Christmas Whirlwind

It's December, and I'm in Ohio, but I feel like I've been swept up in what I call the Christmas whirlwind.



Before I moved to New York, Brent tried to put my mind at ease by outlining all the positives. One was that whenever we'd come home, everyone would cater to us because we'd be the visitors. While that statement has some truth to it, he left out the part about us being ripped apart in whirlwind trips that leave no time for sleep or relaxation.



We try to be fair and spend equal amounts of time between the families while squeezing in some time for friends, but I always leave feeling like someone may feel he or she has been slighted. But I try my best, and that's all I can do.



Our crazy trip started with my admiring the fact that there are like a dozen Cinco de Mayo restaurants in Toledo now, and then Brent's parents suggesting we meet there for dinner on December 22, which is when we flew in. Mmmm, Mexican!

The following day was spent shopping (yes, I know, I deserve all the craziness I got from stepping foot inside a mall two days before Christmas, but it's almost better than carting everything to Ohio from three states away) before enjoying Christmas with the Meller family. There's just nothing like watching kids - namely, my 2- and almost 4-year-old nieces - opening up gifts - especially the ones I bought for them. (Mackenzie LOVED her doll. Yay!)

What was so special to me about this year's Christmas was that it was spent in the same way I spent all my Christmases as a child, except this year, I got to share that with my husband.

After church with my family, we headed over to my aunt and uncle's house, which is right next door to my parents' house, and had a blast visiting with my dad's side of the family.

One of the highlights was the "white elephant" Christmas gift exchange, where everyone who brought a gift placed it in the middle of the living room, and then everyone took turns either choosing a gift from the pile or stealing the gift that someone else opened before, which allowed them to either choose a new gift from the pile or steal a gift themselves. When it's over, everyone ends up with one gift, but whether it's one you want or not is left up to chance. (Although I think my automatic soap dispenser is pretty cool!)

Although the gifts were set out under the tree before I went to bed instead of my discovering what Santa had brought the next morning, it was still fantastic to wake up and open gifts with my family in our pajamas just like we used to before heading over to eat breakfast with my mom's side of the family. There's nothing quite like re-living childhood memories.

Later that day, though, instead of napping and watching movies like I did when I was a child, Brent and I skated off to spend Christmas with the extended side of his mom's family. By that point, both of us were more than exhausted, but had to stay vigilant because our niece, Katelyn, would jump into our laps with no warning and then ask us to have (yet another) tea party.

The next morning was no time to relax, as Brent and I had to rush from his parents house to a surprise party for my cousin, Breanne, who recently graduated with her doctorate degree (congrats Brea!), which was nice that my aunt held it when a lot of people who normally would have been out of town, myself included, were in town to help celebrate.

Later that evening, we ended up at Carrabbas with my parents after checking out the neighborhood Christmas lights while sipping McDonald's shakes (yet another childhood tradition).


With the holidays winding down, on December 27, I had an opportunity to catch up with some friends. So I spent lunch at Olga's Kitchen with Sarah, one of my best friends and the only roommate I've ever had who wasn't my sister or my husband, and had dinner at Don Pablo's with a longtime friend, Amy, who I've known since I was 5 and really miss sometimes.

The following day, I had an opportunity to see another set of friends from both college and The Blade - Ignazio, Jon and Meghan - at dinner at Granite City in Fallen Timbers before spending more time with my in-laws.


Whew! Though I'm absolutely exhausted and can't wait to make no plans for a bit while back in New York, I loved every second of it.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

Small check, but nice amount for charity, so I guess I'll take it

As if winning the basketball league championship weren't cool enough, tonight my team attended the end-of-the-season party to accept a check for our chosen charity. And with a name like Hoop Doggy Dogs, of course our charity has to benefit dogs. So we were thrilled to be able to accept a check for Mighty Mutts, a no-kill organization that helps the stray dogs of New York City, as winners of the Penny Division of Zogsports.

Though I was hoping for one of those over-sized checks you see people accept with two hands and maybe a grip and grin photo, no such luck.

Nevertheless, we are going to take the check that unfortunately fit inside an envelope and present it proudly to Mighty Mutts.

And of course we had no choice but to celebrate at the Gael Pub until almost 3 a.m. If we don't win best drinking team next season, I'd like to hang out with the team that does!

Burgers, beer, and owls?

If you ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner at a different restaurant in Manhattan every single day, it would take you FIVE ENTIRE YEARS to eat at every restaurant on this island. While that statistic includes all the Olive Garden and TGI Friday’s chain restaurants peppered around Times Square, it also counts tiny wine and cheese bars spread out like gems around the city.

So on one of my very first free weekday evenings – where I don’t have to worry about going from my main job right to the coffee shop for another eight hours of work - I decide to spend it with my former coffee shop colleagues – Rigo, Deirdra, Maxi and honorary colleague, Blair. At Hooters.

Full disclosure – I was in mixed company, meaning one person who I very much like and wanted to hang out with, is 20 years old. That automatically disqualified any and all bars (thanks Maxi). Secondly, I was with several college students, so that, understandably, automatically disqualified anywhere expensive. Thirdly, I was not going to Wendy’s or McDonald’s, so we settled on Hooters on West 56th St. and Broadway two blocks away from my apartment

Now before you go making any judgments, at least this particular Hooters location has a claim to fame. The final scene of the movie Big Daddy starring Adam took place there. Yep – that’s how I’m justifying it. And hey – it was a place with beer and burgers. What more could you want?

Rested for the first time in awhile

It's Saturday morning... and I'm home.

It's 9:45 a.m. and I just rolled out of bed after waking up on my own. And I don't have to go to work today or tomorrow.

This may sound like a typical weekend for many people, but for the past two years, it hasn't been for me. Since January, 2008, I've had to try to go to bed early every Friday night in order to wake up at 4:35 a.m. every Saturday morning. By the time I got off work at noon or later, I'd crash in bed until around 4 or 5 p.m., then wake up even more tired than when I went to sleep. This, unfortunately, made for some cranky Saturday evenings.

But now I feel rested, happy, and looking forward to an entire day that I can fill with whatever I want.

Now if only I knew what that should be! Nevertheless... goodbye coffee shop job forever!

Was that a pickup line or were you just happy to see my dog?

"Oh my God; that's an amazing dog!" shouts a relatively normal-looking, 20-something guy as Chloe and I were walking toward him on our evening stroll.

"What kind of dog is it?" he asked, lightly touching my arm before bending down to pet Chloe.

"A Shepherd/Rottie mix," I replied, watching him pet her before he straightened up and I started to walk past him.

"You're hot," he said, watching me walk away.

"Um, thank you," I replied over my shoulder as I saw him turn and continue down the sidewalk in the opposite direction out of the corner of my eye.

"Was that supposed to be a pick-up line?" I ask Chloe as she shook her tail at me. "Maybe he was looking for the shock value 'cause that came out of nowhere. Weird."

To the woman in the white hat with the cane: Thank you for being brave enough to say what we were all thinking

"Shut up... Shut UP... WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP!?!?"


Eh, what I heard on the 86th Street crosstown bus tonight wasn't anything unusual in New York City. People are bound to get annoyed at constantly being around other humans in such close quarters. But what soon followed made my stomach lurch, and brought tears to my eyes.


