Fall, thanks for showing up. This summer was a total wash what with all the rain, and to be honest with you, I don’t miss sweating in front of the fan in my little apartment at all.
That being said, I hope you’re going to be kinder to me than you’ve been in the past. Remember those wind storms you make that always seem to blow up my skirt in the middle crossing Broadway exposing me cruelly to cab drivers and leaving me red faced? Yeah. I’m talking to you. And those wet leaves I’m continually slipping on in my black patent leather flats, and never once (not once!) has a passerby stopped to help me up. Repeatedly I’m spilling my caramel apple cider from Starbucks (a must in fall!) all over my hand on the way to the subway while juggling the Times and my cell phone (I think I still have some scars).
But the biggest complaint perhaps, is that you always leave me alone. When you show up and the air turns chilly it seems like all my single friends who were happy enough to be single when the summer was hot and humid, all suddenly feel the need to couple up because of you. Is it the idea of sitting in front of the fire with someone (ie: heat from the radiator. Who has a fireplace in Manhattan?) that is so appealing? No, it’s you and your brisk air and romantic-looking colored leaves that makes people want to stay in bed with someone else all day long until summer shows up again.
Sigh.
So maybe this time you can help me out? As much as I love those long walks through Central Park admiring your ability to change the leaves of the trees that nice burnt orange, it’d be nice if I could possibly walk along side someone. Too much to ask? I know, what with me spilling things all over myself and falling down so much it’s almost surely an impossibility. Even for you.
But face it, you owe me. In November I already have to lose a whole hour of my day, and upon leaving the office at 6PM it feels more like 10PM and that’s basically all your fault. And let us not forget that terrible holiday Halloween that you insist on bringing along with you every year. God what a nightmare. And I’m still not over that time when I was ten and had to spend the whole night walking around in your frigid air (20 degrees in October?! I mean really?) dressed as a bumble bee and getting nothing but a stint in the dentist's chair and four cavities in return.
Moving on though, I really am happy you’re here. Life just wouldn’t be the same without apple picking, kids dressed as insects asking for ridiculous amounts of sugar-laden treats and cable knit sweaters. Autumn, you’re the best and my favorite of all the seasons. All I’m asking is let’s just try a little harder this time before winter gets here, for my sake, to blow in (along with that embarrassing breeze in the street), a nice guy for me to share you with.
Because let’s face it, I need all the help I can get.
September 28, 2009
September 22, 2009
women v. men = nobody's happy.
I’m not sure what Maureen is really talking about here, but I think we can all take the basic point of women being less happy than men as interesting, even if not entirely true. Can there really be such a way to test the masses and come to some sort of conclusion based on all of these millions and millions of different lives all with their millions and millions of different heartaches and confusions and problems and anxieties and regrets, and gauge who is happier?
An interesting point that she does make (and by point I mean observation) is that women feel more than men. She might (gasp) be on to something here. The more men I meet of my generation, the more I’m convinced that they don’t want to be bothered with caring about anything outside of themselves. Okay, so this might be a blanket statement (and I just might be meeting all the wrong men - of course!) and there are a lot of women out there who don’t give a damn a la Rhett Butler, but from what I can see there’s a lot more of them in the Scarlet O’Hara roll standing at the open door of men’s lives waiting for them to get a clue and invite them in.
When did feeling become so taboo? I figure that in a place as crazy as the world we live in today (even crazier, New York), there wouldn’t be much point if we didn’t let ourselves be affected by any of it. Maybe it’s easy for some to wake up in the morning and shave their face (slow and steady) and not think or feel much about their life when they’re looking back at themselves in the mirror.
If Maureen is right (hang on while I go and check the temperature in the general vicinity of hell...) and us females are fated to a life of being over-worked and burdened by all that we’ve got to accomplish (and put up with), I’d rather have that and embrace all the difficulties and hardships of life (nothing worthwhile ever comes easy) and at least feel unhappy when I get up in the morning and look at back at myself in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth, than not feel anything at all.
An interesting point that she does make (and by point I mean observation) is that women feel more than men. She might (gasp) be on to something here. The more men I meet of my generation, the more I’m convinced that they don’t want to be bothered with caring about anything outside of themselves. Okay, so this might be a blanket statement (and I just might be meeting all the wrong men - of course!) and there are a lot of women out there who don’t give a damn a la Rhett Butler, but from what I can see there’s a lot more of them in the Scarlet O’Hara roll standing at the open door of men’s lives waiting for them to get a clue and invite them in.
When did feeling become so taboo? I figure that in a place as crazy as the world we live in today (even crazier, New York), there wouldn’t be much point if we didn’t let ourselves be affected by any of it. Maybe it’s easy for some to wake up in the morning and shave their face (slow and steady) and not think or feel much about their life when they’re looking back at themselves in the mirror.
If Maureen is right (hang on while I go and check the temperature in the general vicinity of hell...) and us females are fated to a life of being over-worked and burdened by all that we’ve got to accomplish (and put up with), I’d rather have that and embrace all the difficulties and hardships of life (nothing worthwhile ever comes easy) and at least feel unhappy when I get up in the morning and look at back at myself in the mirror when I’m brushing my teeth, than not feel anything at all.
September 16, 2009
RT Romance is dead.
I’ve made 51 tweets since joining the land of Tweeters a few weeks ago, and I have to admit it’s left me feeling somewhat empty. I think it’s quite possible that we’ve become a generation so wrapped up in our own selves, that in many ways we’ve forgotten to experience what we’re seeing as it happens and feel all there is to be felt.
The more I see of Twitter and our push toward putting all of our lives on the internet, I wonder if fun moments at bars with friends really matter if they’re not captured on a digital camera and then immediately posted as a Twitpic. Can we really taste how great that pork sandwich is from Ko if we’re so worried about typing in to the hundreds of strangers following us, just how much the line was worth the wait?
It all goes back to the tree falling in the woods riddle. Does it make a sound? Does it (or anything) matter if no one is around to hear?
I can’t help but think that we’re no longer capable of feeling in real-time. Rather, we are so caught up in our own self-importance that we don’t even know how to function without hiding behind our screens. Case in point: what can you really say when you meet someone at a bar who doesn’t take the opportunity to talk to you beyond a casual hello, but then later, (some way, somehow without a name or number), tracks you down on Match.com based on your picture alone and sends the message – “Was that you at the bar on Sunday night? Want to go out sometime?”
Seriously? (*Note this wasn’t me).
What are we doing running so scared from what is right in front of us? Maybe we’re too wrapped up in having a good time, thinking that anything new is ultimately better without stopping to recognize just how much it’s changing our lives - new ways to watch our favorite shows or listen to music or read our books or interact with friends or even, come to it, how we love.
I’m not sure where I fit in, in this forest of ever-growing technology forever distancing us from anything real. But I have to think that the uneasy feeling that comes along with how much everything is changing only proves that none of us can see the forest for the trees, as it were. Whatever that means.
All I want, I guess, is for people to open their eyes and recognize that no matter where we’re standing it’s not the absence of sound that should be considered, but rather the absence of awareness of the sound that makes all the difference.
The more I see of Twitter and our push toward putting all of our lives on the internet, I wonder if fun moments at bars with friends really matter if they’re not captured on a digital camera and then immediately posted as a Twitpic. Can we really taste how great that pork sandwich is from Ko if we’re so worried about typing in to the hundreds of strangers following us, just how much the line was worth the wait?
It all goes back to the tree falling in the woods riddle. Does it make a sound? Does it (or anything) matter if no one is around to hear?
I can’t help but think that we’re no longer capable of feeling in real-time. Rather, we are so caught up in our own self-importance that we don’t even know how to function without hiding behind our screens. Case in point: what can you really say when you meet someone at a bar who doesn’t take the opportunity to talk to you beyond a casual hello, but then later, (some way, somehow without a name or number), tracks you down on Match.com based on your picture alone and sends the message – “Was that you at the bar on Sunday night? Want to go out sometime?”
Seriously? (*Note this wasn’t me).
What are we doing running so scared from what is right in front of us? Maybe we’re too wrapped up in having a good time, thinking that anything new is ultimately better without stopping to recognize just how much it’s changing our lives - new ways to watch our favorite shows or listen to music or read our books or interact with friends or even, come to it, how we love.
