Earlier today, I wore an Anne Klein suit with pearls.
And here I sit now, in a Bama hoodie and no name jeans.
I'm busy flipping back and forth between the Alabama/Arkansas game and America's Next Top Model.
I realized earlier how much I whine about being tethered to work via my blackberry, yet I can't go more than 2 minutes without glancing at the thing.
I claim to be a literature snob, but somehow I'm currently re-reading the Twilight Saga, because once wasn't enough.
I'd like a boyfriend, but only if there's plenty of room for things like space and freedom.
I beg for down time, yet immediately become bored and restless after five minutes alone.
I can't go in public without styled hair and applied makeup, yet will be the first to whine about those who judge based on outward appearance.
My cat annoys me when she won't cuddle but irks me if she meows for attention.
I'll sleep with the windows open or AC on only so I can wear more layers and snuggle with the comforter.
There's no point to this entry. I just felt like punctuating the fact that I am indeed a little bit strange.
Now. I think I'll go order dinner. A quesadilla. And a salad.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
I tried my best to be guarded, but I'm an open book instead
Happy Anniversary, Baby.
At this exact moment three years ago, I was crammed in a minivan with all my wordly belongings and two of my very best friends. There weren't as many tears as I'd anticipated, but there was a racing heart and a roving mind and a whole lot of "what ifs" on the wide open horizon that stretched up the road from North Carolina to New York.
We all thought I'd be back after one year. We all thought I'd have my fun, stick my foot in the proverbial pool of New York life, discover the icy reality and run straight back down yonder where I am still quite positive I belong. I don't really know what's come over me or understand the force that binds me to this city. But here I am, and here I'll stay, for the time being.
And it's a different New York than the one that initially greeted me. There's no longer a Crissie residing in the bedroom next to mine. I've walked in and out of 3 jobs, into a 4th and been promoted to a 5th. I now swear by my blackberry and own Prada, but no longer wear high heels. I weigh 30 pounds less and don't wheeze after a single flight of stairs...or even 2, 3 or 5. I can tell you how to get wherever you're going without ever looking at a subway map. I've seen well over 100 Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions and have even auditioned for a few. My heart has broken, healed and broken again and boy hidey, have there been some atrocious dates. I've moved out of Brooklyn and into Queens and discovered that closets really do exist in this city. I've kicked Joanna Gleason out of her rehearsal space, gawked at Will Smith, smashed into John Lithgow and Diana DeGarmo and been stalked by Seth Myers. And more importantly than anything, New York owns an independent Alison who's not entirely afraid of being alone. Which is weird, and also kind of huge.
Anyhoo. I've done hardly anything I set out to do, but a million and one other things I'd never have dreamed into my own reality. I've quit guessing what the future holds and stopped acting like I have any decision making rights on this crazy ride of mine. It's more than a little bit funny that one of the loudest, rudest, brightest, most chaotic places in the world taught me how to relax and stop trying to control silly little things like life, the human spirit and destiny.
I guess I can't help but wonder if we're going to make it to four years.
At this exact moment three years ago, I was crammed in a minivan with all my wordly belongings and two of my very best friends. There weren't as many tears as I'd anticipated, but there was a racing heart and a roving mind and a whole lot of "what ifs" on the wide open horizon that stretched up the road from North Carolina to New York.
We all thought I'd be back after one year. We all thought I'd have my fun, stick my foot in the proverbial pool of New York life, discover the icy reality and run straight back down yonder where I am still quite positive I belong. I don't really know what's come over me or understand the force that binds me to this city. But here I am, and here I'll stay, for the time being.
And it's a different New York than the one that initially greeted me. There's no longer a Crissie residing in the bedroom next to mine. I've walked in and out of 3 jobs, into a 4th and been promoted to a 5th. I now swear by my blackberry and own Prada, but no longer wear high heels. I weigh 30 pounds less and don't wheeze after a single flight of stairs...or even 2, 3 or 5. I can tell you how to get wherever you're going without ever looking at a subway map. I've seen well over 100 Broadway, off-Broadway and off-off Broadway productions and have even auditioned for a few. My heart has broken, healed and broken again and boy hidey, have there been some atrocious dates. I've moved out of Brooklyn and into Queens and discovered that closets really do exist in this city. I've kicked Joanna Gleason out of her rehearsal space, gawked at Will Smith, smashed into John Lithgow and Diana DeGarmo and been stalked by Seth Myers. And more importantly than anything, New York owns an independent Alison who's not entirely afraid of being alone. Which is weird, and also kind of huge.
Anyhoo. I've done hardly anything I set out to do, but a million and one other things I'd never have dreamed into my own reality. I've quit guessing what the future holds and stopped acting like I have any decision making rights on this crazy ride of mine. It's more than a little bit funny that one of the loudest, rudest, brightest, most chaotic places in the world taught me how to relax and stop trying to control silly little things like life, the human spirit and destiny.
I guess I can't help but wonder if we're going to make it to four years.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Allow me to exaggerate a memory or two...
Following a failed attempt at a cartwheel in a park, my glasses found themselves fastened together with superglue. I received a lot of crap for this but didn’t actually care because they still helped me to see, which is exactly the kind of thing glasses should do. And though I live in New York, I’m mostly still a hick from Alabama who cares more for functionality and comfort and overall look than labels.
Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.
And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.
Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.
Seriously. If I feel like splurging, you’ll find me at Macy’s, as opposed to Target or Old Navy. The only labels I own were purchased in Chinatown, so I’ll give you a couple guesses as to their level of authenticity.
And I had contacts anyhow, so this whole conversation was pointless. Until, of course, the seasons shifted and the allergies attacked and I found myself with chronic dry eye and non-existent desire to poke myself in said dry eyes, pre-mascara in the mornings. Fine. Time to make room in the monthly budget for something more important than wine and new shoes. (Ok, so perhaps New York is rubbing off on me afterall..) So I headed to Cohen’s Fashion Optical, lured in by the promise of $100 glasses. I gave myself a very strict talking to prior to my arrival. I was to seek aforementioned functionality and comfort and, if necessary, compromise style.
But then I saw the sad little $100 glasses case. I think, in actuality, this case is not where glasses come to find their new homes, but rather a glasses graveyard. This case is where ugly, outdated glasses come to die. I knew no mate for me waited inside that case, what, with their rhinestone embellishments and golden feathering. (I am NOT kidding.) And frankly, by the time they add in all the things you need to get the glasses out the door (you know, like lenses and an eye exam) it’s gonna go over $200. So I wandered to the next counter. And the next. Ah yes, and that display, too.
Oh, why hello Gucci, Armani. Hi Coach! What’s up, Calvin, Ralph? Heeeey Dior! Yves Saint Laurent, great to see you! You too, Fendi. And then I saw them. Purple and Prada. The saleslady sensed my weakness and had them ‘round my ears and perched on my nose before I could say “STOPITICANTAFFORDPRADAAREYOUCRAZYGETTHESEOFFME.” And you know that moment in a movie when something big happens and everything is in slow motion and everything is quiet but the manufactured sound of a heart beating? That happened, as I leaned forward to peer into the mirror. I gasped. Saleslady gasped. Other sales dude, who REALLY thought I belonged in Coach gasped. The lady with her ADHD 9 year old son gasped. These glasses had to be mine, y’all. So they are now. (Forgive the bad cell phone picture - it's all I got for the moment.)
And that is what I am up to. While my friends wander the world and prepare to be parents and attack academia and fantasize about farmland and lots of other very important things, I am here in New York, purchasing Prada.
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