10 posts tagged “me”
Yesterday was the most beautiful day. It was warm and sunny and just absolutely gorgeous. Yes, I should have stayed in and worked on my NaNoWriMo, but how could I be expected to stay inside on the first warm day we've had in weeks?! So John and I headed uptown to Central Park to enjoy the afternoon. After fighting off bands of bicycle taxi drivers - one of whom asked us if we wanted to buy a used car when we declined a tour of the park - we roamed the paths, taking pictures along the way. The park was full of people; everyone seemed to have the same idea as us.
I can't get over how beautiful New York is in the fall. It's spectacular. Lately I've had no remorse in moving here, and with plans in the works to abandon Avenue C for the Upper West Side come spring, I'm downright thrilled to be living in New York.
Some pictures from our walk yesterday:
What's the most drastic change you've ever made to your appearance?
Submitted by Laurie.
I worked in a salon for about four years before moving to New York. You name the haircut/color, and I've had it. I would pretty much let anyone do anything to my hair ...except bleach it. And then one day, I finally gave in. It didn't last long, I went dark again pretty quickly, but about a year later I got an itch to do it again, and that lasted slightly longer. I didn't dye my hair dark again until John and I moved up here, and then it was only because my hair stylist now lives 12 hours away, so it's kind of a pain to get my roots done.
I've had pink hair, fire engine red, black, blue... nothing has gotten a bigger reaction from people, however, than when I went blonde.
Looking back on it... I think I probably look better with dark hair.
I was always more in love with the idea of New York than New York itself.
I imagined something quite different than what I have been living in for the past five months. I watched reruns of Sex and the City and Friends and thought we'd be living in a two bedroom in Greenwich Village or in a cozy brownstone on the Upper East Side. Not a cave on Avenue C. This is what happens when you only visit a city twice before you actually move there and rely on sitcoms to paint an accurate picture of New York. Perhaps I should have spent more time in the city before relocating my entire life, but there wasn't time or money. John and I made a decision, closed our eyes and jumped...
...And I hated New York. I hate the subways in July. I hate that if I want to go to a really good grocery store [which "Associated Supermarkets" is not] I have to travel all the way to Union Square; which is a pain when you just want a decent avocado. I hate the squatters next door, always begging for cigarettes, and on one memorable occasion, pizza. I hate that I can't find PBR in a bottle or smoke in a bar... and don't even get me started on the lack of sweet tea. I hate the remoteness of Avenue C. I hate that my friends are 12 hours away. I hate the buildings everywhere, going to the laundromat, and our apartment which is roughly the size of my closet back home.
Of course, John loves New York.
I thought, surely I'll have to leave him. There's no way I'm going to be able to stick this out, especially considering my Southern blood is cold when it's 75, and winter is quickly headed our way. I love John, but love can only sustain a person so long.
But now autumn has settled in. It's cold and grey, but the leaves are orange and red and incredible. We walked through Central Park on Sunday afternoon, the chomp-chomp of dead leaves under our feet and that sweet fall smell in the air. It's a kind of autumn I've never experienced in the South. The skate rink is open, and I want to go even though I haven't gone ice skating in probably eight years. I love being bundled up in my new coat and hat and gloves. I love the pumpkins in all the windows all over the city. I love walking into my warm apartment, which suddently seems almost... cozy. I - dare I say - love New York in the autumn, and even find myself excitedly anticipating the snow. I want to go to the park and build a snowman; I want to have a snowball fight.
This autumn, this impending winter... these are newfound things to me. It's a different kind of cold. The seasons actually change here, and it's beautiful and something I am not at all accustomed to. The New Yorkers laugh at me when I tell them how excited I am for winter - a season that usually depresses me to no end. "Wait, just wait. You'll hate it soon." But I am imagining the Christmas lights strung all over the city, and the quiet the snow will bring. I am a snow bird in reverse, happily staying North for the winter.
New York, just when I think I can't stand another second... New York, ever surprising and ever changing.
