment about the fact that his equiptment being upstate is going to cause some sort of problem for him in the near future.
I simply looked back, unable to say anything as the thought of saying something as simple as hello didn't regsiter in time for him not to entirely pass me, cross over to Thompson and disappear from view.
Regardless, I hope that his equiptment, no matter where it is, is in good hands.
Digging my hands deep into my coat pockets to keep warm I looked twice at an attractive man in a pale green velvet blazer with jeans, talking to himself. It was in that moment that I realized he was talking into the earpiece microphone that was hanging infront of his mouth, and that his face looked familiar because I had seen it before. It was Liev Schriber and we made eye contact as he said "...but all of my equiptment is upstate," to the person on the other end of his hanging earpiece microphone. He then smiled at me and said hello as the person on the other end undoubtedly made some comment about the fact that his equiptment being upstate is going to cause some sort of problem for him in the near future.
I simply looked back, unable to say anything as the thought of saying something as simple as hello didn't regsiter in time for him not to entirely pass me, cross over to Thompson and disappear from view.
Regardless, I hope that his equiptment, no matter where it is, is in good hands.
February 21, 2006
"I draw the line at seven unreturned phone calls."
If Lloyd Dobler does it, it’s considered romantic. If we do it, it’s considered crazy. Okay, so I’ve done some considerably ridiculous things in my day, being personally profoundly poor at playing the game that everyone tells me must be mastered in order to find love and happiness with a significant other. I relate to this article only on some levels, but certainly on the level of tripping when trying to be attractive and having ones relationship of heart and sleeve in need of distinct and immediate separation.
What are “the rules?” The rules of calling back, emailing back, take this amount of days if they said this, this amount of day if you said that, divide by two, carry the three…
Perhaps Lloyd with his stereo-above-head-insanity, is the embodiment of what we feel but cannot say. Perhaps the attraction of him is that he symbolizes what we are ultimately looking for–a man who is able to show the things that we as women need to repress in ourselves, in order to get one.
What are “the rules?” The rules of calling back, emailing back, take this amount of days if they said this, this amount of day if you said that, divide by two, carry the three…
Perhaps Lloyd with his stereo-above-head-insanity, is the embodiment of what we feel but cannot say. Perhaps the attraction of him is that he symbolizes what we are ultimately looking for–a man who is able to show the things that we as women need to repress in ourselves, in order to get one.
February 14, 2006
Happy Single's Awareness Day
Right, so how entirely ridiculous is this holiday? A holiday marked on a calendar, as a day specifically set aside so that single people can remember that they're single and so that people in relationships can remember that they're suffocating and can't remember why they got into this thing in the first place. All while buying cards that will be thrown away, eating an obscene amount of chocolate and buying expensive and unnecessary dinners.
The plethora of flower vases that were in the lobby of my office building this morning awaiting their recipients, made the taste of my $1.25 deli shop coffee go bitter in my mouth. It's men giving their women (and we all know that's the only way it goes) flowers that they were not-too-subtlely informed they had to get in order to save themselves from the month-long celibacy that will surely follow (learning from last year when they realized that "you don't really have to get me something," is the biggest lie of all time) if they failed their mission as boyfriends.
People keep asking me what I'm going to do tonight. What do you mean what am I going to do tonight? Like, aren't you going to go out and like, get drunk with your girlfriends or something? Umm, no. You mean cry into my vodka soda with fellow female singletons over the fact that I don't have a man? Get it together. There are other things to cry about, like Michelle Kwan dropping out of the Olympics and the Vice President shooting people in the face.
Okay, okay, so the Vpotus is a little crazy and MK does already have some medals under her belt, and love lasts forever, blah blah blah. The only good thing about this holiday are those sugary little hearts, which are ruined because of the lame messages branded on the front. Well that and the fact that you can tell which guys aren't single. All those guys on the subway and on the sidewalk that you secretly would like to date, you know they have girlfriends when they're holding flowers or a bag from Godiva.
The plethora of flower vases that were in the lobby of my office building this morning awaiting their recipients, made the taste of my $1.25 deli shop coffee go bitter in my mouth. It's men giving their women (and we all know that's the only way it goes) flowers that they were not-too-subtlely informed they had to get in order to save themselves from the month-long celibacy that will surely follow (learning from last year when they realized that "you don't really have to get me something," is the biggest lie of all time) if they failed their mission as boyfriends.
People keep asking me what I'm going to do tonight. What do you mean what am I going to do tonight? Like, aren't you going to go out and like, get drunk with your girlfriends or something? Umm, no. You mean cry into my vodka soda with fellow female singletons over the fact that I don't have a man? Get it together. There are other things to cry about, like Michelle Kwan dropping out of the Olympics and the Vice President shooting people in the face.