I started to hear a child cry, then someone standing in the aisle of the bus shifted and I was able to turn my head to my left and clearly see that the probably early-20s-year-old woman was screaming "Shut up" to her son, who looked to be about 5 years old.


It only got worse from there.


As children often do, the child made the "mistake" of taking an innocent swing at his mom, who was bending forward from her seat on the bus to get her face closer to his and pacify him by screaming "SHUT UP."


In response, she HIT. HIM. BACK. Nevermind that this display of child abuse was on a public bus, SHE REPEATEDLY slap-hit her child over and over while telling him to "shut up, just shut the f*uck up! You stupid! SHUT UP!"


I could see people taking note of the situation, and saw plenty of raised eyebrows, but no one, including me, said anything. I don't know what everyone else was thinking, but I can tell you what I was thinking: If this woman is pissed off and perfectly fine hitting a defenseless child, what the hell would she do to me if I said something and put myself right smack in her business? Though I can be honest with myself and say that I was caught up in self preservation, that in no way excuses my doing nothing. That said, I can't see this intense weight of shame going away anytime soon.


By this point, the bus had slowed down to Lexington Avenue, and this person got up, yanked up her kid up out of his seat and gave him a sharp shove forward by the back of his head.


That was enough for the woman wearing a white knit cap and carrying a cane sitting across from me in the front of the bus to say what we were all thinking.


"Please stop hitting that child," she said softly, but firmly, which - no surprise - unleashes a spout of profanities from this woman, including "don't stick your f*cking nose in my business. That's MY child, bitch" and the even more shocking "Did you see he f*cking hit me first."


Ummm... where do you think that child got the idea that hitting was OK? And what may be even worse - what if he grows up and still thinks hitting is OK? Will he in turn hit his child? His wife?

After the horrible woman made an even bigger scene yelling at the woman in the white hat who was brave enough to stand up for that child - screaming profanities all the way down the steps of the bus - I caught the eye of that woman across from me and we exchanged a raised-eyebrow look. Though I am ashamed to admit that I didn't have the courage to stand up for that child, I definitely wanted to make sure that her bravery was acknowledged, so I thanked the woman in the white hat.

Then, silently to myself, I thanked God that there are people like her and continued to pray that that child will be OK and will grow up to be nothing like his mother.

Nah, nah, nah, nah, hey, hey, hey... GOODBYE!!

Even though I have been waiting for this day since the first day I was hired back in January, 2008, I still left the coffee shop for the final time as an employee with mixed emotions.

On one side, I was absolutely thrilled to never again set my alarm for 4:05 a.m., be at work after midnight, or go from one job to another. Because I work typical hours at the food magazine, I will have weekends again – meaning two whole days where I don’t have to be at or worry about work. And most of all, I was looking forward to forever closing the chapter of my life where I will have to utter, “Welcome to [some food establishment]. What can I get for you?” like a broken record while at work.

On the other hand, I got a bit teary-eyed at the thought of not seeing my colleagues, many of whom are now my friends, and some of the customers whom I’ve gotten to know and really like on a daily basis.

But then I cheered right up thinking about how I could CHOOSE to see the people who I would miss simply by walking into the coffee shop – without my hat or apron – for a visit. It would be a visit where I could stay for as much or as little as I wanted without having to worry about being late or having a certain number of hours ahead of me before I could leave.

So knowing that I will never again be a barista, and will be able to enjoy what has now become a foreign concept to me – free time - is a blissful feeling. It’s something that can be filled with painting or knitting classes, another basketball team, walks in the park with Chloe, or simply enjoying a glass of wine at home in front of the TV.

Who needs a vacation when I have the simple pleasure of FREE TIME!

Why do the laundry every week when you have more than enough to last a month?

"That's something you can't get me enough of... yep, either black, gray, or navy blue," I overhear Brent say to his mother over the phone.

"I know you did not just ask your mother to get you more dress socks for Christmas," I say, as I poke my head around the bedroom door to glare at my husband sitting on the couch.


His impish smile in response told me that's exactly what he asked her to buy for him.


So, to prove my point (because I AM RIGHT... in this case anyway) I yank out the giant drawer we reserve for our socks and pull out all the black, gray, and navy blue socks that are sitting one right on top of another on the right side of the drawer and lay them out on the bed. They stretch from one end to another and there are 32 - that's right, THIRTY TWO - pairs of work socks. And this is BEFORE I've done the laundry for the week.


After hearing my dear husband hang up the phone, I call him into the bedroom and point at the ridiculous amount of socks sitting on the bed while giving him THE LOOK.


To men, clothes should be worn until they can't physically be worn anymore; meaning until they disintegrate in the washing machine. It amazes me that men can ignore the brown, deoderant-crusted pit stains or huge rips in their beloved boxers or T-shirts. This is why my husband has the larger side of the closet. (Not that I mind so much... it means I get the larger side of the shoe rack.


"Still think you need more dress socks?" I ask as he's picking through the pile muttering, "Didn't know I had this one... didn't know I had THIS one... thought I lost THIS pair in high school..."


"Honey, just because you can't SEE all THIRTY TWO pairs of socks piled deep into the drawer doesn't mean they aren't occupying a ridiculous amount of space in there. Now, why don't you call your mom back and tell her 'nevermind.'"


"No."



When pure logic fails, what else is there to say?

We are the champions, my friends!

I've been playing basketball with the same team (with slightly different teammates) in an after-work charity-focused basketball league for more than a year. Though a few teammates have come and gone, I refuse to consider the thought of ever playing with any other five people (who've been on my team - Hoop Doggy Dogs - for the past few seasons). Albert, Beth, In-Ho, Matt, and Rob are, to put it mildly, ridiculously awesome people whom I've grown to absolutely adore.

To start, they share one of my great passions: basketball. I know I'll see them all at least once a week for games, and I live for that day - not only because I get to play basketball, but because I get to hang out with these five people. But because we jive so well, we will not only hang out at the bar after (and sometimes before!) every game, but we usually hang out once or twice a week on top of that.

During many of our hangouts, we've talked about how awesome it would be to (finally) win the final game and be the league champions.

The camaraderie may have played a part last night, but I'd like to think that our victory was wholly due to our top-notch athleticism.

We won the league championship!

Woo-hoo!

OK, so technically we won because in the championship game, the other team had to forfeit, but still, we DID win!

Let me back up and explain that we were in the top 4 teams out of 10 in our division, which put us in the semi-finals. After two hard-fought battles in a best-of-three elimination round - in which I feel I played rather well - we beat the other team in the semi-finals and had a chance to rest awhile before the championship round.

We took this golden opportunity to - what else? - each dig into our bags for our deodorants and simultaneously freshen ourselves up before the big game while laughing that we all had the same idea at the same time.

We won the first game against the purple team pretty easily. I again was playing rather well in part, I'm sure, because when I was on offense, my counterpart on defense was a maybe-5-foot-tall girl with one move (fake left and drive right).

We were well on our way toward winning the second and final game when I got slimed. And by that I mean I helped guard the big guy on the purple team and his wet, sweaty, slimy arm rubbed right up against me. Y-UUUU-CK!!! Dealing with sweaty guys is definitely not a highlight in this league.

