So it is time once again to mention my #1 Blog Muse, Johnny Dice, who recently wrote a wonderful series of blogs that chronicled his college and post-college years. It allowed those of us who were lucky enough to be there with him for some of that time to relive old memories, and now John has a permanent record of why those years really were amazing and incredible.
Inspired by John, I have decided (before I go out and get tanked, that is, it is New Years) to create my own "annual report" of sorts (leaving out my finances, too depressing!), and to write a blog reflecting what kind of year 2004 has been for me. Unfortunately for you all, I fear that my blog might be a tad more narcissistic than John's. But who knows, you shouldn't count their chickens before they are written. If you'd like to journey through the past year with me, well, I'm glad. Bear with me.
January:
Bitter cold hits the city like never before. It is actually unadvisable to travel out of doors. This, however, does not stop me from going out on the town...it just makes it a lot harder and requires more accessories made of wool. This month was about little memories, nights that seemed insignificant at the time, but still make me smile. My NYL girls and I ventured up to the Upper East Side for Vic's birthday party, where we enjoyed dancing and the fact that we were temporarily out of the winter's chill. Two of my former roommates met me for dinner in Little Italy, which proceeded to the coldest walk to Magnolia Bakery EVER. I consequently discover that Magnolia cupcakes taste much better at room temperature. The best thing, though, came at the end of the month. I am finally brought to Culture Club, Mecca, and the happiest place on earth for anyone born in the late 70s and early 80s. I wore big earrings, drank "smurfs", and danced and danced.
February:
I discover that Friendster rules, as a flood of childhood friends come back into my life thanks to the ease with which we can find each other and send each other messages saying "let's meet up!" Among this assortment Alli, an old camp friend, and I start meeting up for dinners and I remember just how awesome she is/was. At the end of the month, on that rogue 29th day thanks to leap year, Matt has is very first Oscar party (which, I'm excited to say, is currently being planned once again for this year). I ponder that I might make "oscar cupcakes" and when everyone jumps with glee, I think "dang, why do I get myself into these messes...how the hell does one make Oscar cupcakes..." I use my noodle, with the help of Leah and Jen Roy, and the desserts become legendary. I will make them again this year. That reminds me, I need muffintins ....
March:
Crap month. March started off phenomenally badly, and for the rest of the month I just held on for dear life. News of the death of Chris Biello swept through the Fairfield alum circuit. Seven months later it is still entirely unbelievable to me that he is gone. I almost moved in March, but discovered that I am definitely a "downtown girl." You live in the city your whole life, so you think you are simply a "city girl" but no, apparently it gets much more specific than that. Neighborhoods have claims on you. The Upper East Side came a-calling, and I ran a-screaming. All this stress takes its toll on me, and at the end of the month I go to give blood and discover that my blood pressure is soaring, in spite of my 3-4 visits per week to the gym and careful nutrition. Consulting with a doctor about my fate, we agree: it's time for me to devote some time to chilling out.
April:
God took pity. After the hell of March, April rocks. It begins with a "daylight savings party" at which we discover the silly joy of being out for the night and discovering it's suddenly four AM. I am also introduced to the magic of Pixar films by Mr. Pixar himself, and it's nice to take a break from chick flicks for awhile. April also marks the beginning of my brunette era. I go to see my new hairdresser, Louie (now my beloved hairdresser, Louie) and he painstakingly works for over two hours to take the blond brassy highlights out of my blessed hair. During the process, Louie is horrified to learn that I did these highlights myself (with an Herbal Essences kit). I think my favorite "Louie quote" was "hmm, you're right handed, aren't you." Thus, with Louie's help, I was able to step back into the world with the hair color God had given me.The highlight of April, however, is taking my first "adult" vacation to Fort Lauderdale with one of my best friends in the whole world. For six days our only task is to sit on the beach. This year Stace and I have narrowed the vacation choices down to two: cruise to Carribean, or exploring the West: San Francisco. I can't wait to see what we choose.
May:
I get out my carry-on sized wheelie suitcase, pack some dark suits, and off I go on my first business trip to one of our Service Centers in Cleveland. It's Cleveland, where I've been a million times thanks to my mom's Ohio roots. I still discover the joys of being paid to get away, leaving everything behind but my cellphone, which I use to call only the people I want to talk to. I also develop a crush on a Cleveland underwriter. He's cute, in spite of the midwest accent. I make it home just in time to participate in NYL's bowlathon, with a team of 14 other underwriters. I suck at first, rolling gutter-balls, but go on to become the team's "MIP" (Most Improved Player). May also marks the "funnest night in the history of fun nights." Liz, Don, Ben, and I venture below Washington Square and discover the joys of being the only ones at karaoke. Don learns how to use the machine, and the bar just lets us be as we call up song after glorious song. We were like crack addicts, we just had to have more! I got home at 2:30 am and got up four and a half hours later to go to work, smiling.
June:
I come to work one Friday morning and am composing myself for the day when we hear a slight crash and the lights flicker. Seconds later the fire alarm starts going off and security is telling us to evacuate due to a "smoke situation." Stoically we zip down the twenty flights of stairs to the street, where we discover that "smoke situation" is more like "big fat fire." All three thousand of us stand in Madison Sq Park while a fire team gets things under control. Three hours later, we are allowed back upstairs. While the situation was handled beautifully, we are all still unnerved at the risks of working in a NYC tower, especially in view of what happened less than three miles from our office in 2001. With month's end, I lay my third cellphone to rest. My beloved blue Motorola reaches the end of it's term and retires with dignity. It took it's 401k and put a down payment on a condo in Florida. I get a postcard every now and then.
July:
Summer is in full force in the city, as our much anticipated "half day Fridays" are started up again at work. Glorious four-and-a-half-day weeks give me much time to enjoy the beautiful summer that was 2004. Highlights this month include getting the chance to see the Philharmonic play their free concert in Central Park, and "Much Ado About Nothing" with Jimmy Smits in the leading role. I also find the time to steal away from the city. Using my half day Friday and two personal days, I sneak up to New Hampshire to see the one and only Stacy. On the second day of my visit, she and Corey announce they are taking me somewhere...and they irritatingly refuse to tell me anything further. A half hour later we pull up at a national park because we are going to climb a mountain. (...?!?!) Thus, Princess Mary sucks it up, does some stretches, and with the help of strong Corey, I make it to 2800' of the 3100' mountain. When we stopped for lunch at 2800' Stace and Cor noticed how quiet I was being, I later commented "duh, we hadn't come down yet, I was praying." All joking aside, I atill can't believe I was able to do it.
August:
Starts with a bang as I manage to see not one, but two Broadway shows in a week. Since "Bombay Dreams" was free, and the tickets for "Caroline or Change" were 50.00 through the TKTS booth, that averages to 25.00 per ticket per show. This means I rule. Then my life turns to shit once again. I try not to curse on this blog, so I have reserved strong words for when they are absolutely necessary. once again. It would be prudent of me to stray from going into any further detail, but sufficed to say, I'm (most likely) running on the Hypertension Train once again. It is also important to emphasize that this crap time in my life wasn't the fault of any one event, it was more of a murphy's law of whatever that is bad that can happen will happen, and all at once. The ears of many patient, caring, and blessedly uninvolved friends put the smile back on my face, and my BP down from stroke level. The motto of this month was keepin' it classy.
September:
I do something I don't normally do: hang out with Fairfield U alums that actually graduated in my class. Tina and Angela's shared birthday gets us all out for a night of bar-hopping, and it is an absolute blast. Tina and Angela aren't the only ones with birthdays in September. I bite my lip, and leap into my 24th year, and I celebrate by having a party at perhaps the most user-friendly bar in the world. Because I have no place to put my CT friends up in, we stay out until 5:30 in the morning, when trains start their morning runs back to CT. Of those in that 5:30 crew, we all agree that we are just too old to do stuff like that anymore. Still, best birthday on record! September also starts my search for an apartment, and I discover just how many crappy apartments there are in NYC.
October:
The search for an apartment continues, as I engaged the help of countless brokers and other assorted people with access to information in the real-estate world. I take a break from this torture, however, to take a roadtrip to Michigan with my father. His mother (my grandmother) had a stroke last September and has since been in a nursing home. This was my first visit with her since her stroke. I find her much altered, but in a strangely good way, and many of the things that were wrong with our relationship before become fixed. It's been a little over eight weeks since I returned from that trip, and in it's aftermath I have the strange feeling that it was one of those things that happen in our lives to change us a bit, but for the better, thank goodness. The month ends with Halloween and I am Lucy Ricardo at the work halloween party, and I am Minnie Mouse at all the other festivities I attend. I find at the Village Halloween Parade that I am a huge hit with the kids. This makes me very happy. This makes me very happy indeed. I almost move to the teensiest apartment ever created, on Leroy Street. Then, I don't.
November:
I discover The OC, which is a bloody great show, and now I very nearly have something to fill the void that Sex and the City left. Also, I really decide to move...and this time I sign a lease! The apartment I lease is in my fate, as it was previously lived in by my mother when she was a single girl breaking into Manhattan for the first time in the early seventies. I am still scared out of my mind. The same woman, my mother, told me that the longer I waited to move, the harder it was going to be, and I suspect she was right (don't tell her.) The Monday after thanksgiving I move, leaving home, and an entirely new era begins...
