Reading Rainbow

I'm a fast reader. I'm not a speed reader but I've been known to curl upon the coach with a good book and not leave until every page is devoured, taken in and used for at least a good laugh or cry. I buy new books when I travel but for the most part I borrow them or re-read my own books if I'm desperate for something to read-anything. There were times when I was young that I would want to escape the terror of my little sister and would hide in the bathroom for an hour or so for some private time with my books. I guess you could say it started with little house on the prairie. I read and re-read Laura Ingalls Wilder from the time I could pronounce her name right on through to high school until we moved and I either donated them or sold them in a yard sale. I used to imagine that I was going back in tine where one had no electricity and had to cut the ice for their ice box from a frozen pond in 12* weather. I"d imagine that Laura popped by my house in modern times and I'd take her on a tour of our house. "Would you like a glass of ilk?" I"d ask, to which she'd respond "but I where do you keep your cows?"

You might say that I was a bit of an odd kid and that would probably be an understatement. When my mom would take me to the library near our house in DE I became fascinated by the book check out process. The grey haired librarian would take the hard cover books and stack them neatly on the counter in front of her and one by one, open to the back flap and pull the borrowers date card from the Manila flap taped to the back. Then she'd stamp it with the return date, telling my mother that her best sellers were due back sooner than my Little House on the Prairie books. I always took out too many books from the library at one time and almost never finished them. In the second grade there was a summer reading contest and I spent more time in the pool than I did with my books. I remember the panic I felt as the days to school grew ever closer and I hadn't even read the required five. I skulked to my moms bookshelf and wrote down the names of the books she had there. Danielle Steele, Stephen King, Nora Roberts and other books I probably shouldn't have been reading just to add some weight to my list. I turned in my list of the 53 books I had read that summer on the first day of school. I chose to list 53 because it seemed like an arbitrary number. As if I had time to read 53 books but couldn't squeeze in that extra two. The top reader had read 113 books and I wondered if their mother's bookshelf simply had more books than mine.

Many, many years later I still lag behind my mom's passion for reading and she typically passes me more books than I pass along to her. She's recently joined a book club and the devout readers choose a new book a month. My mom kills that book in less than two weeks so she recently went back to our local library to become a member again. When she handed over her ID the librarian told her she needed to clear a fine from her record in order to join. My mom and I speak nearly everyday so when she called me on my bus ride from the city I had to let her call roll into voicemail. When I got off the bus - I checked it. "Hey, its me. Need to talk to you about the money you owe me-call me back". Instantly I think back to the parent loan they took out for me for college, the money I borrowed to buy my first car, the $20 bucks she sent me to Wal-mart with that I never gave her change for. All things she's never asked me to repay. I reluctantly hit her number on speed dial and wait for the wrath. "Hey! "She says like she always does, "Did you ever return that Laura Ingalls book to the Library?" Your ten year overdue fee is $2.15 and I'd like my money back please."

Bada Bing

I had never seen The Godfather. My husband, who was then my boyfriend couldn't believe that I'd never seen it let alone ever read the book since I've been known to buy and plow through books in a couple of days. In my stocking last year was a copy of The Godfather. I couldn't wait to get started reading it and in true form, devoured the book like it was smothered in Mrs. G's red sauce. I've always been obsessed with Italian food and while I just recently started cooking and enjoying wine I've been eating lasagna, spaghetti and gnocchi since I was old enough to chew solid foods. I've also got a strange kind of fascination with the Mob and enthusiastically watched every episode of the Sopranos. I get excited about driving past Satin Dolls, the strip club in the Sopranos called the Bada Bing and I live around the block from the local diner where they filmed the last episode. I'd probably pass out if I ever met "Tony Soprano" but the fact that I can sit in the same booth that he did during the last episode is pretty darn close if you ask me. And as many people know the last song that played during the last episode is my all time favorite. And in case you're wondering, I do think he was whacked.

This past weekend I had the opportunity to attend a food and wine show in NYC. My husband and I talked about it all week and couldn't wait to walk through the event tasting wines and snacking on the delicious foods prepared by some of NY's finest restaurants. Armed with a list of wines to sample and tasting glasses we circled the floor searching for some new wines to try. It is a strange and wonderful thing to attend events like these. Not only for the variety of things you'll encounter but for the people watching. Dressed in a simple long sleeved black dress with a hint of cleave and open toed kitten heeled shoes, I felt very New York chic. The hubby looked dashing in his 'cute professor' look; jeans, white collared shirt and hound's-tooth jacket. The average food and wine event attendee wore jeans, a sweater, sneakers or flats. Many didn't seem to give a damn about their outfits and while it shouldn't matter what they were wearing it seemed to me that if you are to attend this kind of event you'd probably give a little bit more thought to your outfit than you would if you were schlepping around Disneyland. The event was held at the same time in the same venue as the Chocolate Show so we occasionally dodged an over-sugared child with chocolate smudged fingers and brown stained lips. We pondered the idea of bringing kids to an event like this; especially a chocolate show. There are literally 25 – 30 booths all distributing free samples of chocolate products: truffles, brownies, cookies, hot chocolate, milk chocolate, dark chocolate, chili powder chocolate. How can you contain a small child and hold him back from this delicious disaster? What do you say? "Ok honey, now you can only have five pieces and then you have to drink water and sit down."

Even the hubs and I had trouble pacing ourselves from table to table. Who can with that amount of free chocolate?! But for the low price of $28 per person, I guess you can let your kids overdose on sugar once a year. That sugar high and crash must be terrible. There were numerous presentations and demonstrations happening that day and we paused to watch NYC firemen create pancake delicacies and were dazzled by the world famous pizza dough tossing team. It was at this time that volunteers began passing out slices of Sicilian style pizza. I'm not kidding when I say that you must literally throw elbows to get a sample of almost any food being served. Like starving Ethiopians people swarm the poor volunteers and grab slices off his tray. I watched my overly polite husband try like hell to get the attention of the server who looked like he'd rather be anywhere but there than surrounded by I Love Chocolate t-shirt wearing families of five. The wine booths all opened at 1:00 p.m. so we proudly stood in the line waiting to get in about 10 minutes before hand. Most people seemed to know a thing or two about food and wine and enthusiastically approached the wine booths with cleansed palettes ready to sample wines from all over the world; Chile, Australia, Italy, Spain and even Long Island. We walked the floor two or three times began sampling the wines. We started to see some of the same people staffing the booths over again. It made it a little awkward when you've already sampled the wines at that booth to approach it again and ask for more. Sure it was free, but who wanted to be seen as the freeloading wine samplers. It wasn't a frat party.

