Can somebody get me a tissue... oh wait, I'm sick and all alone

Being sick sucks.

But as I discovered this week, what's worse than being sick is being completely alone and being sick.

I got sick Sunday night, then spent Monday morning trying to find someone to work my Monday night shift. Thankfully, I was off on Tuesday, so I then had two full days to recover from what turned out to be a nasty case of strep throat.

So along with wincing every time I had to swallow - and even feeling the throbbing pains from my throat when I wasn't swallowing - my entire body ached like when I have the flu. So to sum it up, my existence hurt - especially when I moved.

But since Brent was at work both days until after 10 p.m., that meant I had to still get up off the couch, bathtub, or bed - my three sick zones - to get medicine, tissues, extra blankets, food, etc. Since I didn't have any "sick" food - applesauce, juice, ice cream, and cream soda - that meant I also had to go to the grocery store feeling like crap.

When I lived in Toledo and Brent was at work, I would park myself on my parents' couch and have my mom take care of me. And at the very least, if I was sick during the day and she had to work, I would call over a friend to do something low-key, like watch movies.

Here in New York, I'm not comfortable enough with my semi-friends to let them see me in my glasses, sweatpants, and fuzzy slippers with my unwashed hair matted to my forehead. All I had was my dog Chloe, who was great to snuggle with until she got too hot and decided to leave me for the cool tile of the bathroom.

So man was I lonely. I mean, I get lonely a lot, but this was a new kind of lonely. Sure I got some sympathy from my mom over the phone, and caught up on some movies I had been wanting to watch, but that just wasn't the same as being with people. People who care about me who could take care of me.

Such is the trade-off. But it still sucks.

Extra parmesan, please!

If Brent and I do go out, it's on Saturday nights, but I'm usually the one who's pushing for doing something fun. So that's why it was a pleasant surprise when Brent told me out of the blue to call a place called Lombardi's and make a reservation for Saturday.



Even though they don't take reservations on weekends, that didn't stop Brent and I from heading downtown to eat at New York City's first pizzeria.



In going there, I learned that, unsurprisingly, New York City was the birthplace of New York-style pizza (which is very thin pizza without a whole lot of sauce, but a good amount of cheese and big toppings). And Lombardi's was licensed by the City of New York in 1905, making it America's first pizzeria.

Since this pizza place has been perfecting pizza - which is pretty awesome on its own - for more than 100 years, I had high expectations for it.

After waiting for about 45 minutes for a table, we would our way to the back of this restaurant, and through the kitchen, to our quaint table alongside a wall of photos. The most memorable were the ones with the guy feeding pizza to a monkey sitting on his lap in the restaurant (health department must have taken a sick day!) and the ones of the owner shaking hands with celebrities, like Robin Williams.


Though it seemed like a long wait for our large pizza with pepperoni and tomatoes, it was probably because we both saved tons of room to taste this pizza! Plus, it was nice to just sit back with our Diet Cokes and have a conversation with my husband.



When the pizza finally arrived, I have to say it was good, but it wasn't fantastic. It had everything it was supposed to have, but nothing about it stood out. I've had other pizza in New York, and it tasted about the same. I think I was disappointed because I hyped up the place so much in my mind, but apparently all New York City pizza is just that - New York City pizza.

But hey, it was an evening out with my husband at a true New York City jewel!

I'm just going to enjoy some garins while I plant some chuirot

After an 80-plus-hour workweek, often the last thing my husband wants to do is go out again. While we usually go out on Saturdays, he prefers to stay in on Friday nights and Sundays.

Since our New York City apartment is roughly the same size as the living room of the condo we sold back in Ohio, it's tough to each do our separate thing. Plus, since weekends are the only time we really have to spend together, we've gotten into a pretty predictable routine of playing a word game - Scrabble or Upwords - either Friday or Sunday or sometimes even both days.

Because we're both headstrong first-born children, we're competitive by nature. And that competitiveness is especially apparent when we make a bet on the game's outcome. Sometimes we get creative, but the usual bet is that the loser has to give the winner a 10- to 20-minute back rub.

And with that on the line, each of us scrutinizes each other's every choice of word and every play. We've learned that while I have a more extensive vocabulary - naturally, as a writer should - Brent has a more interesting interpretation of the English language, meaning he simply makes words up, then spends time trying to convince me that they're real words. When he's proven wrong after I hand him a dictionary, he then attempts to convince me that our dictionary is outdated, and the words he wants to use were recently coined. (It's gotten so ridiculous that I've actually bought a new, official Scrabble dictionary to squash any of his ideas of new words. It comes in the mail soon.)

