You Know You've Made It When...

Because people are like snowflakes, everyone obviously has their own idea of what it is to ‘make it’ in life.

Personally, my “You know you’ve made it when…” is a constantly changing variable that has differed depending on where I am physically and where I am mentally.

For instance, when I was 5 years old, I would have said “You know you’ve made it when you have a pony that can talk and fly”. At 16, I may have said “You know you’ve made it when you can stay out past midnight without your parents being all over your case about curfew.” When I was in college, it was definitely “You know you’ve made it when you can close the Stone Balloon, and still ace an 8am midterm the next day.”

Please note that according to my 5, 16 and 21 year old self, I have yet to “make it”. Yes - my parents still fret if I’m out past midnight. No – ponies cannot fly (the jury is out on the talking bit). And no – I never aced a midterm.

But just as those are slightly ridiculous goals, I have yet to hear more hilarious “You know you’ve made it when…’s” than from the mouths of my contemporaries who live in New York.

The New York City version of “You know you’ve made it when…” is nothing short of comical and nothing above sad.

Allow me to articulate. The following quotes are verbatim:

You know you’ve made it in New York City when…

- Your square footage cannot be confused with your bra size.
- You have a view of something other than a homeless man in an alleyway, masturbating.
- You can afford beer at a bodega.
- The capacity of your kitchen does not cap off at 2.
- You have a kitchen.
- Your bed does not double as your couch, your coffee table or your counter-space.
- You’re not forced to smuggle flasks into bars.
- You can open your front door and your bathroom door, simultaneously.

I never cease to be amazed at what a person will do for a 212 area code (or 917…or even 347 now). I am no exception. Consider this amazing fact: if I had his number, I would call the Devil and sell my soul at a nominal price for one thing. I’d sell it for the one thing that would officially mean that I had made it (for now)…a washer/dryer IN MY APARTMENT.

For those of you who don’t have this luxury – you know exactly what I mean.

The ironic thing about this is that I’ve never been one for laundry. When I was 22, and living in a gigantic house with 3 other people, paying $300 a month my very own room, my very own writing room, the house amenities and a washer/dryer in our enormous kitchen, I never did laundry. I have three girls who can attest to the fact that they forced it upon me on more than one occasion.

I’d like to say I’ve matured since then. I cannot.

In LA, the Laundromat was around the corner. When I first moved out there, I found it mysterious and romantic: the girl in the Laundromat. This quickly fizzled, and it wasn’t long before it became less important to be mysterious and romantic, and more important to just purchase new underwear in an effort to prolong the need for a laundry day.

My hopes were high upon moving to New York, as our building has a laundry room on every other floor. “I’ll do laundry!”, I thought.

Oh, Christy.

In hindsight, my optimism was endearing, but ridiculously unrealistic. I currently bargain with Chris, like “I’ll clean the bathroom if you do the laundry”. Or “I’ll watch a Will Smith and/or Mark Wahlberg-action-movie-marathon with you if you do the laundry.”

Can you fathom how many hours I’ve spent with Will Smith at this point?

I cringe to think of it.

This week, I woke up every day with a shit-eating grin, as there was a chance that we were upgrading to a new apartment within our building. This apartment contained “the coveted”. I was willing to forfeit our city skyline view to finally “make it” in life with a washer/dryer unit IN MY APARTMENT. I was finally going to do laundry. Sometimes.

Realistically, I could not attribute my shit-eating grin to the possibility of a washer/dryer, per se (because really, that would leave me without a single excuse not to do laundry), but to the idea of taking one more step in a positive direction.

During a time in history when we all feel as if we’re sprinting on a treadmill, it is important to be aware of the littler things. There are stepping stones for us to take – we just have to be willing to look down and squint every now and then to see them. Getting a washer and dryer in my apartment wouldn’t to stop my wheels from spinning, but it would be a little step – up.

Today I found out that we’re probably not going to get the apartment, and I’ll be just shy of “making it” this time around. To add insult to injury, we have so much laundry.

But you know what? I’m already thinking about how awesome its going to be when we have a washer/dryer AND a view, AND a pony that can talk.

And just like that, its updated: “You know you’ve made it when you don’t lose the determination to do so.”

And all things considered, going commando for a little bit longer isn’t the worst thing ever.

GERTIE SAYS:

"Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves and then we have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos."

- Snoopy

Not So Thrilled: Riding the Rails with the Undead

The New York subway system is an interesting place to be at 11pm on a Tuesday.

I’d forgotten this, considering I am not usually one for the rails. I walk mostly, and if I’m not walking, I’m taking the subway, but rarely that late on a Tuesday. I’m 29. You can bet your bottom dollar that I am two sheets to tomorrow by 11pm on any given night.

So you can imagine my surprise last night to find that I had stepped onto the platform, and into the Dawn of the Dead.

Had it been 1982, I’d have suspected that the Thriller video had just wrapped, and every extra lived in my neighborhood. However, its not 1982, as I would be 2 years old, and the question would not be “Am I riding the subway with Thriller extras?” and more “Where are my parents, and where can I find a clean diaper?”.

Sidenote: If it WAS 1982, MJ would still be alive, and that would be rad. Sigh.

