Happy Easter 2012

First, the family is awesome and sent me a package of Girl Scout cookies, chocolates, movies, and more. Thank you, thank you, thank you! I will be fat and happy. 


Second, how horrifying is this? My clown neighbor now has bunnies that watch me as I walk down the street. I must admit, I'm slightly terrified one of these plush fellows is secretly him and it will turn it's head Chucky-style while I'm running to work. Bah.


And finally, here are some of the top searched "Keywords of the Week" that people type into Google, which lead them to my blog. Please note the highlighted phrase. I'm not too offended.

Again, Happy Easter. Enjoy this special holiday weekend. 

The Tale of Two Cities


Charles Street was lined with old lampposts and brick buildings that housed vintage dress shops or art galleries. Each step forward was a step back in time. The gray clouds weren’t dreary; they were quaint and cozy. The spitting rain wasn’t a nuisance, but the perfect excuse to dip into basement boutiques. We were content to wonder, with no plans or final destination, enthralled with a city so divergent from our own.

“New York is like our husband,” said Ivy with a smile that meant some truism was sure to follow. “I feel like New York is the love of my life… but Boston’s the hot young thing.” And we laughed, because she was too close to the truth: New York is home, New York is ours, yet 
New York is the confinement as well as the escape.

This little weekend fling was exciting, and none of us wanted to admit how much we could possibly enjoy another city. The accents, the talkative cabbies, the fluffy hotel pillows... It was cheating! Our feelings were defiant against the tiny slices of life we’d worked so hard to create! Yes, we all needed a little vacation and a cannoli from Mike's. Yes, we were pleased to be back in our respective boroughs at 
the trip's end.

But no, I’m afraid our love affair with Boston is far from over. 

(Editor’s Note to Future Husband: I will never define you as something so mundane as confining, but Ivy’s analogy was all too perfect ;)



Away We Go

I love the smell of hotel rooms.

It’s always a mix of central AC, cleaning products, with hints of chlorine and coffee. You wouldn’t think these ingredients would be quite so pleasant, but my nose finds them comforting.  Maybe hotels simply remind me of summer? Whatever the reason, it always smells like home.

Dad works in hotels. I worked in hotels. A sister, an uncle, and an aunt also toiled in the industry at one point or another. I feel as though the Fitzgeralds grew up amongst the Marriotts of the East Coast, hugging front desk clerks and short-sheeting beds along the way.

Plus, hotels mean you’re on the road – you’re traveling. Such an exhilarating three syllables. Did you know I haven’t left New York City for more than five days at a time since moving here almost two years ago? So we’re taking a quick trip to Boston, and while it will only be a three day excursion, our mini-vacation will give us just enough time to stretch our legs into the uncharted Northeast.

Happy Friday, friends.
I’ll be sure to steal some soap for you.
And don’t worry Dad, I won’t short-sheet the beds.
Or put Vaseline on the phone.
Or plastic wrap under the toilet seat.
No, no, I’m far too mature for that ;)


We're coming for you, MA. 

Mad Men, Mad World


“Welcome!”
Our perfectly coiffed hostess opens the gate to her apartment. As she swings the metal barricade closed and locks it with a small key, her dress spins about into a bell shape any 1960s housewife would envy.

We climb the carpeted stairs in slingbacks and loafers to a 2nd floor apartment. Sounds of the McGuire Sisters and Ella lazily crooning in the background embellish our tangible imaginations. Because tonight, you see, it’s 1960 – or maybe 1963?

The porch lights are on, smiling over our patch of New York, and the conversation is fitting. Oh how I needed another bobby pin! Doesn’t your hair look fabulous? What a lovely shade of lipstick you’re wearing. Such darling pearls. Don’t the men look dapper?

Trudy shouted from the living room that “The Twist” was about to play. Well, we simply had to join! Isn’t the culmination of every memorable cocktail party on the dance floor, pivoting to and fro? Gin and tonics were tossed aside like secretaries in an ad agency and we danced, danced, danced…

In my mind’s eye, there are scenes of Donald Draper walking smugly down Madison Avenue to the Sterling-Cooper building. But I also see E.B. White typing away columns for magazines, and Bob Dylan just beginning to make his mark. Can’t you envision Edie Sedgwick stumbling through the Village with Andy and her posse in tow? Or maybe you imagine Robert Gottlieb and Korda pouring over Catch-22. How glamorous we can make a turbulent decade appear in hindsight, through the eyes of fake Ray Bands from the corner store.

