Blocked.

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It happens every now and then to those who love to share their inner most thoughts via the written word. Writer’s block. And no I’m not beating around the bush in some flowery, creative way to lead you, the reader, to that conclusion. After all I haven’t the words to do so even if I wanted to. Though in struggling with this problem I decided to do what else… but write about it.

Who knows, maybe it will knock something loose in my brain and ideas will rush like rivers through my fingertips and out onto the keyboard. Maybe not. But at least you’ll know why my posts have been fewer and farther between as of late.

I don’t get paid to blog. Most of us who do this will never see one red cent for what we key and cast into cyberspace. But many of us do it because we love to write. We observe, experience and ruminate and after we’ve said all we can possibly say to anyone within earshot… we type because the words are still spilling out of us and need a place to go.

But what if there is nothing to say? Or what if I am too distracted to sit down and focus long enough to string together some cohesive or entertaining thoughts? A small audience of 150 people are planning on reading whatever it is I have to say and I feel I must deliver! Desperately I file through my mental rolodex, searching the events of my week, my day or the last hour seeking a precious nugget of wisdom, an adventure, a humiliating personal anecdote or a tale of some random idiot who crossed my path.

The woman I saw in the produce section wearing a parka when it’s 70 outside. Is that anything? The dude who showed up before me at an interview for a graphic design job… without a resume or portfolio. Could I possibly spin that into something interesting or entertaining? The adventure that was clipping Stanley’s nails yesterday afternoon. Is there a story/moral lesson/side-splitting account there?

Parka Lady. Unprepared-still jobless-SansPortfolio Dude. Clipping the cat’s nails. I told you I was desperate.

But I must remind myself that it happens every now and then to everyone who loves to write. We worry we will never have another original thought… ever again… for the remainder of our lives. And we think about it… and think about it… and then we think about it some more. Then we do what we do best. We write about it.

NYC: I Heart New York or The Post Vacation Funk, Part 2

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On July 1, 2011 I wrote an entry called The Post Vacation Funk after returning to real life from an 8-day trip up and down the New England Coast with my then-boyfriend. It turns out it was a popular post and actually garnered me a spot on the WordPress home page, in the Freshly Pressed section… which ending up catapulting me OUT of my funk because I was getting almost 3,000 hits a day for 5 days!

Unfortunately while the Freshly Pressed lightning has yet to strike again… The Post Vacation Funk has struck full force leaving me void of words and cursing the cursor on my computer as I struggle to cobble together an entry for you faithful readers to (hopefully) enjoy.

Therefore… I have decided to compromise by borrowing my previous post and tailoring it to the city that never sleeps…

I just returned from a 4-day get-a-way to New York City with my fiance… and it was A-MAZ-ING. However… it is now official. I am in the midst of a full-fledged, hard-core, post-vacation funk. And I am here to tell you that the fabled funk is very real and I would argue that it is an inevitable occurrence in the life of any vacationer.

All the fun you’ve been planning for, saving for and laid awake with great night-before-Christmas anticipation for … is over. The photos are now in your camera instead of the brochure and the t-shirt is hanging in the closet.

Mind you, the funk does not occur overnight. Rather it seeps into your conscience slowly and before you know it you are completely mired in it. Suddenly you find yourself knee-deep in the reality that you are neither: A. Independently wealthy, or B. Free from the obscenity that is Responsibility … with a capital “R.”

When you first arrive home—a weary traveler surrounded by the familiar sights, scents and sounds of your “stuff”—you can’t help but experience Dorothy’s “There’s No Place Like Home”  feeling and sleeping in your own bed (on the memory foam that still remembers you) is blissful.

The next day comes and whether at home or the office, it is a flurry of activity. You’re answering emails, returning calls and taking care of household chores with that rested, happy glow that only a true getaway can provide. You’re still sportin’ the amped-up attitude that comes from spending 4 invigorating days in a lively, noisy, pulsing city, surrounded by millions of people and you are recounting the details of your adventure to anyone who will listen.

People expect that you will not exactly be “at the top of your game” since your head is most likely still in the clouds (or on top of the Empire State Building, or on a sunny bench in Central Park, or at the comedy club or that really cool pizzeria you found and are determined is owned and operated by one of the Five Families) and minor errors and gaffs are swiftly forgiven.

