Auld Lang Syne

I am superstitious about a number of strange things. I believe that bad things will happen if I hear "Black" by Pearl Jam (I finally smartened up and took it off my iPod, hoping to foil the karmic gods of grunge music). I hesitate when the 28th of each month rolls around ... and breathe a sigh of relief when I make it through unscathed. And when it comes to holiday superstitions, I believe that your New Year's Eve will be reflective of the year to come.

So evidently my heat broke in the middle of the night. My last apartment had two operating temperatures - 50 and 95. It was always super hot unless it was windy, in which case the draft through the windows would knock it down to "really freaking cold." Needless to say, I was super excited to live in an apartment with central heat and a thermostat ... until the furnace decided to break. And in the grand scheme of how things work in NYC apartments, my landlord (who speaks Albanian) sent in a "friend" who lives in my building (and speaks Yugoslavian) to fix the heat. It's nearly 3 p.m. and I still don't have working heat. I'm not entirely sure if or when I will.

The first question of superstitions is this: does that one about New Year's Eve apply to the whole day or just the romantic-at midnight part of it? In other words, is my 2010 already doomed or is there still time to salvage it?

Regardless, it brought something else to the front of my mind about resolutions. Year after year, I make a list of generic resolutions - often so many that it would be impossible to actually remember them, let alone make them happen. So this year, I am trying something different.

In 2010:
I am going to learn to take things as they come and try not to let details overwhelm me or stress me out.
I am going to focus on what is good and positive in my life, rather than thinking about what is missing or what would theoretically make it better.
I am going to recognize my own accomplishments for what they are, instead of thinking that I should always be doing more or better than I am.
I am going to set realistic goals for my own success - and realize that making it halfway there isn't a total loss or failure.

And most importantly, I am going to work harder on being present. I have a tendency to live my life either judging in retrospect or looking ahead without a plan. And much like today, I wonder how my life passes me by, where the year has gone.

I remember this day last year like it was yesterday. I remember thinking about everything that wasn't what it supposed to be, yet being too scared to move forward. I spent the next months looking back, rather than focusing on what was happening in real time, and repeated my mistakes. And if I wasn't looking back at something and trying to figure out what could have been different, I was blindly looking ahead - escapism - for the next great thing to happen.

Is this the perfect New Year's Eve? Not so much so far. But you know what, it could definitely be worse. Here comes the reality check: if I had heat yesterday, hopefully I should be able to have heat again. And while it could end up being a completely wicked inconvenience, it's not the end of the world.

I have a roof over my head. (And a pretty awesome place to live, when there is heat ...)

I have a job that allows me to help people who face much bigger challenges than I do and helps keep my pity parties in check.

I have great friends and a wonderful family who remind me what love really means.

And throughout all the mess of this day, someone is still managing to make me smile.

So when the clock strikes twelve, whether it was a good New Year's Eve or a not so good one, superstition be damned. I am going to have a good 2010.

"Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it's exactly twelve o'clock that night
Welcoming in the New Year, New Year's Eve
Maybe I'm crazy to suppose I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations you receive
And though I know I'll never stand a chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?"


- "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve"

The Secret to Happiness

"If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad
If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"
- "If It Makes You Happy"
Sheryl Crow

Everyone who spends time with me, especially during the winter months, knows one thing. I am a native New Yorker, but I don't love New York.

There, I said it.

I should feel guilty about that, right? After all, don't people dream of living here? Come here with nothing but a bus ticket and a dream? Or is that a movie plot from Lifetime ...

Either way, it turns out that I'm not the only one who isn't in an "Empire State of Mind" - in a recent state-by-state study of happiness, New Yorkers came in last. Dead last. As this NYT article so eloquently states, "If there were a National Happy League, we’d be the New Jersey Nets. We’re No. 51 out of 51."

Here's a bit of methodology: "One was a survey of 1.3 million Americans done over four years by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which asked people about their health and how satisfied they were with their lives. Those self-assessments ... included state-by-state variances on quality-of-life gauges like climate, taxes, cost of living, commuting times, crime rates and schools ... people knew what they were talking about when they said if they were happy or not. Americans who described themselves as satisfied tended to live in places where the quality of life was good by most standards — where the sun shone a lot, the air was reasonably clear, housing didn’t leave you busted, traffic wasn’t too fierce and so on."

I would love to have answered these questions. Let's see - the East Side air quality isn't so good, so I shouldn't be running outdoors. But a gym membership will knock me back at least $70/month on my already beyond overstretched budget. Climate? 2009 was awesome. It rained the entire month of June and we had a blizzard the other day. Cost of living? Not only insane, but we are conditioned to rationalize that its totally worth $2K in rent for a one bedroom apartment because it has a dishwasher. Commuting times? Well, let see. The MTA's doomsday budget eliminates one of the two trains that I can take into the City, beginning this summer.

Okay. So I am being really Debbie Downer. I get it.

Last week, there was this awesome post on Gawker touting the new issue of New York, which included everyone's favorite annual treat,"Reasons to Love New York." As Gawker so rightfully states, "an exercise in NYC boosterism which we must grudgingly salute, ourselves being sometimes given over to that overwhelmed feeling of 'why the f*ck am I here'—a feeling which is probably most effectively addressed by making just such a list. (Because there are so many reasons!)" My personal favorite is #43 - Because We Keep Digging. Good news, folks, in 2017 there will be an East Side subway line and you will no longer be forced to ride the 6 train at 7 a.m. with your face lodged in a fellow commuter's (or crackhead's) armpit.

And to continue giving credit where credit is due, I love Gawker's take on this study. "Research Question: Why are New Yorkers miserable? Hypothesis: Because New York is not a pleasant place to live." And even better, the last line - "Although this entire line of inquiry is based on the false assumption that New Yorkers give a sh*t about being happy."

I think that about sums up what makes me unhappiest about New York - even more so than the weather, commuting or the rent on my apartment.

It's the attitude that you develop when you're here. Just like that, you don't care anymore. You get irritated every morning in the 59th Street subway station when people surreptitiously "merge" in line for the escalator, rather than waiting in line. You can't walk at a leisurely pace - leisurely here is considered speedwalking in any other place. You hate when people order or pay slowly, even when you have nowhere to be. You forget how to smile. Because quite frankly, smiling at strangers is just flat out creepy. People get away with it in other places. I think I did it in San Diego. I don't think I creeped anyone out. (Maybe.)

So what does it all mean? Who really is happy? According to this study, "People in sunny, outdoorsy states - Louisiana, Hawaii, Florida ..." Louisiana? Seriously? I think they are mostly overweight, too. Hawaii? I can believe that. They also pay about $16 for a gallon of gas. Florida? You have to escape New York to move to a sunnier (and more humid) version of it and suddenly everything is okay?

Everyone who knows me well knows that I always wanted to live in California. Put quite simply, it is my happy place.

Interestingly enough, it ranked 46th in the study. Why?

"Many people think these states would be marvelous places to live in. The problem is that if too many individuals think that way, they move into those states, and the resulting congestion and house prices make it a non-fulfilling prophecy."

So, I-love-New-Yorkers, what makes you happy in a place that does everything in its power to make you miserable? Is it the ability to get food delivered at any hour, even in a blizzard? Is it the fact that anywhere else you go, NY's version of "it" (museum, restaurant, theate) is simply better? Is it the feeling you get when the Yankees won the World Series this year, when you hear "New York, New York" that even when you don't love New York, you're proud of it?

You tell me.

"If I can make it there
I'll make it anywhere"
- "New York, New York"
Frank Sinatra

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

I remember exactly when my dad told me that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

Ironically (or maybe a good idea on his part), we were on our way to Santaland in Macy's Herald Square, headed up one of those rickety old wooden escalators that only exist in the upper floors of the store.

Logistically, I knew better. After all, I was the kid who left a letter once asking why Santa and the Easter Bunny had the same handwriting. I once called my parents out for "being cheap" - after all, all of my relatives gave me presents. Santa brought me presents. But not them, no. They must just be cheap.

While all the signs pointed to his nonexistence, I believed simply because I wanted to. The fairytale of the Christmas season began when McDonald's started playing its commercials and the Sears toy catalog arrived in the mail. I remember painstakingly making lists for toys that Dad would have to assemble at midnight with Japanese instructions. I remember my aunt trying to explain that she didn't buy me a Pogo Ball because they weren't safe and it was for my own good. I remember when my parents would let me open one present on Christmas Eve to keep me from waking them up at some ungodly hour the next morning and when we eventually switched over to celebrating on Christmas Eve.

