Though I love the George Michael song...this entry is in no way related to that late '80s classic.
On the ride back from Ithaca on Sunday, D'Souza turned down the radio to reveal to me a crisis of faith. He's a devout Catholic. A devotion I deeply respect. So when he confessed to me that he didn't understand how some people could be given such a sad lot in life when predestination was the premise of Catholicism, I was relieved and alarmed. Relieved that he questioned authority and alarmed that he questioned his faith. He clarified a common misconception about free will which I struggled with.
He explained that predestination does not predicate decision-making. Said another way, just because God know what we will do in the future he has no influence our decision. Free will dictates that we are the sole bearers of that responsibility.
If given the choice between sleeping in and mass I don't see much of a choice--I sleep in. D'Souza, on the other hand, pulled in front of a church to say a quiet prayer--on our way back from Ithaca--since no mass times were possible during our journey.
October 2, 2007
September 8, 2007
Dance Manhattan
My mom presented D'Souza and I with 4 classes at Dance Manhattan for our upcoming birthdays. His is Oct. 3 and mine is Oct. 18. We turn 27.
Luckey's is on Oct. 10 and he will be 2 (in puppy years--for a dog his size--that's 10 in people years).
We missed our first class yesterday because I had to haul ass to Jersey to be in the fashion show fundraiser. My mom was in it too. Good times abounded. Alright, not really, but it was for a good cause.
Luckey's is on Oct. 10 and he will be 2 (in puppy years--for a dog his size--that's 10 in people years).
We missed our first class yesterday because I had to haul ass to Jersey to be in the fashion show fundraiser. My mom was in it too. Good times abounded. Alright, not really, but it was for a good cause.
Bowery Poetry Club
All fans and eager Sweet sighters are welcome to watch me read at the Bowery Poetry Club on September 29, 2007--sometime between 12pm-2pm--hope some of you will come out to show your support.
For the haters, I think the venue is pro-booing so you should come out as well. My poetry is much more fun to mock while I'm reading it in front of a live audience.
For the haters, I think the venue is pro-booing so you should come out as well. My poetry is much more fun to mock while I'm reading it in front of a live audience.
Plan B
I have recently put Plan B into effect in my life.
Is this Plan B a
a) form of emergency contraception?
b) decision to attend business school?
c) clear understanding that I must give up on Plan A and follow the alternative plan for my life?
d) all of the above.
e) none of the above.
Is this Plan B a
a) form of emergency contraception?
b) decision to attend business school?
c) clear understanding that I must give up on Plan A and follow the alternative plan for my life?
d) all of the above.
e) none of the above.
The Budget
D'Souza is fastidious about maintaining his finances in an ornately organized Excel spreadsheet. I was honored when I got my own tab on said spreadsheet a few months ago...
Recently we sat down and created a budget together--a budget he later threw out the window given my penchant for whining about the limitations it imposed on my lifestyle--
In creating this budget I was reminded of his frequent assurances that he was a BIG spender. However big spenders do not budget to the second decimal point. I was amazed at his versatility in squandering wealth distributed to him and saving money hard-earned by him. I suppose this is second nature to most people but I am a product of opposite world. I always had a hard time spending someone else's money and absolutely revel in extinguishing my self-created resources. While there is no guilt in my penniless proclivity there are plenty of consequences.
That said, some props must be given in my ability to save and sensibly utilize resources provided by others. It must speak to my inherent character in some meager way. Well, I certainly hope it does.
The point of this budget entry being this: I've always balanced my checkbook in my head and that's exactly why I have over-draft protection.
Recently we sat down and created a budget together--a budget he later threw out the window given my penchant for whining about the limitations it imposed on my lifestyle--
In creating this budget I was reminded of his frequent assurances that he was a BIG spender. However big spenders do not budget to the second decimal point. I was amazed at his versatility in squandering wealth distributed to him and saving money hard-earned by him. I suppose this is second nature to most people but I am a product of opposite world. I always had a hard time spending someone else's money and absolutely revel in extinguishing my self-created resources. While there is no guilt in my penniless proclivity there are plenty of consequences.
That said, some props must be given in my ability to save and sensibly utilize resources provided by others. It must speak to my inherent character in some meager way. Well, I certainly hope it does.
The point of this budget entry being this: I've always balanced my checkbook in my head and that's exactly why I have over-draft protection.
Roadtrip USA
Last night at 12am when we got home from the Sri-Lankan fashion show fundraiser at an Indian restaurant in Parsipanny, New Jersey, I was wide awake and ready to plan our cross-country Christmas roadtrip. Sadly, D'Souza was sleepy.
That's a theme in my life now.
I'm a night owl. I have professed this since the beginning. Anyone who knows me will attest to my nocturnal ways. When I met him, he led me to believe he was a night person as well. Of course, he was also clear about being a morning person. A reality I avoided till we started sharing a small space. He claims that back then he only needed 3-4 hours of sleep a night to be fully-functioning member of society. I wouldn't have bought into this claim except that in the early phases of dating he did just that. Recall the Denver date--when he flew in from Denver on a thursday to take me to dinner and flew back the next morning for a meeting in Denver.
I digress.
So, since he travels Monday-Thursday and our only time together is Friday-Sunday I find myself in a predicament. My weekends are now spent going to bed earlier than weeknights and waking up at the same time. Though he lets me sleep in on the weekends but by 9am...I'm wide awake having gone to bed SO early the night before.
Need I remind you reader, I used to go out till the wee hours of the morning and have no desire to change that lifestyle. I don't see why that has to be a life reserved for the single. In fact it is not. I have plenty of couple friends who go on dates into the wee hours of the morning. It is their right and priviege as those that pay the premium to live under the bright lights of the big city.
I can see an argument for this being the lifestyle of the young...but at almost 27, are the arguments against my age already apt?
That's a theme in my life now.
I'm a night owl. I have professed this since the beginning. Anyone who knows me will attest to my nocturnal ways. When I met him, he led me to believe he was a night person as well. Of course, he was also clear about being a morning person. A reality I avoided till we started sharing a small space. He claims that back then he only needed 3-4 hours of sleep a night to be fully-functioning member of society. I wouldn't have bought into this claim except that in the early phases of dating he did just that. Recall the Denver date--when he flew in from Denver on a thursday to take me to dinner and flew back the next morning for a meeting in Denver.
I digress.
So, since he travels Monday-Thursday and our only time together is Friday-Sunday I find myself in a predicament. My weekends are now spent going to bed earlier than weeknights and waking up at the same time. Though he lets me sleep in on the weekends but by 9am...I'm wide awake having gone to bed SO early the night before.
Need I remind you reader, I used to go out till the wee hours of the morning and have no desire to change that lifestyle. I don't see why that has to be a life reserved for the single. In fact it is not. I have plenty of couple friends who go on dates into the wee hours of the morning. It is their right and priviege as those that pay the premium to live under the bright lights of the big city.
I can see an argument for this being the lifestyle of the young...but at almost 27, are the arguments against my age already apt?
August 27, 2007
August 23, 2007
Thank You, Commerce Bank!
There is a Commerce Bank on the corner of 43rd St. on 3rd Ave.
I have been to this location three times this week, heavily laden with coins my mother has been collecting for years.
In quarters alone my total was $167.42. Over the following two days I racked up another $120 bringing the lump sum figure to a whopping $280!
How remarkable to carry sacks of change to the Penny Arcade and depart with feather weight bills. I am grateful for the surcharge-free Commerce Bank.
Hereforeto, I reject my prior confession of love for the CoinStar machine which charges an egregious 8cents to the $1. Boo!
I have been to this location three times this week, heavily laden with coins my mother has been collecting for years.
In quarters alone my total was $167.42. Over the following two days I racked up another $120 bringing the lump sum figure to a whopping $280!
How remarkable to carry sacks of change to the Penny Arcade and depart with feather weight bills. I am grateful for the surcharge-free Commerce Bank.
Hereforeto, I reject my prior confession of love for the CoinStar machine which charges an egregious 8cents to the $1. Boo!
August 20, 2007
The Lakehouse
Don't get excited gentle reader, this will not be a review of the eponymous Keanu Reeves--Sandra Bullock film...it will instead highlight the weekend I spent with D'Souza at my mother and her husband's lake residence in New Jersey.
Now, the thing about D'Souza is that he loves the lake. Maybe it's the Indian Navy ex-cadet within or the fisherman roots imbued in Goans, but the fact remains: the man is a water baby. He loves boats and he loves bodies of water. In fact, he is adept in commandeering vessels on bodies of water. Water falling from the sky won't keep him on dry land. He will attach the battery to the motor and row his way to open water. Removing credence from the saying, "No man is an island unto himself!" After all, when he is in that boat that's exactly what he is.
I digress.
On Saturday, my mother had a little party for her friends. About 20 folks her age showed up and I was enlisted to cook for this event. Mind you, I've spent the majority of my years living solo using my oven for storage; however, since meeting D'Souza and establishing a system of domesticity I've been cooking. Well, perhaps preparing meals is a better description of what I really do.
The menu for the party was as follows:
Okra Kathi Rolls
Chicken Satay with Peanut sauce
Paneer Tikka
Cucumber Sandwiches
Mom's handiwork:
Samosas (Fresh out of the oven, defrosted just as I recall growing up.)
Tandoori Chicken (Her single most successful dish!)
Chocolate Brownies (Made from scratch--she used to solicit Betty Crocker!)
Lamb kebabs and Chole were contributed by Indian aunties who know to cook and practice the seemingly lost culinary art.
The event was an interesting mix of casually dressed, middle-aged white folks with crude senses of humor who cracked dirty jokes and drink lite beer (my mom's husband's friends) and sedate, carefully-dressed, Indian doctors who discussed global politics in hushed tones and listened attentively to the former folks extol their jokes whilst sipping wine (my mom's friends). No riots broke out. In fact, the entire 5pm-1am event passed without so much as an argument.
The lead singer of the Rascals was in attedance with his wife--also a musician--which made for great stories of tours from yesteryear.
In typical fashion, my mom did an excellent job of attending HER event. My old roomie used to pull this scheme: invite a bunch of people over to our place, offer them a great many treats in advance, and then spend the duration of the party as a guest at said event munching on food and drink while mingling at will having not helped in the preparation or serving of above. It's one of my biggest pet peeves.
My notion of hosting involves elaborate preparation of dishes and drinks ahead of time, presenting them in an artistic manner during the event, and constant surveillance of guest plates and glasses to ensure that they are filled. Not to say I don't mingle but whilst meeting and greeting I perform the dual role of observing and serving.
My mom did clean up after the party--I craftily fell asleep before midnight--with much help from D'Souza (though he didn't mention it, I KNOW he was hugely helpful per usual).
Now, the thing about D'Souza is that he loves the lake. Maybe it's the Indian Navy ex-cadet within or the fisherman roots imbued in Goans, but the fact remains: the man is a water baby. He loves boats and he loves bodies of water. In fact, he is adept in commandeering vessels on bodies of water. Water falling from the sky won't keep him on dry land. He will attach the battery to the motor and row his way to open water. Removing credence from the saying, "No man is an island unto himself!" After all, when he is in that boat that's exactly what he is.
I digress.
On Saturday, my mother had a little party for her friends. About 20 folks her age showed up and I was enlisted to cook for this event. Mind you, I've spent the majority of my years living solo using my oven for storage; however, since meeting D'Souza and establishing a system of domesticity I've been cooking. Well, perhaps preparing meals is a better description of what I really do.
The menu for the party was as follows:
Okra Kathi Rolls
Chicken Satay with Peanut sauce
Paneer Tikka
Cucumber Sandwiches
Mom's handiwork:
Samosas (Fresh out of the oven, defrosted just as I recall growing up.)
Tandoori Chicken (Her single most successful dish!)
Chocolate Brownies (Made from scratch--she used to solicit Betty Crocker!)
Lamb kebabs and Chole were contributed by Indian aunties who know to cook and practice the seemingly lost culinary art.
The event was an interesting mix of casually dressed, middle-aged white folks with crude senses of humor who cracked dirty jokes and drink lite beer (my mom's husband's friends) and sedate, carefully-dressed, Indian doctors who discussed global politics in hushed tones and listened attentively to the former folks extol their jokes whilst sipping wine (my mom's friends). No riots broke out. In fact, the entire 5pm-1am event passed without so much as an argument.
The lead singer of the Rascals was in attedance with his wife--also a musician--which made for great stories of tours from yesteryear.
In typical fashion, my mom did an excellent job of attending HER event. My old roomie used to pull this scheme: invite a bunch of people over to our place, offer them a great many treats in advance, and then spend the duration of the party as a guest at said event munching on food and drink while mingling at will having not helped in the preparation or serving of above. It's one of my biggest pet peeves.
