So I turned into "Mean Mommy" last night. I really don't consider myself "old" by any standard (30 IS the new 20...), but lately - certain behaviors are just irritating me to the point where I hear myself saying things I'm pretty sure I used to hear my grandmother say! For example, I was at a private club pool over the summer and there were lil' tots jumping and splashing in the water around me (you know, having FUN, as children are prone to do in the summer) and I actually told them to "knock it off". The drunk 20 somethings meandering home from the bars at 3 in the morning, singing Journey's greatest hits as if they were at an American Idol audition -- that USED to be me (well, not so much really. I'm not a singing drunk...). And now I must fight every urge to open my bedroom window and throw hard, sharp objects at their heads in hopes of knocking them unconscious. Going shot for shot, road tripping on a whim, making out in bars... these are all things I've lately come to realize as being somewhat inappropriate after a certain age. And for those individuals in my age bracket that still feel so inclined to indulge in said-behaviors... then power to you and I hope you know you will look like an old leather shoe by the time you are forty.
Anyway, "Mean Mommy" emerged last night at around 12:14am. So I guess technically it was today, or rather early this morning - on a weekday, it should be noted. I had been asleep peacefully for about an hour or so...I was snuggling my body pillow, my bum (yet quickly recovering) knee comfortably propped up, window open with a cool breeze. I was quite suddenly awaken by a brief, yet violent, shaking of my apartment that actually sent a candle and a box of tissues on to the floor. I was so disoriented that for a moment I seriously couldn't figure out what was happening -- was it an earthquake? The drunk 20 somethings retaliating by throwing rocks at my window? So I went out to the living room - the shaking was now being accompanying by yelling and banging coming from the upstairs apartment. Oh Lordy, was my initial reaction - the bunnies are at it again, but this time on the floor above my living room. But the voices were all distinctly male - there were no happy affirmations of how "hot it is" or "how good it feels", so I ruled out crazy floor porno sex. The voices were cheering and jeering each other - it sounded like there was some kind of underground fight club match going on. Again, at 12:14am on a weekday. The shaking and banging got so out of control, I thought my wine glasses were going to shatter. I stood in the middle of the room, staring up at the ceiling half expecting someone to drop through. So, I decided to take action. And you know, I'm well-versed on apartment living and can roll with the best of 'em. The smell of someones experimental cooking, crazy porno lovemaking, lover spats, toddlers banging pots and pans on the floor... I'm pretty good neighbor, if I do say so, and I'm sure I've been guilty of the occasional door slam. But this... this was absurd! It sounded like a bunch of 12 year old boys wrestling. They needed to be told, to be made aware of how their insensitive and immature behavior was affecting the rest of us and I was already awake, so... off I went. Pajama bottoms, t-shirt, no bra, flipflops, hair in some kind of abstract position... you know, looking real fine.
It occurred to me, somewhere on the stairs (which took me like 5 minutes to get up one flight)...what if these "12 year old wrestlers" were actually attractive, smart, funny, charming, ambitious, independent, compassionate 30-ish professional men with sparkling eyes and a bright smile? And can you believe, at 12:20am on a weekday as I attempted to reprimand my upstairs neighbors, I actually considered going back to my apartment and fixing myself up a bit??? Yeah, this shut-in summer has really done a number on me. But I digress.... I mentally planned out what I was going to say and the tone I would use. I would be firm, yet with a soft edge. I would be emphatic, but accepting of their inevitable apologies. I would invite my new hot male neighbors to make it up to me over dinner and drinks... So I knocked, a solid knock - the kind you don't want to get at (now) 12:23am. The Eminem CD they were playing was immediately silenced and a couple of my new hotties "oooo-ed" (a clear indication of their maturity level). The door slowly opened and a...what I can only describe as a Bobby Brady-look-alike - poked his head out the door. The smell of beer and cloud of cigarette smoke that was released almost knocked my off my feet. The door was open just enough for me to see Natural Light cans and ash trays scattered about the coffee table. But the highlight - the part that made it all worth it - was the almost-empty bottle of Jagermeister amidst all of the other charming details. I was so distracted by Bobby Brady's fraternity house set up that I kinda just stood there, being nosey and trying to see inside more. Bobby Brady (who could not have been older than 22 or 23) must be a talented mind-reader because before I could even introduce myself (?) he started to apologize. So I went through a modified version of my speech, but instead of flirty (yes, flirty was the plan at 12:25am) I was actually really mean. I told him that some people had to sleep, that it was week night in case he didn't have a calendar and if he broke my wine glasses I'd very very unhappy. I was actually amused at how Bobby and the rest of the Brady boys really were bringing it back it old school with the Natty Light and the Jager (ah, memories of frat house basements) - except their version of old school included Eminem's first album. So I told Bobby that he and Slim Shady needed to bring the noise and banging down to a dull roar, if at all possible. He kept nodding his head and could only continue to say he was sorry, so sorry. I didn't thank him for his time, I just turned and walked away - cause clearly there was no make-up dinner and drinks in store for me and Bobby Brady.
Well, anyway, I don't really want to make Mean Mommy my alter-ego. I suppose I just have to embrace the fact that as I get older the things that were once cute, amusing, charming are now barely tolerable. Or maybe I should just lighten up and do a shot of Jager.
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Friday, August 24, 2007
Read the Signs
So this friend of mine – a lovely, charming, smart, attractive, single city gal who I’d date if I were a lesbian – wanted to know the other day over drinks, “How do you know when a guy is just not that into you? I am afraid I really can’t read the signs.” Now, the reality is – I am so not an expert of this specific subject. Granted, I read that book (cover to cover in 45 minutes) and, being a individual of a relatively high IQ, I got it. The point of the book, I think, was guys are just not that complicated when it comes to messages and signals in relationships. Also I think it was meant to be empowering and emotionally freeing for women, but mostly that was just a marketing angle. It ultimately served to point out how ridiculous we are when it comes to members of the opposite sex and, personally, left me feeling annoyed that I wouldn’t have already assumed this behavior about men (as if I needed a D-list stand up comic to explain it to me!). And while the intelligent part of my brain comprehends the “he didn’t have an emergency with his sick 94 year old grandmother – he didn’t call because he is just not that into you” or the “he’s not too busy volunteering with orphans – he’s just not that into you”, I still find myself feeling as though it just isn’t enough of an explanation. Although, it is almost logical. But I’m not a person always driven by logic. My lovely friend and I seem to be in the same boat, so my imparting any advice upon her would be like the blind leading the blind. Anyway, I tend to make the same dreamy assumptions about men and then I get a dose of reality and I think I’ve gained some wisdom and then I start quoting that book (and random Sex and the City episodes)… So then, naturally, the question was raised: “So how do you know when he IS that into you?” And truth be told – I might be even worse on that subject! Normal behavior throws me for just as big of a loop. The bottom line is, we decided, when did it become all about them - what they think, how they act, what they want? Who cares when he is or isn’t that into you? It’s not like you’re a runner on first looking for the signs from the 3rd base coach to steal 2nd … why should we waste any time at all decoding this subtle language of signals and signs? We should be focusing more time understanding who we are and what we want and NOT taking it all so seriously. That is to say, not taking THEM so seriously. I’m not necessarily advocating sitting back and doing nothing – yes, yes… we know that men are lazy and very infrequently like doing any work in relationships (was that an over-generalization?). And yet – why not sit back and do nothing? If we’re never going to figure them out anyway, why not just enjoy watching them make complete asses of themselves trying to be suave and cool and impressive (which inevitably ends up happening anyway)? In my humble opinion, anyway…
OK – so case and point: this guy approaches me the other night, while I am standing at a bar waiting to order a drink. A fairly normal looking guy – although that’s subjective... As he sidles up to me (and my BFF, who was standing behind me), his opening line is: “Hey, so. Do you smoke pot?” Oh geez…Is this what we’re doing now? Have we really already run out of things to say? Was this one of those subtle signs I’m supposed to have memorized from a manual? It wasn’t a strong effort on his part and certainly not his finest moment. I suppose my reaction could have been one of disgust, mortification, indignation, as it had been in the past when approached in a similar, brainless manner – I chose amusement (and vodka). I politely excused myself and then I had a nice chuckle when out of earshot. Could he have been for real? Maybe. Could have been an undercover cop? Possibly – and the worst narc ever! Could he just have been seriously deluded? No doubt. But I’ve recently come to realize there are two ways you can react to these situations – you can take things seriously and over-analyze everything (not fun) OR you can have a sense of humor (lots of giggles). Lately, I’m opting for the humor. Had I even indulged one minute of trying to figure that one out, I would have most likely lost brain cells. So why try? At the very least, I’m getting a lot of comic material.
