To Beat the Band

Somehow I managed to convince myself that I actually wanted to run a marathon, even though I declared only in February that I had no desire to run one. My friends wanted to do it to honor a wonderful woman who passed away in April, though we all pointed out she never ran; she walked. I trained with my sister and friends fairly regularly after the annual Father’s Day road race in Branford. I ran a PW that race – personal worst. It’s not a term most runners use, but my dear old dad kicked my butt and quite a few other people did as well. I’d like to say it was a humbling experience and I learned my lesson and blah blah blah, but in reality, I knew exactly why I didn’t run fast or even well, and I was and still am okay with that. Instead of getting eight hours of sleep a night, training for three hours a day, and not drinking alcohol, I’ve taken to staying up late to watch trash TV or read last month’s copy of the New Yorker (some people are a week behind; I’m lucky to stay a month behind), not training at all, and going to Happy Hour with friends on a fairly regular basis. I lived the athlete’s life in college, and while I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I decided that when I graduated, I’d live a more balanced life. Turns out the scales tipped in favor of general frequent debauchery and my usual fast time at the road race didn’t happen this year. A friend told me it was no fun to make fun of me for my poor performance since I didn’t even seemed bothered by it, and I said I was sorry I wasn’t sorry.

Fast forward about a month. My sister sent me a message saying that everyone was doing the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC in October and was I in or was I out. Bloody Hell. Everyone was doing it? Then I guess I better do it. She signed me up for it, and I didn’t talk to her for the rest of the day. Getting back into shape wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. My stride came back more and more with each run, and I was starting to enjoy running again. It was hard not to enjoy the runs because of the company I was in, but the pain I was also in often left me unable to laugh at whatever my sister or my friends said. Soon, I was able to run and talk and participate in the joke telling.

In early August, we ran the Guilford 10miler at a swimming 10minute pace, but I felt great during the race. I hadn’t felt that good on a run since college, though make no mistake that in college I was running much, much faster. I felt so good during the race that I was actually excited about the half-marathon I’d be running about two weeks later. Four of us ran together and helped each other along. We told jokes and picked out which house we wanted to own when we got to the part of the race that shows of Guilford’s fine real estate. We didn’t realize that the owner of the house was sitting on the front porch when one of us said, “That one. I definitely want that one.” I’m pretty sure she was pointing at it, too.

Around mile six we encountered two guys who looked to be struggling a bit. I, of course, judged them because they were wearing basketball shorts and bandanas and didn’t look like runners. Again, no lesson or humility was taken away from that Father’s Day road race. They started walking, at which point I turned to my sister and said, “Watch. As soon as we [four girls] pass them, they’ll start running again.” Sure enough, once they heard our incessant chatter approaching from behind, one goes to the other, “You ready, Bro?” Awe – a bromance! As we passed them, I shouted to my sister (who was no more than a few strides away), “Count it!”

This happened a minimum of three more times, and each time, someone shouted “Count it!” and the four of us had a good laugh. I’m also happy to say that I’m pretty sure we beat them.

Fast forward to a week later when I ran the New York City Half Marathon. I ran this one by myself since there was a mix-up trying to find the other girls, but nevertheless there I was in the coral with a thousand other runners who had pink bib numbers like mine. In other corals, thousands of other runners were stretching and getting ready and debating one last bathroom trip, but only 1,000 of us were lucky enough to land in the pink group. Runners had to be in the corals by 6:35am, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when I saw lots of other people in running gear and wearing bib numbers on the subway in Astoria at 5:30 that morning. I’m not a morning person, and I’ll admit that I was a little bit jealous of the two girls I saw walking home from their night out as I was walking to the subway station. Ahh…those were the days.

