Anyone who lived in the south (or on Planet Earth, for that matter) in the 90s should know the lyrics to Michael W. Smith's song "Friends are Friends forever." While I'm not particularly religious (aside from starting Derekh Torah classes last night as a means of converting to Judaism, but I digress) this song is poignant in my life.
I've been fortunate to have some really close, fantastic friends over the years. Having lived in so many different places, I've developed and maintained friendships all over the place (which is really handy when you need a couch to crash on while visiting said location.) Each of these friends have taught me something, and I'm fortunate to have them in my life.
I met my best friend the first day of 6th grade. We were given 2 errands to run for the teacher, and in true form, I politely (and bossily) informed her that she would be accompanying me on my errand, as I didn't want to get lost on my very first day of middle school. For some insane reason, this didn't seem to phase her, and we've been best friends ever since. We've made a million memories since then (I have photographic evidence to support this. Let's just say that her favorite outfit for quite a while was a jean jumper. This might explain her career choice later in life) and I wouldn't trade a single moment of our time together.
She (for the purpose of this post, I'll refer to her as "Giraffe" because she's tall, blonde, and loves Africa) was just here visiting me in NYC this past weekend, and it made me realize how much I miss having her nearby. Sure, we talk every day (usually 3-4 times per day, in addition to email conversations throughout the day) but it's just not the same as having her here in person to bemoan the realities of life (i.e-- what we've eaten that day, whether or not an article of clothing is cute, or to exchange any random gossip we've heard.)
Giraffe and I are polar opposites in pretty much every way imaginable, and I don't just mean physically. (Let's just say that we never competed for the same guy-- she's leggy, and at a whopping 5'3" I was blessed with other qualities, but legs ain't one of 'em.) She's conservative, deeply religious, indecisive when it comes to shopping, and a lover of all southern foods. (Her favorite restaurant is a bbq joint in a gas station. Sounds ridiculous, but it's actually pretty stinkin' awesome!) Somehow, we've never let these differences get in the way of our friendship.
This weekend, my SD and Giraffe got into a discussion of Christianity, and I was incredibly impressed by the articulate, educated, respectful way in which Giraffe defended her beliefs. She was quiet, calm, and confident in answering every single one of his questions. It was the first time that I'd really seen that side of her, and my heart swelled with pride. Despite us not having the same beliefs, I have tons of respect for anyone who can explain why they believe what they do in such a poignant manner. I felt as though I understood her in a whole new light after just listening to their conversation!
Her ability to stay positive and upbeat even when things get challenging is a constant source of inspiration for me. Be it career or personal, each situation she finds herself in is viewed as a means of god's plan for her-- something I struggle with and don't really grasp.
We've had our bumps along the course of our 15 year friendship (that's right. We're pushing the big 3-0 and getting OLD!) but never once have I doubted our friendship and the special bond that we have. It's rare in life to find a soulmate outside of your significant other-- but in finding Giraffe, I found a soulmate for life.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Georgia on my mind
It has come to my attention that my views and opinions expressed here are perhaps negative and rude about the South. I am a proud born and bred Georgia gal-- although I don't hold many of the religious and political views that the majority of folks below the mason dixon line do, I share a culture with all of them-- iced tea, country music (Randy Travis will forever be the love of my life), Chick-fil-A, lightning bugs, front porch swings, college football... All of these things intricately help shape the person that I am.
I've been fortunate enough to spend time in various states and countries over the years. The first time I saw a bong in California, I thought it was a beautifully colored vase. The first time I saw my Canadian father play hockey, I screamed at the fool who tried to body check him. The first time I heard a Scottish accent while living in the UK, I told the voice (and subsequently, the person to whom the voice belongs) that he sounded just like Fat Bastard from Austin Powers. Each of these places and experiences has made me who I am today-- a snarky, self-deprecating, liberal who will forever love the south.
