Once upon a time I was a waitress. I pray it never again comes to that.

The wind shifted tonight. It began blowing vigorously. It portends my coming day. Ten hours on my feet selling goods at a department store. During training the women kept knocking on the "wooden" (plastic) desk and saying how lucky we all were to have a job. Most people in the room will be earning eight dollars, without commission, and are promised only three weeks worth of work. This hardly constitutes a job. Not in New York anyway. Though one man mentioned he could only work every other day because he had to take care of his mother with cancer. This knocked me down a few pegs. In fact in knocked me off my high horse. Right on my ass. And I sat there thanking my lucky stars for the health of everyone around me.

However, the impending doom of ten hour department store days has driven me to vigorously search Craigslist for a new job. The last time I checked Craigslist, in an effort assuage boredom, I checked the personal ads. Just curious you know. Men seeking women. That's what I clicked on. Turns out most there's a whole host of married men in this city seeking pudgy women who are willing to provide a little companionship for a nice, pudgy lump of cash. I'm gonna keep looking under the job tab, but if worse comes to worse... Well, what can I say, it no longer seems like such a ludicrous option. Oh shush, stop you're guffawing, I was only kidding. Lord knows my going rate is much higher than anyone on Craigslist would be able to afford.

And in an effort to motivate me, and a show of solidarity, my father has begun a nightly "blog"...meaning he emails me every night. Long emails. And in the subject line he always puts Notes from Dad 12/9/08. Tonight's blog was particularly exciting. He sent me a list of all 28 jobs he's had over the course of his storied life. 28 jobs. With descriptions. I thought I'd share of few of my favorites...

 

1. Cheerful Christmas cards salesman--in 5th grade to earn enough money to buy my own desk to do homework  instead of at the kitchen table

 

2. Window washer--for my grandfather every Easter with my brother

 

4. Lawnboy--Employed my Christian Brothers who probably hoped I would have a religious calling

 

6. Coat checker--my coat was stolen when the college kids stormed the coat check because I was too  slow in dispensing the coats

 

14. Factory machine operator --In Westchester ghetto factory (his words, not mine)

 

22. Market researcher interviewer--worked for future wife (that's my mom; I didn't know this and it makes me giggle)

23. Clerk to lawyer in Queens who worked taxi cab accident claims--Only lasted three days and was not paid

 

And he walked 5 miles, in the snow, to school every morning (it doesn't says this, but you know it's implied)

 

He then ends his "blog" with the following note: I would be glad to answer any and all questions you might have about any of these income earning opportunities

 

Personally, I want to know more about the Westchester ghetto....

Or maybe I can first ask about bringing back my very first business venture: Gift wrapping. I used to slave away in my room as the holiday season approached. And bear in mind, I'm about as good at wrapping gifts as I am skilled in the kitchen. Maybe I've improved over the years. And the cost of paper has surely gone up...so what do you think $50 dollars a package?

This is Not so Glamorous

Christmas in New York. Could anything be more perfect? The city changes. Each day something new comes into view and these small accumulations result in utter transformation. Holiday window displays. An influx of tourists. Twinkling white lights--they're everywhere. The fine people at Time Warner center have even gotten it to snow. Yes, snow. Inside. It snows inside the building. And my personal favorite: Christmas tree tunnels. That's what I call the impromptu vendors that pop up all over the place to pawn off their best fir trees. You're walking along and all the sudden the sky is obscured by green. For a passing moment you're transported, by smell alone, to a world where everyone wears snowsuit jumpers and the decoration of choice (besides the tree itself) is the miniature Rudolph made from cut branches and trunk, with a little tinsel thrown on for luck. This city was made for Christmas. The season breathes new life into the well tread streets. New York lights up, literally and figuratively..  Nothing could be more glamorous.

Nothing could be more glamorous? I'll tell you about glamorous...my room is covered in laundry. Everywhere I turn I find another renegade sock. The air has turned so bitter I can barely keep my eyes open if I'm walking against the wind. And tonight my friends and I had a fantastic dinner party. At McDonalds. Glamorous indeed. I'm working two jobs and still short on rent, but 'tis the season.

Back when I went to a school where midterms and finals were par for the course, I used to try to put off any holiday spirit until all tests were safely taken. Holiday spirit was not to be trusted. This was a bad idea. I literally bred any holiday spirit right out of my genetic make up. Well, I didn't breed it out literally, but you know what I mean. In re-inventing myself into someone destined for Harvard (cue laughs for irony), I lost that part of myself that got the feeling. You know the feeling I mean. That giggle that sits in the stomach. The lurch that counts down the days. That pull that orbits around ice-skating and holiday cookies. The internal alarm clock that won't let you sleep past seven, the morning of the 25th. Now my family usually wakes me at eleven and I get out of bed somewhat begrudgingly.

