Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

Get your caboose in gear cause this train is going all the way to Ch-Change Town (and yes, David Bowie is aboard).

My very wise cubemate, Miss Melissa Presti, once told me there are three life-altering things you should not, not ever, attempt to tackle all at once: your abode, your career, and your love life.

Too bad I just moved into a new apartment, earned myself a promotion, and got a big ole ring on my finger.

OK fine, I keed about that last one. Even though two gay men lived my lovely apartment before me, there is no room for a guy in my living space - or my life, for that matter (at least not at the moment).

I was never a big fan of change. I’m sure I’ve blogged about my melodramatic younger self before - how she wouldn’t shut up when my family moved from Sharon Valley to Sharon Mountain (I left my ‘rents semi-suicidal, super-threatening notes chock full of how-dare-yous and woe-is-me-ness. I did not want to move!)

Change has always been to me what Smokey was to the people on the Island - a monster.

I think - scratch that, I know - that I’m having a hard time coming to terms with growing up. According to my college friend, Meghan, we graduated five years ago this past weekend. She said it seemed like only yesterday. I feel like it was .2 seconds ago.

Not to get all cheesy and Lost-y or anything, but life really does pass by in the blink of an eye. The flash of a light. Poof, game o-v-a. Heaven awaits (or whatever that was.)

So shit yo, you gotta roll with it (how very poignant that Oasis was singing those exact sentiments to me in the background as I typed away...I put on some Bob Dylan next.)

I waited 16 years and 4 months to get my driver’s license - now I live in a city where I don’t even need it. I’ve been a sun-aholic my whole life - now I think it’s safe to say my worshipping days are done.

I’m beginning to see the effects of goddamn gravity on certain body parts kept under wraps. Crows feet are starting to circle my eyes. Hell, even my feet aren’t immune to change: I used to wear a size 9 and now I don a 7.5. WHAT??

The definition of change is to make or become different. I’ve made a lot of changes myself. I’ve tried acupuncture, dabbled into Buddhism, stayed out way past my bedtime on a school night (attempting to be spontaneous), started a blog (!!), decided to interview for my new (now) job, chopped off my hair.

And - gasp - I’ve liked, even enjoyed lots of these things.

Hmm...I love my new apartment...I can’t wait to start my new job...

...have I changed my mind about change itself? Have I been so stuck in my anti-change-ness that I’ve failed to see what is so ridiculously obvious? That I’m embracing change? That I’m liking change?

I talked to my dad the other night and couldn’t help but notice how happy he sounded when telling how he’d won first place in his tractor pull competition on Sunday.

Oh yes. He’s retired, jobless for the first time in over four decades, and I thought I was talking to a teenage boy about his car. (Though instead of a car it was an antique tractor pulling thousand and thousands of pounds - he beat the next best puller by 2 feet!)

I think I like change. Well, let me rephrase: I like change when it’s for the better. Weeeell, that seems a bit unfair. OK I’ll rephrase once more: I am going to be as open as possible when it comes to change.

Yes, as open as possible...even if that means coming to terms with the fact that my father has just hopped the choo-choo (cuckoo) train to Hicksville and I’m leaving my wise, hilarious, sarcastic cubemate for the solitary existence of an office.

Do Dankes: acu.pun?sure!

(Boy was that a sorry excuse for a pun. But I just can’t help myself - I love puns. My friend Jeffery and I could hold a conversation exclusively in puns and abbreviations - in fact, we often do.)

Alas, the point of this post is not, in fact, to perfect a plucky little pun (nor is it to utter incredibly awesome alliterations).

Instead it’s to sing praises of that prickly Eastern practice: being poked with needles.

Acupuncture has been around since the Stone Age. Vicodin? Not even a hundred years (you do the math).

I, however, didn’t get around to trying the former until last week - and honestly, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that insurance companies don’t cover this form of holistic medicine. Pharmaceutical giants would drop faster than marathoners on a hot day!

Not only do they not cover it - they frown upon it. Look down on it. Turn others against it.

It’s pretty ridiculous how acupuncture is so pooh-poohed by mainstream medicine. Unfairly and unjustly so. Yeah, it’s confusing and not just a little intimidating, what with all the lingo - meridians and channels and qi and zang-fu - and how the hell does it actually work!

