little hands, little cooks

In the projects in Queens, there's a non-profit organization called the Jacob Riis Settlement House, and on Tuesday nights, I team lead a Culinary Explorers project through New York Cares. The 15 kids, ranging from age 5 to 12, are fantastic, eager to learn, and take joy in the little things like grating cheese, washing dishes, and chopping vegetables. The dishes we teach the kids to make are often easy, as we're trying to convey to the kids there's healthy and easy options for meals rather than fast food or TV dinners. The kids love it, as do the volunteers. After we're done cooking and with clean up, we play games ranging from Heads Up Seven Up, Mother May I?, and Red Light, Green Light. The kids destroy the volunteers, kicking our butts every time. It's fantastic. Tuesday nights? My favorite.

Un-fried Chicken, Mashed Sweet Potatoes, and Chipotle Corn Bread

Personal Pizzas

Taco Night

bedtime stories

I love kids. I want several of my own someday, but until the timing is right, I'll settle for being the auntie to my friends' kids, and volunteering with kids in New York City. A few weeks ago, I signed up for a Bedtime Stories volunteer project. It was supposed to be a one-time thing for me, just to dabble and try it out. The project place at a women and children's shelter in Harlem. The shelter is a safe place for women and children to stay for up to a year while they transition into living on their own. Many of the kids stay at their schools rather than transferring to new ones, and the mom's will commute to work if they're employed. On Thursday nights, New York Cares brings in volunteers to read the children books, arts and crafts, and then have snacks before we send them off to their mom's. There's anywhere from 10 to 25 kids, and they range in ages from 5 to 11. The volunteers received a rundown of the agenda, and shortly thereafter, the kids started piling in. One little girl, Janiese, walked up to me, held my arm, and said, "I want to read with you because you're pretty." Oh, jeez. And that was the beginning.

About ten minutes into reading, Janiese, an adorable and very smart seven year old, spotted a girl that walked in late. She waved her over and said, "That girl is in my class! I didn't know she lived here!" Within seconds, a bond was formed, and the two little girls, on each side of me, took turns reading out loud while they munched on string cheese and drank juice boxes.

At the end, after the books were returned to the bins, the crafts were complete, and the wrappers from snacks were thrown away, the kids filed out, much less enthusiastic about leaving as they were about arriving. Janiese hugged me and said, "You're coming back next time, right?"

Yes. Next time. And the time after that, and after that, and after that...

recording studio? sure!

I think it's among every little girl's dream to be one of the following: an actress, a model, and a pop star. As I child, I wanted all the above -- and I wanted to be a lawyer and a writer. I dabbled in modeling, acting, law, and writing, and the only thing that stuck was writing. The one thing I never tried, however, was singing. While I can sing along with the best of them in the car and shower, and belt out anything and everything at karaoke, once I was past the age of 12, I realized pursuing my dream of being a pop star was silly (especially being I wasn't all that passionate about singing). I tabled that childhood fantasy, and haven't thought about it much since. As such, I made it 26 years of my life without seeing a recording studio or booth. Until now, of course!

I wasn't entering a recording booth to sing my original songs, or covers of my favorites -- I was stepping into a recording booth to record books with Recording for the Blind & Dyslexic, an ongoing and committed volunteer project I found through New York Cares, and you can read all about them here. The first session was a quick training, and then the newbies acted as "directors," the partner to the person who is recording. It's imperative the reading/recording is perfect, so unless one is a seasoned volunteer (i.e. hundreds of hours under their belt), everyone works with a partner, one reading and recording, and the other following along in another copy of the book, marking the new pages on the computer, and checking the recordings for page numbers and breaks once a section is finished. Being a director is fun, and the first session, I refused to step into the booth. We were reading The Collected Poems of Allen Ginsberg, and seemed to stumble across what could only be described as "dirty poetry." Mr. Ginsberg was evidently gay, did a lot of drugs, was very political, and I'm fairly certain his favorite word was "cock." If you're interested, you can read about him here. As such, my partner and I spent a good majority of the session giggling like a couple of school girls and rerecording over her mistakes. ;) We made it through one section, which what was expected of us, and a feat in itself.

The next session, two weeks later, I was tossed into the recording booth, much to my dismay. We were reading a book on opening a childcare center for an Early Childhood Education class. The subject was a bit dry (it was the chapter on budgets), but I did manage to record without giggling (they didn't use naughty words in this book). For the record, though, sight reading is hard. Evidently I correct author's grammar as I read, I make words plural, and I really like to add in "the" where it doesn't belong. My director, who has logged several hundred hours volunteering for RFB&D, assured me it's perfectly normal to make mistakes, and it takes time to be really good at sight reading. Fair enough. By the end of the session I could make it through an entire page without stopping the recording to correct a mistake. Progress! ;)

I dismissed my childhood dream to be a pop star, and have always felt comfortable in that decision. I found I still ended up in a recording booth, using my voice -- but in a way that's even better than I imagined.

apology # 493

I'm busy. I work full-time, I do upwards of 20 hours a week of volunteer work, and I have friends -- a lot of them -- that require my attention. That doesn't mean, however, that those near and dear to me don't deserve updates and to remain in contact. And for the lack of contact (for some) and the lack of updates on this blog (for all), I apologize. And what makes me an even bigger brat is that in the interest of full disclosure, I am about to go on an blog updating spree simply because I am stuck at home, sick. I stayed home from work today, battling a sore throat and snotty nose, knowing with our small office, everyone would collect my germs and get this bug themselves. I'm feeling a lot better after what seems like 17 hours of TV (well, more like falling asleep in front of 17 hours of TV), healthy snacks, and yes, a lot of sleep (I've been sort of sucking at getting sleep lately). But, in all fairness, my sickness benefits you, my oh-so-loyal readers I don't deserve. :)

Without further ado!

