Why, yes, that IS a screenshot confirming that I was randomly selected to participate in NYC’s Half Marathon.
As stated here, “The second I hit ‘submit’ I realized this was a huge mistake. Because I will obviously be randomly selected. That’s just the way the world works.”
Yup. As predicted. And devoting my life to running / prepping for THIRTEEN MILES starts in 3, 2, 1…
I vowed to shut up about exercise being there’s nothing more irritating than people spouting off about their workouts on blogs / social media (I’m looking at you, CrossFit people), so I apologize in advance for this post.
I signed up for a running class through NYRR. It takes place twice a week for ten weeks, and we run as a group (with a leader) in Central Park (at night — yes, just like in Law & Order SVU). I attempted this same program with an app (Couch to 5k) and found that while the app was super helpful (and I love me some apps), my hatred for running and the lack of accountability meant that I simply wouldn’t stick to the program. When there’s a group and a co-worker and someone taking attendance? I’m there. (Full disclosure: 90% of the reason I am going back is because the head of the program made a snotty comment to the group on the first day about the dropout rate of exercise programs and I want to be on the good side of the statistics this time. Also: she can bite me.)
The first session was a week ago, NYC’s coldest day, otherwise known as a Polar Vortex. Go figure.
“Surely they wouldn’t have us run outside tonight,” I thought.
“That would be insanity,” I assured Lauren.
“Capris pants are totally fine for running indoors,” I told myself as I packed my bag.
I’m not wrong often, but when I am it’s on a pretty spectacular level. Because as I’m sure you gathered, we DID run outside, single digit weather, Polar Vortex be damned. And while Polar Vortex is a lot of fun to say, it’s not ideal weather conditions for running. It was freezing (literally!), miserable, and difficult… but totally worth it.
Maybe, just maybe, I will finally experience this runner’s high that the crazy cult runner people (I’m looking at you, David), go on and on and on about.
Yesterday I witnessed a man arguing with a train prophet. This called to mind two of my biggest NYC rules:
1. Never argue with crazy.
2. Always yield to crazy.
On the same train ride, I saw a stylish, seemingly wealthy older woman engage in a lively and hilarious conversation with a charming homeless man about fashion. This called to mind an even more important life rule:
1. Have compassion and connect with people. Always.
Did you hear I was moving? Did ya, did ya, did ya? ‘Cause I did.
It’s been two weeks since I moved, and I am batshit crazy in love with my apartment, neighborhood, and living alone.
My apartment is adorable and charming and I love decorating and actually investing in a place I know I will be for a long time. And as I’m sure you gathered, I’m convinced living alone is the best thing ever. The mess is my mess and mine alone, and when it’s clean, I know it will stay that way until I mess it up myself. No one is touching or moving my stuff and I don’t have to deal with anyone else’s stuff. I can put out my nice things and not worry about them being ruined. There’s no visitors unless I want them, no one to coordinate timing of showers with, and no need to wear pants* at home ever again. It’s just amazing. Instead of drunk jackasses, Godzilla with her five inch hooker heels stomping around above me, house music from an obnoxious neighbor, excessive sirens and honking, and smoke drifting through my window, I fall asleep to silence. Instead of waking up to more honking and sirens, I hear birds chirping (literally). It’s absolutely delightful.
The bulk of the unpacking happened within the first weekend, and then I sort of ran out of steam and places to put things (I went from four closets to one, people, four closets to one). Once the IKEA storage furniture arrived I was in a better place for the rest of the unpacking, but there’s still three boxes lingering and they haven’t annoyed me enough to do anything about it yet. And the beauty of it all? I don’t need to do anything about it, because it’s my apartment and no one else cares.
OH! AND! Remember the time I tried to hang shelves on concrete walls and it was a total disaster? My new place has drywall, baby! Do you know what I can do? I can hang ALL THE THINGS on drywall! Shelves (four of them!), pictures, rods… I am a damn superhero with my drill and drywall.
More to come soon(ish), including pictures!
