reality check!

Last night, like other Wednesday nights for the last 6 months, I went to my Accounting class prepared for a dull evening of P/E ratios and earnings reports. I settled into the ridiculously sloping desk/chair apparatus, balanced my scalding hot cup of tea on the ridiculous slope, and dug out a notebook. (Don't worry. No one gets scalded with the tea.)

Twenty minutes later, the professor, some accounting guy named Ed, is full swing into describing capital budgets and net income increasing over five years and blah blah blah, when he says, "Oh, and a bit of a personal question. I know there are two Stephanies in this class. Did one of you go to ---- Academy?"

With a look of concern and befuddlement, I timidly raised my hand. Why does my professor know where I went to high school? Why is he asking me in the middle of capital budgets?

"Oh!" he said. "My son goes there."

"Oh?!" I said. "How bizarre." Around me, my classmates giggled and whispered "small world" to one another.

"What year did you graduate?" Ed asked me.

"Uh...1997."

"Oh, well my son's a senior." Ed nodded and smiled, and I returned the vague gesture, acknowledging a shared moment. And although our chat ended there, and Ed returned to dividend yields, I had the following panic-stricken inner monologue:

1997. 1997. 2005. My god. I'm about to have a 10-year reunion. But I just went to the 5-year. How can it be 10 already? My god. I'll be 28 then. I always thought by 28 and my 10-year reunion I'd be somewhere. I thought I'd show up to the reunion with my husband and kids in tow. But that clearly isn't gonna happen. I mean, it's only 2 years away, and I don't even have boyfriend. I'm not even dating anyone. I don't have time! It's highly unlikely that I'm going to find someone, like them, fall in love with them, marry them, and bear their children in the next 2 years. I mean, I guess it's possible, especially considering that everyone else in my family is getting married based on an average relationship time of about 17 minutes. So 2 years isn't all that crazy. But god. 2007! 28 years old! Where is the time going? What am I doing?
AUGH!

When I snapped to, Ed had moved on to debt ratios, but I was stuck on some ratios of my own. In a few weeks, I'll be 26, which means I have to round up, so it's the same as 30. I'll spend the next 4 years being 30. In my mind, I'm still 19 or 20, just sort of floundering around trying to get some footing in this world. I just started life over in New York, I'm still broke, I'm back in school, my job blows, and it turns out men in New York also have their thumbs up their asses. I guess some things never change. And I guess that I'm not going to have the luxury apartment with the giant wall of books and charming spiral staircase that I share with my fantastically handsome husband and our brilliant crew of children--not yet. Maybe hoping for all that by 28 was silly. Maybe for my 15-year reunion. Maybe when I'm 33.

My god. I'm practically 40.

i heart green.

Every year about this time (if not sooner), I would have the depressing and heart-to-heart conversation at high decibels with my friend Anne Marie about how much we hate winter. Being prisoners of a cubicle jungle, the most we could do was stare at pictures of the tropical beaches calendar I gave her for Christmas, or do some fantasy vacation shopping online and look at all the pretty palm trees. Usually it sounded something like this:

Me (whining, throwing body around like a 3-year old): Anne Marie, I HATE THIS SNOW!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! I can't take it anymore! I'm moving to Barbados.

Me: I just can't even look out the windows anymore. Everything is bleckh. Crappy grey roads. Crappy grey skies. Crappy grey snow. I hate when even the SNOW is dirty!

Anne Marie: I KNOW!! And my van! It's disGUSting from all the salt.

Me: I can't take it anymore. I am so depressed, I just stare at the walls.

Anne Marie: I'm telling you, it's that disease. We have the S.A.D. - the Seasonal Affective Disorder. Look. (furious typing into google) SEE. It's REAL.

Me: I KNOW it's real. I KNOW I have it. I totally have it.

Anne Marie: We need to buy these special lamps. They cost like thousands of dollars but they are so bright they act like the sun. Ugh, I would totally sit in my lawn chair in front of that thing. With a mudslide. THAT would make me feel better.

Me: But I can't afford a thousand-dollar lamp. Our insurance won't cover it. Ugh. I'll just go buy a plant. I need something GREEN.

Anne Marie: GREEN. I KNOW!! Just SOME sign of LIFE. My GOD! I'm moving to Barbados.

So like I said, this conversation happens pretty much every year...except this year. Because I don't work with Anne Marie anymore. (But, that was a pretty good simulation and I feel like I was there, whining, with Barb laughing at us from across the way.)

