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i love books.

The other day I found myself nestled up with a borrowed book. It was older and I delighted in the smell of its aging pages. The aroma instantly conjured images of me as a tot attending Teddy Bear picnics at my local library. The book smelled historic and important. It made an otherwise rainy day, nostalgic and charming. This feeling was because of the novel, but it was more about the feeling of the book, its weight in my hand, the feeling of turning the pages, and overwhelmingly the aroma.

It occurred to me after I reveled in this experience for a bit (I know life in the fast lane) that this might become one of those experiences that becomes obsolete. The world is tentatively adapting to a sleeker future adorned with ipads, kindles, and nooks. I am a very tactile person, but I have accepted many conveniences as such. Similarly, I enjoy the process of a record player, lifting the needle, placing the record, dusting it, and hearing the crackle of the first chords. However, I walked away from my record player years ago.

During this thrilling revelatory period, I began to realize there are certain details of my children’s childhood that will differ extremely from my own. For example they will never yearn for the brown nosing task of clapping chalkboard erasers nor will they find the need get up in the middle of a test to sharpen a pencil. They also probably won’t learn how to write cursive or be hugged by their teachers. For whatever reason, that freaked me out for a substantial amount of time. Then I realized so many other scary things are destroying childhood, which is probably going to force me to raise my kids in a hippie commune anyway, so they probably will have chalkboards and real books. And that made me feel both better and worse at the same time. Happy Monday!

Dropping knowledge. Taking down flies.

I learned a few things this past week. I will share them with you now so that I can spread knowledge like the “More you know” shooting star.

1. Gym class humiliation is easily reignited by drinking games. There are two kinds of people in this world. Those that liked gym class and those that despised it. Shockingly, giant alabaster Marissa is part of the latter group of people. I know I may have some people fooled that I am the picture of athleticism, however I will admit my coordination is touch and go and I always have had my nagging heat disorder. These two factors combined with social awkwardness and lack of flexibility made for many uncomfortable years sporting filthy mesh jerseys and dangling on ropes like a disoriented sloth. Lets just say a few Sundays ago I was hanging from that rope once again, but replace the rope with a beer. I was last, people were staring, I was neon. Fortunately, we just moved onto the next game and I didn’t get a C- for my poor performance.

2. Although it may be mildly more amusing/baffling when I think the vegetable man is repeatedly saying the word penis, the relief provided by the discovery that the word in question is actually spinach, far outweighs any potential humor. I didn’t want to have to cross another food source off of the list of places I can shop. And I also learned that they do not have spinach in Bangladesh!

3. A working cat is the best cat. A few renegade flies entered the premises yesterday evening and have been swarming around like they own the place ever since. They might have enjoyed the time in Chez Marissa, however tonight my badass cat laid down the law with a swat of his giant paw and I watched it happen. I know there has been more critter action that he has tended to, but I don’t need too many details. All I know is that it is impossible that kitty has gotten this fat from the measly dry food I feed him. This is one don’t ask don’t tell policy that I support!

i’m phasing out the listening.

It’s fairly well known that I need to live a bit more dangerously. I am not talking about foraying into anything really serious, but I am thinking less pastel and more eyeliner. So although I don’t want to completely toss my life into disarray, it would be nice to recognize a celebrity or be able to stay up past midnight without turning into a pumpkin on occasion.

I say this fairly regularly, yet I find that I have a hard time truly changing my behavior. And though certain things have contributed to my less than edgy image, cat, library card acquisition, sleepy tendencies, etc. I think there is one overarching cause for my condition.

My love for Frasier was spawned out of necessity. I was living alone in Florida at the time and had a propensity for late night crime television programming. I was continuously left with the need to be coddled back into a feeling of safety strong enough to allow myself to sleep. I quickly tired of The Cosby Show, didn’t care much for Friends, and I can’t really stand Raymond. Never a Frasier fan pre-syndication, I never thought I would appreciate it now. However quickly I was swept away with its sharp vocabulary and witty banter. The episodes followed one another so fluidly and the subject matter was always PG.

Quickly I fell in love and soon grew dependent on it for slumber. And that is where I am a few years later. Kelsey Grammer opens his arms to me nightly, cloaked in his gigantic knit sweaters he cradles me into a sweet cocoon of sleep and as much as I revel in this, I think it has become mildly unhealthy. So friends, I think Frasier and I shall take a slight hiatus until I can step up media consumption. Wish me luck.

apple picking anyone?

Labor Day might technically commemorate some strike or labor uniony type situation, however for most it actually honors the end of summer and launch of autumn. To me it is the end of summer Fridays and the launch of a horrible series of months during which I am forced to don pants and leave my summer dresses behind. During this time I feel lost and confused and enter a disheveled state fueled purely by mulled cider and seasonal drugstore displays.

