You're a Big Girl, Hold It

Speaking of Which

Speaking of things single people can't do by themselves: Eat ice-cream.

Whenever I see a man sitting by himself eating an ice-cream cone (particularly if it's from an ice-cream truck), I think "pedophile."

I can't help it. I just do.

Ommm

I'd like to say my first yoga class was "spiritual" or "uplifting." I do find yoga hokey in general -- the breathing, the chanting, the incense, the plants and the old guard hippies. But my muscles took a real beating, so I prepaid for 20 more classes. If I can learn to stand on my head, it'll be worth it.

Up, Up

Something to take to heart:

"DON'T get a pet. Single people with pets, especially mammal pets are losers. ... They signify that you have a social life that's neither active nor spontaneous. And that you'd rather develop a new relationship with an animal than with the new people around you."

The truth is, I don't even like animals. I never did. In fact, "don't like" is probably an understatement. I'd rather take my animal money and join something, maybe another aerobics class, or dance, or yoga.

And now I'm going to go out there, into the world, into New York and start joining. Here I go --

All the Comforts

My Hebrew name means "comforting person." Oh, the irony, I always thought, until lately, when I've had a strong urge to comfort things. Perhaps I just want to show off how big and self sufficient I've become. Look, Ma, I can juggle myself and a rabbit and this school of fish! I'm so nurturing! Look at me nurture!

Just a short entry tonight since it seems that after 22 years of perfect health, I now have allergies. The kind of allergies that make my eyes so red and puffy that they attract all sorts of attention with people wanting to know if I have the flesh eating rash in my eyes or what. They don't hurt but they're gritty like anything.

Allergies. I thought 22 was too old for that. You know, like if you made it past a certain age, you were in the clear. Sort of like with braces. You either got them in junior high school or you didn't. No has perfect teeth for 22 years and suddenly needs orthodontia.

So today I must have reached some sort of breaking point because my mom gave a dose of her 12-hour prescription allergy medication, which has left me effectively drugged. Very cloudy, underwater sensation. This stuff, whatever she gave me, is strong. But with that and a couple of drops of Visine, I'm already experiencing a marked improvement in ocular comfort.

Although if I want to get any work done on Tuesday, I might try to find something over-the-counter at my local drugstore. Just a thought.

Tropical Lovin'

I'm starting to think of alternative pets to rabbits. The boyfriend thinks I need something neat and clean that doesn't require too much commitment.

That would leave:

1) Guinea pigs (sort of cute, but too mousey looking)
2) Fish (not very interactive)
3) Birds (perhaps)

Maybe I should just buy a pineapple, wrap it in a blanket, name it, and carry it around with me.

I'll call my pineapple Thumper.

I'm Innocent, Judge

I confess: I was not sober when I wrote yesterday's entry. All things considered, this is the happiest I've been in a year. Really. Promise. On the inside.

(The boyfriend wants me to add that I really do love him. I don't think he's a jerk. I think he dresses well. OK, I am biased against pleated olive pants. With cuffs. And sneakers. But I can overlook these things. Because I love him. Hi Honey!!!)

In Search of My Big Break

I can admit it when I'm sad. I admit it all the time. I cry in public. But only in front of strangers.

Today was so perfectly fruitless, it was almost existential. I couldn't get a New York driver's license because I didn't have the proper documentation. Then I went looking for pet stores. I had written down three address while I was at work. Three. The first was a nail salon. The second, a furniture store. And the third -- I didn't want to believe it -- was an apartment building. 120 East 34th St. Residence. Only then did I realize I was in Murray Hill, where the young financial analyst types live. The boyfriend tries to tell me that Park Slope beats Murray Hill any day. I started crying on the sidewalk.

But I cry a lot. I try to do it once every three weeks.

If I had a li'l bunny, I'd pet it now. But I don't. I just have me. Sometimes I say -- almost convincingly! -- hey, you have New York! But then I sound like a Sex and the City rerun.