The point, my lovely friend and I concluded, is this… knowing that you - the collective female ‘you’ - are lovely and amazing should be enough and that’s worth being into - and if he’s not, then he’s the doofus. Now I suspect there are men (many of them) who would whole-heartedly disagree with my and my lovely friend’s assessment of things – they’d say women are too emotional, think too hard about everything and expect too much. They’d be wrong. OK – maybe not wrong, rather misguided. I cannot speak for anyone but myself – and my lovely friend. Nor do I presuppose to actually know anything. My knowledge of understanding the fragile creature that is the male ego is much LESS extensive than my knowledge of celebrities, reality shows, coffee, soccer and sharks (thank you Discovery Channel).
OK – so case and point: this guy approaches me the other night, while I am standing at a bar waiting to order a drink. A fairly normal looking guy – although that’s subjective... As he sidles up to me (and my BFF, who was standing behind me), his opening line is: “Hey, so. Do you smoke pot?” Oh geez…Is this what we’re doing now? Have we really already run out of things to say? Was this one of those subtle signs I’m supposed to have memorized from a manual? It wasn’t a strong effort on his part and certainly not his finest moment. I suppose my reaction could have been one of disgust, mortification, indignation, as it had been in the past when approached in a similar, brainless manner – I chose amusement (and vodka). I politely excused myself and then I had a nice chuckle when out of earshot. Could he have been for real? Maybe. Could have been an undercover cop? Possibly – and the worst narc ever! Could he just have been seriously deluded? No doubt. But I’ve recently come to realize there are two ways you can react to these situations – you can take things seriously and over-analyze everything (not fun) OR you can have a sense of humor (lots of giggles). Lately, I’m opting for the humor. Had I even indulged one minute of trying to figure that one out, I would have most likely lost brain cells. So why try? At the very least, I’m getting a lot of comic material.
The point, my lovely friend and I concluded, is this… knowing that you - the collective female ‘you’ - are lovely and amazing should be enough and that’s worth being into - and if he’s not, then he’s the doofus. Now I suspect there are men (many of them) who would whole-heartedly disagree with my and my lovely friend’s assessment of things – they’d say women are too emotional, think too hard about everything and expect too much. They’d be wrong. OK – maybe not wrong, rather misguided. I cannot speak for anyone but myself – and my lovely friend. Nor do I presuppose to actually know anything. My knowledge of understanding the fragile creature that is the male ego is much LESS extensive than my knowledge of celebrities, reality shows, coffee, soccer and sharks (thank you Discovery Channel).
Monday, August 20, 2007
Summer Highlights
The August malaise is really getting to me now. It’s not that I want to see summer end…alright, yes, actually I want to see THIS summer end. In truth, this summer was not quite what I had envisioned it to be. And although I was not gallivanting around the beach, I learned a lot of lessons – about slowing down, acceptance, loss of control... The knee injury definitely changed my activity level – and perspective. Being on crutches really forces you to put things on hold and bring things down a few notches. I realized that, in spite of my whining and pouting, I have some really good friends who refused to let me wallow in the abyss of self-pity. Thank goodness for my family, who do not in any way, shape or form put up with my nonsense – in a sensitive and loving way, of course. I learned that sitting on your couch and literally doing nothing is something every body, mind and soul desperately needs – once in awhile. Prioritizing your life when you are dependent on others (and really only used to being dependent on yourself) is very humbling. The reality is anyone who knows me knows I’m not into that sappy, fluffy, feel-good, Zen-like philosophy of life… I like to keep it moving. BUT clearly… the Gods had other things in store for me. I found myself doing things that, in a normal active day, I fantasize about doing but can never actual do in good conscious – such as watching day-long marathons of Shark Week programming, surfing the internet for celebrity gossip, reading beach trash novels while loafing on my couch (not on the warm sand of a beach – that wasn’t as much fun), Googling old high school classmates to see how many of them are divorced… And yes, the boredom set in and I had my moments. I contemplated, at one low point, taking my beach chair and sitting on the corner of my street, just to get out of my apartment – that was about as far as my quickly-atrophying muscles would allow me to hobble. I decided, appropriately so, against being the nutty Hoboken corner chic – it probably would have looked as crazy as it sounded and certainly wouldn’t promote me in any positive social way (I don’t think guys initially find crazy chics hot). ANYWAY, my point… my point is that, in spite of the fact that my summer was lacking in many fundamentally…summery ways, I think it was a really important time for me to regroup and get myself physically and mentally healthy again. Though, my mental health is always questionable, but that’s what so endearing about me. Alright. Enough sappy, fluffy, Zen-like reflecting. It's making me itchy.
OK - here it is. The highlight of my summer, pathetic as this may be. I met David Beckham this weekend. OK, me and about 60,000 other people. I went to see the Red Bulls play the LA Galaxy at Giants Stadium. And let me just say – he is totally the stud that he is portrayed to be. I’m sorry, but I feel justly qualified to make such an assessment. First, I am a huge soccer fan – I’ve been playing since I was a little girl and, while I was no Mia Hamm, I fell in love with the sport and have not been able to part with it. So I get why his skills and persona are so marketable – he draws out a crowd and he sooo knows how to please his audience. Secondly, I am a self-appointed expert celebrophile and can say, given my expertise, that his soft-spoken nature, his subtle sex appeal, his great fashion sense and his ability to command the soccer field are all essential ingredients for STUD status. Forget bony, over-stylized wifey-poo -- she is her own train wreck.
