Halloween Tricks

My best friend got married this weekend. Five minutes before walking up the aisle she said she thought she wouldn't be able to do it, that she would be sick in front of all the people that had shown up to show their love and support. But she did, coming up the aisle crying and going back down laughing. I was in awe of her strength and conviction, that she made it through her vows without a slip, that they kissed and seemed to be the perfect, loving couple. I can't imagine how strange that must be to be so young and married. To be tied to someone else in every way.

We were discussing it earlier in the week. I flew down on Wednesday to offer my emotional and mental support to her crazed family. Running around finishing the details of what was to be a beautiful wedding is never easy. We talked about how holidays would now be divided up, that she would now be eating with someone more often, waking up with someone almost every morning, having to deal with checking in with that someone before taking off for the weekend. I can't imagine taking on that kind of responsibility, especially since I'm at an age that means I rarely have money in my checking account. From here on she will be sharing all of that with another human being and starting a family with him, dividing up chores with him. That really seems to be what makes the difference between living together and being married. In marriage there is no easy way out. You can't just pack your things and leave when hard times hit. I wonder what they were feeling standing up at the altar in front of each other and God and their families and promising themselves to each other for the rest of their lives. Sure there's a fifty percent divorce rate, but I have high hopes for this couple. I have several married friends who I think won't make it past year 5, but with this couple, I'm thinking that it's going to be a long haul.

We spent the three days I was there getting ready for the wedding, running errands, nails, hair, dress pick ups, flowers. There were various moments of panic and one evening when she stormed out of her parents house swearing never to go back. I stood back and watched from my "maid of honor" stance and thought how glad I was that it wasn't me, that if i ever get to that point with someone i don't think I'll want a huge wedding with first dances and cake cutting. I think I'd much rather be on an island somewhere underneath a sky big enough to hold the promise of a lifetime. But I was a little jealous that they found each other and knew beyond a doubt that they were meant for each other. When you know you know, but how is that? Do you have various inklings about who that person is, or do you just judge it based on various people you meet.

At the rehearsal dinner,, they gave each other these gifts that were very heartfelt. One of hers was a "husband journal" she had been keeping since she was seventeen years old. It was filled with various thoughts on marriage,, on the qualities she wanted her future husband to have, prayers for him and about him, different quotes and lists. I went through it on the Friday before (with her permission, of course!) wondering how she had become such a solid person. I can't imagine starting a husband journal at seventeen. Sure, i wanted to be married but I also thought that the main part of that marriage was the jewelry involved. I mean, I wouldn't actually want him sleepng in the same bed with me or anything. I think most girls are like that, wanting that security and companionship all wrapped up neatly in a tux with a bowtie. Guess I missed out on that gene, since I pretty much ignored the idea of marrying until I was well through college. And even then it wasn't something real, it was abstract, meaning probably in the next ten to fifteen years it might happen. Emphasis on might.

But she's taken that step and now I'm realizing I'm reaching a point where friends are getting married and making that commitment to each other and deeming themselves no longer single. It's weird to me, that from here on out they'll never be single again. The closest they'll ever get is divorced, and no one likes to say that. Now this abstract thing is upon me and I have to wonder who else will get married in the coming years, who else will move forward in that particular direction. I like that here in New York, it's not a big deal. Like that couple in the New York times a couple of weeks ago? They were married at ages 71 and 74 and met because he waited for her outside the kitchen while she retrieved her refrigerated medication on a cruise ship. That's romance, in my eyes. She laid it all out on the table for him and he took it anyway, begged for it, really. I love that story, I love it when older people find each other and make a new life together.

It seems early to be thinking about these things but only in New England Years. Last night I sat next to a girl who was 37, just out of law school, and looked about 20. She was talking about how her parents had given up on her every having babies and how disappointed they were that she hadn't married yet. But I was in love with that idea that she could hve this committed loving boyfriend and feel no pressure or desire to change that by marrying him. I wonder if my friend felt the same way? That if they hadn't gotten married they still would have been able to do all these things together and love each other without bands on their fingers.

I enjoyed the wedding thoroughly, watching her walk up the aisle on her father's arm, seeing her practically run down the aisle afterwareds and then speak to people she won't remember speaking to tomorrow or by today at least. She won't remember being whirled around by various people, being turned and twisted and feeding cake to her new husband.
Weddings always make me feel weird. They're so happy, so full of hope and then they seem to fall apart later on, seem to change once it's over and the fanfare has been taken away. After that you are left with each other and a certificate that says you are tied to someone else legally as well as emotionally.

God Said He would never Flood the World again

Yesterday at work we jokingly began referring to the apocalyptic Genesis account of Noah and the Ark, one of my personal favorite stories from when I was smaller. I loved the idea of being on a boat in the middle of a vast ocean with all of the world's animals. Although I think, had I been Noah and God hadn't been looking, some of those animals wouldn't have made it... i.e. cockroaches, New York's most popular insect.

So we were discussing how much flooding there was and someone mentioned that God made the rainbow in order to show his promise that he would never flood the world again. I said that I was pretty sure it said the entire world again, not pieces of the world like New Jersey and New Orleans at the same time. It was an excellently made point, if I say so myself and gave me reason to consider God's promises.

Imagine being on a cramped boat for forty days and nights while it rained and then afterwards while you waited for the floods to recede and a chance to get away from your family for just a few minutes of peace. You're sending out all these birds looking for signs of life and they aren't coming back, God's not really speaking to you for the time being, and WHAT are you doing with all the animal manure? Ah, the true questions we have for the Bible. None of this miracle stuff, I just want to know what they did with all the animal poop. And do you think they ate some of the animals? Not the two by two, but do you think Noah stored a few extra chickens or something on board? I would have.

At the end of all this, there is a new world and Noah is set upon it with all the animals and told to go forth and produce children. He is also told that God will never flood the whole world again. I can only imagine how he and his family looked after five weeks on a boat with no one but each other. It probably wasn't very far off from "Survivor." And he's left with no friends, no direction, just a colorful symbol that will one day be associated with homosexuality. And, as far as we can tell from reading the Bible God didn't flood the world again. He parted lakes, set things on fire and had people climb mountains and sacrifice their children for Him, but He didn't flood the world.

It does seem like it's possible. Looking out the window at the rain splattering the panes of glass and hearing about how Louisiana and Mississipi and Massachusetts and Connecticutt and let's not forget New Jersey are flooding. That's not even counting the rest of the continents who are suffering the same fate. I think about all those tribes who live along the Nile who rejoice when the water exceeds the banks because it means the harvest will be good, and wonder if we could explain that to Mercedes driving commuters from Hoboken. Doubt if they care about a harvest half a world over, but I was comforted by the idea that there is good to be found in all this rain.

On my end rain makes me want to stay inside and read and drink tea and sleep late and watch movies. I miss the college days when I would take the day off just because it rained or was too cold or too windy or I didn't get enough sleep because I stayed up late watching reruns of Punk'd. Now it doesn't matter what happened between five p.m. yesterday and nine a.m. today as long as I am on time for work and look presentably dressed. Rain in New York is truly a miserable experience for the most part, unless you get to go to sleep in it and can afford to take cabs whereever you go. There isn't enough soil to gather the extra water and it heads towards the drains so fast it clogs them, thus creating ponds you must leap over to cross Houston or Fifth Avenue.

