Some bulleted-statement New York trip summarizing
I, overly guest-relations-primed arrived Wednesday and also riding out an immense independence/poverty streak did not take a cab but rather the A Train all the way from Far Rockaway in Queens--gasp. Coupled with my following marijuana into the only well-windowed room of Nick's coworker's damn adorable Thompson St. apartment, this sent me off the My Girlfriend's Growing Up Scale and into the realm of I Want to Marry You, and it's so ironic because the consequent last thing on my mind's matrimony. So:
-I ate my way through the city. We had near-daily dim sum in Chinatown's Sara D. Roosevelt Park among shirtless European soccerplayers and impossibly-emerald turf, Bronte burgers from Ruby's, almost-nightly cannoli at Palermo--oh, the joys of residing where Chinatown slams into Soho straddles Little Italy. Back-to-back wine nights post-dosa and pre-Positano only primed me for cocktails and La Esquina avocado tacos... how I'm fitting the business attire upon return's a mystery to me.
-I absorbed enough testosterone in those seven nights lofted with eleven males to undo even more than my nine months of Mt. Holyoke damage. But it wasn't all bodily function humor and lesbian porn--I finally had a See How This is All Fitting Together moment (or ten thousand) during a long long discussion on corporate ethics with Al, and bonded almost disturbingly rapidly with Nick's outdoorsy budding-History prof of a hilarious and utter foodie roommate, Greg, whose parents OWN A CANDY COMPANY. Free licorice and incredibly satisfying conversation??? I was sold. We're all entertaining the idea of running off to Wyoming in January and renting a huge house and skiing and cracking up fireside and apres-ing heartily, to be certain. I'd love to have that happen.
-I got to see Emily lots and Mark a little and both were a great delight. O that I will be finally with nearly everyone wonderful in my world, and soon.
-I, upon awakening, omeletting, sending Nick off with a kiss, browsing Calypso Enfant et Bebe and buying a red pepper from Dean and Deluca then meeting him again for sandwiches in the park before an afternoon of room straightening and reading Rushdie and an evening spent sauce-thickening realized how I do need a career to be taken seriously in this (any, I assume) relationship, which is good, because I'm no longer glorifying stupid things that aren't substantial. I'd much rather grab that pepper in a rush home and then have help with the salad, because I hated answering "What did you do this morning?" with "Spent six minutes searching for a perfectly ripe pepper!" after weeks and weeks of I MET THE COOLEST EXECUTIVE WHO WORKED ON... or I SOLD A PAINTING IN ITALIAN, SOMEHOW! or even just GOSH MY LIFE SUCKED TODAY BUT AT LEAST I HAVE ONE.
I hate being blindingly in love and back to e-mailing letter writing goofy text bombarding cell phoning thrice-daily etc., but there are things to look forward to (Everything is Illuminated, Folk Art Museum, bookgroup, Saturdays off, the city again in December and Taboo Night and Emeril's for vodka tonics--I have to list them to feel better, but it works) and great literature and bad music and it's just two more months. I am having a tough time juggling friendships all over--I feel like Nick Time takes out of Jeff/Josh/Kioko/Will Time, as does girl-roommate time, that Coworker Time's superfluous since I see them every damn day, but still, cocktails and gallery takings-in and films and food are fine, and always that I'm so far from the Northerners and forever fighting the urge to just drive beachward to a wonderful family bed pool kitchen and Erin's just an hour and a half up and over, aaack. More concerted effort here I come, plus Sorry I'm Sketchy CDs, which I must burn NOW.
-I ate my way through the city. We had near-daily dim sum in Chinatown's Sara D. Roosevelt Park among shirtless European soccerplayers and impossibly-emerald turf, Bronte burgers from Ruby's, almost-nightly cannoli at Palermo--oh, the joys of residing where Chinatown slams into Soho straddles Little Italy. Back-to-back wine nights post-dosa and pre-Positano only primed me for cocktails and La Esquina avocado tacos... how I'm fitting the business attire upon return's a mystery to me.
-I absorbed enough testosterone in those seven nights lofted with eleven males to undo even more than my nine months of Mt. Holyoke damage. But it wasn't all bodily function humor and lesbian porn--I finally had a See How This is All Fitting Together moment (or ten thousand) during a long long discussion on corporate ethics with Al, and bonded almost disturbingly rapidly with Nick's outdoorsy budding-History prof of a hilarious and utter foodie roommate, Greg, whose parents OWN A CANDY COMPANY. Free licorice and incredibly satisfying conversation??? I was sold. We're all entertaining the idea of running off to Wyoming in January and renting a huge house and skiing and cracking up fireside and apres-ing heartily, to be certain. I'd love to have that happen.
-I got to see Emily lots and Mark a little and both were a great delight. O that I will be finally with nearly everyone wonderful in my world, and soon.
-I, upon awakening, omeletting, sending Nick off with a kiss, browsing Calypso Enfant et Bebe and buying a red pepper from Dean and Deluca then meeting him again for sandwiches in the park before an afternoon of room straightening and reading Rushdie and an evening spent sauce-thickening realized how I do need a career to be taken seriously in this (any, I assume) relationship, which is good, because I'm no longer glorifying stupid things that aren't substantial. I'd much rather grab that pepper in a rush home and then have help with the salad, because I hated answering "What did you do this morning?" with "Spent six minutes searching for a perfectly ripe pepper!" after weeks and weeks of I MET THE COOLEST EXECUTIVE WHO WORKED ON... or I SOLD A PAINTING IN ITALIAN, SOMEHOW! or even just GOSH MY LIFE SUCKED TODAY BUT AT LEAST I HAVE ONE.
I hate being blindingly in love and back to e-mailing letter writing goofy text bombarding cell phoning thrice-daily etc., but there are things to look forward to (Everything is Illuminated, Folk Art Museum, bookgroup, Saturdays off, the city again in December and Taboo Night and Emeril's for vodka tonics--I have to list them to feel better, but it works) and great literature and bad music and it's just two more months. I am having a tough time juggling friendships all over--I feel like Nick Time takes out of Jeff/Josh/Kioko/Will Time, as does girl-roommate time, that Coworker Time's superfluous since I see them every damn day, but still, cocktails and gallery takings-in and films and food are fine, and always that I'm so far from the Northerners and forever fighting the urge to just drive beachward to a wonderful family bed pool kitchen and Erin's just an hour and a half up and over, aaack. More concerted effort here I come, plus Sorry I'm Sketchy CDs, which I must burn NOW.