But I put that past me and our team was up by 10 with just two minutes to go. Victory seemed inevitable, but then a collision caused a guy on the other team to go down to the floor with his hand over his eye. After he removed his hand so we could see if he was OK, I wish I had looked away before he did. All I saw was blood coming from a slice that started in his eye and went above his eyebrow.

The refs immediately told him that they wanted him to go to the hospital and his teammates of course wanted to go with him. We helped his teammates pack up all their stuff and then were left by ourselves on the court still in the midst of the game with no team to play. The ref came up to us, shrugged his shoulders, and said, "Well... you guys win."

We all looked at each other and were like, "Yay... I guess." Yet we still went to our favorite bar, Mad River Bar & Grill as planned and sat at our usual table between the kitchen and the fireplace in virtual silence.

"What's up with you guys?" asked our favorite (and hot!) bartender, Patrick, at our gloomy demeanor as he brought us our usual two big pitchers of water.

"Well," I replied. "We just won the league championship."

"What? You don't look like it," he replied. After telling him the unfortunate story, he replied with pretty much what we were feeling: "Wow. That sucks."

After a couple of (pitchers of) beer, we started cheering up and timidly celebrating our victory.

"Hey, a win is a win," In-Ho reminded us. While it's a bit tainted, well, we did win, which means the charity of our choice gets a portion of the proceeds. That's awesome.

And what other charity would a basketball team with a name like Hoop Doggy Dog choose? Why, Mighty Mutts, of course!

Regardless of why or how we won, we'll be helping some of the stray pups of NYC. Now that's something to celebrate!

"No One Mourns The Wicked"; I only mourned when it was over

I got tickets for something SO AWESOME that it alone is what caused Brent to come out of retirement.

I'm sure it had NOTHING to do with the fact that we were going to attend the show with his B-school friend and his friend's wife OR that the event was going to be preceded with a dinner at one of our favorite NYC restaurants OR that the evening was going to end at one of our favorite bars.

But let's be honest - who cares what the reason is that caused Brent to be OK with spending an ungodly amount of money on Broadway tickets for the two of us and our couple friend because...

I FINALLY GOT TO SEE WICKED!!!!!

And. It. Was. A!M!A!Z!I!N!G!

I have wanted to see this Broadway show since the first day I stepped foot in New York City. Not a single person whom I've talked to about it had anything less than awesome things to say about it, save the price of the tickets, which are never at the discounted theater tickets booths (and why should they be if people are willing to pay *gulp* full price for them?).

So not surprisingly, I was thrilled when Brent's buddy called to tell him that he and his wife were going to be in town and that she wanted to see the show, and would we like to go with them?

HELL YEAH!

I even volunteered to get the tickets (this way Brent couldn't weasel out of going - I thought of everything). Since there were terrible seats when I browsed around on Ticketmaster, I not-so-reluctantly decided to actually go to the theater to see if I could get anything better. I'm a bit ashamed to admit that I couldn't hide my giddiness when standing just in the lobby of the Gershwin Theater. Yeah, there might be no place like home, but leave me in that theater any day!

Fate must have seen how excited I was because when I asked the ticket guy what he had available for the date our friends were going to be in town, I had to ask him to repeat what he said.

"I got four tickets in Row B. You want 'em?" he said again.

"Row B where?" I asked, thinking it was in the balcony while trying not to let myself hope that it was right behind the Row A that is directly in front of the stage.

"Right here," he said, pointing at the Row B on the orchestra level. As in the one DIRECTLY IN FRONT OF THE STAGE (albeit on the right side of the stage, and not in the center, but WHO CARES?)

"Yes. I will take them," I said, grinning and already dialing Brent to tell him to call his friend Brian and have him pass along the good news to his wife, Elizabeth.

The hardest part after that glorious moment was waiting - but it gave me something to look forward to for three weeks.

After yet another fantastic dinner at one of our neighborhood Italian restaurants, Bocca di Bacco, which is, apparently, a favorite of Bono's, we cut it a bit close and rushed into the theater moments before the lights dimmed and I sat through what would turn out the be the best three hours E.V.E.R.

For those of you who have yet to see the show - and don't worry, I wouldn't dream of ruining it for you - it's told from the perspective of the witches of Oz before Dorothy's arrival from Kansas, and it includes many well-known scenes and dialogue ("there's no place like home," anyone?) from The Wizard of Oz. I loved "discovering" how the scarecrow and tin man came to be, how Galinda became Glinda, etc.

My only complaint? That it was tainted only by my husband reminding me of when the show would be over: "That's song number 10," he'd whisper in the middle of the crescendo of a song on a CD I'd soon be buying, causing me to not-so-successfully SHHHHHHH!!! him. "That means there are only seven more left." Etc.

But I expect it from him. Apparently I do the same thing in the middle of, say, the Super Bowl: "It's third down with 10 seconds left. There's probably only time for one play before halftime and we can talk again!" Etc.

Needless to say, I will be going back to see this musical anytime anyone wants to go see it - and even if no one else wants to go see it. It definitely didn't disappoint.

And apparently the show isn't too "girly," as proven to Brent when we emerged from the theater the same time as Brook Lopez, the center for the New Jersey Nets. (I'll regretfully admit that he was with two tween-ish girls, most likely his daughters). But nonetheless - Brent's perspective: If it's good enough for a professional athlete, I guess it's not all that bad. My perspective: Sigh.

Afterward - only because our favorite neighborhood bar, Valhallah, was packed - we capped off the evening with beer at the nearby Coppersmiths - a bar that I have yet to leave sober. This night was no exception. I love New York!

Didn't I go through enough six months ago?

Though it had been nearly 45 minutes of waiting at the doctor's office until I was actual lying on the exam table, I felt like I had been holding my breath the entire time while admittedly negative thoughts kept swirling around in my mind.

Did it get bigger?
Has it become malignant?
What if things aren't OK this time?

I was, of course, thinking the worst about the lump I found in my breast back in May, which I now know is a tumor. It turned out to be a benign tumor, but it's a tumor nonetheless. After a biopsy and a horrific several-days wait to find out that it's benign six months ago, here I am again revisiting this small, but still scary, mass that has somehow formed on the side of my breast under my armpit and the doctors can't tell me why. All they know is that it should be monitored twice a year to make sure nothing has changed.

While the technician gave me yet another breast ultrasound, I actually did hold my breath while gently tugging at my hair to hold back the tears because I was absolutely terrified that things might not work out so well this time. Luckily, that was not the case. The lump has changed neither changed in size nor location, and is not bothering me. So I'm fine for now, thank God. Hopefully the news is just as good in six months.

Not so relaxing, but oh so much fun!

Other than some errands, Brent and I don't do much on weekends out of the apartment. We're pretty much just content on being together watching a movie or playing a game or reading (separately, of course. You aren't going to catch me reading "The Accidental Investment Banker" or "The Wolf Of Wall Street.")

But every once in awhile, our weekend is jam packed with fun activities. This weekend was one such weekend, as we had my in-laws in town.

I entertained them on Friday night while Brent was at work, then we met him at his office so his parents could see where he works and grabbed some pizza at a nearby restaurant.

Saturday was one of those days where we didn't stop moving even for a second. I finally got to eat at Peanut Butter & Co.; the most famous peanut butter restaurant in New York, and we each ordered a different peanut butter sandwich so we could try a bunch (the Elvis and Peanut Butter BLT, to name a few.)

