The list

I haven't written fiction in quite a while. But here is a short story! Enjoy.

The list

The winter wind blew softly against the window, snow falling against left over summer air conditioners left hanging out of new york city windows. In the warm glow of inside light, six silhouettes of lovely women stood. Leaning casually around the kitchen, they drew up their plans carefully, easily, precisely, their perfectly manicured hands slipping over large pieces of parchment rolled out onto Maryanne's dining room table in her upper west side apartment. They took turns drawing, the rest standing calmly, observing the work, taking occasional notes, playing out possible scenarios in their minds, martinis in hand. Sometimes they laughed, but mostly they stood still, taking in the enormity of what was about to happen.

From the outside of the window looking in, where the neighbors often watched jealously, they appeared to be six typical Manhattan women, pristine and lovely looking. Like expansive vases in 5th avenue windows. Lovely winter coats and the best bags and shoes covered their delicate bodies. Composed, classy and sophisticated. All speaking second and often third languages, ivy league educated with many degrees. Jet setting, gorgeous, independent, ideal Manhattan women. The kind of women tourists passed on the streets and wanted to take photos of, but were embarrassed to. But something was very, very wrong. Their hearts had been broken. In ripping and devastating ways. And now something must be done.

They would meekly avoid taking action no longer. Too many years they had wasted waiting for their perfect men, and now that their dreams had died, other things must be killed as well -- their memories.

As they exchanged glances and clinked glasses, the women's minds ran wild. They had known many men in the city, and as all men and human do, these men had made mistakes, many of them. But their worst mistakes were made against these women. And these mistakes, they would soon regret. The women were being tortured, by these stale thoughts and dreams, written by men they had loved. Soon, it would all be over.

As the wind blew harsher against the window, the sound of sirens rose and faded. As ordinary a sound as the wind. The women stood quietly, mixing thoughts in their minds, calm demeanour's and graceful posture as they added fruit to their wine, but something fiery lived in each of their expressions. These men would soon regret it, if only for that second before something dark descended on them.

And so, the plan needed to be drawn. And easily, they drafted it, using Maryanne's architecture rulers and Christine's art charcoal chalk. But the question remained -- whose names to put down? And whose to leave off? It was a very important decision.

The consultant would be arriving in a few hours, and the list must be prepared. Martina was a trained memorida -- a counselor trained to literally rewind a person's memory as if it was old VHS tape, and cut out the horrible scenes, the heartbreak, the smashed glass, the screams of pain -- and in its place, each woman would remember lilacs and have no recollection of their pasts. Their divorces, their cheating husbands, their lying boyfriends, the dates who insulted them or used them, the players who lead them on, would all vanish into dust. And in its place, the innocence of their youth. Yet, they would retain the lessons learned and the strength they had acquired from their pain. But all bitterness vanish. Martinia promised. The six women had signed her contract eagerly, excitedly taking turns signing away their pasts.

They clinked glasses again, as they poured another round and played more soft music. Jeffrey, Daria's personal Jazz pianist was playing for them. As always, he was sworn to secrecy about anything he had overheard during a ladies get together. And tonight was no exception.

It was a full moon and the women's soft eyes met one another as they looked, up, hands dirty with charcoal now, brows tense in concentration, their glances met in a moment of regret. Once their memories were erased, they would never get them back, not ever again. Each name must be chosen carefully. They stood dizzy with anticipation of what would soon come to pass, wishing things might be different. But things weren't different, and this they all knew clearly. Jeffrey focused on his fingers hitting ivory and ignored the soft chatter and the occasional teary revelation about what they would soon forget.

The list was now made. A long list of names written in black charcoal chalk, covering the long pieces of parchment paper stretched across Maryanne's kitchen table. Martina would arrive any moment.

The women sat together, nervous now. The buzzer rang and Maryanne buzzed Martina into the building. The women stood when she arrived and offered her a martini, but she smiled politely and declined.

"We have serious business to attend to," she said, pulling folders from her briefcase. "Show me the list you have made."

Maryanne and the other ladies lead Martina to the kitchen, where she began to look over the long list of names, running her hands over each.

"Oh these names are warm, they are simmering, they almost burn my hands," she said, her fingers jumping back from the parchment paper. "These must be removed. We will start with you, Maryanne."

Martinia had Maryanne sit down at the head of the table, as she lit a candle and pulled a large book from her briefcase. All of the other women were seated at the rest of the chairs.

"Before we begin, please know that this will never be undone. And what you let go of tonight, will be dead to you tomorrow. All of your memories, gone. This man will completely vanish from your life and the earth as you know it."

The women nodded, hesitantly, but excitedly. "Yes!" they said.

"Let's begin."

Jeffrey was instructed to play the next series of songs.

Martinia began to sway, eyes closed, her hands still over the letters drawn across the parchment. The other women looked unsure. What was the protocol for this?

Oh I see it now, said Martinia. Close your eyes Marriane, place your hands over his name.

"Which name?" asked Marriane, looking at her list of five names.

"You know."

Marriance without looking up found her hands moving over Bryant's name. Bryant F. Crawford.

"Ouch!" she yelled, the heat rising from his name.

"Keep your hands there," instructed Marianne. "The heat will soon pass, after the memories are gone. Keep your eyes closed."

Marian's face rose and fell into an assortment of bittersweet expressions.

"I see him now, telling you sweet words," said Martina.

"You walked along the river and he told you that he wanted you there. You would build great things together. He said he would be by your side, always."

Maryane looked as though she might cry.

"He said together, it would be impossible to lose. Your children's eyes would be green like yours, with flecks of his blue. He promised to make you omelets every Sunday. He said that no one would ever harm you again."

Without opening her eyes, Martina told Maryanne to close her eyes, or it wouldn't work. She did as she was told.

"Be strong," she said.

"And now he has taken your hand on a cold winter's day, like the weather tonight. He's lead you somewhere. When you slipped on the street, he grabbed you and pulled you up. He took you to his apartment and you ate across from him as he admired you. You built your dreams there, that night. He said he'd waited too long and would not settle for anything less, than you. He played your favorite song on his guitar, and you knew it was coming. He got down on one knee. You'd waited for this. A year later, he slept with the waitress in the diner on the end of his block. He slept with her in the bathroom and when he came home you knew it. You wanted to kill him, but didn't. He saw her every Wednesday at 4pm. You saw blood dripping in your mind for a moment, but then something pulled you out of it."

The memories continued. Bittersweet, some interesting, some ironic, some trite. Fights, long walks, normal afternoons. Cereal in the morning, bookstores, wine glasses. Loves, dates, ex-husbands and boyfriends.

"In the park he stood next to you and asked what your plans for the rest of your life were. He asked if it would be so bad if I was there for you forever. He then used you and never spoke to you again."

One by one, Mariane went through each of the six women's lists, reciting the memories that bubbled up from the hot names she held her hands over.

"You wanted him dead, you had never been so betrayed, he left you alone there in the woods to die, metaphorically," she continued.

Finally, she stopped.

"And this is where these memories come to an end. This is where this all ends," said Mariane as she moved her hands over the entire paper, now quickly rolling it into a long tube. Her hands grew hotter and hotter as the names and memories mixed into what sparked into a flame, blue and red flames running along each side of the parchment. Had the candle lit the parchment on fire? What had happened? Placing the tube of parchment into a nearby vase, it burned bright red, lighting the women's surprised eyes with a glow.

"And here the memories die, here the men who caused the pain will feel a cold shiver down their neck, a cold hand placed on their backs, here their sly smiles and fitted designer jeans and thick wallets, and their barterer's hands, and their liar's mouths and their cheating hearts, will suddenly, turn to dust. Slowly, every name on the list, every man listed will feel the pain in this fire times a thousand, until it is so overwhelming their hearts stop."

And as if the earth stopped breathing there was an enormous pause -- had the women gotten this wrong? Marriane was suppose to free them from their memories, not torture the men themselves. Had they just killed their memories, or the men as well? They were afraid to ask. The parchment fire swelled to an enormously hot ball, and in the smoke were there, images? Were the women hallucinating? Or could they see each of the men who had harmed them? They were sketches in the smoke that rose to the ceiling, sketches of the men who had hurt them and left them for emotional dead -- and now the darkness was turned toward them. Their eyes wide as they ran from pain, scurrying in horror from some monster too horrific to be seen. Was it real? Or was this yet another memory? Running they were, but it was inescapable. Like a thick cloud of smoke billowing into a locked room, they scurried and hurried away. There was no where for them to run. All of the torture they'd inflicted, their unkindness, their lies were now reflected back to them, times a thousand, and all of their athletic builds and strength and power was now wilted, now killed. Now they slunk into piles of darkness, their lying bodies exhausted with the full thick smoke of truth. The fell, one by one, right off of the earth. Right out of the women's minds. Until, they sat quiet. The candles burned, the smoke stopped, the burning parchment now a calm pile of ashes. Their minds were clear, calm. Sitting the dark, no one spoke a word.

Martinia finally broke the thick silence. "What has been forgotten, is now forgotten and not meant to be recalled. You will not remember the source of your pain and will only take its lessons. And in the place of smoke is now lilac and white light. In the place where his face was, is now a lovely lilac, and you are rid of him."

None of the women ever learned what happened to the men. Had they died? Had they been tortured by the women's thoughts? Or were there memories all that was dead now? Because they could not remember the men, they could not remember to care to ask the question of Martina, who stood slowly, happily, grasping the women's hands and thanking them all for the lovely drink, and urging them to enjoy the rest of their ladies night.

