As one year comes to a close, and another is about to begin, it is nearly impossible not to reflect on the events of this past year. 2010 brought me joy and sadness. It brought comedy, personal growth and important character building moments. I can't relive this past year in a blog post, as there are many memorable moments that I wish I could share here. Instead, I have chosen my top ten personal highlights from 2010. In no particular order here they are, and as always I hope you enjoy.
10. Clegg David (Fire Island Weekend). Though, it was just a forty-eight hour stay on Fire Island with my best girls, I don't think that any of us were prepared for the amount of fun, hilarity and vomit that would ensue in our favorite weekend getaway. Thanks to BG's Clegg David facebook album, our Fire Island weekend (and Fire Island boyfriends) will live in on infamy.
9. Katy Perry. Katy Perry may have single-handily made my 2010 with her album, entitled, Teenage Dream. (After all, I try to live out my own teenage dream each weekend). Katy Perry, you had me at California Girls. And you kept me going the rest of the year with Teenage Dream and Firework. (I owe a much more enjoyable gym workout to you).
8. Ja Branz's Pooping Trick. What my good friend Jeff did not know when he taught me his pooping trick, was the effect that it would have on my life. (And, well. That I'd blog about it here afterwards--although, he probably should have anticipated that). Jeff's pooping trick helped revolutionize where and when I could use the bathroom. The details of the trick I will not share here, but to you-- Ja Branz, you have changed my 2010, and my world forever.
7. Josh and Diana's Wedding Weekend. What could be better than watching one of my best friends tie the knot, while bat-mitzvah dancing with my high school besties this past August? Well, almost nothing. Except, for the post-wedding aftermath which included simultaneously hooking up (side by side) in the same hotel room, at the same time as one of my best friends.
6. Sid has Sids Weekend. Guz, Peanutbutter Jimmy and a baseball bat, and the start of BGbabe taking photos of me urinating in various bathroom stalls across the Northeast. This May weekend was one that will go down in history. (Well, the history for the eight of us who were there anyway).
5. Meeting my class this year. In my fifth year of teaching, I have had enough teaching years under my belt to rank my classes accordingly from favorite to least favorite. This year's class is currently tied in first place with the 2007-2008 school year. From the minute I met this year's third grade crew; it really was love at first sight. To a group of kids who will hopefully never, ever see this blog--I really adore you guys. You have helped make my 2010 entertaining, joyous, lively and sweet. I think I love you. (Well, most of you).
4. Commuting for Cock Weekend. (c. Bonk). Galin and I scanned the city, traveling far and wide,one weekend, in an effort to meet boys. In the end, we coined our weekend, commuting for cock. (Literally: Commuting around Manhattan in the pursuit of men). Although, the weekend was not a success in the traditional sense of the phrase. (We found none). We had a damn good time trying.
3. Graduation. My life is my own once more, I finished graduate school, and earned my master's degree in 2010. And, most importantly: If I ever get business cards made, I can put small letters at the end of my last name.
2. Modern Family, Glee, and Desperate Housewives. When times were tough, you kept me going. Your wit, humor and entertainment value were enough to keep me coming back for more each and every week. You gave me something to talk about, and more importantly something to look forward to. Thank you for making my Sunday, Tuesday and Wednesday nights a happier, funnier place.
1. Winning the Beverly Hills, 90210 Trivia Contest. Naturally, this was my actual number one highlight of 2010. I always knew that all of the Beverly Hills 90210 trivia that I had accumulated in my head over the last two decades would one day serve its purpose. Indeed, one Tuesday last April; it did just that. And, when the winner was announced, (Me) and the tears streamed down my face. I knew it just doesn't get much better than this. Thank you, 2010. I can't wait to see what 2011 brings.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Weeeekend.
I am officially done with graduate school. HALLELUJAH!!! It was a long, and painful road at times, but I have finally, finally reached the finish line. Attending graduate school can be difficult for anyone. However, attending school part-time, while working full time is quite a daunting task! Just ask anyone who has ever done this. (Ya know. Like me). But, the light finally shines at the end of this tunnel. I have my masters degree, and can resume my life, as I once knew it. No more days, just fourteen hour days for this girl. Free at last, free at last!
This weekend, I spent time with two different groups of friends who I do not get to see nearly as often as I would like. The first, are a group of girls, who I have known since childhood. Due to geography, and other such things, finding a time that we are all free can be quite tricky!
My childhood girlays and I went to a four hour long brunch Sunday afternoon. It was delicious and fun. (We missed you, Sheets!) Our waitress came over to the table, and asked if the four of us at the table were sisters. This was quite a compliment, (my ladies lunch friends are babes)! But, mostly--it was sweet. We've all known each other for such a long time, that it feels natural to feel like family. Sitting together at brunch, sort of amazed me. Each one of us took our turn, catching each other up on the last few months of our lives. It made me stop and think. At the core, I think we are all still the same people we always were. However, listening to the stories, the trials and the tribulations of each other's lives made me realize something. And, it is this: We have all come a long way from the eleven year old girls who used to hang out at the town pool together. Lylat, girlfriends.
On Saturday night, I was graced by the presence of a a different crew of friends. My exciting, lively and fun college boyyyyy friends. Jimmytown, Corey, Brent, Andy Vi and Sid has Sids came to New York City for a little visit. As per usual, I only remember about eight percent of the night, (drinking seven Bacardi and diet cokes while on antibiotics might do that to you). But, I do know this: I loved life, was surprisingly much more of a human than the last time we were all together, and I had a blast dancing to mid 90's dance tunes. (I love you, Whiskey Town DJ. Marry me?) As another weekend comes to an end, I am pleasantly reminded of just how lucky I am to have some fine bitties and homies to spend my days and nights with.
This weekend, I spent time with two different groups of friends who I do not get to see nearly as often as I would like. The first, are a group of girls, who I have known since childhood. Due to geography, and other such things, finding a time that we are all free can be quite tricky!
My childhood girlays and I went to a four hour long brunch Sunday afternoon. It was delicious and fun. (We missed you, Sheets!) Our waitress came over to the table, and asked if the four of us at the table were sisters. This was quite a compliment, (my ladies lunch friends are babes)! But, mostly--it was sweet. We've all known each other for such a long time, that it feels natural to feel like family. Sitting together at brunch, sort of amazed me. Each one of us took our turn, catching each other up on the last few months of our lives. It made me stop and think. At the core, I think we are all still the same people we always were. However, listening to the stories, the trials and the tribulations of each other's lives made me realize something. And, it is this: We have all come a long way from the eleven year old girls who used to hang out at the town pool together. Lylat, girlfriends.
On Saturday night, I was graced by the presence of a a different crew of friends. My exciting, lively and fun college boyyyyy friends. Jimmytown, Corey, Brent, Andy Vi and Sid has Sids came to New York City for a little visit. As per usual, I only remember about eight percent of the night, (drinking seven Bacardi and diet cokes while on antibiotics might do that to you). But, I do know this: I loved life, was surprisingly much more of a human than the last time we were all together, and I had a blast dancing to mid 90's dance tunes. (I love you, Whiskey Town DJ. Marry me?) As another weekend comes to an end, I am pleasantly reminded of just how lucky I am to have some fine bitties and homies to spend my days and nights with.
Thursday, December 16, 2010
Ma Job
Depending on the time of day, the time of year, and what kind of mood I'm in, I may give you a different response on how much I enjoy my job. (Ya know, being a third grade teacher for students with various learning disabilities). There are certain days that I love my job. And, I mean that. I really do. And, then there are certain days that I wish to be anywhere but there. It's strange to feel so oppositely about something that you do every day. But, when you deal with the needs of irrational eight year olds all day, I suppose this is to be expected.
Two days ago, I was outside with my class playing in the yard. It was freezing outside, and I felt that the only way to survive the brutal cold was to run around with the kids. And that is just what I did. They were playing tag, and I asked if I could play too. Their faces lit up. I was the tagger first, but I'm pretty speedy don't you know! (And have legs at least a foot longer than theirs). I quickly tagged one of my students, and the chase was on. Every time I was chased, I screamed. (And, of course I was the only one being chased). I screamed like I was actually being chased by a murderer. (Channeling my inner-eight year old). (An aside: Being chased is like actually scary, even if the person chasing you has not yet hit four feet). I was, laughing, screaming and playing tag in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. How many other adults can say that they do the same thing? (Yup, probably not a whole lot). And, then my heart warmed. I overheard two of the girls talking with one another, "Isn't our teacher the funnest?" Oh, I love you, job.
Yesterday we went on a field trip to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We walked there. It was a half hour walk. And, oh yeah. It was twenty-two degrees outside. Then we stayed outside at the Promenade and did some things, before turning around and heading back to school. It was idiotic. My hands and feet were numb. And, I could no longer feel my face. Oh, I hate you, job.
Our staff holiday party is coming up. When I talk to other friends about their holiday parties. I hear how they stumbled in at two am, hooked up with their co-workers, and threw up on their bosses. Well. When you work in a school, with virtually no men present. Your holiday party is from four to six pm one afternoon in a local restaurant. Sounds fun, right? Lame City. Oh, I hate you, job.
I overhear hilarious comments all day long. I field questions such as, "What was it like to be a kid in the 90's?" (Yes, that was an actual question asked of me). "How old were you when you sat on your first hamster?" (I have never sat on any hamsters). And, while watching Toy Story Three, one of my students raised his hand and asked, "Excuse me, are we allowed to laugh at the funny parts? (Yes, Nick. You are allowed to laugh).Definitely love you, job.
In three days, my vacation (of two weeks) begins. I am ready for this break. Teachers all around the country are ready for this break. Oh, how I love you job.
Two days ago, I was outside with my class playing in the yard. It was freezing outside, and I felt that the only way to survive the brutal cold was to run around with the kids. And that is just what I did. They were playing tag, and I asked if I could play too. Their faces lit up. I was the tagger first, but I'm pretty speedy don't you know! (And have legs at least a foot longer than theirs). I quickly tagged one of my students, and the chase was on. Every time I was chased, I screamed. (And, of course I was the only one being chased). I screamed like I was actually being chased by a murderer. (Channeling my inner-eight year old). (An aside: Being chased is like actually scary, even if the person chasing you has not yet hit four feet). I was, laughing, screaming and playing tag in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. How many other adults can say that they do the same thing? (Yup, probably not a whole lot). And, then my heart warmed. I overheard two of the girls talking with one another, "Isn't our teacher the funnest?" Oh, I love you, job.
Yesterday we went on a field trip to the Brooklyn Heights Promenade. We walked there. It was a half hour walk. And, oh yeah. It was twenty-two degrees outside. Then we stayed outside at the Promenade and did some things, before turning around and heading back to school. It was idiotic. My hands and feet were numb. And, I could no longer feel my face. Oh, I hate you, job.
Our staff holiday party is coming up. When I talk to other friends about their holiday parties. I hear how they stumbled in at two am, hooked up with their co-workers, and threw up on their bosses. Well. When you work in a school, with virtually no men present. Your holiday party is from four to six pm one afternoon in a local restaurant. Sounds fun, right? Lame City. Oh, I hate you, job.
I overhear hilarious comments all day long. I field questions such as, "What was it like to be a kid in the 90's?" (Yes, that was an actual question asked of me). "How old were you when you sat on your first hamster?" (I have never sat on any hamsters). And, while watching Toy Story Three, one of my students raised his hand and asked, "Excuse me, are we allowed to laugh at the funny parts? (Yes, Nick. You are allowed to laugh).Definitely love you, job.
In three days, my vacation (of two weeks) begins. I am ready for this break. Teachers all around the country are ready for this break. Oh, how I love you job.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
2011 Hopes and Wishes
Each morning when my students come into the classroom, they are greeted by me. And, by their daily morning journal. They are asked a question in the format of a friendly letter, and they respond back in the same format. This morning's question was, "What are your hopes and wishes for 2011?" I ask this question each year, (mostly for the purpose of my own amusement). Last year's favorite was written by one of my former students, Alexis. "I hope to eat lots of ravioli in 2010." Below you will find this year's class hopes and wishes for 2011.
I hope for a swing set.
Don't think that's too likely, considering you live on West 17th street, and don't have a backyard.
I want to stay up until ten o'clock.
Dream big!
I hope I don' t step on any rocks.
Okay.
I hope for a new ferret.
What happened to your old one?!
I wish for warmer weather.
Amen Sister!
I hope my sister loses her tooth.
A little weird...but sweet. I'll take it.
I hope for a trampoline, I'm a really good jumper.
Is jumping something that you can be really good at?
I want an x-box.
This one was seen rampantly throughout all of the boys' journals.
And, my personal favorite: I hope to climb Mount Everest in 2011.
I hope for a swing set.
Don't think that's too likely, considering you live on West 17th street, and don't have a backyard.
I want to stay up until ten o'clock.
Dream big!
I hope I don' t step on any rocks.
Okay.
I hope for a new ferret.
What happened to your old one?!
I wish for warmer weather.
Amen Sister!
I hope my sister loses her tooth.
A little weird...but sweet. I'll take it.
I hope for a trampoline, I'm a really good jumper.
Is jumping something that you can be really good at?
I want an x-box.
This one was seen rampantly throughout all of the boys' journals.
And, my personal favorite: I hope to climb Mount Everest in 2011.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
And, One More Reason Why I Love Camp Schodack, Forever.
Just your average, every day impromptu, no planning necessary, pose.
Top Row: Shankoff
Middle Row: James, Me, BGbabe
Bottom Row: Marla, Brookie,Meelz, Syd
Whoops!
It's Sunday night. And, as per usual I can't sleep. So, instead I decided to update my blog with some snazzy photos! The first photo is of me. You see, my Becca Girl just loves to take pictures of me in various bathroom stalls across the Northeast. Each time she does this, it is always quite a surprise to me! This one was taken in a McDonalds rest stop en route to Rhode Island. Don't I have the greatest friends?
Blind Date
The act of dating can be completely exhausting. Especially first dates. Especially, especially, blind first dates. There is only so much head nodding, smiling, and pretending to care about private equity a girl can handle!
A couple of years ago, my friend Shelby and I tried a new dating website called, "Crazy Blind Date." This particular dating website set you and a friend up with another double date duo. The website chose a restaurant or bar for you to meet at. In theory, this is a cool idea. And, if all else fails-- you are still out with one of your friends! (Not the idea, I know. Needless to say, Shelby and I always had way more fun together, than we did with any of the boys that we actually "dated").
In our stint as Crazy Blind Daters, we had some amusing experiences. On our first ever crazy blind double date, only one of the two boys showed up. There we were at a Lower East Side bar. Shelby, myself, and a small Asian stranger, enjoying some cocktails.
Our second and last crazy blind double date, both boys showed up. One was a fashion photographer, and the other was a large black man. The large black man took a liking to Shelby instantly. The fashion photographer could not have been less interested in either of us. The night ended with me leaving early, due to an allergy attack. (Nerd Alert). Shelby was left to entertain these two men by her lonesome. After CrazyBlindDate number two, we were ready to throw in the towel.
Since my time on Crazy Blind date , I have been on many a blind date. And, almost nothing could be worse. I prefer to date people that I know. Well, who doesn't? I like knowing basic information about the person that I'm out with. Questions such as "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" should never have to be asked again. Why can't all dates begin, (mentally) on date number four?
The initial meeting at the bar or restaurant on a blind date makes my top five list of things that I loathe. What could be worse than looking around the venue for the person you are going out with, not completely sure about what they look like? It just feels embarrassing. Kind of like everyone in the place knows that you are on a blind date. And, once you do find each other, what do you do when actually meeting one another? Shake hands? Awkwardly hug? Kiss on the cheek? I don't know, and I may never find out.
