Sorry Friends

I owe most of my friends an apology.

Lately- while traipsing through some relationship troubles- I've been an awfully high maintenance friend. You know, the kind of pal who answers the standard "Hey, how's it going?" with a 10 minute monologue ending in some panicked version of "...and I just don't know what to do."

Yeah, it's not pretty.

At the end of an especially confused rant over the phone last week, a friend who's known me more than half my life casually replied: Is it possible you just stirred up some drama because things were quiet?

I paused. Sucked some tears back in and thought about it.

Maybe.

Later, I shared this thought with my new roommate.

Maybe, she agreed. We decided to explore the theory.

She asked me if I've ever really dated. I quickly nodded yes. Of course I've dated. I'm 25.

She wasn't convinced. I offered a quick synopsis of my past.

I moved to New York newly single after a 4-year relationship. I dated the very first guy in the city who asked me out for a couple months, another for a few more, then jumped into a 5th year with the ex. After it ended again a couple of 3-6 month "relationships" followed- some more serious than others but all exclusive.

That's dating right?

Wrong. Apparently, that limbo NY girls know well- where you hang out with someone constantly, don't see other people but don't use a title-doesn't count as dating.

As a result, my roommate assured me: Vanessa, you have never really dated.

Really dating, I learned, should be casual. It should be with multiple men at the same time. You don't invest emotionally. And, most notably, it offers a healthy does of entertaining drama- aka: a horrendous first date, a really good first kiss, wondering if he'll call etc. It's fleeting, unpredictable, commitment-free fun.

Under that definition, I suppose I haven't really dated. Most of the dating I've known has always been just a quick segway into a serious (or pseudo-serious) relationship.

What's so wrong with that? I instinctively defended my serial commitment.

Potentially a lot is wrong with it, my friends advised. Dating- under the definition above- teaches you a lot about what you want and what's good for you. Every interaction offers it's own lesson, for better or for worse. Most importantly, it can help you develop a sense of independence that's difficult (but not impossible) to foster when your committed/leaning on a boyfriend. You must learn to make yourself happy. It's nobody else's job.

And, of course, there's that dose of drama that most of us crave- the dating push and pull that eventually gets old but, at the right moment, can be absolutely exhilarating.

I guess I haven't dated much. But, is it possible (returning to my friend's theory) that I just pushed away a perfectly perfect mate because I haven't met my quota of dating drama?

I'm still at a firm maybe (and a hopeful no).

Whatever the answer is and regardless of what happens, I'm grateful for friends who put up with me- single, dating or otherwise.

In advance, I'm sorry friends.

Abuela Zuckerberg

My mother and grandmother are on Facebook.

My grandmother's not only on the book- Abuela Zuckerberg is wildly active. She comments on every status update, every uploaded photo, every wall post. Everything. These comments are never fewer than three sentences long and unfortunately for any friends who innocently "liked" or commented before her there is always a follow up, or four.

I joke but it really doesn't bother me. She lives in Argentina and if it wasn't for this knack for technology (Facebook, Gchat, Skype) we wouldn't be able to communicate weekly like we do.

Mom uses Facebook less often. She's had the same profile picture since she joined- on a boat, in a leopard print blouse, tipping a ship captain's hat. She'll occasionally thumbs up a Republican fan page or write on a younger cousin's wall in all CAPS because she can't figure out how not to. Mostly, she uses it for stalking. She recently called specifically to let me know that my boyfriend- who she's never met before- needs a haircut. And, a few weeks ago, her status for at least three days was simply "Trici Garcia", my older sister's name. Unlucky for Mom, the status update field on Facebook happens to be a confusing couple inches below the search field, so her attempt to snoop my sis was accidentally blasted onto our feeds.
Mom's Facebook activity is far less endearing than my abuela's, but I can at least count on it for entertainment. And isn't that what Facebook's all about? A little stalking, a little judging and pure unproductive fun.

Luckless

They say bad things happen in threes.

Last week I found myself ranking all of the recent unlucky happenings in my life, trying to figure out exactly which qualified as the official three.

Every time I'd pick a third, another whooper would give it a run for its money.

In two short weeks:

I took an icy fall on a snowboard and sprained my tailbone. (I'm still sitting on a foam donut at work.)

My debit card's pin number was stolen by some evil scammer in Amsterdam who cleaned out almost $1,000 from my checking account, on rent day.

I came home to (brace yourself) a swarming fly infestation caused by the crazy old ladies who live/may or may not be dead in the apartment upstairs. (The exterminator got rid of them but I spent at least 30 hysterical minutes swatting at black clouds of bugs cursing the day I ever moved to this god-forsaken filthy city.)

