amaya hearts new york

From Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed:

The summer I was 18 I was driving down a country road with my mother. This was in the rural county where I grew up and all of the roads were country, the houses spread out over miles, hardly any of them in sight of a neighbor. Driving meant going past an endless stream of trees and fields and wildflowers. On this particular afternoon, my mother and I came upon a yard sale at a big house where a very old woman lived alone, her husband dead, her kids grown and gone.

“Let’s look and see what she has,” my mother said as we passed, so I turned the car around and pulled into the old woman’s driveway and the two of us got out.

We were the only people there. Even the old woman whose sale it was didn’t come out of the house, only waving to us from a window. It was August, the last stretch of time that I would I live with my mother. I’d completed my first year of college by then and I’d returned home for the summer because I’d gotten a job in a nearby town. In a few weeks I’d go back to college and I’d never again live in the place I called home, though I didn’t know that then.

There was nothing much of interest at the yard sale, I saw, as I made my way among the junk—old cooking pots and worn-out board games; incomplete sets of dishes in faded, unfashionable colors and appalling polyester pants—but as I turned away, just before I was about to suggest that we should go, something caught my eye.

It was a red velvet dress trimmed with white lace, fit for a toddler.

“Look at this,” I said and held it up to my mother, who said oh isn’t that the sweetest thing and I agreed and then set the dress back down.

In a month I’d be 19. In a year I’d be married. In three years I’d be standing in a meadow not far from that old woman’s yard holding the ashes of my mother’s body in my palms. I was pretty certain at that moment that I would never be a mother myself. Children were cute, but ultimately annoying, I thought then. I wanted more out of life. Read More…

Today is my father’s birthday. I didn’t realize it until I checked my calendar, something I usually do at least five times an hour. I haven’t looked at it all week. My calendar didn’t matter.

Hurricane Sandy wrecked havoc on the east coast. People died. Homes were destroyed. Buildings were severely damaged. South of 39th Street in Manhattan has been without power since Monday night (including my apartment building, I’m on 34th). My office building downtown was submerged in 35 feet of water (yes, THIRTY-FIVE feet). And just when I thought the week couldn’t get worse, I received a text from the guy I have been dating that his dad died.

To say this has been an emotionally exhausting and trying time would be a gross understatement. I have been on the brink of sobbing uncontrollably at least once every ten minutes.

My experience of the spirit of this City has been astonishing. People have been kind, helpful, encouraging. Those not directly affected (read: those with power/water) have offered homes/hot showers/a place to recharge electronics to those in need. The disaster crews, NYPD, NYFD, and ConEd have been working around the clock. The staff at my apartment building has been phenomenal. I have received no less than 50 texts/emails a day from people checking in on how I am doing.

Power to my apartment should be restored by tomorrow. Water should follow Sunday or Monday. We won’t be back in our office for weeks, possibly longer than a month.

“Devastated” has been the word most used by the media, and it’s appropriate. The aftermath of this disaster is far from over, but this City has endured worse and came out stronger. I trust we will this time, too.

During a training program when I was 21, as instructed, I stood silently in front of 25 people for three minutes. Finally, the leader asked me,

“How long did it take you to figure out you’re the smartest person in the room?”

I didn’t respond.

“Five minutes? Two minutes?” he asked.

I stared.

“How long, Amaya?”

“Thirty seconds,” I finally answered.

He didn’t probe further and instead turned to the room.

“How many people are insulted I think Amaya is the smartest person in this room?”

A few hands went up. I sat down. We moved on.

I’ve thought a lot about that situation over the years, and it’s only now, eight years later, that I can articulate it.

It wasn’t necessarily that I was smarter than everyone in the room. I was the youngest by at least ten years, and young enough to be a grandchild to a few of the attendees. I wasn’t the most educated, most well-read, or most well-spoken person in the room.

But I was the most observant. I could size someone up in an instant. Within thirty seconds, I gathered necessary information about everyone by simply watching them for one second each. In the leader’s eyes, that made me the smartest, though I’m not sure he fully understood why he thought that. But he met me when I was eleven. He knew.

I wasn’t born with a super power, though some people consider it one.