I tease my family (both immediate and extended) about how crazy we all are, and how every family function we have is filled with some kind of drama. The reason for this drama is because of how insanely close we all are. It's not often that one is fortunate to grow up in a family in which you see your aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins frequently for family meals-- except if you live in the south. I don't know one Yankee who is half as close to their family as southerners are to theirs. It's that, and so many other aspects of the south, that make me proud to be from the great state of Georgia-- home to Scarlet O'Hara, Coca Cola, The University of Georgia Bulldogs, Chick-Fil-A, Otis Redding, and numerous other talented individuals who are also proud to call that state home.
After all, without the ability to turn on my southern twang, however would I be able to talk my way into or out of any situation?!
I've been fortunate enough to spend time in various states and countries over the years. The first time I saw a bong in California, I thought it was a beautifully colored vase. The first time I saw my Canadian father play hockey, I screamed at the fool who tried to body check him. The first time I heard a Scottish accent while living in the UK, I told the voice (and subsequently, the person to whom the voice belongs) that he sounded just like Fat Bastard from Austin Powers. Each of these places and experiences has made me who I am today-- a snarky, self-deprecating, liberal who will forever love the south.
I tease my family (both immediate and extended) about how crazy we all are, and how every family function we have is filled with some kind of drama. The reason for this drama is because of how insanely close we all are. It's not often that one is fortunate to grow up in a family in which you see your aunts, uncles, grandparents, and cousins frequently for family meals-- except if you live in the south. I don't know one Yankee who is half as close to their family as southerners are to theirs. It's that, and so many other aspects of the south, that make me proud to be from the great state of Georgia-- home to Scarlet O'Hara, Coca Cola, The University of Georgia Bulldogs, Chick-Fil-A, Otis Redding, and numerous other talented individuals who are also proud to call that state home.
After all, without the ability to turn on my southern twang, however would I be able to talk my way into or out of any situation?!
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Repondez vous s'il vous plait
What is so difficult about it? Is it the mere thought of having to commit to a social function, or politely reject said invitation, that causes folks to simply pretend like they didn't receive the invite in the first place? BIGGEST. PET. PEEVE. EVER. If I bother to spend the time making pretty invitations and then send one to you, the least your sorry butt can do is respond. In this modern day of technology, an email will suffice. Hell, I'd settle for a text, facebook message, or even tweet, if it meant I knew whether or not those invited were actually attending.
On that positive note, I attended several family functions below the mason dixon line this weekend. My suga' daddy somehow managed to survive (while mentioning at least 5 times that we will be signing a marriage contract that says we shall never live anywhere south of Yankeeville.) This brings me to my next issue: while it is considered gracious and polite in society to respond to an invitation, it is even more obnoxious to ask for one. If I had a dollar for every person who ASKED me for a wedding invitation this weekend, perhaps I could afford to invite them. I mean, come on people! My typical response was "well, we'll have to see. It's going to be a small affair, after all." Had I not been in big-hair-god-fearing country, I'm fairly certain my response would have sounded something like this: "F#&% OFF." But, out of respect for my southern belle mother, I swore off dropping the F Bomb while at family functions (which is just the place I need such a verbal release!)
Now that I'm still engaged and my SD hasn't left me despite his torture time in Bible Country, I'm getting serious about this wedding planning. Who knew save-the-dates could be so difficult to find?! I mean, seriously. I want it to be cute and all, but if my mother had her say, we'd spend our entire wedding budget on announcing our wedding via grandiose and complex invitations. One of her ideas, as god is might witness, was to send a Harry & David's apple to each guest along with a save the date card, since we're getting married in "the big apple." At $15 a pop, and with a mere two hundred invitations to send out, why not send them each an entire case?! I'd be happy to sport a second-hand dress and get married at city hall. After all, that's about all we could afford with such elaborate invitations. Give me some Andre, and we'll be good to go!
If I'm not driven to drink heavily by the time this wedding rolls around, it will be a miracle. Now: Go and RSVP to any and all invitations you have. Otherwise, my next post may be about you.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Take this job and shove it...