Then there was my lost iPod, the un-returnable kitchen table I ordered online that arrived in 4 broken pieces, and, most upsetting of all, my love life got real wobbly.

I debated writing this post. Nobody likes a Debbie Downer and we're all dealing with our own strains of misfortune. I realize a broken butt and biblical plague hardly qualify as blogable. But, I'll admit, this loss of mojo has me a bit out of sorts. Mostly because I'm usually a pretty lucky gal.

I'm that obnoxious friend who wins raffles, runs into Madonna at the grocery store (true), scores last minute tickets and pretty frequently stumbles into great opportunities/free stuff.

Sure, I'm no stranger to the occasional funk but it's really been a while since I've taken so many punches, one after another.

After a quick visit to Tampa last weekend, I boarded the plane for New York reluctant to leave Florida's sunshine for my black cloud in Manhattan. Even after landing and pushing my suitcase through the taxi line at La Guardia, my stomach tied itself into a knot. Slouched into the backseat of the cab, I tried to psych myself back up. Then, we turned onto the Triborough bridge. The Manhattan skyline- giant, glittering in the mid-day sun, pouring over the river- grabbed me fast. It yanked me out of my slouch by both shoulders, shook me and slapped me around a little. That's where I live- in the middle of that beast. As we sped toward it, I finally relaxed.

Unlucky in New York is still pretty damn lucky.

Three Year Thing

New York was supposed to be a two to three year thing. I would get the big city out of my system then bounce. I was sure of it.

During my first couple years here I had trouble committing to anything that seemed to dig roots. I let winters pass without an expensive "real" coat, sure I'd make a move before the season rolled around again. I never upgraded from a set of ugly plastic drawers in my bedroom. Why spend on furniture I'd eventually lug cross country? I constantly imagined myself elsewhere- in Boulder, in Tampa, in DC, in Chicago, even Buenos Aires.

At the beginning of the month my roommate moved out, leaving me with an apartment that looked like it had been robbed- next to no furniture, not even a spoon to my name. She had furnished our tiny two-bedroom years before I got there and of course boxed it all up for her new place when she left. I needed a new everything. Plastic furniture was unacceptable in my bedroom; It would be blasphemous in our living room.

Alone, sitting on the floor of my empty kitchen the day after my roommate moved out (and a few days before my new roommate moved it), it all finally hit me.

I had spent the last 24 hours punching my credit card number into furniture Web sites, clicking yes to everything that would make my abode livable again. I never hesitated. In fact, the idea of finally making an apartment my own excited me (even if it is exclusively furnished by Ikea and Craig's List).

Through all the transition it never occurred to me that I could just get up and go- toss those plastic drawers and leave NYC, like I always planned. Really, it's been months- maybe even a year- since I've even thought about getting out of the city like I constantly used to. Instead, three years after moving from Florida, I find the idea of permanency here comforting. I'm eager to commit and grateful for the attachments I've already made. I'll paint my walls, splurge on a dresser, maybe even fall for someone here. I don't mind the ties.

I plan to stay awhile.

Bringing Pickle Back

I'm a sucker under peer pressure. Really, the after-school specials of the 90s were lost on me. I can be talked into just about anything if "everybody else is doing it." Blame it on indecisiveness or a lifetime fear of being pegged the party pooper, I'm usually eager to just go with whatever a more opinionated person wants. Luckily, this gets me into a lot more good than it does bad.

Perfect example: Pickle back Sunday

The Jets made it to the playoffs this season so, of course, I spent my last two Sabbaths watching the games/day drinking. As soon as I got to Whiskey Brooklyn, the bar where about 10 of my friends were gathered, I was offered a spicy pickle back.

"A what?"

Pickle back: a shot of Jameson chased immediately by a shot of pickle juice.

"Eh, I'm good. I don't really drink Whiskey." (I, somehow, after 4 years at a #1 party school can't really hold my own around liquor)

"Yeah, but you drink pickle backs. Trust me," my friend signaled for the waitress. "You have to. We're all doing it together."

As soon as she uttered the magic words I was in. Only a party pooper would decline a group shot. Within seconds, a full tray of shot glasses- half brown, half ninja-turtle green- hit the table. We toasted to the Jets and down that pickle back went- a shot of whiskey followed by a shot of pickle juice.

The salty pickle juice (and really, it's exactly that- the brine from a jar of pickles) masked the Jameson completely. And this particular pickle back, since we ordered it "spicy", packed a sinus-clearing punch. The Tampa girl in me made a quick association. It kinda tastes like a Cuban sandwich. (Gross sounding, I know; But, in the moment, pretty delicious).