And, yet...I continue to allow myself to be put through this form of slight torture. Is meeting new people exciting for me? Absolutely. I love it. But, I would rather meet people first. And if there is a mutual attraction, then go on a date. For now, I think I'm just about ready to hang up my blindfold. Until the next crazy blind date...
A couple of years ago, my friend Shelby and I tried a new dating website called, "Crazy Blind Date." This particular dating website set you and a friend up with another double date duo. The website chose a restaurant or bar for you to meet at. In theory, this is a cool idea. And, if all else fails-- you are still out with one of your friends! (Not the idea, I know. Needless to say, Shelby and I always had way more fun together, than we did with any of the boys that we actually "dated").
In our stint as Crazy Blind Daters, we had some amusing experiences. On our first ever crazy blind double date, only one of the two boys showed up. There we were at a Lower East Side bar. Shelby, myself, and a small Asian stranger, enjoying some cocktails.
Our second and last crazy blind double date, both boys showed up. One was a fashion photographer, and the other was a large black man. The large black man took a liking to Shelby instantly. The fashion photographer could not have been less interested in either of us. The night ended with me leaving early, due to an allergy attack. (Nerd Alert). Shelby was left to entertain these two men by her lonesome. After CrazyBlindDate number two, we were ready to throw in the towel.
Since my time on Crazy Blind date , I have been on many a blind date. And, almost nothing could be worse. I prefer to date people that I know. Well, who doesn't? I like knowing basic information about the person that I'm out with. Questions such as "Where are you from?" and "What do you do?" should never have to be asked again. Why can't all dates begin, (mentally) on date number four?
The initial meeting at the bar or restaurant on a blind date makes my top five list of things that I loathe. What could be worse than looking around the venue for the person you are going out with, not completely sure about what they look like? It just feels embarrassing. Kind of like everyone in the place knows that you are on a blind date. And, once you do find each other, what do you do when actually meeting one another? Shake hands? Awkwardly hug? Kiss on the cheek? I don't know, and I may never find out.
And, yet...I continue to allow myself to be put through this form of slight torture. Is meeting new people exciting for me? Absolutely. I love it. But, I would rather meet people first. And if there is a mutual attraction, then go on a date. For now, I think I'm just about ready to hang up my blindfold. Until the next crazy blind date...
Monday, December 6, 2010
This Just In!
And, for those of you Dog Days enthusiasts. This:
(Thank you, Jkap!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnBau6fL8S8
(Thank you, Jkap!)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BnBau6fL8S8
Saturday, December 4, 2010
The Dog Days are Over
Oh, heyyy December. I am just so pleased by your arrival. (Did you note my sarcasm)? If not, note it. In case you were unsure, winter is undoubtedly my least favorite season of the year.
I would like to first point out, that this blog was written while The Dog Days Are Over played on repeat. I'm told that this song is not new. But, it is new to me. And, right now I can't get enough of it.
If you want to see me at my happiest, stick me in a pair of flip-flops, wearing a pair of sunglasses, preferably on Camp Schodack's green grass. And, if I can't be at camp--put me in some kind of extreme heat. The sweatier, the better! This being said, I know that some people love the winter time. And, okay, I can sort of get that. The holiday season is lovely, snow is pretty, and if you enjoy winter time sports, this could totally be your season. I however, am terrible at winter time sports. But, take any winter time sport, and turn it into a summer time sport, and I'm a champion.
Case and point. I am a scary skier. I look like a four year old balancing on two pieces of spaghetti. However, put me in a pair of water skis, and I glide. Snowboarding? I'm pitiful. But, can I wake board? You betcha! I am an okay ice-skater, but would much prefer to be on roller skates, couples skating like it's 1995.
On Saturday morning, much to my surprise, I discovered the one bright light that winter has to offer me. (Besides, of course, for my birthday). I was just about to devour one of my four daily bowls of Frosted Flakes, when I realized that I had run out of milk. I needed to go buy some. Here is the amazing thing about this: I didn't feel like getting dressed. I had just woken up, and was only wearing a pair of boxers and a bra. (My apartment is hot)! I quickly threw on a pair of leggings, and put my coat on...right over my bra. No shirt for this girl.
FREEDOM!!!
Walking outside, in public, knowing that I was not wearing a shirt was liberating in a way that I had not imagined. (An aside: Walk of shames are are also much more comfortable in the winter time, as you are better able to hide last nights' outfit underneath a large coat).
The score is still a lot (summer) to a little (winter). But, perhaps I will find a couple more bright spots this upcoming winter season.
I would like to first point out, that this blog was written while The Dog Days Are Over played on repeat. I'm told that this song is not new. But, it is new to me. And, right now I can't get enough of it.
If you want to see me at my happiest, stick me in a pair of flip-flops, wearing a pair of sunglasses, preferably on Camp Schodack's green grass. And, if I can't be at camp--put me in some kind of extreme heat. The sweatier, the better! This being said, I know that some people love the winter time. And, okay, I can sort of get that. The holiday season is lovely, snow is pretty, and if you enjoy winter time sports, this could totally be your season. I however, am terrible at winter time sports. But, take any winter time sport, and turn it into a summer time sport, and I'm a champion.
Case and point. I am a scary skier. I look like a four year old balancing on two pieces of spaghetti. However, put me in a pair of water skis, and I glide. Snowboarding? I'm pitiful. But, can I wake board? You betcha! I am an okay ice-skater, but would much prefer to be on roller skates, couples skating like it's 1995.
On Saturday morning, much to my surprise, I discovered the one bright light that winter has to offer me. (Besides, of course, for my birthday). I was just about to devour one of my four daily bowls of Frosted Flakes, when I realized that I had run out of milk. I needed to go buy some. Here is the amazing thing about this: I didn't feel like getting dressed. I had just woken up, and was only wearing a pair of boxers and a bra. (My apartment is hot)! I quickly threw on a pair of leggings, and put my coat on...right over my bra. No shirt for this girl.
FREEDOM!!!
Walking outside, in public, knowing that I was not wearing a shirt was liberating in a way that I had not imagined. (An aside: Walk of shames are are also much more comfortable in the winter time, as you are better able to hide last nights' outfit underneath a large coat).
The score is still a lot (summer) to a little (winter). But, perhaps I will find a couple more bright spots this upcoming winter season.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Glamour and Mystery
The Sunday Night Blues are hitting me hard tonight. After all, it is Sunday night after a five day holiday weekend. And, what a weekend it was!
Before I begin, I would just like to throw a special shout out to Samantha Mumba's "Gotta Tell You." While at home over the weekend, I was having an alone dance party. Just me and my sister's ipod. While dancing, I re-discovered this gem, and simply cannot get enough. (An aside: In February of 2001, shortly after my 17th birthday, and a newly licensed driver, I would race out of school each afternoon just in the nick of time to make it home for TRL to watch Carson Daly announce Samantha Mumba (and her video) as number one).
I was looking through old photo albums in my room. Each one of them intricately labeled. Summer 1999, Junior Year 2000-2001, Senior Year at Rhode Island, 2005-2006, and the list goes on. What I soon realized is that shortly after 2007, there are no photo albums to be found. And, that's when it hit me. Facebook! Every photo that I have, is on facebook for the world to see. With the popularity of facebook, I realize that I don't really have a reason to make scrapbooks anymore. I don't have to take the time to print out my pictures, and place them carefully into albums. While this saves me a lot of work, I can't help but wonder, will the me in ten years be sadly disappointed, when I can't find the album labeled, "2009-2010" Drunken Slutty Times?
On Friday morning, I did something that I don't do very often. I slept past eleven am. I guess all that turkey really did make me sleepy! I was awoken to my mom telling me that she had something really adorable to show me. I was not pleased. I rarely sleep late anymore, and to sleep until 11:30 am, is like a dream come true. Mimi Girl led the way to the family room, where she pushed play on our VCR. (That's right, our VCR. Guess, I'm not the only one who still lives in the 20th century).
On the TV screen, was a home video from 1989, my family on a beach vacation. Even though we were young. (Jeremy was nine years old, I was five (and a half), and Heather was just shy of a year old). All of our personalities really shone through. The video captures me talking to total strangers, while building a sand castle. So, yes. Even as a five year old, I was very friendly, and also, at the same time, completely clueless to my surroundings. The video showed my sister climbing her way out of a blown-up baby pool, up into a grown-up chair. Showing the determined side of Heatzbabi that she still possesses today! And, then there's Jeremy. The video shows him pouring cups of water on Heather while she sat in her baby pool, until she eventually pushed his hands away. So, just like in 2010, he still likes to annoy the crap out of his sisters. (Just kidding Judy, (sort of) Love ya!! )
But, perhaps the most striking thing that this video captures; the one thing that my mom could not get over, was the sound of my voice. I will not be modest. My voice was cute. I'll take it one step further. I sounded adorable. My voice was sweet, angelic and extremely high pitched. It left me to wonder...how on Earth do I have such a deep voice today? My friends have always joked that I have a deep voice for a girl, but I just assumed that I sort of always sounded that way. I never suspected, that once long ago, lurking inside me was the high pitched squeal of a five year old girl. I know that when boys go through puberty, their voices drastically change, as they become much lower. I just wasn't aware that the same thing could be said about girls.
And lastly, in the car on the way from picking up my new comforter. (It's lovely, thanks). Little Mimi Girl broached a sensitive subject. Boyfriends. (Sigh). As I have stated before, my mom never means any harm with these types of conversations, in fact she means the exact opposite. She is just literally my # 1 fan, and finds it confusing that I do not have a boo to call my own.
Recently, she has come up with a new theory as to why this may be. I thought I'd share it here with all of you. She asked me, "Lauren, when you are out at night--are you being a little too silly?"
SILLY!?! What am I, seven years old? But, my mom's translation of silly was this: "I'm worried that you are burping and farting in front of boys you just meet." Yes. This is actually what my mom thinks I do when I first meet new people. Her advice to me: "Maybe when you are out, and meeting new people, you can try to be glamorous and mysterious. I'll let that statement sink in a moment.
Okay. Mysterious. I get it. I'm not very mysterious. Want to know anything about me? Well, I'll probably tell you, twice. (And, then forget that I ever told you anything). And, if not, you can just log onto my blog, and find out for yourself. Fine. Maybe, I could have a more mysterious persona at times. But glamorous!?!? How does one go about "being glamorous," while out at night? If you know the answer to this, please let me know. It would make my mom very happy.
Before I begin, I would just like to throw a special shout out to Samantha Mumba's "Gotta Tell You." While at home over the weekend, I was having an alone dance party. Just me and my sister's ipod. While dancing, I re-discovered this gem, and simply cannot get enough. (An aside: In February of 2001, shortly after my 17th birthday, and a newly licensed driver, I would race out of school each afternoon just in the nick of time to make it home for TRL to watch Carson Daly announce Samantha Mumba (and her video) as number one).
I was looking through old photo albums in my room. Each one of them intricately labeled. Summer 1999, Junior Year 2000-2001, Senior Year at Rhode Island, 2005-2006, and the list goes on. What I soon realized is that shortly after 2007, there are no photo albums to be found. And, that's when it hit me. Facebook! Every photo that I have, is on facebook for the world to see. With the popularity of facebook, I realize that I don't really have a reason to make scrapbooks anymore. I don't have to take the time to print out my pictures, and place them carefully into albums. While this saves me a lot of work, I can't help but wonder, will the me in ten years be sadly disappointed, when I can't find the album labeled, "2009-2010" Drunken Slutty Times?
On Friday morning, I did something that I don't do very often. I slept past eleven am. I guess all that turkey really did make me sleepy! I was awoken to my mom telling me that she had something really adorable to show me. I was not pleased. I rarely sleep late anymore, and to sleep until 11:30 am, is like a dream come true. Mimi Girl led the way to the family room, where she pushed play on our VCR. (That's right, our VCR. Guess, I'm not the only one who still lives in the 20th century).
On the TV screen, was a home video from 1989, my family on a beach vacation. Even though we were young. (Jeremy was nine years old, I was five (and a half), and Heather was just shy of a year old). All of our personalities really shone through. The video captures me talking to total strangers, while building a sand castle. So, yes. Even as a five year old, I was very friendly, and also, at the same time, completely clueless to my surroundings. The video showed my sister climbing her way out of a blown-up baby pool, up into a grown-up chair. Showing the determined side of Heatzbabi that she still possesses today! And, then there's Jeremy. The video shows him pouring cups of water on Heather while she sat in her baby pool, until she eventually pushed his hands away. So, just like in 2010, he still likes to annoy the crap out of his sisters. (Just kidding Judy, (sort of) Love ya!! )
But, perhaps the most striking thing that this video captures; the one thing that my mom could not get over, was the sound of my voice. I will not be modest. My voice was cute. I'll take it one step further. I sounded adorable. My voice was sweet, angelic and extremely high pitched. It left me to wonder...how on Earth do I have such a deep voice today? My friends have always joked that I have a deep voice for a girl, but I just assumed that I sort of always sounded that way. I never suspected, that once long ago, lurking inside me was the high pitched squeal of a five year old girl. I know that when boys go through puberty, their voices drastically change, as they become much lower. I just wasn't aware that the same thing could be said about girls.
And lastly, in the car on the way from picking up my new comforter. (It's lovely, thanks). Little Mimi Girl broached a sensitive subject. Boyfriends. (Sigh). As I have stated before, my mom never means any harm with these types of conversations, in fact she means the exact opposite. She is just literally my # 1 fan, and finds it confusing that I do not have a boo to call my own.
Recently, she has come up with a new theory as to why this may be. I thought I'd share it here with all of you. She asked me, "Lauren, when you are out at night--are you being a little too silly?"
SILLY!?! What am I, seven years old? But, my mom's translation of silly was this: "I'm worried that you are burping and farting in front of boys you just meet." Yes. This is actually what my mom thinks I do when I first meet new people. Her advice to me: "Maybe when you are out, and meeting new people, you can try to be glamorous and mysterious. I'll let that statement sink in a moment.
Okay. Mysterious. I get it. I'm not very mysterious. Want to know anything about me? Well, I'll probably tell you, twice. (And, then forget that I ever told you anything). And, if not, you can just log onto my blog, and find out for yourself. Fine. Maybe, I could have a more mysterious persona at times. But glamorous!?!? How does one go about "being glamorous," while out at night? If you know the answer to this, please let me know. It would make my mom very happy.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving Eve
Someone once said to me that with the exception of sex, there is only one thing that makes him want to go to sleep immediately upon completion. And that, is the completion of the Thanksgiving meal. Amen.
Thanksgiving is a very special holiday to me. And, Thanksgiving's specialness has nothing to do with the turkey, the stuffing, or the act of being thankful for the positives in my life. No. For me, Thanksgiving's splendor has everything to do with the night before Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Thanksgiving Eve, or what I like to call, the greatest night of my life.
For years, the tradition in Livingston, New Jersey, was that once your graduating class had turned twenty-one you would join in the ranks of attending Houlihans the night before Thanksgiving. This right of passage was a magical tradition. I still remember my first Houlihans back in November of 2005. Though, we were seniors in college, once we stepped foot into Houlihans, we had transformed back into highschool "freshman." Standing in our corner of the bar, we saw the "sophomores" to our left. The "juniors" were right across the way, and the "seniors "were next to them. Any super-senior or above was in a different section of the bar. Thanksgiving Eve was the one night of the year that you were guaranteed to see your 10th grade lab partner, your senior-when you were a freshman-crush, and any person who you ever had any sort of sexual history with. And, yes. There was a lot of history in that room. Oh, the glory!