I grew up in a home with an addict. Read More…

Why, yes, this is me with a Justin Bieber balloon bouquet (complete with a microphone), compliments of my co-workers. (Please disregard my exhausted/makeup-less/just-got-off-a-red-eye-flight appearance.) The accompanying card was for a 30th birthday (I just turned 29), ’cause they thought that would be funnier (it was). Goodness, I ♥ these people (my co-workers — not Justin Bieber).

It’s good to be home.

This morning I woke up at 6am and wandered into the bathroom where my mom was getting ready for work. The lights were on and it was bright, so I attempted to watch her through squinted eyes, my hair in a messy bun, and zit cream on my chin. I was a sight. I finally slumped down on her (heated) bathroom floor and stayed there until she left for work and I went back to bed.

My bro and I went to the gym a few hours later, but I demanded coffee on the way. He shrugged, and pulled over to the small donut shop I pointed at excitedly.

Then this happened:

Me: Hi, do you have iced coffee?
Woman 1: No, no iced coffee.
Woman 2: Yes! Yes we do! (Pointed to menu that didn’t have iced coffee anywhere on it) What kind? There’s flavors!
Me: Um. Okay. I just want iced coffee. Doesn’t matter what kind. Just coffee. With ice.
Woman 1: I don’t know.

At this point Woman 2 started yelling (in … some language) at Woman 1 while flailing about and pointing to the tea bags and picking up the blender which she swung around with gusto.

Me: You know, I’ll just take hot coffee.

A few minutes later:

Me: Hey, can you hold this please?
Brother: I don’t know how to tell you this, but this isn’t iced coffee.

And then later…

While popping open the hood of my car to reconnect the battery, a lizard dashed at me. I screamed, dropped the hood, jumped back and slammed into a fence.

It’s good to be back.

(overheard on the 4 train)

Idiot Girl 1: I mean, that really sucks.

Idiot Girl 2: He was so hot! Ugh, I mean, it was never going to work. He wanted me to go to a soup kitchen to feed the homeless before we went to dinner. It would have messed up my dress. What was I supposed to do?

Me: Marry him. Sorry. It’s none of my business. But that’s the correct answer. Marry him.

They chuckled uncomfortably like most people do when a stranger interrupts their conversation, and I turned away to get off the train at Union Square. I should have punched her in the face, stolen her phone, and called the guy myself. That was the correct answer too.

… use a pickle jar!

Last Friday night I went on a date. The very nice gentleman brought me flowers (AND had the foresight to bring a paper bag for them so I didn’t have to carry them / put them on the table, a visual that SCREAMS “first date!” Well done, pal). Anyway, I got home and started pulling vases out of my cabinets. Unfortunately none of them where the right height or width. Being the resourceful girl that I am, I made do. With a pickle jar.

I’m well aware this post may result in being cut out of my mom’s estate, which would be unfortunate. I’m pretty sure putting flowers in a pickle jar ranks up there with chipped nail polish and store-bought pie crust in her book, but Felicia comforted me a bit — if I didn’t have to remove pickles and put them in a zip lock bag, I should be fine (and I didn’t!).

Forgive me, mom?

(Also, these pickles are the BEST.)

Three weeks ago, in a fit of frustration (and ultimate resignation) with the guy who was in my life, I spent my Friday night creating an OkCupid profile (online dating). It started off as an “I’ll show him how many people want to spend time with me!” (I know, super mature), but turned into a “Now that that’s over, let’s see what else is out there.” Not much, it turns out.

Don’t believe me? That’s cool. You’re about to embark upon an adventure we will call “A Tour of Amaya’s OkCupid Inbox.”

I’ve received 120 messages in three weeks (yes, literally).

95% of the messages are absurd, offensive, generic (not specifically for me, but rather a message they can send to anyone), boring, or simply lack content. Sometimes when reading the message, I respond out loud. Typical responses include:

“There’s just… there’s just no way this is going to happen.”
“No, really — IN WHAT UNIVERSE.”
“Sure, pal. Absolutely. F*&%ing idiot.”

I also laugh a lot. But not because the message is clever or amusing — usually because it’s the only appropriate response. Read More…

Blog posts coming your way (soon):

* My two-week OkCupid (online dating) adventure, including screenshots of some of the emails. Preview of an ACTUAL line used in a message: “Since you are a masterpiece, do you have a favorite piece of art?” Yes, that happened.

