10. You have to go through your purse to throw out old boarding passes
9. You approach the hotel desk to tell them you have to extend your stay and their response is "Oh, are you from ________?" (the name of your company)
8. Half your family's Christmas gifts were purchased on the road
7. You know that when your incoming flight to Laguardia is assigned to Gate 1, Terminal D that the plane must be towed in
6. You debate with your coworker over whether Terminal A has the Chilis or the Fridays (A has Chilis, B has Fridays...in case you were wondering).
5. The last time one of your best friends was over, she took your cellphone, snapped her own picture and set your phone to flash it whenever you call her so you won't forget what she looks like.
4. Your hotel bill is slipped under your door...all three pages of it.
3. Your very North-Eastern father gets on the phone to say hello to you and greets you with "HEY SUG-AH!!" because he's trying to relate to you and your new part-time Southern occupancy.
2. You've heard every excuse from the pilot for late arrivals, including bad weather, air traffic control, high winds, and (my favorite) "the captain isn't here."
1. You've been through an indepth search in security at the airport, twice, and lived to tell about it.
Saturday, December 17, 2005
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
A WORD on Adventures in Cooking
There are certain things about becoming an adult that I've not yet gotten over.
For instance, I'm still dealing with the fact that once in awhile I'll have to take myself to the Commerce Bank down the street from my apartment and stand in line. Once my turn has arrived (usually after a minimum of ten minutes), I hand over a wad of cash in exchange for rolls of quarters. This is bothersome to me, yet I do it for one simple and rather important reason: if I don't, I won't be able to use the washers and dryers in the laundry room in my building. And if this happens, well, I won't have any clean clothes...or sheets....or towels.
I am still getting used to making regular trips to Duane Reade (which is a huge chain of drug stores in New York City) to buy things like toothpaste...so my teeth won't rot, and toilet paper, so...well, I don't need to take this any further.
One of the things that baffles me the most is that I am solely responsible for making sure I don't starve...three meals a day (well, ideally I guess), seven days a week. Thus, I feel that the very fact that I continue to exist is a testament to at least some degree of success as an adult. When I want to be exceptionally adult, however, I'll do something that I think is incredibly impressive: I will cook something from scratch.
When you think about it, the act of taking on a recipe requires a great deal of optimism. Sure you have clear cut ingredients, amounts, and directions in front of you, but you won't actually discover whether you actually like what it is you are about to spend so much time making until you take it out of the oven. That said, cooking a dish from scratch has become a labor of love for me, which starts at my neighborhood Food Emporium...
I am always so proud of myself when I'm wheeling my cart through the grocery store. Grocery shopping in New York City particularly is an incredibly interesting experience, especially on a weeknight. Solo shoppers meander about the store with their baskets, chatting on cellphones and (of course) occasionally eyeing a fellow grocery-seeker. I feel that you can tell a lot about a stranger by the sum of they have in their basket or cart at checkout time. Weeknight shoppers typically have the most interesting assortment of purchases...raspberries, Drano, pita bread, canned soup, Us Weekly...And when I look to see what is in my own cart, I can see that I truly do give off the suggestion that I know how to cook: garlic, two kinds of oil, flour, shredded cheese, canned tomatoes, ice cream (ok, so maybe that last one isn't for a recipe...)
Ok, so just last night I decided to truly challenge myself by making a dish that strikes fear in the hearts of all novice chefs: LASAGNA. I have to be perfectly honest, though, and admit that I chose the recipe because it was called something like "Super-Duper Easy As Pie Lasagna" (as well as the fact that I found it on CookingLight.com). Urban Cooking Legend states that lasagna is one of the most harrowing dishes to prepare because of the extreme difficulty of the art of engineering the Gigantic Wet Lasagna Noodle. That's why I had pre-screened this recipe and noted that it distinctly called for "pre-cooked lasagna noodles" which I imagined were these delightful already-cooked noodles that I'd be able to find in the refrigerated section of my Grocery Store in between the ricotta and the yogurt, no doubt to the right of the hot guy perusing the Velveeta. After trips to both Food Emporium AND Gristedes, I'd discovered that such a thing was near-neigh impossible to come by. Thus, I was forced to call in the Big Guns. I took a deep breath, and charged into Whole Foods, where I learned something very important: if Whole Foods doesn't have something shi-shi like that, it simply does not exist, my friend. I walked out of there, pale, with a box of those dried lasagna noodles that are supposed to take on their correct form as they "bake in the oven." Yeah freakin' right, I was going to end up with a casserole dish full of scorched sauce and seared cheese with these gross, hard, and most likely burnt-to-a-crisp noodles sunken into the bottom of the huge mess. But as it is in life it is in cooking, my friends: if you don't try, you'll simply never know.
So I unpacked my over-priced (but Whole) Foods, poured a bottle (whoops, I meant a glass) of wine, cracked my knuckles, did a jumping jack or two, and set to work. My first task was a familiar one: browning meat. Ok, so far not too bad. Next add the low fat spaghetti sauce...at which point (being a pseudo-Italian afterall) I improvised....gasp!!!....and added some spices. Next this jolly little CookingLight.com recipe instructed me to mix together low fat cottage cheese and parmesan in a separate bowl. Which I do. Feeling like Julia Child, I "set aside," per instructions. Next came the rip-roaring fun: I ripped into the box of these alleged magic noodles (which looked, and felt, rather freeze-dried....not unlike astronaut food). It was time for my artistic side to make itself useful: I looked into the forebaringly empty glass casserole dish, took a deep breath, and cautiously began the cycle: sauce mixture, layer of wonder-noodle, layer of cottage-cheese-creation, repeat. And so and so forth until I deemed it acceptable to stop, topping it with handy-dandy pre-shredded cheese. Thus it was finally time to throw open the oven door, lovingly set this culinary masterpiece on the top shelf, set the timer, and cross my fingers.
Shortly there after, while sitting on my sofa with the remainder of my wine to catch up with what those girls on Laguna Beach (gotta love that L.C.) were up to, I was incredibly encouraged to note that there seemed to be a possibly-delicious smell emanating from my kitchen. Could it be that there was a hint of an extra bounce in my step as I got up to retrieve the dish as the timer at last went off? Perhaps. I do know for sure that an impromptu smile crossed my face as I had my first chance to inspect the final product: by george! It actually looked like what it was supposed to be. I suppose this blog entry would be better if it had also tasted phenomenal, too, but I'm at least happy to report that it tasted "fine." I mean, it was from CookingLight.com, so you have to adjust the curve to begin with. In any case, I was glowing with the realization that I'd done something that is not easy to do. I figure now that I have successfully made lasagna, I can now set my sights on loftier goals: going after that Corner Office, a masters degree, finally seeing Alaska, ravioli.
For instance, I'm still dealing with the fact that once in awhile I'll have to take myself to the Commerce Bank down the street from my apartment and stand in line. Once my turn has arrived (usually after a minimum of ten minutes), I hand over a wad of cash in exchange for rolls of quarters. This is bothersome to me, yet I do it for one simple and rather important reason: if I don't, I won't be able to use the washers and dryers in the laundry room in my building. And if this happens, well, I won't have any clean clothes...or sheets....or towels.
I am still getting used to making regular trips to Duane Reade (which is a huge chain of drug stores in New York City) to buy things like toothpaste...so my teeth won't rot, and toilet paper, so...well, I don't need to take this any further.
One of the things that baffles me the most is that I am solely responsible for making sure I don't starve...three meals a day (well, ideally I guess), seven days a week. Thus, I feel that the very fact that I continue to exist is a testament to at least some degree of success as an adult. When I want to be exceptionally adult, however, I'll do something that I think is incredibly impressive: I will cook something from scratch.
When you think about it, the act of taking on a recipe requires a great deal of optimism. Sure you have clear cut ingredients, amounts, and directions in front of you, but you won't actually discover whether you actually like what it is you are about to spend so much time making until you take it out of the oven. That said, cooking a dish from scratch has become a labor of love for me, which starts at my neighborhood Food Emporium...
I am always so proud of myself when I'm wheeling my cart through the grocery store. Grocery shopping in New York City particularly is an incredibly interesting experience, especially on a weeknight. Solo shoppers meander about the store with their baskets, chatting on cellphones and (of course) occasionally eyeing a fellow grocery-seeker. I feel that you can tell a lot about a stranger by the sum of they have in their basket or cart at checkout time. Weeknight shoppers typically have the most interesting assortment of purchases...raspberries, Drano, pita bread, canned soup, Us Weekly...And when I look to see what is in my own cart, I can see that I truly do give off the suggestion that I know how to cook: garlic, two kinds of oil, flour, shredded cheese, canned tomatoes, ice cream (ok, so maybe that last one isn't for a recipe...)
Ok, so just last night I decided to truly challenge myself by making a dish that strikes fear in the hearts of all novice chefs: LASAGNA. I have to be perfectly honest, though, and admit that I chose the recipe because it was called something like "Super-Duper Easy As Pie Lasagna" (as well as the fact that I found it on CookingLight.com). Urban Cooking Legend states that lasagna is one of the most harrowing dishes to prepare because of the extreme difficulty of the art of engineering the Gigantic Wet Lasagna Noodle. That's why I had pre-screened this recipe and noted that it distinctly called for "pre-cooked lasagna noodles" which I imagined were these delightful already-cooked noodles that I'd be able to find in the refrigerated section of my Grocery Store in between the ricotta and the yogurt, no doubt to the right of the hot guy perusing the Velveeta. After trips to both Food Emporium AND Gristedes, I'd discovered that such a thing was near-neigh impossible to come by. Thus, I was forced to call in the Big Guns. I took a deep breath, and charged into Whole Foods, where I learned something very important: if Whole Foods doesn't have something shi-shi like that, it simply does not exist, my friend. I walked out of there, pale, with a box of those dried lasagna noodles that are supposed to take on their correct form as they "bake in the oven." Yeah freakin' right, I was going to end up with a casserole dish full of scorched sauce and seared cheese with these gross, hard, and most likely burnt-to-a-crisp noodles sunken into the bottom of the huge mess. But as it is in life it is in cooking, my friends: if you don't try, you'll simply never know.
So I unpacked my over-priced (but Whole) Foods, poured a bottle (whoops, I meant a glass) of wine, cracked my knuckles, did a jumping jack or two, and set to work. My first task was a familiar one: browning meat. Ok, so far not too bad. Next add the low fat spaghetti sauce...at which point (being a pseudo-Italian afterall) I improvised....gasp!!!....and added some spices. Next this jolly little CookingLight.com recipe instructed me to mix together low fat cottage cheese and parmesan in a separate bowl. Which I do. Feeling like Julia Child, I "set aside," per instructions. Next came the rip-roaring fun: I ripped into the box of these alleged magic noodles (which looked, and felt, rather freeze-dried....not unlike astronaut food). It was time for my artistic side to make itself useful: I looked into the forebaringly empty glass casserole dish, took a deep breath, and cautiously began the cycle: sauce mixture, layer of wonder-noodle, layer of cottage-cheese-creation, repeat. And so and so forth until I deemed it acceptable to stop, topping it with handy-dandy pre-shredded cheese. Thus it was finally time to throw open the oven door, lovingly set this culinary masterpiece on the top shelf, set the timer, and cross my fingers.