But who cares! There are lots and lots of things we don’t understand in life (or Lost). So whatever - cause I sure do think it works wonders.

There are so many ailments acupuncture alleviates: aches, pains, anxiety, stress, sickness, depression, forgetfulness. Instead of ingesting 10 different pills for each of your symptoms, the simple solution is a few sessions of this most brilliant Ancient Chinese practice (it’s cumulative so it takes a bit to see results).

I’ve heard about the magic that is acupuncture firsthand. Kelly has often raved about it. Even my mother, Queen of Western Medicine, turned to acupuncture for her chronic pain (shocking, I know!)

But as I said, insurance don’t cover it - and it’s not cheap, especially in the city.

Reason #1,892 K. Cobb is awesome? She does her research - all I have to do is reap the benefits. That’s how we ended up at a Community Acupuncture last Wednesday. Only $25!

Needles don’t make me nervous - in fact, I was more curious and excited than anything. I sat in the anti-gravity chair, rolled up my pants, and watched as the acupuncturist plotted, examined, and stabbed. Four in each leg, a few in my chest, and one in my scalp.

Immediately there was a sensation of energy swirling and pulsating through my entire body - like someone had turned a faucet on. It was pretty crazy. I’ve not experienced anything like it ever.

The more needles she stabbed into my skin (they’re super thin and go in about a quarter of an inch), the more I felt my blood flowing. The deeper my relaxation went. The more I let go and the less I cared about the million things I had weighing and pressing upon my mind. It was a bit nirvana-esque.

Sure, it’s called “Community” for a reason - there’s other people in the room with you, there’s no wooden pipe-y/chanty music, the lights aren’t dimmed - but for $25, who cares.

I didn’t want to be un-stuck. I was sad when she said she was going to start removing the needles (there was a teeny spot of blood on my legs but other than that, A-OK).

All in all, ‘twas a lovely experience. Kathy Cobb had a brilliant suggestion for next time (inspired by my Obsessive Impulsive Disorder post: I should ask them to stick a needle in the spot that makes me shop - maybe that will stop me!

Some More Hair-Raising Atrocities

Last fall I posted a blog about hair. But apparently I underestimated the “everywhere” part cause oh man, I hadn’t seen nothing yet.

Why do people find hair so luxurious, so glorious, so glamorous? Commercials, celebrities, photographs, magazines, ads - so many forms of media leave us girls (and the occasional superficial man) with an acute case of hair envy. 


Why?

Hair is gross. It’s keratin - dead, filamentous cells - and yet we bleach it, dye it, blow-dry it, cut it, style it, pull it, spray it, comb it, straighten it, braid it - all in the name of beauty.

While I count myself among those plagued by the stigma surrounding baldness (poor men! POOR women!), that doesn’t really change my viewpoint on how dreadfully vulgar stray strands of hair can be. Let me count the (additional) ways.

There’s the free-falling follicle you feel tumbling down your arms and back - creepy. And chances are, that creepy little tress is gonna lodge itself in some inconvenient crevice until your next shower. Ew.

There’s the massive clumps of hair in your brush that must be cleaned out - nasty business I say, nasty. But if you don’t do it (and do it often), then you’re just brushing your clean little locks with dirty deadness. Brushes full-o-hair skeeve me out...

...especially on brushes where there should NOT be hair. Oh yeah, I have recently experienced hair wrapped around my toothbrush.

As my Sonicare was scrubbing and vibrating and rumbling away, I felt that super distinct sharpness poking my tongue (how do cats DO it??) I pulled the brush out of my mouth and nearly spit out my mouthful of Marvis on my wooden floor.

I found this all quite perplexing seeing as how I brush n’ blow-dry in my bedroom. How did I stray hair end up on my TOOTHBRUSH?

I pulled and tugged and unraveled as best I could - but I didn’t finish scrub-a-dub-dubbing my pearly whites that night. I was far too disgusted.

And though I thought I had taken care of the offensive fallen-follicle felon, I did NOT. It was still THERE the next time I brushed. Ick, ick, ick.

But I suppose D) All of the Above is nein, nada, nothing compared to…drum roll please…when other people’s hair is in your food.

Yeah, yeah - I’m sure we ingest all kinds of bugs and dirt and, yes, hair in our lifetime. But does that make it OK? No! NO!

