Lauren's older sister, Ashley, is getting married at year's end to her high school sweetheart. Ashely's a sorority girl who now works in PR while Lauren is a practical girl who works in Market Research--at Maxim, mind you. Lauren and Ashley are roughly two years apart which made for great sibling rivalry and general disdain in high school but has lead to a healthy sisterly bond in the post-collegiate years.
Recently, Lauren--who lives with her former co-worker/boyfriend--has spent copious amounts of time with Ashley given that her wedding is looming and their father had been recently diagnosed with cancer. He's doing well but the family has grown much closer off late.
Last weekend at Ashley's bridal shower which comes in the wake of a wicked bachelorette party--that Lauren spent much of the week that followed recovering from--a rather telling tale was revealed.
It seems that Ashely was defined in her friend circle by this rather unusual story:
About a year ago--at the ripe age of 27.5--Ashley attended a drunken frat fest at a fellow couple's abode. Her fiancee was out of town at the time and she proceeded to pass out on the couple friend's couch in the midst of the raging kegger around her due to her heavily inebriated post happy hour condition. However, around 3am as the party was winding down she awakened groggy and bleary eyed--grabbed her purse and stumbled out of the apartment without so much as a backward glance. The couple assumed she would fall into a cab and make her way home.
However, she resurfaced the next morning as the unsuspecting couple was eating breakfast with a rather conspicious wet patch in the groin and her bag slung over one shoulder. It appears she had woken up in a bed she assumed was the couple's based on the overhead view of trees and buildings only to feel a wetness around her. Upon sitting up to inspect her surroundings she discovered that she had not only wet herself but was in an unfamiliar room--no matter how familiar the view--belonging to a cross-dresser or girly girl. She then quickly found her bag and peeked sheepishly outside the bedroom door into the empty living room before fleeing the scene. It was revealed upon examining the front door of the apartment she had spent the night in that she was one floor down from her friends' place and had wet some stranger's bed.
The rip roaring laughter that ensued around Lauren led her to question her fun factor. She related this tale of hilarity to us at tea last night in a somber tone with the concluding question: "Am I just not that much fun?" Of course, we hastened to assure her that she was funner than fun and no amount of peeing in strangers' beds would make Ashely more fun than Lauren.
But it begs the question...Where do our insecurities come from? After all, Lauren is a successful, petite woman who lives with a committed partner in a very cute apartment in Park Slope with two cats. How could she genuinely question her self-image when a story relating to her older sister's proclivity to pee in beds, closets, kitchens is told?
May 23, 2007
Indignation
Much of my life, I have spent in a state of indignation. My threshold for indignance is low. This is not to say I can't handle a great deal of non-sense, it is however a fact that my reaction to much of what transpires around me is indignation.
Prime example: I go to tea every monday with the girls--Lauren, Kelli, Jo, Beth, and Stella. D'Souza feels the need to repeatedly refer to TEA as my TEA PARTY! We are not in Boston, I am not dumping tea in the ocean...it is NOT A TEA PARTY. The indignation I feel is past palpable to heart murmur inducing.
Similar example: I work at the ACLU--work as a temp--but it provides a paycheck so we will call it work. D'Souza will only refer to it as UCLA. YEEGADS! I am not in sunny, smoggy LA. I am not at the University of California. Thankfully, they are adequately liberal and left-leaning just as the ACLU is however the comparison ends there.
Prime example: I go to tea every monday with the girls--Lauren, Kelli, Jo, Beth, and Stella. D'Souza feels the need to repeatedly refer to TEA as my TEA PARTY! We are not in Boston, I am not dumping tea in the ocean...it is NOT A TEA PARTY. The indignation I feel is past palpable to heart murmur inducing.
Similar example: I work at the ACLU--work as a temp--but it provides a paycheck so we will call it work. D'Souza will only refer to it as UCLA. YEEGADS! I am not in sunny, smoggy LA. I am not at the University of California. Thankfully, they are adequately liberal and left-leaning just as the ACLU is however the comparison ends there.
May 17, 2007
Brooklyn's Best
Yesterday, D'Souza and I went to Brooklyn. It must be noted that yesterday's rain rivaled a monsoon drizzle but in my open-toed heels and flimsy umbrella it could have been a tornado.
Having skipped breakfast and lunch (yes, I did begin my day with a trusty frappuccino--no I have not quit!), my hypoglycemic index was admittedly through the roof as we trudged through a maze of subway connections to arrive in Prospect Heights--really Crown Heights. He balked at the vast number of unemployed hoodlums lining the subway tiles. I pretended not to notice.