Being in New York City everyday tends to make the holiday season feel commercialized and "unspecial." You get caught walking behind ten times as many clueless tourists and shopping in the stores is an unthinkable option. Hearing that Mariah Carey Christmas song hundreds of times makes me want to go deaf. And there is a part of me that gets caught up in the fact that the holidays can make you feel lonely; they can make you miss people who are no longer with you.

But then there is the part that makes you remember what makes it special.

I love Christmas lights. For some unknown reason, I love garish lighting displays and enormous lit trees.

I love decorating the tree at my parents' house and reminiscing over the 30 plus years of ornaments, including ones they made together before my brother and I were even born. I adore my parents' nativity set (which I believe belonged to my grandma) that, for some reason, has two Jesuses and about seven wise men. Perhaps there was a fire sale that year.

I love my parents' stories of how I was once punished on Christmas morning for drawing a marker moustache on a baby doll I had just been given, and the time they thought it would be funny to give me and my brother coal. Or, when my brother and I took Jesus from the nativity set and rode him on the fire truck we had gotten.

I cherish old family traditions. I remember when my nanny was alive and we celebrated Christmas Eve in a big way. Christmas Eve dinner, eaten after Mass, was an amalgamation of all of our favorite foods - namely: lobster tails, twice baked potatoes, string beans and Carvel ice cream cake.

I look forward to new traditions. This is the second year of celebrating Christmas Eve with my sister-in-law's family - who nobody can rival for a good time. It is a night filled with food, drinks, Secret Santa gift exchanges and a "12 Days of Christmas" singing/acting competition (you have to be there to get this one ...)

I get it, why people get caught up in the commercialization of the holiday, and can't see what there is to love about it. It all just comes down to stepping back and remembering a time when things were simpler and everything seemed like magic. Being grateful for family and friends and all the good things that we truly have. Thinking about someone who makes you smile.

And maybe again, it's time to believe in Santa Claus, instead of adding up all the reasons that you shouldn't.

"It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you"
- "Fairytale of New York"
The Pogues

Learn Your Lesson, Lest You're Too Late

Last week was a long one. By the time the weekend rolled around, I was both physically and mentally exhausted and more than ready to decompress.

On Saturday, I joined some friends for a dim sum excursion in Flushing (quite an adventure for a person who eats as plainly as I do) and spent the afternoon in what could only be described as a dim sum coma. In other words, I happily camped out on the couch and pretty much didn't move for the rest of the day. The worst part was that I didn't even feel slightly guilty about it.

I began working my way through my DVR - I watched last week's Glee episode (which will totally make you cry), last week's Gossip Girl (which makes Chuck Bass look like a good guy, once again) and another episode of Gone too Far, featuring a really scary alcoholic girl from Middleofnowhere, Texas. Upon running out of television shows, I moved to movies. I watched The Departed (or more accurately, watched Matt Damon ... the plot was secondary). My next selection was White Oleander.

I read "White Oleander" a number of years ago and to be honest, I barely remembered it when I started watching the movie. The plot is rather dark and kind of sad; to sum it up thematically, it's primarily about abandonment. But there was a quote in the movie which stood out - "Don't attach yourself to anyone who shows you the least bit of attention because you're lonely. Loneliness is the human condition. No one is ever going to fill that space. The best you can do is know yourself ... know what you want."

And that moment, in an otherwise wasted day on the couch provided me with clarity. It reminded me of something that I already knew but often forget.

We all know better. We just try to talk ourselves out of reason. Simply because we can.

And by the next day, it didn't matter if it made sense. I no longer cared why or why not. I just knew that it didn't matter anymore. And that was just fine.

"Go on and it won't be too soon
You're gone, you're gone, are you waiting for somethin?
Go on cause I won't be back soon "
- "So Long"
Guster

The Other Side of the Coin

I often have an idea for a blog post bouncing around in my head for a few days before I get the chance to write it. If a particularly good idea or sentiment comes to mind, I'll jot notes on my BlackBerry. Rarely have I started out thinking about one thing and then by the time I penned it, been given enough reason to completely disagree with it.

Try to follow this one ...

I have a tendency to think about my life in cycles. In other words, when Halloween rolls around, I reflect upon where I was on that day a year ago. When the weather gets cold, I start thinking about my life in winters past. Yesterday, I was talking with two of my friends about people I had dated in the past year. When I look back on relationships, I am guilty of falling victim to the Pollyanna Syndrome - remembering positive things more readily than negative things.

I thought about how I enjoyed spending winter nights eating takeout sushi on the couch with him. I remembered watching an all-night marathon of "Rob & Big" on MTV and of going to get bagels for breakfast the next day. I smiled thinking about how he would text me "good morning" and "sweet dreams." For a moment, I felt sad - that I was really missing being in that place.

Then the other day, I remembered arguing with him on Thanksgiving Day. I remember being on vacation and wondering where we stood, since he left it open-ended before I left for my trip. I remember sitting next to him, more than once, without a thing to say, because I just didn't think he cared.

On paper, he was everything I was looking for. I'm not going to lie - I can still take out the mental checklist and realize that finding that combination isn't easy. But then you remember a checklist isn't everything - a person isn't a checklist and a good relationship can't be created from a list of options.

This morning. I started thinking about the other side of that coin. In other words, people I have dated who I reference negatively. I thought in particular about an ex from a few years ago who was always kind to me, cared about me and for that period of time, made me happy. Yet whenever I look back at that time in my life, I see only negatives. I see someone who didn't fit any of the options on my checklist and I wonder why I thought it would fit.

To put it in cliche terms - square peg. Round hole.

I remembered this morning what used to make me smile about him. I thought again that maybe, a person can't be judged against a list of options.

One instant message conversation changed my mind.

I remembered why we set certain standards for what we need in a person. While not everything comes down to education-family-job, there is a reason you seek out a "type." And most importantly, there is a reason that some people, while not wrong for someone else, will never be right for you.

And that's not necessarily a bad thing.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

In my last apartment, where I lived for two years, I could not control the temperature. It was reminiscent of dorm life, except it was significantly more costly, I didn't have a white board on my door and I didn't have 25 types of cereal at my disposal. I swore up and down that once I could spend my night somewhere that wasn't either 54 or 96 degrees that I would be content.

I stumbled upon the proverbial pot of gold when I found my current apartment on Craigslist. For once in my life, I can say the downturn of the economy benefited me, as the apartment would have been out of my price range a few months prior. Due to my previous living situation, I was ready to sign the lease once I saw that the apartment had a thermostat. Central air and heat? Unheard of in New York. In addition, the apartment has brand-new stainless steel appliances (including a dishwasher!), a washer and dryer and a Jacuzzi tub.

I've been pretty damn happy.

When I lived in Long Beach, parking could be somewhat torturous during the summer. After all, I lived across the street from the beach. And the beach I lived across from was not just any beach, but the one that the 1,000+ participant volleyball league took place at four days per week between Memorial Day and Labor Day. If you got home after 7, you would be (at best) relegated to a sand lot where you would be ticketed if you forgot to move your car by midnight. I also got my car stuck in the sand once or twice. The good part about Long Beach was, if you didn't move your car, you could keep that spot forever. This is not the case in Queens.

When searching for the perfect image for this post, I stumbled upon one on the same topic, as this person so cleverly calls it, "the alternate side parking shuffle." I will continue to borrow from this person's post, as her description hits the nail right on the head - "The shuffle is a daily event that spans about an hour and half on streets all across the city. The idea is that cars vacate one side of the street, allowing the street cleaner to come through. It’s also a municipal money making machine. Every person I know who has a car gets more than a handful of street-cleaning tickets a year."

I will start by saying that I am devoted to never getting a $40+ ticket for having my car on the wrong side of the street. I have post-it notes that I alternate on the inside of my door that read "move car at night" and "move car in morning." I use my BlackBerry to remind myself *exactly* where my car is and when it has to be moved, just in case I forget. After two months, I was starting to think that I had the system figured out. In other words: moving your car at night is usually easier than moving your car in the morning. Avoid streets that have many driveways. As I said, I felt like I was beginning to master the system.

Then last night happened.

It took 35 minutes to find a parking spot. My car might as well be parked in Beijing.

While hiking back from my parking spot, I passed one of the many deli-bodega-corner stores in my neighborhood and invested a dollar in the lottery. Tonight, I will win Mega Millions and the first thing I will buy is a parking spot. Because that, is all it will take for me to be happy now.