Promptly at 7am, the gun went off. At least I think it did. I was so far back from the start line that I didn’t hear the gun or even see the starters. It took a full four minutes and 50 seconds for me to reach the startline, and since my watch battery died the day before the race, that meant that at each mile I had to do some mental math. Running and thinking? Ugh. Anyway, I was flying it for the first seven miles. I felt great. It was the best I felt in a long time, and I was running faster than my planned 10 minute pace. After seven miles, we left Central Park and made our way down town on Broadway. There was a sing-along in Time Square, complete with cheerleaders, which at that point I thought was kind of stupid for people who were red in the face from oxygen deprivation. Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” was playing, and I knew something was up when I didn’t feel like singing as well. I made it to mile nine, and I didn’t feel as good, but my pace was still good. I survived Mile 10, but at Mile 11 I was filled with rage. I’m talking full-on anger with the fact that I was running this stupid race that I was training for a stupid marathon and why did it have to start so freaking early? And can everyone please remember that the first guy to run a marathon died? And that’s why we call it a marathon? Runner’s high and endorphins were gone, and I was in no mood to be running down the Westside highway alongside thousands of other runners who all seemed to be delighted with themselves.

I’m not sure if that’s the real story of the marathon, but it’s close. I couldn’t figure out why we voluntarily, and sometimes happily, signed up to run such a far distance. I made it to the end of 13.1 miles, tired and ragged. It was the fastest I had ever run the distance (I never ran it competitively in college – 10k was my longest race), and they gave me a medal, so I should have been happy. It took about a week before I was actually happy with my performance and I was able to look back and remember how fantastic it was to run around my favorite place in the whole word (and get a medal for it!). Then again, it took about a week before I wasn’t stiff anymore. Training resumed the next weekend, and I had finally convinced myself that I would be able to do the whole marathon, and dare I say, actually have fun doing it!

No sooner had I convinced myself of this than I was running seven miles away from my apartment, and I completely busted my knee. Tears, pain, embarrassment…the whole nine yards. The doctor confirmed my self-diagnosis of an atrociously tight Iliotibial Band, but he also confirmed my suspicion that I’d be out of the marathon. Alas…

All that means, though, is that I’ll still make the trip to Washington, DC to watch my friends and family run, but I’ll probably be doing it with a beer in hand…

Somehow I managed to convince myself that I actually wanted to run a marathon, even though I declared only in February that I had no desire to ever do something that crazy. My friends wanted to do it to honor a wonderful woman who passed away in April, though we all pointed out she never ran; she walked. I trained with my sister and friends fairly regularly after the annual Father’s Day road race in Branford. I ran a PW that race – personal worst. It’s not a term most runners use, but my dear old dad kicked my butt and quite a few other people did as well. I’d like to say it was a humbling experience and I learned my lesson and blah blah blah, but in reality, I knew exactly why I didn’t run fast or even well, and I was and still am okay with that. Instead of getting eight hours of sleep a night, training for three hours a day, and not drinking alcohol, in the years since I graduate from college, I’ve taken to staying up late to watch trash TV or read last month’s copy of the New Yorker (some people are a week behind; I’m lucky to stay a month behind), not training at all, and going to Happy Hour with friends on a fairly regular basis. I lived the athlete’s life in college, and while I wouldn’t trade it for anything, I decided that when I graduated, I’d live a more balanced life. Turns out the scales tipped in favor of general frequent debauchery and my usual fast time at the road race didn’t happen this year. A friend told me it was no fun to make fun of me for my poor performance since I didn’t even seemed bothered by it, and I said I was sorry I wasn’t sorry.

Fast forward about a month. My sister sent me a message saying that everyone was doing the Marine Corps Marathon in Washington, DC in October and was I in or was I out. Bloody Hell. Everyone was doing it? Then I guess I better do it. Thank God they weren’t giving up chocolate or something really crazy. She signed me up for it, and I didn’t talk to her for the rest of the day. Getting back into shape wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. My stride came back more and more with each run, and I was starting to enjoy running again. It was hard not to enjoy the runs because of the company I was in, but the pain I was also in often left me unable to laugh at whatever my sister or my friends said.