This past weekend I had two such unlucky experiences - the first was a bug on my sangria Saturday night. The second was a hair in my aloo matar Sunday night. And it was from Whole Foods. Whole Foods!

Always happens with Indian Food. Always! Two years ago there was an exactly identical culprit - short, thick, black, and juicy (though that is a disguuuusting word to use, it did, in fact, look juicy) - in my vegetable malai (a few months later a friend of a friend got dysentery from the same restaurant, Ghandi Cafe...I’m glad my incident was only a hair).

And while I was sick to my stomach over that juicy hair in my hot food bar meal, I wanted to keep eating it. Sucks! I had a few bites from the opposite end of the bowl then tossed it.

Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll be eating Indian anytime soon.

Real Estate Heaven (Parte Deux)

As if the stress and duress of finding a new apartment to call home isn’t enough - no. No, then you actually have to move into it.

I’ll admit, I was pretty psyched. Eh, that’s an understatement: I was ridiculously pumped. I had me a case of the chronic Christmas morning jitters. I was counting down the days, the minutes, the hours until Wednesday April 22nd.

But along with the good so too comes the bad. There are just so many un-fun things that exchanging abodes implies. For example: the cleaning and scrubbing of new AND old digs, the switching over of bill addresses and magazine subscriptions, the plotting and planning of new setups, the dread of not getting your security deposit back, the organizing of jewelry boxes (it took me HOURS), the coordinating with Supers and movers.

Boy, that last one nearly pushed me over the edge.

The Fred Schopp moving company was unavailable for a midweek move so I (gasp) had to hire real movers. At least for my big funiture - for the smaller stuff I hired a moving company called Friends and paid them in pizza and beer (thanks Kelly, Katie L., Kerry & Ri).

Apparently I was so strung out with packing and updating all those damn addresses that in my semi-conscious state of mass confusion, I saved the movers in my phone under “Valon Super” (pronounced Val-en).

When I called Valon (or who I thought was Valon) to ask about fixing the faucet in my tub and to find out whether or not I could cover the ugly gas meter in my kitchen, the man (aptly and not-so-conveniently named Allen), responded with a “Yes, we bring tools and fix better than you can.” But he failed to understand what, exactly, I was talking about.

Our conversation went on for approximately 10 minutes. All the while, Allen seemed super confused - which majorly confused me - why didn’t he understand what I was talking about?? He’d been in the apartment a million times!

Allen said he needed to get keys from me before fixing up the tub. “But you have keys to my apartment,” I said, thinking he must have misplaced them and that I could simply hand off my spare set. He said I needed to be there. “No, I trust you!” I said. And he thanked me - and though I thought that odd, my fuzzy little mind still didn’t put the puzzle pieces together.

When we were ending our conversation, Allen asked if I wanted to move on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. “No, no, you don’t have to MOVE me, you’re my Super! I hired movers!” Lightbulbs exploded. Umm, yeah. He was the mover.

WOW. Really, just wow. I had just had an intensely frustrating, ten minute long conversation with someone I thought was my Super.

Foreshadowing of ill-luck to come?

Wednesday morning couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I felt like a five year old listening for reindeer. Instead of Santa, though, I got two cute Chinese men in a circa 1987 mini-van. They assured me they could fit everything in their van and asked if I could sit in the drivers seat and “You know, drive around the block” if cops came (there was no parking to be had). Umm...OK.

Everything was moving along nice and smooth until the couch. The couch! Ugh. It didn’t wanna go out and it sure as hell didn’t wanna come in. Good thing my father, the hero (/genius), was there to take the legs off at the old apartment.

If only he’d had the foresight to take the door off the new one - man, it was like shoving a square peg in a round hole. And I mean shoving.

My kooky (albeit super sweet) next door neighbor came out into the hallway to see what the ruckus was - apparently they were heaving and hoeing so hard, her pictures were falling off the walls.

Scratches and scrapes and ripped cushions aside, there rest of the day was drama free. It was a long one to be sure - though not quite as bad as my epic Leroy-Sullivan move.

After the unpacking, the organizing, the decorating, the cleaning, the weeding through and throwing out, my new apartamento finally feels like home. I can’t believe how lucky I am! To have a one bedroom in Greenwich Village on the FIRST FLOOR that’s cheaper than my fourth floor studio!

