Friday, March 25, 2011

Update! Diamonds Are A Girl's Best Friend!

Remember when I told you about that interview Eli and I had at Tiffany's?


It shoots the day before we move.

No, seriously.

But we get to go hang out in our NEW neighborhood for the shoot (they wanted to film people in their "home environment", plus our story we told them was about a bridge, and we're going to be living near a bridge, so it makes sense).

And we EACH get a $500 gift certificate to Tiffany's!!!

Not impressed yet? Then can I just say that we are one of the 5 couples chosen out of 500 who interviewed (and however many applied but didn't even get to the interview stage).

Movin' On Up...

It's official! The palace on Riverside Drive is OURS, all OURS!

Which of course means MINE, all MINE!

And it also means I can now finally post pictures:

The front hallway!

My spacious kitchen - note the NEW stove!

The livingroom...where I pulled Eli aside and frantically whispered in his ear,
"It's TOO BIG!"
(meaning the room, dirty birds!)

The bathroom...NO MOLD!

The bedroom, facing the river. And New Jersey - no place is PERFECT.

Oh, what's this? Just the view out my bedroom window. Sweet, huh?
Oh, now to get back to packing...I've done about half of it. Unfortunately, by that I mean that half the kitchen is packed, half my clothes, half the bathroom stuff, half the books. Lying around in open boxes. And the rest is unpacked. And hey, where did I get all this STUFF????

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Whoah-oah-oah UPTOWN GIRL!

*proceed with cautiously optimistic post*

The paperwork we submitted was approved, and pending a meeting with the landlord, we are all set to go ahead and sign the lease TOMORROW MORNING!

And while I have oodles of stuff to do (namely packing), I can't help myself getting distracted by lovely little things like furniture websites (I spent more time than I should admit to last night just dreaming of a new couch for the big beautiful living room...and a zebra-print rug to match it!) and wanting to hang out in my *pending landlord meeting and approval* NEW NEIGHBORHOOD.

Oh, and also blogging. know.

But one thing struck me this morning, as I thought about eagerly telling my friends about our new place. The name of our neighborhood...I don't like it. I checked with the NYC zip code classifications and technically, our new zip code is classified as "Washington Heights-Inwood". WHAT???

Washington Heights, though an up-and-coming neighborhood in some regards, is generally known for two pretty bad things: being at the very top of Manhattan (a truth I will not be able to hide from guests long when I tell them to take the A to 181st street to visit me), and having a musical made about it that recently starred (though on seperate occassions) Jordin Sparks and Corbin Bleu (both of American Idol, but don't hate me for knowing that, I Wikipedia'ed that).

And don't get me started on the Inwood thing.

So, after much searching on Wikipedia again, I have found this article that seems to portray our neighborhood perfectly:

Hudson Heights!

A perfectly charming name for a charming little neighborhood. Boasting the only movie theater north of 125th Street, an annual Art Stroll, and views of the river and George Washington Bridge that you can't believe (the latter right outside our new bedroom window, fingers crossed!!!). That seems more accurate than the general name of Washington Heights and all the negative associations that come with it!

After all, WE have a Starbucks.

Tuesday, March 22, 2011

Because, do you have to be able to see it or touch it to believe in it?

Dear Internet,

Please cross all your fingers and all your toes and any other digits you are blessed to have more than one of. We found a place that is just marvelous. Far, far uptown, in a quaint little neighborhood that boasts wine bars, Thai food, Sushi and a celebrity stylist.

Please oh please oh please let this work out, and I will personally pay for your installment in our new place so that I may continue my secret love affair with you, Internet, from my new home-to-be overlooking the Hudson River and the George Washington Bridge. Please.



In The Heights! (?)

We're looking at 3 apartments today in Washington Heights. It's an up-and-coming area full of young professionals. One of the greatest things about moving out of Forest Hills will be feeling surrounded by people our own age, a part of the city we've been on the outside of, looking in.

Monday, March 21, 2011

I'm Homeless, Bitches!!!

So this morning, I go to start the car to go grocery shopping, and the engine won't turn over.

(the battery died, it needed to be charged, it cost $30 and took half an hour but still, not the way to start the day.)

Then the landlord called. Wanted to speak to Eli alone, without me in the room. Turns out the house we're staying in is going to be sold by the end of April, so we have nowhere to live. Can't afford anyplace else. Haven't a clue where to start. And you know how dreamy it is trying to find decent real estate in Manhattan.