Shortly there after, while sitting on my sofa with the remainder of my wine to catch up with what those girls on Laguna Beach (gotta love that L.C.) were up to, I was incredibly encouraged to note that there seemed to be a possibly-delicious smell emanating from my kitchen. Could it be that there was a hint of an extra bounce in my step as I got up to retrieve the dish as the timer at last went off? Perhaps. I do know for sure that an impromptu smile crossed my face as I had my first chance to inspect the final product: by george! It actually looked like what it was supposed to be. I suppose this blog entry would be better if it had also tasted phenomenal, too, but I'm at least happy to report that it tasted "fine." I mean, it was from CookingLight.com, so you have to adjust the curve to begin with. In any case, I was glowing with the realization that I'd done something that is not easy to do. I figure now that I have successfully made lasagna, I can now set my sights on loftier goals: going after that Corner Office, a masters degree, finally seeing Alaska, ravioli.
Sunday, September 18, 2005
A WORD on the Surprising Similarities Between Computers and Significant Others
Recently I got out of a very painful and abusive relationship.
It was a relationship in which I was constantly undermined. My needs always came second. I did everything I could in my half of the relationship to make it work, but I was ever aware that I was clearly not the one wearing the pants. That's why I felt a mix of utter devastation and relief when my partner finally broke it off with me this past Wednesday night. I won't deny that I hadn't seen it coming and had gone to drastic measures to try and prevent it, but after a huge "blow out" (nearly literally) my old Compaq Presario Crap-Top made it evident that it was over between the two of us. Even in that last hour I fought like a mad woman to stop it from ending...I pressed F8 to go to basic start up, I even did Quick Restore on the system. Alas, after three years, the screen went permanently blank.
Do you ever notice how break ups often occur at entirely inappropriate times in your life? Break ups piggy-back Valentine's Day, or one of your birthdays, or when one of the pair is going through a rough time because of a job, or a sick family member, or some other extraneous but equally excruciating life trial. This break up was no exception as it happened the night before my 25th birthday. I'd had an away message all planned to leave up on my birthday (it was a quote on aging from Garfield, because I'm still somewhat wistful about it and need to at least mention it here). In a strange and morbid way, a break up sometimes feels like a death has occurred. This person is somewhat suddenly no longer in your life and in the immediate time period following the Zero Hour you are tortured with random and terrible realizations of the basic things you just lost..."crap, we had tickets for such and such next month!" or, as in my situation, "#$%@! I lost Microsoft Office..."
As I mentioned earlier, however, my relationship with my Compaq was rocky from the start. It began very suddenly in the Fall of 2002 when I was trying to begin my Senior year of college. My old lap top (which, coincedentally, was also a Compaq) had passed away of old age (just think of me as Anna Nicole Smith in this relationship). In the end, it would only function in 'safe mode' and I could barely see anything. I was in dire straits. I couldn't start Senior year without being in an electronic relationship with a computer, I was an English major for goodness sake! After several emergency phone calls to my father, he came to the rescue and 'set me up' with a lap top that he met on his travels in Circuit City. Lots had happened in computer technology since I'd gotten my last lap top (Windows XP?! What is THIS?! My God, it's GORGEOUS!) so when I brought it home to my college apartment, it was a happy day.
Right from the beginning it was clear that as a pair we were not compatible, however. It took me weeks to figure out how to get the school internet network to work with my new beau. After weeks of a terrible connection, I finally figured out that it was a matter of flipping a switch. You'd think Mr Computer-Close-Mouth could have said something to alert me of that, but nooooo. Real problems began when I began watching DVDs on the lap top. The heat generated from the player fried the hard drive. This was extremely frustrating because I'd been using the computer to do something it had told me, even INVITED me, to do and now it was the root of something that was extremely wrong in the relationship. Thus, in April of my senior year (and I have one word to say about the timing of this: FINALS), me and Compaq took a little break. I stayed in Fairfield and got by with the company of my roommate's Toshiba (who was most comforting) for the papers I had to write in the meantime...and he, he took a vacation. He went to visit Compaq family in Texas where he rested, had a spa-computer-cleaning, talked trash about me, and got a new hard drive and key board. When the bastard came back, he had a tan.
But hey, as that evil '70s song says, we gotta "love the one we're with." I gritted my teeth and me and Compaq moved our relationship back to my hometown: New York City. Having weathered something so serious though meant that something essential had gone from our relationship: trust. I never trusted that thing again from the day I first turned on the computer during Senior year and saw four extremely perverse words: OPERATING SYSTEM NOT FOUND. Quite frankly, it made me utter one word...comprised of four letters. Though I love my father dearly, I had to face the fact that he had set me up with a bad seed. And so throughout the rest of our relationship Compaq would go out into the internet world and come back with all sorts of diseases. He would take FOREVER to do simple things like surf the internet, while my friends were all delighted with their computers that delivered at warp speed. Compaq had me whipped, but I could never muster the strength to stand up for the treatment I deserved from my lap top. We had two more major blow outs which ended in me screaming "Oh yeah?! I'll show your ass! I'll just insert this QUICK RESTORE CD and see what you have to say after that!" Ugh, Itunes always used to get frustrated and ask me what I was still doing with this loser.
I won't deny, however, that I didn't share some of the blame in this tortured relationship. I was a neglectful owner at times, overworking Compaq, making him download and store big heavy files, not shutting him down properly, and (maybe, once or twice) giving him the finger. I think we all know that there are always two sides to every relationship, and I have quite diplomatically admitted that there were several areas in which I could have tried to improve.
The other essential thing is this: though Compaq made me shed a lot of tears, I learned invaluable things from being with him. When he was sick Senior year, I was on the phone very frequently with Compaq tech support being talked through many trouble-shooting techniques. As a result of this, I'm a much more computer-savvy person than I would have been had I not had to endure this. Recently, at work, a major new processing system was introduced which is much more modern than our old one and its been experiencing many problems. Because I've survived the worst of what a computer can dish out, I have proven to be very comfortable with this system, and my willingness to teach my coworkers is greatly helping my career. Thus, a coworker and I will sit with it and I'll tell him or her, "use that mouse with CONFIDENCE, this damn system can sense fear!!" The analogy to romantic relationships is obvious. Even the worst ones help us to grow and become more confident and dignified people. We wouldn't be who we are without them, and, dare I say it, there will come a time when we even have feelings of thankfulness for the person/people we got away from.
BUT, moving on is important too. As stated before, I could sense the end of me and Compaq's relationship was coming soon, and about six weeks ago I happened to be strutting through Best Buy when I decided on a whim just to look in the lap top section to see what was on the market. I spied a Toshiba winking at me, so I stepped up to investigate and immediately liked what I saw. I brought the cover down to see what it looked like closed and discovered that the cover is TEAL, and it was love at first sight. I sadly told it that I was already in a relationship, however, but walked away with it still very much on my brain. I visited a few more times in the coming weeks, though, and took a few other lap tops out on dates as well. The Toshiba looked better and better, and when I found it on SALE at Circuit City, my mouth was watering. After Compaq left, I got through my birthday putting my sadness over him in the back of my mind. The next day I skittered over to Circuit City to see if, please please, the sale was still valid: there was ONE day left. Though some may say I moved too quickly, I am now in a new relationship which is going very well. He connected to the internet with incredible ease. I have also been markedly better in my end of the relationship thus far, having installed Norton products on him. As a result, he never hostilely throws pop-ups at me, and is so considerate. He always tells me when there is a virus threatening me. We are a team, he and I. Do I miss Compaq? Of course I do. We went through a lot together. It has also taken a great deal to get used to a smaller keyboard and the absence of, or different location of certain keys and functions (do NOT take this analogy where you want to right now!). But overall, I definitely feel very positive about my future with Toshiba. Yes, Toshiba!! I'm talking about you to my readers!! Don't worry, you're getting a rave, they can't WAIT to meet you! In continuing my end of the deal, I've promised Toshiba I won't download crap and that I'll always shut him down according to Windows procedure.
Ok, we're going to go cuddle now.
It was a relationship in which I was constantly undermined. My needs always came second. I did everything I could in my half of the relationship to make it work, but I was ever aware that I was clearly not the one wearing the pants. That's why I felt a mix of utter devastation and relief when my partner finally broke it off with me this past Wednesday night. I won't deny that I hadn't seen it coming and had gone to drastic measures to try and prevent it, but after a huge "blow out" (nearly literally) my old Compaq Presario Crap-Top made it evident that it was over between the two of us. Even in that last hour I fought like a mad woman to stop it from ending...I pressed F8 to go to basic start up, I even did Quick Restore on the system. Alas, after three years, the screen went permanently blank.
Do you ever notice how break ups often occur at entirely inappropriate times in your life? Break ups piggy-back Valentine's Day, or one of your birthdays, or when one of the pair is going through a rough time because of a job, or a sick family member, or some other extraneous but equally excruciating life trial. This break up was no exception as it happened the night before my 25th birthday. I'd had an away message all planned to leave up on my birthday (it was a quote on aging from Garfield, because I'm still somewhat wistful about it and need to at least mention it here). In a strange and morbid way, a break up sometimes feels like a death has occurred. This person is somewhat suddenly no longer in your life and in the immediate time period following the Zero Hour you are tortured with random and terrible realizations of the basic things you just lost..."crap, we had tickets for such and such next month!" or, as in my situation, "#$%@! I lost Microsoft Office..."
As I mentioned earlier, however, my relationship with my Compaq was rocky from the start. It began very suddenly in the Fall of 2002 when I was trying to begin my Senior year of college. My old lap top (which, coincedentally, was also a Compaq) had passed away of old age (just think of me as Anna Nicole Smith in this relationship). In the end, it would only function in 'safe mode' and I could barely see anything. I was in dire straits. I couldn't start Senior year without being in an electronic relationship with a computer, I was an English major for goodness sake! After several emergency phone calls to my father, he came to the rescue and 'set me up' with a lap top that he met on his travels in Circuit City. Lots had happened in computer technology since I'd gotten my last lap top (Windows XP?! What is THIS?! My God, it's GORGEOUS!) so when I brought it home to my college apartment, it was a happy day.
Right from the beginning it was clear that as a pair we were not compatible, however. It took me weeks to figure out how to get the school internet network to work with my new beau. After weeks of a terrible connection, I finally figured out that it was a matter of flipping a switch. You'd think Mr Computer-Close-Mouth could have said something to alert me of that, but nooooo. Real problems began when I began watching DVDs on the lap top. The heat generated from the player fried the hard drive. This was extremely frustrating because I'd been using the computer to do something it had told me, even INVITED me, to do and now it was the root of something that was extremely wrong in the relationship. Thus, in April of my senior year (and I have one word to say about the timing of this: FINALS), me and Compaq took a little break. I stayed in Fairfield and got by with the company of my roommate's Toshiba (who was most comforting) for the papers I had to write in the meantime...and he, he took a vacation. He went to visit Compaq family in Texas where he rested, had a spa-computer-cleaning, talked trash about me, and got a new hard drive and key board. When the bastard came back, he had a tan.