This morning on the subway, on my way to training for my new (seasonal) job, I actually cried. Then I cried this evening at McDonalds, but that's another story. The holidays can be a lonely time when you're without a family. I know, I know, of course I have a family. What I mean is--that period between leaving home, and then leaving school, before you find the person you know you'll work to make happy everyday just for the chance to never have to spend another Christmas without him--that's a funny time. I used to have a plan. Go to school. Live my life, fully, all by myself. Have a torrid love affair with a man from every major European country, know that I could die happy, then (and only then) settle down. My rational was this: most of us spend the first eighteen years of our life tied to our family. The next four tied to school. If the average American gets married at 26 and dates their mate for a year before exchanging rings, this leaves that same average American three years. Three years just for them. Three years of a whole life--that's nothing! Now, I think what I've been secretly hoping for is the man who will ruin my plan. The man who will knock it upside and in doing so make me wonder why I haven't always had the perfect blue of the sky under my feet.

What I'm trying to say is...this period of not belonging is hard. And so sometimes I cry. A lot. Because as beautiful as the lights and sounds and smells all are, sometimes I wish I had someone to share them with, whether it be the family I've known all my life, or the family that's out there waiting for me. Because coming in from the cold to a mine-field of laundry isn't so glamorous. Not at all.

That being said, I got a package in the mail today. My blue Santa. I picked him out from Lord and Taylor's a few years ago and he's been my decoration of choice ever since (or at least since my mom broke my most perfect tree ornament from Bethlehem (Bethlehem, NY that is ) and left it in the trash for me to find). My mom sent him. If I hadn't left my camera in Colorado, I'd take a picture and post it. But for now just imagine the most beautiful wood-carved, hearty Santa, the world has ever known. And while he arrived slightly chipped (or not so slightly) I was reminded that family is not so far away. Not ever.

So tonight as I braved the biting winter air. I saw the city as it's meant to be. Dazzling. Simply dazzling. Because tonight I felt hopeful. Hope. I don't think love or faith can exist without it. Hopeful that I'm on the right path. Hopeful that this economic crisis will pass. Hopeful that my life will always be colored by an abundance of love from a family that's never more than a phone call away.

a list

I have this really fantastic doctor on the Upper East Side. Let's call him Dr. Tom. Dr. Tom keeps me grounded. Very grounded. I've seen a host of psychologists and psychotherapists and psychiatrists in my day. And I must say that I've never met one quite like Tom.

I actually don't know what his classification is exactly, but he seems to talk about neuroscience quite a bit. Never one for science class (except for a brief fascination with physics) my taking to Tom is quite unexpected. However, when he talks about the human body and the physiological causes and effects of anxiety and its partners in crime, I find comfort in the tangibility of it all. Lots of words, complicated sentences, am I making sense? How to explain this? Learning about the actual science of  it all, makes me feel like my anxiety is something outside myself--something that is changeable--something that doesn't define who I am.

So last week, after a mini-meltdown, Dr. Tom asked me to make two lists. Comparative lists, if you will. The first was to be a list of all those things that make up who I am. The next was all those things that make up who I am when anxiety is sittin' pretty in the driver's seat. Easy enough.

As this week passed things would come to me in spurts. I'd be on the subway and think how when anxiety is around I don't like to sit on the train. Or take pictures. I spend money on silly things that I can't afford (like trashy magazines) and I avoid the gym at all costs. I sleep longer than usual and become lazy. Anxiety manifests itself in a million little ways so the latter list was quite long. But I never really took the time to fill out the former--the list of those things that define me in my truest and purest state. But why need I? I know those things, I didn't have time to write them all down.

Dr. Tom pounced on this--said that perhaps I didn't write the list because I wasn't actually sure I knew the things that make me me. And that inability to identify is a breeding ground where anxiety festers before it slithers in and fills the cracks.

But I guess the real problem wasn't my inability to identify certain characteristics--it was my unwillingness to even try.

So here I go, giving it a go. Here's my list of those things that make me who I am. Because at the end of the day, there are some things I know. Tangible. Tangible things, so that when anxiety attempts to knock me over I can simply hold fast to my list, laugh, and say, "weebles wobble but they don't fall down." Me being the weeble of course...

The sound of John Legend's voice tickles my fancy. Okay, okay...so maybe it just plain turns me on. But not in the way you're thinking, but more in the i'll-dance-on-the-subway-platform-if-i-want-toand a this-smile-ain't-cuz-of-any-guykind of way. Most especially the song "It Don't Have to Change" (Times is hard and things are a'changin'/I pray to God that we can remain the same/All I'm tryin' to say is our love don't have to change/ No it don't have to change)

 

I clean house best, right before I go away on vacation. 

 

I'm always going to splash about in rain puddles. 

 

I'm a Bruce Springsteen kinda gal. Interpret that as you will.

 

I love wearing baseball caps. And I love history.

 

I'm always up for a game of kickball, capture the flag, foosball, or an all-night Super Mario Brothers' marathon. Sega, anyone?

 

I love to ski. Fast. And the man I marry better be able to keep up. 

 

I like pizza and cheeseburgers and my idea of a perfect date involves one of the aforementioned food items. 

 

There's nothing like going to the ballpark to see America's pastime. Though, some day I'd like to take in the World Cup.