A relationship like most relationships in my life.
Show us a self-portrait.
It's been a strange week. I am either getting a terrible chest cold or my allergies are getting worse as the seasons change. Either way, I'm miserable. The good news: I haven't smoked in days. I made the decision to quit before I started feeling ill, but as soon as I quit smoking I started having trouble breathing and got a sore throat. I never had breathing problems the whole time I was a smoker and now this. I, ever the pessimist, announced I'd be dead by morning, however John has a more positive outlook and continues to try and shake some sense in me. He says I'll be fine, but what does he know. He's not a doctor. Damn him and his realism.
I would go to a doctor, of course, except that they terrify me, so as long as I am still able to breathe somewhat normally, I'm not going. When I start turning blue I'll think about going, but not a moment sooner.
Have I mentioned that I'm a hypochondriac? No? Well, I am.
Fall is here, and today was one of those days I really loved living in New York. After I got home from work I put on my brand new coat and took a walk through Tompkins Square Park. The leaves are changing; the skies were slate grey, but the trees are turning bright orange and red. It was cold, but not too cold. The streets were full of people, and I was happy to be here. I walked down St. Mark's and bought John some jazz records - Theolonius Monk and John Coltrane - and had a long discussion with Kate on the phone about Lost and the lack of gossip coming from back home.
This change in seasons is a new event for me, and thus far I like it. I can't wait until the city is white and snowy and decorated with Christmas lights. I'm sure I'll get sick of it soon enough, but winter will be quite the novelty for me.
I have so much to do, so much weighing over me. I feel like I have no time whatsoever. I need to do laundry, finish my work for Clay, go get my paycheck, clean the apartment, buy a new tea pot - the old one is two seconds from breaking. Wednesday night I have to go to a fund raiser for work in SoHo. Thursday night we're going to see Minus the Bear. John and I are also going to buy a new down comforter and sheets this weekend. Our anniversary present to one another. Which is Monday, by the way. One year. I am so excited about new sheets. There's a phrase I never thought I'd type. What have I become?
Now I am going to down some vitamin C pills, forget about everything I need to get done, make a pot of tea and curl up in bed with either David Sedaris or Augusten Burroughs - my literary equivalent to chicken soup.
Happy Friday.
There is a fact that has been made abundantly clear in recent weeks: my party days are over. I have been hesistant to accept this fate as, once upon a time, I made a name for myself as the girl who was still dancing long after everyone had gone home or passed out. There was a time when Chaundra and I ventured out every single night of the week, even if no one else was out. We created a party for ourselves at all times. These were good, but obviously fleeting, times. A person cannot maintain that kind of lifestyle after a certain point. The cut off date varies, I'm sure, but for me, things began declining midway through 22, and last night - not even a month into 23 - things pretty much came to a halt.
John, Chaundra and I ventured out for the Continental's final throwdown last night. I switched my shifts around at work so that I would have today off, assuming last evening would be epic, like the days of yore. The Continental is a legendary East Village punk club that is closing its doors this weekend for good. Now, let's face facts, I am not and have never been punk rock. Yes, like most girls I know I went through a "punk" stage in high school, but that really really doesn't count. I have a lot of friends, however, who are into punk and live that strange lifestyle. God bless them, but it's not for me. The closest I get is The Clash, The Stooges and Velvet Underground. [Would VU even count? I have no idea what the strict definitions are.]
So what was I doing at the Continental last night? Jesse Malin was playing. Former DGeneration member who has gone solo and showing a whole new side. It was my second time seeing him; the first was last May at the Mercury Lounge on Houston, right after we moved to the city. I guess because he's kind of a punk rock guy, the Continental asked him to help them go out in style, and had this been a year ago, I would have appreciated last night a lot more.