My notion of hosting involves elaborate preparation of dishes and drinks ahead of time, presenting them in an artistic manner during the event, and constant surveillance of guest plates and glasses to ensure that they are filled. Not to say I don't mingle but whilst meeting and greeting I perform the dual role of observing and serving.
My mom did clean up after the party--I craftily fell asleep before midnight--with much help from D'Souza (though he didn't mention it, I KNOW he was hugely helpful per usual).
August 14, 2007
August 5, 2007
D'souza's repsonse to Lars
Lars,
For what its worth I am sorry I even contemplated such an inhumane act. I underestimated your communication skills and technological prowess as is evident by your ability to send email and construct sentences.
It's a wonder what 79 cents at PETCO can get you. I always thought I was hearing the words ''r-i-c-e p-a-d-d-i-e-s" since we got you but assumed it was Sweet's stomach craving rice. This email has made it all clear.
To make it up to you, I'll throw you a party over the weekend. You can have all the rice you want. If you need variety in your rice or anything else like having a memorial service for Sukino, feel free to drop me an email.
As for your arch nemisis Shinto, rest assured that once I get him this weekend, I'll make sure Luckey & he have some quality time together.
Peace,
D'Souza
For what its worth I am sorry I even contemplated such an inhumane act. I underestimated your communication skills and technological prowess as is evident by your ability to send email and construct sentences.
It's a wonder what 79 cents at PETCO can get you. I always thought I was hearing the words ''r-i-c-e p-a-d-d-i-e-s" since we got you but assumed it was Sweet's stomach craving rice. This email has made it all clear.
To make it up to you, I'll throw you a party over the weekend. You can have all the rice you want. If you need variety in your rice or anything else like having a memorial service for Sukino, feel free to drop me an email.
As for your arch nemisis Shinto, rest assured that once I get him this weekend, I'll make sure Luckey & he have some quality time together.
Peace,
D'Souza
D'Souzas
D'souzas little sister is starting her MBA at Cornell. We dropped her off and set her up for school....here's the cutest family shot! Isn't she adorable
August 1, 2007
BABY kicked off Plane--YAY!
PLANE BABIES BOO
I found the above article highly distressing.
I am all for babies and their caregivers having their own section on planes and being asked to deplane for causing a ruckus. After all, who hasn't been stuck near a howling baby on a long flight and hated every moment of it--who can sleep through THAT. EEK! Unless it's YOUR CRYING BABY (even then I think you only put up with it because you can't abandon it without a nanny/grandparent/other parent taking it on for the journey) it is beyond me who would want to be sitting next to IT vs. an ADULT--who would never cry at an ear-splitting volume. If so, they would and SHOULD be asked to leave as well.
YIKES!
I found the above article highly distressing.
I am all for babies and their caregivers having their own section on planes and being asked to deplane for causing a ruckus. After all, who hasn't been stuck near a howling baby on a long flight and hated every moment of it--who can sleep through THAT. EEK! Unless it's YOUR CRYING BABY (even then I think you only put up with it because you can't abandon it without a nanny/grandparent/other parent taking it on for the journey) it is beyond me who would want to be sitting next to IT vs. an ADULT--who would never cry at an ear-splitting volume. If so, they would and SHOULD be asked to leave as well.
YIKES!
July 25, 2007
I wonder if you will get this...
I just logged into friendster for the first time in what seems like, well, the first time. I saw an absolutely stunning picture of you and I just wanted to let you know that you kick serious ass.
I feel compelled to comment mainly b/c your message to me pointed me to Desi Doll, the reading of which made me smile with memories of what it was like to spend time with beautiful and brilliant women. I hope that your brilliance is still shining away.
Take care of yourself. You are missed more places than you know.
--Krum
Washington, DC
Thank you for this e-mail...it totally made my day!
I feel compelled to comment mainly b/c your message to me pointed me to Desi Doll, the reading of which made me smile with memories of what it was like to spend time with beautiful and brilliant women. I hope that your brilliance is still shining away.
Take care of yourself. You are missed more places than you know.
--Krum
Washington, DC
Thank you for this e-mail...it totally made my day!
July 24, 2007
From Lars, With Love
D'Souza,
I could not bring myself to watch this video beyond the first couple of seconds. I realized that one of the fish involved was my cousin, Sukino. Sukino and I shared rice paddies near each other growing up. We actually share a number of ancestors and became very close as we lived in such close proximity to one anoother - but we never got too close for obvious reasons.
Sukino looks a little feeble here and I understand from Sweetness personified that you are interested in testing out the theory about my species: Fighting Fish. Really, we just get territorial, and if you poke a fish enough it will eventually do a lot of things. Poor Sukino!
Anyway, I pass this video I found on YouTube along in hopes that you spare my life. I imagine that my relative Sukino is a good indication of how well I fight...I mean, I got caught didn't I? I swam from that net but came face to face with my arch nemisis Shinto. I figured the net and life in your home would be better than any plans Shinto had in store for me.
Please, don't make me defend my territory!
Let me float in this vase with the bamboo on this black ledge above the rice cooker perched precariously on the red shelf below me in your tiny kitchen; reminiscing about Sukino and I, back in the day, in the rice paddies.
Your fish,
Lars
I could not bring myself to watch this video beyond the first couple of seconds. I realized that one of the fish involved was my cousin, Sukino. Sukino and I shared rice paddies near each other growing up. We actually share a number of ancestors and became very close as we lived in such close proximity to one anoother - but we never got too close for obvious reasons.
Sukino looks a little feeble here and I understand from Sweetness personified that you are interested in testing out the theory about my species: Fighting Fish. Really, we just get territorial, and if you poke a fish enough it will eventually do a lot of things. Poor Sukino!
Anyway, I pass this video I found on YouTube along in hopes that you spare my life. I imagine that my relative Sukino is a good indication of how well I fight...I mean, I got caught didn't I? I swam from that net but came face to face with my arch nemisis Shinto. I figured the net and life in your home would be better than any plans Shinto had in store for me.
Please, don't make me defend my territory!
Let me float in this vase with the bamboo on this black ledge above the rice cooker perched precariously on the red shelf below me in your tiny kitchen; reminiscing about Sukino and I, back in the day, in the rice paddies.
Your fish,
Lars
July 23, 2007
NYC has Me
I thought you were sleepless.
No, that’s Seattle.
I don’t sleep.
I thought you had Sunshine.
No, that’s Florida
I have the Sunshine Theater.
I thought you had…
Oh, never mind.
What do you have?
I have bodegas around the corner
Posters of the sole 9/11 mourner
I have the crossroads of the world
Black and white sailors as nurses swirl
Year-round rooftop gardens flowering
All around me buildings towering
Natives and transplants cowering
All around me love is souring
“Empire State” they all hail--
Thieves rotting in jail
Kids on parental bail
My elderly aren’t frail
Ships arrive and set sail
I’ve withstood every gale
To Christ’s cross some nail
Sirens of all manner wail
My people seldom trail
Irrespective of life’s ail
I brew the perfect ale--
All other cities pale!
I have color
I have class
I have flavor
I have sass
I have you.
No, that’s Seattle.
I don’t sleep.
I thought you had Sunshine.
No, that’s Florida
I have the Sunshine Theater.
I thought you had…
Oh, never mind.
What do you have?
I have bodegas around the corner
Posters of the sole 9/11 mourner
I have the crossroads of the world
Black and white sailors as nurses swirl
Year-round rooftop gardens flowering
All around me buildings towering
Natives and transplants cowering
All around me love is souring
“Empire State” they all hail--
Thieves rotting in jail
Kids on parental bail
My elderly aren’t frail
Ships arrive and set sail
I’ve withstood every gale
To Christ’s cross some nail
Sirens of all manner wail
My people seldom trail
Irrespective of life’s ail
I brew the perfect ale--
All other cities pale!
I have color
I have class
I have flavor
I have sass
I have you.
July 20, 2007
Elegy for Someone I Never Met
From Ashes to Ashes
From Dust to Dust
Another father laid to rest.
Another teen fails breathalizer test.
This time it's not just NEWS.
This time it's real.
This time it's Her Father.
Hoping this is the only time.
Eulogy escapes
Empty embraces
Exhausted faces
Family paces.
From Dust to Dust
Another father laid to rest.
Another teen fails breathalizer test.
This time it's not just NEWS.
This time it's real.
This time it's Her Father.
Hoping this is the only time.
Eulogy escapes
Empty embraces
Exhausted faces
Family paces.
July 19, 2007
Sexy Six
“The next and last stop on this train will be Brooklyn Bridge,” the garbled voice of the subway sputtered.
I smiled mischievously at him.
We’d been fighting, recently. What would have been usual for most couples was unusual for us. The stress of him being promoted to Senior Manager was co-mingling with our newly established co-habitation to create a tension we were ill-equipped to alleviate.
As the doors opened and the last spray of passengers disembarked, I pushed him firmly into the two-person purple seat on the refurbished 6-train. Grabbing his thick black hair, I yanked his head back and thrust my face firmly into his unleashing a provocative kiss.
He didn’t fight me. He didn’t protest. He wasn’t alarmed by the closing doors.
Just as the train pulled out of the Downtown station to loop around to the Uptown side, I hiked up my flowing orange skirt and straddled him; my knees felt cold against the hard seat. Before he could utter dissent, I reached down and unzipped his trousers, my tongue drawing X’s on his—distracting him—as I pulled him inside me. I bucked as the train rocked.
Our bodies were locked as the 6 train skidded around the first precarious, dimly-lit bend pulling past the carcass of a former station; around the horseshoe towards the lights of a breathing station.
My body tightened as I realized the brevity of the ride. He responded to my stiffness, wrapping his arms around my waist, soothing my tension with his fingers—playing his song into me. His encouragement to get me focused on us—to stay in the present moment—failed. I lost my nerve.
I jumped off him suddenly, straightening my skirt, instinctively raking my fingers through the mass of curls on my head. He looked up at me quizzically. Sitting in the seat with his hair tousled and his pants undone he looked as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him. His velvety brown eyes melted mine as he stood up and zipped back up. I couldn’t tell if he felt rebuffed or relieved.
“Are you mad?” I asked, tentatively, as the doors opened.“Mad at you? No, why?”
“I dunno. I just thought you might be mad. Forget it.” I muttered, embarrassed.
“Why would I be mad? I have the coolest girlfriend in the whole world. How many people actually do it on the 6 train?” His smile was as wide as his pride.
“Did we really do it though? Does that count?”
“Oh, it counts if we make it count. I say it counts! What do you say?”
I knew he wasn’t just talking about the train.
I smiled back, relieved, “We are going to make it count!”
I smiled mischievously at him.
We’d been fighting, recently. What would have been usual for most couples was unusual for us. The stress of him being promoted to Senior Manager was co-mingling with our newly established co-habitation to create a tension we were ill-equipped to alleviate.
As the doors opened and the last spray of passengers disembarked, I pushed him firmly into the two-person purple seat on the refurbished 6-train. Grabbing his thick black hair, I yanked his head back and thrust my face firmly into his unleashing a provocative kiss.
He didn’t fight me. He didn’t protest. He wasn’t alarmed by the closing doors.
Just as the train pulled out of the Downtown station to loop around to the Uptown side, I hiked up my flowing orange skirt and straddled him; my knees felt cold against the hard seat. Before he could utter dissent, I reached down and unzipped his trousers, my tongue drawing X’s on his—distracting him—as I pulled him inside me. I bucked as the train rocked.
Our bodies were locked as the 6 train skidded around the first precarious, dimly-lit bend pulling past the carcass of a former station; around the horseshoe towards the lights of a breathing station.
My body tightened as I realized the brevity of the ride. He responded to my stiffness, wrapping his arms around my waist, soothing my tension with his fingers—playing his song into me. His encouragement to get me focused on us—to stay in the present moment—failed. I lost my nerve.
I jumped off him suddenly, straightening my skirt, instinctively raking my fingers through the mass of curls on my head. He looked up at me quizzically. Sitting in the seat with his hair tousled and his pants undone he looked as vulnerable as I’d ever seen him. His velvety brown eyes melted mine as he stood up and zipped back up. I couldn’t tell if he felt rebuffed or relieved.
“Are you mad?” I asked, tentatively, as the doors opened.“Mad at you? No, why?”
“I dunno. I just thought you might be mad. Forget it.” I muttered, embarrassed.
“Why would I be mad? I have the coolest girlfriend in the whole world. How many people actually do it on the 6 train?” His smile was as wide as his pride.
“Did we really do it though? Does that count?”