I had four magical years at Houlihans, as I myself moved up the ranks, and watched as the younger classes came in to experience the magic. In the fall of 2009 during the treacherous economic recession, Houlihans was hit hard, was subsequently closed, and thus, a tradition died. And we, (and by we, I do mean I) was never the same again. (An aside: For the exception of my birthday and 9-02-10 day, I have never received more phone calls, text messages, and e-mails then I did on the day that Houlihans closed). Houlihans was my Christmas.
I am very lucky that my highschool class has remained friends, almost nine years later. No, I am not saying that all 358 of us are best friends and spend every weekend together. But, a large percentage of us live in New York City, and many of us are still friends. (And, thanks to facebook I know what the others are up to). Livingston High School, in New York City, we are everywhere. I run into you on the subway, at the gym, and on street corners at 6:55 am on a Monday morning. (I once walked down a quiet NYC block, and the only other person walking on the street was a boy who graduated a year before me from LHS).
I am quite good at keeping in touch with people. This is why I have some of the same friends since I was small. But, what I truly loved about Houlihans was seeing the random people who I had lost track of. That is my bread and butter. This Thanksgiving, without Houlihans, we tried to settle for the next best thing. We crammed ourselves into a different bar, called the Landmark.
The Landmark is about 1/16th the size of Houlihans, and thus this plan did not quite work out as well as I'd imagined. However, some of the people that I spotted inside the Landmark helped satisfy my cravings for my own personal history and nostalgia. From chatting with my 1st-5th grade crush, (Let's just call him Stanley) to catching up with the underclassmen who played on my lacrosse team. I kind of loved everything about being in this crowded room of people who all share a common background. I loved being apart of this culture, that knows what "the oval" is, being around people who once had to carry around a ten pound flour baby for health class, and who once began their mornings with AM Wired. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Thanksgiving Eve, for humoring me; and allowing me the chance to revel in my own nostalgia.
Thanksgiving is a very special holiday to me. And, Thanksgiving's specialness has nothing to do with the turkey, the stuffing, or the act of being thankful for the positives in my life. No. For me, Thanksgiving's splendor has everything to do with the night before Thanksgiving. I am thankful for Thanksgiving Eve, or what I like to call, the greatest night of my life.
For years, the tradition in Livingston, New Jersey, was that once your graduating class had turned twenty-one you would join in the ranks of attending Houlihans the night before Thanksgiving. This right of passage was a magical tradition. I still remember my first Houlihans back in November of 2005. Though, we were seniors in college, once we stepped foot into Houlihans, we had transformed back into highschool "freshman." Standing in our corner of the bar, we saw the "sophomores" to our left. The "juniors" were right across the way, and the "seniors "were next to them. Any super-senior or above was in a different section of the bar. Thanksgiving Eve was the one night of the year that you were guaranteed to see your 10th grade lab partner, your senior-when you were a freshman-crush, and any person who you ever had any sort of sexual history with. And, yes. There was a lot of history in that room. Oh, the glory!
I had four magical years at Houlihans, as I myself moved up the ranks, and watched as the younger classes came in to experience the magic. In the fall of 2009 during the treacherous economic recession, Houlihans was hit hard, was subsequently closed, and thus, a tradition died. And we, (and by we, I do mean I) was never the same again. (An aside: For the exception of my birthday and 9-02-10 day, I have never received more phone calls, text messages, and e-mails then I did on the day that Houlihans closed). Houlihans was my Christmas.
I am very lucky that my highschool class has remained friends, almost nine years later. No, I am not saying that all 358 of us are best friends and spend every weekend together. But, a large percentage of us live in New York City, and many of us are still friends. (And, thanks to facebook I know what the others are up to). Livingston High School, in New York City, we are everywhere. I run into you on the subway, at the gym, and on street corners at 6:55 am on a Monday morning. (I once walked down a quiet NYC block, and the only other person walking on the street was a boy who graduated a year before me from LHS).
I am quite good at keeping in touch with people. This is why I have some of the same friends since I was small. But, what I truly loved about Houlihans was seeing the random people who I had lost track of. That is my bread and butter. This Thanksgiving, without Houlihans, we tried to settle for the next best thing. We crammed ourselves into a different bar, called the Landmark.
The Landmark is about 1/16th the size of Houlihans, and thus this plan did not quite work out as well as I'd imagined. However, some of the people that I spotted inside the Landmark helped satisfy my cravings for my own personal history and nostalgia. From chatting with my 1st-5th grade crush, (Let's just call him Stanley) to catching up with the underclassmen who played on my lacrosse team. I kind of loved everything about being in this crowded room of people who all share a common background. I loved being apart of this culture, that knows what "the oval" is, being around people who once had to carry around a ten pound flour baby for health class, and who once began their mornings with AM Wired. This Thanksgiving, I give thanks to Thanksgiving Eve, for humoring me; and allowing me the chance to revel in my own nostalgia.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Guess Who's Back?
It's officially been one week since my return back to the third grade, from jury duty. I won't lie. I miss jury duty. (A lot). But, mostly, I miss a life where waking up at nine am on a week day was acceptable, and taking an hour and half for lunch each day was encouraged. As always, upon my return to elementary school, some humorous events have occurred. Below you will find, some tales of a third-grade nothing. (Shoutout to Judayy Blume).
1. I overheard a group of my students discussing 50cent. Their conversation went something like this, "You know, 50cent is a very brave man. He's been shot nine times!" For the record, most of my students cannot tie their own shoelaces, cannot tell time, and don't know how to spell their own last names. But, don't you worry! They know that 50cent was shot nine times.
2. When going to the school book fair, Michael asked me if he had enough money with him to buy a book that cost "twenty nine, zero, zero dollars."
3. I was teaching my math class, as a 5th grade sex-ed class was going on simultaneously, loudly out in the hall. I heard the teacher's end of the conversation, "A white, creamy substance will come out of the tip of the penis, once puberty begins. This will happen frequently." (She then launched into a lesson about wet dreams--which by the way-- still baffle me). Following this lesson was a chorus of, "I hope that never happens to me."
4. While playing football during recess, Andrew kept shouting at the others, "It's out of balance! It's out of balance, stop the play!! It's out of balance."
5. And, lastly. I recently received a phone call from one of the parents whose son I teach in math class. She called to ask where I had been for the past two weeks. (FYI: I sent a letter home letting the parents know that I would be on jury duty. However, because I have often seen her son's shoes in the middle of the hallway, I didn't quite expect that letter to make it home to his parents). I told this mother that I had been selected to be on grand jury, and had been serving for the last two weeks. She replied with a laugh, and said "Oh, that makes so much more sense." Matthew told us that you were in jail."
1. I overheard a group of my students discussing 50cent. Their conversation went something like this, "You know, 50cent is a very brave man. He's been shot nine times!" For the record, most of my students cannot tie their own shoelaces, cannot tell time, and don't know how to spell their own last names. But, don't you worry! They know that 50cent was shot nine times.
2. When going to the school book fair, Michael asked me if he had enough money with him to buy a book that cost "twenty nine, zero, zero dollars."
3. I was teaching my math class, as a 5th grade sex-ed class was going on simultaneously, loudly out in the hall. I heard the teacher's end of the conversation, "A white, creamy substance will come out of the tip of the penis, once puberty begins. This will happen frequently." (She then launched into a lesson about wet dreams--which by the way-- still baffle me). Following this lesson was a chorus of, "I hope that never happens to me."
4. While playing football during recess, Andrew kept shouting at the others, "It's out of balance! It's out of balance, stop the play!! It's out of balance."
5. And, lastly. I recently received a phone call from one of the parents whose son I teach in math class. She called to ask where I had been for the past two weeks. (FYI: I sent a letter home letting the parents know that I would be on jury duty. However, because I have often seen her son's shoes in the middle of the hallway, I didn't quite expect that letter to make it home to his parents). I told this mother that I had been selected to be on grand jury, and had been serving for the last two weeks. She replied with a laugh, and said "Oh, that makes so much more sense." Matthew told us that you were in jail."
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Ninety-Five
Back in the year 2000, I read a statistic that rocked my very core of existence. At the time, I was a sixteen year old highschool sophomore, obsessed with the new millennium. (And subsequently loved anything that had to do with the Millennium, even...wince, Will Smith's, Will2k, and The Back StreetBoys album, cleverly titled, Millennium).
I remember reading Newsweek magazine from January, 2000. (An aside: I probably have not picked up a Newsweek since). The article that I read stated that x percent (I can't remember the exact number) of the babies that were born in the 1980's will live to see the year 2100. Yes, I know, knowing the actual number would probably make that statistic more credible. However, I am telling the truth. I even swear on Luke Perry's life, that I once read this statistic, remembered this fact ten years later, and am now reporting it here on my blog. In the year 2100, I would be One-hundred and sixteen years old. Whoa. I can barely wrap my head around turning twenty-seven.
One of my best friends, Brooke, has a very special goal: It is to be the oldest living woman. Yes, that is her actual goal in life, that she has stated out loud, to other human beings. Brooke really reaches for the stars!
Though, my grandmother is not the oldest living woman, she is getting pretty dang close. Today, we celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday, at a party thrown for her by my parents. I can't even begin to comprehend ninety-five. My grandma was born during World War One, before television and radio were invented. She lived on the Lower East Side in a tenement. Her family of five were crammed into a one room apartment, while her father supported the family on less than minimum wage. She was The American Dream. Sometimes, talking with my grandma feels like speaking to an alien from another life time. (I mean that in the most loving way possible). It's just that my grandma really is from another time. She recently asked my younger sister if she was apart of Facelift. (Facebook). My sister and I were actually quite impressed that she knew what facebook was, considering she just learned what an e-mail was last month.
Grandma Eva is the cutest little lady you ever did see. She still lives by herself, and even though my mom is always around to help if she needs, she is still an independent woman! (All the women who independent, throw your hands up at me!)
A party was thrown today in her honor. She was like Homecoming Queen at the prom, and the gigantic smile on her face said it all. So to you, Grandma Eva: Even though, you will never see this blog, (and don't even know what a blog is), it was amazing to be at your birthday party today, to see so many people attend who love you, and who want to celebrate you, and your ninety-five years.
I remember reading Newsweek magazine from January, 2000. (An aside: I probably have not picked up a Newsweek since). The article that I read stated that x percent (I can't remember the exact number) of the babies that were born in the 1980's will live to see the year 2100. Yes, I know, knowing the actual number would probably make that statistic more credible. However, I am telling the truth. I even swear on Luke Perry's life, that I once read this statistic, remembered this fact ten years later, and am now reporting it here on my blog. In the year 2100, I would be One-hundred and sixteen years old. Whoa. I can barely wrap my head around turning twenty-seven.
One of my best friends, Brooke, has a very special goal: It is to be the oldest living woman. Yes, that is her actual goal in life, that she has stated out loud, to other human beings. Brooke really reaches for the stars!
Though, my grandmother is not the oldest living woman, she is getting pretty dang close. Today, we celebrated her ninety-fifth birthday, at a party thrown for her by my parents. I can't even begin to comprehend ninety-five. My grandma was born during World War One, before television and radio were invented. She lived on the Lower East Side in a tenement. Her family of five were crammed into a one room apartment, while her father supported the family on less than minimum wage. She was The American Dream. Sometimes, talking with my grandma feels like speaking to an alien from another life time. (I mean that in the most loving way possible). It's just that my grandma really is from another time. She recently asked my younger sister if she was apart of Facelift. (Facebook). My sister and I were actually quite impressed that she knew what facebook was, considering she just learned what an e-mail was last month.
Grandma Eva is the cutest little lady you ever did see. She still lives by herself, and even though my mom is always around to help if she needs, she is still an independent woman! (All the women who independent, throw your hands up at me!)
A party was thrown today in her honor. She was like Homecoming Queen at the prom, and the gigantic smile on her face said it all. So to you, Grandma Eva: Even though, you will never see this blog, (and don't even know what a blog is), it was amazing to be at your birthday party today, to see so many people attend who love you, and who want to celebrate you, and your ninety-five years.
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Marathon Sunday, and Some Other Things.
Yesterday was truly a great day. It was the New York City Marathon, and what would later become a day of pure inspiration for me. I traveled to the Upper East Side, to watch the marathon, and cheer on DBA (one of my besties) from the sidelines of First Avenue. It was magical. From the amount of people cheering, the spirit, the balloons, banners and signs, it was amazing. I had the chills as I watched runners, young and old, make their way up First Avenue, with smiles on their faces, as they recognized their loved ones from the sidelines. What I know is this: I need to run this marathon. I don't know when. But, the thought of it kind of thrills me, in a way that I never would have imagined.
I learned something quite valuable while at DBA's Post-Marathon Party Sunday night. Aside from the fact, that I love LHS c/o '03 (quite possibly almost as much as '02), I learned that boys do things that girls do too. For example, I watched as an un-named boy deliberated over a text message that he was sending to a girl that he had met the night before. He carefully thought about the wording, edited the text, and then had another female read and re-edit the text before sending. After careful consideration, the text message was sent to the girl who he had met. I often go through a similar ritual when sending a text message to the opposite sex. However, I did not know that boys do this too. Somehow, this news was both baffling, and comforting to me.
I also learned a new deal breaker for guys. One of my friends briefly dated a girl that was affectionately nicknamed Dumb-Dumb. (Surprisingly, this was not the deal breaker). But, what I did not know was that she had been given, yet another secret nickname; Burnt Hair. Creative, and yet straight to the point. Burnt hair's hair smelled burnt the way that can only come from hours of using the straightening iron. Lesson to be learned: Easy on the flat iron, bitches.
Lastly, I would like to write about today. My final day of jury duty. I am sad. For realzies! I never want to go back to work (aka--back to my real life). Jury duty ended, (but not first without a final lunch including all twenty-three jurors together). Numbers were exchanged, facebook friends were added, and hugs and kisses were given amongst all of us. I never anticipated finding, real actual friends in my two week stint as a juror. But, I did. And, you know the old saying, don't you? Jury Duty Friends, are friends forever. I am really going to miss my jury duty crew. I'm not joking. And, I am really not joking that I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. Though, it was not a vacation; being able to wake up at nine am each morning (as opposed to six am) sure feels like one. Coming into "work" each day, to sit next to my new-found juror friends, without any real pressures of deadlines, lesson plans, and overbearing parents is a luxury that I have come to treasure.
And most importantly (and most scarily), I learned that a world without children is kind of glorious. Yes, I love kids, and I do appreciate my job. But, my god--I loved living in a land of adults. What a welcome change! And, according to my original hypothesis, I was in fact atleast sixty-four percent less exhausted than I am during a typical work week. And, so tomorrow--back I go, off to Brooklyn, after a two week hiatus to reclaim my former life. Good-bye rape, murder and scandal. Hello, farting sounds, un-tied shoelaces, and recess.
I learned something quite valuable while at DBA's Post-Marathon Party Sunday night. Aside from the fact, that I love LHS c/o '03 (quite possibly almost as much as '02), I learned that boys do things that girls do too. For example, I watched as an un-named boy deliberated over a text message that he was sending to a girl that he had met the night before. He carefully thought about the wording, edited the text, and then had another female read and re-edit the text before sending. After careful consideration, the text message was sent to the girl who he had met. I often go through a similar ritual when sending a text message to the opposite sex. However, I did not know that boys do this too. Somehow, this news was both baffling, and comforting to me.