There is also the sideways rain to take into account, as well as the fact that it is freezing up here already and snowing in some areas. I am scared of facing an entire New York winter. I've never even been here in January before, and while I've been here while it was cold, it was a brief time that turned into heading straight back to North Carolina where everything is centrally heated, and it's warm by late March. We also discussed how fall chill and spring chill were two completely different things. By springtime, you're so numb to the cold that fifty degrees makes you want to rip out a bathing suit, and in the fall it makes you want to curl up and hibernate.

I have to wonder if that was God's plan. For us to hibernate during particularly bad times of the year, instead of being forced to lie and say that yes we have the avian flu or pneumonia- again.

I've Been Robbed!

It's funny how being robbed works. You imagine someone climbing in through your window when youre not home, holding you at gunpoint in a dark alleyway. The truth is, I had no idea someone was taking money from me until I happened to check my online account. I can't imagine what would have happened if I hadn't.

There was a strange transaction for a theater I had never heard of much less been to. The amount was not an amount I remembered spending, and trust me, I remember what I spend. That's part of the paranoia of being youngand broke in the city, you become obsessed with saving money and watch every penny. Who would have thought a year ago that I would be basing my grocery buys on what coupons I had in my pocket?

So back to being robbed. So I called customer service, tried to skip through the robot voices as fast as I could and finally got put on hold. An incredibly frustrating experience when you can see a pending transaction you know you didn't do. So I sat, listening to all my other options and opportunities to put more of my money in their hands. Finally an operator came on and immediately asked for my social security number. probably not such a good move in dealing with someone who has just lost money on what she thought was a secure account.

"And can I have your address and birthdate?" and would you mind also giving me the opportunity to go shopping on your tab? is what I was thinking as I spit out the numbers, blindly rushing ahead to the creep that was using the internet as his or her playground and going to concerts and performances with my cash.

"And when is hte last time you saw your card?"
"I have my card."
"You have your card? So it wasn't stolen?"
"No. Just the number was stolen."
"I see." quick typing and "mm-hmming" "Do you have any other authorized users on your card?"
"NO." I was thinking what kind of moron does she think I am? I trust no one.
"Have you made any transactions with the card in the last twenty-four hours?"
"Yes."
"Are you positive you did not make the disputed transaction at any point in time?"

The truth is, I had considered this. Sometimes my mother and I made purchases without remembering we had made them, and then screamed "Identity Theft!" when my father confronted us with the credit card bill. But this time I wasn't taking any chances. My father rarely relented as he went down the list demanding to know why we spent money in this place, that place.

"What time was the transaction made?"
"2:19 p.m."
I put the operator on hold and called into the office,
"Does anyone know if I went anywhere yesterday afternoon?"
"No!" came the unaminous reply. That was what I thought but figured I'd better be safe than sorry.
"No." I told hte operator calmly. "I was at my job."
"Okay. Well, we'll cancel your number, and send you a new card, which you should receive in 5-7 business days." meaning not until next month. "In order to dispute the lost funds you'll have to wait until the transaction clears and then go from there. " Meaning she was washing her hands of me.

"That's it?"
"Have you tried contacting the merchant?"
I then explained to her that this particular merchant apparently didn't exist. I had checked for them online, through Information and called the phone number listed with my transaction, which was disconnected. So now I can't be sure if someone posed as this corporation or if they charged my account and then mysteriously disappeared.

The weirdest thing about this is the feeling that goes with having something so private. I feel violated. Seriously. We used to shout that back in high school about just about everything but here it applies quite readily. I feel weird, not having access to the account but knowing that for a day or two, at least, someone else did have access to the account, someone did think that they could go around and shop and go to shows and just charge it all to this mysterious person they don't ever care to meet. I'm reminded of those credit card commercials covering identity theft and suddenly understand the man with the beer gut who says, "Oh my god! $1500 for a leather jumpsuit? I wasn't going to pass that up!" in a hilariously feminine voice. I love those commercials and used to crack up at them. now I wonder if, at some point when I open my mouth, some voice that isn't mine is going to come pouring out with a confession of what they did to my bank account.

And my current sanity.

Building Walls

A friend of mine finally found a Manhattan apartment that is, of course, unaffordable and tiny, and shared with two other people. They had to put down enough cash to cover three months deposit and a brokers' fee, but if that isn't enough she has to build a wall to make her bedroom. Not that this is an uncommon practice in Manhattan but it amazes me tha tsince she was the one who found the apartment and had a co-signer, she still got left out of the loop of claiming a bedroom upfront and is now expected to shell out a couple thousand more dollars to make herself a space.

I'm impressed that she's chosen the roommates she has. She has selected two girls that while sweet and fun to hang out with have been nothing short of impossible when it came to finding a place to live. One already had a studio in Manhattan and wasn't in much of a hurry to find something else, wanted to move but didn't care when and the other was staying with said studio girl. All in all, it's a situation I wouldn't want to be in but apparently you pick your space and then you build a wall.

I love how mobile the Manhattan real esate arena is. If you're shown a studio and point out that you don't understand why two people would want to share you'll get a look and a "Why don't you just put up a wall?" As if it's incredibly simple to bring in construction workers and some sheetrock and just- boom!- make it happen. I know lots of people who have divided their apartments that way, laying down between 800 and 2200 dollars to give themselves a space all their own. Here you are lucky if you have a a wall to call your own, and I've seen ads placed for rooms that weren't actually rooms but sleeping lofts in apartments being put out as rooms. It's nothing short of miraculous that no one here complains about living space all the time. I still haven't gotten used to it, seeing friends back in North Carolina buy three bedroom two bath "starter" homes or two bedroom condos. It's incredibly impressive to think about it and wonder if we are really meant to be boxed up that way, meant to be squeezed in on top of each other and secretly hate it. I'm reminded of "Crocidile Dundee II" (NO JUDGEMENT), when the main character says, "Eight million people are crammed in here? This must be the friendliest place in the world!" We laughed because of the irony of such a statement. It's well known that noone here is friendly, that you are just as likely to be mugged on Park Avenue as the Bronx.

Why is that? Why do people choose to live in a place where people are literally stacked up in little boxes and not make an effort to like them? I've been living in my current apartment since August 1st and know literally two of my neighbors- a young woman across the hall, and the infamous 4B person who I picked up a Fedex package for. It's strange how these things work, how we allow ourselves to close off the rest of the ten million people squished on this island, all choosing to love New York, but not each other. I've never really thought about it before, but it's true that I rarely speak to people here. I've become like so many of the others, listening to my Ipod and reading on the trains, ignoring the cab drivers, dodging people who are old and slow on the walk to work. I've almost become blind to the homeless people who curl up on stoops and at corners, begging for change with cynical eyes. I don't even really speak to the people who help me out, like the man at the corner store who always gives me quarters even though he tells me all the time I need to find someone else to provide change, and the Palm reading woman who works in a tiny glass booth with a tv going day and night.

So why isn't this the friendliest place in the world? It's certainly not hostile, or anything close to it, but there isn't the sense of companionship that there is in other places. Many of my friends, including myself, have begun turning to Craigs List to find new friends and things to do in the city. We impatiently click away at various ads for everything from Museum trips to time shares in cabins upstate. What this tells me is that there are a lot of other lonely people in the city, people who want to find something to make their life more meaningful.

If this is true, that we are all searching for meaning in this great city, why are we putting up walls against that?

Tuesday Morning Hit

Generally I try not to post twice in one day, but since this is my emotional outlet for right now, I thought I would relate an interesting incident that happened on my way to work. I was hit by a car. Not seriously hurt or anything, but definitely hit, knocked down by one of those long town cars that apparently hate to stop at the lights.