In early August, we ran the Guilford 10-miler at a swimming 10minute pace, but I felt great during the race. I hadn’t felt that good on a run since college, though make no mistake that in college I was running much, much faster. I felt so good during the race that I was actually excited about the half-marathon I’d be running a week later. Four of us ran together and helped each other along. We told jokes and picked out which house we wanted to own when we got to the part of the race that shows Guilford’s fine real estate. We didn’t realize that the owner of the house was sitting on the front porch when one of us said, “That one. I definitely want that one.” I’m pretty sure she was pointing at it, too.

Around mile six we encountered two guys who looked to be struggling a bit. I, of course, judged them because they were wearing basketball shorts and bandanas and didn’t look like runners. Again, no lesson or humility was taken away from that Father’s Day road race. They started walking, at which point I turned to my sister and said, “Watch. As soon as we [four girls] pass them, they’ll start running again.” Sure enough, once they heard our incessant chatter approaching from behind, one goes to the other, “You ready, Bro?” (Awe – a bromance!) As we passed them, I shouted to my sister, “Count it!”

This happened a minimum of three more times. The guys would run faster to get ahead of us, get winded, we would catch up,  and they would pick it up again. It’s amazing how red in the face some guys are just to make sure the girls don’t beat them.

A week later I ran the New York City Half Marathon. I ran this one by myself since there was a mix-up trying to find the other girls, but nevertheless there I was in the corral with a thousand other runners who had pink bib numbers like mine. In other corrals, thousands of other runners were stretching and getting ready and debating one last bathroom trip, but only 1,000 of us were lucky enough to land in the pink group. Runners had to be in the corrals by 6:35am, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when I saw lots of other people in running gear and wearing bib numbers on the subway in Astoria at 5:30 that morning. I’m not a morning person, and I’ll admit that I was a little bit jealous of the two girls I saw walking home from their night out as I was walking to the subway station. Ahh…those were the days.

Promptly at 7am, the gun went off. At least I think it did. I was so far back from the start line that I didn’t hear the gun or even see the starters. It took a full four minutes and 50 seconds for me to reach the startline, and since my watch battery died the day before the race, that meant that at each mile I had to do some mental math. Running and thinking? Ugh. Anyway, I was flying it for the first seven miles. I felt great. It was the best I felt in a long time, and I was running faster than my planned 10 minute pace. After seven miles, we left Central Park and made our way down town on Broadway. There was a sing-along in Time Square, complete with cheerleaders, which at that point I thought was kind of stupid for people who were red in the face from oxygen deprivation. Pat Benatar’s “Hit Me With Your Best Shot” was playing, and I knew something was up when I didn’t feel like singing as well. I made it to mile nine, and I didn’t feel as good, but my pace was still good. I survived Mile 10, but at Mile 11 I was filled with rage. I’m talking full-on anger with the fact that I was running this stupid race that I was training for a stupid marathon and why did it have to start so freaking early? And can everyone please remember that the first guy to run a marathon died? And that’s why we call it a marathon? Runner’s high and endorphins were gone, and I was in no mood to be running down the Westside highway alongside thousands of other runners who all seemed to be delighted with themselves.

I’m not sure if that’s the real story of the marathon, but it’s close. I couldn’t figure out why we voluntarily, and sometimes happily, signed up to run such a far distance. I made it to the end of 13.1 miles, tired and ragged. It was the fastest I had ever run the distance (I never ran it competitively in college – 10k was my longest race), and they gave me a medal, so I should have been happy. It took about a week before I was actually happy with my performance and I was able to look back and remember how fantastic it was to run around my favorite place in the whole word (and get a medal for it!). Then again, it took about a week before I wasn’t stiff anymore. Training resumed the next weekend, and I had finally convinced myself that I would be able to do the whole marathon, and dare I say, actually have fun doing it!