Okay, okay, so the Vpotus is a little crazy and MK does already have some medals under her belt, and love lasts forever, blah blah blah. The only good thing about this holiday are those sugary little hearts, which are ruined because of the lame messages branded on the front. Well that and the fact that you can tell which guys aren't single. All those guys on the subway and on the sidewalk that you secretly would like to date, you know they have girlfriends when they're holding flowers or a bag from Godiva.
At least when I got home today my doorman asked me my name because, "people have been getting flowers and packages all day and I might have something for you." I told him, even though I knew the answer. He looked into his book and then looked back at me wounded, shaking his head, simply saying, "no."
I guess I just have to embrace this money making holiday orchestrated by all of the greeting card companies across the country and look to next year, when I will get flowers sent to the office…after I send them myself. Be mine, indeed.February 12, 2006
New York in the Snow
I wake up this morning and for a moment don't know where I am. Everything is silent. Pushing away the curtains I see it, Manhattan in white.
It falls, slowly at first, then fast, disappearing into the sidewalk and collecting on windshields. The children in the apartments across the way, press their hands to the glass and watch it float, knowing it's difficult to building snowmen in the city.
It drapes the city like a blanket, covering its insecurities, masking its imperfections. It mutes the traffic and the car horns, the soundtrack that is constantly humming, the living pulse that propels the city forward.
Walking in Central Park is like walking with an old friend or lover-it looks different on its surface, almost foreign, yet underneath you know it has remained the same.
White collects on coats and clings to hair before it melts away, becoming forgotten, lost, as new flakes inevitably fall in its place.
It falls, slowly at first, then fast, disappearing into the sidewalk and collecting on windshields. The children in the apartments across the way, press their hands to the glass and watch it float, knowing it's difficult to building snowmen in the city.
It drapes the city like a blanket, covering its insecurities, masking its imperfections. It mutes the traffic and the car horns, the soundtrack that is constantly humming, the living pulse that propels the city forward.
Walking in Central Park is like walking with an old friend or lover-it looks different on its surface, almost foreign, yet underneath you know it has remained the same.
White collects on coats and clings to hair before it melts away, becoming forgotten, lost, as new flakes inevitably fall in its place.
February 9, 2006
February 6, 2006
#49
The Way I See It is back and bigger than ever. I know I've complained about this before, but my annoyance by it has yet to dissipate along with my love for Starbucks. #49 is so ridiculous and irritating that I hardly know if I should pour out the remaining coffee in protest or simply finish it and throw the empty cup at the reflecting glass windows on the corner of Spring and Varick (the closest Starbucks to my office).
Friday night was Boy Number 1's birthday (1 of 2 of the Brooklyn Boys) and we went to Schiller's on the les so we could check out this apparently hot-new-place that charges me $10 for a small, very dry (powdered if you've got it) straight up with a twist vodka martini.
Mehanata was next, this Bulgarian culture center/dance club that had a woman in not much more than a barely-there Bulgarian bra shaking her hips to the pulsating monotonous stream of music as she clipped her finger bells together. Suddenly it became participatory. I needed more vodka sodas than usual to get me through the night.
Sunday was a glorious New York Sunday, and I went for a run in central park and then down 5th Ave. to Rockefeller Plaza where I rested for a while and watched the ice skaters (fallers) below.
Super Bowl? I'm over it. Went to a movie with The Boys in a very anti-who really cares-Super Bowl movement. If I'm going to watch any football it's going to be college football anyway. The way I see it? The NFL is so painstakingly ridiculous and the Super Bowl so entirely un-super, that it should be #50.
Friday night was Boy Number 1's birthday (1 of 2 of the Brooklyn Boys) and we went to Schiller's on the les so we could check out this apparently hot-new-place that charges me $10 for a small, very dry (powdered if you've got it) straight up with a twist vodka martini.
Mehanata was next, this Bulgarian culture center/dance club that had a woman in not much more than a barely-there Bulgarian bra shaking her hips to the pulsating monotonous stream of music as she clipped her finger bells together. Suddenly it became participatory. I needed more vodka sodas than usual to get me through the night.
Sunday was a glorious New York Sunday, and I went for a run in central park and then down 5th Ave. to Rockefeller Plaza where I rested for a while and watched the ice skaters (fallers) below.
Super Bowl? I'm over it. Went to a movie with The Boys in a very anti-who really cares-Super Bowl movement. If I'm going to watch any football it's going to be college football anyway. The way I see it? The NFL is so painstakingly ridiculous and the Super Bowl so entirely un-super, that it should be #50.
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