Well, needless to say, I have a habit of making an ass of myself in front of celebrities – on the rare occasions that I am actually in their company. And Saturday night, in the presence of David “HOTNESS” Beckham (that’s his real middle name, btw), was no exception. Soooooo, I was sitting in the third row from the field in the section known as “Red Bull Nation”, where all 20 of the Red Bulls’ hard core fans camp out – blowing horns, chanting, banging drums (it’s as creepy as it sounds, but kinda fun). We were literally sitting above the corner of the field and, as HOTNESS approached to take his corner kick, the hardcore Red Bull freaks heckled the crap out of him, to no avail – HOTNESS’ team scored off his kick. And as he turned towards, laughing and pointing, I feel compelled to yell out (over the chants of “F- you Beckham!” and “Go back to England!”) --- “I want you David Beckham! YEAH baby!!!” Yes, that was the best I could do. Did I convinced myself that this would be the thing that would lure him away from the game - and wifey-poo - and we would ride off into the Meadowlands sunset? Yes, I think I did. HOWEVER, I am almost positive – nay, I am certain – that HOTNESS heard me because he pointed at me (well, most likely our section, as if to say “Ha ha wankers. Take that!”). Naturally, the first two rows of fans, mostly men with their faces painted and fake bull horns strapped to their heads, turned right around. Then they booed me. A little embarrassing, but worth it… I had my special moment with HOTNESS and now I can ride out the rest of this busted summer in peace.
OK - here it is. The highlight of my summer, pathetic as this may be. I met David Beckham this weekend. OK, me and about 60,000 other people. I went to see the Red Bulls play the LA Galaxy at Giants Stadium. And let me just say – he is totally the stud that he is portrayed to be. I’m sorry, but I feel justly qualified to make such an assessment. First, I am a huge soccer fan – I’ve been playing since I was a little girl and, while I was no Mia Hamm, I fell in love with the sport and have not been able to part with it. So I get why his skills and persona are so marketable – he draws out a crowd and he sooo knows how to please his audience. Secondly, I am a self-appointed expert celebrophile and can say, given my expertise, that his soft-spoken nature, his subtle sex appeal, his great fashion sense and his ability to command the soccer field are all essential ingredients for STUD status. Forget bony, over-stylized wifey-poo -- she is her own train wreck.
Well, needless to say, I have a habit of making an ass of myself in front of celebrities – on the rare occasions that I am actually in their company. And Saturday night, in the presence of David “HOTNESS” Beckham (that’s his real middle name, btw), was no exception. Soooooo, I was sitting in the third row from the field in the section known as “Red Bull Nation”, where all 20 of the Red Bulls’ hard core fans camp out – blowing horns, chanting, banging drums (it’s as creepy as it sounds, but kinda fun). We were literally sitting above the corner of the field and, as HOTNESS approached to take his corner kick, the hardcore Red Bull freaks heckled the crap out of him, to no avail – HOTNESS’ team scored off his kick. And as he turned towards, laughing and pointing, I feel compelled to yell out (over the chants of “F- you Beckham!” and “Go back to England!”) --- “I want you David Beckham! YEAH baby!!!” Yes, that was the best I could do. Did I convinced myself that this would be the thing that would lure him away from the game - and wifey-poo - and we would ride off into the Meadowlands sunset? Yes, I think I did. HOWEVER, I am almost positive – nay, I am certain – that HOTNESS heard me because he pointed at me (well, most likely our section, as if to say “Ha ha wankers. Take that!”). Naturally, the first two rows of fans, mostly men with their faces painted and fake bull horns strapped to their heads, turned right around. Then they booed me. A little embarrassing, but worth it… I had my special moment with HOTNESS and now I can ride out the rest of this busted summer in peace.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Things I do and don't care about
- I do care about taking good care of my feet – I believe pedicures are essential to feeling and looking good.
- I don’t care that Mischa Barton is supposedly shacking up in my lovely little town (Hoboken, NJ) because her pad in SoHo is unavailable while she is filming a movie. I know I'm obsessed with celebrities, but I find her totally uninteresting and dull - much like her new hair color.
- I do care about being adequately caffeinated on a daily basis.
- I don’t care to talk with strangers while waiting for said coffee. Especially when the only conversation being held is about how aforementioned stranger likes the smell of coffee. Bor-ring.
- I do care about fulfilling my irrational need to watch at least one reality show a day – it makes me feel secure about my own little life. Especially if the two Coreys are somehow involves…
- I don’t care to know how “good it feels” for my upstairs neighbor when she is in the throws of passion at 3 in the morning – or at any time of the day for that matter.
- I do care about good oral hygiene – a bright, healthy smile can light up a room. Plus I've met too many cute British men with bad teeth and it’s a total turn-off, save for their accents. (I just close my eyes and tell them to talk)
- I don’t care that I make schecky and sarcastic (but keen) observations about people and things. It’s part of my charm.
- I do care about proper etiquette – being polite and courteous are the keys to success. And a second date.
- I don’t care that I have a debilitating knee injury that has prevented me from getting around with ease. I am going out tonight and nothing can stop me. Not even my one crutch getting caught in a sewer grate (as it did yesterday on my way to physical therapy).
- I do care about always looking put together. You never know who – or what - you’re going to run into ( I quite literally ran into a parked car while trying to smile at a guy in a BMW as he passed by)
-I don’t care that you’re just not that into me. I read that book, I know what it says. But there is a good chance that I’m just not that into you either (at least that’s what I’ll tell my friends).
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Venting
I am convinced that I live on the loudest, most active corner in the entire city of Hoboken. Every delivery and maintenance truck, ambulance, and bass-thumping hoopdee in the area it seems is required to drive down my street, stop at the corner and linger just long enough to make me want to throw objects out of my third floor window in hopes of hitting something or someone. Oh, and let's not forget the hordes of screaming teenagers with nothing to do on a hot summer day (except annoy me), the random Wall Street dude yelling over his Blue Tooth on the way to the Path train at 7 in the morning, the charming drunk 22 year old girls stumbling home at 3 am, construction workers on the corner cat-calling women as they walk past (I'm not making that one up - I can hear every foul word)... ugh. OK, this is most likely a gross over-exaggeration due to my own irritation, and I do accept the fact that city living comes with some perks and some obvious challenges. Noise, pollution, space, parking, children, dogs... I know, I get it. And I've had the pleasure of living in the suburbs and found that the lack of noise was actually a tad unnerving. So I'm not exactly complaining as much as I am...venting. I suppose my observation about noise in this little urban metropolis is neither unique nor all that interesting. And this city noise is nothing compared to the noise in my head on a daily basis.