Work! In this post I talked about lucky I am, and the job I landed right before I left for my trip home to California. The job, as an Operations Manager for a tech company, is amazing. My boss is incredible, my team is fantastic, and I could not be happier. It's a lot of work and a big job, but the work, unlike fashion, is between the hours of 8:30 am and 5:30 pm, Monday through Friday. Working normal hours (or rather abnormal by New York standards) has allowed me to have my evenings free for volunteer work, friends, and in short, doing all the things I love doing (more on that in a bit). Although, I have to say, I love my job -- deeply -- which makes being at work seem a lot less like "work."

New Apartment! In December, shortly before Christmas, I moved out of the great apartment on the Upper East Side where I was renting a room, into my own super amazing apartment in Murray Hill (East 34th Street) with an even more amazing roommate (more on Lis later, she'll get an entire blog post devoted to her awesomeness). Shortly after Christmas, my furniture and the rest of my stuff arrived from California, and the apartment finally felt like home. I love my roommate, the apartment, the neighborhood, and the fact it takes me 20 minutes to walk to work. It could not be more perfect.

Volunteer Work! After ditching the fashion industry and stumbling into operations in the tech industry, I found myself with a lot more free time on my hands. Time I filled -- quickly. I began team leading, as well as volunteering, with several more projects throughout Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens with New York Cares. The details of said projects will follow in separate posts.

I miss home, and all my family and friends in California. I've started planning vacations back home over the next six months to a year, manipulating holidays into more time with my loved ones. My first year at my job I get a week of vacation time, but after a year, I get two, which will likely be spent in California. I'm also thrilled with the number of people booking tickets and planning trips to New York City to visit. Some (many) were slow on the uptake, but I think now that it's becoming quite clear I'm happy in New York and not moving back to California any time soon, they're making plans to come see my life out here. It will be amazing to have them experience all that I do on a daily basis in New York City. :)

the perfect day

Yesterday was the perfect day. At the beginning of January, I had the perfect night, so I'm thinking that so far, 2010 is looking pretty promising.

Yesterday begun with the alarm blaring, and I dragged myself out of bed and headed to Brooklyn for a Culinary Explorers project with kids. I was meeting the cute boy, who was also volunteering at said cooking project. The project was a blast -- we made Corn Flake Fried Chicken (i.e. baked chicken with crushed corn flakes), and brownies, and then played an epic game of Heads Up Seven Up. After the project, the cute boy and I grabbed brunch at a cute diner around the corner, him ordering a huge plate of an excessive amount of meat, eggs, and potatoes, and me ordering fruit and chocolate chip pancakes (my new favorite breakfast dish). After brunch, the cute boy who was raised (and currently lives in) Brooklyn, wanted me to love Brooklyn with the same passion in which he does, so we wandered around Brooklyn for a couple hours. We found ourselves then walking across the Brooklyn Bridge back to Manhattan, to my apartment where we snacked and took a nap before the Coalition for the Homeless. After the downtown route with the Coalition (the cute boy was driving), we grabbed dinner, went grocery shopping, and we ended up back at my apartment again where he kept me company as I made pasta salad. After a very long day (14 hours non-stop, barring the 45 minute nap), we parted ways and the cute boy headed back to Brooklyn.

It was the perfect day. :)

All this time I was looking for Jesus. I found him. He was in Brooklyn! ;)

I asked the cute boy to steal this for me.
He started yanking it off the fence until I stopped him.
I'll admit, I'm a little curious if he would have gone through with it. ;)

Manhattan from Brooklyn. :)

The beginning of the Brooklyn Bridge.

From the cute boy's tea bag at brunch.

all souls

I will admit it: I miss waitressing.

Allow me to clarify: I don't miss relying on tips and peoples' generosity to pay my rent / bills. I don't miss rude customers whose sole purpose in life is to be jackasses to servers. I don't miss being grabbed at, snapped at, or called "excuse me, waitress!" I don't miss dealing with finicky cooks, egotistical chefs, and bussers who spend more time staring at my breasts than they do bussing tables.

But what I do miss is the customer interaction. Smiling at people. Going above and beyond to show them I'm good at my job. Taking care of people. Meeting a broad range of people, and conversing with them, and in many cases, making friends.

And while I currently have a cushy office job that has a fancy title, a great salary, more perks than I probably deserve, hours that enable me to have a busy and fun life outside of work, coworkers and a boss I adore, and a strong and promising future, I found myself missing waitressing.

As I thought about what I missed about waitressing, I realized I actually have all those things at my current job. So what was missing? I wasn't really sure. I was sure about one thing: I wasn't leaving my amazing job, otherwise known as a career, to wait tables again. I needed a quick fix.

And then I found All Souls.

All Souls Unitarian Church is located on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (very close to my former apartment, actually), and every Monday night, they have a restaurant quality, sit-down meal service for the homeless and working poor.