I also learned a new deal breaker for guys. One of my friends briefly dated a girl that was affectionately nicknamed Dumb-Dumb. (Surprisingly, this was not the deal breaker). But, what I did not know was that she had been given, yet another secret nickname; Burnt Hair. Creative, and yet straight to the point. Burnt hair's hair smelled burnt the way that can only come from hours of using the straightening iron. Lesson to be learned: Easy on the flat iron, bitches.
Lastly, I would like to write about today. My final day of jury duty. I am sad. For realzies! I never want to go back to work (aka--back to my real life). Jury duty ended, (but not first without a final lunch including all twenty-three jurors together). Numbers were exchanged, facebook friends were added, and hugs and kisses were given amongst all of us. I never anticipated finding, real actual friends in my two week stint as a juror. But, I did. And, you know the old saying, don't you? Jury Duty Friends, are friends forever. I am really going to miss my jury duty crew. I'm not joking. And, I am really not joking that I do not want to go back to work tomorrow. Though, it was not a vacation; being able to wake up at nine am each morning (as opposed to six am) sure feels like one. Coming into "work" each day, to sit next to my new-found juror friends, without any real pressures of deadlines, lesson plans, and overbearing parents is a luxury that I have come to treasure.
And most importantly (and most scarily), I learned that a world without children is kind of glorious. Yes, I love kids, and I do appreciate my job. But, my god--I loved living in a land of adults. What a welcome change! And, according to my original hypothesis, I was in fact atleast sixty-four percent less exhausted than I am during a typical work week. And, so tomorrow--back I go, off to Brooklyn, after a two week hiatus to reclaim my former life. Good-bye rape, murder and scandal. Hello, farting sounds, un-tied shoelaces, and recess.
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Noviembre
Happy November! It's pretty hard to believe that in a few short weeks it will be Thanksgiving. (My favorite holiday of the year), and soon after the official holiday season will be upon us. Eeek! Oh, where has the time gone?
Also, I would like to note that it is currently around four am. I was sleeping. My dream woke me up. (Sex dream), and now I am all riled up; and so, I thought that I'd check in here.
Yesterday, I purchased Shannen Doherty's new book. Some could say that for me, this is all it would take to make for a perfect day; as yet, another former Beverly Hills 90210 star (Brenda Walsh--the bitch of Beverly Hills), released a book. Fact: If you were once on Beverly Hills 90210, and write a book, I will buy it. However, I am disappointed with the redundancy, and snooze factor of this text. I was hoping for some kind of explicit tell-all that detailed Shannen's former "bad girl" ways. Instead it is a "how to" guide on being a bad ass. Oh, really? Did I actually just spend sixteen dollars on a book teaching me how I can be more of a bad ass? Say it isn't so.
I'd also like to point out that while Shannen Doherty was notorious for being a bitch, and extremely difficult to work with, I'm not quite sure how "bad" she was. She was in her twenties, going out to bars, drinking moderate amounts of booze, and having sex with guys. To be honest, this does not sound all that different from the behavior of my single girlfriends living in New York City. None of who are deemed "bad girls." (Just horny, drunk girls).
Tonight (or last I suppose) we celebrated Galzbabi's birthday with a festive, celebratory meal. There were lots of people in attendance, and so, we had to spread out into different tables. Sitting with me, at our all-star table was Ms. Rweissypantz, Mikey A, and Shankman. I will say no more about the time spent at our kids table, because that is just what you three would expect me to do, right? I will say this though: I kind of loved our romantic dinner together. And there is something wonderful about sharing a meal with people who have known you since the mid-90's. After all, who else can you accuse of at one point calling you ugly (me), and fat? (Un-named other female at our table), way back when.
Also, I would like to note that it is currently around four am. I was sleeping. My dream woke me up. (Sex dream), and now I am all riled up; and so, I thought that I'd check in here.
Yesterday, I purchased Shannen Doherty's new book. Some could say that for me, this is all it would take to make for a perfect day; as yet, another former Beverly Hills 90210 star (Brenda Walsh--the bitch of Beverly Hills), released a book. Fact: If you were once on Beverly Hills 90210, and write a book, I will buy it. However, I am disappointed with the redundancy, and snooze factor of this text. I was hoping for some kind of explicit tell-all that detailed Shannen's former "bad girl" ways. Instead it is a "how to" guide on being a bad ass. Oh, really? Did I actually just spend sixteen dollars on a book teaching me how I can be more of a bad ass? Say it isn't so.
I'd also like to point out that while Shannen Doherty was notorious for being a bitch, and extremely difficult to work with, I'm not quite sure how "bad" she was. She was in her twenties, going out to bars, drinking moderate amounts of booze, and having sex with guys. To be honest, this does not sound all that different from the behavior of my single girlfriends living in New York City. None of who are deemed "bad girls." (Just horny, drunk girls).
Tonight (or last I suppose) we celebrated Galzbabi's birthday with a festive, celebratory meal. There were lots of people in attendance, and so, we had to spread out into different tables. Sitting with me, at our all-star table was Ms. Rweissypantz, Mikey A, and Shankman. I will say no more about the time spent at our kids table, because that is just what you three would expect me to do, right? I will say this though: I kind of loved our romantic dinner together. And there is something wonderful about sharing a meal with people who have known you since the mid-90's. After all, who else can you accuse of at one point calling you ugly (me), and fat? (Un-named other female at our table), way back when.
Friday, October 29, 2010
Grand Jury Dutay
When I first learned that I had been summoned for jury duty, my first thought was: How do the fuck do I get out of this? Then, I looked a little bit more closely at my official summons. I soon learned that not only was I chosen for jury duty, but I was being called to serve on GRAND JURY duty, for two weeks. Oy vey! How would I swing leaving my classroom for two whole weeks!? Luckily (or unluckily) your employers have no choice but to let you serve.
When I arrived at the court house on Tuesday morning at nine am, we, the prospective jurors, were told that out of the three hundred people gathered in that room, only forty-six people would be chosen to be split into two different juries for the next two weeks. The forty-six people would be chosen through a random lottery system. As each name was pulled, and called out loud, I breathed a sigh of relief that my name hadn't been called. That is until I heard my name, forty-sixth, dead last. That's right. I was the LAST person to be called for jury duty. Some guys have all the luck.
Well, here I am. One week down, and one week left to go. I am certainly learning a lot. For starters, my job on the jury is not to decide the guilt or innocence of a person. (Thank God!), but it is instead to decide whether or not to indite on the charges being presented. I am learning lots of legal jargon. I am learning, that I could never, ever, ever be a lawyer. I'm learning that I lead a sheltered life, and that hearing about the rape and murder that take place in NYC, all day long, makes you miss the innocence of the third grade just a little bit. But, what I am learning most of all; is that attending jury duty each day is a lot like attending high school.
Each day we come to our small, windowless room, and find our assigned seats. And similarly, just like in a school setting, it is the people nearest you who become your friends. That's right. There are cliques and crews in jury duty. A jury is supposed to be a sampling of New York City, a cross-section of people, a diverse group. And, sure there are some older people, there are people of different races. But, in my section; there are three boys, and three girls, all between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-nine. These people have become my jury duty besties. My very own jury duty crew. Each day in our one hour lunch break, we explore Chinatown and find new places to eat together. Socially, I am quite enjoying jury duty. (An aside: I even developed a jury duty crush, one that I hope will last once our call of jury is over).
Jury duty ends each day at five pm. And, just like in school there was always that annoying person(s) who would ask a question just as the bell was ringing. Everyone would grew increasingly frustrated, and think, Why does this person care? Shut the fuck up. Class is over. (If you were that person in high school, I hated your guts).
In Jury duty, we have our own grown-up venison of this. Each day at five pm, our day's end, the two most annoying jurors (a unanimous opinion amongst the jurors), ask their long winded questions just as it is time to leave after a long day spent in our windowless room.
In a short amount of time, Jury Duty has already changed my perspective on things. It's provided me with an unusual take on certain issues, one that I may not have realized before. It's really wonderful to learn new things about yourself. And, perhaps the greatest lesson that I have learned is that, sometimes it's nice to have a little break from your real life. It is. But, boy am I ready to get back to my favorite little eight year old booger picker-eaters.
When I arrived at the court house on Tuesday morning at nine am, we, the prospective jurors, were told that out of the three hundred people gathered in that room, only forty-six people would be chosen to be split into two different juries for the next two weeks. The forty-six people would be chosen through a random lottery system. As each name was pulled, and called out loud, I breathed a sigh of relief that my name hadn't been called. That is until I heard my name, forty-sixth, dead last. That's right. I was the LAST person to be called for jury duty. Some guys have all the luck.
Well, here I am. One week down, and one week left to go. I am certainly learning a lot. For starters, my job on the jury is not to decide the guilt or innocence of a person. (Thank God!), but it is instead to decide whether or not to indite on the charges being presented. I am learning lots of legal jargon. I am learning, that I could never, ever, ever be a lawyer. I'm learning that I lead a sheltered life, and that hearing about the rape and murder that take place in NYC, all day long, makes you miss the innocence of the third grade just a little bit. But, what I am learning most of all; is that attending jury duty each day is a lot like attending high school.
Each day we come to our small, windowless room, and find our assigned seats. And similarly, just like in a school setting, it is the people nearest you who become your friends. That's right. There are cliques and crews in jury duty. A jury is supposed to be a sampling of New York City, a cross-section of people, a diverse group. And, sure there are some older people, there are people of different races. But, in my section; there are three boys, and three girls, all between the ages of twenty-four and twenty-nine. These people have become my jury duty besties. My very own jury duty crew. Each day in our one hour lunch break, we explore Chinatown and find new places to eat together. Socially, I am quite enjoying jury duty. (An aside: I even developed a jury duty crush, one that I hope will last once our call of jury is over).
Jury duty ends each day at five pm. And, just like in school there was always that annoying person(s) who would ask a question just as the bell was ringing. Everyone would grew increasingly frustrated, and think, Why does this person care? Shut the fuck up. Class is over. (If you were that person in high school, I hated your guts).
In Jury duty, we have our own grown-up venison of this. Each day at five pm, our day's end, the two most annoying jurors (a unanimous opinion amongst the jurors), ask their long winded questions just as it is time to leave after a long day spent in our windowless room.
In a short amount of time, Jury Duty has already changed my perspective on things. It's provided me with an unusual take on certain issues, one that I may not have realized before. It's really wonderful to learn new things about yourself. And, perhaps the greatest lesson that I have learned is that, sometimes it's nice to have a little break from your real life. It is. But, boy am I ready to get back to my favorite little eight year old booger picker-eaters.
Monday, October 25, 2010
Stop, Drop and Roll.
I take a big risk by blogging so candidly. I am letting people (some who are strangers to me) into my life, in a way that is very personal. And while, I have almost zero problems with sharing the details of my life, (the good, the bad, and the mortifying), it's still scary.
A few months ago, I was on a date with a boy. Over dinner we had gotten into a conversation about writing. Writing is one of my greatest passions. It ranks right up there with Luke Perry, watermelon and ketchup. Writing relieves my stress, and brings me an inner calm, that is hard to verbalize to others. With such a great love, it is only natural that this subject came up, when getting to know someone new. With the mention of my blog, my date asked me for the website. I cringed. I did not want to give it to him, not yet. I wasn't ready for a new person, who I could have been interested in, to see my writing. To run the risk of him being turned off by a drunken tale, or personal tidbit. My BGbabe said it best, "Fisher, guys you want to potentially date don't need to read that you like to poop naked." And, well. She's right. But, despite this risk, I continue on...
Whoever said that dating is easy, has never been single, in New York City, in their mid-twenties. Because simply put: Dating. is. not. easy. Sure, it can be a lot of fun. But, it can also be confusing, stressful, and totally exhausting.
You just never know, and there are no guarantees. The dates that you think go well, the ones with chemistry, and end with a post-date text saying that he can't wait to see you again...turn out to be the guys that you never hear from again. (This phenomenon still baffles me). Note to all boys: Do not text a girl telling her how much fun you had, and how much you can't wait to see her again, if you have no intentions of ever seeing her again. Then there are those guys who you never want to hear from again. (Those who are thirty minutes late to a date, and then talk on their blackberry for twenty-five minutes, while you sit at the table sipping on your water). And of course, you always hear from this group of guys again, say--six text messages in one night.
There are those that you thought things may have ended with, and just when you least expect it, creep back into your life. Or maybe there are those that you wish would creep back into your life. And then, there are just the plain old creeps. It's enough to make you want to throw in the towel. Except for one thing. Every time I sign on facebook, someone else my age is engaged, or married. I have never been one to be influenced by what my peers are doing. But, it is hard not to notice this trend. And, oh yeah. My aunt just called to remind me that in less than three months I will be twenty-seven. (Dating aside, this is scary for many reasons). So yes, thank you for that.
I have a love/hate relationship with my mid-twenties. It is one of mostly love. But the hate part comes with the paradox of how different every one's lives are becoming, though we are all the same age. (Do I accept change, or what)? How do I have close friends that are married? How do I have close friends who are still waking up in stranger's beds...in other states? And, how are we leading these very different lives, in the same city, at the same age? As we get older, the change that takes place is inevitable. Like it or not, (not), this is life.
If there is some sort of conclusion to my darting thoughts, it is this: Dating is hard, but the inner optimist in me, hopes for a rewarding end. And, also this: Change is a part of growing up. It's a part of real life. And, so I will continue to surround myself with friends and familiar faces to make these transitions a little bit easier. And though it may not always be easy. Sometimes, you just gotta stop. drop. and roll, with the punches.
A few months ago, I was on a date with a boy. Over dinner we had gotten into a conversation about writing. Writing is one of my greatest passions. It ranks right up there with Luke Perry, watermelon and ketchup. Writing relieves my stress, and brings me an inner calm, that is hard to verbalize to others. With such a great love, it is only natural that this subject came up, when getting to know someone new. With the mention of my blog, my date asked me for the website. I cringed. I did not want to give it to him, not yet. I wasn't ready for a new person, who I could have been interested in, to see my writing. To run the risk of him being turned off by a drunken tale, or personal tidbit. My BGbabe said it best, "Fisher, guys you want to potentially date don't need to read that you like to poop naked." And, well. She's right. But, despite this risk, I continue on...
Whoever said that dating is easy, has never been single, in New York City, in their mid-twenties. Because simply put: Dating. is. not. easy. Sure, it can be a lot of fun. But, it can also be confusing, stressful, and totally exhausting.
You just never know, and there are no guarantees. The dates that you think go well, the ones with chemistry, and end with a post-date text saying that he can't wait to see you again...turn out to be the guys that you never hear from again. (This phenomenon still baffles me). Note to all boys: Do not text a girl telling her how much fun you had, and how much you can't wait to see her again, if you have no intentions of ever seeing her again. Then there are those guys who you never want to hear from again. (Those who are thirty minutes late to a date, and then talk on their blackberry for twenty-five minutes, while you sit at the table sipping on your water). And of course, you always hear from this group of guys again, say--six text messages in one night.
There are those that you thought things may have ended with, and just when you least expect it, creep back into your life. Or maybe there are those that you wish would creep back into your life. And then, there are just the plain old creeps. It's enough to make you want to throw in the towel. Except for one thing. Every time I sign on facebook, someone else my age is engaged, or married. I have never been one to be influenced by what my peers are doing. But, it is hard not to notice this trend. And, oh yeah. My aunt just called to remind me that in less than three months I will be twenty-seven. (Dating aside, this is scary for many reasons). So yes, thank you for that.
I have a love/hate relationship with my mid-twenties. It is one of mostly love. But the hate part comes with the paradox of how different every one's lives are becoming, though we are all the same age. (Do I accept change, or what)? How do I have close friends that are married? How do I have close friends who are still waking up in stranger's beds...in other states? And, how are we leading these very different lives, in the same city, at the same age? As we get older, the change that takes place is inevitable. Like it or not, (not), this is life.