 

I think I might elope to Rome. 

 

I want to see the world. All of it. Prague, Mumbai, Morocco, Singapore. I want to live all across Europe. I want to act on the West End--then I'll get to wear galoshes to and from work every day.

 

One of my strongest fantasies is that of my lover singing "Isn't she lovely" while wearing only boxer briefs and socks (I know, I know, it sounds a little Risky Business, but maybe Tom Cruise actually did one thing right, albeit a very long time ago--doesn't Valkyrie look awful?). 

 

I want Yo-Yo Ma to play at my wedding. Impractical? I refuse to be restricted by such labels.

 

I cannot play the game by anyone else's rules. I just can't. Even if I try, my body rebels.

 

I love to dance around my apartment. And the wood floors are very conducive to sock-sliding.

 

I'm a Libra which means my moral compass is always working overtime. Often to my own detriment. 

 

I hold on to things that any normal person would forgive and forget. I have a memory like a steel trap. 

 

I've always wanted glasses. I think they're super sexy.

 

 

I'm getting the sense that this is getting to be too much all at once, but I'm sure more will follow as it comes.

 

On a separate note, I got to catch Twilight with my lovelies. And I hadn't realized how much I've missed my friends. I laughed through the entire thing, but didn't feel so bad cuz Sarah talked through the entire thing. This didn't stop her from shooting dirty looks my way for my incessant giggles (oh, I have, have, have missed her being all the way in Chicago).

I think life might be a lot like the 1 train

Often too crowded. Sometimes too slow. Most of the time you're in transition between one platform and the next. Too often you just want to get to where you're going. And then just when you think darkness is the only thing you'll ever know, you reach Dyckman street and the sun comes pouring in.

And for all you non-New Yorkers out there, the 1 train is part of our undeground subway system. It runs from South Ferry (the low end of the island) all the way up to the Bronx. And it happens to be my most often used and most convenient mode of transportation. Dyckman Street is way up there in the Bronx just south of 210 and the train ends at 245h street.

Four Simple Rules

If I were to write a how-to book on overcoming depression, it would boil down to four simple rules.

1. eat well (eat what you like, when you like, with a focus on nourishing the body)

2. get on a regular sleep schedule (go to bed at a reasonable hour and get up at a reasonable hour--preferably around the same time each morning and evening)

3. exercise (not for vanity's sake, but because the body likes it, craves it, desires to move and dance and jump around--the body wants to be challenged)

4. and finally...always have a good book to read

Tonight, after an absolutely lovely dinner with my oh-so-generous aunt and uncle, at what's quickly becoming one of my favorite Upper West Side haunts,good enough to eat, I found myself with nothing to do.

see I'll surprise you all with a picture every once in a while, when you least expect it

 

Saturday night in Manhattan, the world was my oyster, anything was possible. Or was it? I've recently come to the realization that all my gal pals are in committed relationships. This means no single strumpets to dance the night away with in search of that oh-so-perfect--he's-the-one male to bring home to mom and dad. What's a girl to do? Hit up the bars by myself? I don't think so. I have pride enough to know when to hide away in my oh-it-needs-to-be-cleaned New York apartment. 

I weighed my options. I could...watch this week's Grey's Anatomy a second time, since the show is finally getting good again, and now I get to drool (quite unexpectedly mind you) over Christina's new love interest, Dr. Owen Hunt. Tangent alert: I used to think the most important thing on my love list (you know, the list where you enumerate the qualities of your perfect mate so that the universe can then bring him to you) was that he made me laugh and could laugh at himself. I now think this is a very close second to... manliness--I know, I know, manliness, what is that? I don't know how to describe it, but you know it when you see it, and you most certainly can feel it. I don't have time or patience any more to mess around with boys. Oh gosh, got way off topic there for a second...so I could watch Grey's, or hit up a movie. No, no, neither of those options was quite right. And then it hit me. Yes. I would got to Barnes and Noble and get the first book in the Twilight series. It was my turn to succumb to the teeth of a vampire.

I got there, asked the sales associate where I might find said book and he pointed me towards the teen section--oh wait...no, no, teen section? A mighty blow. I was nothing, if not past the teen years. Right? Okay, so maybe I was just slightly embarrassed because this request in conjunction with the enormous black bow that was now pinning back my bangs  knocked me down a few pegs. But a good book is a good book and nothing to be ashamed of. So after a moment of lowering my reddened cheeks, I marched proudly to the teen section and in doing so honored that part of me that will always be the seventeen-year-old who spent her weekends curled up with the best company a girl can hope for (apart from Dr. Hunt)--a good book.

Life in New York can be hard. All the time.  Every day. And being twenty-three ain't no slice of pie. In fact, I think it might be harder than those storied teenage years. So a million times a day, I am forced to remind myself that this too shall pass. And a million times a day I am forced to make the active choice to pursue happiness.

This is all to say that, that choice is always easier when you're well rested with something to read and friends to share a lovely and indulgent meal with. Now, if I could only find my way to the gym.