Friday, December 09, 2005

screen bunny

Today is the first real drop of snow. It's measurable. The first day is a sight to see: thick, white, pure, fluffed. However, unless there's a board or poles involved, I'm an indoor snow person, I'm no snow bunny, too Californian for snow frolic. Snow outdoors is paired with sleds (I'm small but I'm grown), snowball fights (I'd rather get hit than throw one. I'd rather a snowball bust on my waterproof Northface than chill my hands through my wooly gloves while making one), snow angels (I don't do this either unless my hair is up), and the curb corner slush is bad for denim ends. Snow indoors evokes ideas of a blanket, blended frothy hot coco,and classic movies. It's always movies, isn't it? Rain out: movie. Date activity: movie. No date: movie. But what about TV? I suppose it's because now the airwaves are filled with people eating slugs for a hundred grand and former kid stars coming out of rehab or going on a group diet. Not all is bad on TV (albeit, the savior comes mostly through HBO) Wired, Six Feet, Oz, then there's also Lost, My Name is Earl, Prison Break, Everybody Loves Raymond (all 840 emmy's won are so deserved), Amazing Race, Will and Grace, That 70's Show, Arrested Development, Nip/Tuck. But there aren't 'lineups' anymore. Remember that anticipated eight to ten o'clock block?. It was four episodes back to back of solid entertainment.

My childhood TV favorites: Cheers, Night Court (if all judges could be like Harry and where did John Laroquette go?), Who's the Boss? (Brooklyn meets Connecticut, bound to succeed), Too Close for Comfort, (Remember Monroe? The original queen to hit the airwaves. Now, HE was way before Jack Mc Farland, Will Truman, Sanford Blatch, and Carson Kressley (Ted Allen, the food and wine conossieur is who really should be leading the queer eyes), Bosom Buddies (I always wanted to my hair to wave like Donna Dixon's. And, I didn't know what bosom was when the show was on so I asked Angela Wynstra, my second grade best friend, to be my bosom buddy. Now, I have buddies, I just need a bosom. Fortunately, I can now wave my hair for attention), Head of the Class (Eric and Simone, great couple. Alvin and Dennis, greater couple. A show about a high-school class of 'too smart for cool' and the zip code was anonymous and J.Crew didn't sponsor them), Mr Belvedere (the dude was a plus size Mr. Rogers with a British accent, does it get better than that?), Perfect Strangers (when Angela and I played flight attendants, I was Jennifer and she was Mary Anne and I'm almost certain that Mr. Twinkasetti has guest-appeared in every relevant sitcom show), Second Chance (ooh this is a good one, one that went under the radar. Matthew Perry stars as Charles, aka Chazz, and he gets killed in a car accident. He's too good for hell, too bad for heaven so the show's about his limbo. Each week he goes to correct mistakes from the past but the best part was that sometimes he doesn't change anything. He thought not everything he did was a mistake. So he's chillin' on the bench right at the pearly gates. Brilliant), Family Ties (Malorie is a stunner, Nick was a high-school dropout artist, Skippy would have been a good match for Monroe and Alex P. Keaton, I kept a Tiger Beat issue in my desk of Johny Depp on the cover because there was a corner photo of Micheal J. Fox) and the parents were hippie liberals that went to UC Berkeley...I say no more), Roseanne (Lanford rules. The Hobo Lounge, they didn't even try. The episode where the Roseanne, Dan and Aunt Jackie get high in the bathroom. One of the best television sitcom scenes ever done).

Shows I wish I got into: WKRP in Cincinnatti, Cagney and Lacey, Mork and Mindy, Knots Landing, Northern Exposure (John Corbett's debut, holler) and Hill Street Blues.

On days like this, I aim to watch a movie. I open the red envelope, set the DVD on the tray and slip under the down. Then, it takes about two hours to start the movie, I can't seem to hit the DVD button right away. What might I be missing out on the tube? I shall explore until the Food Network changes to shopping and Conan goes to Carson. It's really coming down hard out there, thank God for two in one remotes.

Sunday, November 27, 2005

guns and gobblers

There's something synonomous about Thanksgiving and Connecticut and, as it appears, for evidential reason.

This year, Thanksgiving fish, white rice, seaweed salad, tofu cubes and kimchee was replaced with a sixteen pound gobbler, russet mashers, cranberry pineapple marmalade, squashed squash and greens. And rather than a table for five with muted sounds of a football game in the background, it was a rounding of eight with sounds coming from the table. I was invited by the suitor to a traditional Thanksgiving feast with his 'rents and bros in Connecticut...and I live to tell about it.

Meeting the family is like going to see the movie of the book you've been reading. The pictures in your head are realized true or "the book was better." Reactions range from, "the mom DOES bake one hell of a pie" to "he's not THAT much taller than his twin." But unlike a book-based-movie, it's not about comparisons, it's about witness.

To bear witness to the relationships between the one you've been getting to know and the ones who know him best exposes you to a part of someone's world that cannot be learned through words, mostly because they've been forgotten or censored. But someone in the family always remembers your actual most embarrassing tale and censorship isn't exercised when it comes to love, fights and spit bombs. Intimates and idiosyncrasies naturally display in the private viewing of a home. Childhood nicknames, slip-ups of the former gf, dad's muscle flex gun-show jokes and yelps from a pillow fight with his eight year old niece are shared. Sculpted pieces from his nine year old hands, where the bunk beds once stacked and the lawn where the tent pitched during summer nights are shown. Photos of old girlfriends, big hair and rented formal attire are opportunely seen. Driving past the baseball field where practice was held, the church that named him an altar boy, and the movie theater that gave him his first job and first beer are toured. These are the inners of someone's life that have to be seen, they cannot be read. Thanks for a ticket to the show, the gun show that is.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

sorry for apologizing

I apologize for too much. Often, I preface sentences with an "I'm sorry." "I'm sorry but is this seat taken?" "I'm sorry but could I get by?" "Sorry to bother you but your shoelaces aren't tied." The other day someone walked in on me in the bathroom and I apologized to them. The door swings open and I say, "Oh, I'm sorry, I'm almost done." Why do I think I need to be apologetic for peeing? If I'm on the phone and the person on the other end is talking and a call comes in, I could never interrupt and ask them to hold a moment. I can never turn down brunch 'catch-ups', "Candy, it's been forever, let's catch up over eggs. I'll tell you all about my new job, boyfriend and apartment." Just right now someone stepped on my bag that fell by my chair and I was contrite, "Oops, sorry about that."

Sorry for this post.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


1. The visibility of seasonal change in New York via trees. Green in the summer, reds and yellows in the fall, bare in the winter, and barely there buds in the spring.

2. A seat in a theater with no one on either side of you. One chair for your bag, the other for butter-soaked napkins.

3. Two cups of coffee on weekend brunches. First cup with milk and raw sugar and second cup black.

4. A front and center crease on slacks. Sharp.

5. A cluttered shower with products: bath gels, beads, body scrubs, loofas, exfoliators, masks, leave in treatments, neck pillow.

6. Musky candles in the winter.

7. Havana cigars.

8. Sandalwood.

9. Girl skateboarders. Rare but there are a few girls gliding the handrails in Union Square. What badasses.

10. Fog outside and steam in the bathroom.

11. Six Feet Under marathon. I would love to sit for dinner with Peter Krause, Michael C. Hall, Frances Conroy then get high with Laura Ambrose and Rachel Griffiths.