If there is some sort of conclusion to my darting thoughts, it is this: Dating is hard, but the inner optimist in me, hopes for a rewarding end. And, also this: Change is a part of growing up. It's a part of real life. And, so I will continue to surround myself with friends and familiar faces to make these transitions a little bit easier. And though it may not always be easy. Sometimes, you just gotta stop. drop. and roll, with the punches.
Juray Dutay
Tomorrow begins my two week stint as a grand juror, on jury duty. Am I excited to sit in a court room for the next ten days? No, not really. However, I am relishing the chance to sleep atleast an hour later than usual. And, I'd be willing to make a small wager that I will feel atleast sixty-four percent more well rested, than I do in a normal work week, (where I'm say, surrounded by hyper-active eight year olds). Yes, this is a bet, I'm certain that I could win. I'm not saying that people who work all day (with adults) do not feel tired. I'm sure they do feel fatigued, sitting at their desks, staring at the computer screens. But, there is a certain brand of tired, that is reserved solely for teachers. And, well...this week, I will get to see how the other half lives.
Over the next two weeks in court, I will probably not see any apology letters, (apologizing for calling someone a dirty elephant butthole). I'm also mostly sure that my fellow jurors will not arrive to jury duty with a vile of their own blood with them. (No, Nicole. You can't share that for show and tell). And, most likely I won't see any jurors flinging their bodies into the railing above the stairs, only to cry out in pain, "Oh, my weiner!" (Matthew, do you need an icepack?) Yup. I'm thinking that a chance to be around adults might just be the change of pace I'm looking for.
Over the next two weeks in court, I will probably not see any apology letters, (apologizing for calling someone a dirty elephant butthole). I'm also mostly sure that my fellow jurors will not arrive to jury duty with a vile of their own blood with them. (No, Nicole. You can't share that for show and tell). And, most likely I won't see any jurors flinging their bodies into the railing above the stairs, only to cry out in pain, "Oh, my weiner!" (Matthew, do you need an icepack?) Yup. I'm thinking that a chance to be around adults might just be the change of pace I'm looking for.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Do I Know You From Somewhere?
It doesn't take very long for me to write a blog post. I tend to think in blog format seventy-eight percent of the time. Part of the reason that I love to walk everywhere in this city, is that my walks provide me with lots of time to think, and formulate my thoughts. The words and phrases I think in my head, later become my writing material.
My very best blogs usually come from my workouts at the gym. It gets boring up there on the elliptical. So, I am left to let my thoughts wander. (Most likely to think about things that a sixteen year old girl thinks about such as; boys, and what I will wear to school tomorrow).
(An aside: I must look ridiculous while I work out. I belt out the words via lip sync to the songs on my ipod, as if no one else is in the room with me). Tonight was no exception. I was singing, partially dancing, and having the workout of my life, with my newly updated ipod. (Thanks to M. Kirschybar).
As usual, I was getting lost in my own thoughts, (and in Christina Aguilera's, Fighter), when I felt someone staring at me out of the corner of my eye. The machines are set up so that everyone faces each other while working out. It is only natural to check out your neighbors, I do it all the time. But, I could feel the stare boaring into my soul, and it was starting to make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I tried to look away, but eventually we made eye contact. At that moment, my across-the machine neighbor spoke to me. He said, "Hey, hey you, in the gray headband...don't I know you from somewhere?"
I had never seen this human before in my life. However, I have been told that I have the kind of face that looks familiar, so I went along with him. I told him that I didn't think I had ever met him before. (Another aside: Ever notice that at the gym, no one is really talking? So, if you are talking, say over the noise of the other machines, it feels like you are screaming, and your conversation is being heard by millions?) Yes, well. Picture this conversation taking place over an immense silence, while sweating, while trying to talk, breathe and run all at the same time.
"Oh, I know!" said my across-the machine neighbor, "Didn't I sit next to you at Rachel's birthday dinner?" I have quite a few friends named Rachel, but none of them were born in October, and therefore I did not attend a Rachel birthday dinner. When I told him that he must have had me confused with someone else, he said, "No, I know that I know you from somewhere. I know, he said excitedly. I've seen you on Jdate!"
There are four things wrong with his exclamation.
1. I am not on Jdate. I'll admit it, two years ago, I was there. But, only as an attempt to appease my mom who both convinced me, and paid for me to join. However, after two bad dates with a couple of nerdy Jews, I was outta there.
2. There is nothing wrong with online dating. It is a big part of dating culture; after all it is the '90's. However, this is not something that I would want a stranger to scream across a gym filled with healthy, hunky twenty-somethings.
3. Admitting to "knowing" someone from some kind of online forum is moderately creepy in my book.
4. My across the machine neighbor was Indian.
And, so, as I told him that he did not see me on Jdate. He apologized for any trouble he had given me. My machine neighbor avoided eye contact with me for the rest of our work-out. Amen.
My very best blogs usually come from my workouts at the gym. It gets boring up there on the elliptical. So, I am left to let my thoughts wander. (Most likely to think about things that a sixteen year old girl thinks about such as; boys, and what I will wear to school tomorrow).
(An aside: I must look ridiculous while I work out. I belt out the words via lip sync to the songs on my ipod, as if no one else is in the room with me). Tonight was no exception. I was singing, partially dancing, and having the workout of my life, with my newly updated ipod. (Thanks to M. Kirschybar).
As usual, I was getting lost in my own thoughts, (and in Christina Aguilera's, Fighter), when I felt someone staring at me out of the corner of my eye. The machines are set up so that everyone faces each other while working out. It is only natural to check out your neighbors, I do it all the time. But, I could feel the stare boaring into my soul, and it was starting to make me feel a little bit uncomfortable. I tried to look away, but eventually we made eye contact. At that moment, my across-the machine neighbor spoke to me. He said, "Hey, hey you, in the gray headband...don't I know you from somewhere?"
I had never seen this human before in my life. However, I have been told that I have the kind of face that looks familiar, so I went along with him. I told him that I didn't think I had ever met him before. (Another aside: Ever notice that at the gym, no one is really talking? So, if you are talking, say over the noise of the other machines, it feels like you are screaming, and your conversation is being heard by millions?) Yes, well. Picture this conversation taking place over an immense silence, while sweating, while trying to talk, breathe and run all at the same time.
"Oh, I know!" said my across-the machine neighbor, "Didn't I sit next to you at Rachel's birthday dinner?" I have quite a few friends named Rachel, but none of them were born in October, and therefore I did not attend a Rachel birthday dinner. When I told him that he must have had me confused with someone else, he said, "No, I know that I know you from somewhere. I know, he said excitedly. I've seen you on Jdate!"
There are four things wrong with his exclamation.
1. I am not on Jdate. I'll admit it, two years ago, I was there. But, only as an attempt to appease my mom who both convinced me, and paid for me to join. However, after two bad dates with a couple of nerdy Jews, I was outta there.
2. There is nothing wrong with online dating. It is a big part of dating culture; after all it is the '90's. However, this is not something that I would want a stranger to scream across a gym filled with healthy, hunky twenty-somethings.
3. Admitting to "knowing" someone from some kind of online forum is moderately creepy in my book.
4. My across the machine neighbor was Indian.
And, so, as I told him that he did not see me on Jdate. He apologized for any trouble he had given me. My machine neighbor avoided eye contact with me for the rest of our work-out. Amen.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Go Figure!
Sometimes you have plans with someone. And sometimes you just don't feel like going. You are tired, or busy, or something seemingly better comes along, and so you cancel. Sure, we've all been there. But, I recently got an excuse so good (or so awesomely bad), that I had to share it here.
I had set plans with a boy. Let's call him Robby. Robby and I have been trying to meet up for a couple of weeks now, but one of us keeps cancelling on the other. (Hmm...this seems to be an unfortunate pattern for me). All excuses thus far have seemed valid and legitimate. But, it was almost becoming funny how bad we were at getting together.
Just as I was getting out of the shower, getting ready to meet him, I received a text from Robby. He told me he wouldn't be able to make it after all...He had just been hit by a car. (I am not a terrible person for sharing this story here, he is okay, just a broken wrist).But, now, okay. A little bit hilarious? Yes. Of course, he was hit by a car; the night we were supposed to meet one another after weeks of cancellations.
Now, that's dedication to cancellation! Throwing your body into oncoming traffic to avoid hanging out. Just kidding, of course. Robby was very apologetic (though, he did not need to be--the kid just got hit by a car)! And, who knows! Maybe we will actually hang out..unless of course, one of us gets hit by a bus. (Knock on wood).
I had set plans with a boy. Let's call him Robby. Robby and I have been trying to meet up for a couple of weeks now, but one of us keeps cancelling on the other. (Hmm...this seems to be an unfortunate pattern for me). All excuses thus far have seemed valid and legitimate. But, it was almost becoming funny how bad we were at getting together.
Just as I was getting out of the shower, getting ready to meet him, I received a text from Robby. He told me he wouldn't be able to make it after all...He had just been hit by a car. (I am not a terrible person for sharing this story here, he is okay, just a broken wrist).But, now, okay. A little bit hilarious? Yes. Of course, he was hit by a car; the night we were supposed to meet one another after weeks of cancellations.
Now, that's dedication to cancellation! Throwing your body into oncoming traffic to avoid hanging out. Just kidding, of course. Robby was very apologetic (though, he did not need to be--the kid just got hit by a car)! And, who knows! Maybe we will actually hang out..unless of course, one of us gets hit by a bus. (Knock on wood).
P. Diddy Roofied Me
The title of this blog is an inside joke that is not related to anyone I am writing about here, but well, I just had to.
My first time drinking took place at a camp friend's sweet sixteen. My fifteen year old friend (and accomplice), Brooke, had swiped us some alcohol for the big night. I drank a shot of vodka. No one prepared me for the way that shot would burn in my throat, or told me that chasing a shot down with some type of non-alcoholic beverage would have been helpful.
By my senior year of high school, I was chugging whisky in the back of boys' cars. (Bad ass McGee). And now, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I have been drinking for the better part of the decade. For the exception of my 24th birthday (where I clung to walls, and Asians in electric blue wigs), most of my friends tell me that they really can't tell when I'm drunk. (Translation: I have the sober personality of a drunk person). The only differences in my personality while drunk, is that I have the tendency to become a bit more forward (with the gentlemen), tend to retell stories that have already been told, (Oh wait, I do that soberly too), and I continuously text my friends who are not at the same bar as me, telling them how good the music is where I am.
I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. As long as I have my friends, and some mid 90's dance music, I'll have fun just about anywhere. As far as drinking goes, I always thought that I could keep up with the best of them--bring it on bitches! That is...until this past Saturday night; had it not been me making my own drinks, I would have sworn that I had been roofied.
Saturday night, I went to Providence, Rhode Island to visit some of my most favorite men from college. (Did you guys like that? I just called you men). Jimmy, Brent, Andy and Corey, just some of my college besties. The purpose of this blog is mostly meant as an apology to these boys, (that I love) because I literally don't know what happened to me. And well, they don't either. They expected to spend the night with their human friend, from New York City, Lauren Fisher. Instead, they got an intoxicated mess in heels.
After a six hour drive, (it usually only takes three hours), I could not wait to get my night started. The only problem was, besides for my four bowls of frosted flakes in the morning, and four sushi rolls and a banana (eaten at the boys' place), I did not have anything to eat all day. (An aside: This is extremely rare for me. My sweets intake alone, could be my entire caloric consumption for the day). With little food in my stomach, my downward spiral would soon begin. At the boys, I had just two drinks, and is all that I had for the duration of the night). While sipping slowly, we reminisced about college, and took a poll of who was a worse driver, Andy or me. (As it turns out, Andy was voted worse than me, but everyone would rather be in a car with Andy. Due to my reckless speeding, survival rate in Andy's car would be much higher).
After my two drinks, our night would begin. Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about it; except for this: My knees are completely bruised, scraped and cut, because YES, I fell down that many times. I was THAT girl. Apparently, we all went out for a meal after being out, I remember nothing of this meal. I was later told that I spent most of the time in the bathroom. (Yes, trying to pull my own trigger). Additionally, I was also told the following day that I walked into the wrong bathroom, twice.
I woke up the next morning and felt pretty embarrassed about the previous night's events. Let me just say this, it takes A LOT to really embarrass me, but it can be done. My friends told me not to worry, after all I was the same girl who, five years earlier, had passed out on their front lawn, in the rain, at two am. So, to Jimmy, Corey, Brent and Andy; I will say this: Thank you for taking care of me, for listening to me repeat myself about how much I had not eaten all night, for listening to my pooping trick (I'm sure you didn't want to hear that once, let alone six times), for unknowingly lending me your hairbrush, and for a delightful egg sandwich in the morning. Here's to the next time that we are all together, a human, I will be!
My first time drinking took place at a camp friend's sweet sixteen. My fifteen year old friend (and accomplice), Brooke, had swiped us some alcohol for the big night. I drank a shot of vodka. No one prepared me for the way that shot would burn in my throat, or told me that chasing a shot down with some type of non-alcoholic beverage would have been helpful.
By my senior year of high school, I was chugging whisky in the back of boys' cars. (Bad ass McGee). And now, at the ripe old age of twenty-six, I have been drinking for the better part of the decade. For the exception of my 24th birthday (where I clung to walls, and Asians in electric blue wigs), most of my friends tell me that they really can't tell when I'm drunk. (Translation: I have the sober personality of a drunk person). The only differences in my personality while drunk, is that I have the tendency to become a bit more forward (with the gentlemen), tend to retell stories that have already been told, (Oh wait, I do that soberly too), and I continuously text my friends who are not at the same bar as me, telling them how good the music is where I am.
I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. As long as I have my friends, and some mid 90's dance music, I'll have fun just about anywhere. As far as drinking goes, I always thought that I could keep up with the best of them--bring it on bitches! That is...until this past Saturday night; had it not been me making my own drinks, I would have sworn that I had been roofied.
Saturday night, I went to Providence, Rhode Island to visit some of my most favorite men from college. (Did you guys like that? I just called you men). Jimmy, Brent, Andy and Corey, just some of my college besties. The purpose of this blog is mostly meant as an apology to these boys, (that I love) because I literally don't know what happened to me. And well, they don't either. They expected to spend the night with their human friend, from New York City, Lauren Fisher. Instead, they got an intoxicated mess in heels.
After a six hour drive, (it usually only takes three hours), I could not wait to get my night started. The only problem was, besides for my four bowls of frosted flakes in the morning, and four sushi rolls and a banana (eaten at the boys' place), I did not have anything to eat all day. (An aside: This is extremely rare for me. My sweets intake alone, could be my entire caloric consumption for the day). With little food in my stomach, my downward spiral would soon begin. At the boys, I had just two drinks, and is all that I had for the duration of the night). While sipping slowly, we reminisced about college, and took a poll of who was a worse driver, Andy or me. (As it turns out, Andy was voted worse than me, but everyone would rather be in a car with Andy. Due to my reckless speeding, survival rate in Andy's car would be much higher).
After my two drinks, our night would begin. Unfortunately, I can't tell you much about it; except for this: My knees are completely bruised, scraped and cut, because YES, I fell down that many times. I was THAT girl. Apparently, we all went out for a meal after being out, I remember nothing of this meal. I was later told that I spent most of the time in the bathroom. (Yes, trying to pull my own trigger). Additionally, I was also told the following day that I walked into the wrong bathroom, twice.