On the bright side...

...anywhere has to be better than here, with the black mold and transient hipsters dropping by unexpectedly.

...a fresh start could be fun.

...might be able to live closer to the city, easier to get around, and won't have to travel for hours to get anywhere.

...this neighborhood is far away from transportation, stores, and everything fun.

...sharing a place just with Eli will be nice.

...the laundry service here is annoying as hell, there's no washing machine and I'm too far from the laundromat. in a house full of someone else's old junk is irritating and I can never get it clean.

...this house constantly smells like death and cat pee.

...everything in this house breaks, and there's no accountability for fixing it and we have to do all the work.

So maybe this will be a good thing. Regardless of where we end up, it's going to be an exciting new adventure and a nice change of pace. My first adult apartment! Now we just have to find it and afford it.

Easy To Be Hard...?

I won't go into details as to how or why, but recently I was accused of being insensitive and "bitchy" when I used humour and shock tactics to incite a discussion (the New York term for "argument") about issues related to feminism and other things I'm fairly passionate about.

Let's just say, someone made a comment about girls who shouldn't wear short skirts to class, and I said that they shouldn't assume those girls are dressing that way specifically to give him blue balls.

Balls are funny, I thought! I've seen The Hangover, The 40-Year-Old Virgin, Anchorman! Balls are totally funny.

But NO! Apparently not.

I don't want anyone to tell me that I was too harsh. Let's leave that between me and the other party. I've apologized for my harsh language, but I did spend a day wondering whether I've changed...

I used to be very shy, mince words, and oh yeah, wouldn't dream of mentioning balls in a sociological debate. Is it the New York in me that makes me feel like this is acceptable? Maybe when you walk down the street to the tune of people screaming FUCK THIS and FUCK THAT, where's my MOTHER FUCKING SEAT and MOVE OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY, you forget that other places and other people aren't like that? One of the things I've always loved about New York is that frank, open conversation happens everywhere, on the street, in restaurants, in public restrooms, and in the dressing rooms of Forever 21. Not just in small-town therapists' offices.

After living in New York for a matter of months, I visiting home and was acutely aware of how I had changed when walking through a crowded WAL*MART (of all places). Instead of shuffling along at slow-town pace, I expertly dodged and weaved through the sleepy cart-pushers like it was the 42nd Street subway platform at 6:00pm. But then, I was proud! I felt my newly acquired city skills would serve me well in life! I thought city dwellers could handle any situation - we're fast when we need to be, but we know how to wait patiently when the situation calls for it. Strongly opinionated, but also generally more tolerant because of the diversity around us. Progressive, educated, and willing to pay thousands of dollars a month to live in a space other people would deem a closet.

A former boss (who was an asshat, but that's not important now) used to brag that he was "toughening me up" by swearing in front of me, yelling at me, teaching me how to be rude to people. But did this "training" go too far? Where's the line between having a spine of your own, and becoming a ball-buster?

Underage Kids Seeking Beer Had The Luck of the Irish On Their Side This Weekend

After having taken an awesome walking tour of haunted spots in the Village, I got on the uptown F train along with about 7 drunken teenagers smelling strongly of beer. The only open seat was next to a wholesome looking lad of about 17 with an open Budweiser in his hand, sitting next to two other stinky teens and across from two boys with a girl sitting on each lap.

The boy turns to me, sitting next to him:

"Hi, I'm ____(I already forgot his name. Max?)"

I smile, turn away. He holds out his hand.

"What, are you going to leave me hanging like that?" he slurs, angrily. Not wanting to incite an incident, I try quickly to shut him down:

"I'm a germophobe."

He comprehends, then presents his elbow for me to shake: "You gonna give me some fin?" I nudge his elbow with mine, then promptly turn away and stare fixedly at the wall across from me, catatonic. And it works: he leaves me alone.

Of course, he might have been distracted by the scene unfolding across from us:

The boys upon whom the ladies were seated were goading them on, until they kissed quicklyt on the lips. Unsatisfied, the young gents scoffed, until the ladies opened their mouths wide, releasing foul-smelling beer breath upon all in the train, and played tonsil-hockey for all the train to see, including the screaming baby further down in the car. Luckily, they all left the train after two stops, and several annoyed passengers were able to sit and commiserate about the awful smell and tense atmosphere that left along with them.

There was still the crying baby, though.