12. Wooden chessboards. (I don't know how to play chess)

13. Braids and buns. Pretty and proper. It's a shame that girls don't 'do' their hair after a certain age.

14. Bagged drycleaning hanging from your closet door.

15. Watch fobs.

16. Wrist gloves.

17. Classic Wranglers... but I'd never wear them.

18. All-American breakfast: eggs, bacon and toast. Rye.

19. Buds and suds. That's smoking a joint while soaking in the tub. Finishing touch, an amber candle.

20. Purple. Childhood favorite.

21. Amore lotion. A Korean brand lotion, it's the smell of my mom right before going to bed.

22. Hat racks. Vintage fedoras.

23. La Perla camis worn as a top.

24. Grilled Colby Jack Cheese and tomato. On Rye.

25. Emack and Bolio's off of Houston then taking it to Washington Square Park.

26. West Village afternoon, $2 slice from Joe's and a $7 scoop from Cones.

27. Goose down anything. Comforters, pillows, jackets, vests, sleeping bags.

28. Loose tea in a glass Bodum pot.

29. Halloween. Every year I go as the same character just different covers. Roller Girl got a lollipop. Roller Girl turns 12. Roller Girl kicks ass. This year, Roller Girl goes takes it back to the Derby.

30. Audio slide show of Fashion Week covered by New York Times Style reporter, Cathy Horyn. Her voice is both soothing and commanding. She attends all four fashion weeks: New York, Milan and two in Paris. She has my life.

31. Gold heart locket necklace. Classic.

32. Craigslist's: rants and raves, misssed connections, apartment listings (during August).

33. Netflix. An entire season of Entourage in one night.

34. Upper Manhattan to see the leaves, lower Manhattan to see the water.

35. Butternut squash soup, apple cider, macaroni with four cheeses, crumb pies.

36. Crispy fries, half-popped kernels, folds in my chips.

37. Smell of my hair when I take it down from a bun. If I washed it that day.

38. Faceburn from his stubbles from a night of kissing.

39. Bed picnics. A tray topped with stone crackers, cured proscuitto, brie, olives, melon, ginger ale. Remote nearby.

40. The 'Matrix Approval' in New York magazine, high brow/dispicable and low brow/brilliant quadrants are the best.

41. The point from the reservoir in Central Park where you can see all of Fifth Ave, Central Park West and the A&E Biography Building.

42. Airmail envelopes, officially called envelope #10, white envelopes trimmed with red and blue.

43. Cucumber water, clay mask, tweezer, Tracy Chapman, lavendar eye mask, toe separators.

44. High heels, red lipstick, prescribed kickers, Prince.

45. Holiday baskets: fruits, chocolates, breadsticks, cheese log.

46. Oils: rose, egyptian, ylang ylang, tea tree.

47. Proenza Schouler, Guy Laroche, Carolina Herrera, Lanvin, Yamamoto, Rochas.

48. Thanksgiving: family, friends, food, football, fight, funny, feet up, fall

49. Summer night, sitting on a stoop in Brooklyn, ice cream from a truck. Rooftop parties, Manhattan skyline.

50. Forehead kisses.

51. His hand on my thigh in the theater, while driving, as we're looking at a menu.

52. Big hands.

53. Astor subway station, reading the covers of papers, IPod, peanut M&M's.

53. So I Married an Axe Murderer, Sweetest Thing, Suicide Kings, Office Space.

54. Sitting next to him, plane rides, train rides, cab rides (on him).

55. My pajama drawer. Flannels, soft tees, boy shorts, college sweatshirts.

56. Berkeley Marina. LOTS of memories there. This could easily go on the 'least favorite list' too.

57. San Francisco Union Square: art expos, expresso wagon, cool air, sun. Gay Pride Parade, alley cafes, Vesuvios.

58. Sitting Indian-style under a tree in Washington Square Park, watching the crowd watch Tic and Tac.

58. Hollywood, Sunset, Pink's, Nacional, Star Shoes, Farmers Market at the Grove.

59. The flight to San Francisco. The flight to New York.

60. Sleeping at the desk. Blogging at work.

61. Holiday windows, limited time holiday lattes at Fourbucks, gift receipts. Waking up to a good song on the clock radio, a Whitney morning is a good morning. Crowd exits from the Met, Lincoln Center and West 27th St. Mom's perfectly peeled apple coil. Good eyebrow day. Barber shops. Soul food. Trying on cocktail dresses (never been to a cocktail party), slipping into display shoes (they always display a size 6), sitting on the stoop in a dressing room, adding things up. Making lists. Adding onto this list.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005


Unbelievable. I just got a song sent to me. I knew the music. I had heard it before, younger, riding in the back seat after school, my mom humming along to it. It would be played over and over and back then, it meant rewinding, playing, rewinding, and playing the casette. Then one day we sold the car with the casette accidentally left in the deck. My mom didn't know the name of the tune or artist. I recall her being sad when she learned that she no longer had that song. Later on, I learned that it was a mix tape that was made for her by her first boyfriend when she came to the states.

So, I just got this song, played it and it all came back, rides home from school with my mom singing along, swaying to it in her seat with oversized sunglasses on and one arm out the window, elbow on door, hand on roof tapping to the beat. I sent the song to her and she played it and teared. My mother is nostalgic about nothing. Doesn't hold memories to cherish, no gathering of keepsakes, no stories of love and war so it's a rare instance to see her touched, moved the way she was when I played the song. She softly asks, "How did you remember? How did you find it?" I reply, "I didn't. It just came to me." It's a Wild World.

Thank you Stevens.

Monday, November 14, 2005

el caribe

Ever dance for someone in the middle of a Spanish fortress in the pale moonlight? Light a Puerto Rican rum cigar for a non-smoker? Feel an island breeze whipped by a ceiling fan only to gaze up at cockroach? Eat rice and beans for four days straight? Oh, and plantains. Get bit all over your legs only to lay next to someone with spotless legs? Get drenched in the rainforest? Go to second base in the rainforest? Oh, and touch third. Walk on 16th century blue cobblestone to walk into a Benetton store? Share snapper, halibut and tuna with someone over votive candles and Bomba music? Been the only ones at a beach under a pale moonlight and go past third?

Puerto Rico, our version of the Corona commercial.

Let the holidays come, I'm relaxed.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

night in

Robe, slippers, toe separators, tweezers, candle, cherry cordials, pot, blog, Paper, Nylon, Whitney Houston, Barry White, Madonna, Ray LaMontagne, chinese delivery, comforter, Pretty Woman, pillow, eye mask, remote, Saturday night.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

beautiful back

I have a beautiful back. It's smooth to the touch, usullied to the eye, olive all over and the curves around the waistline are ready for grip. From the nape to the thighs, it glides with flow and symmetry. I lay with my knees dotting the mattress and ears pressed into the pillow as if the bag of down is a conch speaking to me, now my profile is a still wave. One arm above my head, a fist molded around the bed rail, head on its side, chin careening upwards, and my hair flowing over my shoulders past the blades. Wave. The other arm into the mattress, elbow trapped beneath my stomach and hand caressed between my thighs. Wave now set in motion. I lay on top of my comforter, it pleasures me to think of my back exposed, open to the air.

My fingers start a wave down there, the way a player rolls a coin down his knuckles. Ripples. The tips of the fingers start gentle then ascend to a rub. I allow my entire weight to collapse into the palm of my hands, my back, a plateau shifting around like a trowel smoothing out the sheets. My other hand, gripping the post, tightens into a white fist. I'm moist in my folds and cracks. I can smell me. My sprays and lathers from the morning have worn thin. Only residuals of the scents remain and those whiffs are fused with MY smell. A smell that cannot be bottled. I am attracted to me. My breath, my quiver, my hair falling into my gape. But it's not enough so I evoke pictures. Behind my tight shut eyes are flashes of him. His touch, his smell, his wave planing against mine. His weight is yielded onto me and I feel secure. Even in my sexiest thoughts I yearn for security. Security is needed to feel free, and I do. I feel free on my bed, I feel free in my mind and my back, my beautiful back, feels free.

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

classy lady

One of the most admirable traits of my mother is her inability to speak negative of my father. Even after all that he's done, or more accurately, hasn't done, even after all these years, even after re-marriages, she still speaks of him with tact and respect. Not necessarily because of what he was in her life but because of who he is in our lives. Even when I mention the mistakes he has made, she doesn't falter for a moment, she resists the temptation to speak ill, she holds firm and speaks like a lady. Pure class.

