Weekend Update

My opus, my thesis, is finished. "Feminine Reading Practices and Literary Compatible Mates in The Mill on the Floss and Middlemarch." I am exhausted, brain-dead, and getting ready for a week of adventure in my old haunts in NYC. I graduate on Wednesday.

The language of love and beauty...

So, I'm at the nail salon this evening, getting my mani-pedi on, listening to the two girls next to me chatting away in a language I cannot identify and do not understand. We arrived about the same time, so I'm listening to these girls as I get my pedicure, as I get my manicure, as I sit under the hand-foot dryer. Finally, five minutes before I'm ready to go, the prettier of the two says one phrase I understand:

"Sugar Daddy."

Perfect.

Lesson Du Jour

Just because you can fit six bottles of wine into your backpack doesn't mean you should actually carry six bottles of wine around New York City.

Why I Love Living in this City, part 4,807

So, my friend and fellow classmate all but assaults me with technology this afternoon: a text, a phone call and an email all within five minutes of each other. The text and voicemail she leaves both tell me to check the email, so I do. What do I find?

Subject Fwd: Free Tickets to The Farnsworth Connection on Broadway

That's right, everyone. I am going to see The Farnsworth INVENTION (not connection, but I won't quibble too much, since the circumstances are so favorable) by the great Aaron Sorkin, in previews, tonight at 8PM, for absolutely FREE.

Can you imagine the happy dance I am doing at my desk right now? Can you? The Hallelujah Chorus swelling over the usual music/voices in my head? The mamboing butterflies of anticipation cavorting through my chest?

And perhaps- doubtful, but perhaps- the great man himself might be there. He might be the type of writer who likes to be very involved in the process. He might want to give notes and feedback and stand close and allow me to fawn upon him.

Also: Hank Azaria.

Stay tuned for reviews.

For Lizzie

or why perhaps i shouldn't post frequently...

So, I love bananas. They are one of my favorite fruits. But the problem with bananas is they have a very small window of edibility. You buy bananas, you wait and wait and wait for them to get ripe enough, then they are perfectly ripe for less than 48 hours before becoming overripe. Silly bananas.

In other news, the theater where I am working right now is practically on porn alley-- there are a lot of peep show palaces and X rated film shops about. Every day, on my way home from work, I pass a guy in a big sign reading "Private Eyes." And I keep thinking to myself: Odd. I mean, how many people are walking along the street thinking, man, I need a good Private Investigator right now. And then last night, I noticed under, in smaller letters "adult entertainment club." Ah. That makes more sense.

I remember when back cracking was a foreign activity to me. Now I do it all the time. I am creaky. Old and creaky.

Last 24 as 24...

Actually, we're down to the last two hours now. Two hours and then I'm 25. A quarter of a century old tomorrow.

I want to have something profound to say about the chunk of time I've spent on this planet. I've got nothing. We all keep getting older...I guess it's something I should get used to.

There's been a lot of celebrating thus far: birthday omelettes, visitors, a fabulous karaoke party in my honor. And tomorrow my Mom and my sisters are coming up for the big day

Today is also, incidentally, my one year anniversary of moving to New York City. This time last year, I was slumped onto this same red couch with two of my best friends and a really strong Austrian, watching Legends of the Hidden Temple for hours and hating our aching muscles. I've made it here for a year. Isn't that amazing?

June is Bustin' Out All Over...

I get a lot of weekend visitors to New York and, now that the weather is nice again, they're just popping out of the woodwork. You know who else is popping out of the woodwork? Pregnant ladies. It's one of the first things my out of town friends comment on when we start to walk around the city: "There sure are a lot of pregnant women in New York."

There really are. They're everywhere. Often in groups.

Are there more pregnant women here than elsewhere? Or did I just not notice them at home because they were always driving cars? It's one of the great mysteries of life?