Afterward, Brent went to the office (sigh) and I hung out with his parents as we walked all over lower Manhattan Christmas shopping. Needless to say, when we got back, we were totally exhausted, so the following evening, we decided to stay in and play games (most are way more fun with more than 2 people) and order Pinkberry, of course. No visit to New York is complete without Pinkberry, especially now that they have Pomegranate flavor. I don't usually need an excuse to go to Pinkberry, but as far as excuses go, guests are the best one!

"I didn't do it, mom... I'm innocent!"

Yeah, sure you didn't just rip up your favorite toy to shreads. But who can stay mad at that face?

Not willing to decide if he's guilty beyond a reasonable doubt

I've been registered to vote ever since I was 18 (although my votes in the 2000 and the 2004 elections didn't help my presidential candidate win at all).

And ever since then, I've been secretly hoping to be chosen for jury duty.

I've always had a fascination with the legal system, and even tossed around the idea of possibly becoming a lawyer ever since I elected to appear in front of a judge to dispute a speeding ticket, lack of auto insurance, and failure to wear a seat belt stemming from an incident in which I was pulled over by a police officer when I was 17 years old. (I won the latter two charges using the officers' testimony against him... plus proof that I actually did have auto insurance. Erika: 2; Officer: 1.)

So imagine my surprise at never being called for jury duty when I lived in a city of 300,000 for nearly 4 years, but being called to serve as a juror not even two years after moving to a city of 8 million.

But I was actually excited to take the day off of work (even though it didn't really look good at already needing a day off after not even being at my current job for two months yet) and check out the big, six-column judicial building adjacent to (weirdly enough) Chinatown.

As I mentioned before, I've been in court before. Not counting all the times I was there as a spectator while a reporter at The Blade, I've been involved in courtroom proceedings just twice. The first time was to dispute the speeding ticket and other charges, and the second time was two years later while testifying against a man who robbed me outside my then-boyfriend's apartment building.

Both of the times I was involved in court proceedings, I expected to be questioned, and - although terrifying in the latter case, as I was mere feet away from the man who robbed me, and my testimony ultimately sent him to jail for five years - was somewhat prepared for it.

Nothing, however, prepared me for the proverbial bright light I sat under while being grilled as a potential juror. They wanted to know my full name, where I lived in the city, how long I'd lived there, where I lived before moving to the city, what I did for a living, if I was married or had children, what my husband did for a living, my religious views, the types of shows I watched on TV (seriously), whether I'd been the victim of a crime, if I personally knew anyone in law enforcement, and whether I'd served on a jury before.

And I was answering those questions mere feet away from a man accused of first-degree murder.

Talk about nerve-wracking.

I was one of 80 potential jurors whose name was chosen lottery-style out of a group of 160 to be questioned for this case, which the judge said one the actual trial began, would most likely be over in about three weeks. Luckily, I was in the second group of jurors to be questioned, so I had two hours' worth of time - plus an hour lunch break - to think about how I would answer all of the lawyers' questions. Don't get me wrong - I was going to answer every single one truthfully, but there were some questions that some jurors were asked that made me think twice about what I would say if I were asked the same one. Like what would I say if one of the lawyers asked me if I could set aside my feelings for someone accused of wrongdoing having been the victim of a crime myself when I was just a teenager? (My answer? I honestly don't know. And I said as much to the lawyer who asked me that who thanked me for my honesty, as they did for everyone who found it difficult to admit situations in their past that might affect the way they'd view the case.)

Though I was uncomfortable answering these questions, I felt worse for the people who had children who had to disclose their ages and area of the city in which they attended school. Not only was this in front of the man on trial, but this was also in front of three of his friends/family members, who sat whispering in the last row of the courtroom. (Before I was called to sit in the jury box for questioning, I was sitting directly in front of them and heard everything they had to say about the potential jurors who were questioned before me. It was mostly about whether they thought each person would get him off the hook or not.)

Also, some people were victims of a crime, like domestic violence or rape, and had to admit that in front of a courtroom of strangers. Though I was visibly nervous - and my shaky voice into the microphone no doubt gave that away - I was lucky that most of my answers turned out to be relatively straightforward. Except when I started rattling off my jobs and work schedule and the judge had to interrupt me saying I was a coffee shop supervisor, an editor at a magazine, and a freelance writer to say, "Wait, wait a minute. You have THREE jobs?" to which my reply was a shrug and a lame, "Manhattan's expensive."


After my questioning was over, and I was half-listening to the other jurors give the answers to the questions I'd spent more than four hours hearing answers to, I found myself more fervently silently wishing over and over that my name not be called to serve - not because I wasn't willing to fulfill my call to duty nor because it would last an exhausting three weeks, but because I found myself simply not willing to hold the future of another human being's life in my hand on the basis of one or two words: guilty or not guilty. I may have been uneasy answering some of those tough questions, but my unease was heightened tenfold when it became closer and closer to the moment where I would hear whether or not I'd be one of 12 who could potentially ruin this young man's life (he looked to be about 20 years old) by putting him behind bars for God knows how long.


And I'm not God. And I wasn't there on Broadway Street when another young man was gunned down by the person who may or may not have been sitting right in front of my face. The lawyers could have shown me the gun, the fingerprints, blood spatter, and other evidence, but would I REALLY have known whether this man did it beyond reasonable doubt? It's a responsibility - a control - I was absolutely not willing to be forced to hold.

So needless to say, I was more than a little relieved when my name was not called to serve as a juror - a relief that was short-lived when shortly thereafter, I was told I would have to return to the courtroom to serve again the very next day. Thankfully, due to a lack of cases requiring jurors, I was quickly dismissed with a piece of paper stating that I had fulfilled my duty for at least eight years.

Eight blissful years. Jury duty may have seemed glamorous, but now that I've gone through it, the responsibility is anything but alluring.

I get it - he's a weiner dog dressed up like a hot dog. How original.

If ever there was a day that I was cursing myself for leaving my camera - and my camera phone - at home, it was the day that I randomly stumbled upon a Halloween parade... for dogs.

Yes, people still dress up their dogs and yes, the people who attended the Upper West Side Dog Halloween Party at the 72nd Street dog run were no exception.

From Great Danes to Chihuahuas, I saw bumblebees, rock stars, ballerinas, sports fans, and dogs dressed up as I don't even know what.

And they were all HILARIOUS.

All these poor pups wanted to do was play fetch and gallivant around with the other dogs, and all their crazy owners wanted to do was make sure they STAY! and SIT! so as not to mess up their costumes.

I had intended to go on a walk with Chloe and my friend Amanda, who was getting off work right as I was passing by and decided to join me, but we couldn't pass up the opportunity to sit on a bench right beside the spot where all the (at least 50) dressed-up dogs were going to pass by parade-style while being judged in several categories, including "best costume" and "most original costume."

Although they were all pretty cute in a pathetic kind of way, Amanda and I had no problems picking out our favorites. She chose a gray Scottish terrier wearing a police cap whose head was sticking up through a hole in a box painted to look like a police car, and who was accompanied by about a 10-year-old boy.

I chose a tiny Chihuahua with a simple costume. He was wearing a tiny red saddle complete with a tiny jockey in a matching uniform who would bounce up and down to the gait of the pup while he ran. Adorable!