On our past a booth we had tasted at before, we noticed a crowd forming. I recalled the booth because behind it hung a poster of a handsome older Italian man who has probably lain in far too many tanning beds. His wine's label shared the same font as the recognizable Godfather and there were pictures of 'the family' posted as well. The man in the picture was staffing the booth and we noticed that in addition to his wine he was also selling red sauce. We stood about 10 feet from the booth and squinted, staring at the older man, wondering why he looked so familiar. Another couple approached us and asked if we knew who the older guy was. He looked like he could have been the younger brother of George Hamilton. He wore a dark pin striped suit with a white collared shirt open to the second button. His gold chain and pinky ring glistened in the fluorescent lights and his tan skin looked leathery and aged. We notice a picture from a famous scene in The Godfather in which Sonny beats up his sister's husband, Carlo Rizzi. Our eyes move from the old guy's face to the picture and suddenly it hits us. He's got to be the guy who played Carlo Rizzi. The name Gianni Russo is listed on the bottles of wine. The resemblance is clear but is it really him? I start to question it but quickly remember that the movie is a couple decades old and while Carlo was young and handsome, this tan gentleman could possibly be him. Remembering that I've got my Blackberry on me I quickly Google Gianni Russo. The IMDB website quickly pulls up a list of movies that Gianni Russo has starred in. Sure enough this guy was Carlo Rizzi. Not only that but he was also in Seabiscuit, The Freshmen and Any Given Sunday. I tell the couple we're chatting with that the old guy is indeed Carlo Rizzi and we all laugh about the fact that we've been staring at him for the last ten minutes. He suddenly notices us looking at him and gives us a dead pan mobster stare. We smile politely and nod in recognition and take our tasting glasses to the next booth. He wasn't exactly Tony Soprano, but I'd say he's just about close enough to get my movie mobster fix in.

There's No Wordsmithing the Almighty

So we've finally heard back from the Officient...remember that blog back in April (An officient in Starbucks)? Yes, he's still our officient (Associate Pastor - who knew he had such credentials? we found him online - I'm not ashamed.) He's been helping us write our ceremony. I want a little more humor...the boy? He's all business. Let's face it. He's in PR. He writes for a living. He edits, he screens, he talks a good talk. His pen has been gliding over this ceremony draft in smooth edity like marks. It's ridiculous.

We're trying to find a nice way of recognizing those who are no longer with us in a way that remembers their contribution to our lives without being overly sappy. AKA, I am trying really hard not to cry at this wedding ceremony thing. Let's just do it already.

We recieved the ceremony (draft 1) from our officient today and over a magnum of wine, I convinced my loving fiance to sit down and edit it to a place where we both feel comfortable. Among the words 'some may argue', 'respect', 'miracle' and many many more words we're struggling with, we begin to edit to a point where we begin to feel more like ourselves and less like the ceremonies heard time and time again. And for those of you who know us - you know that we're flip flops and beer (or good wine) kind of poeple.

We arrive at a reading I've selected because it reminds me of my Grandfather, Poppee, who loves a certain Psalm. When he passed away I wrote a song to his favorite Psalm. I sang it at his memorial. To commemorate him and his song, we've asked that the Officient read it. The boy, still in editing mode begins to take his pen to paper. Suddenly, he looks up at me, blue eyes glistening. He leans back in his chair and sighs. "There's really no wordsmithing the Almighty, is there?". "No babe," I say. No edits.

The smash and grab...

We're looking for our wedding rings. It's a circle, a symbol of unending love, commitment, trust and whatever else you can think of. We visit the local jewelry store in search of a platinum band for my soon to be hubby.

Perusing the cabinet of platinum and Tungsten bands, we listen as the underpaid jewelry saleswoman describes the varying overpriced designs.
Smash!

I duck.
Smash! I scream.
My soon to be husband grabs me and pulls me toward the back of the store. The jeweler runs out of the store. "Call the police!" he screams. I start to get a migraine.
We stand there silent, thinking, wondering, what will happen next. The jeweler has reentered the store just as the woman we're working with says to the cops, "They've apprehended the suspect!" Obviously someone has been watching a bit too much of CSI

We're asked to remain in the store until the cops come. Apparently the 'suspect' has attempted a smash and grab in the engagement ring window with a concrete brick. He attempted getaway on foot and has yet to be found by the Clifton Police.

My migraine subsides thanks to the Excedrin I carry in my purse.
We leave the jewelry store and don't purchase the $250.00 platinum band.

We hit TGIF for an appetizer and beer. Later that afternoon we purchase a Tungsten band from Overstock.com. There has been no smash and grab reported there and the price is significantly lower.

It's safer to shop online.

Why I no longer travel underground

When I left my job at the bank and started at the agency, I traded my pin striped suits and heels for jeans and flip flops. I also traded my hour and a half long commute which consisted of a bus, a 4 block walk and two subway transfers for a 45 minute bus ride and a 7 block walk. It was beautiful. I had finally given up underground travel.

While clients typically provide enough out of pocket to cover our travel and food, they don't often think to build a budget for taxis to and from downtown where we typically meet. On this latest project I've been working with 4 wonderfully low maintenance men who opt to save the client money by traveling the 9 stops downtown via subway; versus cab. And while I appreciate the effort to conserve gas and save some green, I have long since given up underground travel.