Day three brings with it the bi!@# that is reality. The alarm sounds for the second time since you’ve been back and you suddenly remember that this was why you went on vacation in the first place … to escape that d@mn alarm and the daily grind that follows it.

Day four is the same as the third only worse. The alarm clock hits you like a punch in the face reminding you that yesterday was not a fluke or a joke or a drill or even a bad dream. YOU. ARE. NOW. HOME. And it is only Wednesday. This is when you begin to play a sadistic little game with yourself that I like to call: “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago (or Two in this case) Today?” And a word to the wise about playing this game: The non-vacation version of you will always wind up the loser.

By the way… exactly TWO weeks ago today… we were having authentic New York bagels in Brooklyn (complete with lox) … but whatever. I’m not playing.

By day five you understand your fate, but you do not necessarily like it. Anger builds. You can’t stop playing the “Where Were You Exactly One Week Ago (or Two in this case) Today?” game every time you open the empty refrigerator, notice a heaping pile of laundry, encounter a pair of tall, sad, suede boots lying lifeless on the floor or reach into your purse in search of a pen only to grab your NY Metrocard instead.

It is at this point that you begin to entertain wild imaginings about how you might achieve the life of a full-time vacationer. What if I just disappeared?  What might be the consequences of that?  How much DO those people who serve over-priced cocktails, take tickets for the boat ride to the Statue of Liberty or sell I Heart NY t-shirts on the sidewalk actually make? Is it hard to learn how to make hand-rolled bagels like the guy behind the counter at that quaint little bakery on the Lower East Side? Is it too late to get a degree in Recreation or Hospitality and Tourism Management? Am I too old to become a bike messenger?

They say that there are five stages of grief: Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression and finally Acceptance. They are not necessarily experienced in order. The bereaved might vacillate between the five for several weeks or months languishing for a time at one stage or another. So far I think I have experienced all of them and it has yet to be two full weeks.

Hopefully by the time I post this, I will have quietly accepted my life just the way it is. It’s either that or you will likely find me behind a counter in a hairnet and apron, serving kosher pickles to tourists.

NYC: Does This Pizza Make Me Look Fat?

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Remember the good old days when cameras used film? You took all of your vacation pictures home with you in little black canisters — their contents largely unknown. And when you got around to it, you would drop them off at the nearest photo developing place and get them back within one to three business days.

Ahh yes, the good old days of blissful ignorance when your vacation could not possibly become clouded by some random image of you frozen in time. The picture was snapped and everyone moved merrily on their way.

But now that we live in the digital age and have the opportunity to SEE that random image of ourselves almost frozen in time—that is before we hit the SAVE button—we often recoil at what we see and wish for a do-over. We reposition ourselves in an attempt to look happier, taller, thinner or ironically… more natural than we did in the previous snapshot.

During our trip to New York we took a lot of pictures. After all, New York is a magnificent city with so much worth seeing and remembering and Lee is a wonderful photographer who artistically and diligently documents the events of our travels by taking numerous fun and interesting pics.

Occasionally when he would snap one I would ask to see it before we moved on to the next destination on our “must-see” list. And occasionally I would ask him for a do-over… particularly if I felt that said photograph made my face look fat.

<<< As a side note, other than the scale and my clothing, photos are very revealing to me when it comes to a change in my weight. Oftentimes they are even MORE telling than clothing and if I so much as suspect that the scale is inching in an upward direction I refuse to get on it. So photos can sometimes provide me with that slap-in-the-face “AH-HA moment” (as Oprah would say) … and inspire me to get off my butt and do something about my upward mobility. >>>

OK… back to the story. Lee put up with my requests for do-overs for about a day. But then, in the early part of the second day when I pouted and complained about my ginormous moon face he sighed, put the camera down, looked at me and said something kind of like this: “Joanna. You know you are not fat. And we are in New York. One of the greatest cities in the world not to mention one of the greatest cities to EAT in the world… and you are complaining about your weight. I don’t want you to TALK about or even THINK about your weight until we get home. If you want to worry about it then, that’s your prerogative. But for now… Just enjoy.”

And he was right. I knew he was 100% right. I knew that I was being ridiculous and shallow and that if I really am unhappy with my current weight… Well… Sitting down in front of a gorgeous, large, authentic, New York-style pizza pie from Lombardi’s—the very first and oldest pizzeria in America—was most certainly NOT the time nor place to start worrying about it.

