Sawadee Kaa, bitches!
We've arrived, and it is amazing. So far in Chiang Mai we were awoken by jungle sounds (I know you are out there, Phantom Monkey); drank Chang beers; ridden in a tuk tuk; fallen prey to the ultimate tourist trap shopping racket (we were accosted by our tuk tuk driver, Pet, and taken to a "jade" factory); acquired some beautiful blue silk plus one gorgeous pashmina; drank more Chang beers; discovered Spicy Red Mullet Soup, and visited a 14th century temple.
(And yes, HomeValley and J are respectful travelers, so we took our flops off at the door of said temple, only to come out to HV's flops gone missing. A bit unpleasantness wearing a fellow tourist's Reefs, but hooray, was blessedly able to locate own Reefs at door of second temple. Crisis averted.)
The 17-hour flight was delightful, save The Farter and The Screamer, whose nicknames, I assure you, were apt. Somewhere over Estonia I decided that Thai Airways dominates all others, as I gorged myself on Red Curry whilst watching Scrubs and America's Next Top Model. Brilliant.
Must retreat to our gorgeous hotel to swim and sample more Chang beers. Tomorrow it's elephant trekking and bamboo rafting!
Lah Gorn.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Get Back To Work, Faithless Heathens
This week has been delightful, as I haven't had to travel one day! Of course, after this week, I travel every single day (before and after and during vacation), but let's not think about that now.
Anyway, I am working from my home office, but not quite, because the phone line has actually been installed in the dining room. So, I am working from the dining room, until I can hijack J's car and drag my lazy, home-working ass to Best Buy to get some sort of wireless phone device. I believe we used to call this type of phone "cordless." Technology. Simply stunning.
Man, I digress today! I actually have been more productive in the home office than I ever was in Chelsea, but perhaps that's because I had Chipotle and the 5th Avenue shops to distract me.
Fuck, I miss Chipotle.
Severe, severe ADD today. But here is what my days have looked like:
Anyway, I am working from my home office, but not quite, because the phone line has actually been installed in the dining room. So, I am working from the dining room, until I can hijack J's car and drag my lazy, home-working ass to Best Buy to get some sort of wireless phone device. I believe we used to call this type of phone "cordless." Technology. Simply stunning.
Man, I digress today! I actually have been more productive in the home office than I ever was in Chelsea, but perhaps that's because I had Chipotle and the 5th Avenue shops to distract me.
Fuck, I miss Chipotle.
Severe, severe ADD today. But here is what my days have looked like:
- J, grudgingly rising from bed at just before 6, and asking what time I'd like the alarm set for? 7 AM, I reply sleepily.
- Snooze.
- Snooze.
- Snooze.
- Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.
- I'm up, damnit! 8 AM. Fuck - conference call! And I've got Melissa Morning Voice!
- I sound like a man.
- I have not brushed my teeth.
- Nor have I put my contacts in.
- Nor have I showered.
- It is fun to dissect corporate politics in your fuzzy blue bathrobe from the Gap.
- Trust me.
- Dawson's Creek on DVR and some lunch anyone?
- Mmmm... Pacey.
- What is Joshua Jackson up to these days anyway?
- Let's take a look at IMDB...
- And some blogs, for good measure.
- By the beard of Zeus! www.lisawhelchel.com
- Why are all of our favorite 80s sitcom stars so rigidly conservative and Christian? (Kirk Cameron, I'm talking to you.)
Oh man, I can't even concentrate long enough to continue this ill-conceived list. I must bid you adieu and get back to work. And shower at some point.
Have a blissful weekend, y'all. I'll be running around like a madwoman attempting to prepare for Thailand, as well as drinking heavily at Grace's on Saturday night. Here's to v. adult dinner parties and Miller Lite! Cheers.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
True Romance
J and I have never really celebrated Valentine's Day, but yesterday when he arrived home from work, I suggested we head down to the Brew Pub for blackberry sangria ale and sushi. J wholeheartedly agreed.
To my utter dismay, there was no sangria ale, so we drank raspberry beers instead. And I forced J to make a toast for the millionth time, as I am so NOTORIOUSLY horrendous at toasting. At the end of J's eloquent speech, I held up my glass and said, "To you, babe." And then J laughed and laughed, because I am a huge, cheesy nerd.
I also discovered a super-fun game to play with your significant other! I made it up after scarfing down my salmon and avocado roll. I call it "Hey, can you remember every minute detail of our first date?"
Man, this went over huge.
HV: So, what is the first thing we did when we got to Queens?
J: (Raises eyebrows, grins lasciviously.)
HV: No dude, we most certainly did not do that. At least not first thing. Come on! You know this!
J: (Puts hands to head. Looks absolutely pained.)
HV: You picked me up at my apartment and said, "Show me around Queens." Remember? And where did I take you?
J: Uuuuuummmmmmm...
HV: For Christ's sake, J! Less than two years ago.
J: Um, the racetrack?
HV: J, there is no racetrack in Queens.
J: I mean, the track, at the park.
HV: (Sighs tiredly.)
J: Oh - the Beer Garden!
HV: Yes, and then what did we do once we got back from there?
J: (Raises eyebrows, grins.)
HV: Jesus, J, not that.
And so forth.
After a few raspberry beers, we were both feeling quite tipsy and I decided that on our 17-hour flight to Bangkok, we'd make up a guestlist for our wedding, as well as the LIST OF SONGS THAT MUST BE PLAYED, which is of course of the utmost importance.
This sparked a fierce debate on SONGS THAT MUST BE PLAYED, in which I had to say numerous times, "J, no one wants to dance to The Arcade Fire!"
We agreed upon "The Humpty Dance," but the rest is fuzzy. I know he vetoed "Groove is in the Heart." The audacity of my future husband! Really.
After forcing our lovely waitress Morgan to hijack all of the chocolate candy hearts in the building and then stuff them into my bag, we headed out into the wintry mix.
By 8:12 PM, we were both sound asleep on our respective couches, as the Simpsons played softly on the DVR.
It was positively lovely.
To my utter dismay, there was no sangria ale, so we drank raspberry beers instead. And I forced J to make a toast for the millionth time, as I am so NOTORIOUSLY horrendous at toasting. At the end of J's eloquent speech, I held up my glass and said, "To you, babe." And then J laughed and laughed, because I am a huge, cheesy nerd.
I also discovered a super-fun game to play with your significant other! I made it up after scarfing down my salmon and avocado roll. I call it "Hey, can you remember every minute detail of our first date?"
Man, this went over huge.
HV: So, what is the first thing we did when we got to Queens?
J: (Raises eyebrows, grins lasciviously.)
HV: No dude, we most certainly did not do that. At least not first thing. Come on! You know this!
J: (Puts hands to head. Looks absolutely pained.)
HV: You picked me up at my apartment and said, "Show me around Queens." Remember? And where did I take you?
J: Uuuuuummmmmmm...
HV: For Christ's sake, J! Less than two years ago.
J: Um, the racetrack?
HV: J, there is no racetrack in Queens.
J: I mean, the track, at the park.
HV: (Sighs tiredly.)
J: Oh - the Beer Garden!
HV: Yes, and then what did we do once we got back from there?
J: (Raises eyebrows, grins.)
HV: Jesus, J, not that.
And so forth.