The driver jumped out and I was sitting in the pedestrian crosswalk sobbing. He thought it was because he had hit me and I didn't have the heart to tell him I've been crying for a couple of days now, and just to ignore it. Instead I got up, thinking how ironic it was the only thing that protected me is the stupid gym bag I seem to lug everywhere and got myself brushed off and kept walking. He kept asking, "Are you sure you're okay? Are you sure?" No, I'm not okay.

It's the same with my heart. I've been hit, harder than the car hit me, and bruised. Everyone says you have to get up and brush it off, but how do you brush off your soulmate? My friend Chase died several years ago and after his death we all mourned him, especially one of my good friends and his girlfriend. She said she would never be the same, would never love that way again, and it's true. Next week she's marrying someone she loves very much and who adores her, but has to live in the shadow of a soulmate.

What a funny word, the way it's divided. Soul mate. Is your soul really not enough on its own? I always believed it was searching for a better part of itself in someone else, and I found that. When you have that confirmation it seems enough to think that your soul does need a mate, or several. My best friends are "soulmates", my animals are "soulmates" (sometimes) and sometimes I connect with random people on the street or in the Subway. We look at each other and there is a flash of common ground that suddenly leads me to know, without a word, that they had something of my soul within them. Some people say you can spend a lifetime searching for a soulmate and never find one, but I wonder how often that turns out to be true.

Maybe it's better to have the physical hit of something this big than to go through life protecting your soul from being hurt by a mate. I've spent my whole life surrounding myself with an emotional wall and never letting people through. I've been called cold, heartless, icy, everything you can think of that is involved with that. But on the inside, once someone knows me, they know it's all lies put in place in an effort not to hurt again. Hurt is human and without it, where would we be? A knew book on depression was released recently claiming that depression is necessary in society so that society understands how lucky it is to have such wonderful companions and things in their lives, to teach them how to keep them and move forward.

I've been heartbroken before, but never to the extent of walking in front of a car because I was so focused on what was happening inside. Never to the extent of considering taking a sick-day to try and pull myself back together. Never to the extent of baring who I really was and hoping he wouldn't run over it.


Don't ever--regardless--
be conjoined with what's dear
or undear.
It's painful
not to see what's dear
or to see what's not.
So don't make anything dear,
for it's dreadful to be far
from what's dear.
No bonds are found
for those for whom
there's neither dear
nor undear.

-Dhammapada, 16, translated by Thanissaro Bhikkhu

I Met a Rickshaw Driver

If that doesn't catch your attention, apparently you are the type of person who isn't shocked by anything. Because I really did meet and chat with a rickshaw driver. And trust me, I didn't set out to do it. It all started in Astoria. I was visiting my "estranged" Boyfriend (at least through Wednesday) and my friends were getting ready to go out. At first I wasn't going to. I was really upset and kind of wanted to curl up in bed and cry myself to sleep but by the time the train picked them up, they had brought me cookies and begged and begged. How do you resist being that desirable? So we ended up at McCoy's Irish Pub, in Mid-town West, where beer is only 3.75 and drinks are seriously 4 dolla. We were sitting at the bar (there were no tables in the narrow, crowded space) yelling over the din or ten tv sets and a jukebox along with the general noise of tons of people.

I, naturally, was yelling about the EB. It's funny that when you're with someone, and comfortable in your relationship you don't really feel a need to discuss it, instead just leaving it at a dreamy smile and "We're great." But in the midst of a fight, which my friends were not expecting from me and the EB, it was all I could talk about and I'm pretty sure I was driving them crazy. It reminded me of the Sex and the City episode where Carrie can't stop analyzing what went wrong with her and Big, and Miranda finally says, "Carrie, we want you to see a therapist." She replies, "I don't need a therapist- I have you guys!" That's the kind of friend I was this weekend, analyzing what I had said and why I said it and why on Earth he finally stormed out. One of my friends yelled,

"At least he's straight! No other guys in this city are!" She's still slightly bitter about her workcrush turning out to be gay. With that, the guy next to me leaned over and said, "Nice to meet you. I'm Sean.", thus making the point that not everyone in the city was gay. He turned out to be a rickshaw, therefore the next sentence that came from our slightly tipsy group was, "Wow, your legs must be really strong." His reply? "Legs of steel, all three of them." From then on he regaled us with hilarious pick up lines. He was hilarious, and seemed incredibly happy. Canadian, only in New York about a month but had been in the States around five years. The most fascinating part to me was that he had driven from Canada to Baltimore, sold his car, bought a bike and biked to Florida. In Fort Lauderdale he biked a rickshaw for a few months while waiting tables on and off. When he was tired of that he decided to bike to New York. It only took him fifteen days. I was in shock. He said that he had lost about seventy pounds doing this and being a rickshaw wasn't that bad. It paid okay and he got to meet lots of people who couldn't hail cabs or didn't care that they were riding behind a man down Fifth Avenue.

I was really impressed. Here we were, soft, in our early twenties, working office jobs with our college degrees and if we wanted to build muscle, heading to the gym. And we aren't all that happy. We work, we complain with our friends after work, we go to bed and do it all over again the next morning. But this guy had been doing exacctly what he wanted for the last five years and not looking back once. He joked and drank and everyone in the bar knew him (suggesting that yes, he was a regulaar inhabitant but still pressing home the point that he had everything in life he wanted at that moment). When you run into someone like that it changes the way you want to look at your life. On top of that, he had a photo album full of pictures of girls he had gotten to flash him in his rickshaw. It was kind of porn related, and I did wonder about why he carried it around with him but hey, if it makes you happy... P.S. He could name our bra sizes just by looking at us. Correctly.

It obviously did. A couple of drinks later, heading back up Ninth Ave towards Times Square, I realized I needed to look more closely at what I was doing that was making me happy versus what I was doing that was either having a neutral affect on my life or negative one. He was poor and thrilled to be in New York, well traveled and had met hundreds more people than I probably ever will, at least in the US. It reminded me of how I was in Europe, how willing I was to speak to people and dance with boys I will never see again and enjoy experiencing something completely new and different. The only downfall was that my boyfriend wasn't there, because the first thought I had on entering McCoy's is that it's his kind of place, that he would have enjoyed the ten tv screens and NFL betting system and cheap beer, friendly bar tenders.

Maybe, after we talk and sort some stuff out, I can head there, looking for the rickshaw driver, and some peace of mind. Because happiness is more about who you are, then where you are.

I'm Saving it for the Special People

At work the other day, I got into a conversation with my co-worker about traveling. I was talking about Vienna and she sighed, admitting that she had never been to Europe.

"I spent too much time waiting for someone to go with." was her excuse, and now she's married with kids and can't go. At least not the way I can, with minimal planning and little money. She said something about how you should travel as much as you can before you have babies and I agree fully.

Which got me to thinking about why we wait to travel. I dated a guy in college who wanted to take me to Prague. He had been and wanted to share it with me. We made elaborate plans for the trip and then promptly broke up a month later. I still haven't been to Prague, though I've been in Europe twice since then. I'm not even really sure why, it just hasn't worked out.

When my current boyfriend and I started dating I realized I wanted to travel with him. Instead, he studied abroad in France (and not for long enough to warrant an "I miss you" visit) and then, the next summer I went to Europe while he stayed in North Carolina, saving money for us to move to New York. I missed him terribly while I was over there, spending about four hundred dollars on international phone calls, crying myself to sleep several nights but having one of the most amazing times of my life and coming back with the intention of getting back over there as soon as possible. Preferrably with the boyfriend.
That's what I spoke about at work. How much I wanted to travel with him, how there was so much I wanted to share with him.