Combine two of my loves: serving / taking care of people, and volunteer work? Perfect.

And it was. All Souls Monday night meal service was exactly what I was looking for: the hustle and bustle of a restaurant and serving people I want to take care of. I found I fell back into the habits of serving, carrying many plates at once (most people carried two at a time, I could carry four -- it became a hilarious show of people betting if I would drop any -- I didn't), laughing and joking with the clients, and making sure they had everything they needed.

I found that quick fix -- and it was even better than I hoped for.

relocation: it's a part of the package

Me: "Sooooo... there's a new boooooy..."
Mom: "Is he willing to relocate to California eventually?"
Me: "Yup."
Mom: "Excellent."

Miss you too, mom.

christmas trees

When I was home in California for Thanksgiving, there were several things I realized I missed, and many amusing observations about the differences between California and New York City. These will likely be scattered about this blog in different posts as I have the time to write them down, but I will begin with Christmas trees.

As previously mentioned, holidays are sometimes rough, although they have drastically improved in the past couple of years. This year, while home the days after Thanksgiving, I drove past many people on their way home from the Christmas tree farms, trees strapped to the top of their cars, or tossed in the back of trucks. Every tree I passed made me smile, remembering the Christmas tree adventure Nick and I had the year prior, and loving the tradition that families kept alive. About halfway through my goofy grins at passing Christmas trees, the smile was quickly wiped from my face as I grew very concerned about Christmas trees in New York City. Where did they come from? There's no farms. There's no lots. Where do they put them? How do people get their trees?

My concerned was alleviated upon returning and finding New York City already figured out the whole Christmas trees debacle. It's not a Christmas tree farm, but hey, it will do just fine.

family

oh, family

While driving with my mom and grandma, noting a new restaurant:
Me: "I don't know why they put in a restaurant in that location. They never last. That building goes through restaurants like I do socks. Strike that, I go through socks a bit quicker. Like I do men."
Grandma: (laughing)
Mom: (rolling her eyes)

Don: "Why does your blog refer to the guy the 'boy'? Isn't he 30 something?"
Me: "Yeah. Trust me, he IS a boy."

Lex: "That's what our cabinets were supposed to look like."
Me: "What happened? They didn't get the memo?"
Lex: "No, that was during the stage when the contractor wasn't speaking to us."
Don: "It was then that I learned why there's a waiting period to get a gun."

Lex: "Amaya, would you mind taking a picture of the kids, Don, and me? Last year the picture was only me and the kids and everyone keeps asking if we're divorced."

John: "Martin's having a hell of a time getting the sauce to stick to the turkey."
Mom: "Just pour it on!"
*Silence*
Mom: "I didn't tell him to melt the butter, did I?"

visitation rights

While in California for my Thanksgiving vacation, on my agenda, a non-negotiable, was driving to Marin to see Charlie. His health has deteriorated, the cancer is winning, and instead of good days and bad days, we're down to good moments and bad moments. And while there was a part of me that didn't want to see him, to preserve the healthier version of Charlie I could recall whenever I wanted, I knew I would never forgive myself if I didn't see him every chance I had, even if it meant a less enjoyable picture burned into my memory.

After picking up Melissa from the airport and stopping for our caffeine fix, we made our way from San Jose to Marin to see Charlie. It was going to be a short visit, short as in about twenty minutes as that was all the energy he possessed, but it was more than worth the over four hour roundtrip drive. We stopped at a store, as I wanted to pick up a card and balloons. I found the flowers and balloons section, after requesting directions (it was a big store, poorly designed, and I was clearly lost). The quiet gentleman followed me to the side of the store, containing everything I needed. I pawed though the balloons, growing frustrated. There were "congratulations" (for everything from graduating to having babies), "happy birthdays," and "I love yous." I stood there for a second, smirking at the "get well" balloon refusing to pick it up. I turned to the gentleman standing to the side, obviously waiting for me to make my selection, and said, "Hey, what would you suggest for a balloon for someone who's dying? I mean, let's face it, 'get well' is just messed up, no matter how morbid my sense of humor is." After the gentleman recovered from the shock of my statement (it was all over his face), he suggested an "I love you" balloon that was clearly meant for an anniversary or was code for "I'm sorry I'm a jackass and did something wrong, please accept this balloon as my apology and don't be pissed anymore." At any rate, it was not the right balloon for Charlie, and instead of saying, "Uhh, I'm not sleeping with the man, the lips all over it make it sort of weird," I instead said, "Umm, how about a frog?" (I thought if I didn't use my handy dandy filter that time, the guy just might have actually cried, and that would have been uncomfortable for everyone.)

I settled on a frog, an obnoxious bright yellow smiley face, and a blank card where I was free to write my own mushy message. I then paid, departed, and found Charlie's house. Melissa waited in the car, as I marched up the stairs to the front door. I knocked, and was greeted by a nurse. I said I was Charlie's granddaughter here to visit, and opened the screen door. The nurse had no other option but to step to the side and let me in, or she would have found herself trapped in the corner behind the screen that was already being pushed open. She started panicking, asking if I had scheduled the appointment, and if Charlie's oldest son, the one "in charge," knew I was coming. I said, "Nope, but if you get me his number, I'd be more than happy to notify him I'm here."