Anyhow, all this was a backdrop for the fact that I just "came to" a few minutes ago and realized that I was staring at--and possibly fondling--my new green plant for at least 5 minutes. A few weeks ago, I started to get that whiny itch again, and realized I had no greenery in my apartment. My one plant is at work, where I talk to it and tend to it regularly, and it grows smilingly in the fluorescence...unlike we humans.

So on a recent shopping trip, I made it my mission--nay, my life's purpose--to find a good, healthy, draw-me-out-of-depression little green plant. I picked through various shapes and sizes, short ones and tall ones, fat ones and skinny ones, prickly ones and...not prickly ones, until finally, my plant found ME.

"Oh THERE you are my beautiful darling!" I shouted as I ran open-armed to my lovely. I stroked and caressed its delicate stalks, letting the fair leaves tickle my fingertips. We also shopped around for the new perfect pot, requiring that it too must be vibrant and colorful and big enough for my new friend to grow beyond our wildest expectations.

And I took home the plant and the pot, got dirty with the soil, and proudly mounted the fantastic creature on my kitchen table, tall and leafy and GREEN!! Oh sweet greenness how I've longed for you!!

And today, after looking out the window at the drab post-snowstorm mess down below: the crappy grey roads, crappy grey skies, crappy grey snow, I retreat back to my ferny friend and get lost in my own private palm tree in my own little Upper East Side studio oasis.

things i'll never give up.

Once again, it is the lenten season. And I, being the devout atheist that I am, decided to take this opportunity to realize those precious things in life that I will never willingly give up. Not even on an experimental basis.

#1) Coca-cola. I LOVE COKE. Nothing says "refreshment" and "wake up" like the hiss of a newly opened bottle or the crack of a newly opened can of Coke. I know some people do coffee, some do yoga. But me? Coke, all the way. And I'm not talking any diet or vanilla crap either. We're talking red label, no funky flavors. Just straight up, proper Coke. It's delicious and it goes with just about everything. Pizza? and Coke. Cheese? and Coke. Peanut butter? and Coke. Chocolate chip cookie dough? and Coke. Friday afternoon? and Coke. Mmm, I love my Coke.

#2) Cheese. I LOVE CHEESE. At any given point in time, one could find a minimum of 8 kinds of cheese in my fridge. My love of cheese started very young with simple (white) American and string cheese. As I got older, and started living with other cheese-addicted persons, I started to appreciate the slightly finer cheeses, like fresh mozzarella, dubliner, jarlsberg, or a variety of others whose enzymes give me hives, but which I eat anyway because the immensely satisfying taste is worth the chance of death.

#3) Taking showers. (Thank god, right?) No seriously. I LOVE taking showers. I could spend the whole day hypnotized by the hot water of a good shower. Some people have an aversion to bathing, or are just lazy. "Ugh, I have to take a shower." "Ew, I haven't bathed in four days." No way baby. Not me. Minimum of one per day. Somedays 2 or 3, depending on my activities. I know this has a lot to do with the wild mane of hair upon my head, which needs to be washed often to prevent headaches (it's true, shut up), but seriously...me likey hot water.

#4) Nose picking. Have your laughs. Go ahead. Say "Eww...she's gross!" But I know the truth. Everybody does it. I'm just not afraid to admit it. (And I could name a few others who would too.) Nose picking is such an incredibly satisfying experience. Especially in New York, where the air conditions often leave you with a noseful of black crunchy stuff. Do I want that up there? Hell no. So in I go, rounding up the painfully hard boogers to enhance my clean breathing passages. I don't like picking soft boogies; that's what tissues are for. But hard crunchy boogs need a finger. As soon as I feel something getting solid up there, I go in for it. Shamelessly. Not in public, of course. But if I have known you for more than, say, two months, and we are in a private place, be prepared to see me pick.

#5) Sleep. Some people in this world are ambitious and restless, and aren't satisfied unless they are active. I am not one of them. I will choose sleep over most activities, with the exception of consuming coke or cheese, showering, or picking my nose. Sleep is a wonderful, wonderful thing. Sleep is something I am always dreaming about during my waking hours. I imagine the puffy comfort of my bed, the perfect plumpness of my pillows, and the undisturbed hours that pass while I lie in my blissful unconscious state. And really, bed optional I say. Sleep on the beach, the grass, a hammock, the couch, the floor, wherever! Just sleep...sleep......sleep.....zzzz...

adding insult to injury. literally.