It's interesting when we consider what we do. How we save the best parts of ourselves for certain people and then hope they can deal with the worst parts of our selves. We save the best trips, hotel rooms, kisses and stories for the person we love the most. I barely talk to my parents because I can't share with them, and while my soulmate receives a good amount of what I am I find myself saving stories about my day and my past to share with the boyfriend. Because I want him to embrace this part of who I am and what I am. I do the same with him, wait for his stories and want to hear about everything he's done.

That desire is what fuels the human nature and what keeps us optimistic in a time of war, in a time when depression and disease are on the rise and when we can't sleep because the fear of humanity comes out of us like rain. Most of the time we are bombarded with stories of global warming, species extinction and on a smaller level the killings in our neighborhoods. But when you have someone you love enough to share yourself with, it seems more than enough to stick to that and know there's hope for the rest of us.

The How We Met Syndrome

My boyfriend and I got into a massive fight about nothing tonight. Looking back, I should have just gone to a movie or something. Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda. It all comes back when you're sitting up late, crying and trying to figure out if the love of your life has just walked out of it. After sobbing myself dry (typical girl response) I wrote the "How We Met" and got-together story in my journal and waited for some kind of clarity. Because he was right when he said he was fed up with me, with the way I had been behaving lately. I couldn't tell him about how hard it has been to move up here, how much stress I'm under, how much I miss my animals and my friends from home. I even miss being in school, at least having something to distract me from what's happening in the real world.

Depression has controlled the last few months and suddenly it rears its ugly head again and I've screwed up the best thing that could have ever happened to me. When you go from thinking that you'll never find the right person, that you're someone to be avoided like the plague, to someone that is actually loveable, you think "Why would I want to go back to the old me?" Except tonight I took about ten steps back in that direction. I loathe myself for what I've done and just think, "what if what if what if". Leaving me alone on my bed wondering if this is how I'm going to spend the rest of my Friday nights, maybe crying and sobbing before covering it up with mascara and heading out to bars to let guys buy me drinks and try to get into my pants. It hurts because I know it's not good for me and not at all what I want, but then I think that my boyfriend didn't want me to suggest cheating on me then breaking up.

If that hasn't caught your attention,there's no point in continuing to read this post. I'm curious about the people who read these things, anyway. None of my friends know about my blog, so I know they're not reading it, so who are you? Anonymous readers wondering about a girl who can't even keep her man happy long enough to let him know how much she loves him.And certainly not long enough to tell him about how much she's struggling living up here even though it was her idea in the first place. There it is. All the fears that come with moving to a foreign place are coming out here.

I've loved New York since I landed in Kennedy for the first time and saw the skyline approaching me from 20,000 feet. I've loved everything about New York, down to the homeless guy that lives on the street behind my office. But for some reason I'm having a problem settling in here, feeling at home. When I lived overseas, it was the easiest transition I'd ever made. I was there a few days and never wanted to return to the U.S. Maybe now would be a good time to look into that option again, to disappear into Europe, become one of those ex-patriots that haunt Venice and Paris and Geneva. I was different there. My smile was different, my hair was different, everything was different. I was free and happy and didn't understand how you couldn't love being there, breathing that air and seeing that scenery. I want that feeling back, want to believe that I can make a place for myself as a grown-up, not as a kid living out some fantasy.

Everyone always thought I would go on to bigger and better things. Instead I'm the same person, just scared and cold and alone in a city where you really aren't a person so much as a statistic. Between the ages of 18-34, white, blond hair, blue eyes, shorter than average, constantly worried about weight. Living with forty other people, between the ages of 21 and 96 who are also statistics in this city. So many people crammed in here, how do we know where we belong in this world? TOnight when I was standing on the fire escape praying for something to change within my boyfriend's assertion he was leaving and going home, I saw a man cleaning his apartment naked, a woman checking her AIM, two people fucking on the floor underneath mine, a cat in the window of another. All these people going on with their lives while I feel like the air I breathe is being pulled out of my lungs. This is How We Met Syndrome at its worst. When you play over the relationship tape over and over in your head, pretending to be objectionable when all you really want are his arms back around you, his sleepy body in your bed.

It Comes in Waves

My best friend from college is getting married in less than two weeks. It sends a chill down my spine just to think about it. She is the third or fourth of my friends to get married in the last couple of years but for some reason I can't comprehend that I'm at an age where people are actually doing this, jumping off the deep end into what I consider and hope they consider a lifetime commitment. Here I am, struggling to eat on my own money and they're planning houses and babies and golden anniversaries. It is truly optimistic, considering the current sixty percent divorce rate in the U.S. I'm impressed and have to admit that up until a few months ago I thought that was the path I wanted to take. I thought that I had to be married to be complete and I thought I had met the man I was going to marry, so things seemed right. Looking back, I probably just wanted to save some money on rent in New York, and there are other ways to go about doing that.

It's nice to be in a place where there isn't any pressure to be married by the "ripe old" age of twenty five. I like dating my boyfriend again and have essentially stopped worrying about if we're meant to be together or will get married. People say when you know, you know, and what I know now is that we're happy and in love and struggling to live in a very expensive place together. He's even the kind of boyfriend thats willing to fly down for my friend's wedding without too much grumbling. Because, as I told him when we argued about it, "NO WAY can the Maid of Honor not have a date. It looks pathetic and sad!" Which made me sound pathetic and sad, to think that I had to have a romantic date in order to feel complete in the dress I'll never wear again and shoes that my feet will be punishing me for for days.

Bridesmaids. It's more of a decorative term than anything else now. I mean, brides don't really need "maids" to get them ready to wed anymore. But it's a nice way of saying, "You're enough of a friend that I feel comfortable charging you inordinate amounts of money and using your time to make sure my wedding day goes off without a hitch."

Bridesmaids and maids of honor became more common when weddings were planned. For several days before the marriage, a senior maid attended to the bride-to-be. This maid or matron of honor, as we know her today, ensured that the bridal wreath was made and helped the bride get dressed. All bridesmaids helped the bride decorate for the wedding feast.

For a long time, bridesmaids wore dresses much like the bride's gown, while ushers dressed in clothing that was similar to the groom's attire. This tradition began for protection against evil rather than for uniformity; if evil spirits or jealous suitors attempted to harm the newlyweds, they would be confused as to which two people were the bride and groom. (birthdayexpress.com/weddingtraditions) In Roman times, you had to have ten witnesses to be married, which is why bridesmaids came along.

Most of the history of bridesmaids that came up on Google went along the same lines. That the "maids" dressed like the bride to protect the couple against evil spirits and that they were in charge of making sure the "bridal wreath" was made. It's a really interesting thought, that we are supposed to be so similar to the woman getting married evil spirits will be confused and not know which one is the bride. The rest of the history led me to more modern times in which the maid of honor or "chief bridesmaid" (according to hitched.co.uk) is in charge of a bridal shower, bachelorette party, and in some times a toast at the wedding. I haven't even thought of where to begin in describing what it's like to watch a friend get married and take such a huge step in her life, so certain she has met her match.

