So Fresh
I love fresh starts. This explains my passion for moving, shopping for school supplies and relishing in all of the super cheesy stories about celebrities reinventing themselves after rehab, Kabbalah or an “unexpected” pregnancy” (Kate Hudson I love you and your boho ways, but this screams publicity stunt). And of course, New Year’s it the ultimate fresh start. I usually equate fall with a new year because I am a nerd and will forever run on a school calendar, but this year I’ve decided to grow up a little and treat this frozen, somewhat depressing month as my own person fresh start. Now, I’m not much of a resolution person. I usually break them and consequently make a revised resolution which then gets broken and so on.
A few bloggers I follow are doing resolutions a little differently…some resolved to try one new thing each month, some have set a small resolution each week. “Try something new” seems a little hokey to me and, though I’m sure I could think of 52 things I wanted to do differently this year, one each weeks seems a little rushed. So, I’m going to make monthly resolutions. I’m not going to state them all now, because I’m sure many will be situational. I mean, right now I’m telling myself I’d like to shop less and smarter this spring, but you and I both know this will change as soon as I see store windows full of floral dresses and anything fringe.
So, January. January, you will play host to my attempt at…..taking advantage. Don’t worry, taking advantage of cute boys is not the sole motivation behind this first resolution. I live in one of the most exciting, fun filled cities in the world, but I don’t know that my life is exiting enough, or too full of fun. Being broke is no excuse; practically everyone living here thinks they’re broke. This month I am going to make an effort to take advantage of all the amazing (and mostly free) things my fair city has to offer. On the agenda: lectures and tours of collections at the Met and MoMA, cheap/free theater, $6 morning movies, happy hours, gallery show openings, flea markets, Restaurant Week and more. Here’s the thing, I leave my house at 8am and come home at 7pm Monday-Friday. I usually do nothing else on these nights but play with my crock pot, read (currently obsessed with my Kindle and reading everything Sherlock Holmes) and watch Law & Order. Weekends I’m a little better, but lately have been FAR too lazy/homebody-ish for my liking. This all ends this week. Yes, I’m starting a week late, but I will definitely make up for it with my packed scheduled. Here are a few things I’ve already planned:
· Seeing Love, Loss and What I Wore with Alexis Bledel (Rory Gilmore, how I adore thee)
· Classical Mythology, Buddhism in South Asian Art and Medieval Dress lectures at the Met
· Cymbeline (retelling of Shakespeare’s original) preview performance for fee– it pays to have a roomie working in theater
· Balanchine’s Birthday Celebration at NYC Ballet (highlight- seeing an SAB class taught on stage at Lincoln Center…for FREE)
· Exit through the Gift Shop screening at MoMA
· As many good movies showing at AMC theaters before noon I can fit in (only $6!)
Yes, I will probably be exhausted by the end of the month. Living in New York is exhausting anyway, so I may as well have something to show for it.
charitable contributions
I’m incredibly jealous of my fourteen year old sister. Yes, she is living through the most awkward stage of a girl’s life and has to deal with bitchy girls and boys who know nothing about girls…but she knows how to say no. That’s a personality trait that my mother didn’t seem to pass down to me. Maybe it was intentional; she knew that by creating a people pleaser she would have a willing babysitting and problem solver at her beck and call. When you ask my parents about me as a child they will invariably say two things, “She was so easy” and “She never stopped talking”. There you have it, my defining characteristics are an inability to shut my mouth and an inability to refuse (most) people.
One would think this an advantageous quirk, being agreeable can get you places. Being agreeable can also give you an ulcer, a growing dependency on cheap red wine and panic when you see your work number on the caller id. I paid for my two month European adventure and stint living in Prague due to my inability to say no to my lazier, infinitely more normal co-workers. Raised without a real concept of “God”, my greatest fear was never hell, it was disappointing someone. Or anyone really.
This inability to disappoint or refuse never really affected me financially. My personal sanity took a beating and my social life was occasionally thrown of course due to my inability to say no to someone bearing a tequila shot, but my bank account remained blissfully immune to my fear of this two letter word. Moving to a city known for panhandlers and sidewalk salesman may not have been in my best interest.
The first month I lived here I was broke. Working thirty hours a week for free and attempting to break into New York’s bizarrely exclusive restaurant world left me no disposable income. Yet I tossed a dollar in every grubby McDonald’s cup the passed by. I gave more to the homeless people who provided some kind of entertainment. The sixty-year old singing pole dancer on the 1 train usually got at least two bucks and the break dancing teenagers on the decrepit C train could weasel $5 out of me. The worst, or maybe best, is the guy who isn’t homeless at all, but allegedly works at a shelter and collects money to help feed the people the shelter can’t accommodate. Who knows if this guy is legit, but his willingness to show me his “credentials” (I always refuse because I’ve learned to avoid giving men an excuse to reach for their pants on the subway) makes me feel better about tossing whatever cash I have into his jar. I won’t deny it; I am absolute sucker, a conman’s dream. Some of these people probably go home each night with more money than I made that day. I just can’t say no.
