Proof of a good vacation

Pre - vacation - 

Post - vacation - 

I'll be at the gym. 

Embracing the unknown (evil)

From the Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776

Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security. ....... and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. 


I've always preferred to deal with the known evil, rather than face the unknown evil.  It's time for a change.  


What's the worst that can happen?  I can fail.  I'll get over it.  


It's time to face the unknown. 


Cryptic, I know.  

Another woman

An other woman

The other woman

.......

Anne Enright says it is easier to write about one than being one.

I wonder.



Apropos of nothing, I've been listening to Donde Voy.  Obsessively.

Part 1

It’s been a typical Wednesday.  She’s tire and has hard time focusing.   She keeps herself alert by taking copious notes.  Will this conference call ever end?  What time is it in Sydney?  The speaker in Sydney without a doubt has the help of her morning cup of coffee.   It should be a happy hour here in NY, she thinks as she fights her yawn.

Her copious note taking is momentarily distracted by the buzz of her blackberry.  She glances at her blackberry.  6:47 PM.  A text message.  From him.

“Can you play now?”

Tempting.

Will the Sydney speaker ever stop talking?

Another buzz.  “Yes or no, sweetie pie?” 

His impatience is annoying and alluring. 

“In a meeting Chipmunk.  Will buzz when it’s over.”

“Hurry sweetie.”

She returns to her copious note taking. 

The conference call ends.  She shuts her computer off and hurries out of the office.  In the long elevator ride down, she starts to text him – to let him know that she’s on her way – but decides against it.  As she walks out of the building, she notices people with umbrellas.  It’s misting.  She wonders whether she should go back up to grab her umbrella.  She doesn’t wonder for long.  She crosses the avenue and walks a few streets up to his office. 

She signs in at the lobby of his building.  To the concierge, she looks like hundreds of other women who enter this building. Professionally dressed in black pants, a white trench coat, a grey scarf, glasses and what looks to be a long hair in a loose bun. 

She checks her reflection in the elevator.  A lipstick would be nice, but there is no time.  The elevator down opens and she rapidly makes her way to his corner office.  It’s a familiar route, zigzagging through the rows of cubicles. 

His door is closed.  She knocks.  Without waiting for an answer, she opens the door and sees him opening a bottle of wine.   She walks towards him, but not before turning the lights off.   She kisses him lightly on his lips.  She takes her coat off, revealing a silk blouse in dusty rose.  He hands her a glass of wine, while complimenting her on her outfit and her hair. 

She sits across from him.  She flings off her black heels and rests her feet on his lap, inviting him to rub them.  He does.  She moves her feet so that they rest just under his bulge.  To his delight, she slowly moves her toes up and down his bulge.

“Come and take a front row sit.”  He says as he pulls her into him.   She turns and sits on his lap.  He smells her hair and kisses her neck.  Without touching her, he carefully undoes the buttons of her silk blouse.  When he’s finished with the buttons, she stands up so that he can unbutton her pants.  Three buttons and her pants fall down her legs.  She’s wearing nothing but a black bra and a black thong.  She walks away from him before turning to face him.  He watches. 

“Let your hair down.”

She takes the pins out of her hair.  She shakes her head and her long hair cascades down.  

“Come.”

She walks towards him and sits on his lap, facing him.   He plays with her hair.  He massages her scalp.  He uses his index finger to trace the outline of her bra before finding her nipple.  When he’s satisfied with her now-erect right nipple, he moves onto her left.   With his other hand, he expertly unhooks her bra.  He takes her breasts with his lips, one at a time.  As he sucks on her nipples, she lets as uncontrolled moans.  She pushes back from him.  She walks away.  With her eyes, he knows she’s telling him it’s his turn to be undressed.  He does. 