And if I may - let me vent about one other thing. I'm starting to HATE text messages. There was a period of time where it was the only method I would employ to communicate with most people. Why? Because... I hate TALKING on the phone - awkward pauses, long silences, exhausting conversations about nothing. Also, text messaging allows you to say the thing you want to say - and that's it! No blah blah blah and yada yada yada. There it is, the message, the one thing you want to know or say and you don't need to make excuses to hang up. There is no need to even respond right away - there's rarely any sense of urgency with the text. I very infrequently feel the urge to have long correspondences with most people and, thus, I feel (at least I used to) perfectly at ease with the simplicity of the text. Until recently. Although nothing has changed with regard to the way I use the text, I'm just finding it...unfulfilling. Text messaging, especially with certain individuals, of late has left me unsatisfied. I find myself wanting more. More what - more talky talky talky? That's so not me. Could this be a latent reaction to the boredom of being laid up with a bum knee for a month? (On that note, I'm officially down to one crutch and will very soon been limping freestyle, according to my drill sergeant of a physical therapist) I don't know what I'm craving, but the text message ain't doing it for me any more. So, I'm taking a texting vaca. Please note - this does not mean, however, that I will be accepting actual voice-to-voice contact though. Maybe I need to go back to work (soon - three more weeks!). Maybe I need to increase the frequency of my therapy sessions. Maybe I just need to get out more.
And if I may - let me vent about one other thing. I'm starting to HATE text messages. There was a period of time where it was the only method I would employ to communicate with most people. Why? Because... I hate TALKING on the phone - awkward pauses, long silences, exhausting conversations about nothing. Also, text messaging allows you to say the thing you want to say - and that's it! No blah blah blah and yada yada yada. There it is, the message, the one thing you want to know or say and you don't need to make excuses to hang up. There is no need to even respond right away - there's rarely any sense of urgency with the text. I very infrequently feel the urge to have long correspondences with most people and, thus, I feel (at least I used to) perfectly at ease with the simplicity of the text. Until recently. Although nothing has changed with regard to the way I use the text, I'm just finding it...unfulfilling. Text messaging, especially with certain individuals, of late has left me unsatisfied. I find myself wanting more. More what - more talky talky talky? That's so not me. Could this be a latent reaction to the boredom of being laid up with a bum knee for a month? (On that note, I'm officially down to one crutch and will very soon been limping freestyle, according to my drill sergeant of a physical therapist) I don't know what I'm craving, but the text message ain't doing it for me any more. So, I'm taking a texting vaca. Please note - this does not mean, however, that I will be accepting actual voice-to-voice contact though. Maybe I need to go back to work (soon - three more weeks!). Maybe I need to increase the frequency of my therapy sessions. Maybe I just need to get out more.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
one crutch disabled
I'm gonna keep this one short because I think this little anecdote carries a powerful punch...
I went out last night with my oldest, best friend who I don't see much of. She lives out in the burbs, so we met at a local hotspot in her area (Egans and Sons - fun little Irish joint in Montclair). We had beers, caught up on the last few months of our exciting lives, commiserated over our slow (mine is actually non-existent) love lives, made fun of a few people... it was good crack (as the Irish would say). I've been recently trying out the one-crutch look to go along with my ultra-sexy black Velcro knee brace - actually, I'm really only in pain or discomfort when I try to bend or move my knee in any normal direction, but limping seems ok. Anyway, I decided to one-crutch my way through the bar, which was not crowded - but really lacked in any kind of potential (lots of vertically and age challenged men ...sorry to be harsh, MOM, i'm sure they had great personalities). My BFF and I laughed about how I was self-conscious that so many people felt the need to inexplicably stare at me with my crutches. It's not like I have a war wound or something...although I have come up with some very creative stories about my injury (i.e., surfing accident, incident involving the pole and a frisky customer, saving a child who had fallen on the subway tracks...). Soooooo - as we were leaving, we (I) hobbled past a group of young chippies. As I struggled to delicately get around the crowd, my BFF and I, to our shock and horror, both overheard a clearly intelligent and charming fellow make the following astute comment:
"Yeah, but I really do have a soft spot for disabled women."
At least he was politically correct. He didn't say handicapped.
I went out last night with my oldest, best friend who I don't see much of. She lives out in the burbs, so we met at a local hotspot in her area (Egans and Sons - fun little Irish joint in Montclair). We had beers, caught up on the last few months of our exciting lives, commiserated over our slow (mine is actually non-existent) love lives, made fun of a few people... it was good crack (as the Irish would say). I've been recently trying out the one-crutch look to go along with my ultra-sexy black Velcro knee brace - actually, I'm really only in pain or discomfort when I try to bend or move my knee in any normal direction, but limping seems ok. Anyway, I decided to one-crutch my way through the bar, which was not crowded - but really lacked in any kind of potential (lots of vertically and age challenged men ...sorry to be harsh, MOM, i'm sure they had great personalities). My BFF and I laughed about how I was self-conscious that so many people felt the need to inexplicably stare at me with my crutches. It's not like I have a war wound or something...although I have come up with some very creative stories about my injury (i.e., surfing accident, incident involving the pole and a frisky customer, saving a child who had fallen on the subway tracks...). Soooooo - as we were leaving, we (I) hobbled past a group of young chippies. As I struggled to delicately get around the crowd, my BFF and I, to our shock and horror, both overheard a clearly intelligent and charming fellow make the following astute comment:
"Yeah, but I really do have a soft spot for disabled women."
At least he was politically correct. He didn't say handicapped.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
People Watching
I believe there should be a profession that compensates you (generously) for people watching. I am convinced, if a profession did in fact exist, that I would excel to the top of the people-watching corporate ladder! I would so be the CEO of PWI (people watchers international). First, there would have to be a higher degree system, like a Masters Degree in Human Observational Studies (aka people watching). Then you'd have to be certified, of course. You'd do an internship - sitting on a busy city street corner or at a table at Starbucks and just....watch. Naturally, you'd have to become a member of the PPWA (professional people watchers association). This is something I know I'd be terrific at. I can't get enough of it now and I don't even get paid for it. Well, my reward is comic material - let's face it, most people are begging to made fun of. I am just fascinated by the quirky and often bizarre manner in which people conduct themselves in a public setting. Sometimes I wish people had little thought bubbles over their heads (like in a comic strip) so I could understand exactly why, for instance, one would choose to pick one's nose and wipe the snot on a magazine (thursday at barnes and noble) or why one is not aware that one is lip-syncing to one's Ipod while walking down a busy street (wednesday on washington street). I'm not sure what drives my fascination. It's not that I think that other people's lives are more interesting that mine....maybe it's the psychology major in me. I am just so amused by what people do - randomly, in social situations, when they think no one is watching (oh but I am!)...