So, yesterday, like every other day, I went to the vending machine upstairs for my morning can of cranberry juice. But this time, the vending machine hated me, and refused to take my dollar bill. I didn't fret much because 5 feet to the right is a change machine. But the change machine also refused to take my dollar bill. So, pissed off and thirsty, I left the kitchen.

I used my high-tech proximity card to open the door to the stairs back down to my floor. It's one of those split stairwells, with 6 or 7 stairs, then a landing, then 6 or 7 more stairs, then the floor. I was still fussing about my juice when it became frighteningly obvious that one of my feet was aborting the stair-descending process.

Presumably, the heel of my shoe was caught in the cuff of the opposite pant leg, but I'm not really sure what happened. But I wiggled my foot and tried to plant it on a step while exercising a death grip on the railing. I did get my foot free, but thanks to gravity and the inertia I already had going down the stairs, I totally missed the step, and next thing I know, I'm going down, aiming head-first for the wall that encases the landing halfway down the stairs.

With my second thunderous crash in about a week, I managed to prevent any major head injuries by bracing the wall with my hands and landing on my knee. Pain was instant, as was humiliation. At first I didn't move at all, hoping that if I was very still and didn't whimper, people would think someone just dropped a very large box, and wouldn't come looking. The plan worked, and I eventually stood back up, re-attached my flopping traitor shoe, and hobbled down the second half of the staircase attempting to look as casual, normal, and non-chalant as possible. I rehearsed my schpeal: "Me? Fall down the stairs at work? No, you must have just heard that man who just dropped a very large box. Yes, I helped him pick everything up on my way up to get my juice."

Back at my desk, I pulled up my pant leg to see instant bruising and swelling around me knee. It looked very nice next to the bruising from the Fire Alarm Incident. I popped some Advil, and whined all afternoon about how much it hurt. (I also embraced the irony, or perhaps I should say premonition, over predicting something like this happening YEARS ago.)

A few hours later, I had to go to the doctor. As doctors tend to do (and much to the continual amusement of my sister, even now at the ripe age of 22), she wanted to test the reflexes in my legs. Before I could think, she pulled back and slammed that little rubber triangle hammer...right into my bruise. My leg twitched little--the rest of me twitched a lot, and I groaned in attempt to stifle the huge profanity that was about to fly out of my mouth.

In the end, I laughed about it. I mean, it could have been worse. What if I'd gotten my juice and the compressed beverage can knocked me in the head when I tumbled? Or, what if had happened earlier when I was showing the new guy where the kitchen was? Or what if I'd fallen down the second half of the staircase, and rolled right into the main hallway in front of half the office? That would have REALLY sucked. So I guess in the end, a little rubber triangle hammer ain't the biggest problem. But it still hurt.

again with the chocolates and flowers??

It's Valentine's Day Eve, and I'm already grumping about it. V-day is one of those "holidays" that I dislike immensely and hope to ignore despite the multiple millions of dollars that are spent by "the industry" to flaunt it and aim it down my throat in the hopes of making me gag.

A lot of people say to me, "You just don't like Valentine's Day because you're single." Usually, in response to that, I say something eloquent and articulate along the lines of "Go fuck yourself." No, that's not why I don't like it. And while that reason may not exactly help the situation, it sure isn't a primary reason. Let me explain.

There have been years where, when good ol' Saint Valentine came knocking upon our doors with his little cherubs and red-hearted arrows, I have been not single. And even in those years, the only Valentines I ever got were from my mom. (Thanks mom.) In fact, there is only one year I can recall getting anything: 1995. My best guy friend in high school gave me a mix tape whose grand finale was Dennis Leary's hit single, "Asshole." Despite this, the mix tape is still the best Valentine's gift I ever got, simply because it is the ONLY Valentine's gift I ever got...that wasn't from my mom. So really, I've had 9 years of dashed expectations that make me the Realist that I am today.

So I don't expect much. Scratch that...I don't expect anything. A card would put me into shock. Flowers--cardiac arrest. Like last Friday, I went to get a sandwich for lunch. And the guy at the deli gave me and one of my friends each a small stalk of flowers from a vase. I squealed with joy at the kindness of strangers (who likely just want my return business), and giggled even though big burly construction workers were trying to sweet talk my flowers away from me. "No way!" I told them through their reflective safety vests. "These are the only flowers I'm gonna get! Back off!" I may, however, return to that same deli tomorrow and see if I can scrounge up a box of chocolates, or perhaps some sort of marriage-for-greencard arrangement.