Her unwillingness could be viewed as supression in emotion or strength in resistance, it is debatable. I have encouraged, no, begged, her to release, to express, to finally exhale. She pauses, gives me a half smile, or if we're on the phone, she sighs, but then resumes with "he loves you and your brother, he shows it differently than I do, but he does." If possible, this makes me love her more.
for better or worse

During an interivew today the roles reverse for a moment and the interviewer shares a bit of her personal job history. She says that her 20's were spent job hopping much in the same way that 20's are spent bar hopping, apartment hopping, and people hopping. She tells me that it took a while before getting into the seat that she is in now and is grateful for that exploration. It was the single most encouraging thing I had heard in an interview. It appeased me with where I am at. However...

...I do hold an admiration for those who got into something right out of school and stuck with it for better or worse. Friends who landed their accounting jobs from recruit week in college and are still at those companies gripe and assert that they'll soon switch professions. They've been there for over 4 years now.

While the continual search for 'the better' for me is what I thought life should be about there's something enviable about those who stick with it even for 'the worse'. They are honest about their ill-will towards their jobs nonetheless, they continue to clock-in. This is more often seen with the previous generation. But when classmates of mine demonstrate this kind of discipline and responsibility with candor on how much it sucks yet plop down in that cube, it is impressive. However...

...I do not want to be an accountant.

Saturday, October 29, 2005


I did not think that I could leave. Strong. I did not think that I could abstain. Very strong. I did not think that I could call back. To hear. To talk. To try it over.


I say: Yea, I'm anxious for the Caribbean. A swimsuit in November, can't beat that. I just wish I was getting a stamp on my passport. The blank stock paper is begging for a little ink. He says: Stick with me kid.

A guy who can pull off 'kid'. Niice. Very niiice.
And things are. Nice, huh?

Monday, October 24, 2005

red, orange, yellow

Fall is here. It was hard to tell exactly when the season changed though. It's an indistinctive transition. The heat slowly subsides only to be contradicted by a relapse. The indecisive climate persisted for a few weeks but now that humidity has dissapated, subways are breathable again, weekends in the city are back to life and Indian Summer is over, I believe autumn in New York is here.

It's a favorite amongst New Yorkers. Fall fashions, crispness in the air, leaves going from green to red soon to be followed by red and green trees, squash soups and decor, iced teas back to hot, school buses, plaid wool, red, orange, yellow everywhere, scarves and fingerless gloves playing chess in the park, patch quilts, #2 pencils, costumes, foliage piles along Central Park, Central Park fountain, meadows, boulders and trails, smell of burnt nuts in the street, lighting candles with the AC off, Havana cigars, lunch pails, elbow patches, Farmers Market harvest tables, pumpkin spiced lattes.

Before moving out here, when I used to only live in a picture of New York in my head, this is what I had imagined. Very few things come to life the way it's pictured in my head. This city is one of the few for me.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

the one

I go to her for words of lovedom. She comes to me for rationale. Our calls are habitual, a natural part of our day, built into our bi-coastal schedules. Her: as she leaves the office, me: right after four episodes of Everybody Loves Raymond. We ping each other all day at work. We hurry back from lunch if we've had to interrupt one of our dreams. And by dreams I mean, "It felt so real, he was there with his ex and I accidentally took a bow and arrow and shot her right in between her eyes. BAM. I never knew I possesed a skill in archery. Then, I woke up." She has gotten me to actually laugh loudly at my screen and caused me to lay my head down on my keyboard. I know I've done the same for her from her indecipherable replies. Hints towards a secret like,interest, fetish are welcomed with the discovery that the other enjoys the same sick qualities in men, humor, movies. La Onda para la vida. I could tell you that 'Sweetest Thing' is on her favorite movies list. She won't say it. She could tell you what 'running errands' is code for. I won't say it. We chronicle the events of reality shows but can't quite recall all the moments in any of our trips. A tale-tell sign of good times. I know which celebrities she got secret cheap thrills from and she still gets repulsed by my intense attraction towards David Letterman. Her speed of celebrity recognition is the same swiftness it took me to call the airlines to extend the visit on the day of departure. She lives in Los Angeles and plays in Hollywood and Sunset. I live in New York and play in the Meatpacking and Lower East Side. We want to trade it all in for aprons. The dream, cupcakes. Cozy cafe with sayings on the tables like: "Broken-hearted? Shoe-shopped out? Have another cupcake, it's on us. There are tissues at the counter as well."

We understand each other but we are not each other. She's long and lean, I'm short and petite. She says guys like smaller packages. I say it's the ones with small packages that can't handle a womanly woman like her. In high-school, I called her monster. I gleaned the nickname from my brother and his friends, her shadow over-towered theirs, hence the name. I have pictures of this. They now ask me if the monster is single. She is an equal opportunity drinker: beer, vodka, wine, even shows a little love to Patron. I consume other things in other ways. I reach into her medicine cabinet and shake around an Rx stickered bottle, she yells, "it's Claritin Winona!." I disappointingly put it back. We both EAT.

Applebees for special occassions. Jerk sauced fingers, beer mugs raised, "To bruins and bears." Clink, clink. Then, we ponder, what's the difference? She got into the southern UC, I got into the Northern. We both don't know how we did that. Both filled with useless pop culture. We can make six degrees of Kevin Bacon into four. Perogis and samoas from the corner bodega on our first trip to New York. Our other friends had reservations at Nobu. We surfed for porn in the hotel and ate on the bed. She falls asleep, fingers tucked gently under her waistline, upper lip hovering over the lower, then drool. Two words, Al Bundy. I have pictures. We think Aunt Jackie was one of the best television characters to have been created. She watches CSI while I watch Nip/Tuck. We both watch Laguna Beach. We reference Sex and the City to cut conversations shorter, "how's the new guy?" "He's got 'Big' issues. And you? How was last night?" "He was dick-a-licious."

We bonded over a long drive, boys, and Gia. The long drive lead to talking about boys then, breaking up with those boys then, renting an Angelina Jolie flick so that we could feel empowered. We both wanted a knife afterwards. Neither can peel a piece a fruit in one coil. I got my braces off, a car and we started to hang out. She still had bands criss-crossing her front teeth, I have pictures, and her used Thunderbird didn't come for a couple more years. That car was Reality Bites, Winona and Janene singing 'Tempted.' And tempted we were, at an early age. We met at the time when we were scouting fake ID's, taking SAT classes and losing our virginities. I lied about mine. She knew. She lied about hers. I knew. Whores.

We knew that we were a little more to each other than other friends. We'd sit at a restaurant and I'd be able to order for her if she was in the bathroom before she even glanced the menu. At house parties, I trusted only her to make my drinks. One part vodka, eight parts tonic, five limes. She's speed dial 3, 1-voicemail, 2-mom. I'm the one she would have check in on her mom or sister. She's the one who knows all the men and boys (mostly the latter) that I have toyed, tossed and teared over. I'm the one who gets to meet her new 'one.' She's in that elusive one-on-one.

I wondered if they met too early in the timeframe of our friendship. I wondered if this would take away from future perogies, lime-infused drinks, dream-sharing, cake batter mixing, Nick at Nite marathons of Roseanne, porn giggles, roadtrips in the Thunderbird. But I've met her 'one' and I like this one. It looks like he might be around for when I pick her up for Applebees' early bird special. I'm going to have to show him the pictures. A lot of Apples lay ahead.

La Onda para la vida.
dry hands

I'm getting older.