Friday, March 18, 2011

The First Day Of (Possibly) Summer

Spring is in the air! Whether you like it....or not.

Hipsters are sunning themselves on rocks outside the Met.

Crocuses are croaking (as my mother would say).

A warm breeze is blowing...

It is indeed a wonderful season.

I didn't know you cooked meth in the microwave...!

First of all, the train station at the end of the 7 line is VERY confusing. there are 4 platforms, and only one train going out of the station. So after finding the correct train, my nerves were somewhat eased, until a pair of...meth addicts(?) clamor onto the train.

There's a big guy in a fedora, and the lady (it could have been a man, s/he had mannish features and wore men's clothes, but had long hair pulled back with a clip and a high voice, so I will refer to it as a she) are dragging a piece of rolling luggage with the front ripped off, so we can all see that what they are carrying around is a microwave. Not only that, but immediately upon entering the fairly crowded train, she starts screaming "WE NEED A MOTHER FUCKING TWO SEATER! TWO MOTHER FUCKING SEATS!" as though this is normal behavior. There were plenty of seats, but she needed everyone to know that she had to sit next to her boyfriend, and not just to ask politely, but to scream her order as though she had a right to divine comfort.

So I stood up, and said as politely as possible, "Here, I'll move" and ran in the opposite direction.

"WHY IS EVERYONE RUNNING AWAY???" the She Beast hollared. I froze in my tracks and sat down instantly, staring with fear into the eyes of the elderly woman across from me, who smiled sympathetically.

The couple proceeds to lie down and stretch out on their seats, talking loudly, making everyone on the train uneasy and afraid. At one point, she is complaining, and opens a pill bottle and drinks the entire contents, washing it down with whatever (alcoholic) liquid is in their thermos. She also opens her fairly small purse and pulls out a large styrofoam takeout container of chicken and rice, which he eats. All is going fairly quiet when out of the blue she screams:


A man from the other end of the car moves down swiftly to stand between her and the other ladies and myself.

"It hurts to talk! Don't make me talk!" She wails.

Oh, if only we could all be so lucky.

But of course, she kept talking.

Maury Povich Show

Confession time: I have long been a fan of the Maury Povich show. How long? Well, I started watching him BEFORE he relied solely on DNA testing for show topics.

Granted, the show topics back then still fell under one of the following categories:

1. Test results for
a. Paternity disputes
b. Lie detection regarding cheating spouses

2. Makeovers for
a. Drag queens whose mothers want to see them as boys again
b. Drug-addicted teenagers who wear little to no clothing and insist that it's their body and the audience doesn't know them.

Not exactly Oprah, but ripe for parody and always emotionally charged. Slightly more refined than Springer, but more interesting than Steve Wilkos. And I can't get enough of it!

The man who made the phrase "You are NOT the father!" the stuff of our popular culture, who never seems to age despite having always looked like a gargoyle (a handsome gargoyle, Maury! I love you!). Maury, you ARE the father...figure for troubled teens and trashy youth all over the nation. Maury, no matter what's going on in my life, whether I can't make rent or I'm working a menial job or I feel like a failure, your guests make me feel like a tremendous success, comparatively speaking.

Whenever I watch Maury, I feel transported back in time, to being a 13-year-old girl, doing her homework diligently after school and carefuly avoiding all the pitfalls I saw portrayed in graphic living color on the show.

Maury Povich teaches us so many life lessons: stay in school, don't try to pull off clothes 3 sizes too small, and if you name your daughter Temptrexxx, she will probably be on the show disputing the paternity of her own baby 14 years later.

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

A Case For Equality

The LOGO television series Transamerican Love Story (available for instant viewing on Netflix) goes a long way to prove that all reality dating shows are the same, regardless of sexual orientation or gender status. And that is, that all of them are shallow, petty, and boring. So, this is what I'm doing today!

Monday, March 14, 2011

"It's A Lock!"

Wish me luck - tomorrow I have an appointment to go get interviewed by Tiffany's (well, Eli is getting interviewed, I just have to show up camera-ready) about how we met, and our trip to Paris, specifically relating to the incident pictured above. At stake is $1,000 worth of store credit. Which is pretty sweet and I wouldn't look a gift diamond-encrusted pony in the mouth. I just think it's funny that people are so interested in our "story" - last time it was K-Y brand lubricant. At least we're moving up in the world, in terms of corporate shilling.

....And more HATE.

