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.

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.

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.

favorites

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 asleep...food.

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.

wild


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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

:)

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.

Strongest.

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?

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.

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.

love/hate

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.

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.

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.

stroll

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.

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?

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?