He shook his head as we walked along a desolate road to an apartment building that resembled the projects. Now, I must admit that elitism reigned, as we both stared dumb-founded at the Communistic concrete barrack that greeted us in a forlorn neighborhood void of white people. Yes, he said white people. I would have gone with suited people, but we'll take it for what it is. I avoided a long discussion on race with him--which I am fond of getting myself into with any and all who will indulge me--perhaps the only thing I hold onto idealistically is the notion that all people should be equal and thus treated as such. Yes, I am well aware that the world does not operate in this way.
I digress. As we milled around miserable in the rain I addressed the Jersey City issue. He was a sweetheart and didn't push a state change in my future address, but as I sit here and type I'm not sure what it is that I am fighting for...Manhattan is egregiously expensive for a tiny space where windows are luxury commodities and every expense carries a hefty preminum for being provided on this island. Yet the convenience of doing my groceries at 3am, should I so desire and a subway that always takes my drunk ass home just can't measure against a drastic change in lifestyle required if I move to Jersey City or even Brooklyn. I'm fighting for my way of life here. My method of being...of breathing...of pursuing happiness.
God Damn It, I work at the ACLU...Living here is an exercise in my liberty as a civilian of the American Nation...albeit a non-unionized exercise. For the simple reason that I WANT TO...I continue to live and dream and hope and wait to exhale in the one and only Big Apple.
Having skipped breakfast and lunch (yes, I did begin my day with a trusty frappuccino--no I have not quit!), my hypoglycemic index was admittedly through the roof as we trudged through a maze of subway connections to arrive in Prospect Heights--really Crown Heights. He balked at the vast number of unemployed hoodlums lining the subway tiles. I pretended not to notice.
He shook his head as we walked along a desolate road to an apartment building that resembled the projects. Now, I must admit that elitism reigned, as we both stared dumb-founded at the Communistic concrete barrack that greeted us in a forlorn neighborhood void of white people. Yes, he said white people. I would have gone with suited people, but we'll take it for what it is. I avoided a long discussion on race with him--which I am fond of getting myself into with any and all who will indulge me--perhaps the only thing I hold onto idealistically is the notion that all people should be equal and thus treated as such. Yes, I am well aware that the world does not operate in this way.
I digress. As we milled around miserable in the rain I addressed the Jersey City issue. He was a sweetheart and didn't push a state change in my future address, but as I sit here and type I'm not sure what it is that I am fighting for...Manhattan is egregiously expensive for a tiny space where windows are luxury commodities and every expense carries a hefty preminum for being provided on this island. Yet the convenience of doing my groceries at 3am, should I so desire and a subway that always takes my drunk ass home just can't measure against a drastic change in lifestyle required if I move to Jersey City or even Brooklyn. I'm fighting for my way of life here. My method of being...of breathing...of pursuing happiness.
God Damn It, I work at the ACLU...Living here is an exercise in my liberty as a civilian of the American Nation...albeit a non-unionized exercise. For the simple reason that I WANT TO...I continue to live and dream and hope and wait to exhale in the one and only Big Apple.
High but Thin Walls
Sitting in my cubicle at the ACLU--which D'Souza (silly foreigner) continues to call UCLA, much to my chagrin, and his unending glee--I am reminded of the scene in Office Space where the heavy, high-pitched woman with an unhealthy dose of face paint caking her could-be-beautiful if slimmer face squaking into her constantly ringing phone. There is a boy--I call him this in his skinny jeans and graphic tees--who delivers an ACLU membership spiel with the frequency and fluidity of a humanized robot.
Our cube walls--to call them walls is a misnomer at best being that they are made of some sort of cheap particle board that is covered by even cheaper gray, textured fabric--perhaps partitions would be a better term, are high. My guess 6 feet high. But given that they don't touch the 9-foot ceiling nor do they have doors, what little privacy you accrue visually you lose audibly. So much as a sigh is transmitted with a clarity that rivals THX commercials at your local movie theater.
Our cube walls--to call them walls is a misnomer at best being that they are made of some sort of cheap particle board that is covered by even cheaper gray, textured fabric--perhaps partitions would be a better term, are high. My guess 6 feet high. But given that they don't touch the 9-foot ceiling nor do they have doors, what little privacy you accrue visually you lose audibly. So much as a sigh is transmitted with a clarity that rivals THX commercials at your local movie theater.
May 10, 2007
Me...at the ACLU!
I currently temp at the ACLU--American Civil Liberties Union--which is a land filled with Helens. You recall my high school chum of British descent who lived in a village in South India for a year in an effort to flex her crunchy, granola Middlebury education in a non-Peace Corps Save-the-Third-World effort. A girl with as much heart and noblesse oblige as a Teva-wearing, globe-trotting, foreign policy type can be. She recently got admitted to both Dartmouth and MIT for B-school and will soldier on in her efforts to make enough of a profit to stay afloat while making a difference in the non-profit/government sector. I digress. All this isn't irrelevant, it goes to illustrate the differences between me and the Helens of this world. I find myself in employ within a Helen world presently. A sobering reality in the context of my money-grubbing, conscience-lacking self-concept...I sense that in reconciling these differences I will discover my true path to career success.