Here we go's hate on Asians week on YouTube!

Aww, how sweet! God IS good! She prayed for God to grab Atheists by the throat and send them to Hell! Hopefully, he'll come to America and kill us all, that would show those Atheists what a just and loving God he is!

I can't words...

Is she being sarcastic? How can anyone say those words like that and MEAN them? I mean, she's being sarcastic, right? I really hope this turns out to be sarcasm, or a big spoof, like that artist who pretended to starve a dog to death but in reality had adopted it and was merely LOVING it to death.

Why would you - ? I don't - who....WHAT???

All My Favourite Brands Brands Brands Brands...

If any of these people want to contact me about corporate sponsorship or free swag, I'm totally down for this.

Renuzit: my house would smell like stale eggs, fart and cat pee without those little disposable Renuzit cones. Love love love.

Tostitos: their restaurant-style medium salsa is the best salsa you can buy in a grocery store. It's not available everywhere, lament! And the whole grain chips are delicious.

Urban Decay: those 24/7 glide on pencils are sheer magic and I can't stop buying them in every bright metallic colour they come in.

Claussen: what pickles were meant to taste like.

John Frieda: root booster = completely new hair in a bottle. Spray it on and you're a movie star.

Starbucks Via: the caramel flavor is SO good, who cares that it's instant?

Palmer's Cocoa Butter: moisturizing and smells like chocolate. Can't go wrong.

Magnolia Bakery: whatever they make, just put it in your mouth. Amazing.


If you haven't seen this racist rant today, make sure you do.

You should be appalled. You should be ashamed. But one thing you should NOT do, is turn the hate around.

On the surface, it's a blonde bimbo with an enormous rack ranting about something she is sadly uneducated about. She represents everything about the fake plastic bubble we are raised to believe in, to grow up pretty and ignorant of other cultures, loving our mom and our American apple pie. We can infer from her low-cut top, push-up bra and obvious dye job (and boob job?) that she is also a victim of stereotyping, the stereotype that says California Gurlz are tanned and bikini-clad and she, too, is forced into a two-dimensional character, just as the "ching chong ling long" Asians she laments the existence of.

So call her ignorant, call her uneducated, hateful, intolerant. But if you turn around and say some slut hates Asians, you're just as bad as she is.

Sunday, March 13, 2011


This morning in the shower, I realized that no fewer than 4 houses look directly into my shower by way of my un-sheltered window. Pretty good reason to continue trying to get in shape.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Two Major Fails Today...

Today has been so very unsuccessful in this household.

First, I have been wanting to change my hairstyle for a while. Fed up with trying to find someplace on the cheap while being broke, I decided to go for it myself. After having looked at pictures of past self-haircuts, I determined I don't do THAT terrible a job, and gave it a shot. Was pleased at first, then spent like 20 minutes in the mirror, gasping, parting, muttering "what have I done?", combing, etc. Texted Eli a picture. He said it wasn't that bad, and likened my appearance unto "That brass in pocket lady" (Chrissie Hynde, bless his poor uneducated heart, but he tries). Which is a kind of compliment, but now I still need to wait for my next paycheck, place my trust in the people at Supercuts, and explain how, um, a friend did this to my hair. Um, a very stupid friend who I am never talking to again. Ever. And until then, I have something like an aborted bowl cut on a David Cassidy shag. Here's hoping paychecks come in ON TIME this week (for once).

Secondly, I decided to cook salmon steaks for dinner. To put it mildly, that was fail. Oil splattered everywhere, smoked up the kitchen (although less so than in the past), and it never fully cooked, even after cutting it into tiny pieces and grilling them individually. So, last minute scramble, dinner was scrapped, and recalculated. At least I don't have to wear raw salmon on my head, though!

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Things Which Delight Me

I realize it's gotten a bit heavy around here so I thought I'd share some fun little happy things.

These are bizarre things that delight me:

Eating maraschino cherries straight from the jar.

Saving all the little sauces they give you with delivery Chinese food in a Ziploc baggy in the fridge.

Keeping exactly three spare rolls of toilet paper in the upstairs bathroom, and at least a bazillion other rolls neatly stored in the downstairs bathroom.

Watching an entire television series from start to finish (Arrested Development, Buffy the Vampire Slayer, The 4400, Daria, Little Britain, The Mighty Boosh, Kids in the Hall).

Cleaning my room.

Scented candles.