If I sound cynical, I'm not. I'm one of the most romantic people I know. I watched Romeo and Juliet obsessively growing up and get teary-eyed at most romantic movies. I feel like I have spent a large portion of my life waiting to meet my "soul mate" when, in fact, I already had several, including the friend that is tying her life and heart to another in only a couple of weeks.
I'm so impressed that she feels ready to do this at the age of twenty four, a mere baby in terms of life but old enough to decide something like this. My boyfriend told me that we currently have the lowest age of first marriages since the sixteen hundreds. Something like 26 for women, 28 for men. And everyone automatically assumes you were married at age twelve!

After spending a lot of time watching "Sex and the City" I also wonder about why such a negative stigma is associated with not ever getting married by choice. My aunt never got married, preferring to have her own house, life and financial security along with a boyfriend to take her on trips, buy her nice presents, and go on dates with. They've been dating since the seventies and are the most secure couple I know. I have to wonder if it's because they never married, because they have never shared a roof. While they spend almost every day together, after the 11 o'clock news he heads back to his home, and she gets ready for bed in hers. So after watching as Carrie, Miranda, and Samantha battle the stigma, I'm impressed with them, even as fictional characters, that they are so secure with themselves and their lives as single people. Yes, at the end of the series, two are married, one is just saying I love you and one is being found by the "Right Man" but still for most of the programs they were single, trying to find one decent men in a whole lot of New York Undecent Men. I did the same thing through college, going through dates like water, being the unattainable girl who smiled a lot but would rarely kiss.

Why I did that I'm not sure. I was so overcautious at the beginning of college that I let a perfect man go. He was caring, funny, smart and adored me and I rejected him. For no reason other than my own fear of finding the "one" too young. When, I've begun to realize, there could be hundreds of "ones" in the world for me. I can't guarantee anything beyond the cash in my wallet and clothes on my back. Part of that comes from being Southern, from planning my wedding from the age of twelve (thank GOD my bridesmaids' dresses have changed) and playing with Bridal Barbie and Ken from an even younger age, watching them pretend to start their life together in the Barbie Townhouse with about thirty of her friends. Ken, of course, never had any friends.

Now I'm in an exclusive relationship and have been dating him for over two years. Two years! Since I was legal to drink I've been kissing the same guy and laughing with him and discovering what kind of stamina he really has. Trust me, it's a good one. We made a move together, and fought, and cried and laughed and have found that we can stand each other every day, or nearly every day. It's definitely a huge change to go from seeing someone once a week to every day. I'm so glad to have him in my life but have questioned us more times than I probably should have. This stemming from the fear that was instilled in me so long ago. It's the same way I questioned most of the guys I dated thus ending up single for almost a year before setting on a journey with this guy. He has done so much for my life that I can never repay him and he puts up with my outbursts, especially as I slowly become the only friend without a ring on that significant finger. Especially as one of my best friends takes a walk down the aisle and I help her do that. I've cried over that more in the last few months than I've cried in the whole of the last year. Not because I won't be taking that step for a long time (by choice) but because I'm watching my friends get engaged and plan the "rest of their lives" before they're even thirty.

When you watch someone take that step in their lives, it really makes you evaluate your own choices. She's receiving plates and glasses and Crock-pots and setting up what will be their first home while I'm hitting movies and bars with friends, and only taking fifteen minutes to clean my studio apartment. I hardly have any furniture, much less a dining room set! (Not that I would need it, considering I don't have a dining room). She had her final fitting and I went shopping for rehearsal dinner clothes. We're almost the same age, had a lot of the same experiences, and yet now we are at a very clear, very scary fork in the road. I only hope those roads merge again at the same place.

Urban Drowning

It's a fascinating concept. Urbanites suffering at the hands of Nature because they paved everything. Drains are flooded, feet are wet, even the dogs are miserable. Kids no longer wanting to jump into puddles. Today, for a change this week, I'm actually dry. I placed my shoes in a plastic grocery bag, rolled up my jeans legs, and walked out into another miserable day.

Which is funny, because I actually really like rain. Just not when I have to go to work in it. My boyfriend said this morning he couldn't wake me up even though I told him too. It was like being in a drugged sleep. I could have slept for hours. But I didn't. Instead I dragged myself out of bed and made it here fifteen minutes late, as compared to the twenty minutes late yesterday. If it doesn't get sunny soon I'm probably going to start using my sick days!

But more importantly than that, there comes the numbness of "urban drowning". I realized last night, walking home that I was walking by stores by some of the most important designers out there right now. Dolce and Gabanna, Chanel, Donna Karan, MaxMara, La Perla. It occurred to me, looking into their warm, DRY interiors, that I work in a place that allows me to walk by them everyday. I could essentially pop down to Louis Vuitton during work, or Mont Blanc right after. It's amazing. I'm in charge of my life, and surrounded by the designers I love, yet I can't afford any of them. It makes me wonder how many other people who work down in this neighborhood in "poorer" career choices (i.e. anything other than i-banking) think the same thing and eventually let themselves drown in the show of labels in the store windows and more importantly on the streets. Because they are everywhere. There are always rich women tauting the latest design and the prices shoot up the minute one of those designers makes it to a sitcom or drama.

If I wanted to, and if Mr. Visa would allow it, I could deck myself out in every name brand you could think of, every day. I could turn into a rolling rack girl. I could show up to work in Manolos and a Dolce skirt, or an Anne Fontaine shirt paired with classic Chanel pumps. And I wouldn't even have to leave my neighborhood to have access to these places. Because they're all around me all the time. Which makes me think of what one of my co-workers was saying recently about the development of SoHo. She remembered being a little girl and coming through here with her father when there was NOTHING but actual warehouses and factories. No one lived down here except for a few poor hippies and writers. Now, an average Soho loft goes for about a million per bedroom and a studio here starts at well above $2K per month. To live down here, you can be artsy or as much of a bohemian as you want, but it better be a Roberto Cavalli bohemian skirt as opposed to an actual cheaply made substitute.

When I first began working down here I imagined myself knowing all the windows all the time, watching as they changed their mannequins to accomadate new looks and seasons. Instead, I ignore them, for the most part. My window shopping has even gone out the window. I walk by Chanel without glancing inside. Okay, maybe not Chanel, but I definitely sped past DKNY and MaxMara last night without a second look. It's what I call the urban drown. Being able to fully ignore the fact you work above Prada or down the street from Versace. Being able to walk into your office wearing Banana Republic and Gap and try not to feel the shame that goes with that if you happen to work with someone who does, in effect, wear the store windows.

It's actually become okay that I probably won't be wearing any designer names for quite some time. I'm happy to stick to the middle-class American look- Levi jeans (not even the premium denim-gasp!) and Banana Republic sweaters over J. Crew undershirts. It is just a label, right?

Who Knew it Could Rain Sideways?

It can and does here. I woke up this morning, feeling drugged from the sleepy sound of rain on the building. I love sleeping to rain but hate waking up to it. It was pouring outside, unbeknownst to me as I moved aroudn the apartment getting ready for the day, packing things up and getting dressed. I pulled on my LL Bean gumshoes and waterproof raincoat and with an umbrella in hand felt confident that I'd be able to get to work in relatively good shape, albet late.