My alcohol enthusiastic group of friends aren't the first to throw these back. In fact, after a little Googling, I learned whiskey and pickle juice is basically the new whiskey and Coke. It all started at Bushwich Country Club, a hipstery dive bar in Brooklyn. McClure of the famous McClure's Gourmet Pickles (all the rage among NYC foodies) was storing some of his stock in the bar's basement. One fateful night a daring bartender took a swish of pickle juice after a shot of whiskey. The pickle back was born, and I'm grateful for it.

This unlikely combo became the official beverage of my playoffs (seriously). And although the Jets lost last Sunday, the discovery of the pickle back made us all winners....that is, until Monday morning.

She get it from her Grandma....

We got there around 10:00pm Saturday- tucked into a line about 25 people deep outside Public Assembly, a mini-warehouse turned bar/music venue in Williamsburg, Brooklyn. The bouncer nodded for my ID and asked what we were there for.

"Uh, the neighborhood watch meeting," my boyfriend* tried to keep a straight face as he responded. It was the secret code we were given in the secret email that revealed the secret location. The bouncer waived us in.

It was dark. Music was blaring. At least 200 people were gathered around an empty stage. A countdown flashed on a black screen. We had about 15 minutes left.

We were all excited. We knew what we were there for. It wasn't a neighborhood watch meeting- whatever that is. The countdown ran out to zero. The crowd- now pushing 300- roared like it was New Year's Eve.

A late twenty-something British man walked on stage in a trench coat. He told us we weren't safe. He told us the streets of Brooklyn were crawling with thieves. Then he started to unbutton his trench coat. "But you're not really here for a watch meeting." The crowd cheered. "You're here to change your life." The crowd cheered. "Do you want me to change your life?" The crowd lost it. He ripped off his coat and finally revealed what we were all waiting for.

"You're here to play Underground Rebel Bingo!"

We were.

We were holding magic markers and bingo cards. There was a bingo machine on stage. We wanted prizes.

But it wasn't your Grandma's bingo.

Two girls- one dressed in not much more than a corset, the other with a diamond-studded bra hanging out of her dress, both in neon wigs- bounced up on stage. They started to fondle the bingo balls and call out letters and numbers with rhymes too raunchy to repeat. The rules: If you win, scream bingo, fight through the crowd, launch yourself on stage and hug the announcer. If you call a false bingo you get ridiculed by the entire audience. The prizes: an iPod speaker that looks like a guitar amp and a giant panda bear suit.

Rumor has it, Underground Rebel Bingo started in a church basement in London. After it became wildly popular with the Brits, the man in the trench coat decided to ship it to Brooklyn.

A rave-like Bingo with a secret location and panda-themed prizes- my prediction is that it will catch on fast with the hipsters out here. BINGO!


*Still deciding how to introduce him/refer to the new him on the blog. But yeah, boyfriend.


NOTE: Picture stolen from the New York Times coverage of another Rebel Bingo night.

Hungry Bear

Remember that Sex and the City episode when everyone gave Miranda crap about moving out of Manhattan to Brooklyn? The girls were horrified. A cabbie wouldn't even drive her there.

I watched that show religiously (because I'm a warm-blooded American woman) and therefore arrived in New York with that same Manhattan-or-bust prejudice tucked in the back of my brain.

No matter how abusively high the rent, I was determined to find a home in Manhattan- downtown Manhattan if I could help it. Lucky for me, I landed in the East Village first. Now I live in the West Village (a couple streets down from Carrie Bradshaw's stoop, actually). Long story short, I've remained a total Manhattan elitist. It takes a lot to get me out of my superior borough. At least, it used to.

Turns out (brace yourself) there are two things that can get Vanessa out of Manhattan often: a cute boy and good brunch.

No real shocker there, but let's focus on the brunch.

Where: Enids in Greenpoint, Brooklyn
Commute from the West Village: About 30 minutes by L-train and bus
What I ordered: The Hungry Bear

I was sold on the dish before I read the description. If my appetite in the late morning (after a drink or four the night before) had an Indian name it would absolutely be "Hungry Bear." This $11.00 dish, voted most popular by Yelpers, includes a homemade biscuit sandwich stacked with sausage and a poached egg, smothered in gravy and sprinkled with paprika. I chose "cheesy grits" as a side. The egg was plump then oozy, pairing perfectly with the sausage and almost frothy gravy. The cheesy grits were creamy and layered with just enough saltiness. And best of all, we were able to order our own French-pressed coffee. It was exactly what any hungry bear or girl needs around noon on a damp January Sunday- the kind of start to the day that makes you wanna get right back in bed, but in a good way.