I woke up the next morning and felt pretty embarrassed about the previous night's events. Let me just say this, it takes A LOT to really embarrass me, but it can be done. My friends told me not to worry, after all I was the same girl who, five years earlier, had passed out on their front lawn, in the rain, at two am. So, to Jimmy, Corey, Brent and Andy; I will say this: Thank you for taking care of me, for listening to me repeat myself about how much I had not eaten all night, for listening to my pooping trick (I'm sure you didn't want to hear that once, let alone six times), for unknowingly lending me your hairbrush, and for a delightful egg sandwich in the morning. Here's to the next time that we are all together, a human, I will be!
Monday, October 4, 2010
A Growned Up Job
If any one theme is clear and consistent with my blog, it is this: I don't want to grow up. But, if I must, (and I guess I have to), I am glad to know that everyone else is growing up alongside with me. This weekend, it really hit me that my friends and I are not only growing up, but have real, actual grown up jobs. (And have had these jobs for some time now). While my job may not always seem the most sophisticated, (Ie: sitting on the floor reading stories, and watching eight year olds stick their fingers up their noses), I know that I am the grown up in the room that my students have to look up to. And well, that is something.
My friends are real smarty-pants(s). They are doctors, lawyers, accountants, financiers, fashionistas and lots of other things; most of which I don't really understand.
This past weekend, I was feeling sick. Instead of going to my regular doctor, I went to a different doctor. I went to one of my best friends, Joelle. Joelle is my age and is now officially a doctor. (It sort of terrifies me that people my age are doctors, because I know what people my age are doing on the weekends). I went to Joelle's apartment and she examined me just as my own doctor would, (only she did not ask me questions about my sexual history; this is probably because she knows everything anyway). It was amazing. Joelle diagnosed me. She told me what would help make me feel better, and then she sent me on my merry way! If growing up means that I get to be comforted and made to feel better by a close friend (fo free), then alright. Maybe this isn't so bad after all...
Also, a total aside, but this just happened, and I wanted to share. In my math class we are learning about Greater Than, Less Than and Equal To (<, >, =). One of my students asked me what age I would want to be greater than and what age I would want to be less than. What a fun question! My answer was that I would like to be greater than seventeen, but less than forty. Almost all of my students said that they would want to be greater than seventeen. One of my students raised his hand and said, "How come everyone wants to be seventeen? Is it because seventeen year olds can jump really high or something?" Yup. Or something.
My friends are real smarty-pants(s). They are doctors, lawyers, accountants, financiers, fashionistas and lots of other things; most of which I don't really understand.
This past weekend, I was feeling sick. Instead of going to my regular doctor, I went to a different doctor. I went to one of my best friends, Joelle. Joelle is my age and is now officially a doctor. (It sort of terrifies me that people my age are doctors, because I know what people my age are doing on the weekends). I went to Joelle's apartment and she examined me just as my own doctor would, (only she did not ask me questions about my sexual history; this is probably because she knows everything anyway). It was amazing. Joelle diagnosed me. She told me what would help make me feel better, and then she sent me on my merry way! If growing up means that I get to be comforted and made to feel better by a close friend (fo free), then alright. Maybe this isn't so bad after all...
Also, a total aside, but this just happened, and I wanted to share. In my math class we are learning about Greater Than, Less Than and Equal To (<, >, =). One of my students asked me what age I would want to be greater than and what age I would want to be less than. What a fun question! My answer was that I would like to be greater than seventeen, but less than forty. Almost all of my students said that they would want to be greater than seventeen. One of my students raised his hand and said, "How come everyone wants to be seventeen? Is it because seventeen year olds can jump really high or something?" Yup. Or something.
Friday, October 1, 2010
In Case You Missed Them
Someone recently said to me that my blog is not really about my students anymore, but that it is often about me getting drunk. Well, what can I say? Priorities, priorities.
But, in case you missed them...here are some highlights from this past week in the Third Grade...
In math class, we are studying estimation. I pulled out all the stops on this one, bringing in jars of jelly beans, m & m's and skittles. My students and I had a good time trying to guess how many of those little suckers fit into those jars. (And, then we had an even better time afterwards eating the math manipulatives).
The number of individual objects, strategically placed by me, were all under 200. Therefore the counting of these items outloud together, was a relatively painless process. That is until, Miles, (one of my students) asked if we could estimate, and then count all of the legos in the classroom. Oy. The legos are kept in a GIANT blue tub, and there had to be at least 1,000 of them in there. As a teacher, I know that when your students have an interest in something, you are supposed to capitalize on it, but I didn't know if I had all that counting out loud in my already hoarse voice in me. Soon, desperate cries of "Oh, please can we count the legos, Please," were heard around the room. How could I say no to this vested interest in estimation? And so, with a heavy heart, I trudged over to where the legos are kept, pulled out the box, and began to count each individual lego, piece by piece with my students. Two math periods, and 2, 456 legos later, we found our answer. And, I know mine. Fuck what my students are interested in.
One of my most adorable students is a small Asian girl (with a super-Irish last name) named Annie. Annie has bangs that cut straight across her forehead, adorable little glasses, and a smile so contagious, I can't not smile when I'm talking to her. (She is just that freaking cute). Annie has an infectious personality. Though, she is a new student this year, she is the friendliest, most outgoing child I have ever met in my life. Each day Annie arrives to school wearing a striped t-shirt, a solid color skirt, (usually pink), and some sort of print on her leggings. (Animals, flowers, polka dots). On her feet, she wears colorful mis-matched socks with sandals. Today, during read aloud, Annie curled up in my lap while I read. After about five minutes of reading, I looked down at her, and Annie was fast asleep. It was precious. I let her sleep until I finished reading. And, wouldn't you know, when Annie woke up, and took her head out of my lap; there it was. A tiny little puddle of drool on my skirt.
Dismissal at the end of the day is done from our individual classrooms. During dismissal time, kids have a free choice time. They are able to draw, read, play with games etc. This is also a time that my students ask me to play music from my computer. Here are this week's latest requests: Taio Cruise-Dynamite, Eminem-Lose Yourself. (2002, Holla!) Lady Gaga-Pokerface, Katy Perry-Teenage Dream (my personal fave these days), and as always the song that is popular every year in my classroom, We Will Rock You.
And, lastly...a story not about one of my students, but about me, and my butt. You see, I have a pair of boxers that I love to sleep in. They are soft, and comfy, and I have had them forever. The one problem is, somehow what started as a little hole in the butt of my boxers, has turned into a giant window, where you can see my entire ass. (Picture ass-less chaps, but in boxer form). Despite the giant hole, I continue to wear them when I'm alone in my apartment. Washing the dishes in my kitchen one night, my roommate had walked in the door from work. With my back to her, (forgetting that I was wearing my faux-ass-less chaps), I heard laughter coming from her. Bonk looked at me, and simply said, "Fisher. You're disgusting." Oh, if only I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
But, in case you missed them...here are some highlights from this past week in the Third Grade...
In math class, we are studying estimation. I pulled out all the stops on this one, bringing in jars of jelly beans, m & m's and skittles. My students and I had a good time trying to guess how many of those little suckers fit into those jars. (And, then we had an even better time afterwards eating the math manipulatives).
The number of individual objects, strategically placed by me, were all under 200. Therefore the counting of these items outloud together, was a relatively painless process. That is until, Miles, (one of my students) asked if we could estimate, and then count all of the legos in the classroom. Oy. The legos are kept in a GIANT blue tub, and there had to be at least 1,000 of them in there. As a teacher, I know that when your students have an interest in something, you are supposed to capitalize on it, but I didn't know if I had all that counting out loud in my already hoarse voice in me. Soon, desperate cries of "Oh, please can we count the legos, Please," were heard around the room. How could I say no to this vested interest in estimation? And so, with a heavy heart, I trudged over to where the legos are kept, pulled out the box, and began to count each individual lego, piece by piece with my students. Two math periods, and 2, 456 legos later, we found our answer. And, I know mine. Fuck what my students are interested in.
One of my most adorable students is a small Asian girl (with a super-Irish last name) named Annie. Annie has bangs that cut straight across her forehead, adorable little glasses, and a smile so contagious, I can't not smile when I'm talking to her. (She is just that freaking cute). Annie has an infectious personality. Though, she is a new student this year, she is the friendliest, most outgoing child I have ever met in my life. Each day Annie arrives to school wearing a striped t-shirt, a solid color skirt, (usually pink), and some sort of print on her leggings. (Animals, flowers, polka dots). On her feet, she wears colorful mis-matched socks with sandals. Today, during read aloud, Annie curled up in my lap while I read. After about five minutes of reading, I looked down at her, and Annie was fast asleep. It was precious. I let her sleep until I finished reading. And, wouldn't you know, when Annie woke up, and took her head out of my lap; there it was. A tiny little puddle of drool on my skirt.
Dismissal at the end of the day is done from our individual classrooms. During dismissal time, kids have a free choice time. They are able to draw, read, play with games etc. This is also a time that my students ask me to play music from my computer. Here are this week's latest requests: Taio Cruise-Dynamite, Eminem-Lose Yourself. (2002, Holla!) Lady Gaga-Pokerface, Katy Perry-Teenage Dream (my personal fave these days), and as always the song that is popular every year in my classroom, We Will Rock You.
And, lastly...a story not about one of my students, but about me, and my butt. You see, I have a pair of boxers that I love to sleep in. They are soft, and comfy, and I have had them forever. The one problem is, somehow what started as a little hole in the butt of my boxers, has turned into a giant window, where you can see my entire ass. (Picture ass-less chaps, but in boxer form). Despite the giant hole, I continue to wear them when I'm alone in my apartment. Washing the dishes in my kitchen one night, my roommate had walked in the door from work. With my back to her, (forgetting that I was wearing my faux-ass-less chaps), I heard laughter coming from her. Bonk looked at me, and simply said, "Fisher. You're disgusting." Oh, if only I had a dollar for every time I heard that...
Friday, September 24, 2010
Weekend Update
My weekend began Thursday night with an excitingly awesome, unexpected visit from one of my most favorite college friends in all the land, Corey D-W. Corey and I met our freshman year, on the first day of class. It's funny the things that you remember about people. But, I can still remember what Corey wore on that first day of class. (Creepy and weird? Yes. Corey, still be my friend?) Corey and I became friends fast, and our friendship blossomed over daily lunches at Subway. (Sure, we're pretty classy).
Corey has been living in Japan since college graduation. In the past four years, I have only seen him once when he came home for the holidays two years ago. (That is, until Thursday night, when Corey arrived in NYC). What do Corey and I remember about Thursday night? Well, not a whole lot. What I do know is this: Being sleep deprived and hung over, when you work with eight year old children is a fate more torturous than death. And also this: Corey texted me on Friday morning to tell me that if I even think about blogging about the previous night's events, that he would murder me in my sleep. Since I value my life (and Corey), I will respect his wishes, and only say this: Welcome back, 2005. Nice to see you again.
Friday night was a party at Rockoff's (Modern Life). And, Saturday night was a party at Meelzy, France and Shelbay's. An excellent crew made for two very fun nights. But, the most important thing that I came away with, was a story told by Miss Rweiss on Friday night. A story, so terrifying, that it will continue to haunt me for days to come. However, this story is too good NOT to share with all of you. I give you the following tale:
Corey has been living in Japan since college graduation. In the past four years, I have only seen him once when he came home for the holidays two years ago. (That is, until Thursday night, when Corey arrived in NYC). What do Corey and I remember about Thursday night? Well, not a whole lot. What I do know is this: Being sleep deprived and hung over, when you work with eight year old children is a fate more torturous than death. And also this: Corey texted me on Friday morning to tell me that if I even think about blogging about the previous night's events, that he would murder me in my sleep. Since I value my life (and Corey), I will respect his wishes, and only say this: Welcome back, 2005. Nice to see you again.
Friday night was a party at Rockoff's (Modern Life). And, Saturday night was a party at Meelzy, France and Shelbay's. An excellent crew made for two very fun nights. But, the most important thing that I came away with, was a story told by Miss Rweiss on Friday night. A story, so terrifying, that it will continue to haunt me for days to come. However, this story is too good NOT to share with all of you. I give you the following tale:
Rweiss's friend went on a date with a guy. Things went really well, and said friend went back to the guy's apartment. I think we all know what happens next.
The next morning, when Rweiss's friend woke up, the guy had already left for work. As friend got ready to go about her day, she made a little stop in the bathroom...and pooped. When she went to flush, she realized it was not going down. (FYI: This is one of my top 5 worst nightmares). After many attempts to unclog the toilet, Rweiss's friend did what any twenty-six year old girl would do in this situation. She scooped out her own shit and placed it into a ziplock bag that she had found in the kitchen. She left the bag of her shit on the kitchen counter, as she would dispose of it when she left the apartment. Rweiss's friend liked this guy, and hoped to see him again. Before leaving, She wrote him a note, and placed it on the counter, "Had a great time last night, call me." She slipped out the apartment door, and just as the door clicked, and locked behind her...she realized that her fate had already been sealed. Rweiss's friend had accidentally left the baggie of shit next to the note. Yes, you read that correctly. Rweiss's friend LEFT A BAG OF HER SHIT, NEXT TO A NOTE THAT SAID, "CALL ME."
Needless to say, her date did not call her, as per her request. But, I think that an extremely important lesson has been learned. It is this: If you take a shit at the apartment of someone you have just exchanged bodily fluids with, and the toilet is not flushing, forcing you to scoop out your own feces, and placing it into a ziplock bag...then please be sure to dispose of any and all fecal matter immejiately. That's right, immejiately.
The next morning, when Rweiss's friend woke up, the guy had already left for work. As friend got ready to go about her day, she made a little stop in the bathroom...and pooped. When she went to flush, she realized it was not going down. (FYI: This is one of my top 5 worst nightmares). After many attempts to unclog the toilet, Rweiss's friend did what any twenty-six year old girl would do in this situation. She scooped out her own shit and placed it into a ziplock bag that she had found in the kitchen. She left the bag of her shit on the kitchen counter, as she would dispose of it when she left the apartment. Rweiss's friend liked this guy, and hoped to see him again. Before leaving, She wrote him a note, and placed it on the counter, "Had a great time last night, call me." She slipped out the apartment door, and just as the door clicked, and locked behind her...she realized that her fate had already been sealed. Rweiss's friend had accidentally left the baggie of shit next to the note. Yes, you read that correctly. Rweiss's friend LEFT A BAG OF HER SHIT, NEXT TO A NOTE THAT SAID, "CALL ME."
Needless to say, her date did not call her, as per her request. But, I think that an extremely important lesson has been learned. It is this: If you take a shit at the apartment of someone you have just exchanged bodily fluids with, and the toilet is not flushing, forcing you to scoop out your own feces, and placing it into a ziplock bag...then please be sure to dispose of any and all fecal matter immejiately. That's right, immejiately.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Treasures Beneath My Bed
As per usual, when finding myself home in New Jersey, I am forced to look through old mementos in my room. Shockingly, tonight's search was not fueled with my usual bout of nostalgia, but rather because I am a mess of life, and am losing all of my belongings. First there was my wallet, (Grandma Eva found it, thankfully!) Next came my ipod, and now one of my favorites shirts is missing. (A travesty in my opinion). Both objects seemed to have disappeared right from thin air, so I hoped for the slim chance that these items could be found in my Livingston, New Jersey bedroom. Both my ipod and my shirt were no where to be found, but all was not lost. Instead I found myself on the floor of my room, knee deep in the past. Here is what I discovered:
1.Delia's Catalog circa de 1997. I love that the early 90's fashion is infused everywhere, even the mid 90's styles are back. (Ie: plaid, flannel, and animal print). But, please, please, please don't bring back the late 90's. Nothing about these styles are flattering. Ladies, this Delia's catalog speaks for itself.