I made fun of my boyfriend's pants today and now he no longer takes my phone calls. And that was the highlight of my day.

Hey Pretty Girl

I got my first Brooklyn haircut and I hate it. Everyone there was getting a pedicure (I want a pedicure!) and I was the only one getting a cut. It was all wrong. The stylists spoke Russian. No bad want-to-be-Pretty Woman accents and chitchat about our respective sex lives (stylists are the same everywhere, I've found.)

And she talked me into buying a $19 bottle of shampoo after telling me I have dandruff. (Never say dandruff to a client ... I want to hear how pretty my hair is. If you don't tell me I have pretty hair, I'll find someone else. Tell me I have pretty hair, damn it.) I'm never going back. Maybe for my nails.

Small, Furry Decisions

I decided that maybe adoption isn't right for me. Really bad things that could make me resent a bunny would be if he:

1) stunk up my apartment
2) chewed up my new couch or left teeth marks in the wood casings on the wall
3) got a very expensive illness.

Thank the boyfriend for the list and the vote of confidence. But doesn't he mean well?

Always.

Except now when I think outloud ... I'll really be talking to myself. I needed a pet to convince myself I was sane. Oh well, when I get lonely, I can just harp on the marriage issue some more. (That'll teach him, right?)

My First Pet: The Screening Process

I just spent more than 28 minutes on the phone with the Bunny Lady, the person who I'm trying to convince to let me adopt a bunny.

To be able to adopt a bunny, I must be:
1) Mature
2) Responsible
3) Financially stable
4) Good with animals

My apartment must be:
1) Clean (but not anally so)
2) Wire-free
3) Large

My "boyfriend" or pet-sitter must be:
1) A short distance away
2) Mature
3) Responsible
4) Good with animals

This reminds me of the weekend the boyfriend and I were pet-sitting his father's dog, Mamie. It was 3 a.m. and we had just gotten home, actually we had just driven home: the boyfriend was reallyreally drunk and I had passed out in the passenger seat. (This is where you take note of how responsible we are.) Well, the dog was awake so the boyfriend decided to walk her. Actually, the dog walked us. "Whatya doin' dog? No, dog. Are you done yet, dog? No, dog. Don't eat the grass, dog. I don't think the dog should be eating grass, do you?" Then the boyfriend giggled. "She smells a rabbit."

"That's dumb," I said.

When we got up the next morning, the dog had crapped all over the kitchen. "Um, shouldn't you clean it?" I asked tentatively.

"My parents will be home in a couple of hours," he answered. "Let's get brunch."

So when the Bunny Lady calls to set up my first visit with Clark, you're all going to lie through your teeth, right? Thought so.

Sheraton Hotel and Marina, San Diego, CA

Sheraton Hotel and Marina, San Diego, CA

USS John C. Stennis, San Diego, CA

USS Stennis, Coronado, CA

Rose bush, San Diego, CA

Warning, San Diego, CA

Forgetaboutit, San Diego, CA

Boats, San Diego, CA

Marina, San Diego, CA

Marina, San Diego, CA

But before I got jaded, there was the library ...

The Brooklyn Library. I found it while I was meandering through Prospect Park, searching for shade. A library! I hurried inside. And stopped.

It was the greatest library I had ever seen. Two floors, with large escalators cascading into the main lobby. Multiple media rooms. Books categorized not just by section but by floor. A cafe. Red electronic ticker tapes with library happenings.

I stood there, mouth agape.

A young, clean-cut security guard came over.

"Are you OK?" he asked. I answered in the affirmative and took a step backward and toward the cafe. He nodded and retreated further in the library. Then I sighed, feeling dumb.

I went looking for him. "Thanks for checking up on me," I said. "I just moved here and I've never seen a library this big!" (A lie, of course. I've been to the New York Public Library countless times.)

But he laughed. Then we danced. I explored parts of the library, and he would come up to me and tell me I had to see such and such located on the other side of such and such. I'd thank him, smile -- suddenly demure -- and slink away. And we'd repeat the steps.