In other news...
- I know three pregnant women right now and one who has recently delivered. All of them are having/had boys. My next pregnant acquaintance better be having a girl. I'm tired of buying blue stuff.
- Today, as a special treat at work, we had chocolate pecan pie with vanilla bourbon ice cream. Almost everyone- woman included- indulged in this treat. My one female coworker did not, but I recently discovered (by stalking her on myspace) that she models on the side, so I'm really not surprised.
- If the free work food does not stop being so delicious, I am going to be busting out of my bridesmaid dress all over come July.
- I want to start a book blog (book reviews, etc.), cuz it looks like fun. And I'm bored at work. And these ladies crack me up. Anyone interested?

Why I Will Never Truly 'Fit In' In New York City

So, it is someone's birthday today, at the office I am temping at for almost two months. So they ordered a cake from a NYC bakery (which generally means delicious). A German chocolate cake. Now, I have recently discovered that I am a big fan of German Chocolate Cake (Chocolate. Almost Too-Sweet Icing. Coconut. Nuts. What's not to love?), but I understand it's not everyone's cup of tea. It's not the generic, plain-jane kind of cake you order if you want to please absolutely everyone. So, you would expect a couple of people to turn it down, based on that fact alone.

I am the only woman in the office eating this free cake. The only one.

I have a checklist for occasions like this.

The Free Cake Checklist:
Is it free? Yes.
Is it cake? Yes.

I'm sold.

(Technically, I often follow up with:
Does it have onions in it? Of course not, it's cake.
Is it carrot cake? No.)

But these women- these rail-thin, glamorously dressed women- don't even look twice at the exciting, individually-plated delciousness that is free cake. I'm beginning to think they aren't human. I saw the knife one girl used to cut the cake lying in the sink afterwards...entirely covered with icing and cake. How can you not swipe a finger across that knife and indulge in just a taste of icing? That's not normal.

I allow for the fact that one or two might not like German chocolate cake. But all of them? No way.

Anyway, another fun fact about my office: I have worn variations of the same clothes the entire time I've worked here (13 days now). The same pair of black pumps. The same black skirt for, I think, 10/13 days. Either my black cardigan or my black blazer every day.

I'm a temp. I only have so many outfits.

Now back to my fabulous FREE CAKE.

That's right. It's free. And it's cake.

Let it...yeah...

I think there's something magical about your first snow in New York City. At least my first snow.

I got onto the subway at 14th street...cold and clear skies. Then I we came above ground in Queens and there was snow! Lots of snow. When I got off of the subway, there was an inch on the ground and the snow was blowing around on an icy wind.

I went out tonight in a skirt and hose. Cold.

Cabbies drive by you slowly with a smile, watching and sure you can't possibly walk home in such weather. But I did.

After awhile, I got used to the cold, and I was just able to view the snow as beautiful. I wrote my name on the sidewalk with my foot. I drew smiley faces on a stranger's car. I dragged my gloved (thank god) hands across neighbors' fences. I danced a soft-shoe just to see the patterns my feet made.

It was glorious.

Now, I am going to hate this snow when I wake up in the morning. It will be cold and in my way. But right now, yeah, a little magical. And me, yeah, a little drunk.

Happy First Snow, New York!

Issues and Complaints

- My cat has taken to falling over sideways. She'll be fine, running around like the spaz she is, back and forth, length-wise across the apartment, and then just stop and keel over onto the floor. This can't be good. Is there such a thing as kitty vertigo?
- I JUST decided what I am writing my 20-25 page paper about, due Wed. evening. This is the fourth topic I have 'decided' on. Hopefully, fingers crossed, knock on wood, it will be the last.
- I am still only five pages into my other, 15-20 page paper. At least I have a definite topic. Knock on wood, fingers crossed, hopefully.
- I still have not finished my Christmas shopping. How am I supposed to do this, when I must constantly write papers?
- My Christmas package from La Gap started in Ohio, traveled to NJ, traveled to NY, and is now, according to tracking, BACK IN OHIO. Why? WHY? How am I supposed to get this by Christmas? Why would it go back to Ohio?
- I am out of food. And diet coke. I will have to leave the apartment. I don't really remember the world outside, but I feel it's unsafe.
- I will also have to leave the apartment to visit the library and use 'microform'. I have never used microform before. I am NOT looking forward to it.
- I have not had a haircut since I moved to New York. Ew.
- My gym membership is totally going to waste...on account of my never leaving the apartment.
- It is becoming difficult to walk through my small bedroom, as it is covered in books and printouts from literary journals.
- I can't remember the last time I did laundry. I might be running out of clean underwear.
- My vocab is slipping. I say "eff this and eff that" all the time. And the word 'Whatever' (sometimes as 'Whatevs,' which is worse). This morning my roommate and I slumped on our bright red couch and orally wrote the new hit children's book, "Eff you, Moon."