"Have some more sangria!" she urged. "Enjoy our lives, and make many more memories. Just remember, if the darkness becomes too heavy, call on me and I will burn some of those bad memories up, to create more space. Like a farmer needs to burn his field occasionally to start fresh for a new crop."

And the women smiled calmly, glad to be free.

I despise the post office...

In the last year I have learned to hate the post office and anything related to postmen, packages or "sorry we missed you" slips.

My screaming post man from last year is now a faint memory, what, with his incoherent ramblings and shrieks about how I should tell my friends and family to stop sending holiday packages, because he doesn't want to have to deliver them. Plus, his horrified speech about the atrocity that was outside...a note from someone to please leave a package by their door!

Anyway, I walk all the way through Chinatown in the rain. I'm also just about as far away as it's humanly possible to be from my assigned post office. If you were to draw a line from my front door to the post office they've assigned me, the line would not be straight -- it would be zig zags, loops, some spiralgraph art, some instructions scribbled in Chinese, with that kid from the "ATM!" bank commercials running myseriously ahead wanting me to follow him (but saying "USPS!" instead) and some people on the street calling after me "can't get there from here" while they chew on a piece of straw.

There is a perfectly good post office 3 blocks away, but nooo, I have to go go on a USPS "adventure" and walk a good 15-20 minutes in a direction where there are no subways to the Knickerbocker post office. Thanks USPS. And what is a knickerbocker anyway? Is that another word for underpants?

I only had to pick up a package. There isn't a buzzer in my apartment (long story -- equally annoying, but less fun to write about), so I walk all the way over there in the wind and the pouring rain -- wait, a song is coming to me...what kind of package, what kind of package makes you go out in the wind and the pouring rain? Only this USPS package I have -- anyone remember that? No? No? Ok...anyway, I'm glaring at the front of the line. It's not moving. Everyone has that planted stance and look of apathy as if they've accepted they will just live here, and maybe die here, in the USPS waiting area. And that's OK.

The woman behind the counter has this look on her face like she has no idea how to match the slip to the packages behind her, which appear to be thrown around with no obvious system. Sometimes she comes back and informs the person that sadly, their package is missing, which prompts the person to nearly crawl through the two open glass windows to look for it themselves, "It's a white box, this big, it must be there!" "No, it must be lost. Next."

This is her only power over our line-standing apathy. The power of the package reject. We look at each other nervously -- what if my package...didn't make it? Her only other defense is, "Ah. they re-deliver. see?" The poor tiny older asian woman discovered this sad fact -- it probably took her twice as long to get here as me and now she has to go sit at home and wait for the re-deliver. Just dandy.

I try to see if there are different ways to fold up my umbrella, I read old email on my blackberry, I read the passport instructions on the walls, look at everyone's shoes. A cute guy arrives two people back. I occasionally glance behind me, he looks over. I ignore him. I'm just not one to talk in line, especially with two asian people between us.

I wait so long for my package, that the two asian people behind me get their's first while mine is lost. Cute guy stands next to me. If I had known I'd be here so long, I would have talked to him. At this point, we would probably have already had several inside jokes and reached that point where talking wasn't even necessary.

She comes back and looks at me like "why are you standing here?" I remind her that I'm here for a package. "Oh, OK," she says. As if I would be here for something else? This is the place where you buy food right? Oh no? Is this where you buy jewelry? Oh it isn't? Parakeets? No? Well in that case, I'll just pick up a box -- thanks.

I tell her my name and address again -- cute guy is right there, being quiet. I like quiet. But that means I'm suppose to talk, nah. Forget it...he can memorize my address and send me letters like in that post office movie -- except I never saw it. The previews showed something about a letter and a mailbox though. What was that called...the postcard? The letter? The Postal Service? Oh wait, that's a band -- not a bad one either.

Then I finally get my package and can no longer wait around seeing where this might go. Or, I could have. I could have just hung out, like she thought I was doing before. And she'd say "why are you here for?" And I'd say "ah, just hanging out. I don't need a parcel or anything like that. I just come here for the atmosphere."

Then I fight my way through the wind and the pouring rain, almost die crossing that crazy highway street where the light turns green with white man waving "come on into the street!" only to get halfway across where it turns red and all the highway traffic starts. Thanks little white man for welcoming me into traffic.

I think I'm finally done with my bitching. Happy Holidays! :)

Neighbors...

So I walk into my building to see a guy carrying about 100 shirts on hangers...he is bracing himself for stairs, like mentally preparing himself. I awkwardly stand behind him, as I'm returning from the gym and have nothing to carry. His friend up ahead is also carrying hundreds of shirts on hangers. He yells something about how he can do it, and to think of how strong that one finger that is being crushed by the weight of all of those shirts will be!

Is this a gay couple? I can't figure out who in Manhattan has so many shirts. Then I notice a long flowing red thing -- a devil's costume? Nah. A woman's dress? Yeah. Flapper-ish...hmmm...

He finally lets me pass him, after stopping in the middle of the flights of stairs a few times. He introduced himself and was rather cute...perhaps he is a straight guy with a gay friend who has a woman's dress not because he has a girlfriend or is a cross-dresser, but uh...for some other unknown reason? A girl can dream...

In other news, I don't usually get pissed at deli people or pizza places that yell and are blunt and rude. Doesn't bother me. That urgency in their voice says "there is a line, it's nothing personal, I want to make sure you can hear me."

HOWEVER, while I was buying my hostess cupcake (and an antioxidant drink to uh...balance it out?) I walk up to the registers. There was mix of people standing in front of me, so it wasn't clear I was next. The super rude guy doesn't look at me and stares into space, so it's unclear who is next. Then he suddenly yells "put your stuff down!" Um...huh? OK.

Then the other guy behind the other cash register says $4.79 under his breath to no one in particular (I assume to the person at his register). "How much is it?" I say to the guy who is now staring into space without having given me a total.

He then screams "$4.79...FOUR.SEVENTY.NINE!!" with such a sharp tone that it instantly pisses me off, sort of like a toddler who says "I.don't.want.the.broccoli!!!!"" It was just like that "four.seventy.nine!!!!" So I grab my stuff, throw it in my bag and turn away.

He then yells after me "CHHaaange!!! Change."

Without thinking I yell back, "Fuck you!"

I wasn't proud of it, but it just came out. Something about being yelled at tends to make me yell back. That happened once with a screaming cab driver, and another time with a screaming tour bus guy (those guys who try to sell you tickets). He had lied to us about which bus was leaving and made us wait over an hour and then he forgot us on the wrong bus, and wanted us to sprint after a already driving away bus to get on it. He was the other person I said "fuck you" to this year. Twice a year, not so bad I'd say.

A homeless guy on the street right before thanksgiving told me "Happy turkey lady." I expected "Happy Turkey Day," or something like that. It made me laugh, picturing this turkey lady who is rather happy.

Groceries on the fire escape...

I saw two white fluffy dogs (who didn't know each other) walk up to each other very, very slowly and then they sniffed noses. It made me laugh. I think they both had sweaters on. I found it laugh out loud funny somehow. They were the most urban, civilized little dogs ever. NYC dogs say hello with a nose sniff instead of a kiss on the cheek. They almost seemed a bit shy, or apathetic maybe? Like they're so tired from their day of lounging on the penthouse sofa and avoiding the maid, they can barely bring themselves to say "oh, hello there new dog."

My fridge has been broken for a while now. I started out only buying non-perishables, but I also don't own a can opener. Last night, I got salad, juice and a vegetable platter and put them on the fire escape. They stayed just about as fresh as a working fridge would have kept them. Luckily the lettuce didn't freeze or anything. This is a benefit to cold weather really. I guess, when it snows someday, I can buy frozen things! Hopefully the fridge will be fixed by then...

And I managed to use scotch tape to temporarily fix my running toilet. Anyway, it was really loud and annoying. It proves my theory that tape can be used to fix anything.

It was warmer today...maybe 40ish. I heard some guys say "wow, it's nice out! Not cold." And I agreed silently. I never would have thought I would think that.

I went to Midtown for a Life Coaching session and realized I should go there more. I almost never go there anymore and I miss how clean it is. And the dogs are clearly more civilized than in the LES.

Winter rocks my socks

I love the avocado salad at Bcup cafe. It is the best ever. Plus, unlike pretentious and crappy Cocoa Bar on Clinton St. (which also has the most horridly disgusting drinks and evil customer service), this place always has laid back yet nice and fast service -- very fast service. I can get a whole, fresh delicious salad here, with friendly and polite (and fast) guys behind the counter, while listening to cool yet not pretentious songs in French, in the time it takes for that dumbass untrained guy at Cocoa Bar to notice he has a customer -- did I mention that on a Monday night, they told me at Cocoa Bar that he sometimes kicks out everyone on laptops after a certain time (that happened to be right when I arrived -- yet had already purchased a drink) so they can feel like a bar, instead of just a coffee place. Though the place was so empty when I was there, I lucked out and didn't need to be removed.

Anyway, so despite it being super close to me, I've grown to hate Cocoa Bar. And Bcup is just nice in every way. PLUS free wifi and enough outlets if you know where to sit.

I really love this weather. Gray, but fresh. And leaves! all over the place. It's just so cute. I feel like you're suppose to feel when summer comes around. I'm strangely excited for freezing cold.

Did you know you could bake pumpkin bread into little cupcakes? I didn't either, but it said to on the side of the box and, it's actually really good!