After a few raspberry beers, we were both feeling quite tipsy and I decided that on our 17-hour flight to Bangkok, we'd make up a guestlist for our wedding, as well as the LIST OF SONGS THAT MUST BE PLAYED, which is of course of the utmost importance.
This sparked a fierce debate on SONGS THAT MUST BE PLAYED, in which I had to say numerous times, "J, no one wants to dance to The Arcade Fire!"
We agreed upon "The Humpty Dance," but the rest is fuzzy. I know he vetoed "Groove is in the Heart." The audacity of my future husband! Really.
After forcing our lovely waitress Morgan to hijack all of the chocolate candy hearts in the building and then stuff them into my bag, we headed out into the wintry mix.
By 8:12 PM, we were both sound asleep on our respective couches, as the Simpsons played softly on the DVR.
It was positively lovely.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Technology Good
J and I (and most of the folk here in Philadelphia) are Comcast's bitches. For serious. They are at one moment an evil, malignant cable empire (Sorry, we didn't have any service scheduled for this morning, Ms. HomeValley); the next, a benevolent God of digital recordings.
Internet, we have DVR.
And it is very, very good.
First, let me tell you that our local Comcast office is in a "questionable" part of town. When J and I went to pick up my cable Internet mechanism thingie recently, I told J to wait in the car; I'd just pop in and grab the goods.
"Yeah, right," he rolls his eyes while parking. "You are not going in there alone."
"Oh God! I will be fine," I say, exasperated. "Sometimes, J! I swear."
Five minutes later, our yuppie asses stand rigid in the goddamned line, at the center of a brawl that at once escalates into screaming, pushing, and shouting outside.
"This doesn't exactly bode well for my argument," I concede through clenched teeth.
J wonders how he will shroud me from imminent gunfire. (He didn't wonder that aloud, guys. He told me that later.)
When J remembered that Lost's timeslot was changed from 9 PM to 10 PM, and thus WE MUST HAVE DVR THIS INSTANT, he apparently had no problem with me going into the depths alone.
I'm just saying.
I survived, and the DVR, she is glorious.
Smart television watching! We are no longer the networks' pawns! We fast-forward through commercials (except Geico ads, of course, because those fucking caveman...)!
This morning, I DVRed Dawson's Creek on TBS.
Please don't judge me.
Internet, we have DVR.
And it is very, very good.
First, let me tell you that our local Comcast office is in a "questionable" part of town. When J and I went to pick up my cable Internet mechanism thingie recently, I told J to wait in the car; I'd just pop in and grab the goods.
"Yeah, right," he rolls his eyes while parking. "You are not going in there alone."
"Oh God! I will be fine," I say, exasperated. "Sometimes, J! I swear."
Five minutes later, our yuppie asses stand rigid in the goddamned line, at the center of a brawl that at once escalates into screaming, pushing, and shouting outside.
"This doesn't exactly bode well for my argument," I concede through clenched teeth.
J wonders how he will shroud me from imminent gunfire. (He didn't wonder that aloud, guys. He told me that later.)
When J remembered that Lost's timeslot was changed from 9 PM to 10 PM, and thus WE MUST HAVE DVR THIS INSTANT, he apparently had no problem with me going into the depths alone.
I'm just saying.
I survived, and the DVR, she is glorious.
Smart television watching! We are no longer the networks' pawns! We fast-forward through commercials (except Geico ads, of course, because those fucking caveman...)!
This morning, I DVRed Dawson's Creek on TBS.
Please don't judge me.
Friday, February 09, 2007
Going to the Chapel
Last night we had J's parents (my future in-laws!) and J's sis (my future sister-in-law!) over for dinner (take-out Chinese!). All was lovely, and decidedly run-of-the mill, considering we were sort of celebrating the engagement, but not really. We chatted amiably about the Geico cavemen commercials (which you should know just kill me because they are so fucking delightful), as well as the sudden and (not at all) shocking demise of Anna Nicole.
Inevitably, however, the conversation turned to WEDDING talk.
This is most certainly a topic you should not discuss in mixed company, until you and your betrothed have actually discussed it yourselves.
(Which we have, a tiny bit. We've agreed to enjoy our vacation in Southeast Asia and talk about it afterwards. The end.)
Perhaps I am too free with my own words, but if you bring up vague, preliminary thoughts on weddings, you are guaranteed to get OPINIONS.
I am nothing if not open-minded. I welcome feedback, in blogs and in life. But dang - I am beginning to realize that a lot of various people will have a lot of various points about our WEDDING. I have learned that for now, I will nod along and try to make everyone feel warm and fuzzy about their OPINIONS. Sure, I will say with a smile. That's something to consider.
And then there is my future H, who's shoulders I could see stiffen as suggestions were made.
Only a week into the deal, J and I may already have a wedding "rider", if you will. You know those ridiculous lists that celebs like Jennifer Lopez have when touring? Room temperature is not to exceed 75 degrees fahrenheit; only Evian water will be welcome in suite; toilet paper should be comprised of soft, crumpled twenty dollar bills, bitches.
Sort of like that; only consisting of blacked out dates, prohibited venues and locations, and other cautionary details.
It's enough to make you break into a melodramatic, Carrie Bradshaw-esque rash, y'all.
I was beginning to understand why weddings suddenly take on lives of their own; why the happy couple often gets thrust aside and overshadowed by THE WEDDING, and all the details that go along with it.
When, like a bridge over troubled water, my future sister-in-law said, "You do what you want to do."
Which is only one of the many reasons I am so excited she is part of this deal.
Here's hoping we get to make it what we want, and that everyone has a smashing good time in the process.
And also, fuck you, www.theknot.com. I will not succumb to your evil, bridezilla inducing powers.
It's a slippery slope.
Inevitably, however, the conversation turned to WEDDING talk.
This is most certainly a topic you should not discuss in mixed company, until you and your betrothed have actually discussed it yourselves.
(Which we have, a tiny bit. We've agreed to enjoy our vacation in Southeast Asia and talk about it afterwards. The end.)
Perhaps I am too free with my own words, but if you bring up vague, preliminary thoughts on weddings, you are guaranteed to get OPINIONS.
I am nothing if not open-minded. I welcome feedback, in blogs and in life. But dang - I am beginning to realize that a lot of various people will have a lot of various points about our WEDDING. I have learned that for now, I will nod along and try to make everyone feel warm and fuzzy about their OPINIONS. Sure, I will say with a smile. That's something to consider.
And then there is my future H, who's shoulders I could see stiffen as suggestions were made.
Only a week into the deal, J and I may already have a wedding "rider", if you will. You know those ridiculous lists that celebs like Jennifer Lopez have when touring? Room temperature is not to exceed 75 degrees fahrenheit; only Evian water will be welcome in suite; toilet paper should be comprised of soft, crumpled twenty dollar bills, bitches.
Sort of like that; only consisting of blacked out dates, prohibited venues and locations, and other cautionary details.
It's enough to make you break into a melodramatic, Carrie Bradshaw-esque rash, y'all.
I was beginning to understand why weddings suddenly take on lives of their own; why the happy couple often gets thrust aside and overshadowed by THE WEDDING, and all the details that go along with it.
When, like a bridge over troubled water, my future sister-in-law said, "You do what you want to do."
