A Tale of One City

I recently went on a date with a boy. Let's call him Greg. On the night of my date, my mom called asking what I was up to that evening. I told her that I had a date. Little Mimi asked if my date was with a respectable guy. With a grumbled sigh, I said..."Yes, mom." And then my mom said those three little words that every twenty-six year old daughter expects to hear..."No roofies, right?"

No? Roofies? Right? I very calmly told my mom that I would be hanging up now. She said, "Okay Laur, just one more thing. You're not going to blog about this, are you?"

Thursday night I was out with some friends at The Standard Biergarten. (I never know if I've spell that word correctly; it's kinda like kindergarten, and I just really want to type beer-garden). BGbabe and I were chatting with one another near the bar, when a guy approached us. After small talking for a minute or so, the guy explained that he had come over to ask if he could take me out to dinner. (Yes, he stated this to both Becky and I). Well, oh em gee. I was flattered, embarrassed, and baffled all in one. Did this guy have some balls, or what!? Yes. Was he also a genius, because he figured that there was no way I would turn him down in front of others? Yes. Did I think that he was kidding at first? Yes. And, did I ask him if Becky could come to dinner with us, too? Yes. All of the above, yes.

After getting over the initial shock that I had not only just been asked out to dinner in front of my Becca, I was also trying to figure out how long we had actually spoken for, which I believe was a collective thirty seconds, in which time--the only words that I had spoken were, "My name is Lauren." (Because, well he asked). Scintillating conversation, I know.

This guy, let's call him Bill, told me that I had caught his eye, because I was "his type." "Jewish with brown hair and freckles." I asked Bill, how he knew that I'm Jewish? After all, I could be Catholic, or Buddhist. Bill replied, "Lauren, are you Jewish?" "Yes, Bill. I'm Jewish." And sure, I have brown hair. (Although in college, I did dye it both blonde and red. Hindsight and I now realize that I made some pretty questionable decisions with a box of hair dye). And yes, before puberty hit, I was a full on freckle face. However, these days my freckles are pretty much undetectable unless I have been at the beach all day. And, so the moral of my story is: If you ask me out to dinner in front of my friend, I am going to say yes. (I wouldn't want to shoot you down and embarrass you in front of someone else. And also, I really enjoy food). Just don't be surprised if I ask to bring my best friend along too.

Goodbye, Apartment 4D

It was almost exactly three years ago that I stepped foot into 230 East 30th Street for the very first time as a new resident. After a year of residing at 3 Longacre Drive, commuting to Brooklyn each day, and having my mom and dad as roommates, I was more than ready to move to New York City.

It's been a pretty big three years in my apartment. Some could say that one could go from girl to woman in that time. Okay, so I probably did not turn into a real woman in the past three years living in NYC, but I'd like to think that I've grown up at least a teensy bit since entering Apartment 4D as a fresh faced twenty-three year old.

In one week from today, Bonkers and I are moving to a new apartment together. It certainly is time to move (seeing as we thought we were moving back in August '09). None the less--as always, as something comes to an end, I am feeling a wee sense of nostalgia for my soon to be former home. Listed below are the things that I will miss most about my very first Manhattan pad.

1. The slew of extremely attractive men (boys) that live in my building. Even though, nothing ever escalated past mildly uncomfortable elevator chatter, the attractiveness of these men brought me both great excitement and comfort. (An aside: I did have one apartment building fling. On the night of my 24th birthday, I very drunkenly hooked up with my next door neighbor. (I passed out mid-hook up. Classy, I know). Given that we had virtually no relationship prior to our one night together, for the next year, until he moved out, every encounter that the two of us engaged in was extremely awkward, and almost unbearable. What's the big deal, right? Well, you get to third base with your apartment neighbor and tell me if riding the elevator with him the next day isn't the least bit uncomfortable).

2. There have been no insects or rodents to speak of.

3. The kitchen renovation party; a night where friends came together to celebrate our newly renovated kitchen, and a small Mexican stranger carrying a backpack entered the apartment, ready to party.

4. Asian Tranny. I might miss you the most.

5. My large bathroom with the three way mirror. How will I ever be able to straighten my hair without you? Additionally, it is not only my favorite bathroom to poop in, but it has been voted number one by my friends for this very reason too.