I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it! (As evidenced by my photographic homage!)

I’ve ‘Lost’ Interest

I started watching Lost on iTunes when the show was midway through its second season. Just like my first taste of Mister Softee, I was immediately hooked.

I devoured the first season and was devastated - kind of like all the Mad Men newbies are - when I finished watching all available episodes and - gasp - had to watch but one a week. With commercials.

My heart hurt during the 3rd season when I read that Lost was going to end in May of 2010. Noooooooo, I thought. They can’t!!!

My, how people change.

Now I cannot wait for Lost to be over. O-V-E-R. Because boy oh boy am I so over it.

Maybe it’s because, like 24, everything is interminable; so little time passes. It’s the same day for two, three, four ep’s. By the time night has fallen, I’ve forgotten the OMG moment from that a.m.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh - maybe it’s just me and my inability to remember every single little detail of what makes _____ such a big deal.

Lost was so cool when it was realistic. OK well not “realistic” per se - people don’t survive massive plane crashes and polar bears don’t live on tropical islands and there’s no such thing as smoke-comprised monsters. Fine.

I’m talking realistic in the what-are-we-going-to-eat/drink/DO, how are we going to survive on this ISLAND in the middle of NOWHERE? Realistic in the sense of The Others (who ARE they?), the Dharma Initiative (what IS it?), the crazy French woman with the gun. Charlie’s heroin problem. Claire’s baby. Kate and Jack’s unrequited chemistry.

I loved Lost when it was...relatable? Sure, I live on an island called Manhattan, not some magical disappearing island - but still. It was a story of survival. Now it’s somehow become some ridiculous, sci-fi-ridden story of Good vs. Evil. What? What?

Lost has, for me, been demoted to the ranks of Heroes. Nip/Tuck. The Hills. I started out with so much interest, so much enthusiasm - and now I dislike. Lost has lost me in all of its ridiculousness.

I don’t know what I deem the most outrageous - time traveling, sex in cages, parallel universes, the metaphoric God vs. the metaphoric Devil, dead people coming back to life, how the hell Hurley has not lost a single goddamn pound since he’s been on the island, or Crazy Claire’s HAIR.

I’m going to stick it out - but believe you me, it will be most begrudgingly so. I’m loyal to fault with my TV shows (excepting The Hills - I was too furious that Lauren Conrad “wrote” a book - well, and Heroes - Sylar scared the shit out of me).

It’s pretty unfortunate that there are over four hours left to watch - that’s precious time I could spend writing way better posts than this.

Red Eyes

How have I never no dankesed this before? There are SO MANY things in the red eye familia to talk smack ‘bout.

First and foremost - demon eyes in photos (Shan and Beth are so pretty! I bring the picture down, down, down).

I’ve been a lifelong red eyer and believe you me - ‘tain’t cool. I don’t get it. I’m not an albino bunny. I’m not a dragon or a white mouse or a robot. I’m not a evil little bug or a piece of red velvet cake (though that would be nice). I’m not the Devil (believe it or not).

I was over the moon when those red eye pens came out in the late 90s. Though I was fairly heavy-handed and a little too overzealous - ended up hiding lots of pics at the bottom of my drawer because I was ashamed of my marker-blue peepers.

Come onnnn yo! It’s so unfair! Why hasn’t someone invented a reasonably priced RED EYE FREE camera? Enough with that reduction shit, it don’t work!

Every.single.picture.ever - red eyes. Like, ever! Thankfully Mr. Jobs invented iPhoto.

Moving on before I get too heated...

I was never a hugely allergy-ridden person. (Well that’s not entirely true - they were about to cut me open and perform exploratory surgery when I was a baby because I was allergic to milk and they didn’t know it. Let’s hear it for the goats!) I guess I’ve just never had those kind of allergies - the eyeball kind. Pollen, hay, dust - bring it on.

Ben Stein and GO: For dry, red eyes, Clear Eyes is awesome. So I’ve heard!

Allergies, pink eye, contacts, no dankes! I hate ‘em all - if only on behalf of my friends and fam (poor Miss Carberry and her little poisonous kiddies with their pernicious, pervasive little pink eyes; poor Papa P with his terrible, awful, no good, very bad allergies; poor Shannon with her hard contacts!! GAH!)