“Oh, it counts if we make it count. I say it counts! What do you say?”
I knew he wasn’t just talking about the train.
I smiled back, relieved, “We are going to make it count!”
July 18, 2007
Opal 2 for 1 Tuesdays
I used to go to Opal all the time when I lived on E. 54th St. but my loyalty dwindled when I moved to the UES then FiDi. Now it's squarely between FiDi and SpaHa, so my allegiance has resurfaced in light of their 2-4-1 deal on Tuesdays.
Yesterday, I was sitting outside with my friend--she's preggers--and she complained incessantly about maternity clothes being too revealing and cleavage boasting. I couldn't really sympathize on either count but her general negativity made me seem like the paragon of Sweet optimism--odd, that was!
Incidentally, she's due next month, she continues to imbibe intoxicants in increments irrespective of her indiposed status. I'm not sure I condone it but I certainly don't condemn her choice.
Yesterday, I was sitting outside with my friend--she's preggers--and she complained incessantly about maternity clothes being too revealing and cleavage boasting. I couldn't really sympathize on either count but her general negativity made me seem like the paragon of Sweet optimism--odd, that was!
Incidentally, she's due next month, she continues to imbibe intoxicants in increments irrespective of her indiposed status. I'm not sure I condone it but I certainly don't condemn her choice.
Turkish Kitchen
I'm going to dinner at Turkish Kitchen today with an Afghani colleague.
I LOVE that Donner Kebab...mmm, been craving it all day! I can practically smell it...half an hour to go.
I LOVE that Donner Kebab...mmm, been craving it all day! I can practically smell it...half an hour to go.
Gloom and Doom
This weather just puts a damper on my sass. I feel no pizzazz and the energy levels are dipping dangerously low.
Will not go on a gloomy tangent...no doom will befall me.
Will not go on a gloomy tangent...no doom will befall me.
July 16, 2007
Coinstar
I put 302 dimes, 43 quarters, and 2 dollar coins into this nifty machine at the Duane Reade on Broad St. After charging me 8.9cents/dollar, it gave me $39.08. Hazzah!
Tomorrow I return with my ziplock bag full of nickels and pennies. I'd be happy with half that loot...fingers crossed.
Betta: Lars
We went to Petco on Sunday and purchased a red Betta fish and black Betta gravel.
Our original plan had been to buy two goldfish but given their brief lifespans sans filtrated tank, we opted for the longevity of a Betta in a bowl.
I have a vase with three stalks of bamboo purchased from Ikea. The Betta--I named him Lars--now swims in the vase on a black, upside L-shelf D'Souza bought from Linens N' Things.
D'Souza has his heart set on a larger fish tank but I thought it best to start with Lars. He seems to enjoy his new digs, swimming rapidly up and around inside the conditioned water amidst bamboo above glistening gravel. Photos to follow.
Our original plan had been to buy two goldfish but given their brief lifespans sans filtrated tank, we opted for the longevity of a Betta in a bowl.
I have a vase with three stalks of bamboo purchased from Ikea. The Betta--I named him Lars--now swims in the vase on a black, upside L-shelf D'Souza bought from Linens N' Things.
D'Souza has his heart set on a larger fish tank but I thought it best to start with Lars. He seems to enjoy his new digs, swimming rapidly up and around inside the conditioned water amidst bamboo above glistening gravel. Photos to follow.
Waging Weekend War
D'Souza and I spent the weekend fighting.
Nothing major...per se. His share of asinine statements and justifications of them follow.
The way he kicked off the weekend:
D'Souza: "I mean I'm sure you thought you wouldn't be here 5 years ago. I'm sure you thought you'd make a lot more of yourself by this age."
Clearly not the topic of conversation one wishes to have at work on a Friday afternoon.
His Justification: "I thought I'd be a lot farther along at this age. I meant it the same way for you as I did for me. I think of myself as a failure."
Not sure how this makes it alright for me. It's interesting that he is quick to note how non-judgemental he is...hard to see that from this statement.
Highlight from Saturday morning:
D'souza: "I hope he dies."
In reference to my grandfather who is my heart's delight and is actually sick at present. Incidentally, he is not my granddaddy's biggest fan.
His Justification: "Well, I just said it like you say it about your stepdad. I meant it as a joke."
Of course, this did not assuage my tears. If anything happens to my Acha....sniffle.
There are others...oodles of them. These just stuck in my mind.
Nothing major...per se. His share of asinine statements and justifications of them follow.
The way he kicked off the weekend:
D'Souza: "I mean I'm sure you thought you wouldn't be here 5 years ago. I'm sure you thought you'd make a lot more of yourself by this age."
Clearly not the topic of conversation one wishes to have at work on a Friday afternoon.
His Justification: "I thought I'd be a lot farther along at this age. I meant it the same way for you as I did for me. I think of myself as a failure."
Not sure how this makes it alright for me. It's interesting that he is quick to note how non-judgemental he is...hard to see that from this statement.
Highlight from Saturday morning:
D'souza: "I hope he dies."
In reference to my grandfather who is my heart's delight and is actually sick at present. Incidentally, he is not my granddaddy's biggest fan.
His Justification: "Well, I just said it like you say it about your stepdad. I meant it as a joke."
Of course, this did not assuage my tears. If anything happens to my Acha....sniffle.
There are others...oodles of them. These just stuck in my mind.
ACLU's Morning Greeter
Of course, I sent this right along to the Tea Girls...
I am with Jo's query below:
"So, does this mean that “ACLU Jews” are the anti-christ (in other words, Jewish people who work at the ACLU), or does it mean that the ACLU AND Jews are the anti-christ? Or is it telling the ACLU that Jews are the anti-christ — ACLU, Jews are the anti-christ. That last meaning would only work if this man were missing a comma. I’m guessing there’s a good chance he’s missing a lot of things..."
July 13, 2007
Sticks and Stones Won't Break my Bones
But words will always hurt me.
I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way. circa 1996 Jewel's first album.
D'Souza and I had a fight today. Never good to fight at work. Even worse to sit in tears at your desk--hard to sell your monitor made you cry.
Boo. Friday the 13th sucks.
I'm sensitive and I'd like to stay that way. circa 1996 Jewel's first album.
D'Souza and I had a fight today. Never good to fight at work. Even worse to sit in tears at your desk--hard to sell your monitor made you cry.
Boo. Friday the 13th sucks.
July 9, 2007
She's Come Undone
After Memoirs of a Geisha I became a believer in Oprah's Book Club. Secret Life of Bees gave credence to my choice and She's Come Undone has sealed the deal. Like I always say, "First time is just chance, second is coincidence, but three times...that's a pattern!"
The book isn't a page turner but I couldn't help but turn all the pages this weekend as D'Souza complained about how much work he had to do and procrastinated. He put up shiny, new ceiling lamps we had purchased this Saturday from Home Depot and installed an Ikea mirror in the shower. No, you sickos, he wants to shave his tough beard in the shower so he needs it to ensure minimun chin cutting.
Dolores Price the unlikely heroine is given voice by Wally Lamb. Just as I had balked at Arthur Golden's penning of that geisha's story this book had me checking the jacket cover just to validate--a MAN wrote this?!
Incidentally, I kept imagining Dante Davis--Dolores' husband--to be a spitting image of a boy in my writing class I recently learned was engaged. Not sure why...something about vulnerability and being a writer. Something about being rail thin and tall; teaching English to high school students--all meshed together seemed complete--Dante D=Brian G.
I won't give it all away but I will say that fight as we might we are prone to model the mistakes of our parents--therapy and food can only create awareness or avoid facing it--it won't shake behavior off its trajectory. The other big message in the book was "Take a risk. Engage outwardly." Not lessons I needed to learn, but in the spirit of relating to the novel and identifying with the protaganist I took it all to heart. I'm not an emotional eater but I found myself drowning in it as I read...mirroring Dolores Price.
Reading about depression slapped a bout of it into me: I couldn't get out of bed until nearly 1pm today. I remembered how I had battled the urge to stay in bed for the majority of my junior year of high school. How I'd fought against it my freshman year of college--the year I spent mostly hungover. How living in a windowless room last year had sent me spiralling back to sleeping through stress to avoid my problems and the people who questioned this choice. Renewal through slumber I defined it, but it really was escapism. Avoiding the harsh truth of living...nay, surviving...coping via not dealing.
I have a window now. I have D'Souza. I have my health. I have Luckey. I have a job--of sorts--I'm taking this great writing class...what more is there? My life is good. Grand even, as Norman liked to say. What possible right did I have to be depressed?
Sitting at home all weekend spooning Haagen Dazs chocolate chip cookie dough into my mouth waiting for the morsels I spoonfed D'souza to melt on his tongue before I could put more in him before it found its way into me.
I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price.
The book isn't a page turner but I couldn't help but turn all the pages this weekend as D'Souza complained about how much work he had to do and procrastinated. He put up shiny, new ceiling lamps we had purchased this Saturday from Home Depot and installed an Ikea mirror in the shower. No, you sickos, he wants to shave his tough beard in the shower so he needs it to ensure minimun chin cutting.
Dolores Price the unlikely heroine is given voice by Wally Lamb. Just as I had balked at Arthur Golden's penning of that geisha's story this book had me checking the jacket cover just to validate--a MAN wrote this?!
Incidentally, I kept imagining Dante Davis--Dolores' husband--to be a spitting image of a boy in my writing class I recently learned was engaged. Not sure why...something about vulnerability and being a writer. Something about being rail thin and tall; teaching English to high school students--all meshed together seemed complete--Dante D=Brian G.
I won't give it all away but I will say that fight as we might we are prone to model the mistakes of our parents--therapy and food can only create awareness or avoid facing it--it won't shake behavior off its trajectory. The other big message in the book was "Take a risk. Engage outwardly." Not lessons I needed to learn, but in the spirit of relating to the novel and identifying with the protaganist I took it all to heart. I'm not an emotional eater but I found myself drowning in it as I read...mirroring Dolores Price.
Reading about depression slapped a bout of it into me: I couldn't get out of bed until nearly 1pm today. I remembered how I had battled the urge to stay in bed for the majority of my junior year of high school. How I'd fought against it my freshman year of college--the year I spent mostly hungover. How living in a windowless room last year had sent me spiralling back to sleeping through stress to avoid my problems and the people who questioned this choice. Renewal through slumber I defined it, but it really was escapism. Avoiding the harsh truth of living...nay, surviving...coping via not dealing.
I have a window now. I have D'Souza. I have my health. I have Luckey. I have a job--of sorts--I'm taking this great writing class...what more is there? My life is good. Grand even, as Norman liked to say. What possible right did I have to be depressed?
Sitting at home all weekend spooning Haagen Dazs chocolate chip cookie dough into my mouth waiting for the morsels I spoonfed D'souza to melt on his tongue before I could put more in him before it found its way into me.
I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price. I'm not Dolores Price.
July 6, 2007
Lunch Date
As I hurry down the steps of 125 Broad St. I instinctively reach for my cell phone from the recesses of my purse to check the time. He hates when I'm late. I'm not! Just as I heave a sigh of relief, my phone starts vibrating--I turned off the ringer at work, seems the most courteous approach--it's him.
My eyes scan the street ahead to see his signature strut in a navy suit with white pinstripes; reminds me of a page break in Word. His tattered brown, leather shoulder bag hangs awkwardly at his side, try as it does, it can't match his stride. He balances his weight like an athelete bouncing from side to side--it doesn't sound it--but it's the picture of masculine grace. Even in a full suit, you can see his shapely physique. The wide shoulders narrowing at the waist where the white shirt pinches into his black belt with an over-sized silver buckle. Perched on the bridge of his thick nose, his sunglasses below his geled spiky hair, give his face the sleek contour of an aerodynamic insect. His lips are pursed in a look reminiscent of Ben Stiller's in Zoolander: Magnum. As I drink in this picture, I realize I haven't been breathing since the moment I spied him. I exhale.
I check an impulse to run towards him, my curling hair flying in the breeze. I take measured steps toward him ensuring my heels aren't clicking too loudly on the concrete. He sees me and hangs up. His face lights up in a wide smile; his teeth are lightening in the dark sky of his face. I feel my face flush as my lips part reflexively mirroring his mannerism. My pulse quickens in time with my pace. We meet in the middle of the block...my pink polo and black, drawstring skirt in sharp contrast to his business attire. We kiss--softly, slowly, sensually.
Living with D'Souza doesn't keep me from sneaking out to lunch with him on leisurely summer Fridays.