During our most recent Scrabble game, when it was apparent that I would win after I used up all of my letters spelling the word "pioneers," Brent got especially creative and hilarious, so I had to write down his last four pathetic attempts to get some major catch-up points.

These are examples of words and their supposed meanings that Brent attempted to play in our most recent Scrabble game:

garin: a type of strawberry

chia: a hairstyle, like a fro

chuirot: a type of grass, like crab grass

cbox: a gaming system, like the x-box

Even after nixing all of these words, Brent actually managed to catch up in score a little bit, making the last few plays crucial. When it came to be his turn, he decided to take a bathroom break.

AND HE TOOK HIS SLATE AND LETTERS WITH HIM TO THE BATHROOM.

At first, I thought he was kidding. But then he proceeded to continue to the bathroom with his letters.

Let's dissect this decision: What, if anything, would I have done differently if I had peeked at his letters? Each of us had the last few letters available, so I knew which ones he had by virtue of which letters had yet to be played. The number of letters available is written directly on the board. Did he think I would swap some of my letters for his? I'm pretty sure he would have noticed he no longer had the only "x." And even if he didn't right away, he would definitely have noticed had I tried to play it on a triple word square.

In the end, it didn't matter what Brent did because I won... but am still waiting for that winning back rub!

Doggie play date

I don't have children, so when I want to channel the child in me via Candyland or the playground, I live vicariously through other people who have them.



Or I schedule play dates for the closest thing that I have to my child: my dog.


So the other day, I borrowed a colleague's 4-pound Yorkshire Terrier to play with my 65-pound German Shepherd/Rottweiler mix.

Or rather, I gave my dog a new, live squeaky toy.

Chloe LOVED Georgie, but the tiny, 6-month-old Yorkie didn't want to have anything to do with my giant dog who kept pawing at her and trying to get her to play. To defend herself, Georgie would leap up as high as she could go - which was nearly as high as my dog's nose - and squeak. It was hilarious.


And also a little sad, so after a few minutes, I took pity on her and started carrying her around the apartment as my own little armpit ornament. Then, because I felt ridiculous carrying around a dog, I went back to work to meet up with another colleague, Amanda, and the four of us took a trip to the nearby dog park.

While the three of us walked - Amanda, Chloe, and I - Amanda carried poor Georgie because she was too little to walk five whole blocks. She is such a pathetic excuse for a dog!

When we got to the dog park with the two city dogs, Georgie tore off and hid behind trees, below benches, and finally crawled into Amanda's bag to get away from Chloe, who was chasing her and continuing to try to get her to play. So after several minutes of Chloe's sitting and waiting for Georgie to crawl out of the bag, which she was not going to do out of her own volition, I decided to distract Chloe and once again attempt to desensitize her to water using the kiddie pool provided at the dog park for the drool machines.


Chloe likes water if it's in the context of the amount that can fit in her water bowl. She is terrified of pools, probably ever since I lowered her in the huge one in my parent's backyard, then watched as she immediately scrambled out and hid. And she's even more terrified of rain - more specifically thunderstorms.


She also hates baths, and literally runs from the bathroom if she's resting in there and I turn on the water in the bathtub, even if it's for my shower. When she hears water running in the tub and then sees me coming to get her, she actually pees herself in terror. Poor thing. But who wants to cuddle with a stinky dog?


I at least have made headway with bath time. She now gets into the bathtub on her own when I ask her to - which is helpful since it was a struggle to lift a squirming 64-pound dog into the tub in the first place - and tolerates it as long as I don't dump any water on her head or near her ears.

But when we were at the dog park, I was watching an owner throw a ball into the pool with a big black dog diving in after it, then rolling around in the water. It was adorable on the exceptionally hot day, so I thought Chloe would enjoy cooling off between terrorizing a dog weighing 60 pounds less than her.

Since she wouldn't get in the pool on her own, I lifted her up and put her into it fully expecting her to immediately jump out. But to my surprise, she stayed there for awhile, probably because the cool water felt good on her paws. Then she drank a bunch of it - probably not the healthiest thing - then literally marched toward the edge while lifting each paw up completely out of the water before hopping out.