I’m not sure where I fit in, in this forest of ever-growing technology forever distancing us from anything real. But I have to think that the uneasy feeling that comes along with how much everything is changing only proves that none of us can see the forest for the trees, as it were. Whatever that means.
All I want, I guess, is for people to open their eyes and recognize that no matter where we’re standing it’s not the absence of sound that should be considered, but rather the absence of awareness of the sound that makes all the difference.
September 9, 2009
school supplies.
Classes started everywhere in Manhattan today. The small school across the street from my apartment had a crowd of kids and parents in front of it by 8:30 as I was gulping down the last of my coffee.
All bright pink backpacks and fresh white sneakers and the faint scent of number two pencils hung in the air.
As I walked out the front door and passed them, digging for my subway card and reminding myself to drop my credit card payment off in the mail - I felt very envious.
If only you really knew how great it is to be just your age, I wanted to tell them.
If only you knew what a major disappointment life is after recess and art class and after-school snacks end, you’d all be running into that building arms flailing in delight, instead of desperately holding on to your parent’s legs.
All bright pink backpacks and fresh white sneakers and the faint scent of number two pencils hung in the air.
As I walked out the front door and passed them, digging for my subway card and reminding myself to drop my credit card payment off in the mail - I felt very envious.
If only you really knew how great it is to be just your age, I wanted to tell them.
If only you knew what a major disappointment life is after recess and art class and after-school snacks end, you’d all be running into that building arms flailing in delight, instead of desperately holding on to your parent’s legs.
September 8, 2009
I know pronounce you...oh wait, can I get back to you on this?
I had a lot of time to think on the bus ride back into the city from Boston on Labor Day. Honestly there’s not much else to do when you don’t have computer and are running on about two hours of sleep and therefore simply don’t have the strength to focus on the book you brought along. After a long wedding weekend of watching another high school friend get married, I wondered why it was that I didn’t feel like either of us were really old enough to be doing a thing as grown up as get married.
When you’re 18 and in high school and look at people who are 26, you think hell, they’re so old, they should be married and buying houses and thinking of having children. You think that by the time you’re 26 you’ll have everything a lot more figure out. Or at least, I did. But times flies (woosh!) when you’re not paying attention and those years in between just disappear and there you are suddenly sitting in a banquet room of a hotel in the city you went to college in (wasn’t that just yesterday, too?) watching this person you’ve known since the ninth grade make a promise to God and the world and everyone in the room that they will never leave the person standing in front of them for the entire duration of their lives.
Oh. I can’t make a commitment as to where I’m going to get lunch.
So that’s when, speeding at eighty miles per hour towards the real world that awaited me, I started to feel the early onset of The Fear. Not only can barely I afford the rent on my (albeit overpriced) studio apartment let alone a wedding, I was also the only one of my high school friends at this wedding not either already married or in a committed relationship. Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course. But, as alone-happy as I readily claim to be, even the most rigid of single people can’t help but wonder if there’s something maybe really wrong with them at a wedding surrounded by happy couples. Do I need to get a part time job? Leave New York and start saving money for my future? Sign up for online dating?!
The Fear was rising up quickly in my throat as I began to wonder if perhaps all the choices I’m making in an attempt to figure out what I want are what are ultimately leaving me to feel like I’ve yet to really grow up. Do you take Manhattan to be your home, for richer or for poorer, in rent hikes and transit strikes, in job loss and salary cuts, with perpetual un-dateable men for as long as you both shall live?
My thoughts were interrupted as I watched the woman sitting in front of me stand up abruptly and walk to the front of the bus and try to get the attention of the bus driver. I wondered what she was gesturing wildly about, and thought for a split second that maybe she’d been thinking some things over this entire bus ride too, and unlike me had come to some major revelations as to how she was going to live the rest of her life and wanted to immediately exit the bus and begin again. Let me out! I thought she might say. I know what I want! I’ve figured out what I’ve been doing wrong!
Instead, I sat unmoving as the man in the front seat saw what I couldn’t, and with lightening speed he procured a black plastic shopping bag to the woman just in time for her to violently throw up.
Okay, so maybe I was wrong. But I took comfort that perhaps it was The Fear rising in her throat too, and I’m not the only one who doesn’t have it all figured out just yet. We have more time, I wanted to tell her, but instead closed my eyes just as the Manhattan skyline came into view. What’s another eight years anyway?
When you’re 18 and in high school and look at people who are 26, you think hell, they’re so old, they should be married and buying houses and thinking of having children. You think that by the time you’re 26 you’ll have everything a lot more figure out. Or at least, I did. But times flies (woosh!) when you’re not paying attention and those years in between just disappear and there you are suddenly sitting in a banquet room of a hotel in the city you went to college in (wasn’t that just yesterday, too?) watching this person you’ve known since the ninth grade make a promise to God and the world and everyone in the room that they will never leave the person standing in front of them for the entire duration of their lives.
Oh. I can’t make a commitment as to where I’m going to get lunch.
So that’s when, speeding at eighty miles per hour towards the real world that awaited me, I started to feel the early onset of The Fear. Not only can barely I afford the rent on my (albeit overpriced) studio apartment let alone a wedding, I was also the only one of my high school friends at this wedding not either already married or in a committed relationship. Not that there’s anything wrong with that of course. But, as alone-happy as I readily claim to be, even the most rigid of single people can’t help but wonder if there’s something maybe really wrong with them at a wedding surrounded by happy couples. Do I need to get a part time job? Leave New York and start saving money for my future? Sign up for online dating?!
The Fear was rising up quickly in my throat as I began to wonder if perhaps all the choices I’m making in an attempt to figure out what I want are what are ultimately leaving me to feel like I’ve yet to really grow up. Do you take Manhattan to be your home, for richer or for poorer, in rent hikes and transit strikes, in job loss and salary cuts, with perpetual un-dateable men for as long as you both shall live?
My thoughts were interrupted as I watched the woman sitting in front of me stand up abruptly and walk to the front of the bus and try to get the attention of the bus driver. I wondered what she was gesturing wildly about, and thought for a split second that maybe she’d been thinking some things over this entire bus ride too, and unlike me had come to some major revelations as to how she was going to live the rest of her life and wanted to immediately exit the bus and begin again. Let me out! I thought she might say. I know what I want! I’ve figured out what I’ve been doing wrong!
Instead, I sat unmoving as the man in the front seat saw what I couldn’t, and with lightening speed he procured a black plastic shopping bag to the woman just in time for her to violently throw up.
Okay, so maybe I was wrong. But I took comfort that perhaps it was The Fear rising in her throat too, and I’m not the only one who doesn’t have it all figured out just yet. We have more time, I wanted to tell her, but instead closed my eyes just as the Manhattan skyline came into view. What’s another eight years anyway?
August 31, 2009
donnez-moi ma chance.
“Do you read Anne Rice?” he asked.
In the morning on the subway before coffee I hardly know my name let alone what the random person next to me is talking about.
“I’m sorry?”
“Anne Rice,” he said again and my brain clicked open just enough to remember that Ms. Rice is the author of several gothic and religious themed books. I looked at the cover of the book I was currently reading to make sure I hadn’t entirely lost my mind. But White Noise by Don DeLillo is no Vampire Chronicles.
“No, I’ve never read her,” I said. “Why?”
“The black nail polish,” he said gesturing toward my hands. “All of those Goth readers seem to always have black nail polish.”
“Oh,” I said and for the first time noticed how green his eyes were and how striking his smile was. “Yeah, no, I just like the color.”
“That’s cool,” he said and smiled again and I wondered if all of the quiet people packed into the train could see me trying not to blush. “It’s like those Twilight readers too, right? Although I’ve never read it and probably never will.”
“I haven’t either, I’m sort of against them.”
“Me too. They’re ridiculous.”
Could it be!? Someone who has the same opinions on literature as I do? Sitting here smiling at me on this horrible Monday morning in a place where no one ever talks to anyone? All these years on the subway and finally some cute, interesting guy is talking to me? I looked back to my book and forgot momentarily how to read. Was I supposed to say something else?
“This place is so much different than LA,” I heard him say. I looked back over to him, his arm brushing against mine and suddenly I felt that same feeling I’ve become so accustomed to when it comes to men – disappointment.
“Oh, you live in LA?” I asked.