Actually, in all honesty although I do mourn the end of summer bliss, I cherish the days of fall most of all seasons. The cooler air allows for a clear head and the anticipation of the holidays and slew of parties that ensue create enough joy and excitement to keep me distracted through Valentine’s Day. I will then historically enter into a three to four month debilitating seasonal affective depression, upon which I will elaborate in a few months when I am well within its clutches.

I love Fall for many reasons. Fall is for crafting cornucopias and eating snack sized candy. It is for turtlenecks and leggings and gathering wood for fires. So when my sister began ordering pumpkin spice lattes this weekend on our road trip to Cape Cod I verbally scorned her premature dismissal of summer, but simultaneously relished in this occurrence. Even though I sporadically attempt to avoid carbohydrates, fall is full of them and once I spot even the slightest twinge death descending upon a stray leaf, I yearn for whoopie pies and pumpkin bread, apple dumplings, and maple candies. If it has cinnamon and nutmeg on it, I will most likely try to consume it. I am filled with a desire to be continually mulling cider and wine, while crafting wreaths of dried flowers and berries. Fall is basically the culmination of all things I love in the world.

So this past weekend I said goodbye to summer with a final trip to the Cape and a final clamming excursion. And although we were celebrating a lot more than the shifting season, Welcome Fall!

Hot Child in the City.

I am avid people watcher, which I would think is an unsurprising fact to most based on my over analytical and obsessive nature. While I am happy amidst the crowd, I am equally zealous to merely observe it. Fortunately for the world, this is how I am able to consistently provide such keen insights into daily life. As I mentioned in my previous post, my own personal life has been kicking along a pleasant rate this summer allowing me to pleasantly soak up the intricacies of New York City summers. Although these may or may not be unique to New York or summer for that matter, here are a few of my thoughts.

1.Street watering. I love how men are constantly hosing down the sidewalk. This has served me especially well when inadvertently sprayed during lengthy periods of heat advisories

2.Air drumming. I don’t know why the summer heat brings this out, but it seems as if any male at some given moment in his life engages in a solo air drumming session. It could be that summer allows itself to the more intense percussion or perhaps the heat releases an inner desire to accentuate the rhythms of Blink 182, but this both thrills and irritates me simultaneously.

3.Monster Mosquitoes. City dwelling mosquitoes clearly have a chip on their shoulder. Either they are pissed that they get the city gig versus the sands of either the Hamptons or the shore or perhaps the harsh streets have given them a bitter edge, but I have been consistently mauled all summer long only on weekends in the city. I am arming myself with Deet for any future run-ins so insects beware!

4.Improperly clothed people. Nothing bothers me more than people that overdress for warm weather. This summer has been so obscenely hot and humid that my wardrobe has literally been limited to three less than appropriate dresses. I wear as little as is somewhat socially acceptable, armed with several spritzer bottles filled with ice water and the occasional cloth to towel off during my travels. Here I am shvitzing the day away and then I turn over to see some emaciated chick clothed in a turtleneck, boots and a scarf. Seriously? It is 100 degrees out and you need a scarf? Eat a cookie!!!

All in all I love you summer. I love you in New York City and I love you everywhere else. Whether sporting my Lilly Pulitzer on the streets of Manhattan or the sands of the Cape, margaritas are just as delicious!

Negative Nelly.

Lately, I have been feeling pretty optimistic about life. I am young, employed, surrounded by the best friends a gal could want, in the best city in the entire world. I have been coasting through the summer enjoying the fruits of life nary a complaint in site. But fortunately, I am back to reality and I have once again been stumped by the apparent idiocy that is human nature.

On a recent night out I had the displeasure of meeting a very unfortunate individual. One so bad, I would nearly say he put a damper on my night. On the outside he seemed like someone to whom I would typically be drawn. Curly brown hair, tall, Jewish, glasses, and sketchy facial hair. However, within five minutes of conversation it became immediately apparent that this was indeed NOT my soul mate.

What did it? You ask. Was it his immediate expression of his love for lesbian porn mid introduction? Was it when he called me an idiot for living in Florida (admittedly true)? Was it when he racially profiled my friend? These were key signs, but it was when he openly admitted to wanting to rid the world of fat people I knew we were through.

Everyone knows I love a little bit of meat on everyone’s bones and although I am not promoting unhealthy lifestyles I love all things squishy. It was a rough Saturday night, but I did leave grateful for one thing. After an hour of painful “conversation”, I now know what types of generalizations I am willing to make. I do not like racist people. I do not like people that hate fat people. And overall, I especially do not like racist people that hate fat people. So for that, I thank you anonymous stranger!

Go Fish.

