I'm sitting on the plane to NY, reading a magazine. It's the free magazine stuffed into the front pocket of my seat, mostly detailing all these exotic places and vacations I'll never go on-- unless my advisor decides to send me to a conference or I make enough money to fuck grad school and go on vacation. Neither of which are going to happen anytime soon. The seat next to me is empty. 'Perfect!' I think. Now I can look in both directions without feeling awkward and paranoid about staring in my neighbor's direction; I wouldn't want anyone getting the wrong impression.
I wriggle around in my oversized sweatshirt, snuggling into the seat, wearing my Knicks cap with my hair bundled under. 'Aaahhh, Bermuda,' I mentally sigh, flipping the sunkissed pages of the travel zine.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. 'Excuse me SIR?' says a loud voice. I look up into the staring faces of a late-twenties redhead and the blonde middle-aged flight attendant standing next to her. The redhead opens her eyes wide and practically shrieks, "I MEAN, M'AM! Can I, uh, sit next to you?" The flight attendant giggles and says, "Well now it'll be an awkward one hour and forty seven minutes!" We all laugh uncomfortably as I manever a half turn in my seat so that the redhead can scoot into her seat, all the while while the flight continues to giggle, and the redhead continues to apologize. The people in the plane smirk at me and I find myself wondering if I really do look like a boy in my Knicks hat and sweatshirt.
One hour and forty seven minutes. I close my eyes almost immediately after the apologizing has ceased and fall asleep. As the plane touches down, I open my eyes and I'm in NY. We taxi in silence when my neighbor turns me to me and says, "By the way, I think you're very beautiful." I laugh in her face at this ridiculous remark and assure her she doesn't need to make any amends to me. I mean, I think it's hilarious, and even kind of cool. We start talking and tells me she's a salesperson for yadda yadda yadda and she has been so polite for the past week that it's hard for her draw the line anymore between what's offensive and what's not that big a deal. I tell her I get it; it's hard sometimes to leave the work persona at home. I leave the plane, wishing I had talked her before. I was never a big talker on planes, but I think I'm more open to it. Not a fascinating story, but I thought it was amusing and telling.
Monday
Big Foot
So I’ve decided to run the marathon. I have been running for the past 3 years, which in my book constitutes of hitting the treadmill or running paths for about 2 miles- twice or thrice a week. I was pretty full of myself, having never really run before (unless you count running to class). Of course, once I started training for the marathon I realized what a punk I am. Or, more specifically, a poser, loser, fake. Real runners are incredible, single-minded, determined, and can hold off enormous amounts of pain while trudging to the finish line. I perused Youtube videos of runners literally on all fours, puking and crawling their way to the end. Amazing and awe-inspiring. I’ll never be one of those.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aF0nnmdfTA
Yet I remain undeterred. Which means that one of the first steps is to go to a running shoe store. It took me freaking 5 hours to get there of course, with the delapitaded antiquated transit system in this goddamn city. Anyways, once I got there, the saleslady spoke in calm tones, nodded a lot at what I said, chin in hand, and measured my feet with furrowed brows. She had me run in front of her and do lunges so that she could look at my gait and examine my ankles (which she prounounced as “wobbly”). I sat on the bench and she sat a bit lower, examining my feet, turning them this way and that way. It was feeling reeeeal good being catered to.
But then the conversation went something like this.
Lady: Right foot, please.
[NP stetches out her right foot grandly and feel like a princess.]
Lady: Left foot, please.
[NP switches feet regally.]
Lady: Hmmm.
[NP deigns to look down at Lady.]
Lady: What size shoes do you usually wear, m’am?
NP: Excuse me?
Lady: Size shoes.
[Aware that everyone in the store could overhear the conversation between Lady and the 5’1” Nutty Princess,] NP replies, “Oh. Sev—I mean, six.”
Lady: Six?
NP (whispering): ...and a half?
Lady: Well, you’re left foot is hitting seven. I’m going to have to get you seven and a half shoes.
NP: Uh, okay.
[Lady leaves and comes back with a whole bunch of boxes as NP gazes ruefully at her stockinged feet.]
Lady: Try these on.
[NP tries them on sheepishly and Lady feels the shoe with her hand.]