No sooner had I convinced myself of this than I was running seven miles away from my apartment, and I completely busted my knee. Tears, pain, embarrassment…the whole nine yards. The doctor confirmed my self-diagnosis of an atrociously tight iliotibial band, but he also confirmed my suspicion that I’d be out of the marathon. Alas…

All that means, though, is that I’ll still make the trip to Washington, DC to watch my friends and family run, but I’ll probably be doing it with a beer in hand… I’ll let you know how it goes.

Kathy Griffin on Catholics

Here is a clip of Kathy Griffin commenting on Catholics and how they (we?) take the Lord’s name in vain all the time. I think that she could change the act a bit and talk about how there is no one who can use the F-word and take Lord’s name in vain like Irish Catholics. There’s already a collection of books on it!

Also, not to brag, but I am thoroughly enjoying a signed copy of her memoir and encourage everyone to read it. (Dear FTC, It was a gift from a friend. KG would probably tell you to suck it. XOXO, Niamh)

25 Things to Know about Me

The latest fad to hit Facebook is writing notes telling one’s friends 25 Things to Know about So-and-So. I think the object of the exercise is to write 25 things your friends don’t know about you, but I’ve been seeing a lot of “I love my friends” and “Chocolate is my favorite food.” Well, duh. Tell us something we don’t know! I decided to tackle this, and found that it was harder than it looks. It’s hard to think of 25 things I don’t think my friends know about me, which makes me wonder if I talk to much…

Without further ado, here are 25 Things to Know about Me:

1. My appendix burst when I was 14.
2. I have a pretty awesome scar from the surgery.
3. I just took my Christmas decorations down this weekend.
4. I still get a thrill out of wearing high heels. It makes me feel like a grown up, and when I actually walk properly in them, it does, indeed, make me feel sexy.
5. I can’t believe I just admitted that.
6. Paying bills, especially making car payments, makes me feel grown-up, too, but not sexy.
7. I want lots of kids, and I don’t break out in hives when I’m near them any more. I’ll even admit to wanting to get married some day.
8. I write all over my books – underline, notes in the margins, exclamations points all over the place. I turn them into veritable diaries.
9. In spite of the fact that I ran almost every day for seven years and earned my way through college by running the 10k, I have no desire to ever complete a marathon. It’s just not on my To-Do list.
10. I love chocolate. You knew that. I also love cabbage.
11. I’ve dabbled in love a few times, but looking back, I’ve truly been in love twice. Third time’s a charm?
12. I’m not going to freak out if the third time isn’t a charm.
13. I’m not entirely sure what my natural hair color is. I’m pretty sure it’s some shade of brown. I’ve been dying it since I was 14. One of my New Year’s resolutions is to avoid dying it until I find out the answer to this mystery.
14. I found a gray hair last week. I plucked that sucker right out.
15. I’ve been proposed to three times. I said yes once.
16. My favorite spot in all of New York is at the clock in the main hall of Grand Central Terminal.
17. I don’t drink coffee. Ever. I don’t like the taste. You’d be surprised how socially debilitating this can be.
18. One of my biggest pet peeves is bad grammar in written communication. Example: One ex-boyfriend had such horrid grammar that I would print his emails, correct the grammar with my red/purple/green/whatever pen, and then read them…and then I would carry them around with me all day to reread them. Between the two of us, we wrote beautiful, grammatically correct prose.
19. I hate it when people correct my grammar or other people’s grammar during conversation. I think it’s rude.
20. I’m the older of two sisters. You knew that. My little sister is my hero. I don’t think she knew that.
21. I don’t really like Valentine’s Day, and I’m not just saying that because I’m single. Even when I had a boyfriend, I didn’t particularly care for Valentine’s Day and wouldn’t have cried too many tears if it was cancelled all together. If your BF only shows romance one day a year, it’s time to trade him in for a better model. (Birthdays, on the other hand, should be celebrated like national holidays.)
22. I know how to knit, sew, crochet, cross-stitch (both counted and stamped), make a quiche, a good cup of tea, a killer Manhattan, and I also know how to waltz and swing dance. Did someone order a 1950s housewife, straight up?
23. I can’t believe I just admitted that.
24. I’m a Daddy’s girl. You knew that. I hope I’m just like my mom when I grow up. She didn’t know that.
25. I can’t think of anything else, so I’m giving you a freebie. Ask me something you want to know, and I’ll make an honest attempt at answering the question.