Anyway, I'm getting a little bored with this knee-hurty-can't-do-anthing routine and so this week I headed out to Barnes and Noble to satisfy my need to be off my couch and away from Judge Judy (can you say obsessed?). Also I needed to stock up on frivolous girly magazines (thanks to a financial contribution for my very concerned grandmother). The thing I love most about B&N is that you can sit anywhere (not so easy with a knee brace) and pretend to be engrossed in some magazine or book, all the while secretly watching the wackadoodles perusing the Self-Help section. I love it! Plus - there is a cafe that serves Starbucks Frappacinos and - I'm sorry. Frappacinos are God's perfect creation on a hot summer day - icey, whipped cream yumminess AND caffeine. Enough said. At one point though, I became keenly aware of the fact that I was at the heart of freaky, weird people watching central! I looked around and realized that I was by far the most normal person in a 1000-foot radius - and that ain't saying much! But it is quite a crowd that this place has drawn together and I'm not sure, even given my penchant for studying the habits of the strange and random, even I could stomach watching some of these freaks! It was as if I had tapped into some secret sect of society. And although I was totally digging my Frap-magazine combo, I was totally preoccupied by the fact that every emotionally unhinged, psychologically impaired, socially inept, fashionably questionable individual had magically found their way to the same book store at the exact same moment that I had. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't stand to think that there might be people watching ME the way I watch them, thinking I actually fit into this abnormal (and not at all fashionably coordinated) category of humanity. I promptly got up (well, in crutches real time that's like a 5 minute process) and left, for fear that someone would be blogging about the unusually stylish girl on crutches with the sparkling smile (that would be a fairly accurate description btw). I think I will have to find another pass time to replace my Judge Judy addiction and another venue for my people watching obsession.
Anyway, I'm getting a little bored with this knee-hurty-can't-do-anthing routine and so this week I headed out to Barnes and Noble to satisfy my need to be off my couch and away from Judge Judy (can you say obsessed?). Also I needed to stock up on frivolous girly magazines (thanks to a financial contribution for my very concerned grandmother). The thing I love most about B&N is that you can sit anywhere (not so easy with a knee brace) and pretend to be engrossed in some magazine or book, all the while secretly watching the wackadoodles perusing the Self-Help section. I love it! Plus - there is a cafe that serves Starbucks Frappacinos and - I'm sorry. Frappacinos are God's perfect creation on a hot summer day - icey, whipped cream yumminess AND caffeine. Enough said. At one point though, I became keenly aware of the fact that I was at the heart of freaky, weird people watching central! I looked around and realized that I was by far the most normal person in a 1000-foot radius - and that ain't saying much! But it is quite a crowd that this place has drawn together and I'm not sure, even given my penchant for studying the habits of the strange and random, even I could stomach watching some of these freaks! It was as if I had tapped into some secret sect of society. And although I was totally digging my Frap-magazine combo, I was totally preoccupied by the fact that every emotionally unhinged, psychologically impaired, socially inept, fashionably questionable individual had magically found their way to the same book store at the exact same moment that I had. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't stand to think that there might be people watching ME the way I watch them, thinking I actually fit into this abnormal (and not at all fashionably coordinated) category of humanity. I promptly got up (well, in crutches real time that's like a 5 minute process) and left, for fear that someone would be blogging about the unusually stylish girl on crutches with the sparkling smile (that would be a fairly accurate description btw). I think I will have to find another pass time to replace my Judge Judy addiction and another venue for my people watching obsession.
Tuesday, August 7, 2007
Speaking Starbucks
The following is an actual incident that transpired this morning at Starbucks:
Mean Old Lady: I don't know what tall means! I said, a large decaf iced coffee! Do you not understand me? I speak English, not Starbucks!
Obviously Stressed Starbucks Barista: No problem, ma'am. I'll get that for you right away.
Mean Old Lady (apparently to everyone else, but I just happened to be standing there waiting for a drink): Geez-zus. Can you believe this? I SAID, a large decaffeinated iced coffee. Unbelievable.
She now looks at ME, in hopes that I will validate her just cause of irritation. I look at my friend, who I am with. The Mean Old Lady must not realize that Starbucks baristas are bi-lingual - they speak English too.
My Quiet Friend (to me): OK, but can she read a menu though?
Mean Old Lady (apparently also to me): Can you? Believe this?
I shrug at both of them.
Mean Old Lady (back to the barista now - she's becoming repetetive): You KNOW. I speak English, not Starbucks.
Visibly Irritated, But Impressively Composed Starbucks Barista: Yes, ma'am. Sorry about the mistake.
Mean Old Lady (again to me): Right? Geez-us. Can you believe it?
Me (response with a smile): No, what I can't believe is how you want me to validate how rude and nasty YOU are.
Grinning Starbucks Barista: Here you go, ma'am. Sorry. Enjoy!
Mean Old Lady (aghast and grabbing her precious decaf, almost spilling it): Hmmf. (No real words, just a look of complete indignation as she huffs past us)
My friend looks at me.
Me (to my friend): Yeah, uh, I'm not good at holding my tongue in those situations.
Look, I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm premenstrual, on crutches and it's 95 degrees outside. I'm not really in the mood for this bitch. What can I say?
Mean Old Lady: I don't know what tall means! I said, a large decaf iced coffee! Do you not understand me? I speak English, not Starbucks!
Obviously Stressed Starbucks Barista: No problem, ma'am. I'll get that for you right away.
Mean Old Lady (apparently to everyone else, but I just happened to be standing there waiting for a drink): Geez-zus. Can you believe this? I SAID, a large decaffeinated iced coffee. Unbelievable.
She now looks at ME, in hopes that I will validate her just cause of irritation. I look at my friend, who I am with. The Mean Old Lady must not realize that Starbucks baristas are bi-lingual - they speak English too.
My Quiet Friend (to me): OK, but can she read a menu though?
Mean Old Lady (apparently also to me): Can you? Believe this?
I shrug at both of them.
Mean Old Lady (back to the barista now - she's becoming repetetive): You KNOW. I speak English, not Starbucks.
Visibly Irritated, But Impressively Composed Starbucks Barista: Yes, ma'am. Sorry about the mistake.
Mean Old Lady (again to me): Right? Geez-us. Can you believe it?
Me (response with a smile): No, what I can't believe is how you want me to validate how rude and nasty YOU are.
Grinning Starbucks Barista: Here you go, ma'am. Sorry. Enjoy!
Mean Old Lady (aghast and grabbing her precious decaf, almost spilling it): Hmmf. (No real words, just a look of complete indignation as she huffs past us)
My friend looks at me.
Me (to my friend): Yeah, uh, I'm not good at holding my tongue in those situations.
Look, I haven't had my coffee yet, I'm premenstrual, on crutches and it's 95 degrees outside. I'm not really in the mood for this bitch. What can I say?
Monday, August 6, 2007
Rehab
So there's rehab for physical injuries (i.e., for a torn MCL and grade 2 sprain of the left knee - I start today). There's rehab for popping pills and drinking like a fish. There's even rehab for Olsen twins-like eating disorders and Britney-inspired psychosis. There SHOULD be a rehab for stupidity - like with finances. Lemme tell ya, I would enroll in that program in a heartbeat. However, this fine facility would have to be located in Hawaii - on the beach. They would have to provide 5-star gourmet meals cooked by the hottest celebri-chef. HD cable tv is a must. 500-count Egyptian cotton sheets - non-negotiable. Tennis courts and swimming pools galore. Rooms stocked with the healthiest of munchies - and Kettle One. Happy hour - every hour. Daily massages, naturally. Mani-pedis and facials - couldn't do without those. Sounds dreamy....Of course, the overall purpose of this program would be to teach fiscal responsibility and economic intelligence - Susie Orman could run the daily group meetings (which would only last 30 minutes every other day, so as not to interfere with horseback-riding and seaweed body wraps). I think I will look into it...