Sweeping the kitchen.

Being meticulous about sorting the recycling (saving the planet, thank you!).

Getting free samples in the mail that my mom sent away for on my behalf!

Sunday nights at home.

Staying up late, talking about memories.

The smell of patchouli.

Eating an entire plate of escargot by myself!

The Metropolitan Museum of Art's period rooms.

Talking about my travels in Europe (over and over and over again...).

Magnolia cupcakes.

Walking around the city when it's nice out, for hours on end.

Drinking pickle juice (not harmful, I looked it up!)

Putting together a really amazing outfit.

Smelling things.

Silent Night

I have been down lately. I mean, beyond just the ordinary up-down-cycle-of-every-month. It's been a trying time in my life, lots has happened, and it feels honestly like everything since Thanksgiving has been an epic blur. So let me explain how this ended in me singing Christmas carols on the Wii fit this morning.

My body knows things. For instance, the Saturday past (ed. note: it was January, but I keep having to remind myself that it wasn't LAST WEEK. EPIC BLUR!) when I woke up grumpy and not feeling capable of work, it was because I actually had a stomach flu that resulted in me hurling for the first time in eight years. This morning I woke up with the same such feeling and here I am, painfully unable to get off the couch (see: up-and-down-cycle-of-every-month).

I log onto facebook after sleeping in and coercing the wonderful Eli to work my shift for me (for the record: he offered last night in Saks and again in that awful diner we ate in), only to find today would have been the birthday of a theatre colleague of mine, who passed away after a long battle with cancer a year (or more, see: EPIC BLUR) ago. It was shocking to me, I spent a while thinking about it, she and I had a very complicated relationship. When I first met her, she was a very bossy lady who wouldn't let me do my job. I used my people skills, walked a mile in her shoes, and delegated her a very important piece of business and VOILA! We were friends, and she made my life easier. Next we met, we were co-stars, and danced together to "Brick House" before every performance, whooping it up and applying false eyelashes in the mirror together. She instilled in me the tradition of dancing your nerves out before a show, and I think of her when I do. Every time.

It got me to thinking about my friend, who lost a mom last week. How sudden and tragic it was. And of course, THAT got me thinking about Aaron, how sad it was that he died just a few days before Christmas. And how sad for his family, to have been full of holiday cheer and then suddenly, to have to go through the most horrible thing imaginable. Thinking about next Christmas, how hard it will be then. Thinking about how it still doesn't feel real that he's gone. And I caught myself humming "Silent Night", and then singing both verses of it that I knew aloud, and feeling like maybe that song would reach someone in the beyond, if there is such a thing, because how can I know these days, with people dying everywhere, all this cold and gray, this eternal winter that started last November and has been a gray smudge on my existence ever since, during which time passes but nothing really happens and then suddenly it's been years, months, days since these people just CEASED to BE, and it's all sadness and doubt and gloom and night.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011


Following a string of bad experiences at various diners throughout Manhattan, I have decided that I will NO LONGER EAT IN DINERS.

Luckily, in New York there is no shortage of restaurants. I know, I know, big city, famous chefs, it goes to reason that all the food in New York is fabulous haute cuisine, amuse bouche, bouquet garni, blah blah blah. But the TRUTH is, as amazing as most food in New York is, the very WORST food can ALWAYS be found at diners.

I assume some responsibility: with my agonizing plethora of food allergies and my vegetarianism, there are really only two things I can eat at a diner: a house salad, or a tuna sandwich. Granted, these may not be the best diner options but I have yet to meet a diner that actually does either of these remotely well. Here are the two outcomes of this choose your own adventure story:

Page 1: You ponder the menu. There is nothing that doesn't involve meat, eggs, bacon, or fresh fruit except the house salad and the tuna wrap. What do you do?

Order the salad: Go to page 2.
Order the tuna wrap: Go to page 3.

Page 2: Your salad is limp iceberg lettuce spread out on a plate and they hand you a bottle of olive oil to use as dressing. As a consequence, you ingest half a plateful of oily lettuce. Go to page 4.

Page 3: Your tuna wrap is dry, contains three diced tomatoes and tastes like styrofoam peanuts. As a consequence, you ingest the entire plateful of fries and part of the tuna wrap covered in ketchup. Go to page 4.

Page 4: Intestinal discomfort.