Here's why:
1. Subways are hot. There is nothing worse than roasting underground away from sunshine and fresh air to arrive at a client meeting looking like you've just run a 5K.
2. They're crowded. You remember the whole ass in face issue? In this case its "anything in face". Armpits, asses, bellys, shoulder bags....unmentionables. If you're standing up you can sometimes avoid this fate. If you're sitting down, good luck to ya.
3. They're weird! From the prodigy musicians to the panhandlers, you never know what you'll see, or God forbid, what you don't need or want to see down in the basement of Manhattan.
4. I personally happen to like the sunshine. Why anyone would choose to drive a silver bullet through the darkest bowels of the city is beyond me. Give me a crazy cabbie anyday.

But the worst, my all time least favorite thing about the subway are the ticket machines. Sure they accept credit cards and cash instead of tokens, but 90% of the time they don't actually take any of the above and you're forced to try and try and try again while countless trains come and go leaving you stranded, sweating, being accosted by crazies and pissed off New Yorkers whining about how long it is taking you to buy a freaking Metro Card.

Give me the more expensive cab. I'll just expense it anyway.

Get Your Ass Out of My Face: A Guide to Public Transportation

BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP - the alarm clock sounds and I immediately think of the million and one things I need to accomplish in my, at minimum, 12 hour day. Don't think: routine. Coffee, shower, teeth, dog, clothes, kiss the boy and out the door.

You've already heard about the countless hours I've spent waiting for the bus in the morning. But you haven't heard this. About 50% of the buses that pass by our stop are standing room only. Sometimes you just have to deal to make it to work on time. This morning was no different. Fortunately today, for those who were lucky enough to get seats, we relaxed in the 1970s comfort of the overly patterned cushions. The boy on the other hand gave up his seat to a woman who is 5 months pregnant. He's a trooper - what can I say?

For the other strap hangers haphazardly swinging to the bumps and constant swaying of the bus this is yet another thing we must deal with on our way to work. Ass in face.

What is ass in face you might ask? Well, it's like this. For someone standing on a bus traveling 50 miles an hour down route three, there are only three options; face front and risk falling head over feet. Face backwards and be that awkward guy staring at everyone sitting (picture an elevator with one guy facing everybody instead of the doors) or be that guy who casually flaunts his ass right in your face. I prefer to face forward. Other people prefer ass in face.

It's difficult to ignore. You try to engulf yourself in your Clive Cussler novel and lose yourself among the submarines and Generals but you can't help but notice and / or stare at the ass in face. I know what you are thinking, but its not even like that. Remember, we live in the suburbs - mommy and me, soccer practice and report cards. You may have that image of the cute, little thing just out of college trying to make their way in the work-a-day world...this image is that plus 20 years (and 20 pounds, give or take).

Now that you know about "ass in face" you are ready to learn a little more about the inside, or should I say, underside, of commuting in Manhattan.

Wedding Adventures

So we're officially about 50 days from the wedding and so far things had gone pretty smoothly. Ok, so the wedding diet isn't going as well as it should be, I nearly lost my engagement ring and my sisters bridesmaid dress was temporarily lost somewhere in Asia. But overall, things are AOK. We set out to send our wedding invitations and in the spirit of saving money had them printed by a friend of ours (thanks Michele!). Over the course of two nights we left work early (6:30) and sprinted towards the dining room table, aka invitation central. While I addressed in my calligraphy pen, the boy stuffed the invitations. We started loading all 50 of them into envelopes and got ready to seal them. Wanting to add a little something extra to them we opted to seal them with some maroon wax.

For the last 10 months I've been thinking and planning and tracking and shopping for this blessed event all the while managing to go uninjured, unless you count the 99 sale at Davids Bridal. The boys idea od wedding planning is venturing to Home Depot.

On this one evening, when he finally contributed to the wedding outside of the proposal, while literally playing with fire, he managed to burn himself with the hot wax as he was dripping it on the envelopes.

Now if you've ever gotten married or planned a wedding you know that the whole thing will leave you with scars. They range from the debt of the catering bill, the blisters from unforgiving wedding shoes or the blindingly brutal work outs to fit into that Oleg Cassini gown. But when, when, does one have a story about injuring himself while doing the invitations?

Those Grooms.....they'll do almost anything for attention. :)

PS-it may seem as tho I've thrown my wonderful groom under the bus but he's been very helpful with planning. That said, he will likely retaliate with an equally as biting blog. Stay tuned for a guest entry :)

The Rings Big Adventure

A couple of days ago I was thinking about blogging about the extinction of customer service and my declining faith in the human race. At its best the city has started to turn its cynical head in my direction leaving me at a loss for my "happy-go-lucky-people-are-basically-good" attitude of days gone by. Recent experiences with retail stores, restaurants and even work have left a bitter taste in my mouth. I missed the good natured people of my home town. Until last friday.

The boy, the ring and our dear friends set off to Queens to cheat on our beloved Yankees. A quick game at Shea and we set off on back towards Manhattan. A natural fidgeter, I've been known to actually twiddle my thumbs, drum my fingers and twirl the rings on my fingers. Standing at the edge of the raised subway platform neat the exit of Shea, I anxiously awaited the 7 train back to the city and found myself mindlessly playing with my beloved engagement ring. I held my breath as it fell off of my finger onto the subway platform. Thinking I was in the clear it bounced off of the rubber plane near the edge of the platform and tumbled two stories down to the street below with drunken mets fans and crazy cabbies. Time stopped.

