Last weekend, I spent some time at my father’s place, as he was in the mood to play around with my computers and I do not have internet at my apartment on purpose, although I am starting to rethink it.  I had gone out the night before with my good friend Z, and I was exhausted but thankfully not hung-over at all.  I should not be seen when I’m hung-over, not only because I’m nauseous the whole day and have no patience for people (not that I tend to have patience anyway, though surprisingly, I am the most calming person in a stressful situation), but also because I just look awful: my skin has this pale-sickly complexion to it and my lips are a bright red.  The funny thing about my relationship with my father is that, whenever I am in the least possible social mood, that’s when he’s in the most and vice versa.  It’s actually kind of amusing.  Saturday, he was in the mood to hang out for hours and I…I just wanted my bed; I literally fought the whole day to keep my eyes open: no amounts of food or caffeine fixed my problem.  Ever have those days?  I’m generally tired because I’m a terrible sleeper, but there are just some days where I should be at home and in bed…or at least dozing on my couch.

My father left the room at one point, saying that he had something for me.  When he came back, he plopped a thick binder in front of me.  I looked at it, feeling as if I was supposed to know what it was, but I didn’t recognize it, so I opened it.  As it turns out, it was one of my old binders from high school, the contents of which helped me to deduce that it came from my junior year…mostly.  I decided to briefly go through it, page-by-page; there was some interesting stuff in it of which I will look at it more closely before deciding what to ultimately do with it.  The one thing that stood out to me the most though, was two “journal” entries that I had written in the midst of all the school pages: it was from my sophomore year.  I glanced up at my father, wondering if he had read it or not, but decided that I’d rather not ask him, seeing as how it was from so long ago that it really did not matter…then I poured over it.

Automatically, my mind drifted back to that time period in my life; I had to be about fifteen or sixteen when I wrote those two entries.  That wasn’t the easiest time in my life; in fact, it was probably the hardest.  Twelve years ago my life took a dramatic change.  I remember everything that happened then, but reading those two entries felt as if I were reading that of a stranger’s.  It’s weird; I remember the emotional pain that I was going through at that time, but at the same time I guess, maybe I don’t quite remember as vividly as I thought.  The girl in them was so distraught and intense, and so not the me that I know today, that I barely recognized her.  I’m not sure if that is a good thing or not…maybe it is a good thing.  Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to remember the past: feeling detached from it.

Those are the only two journal entries that I have from that far back because I had to turn them in (yes, that’s right).  Part of me is glad of this, but part of me wonders, if I did have them, would I still feel the same detachment that I felt by reading those two, or would the feelings and thoughts grow on me and engulf me once more?  I will never know the answer to that, and it’s probably for the best…although this experience has made me want to read as far back in my journals as possible (yes I still keep a journal) to see if I remember being in those situations.  It’s funny how the mind works sometimes…

Today I seem to be experiencing technical difficulties with my blackberry.  First, it was freezing on me as I was trying to shop on the Bloomingdales website (perhaps that is a sign that it is not the best idea to shop via cell phone?); it literally would not let me scroll through more than two pages of shoes before feigning exhaustion and just doing nothing.  I’m not sure if that means that I was supposed to buy one of the shoes that graced those two lonely pages…none of them were all that great, or too pricey for what I think a ballet flat should cost (I would never spend more than $100 because, honestly, within a year maximum they end up in the garbage with a hole). 

The second thing that it did was tell me that my blog account didn’t exist.  I literally went into it and found nothing there.  Of course I started to panic because it didn’t make sense to me, but then it fixed itself with that.  I haven’t tried using the Bloomies site again yet, but I sadly expect that it will still give me the runaround. 

The third, and last thing so far that it has done today, was give me duplicates of some people in my address book.  At first I thought that it was just for facebook friends, because sometimes that has happened, but it wasn’t.  It was just really random duplicates.  And what was even odder was that, certain people that I had deleted were back in.  One person in particular that hadn’t been in my phonebook since the summer popped back up, while someone whom I omitted a few months ago remained deleted.  I wonder if that means that I am supposed to contact this person and see how he is…I will have to ponder this a while before making my ultimate decision, but most likely if I do, it will be through email with a detailed account of the transpired events.  Hopefully that is all of the weird things that my blackberry will do to me today and it will go back to being its awesome self.