But when I stepped outside the first of our double doors I could see that I was very, very wrong. It was not raining. It was pouring, a torrential downpour that flooded the drains and could run through your shoes and clothing in the blink of an eye. I cursed silently as, at that moment, a lit cab went by me and I realized that Susannah was right. "You can always catch a cab, except when it's raining and there are none." This would be one of those days. I spent most of the walk to work cursing as cabs with people safely tucked inside sped by. Finally, as if to finallize my condition one swung through a puddle beside the sidewalk, splashing me and making my jeans heavey. So heavy, in fact, that by the time I got here, they were pulling themselves down. I had to take them off and put on my workout shorts, then stick them in the dryer. Makes me thankful I work in an office that doubles as a home. What do other people do? I can imagine buying new clothes (I actually did that once at college, so soaking wet one day I bought a whole new, university themed outfit. Carolina everyone, even written on my butt). But I can't imagine sitting at a desk in wet pants and shoes, miserable and cold on a rainy Hump Day, and then on top of that being expected to concentrate and work and attend meetings in that condition.

When I got here I immediately called my mother telling her that I needed as much rain gear as she could spare. I was reminded of my friend Erica, who, while in a master's program at Boston University, described how after a storm the streets would be littered with umbrellas turned inside out, that the rain would blow right through you. I was in awe that she could live in such conditions but now understand it. Can see why everyone who doesn't live here cannot comprehend how bad it can get. Here there is no where for the water to go except in the streets, washing them clean (sort-of), and then flooding them, forcing people to leap across puddles for dear life. This is the most use I've gotten out of ballet lessons in years, leaping and dancing around what could lead to drowning.

Part of my adjustment to New York has been determining what's important and what's not. I now realize that what's important is outer layering. That truly is what people see of you day in, day out. So it makes sense to get only things you love and to spend as much money as you can afford without pissing off the Visa people. I am beginning to understand why what you're wearing is so much more important up here than it was in North Carolina. There, what you wore was generally hidden behind car doors and the privacy of your home and yard. Here you don't have that privacy. What you are, who you are, is on display twenty-four seven. A metaphorical Las Vegas casino sign, blinking long into the night and screaming out messages- "I'm beautiful! I'm confident! I'm scared you're going to notice the salsa stain on my white sweater!" Whatever you are comes out in what you wear. I remember being fascinated in Europe by how so many people there dyed their hair, wore twelve inch platforms, stretched their earlobes. Now I'm beginning to understand. It's a big city mentality that you are what you wear, what you have on your body. Because there is nothing else to show for living here. No one wants to be thought of as the person who lives in the trashy studio apartment with a pet ferret. Everyone wants to be something they can't be, or maybe they are just trying to be someone they are.

I can see why I'm considered Plain Jane here, mostly wearing jeans and sneakers with little make-up and boring shirts. I crave new clothes but haven't budgeted well enough yet to afford them. Instead I try to make the best of what I have, looking neat and blending in with the other ten million people here. It's nothing but fascinating the way I've worked out who I am here. Or at least who I am for the moment. I have routines, I have ways I go to work, places I go before, during and after work, shows I watch on my basic, basic television, books I read from the library. For the most part I don't run into many people I've seen before, except the homeless people who live on my street and the preschool kids who come in across the street most days of the week.

So for right now the blending has worked. I pretend that I've lived here my whole life, and in return, New York gives me the best possible overview of what it has to offer it can. Along with plays and the Met and operas, it comes in through rain that goes sideways, making rainboots the most pratical of purchases.

Her Closet is Bigger than My Apartment

Yesterday at the Met, i was with a friend who had brought a friend who happened to have interned at the Met this past summer. She led us through the Egyptian hieroglyphics and a couple of other galleries, down some stairs and into a portion of Iris Barbara Apfel's wardrobe. Have you heard of her? I hadn't, until I saw the exhibit. I'm told she's not very attractive, about 5'3" and maybe 90 pounds. But her clothes are the most fantastic thing you have ever seen, which is why she got a whole gallery to herself from September through January, just to show some of them off.

She didn't like what the world had to offer her, for the most part, and thus began a quest for creating outfits that are colorful, huge, and bright. They would be tacky if not for the fantastic way they are presented, which, for some reason, makes it acceptable that you should pair an orange body suit with a turquoise and silver scorpion brooch the size of my forearm. I was amazed. The woman had everyone from Chanel to Manolo in her closet, not forgetting Dior. Onto these classics, she piled everything from late 19th century Chinese purses to one of those plastic charm belts from the 80s. I loved that, because i used to love those charms. You could get them in bubblegum machines at Food Lion or the Dollar Store, and they were bright plastic, clipped onto a white or black "chain". I had all kinds, everything from a bottle of soda to a roller skate, to, my favorite, a unicorn with a purple horn. I wonder what happened to them? I'm sure, at this point they're gone to wherever it is our childhood toys go.

She had a collection of furs that could restart a population of wolves and minks, she had boots that someone had designed especially for her using her own fabrics. She had a silver horse collar from Pakistan she wore as a necklace. Her diamond brooches were bees and insects and birds as opposed to flowers. There was even part of a dining room table she had salvaged that had been turned into jewelry. I was amazed and stunned that this tiny woman would even dream of wearing these items, especially true one of a kind antiques, and more amazed that she was expected too at this point. I imagine if she showed up wearing a t-shirt and jeans (what I'm most likely to be wearing) no one would even recognize her. Even her glasses are distinct and especially made for her.

Only in New York are such things to not only be admired but rewarded in such a way. I remember in high school a group of us wearing thrift store clothes for the most part. I wore men's shirts and old khakis with new shoes (hate used shoes!) and dollar handbags. I used to get t-shirts ten for a dollar. Now I'm lucky to get out with two pieces for a hundred dollars. Now I only want to wear clothes that have a nice tag on the inside. That's part of New York as well. If you wear vintage Dior that's one thing, but Gap from the eighties...something completely different. People are expected to dress differently. At home I would have been embarassed (and was) to carry a Louis Vuitton or wear a Burberry scarf. Here it's okay.

There are rumors of girls who live in tiny studios in the city that only have a bed and racks full of clothing. They use their apartments as their closets, rarely or never having company but dressing to the nines every day. I have attempted to make my own studio a "home" with a bed, tv, decorations, pictures. When I first moved up here I lived with a girl who was very fashion focused. She had beautiful clothes and bags strewn all over our room and very little else. At the time I thought it was odd and couldn't imagine not having pictures and cards and books lying around. Now I understand. When you buy a pair of Chanel shoes you give up your dream of having a couch, too. I understand the debate. I do it almost every week here, where it's important that the label inside your purse match the outside.

Canal Street survives off the people who are desperate to carry Balenciaga bags and wear Gucci sunglasses but who aren't interested in spending more than fifteen hundred dollars on those two items. Jon and I eat in Chinatown on a regular basis and without fail, i hear whispers of "Louis Vuitton, Prada, Tiffany" on the way down to a restaurant where both of us can eat for under ten dollars. But whenever I see the bags, wrapped in plastic in piles, they look fake to me. They don't have the same allure as simply being in Louis Vuitton and stroking that monogram. I bought fake Kate Spades on my first trip to New York, passing them off as real for months before the glued on tag began to come loose and the tote started to look a little shoddy. I tucked them away in the back of my closet and waited for the real thing to come my way. It did seem to make a difference.

In some ways I'm looking I don't have these things handed to me. After seeing the kids who grow up in the city, used to wearing Prada and Dolce and Furla, I'm glad that I understand it's not normal to pay five hundred dollars for a pair of heels, and that shopping in the likes of Banana Republic and Gap aren't all bad. Not everything has to be unique. But it's nice that so many things are.