6. I've had some dang good alone-naked dance parties in this apartment.

7. I will miss when one of my friends sits directly underneath the giant lamp in my living room.( Those of you that have seen my apartment know that the lamp looks like it belongs in Mario Brothers Three--Extra-Large World)

8. I will miss being able to be in my living room and kitchen at the very same time. (Nope, probably won't miss that).

9. BANC (Bonk) is on the corner of my block, and if it had not been--well my roommate would probably still be living her life as "Rachael."

10. Goodbye black leather loveseat. We sold my couch to the girls who are moving into our apartment. What I failed to mention to these girls as they handed me cash(money hoes), is that the couch is the place where I ate my frosted flakes naked, made out naked, and stuck my boogers in between couch cushions, (naked). Yep. I remain constant as your most revolting friend.

It's hard to sum up three years of memories into one blog entry. But know this: My apartment, (my very first big girl apartment), made a good home. 4D was a place that I retreated to after being mentally demoralized by third graders, where I came to broken hearted, and where I shared stomach hurting laughter with my friends. But most importantly of all, it served as my favorite place to watch 90210, while eating a Hershey Bar, while blogging, while being naked, all while being in both my kitchen and my living room...at the very same time.

Which do you prefer Monday mornings or Tribals?

You know it's kinda funny...if someone told me that I had to give a speech in front of 5o0 people, I would not be excited. In fact, I would be the exact opposite of excited. And yet, given the opportunity to make a "speech" in front of 500 people, dressed in green and white paint, and or doing some sort of song and dance ensemble, is something that not only have I done before, but are actual moments that I would love to relive. In fact, I would relish that opportunity. At camp, I feel like super(wo)man. I can do anything. There is no fear, no shyness, no anxiety. You want me to climb up on top of a building's roof, with my best friend, singing our own Schodack words to Barbie Girl, while dressed in all pink? No problem. You want me to get up in front of the entire camp dressed in costume, while covered in soy sauce? Why, I'd love to! You see, in the presence of my Schodack family, I feel safe, invincible and free, like I can do or say anything. I gotta tell ya--nothing feels better.

This past weekend was alumni weekend at camp. As my second year as an alum, I still felt the same excitement and enthusiasm that I did last year, and the way that I have every year when driving up to camp. Ya know, like I can't wait to jump out of the car to cheer/shimmy/and clap with excitment. Just being at camp, I was on a high. I still am. I love the way I feel when I'm there. Completely happy and peaceful, like the outside world does not exist. It is a rare occasion, when you can put aside all of your other worries and stresses for an entire weekend.

I spent the weekend at camp with my best friends, hanging out with our old campers (who are all current staff members) and our old counselors. Time stood still, and this place that we all met at, keeps us connected to each other, and to Schodack. Why is everything and everyone so funny at camp? Why did kitten porn, impromptu pyramids, a hot tub time machine, topless shimmying, California Girls (via the My Place jukebox, four times) make me laugh so hard that I cried?

Camp has changed my life in ways that I will never be able to explain. It gave me a confidence, that I'm not sure I would have if it weren't for my summers spent at Schodack. But, perhaps the most tangible way that camp changed my life, is that it provided me with a hilarious group of life long best friends. And, I am lucky enough that all of them live in NYC with me. So, for me going to alumni weekend, wasn't about seeing old friends...it was traveling with my best friends to the place where we all met and made these life changing friendships.

I was chatting with an older alumni, (a former camper's parent). She asked me if it felt strange being back on camp again. Strange? That was far from how I felt. I felt like I was back where I belonged; and I have a Schodack shaped hole in my heart to prove it.

Dave King, and Eye Do-Its

Bgbabe, (One of my # 1 favorite people in America, and also the world) has this funny little habit. It is this: BG eye fucks the shit out of complete strangers. Her eye fucking is accidental, and on most occasions, she really does not mean to do this. But, no matter where she goes, whether it is a stroll down the street, a night out with friends, or shopping in the grocery store--BG always ends up accidentally eye fucking the shit out of some unsuspecting male. I'd make a pretty safe bet and say that those opposite Becky's eye fucks are probably excited to be on the receiving end. I could never understand how one could "accidentally" eye fuck. Until tonight that is...