Today my horoscope (I'm a fish - Pisces through and through!) all but told me I should enter into some kind of rehabilitation facility. Well, I'm being dramatic (I have a flair for the drama), but it certainly did not leave me with that hopeful-good-things-are-just-around-the-corner feeling. It reads:
"You may wish that you were on a magical retreat today, quite far away from the noise of your current existence. But then you open your eyes only to contend with the mundane world and your unavoidable responsibilities. Don't waste too much time meandering through fantasy land, for reality is knocking at your door and you'd better answer now."
Wow. Uplifting stuff, eh. Notice the word "retreat" in there? Yeah, I pretty much interpreted that to mean the aforementioned facility on the North Shores of Oahu (that may not exist - YET). I'm not really a dreamer and I certainly never considered myself "meandering through fantasy land." I know what my reality is, I'm not in denial - my personal shortcomings and faults, my financial issues, my inability to open up and trust people (that one is from my therapist). I just refuse to accept it! Actually I think that's precisely the definition of "denial", but oh well...
Well, I'm off to my first rehab session with my knee. My hope is that my physical therapist will miraculously turn out be an incredibly attractive, tall, smart, funny, slightly-scruffy, green-eyed hunk who speaks four languages, has great oral hygiene, volunteers with orphans, reads to the blind, is politically and environmental conscious, plays soccer, drives a jeep, loves football and baseball, eats meat (free-range of course), wears t-shirts, jeans AND suits, slightly resembles Tom Brady (or Brad Pitt) and is single. But honestly -- I'm not meandering through fantasy land.
*UPDATE*
My PT (physical therapist, for the layman) is 100%, totally and completely the OPPOSITE of everything I dreamed he would be. SHE is not the sexy, single Tom Brady look alike I was hoping for. But she is lovely and was very gentle. Although, she said not to expect that next session - it's go time, I believe were her exact words (Am I in some kind of training?!?).
Today my horoscope (I'm a fish - Pisces through and through!) all but told me I should enter into some kind of rehabilitation facility. Well, I'm being dramatic (I have a flair for the drama), but it certainly did not leave me with that hopeful-good-things-are-just-around-the-corner feeling. It reads:
"You may wish that you were on a magical retreat today, quite far away from the noise of your current existence. But then you open your eyes only to contend with the mundane world and your unavoidable responsibilities. Don't waste too much time meandering through fantasy land, for reality is knocking at your door and you'd better answer now."
Wow. Uplifting stuff, eh. Notice the word "retreat" in there? Yeah, I pretty much interpreted that to mean the aforementioned facility on the North Shores of Oahu (that may not exist - YET). I'm not really a dreamer and I certainly never considered myself "meandering through fantasy land." I know what my reality is, I'm not in denial - my personal shortcomings and faults, my financial issues, my inability to open up and trust people (that one is from my therapist). I just refuse to accept it! Actually I think that's precisely the definition of "denial", but oh well...
Well, I'm off to my first rehab session with my knee. My hope is that my physical therapist will miraculously turn out be an incredibly attractive, tall, smart, funny, slightly-scruffy, green-eyed hunk who speaks four languages, has great oral hygiene, volunteers with orphans, reads to the blind, is politically and environmental conscious, plays soccer, drives a jeep, loves football and baseball, eats meat (free-range of course), wears t-shirts, jeans AND suits, slightly resembles Tom Brady (or Brad Pitt) and is single. But honestly -- I'm not meandering through fantasy land.
*UPDATE*
My PT (physical therapist, for the layman) is 100%, totally and completely the OPPOSITE of everything I dreamed he would be. SHE is not the sexy, single Tom Brady look alike I was hoping for. But she is lovely and was very gentle. Although, she said not to expect that next session - it's go time, I believe were her exact words (Am I in some kind of training?!?).
Friday, August 3, 2007
Broke and the City
Here is why I believe Carrie Bradshaw's life to be completely absurd and totally unrealistic (as if you need me to tell you). Firstly, she writes a weekly column for a weekly paper and I imagine she's not pulling in an exuberant salary. Nonetheless, it is on this writer's salary (maybe $45,000? maybe I'm being generous?) that she is able to pay for her fantastic rent-controlled apartment - $750 a month on the Upper East Side (it was mentioned in a season four episode) - and her $40,000 shoe addiction. In addition to the endless rows of Manolos and Jimmy Choos, she has a wardrobe that parallels some A-list movie stars - and yet, again, she's just a newspaper columnist. Carrie trots around the city charging things like tomatoes (another episode reference) and cigarettes. She always manages to find a way to outfit herself in some ensemble that she would ONLY buy at Barney's - she wouldn't be caught dead at Daffy Dan's or Loehman's. She and her little girlfriends are NEVER actually seen cooking in their pristine kitchens. They can always be found at the trendiest of New York hot spots, gorging on gourmet food or downing fancy shmancy cocktails. As annoying as all this is, it's partly why (in typical chic fashion) I love the show.
OK - here's the reality. Granted it's a television show and the characters are fictional and no one really wants to see Carrie living like us poor schleps - broke and boring. I suppose my animosity stems from the fact that my life as a single, 30-year old chic living in A city (close enough to THE City to count) is so NOT a ode to the fabulous, sexy, single city life. Alright, sure. I'm not homeless (yet) and I have food in my fridge (until it runs out) and family and friends and...all the good things one should appreciate about life. I have a steady job (although I am only paid 10 months of the year). I have a car that drives when I need it. While my knees are not fully functioning, I could potentially walk anywhere to do anything in my little urban mecca. I have central a.c. for crying out loud! And yet I am totally consumed by one fact -- I am brokety, broke, broke, broke. And unlike Carrie, this does not mean that in spite of my poor financial state I can: dine out 6 out of 7 nights a week, participate in regular happy hours, purchase new shoes and handbags, and jet off to the Hamptons. I'm lucky that I can pay rent and the cable all in the same month! I feel like Ivanka Trump when I can pay my student loans and still have enough money in my checking account to buy toilet paper! Car insurance is never on time. I am endlessly screening 1-800 phone numbers on my caller id. I sometimes don't open mail for weeks because I am afraid by doing so I am acknowledging my debt and in some small way am giving THEM (the creditors) power. I am financially paralyzed in that everything I do has some kind of monetary consideration and, thus, constraint. Especially living in stylish Hoboken! At this point, most days are about survival - doing and paying for just was is necessary so that I don't end up homeless and living out of my Volkswagen - across the street from a $4.5 million waterfront condo of course!
So here is my new challenge. I need to find a way to live off of $25. And not per day. Just $25. For the next month. How can that be, you ask? Oh it be. It be my life - for the next month. See, as a teacher, my summers are technically "off" - and I technically do not get "paid". And yet, I have never NOT worked a summer, so I am never off. But with the freakin' knee thing... any chance of pulling in income was shot to shit. So here I am, waiting it out until my first paycheck in September. Here is the good news: rent, car, cable, miscellaneous bills - paid off until September. And I am immobile with a torn MCL and grade 2 knee sprain, so...where am I going (btw - people stare at my crutches like my legs have been amputated and replaced by metal limbs. its so weird!)? Good. OK. But $25? For four weeks - I'm thinking it's mostly just about food. I have pasta, peanut butter, bread, salad dressing, jello, oatmeal, and ketchup left in my kitchen. I'd like to think I can be creative, but...I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need some more staples at some point. I guess I can rule out entertainment outside the apartment. Although that opens up a whole world of interesting possibilities INside the apartment. Hmmmm....