“Yeah just got in this morning at 4AM and I’m reeling.”
Of course (rule #1 on my list: don't fall for people who live in another state).
“Have you never been here before?”
“Nope, first time and I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s an easy place to navigate, you'll be fine. And we’re having great weather this week if you have a lot of walking around to do…”
Weather? I hated myself.
“I have family in the Bronx I’m sort of scared to visit. They’re one of those crazy Italian families that I know once I get up there they won’t let me leave.”
AND he's Italian.
“How long are you here for?”
“Just seven days. Are you a native New Yorker?”
“No, but I’ve been here a while.”
“So then you are. To me you are.”
People talk all the time about fate and destiny, but I think when it comes to finding love it really just comes down to sheer dumb luck. Chance. The ability to be at the right place at the right time. And when it comes to timing in love, I’ve found that I've got the worst luck of all.
“Well this is my stop,” he said. “It was really great meeting you. I hope I run into you again.”
Before I could say anything, he flashed that smile and was gone. And I think we both knew enough about hope and chance and timing and luck to know that was never going to happen.
In the morning on the subway before coffee I hardly know my name let alone what the random person next to me is talking about.
“I’m sorry?”
“Anne Rice,” he said again and my brain clicked open just enough to remember that Ms. Rice is the author of several gothic and religious themed books. I looked at the cover of the book I was currently reading to make sure I hadn’t entirely lost my mind. But White Noise by Don DeLillo is no Vampire Chronicles.
“No, I’ve never read her,” I said. “Why?”
“The black nail polish,” he said gesturing toward my hands. “All of those Goth readers seem to always have black nail polish.”
“Oh,” I said and for the first time noticed how green his eyes were and how striking his smile was. “Yeah, no, I just like the color.”
“That’s cool,” he said and smiled again and I wondered if all of the quiet people packed into the train could see me trying not to blush. “It’s like those Twilight readers too, right? Although I’ve never read it and probably never will.”
“I haven’t either, I’m sort of against them.”
“Me too. They’re ridiculous.”
Could it be!? Someone who has the same opinions on literature as I do? Sitting here smiling at me on this horrible Monday morning in a place where no one ever talks to anyone? All these years on the subway and finally some cute, interesting guy is talking to me? I looked back to my book and forgot momentarily how to read. Was I supposed to say something else?
“This place is so much different than LA,” I heard him say. I looked back over to him, his arm brushing against mine and suddenly I felt that same feeling I’ve become so accustomed to when it comes to men – disappointment.
“Oh, you live in LA?” I asked.
“Yeah just got in this morning at 4AM and I’m reeling.”
Of course (rule #1 on my list: don't fall for people who live in another state).
“Have you never been here before?”
“Nope, first time and I’m a little overwhelmed.”
“It’s an easy place to navigate, you'll be fine. And we’re having great weather this week if you have a lot of walking around to do…”
Weather? I hated myself.
“I have family in the Bronx I’m sort of scared to visit. They’re one of those crazy Italian families that I know once I get up there they won’t let me leave.”
AND he's Italian.
“How long are you here for?”
“Just seven days. Are you a native New Yorker?”
“No, but I’ve been here a while.”
“So then you are. To me you are.”
People talk all the time about fate and destiny, but I think when it comes to finding love it really just comes down to sheer dumb luck. Chance. The ability to be at the right place at the right time. And when it comes to timing in love, I’ve found that I've got the worst luck of all.
“Well this is my stop,” he said. “It was really great meeting you. I hope I run into you again.”
Before I could say anything, he flashed that smile and was gone. And I think we both knew enough about hope and chance and timing and luck to know that was never going to happen.
August 25, 2009
@Times They Are a-Changin’
When it comes to living in a city like this there are things that you inevitably have to concede in order to continue living a fairly normal lifestyle. On top of how expensive everything is (thanks Starbucks for upping your prices. Even ten cents per grande bold is making an impact on my wallet) and after you’ve decided to spend more money on rent than you’d ever imagined, you recognize in your heat-induced coma (while clamoring for what little bit of cool air is coming from your window fan no larger than a basketball), that you just can’t have it all.
Shit.
So what concessions have I made? I joke to friends about having travelled back in time, but in all honesty I really have felt more removed from the outside world since I’ve had to give up what everyone lives on/talks about/thrives upon – cable, internet and the sanity that comes with air conditioning in ninety degree heat.
Admittedly the irony isn’t lost on me. Growing up I had parents who were strong believers in the difference between want and need and the importance of having their children realize said difference at an early age. No cable, no AC, no sugary cereal of any kind. I like to think it helped make me a better and more grounded adult, but in the case of Want v. Need it didn’t make me complain any less when I couldn’t join in the locker conversations about the latest episode of the Real World. Was no one watching Nova in junior high?
I’m pretty sure there aren’t many people living in New York City really thinking too much about need over want, either. This is after all the city that defines itself as a place that lets you have it all. How can I be expected to make such sacrifices in the city that never sleeps? (Note: I’ve come to find that the large population of the city not doing any sleeping are those of us sweating without window units).
Truth is I’m tired, hot and out of the conversational loop over after work drinks for not having been able to see the Mad Men premiere or the finale of Nurse Jackie. I’m looked at like an alien from another planet because I don’t know what albums are new on iTunes and have instead been listening to records (gasp!) from long ago bands. And I’m not posting things on Facebook or returning emails right away, either. Where have you been?! Friends ask. What have you been doing?
When did we become so attached to instantaneous responses? Call me, I say. It’s my only connection to the outside world. But no one calls anymore. People text and email and post messages on people’s walls about the intentions of calling, but in the end they never do. It all takes up too much time and energy because an actual conversation is like, so 2001. This is the age of technology, the age of the blackberry and emoticon and telling people how we feel in 160 words or less.
In the end I joined Twitter, one last ditch effort not to lose all of my friends entirely. Sure, I can’t really check it and don’t know what to post (after all, what new shows have I been watching? What news websites have I been able to check?), and I still don’t know what any of it really is supposed to mean. But it’s all about trying to roll with the changing of the times, even if you don’t really understand or like where they’re taking you.
At least that’s what some guy on one of my records sings about.
Right now, I just want fall to be here.
And if you have any questions, you know how to reach me.
Shit.
So what concessions have I made? I joke to friends about having travelled back in time, but in all honesty I really have felt more removed from the outside world since I’ve had to give up what everyone lives on/talks about/thrives upon – cable, internet and the sanity that comes with air conditioning in ninety degree heat.
Admittedly the irony isn’t lost on me. Growing up I had parents who were strong believers in the difference between want and need and the importance of having their children realize said difference at an early age. No cable, no AC, no sugary cereal of any kind. I like to think it helped make me a better and more grounded adult, but in the case of Want v. Need it didn’t make me complain any less when I couldn’t join in the locker conversations about the latest episode of the Real World. Was no one watching Nova in junior high?
I’m pretty sure there aren’t many people living in New York City really thinking too much about need over want, either. This is after all the city that defines itself as a place that lets you have it all. How can I be expected to make such sacrifices in the city that never sleeps? (Note: I’ve come to find that the large population of the city not doing any sleeping are those of us sweating without window units).
Truth is I’m tired, hot and out of the conversational loop over after work drinks for not having been able to see the Mad Men premiere or the finale of Nurse Jackie. I’m looked at like an alien from another planet because I don’t know what albums are new on iTunes and have instead been listening to records (gasp!) from long ago bands. And I’m not posting things on Facebook or returning emails right away, either. Where have you been?! Friends ask. What have you been doing?
When did we become so attached to instantaneous responses? Call me, I say. It’s my only connection to the outside world. But no one calls anymore. People text and email and post messages on people’s walls about the intentions of calling, but in the end they never do. It all takes up too much time and energy because an actual conversation is like, so 2001. This is the age of technology, the age of the blackberry and emoticon and telling people how we feel in 160 words or less.
In the end I joined Twitter, one last ditch effort not to lose all of my friends entirely. Sure, I can’t really check it and don’t know what to post (after all, what new shows have I been watching? What news websites have I been able to check?), and I still don’t know what any of it really is supposed to mean. But it’s all about trying to roll with the changing of the times, even if you don’t really understand or like where they’re taking you.
At least that’s what some guy on one of my records sings about.