Which is only one of the many reasons I am so excited she is part of this deal.
Here's hoping we get to make it what we want, and that everyone has a smashing good time in the process.
And also, fuck you, www.theknot.com. I will not succumb to your evil, bridezilla inducing powers.
It's a slippery slope.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The One With All The Groundhogs
Remember when I sent out those damn holiday cards late last year, and I detailed all of the colored responses I received? No? Well, review here.
Please note that these cards are sent to my rather large database automatically. That's why before I knew what was happening, I had sent out a Groundhog's Day card to thousands. Mortified, I immediately shut down all of my "automatic mailers." Because fucking groundhogs dancing around on an e-card? Does not exactly scream professional to me.
Incredulously, the masses seemed to appreciate my Groundhog Day greetings! Well, five or so responded, "Um, same to you."
Except Crazy McParanoid, unfortunate wife of a card-recipient, who emailed me this:
I'm not sure as to why you would be sending my husband e-cards. Some how this was sent to me.I let the Christmas card go thinking not much of it , but now I would like to be told if there's anything I should be aware of. I realize he is my husband and hold no acountablility on your part. (just want some answers women to women)
Awesome, right?
Hypervigilant, suspicious wife: 1
Institution of marriage: 0
Please note that these cards are sent to my rather large database automatically. That's why before I knew what was happening, I had sent out a Groundhog's Day card to thousands. Mortified, I immediately shut down all of my "automatic mailers." Because fucking groundhogs dancing around on an e-card? Does not exactly scream professional to me.
Incredulously, the masses seemed to appreciate my Groundhog Day greetings! Well, five or so responded, "Um, same to you."
Except Crazy McParanoid, unfortunate wife of a card-recipient, who emailed me this:
I'm not sure as to why you would be sending my husband e-cards. Some how this was sent to me.I let the Christmas card go thinking not much of it , but now I would like to be told if there's anything I should be aware of. I realize he is my husband and hold no acountablility on your part. (just want some answers women to women)
Awesome, right?
Hypervigilant, suspicious wife: 1
Institution of marriage: 0
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
Sunday, February 04, 2007
M. Gellman, 1969, Physics
I wanted to write a long, eloquent post this morning, but I am utterly brain dead.
So, I will say a mere, "Internet, I have an announcement to make!"
Clears throat.
J and I got engaged over the weekend!
And it was awesome, and totally unexpected (For me. J knew.)
It happened on Saturday, in Manhattan, which was perfect.
I had a feeling about two minutes before he asked, and I became so nervous that I started babbling about the monument in the center of Theodore Roosevelt Park: "J, um, what's up? Did you know that in 1969, M. Gellman won the Nobel Prize in Physics?" Which was almost immediately followed by, "Will you marry me?"
Pretty romantic, no?
I kid. It was the most romantic proposal in the history of proposals, in my opinion.
We were on our way to the American Museum of Natural History, but we were too excited to enter after all the "let's spend the rest of our lives together" insanity. So we went to the bar, as you do. And we sipped half-price drinks and talked about the future. We also made a pact not to be one of those couples that only ever talk about their wedding every time you see them socially.
So next time we run into each other, Internet, and I fail to notice that your eyes are glazing over as I prattle on about "registries" and such, please know that I had the best of intentions.
So, I will say a mere, "Internet, I have an announcement to make!"
Clears throat.
J and I got engaged over the weekend!
And it was awesome, and totally unexpected (For me. J knew.)
It happened on Saturday, in Manhattan, which was perfect.
I had a feeling about two minutes before he asked, and I became so nervous that I started babbling about the monument in the center of Theodore Roosevelt Park: "J, um, what's up? Did you know that in 1969, M. Gellman won the Nobel Prize in Physics?" Which was almost immediately followed by, "Will you marry me?"
Pretty romantic, no?
I kid. It was the most romantic proposal in the history of proposals, in my opinion.
We were on our way to the American Museum of Natural History, but we were too excited to enter after all the "let's spend the rest of our lives together" insanity. So we went to the bar, as you do. And we sipped half-price drinks and talked about the future. We also made a pact not to be one of those couples that only ever talk about their wedding every time you see them socially.
So next time we run into each other, Internet, and I fail to notice that your eyes are glazing over as I prattle on about "registries" and such, please know that I had the best of intentions.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Birthday Girl
27. Meh.
It's not cool turning 27. It's old. It's adult.
So, meh.
But you know what is cool? Turning 12! And what better way to celebrate my 27th birthday, than to recount my 12th birthday? Friends, in honor of this inane occasion, I present HomeValley Through the Ages, via excerpts from the actual diary of HV:
Sunday, February 2, 1992
I got this diary for my twelfth birthday from Aunt Gina and Uncle Tim. I hope to write in it everyday. Yesterday I went shopping with Grandmom (she came from Colorado) and Susan and her mom and Mike went. I wanted to get Feli's (2007 HV says: Fila sneakers) after I got some clothes and Susan said no. But it was Grandmom's decision because it was her money! Sometimes Susan gets on my nerves! And then she said, there's lots of nice less expensive shoes! I was on the verge of tears! I mean, Grandmom was taking me out for Christmas and my birthday and Susan was butting in! And today, for my birthday party, Dad said, "I heard you weren't too nice yesterday!" Now that I'm a pre-teen if they think that's bad, wait till I'm a teen!
(2007 HV says: Wow.)
(And also, I was completed obsessed with being a "hormonal teenager" at this age and acting out, because I thought that's what bonafide teens did. I think I read too many Sweet Valley High books or something.)
(Also, I go on to list all of the items I received for my birthday. Of note: a Michael Jackson CD and a Beverly Hills 90210 Giant Pin.)
(I heart Brandon Walsh!!)
Close enough to my 13th birthday:
Tuesday, January 19, 1993
Last weekend I went away to Trenton for a dance competition and convention. It was so great! We got 2nd place!
Today we went to the dentist and Mike has 2 cavities and I have none! DUM DA DUM DUM... Braces! Mike and I both need them. Everyone at dance who has them says they are really painful for awhile and then they start to loosen up. I think I'm gonna die! Railroad tracks across my teeth! Ahh! But I can't wait to have perfectly straight teeth!
(2007 HV says: Should have worn your retainer, dumbass.)
Oh my God. I almost don't want to share this next part; but, well, here we go:
Another dilemma, but this guy in school, Danny Bonner. Well, I liked him for about a week so far and guess who else likes him? Allie! And guess who never said anything? Stupid old me! His party is coming up and I think he likes me, but if he asks me to dance should I say yes? You know what, I think I will say yes, and if Alison gets mad I'll say I did it as friends. But I won't ask him to dance. Hopefully there'll be someone else to chase there.
(2007 HV says: Tramp! And also, I believe Danny Bonner danced with Koos at his 13th birthday party, and well, in 2004, he married her.)
(I go on to say that my step-dad went into rehab. Those weren't easy times.)
Aww. My 14th birthday was a little sad, y'all:
Tuesday, February 1, 1994
My b-day. I'm 14 yrs. old. I'm going out to dinner on Saturday with dad and then going to Dan Bonner's party at the Ramada hotel. I hope I fit in.
On Sunday I have my birthday party at Grandpop's. Today we voted nominees for king and queen of hearts. I didn't get one vote. I was crushed. My brother got nominated for 7th grade. Isn't life unfair sometimes?