Lady: Hmmm.
NP: These feel great.
Lady: Actually, I’m have to get bigger shoes.
NP: Bigger?
Lady: Bigger.
NP: Are you sure?
Lady (in one of those loud, patient yet exasperated salesperson voices): M’am, your left foot is much bigger than your right foot. Because of this, we’ll have to get a shoe to fit the left foot since your feet are naturally different sizes. It's the best thing to do, really.
NP (tucking her feet under the bench): Oh. Right.
[Lady leaves and comes back with more boxes. NP grins at customers around her. They stare at her. Some stare quizzically, some venture smiles.]
Lady: Here we go.
[NP slips on a pair of Adidas and Lady feels the shoes. It’s like being frisked by someone who has a foot fetish.]
Lady: Ooh. You still need bigger shoes. And these are too wide.
NP: Too wide?
Lady: Yeah, hold on, let me get an eight.
NP (swallowing): Eight?
Lady: Eight and a half, I mean. Hold on , I’ll be right back.
[NP mouths “eight and a half” angrily at her feet, attached to her short, slender legs.
Lady returns with more boxes.]
Lady: Ah, occasionally we get customers like you with unique situations.
[NP stares.]
Lady: Try these on, dear.
[NP shuffles around the store, studiously avoiding mirrors on the wall.]
Lady: Do they feel good?
[NP shrugs dejectedly]
Lady: Okay, I’m going to find some more shoes in that range.
[No reaction from NP]
[Lady turns before going back to the back room.]
Lady: By the way, I’m sooo sorry this took so long. I had no idea you have such LONG, NARROW FEET!
And then it just sort of went downhill from there. How the hell did I go from a 6.5 to 8.5?? I’m not one to be proud of my feet, or even really care how they look. But to have someone practically yell at me in front of a crowded store that I have long narrow feet makes me feel like I have clown shoes attached to my legs, or I resemble some sort of kangaroo. Oh well. Kangaroos can hop long distances, can’t they? I bet they can run 26 miles.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3aF0nnmdfTA
Yet I remain undeterred. Which means that one of the first steps is to go to a running shoe store. It took me freaking 5 hours to get there of course, with the delapitaded antiquated transit system in this goddamn city. Anyways, once I got there, the saleslady spoke in calm tones, nodded a lot at what I said, chin in hand, and measured my feet with furrowed brows. She had me run in front of her and do lunges so that she could look at my gait and examine my ankles (which she prounounced as “wobbly”). I sat on the bench and she sat a bit lower, examining my feet, turning them this way and that way. It was feeling reeeeal good being catered to.
But then the conversation went something like this.
Lady: Right foot, please.
[NP stetches out her right foot grandly and feel like a princess.]
Lady: Left foot, please.
[NP switches feet regally.]
Lady: Hmmm.
[NP deigns to look down at Lady.]
Lady: What size shoes do you usually wear, m’am?
NP: Excuse me?
Lady: Size shoes.
[Aware that everyone in the store could overhear the conversation between Lady and the 5’1” Nutty Princess,] NP replies, “Oh. Sev—I mean, six.”
Lady: Six?
NP (whispering): ...and a half?
Lady: Well, you’re left foot is hitting seven. I’m going to have to get you seven and a half shoes.
NP: Uh, okay.
[Lady leaves and comes back with a whole bunch of boxes as NP gazes ruefully at her stockinged feet.]
Lady: Try these on.
[NP tries them on sheepishly and Lady feels the shoe with her hand.]
Lady: Hmmm.
NP: These feel great.
Lady: Actually, I’m have to get bigger shoes.
NP: Bigger?
Lady: Bigger.
NP: Are you sure?
Lady (in one of those loud, patient yet exasperated salesperson voices): M’am, your left foot is much bigger than your right foot. Because of this, we’ll have to get a shoe to fit the left foot since your feet are naturally different sizes. It's the best thing to do, really.
NP (tucking her feet under the bench): Oh. Right.
[Lady leaves and comes back with more boxes. NP grins at customers around her. They stare at her. Some stare quizzically, some venture smiles.]
Lady: Here we go.