Freedom Isn't Free

In July of 2003, 27-year-old Lt. Pete Ober died in a helicopter crash, proudly serving in the United States Navy. Since the war began, 4,332 American soldiers have been mortally wounded in Iraq. Pfc. Matthew E. Baylis was killed just days before his 21st birthday in Baghdad, supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom, in May of 2007. Between July 25 and August 7, 2009, nine U.S. Army soldiers, five Marines and one U.S. Navy sailor were killed in Afghanistan. One of them was 29-year-old Capt. Matthew Freeman - he had been married just weeks before he deployed.

All three of these men dreamed their entire lives of serving their country and made the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives for our freedom. All three of these soldiers were sons and brothers; two were husbands of my close friends and one was the proud father of a little girl.

I am so proud of the brave men and women who serve our country, yet I ache for the mothers, fathers, husbands, wives and children who have to say goodbye to their loved ones. I admire their selflessness - I could not imagine how hard it is to let someone go, knowing he is putting himself directly in harm's way.

I am at a loss as to how to convey my emotions in this post - I have so much pride and gratitute for those who are giving up everything to serve in the military. Yet I feel so much pain knowing that these families (and the entire world) have lost some of the finest people who will ever walk this Earth.

During Matt's memorial service, one eulogizer rightly said, "The world needs more Matthew Freemans."

And the world does. It needs more Matthew Freemans, more Pete Obers and more Matt Baylises.

Please remember our honorable servicemen and women - and their families, who are braver than we could ever imagine.

Freedom isn't free.

If you have the ability to make a contribution in their memory and honor:

Pete Ober:

Peter Benjamin Ober Memorial Fund

c/o Citadel Foundation

171 Moultrie Street

Charleston, South Carolina 29401

Matt Baylis:

Contributions in his memory to Wounded Warriors (http://www.woundedwarriors.org/), AER (http://www.aerhg.org/) or USO (http://www.uso.org/) are appreciated.

Matt Freeman:

Captain Matthew Freeman Memorial Scholarship

Bryan Bank

PO Box 1299

Richmond Hill, GA 31324

great expectations

Tom: What happens when you fall in love?
Summer: You believe in that?
Tom: It's love, it's not Santa Claus.
- "500 Days of Summer"

For someone who doesn't often see movies while they are actually in the theater, it is out of the ordinary for me to have seen three movies in roughly three weeks. On Saturday I saw one of the best movies I have seen in a long time - "500 Days of Summer."

The movie begins with some dialogue explaining that, yes, this is a story of boy meets girl, but there is one thing it is not.

And that is a love story.

This is where I beg to differ.

It is, indeed, a love story. But it's not the kind of love story that you usually see in the movies. It wasn't predictable - it made me happy; it made me sad. I felt optimistic and remembered exactly what feels great about being in love. I felt frustrated when I remembered what it feels like to lose that.

Here's your plot - Tom is the guy that every girl wants to meet (or so I think). He is creative, artistic, listens to Brit-pop and wants to find his soulmate. On a chance encounter in his office, he meets Summer, who he immediately falls in love with. Summer insists that she doesn't believe in love, doesn't believe in relationships - they're messy and she hates labels. As the story progresses, you see what looks to be a happy couple, from one side. From the other side, you see what really exists - a person who is too afraid to commit because she can't acknowledge that she's not truly happy. Instead, she hides behind excuses.

I don't want to give away the movie, which is what makes writing this particular post so difficult. The happy moments that Tom and Summer share in the movie remind me of what I am looking for ... or at least what I hope is out there. The sad moments remind me that, well, people can and will break your heart.

But in the end, it's all worth it, isn't it?

Prioritizing

"Action expresses priorities."
- Mohandas Gandhi

I started spending time with someone who I often have thought-provoking conversations with - the kind of discussions that force you to really understand exactly why you believe what you do. While we have generically discussed many of the topics that you're supposed to avoid while getting to know someone (religion, the concept of marriage and fidelity, kids and families), one of our recent conversations struck a chord with me - while it was initially about relationships, it brought to light ideas about priorities in life.

My stance was that while it is important to have your own set of priorities and to respect the other person's priorities, there is a distinct difference between putting someone second as opposed to fifth or eighth. Here goes nothing - each and every minute of our lives is a competition for what's most important. Hence, prioritizing is something we do 24-7, whether we acknowledge it as such or not.

You know that (for most people), you are going to work five days a week. For most of us, that schedule isn't clearly defined as 9-6, Monday through Friday. We're going to find ourselves at our computers certain late nights, on our BlackBerries Sunday mornings and on conference calls with other countries on holidays. Many of us travel for work and sometimes don't know what that schedule is until a day before. Some people don't work the traditional weekday/day schedule - my ex was a police officer who worked 12-hour night shifts. Eventually, I adjusted to random phone calls at 3 a.m. when his night was slow and that first night he was off when he was barely awake.

Aside from work, we try to balance a litany of responsibilities and activities in a week's worth of time. Whether it is time with our family, going to the gym, catching up with a friend for drinks or enjoying downtime with a book or the DVR, it never seems like there are truly 168 hours in a week. So where does dating, and eventually, being married (and even more eventually, having a family) fit into all of this?

It all comes down to priorities.

In the midst of this conversation, he posed an interesting question - is it selfish to put your job first?

At the time, I responded with what I said earlier. Everyone has a responsibility to his/her career, especially at a time like this when we are all grateful to be employed. The hope is that also many of us are doing work that we find rewarding (whether for financial or other reasons). I felt that beyond that, if you really want to be with someone, you (consciously or subconsciously) shift your remaining priorities. Once again, there is a difference between knowing that you're on the higher end of someone's list, rather than the lower end.

I started thinking about this conversation again this morning - do New Yorkers put too much emphasis on careers? Are we so embedded in the workaholic/competitive/24-7 mindset that we forgot that work shouldn't always come first?

I still have yet to come up with an answer that I am 100% sure about. Much like everything else, it seems to be shades of gray. Can you have a functional relationship/marriage/family if you are someone who always puts work first, or do priorities have to change as your life evolves?

Whatever (Folk Song in C)

"They come here alone and they leave in twos
Except for you and me who just came to use
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me

Why you tell me stuff that's so plainly untrue
If you'll be straight with me, I'll be straighter with you
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me

I've been wanting to do anything for a long time
But whatever you got right now will probably suit me fine
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me"
- "Whatever (Folk Song in C)"
Eliott Smith

For someone who is as much of an idealist as I am, I surprisingly gravitate towards things that are gritty and real. I enjoy watching "Intervention," because half the time it feels good to root for someone who deserves a second chance at life and the other half, you are reminded how messed up and truly selfish people can be. I mostly read memoirs - the stranger your story, the more epic your struggle, the more likely I am to be compelled.

I've always enjoyed music that lands on the darker end of the spectrum. I am amazed by what songwriters can convey in lyrics, be it love, lost love or emotional pain. I constantly try to interpret songs to figure out what that person was thinking when s/he penned the lyrics to a song.

The song above is by Elliott Smith, who wrote a litany of dark and depressing (yet hauntingly beautiful) songs. Aside from the song posted above, another favorite of mine by him is "Say Yes." His songs are raw, emotional, honest, and in most cases, painful. I was looking online for an interpretation of "Whatever," when I stumbled upon this blog.

I'm not sure why it resonated with me. As the writer said, "To me, the songs were dark but beautiful, haunting yet comforting, stark and lush at the same time." I couldn't agree more. But she was given the opportunity to find out why, to dig deeper. And to learn that sometimes, understanding someone's pain can take away the beauty. Make it too hard to listen to it and less beautiful.

The ending of this blog says it simply - "They say you should never meet your idols. Nor should you get too intimate with their demons. Today, I can’t separate the songs from the story. Each one is a reminder of how cruel life can be -- allowing someone like him, someone with that much talent and heart, to suffer through so much pain for so long."

Rest in peace, Elliott Smith, and all the poets who suffer from pain for which there is no fix.

For Daddy

I have only one picture in my wallet and this is it. I think I am about three or four years old and I'm riding on my dad's shoulders. He always says that this is why he lost his hair, that I pulled it all out. I inherited many traits from him, one being the inability to smile in posed photos. We both manage to put on the worst of fake smiles if photos aren't taken candidly. I love this picture in particular because we were obviously goofing off before it was taken and I probably hadn't mastered the art of the fake smile yet at that age.

Looking back at pictures when I was a little girl, you can see that I followed my dad everywhere. I wanted to be taller (because I thought that taller = older) so that I could go out with my dad when he went out with his friends or after work. When we were building our house, there are photos of me wandering around the construction site while he worked on it. I wanted to do everything that my dad did.