But hey, as that evil '70s song says, we gotta "love the one we're with." I gritted my teeth and me and Compaq moved our relationship back to my hometown: New York City. Having weathered something so serious though meant that something essential had gone from our relationship: trust. I never trusted that thing again from the day I first turned on the computer during Senior year and saw four extremely perverse words: OPERATING SYSTEM NOT FOUND. Quite frankly, it made me utter one word...comprised of four letters. Though I love my father dearly, I had to face the fact that he had set me up with a bad seed. And so throughout the rest of our relationship Compaq would go out into the internet world and come back with all sorts of diseases. He would take FOREVER to do simple things like surf the internet, while my friends were all delighted with their computers that delivered at warp speed. Compaq had me whipped, but I could never muster the strength to stand up for the treatment I deserved from my lap top. We had two more major blow outs which ended in me screaming "Oh yeah?! I'll show your ass! I'll just insert this QUICK RESTORE CD and see what you have to say after that!" Ugh, Itunes always used to get frustrated and ask me what I was still doing with this loser.
I won't deny, however, that I didn't share some of the blame in this tortured relationship. I was a neglectful owner at times, overworking Compaq, making him download and store big heavy files, not shutting him down properly, and (maybe, once or twice) giving him the finger. I think we all know that there are always two sides to every relationship, and I have quite diplomatically admitted that there were several areas in which I could have tried to improve.
The other essential thing is this: though Compaq made me shed a lot of tears, I learned invaluable things from being with him. When he was sick Senior year, I was on the phone very frequently with Compaq tech support being talked through many trouble-shooting techniques. As a result of this, I'm a much more computer-savvy person than I would have been had I not had to endure this. Recently, at work, a major new processing system was introduced which is much more modern than our old one and its been experiencing many problems. Because I've survived the worst of what a computer can dish out, I have proven to be very comfortable with this system, and my willingness to teach my coworkers is greatly helping my career. Thus, a coworker and I will sit with it and I'll tell him or her, "use that mouse with CONFIDENCE, this damn system can sense fear!!" The analogy to romantic relationships is obvious. Even the worst ones help us to grow and become more confident and dignified people. We wouldn't be who we are without them, and, dare I say it, there will come a time when we even have feelings of thankfulness for the person/people we got away from.
BUT, moving on is important too. As stated before, I could sense the end of me and Compaq's relationship was coming soon, and about six weeks ago I happened to be strutting through Best Buy when I decided on a whim just to look in the lap top section to see what was on the market. I spied a Toshiba winking at me, so I stepped up to investigate and immediately liked what I saw. I brought the cover down to see what it looked like closed and discovered that the cover is TEAL, and it was love at first sight. I sadly told it that I was already in a relationship, however, but walked away with it still very much on my brain. I visited a few more times in the coming weeks, though, and took a few other lap tops out on dates as well. The Toshiba looked better and better, and when I found it on SALE at Circuit City, my mouth was watering. After Compaq left, I got through my birthday putting my sadness over him in the back of my mind. The next day I skittered over to Circuit City to see if, please please, the sale was still valid: there was ONE day left. Though some may say I moved too quickly, I am now in a new relationship which is going very well. He connected to the internet with incredible ease. I have also been markedly better in my end of the relationship thus far, having installed Norton products on him. As a result, he never hostilely throws pop-ups at me, and is so considerate. He always tells me when there is a virus threatening me. We are a team, he and I. Do I miss Compaq? Of course I do. We went through a lot together. It has also taken a great deal to get used to a smaller keyboard and the absence of, or different location of certain keys and functions (do NOT take this analogy where you want to right now!). But overall, I definitely feel very positive about my future with Toshiba. Yes, Toshiba!! I'm talking about you to my readers!! Don't worry, you're getting a rave, they can't WAIT to meet you! In continuing my end of the deal, I've promised Toshiba I won't download crap and that I'll always shut him down according to Windows procedure.
Ok, we're going to go cuddle now.
Sunday, August 28, 2005
A WORD on Patterns...and I'm Not Talking About What's on Your Mama's China...
Recently one of my best friends in the entire world (whom I love so much I wouldn't DARE reveal her name...) went through another heart break. As we shared a meal together in a semi-outdoor setting, we talked it through. "You know," she said, sighing, as she put down her water glass, "in many ways it's a lot like what happened with ____." (again, we are going for anonymity here, people). With a wry smile, I shook my head and said "Oh God, it's official, we're old enough to have patterns...and to know that we have them."
You'd think we'd all be a little smarter. At any given time, there are thousands of people out there getting their hearts trampled on, myself included. And I can hereby stand in front of this keyboard and affirm that it is one of the worst pains you can experience. Here is my own carefully thought-out metaphor for how a broken heart feels: like someone poured acid all throughout your insides. Your outside still looks fine (with the possible exception of puffy eyes), but inside you are so raw the I.C.U. probably wouldn't be a bad idea. You don't think you'll ever not hurt again, but then, very gradually, you don't. Amazing how our memories of our hurt often fail us and we dive right into very similar situations again...as my dear friend did, as I have done, as you have done, and as most of the living and breathing human race has done.
When you think about it, however, developing a pattern makes sense...at least in the beginning. You get hurt the first time, and its easy to blame the one who hurt you. It was something he/she did, you were the one daring to trust someone with your heart (how brave you are). When you follow your same formula and get hurt the second (or even third and fourth) time, well, then it's time to recoil in horror, and put on some Britney Spears' "Oops, I Did It Again." (Alright, I'll let you follow it with "Toxic.")
But yes, I can try to make this blog as light-hearted as I want with references to currently-knocked-up pop icons, but when it comes down to it: discovering you have patterns is horrifying. Oh my God, I had some control over this situation afterall?! How is it that I am once again kicked in the bum?! Remember when Carrie went after the guy she met in the waiting room of her therapists' office? They have a great time together and after they finally sleep together Carrie dares to ask "So, why are you in therapy?" Her beau responds that he actively pursues women, sleeps with them, and then completely loses interest... over and over again (and note, people: at this point the sheets haven't cooled down yet). He, in turn, asks why she's in therapy and she looks dazed and ill as she replies "I pick the wrong men..."
Ha! Well, at least Carrie was able to identify what her tragic patterns were herself with the help of a therapist. I, on the other hand, have them pointed out to me by my staff of well-meaning and irritatingly blunt friends. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that they have done this because it has helped me make a lot of changes in the last few months that I feel have put me on the right path. Dealing with this honesty, though, has been tough since I have had to digest the fact that they all had valid points that I was definitely not aware of as I'd gone about my bumbling life. For the sake of good writing, I will share some of the things that have been discovered by the passengers of the S.S. Mary: That I (like Carrie) choose the wrong men, that I tend only to take romantic leaps in situations where I feel very comfortable and I need to dare to not be comfortable, that it takes me ages to move on, and that guys like to keep me around as a girl they'd go after when they're 'really ready' (ouch!). Amidst this journey, a friend also determined that the song "Hey Jealousy" is about my life (she went through it, line by line, pointing out concrete examples...she had enough backup to write a thesis on it! At least that erased the sting of being compared to the back up girl):
Tell me do you think it'd be alright
If I could Just crash here tonight
As you see I'm in no shape for drivin'
And any way I've got no place to go
ARGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
So you see, these are worriesome patterns indeed. As a result, I have recently embarked on a 'social purification' plan of sorts. Erasing phone numbers, replacing them with new and hopefully non-toxic ones, being open to new people and experiences, and (at least for now) adopting a new motto: "keep moving." I also want to make it clear that I'm still on speaking terms with all the people that made me face the truth about my downfalls. They're performing a vital service, after all, because often times we are so blind in our own situations but we can clearly see where others are faltering in theirs. I think the essential thing, though, is to point this out to friends after they are rid of their situations and can see a little more clearly. Trying to make a valid point to a woman in love is like trying to have a conversation with my grandma when she's left her hearing aid in her 'good' purse...she won't hear a blessed word you are saying. Example! The same recently-heartbroken friend pointed out to me that after she'd endured the heartbreak previous to this one we'd been talking on the phone. She'd said "You know, I thought I knew everything about guys before this, but now I'm not so sure." I apparently replied, "Um, I knew you didn't from the beginning." Blatant honesty, spoken gently (don't worry!), but at the same time I was also acknowledging that we need to be allowed to make our own mistakes otherwise we'll never grow from them (pushy bad-a-lax friends or not ;O)
And who's to say that we'll ever be fully rid of patterns. As humans we like ritual...for instance, I like having enough time after I shower every morning to make a little breakfast and then eat it while I watch NY1 at from 7:40 to 7:51am precisely (first is 'weather on the 1s,' followed by 'In the Papers,' followed by 'This Day in New York City History,' followed by 'Weather on the 1s' again because something might have changed in the forecast in the last ten minutes). I guess my hope is that we go from ugly patterns that no one wants anything to do with (like orange and lime green polka dots) to nicer, saner patterns (hmmm, like a real classy houndstooth). As we come out of heartbreak, and we find that we survived it, we also evolve.
And I will leave you for now with a discovery that I recently made with a friend (who is a guy, this time): in discussing our dismal experiences over a caramel macchiato, he wondered what it all was for. In a moment of bare-bones, my-insides-are-showing sincerity I said "well, it's almost like you have to go through it." And then I looked down, thinking "god, he must think I'm such a corny mess." But instead I got an enthusiastic "YES!" in return. He said that these kind of experiences make you a better person. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but all of the sudden I realized how much better I've liked myself since I had to go through what I did, and much of this liking of myself has been through being more generous and thoughtful of others. Sitting here now, I can't tell you the precise ways surviving a broken heart has made me a better daughter and granddaughter, friend, coworker, cousin, niece, neighbor, etc, but I know that it has. Maybe those first few people that you really fall in love with open doors in your heart that remain open even after they have proven themselves unworthy of this love. It's tragic when a person doesn't want your love, but I assure you all, it doesn't go away and you find other, much more valuable ways to spend it.
Won't my dear friend be relieved.
You'd think we'd all be a little smarter. At any given time, there are thousands of people out there getting their hearts trampled on, myself included. And I can hereby stand in front of this keyboard and affirm that it is one of the worst pains you can experience. Here is my own carefully thought-out metaphor for how a broken heart feels: like someone poured acid all throughout your insides. Your outside still looks fine (with the possible exception of puffy eyes), but inside you are so raw the I.C.U. probably wouldn't be a bad idea. You don't think you'll ever not hurt again, but then, very gradually, you don't. Amazing how our memories of our hurt often fail us and we dive right into very similar situations again...as my dear friend did, as I have done, as you have done, and as most of the living and breathing human race has done.
When you think about it, however, developing a pattern makes sense...at least in the beginning. You get hurt the first time, and its easy to blame the one who hurt you. It was something he/she did, you were the one daring to trust someone with your heart (how brave you are). When you follow your same formula and get hurt the second (or even third and fourth) time, well, then it's time to recoil in horror, and put on some Britney Spears' "Oops, I Did It Again." (Alright, I'll let you follow it with "Toxic.")
But yes, I can try to make this blog as light-hearted as I want with references to currently-knocked-up pop icons, but when it comes down to it: discovering you have patterns is horrifying. Oh my God, I had some control over this situation afterall?! How is it that I am once again kicked in the bum?! Remember when Carrie went after the guy she met in the waiting room of her therapists' office? They have a great time together and after they finally sleep together Carrie dares to ask "So, why are you in therapy?" Her beau responds that he actively pursues women, sleeps with them, and then completely loses interest... over and over again (and note, people: at this point the sheets haven't cooled down yet). He, in turn, asks why she's in therapy and she looks dazed and ill as she replies "I pick the wrong men..."