In South Jersey, librarians wore their glasses hanging from beaded chains around their necks. They whispered.

Cost Conscious

I walk around outraged at the price of things.

$3.25 for a washing machine.
$5.99 for shampoo.
$0.25 for every ten minutes at a Manhattan parking meter.
$2.15 for iced tea at a coffee chain.
More than one third of my salary for rent.
$500 for a gym membership.
$1.05 for yogurt.

Yogurt. That's what really gets me. It's the same yogurt as South Jersey. Yogurt is yogurt. How could they charge so much more?

A lifelong Brooklynite tried to tell me that New York yogurt, in turn, would taste 33% better than it did in South Jersey.

But, in actuality, I'm always somewhat surprised that things taste the same here. Was I just able to make my "famous" pasta sauce? Did I just pack a peanut butter sandwich for lunch? My New Jersey coffee is compatible with my New York milk!

I'm so adjusted, I'm already jaded.

Pass the overpriced yogurt.

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

Israeli Day Parade

A long-winded entry grows in Brooklyn

Yesterday night I had that lonely, here I am all by myself in South Jersey feeling. I thought I was done with that feeling. After all, I had left South Jersey. So at the very least I should be able to go to bed every night feeling giddy that at least I made it to New York.

But maybe it's that I finally saw my boyfriend last night and realized how much I missed him. (Even though he's right across the river, I now see him in only one-date snapshots, rather than whole weekends.)

Maybe it's that someone in the building smokes a lot of pot.

Maybe because the girl downstairs was blasting her crappy music. Or my next door neighbor tortures her cat (I can hear the kitty screams).

Maybe because I spent an entire afternoon waiting for the Internet repairman when I should have been out attending a free writing workshop at a Manhattan Barnes & Noble.

Maybe because, after wine with dinner, I had beer by myself.

Maybe because I wanted to take yoga today ... but might push it off another week.

You know, a friend of mine sent me an e-mail telling me not to let short term trials and tribulations dissuade me from making decisions that will ultimately better my future. At first it didn't really sink in. Inspirational crap. Chicken soup for the new graduate's soul crap. Next e-mail.

But now I think he has a point. It's like running uphill. Halfway through, it's OK to lean over, hands on thighs, and pant. But you got to shake out of it. Keep pushing.

Now I'm peddling motivational speaker crap. But I feel better, despite myself.

Hey Big Mouth

I've been in New York two weeks, and I think I've yelled at everyone now.

I yelled at the moving company.
I yelled at my real estate broker.
I yelled at my mother, who was only trying to help.
I yelled at the cable company. Twice.
I yelled at the super -- but I was trying to control myself.
I (almost) yelled at the guy at the deli for putting too much milk in my coffee.
I'd like to yell at my downstairs neighbor for blasting some country crap too loud and having a really yappy dog who barks at me whenever I walk up or down the stairs.

But I am done for now. I don't know if New York rubbed off on me or all the stress of moving and being a big girl and figuring out my own way finally caught up with me. I hope it's the latter.

I'm really very pleasant once you get to know me.

Wrong Number, or the Area Code Hierarchy

I know something this small shouldn't bother me. But I was just a little bit sad when I found out my work phone number started with 646, rather than the more ubiquitous 212. But I was even sadder -- and a little annoyed -- when I was told this afternoon that Verizon was out of 646 area codes. So I'm stuck with 917. It was either that or 347, which ranks as the lowest of the low.

It's the principle, I guess. A little you-got-here-too-late kick in the pants.

The irony is that, when I was still living on Staten Island, I actually had, for a brief period of time, a 646 number. I wonder what ever happened to it, and if I could have it back.

Pretty please?

Train of Thought

Yesterday morning I tried to zipper my Tumi bag with one hand while holding coffee and an umbrella in the other. On a Q-train. During rush hour. The train lurched, I tripped, and five business people were sprinkled with contents of my morning cup. They jumped out of the way, shook themselves off, glared a little, and went back to their newspapers.