Then, Amanda and I decided to see if Georgie could swim. We found out that she could, and when she swam to the edge of the pool and we lifted her up, we saw that her tiny body had shrunk to half its size. A wet rat is definitely bigger than this "dog."


After about two hours at the dog park, we decided to call it a day, and Chloe, Georgie, and I spent the rest of the play date cuddling and sleeping on the couch - with me holding Georgie an arm's length away from Chloe.


So much for a mutually fun play date, but at least Chloe had fun!

My own worst enemy

When I know I have to get up to open the coffee shop, it's hard for me to sleep. I can't seem to get those dangit-I-only-have-three-more-hours-of-sleep-before-I-have-to-get-up-at-an-ungodly-hour thoughts out of my head long enough to relax and actually get some quality shut-eye.

Besides, I can never actually get myself to crawl into bed before 11 p.m. because then I just feel ridiculous staring at the sunlight filtering through my curtains.*

But I fell asleep relatively easy last night - even though it was well after midnight - only to be jolted wide awake a little after 2 a.m.

"What the hell?" I thought to myself as tears escaped from my eyes and flowed around a sharp pain emanating from my face - specifically my nose.

It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened. When I sleep, I dream vividly. And in my dreams, I was fighting off vampires. (Full disclosure: I'm nearing the end of "Twilight" by Stephenie Meyers. Even though it's essentially a teenage love story - in which the human protagonist falls in love with a vampire - I easily read 250 pages in one, four-hour sitting. It's that good.)

And apparently, while I was sleeping, I was fighting the vampires with one of my arms stretched straight up toward the ceiling with my fingers curled into a fist. Then, gravity did its thing when I simply let my fist drop... right into my nose.


That's right: I PUNCHED MYSELF IN THE FACE.


And I wasn't even mad when I woke myself up with the stabbing pain. Even though it really hurt, I thought it was hilarious.


I went to wake up Brent, who was sleeping soundlessly next to me, but then changed my mind and decided to let him stay in REM sleep. He looked so peaceful. Apparently the vampires were only attacking me, and I ended up hurting myself.

I swear I can't even make this stuff up!

*May be a slight exaggeration, but that's how it feels.

A clear sign that I'm at the coffee shop A LITTLE too much

I opened the coffee shop today - meaning I was there at 4:45 a.m. - and worked until early afternoon. Then, as usual, I collapsed when I got home and fell asleep for several hours.


I don't remember what I dreamt about, but when I woke up in a serious fog, my first thought was that Brent was the strawberries in my strawberries and cream frappuccino. Wow. Where the heck that thought came from is truly beyond me, and it's pretty embarrassing to admit.

But nevertheless, I shared it with Brent when he came home tonight.


"Yeah, so that's just freaking weird," he said. "So I'll ignore that."

If you can't beat him, join him

Everyone looks forward to the weekend, but I especially love them because other than in bed every night while I'm sleeping, it's the only time that my husband is home for any length of time, so we can actually spend quality time together.

The wrench in that plan is that I almost always work Saturday mornings until noon or later and usually work Sunday mornings until noon or 5 p.m., so that cuts our time together significantly. But we usually make up for it Friday nights, when we watch a movie or play a game together, and Saturday nights, when we either order in food or go out to enjoy the city together.

So I was ecstatic to tell Brent that after I worked a mid-day shift on Friday, I wouldn't have to go back to work until mid-day on Tuesday. That meant we had Friday evening to spend together without my having to worry about getting to bed early and ALL DAY Saturday and Sunday. I was thrilled.

He then took that moment to tell me that he was going to be spending his Saturday afternoon and possibly Sunday afternoon in the office.

HELL. NO.

I told him no. He retorted yes. I told him no again, but he said there was nothing he could do about having to be in the office this weekend.

So I told him I was going with him. Even though it was my day off, I was willing to spend it in a high-rise banking office building surrounded by nothing but empty cubicles and stacks of paper if it meant I could be there with him.

To my surprise, he readily agreed and said there was a project I could help him with. So since we were going to the same office together to do the same job, I thought it would be funny to waer the same outfit. So I let him get dressed first - he chose to wear jeans, a white v-neck T-shirt, and a U of M hat - and put on the exact same outfit. He took one look at me and told me to change. He's so not fun.

