When You Fall In Love

You never know when love will strike.

And what a perfect descriptive word that is—strike. Verb. “To hit or dash, to inflict, to collide.” It’s sudden and sporadic but overpowering, almost forceful.

I could tell you exactly when it happened, what I was wearing, and how the city smelled (like hesitant spring, if you must know.)

My love story unfolded like this: A friend and I were weaving in and out of the East Village’s community gardens. It was warm enough for a leather jacket, but sitting in the shadows would give you a shiver. As we exited the little rough-and-tumble park, there he sat—my one and only.

I laughed with the couch.
I took pictures with the couch.
I even inquired about bed bugs from the couch’s previous owner. (There were none… finger’s crossed.) But ultimately I had to walk away from him. How would I bring my love to Queens?

Except.
Maybe he didn’t have to make that journey… I quickly texted two guys I knew who lived on that block. Wouldn’t they just love to have a couch from the side of the road?

Those poor gents—I do feel a bit bad for what happened next. I didn't really ask to keep the large piece of furniture but... but you should understand I was blinded by love! This couch was the urban form of that lost puppy you begged your parents to keep.

And they must have seen some persistent glimmer in my eye. There’s no other way to explain why two men would lug a golden chaise lounge down the block, and up four flights of stairs to their fully furnished apartment.

It happened all too quickly. But we were bored and the weather was warm, so that’s how the story goes. That’s how a large retro couch made a new (albeit understandably brief) home in a random living room on 6th Street.

I won’t claim to know the fate of my love. As far as I’m aware, he currently sits in his Alphabet City apartment, probably uncared for and utterly degraded. I’m fairly certain he’ll be forced back out on the street any day now, waiting in golden desperation for the next idealistic passerby. (In fact, his tragic ending may have already occurred!)

The moral of this story, my friends? Love can strike at the wrong time, and passions may become fickle as they’re tainted with practicality. (Also, never answer a text from me when I’m looking at bulky furniture on your street.)

But, oh, isn’t parting such sweet sorrow?

Cheers to Change

Let’s start with this…

I’ve really come to dislike spring. It’s fickle and timid, much like an indecisive individual constantly torn between two unimportant points. Luckily we, as humans, are allowed to have our irresolute moments because it has already been proven a dozen times over we hardly know what we want or need. This is generally an accepted norm.

Spring, on the other hand, is only consistent in its hesitance… and this is typically displeasing to those waiting for the next move or adventure. This season knowingly plays with our minds, doling out fragrant, warm days mixed with a hint of monsoon and a sprinkle of frigid winter.

But in this season, there is change. I usually feel a creeping instability by March, and then a deafening shatter by bittersweet May. Still, June is swift and quite suddenly you don’t remember frustrating spring in the slightest because you only have steadfast summer in your eyes. It has always been so, though I’ve only just realized this seasonal cycle in the last couple of years.

Speaking of change, if you couldn’t tell by the crazy influx of Facebook pictures… I graduated from graduate school this week! Pardon the lack of updates, but between family visits and two quick Virginia trips, I’ve neglected both my blog and laundry basket.

Purely of out cruel coincidence, the last day of my job at HarperCollins was also contracted for the day after graduation. Thus, for the first time in two years, I have no formal obligations – and not exactly out of choice.

No internship, no school, no job.

Remember when I maintained all three and worked nearly 70 hours a week? Well this appears to be the unsolicited opposite time in life. And I don’t think I’m fully appreciating the freedom such unhindered circumstances bring because I’m simply one to naturally go, go, go.

But I’m not sending out resumes this week. I will not tweak another cover letter for a few days. I shall certainly check email, but sparingly and with a “delete-delete-delete” mentality, because also for the first time in two years, I’m going on vacation.

Ah, the sound of that word. How absolutely glorious.

Since moving to the city, I’ve not escaped its all-encompassing atmosphere for more than five days at a time. Not that I typically want to leave – particularly in the electric, buzzing summertime – but a change of scenery may do this tired mind some good.

Thankfully, shifty spring is leaking into consistent summer. I will wake up every morning and the air will be hot, the days will be long, and the nights will be one enthralling venture after another. I will take cold showers, map out beach trips, and consume Mr. Softie ice cream cones. I will get up too early and stay out too late because I can hardly have enough of this season. Even in the most miserable heat, I won’t mind the oppressive air so much because I will have known it was coming. The heat always comes. The heat always comes because it is reliable and unwavering.

There is something so comforting in that thought.

Freelance jobs are opening up. Resumes I sent out months ago are beginning to pay off.  A part of me even wonders if maybe I should take some time off from the 9 to 5 world to see, to do… to write.

And so “we hit the ground running” my friends.  

(After vacation, of course.)

The parents came to town, so we brunched in the East Village. 

Then Ivy, Clare, and I graduated at Radio City Music Hall with our Publishing cohort. I should have done at least one Rockette kick across the stage. 

Afterwards, all our families dined together overlooking the

 Brooklyn Bridge. 

And that is the finale of my student career. It was expensive and sleepless, but worth every minute. I don't think I'd change a thing. 

The End. 

Poor in New York: I'm 23

I was running out the door to a little gathering in Brooklyn last Friday, when I realized – agh! – I had not eaten dinner. This is important before venturing into the unknown New York evening. Thus, I began the often futile search for food in my apartment.

Fridge? It was pretty empty. I’d had eggs for breakfast, which meant I was in no mood to eat them again for dinner. We were also out of bread and there weren't anymore apples.

Cabinets? Those were pretty empty too. Even I know you can’t eat Tagalongs for dinner. And pasta seemed like a daunting task. But wait – what was this?

Spaghettios!

Hello, childhood friend.

Now, mind you, I did not purchase this odd little soup for myself. No, in fact my mother sent a can of it to me with the Tagalongs and a few other Easter goodies. (Don’t you judge.)

But I needed to be walking towards the train within the next 3 minutes. So I did what I’ve done many times before. In fact, I’m sure I’ve blogged about it at some point over the last two years.

Oh yes.
Cold soup.
Out of the can.
Forget the microwave.

This always made my college roommate gag. Though I promise it’s really not that bad. (Permission to judge.) 

But the best part of this whole ordeal? While I’m stuffing Spaghettios in my face, and trying to avoid dripping anything on my dress, Blink 182’s “What’s My Age Again” begins to play on my computer. If you don’t know the lyrics, they go something like this:

Nobody likes you when you're 23
And you still act like you're in Freshman year
What the hell is wrong with me?
My friends say I should act my age
What's my age again?
What's my age again?

Yep. Thaaaat’s me! At the ripe age of 23. I’m wearing heels and eating cold soup. At least my friends don’t tell me to act my age. Nope… they’re just as bad. And let’s be honest; our habits may not change that much before we’re 40.

But would you really read this blog if it were any other way?

My Creepy Neighbor

So my neighbor is a clown. 

I have only seen him in makeup once. His face was painted, and he wore a wife-beater while his tiny black poodle growled at people strolling by. 

Yeah. That was enough for me. 

Unfortunately my creepy clown neighbor likes Halloween. It seems to be the holiday he most relates to, thus the rest of the block must put up with frightening exhibits of oddness... like this new addition to our hood:

Meet Evil Clown Pirate. His ship is a fire hydrant, and his prey are any who exhibit fear. Walk tall Astorians! Do not be fooled. He is only a stuffed mannequin.

But do beware...

When you pass Evil Clown Pirate, resist from exhibiting any form of emotion. With a quick glance to the left, you will see the real evil clown, peeking out from behind his curtains, looking for exactly such a response.

Ah, New York. 

I love you and all of your peculiarity.