The infuriating back story behind "visiting appointments" and the nurse acting as a watchdog isn't necessary and will result in a 50 page tangent (literally), so I will refrain. The important facts are visits are supposed to be scheduled 24 hours in advance, they need to be approved, and they are limited in length and frequency. I disregarded all of this, and arrived unannounced and unscheduled. If Charlie was sleeping, I would have waited in the car with Melissa until he woke up. If he was awake, I was going to visit him. Period.

I called Charlie's eldest son and said, "Hi, this is Amaya, Shirley's granddaughter. I'm at Charlie's. I'll be here for no more than twenty minutes to visit him. Just wanted to inform you. Thanks!" The man who is generally quite confrontational stumbled over his words, and said that was fine, and hung up quickly after thanking me for the call. I'm pretty sure I used my tone of voice reserved for those times where I need to clearly convey that one better give me exactly what I am requesting (although, let's be honest, I didn't really "request" anything), or there will be hell to pay. I'm also quite certain the eldest son is terrified of me. I figured the worst case scenario was the son would tell me I wasn't allowed to visit, I would tell him he didn't actually have a choice in the matter, and he would call the police. I meant it when I said I would be no more than twenty minutes, so by the time the police arrived, I would have been long gone, leaving behind a smiling Charlie with balloons in the shape of a frog and smiley face. Whatever situation occurred as a result of my non-negotiable visit with Charlie was fine with me.

Thankfully I didn't get arrested, police weren't involved, and after clicking the "end" button on my cell phone, I signed in and walked back to Charlie's bedroom where he was propped up in bed. Charlie didn't have any idea I was going to visit, so the delighted surprise that filled his face was priceless (I'm pretty sure he was excited to see me, and it wasn't just the balloons). I pulled up a rocking chair, and we chatted about New York, the holidays, and family. He loved the balloons and asked me to take a picture of him with them.

After about ten minutes, Charlie's energy level was visibly decreasing. He couldn't remember something I said 45 seconds prior, and he started gazing off and then snapping himself back to talk some more. While in love and friendships I often miss my timely exit cue, I never fail to recognize them with those who are ill. I wrapped up, hugging him goodbye, promising phone calls, and telling him I loved him.

I signed out at 11:23 am, a mere 16 minutes after I signed in. I said goodbye to the nurse, patted the dog's head, and returned to the car where I found Melissa waiting. We drove back to Santa Cruz, two hours down the coast of California. And while it was only 16 minutes, it was one of the most important 16 minutes of my trip home, and ultimately priceless.

first words

It wasn't until I visited California in November that I learned what my first words were, after stumbling upon my baby book. I'm sure I asked as a child, as I vividly recall filling out "About Me" worksheets in preschool and kindergarten, and "your first words" seemed like something that would be on said worksheet. But I promptly forgot, and it never occurred to me to ask again.

My first words were on the page after the amusing quotes from my entertaining family: "da da" and "hi". That made sense. After all, I was a daddy's girl from day one, up until his drinking interfered at age 11.

There was something about reading that my first words were "da da" that made me smile, but also made me really sad. Because I realized how much I missed him. The next day, before meeting a friend, I made my way to the cemetery to visit him. But while talking to his headstone, instead of saying "da da," I simply said, "daddy."

baby book

While packing up the rest of my things I wanted frighted to New York, I stumbled across my baby book. I haven't looked at it in years, and I sat down on the bed, smiling as I gently turned the pages of the 26 year old album. In the front there was a picture of my mom and dad, huge smiles, happy, and young. It was before "life" happened. The next page was the statistics: when I was born, where, who was there, etc. The page after made me laugh out loud several times as I realized, once again, people are who the are, and what makes them who they are never changes.

The section was written by my mom, and it was titled "Your Visitors." My grandma and grandpa were present at my birth, although it wasn't clear if they were in the room or in the waiting room. My mom's narrative explained my grandparents were by my side from minute one (which, by the way, continued until my grandfather died a few years ago, and my grandma, still wonderful and strong, has not once left my side). I kept reading, and came across the below two quotes:

"Uncle John and Uncle Donald came the evening you were born to see the 'wee one'. You slept the whole time. John and Donald discussed what type of computer to get you for your first birthday."

And finally,

"Uncle Brian was at grandma and grandpa's. He thought you were small and noisy and asked if we wanted a golden retriever puppy instead. We said no."

I love my family.

a new toothbrush

When a relationship ends, or when the end is in the messy lingering period, there's always unfinished business that's not emotional. There's stuff to deal with, or rather, not deal with. Literal stuff. Around Thanksgiving, the pending relationship with "the boy" turned out to no longer be "pending" and more "over". While I was dealing with the end of said relationship just fine (frustration and annoyance are amazing tools in getting over something / someone), I found myself miffed that some of my things were at his apartment: Lake Placid (best movie EVER), season three and four of Weeds, my pink toothbrush, and a pair of panties. Could I get these things back with a simple text? Absolutely. Would he give me a hard time or make things difficult or uncomfortable? No, definitely not. I just don't want to. I tend to write off items I leave behind at a boy's apartment, knowing I will never make the effort to get them back. Hell, my ex still has (or had, who knows what he did with it) my Scene It Friends Edition that I never got back from him, despite the fact the "end" of our relationship lingered for well over a year.