[NP slips on a pair of Adidas and Lady feels the shoes. It’s like being frisked by someone who has a foot fetish.]
Lady: Ooh. You still need bigger shoes. And these are too wide.
NP: Too wide?
Lady: Yeah, hold on, let me get an eight.
NP (swallowing): Eight?
Lady: Eight and a half, I mean. Hold on , I’ll be right back.
[NP mouths “eight and a half” angrily at her feet, attached to her short, slender legs.
Lady returns with more boxes.]
Lady: Ah, occasionally we get customers like you with unique situations.
[NP stares.]
Lady: Try these on, dear.
[NP shuffles around the store, studiously avoiding mirrors on the wall.]
Lady: Do they feel good?
[NP shrugs dejectedly]
Lady: Okay, I’m going to find some more shoes in that range.
[No reaction from NP]
[Lady turns before going back to the back room.]
Lady: By the way, I’m sooo sorry this took so long. I had no idea you have such LONG, NARROW FEET!
And then it just sort of went downhill from there. How the hell did I go from a 6.5 to 8.5?? I’m not one to be proud of my feet, or even really care how they look. But to have someone practically yell at me in front of a crowded store that I have long narrow feet makes me feel like I have clown shoes attached to my legs, or I resemble some sort of kangaroo. Oh well. Kangaroos can hop long distances, can’t they? I bet they can run 26 miles.
Tuesday
Good Day=)
Today was a good day. I finished a midterm, got an extension on a proposal, talked to my best friend (who is living on a farm in CT), talked to Mofito who updated my on gossip on a job I no longer have but still am obsessed with gossiping about, visited Licorice (one of my only friends in grad school who's as skinny, tall, and sweet as licorice), and had a lovely convo with Bwoy.
Chitown has FINALLY turned a corner. I am not sure what happened to spring, but somehow it turned from winter and then late winter... and then extended version of winter to 70 degree, sunny, clear summertime weather. Apparently, despite the warnings that former visitors of Chicago told me, native Chicagoans tell me that this kind of 70-80 mild weather is typical for the summer. Woo hoo! I was not looking forward to a summer like those in NYC-- hot, sticky, muggy. I think Chicago will be different- for one, it's much much cleaner. And people here relish the outdoors, with all that the city has to offer in terms of festivals, biking paths, running paths. And then finally, when you find a free event, there's not a million people who have the same idea as you mobbing the scene (which tended to happen in crowded NY). As Borat would say, Niiiiiiice!
So all in all, a good day.
Chitown has FINALLY turned a corner. I am not sure what happened to spring, but somehow it turned from winter and then late winter... and then extended version of winter to 70 degree, sunny, clear summertime weather. Apparently, despite the warnings that former visitors of Chicago told me, native Chicagoans tell me that this kind of 70-80 mild weather is typical for the summer. Woo hoo! I was not looking forward to a summer like those in NYC-- hot, sticky, muggy. I think Chicago will be different- for one, it's much much cleaner. And people here relish the outdoors, with all that the city has to offer in terms of festivals, biking paths, running paths. And then finally, when you find a free event, there's not a million people who have the same idea as you mobbing the scene (which tended to happen in crowded NY). As Borat would say, Niiiiiiice!
So all in all, a good day.
Friday
Good days, Bad days
Life is full of good days and bad days. Why is it that I tend to blog only on the bad days? I remember a couple of months ago when I was rummaging in my parent's garage, I found one of my journals I kept when I was in middle school. I actually kept several journals, all of them about half-filled with my musings. I was so scatter-brained even then that I would lose them somewhere in the tornado I called my room, or buy a pretty new pink one I saw in the store (Barnes and Noble, Strand, Rite Aid... mostly Rite Aid since we were poor even back then).
Anyway, I re-read it and was genuinely shocked. Who was this kid?? I was amused, mortified, and saddened. My journal was filled with obsessive rants on one of my closest friends, my siblings, and the world. Basically, it see-sawed between, "I HATE the world! I LOVE the world! but MOSTLY I DETEST THE SHIT OUT OF IT!" Whatever that means. I actually capitalized a lot of my sentences. So I obviously meant it, duh. And apparently, I only wrote on those miserable days when adolescence felt like a storm if bricks falling on my head. Not pleasant.