But in all reality, I had to rub my eyes to ensure that I was not, in fact, dreaming.

It was as if it was the witching hour, and all of the dregs of the earth sprouted from the ground, and shuffled their way onto the 4/5 express train. I was sitting next to a girl, who at 4pm, would be a girl a lot like myself: pulled together, articulate, poised (did I mention beautiful?) – but at 11pm, she looked a little like the victim of a mugging.

And then there was the guy in the brown suit sitting diagonally from me. Again, he looked like he was an executive during daylight hours – like someone I could take home to my parents. But now…now he looked like someone my Father would have to stab through the heart with a wooden stake. His executive haircut was tousled and spiking out at points. His tie was missing, shirt halfway un-tucked (How does this happen? I’ve always wondered) and one shoe was untied. His complexion was pale, with the exception of dark – almost purple - half moons under each eye.

The legitimately crazy woman in mismatched socks, with missing teeth and an invisible friend was – in comparison – looking like the sane one.

It was astonishing! There was an African American man sitting in the far corner, wearing a collared short-sleeved shirt, jeans, argyle socks and shoes with tassels – normal. Normal from the neck down. From the neck up, Dude looked like a wax figurine of a lobotomy patient. Slack face, dead eyes…he barely blinked.

Looking around, I realized that everyone in my car was like that: like Zombies. Bodies were loose and swaying and bumping with the rocking of the train, eyes were sullen, faces motionless and sad. At every station, they’d get up slowly and drag towards the door. They’d get off, and would immediately be replaced by another night crawler, shuffling onto the train and plopping into a seat.

What is it about nighttime weekday subway riders? Is it that everyone was like me, and wanted to be in bed? Was it that there was a tragedy above ground that I didn’t know about, and everyone was in shock? Was it because they actually were extras from the Thriller video, and I was in some kind of time warp?

Mind you, these were not threatening, or scary Zombies. These were friendly Zombies that sat, lifelessly (which, in and of itself, is scary), but I felt relatively safe. Granted, I felt like I was dared to spend the night in a graveyard, but safe, nonetheless.

But then something truly frightening happened: I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the subway car window, and I stared at it a minute – not knowing it was me. Because there I was, totally disheveled. The light was such that it cast a horrifying shadow on my face that made my eyes look hallow, my nose look long, and my cheeks, sunken. I was expressionless, and motionless, with the exception of the sway of the train. I looked like one of them. Possibly even worse!

THEY were looking at ME thinking I was of the undead! ME! Here the mugging victim was thinking that I looked like I may have just pulled myself out of a gutter after having been robbed. The guy in the brown suit was thinking that I looked as though I could be a girl he could take home to his parents during daylight hours. Mr. Argyle Socks was certainly thinking that I was coming straight from my Tuesday night lobotomy session!

Horrified, I ran my fingers through my hair, sat up straight, and bolted when we reached my stop – and didn’t look back to see what was after me.

I suppose it just goes to show that before one (me) judges, one (me) should consider their (my) own reflection first.

That said, I would have made a GREAT extra in Thriller. Even at 2 years old.

GERTIE SAYS:

"When you look at yourself from a universal standpoint, something inside always reminds or informs you that there are bigger and better things to worry about."

Albert Einstein, The World as I See It.

Exciting Times: Ants, Aliens and Nic Cage.

It was suggested to me by Bryan Hoffman (the world’s biggest shit-giver) that I blog about “how exciting I am” because I opted to bail on a tequila shot fest with him in order to stay home and watch a horrific Nicolas Cage movie (aren’t they all) with my fuzzy two-legged and four-legged friends.

Granted, it was a Friday night, and as if Nic Cage isn’t a waste of enough time – to waste a coveted weekend night with him, is nothing short of a travesty. I KNOW.

Nonetheless, I stayed home.

I’m not proud to admit this, but we watched “Knowing”, which is a sci-fi movie about the prediction of tragic events, aliens using Earth as an ant farm, bad hair plugs, worse acting and the eventual end of days.

It was all a bunch of bally-hoo. However, the movie did something very interesting: it continued the recent (and seemingly endless) theorizing that Chris and I have been doing about life as we know it, life as we don’t know it, and aliens. The short of it? Chris believes whole-heartedly in aliens. I think I married wrong.

But oddly enough, we’ve been on this topic for months. It started with us seeing a History Channel blurb about the Egyptian pyramids. This prompted Chris to tell me his theory on how aliens beamed down, and showed all of Mesopotamia how to mummify people – which prompted me to think he was kidding. Until I realized he wasn’t.

Coincidentally, we watched “Hornton Hears a Who” shortly thereafter, and with that, our debate on the origin, meaning, and demise of the human race was officially underway.

I think its worth noting here, that neither of us smoke pot.

Anyway, not knowing that “Knowing” was going to crazily Hollywood-up the ending with Arian looking aliens (seriously, I’d have thought they were from Greenwich, CT, had it not been for the black trench coats) taking what seemed like a modern day Noah’s Ark spaceship full of 2 of everything into space, I was actually surprised when the underlying theme of the movie fueled the fire of our ongoing debate.