The leading men in my life don't often make it onto this blog. The two exceptions, the ex and Nick, have been discussed, but mentioning Tom, otherwise known as "the boy," was a bold move and I intentionally left him off for quite some time. Because mentioning a new leading man in my life prompts questions, some of which I don't really have answers to. And then, of course, when it ends, there's even more questions (also that I don't have answers to). And now it is over with Tom, and I have moved onto someone new and great, who will likely be referred to as "the cute boy" if it progresses, until he earns himself a name on my blog. (Necessary parenthetical remark: Tom was cute too; this new boy is referred to as "the cute boy" based on his personality.)

While driving over highway 17 on the way home from the airport with Nick, it occurred to me I didn't pack a toothbrush. My electric toothbrush was at home, and my pink toothbrush was living at Tom's. Annoying. Nick offered a detour to Safeway, at which point I picked out a new pink toothbrush. At the dentist, a few days later, after getting my teeth cleaned, the dental hygienist offered me another toothbrush. I accepted. She held out a handful. The conversation went like so:

Hygienist: "What color?"
Me: "Pink."
Hygienist: "What firmness?"
Me: "Pink."
Hygienist: "What size?"
Me: "Pink."
Hygienist: "You don't care about the size or the firmness?"
Me: "I care about pink."
Hygienist: (laughing) "Pink it is."

I figured getting an extra toothbrush from the hygienist was a good call, especially since I seem to leave them at boy's apartments prematurely. Some people have the symbolic end of a relationship be the moment they gather up their belongings from the other's apartment. Mine was obtaining a new toothbrush. And then an extra. Just in case.

uptown girl

I've been volunteering on the Uptown route for the Coalition for the Homeless on Sundays for nearly five months. Sometimes I will go up to the Bronx, but the Sunday night crew in the Uptown van have become friends, ones I look forward to seeing every week. I dabble on Saturdays, usually a couple a month, and fill in on weeknights when I get text messages from Keith requesting help.

On Friday night, otherwise known as New Years Day, Keith texted me and asked if I had plans. I texted back, "It's Friday night, of course I have plans. ;) What's up, dude? Need help?" He was in a bind as many volunteers had bailed due to the holidays, and asked if I was free to volunteer that night. I said I was, and I was bringing my roommate and her sister. He thanked me a million times over, and when I asked if I needed to drive or just volunteer, he said just ride the route, but "you never know." I thought it was best to be prepared, so I put my glasses on just in case, and departed with Lis and her sister (who was visiting for New Years).

Upon arriving, James, one of the Coalition's employees, greeted me and said, "You're driving Uptown, right?" I turned to Lis and said, "Good thing I brought my glasses!" I agreed to driving Uptown, not voicing my mild concern that the last time I drove in New York, I drove in the Bronx which is an entirely different beast than driving in Manhattan. Manhattan has a lot of traffic, and A LOT of tourists during this time of year. Generally speaking, New Yorkers stay out of the way of vehicles, but tourists tend to be too distracted by all the pretty lights to notice a 3,000 pound van coming right at them (it's why drivers honk a lot -- well that, and other vehicles). I turned to Lis again and said, "this could be interesting." She looked concerned.

A few minutes later, we skipped off to the van, and I popped behind the wheel, adjusting the seat about 3 feet forward as all the men that drive the vans are much taller than me. And we were off. Driving in Manhattan ended up being painless, easy, and not the terrifying beast I was imagining. It was actually kind of fun.

After finishing the route and finding ourselves with extra food, we made our way to a shelter. It was then that I found all the idiot drivers, and sort of freaked out. There was honking and yelling, although I still changed lanes safely and while using a turn signal. Lis laughed and said, "You really have turned into a New Yorker!"

We made it back safe and sound, completing the night with a parallel parking job so impressive it prompted Lance, a volunteer, to propose marriage (I told him to get in line). After feeding everyone else, Lis, her sister, and I jumped on the train on our merry way back to our apartment for dinner.

'Twas a good night for an Uptown girl.

a slap in the face(book)

My ex is engaged. Evidently he proposed (in Santa Cruz, no less), right before Christmas. I found out on Facebook.

Right before Christmas, he crossed my mind, and I pulled up his usually private profile on Facebook. I wanted to see a picture of him, smile with nostalgia, and move on. Instead his no longer private profile popped up, with the info page glaring at me, and his relationship status stating "engaged". I was at work on my lunch break, so my reaction was as professional as they come. I turned to my co-worker and said, "Huh. My ex is engaged." She tilted her head, sucking in air between her clenched teeth, wanting to know more. How long were we together, who broke up with who, did we still love each other, why didn't he come to New York, how long has he been with the new girl, and lastly, was I okay. After the rapid fire of twenty questions, none of which I actually had the opportunity to answer before another was asked, I laughed and said we only had an hour-long lunch, which was certainly not enough time to explain our relationship, our numerous breakups, and the emotion and feelings still lingering.

I didn't talk about it for a couple days. I honestly didn't know how I felt. Was I upset? Heartbroken? Angry? Defeated? Relieved? Indifferent? I didn't know. Did I really want the phone call or email from him telling me himself? Or was it better that he didn't and I learned on Facebook? I couldn't decide.

