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!

Dream Weaver.

My friends. It has happened. I have experienced the culinary ecstasy that is now deemed New York’s best lobster roll. It was every bit of gastronomic magic I could have imagined. The man behind the curtain wasn’t there to accept, but his precious team members were. And yes- I brought the muffins.

Although my introduction to this delectable little treasure inconveniently overlapped with my attempt to go on Atkins, I did somehow manage to sample the roll, bisque and chowder and I now know in my heart this is my new go-to spot for crustacean goodness. Walking inside Luke’s Lobster felt like walking into any number of shacks along the New England coast, but far cuter and friendlier. And not that I need to escape the UES, but what a lovely little beachy oasis. Can’ t wait to go back!

Renegade Clammer.

Since my introduction to the world as an unwieldy tot I have always followed the beat of my own drummer, never really coloring within the lines, or willing to follow rules meant to confine me. So, I might harbor a somewhat unreasonable distaste for authority figures. I have never enjoyed being told what to do and more often what not to do. For some nefarious reason something I am naturally excited to do on my own becomes contemptuous once I am ordered to do it.

I accept that it is completely unacceptable as a grown adult to feel threatened by people holding positions of power. I also accept that no one is perfect, so I am allowed this flaw. And as my father always says, “No one ever likes the police, until they need them.” Well I would like to add that “No one likes the shell fishing warden until he is finally nice to you.”

Clamming is a favorite activity of mine, however it is heavily regulated along the shores of Cape Cod, so I am subject to the shackles of authority each time I embark on a clamming excursion. Each time I show my license to the “warden” so he can ensure I am officially allowed to fish and each time I have to measure each shell to ensure the appropriate length and each time I must subject my bounty to a thorough assessment before I am released. I have a horrible memory seared into my mind about the time he made me put a scallop back since it was far before scallop season and ever since I have resented this stoic elderly fellow.

It wasn’t until he allowed my mother and I to bring our catch without his final check and told his partner that he should “let em go, these ladies are good” that I finally accepted him within my heart. That action and those words solidified our indestructible bond. So until I break another rule and inevitably get scolded, this one’s for you Clamming Warden! Thank you for entrusting me to a world of shellfish!

Ode to Bun Bun.

This past Thursday, I not only had the pleasure to accompany my boss’ daughter Addie* to school, but as an added bonus I was also able to share her joy in her beloved childhood crutch, Pink Blanky. My boss and I were dropping off Addie and then continuing on to an out of office event and as we arrived at school Addie showed me her treasured childhood blanket. I was informed that Pink Blanky was actually at one time pink, not the graying mass it now represents.

“ I used to have bunny rabbit just like Pink Blanky, Addie” I said with a mature grin as I simultaneously pictured Bun-Bun perched on my bed in my current apartment.

“And then when you turned five you had to give him back right?” My boss asked with pleading eyes, apparently trying to wean her child off of the aforementioned blanky.

“Yes. “ I said firmly without hesitation, snapping out of my Bun-Bun induced haze. “Because I became a big girl.” I said smiling at Addie to let her know that this right of passage would in fact turn out alright.

As my confident smile wavered, I wondered if little Addie would call my bluff. Hop back in her carseat and demand to be driven back to my apartment to check if Bun Bun in fact had been given away at age 5. Of course she just smiled shyly and clutched on to Pink Blanky for dear life, for fear I might snatch it away a few months early. The fact is Bun Bun is still a pretty large staple in my life. He/She/It didn’t go away at age 5, 15, or 25. In fact I am pretty sure Bun Bun will be around as long as I am.

Bun Bun came to me one Easter filled with matching pink PJs, larger than life in its pink fur and white fluffy cheeks. It now sports matted gray fur and is fairly stretched out due to years of being confused as a Popple, but remains just as much of a staple as when received as a tot. Bun Bun has traveled far and wide with me, across seas, crammed in suitcases, and attended all four years of Cornell with me. As sad as it might sound, Bun Bun is my longest standing friend. And although it might presently be taking a back seat to my newest ball of love, Bun Bun this one is for you!

*All names have been changed to preserve confidentiality.

Oh How I Missed the South.

I have learned in my vast travels that there is always one certain business type that over saturates any given destination. In New York people scoff at the bounty of Starbucks, although there always seems to be a line around the block for the nectar of an extra hot no foam soy latte. In Florida, I was astounded by the bevy of Sushi-Thai restaurants, however horrified I was by the bastardization of both Japanese and Thai cuisines. And now after a fantastic road trip from Virginia to North Carolina I have discovered yet another gem that floods the streets below the Mason Dixon Line.

They are a fusion between pawnshops and gun shops called Pawn and Gun Shops. (Clever I know.) Typically these are differentiated by owner. For example Hal’s Pawn and Gun might be on Rt. 7 while Jeb’s Pawn and Gun might be located a few blocks over on Rt 121. Frightening? For a gal unaccustomed to such a high volume of either, the fusion was mildly overwhelming. However, as my journey south continued, the sheer proximity of the dynamic duo caused me to temporarily consider trading in my work laptop in for a glock.

I opted against it since I would have been fired and I think I can safely assume I would be a terrible shot, however I did enjoy a brief fantasy involving me sporting a coonskin cap and riding horseback in a manner somewhat reminiscent of Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman. I am now back in NYC gun-less and fancy free, but that sweet memory will always remain. And now time for a sporadic moment of gratitude for those things NYC. Thank you to the homeless man whose obscenities alerted me to the fact that my shirt was nearly entirely unbuttoned on my walk home today. No wonder that breeze felt so glorious…