I like foods less sweet. I'm taking an interest in world news. I can't seem to sleep in past 10am on the weekends (during college, I never saw 'am' on my clock. 2pm was usual). My hands get dry quickly. I have a tub of lotion on my desk and I am pumping that thing by the hour. Then, I rub it in the way school librarians did. The list of what I won't eat shrank, in fact, I don't think there's anything on it. I now eat peas, eggplant and will never order California Rolls over Sashimi. Still no raisins, should have been left as a grape. I use eye cream. The volume bar on my laptop never exceeds beyond the halfway point. I listen to Billie Holiday, Annie Lennox, Carly Simon and Nina Simone this time of year. Classic movies aren't an assignment anymore, it's leisure. Political satires are understood...somewhat. I tune into Daily News with John Stewart even when an All Access VH1 special is on (fine, they're always on). Chest hair on men, now nice, not nasty. I don't throw out the LL Bean catalog anymore. I have not renewed my subscription to Cosmo and Glamour in years. I now receive Paper, Nylon and New York Magazine. When kids run by, I bite my lip from telling them to slow down. I wonder about things like how much a place in NYC will be in about 5-7 years. How my parents will retire when the corporation of drycleaning doesn't exactly provide a 401K. I think about 401K's and when I will actually start it. Realizing that even if I wanted to try out for the Real World, I can't, I'm past the age cut off (24). Radio stations play B.I.G., Tupac and Snoop Dawg as part of their 'back in the day mix' and I'm baffled. I'm showing less in clubs. I'm going less to clubs. I floss. I use oil on my body. Oil was the enemy for so long, oil-free products isn't a must anymore. Now, I crawl into bed, with my eye mask as a hair band, tuned into John, and rub Vitamin E into my cuticles.

This is either the healthiest or saddest list.

1. Love candles. Hate incense.
2. Love trees. Hate bonsai trees.
3. Love flowers. Hate sunflowers.
4. Love shopping. Hate online shopping.
5. Love text-messaging. Hate phone-talking.
6. Loved all my trips to New York before moving out here. Hate tourists.
7. Love ball point pens. Hate roller ball pens.
8. Love gold. Hate silver.
9. Love jewelry. Hate Tiffany's.
10. Love grandpa sweaters, cigars and wooden chess boards. Hate sweater shrugs, menthols, and online chess.
11. Love summer nights. Hate summer weekends in New York City.
12. Love Valentine's Day at a singles bar. Hate Valentine's Day.
13. Love Wollman's Rink, Rockerfeller Tree, and Barney's Holiday Window Displays. Hate the Bloomingdale's Santa Clause. He's very aggressive.
14. Love nicknames. Hate pet names.
15. Love whispers. Hate baby voices.
16. Love the beach. Hate beach towels. The colors anyway.
17. Love Emack & Bolio's. Hate Coldstone.
18. Love Tasti-D-Lite. Hate soy ice cream.
19. Love soy milk. Hate whole milk.
20. Love Ansel Adams. Hate Ann Geddes.
21. Love surrealism. Hate impressionism.
22. Love Frida Kahlo. Hate self-portraits.
23. Love dresses and skirts. Hate ruffles and bows.
24. Love skiing. Hate ski lifts.
25. Love old name-calling: moron, idiot, shmuck, putz. Hate old endearments: dear, honey, darling.
26. Love Cheddar, brie, and goat cheese. Hate American, gorgonzola, and blue cheese.
27. Love grapes. Hate raisins.
28. Love uniforms, thick athlete socks, and ball park hot dogs. Hate spectating sports.
29. Love manicures. Hate french manicures.
30. Love smile-less winks. Hate the phrase "just kidding."
31. Love unruly, wavey hair. Hate straight hair.
32. Love shopping rewards coupons. Hate Val-U-Pak.
32. Love college in the U.S. Hated studying abroad in Korea.
33. Love Central Park reservoir. Hate treadmills.
34. Love joints. Hate bongs.
35. Love shiatsu and yoga. Hate meditation and incense...

Yep, I really don't like incense.

Wednesday, October 12, 2005

NY "heart" Me

E.B White once said, "It can destroy an individual, or it can fulfill him, depending a good deal on luck. No one should come to New York to live unless he is willing to be lucky."

New York is a place to try your luck, to test yourself, to be pushed and pulled when you just want a siren-less night's sleep. I've always maintained that the trial of life is how a person reacts during toughest times. By that measure, you are constantly reacting in New York. How one maintains their relationships in their bustling New York schedule, how one parties all night in Chelsea after flying in on a red-eye, how one cooks dinner for 8 in their studio, how one scurries around town to pull together an outfit for an evening out on a tight budget, how one walks 20 blocks in a flooding rain storm in their open toed Choos. How one maintains their love for New York even if it doesn't always feel mutual.

There are three types of New Yorkers that establish this city as changeless and ever-changing.

One, those who were born here. They lay the foundation of the city. They keep the city grounded through bequests of old subway lines, what occupied Govenor's Island, great grandfathers that contributed to the Brooklyn Bridge, and outer-borough accents.

Two, those that commute into the city. They sustain the restlessness of the city. They stir up Grand Central and Penn Station. They move crowds forward in the mornings and back in the evenings. They make iconic NYC landmarks like the Brooklyn Bridge functional and historic railroads like the LIRR stay in transit.

Three, those that came here to try their luck. Aspiring artists to young Donalds to green grocers. Monologue memorized Broadway auditioners, Fashion Week runway ready legs, textile graduated cloth cutters and mannequin drapers, spray paint shakers in Williamsburg, skateboard tricksters to contemporary vintage hipsters in the Village. Fresh econ graduates eager to tote their Tumis on Wall Street, partners from Goldberg, Cohen and Levy LLP hailing cabs off Park Ave, ER doctors shooting hoops, having a smoke in between rounds. Manicurists who speak to each other in a language that sounds as if they're yelling but then look up with a smile to ask, "what color you like?" Deli grocers stocked with vegetables, flowers, and perogis. Men on street corners standing guard New York's seven papers, five weeklies, three monthlies. These are the New Yokers that disseminate the passion and frustration of the city. They are liberated and devastated. They feel as high as the Chrysler, then as low as the F line. They are doormen, they are co-op members, they are bike messengers, they are Tri-athletes, they are broken hearts leaning on other broken hearts, they are singles shoe shopping. They come to seek different things but in the end, as E.B. White says, those who come to New York do not seek comfort and convinience. You would live elsewhere if you sought that.

It's a love/hate thing. The best kind.

Tuesday, October 11, 2005

cut and color

I want a new look for my site. This is a generic template provided by a generic blog site. Other bloggers have cooler ones, theirs are personalized. I still have difficulty posting photos so I'm a long way from designing one. I actually attempted to learn. People keep telling me it's not hard. This manual is heavy. Puke green isn't so bad right?

I've been blogging for over two years now. I started right before I left California to move to New York. So for a couple years now I've been meaning to paint my walls and update my site. I'm going to do it. I'm going to splash some color in my life before this year is over. I'm in need of a make-over. Time for a change.

Maybe I should just cut my hair like most women.

Friday, October 07, 2005


Guggenheim. I walked by it and recalled a debate we had of whether it was on the Upper East Side or Upper West Side. We placed a bet then took a walk. He was right. I hated it when he was right.

Whitney. I leaned against a pillar and stared at an exhibit that once displayed a string of luminescent red balls. We were loftily suggesting significances. I don't recall the title nor the meaning of those red balls except that it was the start of 'balls.'

The Bread Bakery. It was about 15 degrees that day. First time seeing each other in daylight. Still hadn't revealed what was under the beenie.

Barnes and Nobles cafe. We read his and hers books on sex tips. We had only kissed at that point. It was so awkward. It was so good.

Brooklyn Bridge. "Are we there yet?" I ask. "No, we're not," he answers. Hmmm. I'd like to go back and sit on a bench at Brooklyn Heights Promenade to view the Manhattan Skyline. Sometimes it's hard to appreciate the beauty of Manhattan while you're in it, you have to step out of it to see it.

Central Park. Bench. He guesses, "It's because I didn't let you in parts of my life, right?" He was right. I hate it when he's right.