Both of our pups ended up winning in one category or another, but who cares - everyone loved just being there. Stumbling upon events like this is yet another reason to make me love NYC!

Not so metaphorically throwing crap in your face

It's no secret that I'm counting down the days until I can quit this job at the coffee shop. Some days are better than others. Yesterday was not one of those days.

It was one of those days where I screwed up every drink, got frustrated with the customers who hemmed and hawed over the menu when it was their turn to order, dealt with several insubordinate employees, and was just in an all-around pissy mood.

And everything just came to a head when I handed out a grande mocha frappuccino to a customer who looked at it without missing a beat and said, "I asked for no whip."

"Do you mind if I just scoop it off?" I asked her as politely as I could without moving my clenched teeth.

Though she didn't answer, her expression was enough for me to know that was absolutely NOT OK.

"Fine," I said as politely as I could while displaying my frustration the only way I could while at work - by chucking the entire drink in the garbage can as hard as I could.

Unfortunately, I wasn't actually LOOKING at the garbage can while hurling the drink to my right, and though it fell inside the can, I banked the shot.

That means that when the cup crashed into the inside wall of the garbage can, all its contents splattered outside of the can... and landed all over the counter, the register screen, and on a 20-something blond woman carrying a Coco Chanel purse and wearing a stark white jacket.

My mouth dropped open the same time as hers, and we both stood there for several seconds not quite comprehending what just happened. Then it hit me - I essentially (though accidentally) threw a mocha coffee drink all over a customer. It was on her jacket, in her hair, and some of that damned whip cream was even on the side of her face.

"OH. MY. GOD. I. AM. SOOOOOO. SORRY." I repeated over and over while clumsily fumbling around for some paper towels.

She said nothing. She just slowly pivoted and walked straight for the bathroom. I remained standing there not quite believing what had just happened while mentally trying to figure out what to do once I got fired.

After a few minutes, this woman came out of the bathroom, marched right up to me, held up her right hand,and let me have it.

"Are you OK?" she asked, softly.

I'm sorry I must not have heard you right, I thought.

"What?" I said, stupidly.

"Seriously," she said with genuine concern in her eyes. "Are you OK?"

I just threw a drink in your face and YOU'RE asking ME if I'm OK? Something is seriously wrong with this person.

"It... I mean, yeah... not really," I stuttered, dumbfounded. "It's just one of those days, but again, I can't apologize enough. I AM SO SORRY. What can I get for you - whatever you want. And here's a bunch of coupons for more free drinks. I AM SO SORRY," I rambled on and on.

"It's fine," she said. "I just want to make sure you're OK."

"Yeah... It's just... you know," I said, not quite knowing WHAT the heck to say to this obviously crazy person. I mean, if a coffee shop employee threw a drink all over me, I'd have a whole hell of a lot more to say than a very nice, "Are you OK?"

After I was done making her vanilla skim latte, all the while apologizing over and over, I handed it to her, apologized again as if that would make it all better, and she smiled at me and said, "You're just lucky it was me because I'm chill. Don't worry about it. Take care, OK?"

Every sentence she said to me contained two letters that formed one word. An O and a K. OK. It's amazing how a single two-lettered word coming from a genuinely nice person can totally change your outlook on life. I've never seen that girl before and probably wouldn't have looked at her twice while she was ordering unless it was in annoyance, but am so blessed that I was able to see just the kind of amazing person she is - however crappy the situation had to become for me to see it.

Man, I hope that one day my outlook on life can become even remotely as positive and upbeat as hers. Sure stuff happens - sometimes crap gets thrown in your face. But the true testament of who you are comes from how you deal with those types of situations. You can let it get you down, or you can rise above the situation. And rise above is exactly what she did.

I've got miles to go to take the negative situations with the class and grace that she did, and am still astonished that she was able to turn them into something so positive. You go, girl.

Precisely why I bargain-shop

Living in New York City, I'm surrounded by all things high-end.

I live just a few blocks away from 5th Avenue, home to places like Tiffany's, Saks and purses in glass cases with price tags that cost more than my annual paycheck.

I live around the corner from Trump Tower International Hotel and the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, which overlook Central Park and have room rates that start at $695 per night (a one-bedroom Premier Park Suite that has access to the Club Lounge at the Ritz goes for $2,750 a night).

I'm surrounded by beautiful people who don't even go grocery shopping on a Sunday morning without full makeup, brand-name clothes, high heels, and armpit dogs.

And although my shopping habits haven't changed (I've always been a conservative sale-seeker), it's nearly impossible to spend the typical amounts I had been spending on shopping trips in Toledo. Sure, there's still Forever 21 and Old Navy, but there's also Bloomingdale's and Bergdorf Goodman.

My latest splurge (and trust me, they've been very few and far between) has been a pair of beige UGG boots. (I know, I know - totally cliche, but they're oh so warm and comfy!) Before taking this plunge, I had worn a hole into a pair of knock-offs, so at the urging of my husband, (What's wrong with him? When has any husband ever urged his wife to buy an expensive pair of shoes?!?! Proof that it's seriously rare that I splurge on anything! Plus, it was considered my Christmas gift, which let him off the hook to go shop for me.) I reluctantly handed over my American Express at the UGG store, even though the decimal point on the register came after three digits.

That was about a month ago, and I absolutely LOVE these boots. I wear them to work every day, except for when there's inclement weather or the threat of inclement weather (even though I should be wearing comfy boots WHEN there's inclement weather). This is important because I haven't even had time to truly break them in yet, and now they're ruined. That is, unless, I would prefer my beige boots have bright pink nail polish streaks all over them. Which I don't.

The pink nail polish was being stored in the freezer at my work because apparently it keeps longer, and when I opened the freezer to get out some bread, it fell and shattered on the linoleum and all over my boots.

Even though I immediately tackled the stains with a wet paper towel, it did nothing. Even though I was pissed, I was more upset at myself that I didn't just go with another pair of cheap knock-offs. That way I would have more of a "oh, well, it happens" kind of attitude instead of a WHAT WAS I THINKING TO SPEND SO MUCH MONEY ON A SINGLE PAIR OF SHOES?!?!

Yet, there's hope on the horizon. Even though I got turned down by six different dry cleaners, who said they could not be cleaned, our intern and another colleague know places that specializes in cleaning UGG boots, and American Express has a Purchase Protection Plan that will reimburse customers for items that have gotten stolen or damaged within 90 days of purchase. I'll be pursuing both of these options and see what I can do to fix them. Stay tuned for the results of this.

But I've learned my lesson the hard way. Besides being expensive, high-end items simply aren't worth it. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to Old Navy.

Yes, I absolutely would LOVE some cheese with that wine.

My very first sip of alcohol was a dry Merlot at dinner with my now-husband on my 21st birthday. (Such a good girl in high school and college!) Since then, I often enjoy a nice glass of wine - either white, rose, or red; I love them all for different reasons - at happy hour, while I'm cooking, or when I'm out with the girls.

And I haven't been out with the girls in a long time, as I'm most often going out in mixed company where the beer pitchers appear out of nowhere or being the only girl among the beer-loving guys on my basketball team.

So it was a refreshing change to go out with three girls I met through NYU's publishing program; one from Washington who was staying with me while apartment-hunting, another who decided to get her M.S. in publishing at NYU, and a third who's a talented copy editor whom I leaned on quite a bit while revising my resume.