And on that cheerful note, I return to my paper writing.

It IS the most wonderful time of the year!

Welcome to Christmas decorating day in my apartment. It involves cursing, carols, and many mugs of glorious spiced hot cider.

Instead of cementing my tush to the red couch and my thighs to the laptop, as per usual, today, I joined my roommate on a quest for some holiday spirit.

We found it in the form of a Christmas tree lot outside of our local grocery store, where a nice hippie with a lime green van sold us a Christmas tree from Nova Scotia. A real live Christmas tree! I can't remember the last time I had one of those. So, we paid the nice hippie (who still believes in capitalism), lugged the tree home, struggled to get it into its tree stand, and decorated the suckah.

It is the most beautiful tree ever, and the smell of evergreen mixed with the smell of spiced apple cider is absolutely intoxicating.

While my roommate tackled the lights (she likes putting them on tree, I promise), I cast my eye on the rest of the apartment...

"Have you ever been to my parents' place around Christmas? It's like my Mom walks into the center of the house and vomits gold glitter onto everything. I take after her."

Last year I made those gold poinsettias into a treetop decoration.


"We are not decorating with a baby Jesus."
"But he's so cute."
"He can be baby Fred."
"How can you resist this? Look. Mary is wearing birkenstocks."

Darcy did not get into the holiday spirit, mostly because Darcy hates happiness and joy. So far she hasn't eaten any Christmas decorations yet, so that's a blessing at least.


I would like to end this blog with one of my favorite Christmas decorations, a special message from Mr. Bond:

NYC Observations and General Paper Avoidance...

Nine o'clock on a balmy night brings all the couples out in Union Square. Couples and skateboarders.

I can't figure out which bothers me more.

The skateboarders need to be dodged. They don't really view the sidewalk as a place to walk...it is their personal skateboard track. You are a moving obstacle in a deadly game of chicken. And you'd better chicken out first.

The couples need to be dodged as well. Because they walk slowly, holding hands and full of lingers. Lingering touches, lingering looks...lingering neck sucking. Seriously, I don't mind PDAs to a certain extent. Hold hands, kiss romantically under a streetlight, whatever. But why in the world would you suck on your boyfriend's neck, in public, while surrounded by people who are waiting to cross the street? Why? One: ew. Two: don't you know his neck is covered in NYC street grime? Ew.

I encountered these nine o'clock obstacles on the way to Barnes and Noble after class tonight. I didn't go out drinking in the Village with my classmates because I am sick, stressed, and tired. But I stopped at the bookstore to buy a light book to read in between bouts of paper writing, to keep myself sane. This effort will probably fail. I can already feel insanity setting in.

On the way out, I saw the New Yorker and laughed, because I remember how, when I first moved to the city, I resolved to read it every week, for fun, and to keep up on life in the city. Now the only things I read for fun are blogs and emails, and I never really interact with the city.

I also bought another bridesmaid book at Barnes and Noble. That brings the total up to two. I am not allowed to buy any more. But a girl needs a little instruction on how to be maid of honor in a beautiful, southern wedding.

Fun fact gleaned from my new bridesmaid book: It is considered good luck to have bridesmaids that are shorter than you. This makes me lucky for my bride. It also means that the only bridesmaids I can have, if I want luck, are my sisters and my army of friendly midgets.