Irony and Angry Birds

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In recent months, Lee and I have discovered both Angry Birds and Words With Friends. Perhaps you’ve heard of them? Well, I am hereby going on record and predicting that Angry Birds and Words With Friends will be the death of life as we know it. They will be the final nails in society’s coffin. They will finish the job that reality TV, YouTube and Facebook started years ago. Maybe those Mayans were onto something after all. The following scenario played out at my house just last night…

“I can’t believe people actually live this way!” I expressed in horror as the latest episode of Hoarders got underway. “I mean, what in the world is so wrong with them that they are incapable of disposing of their own waste!?! Then again… if there wasn’t something wrong with this behavior there would be no TV show, so…” My voice trailed off as I grew ever more transfixed by the strange and severe mental incapacitations of others.

“This is so gross and yet I cannot look away. I am fascinated by this show!” I said for about the fourth time while Lee just shook his head and laughed. He is not a Hoarders-watcher like me. But I did occasionally catch him getting slightly drawn in by the unique drama as he sat on the couch hypnotized by Angry Birds. All the while cursing me for suggesting that he play it in the first place when he got his new smartphone last month. 

We sat in the living room, like bumps on logs, through two whole episodes talking trash about these people and feeling all superior because we had running water, functionable plumbing and could still see the floors in our home.

It didn’t occur to me until a few hours later (after we traded technology and therefore possession of YouTube, Facebook and Words With Friends for Angry Birds for probably the third time) that if we weren’t careful — our floor just might begin to disappear from neglect too. They would find us surrounded by laundry and garbage… glued to the TV, smartphone or computer… utterly unable to function in normal society… passing judgement on a bunch of other people for being lazy slobs.

NYC: The City You Forgot You Knew

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I’m a bit of a pop culture groupie. And New York City—with it’s starring role in so many movies and TV shows—is a popular culture lover’s dream. Forever a fan of both the small and large screen, I’ve been able to enjoy countless portrayals of life as I will never know it thanks to the magic of television and cinema throughout the years. 

I had not been to New York prior to this visit and yet I was amazed at how familiar it was to me once I arrived. Rounding every corner provided the strongest sense of deja vu I’ve ever experienced. And taking in many of the sights was like looking into the face of a dear, old friend. Whether you’ve been to the city or not, take a look at some of these famous places. Perhaps you will find them to be as familiar as I did…

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NYC: Hurry Up and Wait… and Like It!

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I’m not too sure why people say that New Yorkers are among the most impatient and rude people in the world. I know that mine is just an outsider’s view, but to this outsider, being a New Yorker seems as though it would be a constant exercise in patience.

Immediately upon our arrival to NYC at the Staten Island Ferry—which would carry us swiftly across the New York harbor, depositing us at the southern tip of Manhattan—we waited.

First we waited to board, then we waited to de-board, next we waited in line to purchase unlimited subway passes and then we waited on the platform for the train that would take us to our hotel. We waited to board the subway, to get off the subway, to walk up the stairs to street level… and of course we waited for our turn to cross lest we be run down by a cab, bus or bicycle messenger on a mission.

Welcome to New York City. Home to over 18 million people in the metropolitan area — it is an overwhelming, endless rush of humanity. And believe me everyone is rushing somewhere, everywhere, all the time. Hence, the “hurry up” part. Hurry up to get a place in line. Because this tidal wave of beings can only move as fast as transit and commerce will allow. Transit and commerce (I might add) that are also operated by and reliant upon other human beings. Thus, the “wait” part.

I quickly learned why Lee, my fearless-and-informed tour guide, told me to quote: “… travel light and wear comfortable shoes.” By the time our visit to the Big Apple concluded we had waited in line(s) not only for constant transport around the city, but for coffee, bagels, hot dogs, beer, pizza, pastrami and pickles. We waited in line for events, for elevators, for escalators, for public attractions, for bathrooms, for boats, for shopping, for a cashier, for a good view, for a good picture and even for a bench to sit on and rest from all the waiting.

Perhaps the “impatient” brand that has been seared upon New Yorkers only comes into play when they are, say… forced to deal with thousands of versions of some clueless tourist (like myself) on a daily basis who may or may not know the exact and proper ordering procedure for a pastrami on rye. For they are not afraid to show you their displeasure with your non-new-yorker ignorance.