“No longer will I play the field.” —Holly Golightly

If it were 1989, I’d file my most recent date away in my Rolodex under “Worst Ever.” For now, I’m just going to blog about it. I wasn’t going to because not all bad dates deserve to be written about on the internet, but this date was so particularly bad that I had to laugh at myself after.

It all started about 3 weeks ago when my coworker asked me if it would be okay for her to give my email to an old friend of hers. She said he was nice, funny, smart, 32, and looked like Pete Sampras. She had barely said “Pete Sam-” before I said, “Yes!” I wasn’t desperate; I just always thought Pete Sampras was hot.

[It should be noted before I continue that he really is a nice guy, but we were on parallel paths from the very beginning and they never managed to cross. In other words, there was absolutely no chemistry, verging into negative numbers at certain points.]

A couple of days after my coworker and I talked, he emailed me, and he seemed like a nice guy. He had a joke right in the first sentence, so he was starting off well. The emails went back and forth for a week or two before I decided to bite the bullet (since he seemed to enjoy having a pen pal) and invite him to the post-Christmas party at the bar my coworkers go to every year. It was neutral spot, and our mutual friend would be there to break any awkwardness. He couldn’t make it, but continued to email (fairly long ones, too). At one point he sent a picture and he looked cute enough, although no Pete Sampras. Something seemed weird, though. My coworker was in the picture, and I could tell the picture was from a while ago. She couldn’t even remember when the picture was taken, but I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I sent a picture back, and again, more emailing. I had given up hope of ever meeting, but at the end of last week he finally asked me if I wanted to get together over the weekend. I was booked solid on Friday and Saturday, so I asked if Sunday was okay. I figured a Sunday lunch would be a good first meeting. He went one step further and suggested a movie followed by dinner. He’d be at my place at ten of four.

I spent Sunday recovering from a slight hangover and cleaning my apartment. At twenty of four (10 minutes early), he arrived at my door. I was not ready – my hair was dry and I was dressed, but I didn’t have a smidge of makeup on. When I opened the door, I suddenly didn’t feel so bad. Pete Sampras was not standing at my door, and neither was the guy from the picture. My hunch about the picture being old was right, and the guy looking at me was bald and had sprouted facial hair. Needless to say, the awkward go-in-for-the-hug-but-change-my-mind moment lasted an eternity. I gave him a brief tour of my apartment and tried to think of ways to get out of going to the movie. It wasn’t that he was bald – I’m not against bald people. It was that he lied to me that made me really angry.

I couldn’t think of anything, nor do I really think I could be that mean, so we got into the car and made our way to the theater. On the way there, we attempted small talk. At one point there was a pause, and he declared, “I don’t really like sports. I never really follow them. I do like boxing though.”

Boxing? Really? I was so screwed. And not in the good way.

I made some lame comment about how Ireland has a tradition of strong boxers, but had nothing else to add to the conversation. In a freak reversal of roles, it was nerd meets jock, and I was the jock.

We finally made it to our seats at the movie, and I thought the previews would never start. The conversation was painful, and since it was the 4:20 showing of Marley and Me, the theater started to fill up with old people who probably used their senior citizen discounts on the matinee tickets.

He asked me (out of the blue), “Are you a risk taker?”