It isn’t these minor contributions to New York’s troupe of performing homeless people that affect my monthly budget; its starving children and the environment. I was obscenely late meeting a friend for lunch and was literally running down 14th street in the middle of January, my face frozen while the rest of me sweat beneath my wool rug of a coat. I’ve learned to ignore most people on the street, but when gorgeous men ask if they can have a word with me, who am I to say no? I was far more focused on his ridiculous green eyes than his spiel about the state of water when he asked me for my phone number. Next thing I knew I was agreeing to pay $20 a month to help with some aspect of New York’s water system; I’m still not entirely sure of the specifics. Walking away, I felt like I’d been asked out on a date, but in reality had signed away the equivalent of my monthly laundry budget. And yet, months later I couldn’t bring myself to cancel it. I tell myself things like “it’s tax deductible” and “I’m making a difference”, but really I have a paralyzing fear that once I call and cancel, the person on the other line will turn to her phone bank buddy and talk about what a miserly bitch I am. Granted I don’t, and will likely never, know this person and people at Greenpeace probably don’t even use the word bitch because it’s the antithesis of peaceful. I just can’t bring myself to say no to whatever it is that I’m doing for New York’s water.
If Greenpeace were my only charitable dalliance, I would be fiscally sound. However, I believe that companies that use these street salesmen are targeting women and gay men because we both spend without abandon and love to look at pretty things. You give money to the homeless because it’s hard to look at them; you give money to these people so you can keep looking at them. For example, during Spa Week last spring Greg, an aspiring comedian and writer, stopped me on Lexington to sell me a spa package. I was doing a great job of brushing him off until he mentioned that he was a writer. He then offered me free tickets to the comedy club where he worked and promised me a round of drinks when I came in to see him. I mean, if someone has just asked you out on a date, is it really fair to refuse their wares? To Greg’s credit, he did give me a buy one, get one free deal. It would have been mean to salt his game, and who doesn’t need a free haircut and image consultation every once in a while? Greg ended up being a dud, but I was able to pawn off my spa packages on my best friend and sister. So for $60 I got to be a nice friend/sister and I got a good buzz. Much more rewarding than my Greenpeace encounter.
It gets worse though, much worse. Leaving work one summer afternoon, standing in between me and my afternoon of coffee and Bed, Bath & Beyond was Howie. Please ignore the name; I myself had to choke back laughter until I got a good look at his face in the afternoon sun glinting off the Empire State Building. The whole thing reeked of a low rent Kate Hudson romantic comedy. Mesmerized by his cheekbones and armful of tattoos, I zoned out while Howie talked about starving children in Latin America. Before I knew what was happening I had adopted a preferable male child somewhere in the Yucatan peninsula and had Saturday night dinner plans. Unfortunately Saturday night never happened because Howie later texted me to ask if I wanted to accompany him to church before our dinner. I have no problem with devout Christians, I went to a Catholic school for a while and I think they’re swell. I do however have a problem dating someone whose idea of a first date begins with the Lord. What if I were Jewish? Or a vampire unable to enter a house of God without bursting into flames? If Howie couldn’t see me as anything but a god-fearing woman, how would he react when he found I didn’t even really have an interest in my possibly male child in the Yucatan? I decided to save myself the awkwardness and him the attempt at converting me. Instead I stayed home and watched The Craft with a pitcher or margaritas.
This was essentially my outfit for today, although my suede wedges are an amazing aqua blue and are in slightly sadder condition than these Louboutins. I love the pegged trousers for fall/winter…such a great way to play with proportions and show off ankle booties.
I wonder sometimes what people in my office think of my outfits. I tone my regular choices down (though I do break out my moccasins for Casual Fridays), but I still look more Williamsburg than Midtown.
Everyone was pretty polite about the white tuxedo jacket, so we’ll have to see how the gold blazer goes over.
*be warned, this story is slightly gross and not remotely lady like*
Any girl over the age of sixteen who’s been on a job interview or worn formal wear probably owns some form of shaper. You know what I’m talking about, those weirdly flesh toned tubes that do miraculous, sausage casing-like work when worn under pencil skirts, strapless dresses and anything thinner than standard cotton twill.
Waking up Monday morning I was going for a sartorial sailor look. Working in an office where almost everyone lives on the Upper East side has had a slight effect on my day to day dressing. Wearing a drapey top modeled after Stevie Nicks with denim cutoffs and moccasins is perfect for the walk of shame home from the Lower East Side, but doesn’t really count as business casual. I’ve been making a conscious effort to look slightly more tailored, even brushing (and occasionally blow drying) my hair.