I ran to find my unsuspecting fiance and broke the news. Starting to sob I ran down to the street and began searching, praying and thinking about my empty finger and the money the boy had spent on it the ring that once sat on it. I cried some more. A NYC cop blew his whistle and angrily yelled for the boy and I to vacate the busy streets until we started to describe what had happened. He pulled the boy off to start looking and yelled for me to stay put. A kind older woman asked what was wrong. A young man asked if I was ok. A few people were searching the ground wondering what we were looking for. It seemed like hours until we started to slow down the search for my beloved missing ring. I began to fill out a police report. It seemed the ring was gone, destroyed or plucked up by someone who may be nice enough to return it to the police. A woman approached us and asked me what I had lost. My ring-I said barely audible. Describe it she said. And I did. Moments later she held up her hand with my beautiful ring sitting on her pinky!!!!I cannot describe how wonderfully happy I was. I hugged her like she was my mom, didn't let her go and thanked her profusely. The boy arrived and also wouldn't let her out of his hug. We asked what we could do for her-money, flowers, a gift. She said her daughter was getting married in November and she felt so bad for us-she knew someone was missing it and would be devastated to have lost it. She asked us to just be happy together and to appreciate each other. A car arrived moments later and picked her up. Her husband congratulated us and wished us luck. In the back seat of the car was the woman who had first asked me what I had lost. Strange the way things work out.

With new found faith in the city of queens and the good people of NY the boy and I set off for home. There was someone watching out for us....someone who knows that people are basically good.

That's How You Know It's Love

After a great weekend with my parents and my brother down in DE the boy and I braved the DE beach traffic and what should have been a 3 hour drive back to Bloomfield. Well, that took about an hour longer than it should have but we made it safely nonetheless. We unloaded the car of the moo and our bags of tax free goodies and headed into the house. Now of course, there were a few wedding items acquired over the weekend so I headed down to the basement to put them away with the other things.

Wait-whats that smell?...It smells more like basement than it should down here. I turn the corner and see the Elliptical machine, the Pilate's Machine and other precious items all sitting in about 1-2 inches of water.

Oh crap.

"Babe?" I yell to my fiance who is happily unloading our cabinets for new dishes we acquired over the weekend. "I think we have a problem!". The quite old hot water heater gave up on us sometime over the 90 degree weekend and roasted in the blazing heat down in the basement over the weekend.

After two and a half hours of disgusting, water drenched 1962 Disco carpet and tile removal from the finished side of our basement, the boy and I looked at each other. I was standing in one his old t-shirts and my old black Capri pants painted with different colors of rooms of our house. I was also wearing my argyle rain boots. We were standing in the filth of the of the once finished side of the basement sweaty, hungry, tired and dirty. I kissed him and said, "These are the things that build character". He said he was proud of me for helping out so much. Besides-I hated that ugly old carpet anyway.

And that's how you know its love.

My Marilyn Monroe Moment

Last weekend the boy and I took a much needed vacation down the shore, OK, a three day weekend, but it felt like a vacation to us. Knowing that the wedding is 4 months off and my pasty pale self burns at the sight of the sun, I slathered myself face, shoulders and arms with SPF 45 to avoid any unsightly tan lines. I settled in my beach chair and thumbed through the last few pages of The Prince of Tides. After an hour or so I felt my legs getting hot, so I went ahead and gave them some sunscreen and went back to my book. Thinking I'd head in for a sandwich and a shower, I packed up the beach bag and headed for the house.

Fast forward 45 minutes. I exit the shower t day-glo legs. Thinking my pasty Perdue legs might be shaded by the book I was reading, I obviously didn't protect them in time! For three days now I've been bathing my fire engine red thighs in aloe with Lidocaine and wearing loose skirts and dresses to work.

Fast forward to today-your typical windy summer day in new york.

I've got a good pace as I weave and dodge other commuters hopping alternatively from sidewalk to street, depending on what feels less crowded. I land on a skinny patch of sidewalk, one half covered by impassable construction awnings, the other, grated subway covers. Knowing I've got to move quickly to avoid the inevitable upward breeze of a passing subway, I start to pick up my pace a bit. And then....the man in front of me stops to let the people coming in the opposite direction pass.

Just as he does, the E train barrels under 8Th avenue just under the patch of side way grate were standing on, with just enough force to cause a hurricane of wind up my dress and before I can even think to grab the skirt and hold it down, it flies up in my face and I'm standing on 8Th avenue, in Manhattan, in my granny panties (because they didn't hurt my sunburn, duh!) and my lobster red thighs for all the world to see!!!! I wanted to crawl into the subway crate like a sewer rat and never emerge.

Oh my God.

I grab the ends of my skirt and force them down just in time to hear the snickers of my fellow New Yorkers and tourists alike as I turn down the closest side street and trudge the rest of the mortifying walk to Port Authority on 9Th avenue.

And as I write this, I'm standing in the bus line behind the good Samaritan who happened to let the others pass us by on the sidewalk.

He smirks at me. "Usually you buy a girl dinner before you get to first base." I say to him, as I pushed my way past him in line to get on the bus first.

Welcome to New York.

At what points do alarms become alarming?

The truth of the matter is NY is a bit of a scary place to work, let alone live. With the recent crane accidents, manholes blowing up, steam pipes exploding and the random muggings and murders that still occur, I find myself trying to get into the city when its still early enough to see what the hell it is I'm walking under, into, around, or past and getting out as soon as I possibly can.

While the boy and I enjoy venturing back in on weekends to explore the city in all its touristy glory, we tend to vacate the hustle of the city as soon as the work bell sounds. I like to call it self preservation. Call me paranoid, and those of you who know me will, I'm afraid of everything, and you'll find me knocking on wood more often than you'll find me brushing my teeth (don't worry-I still brush at least twice a day).

So when the sounds of New York City start to fill my ears, I begin to wonder, should I knock on wood and hope for the best or run? But unfortunately, you kinda get used to it and maintain your steady walk.Tonight while on the phone with my big bro during my walk to port authority, we paused our conversation 6 times while the screaming sirens of New York's finest plowed into the streets heading uptown. While my brother commented that it sounded like he was stuck in the middle of a NYC movie soundtrack, I commented that I hoped that traffic wasn't going to be jacked up in the tunnels as a result. What can I say? You become immune.

And upon entering Port Authority to flashing lights and the shrill sounds of fire alarms, I found myself looking up at the escalators. Nope, nobody running around terrified, no cops ushering people out or barricading the doors, so it must be fine. I continue with my everyday auto pilot commute to the fourth floor bus line and knock three times on the hand rails all the way up. At some point you can only hope for the best, right?

