Epic Battle in the Park

“Okay, yeah. We’ll meet by the arch. If I can get to the arch…” Christen said as I exited the Union Square N train. It was a weekend, so of course the trains were slow and of course they were unexpectedly running express. This meant I’d had to get off at a stop about 10 blocks up from my final destination.

“Just get here SOON!” she said.

“I’m trying! I’m running!” I screamed back to her as I took off down University.

And oh was I running.

Through the foot traffic I sprinted, with my shoes unhappily biting the backs of unprotected heels. A purse was slapping my left leg while a fluffy pillow flopped to-and-fro on the right, occasionally brushing a passerby who dared to walk too close.  I was, at my best, slightly apologetic.

Because I was trying to make it to a city-wide pillow fight.

All of Washington Square Park was overrun by pillow whapping students, adults, and the occasional elderly couple. Though feather stuffing had been forbidden, it looked as though a hundred birds were flying above the large cotton-induced skirmish. (And a little known fact about feathers: not entirely enjoyable to breathe in.)

But conquer this battle we did!

There might have even been a few warrior screams as we dove into combat. After all, not every pillow would make it out alive. 

Above is my version of National Pillow Fight Day, taken with an iPhone in the heat of battle. Unfortunately my computer isn't letting me upload the HD file, so below is a far better filmed and edited clip. Do enjoy - and then join us next year.

Epic Battle in the Park

One Last Walk

I strolled onto Pace University’s main campus. It had been months since I’d made this trip, and it took me a second to remember where the elevators were located. Down, down, deep into the tombs of New York concrete we went. I’m always amazed by how much of this city is underground (or 40 floors up in the atmosphere).

I dodged a Herff Jones salesman, and filled out some graduate survey without remembering my student number. It was a busy day at the office, and I’m always my most exhausted right after work. So I wondered over to the Publishing table with a look probably best described as “zoned out.” Grabbing my robe (which apparently I must return!?) and picking up tickets were just errands to scratch off a to-do list.

But then I remembered: This will be the last and final graduation of my academic career. There is no more education to come; no more certificates to be earned.

I’m finally done with school.

What a bittersweet relationship we had! All nighters, term papers, thesis projects equivalent to that of a doctorial… yet still, I have a twisted sort of love for the challenge and thrill of learning. No, not regurgitating random Twitter feeds of knowledge. Actual learning, where your teacher says a fact that builds off of a detail you’ve already memorized, which suddenly makes sense with the way you process the world.

Then again, I know it’s time to be done. I’ve recognized this feeling of completion for the last semester or so. The real world beckons, and it's practically beating down my door.

Oh and by the way….

Alohomora.

These graduation robes are horrendous. I mean, this is Harry Potter material right here. What am I wearing? The Sorting Hat? No, just a cap that’s too big with a winged robe.

And you know my parents will take pictures. LOTS of pictures. Thus this Harry Potter moment will live on in infamy, through Facebook and probably some Christmas card.

At least my department’s color is crimson.

I always knew I was a Gryffindor. 

One Last Walk

My Apologies

Agh! I just realized I made a dreadful, awful mistake.

My contact information for this blog is listed as thewhyblogger@gmail.com. But for some reason, this account was always glitchy and problematic. So I forwarded all incoming mail to my personal email address.

But in short, the mail was NOT forwarding. All your emails were sitting, waiting patiently in my sad and misunderstood inbox.

I am so sorry! I feel terrible. A few of you were interested in Martha Stewart Living internships or publishing news. Please don’t think I didn’t want to chat! I do, I do - I was simply unaware of your inquiries and I promise to check the inbox more often.

Password has been changed.

Forwarding options have been tweaked.

I swear on my blog to be a better contact. 

 

 And again, my apologies.

My Apologies

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?

Poor in New York: I'm 23

Soon for Summer Saturdays

The toddlers in their prams babble and mumble,

amongst the city's overall jumble, jumble.

Mothers reach out for sprinkle laced cones.

While the children squeal gleefully, returning to sunlit homes.

Then there's the student on his used bike,

Flying through Washington Square with all of his might.

"Look at these tourist," he'll reprovingly say.

But then he too shall grin, because it's a beautiful day.

(And because he was a "tourist" two years ago anyway.)

Now watch for the dog people milling around.

With bulldogs, and beagles, and any kind of hound.

Their pets will undoubtedly start the conversation.

While the puppy-less onlookers stare in bittersweet frustration.

Ah, over on your left! What do you see?

A brunch plate with bacon, coffee, and tea. 

Unlimited mimosas are for those of a certain age.

While "just a side order" of eggs for those of a certain wage. 

Don't stare; please don't! But on that bench over there,

is a man who has two dirty pigeons in his hair.

Had maybe this been any other town?

I would have said something - now I don't make a sound.

The reader, the writer, the artist, the singer.

The family, the loner, the people - we all want to linger.

There’s a sense of connectedness, a type of attraction.