Right now, I just want fall to be here.
And if you have any questions, you know how to reach me.
August 6, 2009
Your Daily Forecast:
Rain in New York has become almost as common as the tourists who insist on stopping at the top of the subway steps to look at their maps. While I hate talking about the weather (and people who insist on talking about the weather), I guess it really is the one thing we all have in common (aside from frustration in our jobs, frequent bouts of depression and flat-lining relationships) that we’re okay to talk about with complete and total strangers.
I can’t begin to count the amount of people who have told me things about the weather, everywhere from standing sweating next to them on the subway platform, waiting in line behind them at Duane Reade, sitting beside them at Film Forum. We all can’t seem to stop ourselves from talking about this damn heat/humidity/rain/sun-that-turns-to-hurricane-and-back-to-sun-in-under-thirty-minutes. Did you see that tornado in Jersey? No. Did your power go out? No. Oh, well mine did. Did you see that the UV index is at a whopping nine!? Umm…
What are they doing? Watching the weather channel twenty-four hours a day? Is it on in the background when they’re cooking dinner and in the bathroom or making love? Just move to the left a little honey, I want to see what the average high is going to be for tomorrow…
I think that maybe we’re all so isolated during the winter months (that are right around the corner!) that we’ll do anything to reach out and talk to someone when we’ve all got our windows open and our flip-flops on and frizzy hair that no one cares about.
Personally I never really participate and find myself more just nodding or say things like “I know,” or “Yeah, it’s really bad,” before trying to move away from them without it looking obvious. Because truth be told I guess I’m that kind of New Yorker who doesn’t mind much not being bothered by anyone during the cold or warmer months of the year.
With a few weeks of summer left however, I guess maybe I’ll try to take part in this meteorological frenzy. New York is after all about the people you meet, a thing that’s becoming increasingly more difficult in this world where we carry through with most all of our interactions with other people via a screen or a profile or in amessage of 140 words or less.
So here goes nothing.
Tomorrow will be a high of 83 degrees (feels like 78), wind Northwest at 11 miles-per-hour with an overnight low of 64. Humidity 59 percent.
Would you look at that. No rain.
I can’t begin to count the amount of people who have told me things about the weather, everywhere from standing sweating next to them on the subway platform, waiting in line behind them at Duane Reade, sitting beside them at Film Forum. We all can’t seem to stop ourselves from talking about this damn heat/humidity/rain/sun-that-turns-to-hurricane-and-back-to-sun-in-under-thirty-minutes. Did you see that tornado in Jersey? No. Did your power go out? No. Oh, well mine did. Did you see that the UV index is at a whopping nine!? Umm…
What are they doing? Watching the weather channel twenty-four hours a day? Is it on in the background when they’re cooking dinner and in the bathroom or making love? Just move to the left a little honey, I want to see what the average high is going to be for tomorrow…
I think that maybe we’re all so isolated during the winter months (that are right around the corner!) that we’ll do anything to reach out and talk to someone when we’ve all got our windows open and our flip-flops on and frizzy hair that no one cares about.
Personally I never really participate and find myself more just nodding or say things like “I know,” or “Yeah, it’s really bad,” before trying to move away from them without it looking obvious. Because truth be told I guess I’m that kind of New Yorker who doesn’t mind much not being bothered by anyone during the cold or warmer months of the year.
With a few weeks of summer left however, I guess maybe I’ll try to take part in this meteorological frenzy. New York is after all about the people you meet, a thing that’s becoming increasingly more difficult in this world where we carry through with most all of our interactions with other people via a screen or a profile or in amessage of 140 words or less.
So here goes nothing.
Tomorrow will be a high of 83 degrees (feels like 78), wind Northwest at 11 miles-per-hour with an overnight low of 64. Humidity 59 percent.
Would you look at that. No rain.
July 7, 2009
the way i see it.
I think the Starbucks near my office is cursed. And I say the Starbucks, because if it's not the place then it's just got to be me personally, because every time I go there (and it's not often anymore) something strange happens. I have, yes, out of my current financial problems and need for the extra ten minutes of sleep in the morning rendering it impossible to make it from the subway to the Starbucks and then to my office on time, stopped frequenting my old haunt. I'm now friends with Ralph, the guy at the coffee stand on the sidewalk right outside of my office where I can, every morning, have my coffee ready for me for just one dollar. He asks me about my weekends and tells me to have a good day and his coffee is hot, which is about as picky as I can be these days when it comes to getting anything in this city I can get for a buck.
An entire two weeks ago when I went to Starbucks in a free ten minutes I had during the day on Friday, my grande non-fat latte setting me back a whopping $4.25 which is like, enough to almost buy me dinner for an entire week (read: a box of cereal). They forgot my order and after re-ordering it on the fly I got a half full cup of whole milk that was barely steaming (whatever happened to, careful: the beverage you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot?) and suddenly my world was falling apart. Holding the white and green cup with The Way I See It # 71 on the side by the inarticulate man-hating Maureen Dowd, I realized that maybe our relationship (Starbucks and mine) is hitting a rough patch. Perhaps it’s time to sever the cord of this love/hate (usually mostly love) union and look for someone who treats me with more respect and understands my feelings and can really appreciate the kind of girl I am.
This morning (back again, some of us never learn) I was harassed by the man standing in front of me in line. He wouldn’t stop asking me if I had a quarter. No, I said (which was true) I don’t, but he just wouldn’t let it go. He asked about five other people, all of whom didn’t even bother to acknowledge his existence (that’s New York for you). The man (Irwin) then proceeded to ask me about my weekend plans, what I was going to get, if I had ever tried the bagels, and if I was going to be late for work. Yes, I wanted to say, but he didn’t even let me respond. He apparently, loves their muffins and isn’t, “God damn it,” going to get a paycheck this week. Now I understood the desperation over the twenty-five cents.
The whole scene was just so awkward for me that it was all I could do from turning around and running away, my only typical response to intensely awkward situations - flee. When Irwin was only one person away from the head of the line, the British guy behind me jokingly asked me if I had a dime. I started to laugh and then Irwin shot us both a hateful look and asked pointedly: “Are you laughing at me?”
Well, I guess sometimes life (and Starbucks) is like #71 says: the minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for.
An entire two weeks ago when I went to Starbucks in a free ten minutes I had during the day on Friday, my grande non-fat latte setting me back a whopping $4.25 which is like, enough to almost buy me dinner for an entire week (read: a box of cereal). They forgot my order and after re-ordering it on the fly I got a half full cup of whole milk that was barely steaming (whatever happened to, careful: the beverage you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot?) and suddenly my world was falling apart. Holding the white and green cup with The Way I See It # 71 on the side by the inarticulate man-hating Maureen Dowd, I realized that maybe our relationship (Starbucks and mine) is hitting a rough patch. Perhaps it’s time to sever the cord of this love/hate (usually mostly love) union and look for someone who treats me with more respect and understands my feelings and can really appreciate the kind of girl I am.
This morning (back again, some of us never learn) I was harassed by the man standing in front of me in line. He wouldn’t stop asking me if I had a quarter. No, I said (which was true) I don’t, but he just wouldn’t let it go. He asked about five other people, all of whom didn’t even bother to acknowledge his existence (that’s New York for you). The man (Irwin) then proceeded to ask me about my weekend plans, what I was going to get, if I had ever tried the bagels, and if I was going to be late for work. Yes, I wanted to say, but he didn’t even let me respond. He apparently, loves their muffins and isn’t, “God damn it,” going to get a paycheck this week. Now I understood the desperation over the twenty-five cents.
The whole scene was just so awkward for me that it was all I could do from turning around and running away, my only typical response to intensely awkward situations - flee. When Irwin was only one person away from the head of the line, the British guy behind me jokingly asked me if I had a dime. I started to laugh and then Irwin shot us both a hateful look and asked pointedly: “Are you laughing at me?”
Well, I guess sometimes life (and Starbucks) is like #71 says: the minute you settle for less than you deserve, you get even less than you settled for.
June 28, 2009
Re: Sneakers.