I'm not going to my high school reunion...

toothpastefordinner.com

...which is strange, because I totally seem the type. I am nostalgic. I keep extensive photo albums. My high school year books made the move to NYC with me. Hell, I live with one of my best friends from high school, in a strange twist of fate.

I've even got things to show off. After all, I got the hell out of Dodge. I am getting a master's degree at NYU and living in the Big Apple. I don't have the ultimate merit badge (a man) but I'm not doing half-bad.

But I'm only going to be home for a few days for Thanksgiving Break. And I'd rather experience my hometown than relive old experiences. I'd rather see my family and the friends I'm still in touch with than reach out to older memories.

While I'm home this week, I'm going to kick off the last Christmas season I ever get to spend in my childhood home. My youngest sister will turn fourteen (which, believe me, is terribly old). I will go wedding dress shopping with my oldest friend (I met her when I was six).

Life is changing so fast, and there's no point in trying to hold on to things that long gone. My high school reunion's hardly a blip on the radar.

But maybe I'll make it for ten years.

Halloween II (better and bloodier)

The thing I love best about Halloween in NYC is that so many people dress so strangely here anyway, that very often you cannot tell what is a costume and what is their actual clothes.

Bwa-ha-ha-ha!

Happy Halloween (bwa-ha-HA-ha-ha)! I am being a revolutionary this year, so I will have no opportunity to laugh in an evil fashion and must, therefore, get it all out of my system in this blog. I asked my revolutionary expert friend (who brought the beret I am wearing back from Cuba (drink)) what revolutionaries do...all we could come up with was drink vodka and wear berets at a jaunty angle. I hope it is okay if I drink the vodka in the form of a dirty martini.

My boss is not in the office today (again), so I took a nice, long walk around the East Village and had lunch in an Organic Vegan restaurant with aging hippies that could not get over the fact that I had come all the way from Queens for lunch, despite my efforts to explain that, really, I worked just around the corner (also: half a mile is apparently not just around the corner in NYC, the way it is in the country).

This afternoon, I have to hike out to a much nicer section of the city than I am accustomed to (and by hike, I probably mean take the 6 train) and drop off a folder at my boss' place- more specifically, I am to leave it with her doorman. Then all the way back down to Washington Square for class and then my revolutionary side will explode and run amuck all over the Village. Yay!

In posts to come: my reaction to the Cuba (drink) summit. Really. I promise. The sixteen pages of notes I took have to be good for something...

2 down...

Hello all.

Today is my two month anniversary. I have lived in New York City for two months.

How do I feel?

I'm still shocked by the idea of being 24, so not really older. Tireder. Much tireder, but that has more to do with my grad school workload than the city. I've picked up some of the eyes-straight-ahead, hate-anyone-blocking-the-sidewalk attitude. I know my way from home to work/school- and much of the rest of the city remains a mystery. I'm amazed by the fact that celebrities live among us (the rumors are true- I DID see Daniel Vosovic walking down the street this weekend). I've had the best dirty martini of my life. I've fallen asleep- multiple times- on the subway. I'm much more interested in what other people are wearing than ever before. I'm no longer fazed when I have to change my route because a movie is being filmed on the sidewalk up ahead. I'm in more debt than I've ever been in before in my life.

And most of all, I'm in love with the sparkling, seething possibilities that make up this city.

Happy two months!

Subway PDA PSA

There are many times and places where I do not want a boyfriend: where the joy of singledom rushes over me like...I don't know, some kind of refreshing, rushing body of water. New York City is a GREAT place to be single. You walk down the street with your arms mentally flung out (not actually flung out, because as much as you desire it, your life is not a musical, and you don't want to be that weird girl walking down the street with your arms flung out) and just soak up the glorious freedom and possibilities of the world.

Of course, there are other times and places, where you do in fact want a boyfriend: scary movies, weddings, lonely nights curled up on the couch, etc. To this list, I would like to add: The New York Subway System.