So about 10 years later, I'm doing the same thing today. Today was a bad day. Periodically, I raise my head from the pile of shit called work, look around, and realize I have absolutely no friends. I have a life, but no one here to share it with. It kind of sucks, but I guess grad school does that to you... makes you the loner you promised yourself you wouldn't be. Today was one of those days. I have no plans for Friday and Sat night (although I am going to a party on Sunday), and I fell asleep at the last party I went to. Plus the closest friend I DID have - let's call her Melon- has drifted away and we've had a falling out sort of. More on that later (plus more on her name). What has happened? I've become as pathetic as the 14-yr old who wrote with such angst. Ah well. C'est la vie.
Have a good 13th. Friday the 13th.
Anyway, I re-read it and was genuinely shocked. Who was this kid?? I was amused, mortified, and saddened. My journal was filled with obsessive rants on one of my closest friends, my siblings, and the world. Basically, it see-sawed between, "I HATE the world! I LOVE the world! but MOSTLY I DETEST THE SHIT OUT OF IT!" Whatever that means. I actually capitalized a lot of my sentences. So I obviously meant it, duh. And apparently, I only wrote on those miserable days when adolescence felt like a storm if bricks falling on my head. Not pleasant.
So about 10 years later, I'm doing the same thing today. Today was a bad day. Periodically, I raise my head from the pile of shit called work, look around, and realize I have absolutely no friends. I have a life, but no one here to share it with. It kind of sucks, but I guess grad school does that to you... makes you the loner you promised yourself you wouldn't be. Today was one of those days. I have no plans for Friday and Sat night (although I am going to a party on Sunday), and I fell asleep at the last party I went to. Plus the closest friend I DID have - let's call her Melon- has drifted away and we've had a falling out sort of. More on that later (plus more on her name). What has happened? I've become as pathetic as the 14-yr old who wrote with such angst. Ah well. C'est la vie.
Have a good 13th. Friday the 13th.
Saturday
Ms. Goody TwoShoes
Oops, haven't written in a while. Nada mucho has happened recently... except my usual rants about people. Sadly, no raves. I get annoyed easily by people, and after a while it's hard for me to continue flashing my pearly whites at them while simultaenously gritting my teeth.
Example in point: Ms. Goody TwoShoes. She used to be my roommate, has a lovely non-American accent, is sweet, smart, hardworking. In other words, she is perfect. And I hate perfect people, especially those who shine so brightly I wilt like a flower besides them. Well, actually, that's not the real reason I hate her. Ms. Goody TwoShoes has some cracks in her facade.
1. For one, she is one of those women who spend ALL their time with their men.
2. She's ridicously nice. Being a bitch, that makes me skeptical.
3. She has no life.
For some reason (3) bothers me the most. I hate being around people who work ALL the time, and act like they HAVE to do it. Hello??? I'm taking the same classes, am coasting, and do 1/2 the work you do. Don't complain and whine and make me feel guilty. As you may have noticed, I don't like doing work to begin with. I do what's enough, learn it fine, and have schooled myself in studying in smart and efficient ways (clearly as I am writing this is not one of those times) so that I can have somewhat of a life. I've been through a lot of shit in my short life to realize that life is so much more than grades, etc. It annoys me to come up against people my age who still value themselves by their grades. I just want to shake them by their shoulders, tell them to open up, let life in, and most importantly... stop making me feel goddamn guilty.
Omg. I'm such a bitch.
But really. They piss the hell out of me.
Sigh, that felt gooooood.
Update & disclaimer (sort of): I like Ms.GoodyTwoShoes. Sometimes, though, I get stressed and we all know nice people are the first to get pooped on.
Example in point: Ms. Goody TwoShoes. She used to be my roommate, has a lovely non-American accent, is sweet, smart, hardworking. In other words, she is perfect. And I hate perfect people, especially those who shine so brightly I wilt like a flower besides them. Well, actually, that's not the real reason I hate her. Ms. Goody TwoShoes has some cracks in her facade.