As opposed to huffing off to bed in a fury because I’d never get those two hours of my life back, we actually launched into a discussion about it. Needless to say, this did not happen after watching, say, “Con Air”.

No, I don’t think that Arian Aliens are going to save a modern “Adam and Eve” from the incineration of the Earth’s surface, and re-plant them on a ‘New Earth’ to begin this whole charade all over again. But -- the idea that we’re being observed like tiny creatures in a glass case in a living room of something huge is intriguing indeed!

I mean, the Who’s existed on a spec, and believed that that spec was the whole Universe…until Hornton heard them. So…whos to say we’re not Whos?

Crazy as it may sound, Nic Cage and his posse of equally embarrassing actors might be on to something, here. While I don’t believe that the world’s tragedies can be predicted, I’d like to believe that we are a part of something bigger. And if that’s the case, there’s a chance that we are, literally, living in a giant ant farm.

Think about it: ants are social. They live in colonies and have jobs like “worker” or “soldier”. Ant societies have division of labor, communication between individuals, and an ability to solve complex problems. Check, check and check. Most importantly, colonies consist mostly of women, with a couple of horny men thrown in there, otherwise known as – get this – “Drones”. Fertile females are “Queens”. This is uncanny, no?

And I’ll bet you anything that ants have no idea that their universe is a tiny spec on the ground of ours.

So if we are, in fact, bigger versions of the ant, then New York is certainly a colony, and I am certainly a “Worker”. I get up, walk from point A to point B, work, get food, work some more and return home. Sometimes, I’ll have drinks with my female friends (one of whom is a Queen!), sometimes, I’ll stay home with my Drone, and sometimes, I should go out on a Friday night for tequila – because the World (our world) could be incinerated or stepped on tomorrow. And since I’m certainly not in the running to make the cut for Noah’s Sky Ark (no one in New York City is), I might as well go out with a buzz on.

So color me “exciting” from here on out, Hoffman. You have Nicolas Cage to thank.

Want game? Get a dog.

It’s a well-known fact that puppies are chick magnets. I am guilty as the biggest sucker for a dude with a puppy.

But did you know that a) that rule of thumb goes for men AND women, and b) it goes for 50lb adult (and painfully adorable) pitbulls?

I, too, was surprised.

Gertie has been a true eye-opener. Not only have I made friends through G (despite the fact that I stopped accepting applications for new friends years ago), but I’m absolutely slaying it with the menfolk!

Case and point: Marisa (babe) and I took Gertie for a walk along the Hudson not so long ago. We see a specimen approaching. And by ‘specimen’, I mean a man (well, he was almost a man) so incredible looking that just the sight of him stopped our conversation. For those of you who know Marisa and I but at all, you understand how hot he was.

Not that Ris and I aren’t total lookers (ahem), but there’s not a snowball’s chance in Hell this guy would have noticed us without a four-legged prop. He was that off the charts. Young, handsome, chiseled (am I getting carried away here?), and so far out of our league if only for the age difference. BUT – I digress…

As he approaches, he smiles (the most beautiful smile), and says (in the dreamiest of voices) “Great dog.”

Heart…skipping…beats…what do I say? WHAT DO I SAY?!

I beamed back at him, googley-eyed and said (in my dreamiest of voices) “Thanks.”

It took a good minute for Marisa and I to compose ourselves after giggling like schoolgirls. At which point, she said “Dude, we should never go anywhere without your dog.”

Agreed.

Sidenote: Marisa saw this same guy in Whole Foods not so long afterwards, and had no ammo. Sad.

And don’t get all “Oh, I wonder what Chris thinks about this” because those of you who know me, know that I called him immediately after our hot guy encounter to report to him that Gertie is seriously upping my game.

And he was proud – of both of us.

It goes both ways, by the way. Yesterday, for instance, Chris and Gertie met me for an outdoor lunch on Stone Street. I am not even remotely exaggerating when I say that we could not fend off the chicks. There was a swarm of waitresses, passer-bys, hostesses, Ladies Who Lunch - you name it – buzzing around our table throughout the entire meal. And was I invisible? Yes. It was Chris and Gertie and a gaggle of cooing Hotties.

And I was proud – of both of them.

They're, Their and Everythere: The Greatest Response

My post about good 'old fashioned grammar' from yesterday, turned out to be a bee in several readers' bonnets. Much to my surprise, I got an overwhelming response - mostly from people who were POSITIVE that I was secretly referring to them in my long-winded diatribe about the sad state of email affairs.

Rest assured, dear Friends, it was a general observation. Though, yes Mom, you are guilty of all grammatical crimes. But that's why we love you!

I got one, really great and thoughtful reply that I cannot help but to share. For his sake and yours, his identity will remain a mystery - but the below is proof positive that there are some pretty awesome boys out there - if you just know where to look.

(And no, this is not from Chris - though, you are correct - he is a very awesome boy.)

I think all grammar issues and email abuses are derived from the demand for instant communication. It seems today if you don't respond to an email within 5 minutes you are slacking, or even worse - simply shirking responsibility.

I am not sure if this happens to you, I think it might be the bi-product of the large faceless corporate setting, but when did it become acceptable to start a sentence with "I just sent you an email...". Since when and why is it ok to assume that I have read your email in the last 1 minute and am well versed enough on the contained topic of the aforementioned email to begin a conversation on this in a thoughtful way?