It must be said that in my two days here I have encountered nothing but positive feedback in the kindest of words, a complete acceptance of my tardiness in light of my prolific turn-a-round time and delivery methods, and a general happiness that I now understand to be a passion and happiness with work and the work-life balance. Not to say they aren't a hard-working bunch but they seem to work without effort in the way that someone that loves what they are doing occupies their time. They also appear to seamlessly leave work at work and amble home on the earlier side of late to what I imagine to be smiling families around dinner tables awaiting their presence. Suburban Utopia in an Urban Microcosm?
It must be said that in my two days here I have encountered nothing but positive feedback in the kindest of words, a complete acceptance of my tardiness in light of my prolific turn-a-round time and delivery methods, and a general happiness that I now understand to be a passion and happiness with work and the work-life balance. Not to say they aren't a hard-working bunch but they seem to work without effort in the way that someone that loves what they are doing occupies their time. They also appear to seamlessly leave work at work and amble home on the earlier side of late to what I imagine to be smiling families around dinner tables awaiting their presence. Suburban Utopia in an Urban Microcosm?
Dress to Impress
This morning, I woke up groggy--as I do every morning, I am NOT a morning person--rolled over D'Souza rubbing a sweat-soaked hand over my bleary eyes and pulled out a bright green, button-down, silky shirt and a pleated, knee-length, white skirt with a multitude of multi-colored flowers adorning it. I paired this ensemble with a small, red leather, elbow-dangler bag and bright red, soft-leather shoes--a recent gift from Tracey.
I seemingly floated to work, not noticing the favorable greetings I garnered. However on my daily Starbucks run I ran into a barista who frequently served me at the Wall Street location--he had been transplanted to Water Street, my current closest Starbucks. He beamed at me with recognition, clasping my hand in his own and requesting I return with the frequency and fervor with which I had graced him in our shared previous life. From Silverstein Katz-->German Bank-->Non-profit Do-Gooder Union entailed Water St.-->Wall St.-->Water St. confirming that the financial district of Manhattan is very, very small indeed--geographically, at least.
My growling stomach led me to ABP across the street where I was greeted with warm smiles--I could hear the theme song of Cheers playing in the back of my brain--the nice man who made my breakfast sandwich complimented my shirt, the lady at the counter insisted that they would still serve me breakfast even though they were removing the breakfast menu, and the cashier wished me a very nice weekend and a happy mother's day. I balked. Am I to assume that all these people saw me as someone's MOTHER?! Do I look that old? Was I having a fat day? YEEESH.
I stepped back outside, shaking the growing suspicion that despite the bounce in my step passers by perceived me as less than youthful and exuberant, and continued back to my current office location with the yuppy, capitalist accoutrements I had collected on my morning pilgrimage.
I seemingly floated to work, not noticing the favorable greetings I garnered. However on my daily Starbucks run I ran into a barista who frequently served me at the Wall Street location--he had been transplanted to Water Street, my current closest Starbucks. He beamed at me with recognition, clasping my hand in his own and requesting I return with the frequency and fervor with which I had graced him in our shared previous life. From Silverstein Katz-->German Bank-->Non-profit Do-Gooder Union entailed Water St.-->Wall St.-->Water St. confirming that the financial district of Manhattan is very, very small indeed--geographically, at least.
My growling stomach led me to ABP across the street where I was greeted with warm smiles--I could hear the theme song of Cheers playing in the back of my brain--the nice man who made my breakfast sandwich complimented my shirt, the lady at the counter insisted that they would still serve me breakfast even though they were removing the breakfast menu, and the cashier wished me a very nice weekend and a happy mother's day. I balked. Am I to assume that all these people saw me as someone's MOTHER?! Do I look that old? Was I having a fat day? YEEESH.
I stepped back outside, shaking the growing suspicion that despite the bounce in my step passers by perceived me as less than youthful and exuberant, and continued back to my current office location with the yuppy, capitalist accoutrements I had collected on my morning pilgrimage.
May 7, 2007
Headless Phone
Walking up the street towards Brooklyn Bridge I spied a public phone that had it's head chopped off. Makes me wonder what kind of instrument could cut through a plastic phone with all those fibrous wires within...then I start pondering who carries such a thing on the city streets in the financial district.
I wished desperately I had a camera to capture that and out it up with this post--alas I did not.
I wished desperately I had a camera to capture that and out it up with this post--alas I did not.
Fixed
It was just an off day--a natural lull in relationship land--no trouble in paradise.
Smooth sailing for now; I would say from here on out but that seems naive.
Smooth sailing for now; I would say from here on out but that seems naive.
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