Ha! Well, at least Carrie was able to identify what her tragic patterns were herself with the help of a therapist. I, on the other hand, have them pointed out to me by my staff of well-meaning and irritatingly blunt friends. Don't get me wrong, I'm grateful that they have done this because it has helped me make a lot of changes in the last few months that I feel have put me on the right path. Dealing with this honesty, though, has been tough since I have had to digest the fact that they all had valid points that I was definitely not aware of as I'd gone about my bumbling life. For the sake of good writing, I will share some of the things that have been discovered by the passengers of the S.S. Mary: That I (like Carrie) choose the wrong men, that I tend only to take romantic leaps in situations where I feel very comfortable and I need to dare to not be comfortable, that it takes me ages to move on, and that guys like to keep me around as a girl they'd go after when they're 'really ready' (ouch!). Amidst this journey, a friend also determined that the song "Hey Jealousy" is about my life (she went through it, line by line, pointing out concrete examples...she had enough backup to write a thesis on it! At least that erased the sting of being compared to the back up girl):
Tell me do you think it'd be alright
If I could Just crash here tonight
As you see I'm in no shape for drivin'
And any way I've got no place to go
ARGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!
So you see, these are worriesome patterns indeed. As a result, I have recently embarked on a 'social purification' plan of sorts. Erasing phone numbers, replacing them with new and hopefully non-toxic ones, being open to new people and experiences, and (at least for now) adopting a new motto: "keep moving." I also want to make it clear that I'm still on speaking terms with all the people that made me face the truth about my downfalls. They're performing a vital service, after all, because often times we are so blind in our own situations but we can clearly see where others are faltering in theirs. I think the essential thing, though, is to point this out to friends after they are rid of their situations and can see a little more clearly. Trying to make a valid point to a woman in love is like trying to have a conversation with my grandma when she's left her hearing aid in her 'good' purse...she won't hear a blessed word you are saying. Example! The same recently-heartbroken friend pointed out to me that after she'd endured the heartbreak previous to this one we'd been talking on the phone. She'd said "You know, I thought I knew everything about guys before this, but now I'm not so sure." I apparently replied, "Um, I knew you didn't from the beginning." Blatant honesty, spoken gently (don't worry!), but at the same time I was also acknowledging that we need to be allowed to make our own mistakes otherwise we'll never grow from them (pushy bad-a-lax friends or not ;O)
And who's to say that we'll ever be fully rid of patterns. As humans we like ritual...for instance, I like having enough time after I shower every morning to make a little breakfast and then eat it while I watch NY1 at from 7:40 to 7:51am precisely (first is 'weather on the 1s,' followed by 'In the Papers,' followed by 'This Day in New York City History,' followed by 'Weather on the 1s' again because something might have changed in the forecast in the last ten minutes). I guess my hope is that we go from ugly patterns that no one wants anything to do with (like orange and lime green polka dots) to nicer, saner patterns (hmmm, like a real classy houndstooth). As we come out of heartbreak, and we find that we survived it, we also evolve.
And I will leave you for now with a discovery that I recently made with a friend (who is a guy, this time): in discussing our dismal experiences over a caramel macchiato, he wondered what it all was for. In a moment of bare-bones, my-insides-are-showing sincerity I said "well, it's almost like you have to go through it." And then I looked down, thinking "god, he must think I'm such a corny mess." But instead I got an enthusiastic "YES!" in return. He said that these kind of experiences make you a better person. I hadn't thought of it that way before, but all of the sudden I realized how much better I've liked myself since I had to go through what I did, and much of this liking of myself has been through being more generous and thoughtful of others. Sitting here now, I can't tell you the precise ways surviving a broken heart has made me a better daughter and granddaughter, friend, coworker, cousin, niece, neighbor, etc, but I know that it has. Maybe those first few people that you really fall in love with open doors in your heart that remain open even after they have proven themselves unworthy of this love. It's tragic when a person doesn't want your love, but I assure you all, it doesn't go away and you find other, much more valuable ways to spend it.
Won't my dear friend be relieved.
Monday, July 18, 2005
A WORD on the Extreme Importance of Gym-Crushes
The summer I was twenty was also the summer I realized that I was going to have to make exercise a part of my life. At the time I had been learning to make smarter food choices, but being a born perfectionist, I was not seeing the results from this that I had wanted. At the time, I was blessed with a very supportive coworker who told me that she could see it. I remember turning to her and saying (in a very Eeyore-like voice) "yeah, thanks, but I think I'm going to have to add exercise."
What a revelation, Mary! My god, they didn't give you a bachelors degree for nothing! At the time I started slowly, reacquainting myself with my good friend, Jane Fonda. Yes I'm quite serious, Jane in all her glittery eighties glory helped me bring my endurance level back from a sad sad place. I used to do her videos behind closed doors thinking "sheesh, if the 48 year old lady in the last row with the stir-up pants and the bright peach-colored shirt (with matching leg warmers) can do this, why the hell can't I?!" Soon I graduated from Jane to other fun-filled videos such as: MTV Grind, The NYC Ballet Workout, Crunch "Fat Busters" (Latin Style!), and a range of belly dancing tapes featuring either Rania or Veena and Neena. Also, who could forget "Darrin's Dance Grooves." I also had the Ab-Roller (look at me! I'm a human vacuum cleaner!), this weird contraption called a Gym Bar (which also doubles as a weapon if you take it out with you at night and need to go through a rough neighborhood alone), and free weights. Just recently I acquired "pilates exercise balls." I'm still not exactly sure what you do with them. Since they are a lovely royal blue, the joke amongst my outrageously immature friends is that they are my blue balls. My blue balls are made of rubber. I keep my blue balls on a shelf next to my television set. Alright (alright!), I'll stop.
One can only exercise to the same tapes (over and over and OVER again) for so long. So, I began to venture out to the gym. Using a gym for the first time can be a very self-conscious experience. You're there in sometimes not-so-nice clothing, sweating (well, you are if you're getting your money's worth), and (though it PAINS me to admit it) sometimes things jiggle. Though, I must admit that as I sit here writing this, I can honestly say that I've never fallen off a machine. That's surprising, being that this is me we are talking about.
Anyway, I began at the gym at Fairfield U. When junior year ended, I signed up for a summer at New York Sports Club, and this was my first experience at a schmancy gym. And then when my current job was wooing me, they whispered a sweet nothing into my ear about their own on-site (and hallelujah-FREE) gym. Having a large (and free) gym on-site inspired me to start going more regularly than I had ever gone previously. I mean, it was (free) right there, and (free) newly renovated. It was at my job's gym that I also experienced another important first: I started going to classes.
Research states that it only takes 30 days for exercise to become a regular habit (30 days of doing what I ask, but anyway I'm disproving myself, I'll cease). With the gym right there, and with the help of comraderie in the classes, exercising became like brushing my teeth. You don't think about it, you just do it, and if you don't you feel mighty gross. Sure, there are still days when I just don't feel like going, and for those days I've come up with the PERFECT solution: The Gym-Crush.
When you think about it, having a gym-crush is really one of the smartest things a health-conscious young woman can do. All of the sudden, the gym becomes not just about exercise, but also about scoping out guys that she's been noticing for awhile. A girl has to look at something while she's on the elliptical. (This is also why I don't care for the treadmill, because I really am terrified of falling off it. To be a treadmill is a cousin to an escalator. I hate them both! Less scoping can be done on the treadmill.) I have days when I'm feeling lethargic, but I'll grab my ipod and go because, hell, he might be there. To provide you with some concrete examples (I'm all about the concrete examples), I'll relate stories about three of my gym crushes...in the order which they mean to me from least to greatest.
The Intern
Gotta love interns in general. Recently a friend of mine was lamenting over the fact that she's going after an intern and I looked her in the eye and said "Hey. That's what interns are for." And it's true. Monica Lewinsky opened up so many doors for her brethren. This time of year my company is just lousy with interns, and its fantastic. Well lovies, our gym gets interns too! This year we were blessed with a fine specimen. Actually, I must confess that I'm surprised to find myself attracted to him, but I am. There is not a hair on his head, and he has an earring...which makes him look a lot like....Mr Clean. But, as my coworker and fellow gym buddy Carol and I observed, he also has one hot little bod (which really isn't little...at all).
This intern is a gentleman, who might be Southern as well, as I recently heard his accent while he ordered very nearly the same lunch I always get in the pasta line one day. During his first few weeks at our gym, he came to the rescue of a woman in a spin class I was in who had developed a bad foot cramp (newbies, sheesh). Thus I now know how to alleviate pain of a cramp using a jump rope. No, I haven't faked a foot-cramp yet. My crush was sealed last week however, when he traded me his good bike for a spin bike that didn't work and was the only one that hadn't been taken. I would have hurt myself on the slightly out-of-commission bike ( I was too short for it). We exchanged "looks" for the rest of the class....during all those runs, and sprints, and climbs when the tension is just up so tight.....Oh. Hello. Um, moving on!
Gym Crush
Yes, there is an actual person whom I've named Gym Crush, because he is the Original. He has an actual name, but I'm not going to tell it to you because I'm a pain in the arse. I first noticed Gym Crush several months ago. Like me, he has his laundry done at the gym as well, so we are both always visable in our same outfits (sexy, huh, hey! it's clean.) Gym Crush is the only member of this elite list who does not in fact work at the gym, therefore he is perhaps the most useful on this list because I never quite know when he is going to be there. He surprises me sometimes by showing up behind me on the way to the laundry room to pick up his navy t-shirt and red shorts (I wear black pants and a bright pink and gray baseball shirt, because I knew you were wondering). When I came up the gym stairs today, he was right beyond the railing, doing his post-run stretches. We've exchanged many looks as well. Gym Crush runs, fast. Therefore he has my admiration.
In real life we know who each other are as well. True story: If I were sitting at my desk and I fell through the floor, I'd land right next to him (or maybe on top of him, which has its pluses and negatives). Terrible fact is, we're both terribly shy (at least around each other). My crowning victory came about six weeks ago when we ended up at the same Happy Hour together and we spoke and I made him laugh (that's always a good sign), but then I froze up and he froze up, and...sigh. We have 401Ks but we're still mentally in middle school. Well, hopefully there are still a few more chapters left in the tale of Mary and The G.C.
Steve
My crush on Steve is a huge joke between me and Carol, as Steve is our military-like spinning instructor who likes to yell (not at us), and eats nothing but carrots and celery. He is also perhaps about twice my age. Steve and I joke around about me being a spy because I sometimes forsake the afternoon spinning class for the morning spinning class (which starts at SEVEN freakin' AM, which means I have to get out of bed at...oh, it's just too awful! But clearly, I'm hooked). Sometimes I'll write him emails from my desk asking for 25 minute climbs, which he gets a kick out of. Sometimes I'll CC Carol and then she laughs and calls me a home-wrecker. The real draw on Steve, however, is his background, and I won't be making any jokes about this:
I'd been spinning for about seven months or so before I was told that Steve would participating in a charity bike ride for a childhood disease called A-T Ease. It's a genetic disease and the prognosis for those who have it is very bad. There isn't much hope of living past adolescence. I soon after found out that both of his little boys have this disease. Right now, they are both less than ten years old.