Even still, I love this time period and its juxtaposition of contrasting American ideals. Pretending if only for an evening, that we took part in 1960’s New York City is all too enjoyable for the current inhabitants of this ever-changing town. Movements, riots, literature, music – many of these cultural contributions began within blocks of our homes.

But when the night was through, I slipped off my heels and changed into Toms. I let out a few pins from my hair to curtail the squeezing of my scalp. Then I walked into the night air with an encouraging thought that many of my 1960s idols may have been without: I, hopefully, will be remembered for more than my red dress, my silky pearls… my fake, plastic pearls.

So let us play. Let us flippantly play in the past for a moment or more.
And then we move on.
Happy Mad Men my friends. 








"I can't believe it now, that the city opened before us like some land of dreams, but it did." -- Mary Cantwell, in "Manhattan, When I Was Young" circa 1950-1960.

An Apple a Day & Sleep Deprived Play

The computer screen’s white light was numbing my mind.
There was a dull silence, ringing in the office.
Perhaps that persistent “eeee” is actually a mixture of overhead lighting and bulky electronic devices.
An email notification invaded the bottom right corner of my screen.
Then the familiar humming sound of the copy machine rocked me to sleep…

WHAM. I caught my head with the palm of my hand again. Sunday, 4 hours of sleep. Monday, 4 hours of sleep. Tuesday… Tuesday? Rotten Tuesday had turned to an even more rotten Wednesday without a blink of sleep. I’ll never escape my ol' college habits.

Just make it till noon and then post-lunch, things will be better.

After pulling an all-nighter because of both school and life, I sat at my kitchen table and watched the washed out sun rise from the fog. It was a relatively anti-climactic sunrise, but at that moment I was able to concoct my master plan: work on a few projects until lunch and then take a nap in Central Park during my hour break. I would be rejuvenated enough to make it a (somewhat) productive day.  

Well, easier said that done.
Eeeee.
The buzzing in my ears seemed too loud.
It was 11:57am.
Screw it – close enough to noon.

As I walked through the 5th Avenue crowds, a sudden drop in blood sugar had me looking for the closest bench. This happens when too much coffee, speed walking, and no sleep meet at the intersections of 59th and 5th. So I flopped into a chair and leaned on a metal table outside of FAO Schwartz and the Apple Store. Only a few days ago I’d been dining across the street at the Plaza…

Crunch.
I bit greedily into an apple.
The table was cold and felt marvelous. I bent over, resting my chin on my forearm, as heavy eyes were getting heavier. And then somewhere between thinking about the Plaza brunch and biting that apple, I passed out Snow-White-style on the metal table.

And then I woke up.
A noise had suddenly catapulted me from a confusing dream to the streets of Manhattan. I jolted upright with an 
embarrassing, twitchy jump.
Maybe no one saw?
An old French couple starred at me as though I had two heads.
Yeah. People saw. 

 They were sitting at my table, eyes narrowed and mouths slightly ajar. I heard the woman say something about “Ah-mar-e-cans,” though I couldn’t guarantee it was derogatory. (Then again, if I could speak another language, I would have said something to my husband about the strange narcoleptic 20-something at our lunch table.)

About 30 minutes had gone by since my tumble into dream world, and something most unfortunate seems to have happened:

I’d fallen asleep, sprawled across a table on 5th Avenue.
Passed out.
With a bitten apple still in my hand.
But even more unfortunately…
…I seemed to have been drooling.

#lowpoint.  

Then, to the amusement of my onlookers, 
I began to giggle like a true crazy person.
And I finished my apple.
And I went back to work.


My new French friends 

(Editor's Note: 1. Don't worry, it was the middle of day 2. All projects were completed at the office and 3. I promised myself I'd get in bed before 2am. So goodnight peps.)

A Weekend Well Worth It

The Plaza for brunch. So we skipped lunch. New York streets. 
Front row seats. Ringing ears. Overpriced beers.
No writing today. Just music to play.
Enjoy, and happy Monday.


The Head and the Heart perform "Lost in My Mind" at Terminal 5.