I feel like, no matter how much I want to see something, I always end up waiting until the last minute…especially when it comes to museum exhibitions.  Last year, I had ample time to make my way to the Upper East Side, fling myself onto the steps of the Met, and attend the Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty exhibit, but sadly, I waited until one of the last weeks to do so.  I think one of the problems with living in New York is that, there are so many things to do that, you tell yourself, I’ll go tomorrow, or next week, and before you know it, you have missed your opportunity.  Had I not waited so long to see Alexander McQueen: Savage Beauty, I might not have gotten stuck on a two-hour line (which, thankfully moved enough so that I was only waiting for scarcely little more than an hour), and a claustrophobic second hour as I walked through the exhibit itself, more often than not barely moving, and reduced to tiptoeing just to be able to catch glimpses of some of the items on display.  I bought a few postcards and the exhibition catalogue (my first coffee table book), and walked out of the Met into several downpours, desperately clutching my purchases.  By the time I got home, all was thoroughly soaked (me that is), except for my museum bag.  I threw on some dry clothes, opened a bottle of wine, and poured over the content of the catalogue in its entirety; I had gotten a decent view of part of the exhibit, but I was not by any means satisfied with my experience.  It was then that I vowed never again to leave my museum goings to the last minute but, like the next-day hangover that is bound to follow an all-night excursion where you vow never to drink again, this was not the last of my tardiness.

My latest exhibition tardiness commenced around three months ago, before the exhibit even opened.  By accident, I had found an exhibit in the Philadelphia Museum of Art, I’m not sure if it was for Picasso or Van Gogh because the museum was going to have overlapping exhibits on both of them.  One, or both of them was going to close in May, so, planner that I am, I figured that I had plenty of time to go.  I brought it up to the guy that I was dating at the time, who thought it was a good idea but wouldn’t commit to a date; we broke up a few weeks after and I never did bring myself back to Philly.  I am not a huge fan of either of their works, though I feel like you can appreciate an artist’s style even if you are not fond of it (especially when that artist is Picasso or Van Gogh).  I do have a reprieve for Picasso though; there is a gallery on Madison that will be exhibiting some of his paintings starting at the end of this month in conjunction with another painter.  None of those though, are the exhibit that I have once again become tardy to.

The exhibit that I have been dying to see is entitled Documents pour artistes.  Over one hundred photographs by the French photographer Eugène Atget are on display, with the city of Paris as the theme.  This exhibit is appealing to me for a few reasons, the two prominent being that I love photography and I’ve always wanted to go to Paris.  In one of the reviews that I read on this exhibit, it said something to the effect that, going to the exhibit left you with the same feelings as if you had been walking the streets of Paris.  The only unappealing thing to me about this particular exhibit was its location: MOMA.  I have been to many museums in New York: the Met, the Guggenheim, the Museum of Natural History, the International Center of Photography, and MOMA (to name a few), but MOMA has been my least favorite…followed closely by the Guggenheim.  I’m not saying that either of them are bad museums, because they are not by any means, just that I am not a fan of modern art, and they tend to have realllly modern art on display; the Met isn’t like that.  But…it’s Paris. 

Needless to say that it is now April, and the Documents pour artistes will be closing in less than a week….oh, and if you hadn’t guessed, I still have yet to get there.  This all will change on Friday though, as I drag myself to MOMA and finally see my coveted exhibition…I just hope that the lines aren’t anywhere near as long as the ones from the McQueen exhibit.

Normally, I am not one to write about my dating life.  There are a few reasons for this, but mainly, I don’t want to be one of those cliché women who drone on and on about all of their disappointments and heartbreak: that’s what I have my closest friends for :).  This past weekend, as I helped my father celebrate his 56th birthday, it occurred to me that, in precisely one month, I will be half my father’s age.  I started thinking about where he was at my age, what he was doing with his life; he was married and just having his second child (I have an older brother), whereas I’m single and am still feeling the sting of rejection from the last man that I dated. 