Corporately Challenged

So the big day finally came-no, not the wedding day, but rather, corporate
challenge day. After months of strenuous workouts, tireless dieting and
loops of the Rocky theme song I was ready. OK, so if you know me, that's a
bunch of crap. I thought I could easily pull a 5k walk/run with my
co-workers out of my ass if I needed to, so I kept eating pizza and
occasionally have a beer.

So the big day came, we line up in our matching t-shirts and prepare to
walk (I don't run unless its from someone or for a shoe sale) the 3.5 mile
in beautiful central park, NYC with 15,000 other NYC corporate employees.
Here's the thing: Organising a group of 5 people is hard. Organizing a
group of 15,000 people is impossible. The runners line up according to
pace: 6, 7, 8, etc up to the non competitive people (people compete in
these things?!) And we all wait for the starting whistle. So I'm there
with 2 of my co workers and 3 others I've just been introduced to and get
ready to start. And then it starts to rain. No, I'm being too kind. Its
pouring. But were dedicated to the cause, right? Wait-whats the cause
again?

The whistle blows and were off! Only we don't get to move at all because
were waiting for the 123486 people in front of us to begin their
competitive trot around scenic, rainy, central park. After 10 minutes, the
ground clears enough for us to shuffle our feet, but the little old men in
the park are passing us and they're using walkers!

We keep pushing ourselves and eventually reach a slow jog thanks to the
coaching of my co worker, who encourages me to set small milestones and jog
at least half. When we came up on the last half mile of the race, he
pushed me to finish while shouting, can't you hear the music at the end?
And while I wanted to punch his lights out because my legs were jello and
my knees and Achilles tendons are burning, I rounded the bend and finished
under 45 minutes. Not too bad for a corporately challenged beginner! And
while I write this after having had two celebratory beers following the big
win, I can't help but wonder, will I be able to feel my legs tomorrow?

Working 9 - 5?!?!

In the fabulous world of agency life, there's no real 9 to 5. When I moved up to NY from the suburban safety net of DE and my seemingly simple 8-5 job, my pleasant 40-45 hour work week all but smoldered under presentations, trainings, client deadlines, budgets, meetings, travel and happy hours. Believe me, while necessary, those happy hours are not happy-they're work. They're not all fun and games. That said, when you get to work, you stay until the work is finished. Unfortunately, there is no 5:00 whistle in the Big Apple.

Remember the age old image of Fred Flintstone sliding down the back of the dinosaur after his shift ends - not so much. Its a three or four o'clock Starbucks run for the long night ahead of you. Today its been a long day and an even longer week. After checking off the last thing on my overly stuffed to-do list I pack my overly stylish NYC briefcase and I head to the elevator bank. Will a deep exhale and the feeling of accomplishment settle from my lips? Nope, there's still more tomorrow. Moments later, the green down marker lights up and my mood lightens as I am one step closer to being home. The door opens and it appears to be empty...until I see my boss standing on the far side. Though incapable of small talk, I smile and make a lame comment about the finished workday that I'm sure she has heard a hundred times.

Here's the thing: they don't put the big bosses of companies on the top floor because they're status symbols, oh no. They do it to create awkward moments just like this.

After two floors of excruciating silence I ask, "Any plans for tonight?" Rather than answer me, she asks me for a report that was on my to do list for tomorrow. When we reach the lobby she steps out and I push my floor number again. "Forgot my cell phone" I say, as the doors close and she goes off to have dinner with her husband. I head back into the office to cross another item off my to do list.

Fred Flintstone had it easy.

Life in the fast lane...

Why walking on the NYC sidewalks are like driving down the NJ turnpike....There are some unspoken rules about walking on a New York City sidewalk. For the most part, tourists keep to the sidewalks (the right hand lane) and city folk keep to the streets (the fast lane). Now, the streets are technically meant for the bikes, cars, cabs, Pedi-cabs, carriages, trucks and maniacal drivers who drive the city streets day in and day out, but for the brave few who treacherously venture from the safe (but slow) sidewalks into the fast lane bike aisle of the New York City streets, its a gift from God himself.

Here's the thing. Trying to walk, I mean shuffle, down the sidewalk on any given commuting day is like trying to get my 80 year old grandmother to use her walker. Its faster to pick up Grams and haul her 85 lb butt from the car to the house with walker in tow. You'll save yourself 45 minutes. My walk from 42nd and 8th to 49th and 8th is only 7 blocks, which on a normal day by sidewalk will take 15 - 20 minute depending on which traffic lights I choose to obey. But if I hop down to the fast lane, I'm there in easily, 7-10.

Why, do you ask?

1. Sidewalk walkers have no sense of urgency. Much like turnpike right lane lovers, they keep to the posted speed and pace of traffic and stop at every flashing hand that cautions them from crossing. I learned early on to watch the cars, not the signals. These guys just slow me down.


2. Sidewalk walkers weave. You'd never think it to be true, but these guys are the drunk drivers of the sidewalk. They can't just pick a side and stay there. Oh no my friend. You get stuck behind one of these dizzy walkers and you'll find yourself in a one person square dance with disaster.


3. Sidewalk walkers hug the yellow line. Yep, not only are they slow, drunk and overly aware of traffic signals, they hug the middle of the freaking sidewalk. Try to get around one of these guys when you're trapped in a narrow construction area or under an awning. You might as well pull over for coffee and wait it out. Nothing you can do.


4. And finally, they slam on their breaks. Can't tell you how many unfortunate rear end collisions, and I do mean unfortunate, I've had with people. They're walking at a good clip and then SCREECH.....SLAM. Did I know you'd find the fake Statue of Liberty at the I Love NY t-shirt store a good photo opportunity?! No. License and registration please.
   

So my friends, my advice to you is to stay clear of all sidewalks when possible. Especially on a rainy day. And...please don't get me started on the escalators.