Could it be that on the last night in my first New York apartment that I’m feeling a bit sad? I think it’s inevitable after you invest so much time into something, take care to make it a part of your life and who you are, that if you have anything pulsing through your veins you can’t help but become attached. This place has treated me well, but timing being what it is, it’s time to go. I’ve always felt compelled to keep moving, somehow always thinking (foolishly?) that whatever might be just around the corner is going to be better than what I already have. The reason behind it? My greatest fear (aside from spiders and never falling in love) - the fear of becoming static.
The trouble with that however, is that no matter where you’re going you can’t help but ask yourself if you’re really running from something. I figure all of us have our Asics on all of the time in some form or other - running from responsibilities, from love, from taking a chance, from growing up, from doing the right thing. There’s always risk involved, there’s always possible defeat and humiliation and injuries that vary from leaping out of a plane (hurts more) to the wounds that can fall upon our hearts (lasts longer).
But I’ve got the keys (all four. Front door, foyer door...) and I don’t know (you never can) what the outcome will be. I’ve boxed up everything I want to take with me and found a lot of things I plan to leave behind. Like I said it’s easy to become attached, and I’m working on getting better at letting go of the things you learn over time you shouldn’t (or aren’t meant to) hold on to.
And that’s the other good thing about starting over somewhere, you can get better mileage from all of the complicated things of your not-so-distant past, and start to realize (and be hopeful even), all the things that you’re suddenly running towards.
The trouble with that however, is that no matter where you’re going you can’t help but ask yourself if you’re really running from something. I figure all of us have our Asics on all of the time in some form or other - running from responsibilities, from love, from taking a chance, from growing up, from doing the right thing. There’s always risk involved, there’s always possible defeat and humiliation and injuries that vary from leaping out of a plane (hurts more) to the wounds that can fall upon our hearts (lasts longer).
But I’ve got the keys (all four. Front door, foyer door...) and I don’t know (you never can) what the outcome will be. I’ve boxed up everything I want to take with me and found a lot of things I plan to leave behind. Like I said it’s easy to become attached, and I’m working on getting better at letting go of the things you learn over time you shouldn’t (or aren’t meant to) hold on to.
And that’s the other good thing about starting over somewhere, you can get better mileage from all of the complicated things of your not-so-distant past, and start to realize (and be hopeful even), all the things that you’re suddenly running towards.
June 25, 2009
When there's nothing left to burn, you have to set yourself on fire.
I think that if you own a house and are seriously considering re-locating, the only answer is to simply burn the place down. Do it quick like a band-aid, and just set your belongings ablaze and start over fresh, a clean slate, without all the junk you’ve inevitably been holding on to for much longer than you should have. Truth is I’ve been doing what I do when I don’t want to deal with something that I know I can’t avoid - pretending like it isn’t happening. Moving in four days and nothing is packed? No big deal! I’ve got plenty of time! After all, this apartment isn’t that big! How much stuff can I really have accumulated over just three and a half years? Don’t answer that question. Well you can’t answer that question because you’re not here. And be thankful for it, because I am here in the middle of all the mayhem where there’s piles of stuff I didn’t even know I had surrounding me at ever turn. I’m wishing I were in a million other places, like say, a week from now when this move will finally be over and I won’t have to worry about it anymore. Tonight with a glass of wine in hand and Brubeck on the record player, I began to tackle all the tangible things of my life - and I have to admit, it left me a little confused. Umm, what possessed me to buy a vegetable steamer? Have I ever even used it? Do I even know how? And all those spices. Cumin. Cloves. Cream of tartar? What is that? Five different coffee travel mugs are in the cabinet and I always buy my coffee at the cart in front of my office for $1.10. So...that’s weird. And exactly how many pairs of black flats do I really need? Had they been giving them away somewhere? Same thing with black turtleneck sweaters. And black blazers. And black pants? What’s more worrying than the fact that I am, actually, moving into an even smaller place than I’m in now which will make the logistics of fitting much of anything, (let alone things I don’t need or haven’t used in over a year), one of the most difficult tasks of all time - is that I’ve got all these things and I don’t know why. I know we’re a consumer-driven world and over time we buy things (three containers of baking powder?) and are given things (just because I’m a writer doesn’t mean I automatically need journals. I currently have six and I suppose I’ll get around to filling them all when I reach retirement), and there’s that feeling of not wanting to waste things or throw them away - but do we really need to hold onto them? Is our inability to let go making our lives better or worse? I started to worry that perhaps these objects were simply filling some unknown void I didn't want to recognize, each piece somehow helping to justify my existence. We store these items in boxes and put them in cabinets and tell ourselves that one day we’ll need them (just you wait!) and then promptly forget we have them and go out and buy the exact same thing again and again until we have not one but two containers of cream of tartar (still don’t know what it’s for?) and watch as the things we don’t need start to close in and suffocate us. After four hours of tackling just part of the kitchen and hall closet, I thought seriously about taking a tip from the venerable Mr. Thoreau and fleeing to the woods to live deliberately. I could manage a small cabin (roughly the size of my new studio) and not have bother about packing up all this stuff I don’t want or need, come to mention it. But it was just a fleeting thought of course. Aside from forests in the Manhattan area being thin on the ground, I hate bugs, and figure life just really wouldn’t be the same without things like my french press, all my back issues of the New Yorker, and that baking powder I need once a year when I finally get around to making that pie. I suppose when you have to look at all the useless things you own in harsh light of having to pack them up and take them with you someplace else, one can’t help but feel a bit ashamed and ridiculous. So you do what I did, solemnly swear to yourself standing before your humming refrigerator that you’ll never obtain, purchase, receive, accept or acquire another useless piece of anything for the rest of your Manhattan-living-life. Until of course you finally buy a house somewhere. Then all you have to do is remember where you put the matches.
June 18, 2009
New York I love you, but you're bringing me down.
I haven’t written in weeks. Life happens and New York happens seemingly so quickly, that you’re too busy living it to bother writing about it. And besides, I’ve just gone through one of the most insane, crazy, time-consuming, and stress-inducing things any New Yorker can ever go through – the painfully long and tedious dance of looking for a new apartment.
In today’s market people keep saying things out there are a steal, “Everything is so cheap now!” and “This is the time to make the move!” Firstly, no matter how bad this economy is, diving full speed ahead into the bottom of a cesspool of record high unemployment rates and bankruptcy, nothing in New York, especially apartments, should ever be classified as “cheap.” Secondly, making the move, as it were, is filled with so much more than just finding a place, packing up your stuff and moving to another neighborhood. Looking for an apartment in New York is a full-time job. It’s long hours and takes determination, stamina and the creative ability to look at even the bleakest of places and be able to envision something more.
Having lived with roommates for what now feels like my entire life, I decided it was time, four scary years away from turning thirty, that perhaps it was in fact the pivotal moment to make the leap. Sure, anywhere else in the country having your own place isn’t a big deal. There are people I know all over the place from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin who live in entirely palatial places for half the cost of what a closet in New York would bank you - which is why in New York it’s entirely normal for you to be rounding thirty, even say, thirty-five and still have roommates. It’s costly to live here of course, and I’ve seen relationships speed up from casual dates to full blown engagements just because splitting the rent on that one-bedroom is going to save them enough money that making a life-time commitment is entirely worth it.
But as the ever-single New Yorker that I am, I started gallivanting across the island, Murray Hill, Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea, the East Village – all in an attempt to find a studio where I might fit in (and be able to fit my stuff). I’ve spent the last three and a half years on the Upper East Side with people with strollers, and old people with canes, girls my age who flaunt designer handbags and clothes a la Gossip Girl, and guys who look as though they just stumbled out of their college frat house. I’m a little behind in getting the memo I guess, but Change (surprise!) is what it’s all about these days, so I decided life’s too short not to get on board.
I saw apartments that might be able to fit a chair and a twin bed (it would be pushing it), with no windows, one small burner and the overwhelming smell of bleach costing more than one paycheck. I saw basements with bugs, and five-floor walk-ups with no bathroom sinks. I saw lofted beds and partition walls and entire apartments newly created in what used to be an actual hallway now converted into small (I could extend my arms and touch both walls) living spaces which I was supposed to pay for but would only really be good for someone with an extreme case of agoraphobia.