December:
No sooner do I move in, then I get the stomach flu, badly. To use the words of my coworker Terry, who had been stricken by the same illness not two weeks earlier, "I was praying to something...and it wasn't Jesus." I spend my second night living alone trying to weather this illness. It hits me harder than any stomach flu ever has, and I go from Tuesday night to Saturday night before I have a solid meal. A week later I sing in my concert and come home running a high fever. Before I know it, I'm back on a sick bed recovering with the help of antibiotics (note, Biaxin=evil). All complaining aside, caring for myself provides an accelerated course to the art of living alone, as I realized that I'm well versed in the art of caring for the sick (for instance, you must drink Gatorade following the stomach flu to replace all the electrolytes you lost, and tylenol will bring a fever down...if that isn't working: ice). Christmas comes and so does Santa, and I'm well enough to sing the carols at Midnight Mass. And thus the year comes to a close, with a lot of growing up done, and a lot to be thankful for.
What does 2005 promise (besides lots of bills and budgeting)? Who knows. So far I've made a couple of resolutions and I already know what I'm giving up for Lent. In any case, it's been terribly interesting to look at the last 12 months all at once. Thanks for coming along.
Friday, December 31, 2004
Sunday, December 19, 2004
A WORD on How Who We Are is Shaped by the Jobs We've Had
I am always amazed at the broad spectrum of people who are brought into our lives to throw us off. They enter into our neat little black-and-white lives with a messy box of Crayola crayons and just reek havoc. One person that has "colored" my life in such a way is Jeremy. Without a doubt, Jeremy ranks in the Top Five of The Strangest People I know. Jeremy kisses everyone he meets (not on the cheeks), had known me for twenty minutes before he asked if I'd like to "smoke up," has a suit that makes him look eerily like a priest, and gets lost in the Culture Club. Of course, he is currently attending Harvard Law School.
All this out on the table, I guess it goes without saying that he is also a pretty opinionated and passionate guy. It is one of the things that he said, one time, that has stuck with me and has gone on to become the subject of this blog.
Jeremy said that the notion of having a "job" is dangerous because it causes the job-holder to adopt a pre-prescribed identity (blah, blah, blah, the guy smokes weed). Jesting aside, it got me thinking about the jobs that I've had, and how they've shaped me. It's like we all start out at ages 16-18 as blank sheets of paper, and the jobs that we take write all over us...
It's easy for me to write this blog because I am currently extremely happy with what I do. I have one of those jobs that you have to explain (you can't just say "I'm a doctor, I'm an accountant, I'm a fireman..." and be done with it). I underwrite life insurance. "Underwrite" is a verb...? Basically, I work for a life insurance company, and when an individual comes in for an insurance policy, he/she needs to be underwritten by me. I look at financial, personal, and medical history, and come up with an appropriate rating. I know how to read bloodwork, and I get to spend all day lookin' at everyone's dirty laundry. This actually makes me pretty happy. I would say that a part of me does identify myself as an underwriter...I like to go to underwriting conferences and I like to engage in conversations about underwriting-related things (also, they usually serve steak and alcohol!), but Jeremy's rambling, coupled with the fact that I am now in a job that I probably won't be leaving any time soon, got me thinking about what the jobs we've have done to shape the people we've become.
I've known former waiters who are extremely uptight about the service they get in restaurants because they understand proper procedures and etiquette. My friend Matt goes nuts when I forget to tip in Starbucks because of the time he spent as a "barista." My own curse is that I am a retail-escapee, therefore I know my Retail Rights as a customer. Shopping would be so much easier if I were still one of the ignorant masses...
Other jobs I've had include being the receptionist at a Catholic Church on the Upper East Side, being a live-in nanny out in Great Neck, Long Island, and working as a trained tutor in my former university's Writing Center. Now I will regale you with a brief synopsis of the life lessons I've gathered from my own job experience.
From NANNYING I learned:
1. Never, EVER, fail to appreciate people whose job it is to provide service. Being a hired staff member of a wealthy family was a sobering experience. From Monday at 9 am to Friday at 4 pm they owned my time. The family had this maid, Elaine, who was extremely quiet and made herself kind of fade into the woodwork. Over the course of the time I was there, we became friends and I found out how unhappy she was working there (as was I). She is the person who told me to "know when to cry" as she did one night when we were talking. Elaine taught me not just to look at people, but to really see them.
2. Changing dirty diapers is disgusting, but I suspect that it will be slightly easier when I am performing this service for my own kid.
3. You can slather on SPF 45 every day and still get the tan of your life.
4. Never forget to thank the people who prepare your food, clean up after you, and raise your friggin' children.
From TUTORING I learned:
1. People are really sensitive about their writing. If they think they can't do it, it's the most frustrating thing in the world for them, so you have to tread lightly.
2. I will never find a job where I will be paid for doing my own homework again.
3. Learn the difference between making someone rise to the occasion, and simply working them too hard.
From RETAIL I learned:
1. If you behave obnoxiously as a shopper in a store, but the sales people are still gracious to you, it doesn't mean they aren't wishing you will trip and fall on your way out. We'd make customer voodoo dolls, but we're too exhausted at the effort it takes not to roll our eyes for arts and crafts.
2. People have bad days, and often they will transfer their frustration from that bad day to the first helpless person they deal with...often that someone is behind a counter at a store. Please people, squeeze a "stressball" instead or something.
3. Over the years I had a lot of incredibly lovely customers to counterbalance the nightmares. They brought me everything from magazines to chocolate. The most rewarding thing they could have done, however, was to tell my manager how much they enjoyed my service. A lesson for all, if you receive good service in a store, take the time to tell a higher-up, you might seriously help a career form.
4. I love shopping, but that's about the extent of the exposure I like to get to stores. I would rather do almost anything than work in retail again. A shopping addiction does not a retail career make.
From UNDERWRITING I learned:
1. Always C.Y.A. (Cover Your ;O). As a trainee over the past 18 months I've had to get a signature on everything I do for a case because it's a legal document, and I'm a young chickadee. This is part of the reason why I sleep soundly at night: if I ever end up in court, my well-seasoned higher ups will be right there with me.
2. Sometimes fields you try to resist come and find you anyway. My mother is a nurse. Because of this, she always wanted me to be a doctor. Though I viewed biology as perhaps one of the most intensive things a person can study (personal bias), I still felt I lacked the extreme discipline it would take to go to med school and "make it happen." I did my studying, however, made it through AP Bio, but when I got to college I followed my love of words and majored in English. Medicine found me anyway through underwriting. I spend a good deal of my day reading medical shorthand and making sense of terms like "neuropathy" and "hyperlipidemia," and I love it. I decided not to go the med school route, but I still get to explore my fascination with medicine.
3. You can have the greatest, most highest paying job in the world with fat-free, calorie free Godiva chocolate waiting on your desk everyday....it doesn't matter if you don't have wonderful co-workers. I am continually amazed and how I lucked out with my fellow underwriters. Not only do I respect the hell out of them, but the support they've given me has meant a lot to me. Recently I returned to work after weathering an illness that took everything out of me. I was sitting at my desk in front of a huge bag of Saltines and a giant jug of blue Gatorade when some of my coworkers came to chat and check up on me. Soon we were laughing good belly laughs, and I thought to myself "wow, that's the first laugh I've had in a long time....it's really good to be here." Yup, that right there. That's it.
I get what Jeremy, dressed in his priest-y outfit, was trying to say. You can't let the job you have define your entire identity. It is undeniable, however, that we retain valuable experiences from the jobs we've had, and that these experiences seep into our personalities. I say amen, because often placing ourselves into others' shoes through our jobs makes us more sensitive and more patient in our own personal dealings. More sensitivity and patience....yes, the world could definitely benefit from that.
All this out on the table, I guess it goes without saying that he is also a pretty opinionated and passionate guy. It is one of the things that he said, one time, that has stuck with me and has gone on to become the subject of this blog.
Jeremy said that the notion of having a "job" is dangerous because it causes the job-holder to adopt a pre-prescribed identity (blah, blah, blah, the guy smokes weed). Jesting aside, it got me thinking about the jobs that I've had, and how they've shaped me. It's like we all start out at ages 16-18 as blank sheets of paper, and the jobs that we take write all over us...
It's easy for me to write this blog because I am currently extremely happy with what I do. I have one of those jobs that you have to explain (you can't just say "I'm a doctor, I'm an accountant, I'm a fireman..." and be done with it). I underwrite life insurance. "Underwrite" is a verb...? Basically, I work for a life insurance company, and when an individual comes in for an insurance policy, he/she needs to be underwritten by me. I look at financial, personal, and medical history, and come up with an appropriate rating. I know how to read bloodwork, and I get to spend all day lookin' at everyone's dirty laundry. This actually makes me pretty happy. I would say that a part of me does identify myself as an underwriter...I like to go to underwriting conferences and I like to engage in conversations about underwriting-related things (also, they usually serve steak and alcohol!), but Jeremy's rambling, coupled with the fact that I am now in a job that I probably won't be leaving any time soon, got me thinking about what the jobs we've have done to shape the people we've become.
I've known former waiters who are extremely uptight about the service they get in restaurants because they understand proper procedures and etiquette. My friend Matt goes nuts when I forget to tip in Starbucks because of the time he spent as a "barista." My own curse is that I am a retail-escapee, therefore I know my Retail Rights as a customer. Shopping would be so much easier if I were still one of the ignorant masses...
Other jobs I've had include being the receptionist at a Catholic Church on the Upper East Side, being a live-in nanny out in Great Neck, Long Island, and working as a trained tutor in my former university's Writing Center. Now I will regale you with a brief synopsis of the life lessons I've gathered from my own job experience.