My dad has always loved horse racing as he and his mom always went to Belmont. My dad would take us to Belmont when I was a kid, but he never got the right results. After about two races, I would whine that I was hot/cold/bored/wanted to go to the playground. In hopes of keeping me still for just one more race he would give me $2 to bet on a horse. To be honest, I don't think I ever won. And when I lost, I would cry until he would give me back the $2 that was never mine in the first place.

Growing up, I always loved board games. I'm sure that he was forced to play a few with me when I was younger, but he crafted a creative excuse to get out of it. Most games have an appropriate age range listed on them, such as "for ages 4-8." According to dad, that was set in stone. Clearly, he was over eight years old, and if he was caught by the "Game Police," there would be nothing but trouble. When I was older, I could usually get him to play Scrabble with me, knowing very well that all of his turns would take FOREVER. We were playing one time when after more than a few minutes of deliberation, he threw down "twinbeast." I think I gave it to him, because even if it wasn't a legit word, it was a pretty cool one.

We were raised as baseball fans in our house. I played all boys little league until I was about 10 and it broke my dad's heart when I quit in favor of girls' soccer (which he referred to as a "Communist sport"). It didn't matter to him that I had a .035 batting average (which my brother figured out and would chant at me when I played) - it mostly mattered to him that I didn't "throw like a girl."

My dad would get us Mets tickets at least once a year and he took us out of school for the tickertape parade when they won the 1986 World Series. He also asked us to write something for school about what we learned. I was seven years old. Even a tickertape parade was supposed to be an educational experience if I missed school. Dad took our grades very seriously and didn't like for us to miss school. Years later, I am not sure if he didn't want us home with him while he was off from work or if he really felt that six hours of school were super important. One thing then that always remains true - dad is a great caretaker when anyone is sick. He has taken care of all of us through colds, fevers, wisdom tooth extractions, mono, surgeries - you name it. When I had mono and couldn't swallow anything, he made sure that I had pastina, milkshakes and ice pops at my fingertips.

For most of my younger years, dad was home with us in the mornings to send us off to school. My brother and I were two of the least alert people before school and dad would often catch us staring blankly out the window while our waffles got cold. He would come in the kitchen, clap his hands and sing, "Pick up the fork and put it in your mouth!" Repeatedly. Dad was also in charge of making sure my hair was combed before I went off to school. He would sit me down and comb my hair every morning, sometimes re-doing my part two or three times to make sure that it was perfectly down the middle. He not-so-successfully tried to master ponytails and braids, but as he once remarked looking at a second grade class photo, "I must have done your hair that day."

Although mom was mostly responsible for teaching me to drive, dad was the one who taught me how to drive stick. I also remember him exclaiming, "Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?!" when I pulled into traffic without looking, mostly focused on what gear I was currently in. Dad was the one who did most of the driving when I moved to and from college (15-18 hour roadtrips) and he was also tasked with driving me to the airport when I would fly back to school after holidays. Some of the best conversations that we have had took place during those early morning trips to LaGuardia. Prior to 9-11, it was completely feasible to get to the airport ten minutes before your flight and still board with checked baggage. Dad and I liked to test that theory. Nine times out of ten we would be running late, wondering if the plane was going to leave without me. I remember him slipping a few bucks to someone in the airport to let me jump the line as we ran through the airport. This was in stark contrast to mom, who would have us at the gate three hours before the plane was there. When I was in college, my dad always wanted me to dress up when I flew home. He felt that it was important to look presentable while flying - which was mostly not the case in general college dressing. I know that on more than one occasion in college, I wore either boxer shorts or pajama bottoms to class. My hallmates and friends always knew when I was flying home, because suddenly I was in black pants or a skirt.

As I said before, I inherited a number of traits from my dad. We both like to be the life of the party and we're both storytellers. We love to make people laugh and we can always succeed in making each other laugh. We like to sing in the house when we're home together and we like to dance, any chance we get, since, yes, we do have a choreographed performance.

My dad can fix or build anything, and I grew up taking it for granted that every male was like that. I was sorely mistaken. My dad can explain any part on a car or a dishwasher and tell why it's not working. He built a deck and a shed from scratch and has remodeled most of my parents' house. He just installed a shower curtain rod in my new apartment and is getting ready to make magic happen - he is going to turn a single closet with one bar into a closet that can actually hold things. When I first panicked over having one closet, I shouldn't have. No one else could solve a problem like that as quickly as he could, or as effectively. He is the first person to drop what he is doing to help, even when need a car battery at 9 p.m. or I lock myself out of my apartment.

In the same vein, he has helped move me and my brother no fewer than ten times. One of my favorite stories involves my brother moving from Boston. He had a dresser or a desk that he didn't want to take with him and the city wanted a ridiculous amount of money to dispose of it. Dad simply took out a chainsaw, cut it into many, many small pieces, put it in a Force Flex garbage bag and dropped it down the trash chute. When I was moving out of Charleston and we knew I wasn't bringing home the couch, he wanted to launch it off the third story balcony. After all, why carry it down the stairs? Mom wasn't onboard with that solution, though.

My dad has always helped me, no matter what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into. He has listened to my problems and offered me advice, even if I didn't take it. He taught me how to treat people and to respect people for who they are. I learned from him that hard work is the most important thing - and that you can support a family well by doing so. He has shown me in the way that he loves and takes care of my mom, what a good marriage looks like. He has taught me about cars, music, football and the value of using a level when hanging anything on a wall. Mostly, he has taught me how lucky I am to have him as my dad.

Happy Father's Day, daddy. I love you.

When Reality Becomes Real

"Never allow anyone to rain on your parade and thus cast a pall of gloom and defeat on the entire day. Remember that no talent, no self-denial, no brains, no character, are required to set up in the fault-finding business. Nothing external can have any power over you unless you permit it ...- Og Mandino


I wrote a post a year or so ago about denial, which begs repeating. Why is it so hard to convince ourselves of things about people that are so obvious and right in front of our faces? Why is it so difficult to tell yourself that, yes, people can be selfish. I've always wanted to be someone who sees the best in people, even when that "best" is clearly something that I've imagined. Obviously, this hurts more than it helps.

Denying reality because you want to hope that someone is better than s/he is never works. Sooner or later, often when it hurts more, you finally realize the truth.

The truth being:
- that not everyone is worth second, third and tenth chances.
- that history does (and will) repeat itself.
- that you can't do the same thing more than once and expect different results (see above).
- that things do get better once you accept things for what they are (not what you want them to be/hope they can be/perceive them to be) and decide to move forward.

... which reminds me of another great quote: "Don't make someone a priority who sees you as an option."

Don't let someone think that you deserve less than you do. Don't let someone convince you that you are worth less than you are. Slowly pulling off a band-aid causes more pain in the end than accepting that it will hurt and letting it all go at once, once and for all.

And now I am done with truisms and metaphors.

Just Say No to Tourists

"You don't have to go home but you can't stay here."
- "Closing Time"
Semisonic

I have a love-hate relationship with Long Beach, where I live, especially at this time of year.

I love waking up and not hearing horns and sirens outside my window. I love getting home at night when it's dark and humid and the only thing you can smell is the ocean. I love walking on the boardwalk and running on the beach. I love deciding on a minute's notice that I want to walk across the street and camp out on the beach with a book for half an hour and not having to drive to do so.

What ruins my town are the people who don't legitimately live here.

My favorite place I ever lived was Charleston. Sad but true, I grew to acknowledge that tourism was what kept the City alive - and more than once, kept me employed. While it never became any less frustrating to get stuck behind a horse carriage when you were already running late for work, the tourists mostly stayed downtown. In other words, they were somewhat avoidable.

I acknowledge that it's Memorial Day and that it is, indeed, a beautiful day outside (a true rarity these days). My morning started off with a run on the boardwalk - while the boardwalk was slightly crowded, it wasn't problematic. After discovering that I had no milk to make cereal for breakfast, I decided to go food shopping, among other errands.

I went to Starbucks and CVS. I washed my car (which was covered in an entire winter's worth of grime and fresh spring pollen) and headed to Waldbaum's (the one supermarket in Long Beach) to buy food. First, I heard a man asking where they sell "goat" in the store. Last I checked, goat isn't commonly found among chicken and steak - at least not in Long Beach. I tried my best to get through the store as quickly as possible, dodging people and dirty looks from people who stood on their phones with carts blocking the aisles.

Every line was terrible. I chose a line in the u-scan section and tried my best to be patient with the two people ahead of me. The first woman finished scanning - I even stayed patient while she let her sub-10-year-old son run her credit card and press the buttons. Then the next woman began scanning. She had scanned roughly 1/4 of her items when her husband joined her on line with seriously an entire cardboard box full of chicken. Time to switch lines.