I was taking meetings whenever people could meet me, morning, noon and night, because like anything in New York, things happen fast, and with one delay you could lose the (small) place of your dreams in a New York minute. I was taking trains and buses and walking in the rain, and calling brokers and landlords and checking Craigslist religiously every thirty minutes for updates of places in my low price-range. I was starting to lose my mind. I was getting discouraged. I was becoming sacred that I might get fired after three days of being so apartment obsessed that I wasn’t getting any work done. New York! What the hell?! Why do you have to be so expensive!? Why do you have to be so difficult!?
As luck would have it (though I don’t believe much in luck) I stumbled across a place I initially wasn’t going to bother seeing. The Upper West side seemed far after having spent so much time taking the train downtown from the East (but I’d quickly come to the painful realization that I couldn’t afford downtown. New York, I hate you!). I dragged myself up to take a look anyway. There’s something to be said about that cliché that happens to you when you find something that’s meant to be, be it a job, love or an apartment – when you know, you just know, and it happens when you least expect it.
The search was over. The paperwork was assembled, the appropriate funds (broker fees, don’t even get me started…) were obtained and dropped off, and suddenly I found myself signing the lease to my first solo apartment. Sans roommates, sans drama. Sure, I’m paying more now for just a room with a kitchen in it, but it has windows and a fireplace and so much character that it’s entirely worth the impending upcoming nights when all I’ll be able to afford to do is sit in my new place, alone, and learn all over again why New York really is the greatest city in the world.
In today’s market people keep saying things out there are a steal, “Everything is so cheap now!” and “This is the time to make the move!” Firstly, no matter how bad this economy is, diving full speed ahead into the bottom of a cesspool of record high unemployment rates and bankruptcy, nothing in New York, especially apartments, should ever be classified as “cheap.” Secondly, making the move, as it were, is filled with so much more than just finding a place, packing up your stuff and moving to another neighborhood. Looking for an apartment in New York is a full-time job. It’s long hours and takes determination, stamina and the creative ability to look at even the bleakest of places and be able to envision something more.
Having lived with roommates for what now feels like my entire life, I decided it was time, four scary years away from turning thirty, that perhaps it was in fact the pivotal moment to make the leap. Sure, anywhere else in the country having your own place isn’t a big deal. There are people I know all over the place from San Francisco to Madison, Wisconsin who live in entirely palatial places for half the cost of what a closet in New York would bank you - which is why in New York it’s entirely normal for you to be rounding thirty, even say, thirty-five and still have roommates. It’s costly to live here of course, and I’ve seen relationships speed up from casual dates to full blown engagements just because splitting the rent on that one-bedroom is going to save them enough money that making a life-time commitment is entirely worth it.
But as the ever-single New Yorker that I am, I started gallivanting across the island, Murray Hill, Hell’s Kitchen, Chelsea, the East Village – all in an attempt to find a studio where I might fit in (and be able to fit my stuff). I’ve spent the last three and a half years on the Upper East Side with people with strollers, and old people with canes, girls my age who flaunt designer handbags and clothes a la Gossip Girl, and guys who look as though they just stumbled out of their college frat house. I’m a little behind in getting the memo I guess, but Change (surprise!) is what it’s all about these days, so I decided life’s too short not to get on board.
I saw apartments that might be able to fit a chair and a twin bed (it would be pushing it), with no windows, one small burner and the overwhelming smell of bleach costing more than one paycheck. I saw basements with bugs, and five-floor walk-ups with no bathroom sinks. I saw lofted beds and partition walls and entire apartments newly created in what used to be an actual hallway now converted into small (I could extend my arms and touch both walls) living spaces which I was supposed to pay for but would only really be good for someone with an extreme case of agoraphobia.
I was taking meetings whenever people could meet me, morning, noon and night, because like anything in New York, things happen fast, and with one delay you could lose the (small) place of your dreams in a New York minute. I was taking trains and buses and walking in the rain, and calling brokers and landlords and checking Craigslist religiously every thirty minutes for updates of places in my low price-range. I was starting to lose my mind. I was getting discouraged. I was becoming sacred that I might get fired after three days of being so apartment obsessed that I wasn’t getting any work done. New York! What the hell?! Why do you have to be so expensive!? Why do you have to be so difficult!?
As luck would have it (though I don’t believe much in luck) I stumbled across a place I initially wasn’t going to bother seeing. The Upper West side seemed far after having spent so much time taking the train downtown from the East (but I’d quickly come to the painful realization that I couldn’t afford downtown. New York, I hate you!). I dragged myself up to take a look anyway. There’s something to be said about that cliché that happens to you when you find something that’s meant to be, be it a job, love or an apartment – when you know, you just know, and it happens when you least expect it.
The search was over. The paperwork was assembled, the appropriate funds (broker fees, don’t even get me started…) were obtained and dropped off, and suddenly I found myself signing the lease to my first solo apartment. Sans roommates, sans drama. Sure, I’m paying more now for just a room with a kitchen in it, but it has windows and a fireplace and so much character that it’s entirely worth the impending upcoming nights when all I’ll be able to afford to do is sit in my new place, alone, and learn all over again why New York really is the greatest city in the world.
June 2, 2009
Seek Alt. Routes
After an informative session at a bike shop on Morton Street in the West Village (where yes, I’m thinking of attempting to commute via bicycle. Eco-friendly! Economical!), I was feeling like this new lifestyle could if nothing else, get me to where I wanted to go faster than walking. It’s the wave of the urban future after all. The New York Times said so on Sunday.
As I promptly turned the corner onto Hudson Street, thinking that I’d check out bikes on the cheap on Craigslist when I get back to my desk, I was shaken from my thoughts of carefree two-wheel travel when the screeching brakes of a car caused me to look up. I watched in horror as a large white van hit a gentleman in the middle of the intersection, on, you guess it, a bike.
He eventually stood of course, visibly shaken as the driver jumped out of the van to see if he had seriously flattened him like a pancake at Clinton Street Bakery (voted “Best Pancakes,” NY Magazine, 2005!). Thankfully, he had not, and the biker continued on his way.
Come to think of it, perhaps I’ll just stick to NYC transit.
For a little while, anyway.
As I promptly turned the corner onto Hudson Street, thinking that I’d check out bikes on the cheap on Craigslist when I get back to my desk, I was shaken from my thoughts of carefree two-wheel travel when the screeching brakes of a car caused me to look up. I watched in horror as a large white van hit a gentleman in the middle of the intersection, on, you guess it, a bike.
He eventually stood of course, visibly shaken as the driver jumped out of the van to see if he had seriously flattened him like a pancake at Clinton Street Bakery (voted “Best Pancakes,” NY Magazine, 2005!). Thankfully, he had not, and the biker continued on his way.
Come to think of it, perhaps I’ll just stick to NYC transit.
For a little while, anyway.
May 31, 2009
Weekend New Yorkers.
When the weather is warm and everyone in Manhattan is out on the streets, it’s easy to see how much people change on the weekends. New York is a place that’s easy to forget yourself in, easy to go through your days on auto-pilot, passing interesting things all the time without even noticing.
But when the weather is warm on a Manhattan weekend that all changes, and drifting through neighborhoods I could see it as I walked the entire length of the east side of the city, down past the crowded shops near fifth avenue, through the street fair in Murray Hill where Lexington was blocked off for fifteen blocks filled tables selling t-shirts that say “I Love New York” (yes I do!) and expensive looking rugs for thirty bucks a piece, and handmade dresses and pulled pork sandwiches and big cups of cubed watermelon. In Madison Square Park there was live jazz (and the longest line at Shake Shack that I’ve seen in a while). In Little Italy, Mulberry street was blocked off, and through the crowd I watched people step up to the shooting range to score a stuffed animal, test out their throwing arm at the dunk tank (a man about seventy had a killer right arm and got him on the second try). They ate cannoli’s the size of hot dogs and listened to a man singing Sinatra while sipping cappuccinos.
Great days in Manhattan when the weather is warm it makes it even more difficult to have to face the beginning of yet another week. And there they’ll all be in the morning, all the same people but in their ironed suits with their eyes in their newspapers and blackberry's, chugging coffee and dreading their days. At the office there won’t be any watermelon or Sinatra or deals on floor coverings - just emails waiting for them, and responsibilities along with the constant watching of the clock to count down the day, and then the week, until the next (and hopefully warm) weekend is upon them once again.