From NANNYING I learned:
1. Never, EVER, fail to appreciate people whose job it is to provide service. Being a hired staff member of a wealthy family was a sobering experience. From Monday at 9 am to Friday at 4 pm they owned my time. The family had this maid, Elaine, who was extremely quiet and made herself kind of fade into the woodwork. Over the course of the time I was there, we became friends and I found out how unhappy she was working there (as was I). She is the person who told me to "know when to cry" as she did one night when we were talking. Elaine taught me not just to look at people, but to really see them.
2. Changing dirty diapers is disgusting, but I suspect that it will be slightly easier when I am performing this service for my own kid.
3. You can slather on SPF 45 every day and still get the tan of your life.
4. Never forget to thank the people who prepare your food, clean up after you, and raise your friggin' children.
From TUTORING I learned:
1. People are really sensitive about their writing. If they think they can't do it, it's the most frustrating thing in the world for them, so you have to tread lightly.
2. I will never find a job where I will be paid for doing my own homework again.
3. Learn the difference between making someone rise to the occasion, and simply working them too hard.
From RETAIL I learned:
1. If you behave obnoxiously as a shopper in a store, but the sales people are still gracious to you, it doesn't mean they aren't wishing you will trip and fall on your way out. We'd make customer voodoo dolls, but we're too exhausted at the effort it takes not to roll our eyes for arts and crafts.
2. People have bad days, and often they will transfer their frustration from that bad day to the first helpless person they deal with...often that someone is behind a counter at a store. Please people, squeeze a "stressball" instead or something.
3. Over the years I had a lot of incredibly lovely customers to counterbalance the nightmares. They brought me everything from magazines to chocolate. The most rewarding thing they could have done, however, was to tell my manager how much they enjoyed my service. A lesson for all, if you receive good service in a store, take the time to tell a higher-up, you might seriously help a career form.
4. I love shopping, but that's about the extent of the exposure I like to get to stores. I would rather do almost anything than work in retail again. A shopping addiction does not a retail career make.
From UNDERWRITING I learned:
1. Always C.Y.A. (Cover Your ;O). As a trainee over the past 18 months I've had to get a signature on everything I do for a case because it's a legal document, and I'm a young chickadee. This is part of the reason why I sleep soundly at night: if I ever end up in court, my well-seasoned higher ups will be right there with me.
2. Sometimes fields you try to resist come and find you anyway. My mother is a nurse. Because of this, she always wanted me to be a doctor. Though I viewed biology as perhaps one of the most intensive things a person can study (personal bias), I still felt I lacked the extreme discipline it would take to go to med school and "make it happen." I did my studying, however, made it through AP Bio, but when I got to college I followed my love of words and majored in English. Medicine found me anyway through underwriting. I spend a good deal of my day reading medical shorthand and making sense of terms like "neuropathy" and "hyperlipidemia," and I love it. I decided not to go the med school route, but I still get to explore my fascination with medicine.
3. You can have the greatest, most highest paying job in the world with fat-free, calorie free Godiva chocolate waiting on your desk everyday....it doesn't matter if you don't have wonderful co-workers. I am continually amazed and how I lucked out with my fellow underwriters. Not only do I respect the hell out of them, but the support they've given me has meant a lot to me. Recently I returned to work after weathering an illness that took everything out of me. I was sitting at my desk in front of a huge bag of Saltines and a giant jug of blue Gatorade when some of my coworkers came to chat and check up on me. Soon we were laughing good belly laughs, and I thought to myself "wow, that's the first laugh I've had in a long time....it's really good to be here." Yup, that right there. That's it.
I get what Jeremy, dressed in his priest-y outfit, was trying to say. You can't let the job you have define your entire identity. It is undeniable, however, that we retain valuable experiences from the jobs we've had, and that these experiences seep into our personalities. I say amen, because often placing ourselves into others' shoes through our jobs makes us more sensitive and more patient in our own personal dealings. More sensitivity and patience....yes, the world could definitely benefit from that.
Monday, November 15, 2004
A WORD on Moving: Leaving Home, and Not Leaving Home.
There is this old parable about the girl who went half way across the world to meet the boy next door. I remember it vaguely from my childhood. The story went something like this: there was this girl who was determined that her soulmate was out there, so she left home on this grand adventure to a place far far away to find him. In this place she meets a boy that she's crazy about and it turns out they have a lot in common...down to their address. She lives in Apt 5F, and he lives in Apt 5E.
Well, I cased the island of Manhattan looking for an apartment, and finally found one...in the building opposite from my parents. In the same complex that they live in, and what's more, my mother once lived in this exact apartment when she was single. I am the girl who went searching all over town for the apartment next door.
But all irony aside, yes, I'm moving and it is quite official. In exchange for poverty, I will finally be able to hear my own thoughts, under my own roof.
My impending date-of-habitation has given me the opportunity to participate in something every Virgo loves more than Christmas: the opportunity to organize organize ORGANIZE!!!! That is how I recently spent my Saturday. And in doing this I had the chance to experience something quite unexpected: my life in the past year and a half was literally paraded before my eyes.
Now I have to talk about my friend Don. Don once told me that in the first year out of college and into the adult world, you become the person you are ultimately going to be. Whoa! No pressure there. There is also another point in mentioning Don. This might be hard to believe, but sometimes I tend to whine a bit when I'm stressed out, or things aren't going my way. Don, in particular, has reminded me more than once that I lead a fantastic life. And sometimes I do need reminding.
Saturday was interesting. Around my parents' apartment I went, waltzing with a giant trash bag. I took no prisoners. But when I say I literally relived the past year and a half, I mean it. In the course of the Great Clean, I found movie stubs to every movie I went to, and with each one I remembered what time of year it was and who I went with. I found programs to the Philharmonic and Shakespeare in the Park. I found the Broadway Playbills I've amassed over the past year. I found photographs of my vacation to Fort Lauderdale, and my comical New Hampshire mountain climb in July. I found receipts....carefully thought out gifts that I bought for people who are no longer in my life, and the gifts that in turn gave me. And the whole time, I was gradually realizing that it's been a year of healing, and growth, and regrowing, and living.
Now, I don't want to sound shallow. Remember, I do volunteer...but I also got to see where my shopping over the past year has gotten me. I held up many a dress or top on Saturday exclaiming "ooohh! I looooovvveee this." Part of the fun of cleaning is finding the things you forgot you had.
And speaking of finding the things I forgot I had, I guess I found evidence of the person I will ultimately be, and I was glad. Now I'm going to move her across the way!
Well, I cased the island of Manhattan looking for an apartment, and finally found one...in the building opposite from my parents. In the same complex that they live in, and what's more, my mother once lived in this exact apartment when she was single. I am the girl who went searching all over town for the apartment next door.
But all irony aside, yes, I'm moving and it is quite official. In exchange for poverty, I will finally be able to hear my own thoughts, under my own roof.
My impending date-of-habitation has given me the opportunity to participate in something every Virgo loves more than Christmas: the opportunity to organize organize ORGANIZE!!!! That is how I recently spent my Saturday. And in doing this I had the chance to experience something quite unexpected: my life in the past year and a half was literally paraded before my eyes.
Now I have to talk about my friend Don. Don once told me that in the first year out of college and into the adult world, you become the person you are ultimately going to be. Whoa! No pressure there. There is also another point in mentioning Don. This might be hard to believe, but sometimes I tend to whine a bit when I'm stressed out, or things aren't going my way. Don, in particular, has reminded me more than once that I lead a fantastic life. And sometimes I do need reminding.
Saturday was interesting. Around my parents' apartment I went, waltzing with a giant trash bag. I took no prisoners. But when I say I literally relived the past year and a half, I mean it. In the course of the Great Clean, I found movie stubs to every movie I went to, and with each one I remembered what time of year it was and who I went with. I found programs to the Philharmonic and Shakespeare in the Park. I found the Broadway Playbills I've amassed over the past year. I found photographs of my vacation to Fort Lauderdale, and my comical New Hampshire mountain climb in July. I found receipts....carefully thought out gifts that I bought for people who are no longer in my life, and the gifts that in turn gave me. And the whole time, I was gradually realizing that it's been a year of healing, and growth, and regrowing, and living.
Now, I don't want to sound shallow. Remember, I do volunteer...but I also got to see where my shopping over the past year has gotten me. I held up many a dress or top on Saturday exclaiming "ooohh! I looooovvveee this." Part of the fun of cleaning is finding the things you forgot you had.
And speaking of finding the things I forgot I had, I guess I found evidence of the person I will ultimately be, and I was glad. Now I'm going to move her across the way!
Sunday, November 07, 2004
WHAT Mary's Been: A Watergirl at the New York City Marathon
If I had to limit who I am to one-word terms, these are the three labels I would probably choose for myself: a life insurance underwriter (that is my profession), a singer (am celebrating 15 years as a "music-hobbyist" and am currently preparing for another concert in a month), and a writer (yes, that is really what I'm attempting to do here, believe it or not).
Once in a great while I get the opportunity to stray from the roles I've adopted and, just for a couple of hours, I get to take on a new "occupation" (which is almost always volunteer). For example, last March I had the opportunity to be one of the pledge-takers working diligently away answering phones for a Channel Thirteen pledge drive. For a few hours, I was a member of the television industry, and it was an incredible night because PBS made more than $250,000, which broke a record. Today, I got to take advantage of another incredible opportunity: being a water-girl at Mile 16 of the New York City Marathon.