* My solution to receiving a bouquet of flowers that didn’t quite fit in any of vases I own (hint: my mom’s head is going to explode).

* The pros and cons list of exercising in the morning versus the evening. Preview of a line item on the con list: When dudes hit on you while using the hip adductor machine. Awkward. Very awkward.

* My outrageous to do list, including but not limited to planning and executing a bridal shower for the next wedding I am in (yes – another one), finishing thank you cards which are now taunting me, and catching up on seven years’ worth of How I Met Your Mother, otherwise known as my new crack. (Don’t believe me? I brought my iPad with me so I can watch it while on the elliptical. It’s okay. Judge.) You will have a deeper understanding as to why I have been neglecting blogging.

* The almost-to-California trip in less than two weeks! Eeeep! (And yes! Again! Already! IN FACT, I will be visiting CA in September, October, and November. And no, I am not moving back, thanks for asking. And yes, JetBlue hearts me SO MUCH. My bank account does not.)

That is all. Buckle up, peeps.

It’s been nearly two months since the Overnight Walk in San Francisco.

This year, I thought to myself, will be different. This year, I will recovery quickly, I will write thank you cards right away, I will blog immediately, and I will send that last mass email to everyone.

None of those things happened.

And two months later, I left in the same place I was last year — trying to figure out what to say. I suppose I could just say, “Yes, what she said” in response to my mom’s post, because she really did say it perfectly. I could say the walk permanently changed relationships (for the better), which is true. I could say it was even more than I expected, and it was.

It all seems inadequate.

It takes a lot to silence me. I seemingly have an opinion about everything, and I will share them, solicited or not. It’s been this way since I learned to talk. It won’t ever change.

But when I stop to think about the people in my life — my family, my friends — I’m silenced. I simply can’t find words. Before the walk I found a few words. But now, I have nothing. I will try anyway. Read More…

Remember this? It turned into this:

Why, yes, that is an obscenely large picture of me in one of the most highly visited places in the world. Evidently this ad is elsewhere, too, as everyone keeps telling me they’re seeing it: in cabs, in elevators, along highways, on the New York Cares website. Everywhere.

The conversations with people who immediately know it’s me go a little something like this:

“It was nice sharing a cab with you the other night!”
- another volunteer

or

“People in the elevator thought I was weird when I burst into laughter when your ad came up.”
- another volunteer

or

“I keep seeing your face EVERYWHERE. It makes it very hard to forget you.”
- ex-boyfriend

or

“If you only knew how many times I have printed your face out today I think you’d be either flattered or really creeped out.”
- New York Cares staff member Read More…

I’ve been avoiding all of you. It’s not that I don’t have the time. It’s not that I don’t have something — or a lot of things — to say. In fact, the queue of topics is now overwhelming. I just haven’t made blogging a priority. I will attempt to remedy that, post by post. Buckle up.

When Amaya first asked me to do the walk as a family I said, “Ugh”
So far out of my comfort zone
So not ready even after 12+ years
But Royce and Amaya chipped away
With their increased closeness from last years walk
Shared memories that are theirs alone

I have three brothers
We rarely call each other just to chat
We are comfortable in the knowledge that we are there for each other
We move along in our lives
Coming together to celebrate milestones along the way
Then scattering back to the day-to-day

My dad was not big into idle chitchat
He was, however, into family
He would watch the chaos
Chime in from time to time
Discuss art, music, history, anything
Or just sit
Silent
Observing

Marrying into this family comes with a price
We have a gene that means…
We don’t always communicate
We feel comfortable sitting
Silent
Listening
Observing
It doesn’t mean not caring
It doesn’t mean not interested
It just is

It is difficult to change patterns
To compliment
To praise
To discuss rather than decide
To ask for assistance
To accept help
To realize that it is okay not to be in control
Not to be perfect

This past six month have been tough
A lot of buried memories have surfaced
There were a lot of questions, some for which I had answers and some that I never will
It made look at where I was, where I am, and where I want to be Read More…

Three years ago I handed a JetBlue agent my one-way ticket to New York City and boarded a plane. Best three years of my life thus far, NYC. Here’s to many, many more. ♥

(while watching a scene in Bridesmaids where the main girl has a meltdown when encountering a really wonderful guy)

“He’s so cute! I hate how she freaks out.” (pause. glare.) “I bet you’d do that.”
- Mari