But when the weather is warm on a Manhattan weekend that all changes, and drifting through neighborhoods I could see it as I walked the entire length of the east side of the city, down past the crowded shops near fifth avenue, through the street fair in Murray Hill where Lexington was blocked off for fifteen blocks filled tables selling t-shirts that say “I Love New York” (yes I do!) and expensive looking rugs for thirty bucks a piece, and handmade dresses and pulled pork sandwiches and big cups of cubed watermelon. In Madison Square Park there was live jazz (and the longest line at Shake Shack that I’ve seen in a while). In Little Italy, Mulberry street was blocked off, and through the crowd I watched people step up to the shooting range to score a stuffed animal, test out their throwing arm at the dunk tank (a man about seventy had a killer right arm and got him on the second try). They ate cannoli’s the size of hot dogs and listened to a man singing Sinatra while sipping cappuccinos.
Great days in Manhattan when the weather is warm it makes it even more difficult to have to face the beginning of yet another week. And there they’ll all be in the morning, all the same people but in their ironed suits with their eyes in their newspapers and blackberry's, chugging coffee and dreading their days. At the office there won’t be any watermelon or Sinatra or deals on floor coverings - just emails waiting for them, and responsibilities along with the constant watching of the clock to count down the day, and then the week, until the next (and hopefully warm) weekend is upon them once again.
May 19, 2009
tick tock goes the clock.
If you were to talk to me about timing, I’d be honest with you and say that I’m not the right person to be around if you want to get anywhere you’re supposed to be. Stay away, I’d tell you, keep clear if you’d like your life to happen, because I’m bad luck.
I’m never at the right place at the right time, do the exact wrong thing (and say the even worse thing) at the exact wrong moments. I’m constantly caught in the rain, walking outside without an umbrella (in the sun!) minutes before the sky opens up (how does it always happen so fast!?) and am forced to walk the entirety of Houston Street in a downpour. I’m always running towards the turn-styles just seconds before the 6 train closes it’s doors (please swipe again!), and wondering as it speeds away if there was something or someone on that train I was supposed to see.
I’m convinced I’m leaving bars (after sticking around for far too long) just moments before someone I could actually like walks in. I take chances when it’s too late, open my mouth to say something important just as someone else chimes in and speaks for me. I fall for people the day before they’re supposed to leave the country, and finally allow myself to admit I like them just before they’ve fallen for someone else. I repeatedly show up at happy hours minutes after they’ve ended, need a cab when they're all full, and always somehow have to leave town the same weekend my favorite band is scheduled to play.
In New York, with all of these people and all of these things happening every second of every day, I wonder how much these little shifts and missed moments I have no control over are changing my life without my even knowing it. Is there no choice left sometimes, but to watch the clock and hold your breath and have faith that somehow their hands will get you to where you’re supposed to be in the end, regardless of how long it takes? I miss trains and planes and opportunities every moment of every day that could all, if I were a normal person, lead me to somewhere that I think I’d like to go, if only timing would ever get me there.
I’m never at the right place at the right time, do the exact wrong thing (and say the even worse thing) at the exact wrong moments. I’m constantly caught in the rain, walking outside without an umbrella (in the sun!) minutes before the sky opens up (how does it always happen so fast!?) and am forced to walk the entirety of Houston Street in a downpour. I’m always running towards the turn-styles just seconds before the 6 train closes it’s doors (please swipe again!), and wondering as it speeds away if there was something or someone on that train I was supposed to see.
I’m convinced I’m leaving bars (after sticking around for far too long) just moments before someone I could actually like walks in. I take chances when it’s too late, open my mouth to say something important just as someone else chimes in and speaks for me. I fall for people the day before they’re supposed to leave the country, and finally allow myself to admit I like them just before they’ve fallen for someone else. I repeatedly show up at happy hours minutes after they’ve ended, need a cab when they're all full, and always somehow have to leave town the same weekend my favorite band is scheduled to play.
In New York, with all of these people and all of these things happening every second of every day, I wonder how much these little shifts and missed moments I have no control over are changing my life without my even knowing it. Is there no choice left sometimes, but to watch the clock and hold your breath and have faith that somehow their hands will get you to where you’re supposed to be in the end, regardless of how long it takes? I miss trains and planes and opportunities every moment of every day that could all, if I were a normal person, lead me to somewhere that I think I’d like to go, if only timing would ever get me there.
May 14, 2009
love story.
I overheard a girl on the street talking to her friend about her impending marriage:
“..and I mean he just needs to be prepared. Like, I mean, let’s face it, like if I’m not happy, he’s not gonna be happy. I mean, right? That’s just the way it works. So he’d better do his best to get me what I want.”
“Totally.”
Why is it the people who don’t understand love always seem to find it the fastest?
“..and I mean he just needs to be prepared. Like, I mean, let’s face it, like if I’m not happy, he’s not gonna be happy. I mean, right? That’s just the way it works. So he’d better do his best to get me what I want.”
“Totally.”
Why is it the people who don’t understand love always seem to find it the fastest?
May 6, 2009
could be anything.
I don’t know when spring got here but it did, behind my back. One day I was sitting on the cross-town bus going down Fifth Avenue and I could almost see right through Central Park to the West Side. The branches were bare and the yellow cabs were visible along with the early morning runners and people with their dogs.
But suddenly today, in what seemed like mere hours, green leaves were in abundance blocking my view and covering up the tall buildings of Central Park South. Spring showed up, officially ending another season, another year. Gone are the harsh winds of winter, the biting cold, the unbearable frigidity of the dark pavement of Manhattan that has a way, (by the time February rolls around), of making you start to lose your mind.
It never ceases to amaze me how much (our lives, everything) keeps happening right in front of our eyes in this city when we’re too busy (stupid, greedy, blind) to notice.
But suddenly today, in what seemed like mere hours, green leaves were in abundance blocking my view and covering up the tall buildings of Central Park South. Spring showed up, officially ending another season, another year. Gone are the harsh winds of winter, the biting cold, the unbearable frigidity of the dark pavement of Manhattan that has a way, (by the time February rolls around), of making you start to lose your mind.
It never ceases to amaze me how much (our lives, everything) keeps happening right in front of our eyes in this city when we’re too busy (stupid, greedy, blind) to notice.
May 4, 2009
"...Requesting the honor of your presence at the marriage ceremony of..."
Things happen so fast in this city that it’s easier than you think to lose track of your life. Away for the weekend to see a friend get married in Boston it seemed like just yesterday that I met her in college when life was easier and slower and no one was worrying about things like planning for the future and where to start a family.
But time flies faster than the Fung Wah hurdling down the Mass Pike, and before you know it you’re dressed up in outfit one of two as Maid of Honor for the most interesting and long (3 hour ceremony!) Indian wedding you could ever have imagined. After two days of ceremonies and henna tattoos and stress leading up to the big day, it finally arrived and almost 400 people gathered to watch the street procession of the groom around the block before he was carried in where his feet were washed, and then watched again as the bride was carried to the altar in a basket filled with rice and fruit (bananas, coconut and...?) where there was a lot of throwing of rice and flowers and chanting of words I couldn’t understand for a few hours. As I sat there and watched her, this close friend I met so long ago (seems like yesterday) officially get married (from what I could gather) between the lighting of fires and dripping of oils, I felt time and my life getting away from me faster than ever.
I was panic stricken of course, (but tried not to show it), when my name was called and the spot light was on me and I walked slowly to the stage and up the stairs and reached out to take the microphone to talk to these almost 400 people about something I don’t know much of anything about but keep having to talk about at weddings: love. As I began to speak, I realized looking out over the shadows of people illuminated by the light, that days and weeks and years pass so quickly that when it comes to finding out how we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives I figure you’ve got to have some of the best luck in the world working on your side
I didn’t mention that of course, because I think it’s a good rule to stay away from using words like “good luck,” when giving a speech at a wedding. But I don’t think we should lie to ourselves about the rarity of finding what might be the most coveted thing in the world, more than money, more than success, more than a rent controlled apartment in the West Village. So I was glad to see they’d found It, and walking back to my table I realized how much we take love for granted and how we might already have It (once you have It, never let it go), or the hope that one day we will.
Hope. That’s a good word to use in a speech at a wedding. Hope for the best. Hope for the future. Hope for a long and happy life together full of all the great and wonderful things love has to offer.
Hope.
Hope.
Hope.