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

Whoever wrote this song obviously didn't live or work in Manhattan. The city is a veritable sh@tt show when it rains. Now don't get me wrong. The rain is an absolutely positive thing. Every once in a while the stink and grime from the cabs, commuters, tourists and hot dog stands that settles on the sidewalks and the buildings needs a good cleansing and the rain absolutely purges the city of that funk - its necessary. It just sucks. Here's why. The rain slows down every single thing in Manhattan. The people walk slower, the tourists in their ponchos get lost more, its impossible to get a cab, the tunnel gets clogged, and I'm convinced it all stems from the umbrellas. The UMBRELLAS FROM HELL. Let's talk a little umbrella etiquette shall we?

• Gentlemen-There is absolutely no reason why you should be carrying a golf umbrella if you're not on the golf course. I don't care how much rain coverage you need-that umbrella takes up virtually the entire sidewalk, guy. You know who you are. If you can use your umbrella as a walking stick, a cane or a weapon, leave it at home. It should fit in your bag.
• Vertically challenged aka people under five feet: You should be getting enough coverage from those people holding umbrellas well over your heads. Put your umbrellas down on a crowded street. You're putting peoples eyes out.
• Girls: Its really cute that your umbrella matches your galoshes which matches your coat. When your under a overpass or a covering lower the hello kitty umbrella so those who actually need to get to work on time can pass you. Its not raining under there.
• Umbrella Karma: There's also a little something called umbrella karma. You lose one you find one. Don't be sad the next time you leave one sitting on the seat of a cab or the floor of a bus. You never know when a little hello kitty umbrella may fall your way.

Stay dry out there.

This Just In....

Its a long day working in the city and while I do it every day I have to admit that I am pretty tired by the end of the day. The plan was to meet the boy at Port Authority, grab some dinner and run some errands. (I know, I'm sorry, not every night is a swanky night).
So about a block from Port Authority I'm greeted by a number of New York's finest (aka, the Police) and a HUGE crowd. Not an unusual occurrence, but it was a surprise nonetheless. Immediately, the worst possibilities run through my mind. As my heart starts to beat faster and I think to myself, "please let everything be alright" I hear someone say "there he goes." I see the cameras pointing up and along with the other two-hundred fellow New Yorkers and tourists craning their necks to look up in the air, I too, look up. We're all jammed together so tightly onto the sidewalk that you can't tell whose hand is whose (or more importantly, exactly whose hand is on my butt). And then I see him. Some jack ass is climbing the New York Times building.

Seriously? What makes someone do that? While some would say heroic, I would say CRAZY!!! He could get himself killed AND he's screwing up my commute. Hello, it's 6:15!

As he scales the building, my mind flashes to a cartoon scene where I imagine someone on top of the building finishing a banana, dropping the peel over the side and the climber slipping on it then falling off the building -- very Tom & Jerry, I know, but that's what I was thinking. What? It would serve him right.

After pushing past the gawking crowds, taking half-steps at best, I was able to make it to the bus and alas, found the boy. I called my Mom, of course to tune her in to the happenings of the Big Apple and caught the story while on the way home. I, along with the other commuters, scoped out cnn.com on my blackberry all the way home to get the details on Spidey. Turns out he missed the banana peel, made it to the top and was promptly arrested. While it took a little while longer to get home than usual, now I'm happy to be home and skyscrapers everywhere are safe from building scalers.

This is the girl signing off-goodnight New York.

Business Travel Reality

Some people think business travel is sexy – these are the people who don’t travel for business. Nothing against the job – I enjoy it and think I’m pretty good at it, but some times the travel starts to get to you.Perfect example – an overnight trip to a meeting in Orlando at Disney World. My client said they needed me there so I booked a ticket for the next day. For the record, the TSA loves when you buy a last-minute ticket like that – there is a guy in Security at Newark airport that still needs to buy me a drink after our “screening” time together…

First of all, being the only person in a suit getting on the flight when everyone else was in Hawaiian shirts and flip flops with their children in toe all with that look of anticipation of seeing the mouse and starting a great vacation should have been the first sign. The flight was not bad, but when I got to the hotel it was more of the same. It’s very difficult to get any work done then everyone else around you is on vacation. I was able to meet with the people I needed to at the conference, and it was a very successful day. Now, alone, I have the rest of the night by myself. The happiest place on earth is not so happy when you are there alone. So I did what anyone else would do – made the most of the night and then get an earlier flight in the morning.

So I make my way back to the Orlando airport and the fun part of business travel came back. Despite being very early in the morning, the security line was wrapped around and a round those snake-like strap dividers that always put people in a good mood. Again, Hawaiian shirts, flops and many, many children were the rule, however this time the mood was much different with bad sunburns and bad attitudes of people returning home to work or school dominating the scene. I am in the back of the line when I hear the TSA announcement, “The terrorist security alert has been lowered from Donald to Goofy – please be advised.” At this point I have two thoughts: I need coffee and I need to get home. Happily, I was not scrutinized during my security check – must have been the Goofy alert level – and I was off to the gate. The only seat available was an middle, but it was mine, and I was on my way home.

And You Thought Maggie Was Crazy...

Let's admit it. At heart, Maggie's a pound dog. There's no denying it. We rescued her. Girl's got some issues. There are times when she's sweet and lovable and cuddly. There are times when she's a tad frightening and damn scary. I love her, but 90% of me adores her and 10% of me is terrified of her. We joke that the ghost of Helen Keller haunts one of our spare bedrooms, but truly, the ghost of something haunts Maggie.



Whenever we give the girl a treat or a bone, she trots lively into the office where she proceeds to chew it. And then the ghost steps in. Or so she thinks. She begins this ridiculously hilarious routine of barking at her own shadow or her own tail. It's absurd. Don't even think of going near her when she's got a chewy, or you're not likely to have your nose when you're done.



So when the boy sent me the link to this video, I nearly fell out of my chair. It was so reminiscent of Maggie, I had to post it. Enjoy. I did.