My eyes scan the street ahead to see his signature strut in a navy suit with white pinstripes; reminds me of a page break in Word. His tattered brown, leather shoulder bag hangs awkwardly at his side, try as it does, it can't match his stride. He balances his weight like an athelete bouncing from side to side--it doesn't sound it--but it's the picture of masculine grace. Even in a full suit, you can see his shapely physique. The wide shoulders narrowing at the waist where the white shirt pinches into his black belt with an over-sized silver buckle. Perched on the bridge of his thick nose, his sunglasses below his geled spiky hair, give his face the sleek contour of an aerodynamic insect. His lips are pursed in a look reminiscent of Ben Stiller's in Zoolander: Magnum. As I drink in this picture, I realize I haven't been breathing since the moment I spied him. I exhale.
I check an impulse to run towards him, my curling hair flying in the breeze. I take measured steps toward him ensuring my heels aren't clicking too loudly on the concrete. He sees me and hangs up. His face lights up in a wide smile; his teeth are lightening in the dark sky of his face. I feel my face flush as my lips part reflexively mirroring his mannerism. My pulse quickens in time with my pace. We meet in the middle of the block...my pink polo and black, drawstring skirt in sharp contrast to his business attire. We kiss--softly, slowly, sensually.
Living with D'Souza doesn't keep me from sneaking out to lunch with him on leisurely summer Fridays.
July 2, 2007
Couch Doctor
Once the ordeal of packing is done, the wait for the movers kicks in...once they finally arrive and load up the truck you realize the dust that has accumulated under everything you owned must now be cleaned up so the person who will occupy the space that was yours will have a fresh start...meaning you clean for a stranger but lived in dusty squalor. Ironic?
After the truck has been unloaded into your new home, you understand that it isn't nearly as big as you imagined it to be in the drunken moments of euphoria that enveloped you when you jumped up and down hugging the broker for taking 15% of your annual rent. Next you note that while packing was a fucker--at some point you stopped being tidy and just started throwing shit willy nilly into boxes and taping them shut--unpacking is going to be a motherfucker. So you distract yourself by compiling long lists of things you need from Wal-Mart, Ikea, Target, and Home Depot...giving little thought to the fact that everything on the list costs MONEY.
Finally, you start breaking down boxes by unburdening their contents onto rickety white shelves in an organzied fashion; fervently hoping your glassware doesn't meet a shattering fall while you sleep on a mattress on the ground a few feet away.
Amidst these glaring realities the movers discovered that the couch doesn't in fact fit through the narrow doorway of your new abode. Thankfully, the smidgen of outdoor space includes an arch above the doorway--the perfect enclosure to stand the beloved couch sideways--as it awaits the couch doctor.
Yes, there is such a thing. What he does is disassemble, move in, then reassemble the couch seamlessly for a small fee of $275 plus tax. Yes, you could buy a cheap couch for that price but the Ethan Allen couch mother gave me--the only remnants from her single parent house ownership period that I claimed--easily costs 15-20 times the couch doctor charges for a house visit. So atop the $420 I forked over to the movers with tip, I'm out another $300.
Damn, moving is expensive.
After the truck has been unloaded into your new home, you understand that it isn't nearly as big as you imagined it to be in the drunken moments of euphoria that enveloped you when you jumped up and down hugging the broker for taking 15% of your annual rent. Next you note that while packing was a fucker--at some point you stopped being tidy and just started throwing shit willy nilly into boxes and taping them shut--unpacking is going to be a motherfucker. So you distract yourself by compiling long lists of things you need from Wal-Mart, Ikea, Target, and Home Depot...giving little thought to the fact that everything on the list costs MONEY.
Finally, you start breaking down boxes by unburdening their contents onto rickety white shelves in an organzied fashion; fervently hoping your glassware doesn't meet a shattering fall while you sleep on a mattress on the ground a few feet away.
Amidst these glaring realities the movers discovered that the couch doesn't in fact fit through the narrow doorway of your new abode. Thankfully, the smidgen of outdoor space includes an arch above the doorway--the perfect enclosure to stand the beloved couch sideways--as it awaits the couch doctor.
Yes, there is such a thing. What he does is disassemble, move in, then reassemble the couch seamlessly for a small fee of $275 plus tax. Yes, you could buy a cheap couch for that price but the Ethan Allen couch mother gave me--the only remnants from her single parent house ownership period that I claimed--easily costs 15-20 times the couch doctor charges for a house visit. So atop the $420 I forked over to the movers with tip, I'm out another $300.
Damn, moving is expensive.
June 28, 2007
My Mom's Forwards Read like THIS!
Yesterday is history.
Tomorrow a mystery.
Today is a gift.
That's why it's called the present!
Tomorrow a mystery.
Today is a gift.
That's why it's called the present!
Moving and Packing
Movin' on Up to the East Side...again.
Up Up and Away!
As a child I loved packing, moving, and unpacking. I also loved airports and talking incessantly on the phone. In the past few years, I've come to like all of these things less. Less to the point of disliking them.
Every move since my BIG move to the BIG Apple has been more debilitating. I dread the boxes. I dread putting them together and I dread filling them. I dread stacking them for the movers and I dread unpacking them. I even dread breaking them down to push into the recesses under my bed because I know that saving them only means I'm going to be building them back again in a year or two or at most three.
I feel like the Virginia Wolf of moving.
I want to move. I'm ready to move. I need to move. But I just can't bear the reality of DOING it.
The part I struggle with is the pack rat in me is forced to die a slow and recurring death in the course of every move. It's just not feasible to hold onto that note Tracey slipped me between homeroom and Math in 10th grade. It's unnecessary to save the dried flowers from the corsage Norman gave me for senior prom. The dozens of get well cards from my residents the summer I was an RA and had eye surgery at Hopkins also must join the dust bunnies. The cards my mom sent me every week in college to cheer, jeer, or otherwise infuse fear in me must also make their way into the trash. In a way it's cathartic to give these up...time moves on, so must I.
But to decide which of my books get donated or sold or just piled in the trash room--that's the bigger struggle. The reality that all my babies can't come crushes me. They're just too heavy and I've either read them or I know I never will. The reams of paper, the spines unbent, the glossy jackets, and firmness of a hardcover all remind me of their lives unlived. I can only hope they find better home and that others in their litter never had to suffer in a foster home like mine.
Less of a struggle and more of a chore is sifting through the piles, stacks, untidy lumps of clothing. What to donate, what to just throw. The clothes that I moved in a year ago and have yet to wear, definitely go. The clothes I have worn and hated being in, should also go. The clothes that shrunk, faded or just bore probably need to go. The formal wear I never wear needs to go into storage or maybe sold. So much to do, so little time.
The thing about packing is that I'm tired just thinking about it. Planning out each energy zapping exertion that yields in another full box is exhausting. Yet as my moving day inches closer, I'm forced to consider my alternatives....NONE!
It's time to go. It's time to move on.
Up Up and Away!
As a child I loved packing, moving, and unpacking. I also loved airports and talking incessantly on the phone. In the past few years, I've come to like all of these things less. Less to the point of disliking them.
Every move since my BIG move to the BIG Apple has been more debilitating. I dread the boxes. I dread putting them together and I dread filling them. I dread stacking them for the movers and I dread unpacking them. I even dread breaking them down to push into the recesses under my bed because I know that saving them only means I'm going to be building them back again in a year or two or at most three.
I feel like the Virginia Wolf of moving.
I want to move. I'm ready to move. I need to move. But I just can't bear the reality of DOING it.
The part I struggle with is the pack rat in me is forced to die a slow and recurring death in the course of every move. It's just not feasible to hold onto that note Tracey slipped me between homeroom and Math in 10th grade. It's unnecessary to save the dried flowers from the corsage Norman gave me for senior prom. The dozens of get well cards from my residents the summer I was an RA and had eye surgery at Hopkins also must join the dust bunnies. The cards my mom sent me every week in college to cheer, jeer, or otherwise infuse fear in me must also make their way into the trash. In a way it's cathartic to give these up...time moves on, so must I.
But to decide which of my books get donated or sold or just piled in the trash room--that's the bigger struggle. The reality that all my babies can't come crushes me. They're just too heavy and I've either read them or I know I never will. The reams of paper, the spines unbent, the glossy jackets, and firmness of a hardcover all remind me of their lives unlived. I can only hope they find better home and that others in their litter never had to suffer in a foster home like mine.
Less of a struggle and more of a chore is sifting through the piles, stacks, untidy lumps of clothing. What to donate, what to just throw. The clothes that I moved in a year ago and have yet to wear, definitely go. The clothes I have worn and hated being in, should also go. The clothes that shrunk, faded or just bore probably need to go. The formal wear I never wear needs to go into storage or maybe sold. So much to do, so little time.
The thing about packing is that I'm tired just thinking about it. Planning out each energy zapping exertion that yields in another full box is exhausting. Yet as my moving day inches closer, I'm forced to consider my alternatives....NONE!
It's time to go. It's time to move on.
Heard on the Porch
You look younger than your SPF!
My Starbucks addiction leads to the reading of such pithy propoganda. I'm a fan of the "Heard on the Porch" campaign they've launched...next up, trying that raspberry mocha frappucino.
My Starbucks addiction leads to the reading of such pithy propoganda. I'm a fan of the "Heard on the Porch" campaign they've launched...next up, trying that raspberry mocha frappucino.
Interviewing a New Yorker
I started my life in New York in a shoebox on Madison Avenue. I’m told most people begin their lives here in shoeboxes. I wasn’t at my first address long; apparently no one is in this town. In the six years I’ve been here, the only time I was alone was in that shoebox.
About five and a half years ago I left Madison Avenue for a week in New Jersey before making my way back to the Big City—this time to the Upper East Side. I had a few dozen room-mates in that apartment--at least it felt that way. Some had been there longer than me, some left while I stayed on. I noticed that the tallest girls got ugly the quickest. Well, they left home the most. I wasn’t tall, but I wasn’t squat either. I have enough wrinkles to show for my looks. By that I just mean that my pointy nose and leathery skin didn’t keep me from getting picked up.
My favorite New York memory took place at Mo’s Carribean. On a Wednesday on the corner of 76th and 2nd Avenue under a tacky red awning on a sticky spring day in 2005, I was sitting outside when the Brazilian waitress complimented the white cross-stitching on the red bow I proudly bore. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had a tramp stamp clearly visible in her too-low jeans that read, “Made in Brazil”. I have one on my back a bit higher that reads, “Made in Italy”. I felt like we were sisters. I saw her smoking later, cursing loudly at her novio on an unnaturally small cell phone. It was bitter-sweet. A girl that good-looking could have problems didn’t comfort me but it did soothe my ego. At that point, I was past my prime.
For the past year, I’ve been living in FiDi—the financial district—it differs from the Upper East Side in that puppies replace prams and yuppies with leashes replace the foreign nannies pushing babies. Many of the girls moved downtown with me, some were let go. We’ve added a few new girls to the group; it’s always nice to see the young ones—so eager to please and excited to leave. I like it here better than I liked living uptown; for one thing, it’s close to every major subway which means less pavement pounding when I do go out.
This City is made for walking and I’m not as energetic as I used to be. I steer clear of the sidewalks in the winter these days; my soles aren’t made for wet weather. I get too hot in the summer, so I keep cool at home. I like to entertain so I have guests over and I’m not so polite anymore that I won’t retire before they depart.
This week, there are boxes all around. I hear buzz of us moving to SpaHa—Spanish Harlem—next week. I’m not sure I’m ready to rely solely on the 6-train again, but I go where I am taken. I’m a kept woman, but it beats paying rent.
Made by Moschino; worn by Vicious. Every shoe has a story--this is mine!
About five and a half years ago I left Madison Avenue for a week in New Jersey before making my way back to the Big City—this time to the Upper East Side. I had a few dozen room-mates in that apartment--at least it felt that way. Some had been there longer than me, some left while I stayed on. I noticed that the tallest girls got ugly the quickest. Well, they left home the most. I wasn’t tall, but I wasn’t squat either. I have enough wrinkles to show for my looks. By that I just mean that my pointy nose and leathery skin didn’t keep me from getting picked up.
My favorite New York memory took place at Mo’s Carribean. On a Wednesday on the corner of 76th and 2nd Avenue under a tacky red awning on a sticky spring day in 2005, I was sitting outside when the Brazilian waitress complimented the white cross-stitching on the red bow I proudly bore. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She had a tramp stamp clearly visible in her too-low jeans that read, “Made in Brazil”. I have one on my back a bit higher that reads, “Made in Italy”. I felt like we were sisters. I saw her smoking later, cursing loudly at her novio on an unnaturally small cell phone. It was bitter-sweet. A girl that good-looking could have problems didn’t comfort me but it did soothe my ego. At that point, I was past my prime.