When my friend Victoria presented this opportunity to me back in early September, it was a little hard to wrap my head around what we'd actually be doing. Vic lives around the corner from Mile 16...the famous site on the route which is right off the 59th Street Bridge. Since the Marathon is run in all five boroughs, the 59th Street Bridge marks the runners' first entry into Manhattan. As a side note, this morning, when my other friend Leah (who also participated) was asking what was so special about Mile 16, I replied that it's a scene of great revelry as the runners enter Manhattan...which is nothing new because most people feel like celebrating everytime they leave Queens and enter Manhattan (sorry! sorry! hideously snobby thing to say...and to go on to actually write, but we all know I have a wicked streak).
ALL cheap shots aside, this morning I rolled out of bed a mere 15 minutes later than I would normally sleep on a week day, and found myself on First Avenue, wearing a Pine-Tree Green windbreaker with a huge "POLAND SPRING" printed on the back, and a badge around my neck that said "marathon staff." Our first task was actually something I found oddly therapeutic: taking a million wax paper cups, sheets of cardboard, and perhaps the greatest number of gallon jugs of water ever assembled in one place, and creating a giant water tower...four layers tall, on long, varnished tables. It was my job to pour the water in the cups before the wind could blow them away. It felt great...getting to grapple with the wind and overcoming it after only a few minor spills...also my right arm (which held the jug) took advantage of the odd toning-opportunity.
The Tower of Water completed, we focused on getting ready to welcome the runners in other ways. We were given these giant orange "rooters" which are long tubes that you blow up, and when you slam them together, they make a racket....and I mean come on, they are big, and plastic, and orange, so it goes without saying that you have an automatic party where these contraptions are concerned. Amongst my group of friends, we also found an essential use for these rooters: 'thwapping each other with them. Thus, the therapeutic activities continued.
We got to put the rooters to good use, however, when the first athletes started coming through...all of these athletes were very special because none of them had the use of their legs, so they were travelling on special racers powered exclusively by their upper body. It was beautiful, really, to see these athletes compete and to keep in mind the example they were showing: that we must work with what we are given, but even when something that devastating happens to you, things like marathons are still possible with a lot of hard work and the right attitude.
Following the special athletes, the Elite Runners started coming through. These are the people that I have watched the marathon on television for every year since the seventh grade. They fascinate me because they typically complete this monmouth race in under two and a half hours. To me, that's heroic. I learned today that these heroes didn't seem to need all that much water, because here we all were, in a line of 60 people on First Avenue, holding out water, hoping...HOPING that one of these Olympians would choose our cup (and also that we wouldn't drop it, causing them to trip, and lose the race). There certainly weren't many takers at first.
But once the other 29,750 runners started coming through, we started going through cups rapidly. I also discovered the REAL reason why I'd gotten out of bed so freakishly early on a Sunday: male marathon runners err on the "cute" to the "Oh My Lord, I've Forgotten My Own Name He's So Gorgeous" side. Delivering much needed hydration to these adonis-es? Um. Yeah. I can do that. Furthermore, we were told before the start of the race that many runners typically displayed their names on their shirts, and when we saw this we were encouraged to cheer them by name. Delivering much needed hydration to athletic adonis-es...AND having a mandate to HOOT at them?! Again....
Leaving my blatantly PI sexual harassment aside, Vic and I cheered everyone, irregardless of whether we wanted their phone numbers. Some people were serious about it and just kept on going (heck, I would, you are pretty vulnerable by your 16th mile of running), but many smiled...and I mean real, genuine "aw shucks, go on!" smiles, and some even sped up once they heard us yelling things like "Lookin' good, Emma!!!!" I also had a lot of French runners taking my cups...which I think is a good sign because I've been dying to go back to Paris on vacation (I got to visit Paree for two and a half days on a high school tour and fell a petit bit in love with it), but with the recent election I was thinking of postponing until there's a president in the White House who can rub two braincells together (yup, went there, BRING it!!!). However, now, who knows, I might go, being careful to state that I'm "from New York City."
Two keen observations that Vic and I had, as we recapped the experience: 1) we are both damn tired, and this is humbling, considering the exhaustion we feel is NOTHING compared to those wonderful runners. 2) these athletes were in a zone today...completing something they'd trained for VERY hard, yet many of them still took the time to thank us for handing them water. Some even thanked us for being there. Being able to come out and help out my heroes today involved no disillusionment. Though they were sweat-drenched, haggard, and just trying to keep on going, they still displayed unprecedented class.
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
Once in a great while I get the opportunity to stray from the roles I've adopted and, just for a couple of hours, I get to take on a new "occupation" (which is almost always volunteer). For example, last March I had the opportunity to be one of the pledge-takers working diligently away answering phones for a Channel Thirteen pledge drive. For a few hours, I was a member of the television industry, and it was an incredible night because PBS made more than $250,000, which broke a record. Today, I got to take advantage of another incredible opportunity: being a water-girl at Mile 16 of the New York City Marathon.
When my friend Victoria presented this opportunity to me back in early September, it was a little hard to wrap my head around what we'd actually be doing. Vic lives around the corner from Mile 16...the famous site on the route which is right off the 59th Street Bridge. Since the Marathon is run in all five boroughs, the 59th Street Bridge marks the runners' first entry into Manhattan. As a side note, this morning, when my other friend Leah (who also participated) was asking what was so special about Mile 16, I replied that it's a scene of great revelry as the runners enter Manhattan...which is nothing new because most people feel like celebrating everytime they leave Queens and enter Manhattan (sorry! sorry! hideously snobby thing to say...and to go on to actually write, but we all know I have a wicked streak).
ALL cheap shots aside, this morning I rolled out of bed a mere 15 minutes later than I would normally sleep on a week day, and found myself on First Avenue, wearing a Pine-Tree Green windbreaker with a huge "POLAND SPRING" printed on the back, and a badge around my neck that said "marathon staff." Our first task was actually something I found oddly therapeutic: taking a million wax paper cups, sheets of cardboard, and perhaps the greatest number of gallon jugs of water ever assembled in one place, and creating a giant water tower...four layers tall, on long, varnished tables. It was my job to pour the water in the cups before the wind could blow them away. It felt great...getting to grapple with the wind and overcoming it after only a few minor spills...also my right arm (which held the jug) took advantage of the odd toning-opportunity.
The Tower of Water completed, we focused on getting ready to welcome the runners in other ways. We were given these giant orange "rooters" which are long tubes that you blow up, and when you slam them together, they make a racket....and I mean come on, they are big, and plastic, and orange, so it goes without saying that you have an automatic party where these contraptions are concerned. Amongst my group of friends, we also found an essential use for these rooters: 'thwapping each other with them. Thus, the therapeutic activities continued.
We got to put the rooters to good use, however, when the first athletes started coming through...all of these athletes were very special because none of them had the use of their legs, so they were travelling on special racers powered exclusively by their upper body. It was beautiful, really, to see these athletes compete and to keep in mind the example they were showing: that we must work with what we are given, but even when something that devastating happens to you, things like marathons are still possible with a lot of hard work and the right attitude.
Following the special athletes, the Elite Runners started coming through. These are the people that I have watched the marathon on television for every year since the seventh grade. They fascinate me because they typically complete this monmouth race in under two and a half hours. To me, that's heroic. I learned today that these heroes didn't seem to need all that much water, because here we all were, in a line of 60 people on First Avenue, holding out water, hoping...HOPING that one of these Olympians would choose our cup (and also that we wouldn't drop it, causing them to trip, and lose the race). There certainly weren't many takers at first.
But once the other 29,750 runners started coming through, we started going through cups rapidly. I also discovered the REAL reason why I'd gotten out of bed so freakishly early on a Sunday: male marathon runners err on the "cute" to the "Oh My Lord, I've Forgotten My Own Name He's So Gorgeous" side. Delivering much needed hydration to these adonis-es? Um. Yeah. I can do that. Furthermore, we were told before the start of the race that many runners typically displayed their names on their shirts, and when we saw this we were encouraged to cheer them by name. Delivering much needed hydration to athletic adonis-es...AND having a mandate to HOOT at them?! Again....
Leaving my blatantly PI sexual harassment aside, Vic and I cheered everyone, irregardless of whether we wanted their phone numbers. Some people were serious about it and just kept on going (heck, I would, you are pretty vulnerable by your 16th mile of running), but many smiled...and I mean real, genuine "aw shucks, go on!" smiles, and some even sped up once they heard us yelling things like "Lookin' good, Emma!!!!" I also had a lot of French runners taking my cups...which I think is a good sign because I've been dying to go back to Paris on vacation (I got to visit Paree for two and a half days on a high school tour and fell a petit bit in love with it), but with the recent election I was thinking of postponing until there's a president in the White House who can rub two braincells together (yup, went there, BRING it!!!). However, now, who knows, I might go, being careful to state that I'm "from New York City."
Two keen observations that Vic and I had, as we recapped the experience: 1) we are both damn tired, and this is humbling, considering the exhaustion we feel is NOTHING compared to those wonderful runners. 2) these athletes were in a zone today...completing something they'd trained for VERY hard, yet many of them still took the time to thank us for handing them water. Some even thanked us for being there. Being able to come out and help out my heroes today involved no disillusionment. Though they were sweat-drenched, haggard, and just trying to keep on going, they still displayed unprecedented class.
CONGRATULATIONS!!!