I was walking down Third avenue, large grocery bags in my hand, while Katy Perry and Snoop Dog blasted on my ipod. There was a boy who looked to be about fourteen years old skateboarding down the street opposite me. I was in such a daze, with a million and one things on my mind, that I didn't even realize that I was deeply staring into the eyes of someone who was probably born in 1996. It was only when I noticed a deep stare back, that I shook my head, snapped out of it, and walked at a brisk pace, avoiding any additional eye contact with any and all strangers.

All of this eye fucking talk, and the excitement of my impending weekend at Camp Schodack, made me want to share about a special Schodack experience. For all intents and purposes, let's call this experience, Dave. Dave King. Dave King was twenty years old. I was a mere seventeen. Prior to the summer of seventeen, I had suffered what could have been quite possibly the most painful awkward stage known to man. This was the first time since I was eleven years old, that I looked like a normal human.

Before Dave King, I had camp crushes, I had millions. (Most of my crushes were on people who are my best friends today, these young feelings make me laugh...and cringe). (Believe me, the feelings are mutual). Dave King was different though. I didn't grow up with him. In fact, prior to the summer of 2001, I didn't even know of his existence, other then that he was the dreamy tennis counselor, and the object of every female on camp's affection. Dave had great hair, seriously awesome man hair. Female counselors (and campers alike) were constantly vying for the attention of him (and his hair). Never once, did I think as a first year counselor, new to the Schodack staff scene, that Dave King would choose me, soon to be high school senior, as his camp girlfriend. (An aside: Shortly after camp ended, Dave turned twenty-one. I called him on his birthday, and told him that I could totally to relate to how he was feeling, being able to legally drink. After all, this year I was legally able to go to Rated R movies. Why Dave continued to talk to me after that comment, I'll never know, but thank God he did).

There we were, barely the third week of camp, we were camp boyfriend and girlfriend, and I was in "love." What did being camp boyfriend and girlfriend mean at this point in my life? Well. It simply meant; sharing dirty pube infested (not our own) hotel rooms on our days off, sitting near each other at all camp events, and most importantly--when one of us had OD (On Duty) and had to stay back to watch a bunk of children, we would sit OD together, and make out on a picnic table.

Sadly, Dave was fired from camp for providing the oldest boy campers (who were sixteen at the time and some of my best friends) with alcohol. I was crushed. My first pseudo Camp Schodack relationship had ended just as quickly as it started. Lucky for me, Dave was a "local" and lived right near camp. Dave would pick me up at night time, (on my time off), and we would see movies or go out for dinner.

Shortly after this, Dave moved to Florida, and I only saw him once more in the summer of 2002, when he met the Schodack staff out at a bar one night. Dave wrote me love (like) letters, that to date remain to be some of the nicest words a member of the opposite sex have ever said to me. So yes, I haven't seen him in eight years, and for all I know he could have gone bald or gotten fat (though somehow I sincerely doubt that) yet--his legacy remains on for me. Dave King, guy with the great hair, haven't seen him in eight years, first Schodack love. Marry me?

Camp Schodack--this weekend!!

Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Camp Schodack this weekend. Okay. So sioux me, this is a cheap attempt at a blog entry.

However, I simply wanted to say this: I am going to Camp Schodack this weekend (with all of my camp besties/everyone that ever went to Schodack, ever) for alumni weekend (while camp is in session), and I am so excited. I don't know how I will sleep one single wink this entire week. Am I a huge loser? Yes. But, I don't care. You can expect a real blog entry soon, but not just yet, I'm busy. Okay?

July Fo!

I love the summer time. (No doy!) And, have always been a firm believer that the hotter the weather, the better! But, my goodness...this heat is really something! My train back into the city today, (which usually takes between 35 and 45 minutes), took nearly three hours, and guess what else!? There was no air conditioning!! Awww!! Cute right?! Each train car was more stifling than the next! (Yes, Dave, BG, Meelz and Brooke--Grand Central trumps Penn Station, yet again).

All train passengers aboard the train (including me) felt, looked and smelled their absolute best! The train ride was also especially fun, because the giant sunburn across my back kept sticking to the back of the train seat, further agitating my sunburn. (An aside: I cannot comfortably reach the part of my back to apply aloe--any takers!?!) Also, this is the time of year that I truly envy boys. My sunburn is the kind that having any sort of material on my back is actually pretty miserable. As you can imagine, I am not thrilled that I have tits right about now. (Ya know, because tits=I have to wear a bra, with two straps that dig into my sunburned back).