* Pro tip: keep a pair of pants handy because you never know when your neighbor will knock on your door to say hello / apologize for the noise (she was making something that required a kitchen mallet of sorts) and you’ll be chilling on the couch pantsless – because you can.
“Man, it’s so nice out!”
- me, not being sarcastic and realizing I have fully acclimated to the east coast
I move in 3 days, 11 hours, and 44 minutes. But who’s counting?
Also: I currently have four boxes packed. Yes, four. Guess who’s packing all day on Christmas? This girl. We all make choices, guys. We all make choices.
I’m not the only one counting down – my doormen (and doorwoman), manicurist, and deli guys are keeping track too, but for a different reason. While I am enthralled for this next chapter and change, they are saddened to see me go. (Necessary parenthetical remark: this isn’t conjecture. They’ve stated this outright. And they’ve all hugged me a lot. Two teared up.) Read More…
This morning I got up at 6am and hopped in a cab to go to my new apartment to wait for the furniture delivery people to bring me my new couch. I brought a box of things I wanted to set up, as well as a pillow as there’s nothing there and I knew it would be me in an empty apartment for the better part of three hours and I had nowhere to sit. After attempting to sleep sitting up for about 15 minutes, I finally laid down on the hardwood floor and used the pillow for my head and passed out for an hour and a half. Fun fact: sleeping on hardwood floor wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as I envisioned. In fact, it’s making me rethink my cushiony mattress pad.
But I digress.
Around 8:30 I woke up and put pictures and magnets on the fridge, and hung the shower curtain and liner. After I was finished, I heard someone coming down the stairs. Neighbors! I was sort of mess (in yoga pants and t-shirt, no makeup, hair in a messy bun) so I didn’t really want to introduce myself to anyone yet, so I snuck over over to the door and peered through the peephole. It was then that I saw a man coming down the stairs and stop directly in front of my door. And pull out keys. And put one in the lock. Read More…
I’m really excited about my super tall ceilings at my new apartment. I’m less excited about the placement of this smoke detector — it’s so high up that I can’t even beat it down with a broom when I set something on fire. In short, you should stay tuned for the inevitable hilarious stories in the future.
On Saturday I lugged about 30 pounds of cleaning supplies uptown to my new apartment before meeting Sarah and Tom for brunch (at Jacob’s Pickles, which had the best biscuits on the planet). The Costco bags were full of Swiffer wet cloths and dry clothes and dusters (no, this post is not sponsored by Swiffer – I’m just a fan girl), Clorox wipes, glass cleaner, bleach, and Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. I was ready.
I got my keys a week or so ago, but the apartment was a mess. They finished painting, cleaned up the drop clothes, and redid the caulking in the bathroom, but the apartment was in shambles with the dust and bits of paint and hair in the fridge (not like a wig or anything, but a few strands — how does that even happen??). A complete cleaning overhaul was imperative, so I spent three hours (yes, three hours) scrubbing and sweeping and mopping and bleaching and magic erasering.
Let’s take a moment to talk about Mr. Clean Magic Erasers. I realize I am bit a late to this party, but holy shit — those things are AMAZING (or rather, magic – ha). They made the sink and stove sparkle, and cleaned the paint off the fridge (yes, the fridge — the painters did an amazing job painting but weren’t so great at not making a huge mess. I would imagine as children they were the ones that didn’t color in the lines). There was literally nothing that the Magic Erasers couldn’t do! And no, this post isn’t sponsored by Mr. Clean either, I swear. (But hey, if they want to send me free products, I will ENTHUSIASTICALLY take them. Obviously.)
Anyway, after three hours of cleaning, the apartment was immaculate. And here’s the punch line — while waiting for my couch delivery this morning (that’s a separate post to follow), I met the owner of the building who told me the cleaning lady was coming today. I mentioned that I had already cleaned over the weekend and invited him in to take a look. He took a few steps inside and said, “Wow, you did a great job. It looks beautiful!”