2. A map of Camp Schodack circa de 1997. (This is coming back to the city with me, framed).
3. The handwritten lyrics to Crystal Waters, Pulse. (From the back to the middle and around again, I'm gonna be there till the end--100 percent. Pure love).
4. A slew of old college pictures. Hm. I wish someone would have told me that tight tank tops did not match well with a beer gut.
5. A picture of my dorm room, sophomore year of college. (2003-2004). The room had a rainbow border (that I bought from a teacher store) and the walls were covered in assorted rainbows, pictures of my friends, and 90210 paraphernalia. Hm. Sounds vaguely familiar...
6. The MOST unbelievable pair of teacher-on-Halloween earrings. (Picture your 4th grade teacher on Halloween). Dangly jack-o-lanterns dressed as tricker treaters. (These will also be returning to New York City with me).
7. A pink ballet tutu. I must find a way to wear this out.
8. A sparkly hat that looks similar to what I would imagine a cartoon DJ would wear. Can that be my Halloween costume, cartoon disc jockey?
9. The Mt. Pleasant Middle School Phone Directory from the '96-'97 school year. Something about seeing the name Lauren Fisher ,with my own private phone line, (which no longer exists anymore), and Grade 7 written next to my phone number really, really made me smile.
10. An entire book of stamps!! (This would be a huge score, if the stamps weren't from the year 2000).
11. A pair of bowling shoes, taken right from the alley.
12. And, lastly...A paper dog wearing a sign that says, "I like it ruff!" (No doubt this was stolen from Jay-Riv's house in college).
1.Delia's Catalog circa de 1997. I love that the early 90's fashion is infused everywhere, even the mid 90's styles are back. (Ie: plaid, flannel, and animal print). But, please, please, please don't bring back the late 90's. Nothing about these styles are flattering. Ladies, this Delia's catalog speaks for itself.
2. A map of Camp Schodack circa de 1997. (This is coming back to the city with me, framed).
3. The handwritten lyrics to Crystal Waters, Pulse. (From the back to the middle and around again, I'm gonna be there till the end--100 percent. Pure love).
4. A slew of old college pictures. Hm. I wish someone would have told me that tight tank tops did not match well with a beer gut.
5. A picture of my dorm room, sophomore year of college. (2003-2004). The room had a rainbow border (that I bought from a teacher store) and the walls were covered in assorted rainbows, pictures of my friends, and 90210 paraphernalia. Hm. Sounds vaguely familiar...
6. The MOST unbelievable pair of teacher-on-Halloween earrings. (Picture your 4th grade teacher on Halloween). Dangly jack-o-lanterns dressed as tricker treaters. (These will also be returning to New York City with me).
7. A pink ballet tutu. I must find a way to wear this out.
8. A sparkly hat that looks similar to what I would imagine a cartoon DJ would wear. Can that be my Halloween costume, cartoon disc jockey?
9. The Mt. Pleasant Middle School Phone Directory from the '96-'97 school year. Something about seeing the name Lauren Fisher ,with my own private phone line, (which no longer exists anymore), and Grade 7 written next to my phone number really, really made me smile.
10. An entire book of stamps!! (This would be a huge score, if the stamps weren't from the year 2000).
11. A pair of bowling shoes, taken right from the alley.
12. And, lastly...A paper dog wearing a sign that says, "I like it ruff!" (No doubt this was stolen from Jay-Riv's house in college).
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Just a Little Bloodtest
This morning, I had to go to a lab for some routine blood work. I hate blood work, (no duh). And, I can't help but wonder about the people whose job it is to prick people with needles on a daily basis, filling viles with human blood. Just so you know, the very typing of that sentence makes me queasy.
As the blood technician filled out my paperwork, she asked me basic questions; such as my name, my address, and my date of birth. Then, she paused, and asked me how many sexual partners I had in the past year. Excuse me? She then continued and asked me how many sexual partners I had in my life time. Mind you, this was not a blood test for Sexually Transmitted Diseases. (As, I started to do the math, Well let's see, I'm twenty-six, and I've been having sex for x number of years...Just kidding, I know my numba!) I began to wonder to myself, why was this information pertinent to a routine blood test? Wasn't that line of questioning a bit evasive? I sure thought so; but I answered her honestly just the same. (FYI: Not even my gynecologist asks me these questions about my sexual history). Here's the thing: No matter what your sex number is, whether it is big or small, nothing will make you feel like more of a slut-ass-hobag than baring your personal sexual stats to a total and complete stranger, who is probably judging you. Let's face it, it is nearly impossible not to judge someone based on their number; and yet the curiosity to know still remains. (For me anyway). Anywhooo...
Right before the technician was about to take my blood, I began to get really nervous. I could feel my heart starting to race, and I started to feel a little bit light-headed. Yes, I'm a big fat baby. I always get nervous before any sort of shot, blood test, (or piercing). (I've been known to faint once, twice or eight times). And, in these moments what I need is a sensitive and compassionate technician. Well, we can't always get what we want. I asked the technician how many tubes of blood were going to be taken. She sharply told me four. My heart stopped a little. "Okay, I said--I'm pretty nervous about this." The technician looked me directly in the eyes and said, "Girl, this ain't the romper room, you're twenty-six years old, cut the shit."
And, cut the shit I did. I was very brave, and on my way I went, but not first before grabbing a lollipop off of the technician's desk.
As the blood technician filled out my paperwork, she asked me basic questions; such as my name, my address, and my date of birth. Then, she paused, and asked me how many sexual partners I had in the past year. Excuse me? She then continued and asked me how many sexual partners I had in my life time. Mind you, this was not a blood test for Sexually Transmitted Diseases. (As, I started to do the math, Well let's see, I'm twenty-six, and I've been having sex for x number of years...Just kidding, I know my numba!) I began to wonder to myself, why was this information pertinent to a routine blood test? Wasn't that line of questioning a bit evasive? I sure thought so; but I answered her honestly just the same. (FYI: Not even my gynecologist asks me these questions about my sexual history). Here's the thing: No matter what your sex number is, whether it is big or small, nothing will make you feel like more of a slut-ass-hobag than baring your personal sexual stats to a total and complete stranger, who is probably judging you. Let's face it, it is nearly impossible not to judge someone based on their number; and yet the curiosity to know still remains. (For me anyway). Anywhooo...
Right before the technician was about to take my blood, I began to get really nervous. I could feel my heart starting to race, and I started to feel a little bit light-headed. Yes, I'm a big fat baby. I always get nervous before any sort of shot, blood test, (or piercing). (I've been known to faint once, twice or eight times). And, in these moments what I need is a sensitive and compassionate technician. Well, we can't always get what we want. I asked the technician how many tubes of blood were going to be taken. She sharply told me four. My heart stopped a little. "Okay, I said--I'm pretty nervous about this." The technician looked me directly in the eyes and said, "Girl, this ain't the romper room, you're twenty-six years old, cut the shit."
And, cut the shit I did. I was very brave, and on my way I went, but not first before grabbing a lollipop off of the technician's desk.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
The First Day of School
For the past twenty-four years, I have attended a first day of school. (I am twenty-six, and began going to nursery school at age two, thus equaling twenty-four years). And, because my memory is built upon useless facts, 90210 trivia and pure nostalgia, I remember almost all of my first days of school each year.
In the fall of 1989, I began my first day of kindergarten. For a reason that I'll never fully understand, my mom (Little Mimi Girl) dressed myself, my older brother, (who was in 4th grade at the time), and my younger sister who had just turned one, (and who was not going to school that day), in head to toe tye-dye for our annual first day of school photos.
In the fall of 1995, I began my debut at Mt. Pleasant Middle School. This was a big event, not only because I was starting at a new school with older, cooler kids, but also, because this was the first time that I was coming to school with shaved legs and a bra. Did my negative A boobs need to be supported in a bra? Absolutely not. But, did I feel like a real-life woman walking down those halls in my little white bra? You betcha.
In the fall of 2001, I began my senior year of high school (and what could have easily been the greatest year of my life). I never felt cooler, and more womanly than I did driving to school, on the first day of senior year in my blue jeep. This was the first time that I had a driver's license for the first day of school, (and would not have to be dropped off by my mom).
In the fall of 2002, I attended my first day of college. I was in Sociology101. There were 500 other freshman in that class, I had my journal with me, and I actually penned the words..."I'm really a college girl now." (Proving that even being able to drive myself to school, I'm still a big loser).
In the fall of 2006, I had my first day of school...on the other side. I began my job as a teacher at the school that I still teach at now. I was nervous that September morning; probably more nervous than the kids. But, all of my nerves aside, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to occur. Amidst me explaining our classroom job chart to my class, Kim (one of my students), projectile vomited onto another student, Rebecca. At the sight/smell and touch of Kim's vomit, Rebecca vomited, immediately. I herded my class outside the classroom, while pounds of vomit sat on the floor...well, not quite what I had envisioned for my first day as a real life teacher.
And today, on September 8th, 2010, I began my twenty-fourth first day of school. (My fifth one as a teacher). Thus far, (day one), my students are just adorable; they really are. Highlights include: Andrew taking a small pill out of his lunch, and explaining to me that his mom packs this pill on days that he brings beans for lunch, since well, he farts a lot.
Miles (who is half-Asian, half-African-American, and half-Jewish, with a huge fro, and wrists covered in silly bandz) told me that his favorite song of the summer is Hot in Here, by Nelly. I hope that someone reading this post finds the humor in that. And, oh yes. Chris (one of my students from last year), came tearing into my classroom, nearly barreling me over, to give me an all enveloping hug hello. I hugged Chris, and just as I was about to tell him how nice it was to see him, (as I had not seen him since June), he looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, "Wait, what's your name again?"
Day One wiped me the fuck out. On my bus ride home to Livingston (to celebrate the Jewish holiday), I passed out cold. I woke up, and realized that I had drooled a little...(on the person sitting next to me). Oh, for the love of God; you really can't take me anywhere.
In the fall of 1989, I began my first day of kindergarten. For a reason that I'll never fully understand, my mom (Little Mimi Girl) dressed myself, my older brother, (who was in 4th grade at the time), and my younger sister who had just turned one, (and who was not going to school that day), in head to toe tye-dye for our annual first day of school photos.
In the fall of 1995, I began my debut at Mt. Pleasant Middle School. This was a big event, not only because I was starting at a new school with older, cooler kids, but also, because this was the first time that I was coming to school with shaved legs and a bra. Did my negative A boobs need to be supported in a bra? Absolutely not. But, did I feel like a real-life woman walking down those halls in my little white bra? You betcha.
In the fall of 2001, I began my senior year of high school (and what could have easily been the greatest year of my life). I never felt cooler, and more womanly than I did driving to school, on the first day of senior year in my blue jeep. This was the first time that I had a driver's license for the first day of school, (and would not have to be dropped off by my mom).
In the fall of 2002, I attended my first day of college. I was in Sociology101. There were 500 other freshman in that class, I had my journal with me, and I actually penned the words..."I'm really a college girl now." (Proving that even being able to drive myself to school, I'm still a big loser).
In the fall of 2006, I had my first day of school...on the other side. I began my job as a teacher at the school that I still teach at now. I was nervous that September morning; probably more nervous than the kids. But, all of my nerves aside, nothing could have prepared me for what was about to occur. Amidst me explaining our classroom job chart to my class, Kim (one of my students), projectile vomited onto another student, Rebecca. At the sight/smell and touch of Kim's vomit, Rebecca vomited, immediately. I herded my class outside the classroom, while pounds of vomit sat on the floor...well, not quite what I had envisioned for my first day as a real life teacher.
And today, on September 8th, 2010, I began my twenty-fourth first day of school. (My fifth one as a teacher). Thus far, (day one), my students are just adorable; they really are. Highlights include: Andrew taking a small pill out of his lunch, and explaining to me that his mom packs this pill on days that he brings beans for lunch, since well, he farts a lot.
Miles (who is half-Asian, half-African-American, and half-Jewish, with a huge fro, and wrists covered in silly bandz) told me that his favorite song of the summer is Hot in Here, by Nelly. I hope that someone reading this post finds the humor in that. And, oh yes. Chris (one of my students from last year), came tearing into my classroom, nearly barreling me over, to give me an all enveloping hug hello. I hugged Chris, and just as I was about to tell him how nice it was to see him, (as I had not seen him since June), he looked up at me with his big brown eyes and said, "Wait, what's your name again?"
Day One wiped me the fuck out. On my bus ride home to Livingston (to celebrate the Jewish holiday), I passed out cold. I woke up, and realized that I had drooled a little...(on the person sitting next to me). Oh, for the love of God; you really can't take me anywhere.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Nine-Oh-Three-One-Oh
Yes, that's right. That's me, posing with my Luke Perry poster in honor of 9-02-10. Thank you to Loosh for your excellent photography skills. I would also like to point out what my t-shirt says, (just in case you can't tell). Across my chest, are the faces of Dylan McKay and Brenda Walsh. Written underneath are the words, "I Slept With Him First." Genius.
If ever a night was more destined to be my personal picture of perfection, if ever a night was to capture all of my favorite things in one, and if ever there was to be a night that captured my ultimate oasis, and dreams came true; last night would have undoubtedly been it.
Naturally, 9-02-10 was a great day for me. It began early in the morning with phone calls, text messages, and e-mails wishing me a happy 90210. To be quite honest, it felt like my birthday. Yes, I know it was not actually my birthday. But, did I feel a post-birthday sadness, usually reserved for January 24th this morning, on September 3rd. Yes. And, as Amelia pointed out to me this morning, this is not normal. Yes. This fact I am aware of, (I'm working on it). But oh, can't I just get one more 9-02-10?
My night began with Loosh (thanks for lending me your best tu-tu) and BGbabe hanging at my apartment pre-bar, taking pictures posing with my Luke Perry poster, and the other various 90210 paraphernalia found around my room. Cool, right? We got ready to go to M-15 bar, where we met other friends, (Brookie2000 and Dena). The instant that I stepped foot into the crowded bar, I knew that my dream had come true. I could die happy. Playing on each of the large television screens in the bar were various episodes from season three of 90210. (Circa de 1992-1993). But, even better than the seventeen year old episodes playing on the big screen, was the music that the DJ played. If I could pick my ultimate play list (sans California Girls of course), this would have been it. The DJ only played hits from the 90's, and each 90's song played was better than the last. To the three boys who threw this party, (especially the one wearing a backpack around the bar), Thank you. I may not know you, but I love you. You gave me my birthday present four months early this year.
Naturally, 9-02-10 was a great day for me. It began early in the morning with phone calls, text messages, and e-mails wishing me a happy 90210. To be quite honest, it felt like my birthday. Yes, I know it was not actually my birthday. But, did I feel a post-birthday sadness, usually reserved for January 24th this morning, on September 3rd. Yes. And, as Amelia pointed out to me this morning, this is not normal. Yes. This fact I am aware of, (I'm working on it). But oh, can't I just get one more 9-02-10?