The Subway is apparently THE place to have a significant other and show him or her off. The subway is open to: cuddling, kissing, nuzzling, whispering and this strange public habit New Yorkers seem to have of untucking/re-tucking in their S.O.'s shirts (I have seen this behavior with three or four different couples now, where one person stands, leaning into the other, pulling the shirt out of the pants, then sticking it back in. This behavior is not particularly sexual in nature, but it is nonetheless a strange and scary epidemic).

I understand that the primary interaction between New Yorkers on the subway is the shared fantasy that no one else exists. Pretending to the point of making the subway your own little love nest, however, seems absurd. The blue or orange seats are not decadent, the bright track lighting is not romantic. And, more importantly, though everyone on the crowded subway is trying his/her best to keep eyes to his/herself, we can all see you!

Just so you know, you lustful little subway riders of New York.

Smells like activist...

I don't want to write about school, because I spend all the time thinking about it.

Instead, I will write about:
A- The party I attended on Friday night.
B- My new tendency to say "Boo, whore!" all the time.

A: On Friday night, I attended a loft party in Brooklyn. This party represented, to me, all that the crazy-city bohemian life should be (not my life, per se- I'm a sell out). Everyone brought a bottle of alcohol and just hung out all night- evenly distributing time between the loft and the hodgepodge of broken patio furniture set up on the roof. The loft had been a huge, single room studio, and the four inhabitants built walls and rooms- some of them with multiple stories. It was covered in home-made art work and lights and had three couches and reams of mismatched fabric and was the most wonderful mess. The party was inhabited mostly by drunk activists. When I first headed up to the roof with a red, plastic solo cup of red wine (which I later spilled all over myself- while still completely sober), I was warned by one of the guys: "Don't sit next to him! He smells like activist!" We didn't spend too much time speaking of activism, but I did learn that a bunch of the guys road-tripped down to Texas where they protested outside of an Exxon dressed in tiger suits and got arrested. The party ended in the wee hours of the morning. I was made to salsa dance with one of the hostesses before I left, and I danced right into a table. The bruise is a glorious grey-blue.

B: Saw Mean Girls the other day, and have been running around the apartment saying "Boo, whore!" to the roommates. Nothing wrong with this, though I do have this fear that I will carry my new favorite phrase into grad class with me...

DRAMATIZATION

Classmate: I disagree with William James on this point. 'To You', and ultimately 'Song of Myself' as well, cannot be whittled down to pluralism. If you interpret the superlative terms as comparitive terms, you do eliminate some of the abstractions, but you also lose the essential essence of Whitman's work.
Me: Boo, whore.

Some Classy Questions

Okay, I have a week of classes and what feels like a week worth’s of homework (already) under my belt. So now the questions…

Can I do this? Do I want to? What’s the point? Am I a scholar? Will I be a scholar? Do I want a Phd? Is the boy with the tattoos on his arms really as good-looking as I think he is? What is the foreign language requirement, exactly? How about the guy who sits down at the end of the seminar table- is he attractive? Does the fact that my homework bores me indicate that I am not cut out for scholarly pursuits? Does the fact that the overall idea of this program is terribly exciting mean that I am perfectly cut out for graduate studies or just in love with the idea of graduate studies? Is there any point in making friends outside of my department? Is there any point in making friends inside of my department? Aren't they the competition? Why does the W run to 8th street, but the N doesn’t? Why did I only figure this out on the first day of class, making me late for class? Is it okay to feel this overworked and overwhelmed after just the first week?

Have You Seen This Man?

I have.

Tonight. Barnes and Noble. Astor Place.

I was walking into the store and he was walking out, looking all dark and brooding. And wet, because it was raining. I thought to myself, "Hey. That guy looks JUST like Chris Noth" (though I probably actually thought MR. BIG).

Then I arrived inside and all the girl cashiers were squealing, and I realized, that guy IS Chris Noth.

I love this city!