The dress necessary to complete such a well thought out ensemble is a really thin, white/light blue striped cotton, which brings to the forefront all kinds of decency and VPL* issues. A full body shaper was the only viable option.
Coinciding with this attempt at outward professionalism, I’ve also taken an interest in nutrition and found myself on a quest to ingest as many “super foods” as possible. Basically, anything green, fruit or whole grain I’m eating. I ate my breakfast of fiber jacked cereal and apples, downed my iced coffee and bravely strapped myself in for the day. Most women speak of the shaper with the utmost reverence, but I think “torture device” and “personal prison” are also applicable. You practically need a shoehorn to get into the thing, and with the sticky August weather you need a nuclear attack to make getting out of it a priority.
I should also note that every morning at the office I have at least one cup of coffee, preferable iced, and start making a dent in my three liter a day water minimum. Don’t be impressed; this water kick is pretty much about laziness. Every night when I lay in bed, unable to drag myself to the sink to wash my face, I hear my mother’s warnings about skincare in my ear. I feel that my insane consumption of water makes up for my cleansing laziness, which in turn makes it even easier to fall asleep each night.
So I’m at my desk, coffee gone, guzzling my first liter of water like a good Long Island Iced Tea. Waiting as long as possible to “break the seal” is essential to survival in a shaper, especially when you drink as much as I do. I left a shaper behind the night of my 21st birthday because my arms couldn’t tug as quickly as they could throw back shots. I get through my weekend emails and am choking back sobs of laughter reading NY Mag’s recap of the newest Real Housewives train wreck, when I start rocking back and forth in my obnoxiously roll-y chair. I mean, you can’t really do a seated pee dance in the middle of the office. At least not when you’re new and have to Wikipedia most of the terms used in the publication you work for. You shouldn’t be drawing that kind of attention to yourself.
I attempt a cool strut to the bathroom, but misjudge a turn and ram my bladder into the corner of the one semi-attractive guy’s cubicle. I run away quickly before he realizes I just got vag-punched by his desk. Finally in the minuscule bathroom stall, I try to maneuver the dress over my shoulders and wrestle the shaper down around my knees. Mid tug, the VP begins talking to me about her weekend.
All I have wanted to do for the last ten minutes is pee. I’ve hidden rolling pee dances, sustained a high impact crotch hit and now I have to talk about the weather while listening to some else pee?? It’s just unfair. All the while wondering what kind of moronic person designs a full body without some kind of easy crotch access; a man obviously. With the shaper finally around my ankles, feeling the kind of relief that only comes after holding it through Gone With the Wind, I look down and see a clasp at the crotch. I guess a woman designed this after all.
*guys, Google VPL
Oh the difference a year makes. 370 days ago I was dancing to Michael Jackson’s “Beat It”, downing Junebugs and falling rapidly in love with Karlovy Lazne….all with people I’d known for three weeks. A year ago I was biding my time in Prague, torn between my distaste for teaching and my love for virtually everything and almost everyone there. I spent my days roaming the beautiful, centuries old streets outside my unbelievable apartment and my nights drinking 20Kc wine with Alex, Barb, Austin and Laura, gallivanting around the city in search of a dance party. Eating rice and pasta in hopes that I could save enough money to stay just a little bit longer before having to wake up from the pilsner induced haze that was my summer abroad.
I spent my birthday in a similar fashion this year. Celebrating with new friends who feel much older, drinking wine (albeit more expensive) and gallivanting through the East Village in search of cute boys and a dance party. It’s fitting that, as I grew a year older I procured my first “big girl” job. Working 9-6, brushing my hair before leaving the house and not being able to wear moccasins 24/7 are all signs that I am, bizarrely, growing up. And while I think I’m becoming increasingly boring in my old age, nights like last Wednesday remind me that I am indeed still fun. Drinking a massive margarita from a water bottle en route to one of the best concerts I’ve ever seen, dancing like the crazed hippie I secretly want to be and ignoring my instinct to go home because it was eleven o’clock. The next day of work wasn’t the most enjoyable, but it did me good to remember that just because I’m actually starting to grow up, I don’t have to be a grown up.
I’ll start steeling myself now the quarter-life crisis that will inevitable strike as the terrifying big two five looms closer. I only hope a good portion of those who’ve been around to ring in the past few birthdays can make it to the next. I’ll definitely need some moral support and lots of tequila shots.
i’m back
I am a twenty three year old single girl living in New York. This is largely my choosing. I suppose I could have a relationship with one of the millions of Dockers wearing, Bud Light drinking ex-frat types who make up the majority of Manhattan’s male population, but I’ve never been good at hiding my signature facial expressions of boredom and disgust and don’t quite have a knack for preventing the inevitable eye glaze that occurs when someone starts a story with “Dude, senior year…”. And so I embrace my freedom, flitting from bar to bar with people who don’t bore me to tears accepting drinks from men who may. Or may not. I’m not completely opposed to the idea of a relationship and would absolutely welcome one if I genuinely felt so inclined. I just choose to detect my attraction through the free fall my stomach encounters within the first minute of a conversation.
