Lit’l Smokies: A New York City Holiday Epic

Monday, three days before Thanksgiving, 10:34 pm – my apartment in Gramercy

In a spirit of nostalgia for the holidays of our youth, I invite my brother that he and my sister-in-law come over a few hours early for Thanksgiving dinner to have pigs in a blanket, just like mom would always make when we were kids. good idea.

Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, noonish – Trader Joe’s

Stop 1 of my pre-holiday shopping. Purchase crescent rolls. There are no TJ-branded knock-off little smokies. No sweat, was planning to get them at Westside market anyway.

Tuesday, two days before Thanksgiving, 7:30 pm ish – Whole Foods

Stop 2 of my pre-holiday shopping. Decide not to buy the “healthy” (I guess, maybe) mini sausages that they sell at Whole Foods because I made that mistake last year, and they tasted awful. Ya live you learn. Planning to buy these at Westside Market anyway. Wait in the 40 minute check-out line for other purchases. Not an import part of this epic, but sharing anyway.

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 7:39 am – Westside Market

In an act of sheer brilliance, I have decide to get myself up and out early in order to get my shopping completed before the rush begins. TWIST: Completely unable to find lit’l smokies in the store. I ask two different people about them, and am met with expressions of sheer confusion. “You know…” I say, “the little sausages you use to make pigs in a blanket.” This apparently explains nothing.

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 7:49 am – Grace’s Marketplace

In an effort to avoid having to go to the Food Emporium, one of those typical chain grocery stores that are inexplicably crazy expensive in NYC, I decide to try Grace’s. Also no lit’l smokies. Am beginning to wonder if pigs-in-a-blanket is an exclusively southern thing?

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 7:59 am – Walgreens

Worth a shot, right? Alas, no.

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 8:18 am – The Food Emporium

So.. turns out the Food Emporium is permanently closed. RIP over-priced grocery store. After a little panic iphone googling, I discover that they sell lit’l smokies at Target. Only not at my Target in the East Village. Or at the Target in Kips Bay. But if I go to the Upper East Side…

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 8:44 am – Target, the 86th and Lexington

Hurrah! Lit’l smokies! Probably should buy 2 packages just in case! Also got this sweet selfie where I perfectly captured the spirit of the Target Dog Statue:

aaah, that siren, Target

Wednesday, Thanksgiving-Eve, 9:14 am – Home sweet home

Well, an hour and 40 minutes + 2 subways fares, later I return, triumphant, with the lit’l smokies (also with a sweatshirt that says Santa Baby (that Siren, Target!). Probably was worth it. Here’s hoping that my brother and sister-in-law actually decide to come early on Thanksgiving. TBD.

Aspirations & the City

“It’s never too late to be what you might have been.”

This statement has been attributed to George Eliot (pen-name of Mary Ann Evans, author of Middlemarch). What’s interesting is that, although famously attributed to Eliot, this statement is not found in her works or letters. In all likelihood, this is a misattribution and the quote more likely is a mis-quote of the following poem by Adelaide Anne Procter:

Have we not all, amid life’s petty strife,
Some pure ideal of a noble life
That once seemed possible? Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings, and feel it near,
And just within our reach? It was. And yet
We lost it in this daily jar and fret,
And now live idle in a vague regret;
But still our place is kept, and it will wait,
Ready for us to fill it, soon or late.
No star is ever lost we once have seen,
We always may be what we might have been.
Since good, tho’ only thought, has life and breath,
God’s life—can always be redeemed from death;
And evil, in its nature, is decay,
And any hour can blot it all away;
The hopes that, lost, in some far distance seem.
May be the truer life, and this the dream.

I’m not much for poetry, but I find that poem incredibly comforting. Is it true? There’s the harder question.

It seems unfair how in life it is so much easier to pick up bad habits than develop good ones. Efforts towards generally goodness are the hardest fought and the least appreciated. And then convincing others to allow you to change- to accept that you are no longer what you once were.

This part, though:

Did we not hear
The flutter of its wings, and feel it near,
And just within our reach?

It’s exactly how I feel. I feel that there are at all times two versions of myself, the version that I want to be, that I try to be, the embodiment of my ideals, and then actual me, the hot mess who falters in execution of such ideals. It feels next to impossible – the pressure that I put on myself to be perfect – and the near-constancy of my failure. there’s too much to do, too much perfection to obtain, and not enough time to slow down and be mindful and purposeful. I am so on the go that I feel like I barely am keeping it together. I rather expect that anyone would be surprised that I had any such desire for perfection given daily execution.