(2007 HV says: Geez. Depressed much? But seriously, y'all, it was hard being 14. )
(Well, can we all agree this exercise kinda backfired? Because, um, that was kinda melancholy.)
(Don't worry; I'm fine now. I am sure I fit in at the Ramada and all.)
(I'm totally happy at 27. Life is very, very good. So maybe I just taught myself a little lesson here? It wasn't all roses through the years, was it?)
Happy Birthday to me.
It's not cool turning 27. It's old. It's adult.
So, meh.
But you know what is cool? Turning 12! And what better way to celebrate my 27th birthday, than to recount my 12th birthday? Friends, in honor of this inane occasion, I present HomeValley Through the Ages, via excerpts from the actual diary of HV:
Sunday, February 2, 1992
I got this diary for my twelfth birthday from Aunt Gina and Uncle Tim. I hope to write in it everyday. Yesterday I went shopping with Grandmom (she came from Colorado) and Susan and her mom and Mike went. I wanted to get Feli's (2007 HV says: Fila sneakers) after I got some clothes and Susan said no. But it was Grandmom's decision because it was her money! Sometimes Susan gets on my nerves! And then she said, there's lots of nice less expensive shoes! I was on the verge of tears! I mean, Grandmom was taking me out for Christmas and my birthday and Susan was butting in! And today, for my birthday party, Dad said, "I heard you weren't too nice yesterday!" Now that I'm a pre-teen if they think that's bad, wait till I'm a teen!
(2007 HV says: Wow.)
(And also, I was completed obsessed with being a "hormonal teenager" at this age and acting out, because I thought that's what bonafide teens did. I think I read too many Sweet Valley High books or something.)
(Also, I go on to list all of the items I received for my birthday. Of note: a Michael Jackson CD and a Beverly Hills 90210 Giant Pin.)
(I heart Brandon Walsh!!)
Close enough to my 13th birthday:
Tuesday, January 19, 1993
Last weekend I went away to Trenton for a dance competition and convention. It was so great! We got 2nd place!
Today we went to the dentist and Mike has 2 cavities and I have none! DUM DA DUM DUM... Braces! Mike and I both need them. Everyone at dance who has them says they are really painful for awhile and then they start to loosen up. I think I'm gonna die! Railroad tracks across my teeth! Ahh! But I can't wait to have perfectly straight teeth!
(2007 HV says: Should have worn your retainer, dumbass.)
Oh my God. I almost don't want to share this next part; but, well, here we go:
Another dilemma, but this guy in school, Danny Bonner. Well, I liked him for about a week so far and guess who else likes him? Allie! And guess who never said anything? Stupid old me! His party is coming up and I think he likes me, but if he asks me to dance should I say yes? You know what, I think I will say yes, and if Alison gets mad I'll say I did it as friends. But I won't ask him to dance. Hopefully there'll be someone else to chase there.
(2007 HV says: Tramp! And also, I believe Danny Bonner danced with Koos at his 13th birthday party, and well, in 2004, he married her.)
(I go on to say that my step-dad went into rehab. Those weren't easy times.)
Aww. My 14th birthday was a little sad, y'all:
Tuesday, February 1, 1994
My b-day. I'm 14 yrs. old. I'm going out to dinner on Saturday with dad and then going to Dan Bonner's party at the Ramada hotel. I hope I fit in.
On Sunday I have my birthday party at Grandpop's. Today we voted nominees for king and queen of hearts. I didn't get one vote. I was crushed. My brother got nominated for 7th grade. Isn't life unfair sometimes?
(2007 HV says: Geez. Depressed much? But seriously, y'all, it was hard being 14. )
(Well, can we all agree this exercise kinda backfired? Because, um, that was kinda melancholy.)
(Don't worry; I'm fine now. I am sure I fit in at the Ramada and all.)
(I'm totally happy at 27. Life is very, very good. So maybe I just taught myself a little lesson here? It wasn't all roses through the years, was it?)
Happy Birthday to me.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Sawat-dee kaa!
I am totally learning Thai. That means hello.
Sabai dee mai? That means How are you?
So ready for our trip, y'all.
I am in Boston now, about to head out to the airport bound for Philly, but wanted to share with you all that it is never acceptable to comment to a woman: "You look tired. Did you sleep last night?"
No, it is never acceptable.
Yawn.
In other news, my new pseudo-niece's name is actually Ryley Judith. I learned that when father of said pseudo-niece looked at me like I was MAD when I called his new baby Ryley Olivia. But she is just the sweetest, tiniest thing. Well done, Lauren!
Finally, tomorrow is my birthday. I'm legal! Seven times over.
Let's not speak of it, okay?
Yawn.
Sabai dee mai? That means How are you?
So ready for our trip, y'all.
I am in Boston now, about to head out to the airport bound for Philly, but wanted to share with you all that it is never acceptable to comment to a woman: "You look tired. Did you sleep last night?"
No, it is never acceptable.
Yawn.
In other news, my new pseudo-niece's name is actually Ryley Judith. I learned that when father of said pseudo-niece looked at me like I was MAD when I called his new baby Ryley Olivia. But she is just the sweetest, tiniest thing. Well done, Lauren!
Finally, tomorrow is my birthday. I'm legal! Seven times over.
Let's not speak of it, okay?
Yawn.
Thursday, January 25, 2007
Travolta Ain't Got Nothin' on DelCo Cover Bands
Pardon my vulgarity, but this morning I would like to say only:
Fuck you, Avis Rental Car.
The horror of this morning's rental car return! The incomprehensive signs pointing to off-airport drop-off locations! The gut-wrenching drive up and down Post Road! The calls to Avis headquarters! Who couldn't help me because I was calling from a New York number! And that's why I was routed to New York! And if I had been wise enough to call from a Rhode Island land line, I may have gotten the assistance I needed!
So yes, fuck you Avis, and your assinine ways. I thank you ever so graciously for causing me to miss my 7:15 AM flight to Philadelphia.
At the very least, you have offered me the opportunity to discuss last weekend's 10th Annual Girls' Christmas Party! The highlights:
Fuck you, Avis Rental Car.
The horror of this morning's rental car return! The incomprehensive signs pointing to off-airport drop-off locations! The gut-wrenching drive up and down Post Road! The calls to Avis headquarters! Who couldn't help me because I was calling from a New York number! And that's why I was routed to New York! And if I had been wise enough to call from a Rhode Island land line, I may have gotten the assistance I needed!
So yes, fuck you Avis, and your assinine ways. I thank you ever so graciously for causing me to miss my 7:15 AM flight to Philadelphia.
At the very least, you have offered me the opportunity to discuss last weekend's 10th Annual Girls' Christmas Party! The highlights:
- The line of the night, courtesy of Di. I won't do it justice; just know that it ends with a blow to her two year-old son's ego, when he was unfortunate enough to be caught in the Gallery in Center City Philadelphia behind a dissatisfied customer, who directed her rage at the young kid: "Look at that big ass kid in the stroller!" Oh my God. We laughed for an hour, though it was probably D's delivery of the line. I'm still laughing now.
- Allie presenting us with her gifts, explaining, "This is because we're all sort of homey now, y'know?" She gave us all wonderful cookbooks: except Grace of course, who got a giant encyclopedia of cocktails. Well-played, Al. Well-played.