I thought back to when he and this girl first got together. He evidently called me a few days prior and left some sappy message that he rehearsed over and over again, telling me how much he loved me and how we should be together. I never got the message. Was it a technology glitch that it never got to me? Divine intervention? I guess it doesn't really matter. I never got the message, and by the time he told me about it, in an accusatory tone, angry with me for not calling him back, it was too late. A month had passed, he and the new girl were now dating, and it was getting serious. He called to tell me. The words were on the tip of my tongue when talking to him: "Don't do. Don't get seriously involved with this girl. Come back to me." But I didn't say them. And instead we fought and got angry, and as we always did, argued about issues that weren't really the issue. That was the beginning of the end of our on-again off-again disaster of a relationship. The end truly came when I boarded the plane to New York City.

For the first few months, in the back of my mind, I thought maybe he'd come get me. It would be like one of those romantic movies where they two leads are obviously meant for each other but can't seem to work it out. They go back and forth, loving each other from afar, failing in other relationships, and then finally the idiot guy realizes what an idiot he is, and flies 3,000 miles across the country to go get the girl. There would be an intense embrace, tears, and some sort of touching dialogue like, "I knew you'd finally arrive."

And then there's reality, the sense of reality I do possess when I'm not being swept up by the twenty years of chick flicks and Disney movies I've been watching and convincing myself are actually reality when they're not. Because the reality is, we never made it work and my ex didn't make the effort or the grand overtures when we lived 45 minutes away from each other. Instead we tormented each other in passive aggressive manners, and continued to hold on to the relationship that was so obviously broken.

The part I have been struggling with though, is he's the "guy". The one I think of when the song about it finally working out in the end comes on the radio. When I do pay the $12 to see a cheesy chick flick about idiot guy overcoming his idiocy for the amazing girl, I think of him. He's always been the guy. That's the part that's difficult to let go of. Because now there isn't a guy that I hold so near and dear to my heart. And now there's a void. A much needed void, but a void nonetheless.

I started writing a short story / screenplay / book (I couldn't decide what it was going to be) before I left for New York. While spending time with my family before I left, I said to my cousin Lia, who was 13 at the time, "I'm writing a screenplay about a California boy that goes to New York to go get the girl." In her infinite wisdom, she looked at me and dryly stated, "California boys don't do that." I laughed. She was right.

The truth of the matter is the relationship has been over for a long time, and I aggressively slammed the nail into the coffin when I moved 3,000 miles away. And his engagement? It was the burial. There was nothing left to say. It was finally done.

My ex's engagement was brought up again, after we returned to the office after Christmas. My co-worker asked how my Christmas was, and checked in again about my ex. She asked if I was okay. While I paused for a moment before answering, I finally turned back to her and said, "Yeah, I'm okay. I'm great, actually."

it's gonna be a good, good night...

I've had a lot of really great nights in New York City, but the one that will be remembered until my memory is actually gone is December 19th.

The day started with the alarm beeping with an annoying sense of urgency, demanding I get out of bed. I met Katie for coffee and bagels, and we departed on our merry way to go get our hair cut. After our hair appointments, we met up with Lis, my fabulous roommate, for some shopping for our then very new apartment ("very new" as in we moved in four days prior). After a quick bite to eat with Lis, I jumped on the train to meet up with the Coalition for the Homeless crew, and departed with Trevor and Antonica up to the Bronx. It had been snowing for a couple hours, but it was teasing snow, light and fluffy, but not yet coating the ground. The teasing turned into serious snow, to the point where flights were canceled, and people's Christmas plans were being altered (there was a looooot of unhappy Facebook statuses that night). I learned something that night about the City's priorities. It turns out the Bronx is sort of like the red-headed stepchild. While the snow was coming down so hard it was rendering the streets unsafe for driving, Manhattan was being tended to, albeit slowly, by the snowplows by the Department of Sanitation. The Bronx, however, while on the todo list for plowing, was near the bottom. When you take the poorly paved streets, the large hills, and the slippery snow into consideration, you realize the Bronx should really be bumped up a bit higher on said todo list. But if anything, it made for an adventure, and Trevor was awarded several brownie points for handling the big Coalition van like a champ and not killing us, or anyone else. I also decided that the Coalition deserved to steal the United States Post Office motto "Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night... will interfere with the Coalition for the Homeless delivering food to the hungry." (Which, by the way, is not actually their motto, although it is attributed to the USPS. According to the USPS, they don't have an official motto, and the motto attributed to them is a result of the saying being put on the NYC post office, which was the architect's idea. The saying was actually said about 2500 years ago by the Greek historian, Herodotus. He said this adage during the war between the Greeks and Persians about 500 B.C. in reference to the Persian mounted postal couriers whom he observed and held in high esteem. How's THAT for trivia?)

After the Coalition run, and a good six inches of snow, we returned, and I went back to the shiny new apartment to gather Lis, to go meet up with Cordelia for her birthday. Our new apartment is on East 34th Street, in Murray Hill, and Cordelia was on the Upper West Side -- otherwise known as "not close by". We took the crosstown bus to Penn Station, and jumped on the train to go meet the birthday gang. We hung out at the bar for a bit, until 1ish, and then we all left, hiking through the now eight inches of snow to the subway. Lis and I took the train back to Penn Station, and intended on catching the crosstown bus again. No dice. The bus was no longer running due to "inclimate weather". I turned to Lis with a playful smile and said, "We shall walk!"