I've officiallly had 6 paid Life Coaching clients for the first time ever, so I'm really excited. And I'm writing two ebooks about topics within the self-development category -- more to come.

Best of all, my non-cold fridge should be fixed tomorrow!

I'm taking classes at a new salsa place a friend recommended and really liking it! It's so hard to find a place where it's serious enough for you to learn, but not so serious that they consider salsa to be life and death!!

I realized though, I need to learn to tie scarves better. I only know the basic way and no one is wearing it that way this year. They put all of these extra loops and knots in there or something. I find myself staring at people's necks -- probably creeps them out.

There was a roach on the subway platform and everyone scurried away...as in, running. I assumed it must be a huge rat or something. When I saw the little roach I was sort of disapointed in my fellow subway waiters -- seriously. Just a little bug. Not even a big rat or stray dog with rabies or anything.

Your ideal city...

I really think everyone has one, or two or three, ideal cities. Places you're sort of born to go and live. Sometimes, you luck out, and the life and place where you grow up matches your heart and soul. And other times, you have to go far away to find that place that makes you feel most at home.

I never really thought about that before. We don't get to pick where we grow up, but we do get to pick where we end up. It's nice to have that choice. But it doesn't make it easy when everything you know and understand is one place, and everything you want to be is another. I'm now realizing it was a leap I made, and at the time I was too implusive to really think through the meaning of it. Or maybe, I was too scared to think through the meaning of it, because then I probably wouldn't have had the guts to move. That's probably it.

I can see now how poorly suited I was for Arizona. I was never a fan of the heat. I'm impatient. I love art. I like walking fast and never was the best at parking. Never had a thing for big open spaces and I don't really care about big houses or owning things. I think blunt people can be charming. I like a cold breeze. I don't mind the gray, because I only half-notice it, since I'm usually thinking about something else anyway. Plus, it cheers me up, because regardless of how awful a day I am having, the sky is clearly in a worse mood. Back then, I remember being sunburned a lot and waiting for buses, counting down the minutes to skin cancer.

There of course, are those wonderfully familiar things too. 4th avenue and downtown. Tater tots at...wow, was it called The Grill? Playing pool. Cowboy paintings in most establishments -- dentist offices, drycleaners, etc. Dive bars that were ever so slightly scary -- not just carefully constructed to look that way. The gorgeous foothills and that view. Hiking is pretty amazing. The Rialto, back when swing dancing was in for that year. And the smell of thunderstorms. Family and friends of course.

And Phoenix had it's moments. It was cool to drive down the street, park, and climb a mountain. The views were pretty and the sunsets nice. Some nice restaurants and very green golf courses. It's where I learned to salsa. And pool parties and going out in Scottsdale every weekend in our standard uniform of jeans, heels and tank top. But I'm pretty sure a drug dealer was living across from me in the apartment complex. People were always screaming outside and not in a New York way. More in a "should I call the cops because that guy is about to beat her up?" way. I remember the apartment hiring police to patrol and they posted a flyer with the reasons including drug dealing, guns being fired, parking lot violence and...get this...barking dogs. lol. And then I remember hearing the car parked next to mine as it was stolen. My ex had his car window broken in and his stereo stolen once in my parking lot, and again at a store down the street...poor guy. I did get really tired of that, and I lived way too far from my friends. There are lots better places in Phoenix and Scottsdale and I probably should I have just moved. But I guess I knew it wasn't forever. I've always felt safe in New York. And everything here is not far away.

A few quick things...Costco and what not

Thank you guys SO much for the comments! I've been meaning to write long comments back to you all because I've recently gotten some really nice ones. I really appreciate the support!

So I got glasses at costco. It took me maybe 1.5 hours to get there! Maybe it wasn't that long but it seemed like it. The Costco here is 2 trains away deep in Brooklyn. It was kinda ghetto, but not scary ghetto...still, not like the Costco I'm used to in Phoenix (which is pretty darn ghetto being at the "Spectrum" mall, but in a slightly diferent way that I'm used to). hard to explain.

I went there to get glasses, because they are waay cheaper at Costco than those little rip-ya-off Manhattan stores. I got a pair of really cheap ones. Under $100 for frames and lenses. I wasn't sure how they looked on, as I went alone -- and glasses are like hats, right? can't tell if it looks OK on your own head. So I asked the middle-aged guy behind the counter who had an accent I couldn't place. I don't know if he was eye-glass fashion savy or not. He said "they work." There was an old man behind me, maybe late 60s who said they were "hot," but his idea of hot may be the much larger frames that the older women wear. sigh.

Before leaving, it seemed like I should get something in bulk, since I'd taken this day trip to the Costco and all. So I got a gigantic thing of daily vitamins and a huge grouping of lint brushes all stuck together (about the same price as one lint brush at the Duane Reades). I wanted to get more items, but the idea of carrying them for the whole minumum 15 block walk plus extensive train ride back coupled with the fact that most of the bulk items would not even fit in my studio, made me change my mind. I would have had to install some Ikea storage solutions just to house cereal, or dish soap, if i had bought any. Even the swiffer seeper refills were ginormous. I was sort of in awe, and also dissapointed since the prices were sooo good.

I did enjoy walking around and picking up huge mega sized things and admiring them. Like seven or eight chapsticks for the price of one. But what the heck am I going to do with eight chapsticks?

When you check out, they don't give you bags or boxes or anything. They have a collection of short, flap-less boxes in the back in a giant bin that you're allowed to rumamge through. nice. So I had to stuff it all in my bag (was sticking out a bit) for my trek home. If I ever go again, I'm taking my own bags with me! I guess everyone else there has cars...so shopping cart to car.

It was strange to see a parking lot that big. And to arrive there by subway and not car was also a bit odd. I had to walk under a highway bridge thing. I'm not sure what my point is.

I was then excited that the falafel place lets you include any beverage you like instead of the lemonade that comes with the combo -- even vitamin water. Those things are up to $4 a piece at the delis. For some reason that kinda made my day. And the guy did a great job making the gyro thing and was...get this....POLITE. I was a bit shocked.

I should go to bed. This is way too much rambling about some very insignificant things :)

later gaters.

When everything stays open...

So much happens here all the time. I realized the other day that when nothing closes, it sometimes feels like nothing stops. I guess that's one thing about smaller towns -- you can expect everyone will rest after 9pm. Not here. Nope. It's not a bad thing either. But it can be tiring at times.

So much happens here and most of the time I don't know when things happened or in what order. Days and months sort of run together here with no definite beginning or end, and it doesn't seem to matter. It's a blur of drinks and sunglasses, coats, heels, and events and lounges and dives and diners and bands and grungy things on the sidewalk and what not. It really is exactly like Sex and The City. Except I try to have a few more values and morals than that. And I don't take nearly as many cabs as they do. But really, the atmosphere is pretty close.

Last night I went to an event that was a party at a club for a magazine's hottest bachelor issue. There was a handful of male models walking around -- good times. I had another in-person coaching session. I recently randomly got to see Moby spinning at a club, went out for Halloween as a sheriff, went to a snowboarding club meeting, started taking a salsa class that is a bit above my level, played soccer and started running at the gym. I never ran before because I'm not that good at it and feel like i don't know what to do with my arms. But soccer has helped and I've discovered I can actually run two miles without it being that big of a deal! Normally a half mile has me dead. So this is the first time since I was 12 that I could run a mile. We'll see how long that lasts...But it has been nice to notice that no one at the gym seems to care that I run like a dinosaur. They are way too immersed in their ipod playlists. So that's good.

I had a few jerk guys say mean things about Life Coaching at that event last night, but they asked for cards anyway. Interesting how they tear the profession apart, laugh at the butterfly on the card, yet take the card with them. One guy even asked if my coaching could help cure him of his obsession with Asian hookers. Another guy started laughing and said "no offense..." and then I forget the second part of what he said, but I'm sure it was offensive.

It hurt my feelings a lot less than it did a year ago when I heard things like that. I know why I'm doing this. I like to help people and I'm good at it. I know I've already helped to spur some big things into action for people, and helped people discover some really important things that will not only improve their own fulfillment and happiness, but the people in their lives. And I know there are a lot of very empty people here in NYC that don't want to be.

I've faced a lot of resistance so far. In coaching school I remember my lowest point was when an older somewhat bitter woman told me that she thought I was too young to be a Life Coach and that I should only coach clients who were children or in high school at the oldest. Her older friend agreed. Strange, since the coaching process assumes the coach knows nothing about the client and their business (unlike a consultant). Anyway, I remember crying in my car and wondering if should go back to having a "regular" job where no one would attack my career choice on a daily basis. But somehow, I didn't. I've now had clients of all ages. Some 7 or 8 years older, some even 30, 40 years older. I never should have believed that bitter woman, as she was wrong.

Still, I've had a whole lot of people laugh in my face, or look at me strangely, or offer me "viable alternatives" to choosing this as a career.

I've had probably close to 100 people so far ask me questions about coaching when they really weren't interested in hearing the answer (because they'd already decided it was "out there" and useless and just wanted me to confirm that for them). I got tired of defending it. The people who want me to "sell it" don't need coaching in the first place. And the people who really do want coaching certainly don't need me to sell it to them.

I tell people that the coaching helps get what you want faster -- and that is true -- but the most important part for me, is having them realize what they really want in the first place. What they want from a gut level, foundation, soul sort of place -- what they are meant to do in life. When you connect with that, everything else just makes sense and becomes enjoyable. But people here have a hard enough time with the image of a butterfly on a business card, so I don't mention the second part as much. Maybe someday I will have the guts to.