This Sunday night was host to one of my favorite kinds of meals. Filled with wine, my family, and freshly caught seafood. Dad had caught Striped Bass and dug a bucket of steamers the day before and Mom and I had filled out own bucket with quahogs. We feasted on our hand caught bounty under a sky filled with stars normally obscured by skyscrapers.

Maybe I listened to too much Phish in high school, but this night bestowed upon me a kind of hippie euphoria that only self-sufficiency can provide. It gives me a certain amount of pleasure to know that, without any kind of modern convenience, we gathered and produced our own meal. Barring of course the automobile and motorboat taken to procure our protein.

I guess one could say I do possess this bohemian agrestic nature that allows me to love the earth in this way. And really fresh fish. Okay so basically gardening and shell fishing are the only two hobbies I have had any real success at, so I am just going to roll with this. Can’t wait for Scallop and Oyster season to begin!

Marissa goes to the community pool.

Somehow I have disappeared for about a month. I don’t know what happened. Maybe I got heat stroke; maybe I’ve been busy collecting material. All I know is that about two weeks ago a friend (and neighbor) mentioned to me that there happens to be a community pool just a few blocks away from my apartment. Quickly my initial thoughts of renegade Band-aids and incontinent toddlers were replaced with more aspirational ones including cabanas and a swim up bar.

“How had I never heard of this oasis?” As a fairly intuitive individual with a severe heat disorder, I typically trust my ability to sniff out swimmable water within a 10-block radius. How did this tropical haven pass me by? Instantly I began planning my trip to the pool. I spoke of it constantly for the next two weeks and selected the perfect day to test its glorious chlorinated waters. Read: everyone left town and I was left with unrelenting heat and zero plans.

Turns out it is more like my previous vision, but I think it could be helped by a less abrasive security unit guarding the pool. Seriously? Three guards at the entrance and seven lifeguards? For the 77th St. community pool? I am thinking this could be a unique opportunity for a survival of the fittest or perhaps more accurately a sink or swim life lesson. Aren’t there places with sharks that need a touch more coverage? An actual cop with a badge and a gun and everything? I am no crime scene investigator, but I imagine some type of alleyway or desolate park corner is calling your name. Although who knows what would go down at the community pool without him.

In sum, I’m not sure I’ll be back unless plenty of alcohol or some type of sedative is administered prior. Although if that heat wave returns, who knows what will happen.

Best news ever!!

Everyone knows that everything is better as a baby. Sheep and cows taste better, puppies are cuter, and carrots? I wouldn’t consider even touching an adult. It’s not that I don’t like adult humans, but I must say the tinier, squishier version elicits a far more extreme range of emotions. I can’t help it, but anytime I see a baby I immediately must be tickling/nibbling this wee little creature until the unsuspecting parent carts away the subjected tot. *

Pretty much at the exact moment my brother and sister in law announced their engagement I have been vying for a baby of my very own. Images of me being the cool young aunt that takes said baby to get her ear pierced or buys the first set of hot wheels have been dancing through my mind for the past four years. Now although I won’t exactly be the coolest youngest aunt in the history of time, it is official that I will have a baby of my very own just in time for Christmas!

December 2nd not that I want your seasonal temperament, but I am anxiously awaiting your arrival. I have begun to accrue a small collection of onesies until I know the gender of my little nugget and then I can transition to miniature seer -sucker suits or pint sized Lilly Pulitzer dresses. Watch out world, the cutest little bundle of joy and wonderment is en route!

*No worries parents, I am mildly kidding, I won’t touch your baby until you grant me permission

Delayed Response.

Pretty much every time I get together with my girlfriends with whom I went to high school we discuss how we need to do it more often. Mostly we have a sporadic hour spanning several months at a holiday party, housewarming, or birthday dinner and it never seems to be enough. So we recently determined a weekend getaway was in order.

We decided a Vegas vacation would be the best way for us to reunite with the appropriate valor. Pool parties, late nights, and slot machines danced through our minds. Once we realized we couldn’t afford the flight we opted for a more accessible escape to South Beach. Cabanas, mojitos, and Boa constrictor clad street performers replaced previous daydreams of our impending trip. Upon the realization that we can’t afford drinks in Miami, we decided to nix the flight altogether.

After vetoing, the Hamptons, Atlantic City, the Jersey shore, Outer banks, Vermont, and the Catskills we opted for the ever popular “staycation” in CT. We picked berries, explored country stores, hiked up vistas, sampled cheese at miniature farmer’s markets, and then otherwise reverted back 8 years for a glorious weekend of awesomeness.

One perfect blend of high school hot spots and newly discovered attractions later, I can’t wait for the next get together. Although it would be fantastic to be in the financial state to afford a flight and a cocktail, this weekend proved the age old cliché, that it doesn’t matter where you are, but it is who one is with that matters most! Love you girls!