Though we waited nearly an hour for a table at Casellula Cheese & Wine Cafe, their cheese menu alone was totally worth it. Truly nothing pairs better with wine than ridiculously overpriced cheeses. Dani, Danielle, Cat, and I not only enjoyed sampling a few that were served warm, but very much enjoyed the aroma wafting from the cheese case directly adjacent to our table. Yum!

And of course nothing washes down cheese and wine quite like Cold Stone ice cream.

Gotta have more of these ladies' nights!

A beautiful meal and beautiful women. What more could a man want?

One of the huge perks of working at a food magazine is, well, the food. My job revolves around food; and not just any food, but good, gourmet food. My waistline may soon be suffering, but right now, my taste buds are saying Mmm, Mmm Good!

We're constantly getting samples of great stuff sent to our offices. (By the way, the single most common food sent to our office - barbecue sauce. Soooooo many people have their own barbecue labels. And here I am having grown up with Kraft in our refrigerator!) We also get invited to a food-related event at least a few times a week. And if there ever is a place to have scores of opportunities to taste great food, New York City ranks right up there!

Speaking of scores... that's where I just came from. Yep, THE Scores... as in the legendary gentleman's club. Before my visit, I asked Brent what to expect.

"Barbie dolls," he says.

Now you may be asking yourself what in the world does a strip club have to do with food? Well, because men also like to eat, Scores just recently re-opened Robert's Restaurant, which is located adjacent to the main stage. And we were there to scope out the menu and try the food.

I accompanied the editorial director to the restaurant, and after our water glasses were filled from a tiger-shaped pitcher, we started with an amazing appetizer of heirloom tomatoes and mozzarella cheese with Merlot, and later chatted with the head chef as we enjoyed the Moroccan lamb, New York Strip steak, everything fries, beer-battered onion rings, and saved (a little bit) of room for grandma's rice pudding. It was a beautiful meal. Oh, and did I mention that we were surrounded by beautiful women? What more could we want? Maybe to be a guy...

Haven't found "my" place yet, but am sure enjoying the hunt!

I love New York's versatility. If a friend and I are meeting up for happy hour in virtually any area of Manhattan, we have our choice of anything from a dark hole in the wall to such a swanky joint that we could probably only justify buying a single drink - and splitting it. Thank goodness for happy hour prices!

With all the options out there, it's easy to pick a bar that you're completely comfortable with; one that's "you." I love that one of my girlfriends chose to have her birthday party at Madame X, which totally fits her sexy personality, and enjoy tipping back beers with my brewsky-loving guy pals at Valhalla, which boasts 33 beers from around the world on tap.

Though I have yet to find "my" place (although Lincoln Park, the bar I live above, fit pretty well until its renovation project has kept it closed since this summer) I am thoroughly enjoying trying out new places on my quest!

It's so hard being a dog - sleeping all night and day

One of the reasons why I don't have kids right now is because I'm having way too much fun in New York. There's always a party to attend, a new restaurant to try, or a new adventure to go on.

Unfortunately, that fun affects the quasi-child that I have right now-my dog Chloe.

She's already alone for the entire workday (for me, that means until 6:30 p.m., for Brent that means until 10 p.m.) and there are many days in which I come home with enough time to change, take her outside to pee, and then leave her again. Poor baby.

So, I make it a point to take her wherever I can. If I want to meet up with a friend, I'll suggest a walk in Central Park so I can catch up with my friend while strolling around on a nice day or relaxing on a park bench and Chloe can keep an eagle-eye on the squirrels (the one she's not letting out of her sight at in the photo is up in a tree).

And because I live in New York, Chloe can go almost anywhere with me that doesn't serve or sell food. That means no restaurants (unless we sit outside, in which case dogs are allowed at many establishments) or grocery stores, but everything else is fair game. She most often accompanies me to Bed, Bath & Beyond, Best Buy, the bank, through the mall, and the liquor store. (Before we knew how dog-friendly New York is, a giant Great Dane scared the crap outta Brent as he was browsing through the racks at J Crew. Shirt, sweater, jeans, GIANT DROOLING DOG! Ha, ha!)

And since none of my friends have dogs (save the dog-sized cat that belongs to my college buddy, Ryan) they often ask me to bring her along when we're hanging out. So I took her down the street to my friend Janine's apartment to watch the Dolphins (Ryan's team) and Jets (Janine's team) battle it out during Monday night football, although the friendly banter between Ryan and Janine was much more fun to watch than the game. We ate pizza, fed Chloe probably two slices of pizza one morsel at a time, drank beer, and took turns petting the pup. (My dog knows how to get what she wants. The second someone stopped petting her, she simply walked a step or two to the nearest person who took their turn petting her, which went on and on until she started the round all over again.)

Come to think of it, it's not that bad of a life. Sleeping all day followed by Bed, Bath & Beyond, pizza, beer, and then bed. Sure beats work.

You're wearing scarlet and gray HERE? You're totally just asking for it.

Even though I grew up right near the Michigan/Ohio border, there's really no in-between. You're either a Michigan Wolverine or an Ohio State Buckeye. But because I spent most of my life living in Lambertville, Michigan, I've always cheered for the ferocious Wolverine over the state tree of Ohio. Obviously.

What wasn't so obvious until living in New York for awhile, though, is just how many other Wolverine fans also live here. It's not uncommon to see the block M on hats and coats of passers-by, and I've seen the maize and blue represented much more frequently than I've seen the scarlet and red O. This was no more evident than spending one Saturday afternoon at Professor Thoms in the East Village when the Wolverines (cough, lost, cough) to the Michigan State Spartans.

Standing (because there was no room to sit, much less have a personal space bubble) in the bar during that game was like standing in the student section in the Big House during the Ohio State/Michigan game. The energy was electric, and the cheering coming from both stories of the bar was, literally, deafening.

And even though the Wolverines weren't playing the Buckeyes, there was still a whole lot of animosity directed my because the guy Brent and I were meeting to catch up and have a few beers with was wearing an Ohio State shirt. Seriously. (Thanks, Jake.) Though I will say he took the jeering with good nature - as well as a tiny tree in the middle of a hungry pack of ferocious animals could do. Yeah.

And it was bright orange. Awesome.

One of my biggest pet peeves at the coffee shop (although I must admit I'm a complete hypocrite, although I will at least apologize when I do it to someone else) is when I have to "interrupt" customers' cell phone conversations to ask them what they would like to order.

I've gotten around this by blatantly skipping the people who are on their cell phones and asking the people behind them what they would like. This gets them off the phone R-E-A-L quick.

Cell phones are annoying, yet essential and nothing new. In fact, I was in a cab today and saw headline roll by that said "New Yorkers say they like sex a little more than they like their phones." In my mind, I disagreed with that statement just a bit. Sadly, my cell phone is my lifeline at times and I actually, ashamedly, sleep right next to it at night.

But what IS new is cell phones that look like landlines.

I wasn't quick enough to get a photo, but on the street today, I passed by a guy who was talking on a bright orange telephone receiver that reminded me of the one attached to my grandma's rotary phone. (Side note: While writing this blog post, I just yelled to my husband, "what's that phone called that has a dial on it that you put your finger in and turned?" Because he didn't know, I found the term - rotary phone - because I Googled "old phone." HAHA!)