Saturday was an idyllic day. Clear cornflower blue sky, high 70s with no humidity and finally a day all to myself. I practically skipped past the children playing in the hemorrhaging fire hydrant on the corner to the subway. My first stop was Gowanus, Brooklyn. I scored tickets to a free block party sponsored by the grating Rachel Ray. However, there was free food, a band I really like and, most importantly, free booze. To be honest, not quite the turnout I’d expected. New Yorkers are perpetually complaining about being broke and Brooklyners are even worse, so I expected to see half the borough turn up to ravage the food carts and lone beer truck dispensing local microbrews like water. Arriving just in time to see the start of the Freelance Whales set, I downed four Snapple/vodka cocktails in twenty minutes. Obviously I wasn’t trying to get lit at 1pm on a Saturday, but I knew I wouldn’t be staying all day and wanted to get my (nonexistent) money’s worth. I would have given the next band a shot but the mullet/wide leg jean/cowboy boot combo was really disconcerting and I feared that, lubricated by four cocktails drank in rapid succession, I wouldn’t be able to control my heckling.
Instead I hit the food trucks. While admiring the wares, mini asian hotdogs, tiny grilled cheese, sliders…basically a miniature version of everything you find being hocked late night street side in the Lower East Side, I found myself also admiring the boys. So many adorable awkward, un-groomed boys with pants stolen from sisters and vests nicked from elementary schoolers. The majority these boys were with girls, but the girls all seemed annoyingly cool, so it made sense. There were no mismatch couples in sight.
Leaving Brooklyn, predominantly to look for a bathroom without hepatitis and partially for fear of having to listen to Rachel Ray speak, I headed to the green market at Union Square. An hour later, arms laden with arugula, goat cheese, beets and peonies, I was in a euphoric haze. Engrossed in my Chelsea Handler book, the seemingly astronomical subway ride was flying by. I got too squished to continue reading, so I began my second favorite subway activity: staring at people. I try to be discrete, but I am so fascinated by people and all their bizarre traits, I get caught staring all the time. Not a freak show stare, more like a museum stare, one of awe and quiet appreciation.
My gaze naturally fell to the girl seated across from me. Mid twenties, average looking, slightly further along the hippie spectrum than myself (I’m all about flow-y dresses, being barefoot and headbands, but I do enjoy the regular shower and the company of a shaving implement). To begin, I was engrossed in this girl’s armpit hair. Never outside of France have I seen a real live afro sprouting from beneath someone’s underarms. It looked like this girl had Foxy Cleopatra in a headlock. Mostly I was struck with logistical questions, application of deodorant, shirts with tightly cut arms and whether or not any adornment was planned for them later down the road. As I forced myself to look away from the forest beneath her shoulders, I saw that she was reading a comic book. I felt my jaw begin to head south and made a conscious effort to tighten it, resulting a facial expression normally seen on coke heads in serious need of a fix. I continued to study this anthropological anomaly, a true Euro hygiene following hippie engrossed in a Batman comic. The next societal marker I found was even more ridiculous, a massive princess cut diamond engagement ring resting atop a pave diamond studded wedding band. Horrified I looked at the guy sitting next to her. Reading Salinger’s Nine Stories with adorably unwashed swoopy hair, skinny jeans and a threadbare Quiet Riot tour t-shirt, he looked perfect in every way, aside from the platinum band offensively positioned on his left ring finger. This perfect specimen of mid twenties indie cool was joined for life with a comic book loving Bronx hippie in desperate of an underarm wax.
As soon as I got off the train I bought a bottle of tequila and called it a night.
ahoj praha
yes i know. it’s been two months. it’s obviously clear that consistency isn’t one of my strong suits. i’m working on it, i promise. to be fair, my life hasn’t really been that exciting. except that i got an actual job. and that i’m about to go to prague. and that mom moved to new york. but other than that, not a whole lot.
tomorrow evening while everyone is sleeping i will be making my way across the atlantic ocean to reunite with my beloved prague. normally when i travel i tingle with anticipation, my mind racing with the possibilities that a new country have in store. this trip is different, because i know exactly what kind of adventures await me. late night jaunts through old town square and across the charles bridge, hours spent dancing at karlovy lazne, 20kc boxed wine drank on the windowsills with barb and alex and most importantly, dance parties all the time. i have a feeling this reunion will be of slightly epic proportions. i love new york dearly, but prague holds this completely unique place in my heart. it was the first chance i had to make a life for myself. prague was the first city to see me as completely independent and it welcomed me with open arms. i told you i’d come back.