me

I’ve been known by many names in my life: a name I was born with, a name I was given by the church, name for an older sister, a name I’ve given myself for the demimonde…  I’ve been many things in my life: a daughter, a sister, a friend, a student, a waitress, a musician, a clerk, a chef, a baker, a knitter, a painter, a technician, a driver, a traveler, a girlfriend, a lover, a friend with benefit, a grad student, a best friend, a bridesmaid, a maid of honor, a runner, a gym-rat, a yogini, a sex worker, an aunt, an escort, a companion, a prostitute, a courtesan and a career woman.   I’ve been shy and I’ve been outgoing.  I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor.  I’ve been skinny-fat and I’ve been skinny-fit.  I’ve felt young and I’ve felt old.  I’ve been healthy and I’ve been unhealthy.  I’ve been active and I’ve been a sloth.  I’ve been a good daughter and I’ve been a bad daughter.  I’ve been a kind sister and I’ve been a bully.  I’ve been a conscientious student and I’ve been a careless student.  I’ve been an enthusiastic office-mate and I’ve been a Debbie-downer.  I’ve been a good friend and I’ve been a fair-weather friend.  I’ve been a loving girlfriend and I’ve been a crazy girlfriend.  I’ve been a memorable ex-girlfriend and I’ve been a jealous ex-girlfriend.  I’ve been the only woman and I’ve been the other woman.  I’ve felt loved and I’ve felt lonely being the only woman.  I’ve felt loved and I’ve felt lonely being the other woman.  I’ve been a mistress and I’ve hated a mistress. I’ve been an incredible lover and I’ve been a lazy lover. I’ve been a great kisser and I’ve been a slobberer.  I’ve been compassionate and I’ve been ruthless.  I’ve been fearlessly independent and I’ve been fearfully dependent.  I’ve been sexy and I’ve been plain. I’ve been sensual and I’ve been rough.  I’ve laughed ugly and I’ve cried beautifully. I’ve been passionate and I’ve been unemotional.  I’ve been optimistic and I’ve been depressed.  I’ve been a girl next door and I’ve been a stuck-up bitch.  I’ve been a genius and I’ve been a fool.  I’ve been a complicated woman and I’ve been a simple woman, but I’ve always been proud to be a woman. 

Over across the room, three men in tailored suits were gathered for what appeared to be a ritual of an afterwork libation.  Two were sipping scotch and soda, I guessed.  The one in baby blue tie was nursing a glass of red, judging from the wine glass, a Bordeaux.


"Baby blue is looking at you." 


By reflex, I turn my head to look at him before Tessa could say, "don't turn your head." 


"He's cute."  He is, but I pay him no mind.  


We are celebrating Gwen's new job.  After many months of reality TV, Gwen finally found herself amongst us gainfully employed.  After an obligatory toast and a sip of the bubbly, we opt for a bottle of a Pinot Noir.  


The Maitre d' offers his arm to navigate the narrow corridor leading to the ladies' room.  I gladly take it.  I know him well and 3 inch heels should not be walking by themselves after a few glasses of wine.  As he guides me to the powder room, he makes small talk to fill in the awkward silence.  He asks about Fortune500, whether we are still friends.  Yes, we are friends.  He remembers that Mr. Fortune 500 liked sweetbreads.  Oh, no, he hates them.  Maitre d' recalls on a few occasions Mr. Fortune 500 called ahead to specially request sweetbreads.  He's sweet, isn't he?  I like sweetbreads.  He doesn't.  He is thoughtful, isn't he?  Yes, he is.  I haven't seen him in awhile.  I know, he doesn't make it too often to East Coast these days.  That's too bad.  Small talks ends as we reach the top of the stairs leading down to the power room.  I offer a thank you and a smile and make my way down the stairs, holding tightly to the banister.  


I make my way up the stairs, again, holding tightly to the banister.  May I?, a voice appears at the top of the stairs. I look up and see Baby Blue with his outstretched hand.  I take it.  May I walk you to your table?  I didn't know you worked here?  Would you join me for a drink over at the bar?  I can't abandon my friends.  Then, after you are done celebrating with your friends?  I'd love to, but we are planning on closing the restaurant.  It's Wednesday.  So?  It's a school night.  I've collected enough degree for everyone at your table.  Then, will you give me your contact info?  I don't know you.  I'm T.  You could be an ax murderer.  I don't think you can buy an ax in Manhattan.  Sure you can; try the Home Depot on 59th street.  Very funny.  A phone number?  An e-mail address, perhaps?  Or I could just follow you home?  Now you are being creepy. 


He walks over to our table, with my arm still clutched in the nook of his.  