Peep'wich 2011

Peep'wich is a S'more (P'more?) that I invented last night. The ingredients are as follows:

2 Saltine Crackers
1 tsp Peanut Butter
1 tsp Raspberry Jam
1 tsp Nutella (or more...always more!)
1 marshmallow Peep

Assemble your ingredients like so: Saltine, peanut butter, jam, Peep. Smear as much Nutella as your heart can stand on the other Saltine, then smoosh it into the Peep's face!

The reult will be huge, so OPEN WIDE!

Oh, and it's going to be messy. REALLY MESSY.

For now, you are safe, Peeps....until inspiration strikes again!

Tuesday, March 8, 2011

Romeo, Romeo...?

The most amazing thing happened on the uptown ACE platform tonight at around 9:00pm.

As I was walking to the front of the platform (come on, gotta get my seat, you know!), a group of rowdy teenagers was in my path. I side-stepped to avoid them, and ran smack dab into the following altercation (even said teenagers stopped to watch!):

A man was sitting on the floor against a steel pole, holding a bouquet of roses. A young lady and another young man were standing up near him, and some yelling was taking place. She poured out her bottle of red Gatorade on him, and then he stood up, gave her the flowers, and she proceeded to hit him with them. A cop standing no more than 10 feet away, having a lovely chat with some older ladies, noticed this after um, EVERYONE on the platform came up to him and asked him if he wasn't going to do something. Begrusgingly, he sauntered over and I walked speedily away, not wanted to be caught in the middle of something potentially unpleasant.

After I reached the end of the platform, I looked back. She was in zip cuffs, still pacing back and forth like an enraged tiger.

Here are my theories on what happened:

Theory #1: Romeo-with-the-Roses was on his way to meet his Girlfriend-with-the-Gatorade uptown, to surprise her with flowers. Meanwhile, Girlfriend was stepping out on him to Dave & Buster's on 42nd Street with her extracurricular activity. Amazingly, they end up on the same platform, and he sees her and sinks to the ground with sadness, then confesses he was bringing her the flowers, ready to admit to having cheated on HER, but it was just a one-time thing and he realized how much he loves her and is finally ready to marry her. She pours the Gatorade on his head, because not only can she not believe he cheated on her, but he made her wait so long to propose that she had to seek attention from other men! He tries to console her that it will never happen again, handing her the flowers and, well, it just went downhill from there.

Theory #2: Romeo and Girlfriend USED to date. Like, back in high school or something. He dumped her, and she moved to the city and started seeing The New Guy. He found her on facebook, discovered it was pretty serious between the two of them, and started tracking her movements via FourSquare and decided to catch her on the way to Dave & Busters with New Guy and try to win her back. Unfortunately, she didn't want him back, and that's where we arrived on the scene.

Any other theories (besides the fact that I want to go to Dave & Buster's?)???



Did you see last night's RuPaul's Drag Race?



Did you watch it first thing in the morning today?!?!

Oh, okay.

For the record, that was NOT funny.

And speaking of NOT FUNNY, Alexis Mateo.

And Delta Work got sent home?

Nothing makes sense to me anymore.


Monday, March 7, 2011

Summer in the City

I promise I'm not insane. Well, not very insane.

It's about 30 degrees which means I am thinking summer, summer, summer! Because my mind works like the fashion industry, I like to always be at least two seasons ahead of the one we are currently in, just to keep things interesting.

All of the things I hated about the city in the summer I am suddenly so nostalgic for. You would have heard all about these in depth, but I fell off the planet for six months (at least, as far as this blog is concerned) and thus I am able to glamorize them here.

WALKING out of the house wearing as little as possibly, carrying a tiny little purse that, instead of functioning as a mobile wardrobe full of extra layers for when the temperature inevitably drops 20 degrees when the sun goes down, holds only a camera to document exciting summer adventures and Benadryl, for the hay fever.

HOW GOOD IT FEELS to step into an air-conditioned subway car from the steaming hot platform!

RAIN is fun in the summer, and cools off your toes when it seeps into your shoes, instead of being a drizzly harbinger of pneumonia.

WEARING next to nothing cuz it's hot as an oven!

ACCESORIZING for fun and not because you're trying to bundle up like an Eskimo trapped in a consignment store.


Safe to say it's been about six months since my last post, at least? For which I apologize. But now that I'm half a year older, I'm more mature, and feel capable of actually committing to something as serious and time-consuming as an actual blog. Like a grown-up. A narcissistic, self-reflective grown-up.
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