- Lord - Grace. After the lovely dinner hosted at Al's, the six of us plunged into the depths of Delco nightlife: Goon's. A particularly lame cover band performed (like, have you ever seen an all-man group rock out to "You're the one that I want" from Grease?). Grace became agitated and decided to throw me around some on the dance floor. And push me into the stage. Repeatedly.
- Grace then followed me to the side of the stage, at which time the bassist foolishly invited her up. She danced, hopped off, then wanted more. She jumped back, dragging me with her. I stood in the back as Grace bounded towards the microphone. Security immediately accosted her. We decided it was time to head out.
- The sleepover. Let's just say, Grace ended up in a compromising position at night's end. Koos delightedly snapped photos with her camera phone, which woke Grace from her delicate slumber. "Seriously?" she asked, exasperated. Again, we laughed and laughed.
Kudos to us for keeping the tradition alive since high school. Here is to Christmas parties well into our 90s, at which time I expect Grace will still be tossing me around on the dance floor like a ragdoll.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
Ryley Olivia Arrives
Ryley Olivia was born last night at 10 PM, as I lay asleep at Mohegan. She's completely adorable and delicious; if new momma Laur gives me the OK, I will post photos!
(My own momma called from the hospital last night to tell me the news. She added: "She did great! Only an hour of pushing!" "An HOUR?!" I yelled into the phone, because, um, that seems like a lot. And also - ouch.)
(My own momma called from the hospital last night to tell me the news. She added: "She did great! Only an hour of pushing!" "An HOUR?!" I yelled into the phone, because, um, that seems like a lot. And also - ouch.)
J, Ultimate Boyfriend/Secret Keeper
Many months ago, J and I were strolling around SoHo, our typical New York Houston
So yeah, ever so slightly crazy.
And going to Thailand and Cambodia!!!
(High-pitched squealing ensues.)
“Let’s not bother with Christmas presents this year,” I say. “We don’t need anything, and we can focus on stuff for the house.”
“That’s a great idea,” J agrees.
“Well, I mean, we should get each other one small, thoughtful thing,” I backpedal.
“Of course,” J says.
Naturally, O Magazine helps me create the perfect gift for J. I learn of a service that will allow me to convert photos to oil paintings. J is a wonderful photographer, so I pick one of my favorite shots from
But when I do receive the painting a few days before the holiday, it’s spectacular. He will love it.
This gentleman from Santorini is hanging in our kitchen now.
J and I decide to celebrate our Christmas the Saturday before Dec. 25th. We each have one small wrapped gift placed under the tree – ahem, poinsettia.
J asks to open his gift first. As I suspected, he loves it. Success!
I open my gift. A Reebok sneakers box!
Wait - a handmade book inside. The Grinch adorns its cover.
It reads: Merry Christmas, Melissa.
I begin reading. J is absolutely silent.
…a few sheets of paper were all I could afford…
…you’ll need a break after a long winter cooped up with your boyfriend…
Map of the
JFK?
Really?!?!?!
I scream as I frantically turn the pages. There is a 17 hour flight to
I can barely wrap my head around it; I am so astounded.
He’d been planning it since that afternoon in Crate and Barrel. He set me up. And he kept it top secret for months and months.
He should work for the CIA; he’s so secretive and smooth.
The trip is coming up quick; we leave for Bangkok on February 22nd. We're in the process of getting the appropriate shots (hepatitis A) and antimalarial meds, as you do. J thinks I am crazy for insisting on a mosquito net for Cambodia; he assures me we are not sleeping in wilderness. I have to explain to him that mosquitos love to feast on me, and he'll be sorry when I contract malaria!So yeah, ever so slightly crazy.
And going to Thailand and Cambodia!!!
(High-pitched squealing ensues.)
Monday, January 22, 2007
I'm Alive!
Well, it has been one HELL of a January thus far. I've been traveling non-stop (Orlando; Westminster, Massachusetts; Manhattan; White Plains, New York; Uncasville, Connecticut). I swear, the networking never ends. I actually see J less now than when we were doing the long distance thing. For serious!
I write to you, faithful readers, from the Mohegan Sun Casino and Resort in Connecticut. I am headed to dinner in five minutes, but wanted to check in with the Internet. I miss you guys. Let's really catch up soon - I have so much to report!
Here's a preview: at 2:36 AM I received a text message that read only: LABOR. Cousin Lauren is having contractions, y'all! And it's 5:34 PM, and yeah, still no baby Riley. Silly kid! And aww - Laur. May your epidural be blissful and may you dialate soon. Love you lots, dear Cuzzy.
So babies and trips abroad coming up very soon and much Holy Shit! It's all fun and games until someone moves in with someone chat by Wednesday.
Mmm... Mini bar. Sweet, sweet mini bar.
I write to you, faithful readers, from the Mohegan Sun Casino and Resort in Connecticut. I am headed to dinner in five minutes, but wanted to check in with the Internet. I miss you guys. Let's really catch up soon - I have so much to report!
Here's a preview: at 2:36 AM I received a text message that read only: LABOR. Cousin Lauren is having contractions, y'all! And it's 5:34 PM, and yeah, still no baby Riley. Silly kid! And aww - Laur. May your epidural be blissful and may you dialate soon. Love you lots, dear Cuzzy.
So babies and trips abroad coming up very soon and much Holy Shit! It's all fun and games until someone moves in with someone chat by Wednesday.
Mmm... Mini bar. Sweet, sweet mini bar.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Back. And also - everything's different.
Well then. Um, how was your holiday?? Great, great. Mine was excellent, thank you for asking.
Hmm.
And your New Year's?
Fantastic!
Awkward silence. Writer looks down at feet.
So, am a little embarrassed by my prolonged absence, faithful readers. But I still love you like a fat kid love cake. Seriously. And now we're back in business!
I have no idea where to begin.
Should I tell you that I am traveling this week? That tonight I am traveling... in Manhattan? You know, where I used to live? Remember Queens? The new Manhattan?
I no longer live in Astoria. And yes, it breaks my heart, ever so slightly. Just ask my calm, patient, kind boyfriend, J, who lovingly sat with me in my empty apartment bathroom as I sobbed and sobbed, willing myself to give him a smile so he wouldn't think I had gone completely mad.
He also sat with me in my empty bedroom. And in my empty living room. He handed me rolls of toilet papers because I couldn't seem to stop the tears. I named this blog after Queens for JC's sake!
Damnit, fucking tears!
I am sitting in a Courtyard Marriott on 92nd and First Avenue. I've been living in a gorgeous home in Philadelphia for barely two weeks; and amazingly, in that short span of time, I don't belong here anymore. I don't live here anymore. I rode the 4 train downtown to meet Vanessa at our former favorite happy hour spot, and I felt like a poser; a ghost. When the woman behind the desk at the hotel asked me how my trip to the city was, I felt compelled to tell her that it was great; after all, I just moved to Philadelphia, from Astoria! Really! You see?? I really am one of you! Don't you get it, lady??
Writer heaves huge sigh.
It will get easier.
I mean, it has to! This is 2007, y'all. This is serious. And I am excited to report that it's January 9th, and I've already broken all of my resolutions. Unless, of course, my resolutions were as follows:
Hmm.