Okay, maybe sting isn’t the right word; perhaps emptiness works a little better.  You know what I’m talking about, the void that comes when you think about txting or trying to make plans and then remember that you are no longer with that person.  Your mind starts to wander to conversations that you had, specific moments you shared together; you feel happy, but as quickly as that happiness engulfs you, it leaves as you remember that those are now only distance memories, and a few weeks ago, you stopped talking to him completely.  What went wrong this time?  What could I have done differently?  Was I the problem?  All of these questions start racing through your mind.  Of course you didn’t do anything wrong.  As much as we would like for everyone to stay in our lives forever, not everyone will.  In fact, it is the ones that you least expect to stay that always do…or at least that is what happens to me.  Perhaps we are more open with them because we don’t feel the need to impress them as much.  Some of my best friends are people that just happened upon my life, not ones that I desperately tried to keep around or make connections with.

Dating in this day and age is hard.  Some people decide before you’ve even gone out on a first date that, no matter how much they end up liking you and opening up, they will not get serious.  Personally, I do not understand how this works…I mean, even if I don’t necessarily think that things will work with a guy, it doesn’t take away the possibility of something more in the future if we were to hit it off.  I allow myself to change my mind about people and maybe that is the real problem…maybe people are just scared to change their minds and open up once they have set them.  You would think that, living in NYC, and therefore having access to millions of different activities to do, and culture, it would be easier to find someone, but it isn’t, and sometimes I wonder if that doesn’t make it harder.  

A few weeks ago, I attended an art/fashion show at the Empire Hotel Rooftop…my mother was among the artists showing some work.  I ended up meeting a guy, as I was outside on my phone yelling at all of my friends who decided not to join me there.  At first he seemed nice…he was a chef and his name was Michael.  If you don’t already know, I seem to have a thing for Michaels.  I could tell that he was a little drunk, but not too much so, so I decided to let him buy me a drink (why not) and chat a little more.  Unfortunately, I did not estimate just how drunk he was.  He ended up clinging to my side the entire night (well, for the rest of my time there) and, when I went to try and leave, it took my mother, two people that we were with, and hotel security to get him to not follow me (he actually followed us into the elevator and rode it down with us as we were trying to leave, and I wasn’t even on a date with him!).  Luckily, I had been smart enough not to give him my number. 

Growing up, music was big in my house.  Whether it was listening to oldies from the ‘60s and ‘70s, the newer rock music, or playing classical music with my father on the keyboard (he taught me how to play before I could even read sheet music), it was always with me.  Often times, my father would break out his guitar and start playing and singing; of which I have had mixed feelings about over the years.  At first I loved it, then I hated it, and now, since I don’t live with him anymore, I have a feeling of nostalgia towards it on the rare occasion that I’m around when he does it. 

Another thing that was big in my house was musicals.  All of us loved musicals.  We would sit in the living room and watch them together, singing along to the music that blared out of our television set.  When I got older, I participated in my school’s drama club and learned the songs with ease.  I loved being on the stage (even though it was only the chorus), but never thought twice about doing it for a living.

Enter the new NBC hit show SMASH.  I had heard about it before the premiere, but hadn’t bothered to check out the schedule.  One night, as I was going to bed, I happened upon it and was hooked immediately.  Suffice to say that I didn’t end up in bed until much later that night.  For those of you who don’t know, it’s a show sort of in the style of Glee (which I don’t watch), set around the workings/competition of how a Broadway show is made.  There is a lot of singing and dancing in it, as well as an believable plot and real issues…but most of all it is just fun! 

For those who love musicals as I do, it is a MUST see.  And don’t worry about having to catch up.  There has only been a handful of episodes, and if Time Warner is your cable provider (as it is mine), I recently discovered this awesome channel called Primetime On Demand, where you can access all of the episodes for free, and many shows from ABC, CBS, NBC and FOX: channel 1010 🙂

Over the weekend, I got a txt from Melissa telling me that I should find a yoga studio by me, for us to start going to.  Now, I had taken yoga in college about seven years ago, had found it to be boring and vowed never to do it again, but Melissa always has a way of persuading me to do things.  Okay, not really persuading as much as, we always have fun together no matter what we do, so why wouldn’t we have fun at yoga too?  The only thing that I was worried about was that we would end up laughing the whole time and be asked to leave.  The latter of which did not happen, but only because we got there late and were not seated next to each other; who knew that so many people take yoga!