Tuesday, October 26, 2004
A WORD on "Friend-Abuse": Your Friends Are Not There to "Use and Abuse"
So by now many of you know that I have a "substance abuse" problem, only my issue is not pot or crack. It's hard to admit, but I'm dreadfully addicted to 'Sex and the City.' A particular episode that has always stuck in my mind was near the end of the second season. Carrie sends Big packing for the second time (he tells her not to move to France just for him, and in response she throws McDonald's all over his kitchen...). The episode that follows is Carrie in the wake of her second "'Big' Fallout." All over town she goes, yammering to Miranda, or Charlotte, or Samantha about what a "commitment phobe" Big was, and how he will die alone and she will naturally go on to Greater Fabulousness. It's important to pause here and note that I love Carrie Bradshaw. No viewer could be prouder of her little Carrie-la. That said, I'll be the first to admit that Miss B was not her finest in this episode...and that is precisely the point. Carrie's friends let her go on until she runs out of air, and then stage an intervention-like encounter in which they tell her they are "cutting her off" and will she please find a therapist that she can tell all of this stuff to, for godsake?!?! That episode has always stuck with me because it was so clear that Charlotte, Miranda, and Samantha had all reached their limit. Throughout the years that followed, they always gave Carrie a hard time whenever she brought up Big. I'll even give you an example...in the very last season Carrie mentions that Big's in town for a "little heart thing" and Miranda replies "what? is he on the wait-list to get one?." Yee-ouch. In my own life, as I powered-off the DVD player and stepped out into the world to actually live one, I have noted similar themes to the one depicted in this episode. Friendship is one of the most important things that can be bestowed upon us. It's more important than how much money we make, or the job we have. But even so, friends have their breaking points, and respecting that is one of the wisest things you can do. This fact is especially true when it comes to navigating the world of love and relationships...a world that is so utterly confusing (and even dangerous) that you should damn-well want some people you trust trudging through along with you. We are like explorers as we grow older and wiser. Marco Polo discovered how to get to the Pacific by going West, not East....we discover that finding love is as much about learning to love ourselves as it is another person. But the point is that, as we travel along together, we are supposed to learn. Our friends will watch us touch fire, get horribly burnt, and help us heal. But after the burns have healed if we keep going after the fire...friends have the right to become a little peeved. I think that the mark of becoming a real thinking and feeling person is to have survived an encounter with a person who is absolutely not good for them. Come on, we all have one (I think I have five, ha ha) person that at one point consumed our thoughts, but in the end was just plain bad for us (think: human arsenic). However, it's how we get out of these situations that defines what kind of person we ultimately become. It's Relationship Darwinism...only the strong survive. Our friends serve as vital barometers to let us know when the breaking point has been reached and the pipe has officially burst. The fact is that if you are telling your friends relationship horror stories, they are going to reach a point, one by one, where they "blacklist" your Romeo, no matter how much you whine that it's "not like that...." After awhile your beloved friends are your gatekeepers because they remember why you are supposed to keep away from specific people. You insure your heart through your friends. You entrust vital and bitter memories to them, and they repeat them back to you just when you're about to throw yourself back on the coals. Once a guy has been blacklisted he'll have to go to INSANE lengths to win back the approval of your friends...use all his savings to find the cure for cancer, spend a year doing Outward Bound in Nicaragua, or (in the world of HBO) hightail it to Paris to rescue our dear girl from the grips of a neglectful Russian man. This revered relationship is not one to be toyed with. Friend abuse, as seen in SATC, is a real thing. Friends are allowed to get frustrated when you clearly have not learned from past mistakes and they are even allowed to show you tough love by cutting you off. I've been on the Gatekeeper side as well, and let me tell you, there are a lot of fantastic ladies out there who are not being done right by. While this is lamentable, it's also highly frustrating when a friend refuses to see that her time is better spent elsewhere. But I have no intention of turning this entry into a bash-the-men-a-thon. I will only say that treating these matters with patience is perhaps the kindest thing we can do for each other. In the episode I began this entry by describing, Carrie follows her friends' advice, goes for therapy, gets involved with another patient and the affair ends with phenomenal awkwardness. Her friends restore their support, recognizing that she is trying to get on with her life, and has gotten dealt a lousy hand once again. To conclude I will also allow that many times you know what is best for yourself. However, if you are going to go toddling after someone whose photo your friends have pinned on a dart board (based on historical reasons), you better be prepared to keep your mouth shut about it. And really, what fun is that? Don't cheat on your friends because it usually means that you are also cheating yourself.
Monday, October 25, 2004
A WORD on Why I Hang Out With Kids A Lot.
Last month I celebrated an anniversary. September of 2004 marked five years since I've been volunteering with children, and when I realized this I knew it was time to reflect.
Growing up as an only children your two "mostly companions" are automatically Mom and Dad. Thus, as a child growing up in 1980s New York City, the most exposure I had to other children was limited to the occasional fleeting friend made after an hour spent in the sandbox at Washington Square Park. I was a five year old with an abnormally extensive vocabulary and an innate sense that all that was good and decent in the world began and ended with The New York Times.
So now you get it. Mary's need to work with children stems from a need to reclaim her childhood, which was completely devoid of people who were less than five feet tall.
Nope. Although that excuse would probably hold up in court. And I certainly want to try to have more than one child in my own fairy-dusted vision of the family I someday hope to create.
But before delving deeper, I'll bring this entry up to speed. In September of 1999, as a freshman at Fairfield U, I was attracted to Campus Ministry by a group called The Sunshine Kids. Sunshine Kids was (well, is) a play therapy group that meets in Bridgeport, CT every Thursday afternoon. The kids there all share two essential common bonds: They all live in Bridgeport, which is perhaps the most poverty-striken city in Connecticut. And they all have a parent or grandparent suffering from the HIV virus. The fact that their family members were sick was never the focus of the group, however. Due to confidentiality issues, we never even spoke about it with them. The purpose of the group was fellowship, and also to get the kids off the street between 3 and 6 at least one day a week (the most fatal hours for young children, I would later learn). Looking back on all those Thursday afternoons, I wouldn't trade a single one, but oh...that first year.
Kids are loud. Really really loud. And their hands are sticky. Also, they often do precisely what they are told not to do. As a nineteen year old college freshman who was fresh out of an all girls college prep highschool where you were fined for chewing gum, I was completely out of my element. I hadn't the foggiest notion of what to do with these children, and to be honest, they weren't entirely aware of what to do with me. There were little moments of triumph amidst all the chaos, though. I found I was really useful at the crafts table, and volunteered to try and coordinate some projects. Still, I didn't feel like I was making one bit of difference other than doling out scotch tape and tacky-glue.
I had already decided that I had given it a fair enough shot and wouldn't be returning for sophomore year when I was asked not only to return, but to take on a role as one of the leaders of the volunteers. Were they nuts?! I guess my usefulness at the crafts table had gotten me into this mess, and I didn't have the heart to tell them no. So suddenly not only was I a Sunshine Kids volunteer, I had an obligation and a contract.
I walked up to that door on the first day of volunteering sophomore year with a knot in my stomach. "What the hell was I doing back here?!" That's when I learned something I'd never known about children: they value consistency. The kids approached us, excited, but particularly excited to see some faces they recognized. I can still hear one of the girls exclaiming "Hey! You were here LAST year!!" as she threw herself into my arms. Here were older people who had gone away for a long summer with their experience and hadn't gotten distracted enough to forget about them. I ended up spending four years with these kids. During this time some of them grew into teenagers, some grew from babies into little people. Many crafts projects were done, basketballs dribbled, spills wiped, and piggyback rides given. They helped me let go of my 'bad' pride ("oh my lord, your hand is covered in frosting and you just gave me a high-five....") and replaced it with a deeper sense of dignity that comes from realizing that it hardly ever is all about me. Moreover I realized that the more time you invest on a person, the greater the rewards you reap. Four years. At the time that I left, I had been present in those childrens' lives for a staggering percentage of their total lives.
Leaving Connecticut and college life to return home to the City and to a job in an office didn't mean that working with children was something I had to leave behind me. I just started my second year as a Big Sister for Big Brothers Big Sisters today. My new Little is Ahlaysha. She is an only-child Virgo like me, and boy is she quiet, but getting her to open up is all the more rewarding. My reflections on BB/BS have yet to fully mature. But, as in my Sunshine days, I've learned that persistency is the key to making my experience worthwhile.
This finally gets me to my original point: What on earth has kept me doing this for so long? I guess the best way to put it is to say that I'm continuing a legacy. It is entirely fitting for me to have had my first day of Big Brothers Big Sisters today because it is also my Aunt Barbara's birthday. My aunt was a nun who spent her career in education as the principal of a series of inner city schools. She had a shot at positions in suburban schools plenty of times, but she always refused them because the inner city was where she wanted to be. Last Wednesday marked six years since she passed away at age 55 of cancer. What it comes down to is that she was taken much too early from us, and though it's been six years since I last had a conversation with her, I'm closer to her now because I do work that she loved and I understand why she loved it. So Aunt Barb, before my readers, this is my memorial to you. And I can't thank you enough for the motivation.
Growing up as an only children your two "mostly companions" are automatically Mom and Dad. Thus, as a child growing up in 1980s New York City, the most exposure I had to other children was limited to the occasional fleeting friend made after an hour spent in the sandbox at Washington Square Park. I was a five year old with an abnormally extensive vocabulary and an innate sense that all that was good and decent in the world began and ended with The New York Times.
So now you get it. Mary's need to work with children stems from a need to reclaim her childhood, which was completely devoid of people who were less than five feet tall.
Nope. Although that excuse would probably hold up in court. And I certainly want to try to have more than one child in my own fairy-dusted vision of the family I someday hope to create.
But before delving deeper, I'll bring this entry up to speed. In September of 1999, as a freshman at Fairfield U, I was attracted to Campus Ministry by a group called The Sunshine Kids. Sunshine Kids was (well, is) a play therapy group that meets in Bridgeport, CT every Thursday afternoon. The kids there all share two essential common bonds: They all live in Bridgeport, which is perhaps the most poverty-striken city in Connecticut. And they all have a parent or grandparent suffering from the HIV virus. The fact that their family members were sick was never the focus of the group, however. Due to confidentiality issues, we never even spoke about it with them. The purpose of the group was fellowship, and also to get the kids off the street between 3 and 6 at least one day a week (the most fatal hours for young children, I would later learn). Looking back on all those Thursday afternoons, I wouldn't trade a single one, but oh...that first year.