And your New Year's?
Fantastic!
Awkward silence. Writer looks down at feet.
So, am a little embarrassed by my prolonged absence, faithful readers. But I still love you like a fat kid love cake. Seriously. And now we're back in business!
I have no idea where to begin.
Should I tell you that I am traveling this week? That tonight I am traveling... in Manhattan? You know, where I used to live? Remember Queens? The new Manhattan?
I no longer live in Astoria. And yes, it breaks my heart, ever so slightly. Just ask my calm, patient, kind boyfriend, J, who lovingly sat with me in my empty apartment bathroom as I sobbed and sobbed, willing myself to give him a smile so he wouldn't think I had gone completely mad.
He also sat with me in my empty bedroom. And in my empty living room. He handed me rolls of toilet papers because I couldn't seem to stop the tears. I named this blog after Queens for JC's sake!
Damnit, fucking tears!
I am sitting in a Courtyard Marriott on 92nd and First Avenue. I've been living in a gorgeous home in Philadelphia for barely two weeks; and amazingly, in that short span of time, I don't belong here anymore. I don't live here anymore. I rode the 4 train downtown to meet Vanessa at our former favorite happy hour spot, and I felt like a poser; a ghost. When the woman behind the desk at the hotel asked me how my trip to the city was, I felt compelled to tell her that it was great; after all, I just moved to Philadelphia, from Astoria! Really! You see?? I really am one of you! Don't you get it, lady??
Writer heaves huge sigh.
It will get easier.
I mean, it has to! This is 2007, y'all. This is serious. And I am excited to report that it's January 9th, and I've already broken all of my resolutions. Unless, of course, my resolutions were as follows:
- Drink more.
- Er, drink every day.
- Don't exercise.
- Start drinking caffeine again.
- Sleep in.
- Forget B vitamins.
- Stick foot in mouth once daily.
- Leave laptop at security in Orlando airport.
- Frantically recover laptop in nick of time.
- Ignore blog.
Happy New Year, Internet. Happy New Year, Everyone.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
100 Million. Really?
I read yesterday that there are a 100 million blogs out there. That's a lot of fucking blogs, people. No wonder my comments section is dwindling in recent weeks; there are 99,999,999 other blogs you could be reading. Wait - are you reading them? What?!? I thought we had something special, Internet. Those other bloggers don't love you like I do!
This week I've been mulling over ways to increase my site traffic. Let's face it: I don't have a niche. I am not a Mommyblogger (and props to the Mommybloggers, because, God, I love you all). I am not an entertainment blogger. I am not a political blogger. Blog about sports? Nope. Won't find that here either.
I suppose then, you might categorize me as a "general interest" blogger. I contend that I am generally interesting, but when best friend Grace, featured often on the site, emails me every few weeks asking for the URL AGAIN, I begin to question my own blogging worth. We writers have fragile, fragile egos, you know.
I started a blog on Friendster many months ago, because I was itching to write. Well, in truth, I was already writing; I was itching for people to read what I wrote. I composed two incredibly weak entries, then threw out the whole idea. I wrote this: See "Beginning Blogger". Then I changed my mind.
I love this blog. I do. I love every single one of you who is reading this write now, even if you are extremely averse to commenting nicely (I am a comment-whore, damnit!). I love hitting the publish button after transcribing some inane story from my life, because it feels like I've accomplished something. I like to share. I am part narcissist, part aspiring novelist/newspaper columnist/editor-in-chief. The problem is - besides narcissist - I am not any of those things: yet. And the way to get there is to start writing and writing and then writing some more, and then getting published by others. You want to read my witty prose in print, don't you, adoring, extremely silent fan base? I thought so.
So I've decided that in lieu of merely increasing traffic here, I've got to quadruple my writing efforts on other fronts. I assure all five of you that I will keep up my blogging duties as best I can, because, as I said, I love you and all the blogging community and my own modest little webpage. Maybe I will publish rejection letters here as well! Could that be my new gimmick?
This week I've been mulling over ways to increase my site traffic. Let's face it: I don't have a niche. I am not a Mommyblogger (and props to the Mommybloggers, because, God, I love you all). I am not an entertainment blogger. I am not a political blogger. Blog about sports? Nope. Won't find that here either.
I suppose then, you might categorize me as a "general interest" blogger. I contend that I am generally interesting, but when best friend Grace, featured often on the site, emails me every few weeks asking for the URL AGAIN, I begin to question my own blogging worth. We writers have fragile, fragile egos, you know.
I started a blog on Friendster many months ago, because I was itching to write. Well, in truth, I was already writing; I was itching for people to read what I wrote. I composed two incredibly weak entries, then threw out the whole idea. I wrote this: See "Beginning Blogger". Then I changed my mind.
I love this blog. I do. I love every single one of you who is reading this write now, even if you are extremely averse to commenting nicely (I am a comment-whore, damnit!). I love hitting the publish button after transcribing some inane story from my life, because it feels like I've accomplished something. I like to share. I am part narcissist, part aspiring novelist/newspaper columnist/editor-in-chief. The problem is - besides narcissist - I am not any of those things: yet. And the way to get there is to start writing and writing and then writing some more, and then getting published by others. You want to read my witty prose in print, don't you, adoring, extremely silent fan base? I thought so.
So I've decided that in lieu of merely increasing traffic here, I've got to quadruple my writing efforts on other fronts. I assure all five of you that I will keep up my blogging duties as best I can, because, as I said, I love you and all the blogging community and my own modest little webpage. Maybe I will publish rejection letters here as well! Could that be my new gimmick?
Friday, December 15, 2006
Well My Friends, The Time Has Come
Look, readers, I love Lionel. And I am okay with that. Really.
There is quite nothing like driving along 95 in New York state; the sun warming your face, the strains of "All Night Long" filling your rented Chevy Aveo. Pure bliss.
Once, Chaz and Grace and I sat in my living room, listening to the compilation disc that Grace had thoughtfully brought for her weekend visit. A familiar melody filled the air. The three of us, simultaneously, began:
That's why I'm easy
Easy like Sunday mornin'
We laughed uproariously. Chaz asked that we never mention that to anyone. You see, that's the power of Lionel. You can't help but sing along.
Tonight, Grace and Chaz are coming over to celebrate our final Queens hurrah, and also to dance on the ceiling.
I am characteristically overstimulated about it, though I can't help feel a bit melancholy. I'll miss these days. Ah, Astoria. You're once, twice, three times a lady. I loooooooove you.
There is quite nothing like driving along 95 in New York state; the sun warming your face, the strains of "All Night Long" filling your rented Chevy Aveo. Pure bliss.
Once, Chaz and Grace and I sat in my living room, listening to the compilation disc that Grace had thoughtfully brought for her weekend visit. A familiar melody filled the air. The three of us, simultaneously, began:
That's why I'm easy
Easy like Sunday mornin'
We laughed uproariously. Chaz asked that we never mention that to anyone. You see, that's the power of Lionel. You can't help but sing along.
Tonight, Grace and Chaz are coming over to celebrate our final Queens hurrah, and also to dance on the ceiling.
I am characteristically overstimulated about it, though I can't help feel a bit melancholy. I'll miss these days. Ah, Astoria. You're once, twice, three times a lady. I loooooooove you.