Anyhow, I just wanted to state, for the record, that I'm not a big fan of the highly commercialized Hallmark Holiday that we are forced to reckon with each year on February 14th. This year, I did send one e-valentine to one person, and it was only because it contained a very cute puppy (another industry marketing ploy). Otherwise, I'm really only in it for the next-day half-off chocolate sales.

That, and the card from my mom. (Thanks mom.)

that's gonna leave a mark.

This story begins several days ago while I was lying on my bed, talking to a friend in the dark. As I stared off into space, a quick green flash of light caught my eye.

"What was that?" I asked.

"What was what?" he responded. I sat up and looked around, and it happened again.

"Oooh, right there! It came from there!" I said excitedly. Then I realized there was a smoke alarm on the wall. "That's weird. I don't ever remember seeing that there before."

"Well, every apartment has to have one," he said.

"Yes, and mine did. Over THERE," I said, pointing to the empty ring of mounted plastic in the kitchen. "I took it down because it went off EVERY time I turned on the oven. It's in the silverware drawer."

"You know you're not supposed to--"

"I KNOW I'm not supposed to take it down. But EVERY TIME I TURNED ON THE OVEN!! What's the point of having a device if it's over-sensitive to the point that people dismantle them?"

Soon after this conversation/argument, my friend left. And as I shut and locked the door, I turned around to see right there, upon the countertop, a new, sealed-in-plastic operating manual for a combination smoke/carbon monoxide detector.

"Mother fuckers," I said to no one in particular. This meant that someone had been in my apartment without my permission NOR my knowledge, which was not only illegal but also gave access to all my bras and underwear scattered on the floor. This did NOT make me happy, and I spent the night wondering if someone was going to jump out from a closet, except there's only one closet and definitely no room to hide in it.

Now -- to the present day.

Hungry and cranky and most likely suffering PMS (yes, AGAIN), I went to the store for some groceries. Among other things like tofu, yogurt, and cheese, I bought Stouffer's French Bread Pizza, Deluxe flavor. I was so so so excited for my little french slice of heaven, covered with sausage, pepperoni, onions, mushrooms, peppers....yummmmm!!

As the instructions indicate, and as I've done a thousand times before, I microwaved the pizza for 90 seconds while the oven preheated to 450°. I popped in the pizza, checked the time, and wandered away from the kitchen.

When I checked my pizza, it was a little crispy, but I didn't mind. I pulled it out of the oven and was examining the cheesy goodness when--

BEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! BEEEEEEEEEEEP! "Fire! Fire!"

In complete and utter bewilderment, I spun in circles trying to figure out who was talking to me. I crossed the apartment in a series of quick strides, wondering how on earth I was going to fan the alarm that is mounted just inches away from my 10-foot ceiling. I looked around at my feet and, with the oven mitt still on my hand, grabbed a thick catalog while snapping the lid on my giant 18-gallon Rubbermaid container of clothing. "Fire! Fire!" some woman's voice announced.

I put my weight on the container, knowing it wouldn't hold me for long. But to my surprise it supported me as I waved the giant catalog over my head, begging the beeping woman to stop announcing my "fire" to the five boroughs. It wouldn't stop, it just wouldn't stop, and as I wondered what my neighbors were thinking....the inevitable happened.

POP! The Rubbermaid lid let go and fell into its container, dropping me a foot and a half to the ground. I bounced off the wall, taking my very, VERY treasured script of handmade Chinese calligraphy from college down off the wall as I went. Then, with a giant thunderous CRASH, the Rubbermaid tipped to the side and shot out, smashing into my water-filled humidifier and sending it careening -- in pieces -- across the floor. Vaguely aware of pain on the left side of my rib cage, I scrambled back to my feet and went to the kitchen for a chair.

The chairs are cheap and chinsey (but such a bargain!) and not made to withstand the weight of a crazy woman frantically waving a thick catalog at a chirping, speaking fire alarm. (By the way, WHEN did they start TALKING??) I lined up the chair, but first stopped to open the window as much as possible -- which was only a few more inches than its already open state. "Fire! Fire!" BEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Back on the chair, I stood and fanned and fanned and fanned. I wondered if I could reach the device, but suspected extending myself that far would make another spill not just likely, but deserved. I wished I'd looked at the manual so I knew how to shut this thing the fuck up. And I fanned and fanned and fanned, my head now inches away from the million-decibel shrieker, until finally...it stopped.