It's very hard sometimes to do something for a career that most people haven't heard of, or instantly feel completely comfortable attacking -- people here seem to really enjoy attacking Life Coaching as if it is some sort of sport. But in the end, I guess that is why I'm here and doing this. Usually the people that attack it most are the ones most afraid of it, and most unhappy. I remember one guy at a bar slammed his beer on the bar and walked away after I told him what I did. He was of course asking all the usual question, so for an example, I asked him what he really wanted out of his life. He said to make money and die. I asked if that would make him happy. He said he didn't care if he was happy and all that mattered was making more money than his friends. That's when he slammed down the beer and stormed off. Sometimes it'd be nice to just say I was a lawyer.

And the leaves are falling...one year later

This is the first time I've experienced fall. I was almost afraid of all of the leaves pelting me from the trees in Central Park. My bag was covered in them. It made me laugh and seemed kinda silly. It made me wonder "why now?" Why do the leaves fall now and not yesterday? But I guess life has its own time line.

Are seasons capitalized? I always forget. I know in Spanish seasons are capitalized however they are NOT in English. But that doesn't help me. I've always struggled to keep the seasons in the correct order because in AZ it is extremely hot, very hot, slightly cool (called winter, but it was sort of clear it wasn't a "real" winter like the rest of the country had). So it was summer, monsoons or sweater and light jacket weather. Done. I remember getting a Spanish placement test question wrong in college because I couldn't list the seasons in the correct order...but I did know the words for them! Used to anyway. Now it's a bit fuzzy...

I think I will remember the seasons now. My 1 year NYC anniversary is coming up! I forget the exact date, but it was close to November 1st when I moved here. It was right after Halloween.

I got here right after the majority of the leaves had already fallen and it was winter and cold. So this is the first time I've watched them fall.

The weather has been really gray and it looks strange to me. With summer being so bright I completely forgot that other seasons existed. It was such a long time ago when I arrived here in the winter. One one hand it has completely flown by and it's hard for me to even tell people I've been here a year when I feel so new still. On the other hand, I feel like I've lived here for a good 6 or 7 years -- maybe it's just a tiring place?

Well, enough about leaves. I've been enjoying soccer still. I do have an enormous knee-cap sized bruise on my right leg though (knocked down again...it had been a good month or two since I fell that hard. I rolled out of it OK, but still hit the ground pretty hard).

It is multicolored in an autumn sort of way...some blue, green, red, purplish colors in there. The thing about bruises is, they don't leave a scar, so I really don't care. But I must say, I am pretty much covered in scars now after a few months of soccer, which is unfortunate. But I guess that's life.

Maybe I should stop doing sports with such a high risk of injury. sigh. But now I want to get into snowboarding again. Maybe I should just focus on salsa more, as the most that happens there is a broken toe nail and that is really not as bad as it sounds -- it does grow back!

Interestingly, whenever a guy I was dating has stepped on my toe while salsa dancing, the relationship quickly fell apart. That's happened to me with three different guys. I think it's an indication of being out of synch. Or maybe I read way too much into everything.

I get to go to a big magazine party tomorrow and so that should be fun! Should be lots of cute guys there I hear. And I have more coaching clients now, so between that and the marketing of that, it's taking up just about all of my time. I sorta can't wait until I one day have a stronger foundation built with the coaching, so I could chill or take a vacation or something. I haven't taken a vacation in I'm not sure how long. I visited AZ once this year and that was it. Would be nice to see some jungles or deserts or oceans or something.

I never really wanted to travel before. Not sure why now. I'm torn between wanting to travel full time a la "The 4-Hour Work Week," or wanting to save up and buy a big place with huge cabinets -- strange, when a year ago I despised cabinets and any sort of containers with labels.

I guess you never know what you'll end up wanting. So you have to keep asking yourself, just in case it changes and you forgot to notice.

Halloween

It's getting cold here in NY. I broke out a jacket last night. Leaves are falling -- I was shocked to realize they are actually orange! Bright orange. I somehow thought that was some sort of stereotype. It seems very Halloween-ish, the way it matches pumpkins and all.

I'm convinced that the same company that sells stripper apparel also stocks Halloween stores. Why? I guess they figured that plastic shoes can be sold as "fun Halloween footwear" also? I don't quite get it. Guys have it easy. Scary or funny. Girls have an identity crisis in October -- which Halloween character am I?? Am I a Mary Jane shoe? or a pump? Stiletto? Platform boot? Clear platform stiletto boot? And so on...and that's just footwear.

The sales guy was leading me around the store showing me bumble bee costumes in various amounts of "sexiness" as he called it, with an expression that we both knew meant "slutty." A girl overheard our conversation and jumped in with "Yes, every costume here is too 'sexy' or 'slutty' really! Why is that? Why must Halloween be so like porn?"

So there is the fairly normal mini skirt tube top bee -- the "conservative" one, since the ballet-type stand out skirt goes just below the ass. The less conservative ones are essentially a bra with a mini skirt -- "Hooker Barbie goes to a Halloween Party!"

I finally settle on the Sheriff costume, to of course honor my AZ roots!! Woo hoo! And the outfit covers everything as well. Plus, I have a pair of unworn cowboy boots (East Village style) that my first roommate gave me when they didn't fit her. So might as well use those.

So, I then asked where the cowboy hats were. I walked over to the roped off section with the big "don't touch! Ask for help!" sign. The salesgirl is loudly hitting on/talking to another tattooed girl and relating an anecdote about a guy not being able to find the G spot. She is now telling the other girl precisely where it is -- as I am awkwardly waiting (she doesn't seem to notice she has a customer who really does need to purchase a cowboy hat!) After the full description, I pretend to have not heard and sheepishly say "um, I need a hat."

Once again, this fits into my theory about this. And Halloween in NYC is just like Halloween anywhere.

"Sugar? We're not that kinda store..."

I went in the whole foods. I was inspired. I'd just seen some cooking show on TV at the gym that had a blond Barbie-ish (yet not slutty) woman baking. She was the most like-able Barbie-ish person I'd seen, and she seemed so very thrilled to be baking and most of her cookware was pink. She was making pink cupcakes that matched not only her 50s style pink dress, but also matched her daughter's shirt, who was learning to make perfect swirls of frosting.

It was strange, but instead of being annoyed at this limited portrayal of a woman in a pink kitchen and huge pink dress, I was like -- wow! I want to bake. And the chick probably owned the whole TV show anyway.

I was overtaken by this need to go buy flour.

So I'm roaming the gigantic isles in the East Village Whole Foods. This store is like an airport. People rushing everywhere with that life or death "I'm going to miss my flight!" sort of urgency. People swarming past whole grain oatmeal and Antipasti pasta bars. Swiping up oranges as they power walk up to the automated futuristic check-out with three color-coded lines and a computer voice that says "register 3" "register 7" etc.

I finally find the baking section. Get a tiny thing of flour. But sugar...sugar? Where are you? There is every sugar alternative possible. Sugar in the raw. Brown sugar. Powdered. Organic, hand-something-or-other, vegan, vegetarian sugar that was raised in a country house by the shore. Sugar that farmers recited poetry to as it grew -- to ensure its sweetness. Sheltered, over-protected sugar. Sugar that was not watered with water, but with sugar water -- sugar water that is of course organic and grew up on a special sugar island made of pureness and love.

So I ask the guy, "Excuse me. Do you have any regular sugar?"

"Regular?"

"You know. Normal sugar?"

He laughs. Not condescendingly, but knowingly.

"No. We're not that kinda store." And he gestures to the product after product of whole grain something or other organic not-going-to-kill-you-as-quickly foods.

I laugh and pick up the artfully packaged zip lock bag of "Organic Cane Sugar," with a little picture of the sugar in its natural habitat, and go.

Walking past the meat, a young blond mother (or maybe she wasn't young, but looked it from the Whole Foods products) was asking "yes, but is it organic?" as she selected meats.

I wanted to say, "Yes! Of course it's organic. It's organic raw beef. And it's probably vegetarian too. And vegan."

Don't get me wrong. I'm ALL for healthy food, and I know most of our food standards here in the US suck. Completely. And organic really is better -- I actually think it should ALL be safe, organic food. But still. Sometimes you just want a little box of white, gonna-kill-you sugar.

Still, Whole Foods rocks and their produce is always perfect!

Anyway, so I then went home to find a gigantic fly in my studio. Not sure how it got there as I hadn't opened the window. It was so big it almost made me laugh. It was like one of those plastic Halloween flies you throw at kids to scare them. But real.

I threw a book at it, and it worked. I guess fly swatters don't really work because they can see it coming.

Sorry to combine those topics together. And to make it worse, I find myself getting really bored waiting for trains lately. I actually enjoy it when the rats come out on the tracks. It gives me something to watch. There were two the other day frolicking and playing -- almost running past each other in a leap-frog sort of way. Then I watch as people around me notice the mice. "

The ones who enjoy watching are either very much tourists and take a picture, or very much local, and bored.

This blog ended up being pretty random.

Tiny oven, tiny cookies -- and my problem with priorities

It seemed to make sense to buy the "mini" chocolate chip cookies. The half-dollar sized things fit nicely in my teeny tiny oven. The whole experience felt very Easy Bake Oven. I never actually had one of those, but I wanted one.

I felt this was true NYC studio cooking.

