Hot Dates

I have a hot date tonight. When I told my boyfriend this last night, he gave me a look of disdain before shaking his head and returning to the pages of Vanity Fair (the one with Paris Hilton on the cover). I said, "You're not even interested in who it's with?" He shrugged, looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes of his and said, "Should I be?"

It's with one of my best girlfriends in the city. She's from NC too, we were in the same sorority, and we share the same love of Italy and cheap food. But what's been hard is trying to figure out how to move forward in making friends that are not NC friends, that aren't from the same school or area or hometown or whose parents know my parents. I imagine that if I were going to bars or concerts or even clubs every night I would come across someone to hang out with but it would also be someone who geniunely enjoys going to bars/concerts/clubs every night and while I don't mind a couple of times a week, I can't be out til 4 a.m. on a Wednesday night anymore. Plus once cold weather hits, I hibernate. Making it more ironic that I moved to a city that can hit 44 degrees in September. Ah, the sacrifices we make to be a cool New Yorker.

So we're heading out to dinner and a movie tonight. Which is what I used to do with my boyfriend. I remember our first summer of dating (we've been together more than 2 years) when nothing was solid and I would get nervous waiting for my phone to ring, waiting for his voice to be on the other end. When it was it was a thrill unlike any other. I would spend a couple of hours getting ready, prepping to look like I always looked like this and didn't care what he thought. I have a feeling a lot of other girls do the same thing, and guys too. When he smiled at me I had butterflies. Not that I don't now, but they're not the same. They're the butterflies of loving someone so intensely for this long.

Now we date, but only occasionally. We head out to dinner about once or twice a week and most of the time, like a Southern gentleman he pays. But movies are only an occasional pleasure. The poverty of living in a city that charges most of my paycheck just to have keys to a door here make it more difficult for him to pay for everything we do together. At first i was a little upset, thinking, for some reason, that he should still pay for everything, worrying that if he stopped it would mean he was taking me for granted, not seeing me as the "Uncommon" creature that The Rules ask that we be seen as. Stupid thought, I know. He wasn't even working when he moved up here. And he moved up here mostly to be with me. So really I should count myself lucky to have dates even occasionally.

Because I've discussed dating with people who live here and gotten essentially the same response. That it sucks. That it's lonely and difficult and guys mostly want to buy you a drink to get into your pants. No one wants to commit. No one wants to hold hands walking through Central Park (like my great-aunts did with their "beaus" in the forties). No one even wants to label anyone else. Eight million people in this city, new people coming in all the time to balance out the people moving to Connecticutt and yet it's hard to find a date for Saturday night. Just dinner and a movie with maybe coffee afterwards. Or skipping the cab to walk in the new fall air. That's what all the movies portray, isn't it? That New York is nothing but a city full of love. An Affair to Remember? She couldn't WALK and yet still got a date. Sleepless in Seattle? Meg Ryan not only stalked Tom Hanks but was engaged to someone else. Someone else who was willing to give her a Tiffany Ring. So she got that and a guy who flew across the country to meet her at the top of the Empire State Building (so what if it was really his kid that set them up?) There is nothing BUT love.

In reality, I have tons of single girlfriends and some single guy friends. They go out, try to meet people, and seem to fail at finding the right person to fit them . Two of them even use craigslist to pick up dates. I used to be firmly against internet dating but now I understand. It's out of desperation to meet someone, anyone, who wants to date the old fashioned way. The guy who's willing to meet for lunch or drinks first, THEN move it to dinner. And if all goes well, back to someone's apartment. I'm not sure if that's the same as meeting someone at the top of the Empire State building with a Tiffany ring, but it's something.

Dogs and Children of NYC

This morning, as I was coming out of my apartment building (in the Village) I was almost run over by a three year old on a scooter. His mom, about a block behind him, was screaming some preppy name at him and telling him to stop. He did, turned, looked at her, shook his head, and got back on to finish the ride.

It's not uncommon for me to encounter small children at 8:45 during the week. There's a preschool located across the street from me and I'm used to dodging the little ones in their bugaboos and wearing tiny Seven jeans along with biting back laughter at some of the things I've encountered. Yesterday a boy was throwing a tantrum on the sidewalk in front of about forty witnesses. He was screaming and crying and his mother stood,watching him calmly and finally said,

"You can't have Mommy's keys." SIGH. "Mommy will get you your own set. How's that?" not that it stopped the crying but I have to say I was impressed with the way it was handled.