I don’t consider myself a dare devil of any sort, but at the same time, I’ve made decisions that some people would consider risks. ”I don’t mull about when making decisions,” I said. “I don’t spend hours or days weighing all of the options and doing tons of research. I listen to my gut, know what I want, and go for it, so I guess in some respects that would be considered a risk-taker.”

“I like to plan,” he said.  ”I spend a lot of time thinking about the options and it takes me a while to reach a decision.”

SILENCE.

The movie was a glorious 2-hour reprieve from conversation, and I didn’t want it to end. I would have sat and watched it again if it meant not having to go to dinner, but unfortunately, the credits rolled and we had to leave.

On the way to dinner, I made every attempt to engage him in conversation, but everything I said was met with silence. Not an I’m-pissed-at-you silence or a passive aggressive silence, but just silence.

Example:
Niamh: I had two dogs when I lived in at home, and I’ve thought about getting a small one now that I have the space in my apartment. Did you ever have a dog?
Date: No.
SILENCE.

At one point I contemplated jumping out the window. We were in my hometown, I had my cell phone, and my old neighborhood was less than a mile away – I could do it.

When we got to the restaurant, I said a little prayer to St. Jude for an efficient waitress. It worked, and our waitress came over right away. I ordered the Chicken Rolletini (which was amazing), and he ordered the Penne. While we were waiting for our food, we made more attempts at bad small talk, but I was even less inclined to participate than I was on the car ride to the restaurant. Somehow I managed to find out that not only did he not like sports, but he also still lived at home. He has an in-law apartment that used to be his grandmother’s, but he “still sleeps upstairs.” Read: In this childhood bedroom. Then we started talking about college and friends, and I told him that my friends and I try to get together whenever we can, at the very least twice a year, with random smatterings of smaller gatherings throughout the year. He told me that the friends he had in college all live out of state now and he doesn’t see them any more.

SILENCE.

Then we moved onto work – an ostensibly neutral topic. I explained my job, and he told me that he and his mom work at the same company, so they carpool to work together every day.

As I watched this date go completely down the toilet and out to sea, I tried to avoid becoming engrossed in the football game that was being shown on one of the big screen TV’s. I wanted to be at home or at my sister’s apartment watching the game, not listening to the sound of my own chewing interrupted only by awkward comments. I finished my meal, and as the waitress cleared my plate, I looked over and saw that my date was eating his Penne ONE AT A TIME. This date was never going to end. At that point I gave up and watched the game. I had run out of things to talk about, and I was scared of the answers I might get to anything I said. I tried not to make it obvious, but at one point there was a bad snap, and I said out loud, “Ugh! That was terrible!” He heard me (obviously), and then I had to explain what I said and what a bad snap was.

He asked me if I had room for dessert (no, duh), so when the check came, I insisted he let me help. I knew I wasn’t going to go on another date with him, and I didn’t want to make him pay for the whole thing. It just seemed wrong. He wouldn’t let me help with the bill, but he did let me leave the tip. He paid in cash, and the change arrived quickly (great waitress), yet we continued to sit there in total silence. The football game was still going on, but there was less than a minute of play left and it was clear who was going to win. I couldn’t understand why we weren’t leaving, so I waited until he finished his soda (yes, soda), before playing dumb and saying, “Did you pay with a credit card?” When he told me he paid with cash, I suggested we get going. It was Sunday after all, and I had a ton of stuff to get ready before the morning.

The drive home was longer than I wanted it to be, and on the way there, he opened a pack of gum, took a piece for himself, and offered me a piece. I had seen this move before (and used it myself once or twice), but I had no intention of kissing him at the door, so I declined. It was all I could do not to sprint out of the car and up my steps, but I stayed long enough to thank him for a nice time and to wish him a good night.

When I got up to my apartment, I dropped my bag on my table and said out loud, “Pete Sampras my ass!”

I then called my sister and walked over to her place. She had dessert waiting for me and promptly got a pain in her side from laughing so hard at my sad tale.