Today I used a pan for the first time in my studio. Until today, I did not have a pan, since I hadn't packed it. I own one saute pan and it was still in the other apartment's kitchen. I've been sick and not able to walk the eight or more blocks, but today finally felt slightly better. So I went and got my pan, my spoon, my two plates and tupperware containers.

It's really made a difference having that spoon and I wish I would have gone back for it long ago. I guess I'm one of those people who don't have the regular priorities. I think most people would have done anything to ensure they had proper dish towels, bath towels, silverware, pans and plates. But with all the delivery, it just didn't seem more important than the other billions of things on my on-going to-do list. Moving is one of those things where you cross something out ot write on four more things.

I think the problem is the companies that suck. I had to call Time Warner over five times and after 20 days they are finally coming out to set up my internet. I was lead down several false paths to finally get here. I'm glad to have the promise of internet on the horizon line again (and many of you know of my quest for internet at my NYC apmt #1 -- and how it didn't turn out so well). Still, I'm hopeful. But if that was one call instead of five, maybe I would have had time to buy a new spoon.

But back to my messed up priority list...next on that list. Laundry is apparently low in priority. After getting this awful cold, barely able to move, I realized there was no possible way for me to lug my hamper of clothes, change, heavy laundry detergent, etc., down 3 flights of stairs and 1/2 block away around the corner and back.

So, after running out of bath towels (as I only have 3 towels total), I realized I would have to find another way. In the hostel when they didn't give me a towel (happened occasionally -- for $20-$30 a night you can't exactly expect a mint on your pillow), I just waited. Sounds strange, but if you wait long enough, you will air dry. Still, not the best option.

So paper towels it was! I'm not sure if it was Bounty or what, but it really worked well. It only took a few paper towels. I was impressed.

Actually, it made me wish they made paper bath towels. Think about it, fewer germs. How many times do you re-use a bath towel right? Yeah. Paper is the way of the future. They should start making those things. Not as big and fluffy as a regular towel, but it'd work.

Another thing I need to get is baking pans. Prior to bringing home my pan today, I had no way to re-heat delivery left overs. (I don't have a microwave yet). And I can't get anything delivered until my buzzer is fixed.

So not being able to use the top of the stove, I re-heated food in the tiny oven. But of course, I had no pans. Luckily, I had tin foil and found it was pretty easy to make a fast fake pan/dish thing. I made five or six of those and they all worked. and they don't burn much when you take them out. I also don't have any oven mitts.

Wow, I'm really realizing now how bad I am at this sort of everyday stuff. But I did find a way to use paper towels as a fake oven mitt and it worked fine (especially with the low-heat tin foil fake pan).

Both of my past apartments, however, had full kitchens of stuff that I borrowed. Guess I forgot about that.

In other news, yesterday sucked! I don't usually whine all that often, but it was one of those days. I was still very sick in bed, and I'd lost my voice. My buzzer didn't work. So this meant it was nearly impossible to get delivery. It's hard enough for them to take the order under normal circumstances, but my complications of not having a working buzzer to let them in, or a voice to call with...well. Not gonna work. There was a slim chance that if they could hear me on the phone, and if they agreed to come despite not having the buzzer, I would still have to go down three flights of stairs and back to let them in, and I didn't think I could make it. So I ended up eating all the scraps in my kitchen and putting together some strange things. And I ate the marshmallow Hello Kitty lolly pop my mom sent, despite it looking so cute. I was going to keep it, but it just looked so tasty.


Also bad, in the morning my phone stopped working. I recently broke down and finally got a Blackberry (as that's like having flip flops in AZ), and despite LOVING the thing, its email, text and phone all stopped working. I couldn't send texts to myself. And it kept beeping like a message had come in, but nothing showed up. I called Sprint and they said to take the battery out. I put it back in and got an hour glass symbol that wouldn't leave.

This happened right after my computer died. I love my internet and it's how I stay in touch.

I then freeeaked out. I had no way to contact anyone in the outside world. No phone, internet, text, email, carrier pigeon, etc. It was just me, sick in a room, with no buzzer, no phone, no voice. And being so sick, I knew it would be tough to walk a few blocks to a pay phone, or 6 or 7 blocks to the closest coffee place that had a rentable computer. I then panicked.

Finally my phone started working again, and today I felt good enough to take my computer into the little laptop store that is close by and got it fixed. hooray! I still sound like a frog, but I can make sounds again. So all is good.

And I have a pan, a spoon, and tiny cookies. Not bad.

Looking back...

I've been in a new apmt (a studio) for a week and a half now. I moved quickly after some drama that, though I won't mention details, struck fear in me in a way I've never felt. That basic human fear of OMG I don't want to live on the street. And it was all out of my control too, but the situation meant I needed to find a new place ASAP.

So I went on craigslist, and after months of stalking the perfect studio -- and seeing about 15 places and nothing working out -- I emailed three apartments and decided no matter how bad they were, I was going to get one, no matter what. I saw all 3 back-to-back that evening -- one in the Lower East Side, one in Soho (that was so scary, small and smelly it was like a large broom closet and looked like maybe someone had died there? and a second in the lower east side (with two college boy roommates, um...no).

Side note -- it was funny about the Soho apmt I saw. The ad said to meet the owner on the street outside of the building at a certain time. This small crowd of us gathered on this lovely Soho street. Shuffling around looking at our phones and sizing each other up -- would this be a war for a studio apartment? The owner let us in and all six or seven of us hurried up about seven flights of stairs. We bonded as we became exhausted with each flight. And when we walked into the smelly, tiny, dilapidated anti-Feng Shui room, we all looked at each other, said a mutual "No." And all hurried back down the stairs.

Then we saw a second apartment across the street (same owner). Only me and one guy who worked downtown bothered to give it a try -- everyone else left. Once again, upon seeing the shack-like smelly, horror-film worthy room, we exchanged another mutual "wow, this sucks" expression and hurried down the stairs. The guy talked to me a bit on the way out about our apmt. searches...I really should have talked to him more, as he seemed nice, but silly me was nervous and fled.

Anyway, so after that, and seeing this room where NYU senior boys were living (teeny tiny frat house) on bunk beds, I decided I just couldn't swing that. And then I luckily was able to get this awesome, though slightly outa my price range (need to get some serious extra income coming in this month) studio. Tiny, but with a wooden floor. Old building, but nice block. No laundry on the premesis, but it matters more to be able to live alone. Three flight walk-up, but I can use the exercise.

Tiny easy-bake-oven sized stove, but at least it's mine. Somewhat broken fridge, but all the shelves the condensation drips on -- are my shelves. And a place where I can put on a silly avacado face mask on -- or something, without fear of striking terror into my roommates friends who swung by for late night partying.

So by some stroke of luck, I managed to secure the studio. And much scary drama later -- there are many scams in this city and I thought I might be out a few thousand for a 24-hour period -- I finally had keys that worked and settled in.

It's been a crazy week and a half.

I then hired my trusty "man with a van" off of Craigslist and $200 and two days of packing and un-packing later, I was in my new place.

That first night was strange. Surrounded by my black garbage bags (as I couldn't find anyplace that sold enough boxes), and my desk and furniture oddly arranged in the center of the room, I sat there alone and must admit I felt odd.

In Phoenix, I lived alone for five years. But this was the first time I've lived alone in NYC. A strange silent sound hung in the air. It was combined with the euphoria of knowing I had the place to myself -- AND I could actually pee whenever I wanted! I didn't have to build in extra hours to my getting ready time slot in case roommates took an hour long shower before I could get in there.

It got much better after I scrubbed the place 4 times -- amazing how dirty some people can leave an apmt. I thought I was messy, but not compared to this. And now I feel happily settled in and cosy.

All of this sorta made me look at everything I've been through since November.

I've had a total of 6 roommates in 10 months, and three apartments. That's because my roommates would sublet their rooms when they went on vacation, so strangers would live there too. Plus, all the roommates in the six to 10-person hostel rooms I stayed in for three weeks. I must say, I no longer care at all who sees me in ugly PJs or looking horrid -- I just don't care.

I lived with:
a 30-something girl
a 40-something guy
A 20s girl and guy with their large dog
A 40-something woman
A 20-year old girl
Plus all of the friends/family members who crashed on the couch

And I arrived here really cringing at living with anyone.

So, to continue my overly dramatic reflecting...It was a dark and stormy night...lol . I moved here last November with one suitcase. I knew someone in Brooklyn, and had an Uncle I'd met a handful of times in Queens. I remember staring at a map of Manhattan -- it seemed blank to me. A collection of names of streets I'd never walked on. I remember feeling like you do on the first day of Kindergarden, where you sorta just want to go home, but know you're too old for that.

I remember every street being new, every thing being unknown and every person, a stranger. The subway was an elusive mystery I couldn't quite grasp. A snake of colored lines running around what seemed to be random directions across the city. I didn't know which way was Queens and which was New Jersey and the Hudson and the East River were just words. Uptown and Downtown took me a minute to figure out. I didn't get how you know which subway station goes where -- something about crossing the street? WHy??

I most of all remember after a few months, that exhausted feeling of trying so hard every day, but walking home alone in winter with a cold breeze at night, and watching groups of girls excitedly walking to bars. And wondering if I'd ever meet anyone here.

I must say, after these 10 months I'm even more in love with New York than when I got here. That idealistic dream didn't burn out, I wasn't the victim of some stereotype of NYC being great and then realizing I hated it -- nope, I love it even more. I don't know why, but I feel like, for now at least, I'm just suppose to be here.

