Snowpocalypse, go away.

(<-My actual sled marks. Proof I touched nature.)

I've never lived anywhere that got a substantial amount of snow. Well...my brief time in Minnesota included massive amounts, but I was too small to remember. Let me reiterate, I've never lived anywhere that got legitimate amounts of snow that I had to deal with.

Enter New York. Now, I know that there are many other places that have gotten hit way harder by Snowpocalypse than we have (in fact, it's been really unimpressive mother nature) but the bottom line is, this is my first winter here and admittedly, the first time I've ever been forced to "face the elements."

I don't own snow boots. I own rain boots, but I've worn them so long that they actually leak (water+freezing temperatures+toes=really unhappy girl). I recently learned about the concept of layering for survival rather than style. Nine times out of ten I forget my hat. For some reason, when I check the weather in the morning and it says: 20, feels like 12, this doesn't register as a problem. But it is. I had my first experience where my face was so cold I actually had tears running down my cheeks, and I wasn't sad or angry about anything! That was two months ago...I had no idea that could really happen. I'm not an idiot, I just don't have a concept of COLD. Or snow.

Which brings me to today. Today I went sledding, with three ten-year-olds. Straightforward enough, right? Wrong. I chose to wear leggings, a dress and boots with a nice two inch heel to work. There is nothing worse than sludging through slippery slush, trying to keep up with triplet ten-year-olds and then SLEDDING in heels.

Let's hope tomorrow I can make a better wardrobe choice, because apparently it was 'totally awesome' that I participated in the 'snow day fun' and those kiddos 'cannot wait to do it again tomorrow.'

Le sigh. Mach schnell, Spring.

Creeping Up on the Come Up

Originally I was going to write about my aspirations to be Miss America tonight. That dream I once had...once upon a time. But then I realized that in light of the absolutely MOST ridiculous thing that happened today, there was no way I'd be able to focus on tiaras and talent.

I work out near home everyday. I generally go before work and on days I don't work, I try to go by 9 am...to keep some kind of a schedule I suppose. Today I slept until 10:30. It was like I was a dead person. I scrambled into my workout gear and headed out. I finished my workout around 1:30. This is relevant. At 1:30 in Manhattan, all the streets are packed with people, not only is it the middle of the day, its LUNCHTIME.

Sweaty and thirsty, I embark on my 7 minutes cool-down walk home. I've gone about ten yards from the gym when I hear a REALLY loud voice shout out "Damn that is GORGEOUS." I am a little shaken, and jolt out of my lovely daydream. I realize a homeless man is standing right in front of me, pointing at me and screaming this phrase over and over again...muttering some other things I won't mention under his breath in between. First thought: don't make eye contact. I get out my phone to make a call, and realize that people are now staring at me. A LOT of people. As I walked past my 'admirer' he has made acquaintance with my backside and is proclaiming LOUDLY about my "fine ass backside," also mentioning "I knew that was gorgeous, that is one fine body you have there..."

I am mortified (it takes a lot, but he's succeeded). A man and his girlfriend are waiting at the light with me...their mouths are wide open...I find myself staring at the ground. The light isn't changing, and at this point this man has been yelling for at least two minutes (no exaggerations here). I will probably never work out between 12 and 1:30 again.

And you'd better believe, when the light finally changed, I power-walked. So much for a cool-down.

Memory

I can't remember anything. That's not entirely true. I remember to pay my bills on time. Early actually. Rent is always in the mail on the first of the month. I remember all of my clients names, their families, their addresses. I remember my appointments.

And that's where my memory stops now. If I tell you a story or an idea, I won't remember I told you within a few HOURS. In fact, I'm apparently beginning to repeat myself word for word. But I don't remember it. My friends, my family, gave the embarrassing task of choosing between listening to me repeat verbatim or gently telling me, "no, we've been over this already."

This is a problem. I'm 23. I feel like a broken record. I feel like I've been running both away from one life and to catch up with another. In all this running I'm completely forgetting everything else in my life. My desk, my purse, my planner, even my walls are riddled with 'notes to self,' instructing me to eat, shower, go to the gym, call Mom, order groceries, clean room, write...I can't even seem to remember to do things I love. I'm tired.

A friend says this is probably due to a lack of sleep (I'm averaging 4 hours a night), stress and underemployment. I remember this because I have it in writing. And I agree with him, to an extent, but I think there's more to it--I just can't seem to remember long enough to tell anyone.

I Hate Waterford Crystal.