For the past year, I’ve been living in FiDi—the financial district—it differs from the Upper East Side in that puppies replace prams and yuppies with leashes replace the foreign nannies pushing babies. Many of the girls moved downtown with me, some were let go. We’ve added a few new girls to the group; it’s always nice to see the young ones—so eager to please and excited to leave. I like it here better than I liked living uptown; for one thing, it’s close to every major subway which means less pavement pounding when I do go out.
This City is made for walking and I’m not as energetic as I used to be. I steer clear of the sidewalks in the winter these days; my soles aren’t made for wet weather. I get too hot in the summer, so I keep cool at home. I like to entertain so I have guests over and I’m not so polite anymore that I won’t retire before they depart.
This week, there are boxes all around. I hear buzz of us moving to SpaHa—Spanish Harlem—next week. I’m not sure I’m ready to rely solely on the 6-train again, but I go where I am taken. I’m a kept woman, but it beats paying rent.
Made by Moschino; worn by Vicious. Every shoe has a story--this is mine!
June 25, 2007
E-mail from Lauren: 1:48pm Today
Reason #368 why I should quit my job:
Went to the bathroom. Was greeted by a cockroach literally as big as my thumb.
I ended up going across the park to Pret-a-Manger to pee.
Went to the bathroom. Was greeted by a cockroach literally as big as my thumb.
I ended up going across the park to Pret-a-Manger to pee.
June 22, 2007
Woeful Writer
I look around my cluttered room: piles of clothes heaped on the solitary chair imploring me to put them away. The neatly folded laundry sits in tightly packed plastic bags—the handiwork of my industrious Korean drycleaners—keeping my room from looking like my closet threw up all over it. Normally, I would welcome the "cleaning" distraction; the most productive form of procrastination.
My tiny, fluffy, white pup looks up at me expectantly—bravely climbing the highest tower of clothes to nuzzle his wet, black nose against my naked knee. His encouragement melts my listlessness. I hear my Mother’s voice—high-pitched with the slightest British-influenced Indian accent—bragging to a room full of Aunties: “You should see some of my daughter’s writings. She has real talent. Most of it is completely over my head, she is that good. Do you want to see?” I can see them clearly: nodding patiently, awaiting their turn to brag about children who are doctors and lawyers, more importantly married to doctors and lawyers; armed with wedding photos and pictures of their grandchildren. All my mother has is a poem I wrote about her for Mother's Day.
I shake away the guilt and shame as I realize that most of my work lately has been penning porn for profit. My writing amounts to reams of pages detailing my most lewd fantasies, highlighting erotic dreams, and capturing my most indecent moments. I try to scrub clean the curb in my mind filled with months of carnal defecation—now what?
I’ve spent years trying to sound better than I am; struggling to be better than I can be. The feelings of ineptitude and anguish unite but don’t produce writer’s block. They lead to pages of drivel: words are my doodles with no exciting beginning or coherent end.
I can’t stop writing. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to surrender. I write to protect. I write out of frustration. I write out of regret. I write when it rains and I write when it snows. I write so I can feel the sunshine and the warmth within me grows. I write to stay sane. I write away my pain. I write to dull the ache of the blank page. I write about my secret life: the one with no boundaries or strife. I write with everything I’ve got. I write and write; I just can’t stop!
My tiny, fluffy, white pup looks up at me expectantly—bravely climbing the highest tower of clothes to nuzzle his wet, black nose against my naked knee. His encouragement melts my listlessness. I hear my Mother’s voice—high-pitched with the slightest British-influenced Indian accent—bragging to a room full of Aunties: “You should see some of my daughter’s writings. She has real talent. Most of it is completely over my head, she is that good. Do you want to see?” I can see them clearly: nodding patiently, awaiting their turn to brag about children who are doctors and lawyers, more importantly married to doctors and lawyers; armed with wedding photos and pictures of their grandchildren. All my mother has is a poem I wrote about her for Mother's Day.
I shake away the guilt and shame as I realize that most of my work lately has been penning porn for profit. My writing amounts to reams of pages detailing my most lewd fantasies, highlighting erotic dreams, and capturing my most indecent moments. I try to scrub clean the curb in my mind filled with months of carnal defecation—now what?
I’ve spent years trying to sound better than I am; struggling to be better than I can be. The feelings of ineptitude and anguish unite but don’t produce writer’s block. They lead to pages of drivel: words are my doodles with no exciting beginning or coherent end.
I can’t stop writing. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write to surrender. I write to protect. I write out of frustration. I write out of regret. I write when it rains and I write when it snows. I write so I can feel the sunshine and the warmth within me grows. I write to stay sane. I write away my pain. I write to dull the ache of the blank page. I write about my secret life: the one with no boundaries or strife. I write with everything I’ve got. I write and write; I just can’t stop!
June 21, 2007
From Them
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I reside.
Perched in each crevice of their wrinkles
Is my story—Unveiled!
Placed above a steel cupboard,
By a mischievous uncle,
Donning over-sized Ray-Bans—
A snapshot from my childhood.
Hidden in the folds of their multi-colored saris
Are the family secrets—Untold!
I’m not privy to facts or fiction
I’m a child in their eyes; innocent,
To be protected from the harshness
Of familial truth: Betrayal and Sacrifice.
In the cabinets with Tumeric and Tamanrind
Their wishes—Unfulfilled!
My Mother became the Doctor
my Grandmother willed her to be,
But refused to cook—that domestic feat—
We never ate at home; except when Amma visited.
Resting in each of Amma’s visible frown lines
My past—Unforgotten!
I promised young me I wouldn’t depend—
On a man to meet my needs
Or children to fulfill my dreams—
On anyone else to make me Happy.
In both my Mother’s disappearing laugh lines
My future—Undone!
I vowed never to be so Strong
or successful that I wouldn’t need someone
to curl up with in the heat,
Reading Harlequin novels under cotton sheets.
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I survived.
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I reside.
Perched in each crevice of their wrinkles
Is my story—Unveiled!
Placed above a steel cupboard,
By a mischievous uncle,
Donning over-sized Ray-Bans—
A snapshot from my childhood.
Hidden in the folds of their multi-colored saris
Are the family secrets—Untold!
I’m not privy to facts or fiction
I’m a child in their eyes; innocent,
To be protected from the harshness
Of familial truth: Betrayal and Sacrifice.
In the cabinets with Tumeric and Tamanrind
Their wishes—Unfulfilled!
My Mother became the Doctor
my Grandmother willed her to be,
But refused to cook—that domestic feat—
We never ate at home; except when Amma visited.
Resting in each of Amma’s visible frown lines
My past—Unforgotten!
I promised young me I wouldn’t depend—
On a man to meet my needs
Or children to fulfill my dreams—
On anyone else to make me Happy.
In both my Mother’s disappearing laugh lines
My future—Undone!
I vowed never to be so Strong
or successful that I wouldn’t need someone
to curl up with in the heat,
Reading Harlequin novels under cotton sheets.
Somewhere between my Mother’s dry skin
And my Grandmother’s oily complexion, I survived.
Home Sweet Home!
I finally found a new place...in Manhattan! All fears of leaving the City have been put to bed--I'm staying firmly planted on the Isle.
Here is the entrance to my new abode in SpaHa (Spanish Harlem)!
This is my private outdoor "courtyard" where I hope to spend summer evenings drinking Corona Lights toasting the setting sun as the dogs run circles around my feet.
June 19, 2007
Un-thak-shah-ree
The sweat on my brow was mid-drip—it was that precarious second when the drop dangles on you eyebrow before sliding off your eyelash and becoming part of the moisture falling off your frame—I was frozen.
“Jaldi bolo, say it fast, we only have three seconds,” Shyla prodded me.
The drop fell off my face and the smile returned as I burst out loudly, off-key, “ILU, ILU, are ILU ILU…I love you, bolo, I love you”
The collective sigh of my team-mates confirmed that I had not lost us the round or repeated a previously sung lyric. Phew! Off the hook till the next round.
In Bombay, during a power cut when the servants are either at the market or otherwise engaged, there is no AC and with the exception of fanning yourself furiously—which would only lead to sweating more profusely—you have no choice but to define time in these terms: pre-drip, mid-drip, and post-drip. In these times when you can’t watch television or go outside, because of the scorching sun, you have no choice but to amuse yourself in old-fashioned ways. The ever popular advice of our mothers and grandmothers remain, “Study something! Learn something! Read something!” But we buck that tradition to play indoor games. We aren’t a country known for board games but we do have a veritable pu-pu platter of knowledge-based games.
This particular game is Anthakshree (pronounced un-thak-shah-ree): a popular method of timepass amongst Indian children which promotes Bollywood films by encouraging the player to view the most number of films in an effort to amass the most information about current and past song lyrics. The way the game works is that you break up into teams of two or more and draw straws to see which team starts the game.
The starting team has the advantage of choosing any song from a Bollywood film and singing the chorus or most popular, discernable part of the song aloud for everyone to hear. They can stop singing whenever they choose—mid-sentence, but not mid-word. The next team has 10-15 seconds to come up with a different popular song that starts with the exact sound the last team ended their song with and so on and so forth. If you choose a part of a song that is not easily identified by someone on one of the opposing teams you have to name the song, the movie it is from, and the year the movie was released. If you cannot sing a lyric in time or sing a song that has already been sung, your team is out.
As you can imagine, as the game progresses it becomes exceedingly difficult to think of a song that hasn’t been sung because once any part of a song has been used it is off-limits to be replayed in that particular game. There is absolutely no physical labor or movement required to play the game. Whether you have Polio or you're an Olympic athlete you have the same opportunities for success available to you. More often than not, you’re munching on a papaya, spitting out the seeds, or holding a wet watermelon slice to your sticky mouth as you struggle to think ahead and search you memory for where the current song may trail off and which song from your mental jukebox you should pick to deliver next.
After all, you can make your opponent’s life a lot harder by ending on sounds that are less likely to allow for the start of other songs. The game can be played rather offensively in that regard. Similarly, you can play defensively, by knowing a great many songs and ensuring that you pick team-mates you are strong in genres you are weak. Thankfully, Bollywood releases a minimum of 450 movies per year and on average each movie has 5-6 song sequences, so your choices for songs are seemingly limitless.
Being one of the more studious members of any given group I have played with, I remain the weakest link. This also makes me a wild card because you never know when I could dazzle by belting out a popular ditty in the nick of time. The game taught me all about teamwork, reading people, timing, and bluffing. After all, I could make up a song, movie title, year, etc. and be left unquestioned if I delivered these responses with an adequate level of confidence given the sheer volume of titles to choose from. Given my predisposition to sing softly to eliminate opportunities for mockery of my tone-deafness, I was exposed to much questioning on the validity of my song choices.
To this day, I blame my mainstream tastes and fascination with popular music on the consistent playing of Anthakshree as a child. The game is geared toward knowing the most amount of useless information. The only skill it hones is route memorization and its main purpose is to quell creativity by promoting conformity all the while shamelessly marketing Bollywood film and music. It also showcases with transparency your ability to carry a tune—to this day, I will not get up and karaoke, no matter how many drinks are in me.
“Jaldi bolo, say it fast, we only have three seconds,” Shyla prodded me.
The drop fell off my face and the smile returned as I burst out loudly, off-key, “ILU, ILU, are ILU ILU…I love you, bolo, I love you”
The collective sigh of my team-mates confirmed that I had not lost us the round or repeated a previously sung lyric. Phew! Off the hook till the next round.
In Bombay, during a power cut when the servants are either at the market or otherwise engaged, there is no AC and with the exception of fanning yourself furiously—which would only lead to sweating more profusely—you have no choice but to define time in these terms: pre-drip, mid-drip, and post-drip. In these times when you can’t watch television or go outside, because of the scorching sun, you have no choice but to amuse yourself in old-fashioned ways. The ever popular advice of our mothers and grandmothers remain, “Study something! Learn something! Read something!” But we buck that tradition to play indoor games. We aren’t a country known for board games but we do have a veritable pu-pu platter of knowledge-based games.
This particular game is Anthakshree (pronounced un-thak-shah-ree): a popular method of timepass amongst Indian children which promotes Bollywood films by encouraging the player to view the most number of films in an effort to amass the most information about current and past song lyrics. The way the game works is that you break up into teams of two or more and draw straws to see which team starts the game.
The starting team has the advantage of choosing any song from a Bollywood film and singing the chorus or most popular, discernable part of the song aloud for everyone to hear. They can stop singing whenever they choose—mid-sentence, but not mid-word. The next team has 10-15 seconds to come up with a different popular song that starts with the exact sound the last team ended their song with and so on and so forth. If you choose a part of a song that is not easily identified by someone on one of the opposing teams you have to name the song, the movie it is from, and the year the movie was released. If you cannot sing a lyric in time or sing a song that has already been sung, your team is out.