Sh.

Deep breath.

I rested my arms a second before fanning some more in the hopes the squawky bitch wouldn't start up again. I jumped off the chair to open the other window, landing in a giant puddle of water left behind my scattered humidifier, which was now actually under the bed. I fanned a few minutes more before finally relenting, stepping down so I could eat the goddamned pizza before it was slightly crispy AND cold.

As I chewed my first delicious-but-not-worth-the-trouble bite, I walked in front of the mirror and lifted my shirt. Two parallel red marks, each 6-8 inches long, wrapped around my rib cage, and another, much smaller, at the base of my neck. There's also a bruise on my hand. I don't know what I hit, but I hit something, and all because some dirty asshole let himself in to install a new, state-required smoke alarm, whose batteries, I assure you, are about to come out.

nyc is unkind to the decision-making-challenged.

I have been staring at my computer screen for I'd say about 15 minutes now. The reason? I can't decide what I want for lunch. I have a natural inability to make these kinds of decisions, so it's not that it's surprising. It's that it keeps getting worse.

Back in Boston, we had a cafeteria in our company's building. The food sucked and was completely over-priced, but usually my biggest decision was "do I want fries or onion rings." (Coincidentally, this was also the most exciting decision, because it meant we had an option other than fries, which was very, very exciting.)

Other days, when I'd go out to lunch, it was a little harder. Barb and I would clamor into the car, and hem and haw over where to go, hoping we'd come up with an idea before the light turned green. On special occasions, one of us would be craving something, and say something like "I want honey mustard. Let's go to Friendly's!" But in the majority of cases, I'd just yell out "Go left!" or "Go right!" and we'd pick an option from that part of town, narrowing it down only as we drove past our options, saying "I guess not Papa Gino's...not Johnny Rockets." But even then, it was HARD. I never knew what I wanted, and that was with about 10 or 12 strong lunch options to choose from.

Now imagine that I have about 10 or 12 HUNDRED lunch options to choose from. Chinese, Mexican, Korean, Afghan, Indian, Japanese, pizza, sandwiches, bagels, and on and on and on. And even if I narrow it down to, say, pizza, I then have to decide which of the 47 nearby pizza shops I want my slices from: the Italian place, the Greek place, the Kosher place, the place with seating or without, the place across the street or 3 blocks away, the one with the free soda or the one with extra cheese. I end up so completely overwhelmed that instead of choosing ANY of them to silence and satiate the screaming hunger from my stomach, I sit here staring at the walls.

In traditional Barb's-car-like style, I usually just wander out the door, and turn left, or right, or go straight, and eventually say "oh. I guess I'll go here. again. or for the first time," which is really only the beginning. Because then I have to deal with picking something from the menu...

it was a good idea at the time.

This morning the sun was up and the birds were chirping (or cooing, as pigeons do). It was one of those mid-winter days where the temperature rose up and above the recent chilly single digits, with hopes of high 30s in the forecast. This, my friends, is a skirt day.

So I showered, dried my hair, and trotted around happily as if it were a spring day in April. I dug out a black skirt, some black tights for my legs, and then.....off to the closet.

I know you think this is going very girlie very quickly. And you're right. Because when I got to the closet I pulled out an aqua blue sweater. For funky layering purposes, I tossed a pink shirt under it. And when I was almost ready to go, I opted for some pink shoes - same color as the shirt. How CUTE!!

Until I got to work. Now I am afraid that I'm one jelly bracelet away from a bad 80s throwback. If I maybe put my hair in a scary ponytail on the side of my head, and added some lace gloves, I really think some fashion magazine photographer would chase me down the street for their "Don't!" section. Or maybe those "What NOT to Wear" people would jump on me from their perch upon some fire escape and hose me down.

Truthfully, I think I'm okay. I am right on the verge of being TOO 80s. But I can't help it. I mean...how do you unlearn something like that? It's like my child self was digging through the closet looking for "radical" color combinations, but instead came out with something that, like, totally makes me want to gag myself with a silver spoon!

Watch out Debbie Gibson. Here I come.