For the record, Penn Station is 1.3 miles from our apartment, across New York City. There was between eight and ten inches of snow on the ground, it was still snowing, and it was nearly 2am. Many busses, and a couple subways, had stopped running because the weather was so bad. There was a handful of people on the street, but most were like us, laughing and playing on the bright white empty streets. Cabs, in a fruitless effort, tried to drive on the streets, but could not work their way up faster than five miles per hour without sliding all over the road. It was amazing. Lis and I hiked to our apartment, laughing and talking the entire time, stopping to snap pictures every so often. It was a BLAST.

Best New York City night thus far. :)

winter

My last update on this blog was a picture of me in what I thought was snow. It was snow, I suppose, to a degree, but the real snow came after I returned from California from my Thanksgiving vacation -- big, fluffy, bright white snowflakes, actually in the shape of the snowflakes I would draw and cut out of construction paper as a kid. I never lived anywhere where there was snow, and until now, I didn't know what I was missing. I still grin and giggle like a small child every time it snows, catching snowflakes on my tongue, and walking with a bounce in my step (albeit carefully, as the snow often turns to ice and is slippery). I love it.

There's an application on my blackberry that tells me the weather. It provides all sorts of information I should have learned the meaning of in my geography class if I ever actually went, but alas, I did not. If I actually cared, I could google it. I don't. I note the important aspects -- temperature, chance of rain or snow, wind chill (VERY important), and the "feels like" temperature. (I trust my readers have enough common sense and high enough IQs to gather the meaning of "feels like" temperature.) A few days ago, the "feels like" temperature was four degrees. Yes, FOUR degrees. I think the actual temperature was somewhere in the low teens, but when windchill was taken into consideration, it felt like four degrees. I saw it and laughed out loud. Four degrees is cold, and it's moments like that one, looking at "four degrees" and laughing, that I realize I truly am a California girl.

I was warned about east coast winters by everyone, even people who have never been to the east coast. I was told by people who have been to the east coast, or currently live on the east coast, that I will never forget my first New York winter. I won't, they're right. But I won't forget it for different reasons than I think they were imagining. Yes, it's cold. Yes, it's sometimes inconvenient. But I love every second of it. Even the days when it's raining and cold, and I am serving food out of the back of the Coalition for the Homeless van, getting so wet I have to peel my freezing clothes off when I get home. I love walking down the city streets with snowflakes swirling around me, covering the ground in bright white snow. I love bundling up in fluffy scarves and cute hats, and my new fabulous boots that keep me dry and warm. I invested in mittens and gloves, because otherwise my fingers would have been amputated due to frostbite a few weeks ago. I love the sense of community in the cold -- the cute guy on the corner that will slyly step closer as to cover me with his umbrella if I don't have one with me, and my doorman demanding I go back upstairs to get an umbrella if I'm not holding one upon leaving if it's supposed to rain or snow. There's nothing like it.

Winter is officially here, and it may be my favorite season thus far. :)

snow!

My first New York City snow,
complete with snowflakes on my eyelashes.
It was, in a word, magical. :)

:)

I'm home.

lucky

The word "lucky" holds two meanings for me. It's the title of my favorite book by Alice Sebold, a memoir about Sebold's brutal rape as a college freshman and how she overcame the attack and aftermath. It's also what I consider myself: very lucky.

I was asked during a job interview last week, on a scale of one to ten, how lucky did I consider myself, ten being the luckiest a person could be. I said I was a solid nine. I have an amazing family, incredible friends, I am living in New York City -- literally fulfilling a dream; in addition, I have never been without anything I've wanted, let alone needed. My support system is so strong, that when I fall, I don't even get close to the ground. When explaining this to Jennifer during the interview, it reminded me of an email I got from Donna, one of my mom's close friends from college:

"I know that you are tired of hearing this.... but it seems only yesterday that we were helping catch you as you flew off the coffee table in the living room, supremely confident that someone would catch you. It was the expression of perfect trust!"

I smiled when I read that email, because it reminded me that my support system, this lucky and very charmed life I lead, has always been there -- even when I didn't see it. It's not to say there hasn't been difficult times -- some have been downright horrific. But those hard times just make it easier to see how truly lucky I am. (Working so closely with the homeless and at risk youth, of course, makes it shockingly easy to see how lucky I am. It's a perspective like no other.)

A few days ago, one of my Facebook friends updated her status with "nothing is just handed to you, you need to work for stuff like this." I almost commented that yes, most of the time, working hard is necessary, and things aren't handed to you. But, after a while, working hard pays off. I worked hard for years -- I was dedicated and committed to jobs, I did a lot of volunteer work, I built relationships, I worked hard to make my resume, and myself, the shining star that we have both become. And on Tuesday, that hard work paid off.

I got the job.

I was qualified for it, sure. I had a lot of really great experience, absolutely. I'm smart, yes. I fit the company culture, definitely. Out of the 300 applicants (and that's just the number they reached before they removed the job listing), I was chosen. The final decision was between three people, myself being one of them. Jennifer, very frankly, stated that in all honesty, the other two candidates had more experience than me and were more qualified. I laughed, and said I wasn't surprised -- in today's economy the competition is fierce for any kind of job, especially for the one I was a candidate. The job, an Operations Manager for a tech company, is a big job and a key role in this company. She explained why she and the team chose me: I was what they were looking for, and while some of my experience was lacking, they had the utmost confidence I would fill the void that was desperately needed. My references had nothing but amazing things to say about me, but were also honest in the areas needing improvement. My personality and who I was, in their observations as well as what my references offered up, confirmed what they suspected: I was a fit.