Preparations for the Terrorists

My mother called me from North Carolina this morning, demanding to know if I planned to take the subway to work. When I pointed out to her that I had never taken the subway to work, and that, in fact, was only a ten minute walk from work or about a 30 minute subway ride, she sighed with relief, then said, "Well, just in case, don't take the subway ANYWHERE, and the minute you get home tonight lock the doors and shut the blinds."

I was fascinated. Truly fascinated. What did shutting the blinds have to do with anything? Looking out my apartment window into the courtyard provided next door I wondered if my mother geniunely believed that the terrorists would be on the prowl for me, to the extent of peeking in windows. Just waiting for a Southern girl to pop into one.

I didn't take the subway to work this morning. I walked, as usual, and called to leave a message on my boyfriend's voicemail that they would probably be checking bags and to allow more time for his own commute in for work. Ironically he went carrying a duffel bag full of laundry as well as his "man-bag" and no one even looked his way. Does he look that innocennt or do they just think that a bomber wouldnt' be that obvious. I think that if I were a bomber I would be completely obvious, say wearing a backpack duct-taped to me that read TNT or BOMB. Remember how in the Warner Brothers cartoons we were always made aware of these things? Like it would read, "Acme TNT" or "Ketchup" or whatever, and yet the cartoon character would still open it up and blow himself sky high. I wonder if they still even show those cartoons anymore, or if they've been archived for being too violent or unethical or politically incorrect.

Terrorism in itself is an interesting concept. Americans are terrorized in a way that no other culture has been in many years. While we consider ourselves above the "third-world" countries, Communism, and ethical cleansing, we live in fear of one or all of these things. Whenever I watch the news I'm fascinated by how they choose to portray it, as some bad guy,good guy thing. We of course are the good guys. While that wouldn't be obvious to me it seems to be assumed by the majority of the population. When I mention sometimes that I used to live down the road from a government/CIA sniper whose entire career consisted of assasinating people, they seem shocked and go, "Oh no, our government would never do that." But it does, and has for centuries. Admittedly we've PUBLICLY TRIED to assasinate Castro on several occasions. While we have failed, doesn't that lend us to wonder who else has died at the hands of Americans trying to change the world?

But in other countries Terrorism is treated differently. It's probably not even spelled with a capital T. This summer, as I was traveling from country to country I was amazed to find that the only times I had problems at customs was in America and in England. There I was grilled for nearly fifteen minutes on what I was doing, why I was going, where I was staying. There was a fear in the officers eyes that maybe I was the trouble they had been waiting for. That maybe I was a problem. How exhausting to treat everyone in this way.

It reminds me of Anne Frank saying that at the heart of everything, she believed that people were generally good. This said from a blacked out apartment above a company, crowded with people who did not want to die at the hands of Hitler and his buddies. This from a girl who was starved and probably raped and eventually died in a concentration camp. But most Americans, even without having had any "terroristic" experience, assume the worst automatically. Anne Frank could have chosen to assume the worst, could have wailed about how they were coming for her and her family, how they would be seperated and stripped and possibly put in "showers" they would never come out of. But we, fat and happy and driving huge cars, are constantly afraid that the terrorists are coming.

Bush has done little to assuage this fear. From saying that the war in Iraq would only be a few months (doesn't this remind us of Vietnam?) to assuring us that "The ones with evil in their hearts would be caught and punished" he attempts to rally us against a group of people we can't even recognize on the streets. They certainly aren't labeled and only seem to come out after their bombing or kidnapping or other "terrorist" act. We assume they are the ones terrorizing us. But wouldn't we look the same to them, as we bomb civilians and rape women and yell and scream and point firearms at them?

It is a curious thing that the more people change, the more they stay the same. We're not that much different than the soldiers who fought in the Revolutionary War, or those who saw what happened during the Battle of Hastings. Yes our weaponry has gotten more sophisticated, and we are more likely to bomb than come in contact with those we kill but the message still remains the same. That we are unable to share and therefore must scare people into doing what we want them to do.

As is the message the terrorists are trying to send to us, by frightening us off from the biggest PTA system in the country and attempting to control how we work our days out. The question is, will we let them?

The "No-Kill" Policy

There's an animal fair going on around the corner from where I work. Not a large one, just a few animals from the AC&C center uptown who are in need of homes. Yes, my heartstrings are always pulled but generally I am able to walk away. Could it be that I was pulled in because I'm missing my own animals at my parent's house? Could it be that I'm feeling some kind of biological urge that can be taken care of with a furry friend? We won't know. But I checked out the cats. They want NYC to be the First metropolitan "No-Kill" community in the country. Numberwise, that could happen, if most of the city adopted something. Reality wise, I would tap it towards some fantasy world that we live in, where all the animals are loved and cared for.

It's funny because I've always been a dog person. Yes, my family has always kept cats but generally they were for the barn, useful, working animals. Until Prissy, the only female on our farm, moved inside because she was consistently bullied. From then on she became eight pounds of deadweight, at one point literally watching a mouse run across the kitchen floor.

My last year in college I rescued Edie, a darling four pound calico kitten that has expanded into a thirteen pound cat who sleeps in the sink and is the most insistent creature I have ever dealt with. She is part Turkish Van, a fact I just recently discovered when I realized that there was a breed of cat who liked water as much as Edie seemed to. She is obsessed with showers, baths and loves water. Plays in hers all the time.

People say that you don't choose a cat, a cat chooses you. Never has this seemed truer. There are cats that don't like me and cats I don't like. It's a little easier with dogs, because I know I'm not ready to walk a dog in the snow in the middle of January. I also like the way cats lay in the sun, and play by themselves, and purr when you pet them. Of course there are downsides, and I'm aware there would be a lot of downsides in a studio apartment, but all the same it's hard not to miss your cat once you have one.

Which brings me back to yesterday. Stacked cages, nine of them, holding one cat each, cats laying with their eyes closed against the sun no longer caring how they appeared to the people that might adopt them. I visited each cage, starting with a nine week old kitten all the way to a cat that was much older. I "spoke" to Toby, Ariel, Orelia, Tiger, and Lucky before finally landing on a cage that didn't have the paperwork attached to it. The cat was obviously very young, and freshly neutered. He was a gray and white tabby with white markings that reminded me very much of a kitten I had as a little girl. I had been rejected by most of the other cats at this point and figured I would try with this one since no one else was paying much attention to him.

He looked me in the face and with that I knew he was a connection. He immediately started purring and rubbing his head in my hand. As I continued he rolled over and when I stroked his belly (something most cats don't like until they've been with you many, many years) he purred more. I spent a lot of time with him, while the guy supervising adoptions looked on and said, "Looks like you've found your friend". I nodded, smiled wistfully and explained that I was actually a cat owner already and really couldnt' afford to take on another animal. I left out the parts where I was so poor I couldn't eat weeks I had to pay rent. But he was something. After work I went back by and spent more time with him, praying for an answer. It was almost ordained that I was supposed to be in this cat's life and yet logically it's ridiculous to think of getting another cat. Especially since the one I have is at home right now falling in love with my father.

I called my boyfriend and he said he knew I shouldn't be allowed near those things. Ever. He said, "An Edie is enough." And we talked about dogs. Generally I've just been talking about pets a lot lately. I've never not had animals in my life, even if they were just fish. Mom freaked out when I told her I was thinking about getting another cat, and said she thought people should make a choice about whether they wanted to live in the city and not have animals or live in the suburbs or country and have animals. She doesn't have the same feelings I do for my animals. The love that I'm sure parents feel for a child.