But even now, I think to myself, if I just had more time to slow down, then I could become that person, I could embody all of the things I want to be.

Perhaps it is never to late to become what I might have been. But what is the thing that I could have been?

Love & the City

Love is patient and kind. It’s incredible to me how nonchalantly those words are recited at weddings. Love is patient and kind, as if describing some intangible thing that exists between the bride and groom.

Those words followed me home from my brother’s wedding and have taken hold of my mind. How difficult, I think, it is to be patient and kind, especially with people you love. In the small things, like when they are running 15 minutes late, or when they tease you about things you are kind of sensitive about. Is my reaction patient and kind? Even harder to be patient and kind when people you love are going through a phase – a phase when they are unhappy or self-destructive or for some reason unpleasant. How does one curate a response that is patient and kind in the face of that – for weeks or months or years?

And to be patient and kind to oneself? To believe it fathomable that in light of all one’s shortcomings, to illicit a response from oneself, or more unfathomable, another person – that is patient and kind?

I’ve been meditating, recently, on the concept of embodying those characteristics, of being a person who is patient and kind, to be a person who would be described as such. Firecracker and patient are not really compatible. How does my love of sitting on patios and having a running commentary on the streetwear of passer-bys jive with the concept of being kind?

What’s incredible to me is that the passage only gets more difficult from there. Not jealous? (never?) Does not brag and is not arrogant? Love does not behave unbecomingly. I shudder at the times I wish I could re-write. It’s the contradiction in my life that I despise most – the fact of being a person who so badly wants to behave in a becoming manner and who so very often fails. Love does not seek its own. (face palm). Love is not provoked? Keeps no record of wrongs? Rejoices in the truth and not in unrighteousness. Do I bear all things? Believe all things? Hope all things? Endure all things?

What does it even mean to believe all things?

What strange words to be recited at a wedding. It’s clearly not describing an abstract concept, the concept of love. These are actions. And they are hard. Maybe impossible. We’re mere humans after all.

Love never fails. That is the next phrase, but for some reason they don’t say that at weddings. Something about the divorce rate maybe? The actual statistics say its 15% (of people who have been married), which is a far cry from the 30% – 50% I so often hear quoted, but maybe those are calculated on a different basis? A percentage of marriages?

To be fair, though, I can imagine that a love, or a marriage, between people who embody these traits could not fail. There’s a perfection and an excellence in these attributes that is aspirational. But I am not even sure that most people, even on their wedding day, and in the context of their marriage, even truly aspire to these things. To not seek one’s own? People tend to like to get their own way.

I am undeterred, though. If I could embody these traits, what would I be like?

A girl can try.

Montage & the City

Isn’t it ridiculous how in the movies, a transformation of weeks and months is usually crammed into a 15 to 30 second montage?

Well, I am ready to descend into the montage. I’m ready.

I am ready to throw myself into my work like a real New Yorker. I mean, not forever, but for busy season. I am all in.

But that’s not it. All of the things. All of the things that I mean to do, or I want to do, or I tell myself I am going to do… the time is now. I’m all in.

There is a season for everything.

A season (or 3 weeks anyway) for indulging in champagne and macarons. But this is not that season. This is Montage-Season. This is my season of being purposeful and really all in. The next 14 weeks won’t fly by. It won’t flash before my eyes in 30 seconds to the theme of a pop song. It won’t be easy, effortless. But it’s happening.

I’m all in.

Meditations & the City

The first Saturday in February is grey and cold and I really ought to be working. Also I ought to be doing laundry but I don’t have enough cash so I am even procrastinating on that.

I don’t know when it was exactly, probably when I was a teenager, and I probably read it in some pathetic YA novel, but I became aware of this idea that there are people, especially shy people, that think – man, if this person or that person really knew me, they would love me.

I have never identified with this idea. This is not because I make great impressions and people love me from the start. A good friend of mine said of ourselves that “we, like fine wine and good cheese, are more of an acquired taste.”

The thing is, though, I feel like.. yeah, maybe I grow on people at first, but then, the more they get to know me, the more likely they are to decide that they don’t like me after all.

And let me tell you, I get it. I identify with these people. The more I get to know myself, the more I am inclined to think that I wouldn’t want to be my friend.

I’m not actually sure how I pull it off. I see, for example, how truly (and not meritoriously) conceited I am. I see it, and I hate it, and yet it doesn’t make me less conceited. I am literally enjoying my use of the word meritoriously as I am writing this, and both thinking how clever I am and how stupidly conceited I am. It’s an incredible contradiction that I get to live. I am also thinking how clever that last sentence was. See how repulsive this is?