 Yes - on a city Saturday, we crave subtle human interaction.

Cheers to the beginning of the warm weather months. May they bring you ecstatic, sleepless nights and restful weekend days. 

Soon for Summer Saturdays

Things I Never Thought

Well kids, we’re coming up on two years time living in New York City. A lot has changed, and a lot hasn’t. (I think that’s the way it should be, no?) Anyway, despite most characteristics remaining intact from the pre-city days, there are a few new little quirks in my personality. Listed below are the things I thought I’d never own, wear, see, or do:

I never thought I’d… not notice when a man dressed up as a large male reproductive organ walked down the street next to me. I can’t say I even blinked at the costume.

I never thought I’d… eat PB&J for nearly 9 months straight.

Or bump into Stanley Tucci and see Steve Martin in the subway.

I never thought I’d… carry 1 to 2 pocket knives in my purse on any given day. And I never thought I’d pull said pocket knifes out of my purse.

I never thought I’d… wear a huge, puffy knee-length down jacket. In fact, it was my uniform in the Winter of 2010-2011. May that coat rest in peace for a few months.

 I never thought I’d… do my laundry at a laundromat with quarters and the whole schlep. I dreamed of big city living for a long time – yet somehow laundry was never apart of those dreams. 

 I never thought I’d… drop Yiddish phrases in my blog posts (see above statement). Or eat a better bagel than one from Einstein’s.

Oh how wrong I was.

I never thought I’d… dance on tables in the Lower East Side.

Or walk and walk and walk until every shoe (and I mean EVERY shoe) has a hole in them.

I never thought I’d… catch a 3am train to Queens or a 4am train to Manhattan.

I never thought I’d… pretty much pass out on 5^th Ave from sleep deprivation. Or email my resume and cover letter to so many companies (I believe my whole generation can nod to this one). 

 I never thought I’d… have a natural affinity for graffiti-covered bathrooms, PBR, hummus, and hollandaise sauce.

 

I never thought I’d… have a pigeon poop on my head.

I never thought I’d… have dinner with drag queens or get tips from a homeless man about living on the street.

I never thought I’d… meet such interesting, fabulous people who I encounter everyday and depend on incessantly. 

I never thought I’d… wear so many colored tights, layers, headbands, hats, leather, or satchel bags. But it’s just so easy!

I never thought I’d… be in a photo shoot or a fashion show. And I didn’t think I’d see a movie before it was released or participate in a 100+ person pillow fight.

I never thought I’d… feel so low or so high, or feel so much from a constantly morphing life among the extremes, where your values are tested and your ideals are tempted to both wither and mature within the exact same second.

I never thought I’d… be so scared of cockroaches.

Or be so fond of green grass on trips home.

And I never thought you’d… read this blog.

So thank you. 

Oh also, I never thought I'd... almost punch my sister in the face when she came up behind me in a bookstore. Personality quirk. What can I say? Don't reach for my purse G-race. 

Things I Never Thought

Happy Easter 2012

First, the family is awesome and sent me a package of Girl Scout cookies, chocolates, movies, and more. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I will be fat and happy. 

Second, how horrifying is this? My clown neighbor now has bunnies that watch me as I walk down the street. I must admit, I'm slightly terrified one of these plush fellows is secretly him and it will turn it's head Chucky-style while I'm running to work. Bah.

And finally, here are some of the top searched "Keywords of the Week" that people type into Google, which lead them to my blog. Please note the highlighted phrase. I'm not too offended.

Again, Happy Easter. Enjoy this special holiday weekend. 

Happy Easter 2012

Poor in New York: Online Banking

An embarrassing dinner. 

And it was of the Dorito variety, no less.

Happy Friday peps. 

Poor in New York: Online Banking

The Tale of Two Cities

Charles Street was lined with old lampposts and brick buildings that housed vintage dress shops or art galleries. Each step forward was a step back in time. The gray clouds weren’t dreary; they were quaint and cozy. The spitting rain wasn’t a nuisance, but the perfect excuse to dip into basement boutiques. We were content to wonder, with no plans or final destination, enthralled with a city so divergent from our own.

“New York is like our husband,” said Ivy with a smile that meant some truism was sure to follow. “I feel like New York is the love of my life… but Boston’s the hot young thing.” And we laughed, because she was too close to the truth: New York is home, New York is ours, yet 
New York is the confinement as well as the escape.

This little weekend fling was exciting, and none of us wanted to admit how much we could possibly enjoy another city. The accents, the talkative cabbies, the fluffy hotel pillows... It was cheating! Our feelings were defiant against the tiny slices of life we’d worked so hard to create! Yes, we all needed a little vacation and a cannoli from Mike's. Yes, we were pleased to be back in our respective boroughs at 

the trip's end.

But no, I’m afraid our love affair with Boston is far from over. 

(Editor’s Note to Future Husband: I will never define you as something so mundane as confining, but Ivy’s analogy was all too perfect ;)

The Tale of Two Cities