All this aside, pretty great weekend, Love ya 4th of July! But, perhaps the message that I want to relay tonight, may only appeal to a percentage of my blog readers, those coming from L-town, USA. It is this: No matter where I go, Livingston, New Jersey (and remnants of), are never very far behind.

Friday morning, at 7:30 am, I ran into my first LHS victim on a quiet Manhattan street. Most people that I know loathe unexpected run-ins, or unwanted stop and chats. (Especially when they occur that early in the morning!) Not me though. I love when these occur. Two more LHS run-ins followed later that day.

On Saturday, I was at da beach with my camp girlays. Sitting right in front of us on the beach were three girls that I went to highschool with. The following day, (actually in Livingston), I was driving towards home, when I noticed a car was following me. I could not tell who the driver was, as he was wearing sunglasses and a baseball hat. Each turn that I made, he made too. I was beginning to get moderately frightened. I continued to drive until I reached my destination, (my house).

After pulling into my driveway. The car stopped in front of my house. Who was inside the car? Oh, ya know...just my high school prom date, that's who. After giving him a hug, I punched him in the arm, and asked him why he didn't just call me and tell me that he was driving behind me. I thought I was being followed--it was scary!

Although, to his credit (and craziness) my mom reminded me that this was the very way he asked me to the prom in the first place. (I was picking up my sister, who was in middle school at the time, and prom date followed me to Heaty's middle school to make his prom date move). Yes, despite this, I still said yes. So what this says about me, I just don't know.

What is the moral of all my blogging rambling? Well, it's this: It makes me feel at home to know that no matter where I am, be it on the beach, on a random street in Manhattan, or even in my very own driveway...there is always an old, familiar face right nearby.

Uhh--Whoops!

The camp that I'm working at this summer requires the counselors to wear staff shirts three days a week. We were given just one staff shirt to wear. (Mind you, I do laundry about once a month, so this has been slightly problematic for me). Our staff shirts are a thick cotton. The kind of cotton that is not only unflattering on any body type, but is made out of a skin-suffocating material. (Just perfect for the ninety-eight degree weather that we have been having!) The shirt feels unbearable to wear for the required twenty-four hours per week. In lieu of this, I have developed a little routine with myself upon arrival back at my apartment each afternoon.

The minute that I step foot into my apartment, (before watching dvred episodes of 90210, perusing facebook, peeing, or consuming my daily Hershey bar), I must immediately strip down to nothing but my underwear. (Well, you know...when I actually wear underwear). This is also similar to my fall, winter and spring routine. However, in the summer time--this routine is much more crucial to survival. Today was an especially exhausting day at camp, and I could not wait to get home. After ripping off all of my clothing, I climbed up onto my bed, got under my covers, turned my phone on silent, and fell into a deep coma. Normally, I am an extremely light sleeper, and am awoken by the slightest sound. However, I was in a sleep so deep that I didn't hear the super of my building ring my doorbell, or knock on my door numerous times.

Suddenly, I woke up to one familiar male voice, and two not so familiar male voices. I was disoriented. (Waking up at 5:30 pm, with drool on your pillow will do that to you). Once, I realized what was going on--it was too late. Before, I could try and stop my landlord from showing my room to two male prospective apartment renters, George (my super) had opened the door to my bedroom. And well, there I was...completely naked, Sure, I was under my covers, but there was no way that these two twenty-something boys (and forty-seven year old Super) didn't know that I was naked.

Speaking from under my comforter, I told George and the boys that I was very sorry--but, that I didn't feel well, and this wasn't a very good time for me to have visitors, but they could feel free to look at my roommate's room. They all nodded at each other, and closed my door behind them.

What have I learned from this blog-worthy, and moderately embarrassing moment? Have I learned that in event of the unexpected I should take afternoon naps fully clothed? Well, this is a given, but I think we all know that I won't be changing my ways any time soon. However, there is one change that will be taking place, and that is this: My bedroom door will be locked... each afternoon that I want to take an uninterrupted naked nap.