And he wasn't a crazy person with an old rotary phone receiver. It was PLUGGED INTO HIS CELL PHONE so he appeared as if he were talking on a land line (pretty soon people will be Googling that phrase) while walking down the street. Click here to see what I'm talking about.

And at "only" $45, who doesn't want to enjoy this blast from the past?

Not the kind of pot you'd put a roast in

I've always been the good girl. I've always brought home good grades, didn't take my first sip of alcohol until my 21st birthday, and have never dreamed of trying illegal drugs.

And although I was aware that some of my friends in college occasionally smoked pot, it was rare and never when I was around. Even if I would have wanted to dabble in something like that - which I still don't - I wouldn't really even know who to ask or what exactly to ask for.

Here in New York, I feel it would be a heck of a lot easier to get my hands on drugs. In fact, I had some in my hands earlier today. While I was going on my normal sweep of the coffee shop in the middle of a bustling day, I picked up a dime bag of weed sitting in the middle of the floor.

One of my colleagues saw me pick it up and was quick to snatch it out of my hand, open it, sniff it, and proclaim it "good sh*t." I was even quicker to snatch it back, chastise him, and flush it down the toilet. Call me whatever you want for that move.

But that's not the first time I've been around the stuff. The unmistakable smell comes billowing from an apartment all the way down the hall at my apartment shared by two guys at least a few times a month.

And as the girls in my book club and I were discussing "The Help" by Kathryn Stockett on the roof of a high-rise in the financial district, we were distracted by the smell coming from a young couple lounging nearby on lawn chairs.

I've been behind an intimidating guy holding an umbrella in one hand and a joint in the other, and was even witness to a young, shaggy-haired guy handing his roach to a homeless guy smiling from ear to ear at his good fortune.

I guess it's still kind of shocking how easy this stuff is to come by - even when you're not looking. While none of this makes me want to experiment, it sure would be a hell of a lot easier if I did.

From grocery store macaroni and cheese to gourmet sushi rolls topped with caviar

The closest I ever got to eating seafood as a child was canned tuna and fish sticks (thanks mom).


And since it's much harder to learn to love a specific food as an adult than it is a child, I never really began eating fish or lobster or crab. When I first started dating my husband, I could always tell when he recently cooked salmon because his place reeked, and I'd gag on the stench alone.


So needless to say, I was not thrilled that I was going to be accompanying my new boss at the food magazine to a new Japanese restaurant opening on the upper west side. It promised to be seafood course after seafood course - 12 courses to be exact.

I could handle part of the first course - sake and cucumber strips! - but I knew I was in trouble when the waitress put crab salad under my nose. Soon thereafter, my boss began chastising me for picking around the orange parts.

And it only got harder from there for me, although any seafood lover would have l-o-v-e-d to trade places with me. There was tuna tar tar over guacamole; handmade rolls made with eel, crab, lobster, shrimp, and a variety of fish topped with caviar; and, thankfully so I didn't go hungry: skirt steak with a sweet teriyaki sauce. Every single plate was amazingly beautiful, yet that didn't make up for the fact that it was beautiful... seafood.

I will say this for myself: I tried everything. I didn't like much, but I tried everything, which is something I always try to do not just with food, but in life in general.

When I used to babysit these adorable girls while in college, I tried to instill this trait into the 3-, 6-, and 8-year-olds, especially when it came to food. They would generally wrinkle up their noses when I suggested they try something new, and I always brought the conversation back to their favorite food: macaroni and cheese. I used to ask them how they'd feel if they'd never tried macaroni and cheese for the first time, and tried to point out what they'd be missing. It used to make them think, but they would usually just then ask me to make them macaroni and cheese instead of eating whatever it was I had made them to eat.

Though I guess the kids had a point. It was around the 9th or 10th plate of seafood put in front of me that I thought "enough is enough. I'm totally done with this because it's all tasting the same - like fish." I apparently just don't like it. Maybe it's an acquired taste, but I haven't yet acquired that particular taste yet.

I totally would have rather been at Puttanesca, the Italian restaurant across the street from my apartment to order my usual: the four-cheese, gourmet macaroni and cheese. Yum-my!

Relying on the kindness of strangers

As she walks down the sidewalk, her face is always tilted up toward the sun and her head sways back and forth to a tune that only she can hear. She walks slower than most people in New York City, as many people often put their heads down as they pass by her on both sides while listening to the tunes blasting from their ipods.


My commute to work is 16 blocks uptown from 56th Street to 72nd Street. I pass her nearly every weekday at different points in our collective commutes, depending on how early or late we're both running to get to our destinations. I've seen this woman with the short salt-and-pepper-hair as north as 72nd Street, and as south as 65th Street.


Cindy - which is what I call her, as she's told me that she's not allowed to give out her name for security reasons - is generally hard to miss, as she's usually carrying a large backpack and lunchbox over the shoulders of her bright red jacket. Yet, she's never without her red and white walking stick because her commute takes her several blocks downtown, and one block west of 9th Avenue to Central Park West, which is where the school for the blind is located. Every day, Cindy walks at least eight blocks to school across at least eight cross streets.


This is significant because Cindy doesn't have a seeing-eye dog or someone who walks her to school every day. That means that every single day, at least eight times a day, Cindy relies on the kindness of strangers to help her cross each street on the way to school. And, man. Does. That. Take. Courage.


The sounds of New York City can be terrifying. You can't piss off a cab driver more than by thinking that you can make it across the street before they get to the intersection, even though they have the green light. And they'll let you know just how mad they are with a loud, long horn honk as they whiz by you at speeds that should be illegal in large, pedestrian-heavy cities. People are always talking on their cell phones in their own little worlds as they knock into one another like bumper cars on the way to their individual destinations.


Since she can't see the white "walk" signals, Cindy steadily makes her way down each block and stops only when she feels her walking stick skid across the bumps in the sidewalk at each curb that are designed to help people in wheelchairs stop. It's here that she raises her left hand and repeats, "Can somebody help me? Can somebody please help me?" until someone stops.


She then asks to hold the individual's right elbow with her left hand as she navigates across the street with the walking stick, and is always happy to make small talk about the upcoming holiday or the weather. When she feels the familiar bumps that signify that she's made it to the opposite curb, she always yells back a cheery, "Have a nice day" or "have a happy holiday" at the good Samaritan who was kind enough to stop and help her across the street.


While I have seen some people walk right by Cindy as she's asking for help - as New Yorkers are often in their own little worlds or in too much of a rush to lend a helping hand - more often than not, the first person who gets to her as she stops at the curb is the one who ends up helping her safely cross the street.


And I am ashamed to say that I was once one of those New Yorkers - in too much of a rush to stop and help. As I glanced over my shoulder to make sure someone else stopped to help her, I felt an intense shame that I couldn't shake until I saw her again and got to make it up to her; even if she didn't know I felt I owed her. I mean, how selfish was I that I couldn't take 30 seconds of my time to help someone so courageous do something they need to do - cross the street - but can't safely accomplish without some help.


Although I still regret the decision I made in that moment, I soon after made a decision I know I won't regret: that I would never again pass Cindy - or anyone else who I see in need of some help - without doing what I can to make their day a little easier. Props to every New Yorker who doesn't need to feel guilt over not helping someone because they always do the right thing.