Burn in Hell, Holiday Card Sender
I work in an industry in which I come across many, many different people. Thoughtful lass that I am, I collect contact information in a database in order to update my people on events, and also send warm wishes from time to time.
Yesterday my politically-correct holiday cards went out to my rather large database. Most people are gracious and reply with "Thank you, same to you!" Here are some of the more candid responses:
Please remove me from your mailing list.
- Consider it done, Grinch.
HAVE A MERRY. HOPE YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL FOR SANTA!!! HO HO GEORGE
- Merry Christmas, George, you grammatically-challenged, naughty, disturbing contact.
WOW MEL it is good to hear from you I definitly would not have thought I would not hear from you again; did you switch Buildings; because I remember you working in a different building before have a blessed holiday Season email me back with updates
- Ummmm. Okay. (Unsure of who this person is, but slightly afraid of giant run-on sentence.)
Thanks for the holiday card, am not sure i remember who this this, but thank you.
- We're all friends here. Just spreading the joy.
And, my favorite, thus far:
Who the hell are you? If I know you, I'm sorry. If you're using this this holiday to sell me something, you're pitiful.
- Well, fuck you very much, you bitter, jaded soul.
Yesterday my politically-correct holiday cards went out to my rather large database. Most people are gracious and reply with "Thank you, same to you!" Here are some of the more candid responses:
Please remove me from your mailing list.
- Consider it done, Grinch.
HAVE A MERRY. HOPE YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL FOR SANTA!!! HO HO GEORGE
- Merry Christmas, George, you grammatically-challenged, naughty, disturbing contact.
WOW MEL it is good to hear from you I definitly would not have thought I would not hear from you again; did you switch Buildings; because I remember you working in a different building before have a blessed holiday Season email me back with updates
- Ummmm. Okay. (Unsure of who this person is, but slightly afraid of giant run-on sentence.)
Thanks for the holiday card, am not sure i remember who this this, but thank you.
- We're all friends here. Just spreading the joy.
And, my favorite, thus far:
Who the hell are you? If I know you, I'm sorry. If you're using this this holiday to sell me something, you're pitiful.
- Well, fuck you very much, you bitter, jaded soul.
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Insight and Understanding, Courtesy of Zach Braff
The first time I saw Garden State, I knew. I sat in the theater next to Vanessa as the credits rolled, weeping openly.
"So what do we do?"
Zach Braff's character, Large, poses the question to a sobbing, beaming Natalie Portman. He's decided to stick around his hometown New Jersey suburb to be with Natalie. He's unsure of what will happen next, but he needs to stay and see. He's exhilarated. I am exhilarated.
"So what do we do?"
I dry my tears as our group of friends reassembles. "Well?" Brad asks eagerly. "Didn't I tell you?"
"Wow," I mutter. It's all I can say.
Some things just resonate: no rhyme, no reason. I couldn't stop thinking about the question Large posed. I was unhappy. I had been for years, quite frankly, but I hadn't allowed myself my misery. I ignored it and rationalized it away, until it began seeping in to my everyday thoughts.
You could leave him, it would suddenly occur to me. But I'd quickly push the thought aside. I can't leave, I'd retort. We just moved in. How can I leave?
And so it went. We went on as virtual roommates, pleasantly greeting each other as we passed by. We didn't talk about anything. I played happy and stayed away.
"So what do we do?"
Get out. I came to the decision suddenly, unsure of how to execute this newly formed plan.
New York would be my answer. It was always the answer. We had some unfinished business, she and I. An aching need to right the wrongs of 2001 and 2002 in downtown Manhattan; to forgive all that had been ripped from me in that year and to rebuild. I couldn't do that in King of Prussia, PA. I couldn't do that in this dead-end relationship.
So I moved. I determinedly clawed my way to Queens through an ex-boyfriend, mounting bills, and old apartment leases. If I concentrate, I can remember the exact feeling of that first night alone in my new life. Mistakenly getting on the R train (N, Melissa, N!). Vanessa's small one-bedroom littered with boxes. Searching through take-out menus for something appetizing. Crouched on the couch in a crowded living room, watching The Office on DVD. It was pure joy. It was liberation and Christmas morning as a child. It was the happiest I had been in my life.
Memories of that day now are bittersweet; as, in an ironic twist, I prepare to move to Philadelphia to live with the love of my life. I worried about the twinge of sadness that I felt for several weeks: was I making the right decision? Would I regret the move? Would I be a whole person still, when taken out of Queens?
And then it dawned on me, why I struggle with this: I credit Queens for saving my life. Admittedly, I didn't discover who I really was until I lived in Astoria. I made my peace with New York. I let go of the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that had nearly suffocated me years before. I achieved the proper and perfect amount of distance from my somewhat overbearing family, which was quite a coup at the time. I did it completely on my own: good job, exciting travel, great friends, fantastic boyfriend from familiar Philadelphia town.
Maybe it's not the end for me and New York. Maybe I can, in a year, convince J we need to move to Brooklyn. What better place to raise a family? Or maybe someone will publish my stunning and insightful debut novel, perhaps about a girl living in Queens, and we'll be able to afford that brownstone on 80th and Amsterdam.
Or maybe I'll find that I am still me no matter where we live; that I am still whole and good and blissfully happy. Maybe I'll look back on Queens fondly, without longing; I'll take my daughter to Astoria Park one day, and show her where Mommy used to train for marathons (by this time I'll have run one, I know it). I'll lug her giant stroller by my old apartment, past Plaza, past Athena's, up to Steinway. Then we'll head back to Manhattan on the N train, meander through Central Park and make a quick stop at Tasti D-Lite. And then maybe I'll roll her towards Penn Station, onto an Amtrak train, and wherever we end up, we'll both be exhausted and delighted to be home.
"So what do we do?" resonates still. I've come up with many answers since I first saw Garden State, but this is one I'll stick with: we grow and change and fall in love and relocate, and if we are very, very lucky, we keep a sense of humor about it all.
"So what do we do?"
Zach Braff's character, Large, poses the question to a sobbing, beaming Natalie Portman. He's decided to stick around his hometown New Jersey suburb to be with Natalie. He's unsure of what will happen next, but he needs to stay and see. He's exhilarated. I am exhilarated.
"So what do we do?"
I dry my tears as our group of friends reassembles. "Well?" Brad asks eagerly. "Didn't I tell you?"
"Wow," I mutter. It's all I can say.
Some things just resonate: no rhyme, no reason. I couldn't stop thinking about the question Large posed. I was unhappy. I had been for years, quite frankly, but I hadn't allowed myself my misery. I ignored it and rationalized it away, until it began seeping in to my everyday thoughts.
You could leave him, it would suddenly occur to me. But I'd quickly push the thought aside. I can't leave, I'd retort. We just moved in. How can I leave?
And so it went. We went on as virtual roommates, pleasantly greeting each other as we passed by. We didn't talk about anything. I played happy and stayed away.
"So what do we do?"
Get out. I came to the decision suddenly, unsure of how to execute this newly formed plan.
New York would be my answer. It was always the answer. We had some unfinished business, she and I. An aching need to right the wrongs of 2001 and 2002 in downtown Manhattan; to forgive all that had been ripped from me in that year and to rebuild. I couldn't do that in King of Prussia, PA. I couldn't do that in this dead-end relationship.