1. For one, she is one of those women who spend ALL their time with their men.
2. She's ridicously nice. Being a bitch, that makes me skeptical.
3. She has no life.
For some reason (3) bothers me the most. I hate being around people who work ALL the time, and act like they HAVE to do it. Hello??? I'm taking the same classes, am coasting, and do 1/2 the work you do. Don't complain and whine and make me feel guilty. As you may have noticed, I don't like doing work to begin with. I do what's enough, learn it fine, and have schooled myself in studying in smart and efficient ways (clearly as I am writing this is not one of those times) so that I can have somewhat of a life. I've been through a lot of shit in my short life to realize that life is so much more than grades, etc. It annoys me to come up against people my age who still value themselves by their grades. I just want to shake them by their shoulders, tell them to open up, let life in, and most importantly... stop making me feel goddamn guilty.
Omg. I'm such a bitch.
But really. They piss the hell out of me.
Sigh, that felt gooooood.
Update & disclaimer (sort of): I like Ms.GoodyTwoShoes. Sometimes, though, I get stressed and we all know nice people are the first to get pooped on.
Tuesday
La. La. La.
Went out last weekend in downtown chi-town... after 6 drinks got buzzed. I've got the liver of a horse. Hell. I have no idea if they've got good livers. Let's just say it's analogous to the stomach of a cow. It can handle anything.
Anyway, flirted like crazy with a dude who reminded me soooooo much of the King of Cuteness himself (Bwoy). Except he wasn't as cool. And except I didn't flirt with him that much. It was more like he kept flirting with me (seriously!). Of course, this was all until I found out from my friend that he was MARRIED. Hmmm, I wonder why he never mentioned that to me. blech. Hold on, did I just call Bwoy the King of Cuteness? Oy vey.
Eventually I stopped wasting my time flirting with married men and proceeded to my real love, Karaoke! Like many other things in my life, I suck at singing. My voice is not something you'd want to hear even in a Turkish bath. What makes it worse, however, it my attempts to make it all breathy and sexy like Norah Jones-- I just end up sounding like I've got a terribly bad cold and need some cough syrup pronto. Quite the opposite effect. Fortunately, I have a very flexible body when I dance, so I like to twist in strange dance moves whilst I croon, hoping that it will at least make me look partway sexy. I have no idea if it works-- people stare, but I can't tell if they're smiling because I look good, or they're just laughing at me. Or they could just be pained, startled smiles of people being forced to acknowledge white noise.
Ahhhh mis amigos y amigas. Being out at night does weird narcissitic things to a girl-- despite my wise twenty somethin years and complaints otherwise, I still like being the center of attention, shaking my groove and screaming in my hoarse voice.
p.s. I think the fact that Bwoy is not living here has opened my eyes to all the male attention around me. Startling. Sigh. He needs to come here. Now. I'm growing horns!!! ;)
Anyway, flirted like crazy with a dude who reminded me soooooo much of the King of Cuteness himself (Bwoy). Except he wasn't as cool. And except I didn't flirt with him that much. It was more like he kept flirting with me (seriously!). Of course, this was all until I found out from my friend that he was MARRIED. Hmmm, I wonder why he never mentioned that to me. blech. Hold on, did I just call Bwoy the King of Cuteness? Oy vey.
Eventually I stopped wasting my time flirting with married men and proceeded to my real love, Karaoke! Like many other things in my life, I suck at singing. My voice is not something you'd want to hear even in a Turkish bath. What makes it worse, however, it my attempts to make it all breathy and sexy like Norah Jones-- I just end up sounding like I've got a terribly bad cold and need some cough syrup pronto. Quite the opposite effect. Fortunately, I have a very flexible body when I dance, so I like to twist in strange dance moves whilst I croon, hoping that it will at least make me look partway sexy. I have no idea if it works-- people stare, but I can't tell if they're smiling because I look good, or they're just laughing at me. Or they could just be pained, startled smiles of people being forced to acknowledge white noise.
Ahhhh mis amigos y amigas. Being out at night does weird narcissitic things to a girl-- despite my wise twenty somethin years and complaints otherwise, I still like being the center of attention, shaking my groove and screaming in my hoarse voice.
p.s. I think the fact that Bwoy is not living here has opened my eyes to all the male attention around me. Startling. Sigh. He needs to come here. Now. I'm growing horns!!! ;)
Sunday
Skin Care
Back in chi-town!