I can’t blame them. That’s just the way it is. Therefore, you’d better like it. Take your $20 deli sandwich, your $7 slice, your $5 dog or your $12 cocktail and drag your bumbling-photograph-taking-aimlessly-wandering-map-studying @$$ and get out of the way. Quickly. After all… someone else is waiting.

NYC: A Much Needed Break From… Absolutely Nothing

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So I took a little blogcation for a few days in order to get away from the hectic pace that is my life these days. The so-called hectic pace being largely comprised of job hunting, unpacking sweaters and tuning in to watch The View every morning. During this blogcation I am excited to say that we took a real vacation to the very place that embodies the truest of hectic paces — The Isle of Manhattan.

I have never been to New York City (since I am told that my little pass over the GW bridge last summer doesn’t count) and it was an amazingly adventurous and eye-opening treat! I hopefully gathered a bit of fodder in which to share with you here as I jotted a few things down… at the hotel, on the subway, while my pizza cooled in Little Italy and in my seat at the Garden—waiting for the Rangers to take to the ice.

As incredible as it was to finally visit the famous, fabled, pulsing, living, breathing city that never sleeps… it has also been refreshing to come home to a world where I need only hop in my car to get anywhere I need to be and enjoy a bathroom in which I can actually turn around.

I hope you’ll check back in the days ahead as I promise to do my best to share a few little bites of a very Big Apple.

Cardboard Time Capsules

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Unpacking after a move can often feel like the opening of a time capsule. There are pictures, clothing and miscellaneous items—all from another time in history—packed into boxes you long forgot existed. When you inevitably uncover them you find yourself transported back to that moment… that week… that summer… that period in your life when things were vastly different.

Perhaps they were better times, perhaps they were worse. Perhaps you are overcome with feelings of nostalgia, joy, surprise, grief or even relief that you are now sitting exactly where you are sitting at this particular moment in time. No matter the emotions that may wash over you, one thing will almost always be certain: Life looks different than you thought it would back then.

This week Lee brought in some boxes from the garage where we are still storing and sorting through my things. One of them contained a photo album, several envelopes with loose photos and a few cards and letters. He asked if he could look at the album and of course I said yes as I pulled my chair along side his in order to get a good look myself.

It was an album I put together of the summers I’d spent working on a dude ranch in Colorado during college. I was happy to see that although the photos were nearly 17 years old, I didn’t look radically different than I do today… minus a few laugh lines and crows feet. But the thing that struck me the most was the fact that Life hadn’t really touched me yet. In those images, Life and Circumstance had yet to ruffle my youthful feathers. Or trip me up and skin my knees.

Back then I operated under the naive assumption that the worst that could happen was a bad hair day, a rained-out horseback ride, accidentally calling a guest by the wrong name or a few broken dishes. Boy, did I have a lot to learn. Though I wouldn’t trade my then child-like idealism and ambition for anything. I would learn soon enough that the world wasn’t fair and sometimes bad things happen no matter how hard you work to avoid them.

We all do, eventually.

After we got done looking at the album and he got up and turned his attention to something else, I lingered over that box of photos and letters—this cardboard time capsule—and I looked at more images of times when I was younger, thinner, prettier, tanned and toned. And honestly, the thoughts and feelings they conjured up have been tumbling around in my head for days. Only now are they coming out through my fingers on the keyboard as I share this with you.

Truth be told I envy that girl and yet I remember that EVEN SHE occasionally thought (waaaay back then) that she wasn’t pretty enough or thin enough or smart enough or good enough… yet. She thought that ONE day—when she was older—she would come into her own and everything would be perfect. Everything would be just as it should be.

Well, here she is. Here I am. That “one day” has arrived and you know what? I’ve decided after peering inside of my time capsule, that since I can’t go back and fix her unattainable aspiration for perfection… I can fix mine. I can live in THIS moment, enjoying all that I have right now, promising to always try and stay present. But most of all… no matter how many more time capsules I uncover in this lifetime… to stay grateful for all that has been and currently is.

Reality Bytes

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It seems that since I’ve temporarily traded an ergonomically-correct chair parked in front of a computer for nine hours a day for a slightly more active lifestyle moving boxes and doing actual housework (like scrubbing, washing and cooking things)… my body wants to remind me that it is NO longer 24.