Also all of my thoughts and opinions are wrong. Not in the sense that I disagree with the opinions that I have, but that for a person to have my opinions, that person must be a very wrong and unacceptable person. I see how unacceptable everything I think is – but also I look around me and I look into history, and I search for truth, or Truth, and I feel that my thoughts and opinions are not inaccurate. (I mean, surely some of them are misjudgments, I’m not a woman without fault. But largely…) Sometimes the truth isn’t nice. Sometimes it makes people feel bad. Sometimes it’s not fair. But it doesn’t make it not true. And I refuse to lie to myself.

That’s one of the things that goes wrong. I get too comfortable with a person, and I say one of these wrong things, and I become unacceptable.

Then there is also the fact that I am naturally mean-natured. Not all of the time, of course. But it’s one of my worst inclinations. There is a wonderful person that I so desperately want to be and try to be every day. I try to have generous and kind thoughts towards people. I try to think of other people as more important than myself (or at least equally important). But then, sometimes, especially if I am angry or hurt, I can be so mean-spirited. I have a natural talent for saying exactly the thing that will hurt someone the most. I say to them the thing that the fear is true about themselves (even if it is not true). My temper gets the worst of me and this is me at my absolute worst.

It’s exhausting – to try so hard to be the wonderful person that I want to be, only to end up just being me… and the worst version of myself at that.

Tomorrow, I won’t think about this. Maybe it will be sunny outside. I’ll wake up and try to be the best version of myself. I won’t think about how I’m not enough. I’ll smile in the sunlight and think about the person I’m trying to become.

Bumble & the City: App re-activation

Sunday night, 9:57 pm, Upper East Side

The credits roll after the ending of When Harry Met Sally – what I maintain is one of the few rom-coms from that era that has stood the test of time. “You say things like that and you make it impossible for me to hate you. And I hate you Harry… I really hate you.” I’m sobbing obviously.

Monday night, 11-ish pm, Upper East Side

I’ve re-activated my Bumble account. This is obviously completely unrelated to the rom-com sobfest of the night before. Updating the photos, choosing what questions to answer, trying to sound clever – that’s the fun part.

It continues to be fun. Swiping left or right. Reading what people like. I have married friends who have said that they wish that bumble/tindr had been around when they were single because it’s so much fun.

I’m not disagreeing with them, the initial swiping part is fun. But then here’s the thing – I’m immediately matching with guys. My profile has been up for what? 4 minutes? How is this even possible?

Of course I actual know how it’s possible. As you might have heard “It’s a numbers game,” and some guys (how many of them I don’t know) just swipe right. It’s a numbers game.

Tuesday morning, 9:46am – number 6 line

On the way to a client meeting, Bumble sends me a notification: “188 new bees think your special. Open Bumble to see if your into them too (heart emoji).” 188??? That can’t be right. That’s too many. How is that even possible? Again, I know how it’s possible, but still it stresses me out. I mention this to my colleague. She agrees. “How can they be into you? They don’t even know you.”

Plus, I have the three matches from last night that I haven’t messaged. After immediately matching with 3/4 of my right swipes, I decided it was time for bed. I’m not gonna message some dude I don’t know after midnight just so that match doesn’t expire. (I sound so backwards. But honestly. This was what I thought.) But now I’m stressing about those matches expiring. Also, what if I continue to swipe right and not message? Will I go through the entire population of guys who would swipe right on me? Obviously I do nothing.

At 5:13 pm Tuesday afternoon, Bumble notifies me that there are 28 new bees interested in me. I just can’t. What did I allow notifications.

Tuesday night, 8:45-ish pm. Upper East Side

I reluctantly open Bumble. I update part of my profile because why not? Then I re-examine the profile of my matches from last night. The one Greek guy’s profile had a sense of humor. I liked that. But…

That’s how I felt about all of them. How do you get a feel for what someone is like? Impossible to tell, especially given the formulaic nature of what men’s profiles look like (i.e. identical). Actually, the only profile I had swiped right on that didn’t result in a match (or at least not yet but who am I kidding) actually seemed pretty cool. He described himself as from Brooklyn but not too Brooklyn-y and he had linked his spotify account and we have the same taste in music – even the more obscure (but not necessarily in a cool way) bands that I like. Whatever.

I try to do the scroll thing. But then matching is so overwhelming that I found myself really scrutinizing the profiles. What does this person seem like? Could I see myself hanging out with this person? All these questions are of course inane. And I swiped left on everyone.

I wish my profile was being examined this closely. That some guy was looking at it and… you know… reading it, and would be like “you know… nah I don’t think we’d hit it off…”. I don’t care about the rejections. Bumble isn’t feeding me data on how many guys swiped left on my profile.