Back to work, back to no life. At first I was blue, but now I am starting to like it!!! Oy vey. What is wrong with me?
By the way, my favorite article from NY Times this week
The Cosmetics Restriction Diet
I totally agree with the author!! I use Dove Soap daily on my face, water, and a moisturizer. And my skin I would say is pretty good (*knocks on wood*). The fancy-schmanzy creams by friends always buy scare me with their attack on my olfactory glands (geez, the smells they come up with are INSANE), and mostly their INSANE prices. I've become a cheap-o now that I'm a grad student.
And makeup? It's sad when I see girls who can't go outside without their makeup. Y'all know who I'm talking about. The other day, I read a blog of a girl who posts about makeup and her knowledge is scary-intensive. Her knowledge vast and won a lot of admirers, but when I looked at her pics, I thought her face looked like a cake. Remove the layers and there would be much more natural beauty underneath.
Okay enough ranting for today! One day I'll do my own skincare and makeup post. Except it will be three lines. Ha! J/K.
Back to work, back to no life. At first I was blue, but now I am starting to like it!!! Oy vey. What is wrong with me?
By the way, my favorite article from NY Times this week
The Cosmetics Restriction Diet
I totally agree with the author!! I use Dove Soap daily on my face, water, and a moisturizer. And my skin I would say is pretty good (*knocks on wood*). The fancy-schmanzy creams by friends always buy scare me with their attack on my olfactory glands (geez, the smells they come up with are INSANE), and mostly their INSANE prices. I've become a cheap-o now that I'm a grad student.
And makeup? It's sad when I see girls who can't go outside without their makeup. Y'all know who I'm talking about. The other day, I read a blog of a girl who posts about makeup and her knowledge is scary-intensive. Her knowledge vast and won a lot of admirers, but when I looked at her pics, I thought her face looked like a cake. Remove the layers and there would be much more natural beauty underneath.
Okay enough ranting for today! One day I'll do my own skincare and makeup post. Except it will be three lines. Ha! J/K.
Monday
Party Pooper
Maybe it's just me, but lately I've become tired of the party circuit. I mean it means dressing up, drinking, drunk-texting/calling people, acting silly, hitting on that hot guy you never had the guts to approach (but in a very unglamorous way), puking, and then waking up the next morning with the fuzzy memory you did something pretty embarassing.
And then the people. Ahhh the people. Seems like the only friends I have in NY are the ones who are about "the scene." What is up with that? What IS "the scene?" Some of my friends can't have a normal dinner with me. Instead, they have to have me and Other People, they have to have it loud, it has to involve drinking, a cool lounge, beautiful people, and a chance to buy rounds.
It's frustrating. I come back to NY, and I expected to have nice quiet dinners with people. Instead, nothing much has changed. Everything has to be frenetic, cool, and expensive. I think it has to do with the people I hang out with here... not as much good friends, but fun people to drink with. I'd be some kind of arm candy since I look dramatically different (in a nice way) when I actually give a shit about what I wear, not someone to have a deep convo with.
Hmmm I guess I've changed a bit. I used to like the going out, but it's gotten a bit tired. I mean if you like that, that's cool. As for me, I don't as much anymore. Plus I have an unnaturally strong liver. So I never get drunk and I can never act silly the way everyone around me starts acting. In the end, I laugh, chat, pick them up, and wish I were at home. With Bwoy, Best Friend, or like-minded people-- or at least drinking with them.=)
And then the people. Ahhh the people. Seems like the only friends I have in NY are the ones who are about "the scene." What is up with that? What IS "the scene?" Some of my friends can't have a normal dinner with me. Instead, they have to have me and Other People, they have to have it loud, it has to involve drinking, a cool lounge, beautiful people, and a chance to buy rounds.
It's frustrating. I come back to NY, and I expected to have nice quiet dinners with people. Instead, nothing much has changed. Everything has to be frenetic, cool, and expensive. I think it has to do with the people I hang out with here... not as much good friends, but fun people to drink with. I'd be some kind of arm candy since I look dramatically different (in a nice way) when I actually give a shit about what I wear, not someone to have a deep convo with.