Kids are loud. Really really loud. And their hands are sticky. Also, they often do precisely what they are told not to do. As a nineteen year old college freshman who was fresh out of an all girls college prep highschool where you were fined for chewing gum, I was completely out of my element. I hadn't the foggiest notion of what to do with these children, and to be honest, they weren't entirely aware of what to do with me. There were little moments of triumph amidst all the chaos, though. I found I was really useful at the crafts table, and volunteered to try and coordinate some projects. Still, I didn't feel like I was making one bit of difference other than doling out scotch tape and tacky-glue.
I had already decided that I had given it a fair enough shot and wouldn't be returning for sophomore year when I was asked not only to return, but to take on a role as one of the leaders of the volunteers. Were they nuts?! I guess my usefulness at the crafts table had gotten me into this mess, and I didn't have the heart to tell them no. So suddenly not only was I a Sunshine Kids volunteer, I had an obligation and a contract.
I walked up to that door on the first day of volunteering sophomore year with a knot in my stomach. "What the hell was I doing back here?!" That's when I learned something I'd never known about children: they value consistency. The kids approached us, excited, but particularly excited to see some faces they recognized. I can still hear one of the girls exclaiming "Hey! You were here LAST year!!" as she threw herself into my arms. Here were older people who had gone away for a long summer with their experience and hadn't gotten distracted enough to forget about them. I ended up spending four years with these kids. During this time some of them grew into teenagers, some grew from babies into little people. Many crafts projects were done, basketballs dribbled, spills wiped, and piggyback rides given. They helped me let go of my 'bad' pride ("oh my lord, your hand is covered in frosting and you just gave me a high-five....") and replaced it with a deeper sense of dignity that comes from realizing that it hardly ever is all about me. Moreover I realized that the more time you invest on a person, the greater the rewards you reap. Four years. At the time that I left, I had been present in those childrens' lives for a staggering percentage of their total lives.
Leaving Connecticut and college life to return home to the City and to a job in an office didn't mean that working with children was something I had to leave behind me. I just started my second year as a Big Sister for Big Brothers Big Sisters today. My new Little is Ahlaysha. She is an only-child Virgo like me, and boy is she quiet, but getting her to open up is all the more rewarding. My reflections on BB/BS have yet to fully mature. But, as in my Sunshine days, I've learned that persistency is the key to making my experience worthwhile.
This finally gets me to my original point: What on earth has kept me doing this for so long? I guess the best way to put it is to say that I'm continuing a legacy. It is entirely fitting for me to have had my first day of Big Brothers Big Sisters today because it is also my Aunt Barbara's birthday. My aunt was a nun who spent her career in education as the principal of a series of inner city schools. She had a shot at positions in suburban schools plenty of times, but she always refused them because the inner city was where she wanted to be. Last Wednesday marked six years since she passed away at age 55 of cancer. What it comes down to is that she was taken much too early from us, and though it's been six years since I last had a conversation with her, I'm closer to her now because I do work that she loved and I understand why she loved it. So Aunt Barb, before my readers, this is my memorial to you. And I can't thank you enough for the motivation.
Monday, October 11, 2004
A WORD on "Forks" and Not the Kind You Eat With...
In an excerpt from perhaps his most famous poem, Robert Frost writes: "Two roads diverged in the woods, and I took the one less traveled by, and that has made all the difference." Alright, never fear people. I just stepped down from my intellectual-high-horse. I will share with you, however, that I have always loved that quote because it speaks to the decisions we make, some trivial...and some enormous, and the resounding effect that these choices can have on our lives. I also thought about two of my favorite movies, "Sliding Doors" and "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," which both explore the idea that a lot of what happens to us in our lives inevitable, no matter how much we try to prevent it. Are our lives defined by the "forks" we encounter in the road? Sometimes it certainly seems that way. I think we can all describe times in our lives when there was a major CHOICE bearing down on us. My first real experience with a "fork" was at the end of my freshman year of college. In my search for a summer job, I received two offers which were as different as night and day. The first job was an internship in the Mayor's Office for People with Disabilities, the other was as a Customer Service Rep at Tiffany and Co. I still remember sitting in the student lounge of my dorm with my friend, Marisa, while she helped me mull over the decision I was facing. I chose Tiffany, and went on to learn a great deal there...but a part of me feels that my life would have taken a much different turn if I'd set up camp at Mayor Giuliani's. Is there any point in wondering what might have been? Probably not. But at my present point in life, if I were living in the world of the movies where characters can be catapulted back in time to find out what would have happened if they'd made the other choice...I would definitely choose to see what would have happened if I hadn't chosen Tiffany. In some ways, I can't imagine it at all, and I think that's why it puts my imagination into overdrive. Though my time tying Tiffany bows has ended, the choice to work there effects my life to this day...My senior year of college, when I was looking for a "career," I happened to submit my resume to a famous NYC company I had heard of in passing. The thing is that the person who ended up contacting me from that company is someone I had heard of in more than just passing. The person who had hired me as a college freshman for my job at Tiffany was now the HR representative in charge of recruiting for this company....the company for which I now happily work. The "fork" that led me to Tiffany diverged again, and my life is (thankfully) as it is now. But job-schmob, let's talk about the fun stuff! What about the forks we encounter in love? Sorry to disappoint you, but I have never been caught in the crossfire between two men who were willing to rip each other to shreds for my heart. At least not to my knowledge (har har). What I think the movies explores is the concept that, sometimes, no matter how much two people try to fight it, fate throws them together. Take Gwenyth Paltrow in "Sliding Doors," the movie follows her through two different scenarios. In one, she catches her train, comes home and finds her lousy boyfriend cheating on her, makes him grovel, starts her own company and meets a wonderful guy named James. In the other scenario, she misses her train, gets mugged, never catches lousy boyfriend (who continues to cheat!) and ends up miserable. The only problem is that in the first scenario (with James), she dies, and that sucks. But ahhh, in the scenario in which she's seemingly miserable, she ends up meeting James anyway after dumping Lousy Boyfriend after a much longer tenure than he deserved. Then there's the movie I love more than life itself. "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind," which I could literally sit and talk about for hours because there are so many ways to read it. I guess the message that it sends is that it's a good thing we can't erase people from our minds because even the pain that they put us through is invaluable. I also find it amazing that even though the mind erasing worked, Joel and Clem found each other again... Sometimes the diverging roads in our lives bring us to the same destination, no matter which fork we take. Forks are simply a synonym for the free will that we have in our lives. They are a way in which we take control over our own destinies. As the movies have proven to us, however, sometimes destiny overrides the decisions we oh-so-carefully make. So I guess the "moral" of this posting is not to sweat too badly over the "forks" because sometimes whatever will be, will be, and it's not worth all the antacid. As my friend Gabrielle said when I told her what I was writing about: "I hate forks. I like spoons. They're smoother."
Where Mary's Been: Jacques-Imo's
Where: 77th and Columbus What You'll Find: For those of us lucky enough to have ever been to New Orleans, Jacques-Imo's is a little outpost of NOLA right on the Upper West Side. And "outpost" is not a misnomer, the original restaurant actually exists in New Orleans (I'm assuming in the French Quarter). Anyway, here you will dine on authentic cuisine surrounded by the paraphernalia that is quintessentially associated with the birthplace of Jazz...voo doo dolls, Mardi Gras beads, and for some reason each table had a "Santa Clara" prayer candle on it. I'm sure I'll find out, by the by, that Santa Clara is the patron saint of New Orleans, or something. Wore: Dark jeans, black turtleneck, tweed bag. What? You were expecting hoop skirts with a matching parasol? Need to Visit an ATM on a scale from One to Ten: Seven, apparently, since I still owe some money for this delightful meal. You Should Have: The alligator cheesecake, which is an appetizer, not a dessert. Tastes kind of like chicken. In all seriousness, it is probably the most interesting thing I've eaten in awhile. Rambling: This was the perfect place to unwind after a week of three hours of training per day at work, losing a co-worker to an abrupt termination (that's my nice term for being "fired"), all the while continuing to pound the pavement on the apartment search. The fun atmosphere, much like NOLA itself, ensured that belly-laughs would be had by all. It was the perfect place for a gal I like to call "Drunk-Bitchy Mary" to come out. I like her a lot, she's fun. Jacques-Imo's made me happy...and that's all there is to it.
Tuesday, September 28, 2004
A Word from the Battlefield of Manhattan Real Estate
Once upon a time a person named Mary was born on a Monday morning on the fifth floor of Beth Israel Hospital in Gramercy Park, in the city of Manhattan, in the State of New York, USA, the World.