So I moved. I determinedly clawed my way to Queens through an ex-boyfriend, mounting bills, and old apartment leases. If I concentrate, I can remember the exact feeling of that first night alone in my new life. Mistakenly getting on the R train (N, Melissa, N!). Vanessa's small one-bedroom littered with boxes. Searching through take-out menus for something appetizing. Crouched on the couch in a crowded living room, watching The Office on DVD. It was pure joy. It was liberation and Christmas morning as a child. It was the happiest I had been in my life.
Memories of that day now are bittersweet; as, in an ironic twist, I prepare to move to Philadelphia to live with the love of my life. I worried about the twinge of sadness that I felt for several weeks: was I making the right decision? Would I regret the move? Would I be a whole person still, when taken out of Queens?
And then it dawned on me, why I struggle with this: I credit Queens for saving my life. Admittedly, I didn't discover who I really was until I lived in Astoria. I made my peace with New York. I let go of the Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder that had nearly suffocated me years before. I achieved the proper and perfect amount of distance from my somewhat overbearing family, which was quite a coup at the time. I did it completely on my own: good job, exciting travel, great friends, fantastic boyfriend from familiar Philadelphia town.
Maybe it's not the end for me and New York. Maybe I can, in a year, convince J we need to move to Brooklyn. What better place to raise a family? Or maybe someone will publish my stunning and insightful debut novel, perhaps about a girl living in Queens, and we'll be able to afford that brownstone on 80th and Amsterdam.
Or maybe I'll find that I am still me no matter where we live; that I am still whole and good and blissfully happy. Maybe I'll look back on Queens fondly, without longing; I'll take my daughter to Astoria Park one day, and show her where Mommy used to train for marathons (by this time I'll have run one, I know it). I'll lug her giant stroller by my old apartment, past Plaza, past Athena's, up to Steinway. Then we'll head back to Manhattan on the N train, meander through Central Park and make a quick stop at Tasti D-Lite. And then maybe I'll roll her towards Penn Station, onto an Amtrak train, and wherever we end up, we'll both be exhausted and delighted to be home.
"So what do we do?" resonates still. I've come up with many answers since I first saw Garden State, but this is one I'll stick with: we grow and change and fall in love and relocate, and if we are very, very lucky, we keep a sense of humor about it all.
Monday, December 11, 2006
This Used to Be My Playground
My cousin Lauren and I met when I was nine and she was seven. On one blustery February evening in 1989, Uncle Rick brought his future wife and her two young daughters (Lauren and Jessica, then just five), over to our house to meet his sister and family.
At nine I was highly sophisticated. I knew exactly how to entertain my two young guests while leaving the adults to chat in the living room.
"You guys want to play Barbies?" I asked.
And just like that, a new family was born.
Throughout the years, Laur and I were often the best of friends, at times fierce competitors. I was jealous when she had the better toys (I believe she had all of the New Kids on the Block dolls, for JC's sake); she would tattle on me for the slightest infractions (Taking Jess around the block on my banana-seat bike, is not a crime, GOD!). We would amuse ourselves for hours dressing up and performing Mariah Carey's, "Vision of Love." We had countless sleepovers in which we'd typically watch (and cry during) A League of Their Own, then we'd lay awake singing "This Used to Be My Playground," which, you know. Awesome.
One Christmas season we agonized over Magic Nursery Babies. These dolls were special; after purchasing, you'd find out the baby's gender (or if you had multiple births) by opening an envelope inside the packaging. We simply could not GO ON unless we had these beautiful creatures in our permanent toy collections. I received my doll and she was glorious. And then a call from my cousin - she had received the Magic Nursery Baby Twins!
Blinding rage. Burning envy.
Eventually, we pushed the toys aside when we discovered boys. We made it through adolescence as the best of friends. I had never really had a sister; Laur was it.
But quicker than the New Kids became NKOTB and then fell off the scene completely and spectacularly: we were grown-ups.
I was in my White Plains, NY office in May when I ducked into the ladies' bathroom to take Lauren's call. This time, she was having, like, an ACTUAL baby.
Grown-ups.
Yesterday, I attended her baby shower. Baby shower! Little Riley Olivia will be here at the end of January, and I will be a first time Aunt HomeValley (yeah, I know not technically, but we're unconventional here).
"You should see all the stuff they got," I told J when I arrived home last night. "It's amazing! Maybe we should have a baby soon." Now I recognize that "for the stuff" is not the best reason to procreate, so it's birth control and B vitamins for me for many, many years to come.
An Open Letter to the Newest Addition:
Dearest Riley,
We all can't wait to meet you! We already know you will be awesome. Confidentially, I always knew your mama would be first to make one of you. Also, the fact that Mom is two years younger than Aunt HomeValley, and having you very very soon, makes Aunt HomeValley's Mommy very aaaannnngggrrrryyyy. So thanks for that, Ri. XOXO!
All my love,
Aunt HV
At nine I was highly sophisticated. I knew exactly how to entertain my two young guests while leaving the adults to chat in the living room.
"You guys want to play Barbies?" I asked.
And just like that, a new family was born.
Throughout the years, Laur and I were often the best of friends, at times fierce competitors. I was jealous when she had the better toys (I believe she had all of the New Kids on the Block dolls, for JC's sake); she would tattle on me for the slightest infractions (Taking Jess around the block on my banana-seat bike, is not a crime, GOD!). We would amuse ourselves for hours dressing up and performing Mariah Carey's, "Vision of Love." We had countless sleepovers in which we'd typically watch (and cry during) A League of Their Own, then we'd lay awake singing "This Used to Be My Playground," which, you know. Awesome.
One Christmas season we agonized over Magic Nursery Babies. These dolls were special; after purchasing, you'd find out the baby's gender (or if you had multiple births) by opening an envelope inside the packaging. We simply could not GO ON unless we had these beautiful creatures in our permanent toy collections. I received my doll and she was glorious. And then a call from my cousin - she had received the Magic Nursery Baby Twins!
Blinding rage. Burning envy.
Eventually, we pushed the toys aside when we discovered boys. We made it through adolescence as the best of friends. I had never really had a sister; Laur was it.
But quicker than the New Kids became NKOTB and then fell off the scene completely and spectacularly: we were grown-ups.
I was in my White Plains, NY office in May when I ducked into the ladies' bathroom to take Lauren's call. This time, she was having, like, an ACTUAL baby.
Grown-ups.
Yesterday, I attended her baby shower. Baby shower! Little Riley Olivia will be here at the end of January, and I will be a first time Aunt HomeValley (yeah, I know not technically, but we're unconventional here).
"You should see all the stuff they got," I told J when I arrived home last night. "It's amazing! Maybe we should have a baby soon." Now I recognize that "for the stuff" is not the best reason to procreate, so it's birth control and B vitamins for me for many, many years to come.
An Open Letter to the Newest Addition:
Dearest Riley,
We all can't wait to meet you! We already know you will be awesome. Confidentially, I always knew your mama would be first to make one of you. Also, the fact that Mom is two years younger than Aunt HomeValley, and having you very very soon, makes Aunt HomeValley's Mommy very aaaannnngggrrrryyyy. So thanks for that, Ri. XOXO!
All my love,
Aunt HV
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