I'm having what feels like a day of defeat. I moved up here three years ago to be (what I thought would be a short term) nanny for a family on the Upper West Side. Cut to three years later, and I basically had to force myself to leave. The family was, and is, amazing (and I'm not simply saying that because of the minute possibility that they may read this at some point) and the little boy, here after referred to as "the dude", stole my heart. It broke a part of me to leave him, but I know that it was the right decision for me ultimately.
When I first moved up here and met people, there was a general sense of abhorrence when I mentioned my job. A nanny? Like, OMG-- clearly that means there are no life goals at all for this person. It took me a long time to realize it, but the people who made such judgements are the same assholes who get paid an insane amount of money, yet make no real difference in the lives of others. Being able to see this amazing city through the eyes of an ever-growing toddler is something that everyone should experience just once-- it will change you forever.
Enough sentimental crap. Long story short, I decided to become one of the assholes who makes no difference while making lots of money... or at least, I thought that would happen. Instead, I'm in my fourth week of what I now refer to as "f-unemployment." Thankfully this arrangement works, since a certain sugar daddy o' mine (commonly referred to as my fiance) is so supportive, emotionally and financially. What I failed to grasp while making this life change is the harsh reality of job hunting. In my naive little mind, I thought the first company I interviewed with would looooove me. I mean, after all, I did pageants galore over the years-- I can chat my way through any interview situation, while sitting with my ankles crossed and my hair perfectly coiffed. Look, Ma! All that money on gowns and interview prep ain't payin' off. AT ALL. (This might also explain why I never managed to actually WIN any pageant I entered. That, or the awkward jaw and braces that went along with said gowns and interviews. Bright red lipstick with an under bite and mouth full of metal? Brilliant idea! Thanks, mom.)
So, here I am, a 27 year old intern. I prefer to call my current position "slave labor." Suffice it to say that I. HATE. IT. As if it weren't bad enough that I can't actually find someone willing to PAY me to do work, this shit show has me doing manual labor-- a la deliveries, etc. That's right, ladies and gentleman. You too can go to college, get a degree, and then become a delivery gal fo' free! This leads me to my point: it is taking every ounce of my being not to simply quit. I'm a do-er. I get tasks done, I thrive on organization, efficiency, working with people, and accomplishing goals set before me. Unfortunately, those current goals involve walking all over Manhattan with heavy bags-- Today I tripped down an escalator while holding said bags, only to then drop my cell phone, sit on the escalator to retrieve it, and almost do a somersault off it, right into the security guard of the Canadian Embassy. I'm fairly certain he thought I was coming to bomb the place. In my infinite wisdom, I shouted "It's ok! I'm Canadian!" to him, which didn't seem to lessen his fear whatsoever. And yet, despite walking 4 miles with all this crap, I'm planning to return tomorrow. I can only think of three options that are making me do this: a) I've lost my mind. b) I'm so bored I'll do anything that doesn't involve staying in this apartment and watching Regis and Kelly, or c) my parents instilled waaay too much integrity in me. Or perhaps it's simply a combination of all three.
Here's hoping I find a real job soon!
When I first moved up here and met people, there was a general sense of abhorrence when I mentioned my job. A nanny? Like, OMG-- clearly that means there are no life goals at all for this person. It took me a long time to realize it, but the people who made such judgements are the same assholes who get paid an insane amount of money, yet make no real difference in the lives of others. Being able to see this amazing city through the eyes of an ever-growing toddler is something that everyone should experience just once-- it will change you forever.