As you can imagine, as the game progresses it becomes exceedingly difficult to think of a song that hasn’t been sung because once any part of a song has been used it is off-limits to be replayed in that particular game. There is absolutely no physical labor or movement required to play the game. Whether you have Polio or you're an Olympic athlete you have the same opportunities for success available to you. More often than not, you’re munching on a papaya, spitting out the seeds, or holding a wet watermelon slice to your sticky mouth as you struggle to think ahead and search you memory for where the current song may trail off and which song from your mental jukebox you should pick to deliver next.
After all, you can make your opponent’s life a lot harder by ending on sounds that are less likely to allow for the start of other songs. The game can be played rather offensively in that regard. Similarly, you can play defensively, by knowing a great many songs and ensuring that you pick team-mates you are strong in genres you are weak. Thankfully, Bollywood releases a minimum of 450 movies per year and on average each movie has 5-6 song sequences, so your choices for songs are seemingly limitless.
Being one of the more studious members of any given group I have played with, I remain the weakest link. This also makes me a wild card because you never know when I could dazzle by belting out a popular ditty in the nick of time. The game taught me all about teamwork, reading people, timing, and bluffing. After all, I could make up a song, movie title, year, etc. and be left unquestioned if I delivered these responses with an adequate level of confidence given the sheer volume of titles to choose from. Given my predisposition to sing softly to eliminate opportunities for mockery of my tone-deafness, I was exposed to much questioning on the validity of my song choices.
To this day, I blame my mainstream tastes and fascination with popular music on the consistent playing of Anthakshree as a child. The game is geared toward knowing the most amount of useless information. The only skill it hones is route memorization and its main purpose is to quell creativity by promoting conformity all the while shamelessly marketing Bollywood film and music. It also showcases with transparency your ability to carry a tune—to this day, I will not get up and karaoke, no matter how many drinks are in me.
June 15, 2007
I am Murray Hill--or I was--
Curry In A Hurry and Kalyustan
Half a dozen Halal joints; an Indo-Pak store
Outdone by Chinese Mirch--
Indo-Chinese the newest Fusion--
Quickly dwarfed by TiffinWallah
delivering Mother India in lunchboxes.
I am Curry Hill now:
Same Streets, Same Blocks
New Smells, New Frocks
Salwars and Saris long replaced;
what remained of suits encased
behind long-looked-at glass panes
what remained of suits encased
behind long-looked-at glass panes
covered in freshly-spit paan stains.
I am crawling with cabbies mid-day
browsing Bollywood's newest releases
at rental mandirs sans late fees;
IST (Indian Standard Time)--2 hours behind real time--
an accepted norm even across the seas.
I'm not Jackson Heights but they make-do in Manhattan:
Indians accept substitutes; One Billion Born and More To Come...
I am late-night lines at Curry Express
where ABCDs (American Born Confused Desis) and FOBs unite
craving Chicken Tikka and Mango Lassi side-by-side.
Drunken hunger pangs and homesickness collide
Geography defies jetlag in an Old World
Wrapped tightly within The New One!
What better place for East to meet West?
June 14, 2007
New Year's Eve
January harkens hope so resolve to try something new and skip the mayhem of Times Square for a quiet carriage ride in Central Park where you can reflect on the grandeur that represents open space within the cityscape. Observe a moment of silence in appreciation for the fact that greedy developers haven’t yet encroached on the lakes, rocks, leafless trees, and hardened Earth that remain as pure and untarnished as a forest in Wyoming.
Fleet Week
Little can prepare you for the annual Memorial Day Atlantic fleet crossing of international ships that dock at the myriad piers on the west side making the women of New York swoon for crisp, ivory uniformed sea-faring mavens whose worldly charm can transform even a dive like Hogs and Hefers—a profane pit that reeks of day-old barbeque and stale domestic beer—into the set of a black and white movie when gentlemanly sailors held tightly to their hats to keep their hands from shaking as they asked the prettiest girl for a dance.
Rain
Accept that New York has a wet season and always carry a sturdy umbrella in April or you will meet the fate of all who’ve treaded before you on Vesey St. between Church and West Sts. The rejected carcasses in black, blue, red, and every other plastic hue create an umbrella cemetery that is surrounded by Asian immigrants undercutting each other to sell you the cheapest umbrella as the grey skies drip down your back and make you question your love for New York.
Ode to Street Fairs
Bid farewell to the summer at the last of the street fairs in early October. Leisurely amble past block after block of modern gypsies offering to reveal your fortune for a meager $5, retired hippies selling cheap jewelry for prices that justify their creativity and hefty booth commissions, NYU students selling art and photographs in the hopes of getting discovered or at least making enough to pay for another week of over-priced beer, Chinese masseurs trying to make ends meet, sausage salesmen at Italian carnival stands hawking funnel cakes and ices, Thai chicken on a stick and spring rolls, $2 lemonade and fresh-fruit smoothie stalls.
Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
Willingly queue up for an hour on a Sunday afternoon in September with your dog looking up at you expectantly; hoping his best behavior will earn him a caramel-covered peanut-butter-laced Poochini in conjunction with any scraps of your grease-dripping-off-your-lip double Shackburger and stick-to-your-teeth Cheese Fries.
Courting
Soaking up the sun in a paddle boat in Central Park in August—the sweet refrain of melodies from your past reverberate in your ears thanks to amateur musicians performing for dollar bills in Strawberry Fields—as your lover rows you in arcs competing for the title of Most Romantic New York Couple.
Bryant Park
Mondays at dusk when picnic baskets on blankets litter the green amidst Midtown skyscrapers anticipating the start of that night’s HBO movie--projected on a big screen beside an old fountain. The burgeoning sense of community is palpable as strangers become neighbors: bartering wine for cheese and corkscrews for fruit. The realization dawns that free films in warm weather provide cheap but memorable dates for students living two-to-a-walkup studio apartment in Alphabet City and executives in floor-through penthouses on Park Avenue alike.
55 Water Street
The tiered escalators to heaven continually assist those adventurous enough to make the climb to the Plaza perched above the FDR Drive at 55 Water Street—overlooking the Brooklyn Bridge and the Downtown Heliport—lush greenery in a concrete sandbox. Go at lunch on a weekday in June to gawk at the masses in suits, loosening their ties with hands in Au Bon Pain and Pret Manager emblazoned paper bags, shedding their disdain for New Jersey across the bay as they masticate and smile.
June 12, 2007
Where I'm From
I am from too many bodies crammed into too little space.
I’m from the Land of Jaldi Jaldi in a Universe of Masala Chai.
From Fish curry and Mint chutney, served piping hot in the sweltering heat.
I am from my mother’s gold bangles--ornately beaded Pink saris drying on parapets.
I am from elephant rides on Juhu Beach at Christmas; sand clinging to my wet toes.
I’m fighting to stay awake at 7am mass, rehearsed responses in an unknown tongue!
I am my granddaddy’s tennis star who crushed my grandmother’s OB-to-be.
I am a pediatrician’s daughter who doesn’t want children.
I am the Sun in Her galaxy; one of many moons in his Milky Way.
I am from weekly calls on rotary phones except during power cuts to a Mother who loved me too much--a nightly prayer for my future spouse ever since I can remember--In a world where a daughter is your guest till she is married into her forever home.
I am from singing in the monsoon and dancing in the shower.
I'm putting garam masala on my American Chop Suey
Watching--on mute--the censored version of Dirty Dancing
With my American cousin on a Colour TV sans closed captioning.
The same cousin who got knocked up at 16 and was ostracized from My Family.
I am from Keep Your Legs Crossed and Your Eyes Down.
From a world of Don’t Ask Questions and Because I Said So's
Mixed in a thermos of collectivism; blended in a pot of pacifism
Garnished with equal parts filial piety and family honor
In a stainless steel cup with my initials etched on the side.
I’m from the Land of Jaldi Jaldi in a Universe of Masala Chai.
From Fish curry and Mint chutney, served piping hot in the sweltering heat.
I am from my mother’s gold bangles--ornately beaded Pink saris drying on parapets.
I am from elephant rides on Juhu Beach at Christmas; sand clinging to my wet toes.
I’m fighting to stay awake at 7am mass, rehearsed responses in an unknown tongue!
I am my granddaddy’s tennis star who crushed my grandmother’s OB-to-be.
I am a pediatrician’s daughter who doesn’t want children.
I am the Sun in Her galaxy; one of many moons in his Milky Way.
I am from weekly calls on rotary phones except during power cuts to a Mother who loved me too much--a nightly prayer for my future spouse ever since I can remember--In a world where a daughter is your guest till she is married into her forever home.
I am from singing in the monsoon and dancing in the shower.
I'm putting garam masala on my American Chop Suey
Watching--on mute--the censored version of Dirty Dancing
With my American cousin on a Colour TV sans closed captioning.
The same cousin who got knocked up at 16 and was ostracized from My Family.
I am from Keep Your Legs Crossed and Your Eyes Down.
From a world of Don’t Ask Questions and Because I Said So's
Mixed in a thermos of collectivism; blended in a pot of pacifism
Garnished with equal parts filial piety and family honor
In a stainless steel cup with my initials etched on the side.
June 7, 2007
I couldn't MAKE this UP!
Sweet (03:53:31 pm): hmm...maybe just bubble tea before class will do the trick
sexytom346 (03:54:06 pm): agh that stuff'll sap all ur creativity
sexytom346 (03:54:10 pm): those bubbles are posion
Sweet (03:54:41 pm): no I love bubbles
Sweet (03:54:45 pm): yummy in my tummy bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:52 pm): gross!
Sweet (03:54:55 pm): YUM
sexytom346 (03:55:01 pm): poop
Sweet (03:55:05 pm): ew
sexytom346 (03:55:15 pm): id rather eat poop than bubbles
Sweet (03:55:29 pm): that's disgusting
sexytom346 (03:55:36 pm): but true
Sweet (03:55:36 pm): I'm literally gagging at my desk
Sweet (03:55:43 pm): choking back the ickiness of it all
sexytom346 (03:55:43 pm): i gag at bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:06 pm): agh that stuff'll sap all ur creativity
sexytom346 (03:54:10 pm): those bubbles are posion
Sweet (03:54:41 pm): no I love bubbles
Sweet (03:54:45 pm): yummy in my tummy bubbles
sexytom346 (03:54:52 pm): gross!
Sweet (03:54:55 pm): YUM
sexytom346 (03:55:01 pm): poop
Sweet (03:55:05 pm): ew
sexytom346 (03:55:15 pm): id rather eat poop than bubbles
Sweet (03:55:29 pm): that's disgusting
sexytom346 (03:55:36 pm): but true
Sweet (03:55:36 pm): I'm literally gagging at my desk
Sweet (03:55:43 pm): choking back the ickiness of it all
sexytom346 (03:55:43 pm): i gag at bubbles
June 6, 2007
Finally Focused
After a year of dilly-dallying and five years of finding myself, professionally, I have finally decided to invest wholely and solely on graudate school in the form of seeking my Masters in Business Administration (MBA).
I intend to pursue a full-time endeavor dually concentrating in Communications and Media Mangement as well as Marketing while splitting my focus on electronic and international business at Fordham Business School. It sounds loftier than it is...or maybe that's just the naivete of a cartographer creating a map from a journey an explorer detailed to her--a journey she has yet to take.
While Fordham is not a top school and my school snobbery knows few bounds, I have come to see that indebting myself to the point of collections and defaulting on loans is not a way to establish myself fiscally. I'm starting their pre-MBA curriculum this fall at which point I hope to build relationships with the faculty that will secure me a 300-hour graduate assitantship my first term which will reduce my tuition by 70%. Hopefully the remaining will be covered by a scholarship I can "easily" attain given that my current GMAT score is above their acceptance range (540-670 out of 800). I intend to take the exam again to beat the 700 mark to assure myself a place in their hallowed halls of free post graduate education.
Credit repair aside, I no longer have a burning desire to be average in a lot of over-achievers given my social loafing. I'm accepting the fate of working marginally hard to shine in a lot of average folk--a real cross-section of the populance. Not to mention their New York City location will avail me significant recruiters in the publishing and e-media industries.
I intend to pursue a full-time endeavor dually concentrating in Communications and Media Mangement as well as Marketing while splitting my focus on electronic and international business at Fordham Business School. It sounds loftier than it is...or maybe that's just the naivete of a cartographer creating a map from a journey an explorer detailed to her--a journey she has yet to take.
