B.Y.O.B.

Being 24 in 2008 means you've had a driver's license for 8 years, 3 years of legal alcohol consumption, you've been able to vote in 2 presidential elections, and are probably one of the youngest people at the job you spend 40+ hours a week hating. The 20's are for "finding yourself," awful dates, maxing out the credit card and partying the weekends away curing hangovers with greasy hashbrowns at 2pm Sunday brunches. BYOB parties should still consist of fridges filled with an assortment of beers appealing to everyone's eclectic tastes. What's not to like about that?

However, it has come to my attention that a lot of my friends are now well past the B being for BEER. Two or three years ago the B made the switch from BEER to BOYFRIEND, then the engagements and weddings started. This was the period of time where the B stood for BLING; when I dealt with the year or two of oooh's and awww's and "wow! How many carats?" at my freshly diamoned ring-fingered friends.

Now the B is now marking the presence of BABIES!

Bring your own BABY?!?!?!! I have been invited to a holiday party with the last line on the Evite reading: "Bring babies, husbands or whomever you'd like" No joke. The RSVP list consists of my high school friends stating their +1's: husbands and babies.

Let me state this disclaimer before continuing: If you are my friend and you have a husband and/or a baby, this is not meant to be offensive. It is great that your life has become so adult-like and you've found "the one." I am happy for you. Mazal Tov!

And in most cases I have celebrated these rights of passage with you. I was your bridesmaid, your wedding singer, attended the wedding, the showers, the bachelorette parties and bought you gifts. I support you 100%.

On the other hand, I find myself in the slow lane watching these friends of mine whizz past me in the fast track of life one by one quickly gaining the titles of wife and mother. The two coasts I belong to have very different roles for me. While on the East Coast, my friends and I are all single and share our best dating horror stories. When on the West Coast, I am one of the last singles in a community of marrieds and repeatedly receive the "you will find someone" speech. Yeah, yeah... save the speech ladies; I'm holding out for eHarmony when I get desperate at 30.

However, I'm beginning to feel a little anxiety about this party, I'm not going to lie. I have no husband, I definitely have no baby, and in all honesty I barely remain interested in a guy long enough to label him as my boyfriend. How am I going to relate?

I decided on the following options for the party:

1. Make some excuse and don't go to the party
   
2. Go to the party solo and be reminded of how incredibly SINGLE I am
   
3. Go to the party, borrow my sister's stepdaughter, claim her as my own (she already agreed to this and said she'd start practicing with Kaylan to make sure she convincingly plays the role as my daughter)
   
4. Hire a male escort à la Debra Messing in The Wedding Date for the party
   
5. Go to the party, bring a baby doll and pretend she is my real live baby

Ok, #5 is a little out there but really makes me laugh. I put the babydoll on the floor with the live babies "oh, did I mention she is really behind in her motor skills? Crawling just hasn't happened yet." I say as the doll lies there facedown and motionless on the carpet. BAHAHAHHA

What will probably end up happening is I will go to the party solo and have a good time. I'll hold the babies, do lots of oohing and awwwing, make small talk with the husbands and other +1's. And as for my +1?? The B as I choose it to be--a BEER. And probably 1+.

an ode to Essie and OPI

Like any self indulgent girl, I love manicures. I love the soaking, the cuticle trimming, the hot towel, and the lotioned hand massage. But most of all I love the nail polish colors, especially the names of the colors.

In one of my fantasy jobs, I, with perfectly manicured hands am sitting around a conference room table assigning names to color swatches.

"Meaningless Kiss!" I say to a dark purple plum.
"Cubicle Cutie," I point to the palest, pale pink.
"Cinco de Mayo" I appropriately call to a bright orangey-red.

While this career is only a fantasy, I must confess that nail polish colors do play a big role in my real life. I find enjoyment in selecting my colors to appropriately correlate to the phase of my life at that point.

Since debuting the blog I have been sporting OPI's Brunette on the Internet. When I began dreading my previous job, I alternated Essie's Fed Up and Need a Vacation for several weeks before I quit. Other fingertip frequenters are Essie's Bordeaux for when red wine is vital to survival. Or Essie's Material Girl--pretty self explanatory I think. And Sugar Daddy, because a girl can always hope.

So thanks Essie and OPI for providing all this entertainment right at my fingertips!

a nice meating.

Chocolate covered bacon. I did some research and found that it exists! It's called "pig candy" and can be purchased at Roni-Sue's Chocolates in the Essex Street Market which is super close to my apartment. My roommate Laina and I met there after work today and went straight to the chocolate shop for the chocolate covered bacon. I purchased milk and dark chocolate pig candy and we were all set to go.

On our way toward the exit, a piratey-looking man with a long brown ponytail and multiple earrings blurts out, "Welcome to the market!" He introduces himself as Jeffrey, a fourth generation butcher in the market and insists on showing us the family business and how old time butchery is done. He pulls out a big slab of raw meat to show us a few things.

"First, the butcher takes the New York strip steak," he says as he pats the slab with his blood-crusted hand. "The butcher then assesses that he is cutting for two skinny little girls and will trim the fat off the edges," he says as he gracefully slices off most of the white parts. "The butcher will wrap them up and say 'enjoy your welcome-to-the-market gift.'" He hands us the bag of meat.