I did not do a lot of research as to different studios…rather, I just picked one of the ones that popped up on my google search.  The studio was quaint.  Melissa and I got there early so that we could fill out paperwork (since it was our first time there), but still managed to be one of the last ones in the studio itself.  There wasn’t room for us to sit next to each other, so I ended up sitting directly in front of Melissa; in the front row.  I don’t know why, but any time I have ever taken a class that I was not completely confident in, I end up sitting in the front.  I don’t actually choose this…it just always seems to happen. 

As we waited for the class to begin, I kept looking back at Melissa and we would start silently laughing: it was probably a good thing that we were not next to each other.  The instructor came in and started the class with breathing; I remembered exactly why I had disliked yoga in the past: it’s slow.  Not only is it slow, but the movement from pose to pose is slow.  I’m the type of person that likes to get things done fast, not take my time.  For me, the most challenging part of yoga is making myself do things in a slow, methodical pace.  I hadn’t been able to master this back then, but maybe now that I’m older it will be different. 

At one point, I felt like I was going to faint, and after discussing the class afterwards with Melissa over Red Mango, I found out that she had felt the same.  Only, it wasn’t the end…it was only the halfway mark.  I thought to myself that I was not going to make it.  This of course, made me refocus myself.  It had been a long time since I’d taken any kind of exercise class.  The last time was when I was dating my most recent boyfriend, and had taken up kick boxing and Thai boxing for a year.  I hadn’t actually been interested in it at first, but his step-father owned a Martial Arts School.  I had originally started it as a way to spend more time with my guy, but I actually grew to love it.  I found Thai boxing very challenging, and that was why I loved it so much, just as I now found the yoga to be challenging.

After the class was over, we left the studio and headed to Red Mango for a treat.  It was kind of cold for it, especially because we were dressed for yoga and not the outside elements, but we didn’t care: our hands froze all the way back to the car, which is where we consumed the deliciousness; we had a time limit on our parking.  It was in the car that we decided to go back tomorrow (today) for a candle-lit meditation and relaxation class.  Hopefully it won’t be as demanding as the yoga, and we will be yoga-ing next week as well. 

We both woke up this morning in serious pain.  If we decide to stick with this yoga thing, I am considering freezing my gym membership and just doing this for a while: every once in a while, it’s good to completely change up your exercise routine in order to get the most optimum benefits 🙂

Although winter is still in our midst for the next month at least (and my office is an ice box), the temperatures outside almost boast the air of spring, if you ignore the chill in the wind that is, which shows us that winter is not relenting yet.  And for that matter, this weekend is looking like the temperatures will once again be dropping a few degrees.  I, for one, will be glad when it is finally over.

I never could figure out which season I liked best, although, winter is definitely my least favorite…but there is nothing like the encroachment of spring to put you in a good mood.  With spring, nature comes alive again, people stop hibernating in their cozy homes, and new adventures and opportunities are plentiful and boundless.  I think what I love the most about spring is, when I get off the bus on my way home from working in the city, I step foot onto my block and am engulfed with the wonderful fragrance of grass and trees: earth.  There really is nothing as beautiful. 

It’s hard to figure out how to dress for this weather.  I see many women walking around in teeny jackets, no scarves and bare legs.  In the past I have done the same, but I have realized something in my old age: that is the way that you get sick.  Everyone in my office is walking around sneezing, and I don’t want that to be me…and did I not mention that although it’s warmish outside, my office is frigid?!  I have been drinking tea all day because it is the only thing that is warming me up, although I never actually need an excuse to drink tea. 

That reminds me, on a completely different note, I was texting with a friend of mine about a week or two ago, and I asked him a random question.  He of course answered it, but then wondered what had brought it to mind.  As with drinking tea, I never need a reason to ask a question.  I’m not sure if I’ve been this way forever or not, but for as long as I can remember, I have.  Without questions, from where does one learn things?  And, if one does not learn things, how does one grow?  I would rather ask too many questions and have an abundance of knowledge, than keep my mouth closed and know nothing.