And it's not the first blogable restaurant I've visited in Brooklyn, the latest borough that cute boy I mentioned has inspired me to explore. Restaurants there (in Greenpoint and Williamsburg, at least) seem to have few things in common: they're cheaper, more casual and slightly less full of it than their Manhattan counterparts, but just as yummy.

I'll eat there. I might date a boy who lives there. But, move in to another borough?? That would take a bit of a Manhattan miracle

r.i.p christmas tree

It's the most wonderful time of the year-- and it's over.

Walking through my neighborhood Saturday morning after New Year's Eve, I couldn't help but find it all a little depressing. Mangled New Years hats floating in puddles of brown slush leftover from the blizzard, balding Christmas Trees abandoned on curbs, a barista at the coffee shop nearby ripping down paper snowflakes that floated in the window all month-- by next week even the after-Christmas sales will expire.

Sure, New York is cluttered, inconvenient and basically cracked out during the holidays, but wrapped in lights, it's all pretty magical.

So now we've just got plain ol' winter to deal with. No sparkle. No Sinatra's Christmas album at the grocery store. No gingerbread lattes at Starbucks. Just a city that gets dark around 4pm and cold, well, until April.

To protect against the post-Christmas blues, I decided to make a list of all the positive things that will happen during the next few frigid months:

1. With tourists cleared out, I can get a cab in midtown again.
2. No more whiney saxophone versions of (once enjoyable) Christmas songs playing on my coworkers CD player.

3. Martin Luther King Jr. Day off...because your boss sorta has to.

4. Upgrading to a bigger bedroom when my roommate moves out that features- wait for it- a real closet! (I've hardly survived 2 years without a proper one).

5. Valentines Day...because I'm a cheeseball

6. Snow days/ Snow ball fights

7. Weather related excuses to skip the gym (it's blizzarding) and drink hot cocoa (it's delicious).

With two winters behind me, I'm hoping 3 times a charm and a lady.

Merry Winter!

Bah Humbug

I woke up at a very dark 4:30am Thursday to fly home to Florida for Christmas. It was freezing. The airport was packed. The automated ticket kiosk at JetBlue flashed "error" when I tried to print my boarding pass, forcing me into a line that snaked around the terminal. The man behind me bumped my heels with his luggage cart no less than three times. The flight was delayed 90 minutes. I had to wait until the sold-out plane boarded to receive my seat assignment.

Once finally in my window seat I prepared to wrap my face in my scarf and sleep away the less than pleasant first few hours of my long weekend.

Her squeaky voice ripped onto the loudspeaker as soon as I buckled my seat belt.

"A very toasty warm and merry Christmas to each and every one of you!" the stewardess spoke to us like kindergartners. Her strawberry red side ponytail bounced as she paced the aisle.

"Looks like we're all bringing way too many gifts in our sleighs," she explained the packed overhead compartments in a dolphin-friendly pitch. She used "mmmkaays"and "okie dokies." She took at least 8 minutes to introduce the crew and explain how they were all her very best friends.

I rolled my eyes and sighed audibly. It was before 8am. Day before Christmas or not, that woman was out of control.

I dialed up the volume on my iPod and prayed that perky Ms. Claus would lay off the loudspeaker.

She didn't. Even after 2 hours of useless announcements and overhearing her strike up small talk with half the passengers on the plane, nothing could have prepared me for her sign-off.

Seconds after we landed she cleared her throat and began:

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. Oh what fun it is to ride on a JetBlue Airplane. HEY!"

My jaw dropped as she started to shriek the second verse.

"Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way. I hope you all have a great day in TAMPA BAY!"

I had had it. I was ready to huff and puff and roll my eyes. But before I could, as soon as she finished, the packed airplane erupted in applause and cheers. Children laughed. Couples kissed. Strangers hugged.

I nervously joined the second wave of applause.

Yup, It dawned on me fast. I was the Grinch.

I was a stone cold, eye-rolling, too cool for school New York bit*h, utterly appalled by a cheery stranger.

I slunk into my seat, ashamed. Yes, our little ginger flight attendant was painfully annoying and I'm certain other passengers wanted her to shut the falalala up, but I hated her at first toothy smile. She wished us a Merry Christmas and I was ready to strangle her with the navy blue handkerchief tied around her neck.