Also when did it become OK for people to just walk up and start talking? What happened to the good old days of setting up a meeting or at the very least the nicety of beginning with "Hey, do you have a second?". I can't stand the fact that for some reason, as a society, we seem to be slowly reverting to the days of the caveman, where conversations are a series of grunts and when you want something you simply take it.

I often think about my grandparents and how disappointed they would be with the world around them if they were our age today. At the time it seemed bold for any generation to self proclaim themselves the Greatest Generation, but we have certainly helped solidify the statement as fact by following them up as the worst generation.

I think it must have been awesome to have "dates" and to put on a suit for those dates, and take your date to go dancing. Literally just out dancing (it is worth noting here that I hate dancing completely, but that is beside the point). Perhaps I was born 50 years too late, because I don't like video games, I would gladly read an entire book before I just waited for the movie to come out, I like the idea of opening the door for the lady I am with, I like getting dressed up to take said lady out, I don't need to be instantly connected to the world in every way, and on occasion, I like treating those around me as people rather than obstacles, or simply using the words please and thank you on a regular basis.

And while on the topic of speech, how cool it would be to "narro latin volubiliter" (translation: speak Latin fluently)?

So while it may have been bold and pre-mature - I say, The Greatest Generation indeed.

Amen to that!

GERTIE SAYS: This one's for you, Face

Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises.

Demosthenes (384 BC - 322 BC)

They’re, Their and Everythere: What Happened to Good Old Fashioned Grammar?

I read in a book recently that when Shakespeare didn’t know a word that conveyed what it is that he wanted to say, he made one up. If he didn't have the correct way to say it, spell it, punctuate it, he made it up. This makes Shakespeare totally GANGSTA!

First Gangsta ever, or not, we can attribute a ridiculous amount of words and phrases that we use 100 times a day - to one man; Billy Shakespeare. Every time you say flesh and blood, or good riddance, or love is blind (which it totally is!), you have him to thank. There are many more - and in fact, I found some of them so fascinating, that I have them footnoted so that you, too, may be amazed.

And as far as words go, Dude has the English language market cornered on coming up with them. Words like critical (how would anyone be able to properly describe me if it weren't for Shakespeare?!), and excellent (again, how would I be portrayed properly?!). The list goes on and on, but you catch my drift: William Shakespeare was the bomb - and probably even made up "the bomb" - when looking for the words to describe himself, of course.

However, neither you, nor I, nor rappers, school teachers, mothers, brothers, circus clowns, doctors, actors, hitchhikers, teenagers, CEO's, or astronauts are William Shakespeare. We must realize this.

We cannot make up words. The words we make up are stupid, and sound like "dizzle". We cannot run on because we don't know when to stop, and we can't stop before we're done (of course I'm referring to run-on sentences and fragments). We have capital letters and lower case letters for a reason, and although its cute to have your "personality" come out in the fact that you write in all lower case with no periods, I CAN'T READ IT.

Also, that's a sad state of a personality.

What I'm getting at is my horror with what has become of the written language these days. Not that anyone actually writes anymore (think pen, paper...you remember) - so that point is moot. I'm taking about email. EMAIL. Otherwise known as the demise of the literately educated.

I read what seems like thousands of emails a day. Some are quick little 'post-it notes' if you will, and some are considered 'documents'. You know how I can tell the difference between the two? 9 times out of 10, I can't.

Can you even imagine if John Adams penned correspondence with Thomas Jefferson, and wrote something like:

(No Salutation)

I was thinkign that we should rite some kind os declaration of independance docu so that our emancipation (sp?) from britan is legit and so the people of the united states knw whats currently going down and whats going to go down frm hear on out

thoughts?

Johnny :)

Giggle all you want, but you TOTALLY know what I mean. If that was the case, I highly doubt they'd make an HBO mini-series on the man (I'd say 'or let him be President' - but we know that's not true).

In an age of spell check (and even spell check's red-headed stepchild, grammar correction) emails still arrive looking like the one I illustrated above. Sometimes its not even stupidity, its laziness! Its not even giving it a once over before hitting the dreaded 'send' button.

How is this acceptable?

Educated, decorated, highly-schooled individuals have somehow digressed to being hormonal teens electronically. These people will send 5 paragraph emails in one paragraph (sometimes with very few, if any periods).

People....will....use....the...ellipse...to a completely ridiculous....extent....

there are correspondences in all lower case, like the person is either really tiny, or they're whispering.

OR IN ALL CAPS, LIKE THE PERSON IS SCREAMING (OR HAS A SMALL PENIS).

There are hardly any salutations (like "Dear" - what ever happened to "Dear"?!) and at the end, if you get any sign-off, its often times "- ". Remember "Sincerely"? I sincerely do.

Not to mention the apostrophe. Apostrophes are misused more than tits on a bull. People just don't know how to show possession like they used to.

And not to be a total snob (I may have a degree in English, but I can barely spell English, and until recently, I combined "a lot" into "alot" - which is inexcusable) - so - not to be a snob, but COME ON. People who made it past the 3rd grade and don't know the difference between their, they're and there and here and hear (notice the letter above...bet you didn't even notice!), bear and bare, and my biggest pet peeve, advise and advice - need to stop writing emails.