He walks us out of the restaurant and hails enough cabs for each of my friends, saving the last one for me.  He hands me his card. and whipsers non-chalantely,"in case you were interested." 

my home-alone outfit

On being single

A recent NYTimes article interview a few single dwellers of his/her odd habits and concluded that living-alone can be a breeding ground for eccentricities.

The article states that “the solo dweller is free to indulge his or her odder habits — what is sometimes referred to as Secret Single Behavior Feel like standing naked in your kitchen at 2 a.m., eating peanut butter from the jar? Who’s to know?”

I wondered how much of the "quirky" habits of the solo dwellers interviewed for the article I share. 

• Running in place during TV commercials (Nay, but then again, I rarely watch TV)
• Speaking conversational French to self while making breakfast (Nay.  I have coffee and yogurt for breakfast.  But if I were to make breakfast, I might brush up on my PigLatin.)
• Singing Journey songs in the shower (Nay.  I don't like to torture myself.  No, thank you.)
• Removing only the clothes needed from the dryer, thus turning it into a makeshift dresser.  (Nay, I don't think my condo-mates would appreciate that habit.)
• Not wash the dishes (Nay, I actually like doing the dishes.)
• Have a home-alone outfit (Yay, my home-alone outfit is a white tank top and boxer briefs)
• Not closing the bathroom door (Nay.  Closing the bathroom door is a habit.)
• Rarely have what you call "meals." (Nay.  I love to cook, even if it's only for myself... which means I end up eating the same thing for a week.) 

On a separate but related note - over a spicy meal of tandori lamb and curried cauliflower at Tamarind the other night, my buddy Jake asked about my dating life.

"Are you dating anyone?"
"Nope."
"No one from work?"
"Nope."
"Do you work with a whole bunch of blind people?"
"Nope."
"Aww, it'll be alright.  You'll find someone."
"I thought we are on a date."
"Really?"
"Nope."

What I would tell my 25-year old self

The day after Valentine's, friends gathered at the Gilt restaurant at the NY Place Hotel to celebrate Tessa's engagement.  Over a bottle of the France's finest bubbly, Tessa's friends, myself included, cooed over the clear rock which proudly, if not prominently, occupied Tessa's manicured finger.

Over at the next table, a 4some of women in their mid-twenties were gathered with no apparent reason to celebrate other than their youth.  Their admiration of a man in a baby blue tie could be heard over the loud clinking of their rmartini glasses filled with rainbow colored liquids.

"Ah to be 25 again."  Sara sighed while rolling her eyes at the noisiness of 20somethings next table.

"Would you really want to be 25?"

"Yes."

"But with better hair"

"But with my current income."

"But I wouldn't be dating that jackass that I wasted my 20s on."

"But no way I would ever start my career at [insert large investment bank here]."

But, but, but....

So, I've been pondering, what would I tell my 25-year old self?

• Make more friends.  It's great that you have your core group of close-knit friends, but it's OK to cheat on them once in awhile.  Trust me, a few years from now, they'll all cheat on you with your husbands and bambinos.  
• You are much more hip than you think you are.  
• Find a way and time to write.  There is this thing called "blogs"; look it up.  
• Just say no to bangs.  It's not a good look for you.  Trust me. 
• You know that tall blonde blue eyed European you just met (or will soon meet)? Do not sleep with him.  I repeat, do no shag him.  You'll sadly be disappointed with his performance.  Just admire his pecks from afar.  
• Don't sell yourself short.  You are a lot smarter than you give yourself credit for.  That grad school you've been silently pondering?  You'll get in.  Oh, and that thing called GMAT that you don't think you could take?  Your score will be somewhere around the 96th percentile.  
• Accept that you are a foodie at heart and explore the food-scene in your city.  Calory-schmarlories.  Oh, and there is no shame - actually, it is totally cool - in going to a restaurant by yourself. 
• You will come to love - I mean, love, - your cousin Victoria.  Be nice to her.  She'll be good to you.  

Things I do during a 6 AM conference call

1. Don't get dressed
2. Eat doggie bagged steak from the night before
3. Make muffins from scratch
4. Open a twitter account that I may never use
5. Sit ups
6. Push ups
7. Dishes
8. Paint toes
9. Knit
10. Watch porn on mute