What I have had, though, is a cold in my eyes - yes a COLD (sniff sniff) in my EYES (red red water water crust crust gross gross). I hate burning! I hate crustiness! I hate having red eyes in real life in addition to red eyes in pictures! So not fair.

Anyway. So as we all know, the English language is filled to the brim with nonsensical phrases and double meanings and tomfoolery - I count my lucky stars that I’ve had 27 years to learn it cause I can’t imagine starting now (and to those of you who’ve had longer than me, the Grammar Police says: GET IT RIGHT, already!!!)

To make matters confusing (because hell, that’s our language’s forte), there are a few things that fall under the Red Eye umbrella but are not, in fact, fiery little scarlet eyeballs.

Case in point: the flight. Usually it’s from Cali heading east. Or NYC to Europe. When I was in the Foreign Travel Club at Housy, I never quite understood why we left in the afternoon, flew for a long time, and didn’t get to go to sleep when we got there. We hit the ground running - well, other people did. I, for one, was dragging my feet (surprised?)

Those flights are misery personified. At least for the unlucky select few of us who aren’t capable and/or talented enough to fall asleep in planes, trains, or automobiles (it’s really quite unfortunate - I very much envy those narcoleptic friends-o-mine who can fall asleep sitting up).

I suppose the one saving grace of the repertoire that is “Red Eye” is that most delicious drink: Coffee with a shot of espresso.

I always wanted to be in the Red Eye club at Starbucks. I’d hear people order them - clandestinely, I swear - and wonder what the hell it was. Good thing my friend Jeffery was already a member. Once he told me what was it was, I immediately went out and ordered one. It was love at third sip (once the shockingly strong, shockingly hot initial jolt worked its way through my hater-percolator).

I wish I could say that that last Red Eye - so rich and potent and almost creamy (I heart you Starbs!) - cancelled out the other, more loathsome lot of red eyes. But alas, it does not. Sigh.

Do Dankes: 27 Candles!

What do I want to be when I grow up?

I think about that question a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Probably more than someone in their late 20s should. But I suppose it’s fairly fair - at least according to those AARP commercials.

Nobody likes getting older. Every day that passes, every hour, every breath is one that brings us closer to our death. Morbid, yes. But also true.

Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to turning 27. Late twenties? Omfg. I seriously feel like it was just last year I was reading “Seventeen Things to Do Before You’re 17” in my high school library. When did I grow up? 


But I had such a wonderfully spectacular, fantastically fabulous, super fun filled weekend that I feel I can no longer complain about birthdays. Birthdays are awesome!


This was the first one in as long as I can remember that I forgot - literally forgot - to feel depressed. It was such an extravaganza filled with so much hoopla that there really was no time. And as much as I sing her praises all the time, I feel I must throw one more shout out Kelly Cobb’s way - she is the world’s BEST best friend!

I don’t want to bore you with every single little detail - but here are some highlights:

It kicked off Thursday with a gallery/store opening in the East Village. There was a sangria fountain. Yes, a fountain full of sangria. What! As if that wasn’t enough, there was also a super cute oilcloth clutch purchase. There was dining al fresco. There was great conversation and lots of laughs. And that was only the beginning!


Friday ‘twas even lovelier! There was more al fresco dining - complete with white wine and strawberries in plastic cups. There was cupcakes from coworkers, a reading in Chinatown, DRINKS in Chinatown where the bartenders wore shirts THANKING us for coming to Chinatown. There was kick-ass nachos and Sam Summer.

And my birthday wasn’t for two more days!

Saturday my friend Sarah came all the way from DC. Manicures, pedicures, coconut ice cream cones and lunch - can you guess - outside! The weather was glorious.

There were party dresses and pretty ladies galore at my delicious bday dinner where I was sung to not once, not twice, but THREE times with THREE different desserts including a most delicious funfetti cake by Kelly. There were words describing me (Ri’s idea - so sweet!) ranging from “opinionated” (ha) to “Titanic” (amazing) to “generous”.