I move to the line next to me, which seems to be moving at a decent speed. The people in front of me begin scanning their items, which mostly seem to be those probably less than $1 each containers of generic iced tea. Then, she begins to peel a 30 cent off coupon from each one and try to scan it, unsuccessfully. But no, she will not give up without a fight. After all, there is money to save when you are buying 70 containers of generic iced tea.

To the right of me, there are kids from the City who are proclaiming loudly, "Wow, you know you're not in the City when you can stretch your arms out and not touch both sides of the aisle in the store!" Yes. Waldbaums is like Disney World, isn't it.

I finally leave the supermarket and head home. By this point, all of the decent parking spaces are taken. I see someone getting ready to pull out of a space on the opposite side of the median ... which means you have to hit two lights to get over there. I made the first light and watched the person get ready to pull out of the spot. Then, as I waited at the light, I watched this magnificent cougar in a Mercedes convertible run the light to steal the spot. Nothing like parking a freshly washed car in the sand "parking lot."

Oh, and I forgot to buy milk - the one thing I went to the store for.

My parents invited me out for dinner tonight which seemed like a good plan. Then I remembered I will get stuck in beach traffic driving out there and Hamptons traffic driving back.

FML.

What You Wish For

I turned 30 exactly one month ago to the day. While I felt the usual frustrations with turning a year older, I was trying not to succumb to the feelings of "what does 30 really mean?" In other words, I told myself that I wasn't going to ruminate about marriage, kids, and the whole concept of a future any more than I had at 29, 25 or 21.

When I first moved back to N.Y. from Charleston in 2005, I told myself that it was a temporary stop, a layover, if you will. After being back a year, I created a new master plan for myself. I would go back to school and get my Master's degree to teach English. While I certainly wouldn't make the money teaching elsewhere that I would teaching here (no, I'm not referring to the City schools), a teaching degree would be versatile. I wouldn't get stuck in New York.

I actually declared a major in education my freshman year of college. By the time I finished my lackluster freshman year, I had vaguely switched over to journalism, unsure of what I really wanted. I dug myself a hole, selecting a degree that all but guaranteed I would have to live near a major city to find a job - N.Y., Chicago or Los Angeles. Going back to teach would allow me to go west, move back to Charleston ... the opportunities seemed endless as long as a position was available.

Fortunately but unfortunately, I gave up the idea of pursuing teaching when my current job came my way, offering money and opportunity. At the time, the plan was to "give New York a fair shot" and then consider transferring to Los Angeles within the organization. Last year when I renewed my lease, I told myself that would be my last year in New York. I was ready to go to California to pursue the life I had always dreamed of, this July.

Over the past six months, I temporarily sidelined my plan to move cross-country. I felt like the current state of the economy made it an irresponsible time to make sweeping changes. After all, I could still move out west in another year. While I wasn't happy pushing my dream aside, I felt like I was making a responsible choice for my future.

I planned to move closer to the City this July when my lease was up. After all, I generally spend a portion of all seven days in the City - commuting was no longer worth the headache. I started looking and found (by N.Y. standards) a dream apartment. The apartment boasted amenities atypical of N.Y-area rentals - central air, a washer/dryer and even better, it was brand new. I was content to pay a broker fee, even at a time when everyone insists I should be getting more for my money. For a moment, I felt okay with my decision to stay in New York.

Then, in typical New York fashion, I inexplicably lost the apartment before I even got to sign the lease or pay the deposit, due to a shady broker. All at once, it reminded me how difficult and unreasonable things are here, such as finding housing. Not only do we pay exorbitant rents that are completely not in line with our salaries, we also accept the idea that we will not have air conditioning, more than one closet or a dishwasher for that price. Why should I pay a fee equivalent to one month's rent to a broker when I find an apartment on Craigslist?

Losing the apartment unearthed a wave of emotions, mostly reminding me how much I didn't want to be here. After all, it hardly seems worth it to get so little for so much work and money when I don't even want to live here in the first place. It reminded me that, at 30, I'm not getting more opportunities - I'm getting fewer. Honestly, it feels like a waste of time to be practical and stay somewhere that I don't want to be because I am "thinking of my future." Really, what am I thinking about? How much I don't want to spend another year here, let alone the rest of my life. Every year that I spend here makes it seem less and less likely that I'll ever leave.

Unfortunately, bad thoughts snowball. You start off feeling negative about one thing in your life and it brings to the surface everything that isn't going how you hoped it would. Before you know it, you're having one of those days where everything sucks.

"Woke up today, to everything grey
And all that I saw, just kept goin' on and on
Sweep all the pieces under the bed
Close all the curtains and cover my head
And what you wish for won't come true
You aren't surprised, love, are you"
- "What You Wish For"
Guster

Spring Cleaning

I have exactly seven weeks left in my current apartment - aside from finding a new place, getting movers and remembering exactly how many companies I need to submit a change of address form to, the most daunting task ahead is packing and cleaning.

I just discovered (for the sake of this post) that I have moved 15 times in 13 years. I've had ten addresses. Needless to say, I should be an expert at this packing up and moving gig. Here's where I fail, though - I always wait until the last minute to tackle packing and cleaning, at which point I have amassed enough clutter and mess to cause a total meltdown.

In thinking about this, I've realized that the same can apply, metaphorically, to my life.

An apartment is easier to clean and organize when you tackle it one room at a time, before it becomes a total disaster. By letting go of unnecessary things that clutter my living space before they become overwhelming, I surely can cut down on the time I spend trying to correct it.

My friend Beth and I have had a number of discussions about "toxic people" - everyone has them - whether it's the friend who only calls you when he needs a favor, the ex who likes to flirt with you (even though he is with someone else) or the guy who only comes around on weeknights after midnight. Much like house clutter, toxic people don't go away until you choose to rid your life of them. By waiting to take control of people and situations that make your life feel cluttered and out of control, situations only tend to worsen.

It's time to spring clean - to figure out who I really need in my life and who is still there because, much like the plastic box of "sentimental t-shirts" in my closet, I have yet to figure out how to truly let go. I need to re-evaluate what it is that I really want - I think that I know, but then I see myself making decisions that are in complete opposition to those goals. I need to figure out which people and choices are getting me closer to who and where I want to be ... and which ones are pushing me further away.

It's time to re-arrange.

"And if you really want to shake it off
You gotta re-arrange"
- "The Re-Arranger"
Mates of State

30 Years with Mom

My brother was born in the heat of July, 1976. Although my mom, at nearly 25, looks just as good as any woman who just gave birth to an 8 pound, 10 ounce/slightly late boy, she knew when I came around that those hospital photos would be picture perfect. Fast forward two years and nine months – mom goes into labor with me, decides to style her hair and fix her makeup before I am born. She looks like a supermodel in the photos holding me.

Every time I see a baby or toddler in an uncomfortable itchy lace dress, I am grateful that my mom always let me be comfortable. While she put me in the requisite dresses, tights and Mary Janes for photos and at holidays, she also let me rock a t-shirt with a giant panda on it for the first day of school. To this day, I tease her about forcing me into an Easter bonnet with a massively uncomfortable chin strap when I was probably about seven years old. I thank her for letting me take off my Communion dress less than ten minutes after we got home from church to let me play baseball in the street with my brother and cousin.

I remember as a child, playing hours of games with my mom, countless matches of Rack-O, Memory, Uno and Chinese checkers. I remember laughing until our sides split fast-forwarding the scene in “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” when the mother sings that crappy song while doing laundry. I remember my mom making my brother and I absolutely delicious breakfast for dinner, and alongside her many great culinary successes, her entertaining failures. There was the time when she attempted to poach fish for Chris in wine cooler (sort of like wine, but not really … hey, this was the 80s) and foam billowed out of the pan. I remember that microwaves were going to revolutionize convenient dinner-making as we knew it … but the chicken didn’t need to be cooked for an hour. We could have bounced it off the wall and never let her hear the end of it.

Mom and I have always enjoyed shopping together, even when I was younger, and all I wanted to do was wear my brother’s hand-me-downs. While she admits that she couldn’t have handled a prissy girl, I don’t think she asked for a total and utter tomboy who didn’t willingly wear dresses until the 10th grade, either. One of my favorite moments came when she was in a dressing room with me and we were eavesdropping on another mother-daughter pair in the room next to us. The mother and daughter must have not been seeing eye-to-eye about a clothing choice, as the mom yelled, “This isn’t a democracy, it’s a dictatorship!” Mom and I burst into laughter – to this day, it remains one of our favorite quotes and moments. Years later, we realize it is difficult for us to shop with anyone else because we love to make fun of clothes in the store. It’s never quite as funny laughing at a pair of shoes, only to find out that your shopping companion really thinks they’re hot.