From what I can tell, the electronic age blew the doors off of the 99.9% of people who got through school not writing a damn thing. How else can this be explained? How do you make it to adulthood without knowing where a period goes?

As for the Next Generation, I have officially written them off as a lost cause. We're going to have to think of a different name for the English language in about 30 years. Like, "Acronymish" - where everything is BTW, OMG, LOL, JNTIY and where 'please' is actually spelled with a 'z'.

But the Next Generation cannot be blamed. We can. Anyone born before 1985 should know better than to let it be known that they drastically overuse or ridiculously under use the comma. Especially if you're drafting the Declaration of Independence - or something equally important, like a memo about the unnecessary use of an overabundance of toilet paper in the office bathroom - you want to be grammatically professional, no?

The way that I see it, is that the everyday written word is on the endangered species list and we may not be able to save it. But as always, there's a silver lining to this: if emails cannot be deciphered through lack of punctuation, might we pick up the phone again...and talk to one another?

As Shakespeare would say - it'll come full circle.

Sincerely,

Christy


*bated breath, tower of strength, foul play, foregone conclusion, good riddance, dead as a doornail, fool's paradise, heart of gold, Greek to me, fancy-free, devil incarnate, one fell swoop, for goodness' sake, vanish into thin air, eaten me out of house and home, elbow room, in a pickle, budge an inch, cold comfort, household word, in my heart of hearts, in my mind's eye, laughing stock, lie low, naked truth, neither rhyme nor reason, star-crossed lovers, pound of flesh, sea change, spotless reputation, there's the rub, too much of a good thing, what the dickens and wild goose chase.

This. Is. Real.

July 4, 2009 - Wolfboro, NH

Picture by Christopher Loren Ewers

Turns out, seeing a rainbow from start to finish, is the Pot of Gold.

As for the Leprechaun, I think Gertie got 'im.

GERTIE SAYS:

The worst thing you can try to do is cling to something that is gone, or to recreate it.

Johnette Napolitano

Time is so not of the essence.

Its 11:27am on Monday, July 20, 2009, and I know that. I hate that I know that.

Last week – lets say, last week at this exact same time - I had NO IDEA what day or date it was – let alone time of day. I knew that it was July. Mid-July.

Even though I was only 5 days into my vacation, I had miraculously erased all ‘real world’ ideas from my stream of consciousness. I’d also been doing a little bit of drinkin’ over said 5 days – which only magnified the blurriness, as every night seemed like a Saturday night.

It didn’t take long for me to lose all bearing. In fact, it took one night. We arrived on Nantucket on Thursday, the 9th at around 5pm. At which point, we settled in, BBQ’ed with friends, breathed salt air, and went to bed. The next morning, I woke to the sound of waves, seagulls and the occasional Gertie snore. The sun was blaring in through the windows that covered three of our four bedroom walls, and I was officially awake. I thought, maybe, it was 9am.

It was 5:30. For those of you non-crazies who enjoy a glass or 12 of wine, such as myself – you know that naturally waking up at 5:30am falls into the ‘never happens’ category.

When I looked at the nautical clock on the wall, I was like a shocked cartoon character – my eyes yo-yoed out of and back into my head. I then assumed that the clock was broken, and merely decoration. It was not. I was up at 5:30am ON MY VACATION.

Turns out that just as nothing good ever happens after midnight, great things happen before 9am. This, I’ve never realized, given that if I’m awake before 9am on any given day, “awake” must be in quotes.

But it was 5:30am, and I was AWAKE awake – and not from the night before! More alarming? Chris was up, too. Gertie was still in a coma.

So with nothing else to do, we got up, took Gertie for a long walk/swim/ball-playing extravaganza on the beach, came home, went to town, got coffee, went to the grocery store, came home, put everything away, cooked breakfast, ate breakfast, put suits on, went back to the beach, and settled in with a book. For all intents and purposes, and in comparison to life as I know it, it should have been 2 in the afternoon at that point - at least. It was 9am. People in New York were just getting to work, and I felt like 3 days had passed in one morning.

At that moment, I took my watch off, and didn’t see it again until last night when I unpacked.

I know it to be true, but I never really realized how much of my life is completely governed by the clock. I live on a ridiculous schedule – and I’m the one that hates to make plans. I shudder to imagine what it must be like for someone with a legitimate agenda.

I mean, when that alarm clock goes off in the morning, I have the time I have to do everything I need to do – down to a science. This is a pretty giant accomplishment for an English major. 10 minutes snoozing, 5 minutes dressing, 2 minutes brushing teeth, 45 minutes walking dog….and so forth. I walk to work, and even that is down to an art. If I’ve got time, I leave with 10 minutes to spare. If I’m running late, I know I have 7 hauling-ass-minutes to get there. It gets down to seconds, in the end – and I am aware of every one that passes.

At lunch, I have a certain amount of time to get home, a clocked amount of minutes to walk Gertie, and if there’s a long line at the place I like to get lunch, I’m skipping lunch – because I don’t have the time.