She was brought home to an apartment in Greenwich Village where her parents had been living. Years passed and she began to walk, lost her first tooth, learned to read, went to school, and before anyone knew it, she had a bachelor's degree. She lived in the city during the rough and tumble 1980s, when graffitti was all over everything, even the trees, and she still remembers the huge celebration for the Statue of Liberty's 100th birthday. She was a student in the public school system during the asbestos crisis of the 1990s and she was there when a man named Giuliani came to town and seemed to make all things better. The twenty first century cast a shadow over old New York, and she still aches for the lost towers of the World Trade Center. Through it all, one thing was certain. The city was more than Mary's home, it was her birthright. And when she finally decided it was time to live in it on her own, well, it should have been a joyous situation. You're still reading? Good. I'll stop writing about myself in the third person because I know it's irritating you. I write to you from a shelter in the bitter wasteland that is the War of Manhattan Real Estate. I have embarked on an intrepid task: to find a decent sized apartment that I love with a budget that is more than I EVER imagined I'd be saying I would pay. You'd think the sky would be the limit for me. My friends: this is not the case. I have been to the battlefield, and the sight...it is not pretty. Apartment hunting is like dating. They say when you see the apartment you're supposed to live in, you just know. It's love at first sight. Well, I can sum up my experience thus far with this metaphor: I'm at the single's bar and I've got a lot going for myself and I'm all gussied up. So far all I have found are the toothless, jobless, 55 year old psychopaths with Attention Deficit Disorder. In other words, I've been in hallways that smell like everything from 'elderly person' to outright 'toilet.' I've ridden shoddy elevators, praying for my life, as they rumbled and jumbled up to 8 foot by 10 foot apartments. Yes. You read correctly. Eight-feet-by-ten-feet. You could fit a whole lot of nothin' into eight feet by ten feet. Actually, my parent's living room rug would be too BIG to cover the floor of this apartment. Lately, though, the hunt seems to be getting better. Today I saw an apartment that didn't completely suck, but the neighborhood made me a little lonely. It's like that guy that seems to be into you, and he's wide open and available and begging you to give him a shot, but at the end of the day the two of you somehow just don't fit. The ironic thing about all this is that I've given up dating while on this search. I literally do not have time to put up with a guy right now. As was recently heard coming from my mouth: "The only guys I'm interested in at the present are guys with keys to apartments that don't remind me of my parent's coat closet." And I've been using my double X chromosome status to its full advantage. Don't tell anyone this, but if I know I'm going to go meet with a male broker I'll add an extra coat of lip gloss and dust off the push-up bra. This ploy has met with reasonable success thus far (although still no apartment). One broker magically produced free passes to the New York Health and Racquet Club after I flashed my pearly whites. Another broker kept telling me how nice I looked, asked what my sign was, and dragged me to lunch and Starbucks while we were on our fruitless journey. And it was a fruitless journey. I'm almost ready to break up with him, but he hasn't had the chance to show me Tudor City. I haven't figured out a tactic for female brokers yet, but I suspect that going in armed with enormous bars of chocolate would be a wise strategy. The other thing, as you might have already noted, is that I'm cheating on all my brokers and they all think I only have eyes for them. But to extend the metaphor further (why not!), my friend Leah is credited with noting "If you can't get what you're looking for from one man..." And so the war continues, battle by battle. Some people fight wars with guns, I fight them with dating paraphrenalia: lipstick, Godiva, curling irons, credentials, and wily charm. And as in dating, I usually end up back at home with Mom and Dad, curled into the fetal position and sucking my thumb.
She was brought home to an apartment in Greenwich Village where her parents had been living. Years passed and she began to walk, lost her first tooth, learned to read, went to school, and before anyone knew it, she had a bachelor's degree. She lived in the city during the rough and tumble 1980s, when graffitti was all over everything, even the trees, and she still remembers the huge celebration for the Statue of Liberty's 100th birthday. She was a student in the public school system during the asbestos crisis of the 1990s and she was there when a man named Giuliani came to town and seemed to make all things better. The twenty first century cast a shadow over old New York, and she still aches for the lost towers of the World Trade Center. Through it all, one thing was certain. The city was more than Mary's home, it was her birthright. And when she finally decided it was time to live in it on her own, well, it should have been a joyous situation. You're still reading? Good. I'll stop writing about myself in the third person because I know it's irritating you. I write to you from a shelter in the bitter wasteland that is the War of Manhattan Real Estate. I have embarked on an intrepid task: to find a decent sized apartment that I love with a budget that is more than I EVER imagined I'd be saying I would pay. You'd think the sky would be the limit for me. My friends: this is not the case. I have been to the battlefield, and the sight...it is not pretty. Apartment hunting is like dating. They say when you see the apartment you're supposed to live in, you just know. It's love at first sight. Well, I can sum up my experience thus far with this metaphor: I'm at the single's bar and I've got a lot going for myself and I'm all gussied up. So far all I have found are the toothless, jobless, 55 year old psychopaths with Attention Deficit Disorder. In other words, I've been in hallways that smell like everything from 'elderly person' to outright 'toilet.' I've ridden shoddy elevators, praying for my life, as they rumbled and jumbled up to 8 foot by 10 foot apartments. Yes. You read correctly. Eight-feet-by-ten-feet. You could fit a whole lot of nothin' into eight feet by ten feet. Actually, my parent's living room rug would be too BIG to cover the floor of this apartment. Lately, though, the hunt seems to be getting better. Today I saw an apartment that didn't completely suck, but the neighborhood made me a little lonely. It's like that guy that seems to be into you, and he's wide open and available and begging you to give him a shot, but at the end of the day the two of you somehow just don't fit. The ironic thing about all this is that I've given up dating while on this search. I literally do not have time to put up with a guy right now. As was recently heard coming from my mouth: "The only guys I'm interested in at the present are guys with keys to apartments that don't remind me of my parent's coat closet." And I've been using my double X chromosome status to its full advantage. Don't tell anyone this, but if I know I'm going to go meet with a male broker I'll add an extra coat of lip gloss and dust off the push-up bra. This ploy has met with reasonable success thus far (although still no apartment). One broker magically produced free passes to the New York Health and Racquet Club after I flashed my pearly whites. Another broker kept telling me how nice I looked, asked what my sign was, and dragged me to lunch and Starbucks while we were on our fruitless journey. And it was a fruitless journey. I'm almost ready to break up with him, but he hasn't had the chance to show me Tudor City. I haven't figured out a tactic for female brokers yet, but I suspect that going in armed with enormous bars of chocolate would be a wise strategy. The other thing, as you might have already noted, is that I'm cheating on all my brokers and they all think I only have eyes for them. But to extend the metaphor further (why not!), my friend Leah is credited with noting "If you can't get what you're looking for from one man..." And so the war continues, battle by battle. Some people fight wars with guns, I fight them with dating paraphrenalia: lipstick, Godiva, curling irons, credentials, and wily charm. And as in dating, I usually end up back at home with Mom and Dad, curled into the fetal position and sucking my thumb.
Sunday, September 26, 2004
Where Mary's Been: Il Fornaio/San Gennaro
IL FORNAIO/SAN GENNARO
Where: Il Fornaio: Mulberry Street just off Hester Street. San Gennaro: Mulberry Street stretching between Houston and Canal Streets.
What You'll Find:
Il Fornaio is an unpretentious, cute little restaurant in the heart of Little Italy with staff that is delighted that you have chosen their establishment. This was my second visit and I have decided that I adore the host...an older Italian gentlemen with a thick head of hair and a mustache. He treated us like family.
San Gennaro is this wonderful festival/carnival that takes place along the stretch of Mulberry Street every September. There are current debates among us as to whether San Gennaro takes place for merely a week or two, or the whole month. I am from the camp that thinks it's a month. We are still awaiting a definitive answer pending research. Anyway, what you'll find at San Gennaro is kitschy carnival games, like a dunking booth and water gun races. Opportunities to win giant stuffed animals that are composed mostly of foam also abound.
Wore: black turtleneck, bubblegum pink courdoroys, Reeboks. Channeling: my ex-roommate Jessica.
Need to visit an ATM on a scale from 1 to 10: 6, it's San Gennaro so you really should do it up. Afterall, it's kinda like Christmas: it only comes once a year.
You Should Have: Il Fornaio: the calamari (like Buttah!) and the creamy Spinach ravioli. San Gennaro: an alcoholic frozen drink in a HUGE and VERY TACKY plastic souvenir glass, and the chocolate marshmallows on a stick (shish kabob style). You'll diet tomorrow.
Rambling: Like the Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade, San Gennaro is a New York tradition (it's just that this one isn't broadcoast on NBC every year, although perhaps it should be, because it attracts characters). Every year I go thinking that I'm not going to get swallowed by the crowd, and every year I end up squashed between a six foot four bouncer with bling and a group of confused tourists from Missouri. But it's all in good fun. If you've done what I've told you to you won't care anyway because you'll be slightly buzzed from consuming a banana daiquiri in the 12 inch plastic glass that was shaped like a body-building man. San Gennaro is simply trashy fun. It remains the only place I know where I've ever seen a t-shirt for sale that says: "Take me Drunk, I'm Home."
Where: Il Fornaio: Mulberry Street just off Hester Street. San Gennaro: Mulberry Street stretching between Houston and Canal Streets.
What You'll Find:
Il Fornaio is an unpretentious, cute little restaurant in the heart of Little Italy with staff that is delighted that you have chosen their establishment. This was my second visit and I have decided that I adore the host...an older Italian gentlemen with a thick head of hair and a mustache. He treated us like family.
San Gennaro is this wonderful festival/carnival that takes place along the stretch of Mulberry Street every September. There are current debates among us as to whether San Gennaro takes place for merely a week or two, or the whole month. I am from the camp that thinks it's a month. We are still awaiting a definitive answer pending research. Anyway, what you'll find at San Gennaro is kitschy carnival games, like a dunking booth and water gun races. Opportunities to win giant stuffed animals that are composed mostly of foam also abound.
Wore: black turtleneck, bubblegum pink courdoroys, Reeboks. Channeling: my ex-roommate Jessica.