The Art of Catching the Bus

Everyday we venture from our happy little neighborhood of the "Bloom" to the big Apple to work our tireless so called glamorous agency jobs. The day kicks off at 6 a.m.with a Moo walk, OK so the boy got that job, but the reality is I take longer to get ready in the morning. By about 7:10 a.m. we're both out the door to the corner to await the OH so glamorous Decamp bus ride into city. Now, there are a few ways one can venture into the city via public transportation. We have all but sold our souls to Decamp because of their proximity to our home. The other options, like the train and NJ transit require a drive to a large lot where one has to trust that their precious car won't get ticketed, broken into or worse, stolen. Its true - I know a guy. He now rides Decamp.

But don't let me lead you to think that Decamp is wonderful. They are a monopoly on the North Jersey / Manhattan commuter system, abusive with their false schedules and their overly jacked up prices. So it's not uncommon to reach our stop by 7:15 and wait for the bus until 7:30 sometimes 7:45 for not one, but two buses to arrive, one entirely packed still picking people up, the other nearly empty passing overworked and exhausted "standees" by on their way towards route 3.

The art of catching a Decamp bus is to arrive whenever you feel like it without regard for a schedule and crossing your fingers you're not 15 people deep when it finally arrives.

Here's the thing: If you've actually got a schedule to keep and need to get to the office on time, Decamp just isn't for you. The added stress will have you updating your resume and posting it on njjobs.com. I'd suggest looking into alternate transportation. More on Decamp later...I'm sure.

They think it's me!

To venture to and from the safe confinement of the suburbs to the boisterous madness that is Manhattan during the week, we have to take the bus into the city. I hate the bus. I hate the bus for a NUMBER of reasons which I'm sure you'll read about in future blogs, but for the purposes of this blog entry, I hate the bus because while the price to ride the supposedly comfortable coach bus into the city is quite reasonable when you're able to sit in the air conditioned cushioned seats, it is absolutely preposterous when you have to stand up the entire way through our fine city twisting and stopping down Route 3, through the Lincoln Tunnel traffic into the hell hole which is the city.

That said, on this particular first hot day of the spring when I've hauled my "not quite fit for the wedding butt" from my office on 49th and 8th to Port Authority on 42nd and 8th weaving and dodging the other Bridge and Tunnel commuters as they push and pull their way through walking traffic to get on the bus, I'm sweating. It's hot. And the bus isn't quite on time so I've got to stand and roast and wait for the next one. Here's the thing: I'm not what you'd call a graceful person, I sweat. I've not only inherited my Dad's large nose, but I've inherited his ability to sweat as well and when I'm hot, I don't glow like other girls, I sweat. But I am a girl nonetheless and I wear my deodorant and my perfume and I SHOWER each day. I'm not an animal. The guy behind me hasn't showered since the invention of the wheel. I'm not trying to be graphic but this guy smells like onions and pastrami. Onions and pastrami that are way past their prime. He stinks.

Finally the bus arrives. Thank God we can board the bus and head home. Alas, as fate would have it there are no seats remaining and me and Stinky have to stand. We're near the front of the bus and of course we have to lift our arms to clutch for dear life so we don't topple on to the other more fortunate passengers who made it to Port Authority faster than we have.

And then I smell it again. This guy stinks so bad that the other passengers begin to cover their noses and then I see their faces. Do they think it's me!? What if they think it's me!? They think it's me! What do I do? We carry on through the Tunnel down Route 3 West towards home and then finally....

The bus bell sounds to signal that someone wants to get off and Stinky pushes his stinky self past me. When the doors open and he departs the bus, so does his smell. The passengers start to breathe again a couple of seats open up. I take a seat and breathe a sigh of relief. Thank God they know it wasn't me.

Now, when I see Stinky coming, I wait for the next bus....I'm not even trying to go through that again...I'd rather get home 30 minutes later than ride the bus with him. It's just not worth it.

h

On The Road Again

While the city is great, and there is no place like home...sometimes you just need a road trip. This weekend, the ring, the boy and I went to Baltimore for the Yanks vs. Orioles game. Grabbing two great friends on the way, we decided to explore the Inner Harbor prior to the game. After a great lunch and some drinks at Phillips, we settled on the outdoor patio at the Hard Rock Cafe for some more drinks. You couldn't have asked for a more beautiful day.

So while I was a little nervous venturing into Birdland with my Pinstripes and Yanks hat, half the stadium was packed with fellow Yanks Fans and it almost felt like being home in the Bronx....almost.

As much as I love legendary Yankee Stadium, there was something about the charm of Camden Yards. I was very impressed with the feel of the stadium and what it brought to the game. There was even a little piece of home, a statue of Babe Ruth -- a native son of Baltimore -- in front of the stadium.

A great afternoon turned into a great evening -- until the O's scored 6 unanswered runs. The boys in gray didn't seem to have it in them and they added one to the loss column, so we went across the street to The Pickle to add one (or six) to the drinks column. Thanks to the good (and drunk) people of Baltimore for sharing their city with us for the weekend.

h

Get Him! Get Him! Get Him!

Last June we decided to adopt a dog. OK, I decided to adopt a dog and I made the recommendation by adding said dog to the grocery list. My loving fiance complied with my request by allowing me to search for dogs on petfinder.com. You should see what's on the "grocery list" now.

Little did he know that I might actually find a dog, let alone adopt one. But we did and the boy fell in love with her and we named her Maggie (Moo) and the rest is history. (More on that later.)

With that said, the Moo is very protective of her adopters and protects us at every single opportunity that exists around every single corner of our safe and loving block and protects us from every single other adorable dog that lives on said block with a vicious and uncalled for bark and growl. It's embarrassing to say the least.

That said, this evening as we walked the Moo, who does indeed have her own "theme" song for walking...ask me at the wedding....you'll probably hear it played in honor of her absence....we encountered a poor, defenseless Golden Retriever, walking along the block. ATTACK!!!! Moo went in to DEF COM 5 protection mode seeking to save us from the horrendous attack of the Golden who was at least a block and a half away. As we typically do, we tried to distract the Moo and turned about face towards another block.