So after we got to the office around 11 a.m., with me wearing a jeans, a U of M hat, and a green T-shirt instead of white, I figured he would steer me toward something involving copying, filing, or alphabetizing, but no, he actually GAVE me one of the projects one of his bosses gave him to do. Granted, it was a simple project - converting hundreds of .tif files into .pdf files, then uploading them into certain files on the server - but it irritated me to no end to realize that people dump stupid things like that on him. Things that I could do - or, better yet, a secretary getting PAID TO DO IT could do. Sigh.

So he did other work in an adjoining cubicle while I listened to my ipod or flipped through a magazine while the files were uploading. Even though I was working, it was nice. It reminded me how much I miss working at a desk. And since we were relatively alone, we could talk, and we even enjoyed a lunch break together after we had food delivered to the office.

It sounds totally corny, but even though I wasn't getting paid for the work I was doing, it meant more to me have that time with him, and it felt good knowing that the work I did meant four hours less at the office for him, and four hours with me at home!

All dressed up and no place to go

It's no secret that even though I inhabit a city of 8 million other people, it's still an incredibly lonely place.



But work flew by tonight because I had set up a billiards date with a bunch of people from work. Finally! A fun night out! With friends!


Wrong.



Earlier in the day, a few people canceled, but that was OK because there were still some people who were still free.


So I went home and hopped in the shower in a great mood, humming Carrie Underwood's "Before He Cheats." Since I was feeling a bit seductive, I put on my sleeveless black shirt with the sexy rip in the front along with jeans, black flats, and big, hoop earrings that peeked out behind the waves I put in my hair.


But then, one guy had to work later than anticipated, and just before I was ready to leave to meet my other colleague at the pool hall I picked out, he told me it "didn't look like he was going to be able to make it anymore." This was after telling me just three hours earlier that he would meet me wherever I wanted to go. Seriously?


But since I was all dressed up and ready to go, I called the girl who had just gotten off work and asked her if she still wanted to go. She said she did, but would have to meet us later because she had just gotten off work and had to go home to get ready. That left just me and another guy who said he was also planning on meeting us up later.


Even though I am desperate to have friends here, I drew the line at going to a pool hall by myself and waiting for an undetermined amount of time for someone who may or may not show up.


Since I was literally ditched by my colleagues, I decided to call the one person who I can always count on: Brent. Even though he's always (eventually) there for me when I need him, he was at the one thing that stands in his way from being there for me at the exact moment that I need him: work.
I told him the situation and explained that I was literally all dressed up with nowhere to go. I then suggested I meet him downtown for dinner and a drink. It was, after all, a Friday night. But he said he still had more work to do, and after a long day, going out was the last thing on his mind.

So I had two options: Stay at home, cry, and feel sorry for myself, or go out on a Friday night by myself.


Even though I seriously considered the first option, I decided to do what I usually do and take on this big, bad city solo.


So I changed into a bit more comfortable outfit - meaning a T-shirt, jeans, and sandals - and headed downtown on 9th Avenue - which is loaded with restaurants and bars. I was hungry, so I just started walking to see where my feet would take me.

My first stop was to a wine bar, Bocca Di Bacco, about three blocks away that I've been to before when my mom came to visit. Even though I was feeling like a bit of a loser - alone on a Friday night, after all - I took a deep breath and went through the doors ready for a bite to eat and a nice glass of wine, even if it was by myself.


I asked the hostess if I could just order food from the bar, but then looked over to see it was all full of people with unbuttoned suit coats and loosened ties laughing at happy hour after work. Then I asked her for a table for one, but she apologized and said the place was full. Then she handed me a card and suggested that I order takeout for home.


Even tougher than going out by myself was keeping it together just enough to smile and thank her for the suggestion to essentially doing my first option: going home to cry... with some food.


So there I was, tears running down my face as I was trudging down 9th Avenue feeling sorry for myself. Thank God it was dark out or people would have seen just how pathetic I felt.


After walking another two blocks and wiping away the tears, I crossed the street when I saw the nice place that Brent and I went with one of my best friends, Sarah, when she was in town a few months ago.

I originally planned on sitting on the velvet furniture like we did last time, but they're all situated in circles around tables. I would have looked ridiculous sitting there alone. So I chose to sit next to an older guy nursing a scotch. I was alone at a bar. I might as well look the part.


After perusing the menu, I decided order a mixed drink made with Southern Comfort mostly because I was hoping to take advantage of the "comfort" part. Then I ordered some quesadillas.