"Now this is some good quality meat I'm giving you. Do NOT fuck it up."

We laugh, continue in small talk and cooking instructions because we really didn't want to fuck these steaks up. We mentioned we've lived in the neighborhood since April and he insisted on a welcome-to-the-neighborhood gift of a fresh mozzarella ball. These two "welcome" gifts combined will become the best meal I've had since Thanksgiving weekend!

We get home and I carefully follow Jeffrey's instruction. Oven heated to 325 degrees. Check. Hot skillet sprinkled with salt and pepper. Check. Unwrapped steaks ready for searing. Check.

I think I'm good to go.

Except... the pepper in the skillet starts smoking a little too much. Shit! I know what's coming next. Our overactive smoke alarm is beeping within seconds and our apartment is filled with peppered smoke igniting a coughing frenzy. Yep, in steak preparation I successfully have set off a bomb of low-dose pepper spray smoke which rapidly permeates the apartment. Laina literally can not breathe. She begins our fire alarm remedy of fanning a towel at the smoke alarm which is incessantly repeating "Fire! Fire!" in its robot voice. She then starts frantically running from bedroom to bedroom, opening and closing every door to possibly quarantine herself but to no prevail. There is no escaping this smoke. I am still at the stove in a calm zone, focused on not ruining the steaks and ignoring the alarms and forcing myself to suppress the urge to cough. Must. Make. Steaks. "Fire! Fire!" that stupid alarm repeats.

After several minutes of this nightmare, we survived our pepper-smoke attack and enjoyed the most delicious (and only) steak I've ever cooked! What a lovely free meal. An appetizer of fresh mozzarella cheese, peppered New York strip steak for the main course, followed by a decadent chocolate dessert of pig candy.

For further reading, please see our new friend at: http://www.jeffreysonessex.com/

cwoffee twalk

"Would you like a bag for that?"

We've all been asked this question and feel a slight twinge of guilt when we have to admit that yes, we do need a bag. Sorry Ms. I'm-Obsessed-With-Yoga-and-Only-Buy-Organic Whole Foods shopper, not all of us carry our "I used to be a plastic bottle" recycled bag with us at all times. Don't judge.

However in doing my part in going green, I have found something in New York that is unnecessarily using up our world's supply of paper bags. COFFEE. Er, I mean cwoffee. You buy your $.90 cwoffee from your local Pick-a-Bagel and the guy will pour the cwoffee, put the lid on, and place the lidded cwoffee cup INSIDE a brown paper bag.

Let's be honest, in today's world we have some options: we can double cup, put sleeves on, or place our lattes in carrier trays. There are plenty of cup accessories plus a warning on the actual cup just to protect us from the hot beverage we are about to enjoy. But somehow in New York the paper bag has become the necessary tool in successful cwoffee handling. Or so it seems.

On the one occasion I actually did accept the bag when purchasing my cwoffee I was terrified and clearly not fitting in the way I had hoped. I couldn't see whether the cup was tilting or about to tilt, whether the lid was dripping or about to drip. What would I do if it did? The bag would soak up the coffee and the bottom would fall out therefore spilling my entire cup in the middle of the street. I would end up with my burnt hands full of steaming hazlenut flavored papier-mâché. I ripped the bag off and threw it in the trash. Wasteful, I know and for that I am sorry.

So from then on when I get "would you like a bag for that?" my answer is "For my cwoffee? Nah, fahgetta bout it."

NYC by the #'s

'Twas in late January, a wintry night that I packed myself up and took a 2,831 mile flight.

Leaving family and friends it was quite a pity, but there's nothing quite like living in New York City.

In New York I have placed many slumbers, so my life breaks down into these numbers:
23 months

3 apartments

2 jobs

3 mice

1 hospital visit

6 haircuts

5 sick days
4 karaoke performances

mic check one two one two......

"Hello world (wide web)!!" This blog is very overdue as I have been wanting to write for a while and finally decided to take action and start the damn thing.

Like every 24 year old, I am constantly over analyzing my life and future but still am lucky enough to blur the line between responsibility and irresponsibility (semi)guilt-free. 24 year olds are still considered young and should take full advantage of their youth and always "live for the moment" --so cheesy, but doesn't Oprah reiterate this somehow on 4 out of 5 episodes?

Anyway, today I was sitting in a public area and I hear "excuse me.... excuse me." I turn around to see a guy staring directly at me. "Ma'am, do you have a pen I can borrow?"

I hand him the pen, no big deal. But... ma'am?? Really? Jeez I haven't even officially hit my mid 20's yet and I'm outgrowing the coveted title of miss. This sucks. When did this happen? I suddenly make a mental note to rush to Sephora after work to stock up on heavy duty anti-wrinkle creams since I now received a doomed welcome into the ma'am demographic.

After more reflection and embracing the future ma'am in me, I must point out that life is fleeting and I want to both remember and share my version of it. That's what this is about. Sharing my life. Neuroses and all.