My night began with Loosh (thanks for lending me your best tu-tu) and BGbabe hanging at my apartment pre-bar, taking pictures posing with my Luke Perry poster, and the other various 90210 paraphernalia found around my room. Cool, right? We got ready to go to M-15 bar, where we met other friends, (Brookie2000 and Dena). The instant that I stepped foot into the crowded bar, I knew that my dream had come true. I could die happy. Playing on each of the large television screens in the bar were various episodes from season three of 90210. (Circa de 1992-1993). But, even better than the seventeen year old episodes playing on the big screen, was the music that the DJ played. If I could pick my ultimate play list (sans California Girls of course), this would have been it. The DJ only played hits from the 90's, and each 90's song played was better than the last. To the three boys who threw this party, (especially the one wearing a backpack around the bar), Thank you. I may not know you, but I love you. You gave me my birthday present four months early this year.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Fare Well, Summer Vacation
Oh, how I just loved this weekend! The best part about this past weekend was just how much like summer, it really felt. Over the weekend I had a lovely gathering of friends at my new apartment. It's too bad that I only remember sixteen percent of the night. But, from what I do remember--it was glorious (and hilarious). Thank you to my Meelzy for your thoughtful housewarming gift; authentic and straight from 1991...THE CLAPPER. (That's right...clap on. Clap off. The clapper. Are my friends da bomb, or what!?) And, oh yes, also thank you to Meelz for covering my bed with a small army of condoms. You're welcome to the guests who took them home as unexpected party favors.
On Saturday, I spent the whole day in Central Park with Meelz, BG, Parslay, J. Branz, and Nate. It was perfect. Sunday afternoon was spent at Galzbabi's pool on the roof of her apartment building. Also perfect. This weekend was truly summer. The irony of this is that after tonight, my summer will have officially commenced. As of tomorrow at 9 am, I report to duty. I will say this just once: I LOVE YOU SUMMER TIME, PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME.
I know. Ninety-seven percent of you don't feel sorry for me. And, yes...I know that I am lucky to have a vacation. But, trust me--there is a reason that teachers have off in the summer. (We might murder our students otherwise). I am not ready to go back to work. But even more, I am not ready for summer to end. I love the heat, flip-flops, icecream trucks, and my inner boob sweat. I love it all. Was I a bum this past month? Yes, of course. Do I feel bad about it? No, absolutely not. I had the time of my life. So, as I sit here on my couch, Sunday night blues hitting me hard, crying softly on the inside, I say goodbye to summer vacation. I miss you, already.
Friday, August 27, 2010
9.02.10
The picture posted above (Faceinahole.com) was created by my main squeeze, BGbabe. That's right. She inserted my face where Brenda Walsh's should be, and I am in my rightful place in this world, wrapped in Luke Perry's arms.
Less than one week from today is September 2, 2010. Big whoop, right? Wrong. To me, and every other 90210 fanatic across the globe, this is the day that we have been waiting for, for the past twenty years. September 2, 2010... otherwise known as, 9.02.10. That's right, it is my luckiest of days when the calender date matches my all time favorite television show/borderline not-okay obsession.
Could Aaron Spelling, the cast and crew of 90210,and God have predicted that when Beverly Hills, 90210 first aired on October 4, 1990, that one day people across the world would rejoice and celebrate this very day? No, probably not.
How will I be celebrating this momentous occasion, might you wonder? Well, it's simple really. I am attending an actual 9.02.10 party at M-15 bar, (come!) next Thursday night complete with DJ's spinning your favorite dance songs from the mid 90's. (Picture: The Peach Pit After Dark). And, oh yes...90's dress is encouraged. Will this be the best night of my life? Most likely, yes.
Perhaps the greatest part of this 90210 party, is that it is being thrown by three BOYS...who came up with this idea back in 1995 (when they were eleven years old--just like me!). This is a party that has been in the making for the last fifteen years; and they are happy to include 90210 lovers alike in New York City. (Quite honestly, I'm disappointed that I didn't think of this idea myself). If ever a night was more destined for me to meet my future husband, this is it. You can find me next Thursday, at the 90210 party, dressed in my finest 90's garb, searching for my very own 2010, Dylan McKay.
Friday, August 20, 2010
I'm in Love with a Stripper
What happens when you attend a male strip club to celebrate a friend's birthday on a Thursday night? Well, it's simple really. One of your female friends might just be used like a pendulum, being swung upside down between a male stripper's legs; and the birthday boy's bare ass just might be spanked in front of the entire bar. And as for that picture posted above, (can you believe that I learned how to post pictures in an actual blog entry!? Yeah, me neither). Well, that photo is just one of many of my Becca Girl living her dream of being ravaged on stage).
Last night, the Camp Schodack crew, plus a select group of others attended Dave's birthday party at a male strip club. In my life, the male strip clubs that I have been to, involved a red carpet, cheesy dance moves, and male stripper thongs.
This strip club, however, was nothing like the strip clubs of my past. Set in Brooklyn, it was a seemingly regular bar, with great music. The only thing that set it apart was the stage where both male and female strippers danced. And, oh yeah. There were male strippers giving lap dances around the perimeter of the bar. What I did not expect going into the evening, was to see my friends being used as stripper props. BGbabe was swung around on stage like a rag doll. The male stripper REALLY had his way with her, (and I think she liked it). I also did not expect to see Dave (birthday boy) bare assed, exposed to the entire bar, sandwiched between a male and female stripper. It was just perfect, and the night exceeded all of my expectations. Schodack, we know how to party. And, Dave--Happy Birthday to you, dude-bro. Love ya.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
A Wedding Weekend
This past weekend was da best weekend eva!!! (Yes, I know that I make that statement quite often, but I pretty much almost mean it this time). If you have ever been to a wedding with twenty of your high school friends, then you know just what I mean. On Saturday night I watched one of my closest friends take that irreversible plunge towards adulthood, and it was a dang good time. It was a bar-mitzvah, it was a prom, it was Josh and Diana's wedding, 2010.
Josh and Diana (the groom and bride) looked so relaxed and happy during the ceremony, it was impossible not to feel anything but genuine happiness for the two of them. And, as for watching my old friend walk down the aisle with his parents...well, that's what water proof mascara is for, right? During college, Josh and I would visit each other at our respective schools quite frequently, and as a result--I know, (and love) all of his college friends. So, yes...I knew the vast majority of the twenty-somethings in the room, and if that doesn't spell fun, then well...I just don't know what does.
There was laughing, drinking, and bat-mitzvah dancing across the dance floor. (You can find Rockoff doing the running man amongst various other 90's dance moves, as there are videos posted to facebook to prove it). And, then there's Sheetal-my tiny faced friend--who couldn't have been happier as she was at the perfect height to motoroboat Lorea's tits during the party. There were hot bitches, (or were there?), and there was my constant hope that I would hear the band's rendition of California Gurls. (An aside: I went into this wedding feeling good. Thanks to Barrie's Girlfriend party (Yes, that is what it was actually called), I had my make up professionally done, (fo free yo!) and thanks to my Loders--my hair looked stupendous. That was at the beginning of the night. By the night's end, (after four hours of sweaty dancing), I looked something similar to a run-over cat.
The wedding was beautiful, lovely, and perfect--and I love the bride and groom very much. But, perhaps even greater than the wedding was the post-wedding aftermath. Josh in his single-minded glory just wanted to see all of his single friends at the wedding get laid. It was his wedding night wish. What happens when sixty or so twenty-somethings drink heavily over the course of seven hours? Really hilarious people hook up with each other...and Josh got his wish come true. (An aside: I would love to elaborate on this portion of the night, as I feel it provided much entertainment and comedy for all; but for all parties involved, I will keep it blog-free).
The morning after brunch in the hotel was simply perfect. It involved french toast, omelettes, and the constant replaying of the previous night's hilarity and high points. The wedding set in Westchester is one hour away from our hometown of Livingston, New Jersey. The weekend would not have been complete if it did not take us (Rockoff, Sheets and Lorea) over three hours to get home. Really guys? Why am I always the driver? I'm not good at it. I got us lost for two hours, had to turn around nine times, and drove us the opposite way into Connecticut. But you know what? We couldn't have been happier about it--right you guys!?! We thought that the car ride would never end, and in a way I hoped that it never would.
So, thank you to Josh and Diana for being my friends, for marrying each other, and for letting me sweat on your dance floor. And so, as an amazing weekend comes to close, I feel a teensy bit sad that something I have been looking forward to for the past year is over. However, this feeling is largely overshadowed in the knowledge of just how lucky I am to have such a great group of friends...who really know how to shake it on the dance floor.
Josh and Diana (the groom and bride) looked so relaxed and happy during the ceremony, it was impossible not to feel anything but genuine happiness for the two of them. And, as for watching my old friend walk down the aisle with his parents...well, that's what water proof mascara is for, right? During college, Josh and I would visit each other at our respective schools quite frequently, and as a result--I know, (and love) all of his college friends. So, yes...I knew the vast majority of the twenty-somethings in the room, and if that doesn't spell fun, then well...I just don't know what does.
There was laughing, drinking, and bat-mitzvah dancing across the dance floor. (You can find Rockoff doing the running man amongst various other 90's dance moves, as there are videos posted to facebook to prove it). And, then there's Sheetal-my tiny faced friend--who couldn't have been happier as she was at the perfect height to motoroboat Lorea's tits during the party. There were hot bitches, (or were there?), and there was my constant hope that I would hear the band's rendition of California Gurls. (An aside: I went into this wedding feeling good. Thanks to Barrie's Girlfriend party (Yes, that is what it was actually called), I had my make up professionally done, (fo free yo!) and thanks to my Loders--my hair looked stupendous. That was at the beginning of the night. By the night's end, (after four hours of sweaty dancing), I looked something similar to a run-over cat.
The wedding was beautiful, lovely, and perfect--and I love the bride and groom very much. But, perhaps even greater than the wedding was the post-wedding aftermath. Josh in his single-minded glory just wanted to see all of his single friends at the wedding get laid. It was his wedding night wish. What happens when sixty or so twenty-somethings drink heavily over the course of seven hours? Really hilarious people hook up with each other...and Josh got his wish come true. (An aside: I would love to elaborate on this portion of the night, as I feel it provided much entertainment and comedy for all; but for all parties involved, I will keep it blog-free).
The morning after brunch in the hotel was simply perfect. It involved french toast, omelettes, and the constant replaying of the previous night's hilarity and high points. The wedding set in Westchester is one hour away from our hometown of Livingston, New Jersey. The weekend would not have been complete if it did not take us (Rockoff, Sheets and Lorea) over three hours to get home. Really guys? Why am I always the driver? I'm not good at it. I got us lost for two hours, had to turn around nine times, and drove us the opposite way into Connecticut. But you know what? We couldn't have been happier about it--right you guys!?! We thought that the car ride would never end, and in a way I hoped that it never would.
So, thank you to Josh and Diana for being my friends, for marrying each other, and for letting me sweat on your dance floor. And so, as an amazing weekend comes to close, I feel a teensy bit sad that something I have been looking forward to for the past year is over. However, this feeling is largely overshadowed in the knowledge of just how lucky I am to have such a great group of friends...who really know how to shake it on the dance floor.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
So, This is Growing Up.
Ya know, time is a funny thing.
Ever notice that when you look away for a little; you can see the change in others, you can notice the people around you growing up? But, why is it so incredibly difficult to see this growth and change within yourself?
This past week, Brooke and I went to visit Camp Schodack for the night. (Yes, again). On our drive up to camp, one of my best friends from highschool called me. And, yes. He just so happens to be getting married this weekend. As I listened to him speak about his upcoming nuptials, and that in five days he would have a wife, I couldn't help but think that this was the ultimate paradox of who I am; and how time affects everyone in different ways. As my friend was getting ready for his WEDDING this Saturday, I was driving to SLEEPAWAY camp. Are we on the same page in life or what!?
Being up at camp is always amazing. However, this time I had a very different experience--one that made me wonder about the essence of time; and one that made me see how much everyone has grown and changed. (Including me). I was chatting with the CIT's (Counselors in Training--girls, ages fifteen and sixteen). I could tell by the way that the girls looked at me, that they didn't see what I saw. ( A topless shimmying, constantly singing, Frosted Flakes eating, Bacardi guzzling, silly, secretly fourteen year old girl at heart). I could tell by the way that they spoke to me; that what they saw was someone who grew up at camp, and had now returned to camp as a real grown-up.
The girls asked me what it was like to be a CIT long ago. (Eleven years ago to be precise). I felt like their grandmother. But, more than that--I remembered when these girls started at camp, as eight year olds, I was around eighteen at the time. I knew this group of girls because they were the youngest bunk on camp, and were damn cute. And, suddenly--here they are--hot ass teenagers with killer bods, and pretty faces. And while I know they are still very young--I couldn't help but wonder--how did this happen? Where did the time go?
This whole growing up business is also evident in my relationship with my old campers--who have become seasoned counselors at Schodack, and more importantly, actual, real friends of mine. If my old campers are growing up, I guess this means that I am growing up too. If growing up means that I get to go back and visit a place that I love, and still feel the same fondness for it that I always have...then okay. I'll take it.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
We didn't start the Fire (Island).
What happens in Fire Island, stays in Fire Island! And that is mostly due to the fact that I only remember about eleven percent of this past weekend spent there. As per usual, I was with my best travel companions, (BGbabe and Meelzy). Two-thirds of the people staying in our hotel room (with twin beds) made Fire Island weekend boyfriends. So what if the Fire Island bf's didn't remember us the next night? We didn't care! We were in it, to win it.
The weekend simply put; was a barrel of laughs, a barrel of good sirs, (I'll take your finest wine), a barrel of cheese doodles, a barrel of vodker, and a barrel of vomit. (My vomit). I loved every minute of my Fire Island experience (minus the nineteen consecutive minutes of vomiting). My besties and I stayed at the W Hotel. (Aka--Clegg's Motel). A perfect little hellhole, with bikes to ride and a continental breakfast fit for queens. (Stale bagels and day old doughnuts). Each morning, we took our daily morning photos, while we tried to piece together the events of the night before. We loved our weekend home, and never wanted to leave, (until this morning when we were so hungover, and exhausted that we all wanted to die, (but only a little bit).
The nightlife of Fire Island is fantastical. House party pregame culture was perfect, and the bars were fun and laid back. And, perhaps most importantly of all, each bar played California Girls a multitude of times. In short, we had an amazing time sitting in our rainbow colored chairs; people watching, kitty-cats in pouches watching, and laughing about lots of things, none of which I remember. Until next summer, I'll miss you, Fire Island.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Ma New Digz
Greetings from Apartment 3C, my new digs to be precise. My oh my, it is just glorious here. Just glorious. I have to give myself (and Bonk) credit, where credit is due. I don't know any other roommate duo that would be unpacked, with pictures on the wall, apartment in perfect order, completely spotless, looks like we've lived here for months, in under twenty-fours. Roommate superstars, that's who!
I've never been one to care about having a big room. (Though that is probably because I have never had one before). But, my room is quite large, (by NYC standards), and I just can't help but to fantasize about all of the future naked alone dance parties I will be able to have. (Without banging into any of my furniture) of course. Additionally, my bedroom faces the back of the building which features some lovely patios and courtyards from other apartments. I may have even spotted two hunks enjoying an adult beverage or two, on the patio directly behind my apartment.
3C also features a dining room; a table, and a set of chairs. We have an actual place to sit and eat in a civilized manner. (You know, not hunched over the coffee table, pummeling food into our mouths).
On the down side, I am 79% certain that I may be allergic to my new apartment. Despite all of it's glory and splendor--ever since moving here on Saturday, I have had a scratchy, sore throat, and have not been able to stop sneezing. (Just ask Ja Rule and BG).
And, lastly--I'd like to leave you with a thought from a famous comedian. It has almost nothing to do with what I just wrote about, but I like it just the same. He said, "Why are New Yorkers so competitive about what neighborhoods they live in, within the city? I can see my refrigerator from my bed...We're all in this together."
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