I started playing soccer, which has been good exercise. And I finally feel like I've sunk some roots in.

I got to go to Atlantic City this weekend -- woo hoo! It was like a baby Vegas. We took the train from Penn Station to New Brunswick, and were going to take a Greyhound to Atlantic City (which is in New Jersey), but one girl's cousin picked us up and we drove the two hours. We got a hotel at a new hotel which was fun! They had three cute little orange flowers in vases. We ate an enormous dinner, had plenty of cocktails and played roulette (and I won $16). i watched for black jack and then played some slots (and lost $20). Then we went to a little club place.

I was separated from the girls at one point where I lost them after wandering through the slot machines. A random guy came over and was said he perfectly understood my situation -- he had seen us all earlier in the night, he knew I'd lost them and was trying to text them...and he was going to hit on me during this. Somehow, I found his direct approach refreshing -- must admit I like that about NYers. He put a bill in the slot machine while he found the restroom, to keep me from leaving, he said. And he was pretty charming, until the point where I realized we just weren't right for each other. But it was still really nice to have someone follow me around for a while, as that doesn't usually happen. Actually, I'm not sure if that has ever happened. He lives in the city too, on the east side, so maybe we'll be friends. He half way joked that he didn't date people on the west side of the island (as it is nearly impossible to get from the upper east to the west side). I don't think i would have found that funny a year ago. I would have said it was offensive and shallow.

I don't think I've gotten shallow, but I just like it here. So I don't mind that stuff as much I guess.

It was a really fun trip.

I don't think I'm going to live in NYC forever, but I think I'm going to always love it.

When nothing makes sense...

Today, I leave and there is a TV sitting inside a suitcase. As I walk up to it, a homeless-looking man takes the cord and plugs it into the street lamp. I'm not sure why.

This "I'm not sure why" phrase seems to be one of the most common things I say/think these days.

Now the TV is on. It's sitting there on the sidewalk, with the cars and people passing by, on the corner of 10th and A.

Basketball was on.

I watched for a few seconds while waiting to cross the street. "Hmm...I'm watching some random TV on the sidewalk, right out here on the street...OK."

Some homeless guy was fooling with it, and it seems he has been carrying a giant suitcase with a huge TV inside. I pass by trying not to wonder why -- because nothing, absolutely nothing makes any sense in this city.

Maybe it's performance art, or a statement about society, but it didn't seem like it -- seems like the guy just wanted to be left alone with his TV. Perhaps he found these items in a dumpster -- and this is where my head starts reeling and I get a headache.

A couple other slightly confused passerbyer people raise eyebrows, but in that apathetic NY way, because fact is, there is too much weird stuff here to ever figure out.

You know how in most cities, you might mis-read a sign and think it says something silly, and laugh at yourself for reading it wrong? Maybe tell a friend about your funny mistake? Here, well, you read it right. And no, there is no explanation -- ever.

Human Blackjack ----> this way. Yup, read that right. People wearing giant cards walking around.

This is why I have a headache.

Then in the subway there was a large group of kids blasting music just around the corner -- were they break dancing? There were skateboards involved and screaming. And then a guy with the most enormous chello walked up -- or it must have been that other instrument, the giant one. You know what I mean.

Anyway, it has a wheel on the bottom, and he takes the wheel off and a street kid runs over and touches it and he yells at the kid -- "This is very, very expensive!!"

For some reason every third person on the street was carrying an instrument. guitars, violins, everything.

"The table top is around the corner over there, and the table legs are on that corner over that way," says some lady to a guy. ONCe again -- i tell myself to not try to figure this one out! But as usual, my mind can't help it.

WHY?? Why are there table legs ONE way and the table top on the other? WHY??

*Sigh*

As much as I love New York, I admit at times it's like living in Alice and Wonderland and trying to have it make sense.

It's enough to make me want to go to some bland department store in the Midwest that closes at 7pm and soak up the normalcy. Maybe I need a break from the island.

I made some new friends here, woo hoo! It's a hard place to make friends. But then again, I think it's hard to meet friends everywhere in the country these days, as society has us all so isolated. I think that is sad and almost with it was back in the times when we had farms and things, just so we would have communities. People are meant to be in communities, not in square little isolated boxes.

Rambling little essay

I throw down foamy hot chocolate and play with a big slab of chocolate cake as it sticks to my fork, as I contemplate exactly which of all of these forks in the road, to take.

Here I am, half-way inside, half-way outside, in one of these open-air coffee shops listening to salsa music and Shakira as that familiar smell of coffee grounds and sidewalk cigarettes drifts in now and then.

A creepy old man stares. I think to myself, there are plenty of ladies here wearing far less than me, so kindly remove your eyes and I'll take off my glare. I watch cabs carry people from one place to another. Only less interesting people sit in this open air coffee shop, as the cool breeze make an occasional entrance. I watch the passing shoulders and dark eyes of men hurrying – that sidewalk taking them somewhere quickly. Somewhere, is never here. At least, not yet.

This late at night on a Monday, this place is all pie, tea and diaries. Pens scribbling onto computer print-outs, women sighing as they flip through journals. Men contemplating as they count ceiling tiles. It makes me feel like I’m not the only one with a need to word-doodle this late at night.

Homeless people scream to amuse themselves in the park. Half the people look up apathetically from their coffee, moving only their eyes slowly up, as their heavy heads and necks refuse to rotate. Then, eyes slowly return back down to reading. Screams continue, fewer eyes look. Screams sporadically come and go, just like the cigarette smoke and the smell of coffee.

Mosquitoes bite my ankles.

I guess we all get what we are ready for. And the things we long for that are delayed are often that way for a reason. Then one day, all of those things we’ve wanted so badly fall into our laps, and that can be the moment, when it feels like everything is strange.

But as Willy Wonka says to Charlie Bucket, “You know what happened to the boy who got everything he ever wanted, don’t you?” And after a pause, “He lived happily ever after.”

Looking back, last November I threw myself into a place where I wasn’t sure I could swim. I was fully aware of sinking and it terrified me. Still does of course.

Few things make us feel alive like pairing our small fragile human souls up against the world, and all the things that could happen. Sometimes opening a door is all that is needed. After years of trying, it can come down to just opening that door a tiny bit more – and that sunlight that streams in, that small amount more can be all it takes to illuminate the situation, to re-align the factors, and to shift everything in a great way.

There is a movie trailer parked on the side of the street, bright against the dark night. It is parked there from time to time, so I forget to notice if they are filming or not.

The couple next to me drinks tea from a little pot as she demands too much from him and he smiles anyway. She complains in shrill, bitchy voice and he gazes at her, head on hands. Their table, like all the tables on the patio, is chained down -- as they discover when they try to move it. They seem very happy, despite this.

A woman wraps her arms around an attractive guy half her age. A younger girl behind them raises her eyebrows.

The silences between words, those tones in someone’s voice, and going deeper with them than they have before. It’s like throwing someone into the ocean, while still holding their hand – giving them the freedom to dream without restriction. To discover what their intuition is telling them, and freeing them to touch their strength, feel their power and charge off towards whatever it is they want more than anything. And then I sit back, and I feel this warmth, the same feeling I have when I see all of my beginning soccer players dribbling triumphantly toward me, with a mix of concentration and joy on their faces. That’s Life Coaching to me.

I guess that’s what I want in my life. To do that for as many people as is possible. Because each person who feels the strength of knowing their own power, that person is not stoppable by anyone or anything – they will fight until they get it. And whatever “it” is, will make them happy, and that will spill over onto all of the people in their lives.

And when they are living, doing the things they were meant for – the strongest powers and talents and abilities they have within them, the things they were born with, the things their intuition has whispered in their ear “to do” for years, maybe a lifetime, that they have ignored, calling attention to that thing, those things, that is like lighting a match for someone, and the result is a fire.

That fire is all their own, and that is where I step back. I want to set this world on fire with the passion of what is lying latent inside of people. Because this power, is what we were meant to do in life. It’s simply a matter of standing up and realizing what it is you are capable of. A conversation with yourself. I simply put people in touch with themselves. I am that link, and that is all. I flip a switch, dust of something inside of their hearts, and they do the rest. And that’s what I want to do.

I smell gasoline from a motorcycle that just sped off loudly, a few feet from me on the street outside of this coffee shop patio.

I walk home.

“Miss, you dropped something,” says a guy, as he passed me on the street. I stopped, turned around slowly. Looked at the ground. Touched my purse. “I did?”

“Yes, you did.”

I again looked at the ground. Nothing.

“What?”

“My number,” he said and smiled.

He must have been 20. I gave him one of those smiles than an 80-year-old grandmother gives the charming young man who flirts with her. That smile that means “oh you!” as she loudly laughs and waves the air.

I remember the past years. Whenever I told people about my dream, as much as I knew I could help people and it was the right choice for me, I admit part of me pictured white unicorns frolicking. And I knew the people I talked to also were picturing a silly white unicorn, which is why they would ask me such ridiculous questions like “aren’t you too young?” And “isn’t that what Jewish boys have mothers for?”

Then, suddenly and strangely, something shifted ever so slightly. I forgot to care if people respected me and my “career” and decided to just help people instead. I just went with what felt right, what felt like helping someone with what I have to give. And at that point, the human-ness of all of us seemed to fall into a soup during those calls and I found it so easy to relate to it all. And in the last week, I had my first paid client and three more – all in one week.

Strange.