Undomestic Goddess

The following conversation actually took place. Truth be told, it took place a few times.

Guy at Bar: So do you cook?
Me [thinking]: Great. Another one on the hunt for a domestic trophy wife.
Me [speaking]: I can certainly find my way around a kitchen.
Guy at Bar: Do you have any specialties you’d like to make me some time?
Me [smiling]: Reservations. 

My punch line usually earns some laughs. I laugh the hardest because I know that no matter how much I practice in the kitchen, reservations will always be my best skill. I make a mean milkshake and hot fudge sundae thanks to my years working at the local Dairy Queen in high school (Not messing. Ask my sister.), but beyond that, I’m a bit culinary-challenged.

And I’m okay with that.

I can follow recipes, and I’m fairly good at doing what I’m told when I have a more experienced chef in the kitchen with me, but the extent of my creativity reached its limit the other day when I put a sprinkling of Mrs. Dash in my scrambled eggs.

So you can imagine how I was entirely unsurprised tonight when in my latest attempt to make something other than frozen pizza with salad, the fire alarm went off.

I decided that tonight, I wasn’t going to have any old salad. I wanted chicken in it, and I wanted it to taste good, so I marinated the chicken in a mix of various dressings I found in my fridge. My mom used to do this when I was younger, so why shouldn’t it work for me? When the chicken was ready, I put it in the oven (which I remembered to pre-heat – go me!) and set the timer to 25 minutes. This gave me 25 glorious minutes to finish cleaning the dishes in the sink and get them put away before sitting down for dinner. In the middle of the dishes, I smelled something odd. It reminded me of burning plastic, and I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from, so I ignored it. Clearly, if I ignored it, it would go away. The smell didn’t go away, but there was no smoke, so I continued with the dishes. The next thing I knew, both fire alarms in my apartment were going off, full blast. I ran over to the oven (2 steps, total, so it wasn’t quite a run) and opened it, fairly convinced that that would stop the fire alarms.

Then I remembered that I stored cookie-cooling trays in the drawer under the oven. Plastic-coated cookie-cooling trays. Bingo. I bought the trays at a liquidation sale at Linens and Things with visions of myself making chocolate-chip cookies from scratch and finally graduating from the slice-and-bake.

The trays were hot, so I took them out using an oven mitt (that matches the tea towels, that matches the sink rug, that matches the little ceramic decorations above the sink and oven. Just because I don’t use it that often doesn’t mean my kitchen doesn’t look good.). All the while, the stupid fire alarms were still blaring. I opened all the windows, ran around like a chicken with her head cut off for a hot minute, and then it hit me that the alarms have buttons on them to shut them off. Duh.

Between remembering the cooling trays to remembering the button, about 3 minutes passed. That’s not enough time for the oven or my cooking chicken to sufficiently cool down, so after I averted the crisis, I turned the oven back on and continued cooking my chicken. My delicious, juicy, marinated chicken that added the right touch to the pretty fantastic salad I made.

And tomorrow night, I’m making reservations.

Food, family, friends, and more food…

I love the concept of Thanksgiving. One day a year is set aside for counting your blessings, and while lots of people do that at Christmas, too, Christmas has the added stress of giving and receiving gifts. Thanksgiving is all about food, family, friends, and more food, and of course, giving thanks.

With all that has happened in the last year, I know I have a lot to be thankful for, so in no particular order, here is a small sample of what I’m thankful for this year:

• My family (on both sides of the ocean as well as on both sides of the Mason-Dixon Line)
• My extended family in the US who gladly welcomed my sister and me to their Thanksgiving dinner because my parents are living in Atlanta now
• My little sister, who isn’t littler than me any more and is wise beyond her years
• My good health
• 5-mile road races on Thanksgivng morning with people you love
• My giant new chair with matching ottoman that I’m sitting in right now, and
• My super-soft blanket that I got half-priced at Kohl’s
• Pinot Grigio and Smithwick’s…
• …And the good friends spread across the country with whom I share the two.
• Chocolate
• The fabulous year I spent in New York City…
• …And the great job that brought me back to New Haven for which I’m especially grateful in this economy.
• My new car, Hansel.
• Four-day weekends
• Pepe’s pizza
• Indian Neck Pizza’s House Special
• Pizza in general
• Lyon’s tea
• Heated seats in my car. What did I ever do without them?
• Cable (who knew?)
• Good first dates, bad first dates, crushes, kisses, and broken hearts for the lessons they teach and the blog entries they give me.
• The wisdom to know better
• Did I mention Pinot Grigio and friends?

I hope you can find a moment to reflect on what you’re thankful for, too. Here’s to an awesome Holiday Season filled with family, friends, food, and of course, fun!

To Google or Not to Google? Or Much Ado About Nothing…

In the two months since I’ve last posted, a fair amount has happened. I kept waiting for that one good story that would make a good post, but then when I did, I was either exhausted or didn’t have internet at my apartment. So here are a few snippets of things that have happened in the last few months:

• I visited my parents in Atlanta. We did a bunch of touristy things, including visiting the Margaret Mitchell house, which launched my new obsession with Gone with the Wind. At one point I started speaking with a Southern accent, and “fiddle-dee-dee” became my new catch phrase. I’m fairly certain I’m past the phase, but every now and then I’ll bust out a “Darling” or “Honey” or “Sugar” in my best Scarlett impression.
• I went on two dates with a guy who lives in New York City. He seemed nice enough — dinner at an Italian restaurant for Date 1 and Batman at the IMax for Date 2. I debated putting up a full post about this, but then decided against it. The funniest part of this was that I Googled the guy between the first and second dates, so when I saw him the 2nd time, I already knew a bunch of information about him, but couldn’t let him know that. I realize the following may make me sound crazy, but the reason this didn’t get a whole post was that I didn’t find anything funny (or scary) when I googled him. He’s a pretty normal guy who’s a good writer and a sports nut…Nothing wrong with that in my book. That said, I wouldn’t recommend googling future dates. It’s too hard to pretend like you don’t already know about the person, and good luck trying to cover yourself when you slip up.
• I got a new job. I’m the new Text Marketing Manager at Yale University Press. I’m really excited, and so far I love it. I thought I could do the commute from New York City to New Haven, thus having the best of two worlds I love, but keeping my sanity and my good health means I’m moving to New Haven. I’m really sad about leaving New York City, but once I’m settled in my new apartment (which, by the way, has two bedrooms, and I love saying, “Come visit — You can stay in my spare bedroom”), I will be fine and very happy that my commute will be a 15 minute walk to work. Currently, when I don’t stay with my sister, my commute is 3 hours, and I’m out of my apartment in Queens at 5:30am. Not messing.
• I’ve been to two weddings, both of which were fabulous. There is nothing like love, a dance floor, and an open bar to bring people together. I caught the bouquet at the 2nd wedding. I know, I was shocked, too, and yes, I do realize the superstition behind it. That said, I don’t think my friends have to worry that I will be the next one to get married. There has to be a certain type of irony in the fact that the girl whose longest relationship in the last year consisted of the two dates previously mentioned was the one who caught the bouquet at the wedding of the girl who has been planning her nuptial celebrations since birth. When it came at me, I batted it down rather than catch it, so when I saw it on the floor, I had about a second to think, “Do I really want to pick that up?” And then I did, and I had my answer. When the, “So when are you getting married?” questions started coming my way, I found myself saying, “When I find him,” or “When he finds me,” or “When we find each other.” Looking back, my answers (somewhat induced by pinot grigio), weren’t that bad, especially the last one. You can’t plan for love; you just have to go with it when you find it (or it finds you).
• That’s all for now. I’ll be writing more about my adventures in my new city soon, as well as new adventures in my old city.