Time, time, time, time, time. It wasn’t until last week that I realized that time tells me when to do everything…and I love it when time shuts the @%!^&%# up.

For 10 days, I told the time of day by the sun - as if I was living in ancient Greece, and using my shadow as a watch. And no, I had no idea what I was doing (aside from burning my retinas on occasion). But it was great – the position of the sun in the sky gave me a vague idea of whether I:

- Was still out during peak sunburn hours
- Was allowed to have a cocktail without seeming like a drunk
- Had enough time to shave my legs in the shower without missing the sunset

Turns out, these approximate ‘times’ are really all I needed to know.

In the mornings, I woke up when my eyes opened. I ate when I was hungry. Drank when I thought it was after noon. Played all day until I was done playing, and then I would walk, or read, or sit and stare. If I had something ‘planned’ for that night, I would wait until it was dark – and then I’d go do it. And since I haven’t mastered the art of “reading the position of the moon”, I’d pretty much just stay out until I was kicked out. OR, I sent myself home once things started getting weird – which signals the passing of midnight (See: my theory on things that happen after midnight).

For those of you who may not know – this way of life is the way that God intended. Well, that and wearing underoos made out of fig leaves, which – for the record – I cannot get on board with. Itchy.

I suggest that everyone does this at least once, if not 100 times during the course of their lifetime. Find a beach house with no TV, no Internet, no neighbors (and therefore no tanlines) – and lose anything that tells time. Its truly amazing how liberating it is, how long a day truly is, and how there’s no judgment in cracking a 10am beer.

That said, when Chris’ alarm went off at 8am yesterday, there was an odd comfort in that wretched sound. Granted, that alarm was the sounding bell indicating the official end to our vacation (we had an early ferry) – but it was also brought me back to a place that I didn’t miss, but I desperately need to be: reality.

The closer to New York we got, the farther away from Cloud Nine I felt – and I spent every moment of that drive both appreciating my experience, and appreciating its perfectly timed end.

All things considered, if my real life was my vacation life, here’s why it would be a disaster:

- I’d be morbidly obese. I have an unusually large appetite for someone of my frame, which means I’m generally constantly hungry. If hunger was my trigger to eat, I’d be eating all day. You do the math.
- I’d eventually miss daylight all together. Every day that we were there, we woke up later, and later, and later. Given enough days of this, and I’d become a vampire. Which would only be cool if I was married to that dude from Twilight. Which I’m not. Unfortunately.
- I’d have a legitimate drinking problem. Who’s to say its not 5 o’clock?
- I would never be able to watch Scrubs reruns.
- I’d miss brunch and baseball games – because either could happen at any time of day.
- I’d be even later to everything than I already am. Which means I’d have no friends.
- I’d have to find a job with no hours, no deadlines, and absolutely no dress code. These jobs employ .0001% of the world’s population. I’d have better luck with the Lottery.
- I’d miss my watch. It is from my Dad. He’s the best.
- I could never live in New York. And although the City’s wake up call isn’t exactly waves and seagulls, I think I’d really miss the sweet song of sirens.
- I would never make the most of my time, because I'd have so much of it.

But that's what makes vacations so necessary - they end.

So on that note, this is my “Do Yourself A Favor.”

Do Yourself A Favor and get away. Forget about time. Don’t make plans, reservations, or promises. And enjoy it.

Because the fact is – you can ignore time as long as you want, but you cannot stop it. It will eventually find you. And when it does, you’ll be glad its back.

But -- you’ll still hate Monday.

Gone Fishin'...

...literally and figuratively.

Currently, and for the next 10 days, I am basking in the sun, surf, and Greyhounds (the drink, not the dog or the bus) of Nantucket - and although I'm dreaming up blogs at a an alarming rate, I'm too...um...how do I say this...non-crazy to blow off the beach in order to sit in front of a computer screen. Not that I'm too good for a computer screen, or anything, but you see my point.

So, dear Readers, do tune in from time to time - because once I hit peak tan, I will be back - and not just back, but BACK - golden brown.

Prepare yourselves.

ps - GERTIE SAYS:

"When you're cool, the sun shines on you 24 hours a day."

So true, G. So true.

Chivalry? On its Death Bed.

On my way home from work last week, I somehow ended up on the sidewalk on Broadway, as opposed to the road, which I usually take to avoid the inevitable football-style shoulder check all the way home.

To make matters worse on this day, I was not only on the sidewalk, but caught in the congestion of a narrow-to-begin-with stretch of sidewalk, that is littered on one side with vendors selling “books” that they wrote, black market DVD’s, and perfume that was mixed in a bathtub. On the other side, are the doors to Chipotle (always opening and closing as people around here (as I referenced before) think Chipotle is the shit), Aerosoles (where I have considered buying comfortable shoes that I need) and Nine West (where I usually end up buying uncomfortable shoes that I don’t need). Needless to say, the sidewalk is big enough for two lanes of foot traffic, tops, and is at a standstill during rush hour. Whenever I take that route, I feel like I’m waiting in line to go home.