But really, I wish the matches meant “oh hey, I looked at your profile and that one answer to that question was witty… or that self-deprecating joke made me smile… or you seem like someone I want to know.”

It doesn’t mean that. A friend of mine told me that only 1 in 10 guys that she messages on Bumble actually message back. That’s miserable, right? That stinks. So I guess I have that to look forward to.

I was talking to a friend of mine tonight about modern dating. And he asked if I found the quantity of options overwhelming. He nailed it, of course. I would trade quantity for quality any day.

An aging French & the City (but I’m no longer a Parisienne and yet still new in town)

Four days from now mark 3-months to the day since I left my life in France. It’s a lot in so many ways. I ate dinner at Lena in the LES last night and accidentally said S’il vous plait when I ordered the bottle of Cote du Rhone. It just rolled off the tongue. Don’t worry. I immediately corrected myself.

Strange fact though, my time here in NYC is the longest I’ve stayed in one place since I moved to France.

In other news, my 32nd birthday is in less than a week. My brother is continually ribbing me about how old I’m getting. It’s funny though, not only do I not feel old, I don’t wish I were younger. I certainly don’t want to un-live the life that I’ve had. I wouldn’t give back the years. Even the seasons that were dark/painful/hard or when I cried a lot. I’d keep those too, because they are a part of me. I’m not me without them and wouldn’t give them back either.

There are, of course, a few ways that I guess I feel old though. Like, I can’t have a carby lunch without feeling completely and overwhelmingly exhausted by 3:30 in the afternoon. That was an unexpected and uncool side-effect of getting older. It’s ok though, I’ve never really had the metabolism (or whatever, I’m bad at science) for carbs anyway.

Let’s circle back to my upcoming birthday though. I had semi-decided that it could be fun to have my birthday party at Garfunkel’s, a not so secret speakeasy in LES (none of them are so secret these days) that I had recently discovered on a night out and had a fabulous time there. Well, yesterday evening after dinner, my brother decided that we should go there. But no, I thought (and actually said aloud), I don’t want to ruin it. This, I said, is where I’m supposed to have my birthday. Yes, I am in fact that variety of birthday diva.

Even at this moment, the idea of planning my own birthday celebration – and the idea that I will feel responsible for choosing something that everyone will like (I’m saying this as though we’re talking a lot of people. I estimate 6 people will come. I might invite 10) – it just seems like so much work and not something that I want to do. But at the same time, I’m unfortunately not one of those lucky, low-maintenance people who say, you know, my birthday is really just another day (and seem to mean it). My birthday is not just another day. I might wear a fascinator.

And yet I have absolutely no idea where to go or what to do because I’m still new in town. *le sigh*

Oh and also, going to Garfunkel’s last night did, in fact, ruin it and I will not be having my birthday there. But it wasn’t ruined in the “becoming a run of the mill place we go to” way that I expected it would.

Fitness & the City

It’s a recurring date: Monday night, Tuesday night, Wednesday night, Saturday at brunchtime.

We’re talking about my Peloton of course.

This is both pose-y and unflattering. But whatever. You get it.
Also I love that poster in the BG that I got at a market in Berlin. It’s perfect.

All the blogs say told me that I would gain weight when I moved back to the US from France. But I won’t, I told myself. Not me. I got this.

False. I miscalculated. For one thing, like… everything in NY is served with a side of carbs. It might be quinoa.. but no. I can’t eat it. Second of all, in Paris, if it was 9:45 pm and I didn’t have food in my apartment… that was kind of it. Now I can seamless Indian food (and like… good Indian food) to my apartment at all hours of the night. And it all comes with a side of rice.

So yeah, several weeks later, and a dress size larger, I’m scrambling. How do I get a good rhythm in my life, a pattern that works for me?

Also, I feel like if I do 45 minute classes 3 days in a row, by the fourth day, my body is like. no Amanda. You’re done. Seriously. It like, is finished with me.

I was helping train our class of new-hires at work, and so I had to do that disgusting thing where I eat the middle out of the sandwich. And my colleague was like, “Are you allergic to gluten?” and I was like… “no, I just can’t eat carbs. It doesn’t agree with my metabolism.”

She was nice about it, but also was like “I live for carbs.”

Anyway, this is like my life now, I come home from work and I kill it on the Peloton. Also, don’t be confused by the photo above. Post-workout is actually like this:

My room is full of sweaty gym clothes. I’m worried my apartment smells bad and I don’t know about it.