Enough sentimental crap. Long story short, I decided to become one of the assholes who makes no difference while making lots of money... or at least, I thought that would happen. Instead, I'm in my fourth week of what I now refer to as "f-unemployment." Thankfully this arrangement works, since a certain sugar daddy o' mine (commonly referred to as my fiance) is so supportive, emotionally and financially. What I failed to grasp while making this life change is the harsh reality of job hunting. In my naive little mind, I thought the first company I interviewed with would looooove me. I mean, after all, I did pageants galore over the years-- I can chat my way through any interview situation, while sitting with my ankles crossed and my hair perfectly coiffed. Look, Ma! All that money on gowns and interview prep ain't payin' off. AT ALL. (This might also explain why I never managed to actually WIN any pageant I entered. That, or the awkward jaw and braces that went along with said gowns and interviews. Bright red lipstick with an under bite and mouth full of metal? Brilliant idea! Thanks, mom.)
So, here I am, a 27 year old intern. I prefer to call my current position "slave labor." Suffice it to say that I. HATE. IT. As if it weren't bad enough that I can't actually find someone willing to PAY me to do work, this shit show has me doing manual labor-- a la deliveries, etc. That's right, ladies and gentleman. You too can go to college, get a degree, and then become a delivery gal fo' free! This leads me to my point: it is taking every ounce of my being not to simply quit. I'm a do-er. I get tasks done, I thrive on organization, efficiency, working with people, and accomplishing goals set before me. Unfortunately, those current goals involve walking all over Manhattan with heavy bags-- Today I tripped down an escalator while holding said bags, only to then drop my cell phone, sit on the escalator to retrieve it, and almost do a somersault off it, right into the security guard of the Canadian Embassy. I'm fairly certain he thought I was coming to bomb the place. In my infinite wisdom, I shouted "It's ok! I'm Canadian!" to him, which didn't seem to lessen his fear whatsoever. And yet, despite walking 4 miles with all this crap, I'm planning to return tomorrow. I can only think of three options that are making me do this: a) I've lost my mind. b) I'm so bored I'll do anything that doesn't involve staying in this apartment and watching Regis and Kelly, or c) my parents instilled waaay too much integrity in me. Or perhaps it's simply a combination of all three.
Here's hoping I find a real job soon!
Monday, October 3, 2011
Life in the Big Apple
Thanks to the lovely ladies of SATC, Manhattan is known around the world for being a single girl's mecca. What that fantastic show failed to illustrate was the reality of living in this amazing city. Sure-- cosmos are fantastic. But at $20 a pop, who the hell can afford them? And Manolo Blahniks? Absolutely lovely. Good luck walking the streets and avenues of this city while wearing a pair. The amount of dog piss one steps in daily would cause any smart woman to re-think her purchase.
Don't get me wrong-- I love Sex and The City as much as anyone else (yes, I own all 6 seasons. Judgement not necessary.) I just genuinely believe that while it is a smart, clever, fantastic show about the importance of friendship between women, it didn't exactly paint a realistic picture of this lovely place we call Manhattan. Sure, Carrie paid $500 a month in rent while living in a spacious studio with an insane closet-- and if I wanted the same, I'd move to the far side of Queens or Brooklyn. But, given my champagne tastes (and beer budget) I remain in a cozy (read: small) studio apartment with my fiance.
I digress. I assure you, oh charming reader, that the sole purpose of this blog is not for me to bitch. Though the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion....
The real reason for me to record this journey in life is to share the trials and tribulations of being a 20-something in New York City. And yes-- it is the greatest city on the planet.
Don't get me wrong-- I love Sex and The City as much as anyone else (yes, I own all 6 seasons. Judgement not necessary.) I just genuinely believe that while it is a smart, clever, fantastic show about the importance of friendship between women, it didn't exactly paint a realistic picture of this lovely place we call Manhattan. Sure, Carrie paid $500 a month in rent while living in a spacious studio with an insane closet-- and if I wanted the same, I'd move to the far side of Queens or Brooklyn. But, given my champagne tastes (and beer budget) I remain in a cozy (read: small) studio apartment with my fiance.
I digress. I assure you, oh charming reader, that the sole purpose of this blog is not for me to bitch. Though the thought has crossed my mind on more than one occasion....
The real reason for me to record this journey in life is to share the trials and tribulations of being a 20-something in New York City. And yes-- it is the greatest city on the planet.
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