So, I think I can do it. I can rise up to this enormous challenge. I can persevere. I can manage to live on $25 for a month. That's 83 cents a day. That's like contributing to that Christian Children's Fund, right? Look, it ain't no Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle, but...if the orphans of Nicaragua can do it, so can I!
OK - here's the reality. Granted it's a television show and the characters are fictional and no one really wants to see Carrie living like us poor schleps - broke and boring. I suppose my animosity stems from the fact that my life as a single, 30-year old chic living in A city (close enough to THE City to count) is so NOT a ode to the fabulous, sexy, single city life. Alright, sure. I'm not homeless (yet) and I have food in my fridge (until it runs out) and family and friends and...all the good things one should appreciate about life. I have a steady job (although I am only paid 10 months of the year). I have a car that drives when I need it. While my knees are not fully functioning, I could potentially walk anywhere to do anything in my little urban mecca. I have central a.c. for crying out loud! And yet I am totally consumed by one fact -- I am brokety, broke, broke, broke. And unlike Carrie, this does not mean that in spite of my poor financial state I can: dine out 6 out of 7 nights a week, participate in regular happy hours, purchase new shoes and handbags, and jet off to the Hamptons. I'm lucky that I can pay rent and the cable all in the same month! I feel like Ivanka Trump when I can pay my student loans and still have enough money in my checking account to buy toilet paper! Car insurance is never on time. I am endlessly screening 1-800 phone numbers on my caller id. I sometimes don't open mail for weeks because I am afraid by doing so I am acknowledging my debt and in some small way am giving THEM (the creditors) power. I am financially paralyzed in that everything I do has some kind of monetary consideration and, thus, constraint. Especially living in stylish Hoboken! At this point, most days are about survival - doing and paying for just was is necessary so that I don't end up homeless and living out of my Volkswagen - across the street from a $4.5 million waterfront condo of course!
So here is my new challenge. I need to find a way to live off of $25. And not per day. Just $25. For the next month. How can that be, you ask? Oh it be. It be my life - for the next month. See, as a teacher, my summers are technically "off" - and I technically do not get "paid". And yet, I have never NOT worked a summer, so I am never off. But with the freakin' knee thing... any chance of pulling in income was shot to shit. So here I am, waiting it out until my first paycheck in September. Here is the good news: rent, car, cable, miscellaneous bills - paid off until September. And I am immobile with a torn MCL and grade 2 knee sprain, so...where am I going (btw - people stare at my crutches like my legs have been amputated and replaced by metal limbs. its so weird!)? Good. OK. But $25? For four weeks - I'm thinking it's mostly just about food. I have pasta, peanut butter, bread, salad dressing, jello, oatmeal, and ketchup left in my kitchen. I'd like to think I can be creative, but...I'm pretty sure I'm gonna need some more staples at some point. I guess I can rule out entertainment outside the apartment. Although that opens up a whole world of interesting possibilities INside the apartment. Hmmmm....
So, I think I can do it. I can rise up to this enormous challenge. I can persevere. I can manage to live on $25 for a month. That's 83 cents a day. That's like contributing to that Christian Children's Fund, right? Look, it ain't no Carrie Bradshaw lifestyle, but...if the orphans of Nicaragua can do it, so can I!
Thursday, August 2, 2007
cause i'm soooo fascinating...
A very personal survey... for those of you so intrigued by me (who can blame you?!). This is very much in the style of "Inside the Actors' Studio" with James Lipton...
1. How tall are you? 5 foot 8 inches....ok, really 5 foot 7 and 3/4 inches.
2. Do you like bananas? yes, they are a staple.
3. What is your favorite song of all time? beautiful day, u2 --- my life, the beatles
4. What do you do on Fridays? depends...i'm usually pretty tired. from all the pole dancing i've done all week... kidding.
5. Flip flops or sandals? flips.
6. Have you had a beer in the past week? yes, but i'm a beer snob. i only drink beer from colored bottles.
7. If you could have one super human power, what would you choose? mind reading. and flying. sorry, that's two.
8. What is your favorite place? a beach. preferably one without children. and with waitress service.
9. What is your favorite food? food that i can digest = cobb salad. food that i cannot digest (damn i.b.s.!) = pizza
10. Where do you want to travel next? ireland and england. love those accents! and a good pint. and leprechauns.
11. Do you shower every single day? i do. personal hygiene is very important.
12. Kill the spider or let it out? kill the slimy bastards.
13. Paris or Nicole-who's a worse offender? they are both idiots as far as im concerned. what do they even do - aside from mix vicadin and pot and drive around l.a.?
14. What do you wear to bed? depends on who i'm with... hehehe.
15. What is your favorite curse word? f*#ckwad. and bulls#*t.
16. What is your favorite salad dressing? blue cheese. and i sooo cannot digest it. but it goes well on my cobb salads.
17. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? right where i am... and san diego (all about the beach baby).
18. What do all of your ex's have in common? they no longer wanted to date me. haha. actually, they were all f*#ckwads.
19. What is the last lie that you told? "it was really good, i promise."
20. What would you like to hear God say as you stand at the Pearly Gates (thanks James Lipton)? "adorable, funny, charming and very very lucky to be here."
by the way... a huge shout out to all those interesting strangers (you know who you are) who have found themselves drawn to my magnetism and charisma!
1. How tall are you? 5 foot 8 inches....ok, really 5 foot 7 and 3/4 inches.
2. Do you like bananas? yes, they are a staple.
3. What is your favorite song of all time? beautiful day, u2 --- my life, the beatles
4. What do you do on Fridays? depends...i'm usually pretty tired. from all the pole dancing i've done all week... kidding.
5. Flip flops or sandals? flips.
6. Have you had a beer in the past week? yes, but i'm a beer snob. i only drink beer from colored bottles.
7. If you could have one super human power, what would you choose? mind reading. and flying. sorry, that's two.
8. What is your favorite place? a beach. preferably one without children. and with waitress service.
9. What is your favorite food? food that i can digest = cobb salad. food that i cannot digest (damn i.b.s.!) = pizza
10. Where do you want to travel next? ireland and england. love those accents! and a good pint. and leprechauns.
11. Do you shower every single day? i do. personal hygiene is very important.
12. Kill the spider or let it out? kill the slimy bastards.
13. Paris or Nicole-who's a worse offender? they are both idiots as far as im concerned. what do they even do - aside from mix vicadin and pot and drive around l.a.?
14. What do you wear to bed? depends on who i'm with... hehehe.
15. What is your favorite curse word? f*#ckwad. and bulls#*t.
16. What is your favorite salad dressing? blue cheese. and i sooo cannot digest it. but it goes well on my cobb salads.
17. If you could live anywhere in the world where would it be? right where i am... and san diego (all about the beach baby).