Ahead of me, I see a parade of “street vendors in motion”. Just in case you don’t know what I’m referring to, I’m referring to vendors who have packed up all of their stuff: goods, table, chairs, racks to hang jewelry, etc., dumped it haphazardly onto something that has wheels, and who then disappear behind all the crap on wheels as they push their carts down the sidewalk. For a year, I’ve had bones with these guys. Not only are these ‘carts’ precariously packed, and teetering on the verge of collapsing onto innocent passer-bys, but they always have sharp, pointy corners jutting out, and a weight that is far too great for the vendor to control.

I’ve had to dive – literally dive – out of the path of several of these guys, as being impaled by a street vendor’s table leg is not how I’d prefer meet my maker.

Sure enough, the parade ahead of me is out of control, and people are diving out of the way. The woman in front of me has nowhere to go, as she is jammed up against the open door of Aerosoles to her right, and confined by the crowd to her left. I watched the lead vendor’s cart hit her, and proceeded to scrape her left side while pinning her between the door and the cart – she is screaming bloody murder – he is still pushing the cart. This little shit – and I mean that. This guy was a little shit – peers out from behind the cart, smiling. The woman is screaming, and here he is grinning like the Cheshire Cat. No one is stopping, and no one is doing anything. Men are squeezing by and continuing on. I am horrified.

The Little Shit says to the woman (as she’s still lodged) “Its your fault, Lady. Its your fault”, still smiling. I would have liked to have have killed him. Slowly. Instead, I helped push the cart off of her, and stayed – hoping to throw at least one punch.

Long story short, this guy had absolutely no regard for her, or for anyone else. He ran this woman down – could have seriously injured her – and smiled about it, telling her that it was her fault. It wasn’t until after she threatened to call the cops, and I stepped in as a witness, did he apologize. Little Shit.

But even aside from his gastly behavior - people, (men!) - respective looking people in suits who appear to have not been raised in a barn, but have just come from an important job - a job in which they landed after of several years of higher education…walked by.

Although seriously alarmed, I let this instance slide.

Then last night after work, I needed to go uptown, so I braved the rush hour subway - which I hardly ever do. The chaos of this subway system at 5:30pm is mind-blowing, but at least down here, it’s the start of the line, so there’s a slight chance for a seat if you’re quick. I, was not. Neither, incidentally, was the very pregnant woman who entered the car right after me. And when I say pregnant, I mean, the fact that she did not give birth between Wall Street and the Brooklyn Bridge was a Baby Jesus miracle. Please guess how many seated men offered her their seat.

Not one. My heart sank, as I have an unrealistically optimistic view of mankind, and this was the perfect opportunity to be proven right. I was wrong. This very uncomfortable woman was still standing when I got off 20 minutes later.

When we entered the train, it was empty enough for everyone to see everyone else get on. I’d say that for every female on the train, there were 4 men. I saw people notice her. And then I watched them pretend that they didn’t.

How is it possible that not so long ago – in the grand scheme of things – men threw their coats into puddles so that a woman would avoid getting her shoes wet or muddy? A woman never walked on the car side of the sidewalk, a woman never got up from a table alone, and men stood – even if their were empty seats – in order for a woman (any woman) to sit. Heck, even I remember the days when a man wouldn’t dare to let a door slam in a woman’s face.

Has the female population shot themselves in the foot? With all this ‘equal rights’ business, have we given the impression that common courtesy is null and void? I mean, I hold doors for men, shouldn’t they show me the same type of respect?

Until recently, I shared a floor of my office building with a man who would swear, burp, fart (though never audibly – which is worse!) and even peed with the door open TWICE. On what planet did he think that that was:

A) appropriate behavior for a creature that has evolved past the mental capacity of a monkey
B) acceptable work-place etiquette
C) something one should ever do in the presence of a woman – let alone a woman you hardly know
D) a way to avoid finding rat poison in his coffee

Mind you, this man has a Mother, a wife, and a daughter. Also mind you, he no longer has a job.

But Dudes, we all have Mothers. Would you really not hold a door for her?

So, Gentlemen - and even Ladies, the next time you see a rouge street vendor mow down a woman on the sidewalk, a pregnant woman standing on a train, or a bathroom door ajar when you have to pee, please for the love of your Mother, remember who really wears the pants around here – and bring chivalry back.

GERTIE SAYS:

All that is gold does not glitter; not all those that wander are lost.

J. R. R. Tolkien, The Fellowship of the Ring, 1954

A Big Apple a Day: I Feel Special

A few weeks ago, I was stopped by a random passer-by on the sidewalk a couple of blocks from my apartment building. At first, I thought this adorable suited stranger was going to ask for directions, or tell me my skirt was tucked into my underwear - instead, he asked me if I have a boyfriend.

After blushing, I replied with my witty go-to answer to that question, which is: "Nope - no boyfriend. I have a husband, though!" (totally missed my calling as a comedian). His response was "He's a lucky man" - and he walked away.

I, on the other hand, didn't just walk away. I John Travolta'ed my way home - and I think I may have even shot my doorman the 'guns' on the way into my building.

I burst into my apartment, showering Chris will boasts about how "I've still got it" and how "He'd better watch out, because there's a line of future ex-husbands waiting for me on every street corner" and saying "Oh, sorry you have such a smokahontas for a wife"....