Things only happen when you are ready for them.

soccer

So when you're playing soccer, the players yell out all kinds of things to let you know what to do with the ball, since you can't see much of what's going on around you. Things like "man on" which means someone from the other team might be about to get the ball from you, or "time" (you have plenty of time because no players from the other team are close by), "back" (there is someone open behind you) and so on. They also say take it "down the line" or "bring it up" (bring it closer to the goal), etc. Today was the first time I heard someone say "uptown! uptown! Take it uptown!" LOL. Only in NYC.

Not sure why this came to mind, but...

Rain is different in the desert.

Sometimes I miss thunder. That cracking sound that makes the little hairs on your arms stand up. That predecessor to pouring rain that will drench the earth and fill the cracks in dry desert ground. That smell of creosote and look on the faces of your family as they decide to unplug all of the computers and definitely not shower or talk on land-line phones. Hoping family members make it home okay without driving into any deceptively shallow few inches of water, only to be swept away in a flash flood river.

The fear it strikes to hear that thunder and see the huge scribbles of silver lighting flashing across the sky, as the sun sets into bright oranges and pinks blending together. I haven't seen those sunsets in a while now.

The Gila river, a joke most of the year. a bridge over a dry canal. not a drop of water. but at that thunderous moment, a river falls from the sky and fills it to the brim, where it will stay for only a short time before returning again to desert dry.

Monsoons are a strange thing. Like throwing gold coins onto an impoverished person a few times a year. And then it's back to hot, to dry, to dusty. Sunburn with draining sun beating down.

Isn't that sweet enough already?

Eighteen sugars. That is what I counted as the stranger behind my little Starbucks table, as he shook packet after packet of raw sugars, dumping them all into his Tall cup of coffee.

There is no reason any human needs that much sugar. And after shaking loud packet after packet into that cup (must have totalled more than a cup total), he then attacked the creamer.

He spent over five minute preparing this one beverage, making me wonder, why not just order a fancier drink that comes pre-filled with sugar and fat? Is he trying to save a few cents here? Or just trying to annoy people who work from cofffee shops like me by shaking packets next to my ear?

I'm guessing he had a dinner-sized amount of calories in that one little cup.

Let me tell you, these raw sugar packets are loud. Go shake your sugar somewhere else, buddy.

Okay, next. The other day, I had to venture into a bad part of Brooklyn. A really bad part.

On the way back (and it took over an hour) I sighed when I finally saw the "to manhattan" sign in the station and didn't breathe a sigh of relief until I saw those annoying little dogs that mean I'm back to a safety.

I overheard a very cute guy's conversation -- as I wondered if he was single -- and by the end, decided I would never, ever go out with him, even if he talked to me. Despite his cuteness, I would run away.

1) His thighs have not been hurting, but they've almost been hurting. What does that mean?

2) He thinks he may have restless leg syndrome because his legs almost hurt.

3) The restless leg is probably due to stress -- since the chick he was dating stopped calling him back, right after he decided such and such (a decision she did not know about).

4) His X-Box ate his one and only X-Box game.

5) This guy is a (fill in the blank here with your favorite word).

Sometimes the office does bad things to people

So you know those little things you type in when you enter a password that look like a preschooler scribbled some letters? Well they're getting harder. At first, they were words like "cat" and the "a" was maybe a bit fuzzy. Now they are like "GARGANTUINPRINCIPLEDCAT." And the letters sprawl across the screen like they were drawn by Picasso. Is this art? Or just a way to ensure I don't get too cocky about my ability to spell? Either way it takes me about three tries to get it right. I could have sworn that was an "2" not a "7."

Also, it seems here, like anywhere, people enjoy breaking out clothing that is slightly inappropriate for the weather. It will be about 85 degrees with a breeze and half the people are wearing sweaters! Come on. Cardigans galore. Layered looks. OK, OK...I know we all bought some awesome stuff on clearance right before the season changed, but aren't you sweating in all of those stylish layers there?

This little boy in central park was trying to drink from his sippy cup. His mom laughs and says "you can't drink it like that! It's closed silly!" The boy continues to throw his head back trying to drink....again, and again. Then he took a few steps and fell. Let's just hope he was having a bad day, because in kid world walking and drinking from the sippy cup is all the child needs to do. I think part of my mean little reaction was that I was jealous of his stroller after walking for hours and hours. If someone would just push me...

Also in Central Park, a little toddler kid whose parents were walking him like a dog. There was no leash, but the same general feel. "Over here, over here!" They absent-mindely called after the maybe 1 year old? They continued discussing their weekend plans as he toddered towards the busy street. They didn't chase after him like "omg our child is going to die." Instead they meandered in their khaki pants, as if the dog would know to stay out of the street. Luckily the child was okay.

Then on the train, a businessperson couple. She says "taking this train saves me two minutes." He says, "It saves you 10. We've discussed this before." "No," she says, shaking her head calmly.

What argument is that? Seriously! Have they analyzed their transportation to that extent, and perhaps prepared conflicting power point presentations? Do they really time their activities? I can see them graphing this out once they get home to prove their point. Sometimes the office does bad things to people.

One homeless guy asked if he could crawl into my duffle bag and I could take him home. My first thought was maybe I should have purchased the smaller bag for soccer. My second though was, I'd better move quickly just in case. My third, wow, I've really adjusted to this city. How sad.

I've never been one of those people who can lose a candy bar in a drawer. I have never said "Oh look! I had a candy bar stuck away in here. I completely forgot I had that." Never. I have perfect memory for where any item of candy is, and that piece of candy doesn't remain there long. A few hours max. Well today I found something. A remnant of brownie in a Starbucks bag hidden in the inner pocket of my purse (put there to protect it from NY grime stuff like the subway). Today I happened upon it and though...wow! I'm one of those people now. Yeah me! But then, instead of say, hiding it away in a drawer, I of course ate it. Even better a bit melty.

Overheard

I was leaving the bathroom at the Barnes and Noble in the Time Warner building at Columbus Circle, when a middle-aged woman walked in on her cell phone.

"Really? So he was into S&M!?" she says, laughing.

"Oh! so it was just S, no M." She casually says.

I pretend to not hear. She looks completely conservative and older and I wonder if she has watched too many episodes of Sex and The City and thinks its cool to talk about such things?

"Well I'm in the bathroom, so we should probably finish this call later."

I guess that's not quite as weird as the guy I over heard at an East Village hipster-ish cafe called Cafe Pick Me Up. He ran into a girl he knew and after lots of gushy kisses on both cheeks, he sat down and solemnly said that things weren't going well with the GF.

"All of her sexy "dress up" lingerie looks like something my mother would wear -- you know, bright green with little pink accents, or way too frilly."

"Yeah, yeah yeah, I see what you mean," the girl said empathetically.

I'm sitting head-turned slightly to the side like a confused dog wondering how this guy knows so much about his mother, but some questions are best left unanswered.

Hot off the press...

My friend Rachel's husband, who won a National Press Club award last year for his investigation into corrupt community colleges, just finished an amazing series of investigative journalism stories for the newspaper he writes for, The East Valley Tribune. He and another journalist investigated Sheriff Joe Arpaio (yes, the guy who started Tent city -- an outdoor prison with tents, pink underwear and bologna sandwiches for food). This series focuses on Arpaio's anti-immigration efforts.

To read the first part of the series, click here. There is tons of great information and interactive maps, etc. I really hope this improves things in AZ! You can leave a comment on the story too.

Because I'm obsessed

with personality types. This is "the dream" of my personality type.


..."To the dream, I would like to add a light-hearted games of chess, wine and cheese night, one person reading and another working on a project (mostly silently, but with an occasional quiet remark), jogging/hiking/or taking walks, a mostly grounded and stable life, but one in which there is freedom to think or do things in a new way if, no stagnation, constant self growth but in a way that support eachother, like two plants thriving in sunlight but still intertwined. knowing exactly what to expect from someone, yet being surprised occasionally by their brillance or their outlook or opinion, things being pleasant in general. People you don't ever have to explain yourself to twice, who probably know what point you're trying to make before you open your mouth.

A place that when you're away, makes you feel warm and you don't know why, but don't care why either. An effortless understanding of others in a deep way that doesn't require "work" but feels like you're accomplishing something great just by understanding eachoher's quirks.

Also, playing sports badly but for fun. And flowers."

Fireworks

We went up to the roof and watched the fireworks on the East River last night. Great view, even if the sky did become smoke and look strange and red. It was raining and with all the umbrellas it looked like Mary Poppins.

Got up way too early again today to play soccer. The "dust bowl" was now a mud pit with all of the rain. I fell once and luckily was just dirt, not mud! I surprised myself by rolling forward over my shoulder -- I was just telling my dad that I didn't know how to do that kind of roll. Now that I'm thinking of rolls, I really want sushi. Mmmmmmm. Anyway, didn't hurt at all this time which was nice.

Then at one point I did fall (and was standing in a big mud pit) but luckily I fell on my hands and didn't sit down. It would have been tragedy if I'd fallen into the mud, because taking the train back through the Upper East Side would have been hideously awful.

Nonetheless, I did have mud on my face and neck and all over my legs, and no one told me about the two "moles" on my face until I noticed them at home.

With all of my bandaids from last week (on my shoulder and knees) some street men asked me about them as I waited for the 6 train with a few soccer guys. They were joking that I was in Fight Club, but we really shouldn't be talking about it.

I wish I didn't keep getting huge scars, but oh well.