New Yorkers aren't well known for their friendliness. They're an impatient breed rumored to give wrong directions to tourists and flip people off without provocation. New Yorkers are harder, louder and tougher.

I've always carefully left myself out of that classification- New Yorker, that is. I'm a Florida girl living in New York, and there's a big difference. I'm nice. I'm approachable. I won't intercept the cab you've been waiting 20 minutes to hail.

And now, apparently, I despise people who sing Christmas carols?

How long do you have to live in a city before you qualify for their stereotypes?

A few days later on Christmas Eve, I unwrapped a scarf a close family friend gifted me. When I went to try it on, my dad volunteered a good way to wear it.

I shook my head no and retied it, "No, no this is how a New Yorker wears it," I explained moving the knot to the front.

"New Yorker, huh?" he asked.

Like it or not, I guess so.

Touchy Feely

On a flight back to New York from Chicago last weekend, I woke up from a nap to find my face less than a couple inches from the passenger next to me. We had dozed off facing each other, heads fallen to the edges of our seats unknowingly about half-a-nudge away from Eskimo kissing. We both opened our eyes at the fasten seat belt ding, noticed the awkward lack of distance between us and simultaneously jolted our heads back. He was a twenty or maybe early thirty something with a mop of black curly hair and matching patchy beard. He tapped his feet and fingers to whatever was on his iPod. He ordered a Jack Daniels neat and called me a "troublemaker" when I asked to slip out to use the restroom. I laughed to myself after whipping my head back to face my tray table. For total strangers, we had just shared a pretty intimate 10 or 20 minutes- swapping breathes as we virtually shared a pillow. As far as I could asses, I was more responsible for the almost snuggling than the hipster in the tomato red cardigan sweater. I had fallen slightly farther left in my seat than he had fallen right. I laughed because I'm not surprised my subconscious curled me up to a total stranger. I'm a notorious personal space invader.

A male friend recently told me that the average person needs about 8 touches per day to maintain a healthy sense of connection to his or her surroundings.

"Vanessa, you need like 80," he joked after sharing the statistic.

He's right. I'm a big fan of touching, hugging, holding hands, rubbing, snuggling and generally grabbing on to the people I talk to or walk next to. No romantic interest necessary (see snuggling strange man on airplane), I simply like to be close. I suppose that's why New York and I get along so well.

It's a touchy city. From crowded 6-train at rush hour (aka spring break Cancun as one bump in the rail can press you up against/booty dance you with whoever is crammed behind you) to being seated no more than a fork's distance from any other diner at a popular restaurant, it's a place where personal space doesn't entirely exist.

Of all my city complaints- mice, monthly rent check that violates my bank account, frozen puddle of hobo pee I slipped on last winter- the whole lack of personal space thing is most tolerable.

At risk of sounding both creepy and cheesy (creesy?), I'll admit I find it sort of exhilarating to have so many opportunities everyday to connect with random people. I hug and hold on to people when I talk to them because I like interacting and, on my better days, I really appreciate the way New York City forces interaction.

It's not just me driving to work and back. It's me and the senile old Cuban lady (once professional ballerina) who paces my building's lobby in a lace trimmed moomoo waiting to open the door for people. It's me and that very good looking man in fancy suits who lives a block down and, as if it's choreographed, always steps off his stoop while I'm walking past it. It's me and whatever mixed bag is sharing my subway cart- people I smile at or stare at or roll my eyes with when a crazy/drunk man jumps on as the doors are shutting to scream out to us "why God hates women and women love abortions." (true story)

Sure, the interactions aren't always magical. Some days the slow old Cuban lady holds me up when I'm in a rush, fancy suit man doesn't float down his stoop in freshly polished shoes and I can't drown out whatever noise I don't want to hear on the subway with my iPod. But you get used to it. In fact, after more than two years here, I'm fairly certain I'd miss all this hubbub if I had to do day to day without it.

Back on the airplane, several minutes after invading the bearded hipster's personal space, I offered him a stick of gum. He took it but said nothing. We chewed side by side in silence. I wanted small talk. I wanted to know what he does for a living, what trendy Brooklyn neighborhood he resides in, why he was throwing back Jack Daniels before 2:00pm. We napped together for goodness sake, I wanted to know his name. But I got nothing.

The plane landed. We stood up to file out of the aisle. Without my asking, he pointed at my luggage, waited for my nod then plucked it out of the overhead compartment. "Thanks!" I exclaimed a bit too enthusiastically. He shrugged and walked off the plane. Still I'm convinced we had a moment- and that he thinks I'm crazy.

Not crazy sir, just creesy.