There was a big ole table being held outdoors at Bull McCabe’s and so many friends I can’t even list them (and let’s face it, I was a little tipsy by then so my memory isn’t 100%). Hugs and kisses, kisses and hugs! AND red velvet cupcakes my mom baked. There was late night Joe’s pizza where some someone thought Fred was Kyle Orton (QB for the Broncos) - without missing a beat Fred said yes, yes he is, and proceeded to take two pictures with the guy and his young son (it was amazing and kinda sad at the same time). (It is quite uncanny though - can you guess which one this is below?)

Yes, then there was some stumbling. Sarah asked Fred why he didn’t catch me and he said “You can’t catch a falling tree”. True. Before helping me up I told him to wait a second I wanted to take a bite of pizza first (at least I’ve got my priorities straight).

And all this before my ACTUAL BIRTHDAY. Omg, how lucky am I?

On Sunday there were phone calls and texts and Facebook posts galore. There was a not-so-hot brunch (helloooooo toilet) - but I perked up shortly thereafter. There was more outdoor drinking (hair of the dog that took a HUGE bite out of me), present opening (beautiful packages and BEAUTIFUL gifts), there were cards, cards, cards (my brother’s enclosed gift nearly gave me a heart attack, that generous sibling-o-mine!), and to top it all off there was a strawberry milkshake and burger at the Shake Shack. Whew!

So this post was pretty much a huge list outlining how spoiled I am (cut knee aside). Not my intention to make ya’lls jealous! Just wanted to write a bit of an homage to my wonderful, generous, thoughtful, beautiful friends and family.

I guess I don’t need to worry too much about what I’m doing with my life cause as long as I’m surrounded by such great people I know that at least I must be doing something right.

Elevator. Etiquette.

Sincerest apologies to those most loyal followers – all 21 of you – that I have not blogged in almost a week! You see, I was in a wedding this past weekend. And let me just say…I’ve learned that being in a wedding is verra verra time consuming.

Nevertheless, the hitching went off without a hitch and ‘twas a truly lovely day!

After a fabulous weekend full of marital bliss, I was riding fairly high on the waves of life. My insides were as warm and gooey as a heated Jacques Torres chocolate chip cookie (to DIE for!) I awoke yesterday morning, my seasonal depression kept at bay by the bright sunshine. It would be a good day, I thought.

An hour later I walked through the automatic turnstiles of my office towards the elevators. It often puzzles me why sometimes there are dozens of people waiting and other times there are but a few. Yesterday, unfortunately, was the former sitch.

The white light “dinged” and people ran. Literally, they ran. They pushed and they cut. Adults actually cut in front of me. Terrible! Really people, you’re really in that much of a hurry to get to work? Fine, I thought. I’ll sit it out. I’ll wait. I’m polite. I have manners.
It’s really unfortunate but seriously, New Yorkers have no elevator etiquette. None at all. None of them. Thank you Bethenny Frankel for calling us out! I waited for 3 – t-h-r-e-e – elevators before finally getting on one. And then, the nerve, the insanity – people who work but one floor up just haaave to hitch a ride. America is in the throes of an obesity epidemic! Perhaps they should take the stairs instead? Especially when their stop is just ONE FLIGHT UP!

What really gets me going, though, is when you’re in...you've finally made it into the lift, you press the button – in my case 5 – and then firmly hold down the “Door Close” circle, telepathically urging the doors to close and for you to be off. But noooo. People just HAVE to rush, rush, run in and those doors bang open. Again. And again. And again.

I repeat: Really, you’re really in that much of a hurry?

Yes, I've probably been made even more cynical and impatient by living in this grand old city. Maybe if I still lived in Connecticut elevator etiquette wouldn't bother me as much as it does. Maybe I wouldn't be as THRILLED to get on an express elevator at 5pm (5th floor to lobby, NO STOPS!) instead of a local (5th floor, 4th, 3rd, 2nd, lobby, ew!) Yes it's all the luck of the draw but still, it makes me skip out of the office when the elevator doesn't stop at each and every floor.

I suppose that as long as I live in NYC, I shall be forced to dwell in cynicism and impatience when it comes to riding in elevators. All I ask, though, is this: please, if the elevator doors are closing, don't, DO NOT think it's OK just to pop in. Nobody wants you to do that. And I promise, another will be along shortly. Better to be a few seconds late to your desk than to have an entire elevator be royally pissed off at you.