18. What do all of your ex's have in common? they no longer wanted to date me. haha. actually, they were all f*#ckwads.
19. What is the last lie that you told? "it was really good, i promise."
20. What would you like to hear God say as you stand at the Pearly Gates (thanks James Lipton)? "adorable, funny, charming and very very lucky to be here."
by the way... a huge shout out to all those interesting strangers (you know who you are) who have found themselves drawn to my magnetism and charisma!
Wednesday, August 1, 2007
My Urban Jungle
So it's no secret that the city I live in (Hoboken NJ baby!), which is a mere hop, skip and a jump from Manhattan (or a 7 minute Path train ride) is home to some of the trendier and hipper spots around (seriously). The real estate market is out of control - waterfront condos going for mere pocket change (or $4.5 mil) and studio apartments in the heart of the city only chewing up $2500 out of your monthly budget. Yes I'm being a little schticky, but these are the cold hard facts of the Mile Square City (H-Town is truly only one-mile square!). Although more feasible than a loft apartment in the Meat Packing District of NYC, living here is not cheap. BUT -- going out on the town in Hoboken, while it does not blow NYC nightlife away, is certainly a more economical AND entertaining alternative. Restaurants overlooking the skyline, rooftop bars, half-price martini specials on a Tuesday... this little mecca has absolutely carved a niche for itself in the metropolitan area. I have thoroughly enjoyed knowing that city life is at my fingertips - and, since coming to the realization that I am indeed a city person (and not the hippy, dippy mountain girl I tried to be in college - it was NOT a good look for me), I find it comforting to know that anything and everything is just within my reach here! Including green trees and grass! There are parks a-plenty in this urban jungle.
Soooo...this place is seemingly the perfect environment for an attractive (some days more than others lately), single, interesting, funny, charming, down to earth, sassy chic such as myself to "get out there", as the saying goes. Socialize, meet people, do...what ever it is people my age do with each other. Specifically people of the opposite sex. Admittedly, in my time here, I have certainly done my share of socializing. And, while meeting someone compatible AND sane (with good height and teeth and fashion sense - just a few of my many pre-requisites) has not been entirely fruitful, I maintain hope...that eventually I will settle. Kidding. Hope that with each attempt I am weeding out the minutia and getting closer to something more... my style, let's say.
OK - so last night my good friend Renee took pity upon my shut-it state and took me out to a local venue for half-price martinis. This establishment is well-known for its Tuesday night special and attracts a wide-range of individuals from near and far. Let me paint the scene for ya...chics in the 20s and 30s, with a few random cougars roaming about (you know 'em when you see 'em!) and dudes of all ages. The attire is quite a comedy routine. For the most part, every guy looks the same -- JCrew-inspired button downs, dark jeans and some nondescript shoes; hair short and coiffed (although they so try to look like they DIDN'T do their hair!); some version of Aqua di Gio permeating your nostrils. The ladies on the other hand - ohhhh geez. How can you tell them apart?! Especially during the summer! Jean skirts galore, tank tops of all shades, the occasional summery blousey thing, bejeweled flip flops, Coach wristlets...the smell of Tommy Girl trails as they saunter past perspective suitors. But it's the hair and the makeup that gets me - very careful constructed looks. MAC makeup artists would be proud. And the coy way in which guys and girls interact...it's a dance! The eye contact, then the pretending to wrestle through the crowd to get another Kettle One and club, the accidental bumping into on the way to the bathroom, the coincidental dancing butt-cheek to butt-cheek as the dj pumps out the latest Timbaland song... it could be an MTV reality show. Actually, it might already be!
Long story a little bit shorter... I was so ecstatic to be out of my apartment, knowing full well that the place would be packed and hard to maneuver around, that I took full pleasure in watching this scene transform before my eyes. It was a sight to behold. Truth be told, it's the same group of people performing the same ritual every Tuesday night at this joint. But I was so thoroughly tickled. I was perfectly content to stand, leaning against the wall, in the back of the bar observing. And although my amused eyes met up with some average-looking dudes looking to make a move, I felt no need to participate. After three pretentious (but half-priced) martinis, my dear friend and I called it a night and pushed our way to the exit. And no - I did not give out my digits, or make out drunkenly with some random 25 year old (just a hypothetical, ok?), or meet Mr.-Right-Now. But watching the animals in their natural habitat of this urban jungle was just enough entertainment for me to get through the week!
Soooo...this place is seemingly the perfect environment for an attractive (some days more than others lately), single, interesting, funny, charming, down to earth, sassy chic such as myself to "get out there", as the saying goes. Socialize, meet people, do...what ever it is people my age do with each other. Specifically people of the opposite sex. Admittedly, in my time here, I have certainly done my share of socializing. And, while meeting someone compatible AND sane (with good height and teeth and fashion sense - just a few of my many pre-requisites) has not been entirely fruitful, I maintain hope...that eventually I will settle. Kidding. Hope that with each attempt I am weeding out the minutia and getting closer to something more... my style, let's say.
OK - so last night my good friend Renee took pity upon my shut-it state and took me out to a local venue for half-price martinis. This establishment is well-known for its Tuesday night special and attracts a wide-range of individuals from near and far. Let me paint the scene for ya...chics in the 20s and 30s, with a few random cougars roaming about (you know 'em when you see 'em!) and dudes of all ages. The attire is quite a comedy routine. For the most part, every guy looks the same -- JCrew-inspired button downs, dark jeans and some nondescript shoes; hair short and coiffed (although they so try to look like they DIDN'T do their hair!); some version of Aqua di Gio permeating your nostrils. The ladies on the other hand - ohhhh geez. How can you tell them apart?! Especially during the summer! Jean skirts galore, tank tops of all shades, the occasional summery blousey thing, bejeweled flip flops, Coach wristlets...the smell of Tommy Girl trails as they saunter past perspective suitors. But it's the hair and the makeup that gets me - very careful constructed looks. MAC makeup artists would be proud. And the coy way in which guys and girls interact...it's a dance! The eye contact, then the pretending to wrestle through the crowd to get another Kettle One and club, the accidental bumping into on the way to the bathroom, the coincidental dancing butt-cheek to butt-cheek as the dj pumps out the latest Timbaland song... it could be an MTV reality show. Actually, it might already be!
Long story a little bit shorter... I was so ecstatic to be out of my apartment, knowing full well that the place would be packed and hard to maneuver around, that I took full pleasure in watching this scene transform before my eyes. It was a sight to behold. Truth be told, it's the same group of people performing the same ritual every Tuesday night at this joint. But I was so thoroughly tickled. I was perfectly content to stand, leaning against the wall, in the back of the bar observing. And although my amused eyes met up with some average-looking dudes looking to make a move, I felt no need to participate. After three pretentious (but half-priced) martinis, my dear friend and I called it a night and pushed our way to the exit. And no - I did not give out my digits, or make out drunkenly with some random 25 year old (just a hypothetical, ok?), or meet Mr.-Right-Now. But watching the animals in their natural habitat of this urban jungle was just enough entertainment for me to get through the week!
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