I’m hoping that I’ll be back to my Paris size by my birthday next month. I bought this amazing dress that I’m going to pair with the Louboutins I got at a steal on eBay.

Bye for now!

Single & the City : handy-woman edition (reprise)

Update – IKEA:0, Amanda :2

IKEA’s attempt to single-shame me into desperately searching for an SO failed. Not only did I assemble the wardrobe (and lamp), but tonight I mounted said wardrobe to the brick wall in my lopsided apartment!

In truth, there were moments when I was sure that the (wildly heavy) mirror was going to shatter into a million pieces
Confession: yes those are books under the front of the wardrobe. Permanent solution TBD…

I get it, the lamp is less impressive, but I’m still taking credit for it.

And all this after killing it in my 45 spin class tonight.

Soundtrack for tonight? Chaka Khan – I’m Every Woman

And yeah, mama’s having wine tonight!

Single & the City : handy-woman edition

Friday evening, UES 8:20 pm-ish

After happy hour margaritas at Pulperia with a lovely friend that I’ve known since high school and now is a fashion copywriter for my favorite designer (or at least the designer whose handbags I actually buy), I head home to assemble the hanging chair stand that arrived that afternoon. Several days earlier, my attempts to locate a beam in the ceiling of my pre-war walk-up and hang the chair directly from the ceiling went horribly awry, as I (not un-embarrassingly) plummeted to the ground as the chair ripped from the ceiling while I was talking to my mom on facetime.

RIP Self-Installed Hanging Chair, short-lived feat of handiness

It was cute while it lasted. Anyway, I hauled the massive and very heavy up chair stand upstairs early that afternoon, cursing my choice to live in a fifth-floor walk-up.

I looked at the pieces, read the instructions, and concluded that I definitely could assemble this.

Friday evening, UES 9:50 pm-ish

It’s been an hour and a half and I literally can’t bridge myself from step 1 to step 2 of the instructions. All the pieces are too heavy and unwieldy and they aren’t fitting together the way that they are supposed to. Luckily I got a text from friends to get an after-dinner drink. Cool. I decide that this misery is a job for tomorrow, and catch a train downtown.

Saturday afternoon (Technically), UES, 1:12 pm

I receive a call from the IKEA drivers that they are here with my delivery. Luckily I am still in bed and in my underwear. Great. I put on the first on a dress that is chosen because it is the first reasonable thing that I touched as I scrambled through my closet.

They guys somehow manage to knock over everything in my craft nook (don’t judge me). Beads fall all over the floor. One of the guys shrugs and says “it slipped.” Whatever, I can’t deal with this right now. Also why did I stay out until 4 am last night?

Saturday afternoon, UES 2:28 pm

I had decided that the best approach would be to take on one project at a time, so I turned the tv (which, btw, I successfully mounted) and got to work on the hanging chair. By this time, I am covered in sweat and no closer to assembling the stupid stand. So this means I have to do the worst possible thing. I call my brother and ask him is he can come over and help me.

As a singleton, self-sufficiency is a key part of my identity. I figure out a way to do everything, from zipping up my dresses (I have, luckily, very long arms) to carrying up heavy boxes and installing shelves, by myself. I’ve got this. This is why having to call someone to come over and help me do something is the worst. It means I can’t do it by myself.

My brother’s lunch is running long. Plus don’t I have to leave for bookclub in half and hour? This is true. I order Indian food and watch tv and am mocked by the incomplete project for the next hour.

Sunday afternoon, UES 5:35-ish pm

The hanging chair unfinished project is still making a disaster of my entire living room, but I have successfully installed the second spice-rack in my kitchen and assembled the IKEA lamp for above the stove. (I mean, I get the model IKEA, but is it really necessary for me to assemble the lamp??)

Sweaty and high on success, I pop over to the super-legit wine-shop by my apartment to buy a bottle of Pommery. I tell myself that I will celebrate once I have assembled the storage cabinet that IKEA delivered the day before.

Only, here’s the thing. Once I manage to burgle my way into the box (I mean, really IKEA?), and the pieces are all over my kitchen…

This is a hot-mess

… it becomes very clear from the instructions that this is a two person job:

I mean… they are basically single-shaming me:

Hey Amanda, why don’t you have an SO to hold this board while you add in these weird pegs?

Boo. Also, my brother is ignoring my texts about coming over to help me. Which makes it feel just a little bit worse.

This is why, in my disastrously messy mid-project apartment where I basically can’t walk through the kitchen or living room, I am drinking the celebratory champagne and writing this blog entry.

When I’m done here, I’ll probably watch tv and order seamless.