I started spinning with Steve in November of 2003 when my friend Victoria convinced me to do a class with her. During that time, and in the time since, I've dealt with all sorts of silly, yet crushing things in my own life. I've been on the bike in front of him after weekends when I thought my world was going to end, and doing a nine minute climb required less effort for me than, oh, say, smiling. Learning his troubles really put things in perspective for me because he gets out there and gives 100% to us day after day in spite of things that might be going on in his own life. My heartaches, when brought side by side to his, are absolutely nothing. And so what are you going to do...I say turn up that tension, and have the climb of your life!
And so you can see why I am always happily making the trek down to our gym, which is four stories beneath the Manhattan street. When there are such gentlemen to be met, you can see why I'm literally running down there! (Ah ha ha, alright, that was TERRIBLE, ugh! Twenty push-ups for that one!) And hey, now hardly ANYTHING jiggles!!
What a revelation, Mary! My god, they didn't give you a bachelors degree for nothing! At the time I started slowly, reacquainting myself with my good friend, Jane Fonda. Yes I'm quite serious, Jane in all her glittery eighties glory helped me bring my endurance level back from a sad sad place. I used to do her videos behind closed doors thinking "sheesh, if the 48 year old lady in the last row with the stir-up pants and the bright peach-colored shirt (with matching leg warmers) can do this, why the hell can't I?!" Soon I graduated from Jane to other fun-filled videos such as: MTV Grind, The NYC Ballet Workout, Crunch "Fat Busters" (Latin Style!), and a range of belly dancing tapes featuring either Rania or Veena and Neena. Also, who could forget "Darrin's Dance Grooves." I also had the Ab-Roller (look at me! I'm a human vacuum cleaner!), this weird contraption called a Gym Bar (which also doubles as a weapon if you take it out with you at night and need to go through a rough neighborhood alone), and free weights. Just recently I acquired "pilates exercise balls." I'm still not exactly sure what you do with them. Since they are a lovely royal blue, the joke amongst my outrageously immature friends is that they are my blue balls. My blue balls are made of rubber. I keep my blue balls on a shelf next to my television set. Alright (alright!), I'll stop.
One can only exercise to the same tapes (over and over and OVER again) for so long. So, I began to venture out to the gym. Using a gym for the first time can be a very self-conscious experience. You're there in sometimes not-so-nice clothing, sweating (well, you are if you're getting your money's worth), and (though it PAINS me to admit it) sometimes things jiggle. Though, I must admit that as I sit here writing this, I can honestly say that I've never fallen off a machine. That's surprising, being that this is me we are talking about.
Anyway, I began at the gym at Fairfield U. When junior year ended, I signed up for a summer at New York Sports Club, and this was my first experience at a schmancy gym. And then when my current job was wooing me, they whispered a sweet nothing into my ear about their own on-site (and hallelujah-FREE) gym. Having a large (and free) gym on-site inspired me to start going more regularly than I had ever gone previously. I mean, it was (free) right there, and (free) newly renovated. It was at my job's gym that I also experienced another important first: I started going to classes.
Research states that it only takes 30 days for exercise to become a regular habit (30 days of doing what I ask, but anyway I'm disproving myself, I'll cease). With the gym right there, and with the help of comraderie in the classes, exercising became like brushing my teeth. You don't think about it, you just do it, and if you don't you feel mighty gross. Sure, there are still days when I just don't feel like going, and for those days I've come up with the PERFECT solution: The Gym-Crush.
When you think about it, having a gym-crush is really one of the smartest things a health-conscious young woman can do. All of the sudden, the gym becomes not just about exercise, but also about scoping out guys that she's been noticing for awhile. A girl has to look at something while she's on the elliptical. (This is also why I don't care for the treadmill, because I really am terrified of falling off it. To be a treadmill is a cousin to an escalator. I hate them both! Less scoping can be done on the treadmill.) I have days when I'm feeling lethargic, but I'll grab my ipod and go because, hell, he might be there. To provide you with some concrete examples (I'm all about the concrete examples), I'll relate stories about three of my gym crushes...in the order which they mean to me from least to greatest.
The Intern
Gotta love interns in general. Recently a friend of mine was lamenting over the fact that she's going after an intern and I looked her in the eye and said "Hey. That's what interns are for." And it's true. Monica Lewinsky opened up so many doors for her brethren. This time of year my company is just lousy with interns, and its fantastic. Well lovies, our gym gets interns too! This year we were blessed with a fine specimen. Actually, I must confess that I'm surprised to find myself attracted to him, but I am. There is not a hair on his head, and he has an earring...which makes him look a lot like....Mr Clean. But, as my coworker and fellow gym buddy Carol and I observed, he also has one hot little bod (which really isn't little...at all).
This intern is a gentleman, who might be Southern as well, as I recently heard his accent while he ordered very nearly the same lunch I always get in the pasta line one day. During his first few weeks at our gym, he came to the rescue of a woman in a spin class I was in who had developed a bad foot cramp (newbies, sheesh). Thus I now know how to alleviate pain of a cramp using a jump rope. No, I haven't faked a foot-cramp yet. My crush was sealed last week however, when he traded me his good bike for a spin bike that didn't work and was the only one that hadn't been taken. I would have hurt myself on the slightly out-of-commission bike ( I was too short for it). We exchanged "looks" for the rest of the class....during all those runs, and sprints, and climbs when the tension is just up so tight.....Oh. Hello. Um, moving on!
Gym Crush
Yes, there is an actual person whom I've named Gym Crush, because he is the Original. He has an actual name, but I'm not going to tell it to you because I'm a pain in the arse. I first noticed Gym Crush several months ago. Like me, he has his laundry done at the gym as well, so we are both always visable in our same outfits (sexy, huh, hey! it's clean.) Gym Crush is the only member of this elite list who does not in fact work at the gym, therefore he is perhaps the most useful on this list because I never quite know when he is going to be there. He surprises me sometimes by showing up behind me on the way to the laundry room to pick up his navy t-shirt and red shorts (I wear black pants and a bright pink and gray baseball shirt, because I knew you were wondering). When I came up the gym stairs today, he was right beyond the railing, doing his post-run stretches. We've exchanged many looks as well. Gym Crush runs, fast. Therefore he has my admiration.
In real life we know who each other are as well. True story: If I were sitting at my desk and I fell through the floor, I'd land right next to him (or maybe on top of him, which has its pluses and negatives). Terrible fact is, we're both terribly shy (at least around each other). My crowning victory came about six weeks ago when we ended up at the same Happy Hour together and we spoke and I made him laugh (that's always a good sign), but then I froze up and he froze up, and...sigh. We have 401Ks but we're still mentally in middle school. Well, hopefully there are still a few more chapters left in the tale of Mary and The G.C.
Steve
My crush on Steve is a huge joke between me and Carol, as Steve is our military-like spinning instructor who likes to yell (not at us), and eats nothing but carrots and celery. He is also perhaps about twice my age. Steve and I joke around about me being a spy because I sometimes forsake the afternoon spinning class for the morning spinning class (which starts at SEVEN freakin' AM, which means I have to get out of bed at...oh, it's just too awful! But clearly, I'm hooked). Sometimes I'll write him emails from my desk asking for 25 minute climbs, which he gets a kick out of. Sometimes I'll CC Carol and then she laughs and calls me a home-wrecker. The real draw on Steve, however, is his background, and I won't be making any jokes about this:
I'd been spinning for about seven months or so before I was told that Steve would participating in a charity bike ride for a childhood disease called A-T Ease. It's a genetic disease and the prognosis for those who have it is very bad. There isn't much hope of living past adolescence. I soon after found out that both of his little boys have this disease. Right now, they are both less than ten years old.
I started spinning with Steve in November of 2003 when my friend Victoria convinced me to do a class with her. During that time, and in the time since, I've dealt with all sorts of silly, yet crushing things in my own life. I've been on the bike in front of him after weekends when I thought my world was going to end, and doing a nine minute climb required less effort for me than, oh, say, smiling. Learning his troubles really put things in perspective for me because he gets out there and gives 100% to us day after day in spite of things that might be going on in his own life. My heartaches, when brought side by side to his, are absolutely nothing. And so what are you going to do...I say turn up that tension, and have the climb of your life!
And so you can see why I am always happily making the trek down to our gym, which is four stories beneath the Manhattan street. When there are such gentlemen to be met, you can see why I'm literally running down there! (Ah ha ha, alright, that was TERRIBLE, ugh! Twenty push-ups for that one!) And hey, now hardly ANYTHING jiggles!!
Thursday, June 23, 2005
A WORD on Living Your Life As If NBC Owns the Rights to it.
Ok, those of you who've been out drinking with me recently have all heard my "sitcom metaphor." For those of you that have missed out on my hazy pontification, I will elaborate. What is Mary's "sitcom metaphor?!"
My sitcom metaphor was born almost a year ago. At the time, I had a small group of friends, living in the city, and this group was one of my major "family" of friends. At the end of a wonderful summer, two of them sadly moved away and the other began a gigantic job. The only person in this group of four who was going to be continuing about her daily life (alone, I might add) was me. A secret about me is that when something really upsets me, I'll create a joke about it to make myself feel better. In this case, I joked that this "show" about four crazy kids living in the city was ending a successful run. There would be a series finale, and we'd all come forward on the stage at the end of taping and bow in front of the audience (I remember when they did that on "Family Ties." Oh! It was SO SAD!). Sitcoms end when nearly all the major characters in it experience some major change in their lives. But what happens to the ones who don't get a distinct parting storyline? (pay attention, the one with no parting storyline here is me) They get their own SPINOFFs. Thus, in the process of saying goodbye and ending this era, I joked that I was getting a spin off, which each of them would guest star in from time to time. Voila! The sitcom metaphor.
So sure, there was "Frasier," "The Jeffersons," and "Rhoda," (if you don't know who Rhoda is and what show she "spun" off of please don't talk to me) but let's face it: most of the time spinoffs suck. The "spin off" I began in Fall of 2004 was garbage. It was pulled after only a few episodes. The show had a catalog of problems...inconsistency, lack of vision, and unpopular characters from previous years who did some guest appearances (making the audience apprehensive, and not in a good way). We had to fire some writers. It was ugly. The show was cut after the episode in which I got the stomach flu the day after I moved into my new apartment. The network put on reruns of "7th Heaven" in its place.
Alright, here is what I'm really trying to say: at times in our lives we enter periods during which we are knocked off our center and we have to struggle to find it again. I found myself in a position where I couldn't turn to the people I used to rely on because they weren't in my life in that capacity anymore. Since I also moved (note: many months after the old trio had departed) I was also delayed with my own new beginning. For awhile, after unpacking all those boxes and establishing a new relationship with Con Edison, the center of my universe became trying to figure out how the heck one goes about living alone. All of the sudden, I nearly had a one-woman show on my hands. Then I remembered what I have always known: if the way your life was isn’t working for you anymore, well, then it’s time to ‘pull the show’ and rewrite!!
In an odd way, it is lots of fun to think about your life in the context of the tv show formula. You are either a distinct part of a perfect group, or you are the star around which the comedy unfolds. But obviously, you have to think of yourself as the writer of the show as well. With the writers cap on, you realize that you have something that is oh-so-essential: control. One of the most important aspects in claiming this control (when you are using the sitcom metaphor) is choosing your cast. During this process, you might sometimes realize that it is most wise for the benefit of the star (and the audience!) to redesign the cast, retaining the tried and true characters, bringing in some sparkling new ones, moving some from supporting roles to co-star status, and realizing that some belong on the cutting room floor. Not everyone makes it back for another season. In the fall, I was not a terribly convincing star, but I was now determined to make my life something that I would watch on TV (and set the tape for if I had to miss it!).