Sketching, scrapes, salsa and waffles

I've been spending a lot of time in Central Park, and I'm not sure why. It's hot out and muggy, but just like in winter, I'm determined to experience everything here. So while my roomates sit inside complaining of the heat (as they did in winter, complaining of the cold), I've been roaming the streets. Working in just about every little or big coffee shop I can find. I often wish I had purchased a lighter laptop, but I figure at least this is exercise, since I no longer lift weights at the gym.

I started organizing a soccer group and soon found out how soccer-crazed people really are. The group grew to 164 people in just over a month. I've been spending hours every week answering emails, and dealing w/ more issues than I thought possible -- I assumed we'd just show up and play. I'm now trying to figure out if I should purchase vest things so people don't have to bring their own colored shirts, cones, goals, permits, arg.

I'm still quite a beginner, but playing with some of the better people is starting to rub off. The only problem is, I'm still getting knocked down. Last Sunday we played in "The Dirt Bowl," a soccer-sized field of hard-packed dirt in the park. It's flat though, unlike the hills and trees that occupy most other areas, so we were lucky to play there. Still, I was running towards the ball when a guy (who didn't notice I was there) came barreling into me at a high speed. He wasn't a huge guy, but still bigger than me and knocked me down really hard.

Usually if it's just a little slip, I play it off and get up right away, to not draw any attention to it.

But this time I rolled about 4-5 times to the side. I don't remember learning to roll. But after falling so hard and feeling all that momentum still in my body, i do remember thinking, hmm...really should keep moving as not to break anything. I ended up scraping my right shoulder and both knees. The dirt (since there was no grass) got kind of packed into the scrape.

After the rolling stopped, I laid there on my side for a few seconds thinking "um...oww" as I was covered in dirt and scrapes.

I'm not one to usually have any injuries, so when I got home -- after taking the 6 downtown surrounded by the Upper East Side girls in pretty summer dresses checking out eachother's style, with attractive guys shooting glances at all of them like pool balls shooting around a table -- I sat sweaty, covered in dirt and scrapes (I was tempted to just ask for change to complete the image) -- I looked at my cuts and noticed that they had dirt in them. I then recalled a friend years ago who looked like he had dirt on his elbow, but he explained he'd gotten dirt in a scrape and so it stayed in there.

I had an image of myself wearing a nice dress with permanently dirty knees and shoulders. At home, I took a shower, a bath and then took a loofa to the scrapes, which hurt like...well it hurt a lot. Then there was still dirt! I read online to use tweezers to remove dirt. Ouch. I tried my best and hopefully got it all out.

A lovely image of the scrapes after a few days. Is this the equivalent of a kid showing off their scraped knees? Probably. Guess I share this need with 8-year-olds everywhere.




Then I also went to Central Park for a drawing group (much less impact than the soccer). It's fun. You just sit there on big rocks and draw the lake with a bunch of strangers. It's good motivation to actually try, since everyone puts their drawings in a line when you're done and you stare at them. Unlike my art major stint in college, the other people do not have a right to one-by-one voice their criticism of your work. I used to hate that. Hour upon hour of "well, I don't really like butterflies, and why did you use purple? And I'm not sure the composition works, but I can't quite say why..." and other such useless and critical comments devoid of any helpful, positive messages or instructions to improve the drawing. Ick. (end rant). This was just "ooh. pretty. That guy drew a nice tree!" And the lesser drawings were politely skimmed over. Nice.

While we looked at the drawings, one stood out. Everyone was "ooing and awwing" at it, and it was very well done. Then I noticed, it was a drawing of me! A nice old man had drawn me drawing, as I apparently hadn't moved, while I tried to figure out how the heck you use perspective to draw those buildings and all of those brushy trees around the lake -- nature is hard.

Here is the awesome drawing, done by someone named Jon. Not sure of his last name, which is too bad as he's obviously a great artist.


Then back in the East Village I saw the Waffle Cart and attacked it. I usually pass by thinking "ah, I could get a waffle, but I'm really trying to work out more." Not tonight. "yes, whipped cream and strawberries, and..." I tell the guy as he piles on the topings and instructs me to carefully hold the bag horizontally as I walk. So I carefully carry it back to my rat-infested apartment.

Getting away

All the cliches are true. You've gotta get away from home to appreciate it. Or really, to see it at all.

When all you know is one thing, that is your default. You have to see something else to realize there is more than one way. I'm really glad to have seen a few "something elses" and hope to see a few more.

So I grabbed my suitcase, made sure my three types of mouse traps were set, took the elevator downstairs and wandered over to the streets where more cabs run by (not easy to find one that early in the morning). Hailed one.

"To JFK?" I said to the driver through his rolled down window. He nodded.

"Pop the trunk," I said and threw my stuff in, knowing he wouldn't charge me the tourist rate because my lack of "please" and "hello" had qualified me as a local.

Then I sat back in my sleepy state and watched a blur of 7.5 months of Manhattan memories fly by the window. Memories of the hostel when I got here with nothing but one suitcase, a bunch of fears, and a lot of hopes. A blur of sharing a 10-person room (and 1 bathroom) with people from around the world (and an occasional rumored rat) for three weeks. Lugging that damn suitcase up so many flights of stairs.

I sat on the plane, still feeling in the New Yorker mindset. The girl next to me was loudly talking. I sat back into the Jet Blue seat (which truly is large and spacious for coach) and closed my eyes.

I remembered eventually finding an apartment in the East Village. Walking into my first Manhattan Bar at The W and hoping my boots were "okay" and having cute financial boys flirt with us.

Confusion about how one hails a cab (light on means hail it, off means occupied), how to use the subway (which way do you swipe that card? strip towars you), where is 42nd street? (Streets get bigger as you go north, Avenues bigger as you go west). And so on.

I looked out the plane window at bodies of water and trees and couldn't locate where I was. I remembered boots with skinny jeans tucked in. Tunic tops over leggings. Ballet flats. People asking three questions: what do you do? Where do you live? What is your rent? Walking 5th Avenue with $2000 outfits walking by me left and right. Fake bags in Chinatown.

Moving two blocks away. Negotiating with Craigslist "guys with vans."

Ordering delivery in less than 10 words. "For delivery. Number 10. My phone number is _____." When you hear "click" you take that to mean "thank you for your order and we'll be there shortly." The seconds they saved with that polite phrase means the food arrives almost immediately.

Buzzing people up like on Seinfeld.

Taking the elevator up to my first swanky dark club like those that you see on TV. Nice restaurants with intimidating shell fish, brunches on the patio, wine and no driving home, little deli grocery stores enclosed in plastic doors that I couldn't figure out how to open, confusing fashion, buying coats, scarves, snowboots, running through pouring rain without an umbrella. Tripping and falling and dropping 10 shopping bags in front of a hot little bar. Using maps (badly). Ending up in Brooklyn accidentally. Freezing through central park, but being amazed that I was here, alone, in this wonderful city.

Meeting bankers and ad people and actors and hearing accents from all over the world every day. Subway performers, fear of being muggled, learning how to carry three bags of groceries home five blocks without falling over.

Eating soup inside on a freezing day. Iceskating in Rockerfeller Center. Broadway shows. The Planetarium.

Rats. Mice. Bugs.

Leaves falling off trees and then growing back. Heat. Humidity. Hot salsa clubs dream-like in their intensity, Central Park lounging, tanning and eating snacks on a blanket as people play frisbee. Sailing (on a boat), laying out on the roof, going to the beach.

I accepted my drink and snack from the flight attendant. It was a smooth flight. Closed my eyes again.

Movies filmed on neighborhood streets, amazing pasta, pizza, Little India, Dim Sum in Chinatown, random street performers. Disgusting things on the sidewalk. The East Bunny walking down the street. Tiny dogs in raincoats, snowcoats, tank tops.

Crowds so big you have to cut off your conversation as the sea of people part you, only to talk again as if nothing happened. Crowded subways. Soccer in Central Park on a hot day.

As we flew closer to home, the ground looked strange. So brown. The only water was from the man-made lake in Tempe. This was the first time that Arizona looked like a desert.

As the plane landed, something happened. It occured to me I no longer needed to take long confident-looking strides on the sidewalk to detour muggers. Maybe I'd even take a really long time to put my change away after a purchase.

The minute the plane came to a stop, the girl's loud voice next to me seemed strange -- and I realized that she, not me, was now the one who wouldn't quite fit in.

In the next days, I saw cacti, bushes, large areas of dirt, mountains, prickly pear, blue mountains in the distance, bright blue skies, sunsets, saguaros, or all of the paintings of cowboys in dentist offices and restaurants -- I'd never seen any of this before. It all seemed so normal, I was blind to it.

Somehow, I didn't miss New York right away. Being home was like a Sunday afternoon before a busy week.

And after the intense city life, I could appreciate the slow pace, wrinkled clothes, and lack of fashion.

In fact, it's been nice. I can now see this is just the other side of the coin -- not the only side -- and now I can just let it be.

I appreciate my sweet friends, loving family, and all the places I used to go.

It's been great to get back on the highways and drive. Dried my wet hair on the I-10 like I used to and it dries in about 5 minutes in the 110 degree heat. Dry feels good. You just don't sweat here really, which I guess is why people die a lot in the heat. Still, it's nice to not have humidity.

Went out in Scottsdale like I used to every weekend.

Realizing there is another side to the coin, and soaking up East Coast culture in addition to Southwest style, has only made me want to see all the other sides. I think NYC is a starting point. Where it ends, I have no idea.