Wednesday, October 05, 2005

live before you sleep

Blogs are supposed to be about your life not analogous to your life. I feel things, I go to write, then I reconsider. I edit, delete, and sometimes end up saving a post as a draft until I'm ready to post with certainty. More often than not, those posts get deleted out of chagrin. Carpedium ideas like 'in the moment' and 'live today as your last' are foreign to me. Rather, I practice 'think before you speak' and 'sleep on it and see how you feel in the morning.' I've had a lot of sleepless nights and wound up saying nothing. They say an unexamined life is not worth living but what if examiniation is all your life is?

Monday, October 03, 2005

Tree Guards

They are all over the city. There are so many tree guards, their omnipresence goes unnoticed. But once you take note of them, you'll observe how they all differ. Sometimes they can vary even within the same block. This is because they are privately owned, they don't belong to the city. Typically, the owners of adjacent property are the ones responsible for making sure that something is constructed so that the trees are protected. Wood. Iron. Cylinder. Square. In some shape or form, a construct needs to uphold the trees from all the passersby.

I know this information from speaking to the forestry group of NYC. I sought this information because someone saw these tree guards as potential art. The wrought-iron could be bent beautifully, the wood could be carved intricately or the shapes could be formed uniquely, he thought. I thought it would have made a special birthday gift to give someone a piece of New York City sidewalk. But I knew that if I gifted that, I would be walking by that tree up and down Elizabeth Street where the tea cafe once was.

Putting my guard down to put another up. Hard to do. Unspeakably hard. There have been many passersby and when you finally meet someone you want to stand still with the guard is up. But what does it protect?
Bad Morning

I woke up this morning feeling like I came off a bad dream, a nightmare. As it turns out, it wasn't a dream.

And as of right now, I can't even foresee when I would wake up from it.

How is it possible to feel so liberated and devastated simultaneously?

This post to be continued...

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Sleeping in a Triangle

I'm exhausted. I'm exhausted of always being on around him. Always smiles, nods and great giggles. I actually catch myself winking. Puns, banters, one-liners, all non-stop. I'm scared to stop. I suppose I'm scared to stop because if I do he might learn that I'm not that interesting, that I'm not that interested in much. That I'm perfectly content, no happy, with Netflix, Hunan Munan on speed dial, discount shopping and falling asleep on top of my comforter on a Sunday afternoon. Most my cooking utensils still have their stickers on them. I have contraceptives in my nightstand drawer that are expired. My refrigerator drawers have nothing in them. My toes are always colored because they're stained ochre from always coloring them. I'm quicker to pick up a magazine than a novel.

What if we crawl into bed one night, I put down Little Women and open up an issue of Australian Vogue and he sees me doggy-earing the pages fervently. Will he find it less than monotonous the way I find some of his music. Or undesirable like how his efforts with his friends seem to have surpassed his efforts with me. Or discomforting like how we pass up moments of romance because of the risk of being trite and ordinary.

Or, will he find it endearing? Like the way I find him carrying around a harmonica during winter months in his toggle-coat inner pocket only to be pulled out at a vacant subway station. How just a couple curls peek out from under his beenie. How his hair is starting to silver. How some of his text messages make me actually laugh out loud in my cube. Cooking in boxer breifs, well done. How his hands palm my back fittingly. How he sleeps diagonally on my bed causing me to curl up and sleep in a triangle and I haven't minded.

It would be nice to stretch though. Lay it all out there. Until then, Vogue face down, Little Women face up.

Wednesday, August 31, 2005

Standing in Line

They pop open their menus immediately upon being seated. The only view across the table is the flipside of their menu. The waiter arrives and they speak into their menus as they order. The waiter tucks their menus under his arm and leaves. That was the climax. Now, they're mentally drumming their nails on the table. Their thoughts are the same too, "where is our food?" It's been four minutes. The plates are placed afore them and now their view is of the top of each other's head. Doggie bags are requested as they get ready to head home to a sex-less Netflix night. The dining dead, my greatest fear.

If I meet someone and we stand in line for the early bird buffet, I want to him to be wiping mashers on my face as I stop his tray by keeping mine still on the rail. Standing in line, we do a lot of it. At one point, it won't feel like we're waiting.

Friday, August 26, 2005

Missed Moments

Consider the regrets of non-doings.

I was waiting for my scone when a guy was fiddling with his glasses. A lens popped out. He catches me look over at him fumbling with the circular plastic piece trying to snap it back in. He puts his single-lensed glasses on then looks over at me. I laugh. He says, "I could be constantly winking." I say, "A quick wink is hard enough to pull off." He laughs. My heated scone is up. I reach for it. His heated scone is up. He opens the door for me, it's a small space so he opens it and leans against the door while I brush alongside him to exit. I say thank you. He winks. Then, he shakes his head and acknowledges that's it's hard to pull off, "You're right, that is hard to do." I nod then follow it with an assertive wink. The cafe is at a street corner. The light turns white. I walk.

Should I have walked or talked? Better to pursue a moment of intrigue or best if we leave it as a fond moment in our day? I'll bet a lot of us have a lot of these.
Today to Tomorrow

Today, I hit my favorites.

No agenda, laundry done, patio cafe lunch and a Venti Iced Americano traveling with me from Central Park South to West Broadway. I lied. I do have one obligation for the day, an appointment for a mani/pedi at Bliss. Another favorite.

Sugar scone from Patisserie on Spring & Lafeyette.

Chai tea from Hampton Chutney on Spring & Lafeyette.

(Not in too many cities could you get two seemingly hand-in-hand delights from two completely different stores but on the same block).

Summer clearance/fall preview sales all over the city.

The invention of "short" sizes for pants.

Cloth shopping bags.

Sunglasses that stay on your head firmly and hold your bangs back.

Art galleries with no one in them.

The great roomy bench in between Ralph Lauren and Anthropolgie.

The restrooms at Crate & Barrel. A friend of mine discovered it, it is the hidden jem of public restrooms avail anywhere and this one is always open and always clean.

Washington Square performers...except for the magician...I don't care for the magician. He juggles ocassionally, but it still doesn't do it for me.

Toe separators, they're super funny looking.

Coming home to an empty house. This is an all time favorite. In fact, it's the favorite part of my day...everyday. I wonder if it will ever end. This idea both excites and frightens me. There's a possibility that one day I will walk through a door and have to speak, "Hi, I'm home." Dropping everything and taking all my clothes off and sitting al fresco in front of my laptop can't be done. Rather it'll be about...

Shopping on both sides of the store, men's and women's. Buying two scones, one to bring for home for the mister. Making a call just to say hello from a bench. Having someone educate me on the oil swirls on a canvas. Skipping the magic show to scurry home to cook dinner together. I should enjoy right now while I can...and eat that second scone while my toes are drying.

Tuesday, August 23, 2005

Ticket for One for All

Tonight, I took myself to my third in-the-park screening for the summer. There were many couples there but there were also many singles. Men and women laying on their mats for one, single sandwich in one hand and solo Poland Spring in the other. Thumb stroking their iPods, flipping through Spin, waiting for the movie to start.

New York City, everyone alone together.

Sunday, August 21, 2005

Free Time

Currently, this is what is on my web "Favorites" tab:

New York City: york
NYC Summer
Movies, Pictures
Music, Books:
(Nothing. A real woman shops with her bare two feet, okay maybe not bare...
maybe some wedge this season's Miu Miu platforms).

If I'm not watching Laguna Beach, a DVD from Netflix or loading tunes from Limewire, I'm surfing through one of these.

Tuesday, August 16, 2005

Bigger and Better NOW

It's no secret that New Yorkers are always looking for a better job, bigger apartment and a better, (ah-hem) bigger boyfriend. In the same likeness, New York men are always looking for a better job, a bigger apartment and more girlfriends. So, the question begs, how will we ever settle? Is it possible to settle? And if so, for how long?