I suppose you could do a lot worse than live your life on the hope of love (better odds hitting the lottery!) - but for now I’m okay with just having to talk about it to people at weddings, and pretending every time I get up there that I have any idea what it’s all about.
Cheers.
But time flies faster than the Fung Wah hurdling down the Mass Pike, and before you know it you’re dressed up in outfit one of two as Maid of Honor for the most interesting and long (3 hour ceremony!) Indian wedding you could ever have imagined. After two days of ceremonies and henna tattoos and stress leading up to the big day, it finally arrived and almost 400 people gathered to watch the street procession of the groom around the block before he was carried in where his feet were washed, and then watched again as the bride was carried to the altar in a basket filled with rice and fruit (bananas, coconut and...?) where there was a lot of throwing of rice and flowers and chanting of words I couldn’t understand for a few hours. As I sat there and watched her, this close friend I met so long ago (seems like yesterday) officially get married (from what I could gather) between the lighting of fires and dripping of oils, I felt time and my life getting away from me faster than ever.
I was panic stricken of course, (but tried not to show it), when my name was called and the spot light was on me and I walked slowly to the stage and up the stairs and reached out to take the microphone to talk to these almost 400 people about something I don’t know much of anything about but keep having to talk about at weddings: love. As I began to speak, I realized looking out over the shadows of people illuminated by the light, that days and weeks and years pass so quickly that when it comes to finding out how we’re meant to spend the rest of our lives I figure you’ve got to have some of the best luck in the world working on your side
I didn’t mention that of course, because I think it’s a good rule to stay away from using words like “good luck,” when giving a speech at a wedding. But I don’t think we should lie to ourselves about the rarity of finding what might be the most coveted thing in the world, more than money, more than success, more than a rent controlled apartment in the West Village. So I was glad to see they’d found It, and walking back to my table I realized how much we take love for granted and how we might already have It (once you have It, never let it go), or the hope that one day we will.
Hope. That’s a good word to use in a speech at a wedding. Hope for the best. Hope for the future. Hope for a long and happy life together full of all the great and wonderful things love has to offer.
Hope.
Hope.
Hope.
I suppose you could do a lot worse than live your life on the hope of love (better odds hitting the lottery!) - but for now I’m okay with just having to talk about it to people at weddings, and pretending every time I get up there that I have any idea what it’s all about.
Cheers.
March 30, 2009
Catch 22
Do you know what I think is ridiculous? Being successful, owning a home, getting married, having a lot of money, raising children, and being only twenty-two.
I think there was a time that when looking at that age I thought I would surely be a well rounded, successful adult with enough money to buy a house and have had enough time to have found a good man. And I think when I thought all that was when I was about fifteen. Now, a few weeks shy of turning twenty-six, I don’t think I have hardly anything together. I’m still making the same mistakes, doing all the wrong things, saying all the wrong things, entirely unable to afford my own life, my own apartment, and at this point, even get a date.
All of this and many more reasons is why I can’t in all honesty watch One Tree Hill anymore. Okay so I know I never write about anything like a show on the CW, but sitting there watching the tail end of this ridiculous drama, I didn’t realize exactly how ridiculous it was until one character blurted out that she was twenty-two. I almost fell off the couch. Never mind that the actors themselves are older than I am, but twenty-two? I started to panic.
Who at that age has their own magazine, owns a house/a clothing store/a business, is raising a seventeen-year old runaway, and is passing up offers from hot young men to come with them to LA? I’m pretty sure I can safely say that at twenty-two I was an emotional wreck, who had exactly no idea what I wanted to do with my life, was drinking far too much, and was continuously falling for all the wrong guys who never even asked me to go to dinner let alone follow them across the country (some things never change).
I suppose it’s nice in this economic, love and life recession I’ve found myself in over the past few years, (as my age creeps ever so slow further and further from twenty-two), to watch on television how my life could have turned out were I not living in the real world. But what’s so funny however, is that when the above mentioned twenty-two-year-old-success-story turns down the guy at the airport for reasons all viewers I’m sure couldn’t understand (I mean, did you see him?) the gentleman in question said, “You know, if this were a movie, all of this would be ending differently.”
So you see, he knows how I feel. If it were a movie, (or come to mention it my twenty-two year old life), she would have wrapped her arms around him and gone with him. Because there’s nothing like looking back on all that’s gone by and recognizing an opportunity you let pass you by because of obligations you weren’t even ready to make. You’re only young once (and getting older every second) and there’s time enough to figure it all out and find what defines your own success...after you make the choice to take a leap on to the symbolic plane of your life.
Because what tragedy it would have been had those emotional, drunken, aimless and confusing days of my twenty-two year old life never have happened - I’d hardly have been prepared at all for the last four years
I think there was a time that when looking at that age I thought I would surely be a well rounded, successful adult with enough money to buy a house and have had enough time to have found a good man. And I think when I thought all that was when I was about fifteen. Now, a few weeks shy of turning twenty-six, I don’t think I have hardly anything together. I’m still making the same mistakes, doing all the wrong things, saying all the wrong things, entirely unable to afford my own life, my own apartment, and at this point, even get a date.
All of this and many more reasons is why I can’t in all honesty watch One Tree Hill anymore. Okay so I know I never write about anything like a show on the CW, but sitting there watching the tail end of this ridiculous drama, I didn’t realize exactly how ridiculous it was until one character blurted out that she was twenty-two. I almost fell off the couch. Never mind that the actors themselves are older than I am, but twenty-two? I started to panic.
Who at that age has their own magazine, owns a house/a clothing store/a business, is raising a seventeen-year old runaway, and is passing up offers from hot young men to come with them to LA? I’m pretty sure I can safely say that at twenty-two I was an emotional wreck, who had exactly no idea what I wanted to do with my life, was drinking far too much, and was continuously falling for all the wrong guys who never even asked me to go to dinner let alone follow them across the country (some things never change).
I suppose it’s nice in this economic, love and life recession I’ve found myself in over the past few years, (as my age creeps ever so slow further and further from twenty-two), to watch on television how my life could have turned out were I not living in the real world. But what’s so funny however, is that when the above mentioned twenty-two-year-old-success-story turns down the guy at the airport for reasons all viewers I’m sure couldn’t understand (I mean, did you see him?) the gentleman in question said, “You know, if this were a movie, all of this would be ending differently.”
So you see, he knows how I feel. If it were a movie, (or come to mention it my twenty-two year old life), she would have wrapped her arms around him and gone with him. Because there’s nothing like looking back on all that’s gone by and recognizing an opportunity you let pass you by because of obligations you weren’t even ready to make. You’re only young once (and getting older every second) and there’s time enough to figure it all out and find what defines your own success...after you make the choice to take a leap on to the symbolic plane of your life.
Because what tragedy it would have been had those emotional, drunken, aimless and confusing days of my twenty-two year old life never have happened - I’d hardly have been prepared at all for the last four years
March 16, 2009
West Side Line.
I always told myself I never wanted to be that kind of New Yorker who shied away from things far away from the basic radius of my usual life. Brooklyn, okay sure, I’ll go to Williamsburg. Eighty-ninth and Fifth to the Guggenheim? I mean, it's art. Staten Island? Umm, what’s the point. But when friends decide, for their own insane reasons, to move somewhere like West 225th street (literally over the Harlem River!) and want me to take the 1 (local only!) train for longer than I’ve ever been on any subway train since I’ve been living in the city, and show up at their housewarming party with a bottle of Prosecco after having walked ten minutes (lost!) in the wrong direction with not one person (not one!) on the street, and me, looking as out of place as a Midwestern couple with bright neon fanny-packs and huge billowing maps in the middle of Midtown Manhattan...don’t expect me for one up-up-uptown second, not to make the most of it.
Because the things is, you never get quite as drunk or spend half as much time at someone’s party talking to basically everyone in the room, willing listen to the entirety of their life’s story as when a) it took you the better half of the night just to get there, and b) you’re dreading more than anything you’ve ever dreaded in a long while, having to go all the way back home.
Because the things is, you never get quite as drunk or spend half as much time at someone’s party talking to basically everyone in the room, willing listen to the entirety of their life’s story as when a) it took you the better half of the night just to get there, and b) you’re dreading more than anything you’ve ever dreaded in a long while, having to go all the way back home.
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