While Fordham is not a top school and my school snobbery knows few bounds, I have come to see that indebting myself to the point of collections and defaulting on loans is not a way to establish myself fiscally. I'm starting their pre-MBA curriculum this fall at which point I hope to build relationships with the faculty that will secure me a 300-hour graduate assitantship my first term which will reduce my tuition by 70%. Hopefully the remaining will be covered by a scholarship I can "easily" attain given that my current GMAT score is above their acceptance range (540-670 out of 800). I intend to take the exam again to beat the 700 mark to assure myself a place in their hallowed halls of free post graduate education.
Credit repair aside, I no longer have a burning desire to be average in a lot of over-achievers given my social loafing. I'm accepting the fate of working marginally hard to shine in a lot of average folk--a real cross-section of the populance. Not to mention their New York City location will avail me significant recruiters in the publishing and e-media industries.
June 1, 2007
Road Trip Caffeine
Thanks to Dunkin Donuts' soon-to-launch website: www.MyIcedCoffee.com you can avail yourself of tasty treats or just caffeine boosts in 33 states should you take a roadtrip across these fine United States. Whether you are going across or traveling along the coasts, DD is here for your mapped out coffee needs at every stop along the way.
Hazzah!
Hazzah!
Ms. Verbose meet Mr. Pithy
In my zeal to showcase my newly acquired Outlook calendar feature (via work) and assure D'souza that I am the organatrix I always was I have been sending him outlook invitations in 1-2 hour blocks of activities I have planned for us to participate in this weekend.
Saturday
9-10am Kayaking on the Hudson (Downtown Boathouse)
10-11:30am Tennis at the Canal Street Courts along the Hudson
12:30-1:00pm Lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
2-3:30pm Beginner Salsa at Empire Dance
4-5pm Boat ride in a paddle boat in Central Park
5:30-6:30pm Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral
7-8pm Drinks at Ava Lounge at the top of the Dream Hotel
8:30-10pm Dinner at Buenos Aires
Sunday
11am-12pm Tennis on the Fayson Lakes clubhouse courts
12-1pm D'souza to help Mr. Winters (my mom's hubby) with his computer
1-2pm Take the motor boat on the lake for a relaxing ride
2-3pm BBQ with the family on the deck overlooking the lake
D'souza's response:
"stop the outlook appointments...just send me an email with all our plans...i can print it, laminate it and hang it around my neck...that way I can't forget!"
Saturday
9-10am Kayaking on the Hudson (Downtown Boathouse)
10-11:30am Tennis at the Canal Street Courts along the Hudson
12:30-1:00pm Lunch at Shake Shack in Madison Square Park
2-3:30pm Beginner Salsa at Empire Dance
4-5pm Boat ride in a paddle boat in Central Park
5:30-6:30pm Mass at St. Patrick's Cathedral
7-8pm Drinks at Ava Lounge at the top of the Dream Hotel
8:30-10pm Dinner at Buenos Aires
Sunday
11am-12pm Tennis on the Fayson Lakes clubhouse courts
12-1pm D'souza to help Mr. Winters (my mom's hubby) with his computer
1-2pm Take the motor boat on the lake for a relaxing ride
2-3pm BBQ with the family on the deck overlooking the lake
D'souza's response:
"stop the outlook appointments...just send me an email with all our plans...i can print it, laminate it and hang it around my neck...that way I can't forget!"
May 23, 2007
"I am afraid, I am not any fun. I don't have any stories that end with me peeing in someone else's bed"--Lauren
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?
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?
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.
April 30, 2007
Broken
It's broken and I don't understand why.
D'Souza's been distant all day. We both woke up on the wrong side of the bed--I slept on his side because I have a tendency to roll to the left so he slept on the inside. I was freelancing at Maxim for the day so I woke and quickly fell into my harried morning routine of brush, shower, dress, and run. He wasn't lazing per se but since he's working at WFC--not on assignment this week--he didn't have an exact arrival time. This wasn't our first morning of race and rush...but it was our least adorable.
He took off shortly after I got home to do his laundry. Then he went off on his own to walk across the brooklyn bridge without giving me fair warning. When he arrived home, he promptly walked past my door into the living room to watch tv completely ignoring my panty-clad rear.
What gives?
D'Souza's been distant all day. We both woke up on the wrong side of the bed--I slept on his side because I have a tendency to roll to the left so he slept on the inside. I was freelancing at Maxim for the day so I woke and quickly fell into my harried morning routine of brush, shower, dress, and run. He wasn't lazing per se but since he's working at WFC--not on assignment this week--he didn't have an exact arrival time. This wasn't our first morning of race and rush...but it was our least adorable.
He took off shortly after I got home to do his laundry. Then he went off on his own to walk across the brooklyn bridge without giving me fair warning. When he arrived home, he promptly walked past my door into the living room to watch tv completely ignoring my panty-clad rear.
What gives?
April 26, 2007
April 12, 2007
Abrupt
Men in my family have done this for decades and I realized yesterday that it drives me absolutely crazy.
The phone call tha tends without "Bye!"
The business of the conversation being complete, D'Souza (sleepy as he was, I will not excuse him) proceeded to hang up the phone as he often does brusquely.
Now, this has long bothered me about him. Bothered me because it is something I have HAD to live with my entire life as a consequence of the older, crankier men in my family practicing this bizarre behavior. For an extremely polite crowd I will never gather how such abruptness is common practice. D'Souza similarly exists in this pattern.
In D'Souza's defense, Tommy frequently accuses me of saying THE LONGEST GOODBYES. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps it is just an average length goodbye for a girl with abandonment issues.
All I know is that in the con column, D'Souza's got abruptness firmly in the top slot--at least alphabetically speaking.
The phone call tha tends without "Bye!"
The business of the conversation being complete, D'Souza (sleepy as he was, I will not excuse him) proceeded to hang up the phone as he often does brusquely.
Now, this has long bothered me about him. Bothered me because it is something I have HAD to live with my entire life as a consequence of the older, crankier men in my family practicing this bizarre behavior. For an extremely polite crowd I will never gather how such abruptness is common practice. D'Souza similarly exists in this pattern.
In D'Souza's defense, Tommy frequently accuses me of saying THE LONGEST GOODBYES. Perhaps that is true. Perhaps it is just an average length goodbye for a girl with abandonment issues.
All I know is that in the con column, D'Souza's got abruptness firmly in the top slot--at least alphabetically speaking.
Umbrella Carcasses
As I walked to work, hasty as usual--tardiness--I couldn't help notice that the pavement was littered with umbrellas whose cheapness and/or usefulness had been deemed unworthy by their former owners.
There were particular stretches of my path that served as umbrella cemeteries!
There were particular stretches of my path that served as umbrella cemeteries!
Tattered Umbrellas
Black Umbrellas
Colorful Umbrellas--hues ranging from pink to navy--
Umbrellas whose underwire had failed them
Umbrellas whose owners had derailed them
Umbrellas worn at the seams.
Corporate logo emblazoned Umbrellas
Chinatown-bought Umbrellas--$5--
Department Store Brand Umbrellas
No matter what they were in their umbrella lives, they all found themselves united--bound together--by their common fate of being discarded today by their owners in the vicinity of one another. Like people--who come from all walks of life--these umbrellas were left lifeless to a shared end.
My trusty black, automatic umbrella served me swimmingly except for a particularly gusty wind which turned it inside out. I didn't give up or surrender it to a final fatalistic reunion with its slaughtered bretheren. My determination to stand by my umbrella, forced me to coax it's shape back to the original dimensions and carry on with my brisk commute.
Black Umbrellas
Colorful Umbrellas--hues ranging from pink to navy--
Umbrellas whose underwire had failed them
Umbrellas whose owners had derailed them
Umbrellas worn at the seams.
Corporate logo emblazoned Umbrellas
Chinatown-bought Umbrellas--$5--
Department Store Brand Umbrellas
No matter what they were in their umbrella lives, they all found themselves united--bound together--by their common fate of being discarded today by their owners in the vicinity of one another. Like people--who come from all walks of life--these umbrellas were left lifeless to a shared end.
My trusty black, automatic umbrella served me swimmingly except for a particularly gusty wind which turned it inside out. I didn't give up or surrender it to a final fatalistic reunion with its slaughtered bretheren. My determination to stand by my umbrella, forced me to coax it's shape back to the original dimensions and carry on with my brisk commute.
April 11, 2007
Free Lunch
Growing up, I frequently heard the adage, "There is no such thing as a free lunch."
In the last five years of temping, consulting, and working at Fortune 100 companies, I've learned that such a statement is just untrue. Frequently, afternoon meetings involve the ordering of lunch. It's a boring sandwich fest for the most part, but there is ALWAYS surplus which makes its way to the pantry or remains in the large conference rooms.
For working bees on a serious budget, such as myself, this constitutes a sumptuous FREE lunch. Invariably, some passerby will make the announcement which must be followed by a mad dash to the area mentioned to scavenge for the best scraps. These are usually turkey sandwiches or wraps. I usually scour the scene for some Snapple or bottled water to round out the lunch time booty. Today, I scored just this.
April 10, 2007
Stolen
Poor D'Souza! His car got stolen as it sat innocently in his driveway in Jersey City late Sunday night/early Monday morning. Who is out stealing cars to commemorate the Risen Christ? Honestly....the outrage.
He wasn't as disgruntled at the loss as the theivery at hand.
April 7, 2007
WFC
The World Financial Center (WFC)stands across the West Side Highway from where the World Trade Center (WTC) towers once stood. WFC has 3 towers--Tower 1 stands apart from the attached Towers 2 and 3. D'Souza's main office is in 2 and my current assignment has me shackled in 3.
Yesterday, we had the unique privilege of walking to work together through the financial district across the West Side Highway into Battery Park City (BPC) to the WFC.
He took me to a delicious non-meaty lunch at SouthWestNY at 1pm--in observance of Good Friday. He also met Taurean and I for a quick coffee break at Starbucks around 4pm. Of course, D'Souza's day was a wrap at that point, so he got to go home...walk the dog and take a nap before meeting me for Liturgy at 6pm.
Bah work!
That's where I am right not, clackety clack clack!
Midnight Mass
It seems that Manhattan for all its conveniences does not offer a midnight vigil for Easter. I scoured the internet to find the latest available vigil at 8pm tonight, but that just doesn't cut it for D'Souza. Devout Catholic that he is, thankfully this vigil is at the appropriately Roman Catholic St. Patrick's Cathedral.
I escorted him to a 6pm Good Friday Liturgy yesterday at St. Paul's Chapel--which wasn't to my liking for the quality of the sermon--his qualm lay more in the lack of Roman in their Catohlic. In fact, I think they are Episcopalian...linked to Trinity Church as they are. Conveniently located across the street from the World Trade Center PATH station with an excellent proximity to the World Financial Center--home of US Xpress and Hoyt (workplace of D'Souza)--where we were both busily at work yesterday.
I escorted him to a 6pm Good Friday Liturgy yesterday at St. Paul's Chapel--which wasn't to my liking for the quality of the sermon--his qualm lay more in the lack of Roman in their Catohlic. In fact, I think they are Episcopalian...linked to Trinity Church as they are. Conveniently located across the street from the World Trade Center PATH station with an excellent proximity to the World Financial Center--home of US Xpress and Hoyt (workplace of D'Souza)--where we were both busily at work yesterday.
April 6, 2007
Good Friday
All believers in Christ, take a moment or mass/service to speculate on just how momentous today really is...Good Friday, indeed.
For the non-believers, drink hard on behalf of us non-imbibers and eat loads of RED meat...
For the non-believers, drink hard on behalf of us non-imbibers and eat loads of RED meat...
April 5, 2007
Apartment of my Dreams
Apartment: XXL Studio or One Bedroom in Manhattan
Location: South of 96th St. on the West Side or 65th St. on the East Side
Space: 525+ sq. feet
Features: Walk in Closet, Eat in Kitchen, Windowed bathroom and kitchen
Amenities: Laundry in the building, dishwasher, microwave, hardwood floors...if a studio an alcove for the bed that can easily be screened off would be clutch.
Would be cool if there was a gym/room with weights included in the rent, but in the grand scheme of the things I want, I care about this the least.
Would be cool if it was less than 5mins. to the subway, but if I can get more space further away I'll take the space.
Elevator preferred but I'll live in a walk-up as long as it's not higher than the 3rd floor.
My neighborhood preferences are as follows:
Gramercy
Murray Hill
Financial District (not Battery Park)
UWS (ideally near Fordham)
Finding all of it for under $2K/month without paying ANY brokers' fees:
A Dream Come True!