This barrage went on until I could tell he had tuned me out completely, at which point, I continued patting my own back - to myself.

For about 10 days, I milked this encounter for all it was worth. My inner soundtrack had "Stayin' Alive" on repeat, and I worked it. Look, New York - I DO still have it, Dammit! Look at me go! I'm goin' on with my bad self - don't try to stop me now!

Last week, same time, same place, I passed the same guy. He stopped me again.

Dude: "Do I know you?"
Me: "Not really. I think we bumped into each other in this exact same spot at this exact same time not so long ago."
Dude: "Oh. Do you have a boyfriend?"
Me: (mental Stayin' Alive record sk...sk...skipping) "Still married, Dude."
Dude: "He's a lucky guy."
Me: (he'll also never let me live this down)

Looks like I'm not the only one with a couple of go-to lines up my sleeves.

And John Travolta, I am not.

GERTIE SAYS:

"We must all hang together, or, assuredly, we shall all hang separately."

Benjamin Franklin at the signing of the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776

The 5 Year Plan

Five years ago today, I was scared shitless.

It was my first day living in Los Angeles, and once my cross-country escort (my bud, Loftus), pulled away from the curb, I was alone. Correction: I had the clothes on my back, some in a suitcase, and a car full of all the worldly possessions that I could cram into a Toyota Corolla. I also had an awesome – but completely empty apartment. This felt very alone.

On July 1, 2004, I was sitting on the hard wood floor of what became my living room, bawling.

I had just taken my incredible, fortunate, safe, 24-year-old life, and I had flipped it like I’ve always wanted to do to a table when I’m angry. I left a sweet apartment in Boston, a sweeter boyfriend in Boston, all of my friends, all of my family, and mostly all of what I knew as life – 3,000 miles behind me.

I did it because I somehow knew that I had to. It was “now, or never”, I thought…and it turns out, I was absolutely right.

When I was 20, as a sophomore in College, I was asked (as we all are 100 times in our lives) what my “5 Year Plan” was. To that, my answer was “I hope to live in California at some point”. Period. Period?!? Yep – that was it. I hoped to live in California.

So, at 24, I pointed myself West, and hit "go".

As evidenced by my lack of calendar keeping, I’m not much of a “planner”. And although I felt as if I’d been scheduling this move to California my entire life, five years ago today, I was thinking “I probably should have planned this better.”

And as it turns out, I was absolutely wrong.

If someone had been there with me on the floor of my apartment with a tissue and the question “Where do you see yourself in 5 years NOW?”, I would have replied “I hope to have a bed to sleep on (I did not at the time). I hope I’m not living in a gutter. I hope to be happy and I hope to be healthy.”

If I’d planned that move – and actually thought about what I risked to lose by doing so – I never would have gone. Instead, I chose only to think about what I had to gain – and five years later, here I am: sleeping in a bed (a bed that’s not in a gutter), happy and healthy.

But the road between there and here is paved with things that I couldn't have planned, even if I desperately tried - all of which have made a profound indent on who it is that has become of Me. And granted, "Me" is a hot mess, but boy am I glad I didn't miss out on any of the below by ever setting the limits of my "5 Year Plan"...

I made brand new friends - something that I hadn't taken applications for since my first week of college. One of them ended up being the cheese to my macaroni.

I drove a little red sportscar – experiencing my mid-life crisis early in life. Check.

I watched the sun set over the continental US as often as I could.

I worked really hard for basic needs - skipping several meals along the way.

I went to Vegas on several occasions - and won!

I skied with my parents as an adult.

I got Rufied! – who gets Rufied? I do. That's who.

I met the man of my dreams.

I married the boy from Boston.

I realized that the boy from Boston IS the man of my dreams. Awww.

I ran the LA marathon.

I spent 5 Thanksgivings actually giving thanks.

I got lost in the desert - and found.

I let other people hear me sing.

I was humbled and inspired by the intelligence, experience and talent of other people my age.

I mastered the game of Gin.

I learned to appreciate proximity to an old friend, family, and Dunkin’ Donuts.

I spent a day at Frank Sinatra’s house and breathed his air.

I had sun, 363 days a year.

I did things that I'm not admitting to on the Internet (Hi Mom!)

I “planned” to stay in LA for a year. I left after 4.

I moved to New York.

I learned two cities, drove across the country with all of my belongings twice, adopted an entirely new family, adopted a dog, gained the joy ride that has been this 5 year evolution of Me, and I lost absolutely nothing - except for my favorite toe ring to the Pacific. That, sadly, is gone.

In retrospect, I guess I couldn’t have planned it any better.

So I'm opening the door to this thought: how do we presume ourselves to be so omnipotent that we try to plan the course of something like 5 years? And even if we could, would we want to?

I can't tell you how many times I've gone the wrong way - only to realize that the wrong way pointed me in the right direction.

Knowing that, is what lifted me off the floor on July 1, 2004. I got up, and I ordered myself a bed – and I went from there.

And now, I'm here.

Where are you?

GERTIE SAYS:

“When lip service to some mysterious deity permits bestiality on Wednesday and absolution on Sunday, cash me out.”

Frank Sinatra, 1915-1998