Within minutes we were faced with a large Rottweiler, unleashed and trotting towards us with the fury of a kitten. As I swoop up the Moo ready to save her from the attack of a horrendous animal, I shout "Get him! Get him!" and the poor owner runs out the door and saves his Rottweiler from the growls and snarls of Maggie Moo, the pure white 20 lb Westie Mix.

He apologizes up and down for frightening her to which we respond..."It's OK. Please don't let it happen again."

It's not always glamorous...

Sometimes its just a typical suburban day in the Bloom'. Me, the boy and Mags are having a typical Sunday - a little bit of laundry, a little bit of grocery store, a little bit of The Godfather, you know, much like the rest of the world, it's a day of rest.

Don't get me wrong, we weren't completely lazy today. We did get a couple of things accomplished. In addition to the cookies baking in the oven as I write this (of course they're the Betty Crocker Break and Bake, but who cares?), I did do some heavy lifting today while the boy took his Bike out for a spin. I'll explain....

A couple of months ago we purchased new bedroom furniture for one of the guest bedrooms. Ok, I'll be honest, the furniture was for the Helen Keller room. You may ask yourself why we have a bedroom called the Helen Keller room. What, you dont have one?

My sister lovingly nicknamed the room the Helen Keller room because prior to the new furniture that we purchased, the room had a single twin bed, a small dresser and a small white rug. I will admit, it looked very asylum like. The entire room was white in addition to the walls, curtains, bedspread and small rug and my sister Stacey felt that you would have to be deaf and blind to want to stay in this room over the other rooms in our house. Thanks Stace. We've got a couple of new decorating ideas for Helen's room so hang tight. Anyway, Helen's room got a furniture upgrade and the furniture is now a deep dark wood with silver accents. It's very cute - very modern. Helen's furniture is now up in the attic and Stacey is convinced that the ghost of Helen haunts the attic. But I digress.

So, when we put the new bed in the room formally known as Helen's room, we decided that in order to ensure that the bed was nice enough to allow our guests to sleep on, we should test it out! So we scheduled an "away game" one night, packed our PJ's and slept in the guest room. WOW! That bed is comfortable! It was like sleeping on a cloud. Heavenly. I didn't want to get up. It was literally like a pillow of heavenly, featherbedly goodness. It's far more comfortable than our own bed, and our own bed is super comfy. For the next couple of nights, we slept in the guest room. So it occurred to me, while it's polite to put your guests in a nice, comfortable bed, isn't it even more polite to make yourself comfortable in your own home? The boy didn't quite agree with me on this topic and thought we should leave the beds as they were.

So, while the boy was out joy riding today, I swapped the Queen sized pillow topped mattresses out of Helen's room and replaced it for our own. What? Don't look at me like that...besides, he'll sleep like a baby tonight.

Gotta go, the cookies are ready...

An Officient at Starbucks

Strange that I should start a blog today as it has been a long time since this journey began back in December '07. As you can tell by the title of my blog, I have recently been joined together with a unique piece of jewelry. LOVE IT! Since the two of us have come together, we have become quite inseparable...more about that later.

Today, we met the with our potential officiant or hopefully the guy that will marry us...Very nice guy. In fact, he was what you would expect and exactly what you would want. Let me explain...

On a typical Saturday in Northern New Jersey (if you live here you know what I mean), there is a rather - how do i say it - diverse clientele at the average Starbucks. With that said, there we were - me and the boy - sitting in the comfy couches by the windows staring out at Route 3.

OK - keep it normal, nothing CRAZY. Two Light Grande Caramel Frapaccinos...no, make mine a Mocha. Now, sitting at the table, waiting for the Officient to arrive (we have no idea what he looks like) this is good...no, wait...this is good if it was just me and the boy-that would be normal. By the way, we're meeting with an officiant because the boy was raised Catholic and I was raised Methodist...but that's not why. We were trying to get married in a church but MY GOD, those churches want you to wait a YEAR before you get married in them. Come on. We've known each other for almost 8, we're been dating for 3 and we've been engaged for nearly 5 months...and we're getting married in 6. In the words of Jack Bauer, we're running out of time. We decided to get married at the same place we're holding the reception and to do that we had to hire an outside 'consultant'....the Officiant.

So today, we are waiting to meet the Officiant we have never met before because we were referred to him by theweddingchannel.com. Now you get the idea - looking out the window waiting for random people to walk in and greet the adorable couple sipping their Grande Light Caramel Frapuccinos. Hello handsome fellow....is it you? No? Oh OK. Is it that guy? YUCK, I hope not. It is...OH God, please don't say it's that guy with the droopy pants and the Hawaii '97 t-shirt...wait...it's not, thank God. Is it? Yes, is it? Yes, it's the gentleman in the suit with the salt n pepper hair. Wow - i feel much better now. OK, we can do this...

We offered him coffee which he doesn't drink - in fact, does he drink anything? No, he's completely normal and completely nice and put us both at ease with his seemingly normal banter and interesting questions about how we "met" and how we wanted our ceremony to run. He gave us lots of handouts about the flow of the ceremony, who should read, who should read what, and who should walk down the aisle when and how fast. What he doesn't know is that I want to walk down the aisle to an instrumental version of "Don't Stop Believin'"

The irony is that after hearing this my fiance still wants to marry me. I found a good one girls.

We discussed timing, the officiant is sending us some sample ceremonies and wants our feedback and his pricing fits into our budget (Thank God) and we're finished our coffee. Then he says, "Some trivia for you folks, you're getting married by a multi-millionaire."
Flashback to a pyramid scam - immediately I think I'm getting suckered into "deal of a lifetime" something I can't turn down", but he tells us that he's happy to officiate weddings on the side b/c he's made millions in the stock market and has retired early. Weird story, but thanks for sharing.

Well congratulations Mr. Officiant. We're not millionaires, but if you'd like to contribute to the wedding fund by knocking a couple bucks off the Officiant wedding tab, have at it.