Then I watched the lame show on the TV above the bar for a bit. And then I read that there was a $15 minimum if you wanted to pay with a credit card. No problem. The one drink I ordered was $11 - along with the three more that followed.


Then I texted a few of my real, actual friends - none of which live anywhere near New York - to tell them that I missed them. Most of them quickly texted back asking if I was OK, which at the time, I didn't feel OK, but it's nice to have people who know you and care about you. I love my friends.

Then I watched the lame TV show some more and tried to ignore all the groups of people laughing around me while praying that my quesadillas would show up and I'd have something to do.


The turning point came when I accidentally dropped my purse from my lap - and the 60-something guy drinking alone next to me picked it up for me and struck up a conversation.


For the next 90 minutes, I actually kinda enjoyed myself while I talked to this guy, Harry, about New York, my job, his job, the area we lived in, his family, etc. It was nice. And he wasn't hitting on me or being a dirty old man or anything - we were just two people alone at a bar enjoying the company of someone else. It would have sucked a whole lot more if I would have just sat there alone re-reading the credit card sign 100 times.


And he apparently was grateful for the company because before he left to meet up with his family, he took care of my more than $60 bar tab. He really was a nice guy!


And after four strong drinks in less than two hours, I was feeling pretty good myself - so good in fact, that it took me four blocks to realize that I was walking in the wrong direction. Very stupid on a number of levels, but thank God the streets of New York are numbered, so it was easy to correct my mistake, even in an inebriated state.


When I got home and told Brent of my grand plans to go out with another guy from work - one who didn't get off until almost midnight - he immediately nixed my plans, which at the time really infuriated me, but now I realize he was, once again, looking out for me and there when I needed him.


I may not have any friends here, but I thank God every day I have him.

Not the kind of Usher I had at my wedding, though it would have been nice!

"For the love of God, would you PLEASE SHUT UP AND LET ME SLEEP," I thought, frustrated, at 7:30 a.m.

For once, I got to sleep in until a blissful 9:30 a.m., but the excessive horn-honking from the street below my window - WAAAAAYYYYY more than usual for New York City, anyway - was making dreamland impossible.

So I threw off the covers, angerly swept aside the curtain from my bedroom window, and saw cars bottle-necked in all four directions at the nearby intersection. Police were trying to sort out the mess, but apparently it wasn't quick enough for those pesky New York cabbies.

Even though I had an inkling that there might be extra traffic near my apartment today, I had no idea it would be this bad EIGHT HOURS before a concert at Columbus Circle, featuring Usher and Keith Urban, to celebrate before the NY Giants' opener.

But hey - who was I to complain? I didn't have to navigate through car traffic. All I had to do was worry about foot traffic after work as I changed into street clothes and moseyed around the block to enjoy the concert - for FREE!

I admit that before I went, I imagined that there would probably be a stage set up for Usher and Keith Urban to perform, but I wasn't expecting a complete transformation of Columbus Circle into an amazing outdoor concert venue.

The streets were closed off to make way for a HUGE stage, complete with platforms all around it and a giant background screen so those of us who didn't get there eight hours ahead of time could still see the performers, even from a block or two away.

And even though the concert was free, there was only one way in. For me, I had to walk a few blocks east, then north one block before turning back to walk back toward my apartment and toward the main stage.

After passing a bunch of different booths of advertisers - and picking up a free T-shirt that said "I (heart) GMC" - I maneuvered around groups of people dancing and cheering for Usher, who was performing when I got there.

I have never been to an Usher concert before, but wasn't surprised that he was a great performer. And I never really realized how hot he is -especially when he ripped off his shirt during a song. Wow-eee!

Even though the concert was free, and the music was great, I didn't stay for a long time because I felt a little awkward being there by myself. But hey, it was something to do!

My cooking is apparently THAT GOOD

"So which one is your favorite?" I asked Brent, who was busy chewing on a mouthful of asparagus.

I treated us to two appetizers for dinner tonight because the main course was leftover pasta from the dinner I made us on Saturday night.

But he didn't answer me for a moment, so I asked him again to tell me which he preferred:

-The prosciutto-wrapped asparagus grilled in EVOO (Rachel Ray rocks) and sprinkled with pepper and basil

OR

-The sauteed feta cheese I drizzled over tomatoes before again adding pepper and basil (two of the greatest spices ever invented)

"That's like asking me to choose between my two children," he said.

BEST COMPLIMENT EVER (on my cooking, that is)!