My parents worked opposite schedules – my dad was home with us in the morning and mom was home with us after-school, dinnertime and nighttime, for the most part. To this day, I’m not entirely sure if my dad just really believed in mandatory school attendance or he didn’t want to be home with us during his time off (frankly, I don’t blame him either way), but we were almost never allowed to stay home from school. While I credit this to making me a much better worker who has to be at death’s door to take off sick, I remember feeling slighted by senior year that I never got my requisite “cuts” that everyone else was taking. The year was almost over and mom knew I was antsy. Even though she threatened on a daily basis that college would rescind my acceptance, (does anyone know anyone this have ever happened to?) I remember one day that mom chose to make me very happy. It was probably late spring – before I turned 17 and had my full driver’s license. She and my dad were going into the City that day, probably to see a show. She called the school and had me released at 11. I was able to finally enjoy an almost full skip day. Oh, she also let me take off a day at the end of the year to work at my retail job, too. I think she was just tired of arguing with me by then.

My mom is my best friend. The reason it works as well as it does is because she is my parent first and my best friend second. I talk to her every single day, sometimes multiple times a day, and this has always been the case – whether I lived at home or in Georgia. There was only one time in my life that we didn’t get along well, during my senior year of high school. I think this is a hard time for anyone, as I was trying to exert independence at that age and I was mostly just pissing my parents off. My mom was frustrated by the slacker guy I was dating – to the point that she called my brother at school, begging him to come home and knock some sense into me. I was whiny, defiant and difficult – in retrospect, I’m sure I generally sucked to be around. Once I went away to college, everything changed. We both gained the space we needed and I was able to recognize when I needed her for support, advice or just a good figurative smack upside the head.

I couldn’t count the number of times my mom bailed me out of things – an unaffordable phone bill at college, letting me charge a pair of jeans to her my freshman year, paying for groceries when I couldn’t afford decent food. My sophomore year of college, I got the bright idea to try to “touch up” my own hair, since I couldn’t afford highlights at the time. Two days before I was due to attend a formal event with my boyfriend, (photos galore) I turned my hair highlighter yellow. If you’ve ever done something like this, corrective color is not cheap. I called her late at night in hysterics. She called her hairdresser who offered me advice to hold me over until I could get into a hairdresser the next day. My mom then offered to pay to get my hair fixed and never expected a penny back.

My mom is always there to dispense advice, whether I ask for it or not. Although it is always well-intentioned, sometimes it’s not well-received. One example was when she sent me a copy of that oh-so-awesome mid-90’s cult classic book, “The Rules.” Thanks, mom. Nowadays, it tends to be in the form of news clippings and articles from Oprah.com. My mom used to write me letters in college when they didn’t own a computer and people were just beginning to e-mail. I have every single letter or card she ever sent me. My freshman year, I continued to spiral. My grades were total crap and I lacked direction. She wrote me a seven page letter, detailing her hopes and dreams for me (which clearly did not include a 2.3 GPA and hooking up with frat boys). One thing that stood out the most was when she said that she wanted more for me, that she didn’t want me working a “dead-end retail job.” Coincidentally, I happened upon this letter when I was about 24 and I was working in retail. I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry at the time.

My mom had major spine surgery the summer after my junior year, which required round-the-clock care. Due to my dad’s work schedule, it made the most sense for me to be home with her during the day and for dad to be home with her at night. The first weeks when she was bedridden, we adopted a fabulous theme of watching movies where people die. I don’t know how I came upon this great idea, but there are many movies that fit it – “Love Story” and “Beaches” were two of our favorites. My dad came home one day to find us sniffling and sobbing in bed – “Enough of the movies where people die!” Once I switched cinematic themes, she did enjoy “Swingers”, though. By the end of the summer, she was well enough to go see The Cure with me at Jones Beach.

Every time my mom and dad take a vacation, my mom would come home, show me photos and recount what I would have enjoyed. Finally, my dad decided that she and I would benefit from a girls’ weekend away – loosely translated, a girls’ weekend equaled an eight-day cruise to Mexico out of California. It was the first and only time that we have spent that much time together, just the two of us, and we had so much fun. I will always remember trying to make towel animals together on the cruise ship (unsuccessfully) and freezing in Cabo during one of the coldest days in its history. The unsuccessful creation of towel animal sculptures reinforced our lack of arts and crafts talents. For as long as I can remember, my mom and I took on a variety of art projects that always looked like they were done by a four-year-old. Yes, I had a Bedazzler.

I look back on 30 years of memories of time spent with my mom. I remember the things we’ve laughed at when they happened and the things we laugh at in retrospect. I think of all the movies we’ve watched, the hours we’ve clocked shopping and the hundreds of thousands of phone conversations we’ve had. I am always grateful for the close relationship we share and know that wouldn’t be possible if she wasn’t exactly the person that she is. I love my mom for her endless patience with me (I know it can’t be easy), her unconditional love and support, her selfless nature and her way of always making me smile. I love the advice she gives me; she can be opinionated but not judgmental.

Mom - I would never be the person I am today without you to learn from. I would never be where I am today without your constant encouragement and help every time I fall. I am so lucky to have you as my mom and cherish all of the time we spend together.

On this Mother’s Day, I thank you.

Veruca Salt Rears Her Ugly Head

"What do you get when your kid is a brat
Pampered and spoiled like a Siamese cat
Blaming the kids is a lie and a shame
You know exactly who's to blame
The mother and the father ..."
- "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"

I'm turning 30 in less than two weeks and I'm having a bit of, should I say, an existential crisis. Exhibit A - the conversation I witnessed on my morning commute, which reads like a bad "Overhead in New York."

Suburban Mom #1: Last year, she had to have the iPod touch; this year she wants a BlackBerry for her birthday. All the kids are instant messaging. First it was texting, now it's instant messaging.

Suburban Mom #2: Well, you know how high school kids are ...

Suburban Mom #1: High school? She's turning eight!

I almost threw up on my seat. An eight year old needs a BlackBerry? At this moment, I tried to remember what kind of gifts I probably got for my eighth birthday and the list looked something like this: Cabbage Patch Kids, GI Joe "stuff", board games, Legos. When I was nine or ten, I got Debbie Gibson's "Electric Youth" perfume, the Bon Jovi "Slippery When Wet" cassette tape and this totally hot pair of denim shorts with colored pockets.

While I cannot acknowledge that everyone should be happy when they are eight years old, one thing should be a given for kids - life should be simple. I say this from a perspective of a suburban upper-middle class kid - you have your whole life to deal with things being complicated, why not enjoy simplicity when you're eight years old. Enjoy toys, make believe and optimism that is not remotely grounded in fact. Enjoy believing that one day you may be a rock star, a pro baseball player or a fashion designer -- even if you completely lack those skills.

I am grateful that when I went to college, we could wear boxers shorts, t-shirts and flip-flops to class. Class wasn't a fashion show. Abercrombie was a big deal and pretty much no one knew that "designer" jeans existed. I am grateful that when I went to high school, I had a car that I didn't worry about bumping a curb with. A week or so ago, I overheard another conversation similar to the one detailed above, except this mother was explaining that she bought a Land Rover because "wouldn't it be a RIOT for her daughter to roll up in that to school on her 16th birthday?!"

Okay, one. This is New York. We can't even drive to school legally on our 16th birthday. And why, why, why would you give your 16 year old a Land Rover to drive?! I hit a gas pump with my car when I was 17. I got a speeding ticket on Sunrise Highway for doing 88 in a 55 when I was 17. I'm extremely glad I wasn't responsible for a Land Rover or an BMW.

I attended high school in a upper-middle class community. To the best of my recollection, the nicest cars either (a) belonged to kids' parents or (b) were a roughly five-ten year old Jeep or Cabriolet. About ten years after graduating high school, I went back to sub teach at my alma mater. It was like walking on to an episode of "The OC." The parking lot was filled with SUVs, BMWs and Mercedes convertibles. The students were dripping in designer clothes and high-priced accessories.

I look back at my yearbook and smile at our clothes - t-shirts, flannels, Doc Martens. We didn't look like we were trying to get into a club when we were 15 years old.

In two more weeks, I'll be waxing poetic about the cost of a loaf of bread when I was young.

Sigh.