Then I ate cereal. A plastic baggie of Cinnamon Life. People discretely stared in their New York subway-riding way. Maybe I chewed too loud. But it was probably the sight of a young woman in a gray suit, heels and Tiffany's necklace eating children's cereal out of a baggie. That's gotta be weird even for the Q-train.

I don't own a pair a shoes that fit comfortably, even the new pair I gleefully bought Saturday. I stare at feet and get angry at people in sneakers who are sitting while I stand, holding onto the metal pole with my hip, drinking coffee, eating cereal from a baggie and thinking about how much my feet hurt.

And those are the 45 minutes before I arrive at the office.

Work Woes

My new job is everything that I hoped for: more exciting, more deadline-driven, more challenging, and more important than what I left behind in South Jersey.

So why do I come home each evening feeling so beat?

I guess because I didn't think the job would be this, er, fulfilling from day three. I feel like I was just thrown into the deep end of a pool after being land-bound for eleven months. I know I'll be fine once once I get my bearings ... but now I'm floundering a bit.

At least I scored some brownie points today knowing enough about the Freedom of Information Act to track down key documents in less than half an hour. Editors love stories that involve questions that people don't want to answer. I'm supposed to love those stories too. But how do I turn "no comment" into 600 words?

Therein lies the problem. Ever since my third day, I've been working my butt off. I come in early; I stay late. I skip lunch. And I still go home feeling like a fuck-up.

As I write this entry, ideas are turning over in my head. My job is not at stake. I'll let those ideas simmer till tomorrow. And go simmer some dinner (sorry -- my creativity has been tapped for the day.)

City Life

In Manhattan, I walk around like a celebrity. "Hey pretty girl," they say. "Hello beautiful."

In sunglasses and ponytail, I might as well be. I ignore them.

Can't Take the Heat

It's too hot to wear clothes. Clothes wearing has been scaled down to a minimum. I'm hoping that in wearing almost no clothes, a strong gentleman will become enamored with me and say, "I feel so bad you are under-dressed. Here, let me install your air-conditioner so that you might cover up."

Hmm. The plan probably needs some fine tuning.

(P.S. I am in a REALLY bad mood. The cable company did not install the Internet connection properly so I have to spend yet another Saturday in this hell hole sauna of an apartment, waste another perfectly good afternoon sitting around doing nothing, and spend another six days without adequate Internet access.

Whatever it is, I don't want to hear it.)

Big Me

I was self-sufficient before, but now my self is really sufficient. I hung a mirror today, which was a huge accomplishment. I used nails. And a hammer. (It took me awhile to remember that the hammer goes with the nails, and you can't just screw them into the wall. But I got it eventually.) This of course was after I had already sufficientized myself by hiring movers (two companies, after the first cancelled on me 55 minutes before they were supposed to get my stuff), dragged myself (and my mother) across state lines (evading the old landlord by the skin of my teeth) and semi-successfully played the role of hard ass with my real estate broker (long story, which I will not retell here, but only refer to as proof of my self-sufficientness.)

But at least I can look at myself in the mirror. Quite literally, in fact. Which, as I said, is an accomplishment.

Now if only my self were sufficient enough to install an air conditioner...

I've Arrived

I am now another New York blog. Well, it happens to the best of us.

Had I Internet a week ago, my first New York City post would have been tear-stained. Everything bad -- everything I worried about -- happened to me the weekend I moved in. And I say the "weekend" because it was a two day process. And I didn't get a kitchen sink until Tuesday. The water is still yellow. But only first thing in the morning and when I come home from work.

But the job ... well, I like it. A lot. I have something in common with all my coworkers, it seems -- whether an address, an internship, a religion or an alma mater.

So I'm not going to give the play-by-play (no gripes about how my landlord is in Greece until July and left me without a mail key or working appliances). Because I am here and I find zen whenever the Q-train crosses over the Manhattan Bridge. Over the Manhattan skyline.