In a time when jobs are looked at as 'work' not careers, sub-leases are ever so popular and terms like 'relationships' and 'girlfriend/boyfriend' are not so popular, my generation is in debt. We are living in today, we can have it now, we can have it all. That's good...right? All those cliches sound lovely: "Live in the moment," "The world is your oyster (I still don't get that one)," and, my ever-favorite toast on a first date "To tonight." I'm thinking: to tonight what a$$hole? It's going to take a little more than a falafel..I don't care if it's the best Kabob house in the Village. So yes, we rack up quite a chit on our credit, if we hit the limit, we can open another, they're just waiting for us in our mailbox. But soon, this must all catch up.

So that's the posed problem. I now have a solution. I figure I'll go along with it until they start to jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Never been a beater, I'm more of a joiner. Time to go shopping for a new apartment with my cute broker...just hope my next job can compensate.
Blog, a Safe Haven

I want to re-learn how to blog.

For a while now, I've tried to practice posting words that I can look back on and not want to immediately hit 'delete post.' I'm now re-learning that attempting to write with permanence is not the way. It's not productive, it's not bold and it's not honest. And since, productivity, boldness and even honesty are acknowledged weaknesses, perhaps the first place to work on it is in the privacy of a public journal.

I can't regain the past moments, feelings, frustrations, smiles, and tears that I so wish I had memo'd but I can start now...again. And not only with more immediacy but with more candidness. The other aspect of blogging I tried to be aware of was anonymity. I'm now realizing that privacy is one thing but I've got a tendency to put that at such high regard, my words become extremely encryptic, preventing me from even recalling who/what I was referring to.

The irony of all this is that I've worked hard to keep my blog discrete, to keep it an unascertained safe haven, and to my favor, it doesn't even appear on Google until the 23rd page. So, why be so scared? No one reads it and if they did then maybe it's a productive start to bold honesty.

Wednesday, August 03, 2005

Beat you...and me

Some people break their own hearts so that the other person can't beat them to it.

Saturday, July 30, 2005


I don't need a promise but I do need possibility. I want to know that there is potential.

Pride and protection can often hinder potential or possibilities.

Poop, this is hard.

Monday, July 11, 2005

Wonder Wheel

I went on a Ferris Wheel for the first time this past weekend, correction, Wonder Wheel, at least that's what it's called at Coney Island. When I was younger, I refused to spend my time and money on that slow, unexciting ride when there were countless other more exhilirating, risky, faster rides. Yesterday, the ferris ride felt too quick.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Mind's Eye

We ran into each other on the streets on a rare quiet day in New York City. Some years have passed. Necessary experiences like trips, jobs, maybe even life in other places and life with other people have passed. Both have a busy agenda for the day but will take this chance encounter as a fortuitous opportunity to have a cup of tea. Will rings be worn? Will kids names be exchanged? Or, will tea end with a walk along Central Park? Will new emails have to be exchanged?

My thoughts are not clear but my mind's eye is.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

Home Sweet New York

New York city, people are always moving here and moving away. Thus, I don't feel the need to move. They'll come to me and leave me and then probably a few more to follow. What a lazy ass.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005


In only a month a routine has been established. I have morning coffee people, three in fact, a gal needs options, the street vendor, "Joe," the sweet lady at Au Bon Pain and the punk kid at Starbucks (saying 'punk kid' ages me, doesn't it?). Then, there's the Metro New York free paper guy at the base of the subway. Upon arriving to work, Ray awaits, the 68 year old flirting security guard and finally, Alexandra, the always-on-the-phone but buoyant greeter receptionist, who finally stopped calling me Cindy.

By the time I get to my desk, I have smiled and greeted almost a handful of people. These are the people I will see most during the week. These are potentially the people I can rely on seeing for a long time. So long as no one quits, finds a new street corner, gets fired, decide to stock the morning paper in a news bin, retire, or start telemarketing, I am in a commited relationship. A good one too. There are no conflicts and I would bet that it stays problem-free, perhaps I could have a chat with Joe and the amount of sugar he puts in a "regular," but aside from that, they will always be there for me. I just wonder if they're seeing other people.

Tuesday, April 26, 2005

Talking is Overrated

Girls are always telling each other to communicate more to the boys, "tell him how you feel," "express your concern," "be open and honest with him." Ummm...okay, that all sounds fair...but here's my thought, don't. I know they say that guys need directness, that they can't read between the lines. They read the text, they don't analyze it. Are we sure? They seem to get a lot of other subtext.

"I have an early day tomorrow" after a one off translates to
"thank you for services rendered, please watch your step on your way out" and that message is seems to always be well-received as they're getting dressed.

Even when they ask for you phone number and you turn it around with, 'Why don't you give me yours." It's palpable by the look on their face that they get that it was a polite let down.

And certainly when it's positive feedback, they get it. "Would you like to come up for tea?" Yeah, they get that they're getting it.

"Meet my parents," whether or not they want to get it, they get that things are advancing.

So you see, they aren't as dense and oblivious as we believe. Why is it that we can make a mere sggestion to guys on certain matters and they completely comprehend and in other cases, they need it print, even braile? So, it's not that I'm passive or inexpressive, it's that I assume they get it.

Friday, April 22, 2005


The moment of clarity hits for me when they go to the bathroom. I lay there waiting for the one I was with to return...then it hits, I have only a few minutes to decide whether or not to scurry around for the bra, pull the hair back, lace up and arrange his clothes neatly where he would be laying if it weren't for his clothes tipping him to get dressed, or to fluff the pillow and lay invitingly. A lot can happen while a guy takes a wizz.

Thursday, April 07, 2005


The girl in the cubicle next to me has a planned parenthood appointment next week and has hired a dog-walker. I can hear all her calls. Thus far, work has been not much work. I think they forgot about me. I feel like Ron Livingston in Office Space or Kevin Spacey in American Beauty. I have 42 pads of post-its. How many do you have?

They say to enjoy the honeymoon period. Eventually they'll find their way through the labyrinth of an office and conquer the maze of cubes to find me...with a cup between my ear and the carpeted partition listening to my neighbor call her vet.

Sunday, March 27, 2005

Apron for Sale

Trading in the tray for a desktop. I start in a week. It's advertising.

Okay, okay, I'm pretty excited. It's been a grueling process. The past two months have been rough. Job-searching= soul-searching. Countless interviews. Same suit over and over. Insomnia. Budgeting. Stress. I feel like I'm allowed to exhale now. I wasn't allowed before, they don't allow it at the restaurant.
Pride and Pride

Realization: the purest form of vanity is pride. It is the most image-concious attribute that can discourage or prevent you from acting desirably. It serves as a protector from risking being disappointed, hurt or rejected. It prevails upon insecurity. It's prevalent in me.

For a long time, I prided myself on my pride. I'm starting to re-evaluate things. Perhaps, it has kept me from true expression, from honesty, from living life. I'm not old, but I'm not young. I need to be me. This means taking risks. Wow, at 26 after-school specials are now being learned.

Tuesday, March 22, 2005


I fear that I'm on the brink of a mini-crisis with this job thing, or the lack thereof. Thus, I will remind myself of things to be happy about.

My friends in New York, all two of them. My coffee grinder, it's been with me since college sophomore year. Another thing I've had since college is my nasty habit of smoking and I'm happy to report that for the first time I've cut down. Expanded musical taste. Good Chicken Cacciatore. Free Jamba Juice coupon. Good hair color, finally found a hair dye I like.

Silver lining everywhere.
Job Search

This sucks. I'm think I'm close to taking the very next job offer just to put an end to this. I cannot revise my resume for the umpteenth time. I cannot go through another interview. I cannot put that same suit on again. I cannot keep straightening my hair.

Trying to find a job is like dating. The first interview is the first date, sans cocktails. Awkward, nerve-racking, behaved, proper, unnatural...yep, a first date. Then, both walk away reflecting on the interview and wondering if they should meet again. Was their chemistry? Will they be a good fit? Will they commit? Will they aspire to take the company to the next level? Will they be searching for other jobs while with the company? Will they be easily enticed by other jobs?

Seemingly, everyone is looking for a better job in New York.