Meet Lauren

I have always been a philanthropic person - while I don't have much to give financially, I have always been interested in supporting charitable organizations with what little money I have and moreso, my time. When I was younger, I was mostly aware of larger organizations such as Make-a-Wish and St. Jude's (both of which still continue to benefit so many people). I volunteered for a few years at the Medical University of South Carolina Children's Hospital and think its Child Life program is remarkable; I was so blessed to spend time with children and families and hope that anyone who has a sick child will benefit from a program as good as MUSC's.

I stumbled upon Autism Speaks (the organization I work for), knowing virtually nothing about autism. I attended a Walk Now for Autism kick-off event and immediately wanted to become involved - my desire to become a volunteer translated into a full-time job. Seeing the families that are affected by autism has further driven my passion for the cause.

Working for a non-profit organization is a double-edged sword. While most people who work for non-profits are generally philanthropic in nature, you are trained to advocate and fundraise for your cause, primarily. When the economy forces people with already limited needs to have even less, you find it difficult to ask people to support "yet another cause."

I'd have a hard time finding a charity that I don't think is worth supporting. Unfortunately, some of the best charitable organizations are small and don't get the support they deserve. One such is Lauren's First and Goal, a cause that is very dear to me.

I'd like you to meet Lauren, the lucky girl pictured above with Orlando Bloom, who she had the pleasure of meeting recently. Lauren is the recently 12-year-old niece of two of my closest friends; she is also a brain tumor survivor who has been living with a diagnosis of multiple brain and spinal cord tumors, Neurofibramatosis and Evan's Syndrome, since she was nine months old. Read more about Lauren and her story here. Lauren is one of the most sunny, optimistic, unique, loving and courageous people you will ever get the chance to meet. How many 12-year-old girls do you know of that ask for a birthday party themed after "The Office," after all?!

Lauren's First and Goal is a charitable organization created to raise funds to support pediatric brain tumor research, support local pediatric cancer services, provide financial assistance to families living with a pediatric cancer diagnosis and to raise public awareness regarding pediatric brain tumors. The fund is supported primarily by Lauren's First and Goal Football Camp, a non-contact, one day instructional clinic taught by experienced Division I, II and III college coaches. Since the Foundation's inception five years ago, over 5,300 high school players have attended the camp and over half a million dollars has been raised to support research towards a cure for pediatric brain tumors.

Everyone knows that times are tough - but when it comes down to it, we are all luckier than we think we are. Having volunteered at a Children's Hospital taught me how optimistic terminally ill children and their families are - it also reminded me what I can do without to help others.

Take the money you would spend on your morning's Starbucks, that extra pint of beer at happy hour or the cab you took instead of the subway and donate it. I guarantee the benefit you are giving someone else will certainly outweigh what you are giving up.

If you can't donate, help raise awareness. Awareness is the key to fundraising - join the Facebook group for Lauren's First and Goal; link the First and Goal website to your Facebook page.

It's a beautiful Friday here in New York and hearing Lauren's story of meeting Orlando Bloom reminded me that great people DO exist in this world. I'm proud to know so many people who put others first and do what they can to make a difference.

17? Really?!

Spring began this past Friday - or so the calendar claims. I flew out of JFK to Virginia in snow flurries that day. Although the temperature in Virginia Beach probably didn't top 40, we were determined to properly ring in spring by going out that night in tank tops. It's a wardrobe skill I acquired in New York - it doesn't matter how unseasonal your outfit is ... as long as you're wearing a pashmina or scarf.

A few weeks ago we had our first tease of spring. It was a warm, hazy blue skied Sunday and spring fever was in full effect. The boardwalk in front of my apartment was chock full of walkers, joggers, bicyclists, dogs and strollers - everyone eager to put away their winter jackets in favor of short sleeves. Days like that put a smile on your face. Days like that remind you that winter doesn't last forever; you will get off the treadmill and your sneakers will touch real pavement again. You become determined to forgo the winter clothes in your closet, ignoring turtleneck sweaters and woolen pants.

Spring is here, you think triumphantly!

And then Mother Nature smacks you back down, because deep down, she truly is one sadistic bitch. Just over one week until April and the wind chill was 17 this morning. Seven-friggin-teen.

Easter is just a few weeks away - no one wants to wear winter clothes on Easter morning. Kickball starts the next day; I hate trying to play kickball in ten layers of clothes. Opening day at the new Yankees and Mets stadiums is just over a week away. I cannot fathom sitting in a stadium on a day like today. I think I see why baseball just doesn't cut it in Canada.

Let's make a deal, Mother Nature. I'll stop whining when it rains during my morning commute. I won't even complain if we can get the wind chill above 30.

Really, my standards for weather are getting lower by the day.

Green Was the Demise of My G.P.A.

Minus the two years that I waited tables in an Irish pub, St. Patrick's Day has always been my favorite day of the year. Having grown up in New York where the holiday is somewhat of an institution, I was disappointed to find that it was a mere blip on the radar when I moved to Georgia for college. There was a bright spot, though, when I discovered the St. Patrick's Day celebration in Savannah, which was just a few hours away. There was always a catch, though. My first two years of school we were on the trimester system and St. Patrick's Day fell swiftly during midterms. Especially my freshman year, midterms were not going to spoil my fun. Unfortunately, no one else seemed to share my slack-adaisical attitude towards skipping class for green beer; I only hope their GPAs exceeded my stellar 2.3 after their freshman year. The last two years, St. Patrick's Day fell during finals, when we were on the semester system. However, because we had the longest semesters in the history of any college in America (UGA never seemed to excel at figuring out anything administrative), we lucked out my senior year. I was able to convince some friends to head to Savannah with me and we celebrated by the river.

My freshman year, I was without a car for the first time in my life since I got my driver's license. You never realize until you don't have a car how appealing everywhere sounds, but where you are. Athens seemed to be a short drive (well, ride, then) to just about everywhere. If someone was taking a roadtrip and there was an open invite, I was willing to go. Class would definitely take a backseat to traveling and seeing all there was to see.

We went to "The World's Largest Cocktail Party" in Jacksonville. We went to Destin for a weekend at the beach - hell, I even tagged along to Talladega once. By far, the most memorable trip my freshman year was to Mardi Gras. The first thing that made it funny was that I actually called my parents and asked them if I could go. Granted, I was only 17 at the time but I did live like a thousand miles away from them. Somehow, I just felt like they should grant me permission. My friend, who was over 21, assured my mom that I would be well taken care of and that she didn't need to worry about me. In typical college travel fashion, there were about 15 of us in one room with two beds. Also, it happened to be colder in New Orleans than it was in Georgia (and New York, which was even more insane.) Needless to say, I came back deathly ill right before midterms.

I was enrolled in this insane World History Before the Dawn of Time class (at least that's what I thought it was about) that I rarely attended and probably didn't pay attention to when I was in there. I think this was one of the rare moments in my collegiate career when an exam took me by surprise. We were handed a blank map of the world and were expected to draw in and label cities and rivers. I couldn't even label actual present countries on a map now. I handed the blank exam back to the teacher with my drop request attached.

That should have been the first sign that my wanton travels were beginning to affect my grades. At 17, I wasn't entirely sure why I was at school. When I got my final grades for the year (again, a remarkable 2.3 overall), my dad echoed the same sentiment.

My travels and escapades had to take a backseat to class over the next three years. I took fewer spur of the moment trips and made sure that my responsibilities at school wouldn't be affected. And if traveling interfered with class, there was always a plan B.

I took an art appreciation class my sophomore year, which had a 5 p.m. Friday discussion group. Day one when I got my syllabus, I realized this wasn't a viable option, since I spent most of my weekends in Charleston then. My master plan evolved -- two words -- teacher's assistant. I quickly learned that a young-20's TA could be swayed to give you an A for a discussion group you never attended. All it took was attending his mediocre art shows and swooning over his pieces.

By the time four years of college were said and done, I graduated with over a 3.0 AND got to finally celebrate St. Patrick's Day in Savannah.

I took next Tuesday off to celebrate St. Patrick's Day and I've been trying to my hardest to convince everyone to do it with me -- and yet again, it feels like freshman year. Except this time we're not leaving at 2 a.m. and getting stuck in Dothan, Alabama, because we ran out of gas.

Won't You Be My Neighbor ... or not

We're snowed in today in New York. As the picture shows, there is even snow in my apartment. (Actually, what that photo depicts is how poorly sealed my windows and doors are.) Thankfully, I was given the opportunity to avoid the snowy, delay-laden commute to work from my not-so-toasty living room.

My upstairs neighbor is driving me insane.

I wouldn't be complaining if this was an isolated incident, but whoever this person is, s/he has absolutely no etiquette when it comes to common space and downstairs neighbors.