A few night ago, while on my way to my new apartment to measure everything, I noticed a cute guy walking behind me from the train for enough blocks for it to become alarming. After 15 years of loyally following Law & Order Special Victim’s Unit in addition to watching an excessive number of Lifetime movies, I immediately assumed he was going to rape me and dispose of my body in the Hudson River. Placing my keys between my fingers and stepping aside for him to hopefully pass me, I pretended to look at my phone but really watched his feet. As I don’t live in TV, the cute guy continued walking by, down the street, and up a few stairs to my new apartment building. He then opened the front door with a key. Turns out he’s my new neighbor.
I think there’s a few takeaways here, but the biggest one is probably that it’s a really good thing I cancelled my cable.
Last night while tossing and turning in bed, I scrolled through statuses on Facebook, read a few news articles, and stumbled across a link to a friend’s cousin’s blog post titled “What it’s like pocket-dialing a dead parent and being emotionally triggered by Five Guys.”
My first thought was, “My posts titles are terribly boring, I should consider revamping them.” My second thought was, “Oh, I’ll be reading this right now.”
Meaghan covers a lot of ground in her post – at parts I chuckled out loud, others I nodded along, at times I squirmed with discomfort as I felt my chest ache for her. (Side note: I’d recommend clicking your way on over to her blog for the full story, it’s worth the read.) In short, she lost her mom three months ago. A week ago, she pocket-dialed her dead mom’s number. She dealt with and reflected on the experience accordingly.
While reading about Meaghan’s experience and other triggers, it reminded me of an almost-forgotten trigger from thirteen years ago (literally).
Roughly two months after my father’s death, I sat across from a large man during a job interview and convinced him I would be a great operator. He shifted in the chair he wedged himself into, his gut spilling over onto the desk. He chuckled after I finished my too-confident speech, that in retrospect probably spoke more to my insecurities.
“Listen, I’m going to be really honest with you,” he began. “The company is going to close its doors in the next few months. We’re selling our client contracts to the competitor and we’re shutting down. Problem is everyone is jumping ship because they need stable jobs. You seem smart and capable. The position is yours. I’ll even make you a manager. But know this is short-term.”
I accepted. I needed a job and he offered me a high hourly rate, over twice minimum wage at the time (which at seventeen was a pretty sweet deal). Why the hell not? I started that day.
My interactions with the owner were infrequent as he left early most days, but when he was in the office, he stayed behind a desk that didn’t have a phone (this is an interesting detail being we were an answering service), and focused on two primary activities: watching porn and counting the wads of cash he kept in his sweaty shirt pocket. We didn’t have much in common. Read More…
Guy: I own a small coffee shop. What do you do?
Me: Marry me.
Me: Technology. I work in technology.
I move in TWO WEEKS!!!
Also: shit, I have to pack.
Packing is the worst. I have boxes and tape and packing paper stuff ready and I have done exactly nothing. Actually, I’ve sold a few things, so I guess that sort of counts. My new place doesn’t have the wall space for all my bookcases (four of them – I love reading the mostest), so a co-worker suggested I just get rid of some of my books. I promptly snapped his forearm with a rubber band and marched away. I got rid of the bookcases, but not the books. I will find a way to make it work. My books are depending on me.
The major things are done: lease signed, movers booked, ConEd activated, internet ordered, change of address submitted… basically everything but packing. I hate packing. The last time I packed was over five years ago, and I didn’t do most of it. I somehow convinced Mari to pack the kitchen for me (maybe I paid her? Bribed her? Unsure), I had movers take care of the furniture, and I think I had less stuff… because suddenly packing feels like an enormous task. I roped an ex-boyfriend with muscles/a car/patience into painting/hanging things/being handy and moving over a few things the day before the actual movers arrive (and when I say “roped,” I mean “told him I was moving and he immediately offered”), but I’m pretty sure even with my super duper adorable pout, no one is gonna pack for me. Sigh.
Packing is the worst… but TWO WEEKS!