Friday, March 18, 2005

Subway singles

Do married people not ride the subway? Do they take other means of transportation? Do they live 'outside' of New York? I never see them on the metro. Ring-less fingers everywhere.
Hanging shoes

What's with the shoes hanging from electric lines? I see them in parts of Brooklyn. I feel like they symbolize something.

Thursday, March 10, 2005

Good guys are good

Maybe I did turn another year. I believe I'm growing past the bad boy thing. What was once exciting and challenging is now looked at with disdain. I'm realizing that all the lesser nice guys (longer way of saying a$$holes) are just boys with too much insecurity and uncertainty of who they are. Men, on the other hand, know who they are, what they want and treat people as they want to be treated. Simple as that. This goes for women too. Confident women aren't scared to be kind and affectionate to those they like. Now, none of this means that these good people have to start sizing the ring finger but isn't it more fun and MORE challenging to risk a little vulnerability and put yourself out there with sincerity? This is my own rebuttal to my Valentine's entry.

Tuesday, March 08, 2005


It made me laugh out loud. I was watching the Amazing Race, and one of the Road Block challenges were titled, "who loves shoes?" All the couple teams handed it straight to their wives/girlfriends. The gay lesbian team were not fond of the challenge. And the gay male couple both wanted to do it. Turns out the challenge was shoe shining but it was great comical rhythm- no one missed a beat, everyone knows where they stand on their love for shoes.

Perhaps, the the big rage of reality shows is the visibility of stereotypes. Reality shows are supposed to be reflections of reality, not produced thus, any topic that was once shunned are now acceptable. Stereotypes are excused (and probably desired) because of the medium it's presented through. Marshall McLuhan's 'the medium is the message' comes to mind- this is one of the rare moments where what you learned from school is leaping to reality.
Sweet 16 ( 10)

Ten years ago, I had a job, I started driving and I had a boyfriend. Now, I'm working part-time, no car, and a boyfriend that's as existent as my Jag. Happy birthday to me.

go girl, work it out.

Thursday, March 03, 2005

Sand is overrated, they're just tiny little rocks

An event bigger than the super-bowl, red sox vs. yankees world series, tour de france, princess diana and prince charles' wedding, jen and ben's breakup, jen and brad's separation, combined, is all over. The 2005 Oscars are done. Sadly, my two fave films of the year, Closer and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, weren't very recognized. They were amongst my fave for the following lines/quotes/zingers/taglines/what have you...(above quote from Eternal Sunshine...)

- If you believe in love at first sight, you never stop looking. (Closer)
-I love her because she doesn't need me. (Closer)
-Don't say it! Don't you fucking say "you're too good for me" I am, but don't say it. (Closer)
-Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating. (Eternal Sunshine...)
-Are we the couples you see in restaurants? Are we the dining dead? (Eternal Sunshine...)
-McRomance. Want some fries with that? (Eternal Sunshine...)
-...I'm just a fucked up girl who is looking for my own peace of mind. Don't assign me yours. (Eternal Sunshine...)

Wednesday, March 02, 2005


I lost my glasses. I can't find 'em anywhere. I've looked in every nook and cranny of this apartment, all two of them. Where could they be? No, where the hell are they?

Something about me, I never lose things...ever. I've been known to be a little uptight with my shit. Rather than letting it go or postponing the search, I'm handicapped from doing anything...until I find my glasses. I'm starting to recognize it as a flaw in me. It prevents me from moving forward, I could draw a parallel here of how I can't look ahead to the future and the depth of my vision is limited to the present but I won't because I can't think or eat, moreover watch American Idol until I find my glasses. I thought taking a moment to pound away at the keyboard would help but nope, as I type I'm looking around for another nook.

missing: red thick framed glasses with the two most important initials in the American alphabet on the side hinge, "cc"
In a heartbeat

The swift ability to have a change of heart always amazed me. Most break ups aren't premediated and planned for an appropriate gradual departure. Sure, in hindsight people are always saying: "I knew it was coming," or "I was just waiting for the right time," or "we were having problems." But recall where things were at the week before or perhaps even the night before. The relationship probably persisted as it normally did (take-home dinner, falling asleep to the movie, sex-less sleepover) and then days or hours later, you're broken up.

While I haven't been in a commited situation for...over five years now, I understand the ability to have a change of heart. I was scrolling through my blog and I cannot believe some of the dates. One week I'm gushing about a boy's musical talents then the next week, I'm giddy about some bartender. Honestly, I didn't realize it, honestly. And in a way, that was nice, to be blissfully ignorant. These days, I fear that I may be too aware, too realisitc. My girls and I are always throwing around the phrase, "keep it real," it's starting to spoil things. I know that most things will end because...well...everything in the past has ended but it was nice when that wasn't a reality.

Tuesday, March 01, 2005


Why is there nothing to write about when things are fine or even great?

Monday, February 21, 2005

The Gates

It took 21 million dollars, 23 miles and 7500 gates to to get me and my friends to meet up outside a restaurant, bar, club or soho.

The Gates at Central Park by Christo and Jean Claude

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

Happy Valentines Day

My best friend and I cracked the code, the meaning of life, the riddle of the sphinx, the Davinci Code...and the answer is this, if you want to be chased, wined, dined and loved by men, treat them exactly the opposite of what you want, treat them like shit.

So, on this Valentine's Day, we were listing some of the sweeter, grander, unforgettable gestures by the past men in our lives. ALL were done in reaction to some of our colder disdained moments.

- I was seeing this guy who always put me second, or third, or twelfth, and during this time I took off for a month without much notice of when I'd be back. "I miss my family and friends, I'll be back." I came home to flowers and a looooong letter.
- She was seeing this guy who wasn't making much of an effort and she ended up meeting someone else. He learned of this and invited her over for some wine and dine.
-There was this guy I poitely said no to for a date. Every time I said no, the events of the date got bigger, from coffee to dinner and a show, a broadway show no less.
-By the last month of the year long relationship with my boyfriend in college, there were no more dates, just 'hanging out,' the sex had dwindled and romance had died. I met someone else and went on a date. I came home to a mixed CD at my doorstep (don't laugh, the mixed CD was the thing to do back then).

This is immature, unhealthy and simply, unkind. Now, once we receive these sweet somethings, can we go to them? No, because it wasn't extended from the right motives. Besides, isn't this what they mean by 'playing games'? Don't we want to be in a situation where our kinder gestures are returned with similar expressions? And what about treating your neighbors how you would want to be treated? Newsflash, men are not your neighbors.

I really hope this is an entry I will look back on and wish I didn't write.

The couple entries following this one is from the other week and I hesitated posting it because it sounded like a potential set up for failure. But then I realized that if I concerned myself with this every time I went to write a gleeful entry and didn't, I'd have a blank olive green blog. Not exactly a bestseller.

So, I did even after what was discovered this past weekend. An ending already? Well, to be honest, with my track record it wouldn't be an 'already' situation, at about a couple months, it has surpassed most 'situations.'

Okay, back to 'is it an ending?'...I'm not sure. Here's my problem. I have a philosophy on the discussion of relationships, don't discuss it. I know that there comes a time when it's hard to abstain from the subject but until that far and away time, shun it. If two people are aimed towards something significant, then I believe it will happen it due time. Prematurely talking about it sets up expectations and responsibilites. Conversely, if it's meant to be casual, then let it be. I mean, after all, having a talk like this isn't exactly light and fun.

I know that some may argue me on this and say that communication is important and that it's wiser to know where the other stands from the start. Perhaps. However, there's this. By telling someone that you're not looking for something serious, it spoils getting to know each other naturally, ironically the fun part. For so long, I've heard AND said, "I'm just looking to have a good time, to get to know people, to enjoy myself..." I don't want to say it or hear it anymore. On this subject, just "shhh..."

Sunday, February 06, 2005

Punxsutawney Phil wrong???