I can do all the yoga in the world—which I’ve been doing faithfully on a daily basis—but every night some part or another complains to me that it has been strained, sprained, wrenched, tweeked or ticked-off during the course of the day. And it punishes me. And it pushes me to reach for two Aleve, a heating pad, the recliner… and the remote.

I’m not a huge fan of the offerings made by the Tuesday Night TV Gods, so I thought I’d puruse some different options for a change this past Tuesday. The so-called “reality” options. As I sat there in the recliner—held prisoner by either an unhappy muscle in my lower right back or overnight kidney cancer—I was exposed to some rather interesting worlds.

The first place I landed was MTV’s Teen Mom 2 where I witnessed three children acting like children whilst they discussed the so-called “parenting” of an actual child. Oh and I also stuck around long enough to watch as another one of the “moms” had a full-scale meltdown in her car because she was forbidden (by the rules of her probation) to smoke pot for 12 whole months! And yes, it really WAS as tragic and gut-wrenching and tear-jerking as it sounds.

After about five to 10 minutes of the whole baby mama drama thing I wandered over to the disturbing-on-a-WHOLE-OTHER-LEVEL show that is TLC’s 19 Kids and Counting. About the only good thing to come from watching 15 minutes of this show was that it provided both my ocular and pulmonary muscles terrific workouts what with all of the heavy sighing and eye-rolling.

My final destination after being totally disgusted by the previous two, wound up being A&E’s Storage Wars. Which is, (in case you are unfamiliar with it’s schtick) colorful characters engaged in even more colorful bidding wars for large containers full of someone else’s abandoned and unknown crap. All the while hoping to find that ever-elusive diamond-in-the-rough or in the case of Tuesday’s episode… a hopefully-not-a-knock-off, dusty Louis Vuitton wedged between a cardboard box and a yellowish-brown mattress set.

Now, I would be remiss if I didn’t at least mention that I found the last one to be somewhat entertaining and interesting. Kind of like an Antiques Road Show taking place in hundreds of storage lockers in the hot, desert southwest. You can’t help but be curious as to whether or not the people who have invested hundreds or thousands of dollars in the contents of these mysterious, metal sheds wind up with trash or treasure in the end.

But all, and I mean ALL of my encounters with Tuesday night’s “reality” TV left me questioning… Which is MORE sad… The fact that these types of programs are actually ON television? Or the fact that WE actually watch them?

Pawn Shop Valentine

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Nothing says “I love you” quite like cashing in on other people’s misfortune.

Last Friday night I saw something that—as far as I’m concerned—takes the V-Day cupcake when it comes to over-the-top. I saw a Valentine’s Day commercial for… Are you ready for this? A pawn shop. The commercial illustrated how flowers are for pathetic losers… and the real Valentine’s Day gifts can be found at Pay Day Pawn (not it’s real name). “Hey everyone! Not sure what to get that special someone for the BIG day?? … Come on down to Pay Day Pawn, where we are bound to have exactly what you’re looking for!”

Just what your girl or guy wants… someone else’s used crap. “Hey honey! This is how special YOU are to ME… This V-Day, let’s skip the flowers and chocolate-covered strawberries. Instead, I’m taking you to Pay Day Pawn and let you dig around in other people’s cast-offs for something special that shows you and reminds you ALL YEAR LONG just how much you mean to me!”

Big screen TVs, antiques, used jewelry, musical instruments, amputee Hummels and grandma’s chipped tea set (that is missing several pieces). Yup. I don’t know about you folks, but that certainly is MY idea of a Valentine’s Day wish come true. Because nothing else truly conveys your love for him like a nice, gently-used set of golf clubs circa 1963. And you’ll NEVER find anything that shows her how deep your love for her goes like a tarnished, ruby dinner ring set in 14-karat, yellow gold and surrounded by dozens of cloudy baguettes.

I know times are tough and I am in no way poking fun at a non-traditional or second-hand form of gift giving. Not everyone can or even wants to blow a miniature fortune on some roses that will inevitably die or splurge on an over-priced dinner at an overly-crowded restaurant. Sometimes a sweet sentiment or kind and selfless act does FAR more than anything money can buy. But if your significant other actually takes you to Pay Day Pawn for your gift this year… Well… perhaps it’s time to consider pawning them. And who knows… maybe they’ll fetch a really good price!