Hmmm I guess I've changed a bit. I used to like the going out, but it's gotten a bit tired. I mean if you like that, that's cool. As for me, I don't as much anymore. Plus I have an unnaturally strong liver. So I never get drunk and I can never act silly the way everyone around me starts acting. In the end, I laugh, chat, pick them up, and wish I were at home. With Bwoy, Best Friend, or like-minded people-- or at least drinking with them.=)
Tuesday
Shhhh
Currently I am hiding in Bwoy's apartment while I hear movements that his roommate is making outside. Why am I hiding?
Reason 1: I had assumed that today nobody would be home so I started walking around in my bra and panties like I always do alone in my own apt. I was in the kitchen spooning honey in my mouth when I heard the doorknob rattle. I did a 6 meter dash to Bwoy's room, globs of honey sticking to my chest, and I locked his door. So now I am stuck in Boy's room in my bra and panties with my finger literally in a honey pot. And my suitcase with any semblance of decent clothes stuck outside in the hallway.
Reason 2 : I don't like Bwoy's Roommate. He has two-one of them I like, the other one I don't like. And the apalling reason I don't like Bwoy's Roommate is I don't like his girlfriend. Don't you love how this hate really comes from hate within? It's like one of those Russian dolls you open, and there's another Russian doll inside. Surprise! I hate you, but really I hate you because-I-hate-your-Girlfriend.
Anyways, as I type this, Bwoy's Roomate Whose GirlFriend I'm Not Fond Of is entering the bathroom. Oh no. Why doesn't Bwoy's Roommate Whose GirlFriend I'm Not Fond Of go away and leave me be to wander out again aimlessly in my underwear, spooning honey in my mouth, like the honey-fiend I am?
Grumble. I'm going to stake a sit-in until he leaves....
Reason 1: I had assumed that today nobody would be home so I started walking around in my bra and panties like I always do alone in my own apt. I was in the kitchen spooning honey in my mouth when I heard the doorknob rattle. I did a 6 meter dash to Bwoy's room, globs of honey sticking to my chest, and I locked his door. So now I am stuck in Boy's room in my bra and panties with my finger literally in a honey pot. And my suitcase with any semblance of decent clothes stuck outside in the hallway.
Reason 2 : I don't like Bwoy's Roommate. He has two-one of them I like, the other one I don't like. And the apalling reason I don't like Bwoy's Roommate is I don't like his girlfriend. Don't you love how this hate really comes from hate within? It's like one of those Russian dolls you open, and there's another Russian doll inside. Surprise! I hate you, but really I hate you because-I-hate-your-Girlfriend.
Anyways, as I type this, Bwoy's Roomate Whose GirlFriend I'm Not Fond Of is entering the bathroom. Oh no. Why doesn't Bwoy's Roommate Whose GirlFriend I'm Not Fond Of go away and leave me be to wander out again aimlessly in my underwear, spooning honey in my mouth, like the honey-fiend I am?
Grumble. I'm going to stake a sit-in until he leaves....
Sunday
Break
It's been a long time since I posted.
What's happened since then? Um, work. Lots of it. And now I have a delicious month-long break with... NOTHING TO DO! Hehe. And I'm back in NY, staying with Bwoy, sleeping with Bwoy ;), and sleeping all day...
My day today:
12pm: Woke up! Bwoy woke me up from the coffeeshop where he was estudiando.
1pm: Groggily (and proud of it) showered, put on decent clothes, hopped on train to Long Island City to Best Friend's (BF) boyfriend's apartment.
2-4pm: Had bruch with Bwoy, Best Friend, and Best Friend's Boyfriend (BFBF). Also goggled at the rapid gentrification Long Island City is undergoing. I remember the times growing up (not too long ago, too) when it was all junkies and abandoned warehouses... now there are luxury high rises popping up all over the place!!! I miss the gritty days. I do.
Oh, and did I ever mention how brunch is my favorite meal EVER? We cooked whole-grain pancakes with Vermont maple syrup (the real kind-- thin and sweet, not the thick sticky scary Aunt Jemima kind), omlettes with onions, mushrooms, cheddar, toast with butter, blackberries and bananas to top off our pancakes, orange juice and champagne= mimosas!