Good weekend. For starters, we finally got a break. A peek of sun, softer winds, and even some melting snow. I haven't been out and about in the city like this past weekend since fall. New Yorkers truly appreciate a nice day in the middle of winter. The entire city is advantageous of the snow-cleared sidewalks and head to cafes, parks, shopping, with dogs, girlfriends, boyfriends, ladies, homies, solo, et al. With all due respect to Phil's forecast, maybe, just maybe his shadow was off. At least, I hope, really hope.

Had excellent Ukraninan food, saw a great flick, had homeade chocolate, walked the village in cirlces, hugged an elephant on 5th ave, cruised along the East River, made a movie... just to name a few.

Saturday, February 05, 2005

Gazed and Confused

It was just one of those great dates where dinner turned into a movie and the movie turned into hot chocolate and the hot chocolate turned into a drive back home along the FDR and the drive back home turned into a gaze at the Manhattan skyline. Even after the long hiatus, things were able to pick up right where they were left. I should really, I mean really, give New York a shot. Why else did I move out here, right?

But, I'm still listening to Peter Cincotti...on repeat.

Thursday, February 03, 2005


I tried to watch the state of the union address earlier- I switched to Vh1. I tried to read a brief New York Times article on an update in the middle east- I turned to the Style section. I tried and complete a petition to in response to Hot 97's obscene Tsunami song- I started listening to 97.1.

To that end, one of my new years resolutions is to become more politically aware. Not even active, just aware. I feel hollow. *sigh*

Perhaps, I need to shift my focus. I've been thinking about what it is that I spend most my time thinking about. It comes down to this: jobs, money, friends, family, boys, travel, weather, weekend, sales and boys. Even when I finish reading a book, not much time is spent on reflecting on it. I read, I finish, then I think about what to order in for dinner. Then, in the not too distant future, I come back to the aforementioned list. "I wonder what he's up to. I want a job that pays well, well enough for me to travel or go out on the weekends and not always have to wait for sales." See, I can even string them into one thought.

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Dreading Weddings (rhymes/puns, can't resist 'em)

I'm looking at three weddings within the next six months. I'm still not certain on my thoughts on marriage and children but I am leaning towards the no wedding thing. In fact, I'm growing a fondness for eloping- it isn't tacky, it's spontaneously romantic (and efficient). It's a good thing that none of my soon-to-be-married friends read my blog...or anyone for that matter *crickets*.

Nope, I do not want it. No thank you with all the planning, flowering, and dress hunting. Yes, somehow it even managed to take the fun out of dress shopping- it goes from shopping to hunting, literally. You aim for a certain color/style then, shoot (purchase) then kill and disect (tailor and alter). I'm steering clear of anything that spoils shopping period. I can't imagine planning something for a year. I can't imagine studying up on flowers to the extent of a botanist. I can't imagine wearing lace unless it's by Betsey Johnson, Heatherette or Commes de Garcons. I can't imagine having to select which friends are close enough to make the bridal party cut. Personally, I think it's your close friends that should be freed of the task. Don't get me wrong, I am honored to be asked to be a part of their special day, I just don't know what I'm good for. For instance, what's the difference between a briday party and a bachelorette party? I asked this question to the soon-to-be-brides and they didn't seem happy to learn that neither of the planning has begun.
Tahoe 2005

A bus, a subway, a shuttle, a plane, and a rental car away I finally arrived in Tahoe for a weekend ski trip. By all the efforts, it might appear as though I'm an avid skier. Well, I'm not. I went a lot growing up and made seasonal trips in college so I do enjoy the annual snow trips however, in truth, the appeal of this trip was to hang out with my new l.a. friend. It was a blast.

The highlight of the trip wasn't the incredible sunny 50 degree weather, perfect powder snow, the amazing accomodations, or even the breathtaking views but it was the biscuits in bed, sushi on the plate as I finished the last piece, and only having to carry my ski poles. I had forgotten how nice it was to not be independent.

Back in NY, on my way out to the market, where I have to juggle the groceries and opening the mail room door with only two hands. Four hands sure would make it easier. *sigh*

Friday, January 21, 2005

Cold but Warm

It is too cold. So cold that you actually feel brain freeze, like you just took a big gulp of slurpee. It's like pins and needles all over your body. It's hard to even crack a smile, your face is too numb. Your hands are too frozen to make a fist, but if you're able to make a fist, it'll stay that way. And your ears? Fuggedaboutit.

What do people in New York do during these months? Especially if you didn't do your homework in the fall and never found a winter-mate. Thus far, my solutions are: Netflix, downloading tunes, ordering from the Szchewan Palace and calling friends back in sunny Cali. *sigh* Luckily this time around, I have my sunny, l.a. buddy here with me. Again, lucky for me but not so lucky for her. Poor gal, we've been had 4 hour days of sun, and 8 hours nights of grim darkness. Let's just say, it's been a lot of Hunan Palace and major q. t. Sure, it wasn't the ideal time to come as far as sightseeing, activities, and more importanly, shopping, however by being snowed in, we got to gab away the way we used to in college during all nighters for finals. Except, this time, there were no books involved. Maybe blizzards aren't always so terrible.

Sunday, January 16, 2005

The Yummy 5

1) John Stewart
2) James Spader
3) Clive Owen
4) Jamie Foxx
5) Jason Bateman
honorable mention: Kiefer Sutherland (Jack Bauer, mmm mmm mmm)

Sure enough...

it's all happening. Every song reminds you of him. Every story somehow relates back. His favorite foods are on the menu. His car is everywhere. His smell is at the bars.

Sure enough, everything reminds you of him. Even the furthest stretch. "That'll be $30 miss." "OMG, he's 30!" "Here's you water, miss." "OMG, he drinks water." "Those are some nice jeans, Candy." "OMG, his ______..."

And this is supposed to be the fun part...

Saturday, January 15, 2005

I wonder

Usually when I'm sad , it's because someone hurt me. This is new because I feel sad but for the exact opposite reason. He was kind, affectionate and it all felt sincere. I wonder if he questions my sincerity because of our start. I wonder if he doubts what I've expressed. I wonder for how long he'll wonder about me.

I wonder who actually makes these things work, especially if there's a continent between them. It makes me sad to realize the inevitable and recognize this as what it will be, a lovely memory.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Good things

It was good. No, it was great. It was 5 years in 5 days. It was back to high-school and college. It was all those cliches: we get each other, I didn't even have to say, there's something there, instant connection, et al. It was pretty neat...*sigh*

Monday, January 03, 2005

I've missed you...

Oh blog, how I've missed you. I haven't meant to neglect you, I've just been busy... wow, I don't think I've ever uttered that phrase before. It's true, I'm never really that busy and so I thought I'd give it try since, those that are 'always busy' seem to always 'feel good about working out,' be 'advancing in their career,' and are 'keeping their mind off boys/girls.' I came, I saw, I just wasn't for me. The later part of the year was a bit non-stop: to school, to the office and to the restaurant, my quiet time of the day was on the subway. I returned to California, to escape to the dreadful start of winter in New York and for a little r & r. I'ts been nice. Real nice.

At 25, and as a new year begins I've come to know a few things about me. I'm not very involved in....anything. I don't own a gym membership and I'll probably sit this year out too. I don't make more than one plan per night. Sometimes I let who's hosting SNL decide whether or not I'll go out on a Saturday night. I don't fly in on Sunday nights to go back into work on Mondays. 'Running errands' on the weekends usually means looking for some obscure building holding a sample sale. I like watching people do yoga. I watch directors' commentaries. I don't eat lunch at the desk, if I am, I'm surfing through entertainment sites or flipping through W mag.

The past few months were rewarding in a productive way, however, I find satisfaction in being able to write a blog entry. As the new year begins, I'm going to go try and go back to smelling roses, as soon as they bloom in New York.


First month was saddening. Second month was depressing. Third month was insanity. And now, at the fourth month, I'm numb. Yep, I'm starting to forget how it is. And now I'm wondering if it's changed.