Here’s how I think my life would play most successfully if it were depicted on television. I’m selfish: I would have two shows. The first show, on earlier in the evening, would tackle my career. Here's why: I don't know if I really communicate this to my dear ones enough, but I honestly have a fantastic time at work every day, day after day, month after month. As a group we ‘work’ as a cast (no pun intended, tee hee HEE hee!). We all have wicked senses of humor, and individually we are all so different (and, dare I say it, refreshingly comfortable with who we are) that I feel we would have a shot at becoming a hit show. Thus, the premise: ensemble cast of 15 who work as underwriters at a life insurance company. Every day we see wacky applications, and we sit around and make fun of them. Since we deal with reviewing medical records, there would also be an aspect of “ER Lite” mixed in with a dash of Murphy Brown, and a side of The Mary Tyler Moore Show.
Supporting characters (and might I add, unseen!) would include our agents notoriously calling on the phone in all their glorious ridiculousness. This would provide much delight for our audience, but much angst for us! It is essential to note, however, that the audience would almost ALWAYS be on our side. This past spring we changed the set, moving from a small space on a high floor of the old tower, to a larger space on a lower floor in another building. Thus this ‘cast’ joined the rest of their 400+ person department, making for even more plot twists and a set of very shaky elevators (the doors of which Mary, one of the show's characters, crashed into on a recent episode while she was saying hello to a coworker she happens to think is cute--canned laughter). In addition to these hijinks, this cast also uses the corporate gym together frequently, providing another angle. Thus, with the help of the gym’s instructors, personal trainers, and interns, the underwriters get a different view of each other, and of the rest of the company. Inside jokes begin with the help of the gym, and all that physical activity may just start a few romances: the audience is eagerly waiting to see! All and all, the goal of this show would be to smoke the Nielsen’s and have all of America wanting to be a life insurance underwriter. Not a bad idea, since it is a very little known profession at present.
The show that would depict the rest of my life would not be quite as campy, but more intuitive. Yes, (YES!) alright, it would have more of a Sex and the City or Felicity formula to it (oh LORD, there has to be a better example than ‘Felicity!’) The twist with this second show would be that I’d like to write only about 75% of the time, and leave the other 25% up to some well-seasoned, extremely wise writers. This is because I like to think of my life as a mix of entities that I have control over, and a mix of surprises that blow me away. Think about how our lives sometimes mirror what we tune in to on NBC on weeknights: we see characters we love working hard to accomplish goals. When they triumph, we cheer, when they fail, we mourn (but we also identify). We see these well-loved characters get their hearts broken, and we regretfully realize that we saw it coming, though we’d hoped we were wrong. These characters always recover, however, and become smarter, and we always see them end up happy in the end. I’ll return to casting for a minute: our favorite shows have taught us that the people in our lives are a mix of those constants: family, a best friend, a neighbor, a coworker, the love of your life (though he/she NEVER shows up right away), and those who are fleeting (though we may have fought hard to get them their own billing on the show’s opening credits). But, sometimes we also see that cast members we thought were gone for good can come back into our lives in a huge way, just when we thought it was hopeless. That is what I mean when I describe the delight of life’s surprises. All it takes is one episode.
At the root of my sitcom metaphor is this: television shows are created to provide entertainment. Part of this entertainment comes from identifying with each other’s lives, and gaining inspiration. It’s your duty to view your life as entertaining, while making sure that it touches the lives of others. Root for yourself and for your loved ones as if they were your all-time most beloved television characters.
Monday, April 04, 2005
A WORD on KARMA (or Mary's Trip into the Realm of Philosophy-A Subject She Always Got Bs in in College So You've Been Warned)
One of my favorite ice cream stores in Manhattan is located just down the street from my apartment. It's called Emack and Bolios, and it's special for many many reasons. It is probably the only place in the City where you will find "Grasshopper Pie" ice cream, which is a blend of mint, oreos, fudge, and heaven. Also, once, on a day off, I discovered that if you happened by there on a weekday afternoon you will discover the entire crew of St Vincent's Hospital interns (in their scrubs!! Can you stand it?) enjoying a frozen treat. What I love most about Emack and Bolio's, however, is their Tip Cup. It isn't made out of anything particularly special, but taped to it is a hand-drawn sign that says "Tip for Good Karma."
Karma is the concept that "what goes around comes around." We've also heard the familiar phrase "Karma's a bitch." Well, bitch or not, I have always been a strong believer in karma. What it comes down to is this: the universe has a poetic way of balancing itself out. Since we were old enough to watch cartoons we've seen the images of the angel and devil that reside on each of our shoulders, regulating our conscience. Karma is the force that applies justice when our angel breaks down on the side of the road, and our devils win (I just lifted that from "The Family Guy," by the way, maybe Seth McFarlane-who is a HOTTIE-will come to my house and sue me now...). Anyway-back from that digression-Emack and Bolio's deftly points out that rewards for having good karma exist as well. Good karma is the belief that we will ultimately receive good in exchange for the good that we've done...helping a friend through a crisis, taking the "high road", tipping the hard-working fellow who has just made you a delicious grasshopper ice cream cone. Good karma finds you when your angels win.
The bare-bones, to-the-core reason why I so blindly believe in the School of Karma is because in our daily lives I see a lot of things that just don't balance out. One of the areas in which I have the biggest problem with this is in our interpersonal relationships. It drives me wild that people who have treated others (and, alright, me) badly go on to find happiness, whether it be from another person (alright, particularly another person), success, wealth, fame, a puppy dog, a yacht, and other variations of what American society teaches that happiness comes in. At the root of why this gets to me, however, is the idea of evolution. When we are put here on this planet, life happens to us. The essential thing about this is that we are supposed to take lessons from these experiences, using them to grow as complex individuals. When a person does wrong and fails to repent from this, or even to realize it, karma-the-bitch receives a message on her blackberry:
Case #23208. File attached. Lesson completely lost on this loser. Apply pain accordingly.
Apply pain accordingly. Accordingly. Within our own society we have a legal system which dictates that the punishment a criminal receives should be in proportion to the thought processes that he or she went through in his or her decision to commit this crime. In other words, the punishment should fit the crime. For instance, we have first and second degree murder charges. The punishment for first-degree murder is stricter because a first-degree murder was pre-meditated, whereas a second-degree murder was not pre-meditated (ie, it was the tragic results of a situation that got out of control, the perpetrator did not approach with the intention of killing). It is my belief that karma is applied in degrees as well, based on how much the wrong-doer truly meant to do wrong. The punishment for a person who was deliberately duplicitous (woo, check me out with my SAT words) is far worse than the punishment for someone who did not originally intend to betray.
The bottom line is that we're all human, and we've all done things we aren't proud of. I like to think that the universe keeps a chalk board on each of us. As we live our lives and make our choices, we "write" on this board. When we do something that is pure of heart, it gets documented, and when the universe rewards us, it erases and makes room for our next deed. When we do something sleezy, it goes up on the board-and is erased when it is clear that we've fully learned that what we did sucked and we'll never do it again. Like a drain that is gradually clogging, you don't want to let your bad karma get out of hand. It could cause a flood!
But what to with the people in your life who've committed crimes against you or those you love? If we could take people to court for every offense we'd never get anything done! Well, now its time to have faith and believe in lovely Karma. As I stated in the beginning, the universe is essentially balanced, though it may seem that someone got away with an act of karmic homicide, there is now chalk all over their board, which will be erased-even if karma-the-bitch takes a few months, or even a few decades to get around to wiping it off. In the meantime, its crucial for us to move on...there is no reason to stick around with our noses pressed up against the glass waiting for the show to begin. The most important thing to remember is this: it isn't our job to apply justice. Karma tends to do a MUCH better job of that anyway.
To back up all that I have just said, I will defer to perhaps the greatest movie of all time, The Sound of Music:
"Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could. So, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good."
And that's about what I had to say on that.
Karma is the concept that "what goes around comes around." We've also heard the familiar phrase "Karma's a bitch." Well, bitch or not, I have always been a strong believer in karma. What it comes down to is this: the universe has a poetic way of balancing itself out. Since we were old enough to watch cartoons we've seen the images of the angel and devil that reside on each of our shoulders, regulating our conscience. Karma is the force that applies justice when our angel breaks down on the side of the road, and our devils win (I just lifted that from "The Family Guy," by the way, maybe Seth McFarlane-who is a HOTTIE-will come to my house and sue me now...). Anyway-back from that digression-Emack and Bolio's deftly points out that rewards for having good karma exist as well. Good karma is the belief that we will ultimately receive good in exchange for the good that we've done...helping a friend through a crisis, taking the "high road", tipping the hard-working fellow who has just made you a delicious grasshopper ice cream cone. Good karma finds you when your angels win.
The bare-bones, to-the-core reason why I so blindly believe in the School of Karma is because in our daily lives I see a lot of things that just don't balance out. One of the areas in which I have the biggest problem with this is in our interpersonal relationships. It drives me wild that people who have treated others (and, alright, me) badly go on to find happiness, whether it be from another person (alright, particularly another person), success, wealth, fame, a puppy dog, a yacht, and other variations of what American society teaches that happiness comes in. At the root of why this gets to me, however, is the idea of evolution. When we are put here on this planet, life happens to us. The essential thing about this is that we are supposed to take lessons from these experiences, using them to grow as complex individuals. When a person does wrong and fails to repent from this, or even to realize it, karma-the-bitch receives a message on her blackberry:
Case #23208. File attached. Lesson completely lost on this loser. Apply pain accordingly.
Apply pain accordingly. Accordingly. Within our own society we have a legal system which dictates that the punishment a criminal receives should be in proportion to the thought processes that he or she went through in his or her decision to commit this crime. In other words, the punishment should fit the crime. For instance, we have first and second degree murder charges. The punishment for first-degree murder is stricter because a first-degree murder was pre-meditated, whereas a second-degree murder was not pre-meditated (ie, it was the tragic results of a situation that got out of control, the perpetrator did not approach with the intention of killing). It is my belief that karma is applied in degrees as well, based on how much the wrong-doer truly meant to do wrong. The punishment for a person who was deliberately duplicitous (woo, check me out with my SAT words) is far worse than the punishment for someone who did not originally intend to betray.
The bottom line is that we're all human, and we've all done things we aren't proud of. I like to think that the universe keeps a chalk board on each of us. As we live our lives and make our choices, we "write" on this board. When we do something that is pure of heart, it gets documented, and when the universe rewards us, it erases and makes room for our next deed. When we do something sleezy, it goes up on the board-and is erased when it is clear that we've fully learned that what we did sucked and we'll never do it again. Like a drain that is gradually clogging, you don't want to let your bad karma get out of hand. It could cause a flood!
But what to with the people in your life who've committed crimes against you or those you love? If we could take people to court for every offense we'd never get anything done! Well, now its time to have faith and believe in lovely Karma. As I stated in the beginning, the universe is essentially balanced, though it may seem that someone got away with an act of karmic homicide, there is now chalk all over their board, which will be erased-even if karma-the-bitch takes a few months, or even a few decades to get around to wiping it off. In the meantime, its crucial for us to move on...there is no reason to stick around with our noses pressed up against the glass waiting for the show to begin. The most important thing to remember is this: it isn't our job to apply justice. Karma tends to do a MUCH better job of that anyway.