Back to the weather, which is a favorite subject of mine.  I think it sort of goes hand-in-hand with fashion.  I mean, what you wear a lot of the time, reflects the weather outside.  You wouldn’t walk aroundManhattanin the summer with a heavy wool coat would you?  Or lay out on aLong Islandbeach in a bikini in the middle of winter?  Of course not!  I am dying to break out my spring dresses, but I have to be good.  Instead, today I opted for a veryNew Yorklook: a black/grey wool dress, opaque stockings, my Tory flats…and most importantly, my warmest wool coat (and scarf!).

Since Today is Valentine’s Day, I thought that I would share my favorite love song of all time…and my favorite poem about love.  First the song.  Funny thing about it, the song was on an old mix that my high school boyfriend had made for me…he made me a lot of mixes; it was the thing to do back in high school, or at least when I was in high school.  I don’t think teenagers do that anymore these days, and that’s kind of sad.  I didn’t love every song that was given to me, but it takes a certain amount of effort to sit down and put thought into choosing songs for someone.

It wasn’t until years later that I discovered this song.  I had been going through all of my cds one day, for no reason in particular, when this song came on: Lifehouse’s “Everything.”  The word love does not actually make an appearance, but the song doesn’t need it; it’s perfect (in my opinion).  It’s the way that love should be.

You are the strength that keeps my walking

You are the hope that keeps me trusting

You are the light to my soul

You are my purpose, you’re everything.

My favorite poem about love is a sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “How Do I Love Thee?”  I would not be shocked if not everyone knows the Lifehouse song (which, if you don’t, you must listen to it immediately), but everyone should know this poem.  I am including it below.  I just think that it’s so beautiful.

How Do I Love Thee? by Elizabeth Barrett Brown

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.

I love thee to the depth and breadth and height

My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight

For the ends of being and ideal grace.

I love thee to the level of every day’s

Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.

I love thee freely, as men strive for right.

I love the purely, as they turn from praise.

I love thee with the passion put to use

In my old griefs and with my childhood’s faith

I love thee with a love I seemed to lose

With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,

Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,

I shall but love thee better after death.

Okay, so I know that I said I was curbing my shopping appetite not too long ago, but, after having an irritating past few weeks, I needed to splurge a little. Enter my friend Jen. Jen and I have wonderful shopping adventures together. Whenever I am looking for something specific and, a little out of my “normal” style, I know that I can count on her for assistance. And, if I don’t walk away with the item I was coveting, I usually end up with something else. This time, it was Jen who needed my assistance; she was in search of conservative – yet feminine work clothes, and I had the perfect store for her.

Last Saturday, I set out to the south shores of Long Island to pick her up. I don’t really go to her house often, so I got a little lost, but eventually made it to my destination. We stayed at her house for about twenty minutes, while she finished up some work, then with the assistance of her husband, headed out northeast towards my hometown, Huntington. Our destination: the Limited.
Seeing as how the Limited is limited, we were bound for the mall, which is a dangerous thing…especially since I always park the car on the side opposite the store. If I didn’t, I would probably never find my car, plus it gives me an excuse to stop at Panera Bread before I leave and get a frozen caramel espresso beverage. They are so delicious.

We hit a few stores on our way to the Limited, one of them being Banana Republic. It had been years since I stepped foot inside that store. I own quite a few items from them, pre their uber conservative phase; I’m all about conservative, but if it lacks character, I just can’t do it. I love Jackie Kennedy’s style: timeless, elegant, beautiful. Immediately upon our stepping into Banana, I eyed this adorable pink trench with a grayish polka dot lining. A few years back, pink trench coats had been huge, and I went around to many stores trying them on, but none of them fit right. This one, however, fit perfectly; I had to have it. I also fell in love with a pink and red striped sweater with gold buttons on top of the shoulders. Jen and I have a habit of making the same purchases; we walked out of there with identical bags and continued onward.

After a few more stops, but no more purchases, we landed at our destination. Slowly, we combed the racks. I found two shirts for myself (of which I ended up with one; yellow and white stripes) and pointed out items for Jen to try on (she ended up purchasing all of them). We made stops in a few other stores before lunching at Panera Bread, then went to Michael’s, where I literally had to be dragged away from the frames (I am obsessed with frames). I gave her a little tour of Huntington Village and then we departed, exhausted, and thoroughly satisfied. My credit card was a bit sad, but it was a great day.