For good reason, I never lived below the top floor of an apartment building since my college dorm until I moved into my current apartment building. Honestly, I don't have many complaints about my neighbors. The girl next to me, who replaced the woman that had extremely loud phone conversations in Spanish, I never see her or hear her. The girl that lives three apartments away from me occasionally has loud parties, but they're not often enough to truly bother me.

I've never in my life complained to any of my neighbors about anything they do. I'm not one of those passive aggressive people who tapes notes to the mailboxes about the volume of someone's TV or three notes on the door about a barking dog. A month or so ago, I was watching my friend's dog when she had to leave town suddenly for a family member's funeral. I knew that when I left the dog, he barked, so I did the best I could to not leave him alone while she was out of town. However, when I had to go back to work that Monday, he must have put on quite a show. I returned home that evening to not one, not two, but three increasingly angry (and detailed) notes from fellow building dwellers that were disrupted. While I felt bad that people were disturbed, the notes were insanely excessive. One person threatened to contact the management company. Really? I've lived here nearly two years and you've never heard a thing before. The funny thing was that not one of the notes was signed.

I have three nominees that I would like to award with "bad neighbor" honors. In third place, guy on the other side of my floor who loves his surround sound television - but seemingly only when watching war movies or playing video games. It's always fun when you feel like you're living "Saving Private Ryan" on a Sunday afternoon.

Second place goes to the girl who lives below me, affectionately known as "F*ck Me Naked," which she was once yelling out to her bed partner at 4 a.m. We have very thin walls in this building - when I play my iPod on the speakers, you can hear it in the hallway. Well, this girl doesn't apply that same logic to her bedroom antics. When I am in bed at 3:30 a.m. and she comes back from the bar, I am always treated an audio performance that rivals amateur porn. Lately, she's been quiet - I guess her social life is slow during winter. There was a time during the summer, though, when she had a partner with the same drive and vocal capacity as she did. I would hear the two of them going at it a good few times a day from when the bars closed until about lunchtime. He, much like her, loved yelling out ridiculous things (see: F**k me naked!), which were totally impossible to tune out while trying to sleep.

And the first place, gold star winner is the person (people) who lives above me. From what I can tell, it is a person and a toddler. It could be two people and a toddler - I'm not entirely sure. Beginning at about 7 a.m. on the weekends, they seem to have parades and foot races. The kid just runs back and forth across the bedroom. Repeatedly. If they could just let the kid run laps in the living room, I wouldn't be woken up at dawn on the weekends. S/he also loves to move furniture. To the best of my knowledge, this person also has a one bedroom apartment. How many different furniture combinations can you really create in an apartment of that size? This person also loves, LOVES to stomp. I'm sure that occasionally, I'm heavy on my feet. I do my best to be cognizant of it, though, and encourage my guests to do the same. I also try to remember to take my shoes off. This person has got to be wearing wooden clogs.

So here I am, today, working from home. The neighbors upstairs has: stomped back and forth across the apartment hundreds of times, allowed the kid to run laps back and forth, drilled something and hammered the floor (are we assembling more furniture to move?), moved MORE furniture (perhaps the new piece we built?) and dropped no fewer than 20 things.

Seriously?

I've gone back and forth in my mind about going upstairs one day and just asking them to be more considerate on weekend mornings. I'm not really in my apartment that much anyhow, and honestly, I should be grateful they chose a weekday afternoon for furniture assembly. I'm quite surprised it wasn't saved for 7 a.m. this Sunday.

The kid is bouncing a ball now.

Awesome.

The Lure of Local News

I love to read the news. Here's the caveat, though - I'm not well-informed, to say the least. Each morning at work, I peruse the news outlets for articles about autism; I'm very well-informed when it comes to autism. Other than that, I primarily read (skim) CNN.com, Newsday, The New York Post and sections of the New York Times.

I'm a sucker for a sensationalist headline - anything that grabs my attention or has the potential to appear in Reuters "Oddly Enough" section. Pretty much, if it's peculiar or ridiculous enough, I've read it. On the other hand, if it has to do with politics, world issues or anything notable, I probably haven't read it.

Even more interesting is that I went to school for journalism. I can plead ignorance with one saving grace - my concentration is in advertising. Guess what? I really hate commercials. Possibly even more than significant world news.

In my opinion, the best news stories can be found on CNN.com in its "US" section. On the bottom left, the site catalogs stories from around the country, culled from local publications. I also should point out that I have a soft spot in my heart for the mostly atrocious quality of local journalism. Local TV journalism is actually the best - go get an ill-fitting suit and some anchorwoman hair. You now have a license to mispronounce names of politicians, countries and diseases while attempting to appear completely legit.

Yesterday, this was my favorite article. Do you think the writer was just praying his editors would let him keep that headline? Either way, awesome.

Today's winner is not chosen for journalistic prowess, but rather for content. Take the time to appreciate the details in this story (i.e. rental car) because they're all really important. I'd personally like to give this guy some type of award. Bravo.

The Customer is (Sometimes) Always (Maybe) Right

[Bobby wants plain toast, which isn't on the menu]
Bobby: I'd like an omelet, plain, and a chicken salad sandwich on wheat toast, no mayonnaise, no butter, no lettuce. And a cup of coffee.
Waitress: A #2, chicken salad sand. Hold the butter, the lettuce, the mayonnaise, and a cup of coffee. Anything else?
Bobby: Yeah, now all you have to do is hold the chicken, bring me the toast, give me a check for the chicken salad sandwich, and you haven't broken any rules.

- "Five Easy Pieces"

My morning began with a craving for home fries, a particular kind of home fries made by a chain cafe near my office. I honestly wanted them enough to venture back out into 20-something degree weather. Here's the catch: they don't sell individual sides on the menu. Once before, I made the attempt to order home fries, bacon and toast (three separate sides), only to be given enough food to feed my entire office. There had to be an easier way.

I looked over the menu and saw an option for "three eggs any style, home fries, bacon and toast" for $5.25. Perfect. I ordered the "#7" and asked her to not include the eggs.

She looked at me blankly.

"I'm allergic to eggs," I replied, "I just want home fries, bacon and toast."

She stares at me, more intently, and then looks down at the register. No verbal acknowledgment.

"I just want the three sides, not the eggs," I repeat, hopefully that would offer some clarity to the situation.

"We can't do that. A number seven is a number seven. They'll get confused in the kitchen." Mind you, there is no one else on line. Business isn't exactly overwhelming at this point.

I then ask her if she can ring the three sides separately. I honestly don't care what it costs. I was more than willing to pay the full amount and not take the eggs. She pauses and starts ringing - I see the first item light up on the register "Platter of bacon" - $4.28.

"No," I interrupt, "I don't need nine pieces of bacon. I'm one person. All I want is a side of bacon, a side of home fries and toast. Can you please just ring the #7 and tell them 'no eggs'?"

Now she is visibly annoyed. Clearly, I've requested a service far outside the boundaries of her job description.

She acquiesces and rolls her eyes at me. I watch (and half listen) as she and the other employees talk trash about me in Spanish. My Spanish skills aren't that strong - I mostly can read ads for divorce attorneys on the subway. I could definitely tell this lady didn't like me, though.

I have had a number of customer service jobs in my lifetime (waitress, hostess, store manager, low level store lackey ...) and have yet to figure out when the concept of polite customer service went by the wayside.

On Saturday, I was walking through Roosevelt Field Mall when I spotted a cute shirt in the window of Hollister. I do realize, before I even relay this story, that perhaps I'm too old for Hollister. Perhaps once you hit size 6, you shouldn't consider buying clothes in Hollister. I swear, there are shorts in that store that could possibly fit my calves (triple-zero, anyone?)

Regardless, I found the shirt and waited behind a gaggle of high school kids to try it on. Upon buttoning the shirt, I realized that the anti-theft sensor was inside the shirt. The inch or so of plastic was pressing against my ribcage and jutting out sideways - just enough to make me question whether or not the shirt was buttoning properly.

I asked the salesgirl if she could remove the sensor - no offense, but I don't fit the profile of "shop thief" at Roosevelt Field Mall. She came back with the shirt and told me that she wasn't allowed to.

I pointed out the location of the sensor to her and asked her if she could at least move the sensor to the outside of the shirt. She, again, walked away with the shirt and returned momentarily with an even more unsatisfactory response.

"My manager said she can't move the sensor. She also said that the shirt probably doesn't fit you and you should just try a bigger size."

Thanks, Hollister staff, for saving me $55.

On a brighter note, the Silo sushi man and I are back on speaking terms ...