I told the man I would come back by tomorrow. In testing faith I hope that someone else with the same connection has adopted Cleo, thus preventing me from having to make that decision. From having to take in an animal i could barely afford. because there was a connection. It's like with friends, or people you know are going to become your friends simply because you look into each other's eyes and know beyond belief that this relationship is right. Cats are the same way, you develop a bond with them that is similar to dogs, yet on another level, completely different. Because they don't like to be moved around and yet don't want you leaving their territory.

My mother says she suspects my father is getting wrongly attached to Edie, wanting to watch TV with her, carrying her around the house and overfeeding her. She is gaining weight and when I asked mom if she was overfeeding her she vehemently denied it. I suggested that maybe Edie had a chemical imbalance that was causing her to overeat. Mom snorted and said, "yes. Your father. He is a chemical imbalance." we had a good laugh but underneath there was a definite element of truth. He tends to overfeed those he loves. And he apparently loves my cat. Another question my mother had really hit home as well- "Are you lonely? What is wrong?" What is wrong that urbanites are turning to trapping creatures in their expensive tiny homes while they bound all over the city. Is it insecurity that we have no one else in this place teeming with creatures and people. I am always in awe of all the people who have managed to cram themselves in a 22 by 8 mile space along with Chanel and Saks. But why are we taking cats down with it? What is this primal urge I have coming out to trap an animal in a tiny space and call it mine. The fascinating process of owning a creature comes down to that. What are we missing out on? In the movie Crash, one of the characters speculates that people want to touch each other so badly, want to feel the human, that they literally collide just to make that happen. That people are so lonely trapped behind their Ipods and laptops and TVs and safely tucked in their cars that they subconciously crave collision. I wonder if that is what I was trying to force to happen. If I wanted the feeling of something alive and breathing so badly I forced a collision between myself and the kitten I can't stop thinking about.

It's not that I don't have anything else in my life. I have a full time job, a boyfriend, friends in the city, a membership at the Met and the NYSC and still I want this little animal in my life so badly I can taste it. The way his fur felt beneath my hands was enough. He was obviously so happy with me rubbing his belly and taking the time out of my day to soothe him. It makes me wonder if they realize their fate, if they know that it's necessary to find a home before they lose that chance. Are they happy without us? Do they feel that need to "collide" with humans as well? I'm going back today to retest that theory.

So Cleo will be either sitting out there today or gone. And for my sake, I hope he's gone.

Sometime Between Midnight and Dawn

I was awakened by a loud thumping at the door, followed by the pathetic excuse of a door bell attached. Not that you need much noise when the whole apartment is only about the size of a bedroom. I was confused, disoriented and cut on my lamp, trying to figure out what the guy behind the door was yelling. With it came the blindness I remember from school. Those mornings when you would have to get up before the sun. My mother would come into my room at 6:30 sharp, singing "Oh what a beautiful morning" and cutting on every light in my room. I never even knew it was an actual song until I saw "Oklahoma" a couple of years ago.

But this wasn't my mother. When I finally began to interpret the yelling, it was my super, yelling just that. "Super! Super!" I thought maybe I had just fallen asleep and he maybe thought he saw a light on. Wearing nothiing but a t-shirt and underwear, I cracked the door, without even thinking to look through the peephole. What if he had been a psychopath? There he was, wearing normal clothes and jangling a keychain at me.

"Are these yours?" He said, dead serious.

"What?" I was geniunely confused. Surely someone waking me up would have an emergency or at least be an obnoxious neighbor who was drunk.

"These keys. I found these keys downstairs. Are they yours?" I had to wonder if he were high or drunk.

"No. No." I said slowly, beginning to wake up and thinking about how I had to be up at seven. I was about to shut the door when suddenly I remembered Saturday night's incident. "But, now that I think about it, the guy above me lost his keys this weekend. You should check with him."

Revenge would be mine. The super apologized, left, and I shut and relocked the door, went to the bathroom. It wasn't until I was in there, bleary eyed and looking as exhausted as I felt that I happened to look at the clock. It was after 3 in the morning. So of course I couldn't go right back to sleep. First of all, the man had almost given me a heart attack. Second of all, the lights were on, which in my body means Wake Time. Which meant I got back into bed, laid on my back for a little while staring at the ceiling, then turned the light back on and read for a while.

This morning when I got up I vaguely remembered what had happened the night before but also had a few questions about my super. A lot of times I see him when I head out to the NYSC, which is usually near 7:30 a.m. Does the man never sleep? And what is he doing going around knocking on people's doors for lost keys in the middle of the night. Because, to tell you the truth, if I lost my keys he would definitely be hearing about it sooner than later. I've still been thinking about it on and off today and it still confuses me to no end. But maybe that's what a New York superintendent is all about. A mysterious figure you never see when your lighting is out or your plumbing is broken, but shows up like a ghost sometime between midnight and dawn.

The Fall Feeling

This weekend was fantastic. It became October and with it things just seemed crisper in the city. On Saturday I walked up to the Union Square farmer's market and actually got excited over seeing pumpkins and squash and fall food in general. Fall is my favorite season. I love when it begins to get cool enough to wear sweaters without being so cold you have to wear a jacket and I love the light, for some reason. Everything looks brighter during the day or something but not blinding like summer. I wandered through for a while, picking up some squash and admiring the fresh produce that reminds me of home, of this man that used to drive his pick up truck around our area, pulling into driveways with the back loaded with his harvest. When I was little, Mom used to let me pick out almost whatever I wanted (that she could fix) and on top of that, he kept lollipops in the front for kids.

Fall makes me miss school. I remember that Tom Hanks quote in "You've Got Mail": "I wish I could send you a bouquet of pencils." That's what I think of, that newness of spirit and fresh paper and sharpened pencils and new pens. I used to love that about school when I was a kid. This was my favorite time of year then too. Because Thanksgiving break was coming up, Halloween was right around the corner and teachers weren't putting on so much pressure yet. The math homework was also still manageable at this point. Which is a definite plus.

Another thing I did was to meet up with some people from craigslist. There were seven of us from just about everywhere- LA, NYC, Michigan, even Poland. We had brunch and got to know each other some. While there were some that I just didn't click with, a couple of them I feel like I might be able to become friends with. It was really exciting to feel like you had a place in the city. I'm finally beginning to feel comfortable here, to mean my apartment when I say I'm going "home", to meet people at the Angelika for crazy foreign films and to have found this AMAZING Chinese bakery down off of Canal Street that I'm now obsessed with. Finding your way in this place is really difficult. I'm usually stopped for directions at least twice a day and always want to tell them I don't know either, that I'm just as confused as they are, unsure of my surroundings. But I've begun to be able to tell people where they are and help them find where they're heading. That in itself is a huge accomplishment.

It's also helped me appreciate the humble life. I just finished reading "The Good Earth", Pearl S. Buck, something I had been meaning to read for years and just never gotten around to. It was such a humbling experience to read about the rise and fall of this family farming in rural China, starving some years, eventually getting too rich for their own good and spoiling their beautiful life. It makes me think of how I'm living now. In Manhattan, but in a tiny studio, eating cheaply, not able to afford what the city has to offer in the way of theater, concerts and even museums sometimes. But my hope, as well as my parent's is that I'll find a way to save and become comfortable. What I hope doesn't happen is that I begin to take for granted everything that I don't know. That I begin to waste money where I shouldn't.

But for now I'm just glad to be in the city with the leaves changing and air feeling good in my lungs. I feel healthy and good and ready to conquer this place. Just walking the city in the fall is enough to keep me happy as a clam!