Hard work paying off? Luck? God smiling upon me?

In a card I sent to my new team, wishing them a great holiday and that I looked forward to working with them upon my return to the city, I said that on a scale of one to ten in regards to how lucky a person could be, I am now definitely a ten.

dancing the night away

As previously mentioned, working with the elderly is really challenging for me (and at risk of sounding like an arrogant bitch, there's not many things I have encountered in my life that are actually challenging -- barring relationships). As such, when I got an email asking me to fill in and lead a project at a nursing home this week, I accepted. The project was assisting a holiday party for the residents, including serving their appetizers, cleaning up, and of course socializing.

I arrived early, and instantly identified the facility based on the several ambulances parked outside. I checked in with security, found the site contact, and waited in the lobby for the volunteers so I could check them in and give them the rundown of our responsibilities. After we transported people up to the 15th floor to the rec room, the party was well underway. The residents were in varying stages of health and illness, but all were responsive, friendly, and grateful for the attention and change from the norm. The volunteers served food and drinks, cleaned up, socialized, and of course, danced with the residents that were sturdy enough on their feet.

Upon seeing the residents rise to dance, I realized that those years of watching chick flicks finally paid off. In a huge majority of girlie movies, there's a guy who's trying to impress a girl, many of which in order to marry her, and then surprises her with ballroom dancing lessons. Well, I paid attention. Enough to fake it, anyway. ;)

The night wrapped up with getting the residents back to their rooms, and gathering up the volunteers to thank them. I will admit, I dreaded this project. I found though, that the more I confront those things in my life that are challenging, the less challenging they become.


* Pictures of volunteer events cannot include actual clients for confidentiality purposes. Furthermore, in cases like this one, it's unwise to even mention the facility name. As such, when I do include pictures, it will be of things I see in the facility, or the setup before the residents arrive.

the pajama program

I've had the last week off of work, and somehow that piece of information circulated around the New York Cares office and I was suddenly filling in and leading projects for other unavailable team leaders. One of which was sorting pajamas with the Pajama Program.


The Pajama Program provides pajamas and nurturing books to children in need in the United States, and around the world. Many of the kids are awaiting adoption, live in shelters, or have been shuffled back and forth through temporary housing. The Pajama Program was founded by Genevieve Pitturo after she visited a shelter in Harlem, pajamas in hand for the kids, and had to explain to one young girl what pajamas were and when she was supposed to wear them. Genevieve explained you're supposed to wear them to bed, and asked what the little girl wore to bed. She answered quietly, "my pants."

After hearing that story, and then after wiping my tear-filled eyes (come on, folks, I cry at Hallmark commercials, of course I would cry after that), I instantly fell in love with the Pajama Program and knew this would going to be my next regular volunteer project.

Over the next few hours, myself and the volunteers sorted donations, stocked the bins with the different sizes for the kids, and then packed boxes to send out to shelters, group homes, and other programs helping children in need across the country. We prepared boxes containing 500 pairs of pajamas and 500 children's books. It was instant gratification knowing the boxes would be shipped that day, and arrive shortly thereafter, pajamas and books being distributed to excited kids.

Something most people take for granted, pajamas to sleep in at night, is something that can provide comfort to the unstable shelter life many kids experience. The Pajama Program makes a difference, one pair of pajamas at a time.

THREE days!

In THREE days I will be landing in San Jose, California, to be greeted at the airport by Nick and Felicia, and then after dinner with my two favorites, I'll be heading home to see my sleeping mom (who I will be waking up), and my kid brother (who will probably already be awake, but if not, I plan on jumping on his bed too). I will get to see my grandma, who I miss like no other, and a long list of friends whose smiles I still see in pictures, and whose laughter I hear on the phone, but I can't wait to see and hear them in person.

I. Can't. Wait.

sunflower seeds

Before I moved to New York, softball was a regular part of my week, and when it was baseball season, so were A's games. Both activities involved two of my favorite people: Felicia and Nick.

At A's games, during the 7th inning stretch everyone would sing "Take Me Out to the Ballgame," and while I would sing along to "buy me some peanuts and Cracker Jacks," what I was really thinking was, "No. Buy me sunflower seeds."

I love sunflower seeds.

I will admit, one of the reasons I love softball and baseball is because of sunflower seeds. I went though a phase while living at the condo with Nick and Mari, where I would eat sunflower seeds while hanging out and watching TV. This continued until I could no longer feel my tongue on a daily basis due to my salt intake. Sunflower seeds were then restricted to softball and baseball games only.

Felicia, being the best friend/big sister/mentor/another mom to me, was amazing at ensuring we always had everything we needed for baseball games: water, candy (Hot Tamales, Red Vines, and something with chocolate), and a bag of sunflower seeds the size of my head. It was the best.

Today I switched handbags from one Big Buddha bag to another (they're my favorite). I was using my brown one for well over a year now, and switched back to my black one that I also deeply love. While transferring over everything to the new handbag, I peered into the bottom -- and found a few stray sunflower seeds.

I smiled, missed my best friends, but smiled even bigger when I realized I will see them both in 15 days.