Immediately it was made clear when we walked in that we were clearly not cool enough to be in the Continental. Brooklyn and East Village hipsters mingled with aging gutter punks. Two groups of people I have a deep and passionate loathing for. But we weren't there to make friends, we were there to hear Jesse Malin, which is always a good time. By 11 or so, Chaundra and I had pushed our way to the front. Despite prominant no-smoking signs, the air was thick with smoke. Everyone was rude and pushy; someone spilled whiskey on Chaundra and my back was covered with vodka. We were not happy. A year ago, these things wouldn't have bothered me; we would have been giddy to see Jesse Malin. Now, I just wanted him to get on the damn stage already so I could go home and go to bed.
When he finally came on, things got much better. People were slightly - SLIGHTLY - less pushy, and the music was good enough to distract from any annoyances. He and his band rocked it, and as per usual was full of stories. One of the major highlights of seeing Jesse Malin is that he is known for telling really funny stories in between songs. He opened with "Brooklyn" which might be my favorite song. After about an hour and a half, however, my feet were killing me and John and I were ready to go; tired of being the only sober one in a sea of drunk punks. It wasn't even 1am. Jesse vowed to make it a long night, and as much as I wanted to, there was no way I could stick it out until 4am, so we left.
Sometimes I am sad that this crazy party-girl phase is coming to an end. Sometimes I am happy. I have no regrets, of course. I have relished every late night with my friends that I've ever had, even those that sometimes ended in tears or vomit or both. It's part of being a kid. You do it now, so that you don't do it when you're forty. Nobody wants to be "that guy." And you know who I mean; everyone knows one. It amazes me that I would rather hang out at home or go to dinner with friends and then call it a night. The Katie of three years ago wouldn't even be friends with this Katie. Go figure. I am happy for who I am, and I am happy for who I was.
At any rate, I am getting old. I am not punk rock. And my party days are officially over. But I can still have a good time; the good times just end a lot earlier now.
Show us your camera smile.
I don't really cheese for the camera. I also believe I am the only person who can take a decent photo of me. However, here are a few decent ones taken by someone other than me.
I wish I had had my camera out. I didn't; but if I had you would be looking at the greatest photo you've ever seen in your life right now. It was Friday evening. I was walking through Central Park with my dad, Justin, Jennifer and Stephanie. The sun was setting; it was getting chilly. We were walking along one of the bike paths. Lots of people were riding their bikes or jogging, and that's when we saw her come flying: the roller blading nun. She was dressed in full nun garb, her habit flowing in the wind, the rosary beads around her neck streching perilously behind her as she flew down the path on her skates. Blink and you'd miss her. Justin, Stephanie and I stopped and turned around. She flew down the bike path. She was older, maybe almost sixty. For a moment we were speechless. What exactly does one say after that?
This is city surprises me everyday. Just when I think I've seen everything, the city shakes its head and laughs, "Just you wait."
Everyday I am amazed.
This weekend was our first taste of autumn in New York. It dipped down into the 60s [although it felt colder], and I was left with the realization that I am going to freeze to death in a few short months. I don't know how this winter thing works. I don't understand the concept of snow that sticks or ice or ear muffs. These are foreign concepts to my Southern mind.
My only close encounter with winter came when I was seven or eight years old. We moved to Hudson, Ohio [just outside of Cleveland] in September one year. It was beautiful: we were coming from Texas and were greeted by the changing leaves; everything was gold and red and orange. It was when I first fell in love with autumn; it was the first time I remember a noticeable change in the seasons. Sadly, this beautiful, temperate time didn't last. By
Yet, here I am, back in a cold climate for the second time in my life. Dreading the impending winter more and more everyday. Taking an inventory of my clothes and realizing I have no sweaters, maybe two long sleeved shirts, no good, solid winter boots. I'll have
I did enjoy our autumn-like weekend. My dad, brother, step-mom, step-sister and my brother's girlfriend flew in for a visit. I had to play tour guide, of course, but it was so good to see everyone. We went to the Met; walked through Central Park; out to two fabulous dinners. I took them to Battery Park where we waited in line for an hour to board the