To back up all that I have just said, I will defer to perhaps the greatest movie of all time, The Sound of Music:
"Nothing comes from nothing. Nothing ever could. So, somewhere in my youth or childhood, I must have done something good."
And that's about what I had to say on that.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
A WORD on Games: On and Off the Playing Board
So tonight I feel it is my duty to start off this entry with a disclaimer:
To my great horror, it has come to my attention that in a recent issue of Maxim there was a rather asinine letter defending Sex and the City signed by a "Mary G of NYC." I have not seen this letter, but from my understanding of it, it could have been written by a five year old.
Still, how many Mary G's of NYC can there be out there...20, 50, 100? In any case, this was not me, people. Though I love my four girls, I fully understand that the show is not for everyone, and even that, at times, the show was not all that realistic (GASP! I can't believe I just said that)...ie, examples including Carrie's ginormous apartment only cost her $750 a month, and that after years of beating around the bush with Carrie, Big finally came around (do I think this would have happened in real life? Sadly, no.) Thus, I love the show, but I respect others rights to hate it. And also that it is highly unlikely that were I to take the time to write into a magazine, I would defend it so poorly. It is also highly unlikely that were I to write into a magazine, I would choose Maxim (ba-ZING). Chris Calamera, if this is your idea of a sick joke on me, well, Boy, you're going DOWN.
Phew! Now that that's out of the way, on to the matter at hand. My apartment is an evolutionary work in progress. Little by little, I've been adding things to it. One of the things I added to it soon after the initial move-in was some of my favorite board games. In my entertainment unit, on the shelf below the DVD/VCR, I have three of my all-time favorites: Monopoly, Scrabble, and Taboo. This trifecta sits, ever patient, waiting to be unleashed for instant good times with the revered guests who cross the threshold of #2R. Lookin' at them recently, however, I had a revelation about what they represent...and there you have it, another Blog is born.
Recently I wrote about young love, stating that it was pure, because it occurred at a time in our lives when we hadn't learned to play games yet. (You'll notice that the blog I'm referencing is no longer, and thus we have the first instance in my blogging life in which I've censored myself. Ack! I feel like a sell out!!) Anyway, sitting cross-legged on my couch, staring at my Parker-Brothers\Milton Bradley trifecta, a light-bulb went off. Are we sensing that it's time for a Mary Metaphor here....oh, oh..I think it's time for a Mary Metaphor!!!
At age thirteen we hadn't learned to play relationship games yet, but we'd definitely been learning to play some type of games. Taking a mental snapshot of the games of my youth, I discovered a startling connection to the games we played with our mommies and daddies (and in some cases, stuffed animals, only child...remember?) and the games we play in our love lives. Are you ready? Here we go...
CANDYLAND:
Touted as a "child's first game" and it certainly was mine. You draw cards with colors on them and advanced forward. The ultimate goal is to make it to the finish... where there is like a candy kingdom or something. The loop hole is the picture cards, which correspond with places all around the board. If you draw a picture card, you have to go to the corresponding place, whether it be close to the finish, or back at the beginning. You draw the Gumdrop Guy, you have to go back to the beginning, but the Sugar Plum Fairy is practically at the finish. You draw her, and you're GOLDEN. The Gumdrop Guy is short, chubby (he's a gumdrop, so duh) and wears glasses, the Sugar Plum Fairy is statuesque, glittery, and an all-around fox. She represents the goal here, people, she represents the goal!!
CHUTES AND LADDERS:
You make all this effort to climb up a ladder and advance on the board, but with one spin of the wheel, you go sliding ass-first down farther than where you started from. Chutes and Ladders teaches us to deal with the curve balls that life throws, in dating or otherwise.
SCRABBLE:
DUH. You're given random letters and you have to take them and try and make them fit together with one to three other players' letters. You take randomness, and try to scramble it into something that makes sense. Although, in scrabble, points for intelligence counts...whereas in dating, I'm starting to wonder.....
TABOO:
Along the same lines of Scrabble, here we have another word game. Except this time you struggle to make your partner blurt out a word without using five obvious synonyms that will give the word away immediately. In Taboo, points count for how well you can communicate with the other person. If you are able to say "You know, that thing..." and the other person blurts out "OCTOPUS!" and gets it right, well, then you might just have a strong relationship there. Taboo also calls to my mind the things we ladies go through to try and get the guys in our lives to say the things we've been longing to hear, without holding them at gunpoint. How many synonyms are there for "commitment." Unlike in dating, Taboo has a timer and if the person still can't come up with your word, that's it. Hmmm, maybe we should start thinking like Taboo, we'd waste a lot less time.
MONOPOLY:
It's all about money and real estate. Also, there's a beauty contest.
BATTLESHIP:
You find each other's vulnerable places and then move in for the kill!
OUIGA BOARD:
This is really too easy. You gather all your girls together and ask this board questions that have answers that only fate holds. Done correctly, the board can actually yield pretty freaky answers. When I was young, I had a Ouiga board that even spoke more than one language. Apparently Spanish Ouiga boards do exist. Mine had "si" and "no" in the upper corners. Eesh, anyway the dating equivalent of Ouiga is psychics. I'll admit that I've been to a psychic once or twice, and like the Ouiga, a good psychic can also yield pretty freaky answers ("how the heck did you know about HIM?!") Both Ouiga and psychics are what we turn to when we're looking for answers that we are impatient to uncover.
So there we have it. The board games of our youth served a two-fold purpose. One purpose was to spend quality time with our parents/siblings/stuffed animals, and the other was to warn us about the road which lay ahead, containing a variety of different games that we would later have to master. It's comforting to know, however, that for the time being I can return to the games of my youth, presently housed on a shelf directly across from where I'm currently sitting, to take a short journey back to simpler times.
To my great horror, it has come to my attention that in a recent issue of Maxim there was a rather asinine letter defending Sex and the City signed by a "Mary G of NYC." I have not seen this letter, but from my understanding of it, it could have been written by a five year old.
Still, how many Mary G's of NYC can there be out there...20, 50, 100? In any case, this was not me, people. Though I love my four girls, I fully understand that the show is not for everyone, and even that, at times, the show was not all that realistic (GASP! I can't believe I just said that)...ie, examples including Carrie's ginormous apartment only cost her $750 a month, and that after years of beating around the bush with Carrie, Big finally came around (do I think this would have happened in real life? Sadly, no.) Thus, I love the show, but I respect others rights to hate it. And also that it is highly unlikely that were I to take the time to write into a magazine, I would defend it so poorly. It is also highly unlikely that were I to write into a magazine, I would choose Maxim (ba-ZING). Chris Calamera, if this is your idea of a sick joke on me, well, Boy, you're going DOWN.
Phew! Now that that's out of the way, on to the matter at hand. My apartment is an evolutionary work in progress. Little by little, I've been adding things to it. One of the things I added to it soon after the initial move-in was some of my favorite board games. In my entertainment unit, on the shelf below the DVD/VCR, I have three of my all-time favorites: Monopoly, Scrabble, and Taboo. This trifecta sits, ever patient, waiting to be unleashed for instant good times with the revered guests who cross the threshold of #2R. Lookin' at them recently, however, I had a revelation about what they represent...and there you have it, another Blog is born.
Recently I wrote about young love, stating that it was pure, because it occurred at a time in our lives when we hadn't learned to play games yet. (You'll notice that the blog I'm referencing is no longer, and thus we have the first instance in my blogging life in which I've censored myself. Ack! I feel like a sell out!!) Anyway, sitting cross-legged on my couch, staring at my Parker-Brothers\Milton Bradley trifecta, a light-bulb went off. Are we sensing that it's time for a Mary Metaphor here....oh, oh..I think it's time for a Mary Metaphor!!!
At age thirteen we hadn't learned to play relationship games yet, but we'd definitely been learning to play some type of games. Taking a mental snapshot of the games of my youth, I discovered a startling connection to the games we played with our mommies and daddies (and in some cases, stuffed animals, only child...remember?) and the games we play in our love lives. Are you ready? Here we go...
CANDYLAND:
Touted as a "child's first game" and it certainly was mine. You draw cards with colors on them and advanced forward. The ultimate goal is to make it to the finish... where there is like a candy kingdom or something. The loop hole is the picture cards, which correspond with places all around the board. If you draw a picture card, you have to go to the corresponding place, whether it be close to the finish, or back at the beginning. You draw the Gumdrop Guy, you have to go back to the beginning, but the Sugar Plum Fairy is practically at the finish. You draw her, and you're GOLDEN. The Gumdrop Guy is short, chubby (he's a gumdrop, so duh) and wears glasses, the Sugar Plum Fairy is statuesque, glittery, and an all-around fox. She represents the goal here, people, she represents the goal!!
CHUTES AND LADDERS:
You make all this effort to climb up a ladder and advance on the board, but with one spin of the wheel, you go sliding ass-first down farther than where you started from. Chutes and Ladders teaches us to deal with the curve balls that life throws, in dating or otherwise.
SCRABBLE:
DUH. You're given random letters and you have to take them and try and make them fit together with one to three other players' letters. You take randomness, and try to scramble it into something that makes sense. Although, in scrabble, points for intelligence counts...whereas in dating, I'm starting to wonder.....
TABOO:
Along the same lines of Scrabble, here we have another word game. Except this time you struggle to make your partner blurt out a word without using five obvious synonyms that will give the word away immediately. In Taboo, points count for how well you can communicate with the other person. If you are able to say "You know, that thing..." and the other person blurts out "OCTOPUS!" and gets it right, well, then you might just have a strong relationship there. Taboo also calls to my mind the things we ladies go through to try and get the guys in our lives to say the things we've been longing to hear, without holding them at gunpoint. How many synonyms are there for "commitment." Unlike in dating, Taboo has a timer and if the person still can't come up with your word, that's it. Hmmm, maybe we should start thinking like Taboo, we'd waste a lot less time.
MONOPOLY:
It's all about money and real estate. Also, there's a beauty contest.
BATTLESHIP:
You find each other's vulnerable places and then move in for the kill!
OUIGA BOARD:
This is really too easy. You gather all your girls together and ask this board questions that have answers that only fate holds. Done correctly, the board can actually yield pretty freaky answers. When I was young, I had a Ouiga board that even spoke more than one language. Apparently Spanish Ouiga boards do exist. Mine had "si" and "no" in the upper corners. Eesh, anyway the dating equivalent of Ouiga is psychics. I'll admit that I've been to a psychic once or twice, and like the Ouiga, a good psychic can also yield pretty freaky answers ("how the heck did you know about HIM?!") Both Ouiga and psychics are what we turn to when we're looking for answers that we are impatient to uncover.
So there we have it. The board games of our youth served a two-fold purpose. One purpose was to spend quality time with our parents/siblings/stuffed animals, and the other was to warn us about the road which lay ahead, containing a variety of different games that we would later have to master. It's comforting to know, however, that for the time being I can return to the games of my youth, presently housed on a shelf directly across from where I'm currently sitting, to take a short journey back to simpler times.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
A WORD on the 'Places I'll Remember' (to quote The Beatles)
Ok, recently a male friend of mine joked to me that he feels he needs to put on the Sex and the City theme song everytime he fires up my blog. Well people, you better cue that music. All I can say in my own defense is that I merely use the episodes as my spring board for analysis that hopefully becomes all my own. To those who smirk, I say don't be haters.