Dogs and children seem to have a completely different perspective here. The children mature faster and seem to be able to absorb everything and anything. Fire on their block? No problem. Homeless man soliciting them for money? Hold tightly to parents hand and ignore. It makes me wonder how I would have grown up in the city. When I first moved here I kept saying I couldn't imagine raising a family here and in some ways I can't. I can't think of what it would be like to grow up without a backyard and your own swingset, without some the luxuries that living in a large home can afford. But on the other hand, one day I ran into a woman with a beautiful four month old daughter, and she had already been to the MoMA. You can't do that in North Carolina.

The dogs seem to adapt to having to use the sidewalk as their toilet (something I certainly wouldnt' be able to do) and stay on a leash at all times except for the dog run. These are sandy, fenced in areas complete with children's swimming pools and tennis balls galore where dogs are gathered to play together while owners read, play, or talk with other dog owners. I sometimes sit in them, usually with a book but often without opening it. THere are also certain times of day when certain dogs will appear. A woman I work with, who brings her chocolate lab to work with her, says that when Rosy is in the dog park, she has an actual best friend. When the best friend went on vacation Rosy picked up another dog to play with for the duration but when the best friend returned she immediately ditched her new friend for the old. I found this hilarious as I imagined Rosy actually rejecting another dog who plays there every day. But there are definitely those relationships in the parks. When I walk by any of them throughout the city I stop and examine them and see hte same things. There are politics (and not always based on size), friendships, enemies. Everything that is in the people world is contained within these fences as the dogs vie for space in the pool on hot days and tennis balls at all times.

But the point is, they adjust. Adjust to living in a city that never truly sleeps and if it does is up again at 6. Adjust to noise and cement and cars and trucks all the time. Adjust to spending most of their days with a nanny while their parents work to afford the city life. There are even doggy day cares at various points along the city who will keep your dog when you can't, for the workday at least. It's pitiful to walk by them after work, and see all those dogs in the window just waiting for their owners to come and rescue them.

In a sense, I'm waiting to be rescued, too. It's almost like my work is a place where I am sent during the day but afterwards I want someone to come and retrieve me, want to walk with me back to my apartment while talking about the day. I don't have those friends yet. My boyfriend isn't out of work until hours after I am (another adjustment i'm having to make) and I don't have friends who work near enough to me to warrant meeting up every day for a short walk. So I sit in the window, watching New York go by and waiting for someone to stop and recognize me as one of their own.

Customer Service

Friday night I sat in my apartment for three hours, from 6-9 p.m., waiting for the buzzer fixer people to arrive. The buzzer fixer people who swore to me they would have the buzzer fixed in the beginning of August, when I moved in. Then, after much back and forth over the last couple of months I had finally landed an actual time to have them come. They wanted to come earlier, but I pointed out that I actually work 9-5 and can't take off three hours to sit in my apartment waiting for them.

So they suggested Friday night. Friday morning, even, I was suspicious of any technician that wanted to work on a Friday evening. It also meant dinner was going to be super late for me, and that my boyfriend would be forced to entertain me while I waited. We tried to make use of the time, watching Jeopardy, doing laundry. But I kept looking at the clock and noticing, as the hours passed, that they were not there. At 9:30 p.m. Friday night, religiously checking my cell phone every 30 seconds and noticing no missed calls, Boyfriend and I called it quits for the tech people and went out.

Maybe you're wondering why I didn't call them, demanding to know where they were? I'll answer that, because that's exactly what I wanted to do an hour into my wait. THEY DIDN"T GIVE ME THEIR PHONE NUMBER. And thinking about it, I've realized that's a fairly common occurrence in the Customer Service world these days. I get random, vague first names, if any names at all. Most of the time I've noticed it's a robot, saying, "I'm sorry, I didn't understand your selection." eighteen times before finally giving up on translating my southeastern accent and passing me over to an actual person. A lot of people say they wouldn't want to work in customer service because often the people are angry. My thing is we're angry because we just got through dealing with a robot for twenty five minutes, for a question that takes about twenty-five seconds to answer. Wouldn't it be easier if there were just real people hired to pick up the phone the minute it rings?