Need to visit an ATM on a scale from 1 to 10: 6, it's San Gennaro so you really should do it up. Afterall, it's kinda like Christmas: it only comes once a year.
You Should Have: Il Fornaio: the calamari (like Buttah!) and the creamy Spinach ravioli. San Gennaro: an alcoholic frozen drink in a HUGE and VERY TACKY plastic souvenir glass, and the chocolate marshmallows on a stick (shish kabob style). You'll diet tomorrow.
Rambling: Like the Macy*s Thanksgiving Day Parade, San Gennaro is a New York tradition (it's just that this one isn't broadcoast on NBC every year, although perhaps it should be, because it attracts characters). Every year I go thinking that I'm not going to get swallowed by the crowd, and every year I end up squashed between a six foot four bouncer with bling and a group of confused tourists from Missouri. But it's all in good fun. If you've done what I've told you to you won't care anyway because you'll be slightly buzzed from consuming a banana daiquiri in the 12 inch plastic glass that was shaped like a body-building man. San Gennaro is simply trashy fun. It remains the only place I know where I've ever seen a t-shirt for sale that says: "Take me Drunk, I'm Home."
Tuesday, September 21, 2004
Where Mary's Been: The FIRST Review
So as most of you know: I'm a New Yorker, born and bred. And I am finally getting to enjoy New York City as it was meant to be lived: from the stance of an unmarried twenty-something whose only responsibility is to appear at work five out of seven times per week.
So it goes without saying that I spend a lot of time out-and-about in this crazy city. Often there are stories to be had, and I leave with a new experience of a new place that I would either strongly recommend, or urge my friends to avoid like a plague. In the interest of creating a log of this current time period of my life (in addition to letting you all know my "verdict" on a particular venue, something I know you've all been breathless with anticipation for), I will be attempting to review "where I've been." And we are going to be starting with...
BRANCH
54th Street Btw 2nd and 3rd Avenue
What You'll Find There: A peninsula bar, a dance floor lined with candlelit tables, a steam machine, a disco ball, and a DJ who knows what he's doing.
Wore: Off-the-shoulder sparkly gold top, black pants, pink crocodile heels (channeling: Samantha Jones)
You Should Drink: A dirty martini (excellent)
Need to Visit an ATM (scale from 1 to 10): 4, depending on how many dirty martinis you want.
Rambling: This was the setting for my recent birthday celebration, and I am pleased to say that Branch delivered exactly what I wanted for my birthday: a night of (nearly) drama-free dancing with my nearest and dearest. It was the first time I brought together various Friend Families and BRANCHes of friend-families, and this place really had something for everyone. The cover was ridiculously cheap, and Branch provided an OPEN BAR between 10 and 11, making everyone instantly happier than they'd ever imagined they could be in the middle of Midtown East on Saturday night (I am sadly not a fan of Midtown East as a whole, although it and I are slowly trying to work out our differences). In fact, I think they must put some type of happiness elixir in the steam machine at Branch, because it made friends of mine dance that I never, EVER, thought I would see attempt to move rhythmically. And they looked GOOD, too!
So it goes without saying that I spend a lot of time out-and-about in this crazy city. Often there are stories to be had, and I leave with a new experience of a new place that I would either strongly recommend, or urge my friends to avoid like a plague. In the interest of creating a log of this current time period of my life (in addition to letting you all know my "verdict" on a particular venue, something I know you've all been breathless with anticipation for), I will be attempting to review "where I've been." And we are going to be starting with...
BRANCH
54th Street Btw 2nd and 3rd Avenue
What You'll Find There: A peninsula bar, a dance floor lined with candlelit tables, a steam machine, a disco ball, and a DJ who knows what he's doing.
Wore: Off-the-shoulder sparkly gold top, black pants, pink crocodile heels (channeling: Samantha Jones)
You Should Drink: A dirty martini (excellent)
Need to Visit an ATM (scale from 1 to 10): 4, depending on how many dirty martinis you want.
Rambling: This was the setting for my recent birthday celebration, and I am pleased to say that Branch delivered exactly what I wanted for my birthday: a night of (nearly) drama-free dancing with my nearest and dearest. It was the first time I brought together various Friend Families and BRANCHes of friend-families, and this place really had something for everyone. The cover was ridiculously cheap, and Branch provided an OPEN BAR between 10 and 11, making everyone instantly happier than they'd ever imagined they could be in the middle of Midtown East on Saturday night (I am sadly not a fan of Midtown East as a whole, although it and I are slowly trying to work out our differences). In fact, I think they must put some type of happiness elixir in the steam machine at Branch, because it made friends of mine dance that I never, EVER, thought I would see attempt to move rhythmically. And they looked GOOD, too!
Sunday, September 19, 2004
A Word on Theme Parties
As my friends and I are entering our mid-twenties (how scary is THAT?!) I have to say that I've noticed a trend in the way we choose to get together and socialize. The theme party provides us with a purpose to boogie down, and while it takes quite a bit of preparation, a successful theme party with willing participants is always inevitably something that will be talked about for years to come. Past theme parties that I've attended include Johnny Dice's infamous eighties party, which is the last time I wore my hair in a side ponytail and purposefully cut a t-shirt to be off-the-shoulder. There was the now historical West 108th Street Pimps 'n' Hos party a mere ten months later, at which I met people who are now some of my good friends...only they were carrying big canes, had on purple feathered fedoras, and were sporting a nearly inappropriate amount of bling. Then there was Matt's Oscar Party for which I made Oscar cupcakes. (Oscar cupcakes: chocolate cupcakes in gold foil wrappers, yellow icing, and little flags with the names of the nominees sunken into them...."Kevin Spacey, delicious!")
Well, early this morning at an informal "summit" with my friends Dice, Katie, and Liz at a diner on 56th and 2nd, we came up with an idea for another theme party. This theme party is unique in that it requires no costumes, baking, or bling. It's the "Drama Party."
The Drama Party would involve inviting your friends....and then also inviting people who you know have beef with your friends. The latter group might also be your friends, too (I get headaches trying to figure out who amongst my friends have a dramatic history with each other). But you are certainly not exempt as well. Your friends are all instructed to bring at least one person that they know has issues with another invitee. Past hookups and bad breakups are also good. People who can find a friend's one-night-stand-that-they-never-thought-they'd-see-again get a free door prize. Exes are also excellent, but you get extra credit if you can get the ex to arrive with his or her new girlfriend/boyfriend.
Once you've gathered this rogue group it's really quite simple: you also gather as much alcohol as you can, hide sharp objects, perhaps put out a box of tissues, and sit back and estimate how long it will take before the police will be arriving. The Drama Party, yes, that's one they'd be talking about for years to come!
Well, early this morning at an informal "summit" with my friends Dice, Katie, and Liz at a diner on 56th and 2nd, we came up with an idea for another theme party. This theme party is unique in that it requires no costumes, baking, or bling. It's the "Drama Party."
The Drama Party would involve inviting your friends....and then also inviting people who you know have beef with your friends. The latter group might also be your friends, too (I get headaches trying to figure out who amongst my friends have a dramatic history with each other). But you are certainly not exempt as well. Your friends are all instructed to bring at least one person that they know has issues with another invitee. Past hookups and bad breakups are also good. People who can find a friend's one-night-stand-that-they-never-thought-they'd-see-again get a free door prize. Exes are also excellent, but you get extra credit if you can get the ex to arrive with his or her new girlfriend/boyfriend.
Once you've gathered this rogue group it's really quite simple: you also gather as much alcohol as you can, hide sharp objects, perhaps put out a box of tissues, and sit back and estimate how long it will take before the police will be arriving. The Drama Party, yes, that's one they'd be talking about for years to come!
Friday, September 17, 2004
The First Entry...an Era Hopefully Begins.
So for nearly two years now I have had a tradition on my AIM profile called "Cheers and Boos." Something that not everyone might know is that the idea for Cheers and Boos was actually taken from my dear old college newspaper, The Fairfield Mirror. The idea behind it was that it was a formal/informal place for the students of Fairfield U to commemorate (cheer) or vent about (boo) the week that had passed. During my time at Fairfield...I think I only sent any "official" C and Bs to The Mirror once.
Instead I decided to do my own weekly Cheers and Boos using the 1029 precious characters that I get in my AIM profile. Over the years it has caught on. The tradition has been shared with friends, and I feel that I am never truly out of touch with the people I care about, because they are usually reading C and B. The thing is this...1029 characters is just not long enough!! I have more to say, and I need a sounding board! I will still be continuing the C and B tradition on my AIM profile because it just doesn't feel right not to. However, I know that my little academians out there, as well as fellow-internet addicts, will appreciate having another site to check instead of writing that paper/studying for that midterm/paying those bills/getting sleep so we'll be rested for the morning when we have to go to the places we are paid to go to. I am fully aware of how well these sites work at propagating procrastination. So procrastinate away, people! In closing, Dice, this is for YOU!!
Instead I decided to do my own weekly Cheers and Boos using the 1029 precious characters that I get in my AIM profile. Over the years it has caught on. The tradition has been shared with friends, and I feel that I am never truly out of touch with the people I care about, because they are usually reading C and B. The thing is this...1029 characters is just not long enough!! I have more to say, and I need a sounding board! I will still be continuing the C and B tradition on my AIM profile because it just doesn't feel right not to. However, I know that my little academians out there, as well as fellow-internet addicts, will appreciate having another site to check instead of writing that paper/studying for that midterm/paying those bills/getting sleep so we'll be rested for the morning when we have to go to the places we are paid to go to. I am fully aware of how well these sites work at propagating procrastination. So procrastinate away, people! In closing, Dice, this is for YOU!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)