go west, young man

Tomorrow I depart for parts unknown (to me). The ‘thumb’ of Michigan more specifically, a place that according to google maps is nothing but fields for miles. Good thing I love B. I wouldn’t be tramping out to the midwest for just anyone.

The pre-wedding checklist is almost complete, and I am almost on my way. All that remains is a mani/pedi, last minute Duane Reade stop, and, oh yeah, packing. My room, I imagine, will look like a chick-lit novel has exploded, all dresses and shoes and bobby pins. And dramamine, I don’t fly well.

I’m excited, not just for the wedding, but for a reunion with B and a vacation from New York. Things feel icky here right now, and I need a change, even if it means stepping over the edge into adulthood. But at least I’ll be doing it in style, in a floor length chocolate gown and pearls.

waiting by the phone for nyc tourism to call

I haven’t spent much time off the east coast. In fact, I haven’t spent much time out of the north east region in general (unless you count DC, which I don’t). It has only been in the last year, when I began travelling for work, that I really had the chance to experience what life was like in other parts of the country.

As it turns out, it’s pastel. Big Boss, coworker and I were on a trip to Texas when I first noticed it. We were the only people wearing black. Everyone around us was floral or patterned and most certainly multicolored. The three of us may as well have been playing Resevoir Dogs in our black suits and sunglasses. We stood out like sore thumbs. “Y’all’r frum New Yorrk, aren’t ya?” What gave it away? “You jus’ look so ser-yus.” And angry, apparently, as though at any moment we would snap and draw our guns on the unsuspecting population of San Antonio.

And that’s when it hit me, New York’s new tourism slogan. New York: We will cut you. I think it has a nice ring to it.

something blue

In one week, I’ll be heading west for B’s wedding. Terrified doesn’t quite describe how I feel about this. I hate to fly, I’m sure I’ll trip down the aisle, I haven’t yet planned the bachelorette party, and I’m scared that this is the beginning of the end. Mostly though, I am scared of being the chubby maid of honor.

Happy as I am for B (and believe me, I’m elated), I’m not ready for my friends to start getting married. I’m not ready for ‘and guest’ s, dress fittings, Mr and Mrs, husbands and bouquet tosses. I’m not ready for lines to be drawn between singles and marrieds. I’m not ready for husbands to come before friends. Chicks before dicks seems to be vanishing into the wind.

Yet here I am, on the brink of the beginning of the end, or perhaps the end of the beginning, or on a positive note, the beginning of the beginning.

“What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” –T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

there’s nothing to do here, some just whine and complain

It smells like tunafish. One word, to distinguish fresh ‘tuna’ from ‘tunafish,’ which comes in a can and spends who knows how many months aquiring that specific gag-inducing odor. Clearly, someone on my floor is eating tunafish in some form, and it’s not ok with me.

I’ve decided here and now that I will at some point in my life be important enough to issue a mandate (celebrity style) that no one may eat or prepare tunafish within sniffing distance of me. And if they do I reserve the right to fire and/or inflict bodily harm on them.

But for now, I’ll put my aspirations of power aside and be grateful that I can close the door to my office, spray my hands with lemony antibacterial spray, and wait out the stench.

**Today’s title comes from a Cold War Kids song…can’t remember which.

best laid plans

I have bad planning karma. Probably caused by the fact that I will cancel plans for the tiniest of reasons. “I don’t feel well…it’s raining…I have to do laundry…I didn’t get enough sleep last night…I don’t feel pretty today.” And I cancel at the last minute, because I’ve been trying to convince myself I’ll go when I know I won’t. So it shouldn’t surprise me when my best laid plans fall through.

For example, dinner tonight. It’s still happening, but the attendance has shifted dramatically from People I’m Friends With to People I’ve Talked to Maybe Twice. Should make for an interesting evening.

And now, for the second time in as many days, I’m facing the consequences of my bad karma. On a day when I really need someone to complain talk to, I’m told “We can wait until tomorrow to hang, it’s raining and miserable out.” I don’t respond for a few minutes, pouting behind my desk. Finally, “You’re right, it’s miserable out.”

What I want to add but don’t, is that it’s miserable in here, too.

all I know about life, I learned from Angela Chase

“There’s something about Sunday night that really makes you want to kill yourself.” – My So Called Life

I’m in a slump. Maybe it’s just a day-long thing, maybe my upset stomach is making the rest of my life seem awful. But in the fairytale gone wrong that is my life, I’m apparently Grumpy dwarf. And Sleepy as well. Because lately 9 hours a night doesn’t seem like enough.

I don’t know what’s up, but I know that in a room full of what should have been friendly faces, I couldn’t wait to get away. So I walked, on Upper East Side autopilot, and eventually made it back to my apartment to try to sort myself out. Only, I’m not sure what needs to be sorted. I can’t complain about anything except being unsatisfied, and that just doesn’t seem legit.  It seems whiny.

getting nervous

Maybe it’s lame, but I’m starting to be scared that if I look at any sort of media for the next few days the ending of Harry Potter will be ruined for me. NYT bought a copy (somehow) and reviewed it, what’s to stop anyone else from broadcasting the ending?

Yes, I know there are more important things to be worried about (like exploding steampipes, torrential rain, and a wedding in two weeks) but right now, my thoughts are focused on Harry Potter.

rainy days and mondays

Days like today, when 8:30am looks like 9:30pm, should be spent in bed with ice cream and BBC’s Pride and Prejudice*. They certainly should not be spent at work, trying to dry off after your morning commute. There should be no commuting when it’s raining this hard.

My coworker was caught on the E train coming in from Queens when they decided to suspend service. He was stuck below ground in a tunnel for 3 hours, standing. This is why I take the bus. I like being able to see outside, and I like the option of getting off a few stops early if I feel like walking.

And even though I’d like nothing more than to curl up tonight with Harry Potter 6 and Elizabeth and Mr Darcy, I have plans to meet the roommates for a restaurant week dinner. But I’ll be having ice cream for dessert.

*I don’t care how good you say the new version with Keira Knightley is, I won’t watch it.

love with appliances

It’s not what you’re thinking. No battery-powered lovin’ will follow.

I’m currently wearing a tshirt, short sleeved cardigan, sweatshirt, and pashmina. And my nose is still cold. I’m about to crawl under my desk and cozy up to the computer, the only thing producing heat in my office. I figure I can wedge myself between the mac and pc and live there happily until the ice age ends.

My mom has no sympathy when I call: “It’s so hot in my office I could die. Put on a sweater.”

Would it be weird to get a mug of hot water and just hold it?

not so grown up

I didn’t cry. I wanted to, but I held back. And as they drove away, I couldn’t help wondering (Sex and the City Style) if it will always be like this. Will I ever grow up? Will I ever stop needing my parents to fix my life?

The apartment may have been clean and waterfall scented (thank you Glade) but they could see beneath all that, to how miserable I am in that closet of a room. Luckily though, they came with a plan. And now that my desk has migrated to the rarely used living room, where it sits next to a brand new espresso bookshelf, I have breathing room. And a small green rug. And room to lay down my yoga mat, where I’ll be every morning in plank position trying to tone my arms for the wedding in two(!) weeks.

As my dad was lugging my late ’80s Ikea bookshelf down the stairs, I plied him with compliments. “You’re the best, Dad, really. I really appreciate this, I know it’s hot.” I expected his usual snark about owing him money or taking care of him in his old age, but instead, “Well, we love you, kiddo.”

No, I will never stop needing my parents to fix my life, and I expect they will never stop offering. As for growing up, the question isn’t so much ‘will I?’ but ‘do I want to?’