Location: South of 96th St. on the West Side or 65th St. on the East Side
Space: 525+ sq. feet
Features: Walk in Closet, Eat in Kitchen, Windowed bathroom and kitchen
Amenities: Laundry in the building, dishwasher, microwave, hardwood floors...if a studio an alcove for the bed that can easily be screened off would be clutch.
Would be cool if there was a gym/room with weights included in the rent, but in the grand scheme of the things I want, I care about this the least.
Would be cool if it was less than 5mins. to the subway, but if I can get more space further away I'll take the space.
Elevator preferred but I'll live in a walk-up as long as it's not higher than the 3rd floor.
My neighborhood preferences are as follows:
Gramercy
Murray Hill
Financial District (not Battery Park)
UWS (ideally near Fordham)
Finding all of it for under $2K/month without paying ANY brokers' fees:
A Dream Come True!
Eulogy for Chiara
One of the greatest virtues we can attain in our lifetime is knowing how to live. Knowing how to make the whole room dance at just the right moment, knowing how to tell a captivating story, knowing that everyone should take out time to learn the art of bongo drumming at some point in their life. It is the ability to seek joy and bring it to those we meet every single day that allows us to really know how to live. The will to share your happiness with people around you—whether they are strangers, friends, foreigners, or just passersby—is a human ability we were all born with, yet it is so rare that you see someone embody this value as much as Chiara did.
How many people here can tell a story about meeting Chiara for the first time, going on with your day, week, or month, and then running into a girl who is suddenly hugging you and saying, “hey, you’re Claire McTaggart from Connecticut, I’m Chiara, we met the other day.”
This love of life and all the people in it is what has always made Chiara absolutely unforgettable. While most of us settle into what is comfortable and most familiar, Chiara set out to explore all she could that was unseen, friend any whose path she crossed, and ingrain herself into our memories as that really friendly girl with the wild curly hair.
It is Chiara’s style of living and her hunger to embrace everything outside her comfort zone that we should take with us. We should think about that eccentric Italian Jewish girl from Danville, Kentucky, and remember her emails from Montpellier France, the stories from deer camp in Marquette Michigan, the pictures of Chiara tearing up the dance floor in downtown Brooklyn and the great hat she bought for the Kentucky Derby.
We are all at such a great loss in her absence, but Chiara would never want us to sit here mourning. In her death she has still managed to bring people from all walks of life together, where NFL players can meet Italian New Yorkers who can meet Kentucky locals who can meet Michigan sorority girls. If anything, our obligation is to imagine those things about Chiara that made her so vivacious and so unique and incorporate that into yourself.
If you have trouble meeting new people, just remember Chiara and go introduce yourself to someone new. If you have never left your hometown, think of Chiara and find a way to travel to an unexpected city. If you find yourself stressed or working all the time, keep Chiara close in your mind and do something spontaneous with your friends. If your friends are all one age or one nationality or one race or one religion or one class remember our friend and learn how to appreciate those different from ourselves. And all of us, whenever we have the urge to speak badly to another or look down on someone else, please, let Chiara become a life long lesson so that we can all come out of this better people than we were before.
What happened to Chiara was a tragedy, but we must comfort ourselves knowing that in 23 years Chiara lived more than most people could in a lifetime. So lets each take a part of her with us, lets become that part of chiara that you always admired but never had the courage to be, and this way she will be living throughout each and every one of us as long as we live. Once we have wiped away the tears and expressed our condolences, please, let us each go back into our lives and become those people Chiara would have been honored to see us become, because through this she will never be outside our hearts.
THIS WELL WRITTEN EULOGY MELTED MY HEART AS IT ECHOED MY SENTIMENTS.
How many people here can tell a story about meeting Chiara for the first time, going on with your day, week, or month, and then running into a girl who is suddenly hugging you and saying, “hey, you’re Claire McTaggart from Connecticut, I’m Chiara, we met the other day.”
This love of life and all the people in it is what has always made Chiara absolutely unforgettable. While most of us settle into what is comfortable and most familiar, Chiara set out to explore all she could that was unseen, friend any whose path she crossed, and ingrain herself into our memories as that really friendly girl with the wild curly hair.
It is Chiara’s style of living and her hunger to embrace everything outside her comfort zone that we should take with us. We should think about that eccentric Italian Jewish girl from Danville, Kentucky, and remember her emails from Montpellier France, the stories from deer camp in Marquette Michigan, the pictures of Chiara tearing up the dance floor in downtown Brooklyn and the great hat she bought for the Kentucky Derby.
We are all at such a great loss in her absence, but Chiara would never want us to sit here mourning. In her death she has still managed to bring people from all walks of life together, where NFL players can meet Italian New Yorkers who can meet Kentucky locals who can meet Michigan sorority girls. If anything, our obligation is to imagine those things about Chiara that made her so vivacious and so unique and incorporate that into yourself.
If you have trouble meeting new people, just remember Chiara and go introduce yourself to someone new. If you have never left your hometown, think of Chiara and find a way to travel to an unexpected city. If you find yourself stressed or working all the time, keep Chiara close in your mind and do something spontaneous with your friends. If your friends are all one age or one nationality or one race or one religion or one class remember our friend and learn how to appreciate those different from ourselves. And all of us, whenever we have the urge to speak badly to another or look down on someone else, please, let Chiara become a life long lesson so that we can all come out of this better people than we were before.
What happened to Chiara was a tragedy, but we must comfort ourselves knowing that in 23 years Chiara lived more than most people could in a lifetime. So lets each take a part of her with us, lets become that part of chiara that you always admired but never had the courage to be, and this way she will be living throughout each and every one of us as long as we live. Once we have wiped away the tears and expressed our condolences, please, let us each go back into our lives and become those people Chiara would have been honored to see us become, because through this she will never be outside our hearts.
THIS WELL WRITTEN EULOGY MELTED MY HEART AS IT ECHOED MY SENTIMENTS.
Movin' Out
My building is going condo come June, so I am back in the rental market. D'Souza has asked me to move in with him and after much deliberation, I have consented.
I will be one of the co-habitating masses living blissfully in sin and going to mass on Sundays. Does that cancel it out? Gotta make it to confession EVERY week now.
This is going to be a transition but given that the man has two suitcases and I have...er...many more and loads of furniture the dream remains a walk-in closet and enough storage space for all my shoes and bags. I've given up all hopes of squeezing my small dining table into what I can only assume will be our "large" studio, but it's a sacrifice worth making.
I'm all grown up! Look at me!
I will be one of the co-habitating masses living blissfully in sin and going to mass on Sundays. Does that cancel it out? Gotta make it to confession EVERY week now.
This is going to be a transition but given that the man has two suitcases and I have...er...many more and loads of furniture the dream remains a walk-in closet and enough storage space for all my shoes and bags. I've given up all hopes of squeezing my small dining table into what I can only assume will be our "large" studio, but it's a sacrifice worth making.
I'm all grown up! Look at me!
April 3, 2007
My Boyfriend's Back...
And he's better than EVER.
Standing on the corner of Hope St. and Anxiety Avenue at 5:26pm yesterday my eyes awaited their first D'Souza sighting in 3 weeks and 3 days. The minute I saw his signature strut in a gorgeous pin-stripe suit with Men in Black sunglasses, my breath caught in my throat. How could that glorious specimen of manhood possibly be ALL mine? That was the only thought in my otherwise racing mind. A passing thug hooted his approval at the smile which lit my face as my man sidled up to me sweeping me into a crushing embrace and amorous lip lock.
Time literally stopped as I breathed him in, oblivious to the rush hour bustle of the financial district around us. It was another movie moment to add to our long list of romantic rendezvous.
Of course, now he's back to work in distant OH till Saturday...but I can survive three days without complaint after the 12 hours of attention and affection he showered on me last night. God, I missed him.
Standing on the corner of Hope St. and Anxiety Avenue at 5:26pm yesterday my eyes awaited their first D'Souza sighting in 3 weeks and 3 days. The minute I saw his signature strut in a gorgeous pin-stripe suit with Men in Black sunglasses, my breath caught in my throat. How could that glorious specimen of manhood possibly be ALL mine? That was the only thought in my otherwise racing mind. A passing thug hooted his approval at the smile which lit my face as my man sidled up to me sweeping me into a crushing embrace and amorous lip lock.
Time literally stopped as I breathed him in, oblivious to the rush hour bustle of the financial district around us. It was another movie moment to add to our long list of romantic rendezvous.
Of course, now he's back to work in distant OH till Saturday...but I can survive three days without complaint after the 12 hours of attention and affection he showered on me last night. God, I missed him.
April 2, 2007
Palm Sunday
Running up the steps on 5th Avenue, you leave the bustle of Midtown as soon as you set foot inside Saint Patrick's Cathedral--the oldest Gothic church in the United States. 
Sitting in a pew near the back, I picked up two fresh stalks of palm and bent them--as I'd seen a thousand times at St. Theresa's and St. Mary's in Bombay--to make a cross in reverence to folks 2000 years ago welcoming Jesus to their town. The same folks who stood around and watched him get nailed to a cross five days later.
I said a prayer for Chiara...who never went to church or cared about organized religion--more for me than her--what did I have to offer her wherever she was. I could only hope her beliefs had led to a place where the wine never stopped flowing and the men were all foreign or at least had foreign accents. I knew she had been as close to happy as anyone could be who was taken prematurely and/or without warning.
I said a prayer for my Mom and the new family she had formed with her new husband. A family I tried desperately to keep myself separate from but realized with every passing day, despite my best intentions, I was alienating loved ones and gently damaging my mother. I vowed to do a better job of embracing that family--a family that included me with open arms and supported my most inane decisions.
I thought fondly of being in that churh with D'Souza and the family we hoped to be some day. I wondered if that fantasy was a reality I was truly ready for and I wished with all my heart that God would prepare me for what I hoped was the long road ahead. I prayed for his safe journey back to me, knowing he was on a plane somewhere over Europe where churches like St. Patrick's abounded--towering steeples and stained glass windows built by devout men hoping for heaven.
I made a mental note to cook an extravagant feast for Easter despite my culinary shortcomings and general disdain for all times spent alone in a kitchen.
I value tradition. I've come to accept that much of my faith is rooted in the customs I was raised with adherence to as well as the do-it-because-the-Bible-says-so-ness impressed upon me as a child. Perhaps that is how organized religion continues to weild power over the masses. Perhaps as I age, my inclination to cling closely to where I come from strengthens. I'm not much of a Catholic, in truth. What I am is a lover of the ritual and tradition of Catholicism planted in me as a child that despite infrequent watering has blossomed into a flower that frequents church.
I'm a pro-life/pro-birth control, pro-gay marriage Christian and I have no trouble reconciling my faith in Jesus with my value for freedom and free will.
Sitting in a pew near the back, I picked up two fresh stalks of palm and bent them--as I'd seen a thousand times at St. Theresa's and St. Mary's in Bombay--to make a cross in reverence to folks 2000 years ago welcoming Jesus to their town. The same folks who stood around and watched him get nailed to a cross five days later.
I said a prayer for Chiara...who never went to church or cared about organized religion--more for me than her--what did I have to offer her wherever she was. I could only hope her beliefs had led to a place where the wine never stopped flowing and the men were all foreign or at least had foreign accents. I knew she had been as close to happy as anyone could be who was taken prematurely and/or without warning.
I said a prayer for my Mom and the new family she had formed with her new husband. A family I tried desperately to keep myself separate from but realized with every passing day, despite my best intentions, I was alienating loved ones and gently damaging my mother. I vowed to do a better job of embracing that family--a family that included me with open arms and supported my most inane decisions.
I thought fondly of being in that churh with D'Souza and the family we hoped to be some day. I wondered if that fantasy was a reality I was truly ready for and I wished with all my heart that God would prepare me for what I hoped was the long road ahead. I prayed for his safe journey back to me, knowing he was on a plane somewhere over Europe where churches like St. Patrick's abounded--towering steeples and stained glass windows built by devout men hoping for heaven.
I made a mental note to cook an extravagant feast for Easter despite my culinary shortcomings and general disdain for all times spent alone in a kitchen.
I value tradition. I've come to accept that much of my faith is rooted in the customs I was raised with adherence to as well as the do-it-because-the-Bible-says-so-ness impressed upon me as a child. Perhaps that is how organized religion continues to weild power over the masses. Perhaps as I age, my inclination to cling closely to where I come from strengthens. I'm not much of a Catholic, in truth. What I am is a lover of the ritual and tradition of Catholicism planted in me as a child that despite infrequent watering has blossomed into a flower that frequents church.
I'm a pro-life/pro-birth control, pro-gay marriage Christian and I have no trouble reconciling my faith in Jesus with my value for freedom and free will.
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