Confession: This afternoon I watched two episodes of 'Bridezillas', one episode of 'Platinum Weddings' and two episodes of 'My Fair Wedding.' I've been watching an awful lot of bride television lately. For no reason. I'm not getting married, nor do I have any plans to do so anytime soon (though some days I feel like it would be a really HILARIOUS thing to do and find myself toying with the idea of just how many terrible marriages I could create and enter into-God is anything sacred to me anymore? I mean REALLY. Ha. Breathe.).

All this attention to what other brides are doing has me thinking about what my hypothetical wedding would be like. Understatement of the year. Mine's planned...minus the groom, and if there's one thing that a) won't be at my reception, b) won't show up on my registry and c) better not be in my wedding gifts, it's Waterford Crystal. Every bride I watched today swooned over it. Misty eyed, gasping for breath, total elation swooning.

I don't get it. It's glass. It's glass with ugly texture/patterning (nice art words, eh?) that comes in really hideous packaging with a sky-high price point. And you know what, I happen to be very close to someone who worked on that packaging, who agrees that it's fugly and who shared with me during a recent anti-Waterford rant (oh yes, there's been more than one), that Waterford is so cheap they didn't even PAY for the design once they accepted it and began using it.

Bottom line, I hate this stuff. When it comes time to shop for 'real' stemware, I'm totally with Riedel. The O-Riedel line at that. And I will drink whatever I please out of any of the glasses thankyouverymuch.

Next wedding-related issue: If I cry at my wedding, please punch me in the face.

An Open Letter to Public Transit...

...and some morning commute observations.

I've been doing a reverse commute to Jersey lately...looks like it may become a permanent thing, temporarily. Complicated. What isn't? Who cares, I'm happy.

Anyway, this reverse commute. I've done it three days now. Up at 5:20...out the door by 6:55, train to the bus, hello Jersey. I've made morning commute friends: I have the two paper guys near Port Authority, we talk about the weather, converse quickly ("How was your weekend/Mine was fabulous and yours?/Fabulous? Really?/Of course! If it's not fabulous it wasn't worth having"), I am showered with blessings from God and sent on my way with two papers: Metro and AM New York.

I arrive at Port Authority. Originally I had decided the Upper West Side was where dreams go to die, but I've since had to retract that statement. The Port Authority Bust Terminal is where dreams go to die. I am the obnoxiously cheery commuter. Everyone else carries their coffee in front of them, like a navigational beacon, I chat happily on the phone to various friends who are also awake. Or at least, they are now, because I called. There is nowhere to sit at Port Authority, nothing is open when I'm there (in case I wanted to shop at 'Strawberry'...which I don't, so perhaps this is a win-win?).

I get on the bus. This morning my 'gross New Jersey boyfriend' seems to have succumbed to one of three fates: a) he's missed the bus, b) he didn't work last night, c) he didn't party last night. His name only comes from the fact that he gets on the bus with me in the morning with bloodshot eyes, I mean, its worse than that. He's a wreck. And then he proceeds to stare at me nonstop for the duration of my ride. He doesn't blink. I think his eyes are too dry to shut. I grabbed extra papers for him this morning, with the intent to give him a set and tell him he could look at them instead. Alas, he's not around, and I find myself in the midst of a gaggle of weathered, old, possibly alcoholic Jersey grandpa's. They're all wearing more or less the same outfit: grey wool coat, black wool hat, grey stubble. Skin tones that aren't quite alive, but definitely not dead. And they're all doughy. None of this is bad, its characteristic, and it's noteworthy -because they all look the same.

I love everything about my commute (especially the Port Authority Pigeon-pictured above-whom I found happily wandering the BACK of the terminal.) Except the bus to Jersey.

Dear New Jersey Transit Bus System:

Is there ANY possible way you could be less efficient? We are fine in the morning, aside from the fact that you failed to stop at my stop today (half my bad, I didn't know I had to REQUEST a stop that is on the route, oh wait, no, you're just silly). In the evening though...you are late. Chronically late. And not a little...you are always 20 minutes late and it is cold and no matter how many pairs of socks I wear nor the presence of 'winter leggings' under my jeans will ameliorate this. Furthermore, it was my understanding that a bus stops at each stop dictated on the bus schedule. NJTransit. Really? Really must I FLAG DOWN THE BUS LIKE A CAB? I rest my case, I'll see you tomorrow, we'll try this again...

And now to bed. For a 5:20 wake up. Oh please let me sleep tonight...