This morning I called my management company to complain and they took it to the mysterious buzzer people. What I like about my management company, is that while a robot answers the phone, all you have to do is press 0 to get transferred to a living, breathing person. And trust me, I use this all the time. 0 and boom I'm arguing with what sounds to be an elementary school student. But it's better than the robot. and much better than the no phone number, no last name policy of the mysterious buzzer people. They're supposed to be coming tomorrow, and I'm having to take a two hour (our compromised) lunch break in order to sit and wait. We'll see what kind of customer service comes about.

Friday Afternoons in New York

I've never been a part of anything like it. During Friday morning rush hour is the same, with one difference. People dragging suitcases and duffels along with their purses and laptops. Friday at noon, it is a madhouse downtown, people hailing cabs, sweaty from dragging suitcases and duffels, trying desperately to do one thing- escape from New York.

While I escaped to New York, I have quickly learned that on Fridays there is a desperate rush to escape from the city, to get out to Connecticutt or Rhode Island or the Hamptons, leaving behind the urban life in an attempt to give life meaning, spend time with neglected children, or just sleep somewhere with fewer police sirens going, going, going all night long. I can't say I blame them. I'm another working American female who can feel the tug of Monday before Thursday afternoon is finished. Who tries desperately to finish things up before the weekend, to prevent the dreaded Saturday morning at the office. Fortunately I work with a company that isn't open to working on the weekends. But it's only because it's foreign-based, I believe. My boyfriend seems to spend a lot of time at work on weekends.

I love to sleep Friday nights. When I was younger, in high school and college, Friday nights held a completely different meaning. They gave me the opportunity to -FINALLY- ignore homework and school related activities, rush home, shower, change, put on make-up and prepare for some activity. Even if I was just going to the movies, I would put on mascara and lipstick if only for the change of pace.

Now I spend Friday nights relaxing. I do my laundry, running up and down to the basement during commercials in whatever show I happen to choose. Sometimes it's something on CBS, often Dateline. I really like their mysteries. My boyfriend comes over, we cook dinner, talk about our weeks and are usually asleep before 1 a.m. This would never have happened during my teenage years. Those were spent trying to talk on the phone all night and not wake up my parents when I snuck out.

Friday nights in New York are also significantly less crowded down town. If you took away the weekend tourists, I think half the city's population would have disappeared with the sun. One woman I work with seems to do nothing but take weekend trips- skiing during the winter, to the beach or lake almost every weekend of the summer. I look forward to the days when I'll finally have enough extra money to do that! Things just change around here. I like the empty feeling, the way the halls in my building feel when everyone is gone but me and the old lady who lives in apartment H. Solitude appeals to me in a way a lot of people have a hard time understanding but makes perfect sense to me. Writers don't mind being alone, for the most part. We enjoy the ability to think out loud and write read without having someone look over our shoulder while we're doing it.

I crave the beginning of the weekend. Feeling all your accomplishments for the week make it okay to relax and take a long bath, rent a movie, TURN OFF THE CELL PHONE. My friends hate when I do that, but inevitably, when Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday night turn into dinner, drinks, and a club after nights, I'll eventually become tired and just cut the phone off, letting voice mail pick up for messages like "Where ARE you? Are you trying to avoid me?" and "I knew this was going to happen. Something fun is going on and you're..." What am I doing? I can't even remember most of my activities.

Tonight I'm heading out, uptown to a friend's apartment. But it's only because he's desperate for some people to help him finish a large amount of beer he somehow ended up with.

The Virgin Blog

I'm not really THAT kind of girl, to keep online journals. A roommate of mine in college actually used to obsessively make fun of people who did that- posting all kinds of personal crap about themselves in a very public way. Except now that I'm here, I guess it's Karma, and the struggle of the young professional that's pulling me in.

So in case anyone ever reads this, I'm a young North Carolina (SMALL TOWN) girl who's just made the move to the Big Apple and am quickly becoming accustomed to urban life. And I love it. It's fascinating to me that I haven't driven a car in several months, can get anything I want delivered, and have met people that have literally never been in Wal-Mart. Now that's mind-blowing.

So this will be a place I'll come to when I'm bored at work, want to do some writing work (true love) or just want to bitch about stereo-types, true or not, that come with having an accent that's south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Guess I'm no longer a virgin.