=) Food Coma Alert- for real.
4pm-5pm: Back to Manhattan, and Starbucks after the really heavy brunch. Oh funny story.... so after I ordered my drink, I joked about how yuppie I had become. I mean, I ordered an eggnog latte (skim, no whipped). I had become one of those pretentious snobs who gave about a thousand directions on how to make my particular cup of coffee, and then paid a ridiculous amount of money to have it handed over to me. I remember as a teenager growing up on the poor side, I'd walk around in my puffy coat, bandana, and sneaks, loving the way the yuppies would shift their eyes when they saw me enter their sacred kingdom of Starbucks (where I'd buy a water- ha!). Now I had become one of those yuppies!! Ay caramba.
So as we joked about it and walked down the street with our overpriced, oversugared beverages, a woman in stylish boots and a leather jacket stopped us, out of breath. "Oh my god, where is the nearest Starbucks?" Bwoy blinked, pointed down the block, and she breathlessly thanked out and ran towards the Starbucks. We looked at each other and laughed. A lot. Good lord. What a city.
5pm- 9pm- worked in Bwoy's room. Bwoy working on writeups, me figuring out why I can't register for classes because of bills online I allegedly hadn't paid. Argh, stupid office of financially retarded people.
9pm- well that hasn't happened yet, but the plan is to eat and then write Holiday cards. Yum! I love doing that=) I bought these small cards from Barnes & Noble for 20% off-- that's right, bitches! Don't hate.
What's happened since then? Um, work. Lots of it. And now I have a delicious month-long break with... NOTHING TO DO! Hehe. And I'm back in NY, staying with Bwoy, sleeping with Bwoy ;), and sleeping all day...
My day today:
12pm: Woke up! Bwoy woke me up from the coffeeshop where he was estudiando.
1pm: Groggily (and proud of it) showered, put on decent clothes, hopped on train to Long Island City to Best Friend's (BF) boyfriend's apartment.
2-4pm: Had bruch with Bwoy, Best Friend, and Best Friend's Boyfriend (BFBF). Also goggled at the rapid gentrification Long Island City is undergoing. I remember the times growing up (not too long ago, too) when it was all junkies and abandoned warehouses... now there are luxury high rises popping up all over the place!!! I miss the gritty days. I do.
Oh, and did I ever mention how brunch is my favorite meal EVER? We cooked whole-grain pancakes with Vermont maple syrup (the real kind-- thin and sweet, not the thick sticky scary Aunt Jemima kind), omlettes with onions, mushrooms, cheddar, toast with butter, blackberries and bananas to top off our pancakes, orange juice and champagne= mimosas!
=) Food Coma Alert- for real.
4pm-5pm: Back to Manhattan, and Starbucks after the really heavy brunch. Oh funny story.... so after I ordered my drink, I joked about how yuppie I had become. I mean, I ordered an eggnog latte (skim, no whipped). I had become one of those pretentious snobs who gave about a thousand directions on how to make my particular cup of coffee, and then paid a ridiculous amount of money to have it handed over to me. I remember as a teenager growing up on the poor side, I'd walk around in my puffy coat, bandana, and sneaks, loving the way the yuppies would shift their eyes when they saw me enter their sacred kingdom of Starbucks (where I'd buy a water- ha!). Now I had become one of those yuppies!! Ay caramba.
So as we joked about it and walked down the street with our overpriced, oversugared beverages, a woman in stylish boots and a leather jacket stopped us, out of breath. "Oh my god, where is the nearest Starbucks?" Bwoy blinked, pointed down the block, and she breathlessly thanked out and ran towards the Starbucks. We looked at each other and laughed. A lot. Good lord. What a city.
5pm- 9pm- worked in Bwoy's room. Bwoy working on writeups, me figuring out why I can't register for classes because of bills online I allegedly hadn't paid. Argh, stupid office of financially retarded people.
9pm- well that hasn't happened yet, but the plan is to eat and then write Holiday cards. Yum! I love doing that=) I bought these small cards from Barnes & Noble for 20% off-- that's right, bitches! Don't hate.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