My lesson today draws loosely upon two episodes. One from Season Two, and one from Season Four (I know, you don't care).
The Season Two episode deals with avoiding different parts of town after you've ended a relationship because you fear that you might run into the newest addition to your (hopefully not too long) list of heartbreaks. In essence, this person holds you in emotional hostage because you don't feel that you have the freedom to go where you normally would (SEE, that was ALL me.)
The Season Four episode is perhaps one of my favorite SATC episodes of all time. It is called "Ghost Town" and it explores the concept that your exes become ghosts that haunt you. I mean, think about it. It is a startling thing to realize that even though you've broken it off with a person, he or she does in fact actually still exist. When a person is a part of your daily life for a long period of time and then fades away, it really feels like they died rather than stopped calling and stopped coming around. Yet we are all smart people, and we know that those we've said goodbye to still go about their daily lives. Though we assume these lost lovers are still human, they become ghosts to us, shells of what was between the two of you. And let's face it, if that person hurt you badly enough, seeing them again might just cause cardiac arrest.
Steering this back to SATC, in "Ghost Town" Miranda thinks she has a literal ghost because she hears strange noises at night from the (vacant!!) apartment above her. Samantha tells Mir that she must confront the ghost, acknowledge its presence, and release it. Carrie, ever intuitive, realizes that Aidan is her ghost, with whom she has unresolved issues...and she in turn embarks on a quest to confront him. GOD, that is good writing!
I love to walk...usually with my ipod tuned to the songs that make me happy, make me think, or make me imagine the circumstances and scenarios that I would like this song to act as soundtrack in my ideal life. I am incredibly blessed to live in one of the few places in America where one can do this without the fear of becoming roadkill. I sometimes feel it helps me make the most out of enjoying New York City. Sometimes, however, these walks lead me down roads I've tried to pave over many many times.
I was commenting to a good friend the other day how it is amazing that it only takes one stroll with someone down a seemingly inconsequential street to emblazon that place. You realize, as you are walking, that though you traveled on this street with this person just once, and even on a night that was not particularly special, that you now equate this place with this person. In other words, your departed escort now haunts this place. Haunts you...when all you are trying to do is take a simple walk.
In this sense, the city becomes a ghost town. It becomes a ghost town even though there is hardly ever a time when you can be out on the sidewalk entirely by yourself. There you are, out there surrounded by hundreds of people, haunted by the memory of a soul.
Did you know that sometimes, even without realizing it, you can attempt to obliterate a ghost by bringing someone new to its quarters? For the time being, the spirit on the haunted street, in the neighborhood, restaurant, grocery store..is moved to the back of your mind, as you create new memories with a new person. The danger in this is that once that new person joins his predecessors, these places become double--even triple or quadruple haunted. If you find yourself in one of these places while you are in a missing mood, then you'll miss whoever happens to be first on line in your heart that day.
A wise friend once told me that if he avoided all the places in the city that reminded him of past loves, he wouldn't be able to go out anymore. He hit the nail on the head. What is a girl to do, become a hermit? I am incredibly lucky in that I have a secret weapon, which I have put to great use. And of course I will divulge.
I am about six months shy of celebrating a quarter century of living in New York City (yes, I have decided to count my birthday not only as my celebration of aging, but as a marker of how long I have lived here). Twenty five years in the city is an impressive amount of time. A quarter century as a New Yorker...this, my dear friends, is my secret weapon (and I will explain...)
I walk down the street, in a neighborhood where a Ghost lives and inevitably I start to think of him....but, ah! No. This is NOT the neighborhood where Jackass #3 lives; it is instead the neighborhood where my mother took me as a child to buy the shoes I loved so much I tried to wear them to bed. This is NOT the street where Jackass #1 and I used to watch street artists create their masterpieces; it is instead the street I walked down at age nine, dressed (ironically) to the nines, with my mom and dad (dressed to the "mid-forties" ha ha ha) in tow after having seen my first broadway show. This is NOT the corner where I used to meet up with Jackass #2 before heading to the movies; it is instead the corner of the street where my best friend in third grade used to live (and still might...I think.) Using this tactic, I smile because I have the pleasure of knowing that I was here long before Jackasses 1-12, and these "haunted" places will continue to provide me with memories long after theirs have faded.
Still, while these memories remain annoyingly in focus, I recently discovered another means of survival. A few Sundays ago I was out walking for the sake of walking. I decided to go into the West Village and get lost (I mean really lost, in the West Village West 4th Street crosses West 10th Street, that's just NUTS). As I weaved my way West, I made the rather impulsive decision to keep going and before I knew it, I was pressing the call button for the walk light to cross the West Side Highway. I remembered a pier that one could reach from Christopher Street, and the only time I had ever been there was when I attended Wigstock as a crazy middle-schooler (do not ask, do not even ASK). Without the crowd, and the soundstage (and the benefit that 12 years have passed since that most interesting day), the pier was cleansing, open, and being enjoyed only by real live New Yorkers. Here was a world within New York that in 24 1/2 years I'd forgotten to take advantage of. My ipod and I strode down the expansive walkway, looking across to the less-crowded skyline of Jersey City and a sign which read "Lackawanna." At the end of the pier, I stood at the very corner of it, and held on to the railing, captivated by the water coupled with the glittering late afternoon sun. I felt tiny and enormous at the same time. I made a promise to myself there, which of course I will share. I will come back to this place. Often. In all seasons. But I will never, ever bring anyone with me. I want this place to remind me of myself, and once more, I will come here when my heart needs healing from whichever Jackass has pummeled it most recently. Though it is a deliciously romantic place, "Lackawanna" is just for me. Sorry Jackasses.
This was for You. (And believe me, You knows who they are ;O).
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
--The Beatles--
My lesson today draws loosely upon two episodes. One from Season Two, and one from Season Four (I know, you don't care).
The Season Two episode deals with avoiding different parts of town after you've ended a relationship because you fear that you might run into the newest addition to your (hopefully not too long) list of heartbreaks. In essence, this person holds you in emotional hostage because you don't feel that you have the freedom to go where you normally would (SEE, that was ALL me.)
The Season Four episode is perhaps one of my favorite SATC episodes of all time. It is called "Ghost Town" and it explores the concept that your exes become ghosts that haunt you. I mean, think about it. It is a startling thing to realize that even though you've broken it off with a person, he or she does in fact actually still exist. When a person is a part of your daily life for a long period of time and then fades away, it really feels like they died rather than stopped calling and stopped coming around. Yet we are all smart people, and we know that those we've said goodbye to still go about their daily lives. Though we assume these lost lovers are still human, they become ghosts to us, shells of what was between the two of you. And let's face it, if that person hurt you badly enough, seeing them again might just cause cardiac arrest.
Steering this back to SATC, in "Ghost Town" Miranda thinks she has a literal ghost because she hears strange noises at night from the (vacant!!) apartment above her. Samantha tells Mir that she must confront the ghost, acknowledge its presence, and release it. Carrie, ever intuitive, realizes that Aidan is her ghost, with whom she has unresolved issues...and she in turn embarks on a quest to confront him. GOD, that is good writing!
I love to walk...usually with my ipod tuned to the songs that make me happy, make me think, or make me imagine the circumstances and scenarios that I would like this song to act as soundtrack in my ideal life. I am incredibly blessed to live in one of the few places in America where one can do this without the fear of becoming roadkill. I sometimes feel it helps me make the most out of enjoying New York City. Sometimes, however, these walks lead me down roads I've tried to pave over many many times.
I was commenting to a good friend the other day how it is amazing that it only takes one stroll with someone down a seemingly inconsequential street to emblazon that place. You realize, as you are walking, that though you traveled on this street with this person just once, and even on a night that was not particularly special, that you now equate this place with this person. In other words, your departed escort now haunts this place. Haunts you...when all you are trying to do is take a simple walk.
In this sense, the city becomes a ghost town. It becomes a ghost town even though there is hardly ever a time when you can be out on the sidewalk entirely by yourself. There you are, out there surrounded by hundreds of people, haunted by the memory of a soul.
Did you know that sometimes, even without realizing it, you can attempt to obliterate a ghost by bringing someone new to its quarters? For the time being, the spirit on the haunted street, in the neighborhood, restaurant, grocery store..is moved to the back of your mind, as you create new memories with a new person. The danger in this is that once that new person joins his predecessors, these places become double--even triple or quadruple haunted. If you find yourself in one of these places while you are in a missing mood, then you'll miss whoever happens to be first on line in your heart that day.
A wise friend once told me that if he avoided all the places in the city that reminded him of past loves, he wouldn't be able to go out anymore. He hit the nail on the head. What is a girl to do, become a hermit? I am incredibly lucky in that I have a secret weapon, which I have put to great use. And of course I will divulge.
I am about six months shy of celebrating a quarter century of living in New York City (yes, I have decided to count my birthday not only as my celebration of aging, but as a marker of how long I have lived here). Twenty five years in the city is an impressive amount of time. A quarter century as a New Yorker...this, my dear friends, is my secret weapon (and I will explain...)
I walk down the street, in a neighborhood where a Ghost lives and inevitably I start to think of him....but, ah! No. This is NOT the neighborhood where Jackass #3 lives; it is instead the neighborhood where my mother took me as a child to buy the shoes I loved so much I tried to wear them to bed. This is NOT the street where Jackass #1 and I used to watch street artists create their masterpieces; it is instead the street I walked down at age nine, dressed (ironically) to the nines, with my mom and dad (dressed to the "mid-forties" ha ha ha) in tow after having seen my first broadway show. This is NOT the corner where I used to meet up with Jackass #2 before heading to the movies; it is instead the corner of the street where my best friend in third grade used to live (and still might...I think.) Using this tactic, I smile because I have the pleasure of knowing that I was here long before Jackasses 1-12, and these "haunted" places will continue to provide me with memories long after theirs have faded.
Still, while these memories remain annoyingly in focus, I recently discovered another means of survival. A few Sundays ago I was out walking for the sake of walking. I decided to go into the West Village and get lost (I mean really lost, in the West Village West 4th Street crosses West 10th Street, that's just NUTS). As I weaved my way West, I made the rather impulsive decision to keep going and before I knew it, I was pressing the call button for the walk light to cross the West Side Highway. I remembered a pier that one could reach from Christopher Street, and the only time I had ever been there was when I attended Wigstock as a crazy middle-schooler (do not ask, do not even ASK). Without the crowd, and the soundstage (and the benefit that 12 years have passed since that most interesting day), the pier was cleansing, open, and being enjoyed only by real live New Yorkers. Here was a world within New York that in 24 1/2 years I'd forgotten to take advantage of. My ipod and I strode down the expansive walkway, looking across to the less-crowded skyline of Jersey City and a sign which read "Lackawanna." At the end of the pier, I stood at the very corner of it, and held on to the railing, captivated by the water coupled with the glittering late afternoon sun. I felt tiny and enormous at the same time. I made a promise to myself there, which of course I will share. I will come back to this place. Often. In all seasons. But I will never, ever bring anyone with me. I want this place to remind me of myself, and once more, I will come here when my heart needs healing from whichever Jackass has pummeled it most recently. Though it is a deliciously romantic place, "Lackawanna" is just for me. Sorry Jackasses.
This was for You. (And believe me, You knows who they are ;O).
There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I've loved them all
--The Beatles--
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