Muffling the bad doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about the good

The hardest thing about living in New York is being away from my family.

And being away from them is even harder during the times that I feel not like I want to be there, but like I need to be there - like on someone's birthday, to celebrate a graduation or other milestone, or when someone is sick or in the hospital.

I know there will be other birthdays and milestones, but it's when someone is sick or hurt that I seriously consider booking plane tickets.

This week, my dad had knee replacement surgery. While I know there can be complications and the unexpected can rear its ugly head, it's not like anyone was anticipating he wouldn't come out of it just fine.

While I knew he would be in good hands, with my mom, brother, and sister in town and available and all, it was the fear of the unexpected that had me questioning whether I was making the right decision by asking my mom to keep calling me with updates instead of being there at the hospital to hear them first hand.

I'm a total "what if?" ridiculous kind of worry-wart, and have been since I was a kid. What if the surgery goes wrong, what if he gets an infection, what if he's not OK, blah, blah, blah. My friends knew something was wrong all day when he was in surgery and my husband knows me well enough to try to alleviate my fears, but since he can't know what would happen, it didn't help.

It turns out that although the surgery went beautifully, the doctors didn't immediately give him a nerve blocker, so according to my mom, he was in an intense amount of pain. Because just hearing about that made me really upset, in a way I was glad I wasn't there to witness it first-hand because seeing my big, strong daddy in pain would be ten times more unsettling. That's not to say that I'm glad I didn't go home - because I wish I had been able to - but living far away really muffles some of the bad because you're not living through it: You're just hearing about it. You're not at the hospital waiting for some news from the doctors, but living your life hundreds of miles away and hearing about how it went later.

Sadly, that's also the same with the good times. You're not living through the games, company, and laughter, but hearing an overview about how much fun it was later from someone else. You're not there for the small details, which I've learned are so important. It's not often that I get to sit down and just talk to my dad, and all the waiting and need for any patient to be distracted would have been the perfect time for that. The phone call later was great because I got to talk to him and hear that he was OK, but it was so much more impersonal than my being able to be there with him holding his hand. But my dad is OK and I thank God for that.

I can see how living so far away could be the easy way out of having to deal with a lot of pain, but that certainly doesn't outweigh settling for just hearing about all of the good.

Celebrity sighting at the U.S. Open (and I'm not talking about the tennis stars)

For the second year in a row, I've gotten Brent and I U.S. Open tickets for his birthday (lucky coincidence that it happens to always occur about a week after his birthday - built-in gift for as long as we're living in New York!)


And for the second year in a row, he was disappointed that Andy Roddick didn't happen to play on the date I got the tickets for. And Brent is a huge Andy Roddick fan.

But nonetheless, we did get to see Venus Williams (we saw little sister Serena play last year) and, for the second consecutive year, Rafael Nadal. Both won in two really good matches.


We also happened to be sitting across the stadium from Will Ferrell and his (really hot) wife. He must have been the most famous celebrity at the stadium that day because the cameras panned on him on more than a few occassions.

The first time, he was sipping a very girly pink mixed drink when the camera caught him and you could just see him trying to think of something funny to do on the spot (he ended up taking a big sip of the drink through the straw and making the satisfied "ahhhh" face afterward.) But I felt bad for the guy - here he is trying to enjoy a tennis match with his wife, and still feels like he has to be "on." I know it comes with the territory of being a celebrity, but still, did they really have to pan over him several more times, then ask him to leave his wife to meet a reporter in another row be interviewed during the Nadal match? It was a bit much.

But if I was pulling in his salary (Forbes magazine reported that along with Tom Cruise, Eddie Murphy, and Drew Barrymore, he's among the most overpaid Hollywood actors, and attracts the lowest return on investment, bringing in just $3.29 for every dollar paid) I guess an unexpected interview or two would be worth it.

Since when does a birth-DAY last an entire week? (And of course I'm not talking about my own.)

I, like all people, have a birthday. That's right. A birth-DAY, meaning the ONE DATE I was born.

On that day, I, like many, get many well-wishes from family and friends and some presents to open as I celebrate turning yet another year older.

My husband, however, has a birthday WEEK.

That's right - seven days of celebration for no reason other than it's something he invented a few years ago to get spoiled for an extra six days.*

And just like the Christmas season, which has been starting earlier and earlier every year, he starts talking about his birthday week in early August. (His birthday week usually starts on the Saturday before his birthday so he can get "two weekends" of pampering.)

So although I don't generally change my normal routine during this invented 7-day occasion, I'll humor him by pointing out the nice things I do for him (which I'd be doing anyway) and telling him that I've done it for his birthday week.

Examples: "Why don't I do the laundry this week so you don't have to on your birthday week?" (The last time Brent did laundry was when I hadn't yet moved to New York.)

"What do you want me to cook for your special birthday week dinner on Saturday?" (I love cooking and do it as often as I can, which is generally just weekends.)

I actually do change my routine on his birthday because I believe everyone should be spoiled on their birthday, and do the same usually the closest Saturday before or after that date, which is when we have the most time together. This year, I made reservations at the Sea Grill at Rockefeller Center. (Note: I don't eat seafood. Wife of the year is in the bag!) I also wore a new dress (LOVE the fact that I get to buy something new and cute and tell my husband it's "for him") and new, red lipstick (that one will take a bit for him to get used to!) and tried my best to make sure he had a great day. That's right - a great DAY!

*So what happened when I tried to invent my own birthday week this past year? Vetoed. How is this fair?

The Right to Bare Breasts

Yet another reason I love being married: Clothing is optional and/or outfit choice - regardless of the fact that I may be (gasp!) wearing plaid with both stripes AND pastels AND socks with sandals - is always accepted.

I admit that I love the fact that I can walk around completely in the buff or bundle myself up in the most ridiculous unattractive and non-matching outfit to keep warm in the winter (which, to my husband's dismay, happens way more often than my walking around in the nude).

While I admit that I sometimes actually go into the outside world in my plaid/striped/pastel/socks-with-sandals outfits to quickly walk the dog while attempting to hide my face in a hoodie so no one will recognize me, I never have attempted to go outside without a shirt.

But apparently I can, and not even the police would have the power to stop me.

As if I needed yet another reason (which I most certainly do not), to love New York: New York is the only state in the country where women can be topless legally, after a 1992 ruling in the state's highest court. That means any woman can walk around the city at any time with no shirt on. Yet another equality finally reached!

While I was fine going topless on our honeymoon in France, thousands of miles away, bearing my breasts a mere two blocks away from my home/workplace where anyone living in my apartment building or anyone who drinks coffee could see me half naked is just a bit disconcerting.

But if I had the guts, I would definitely have joined in National Go Topless Day today (yes, there is such a thing!), held right around the corner in Central Park, in which dozens of topless women gathered and marched in the streets to show they had just as much a right to walk around shirtless as men. (The photo at the top of this webpage definitely makes a fantastic point!)

Even though I didn't have the courage, I totally respect every woman brave enough to bear all in the name of equality.

Do you burp him after you feed him his bottle, too?

Chloe and I go for our morning walk a few minutes after I get up in the morning (I have to wake up somehow, and usually a shot of cold morning air does the trick!) and go for our nighttime walk right before I'm ready to go to bed.

It's our routine, and other New Yorkers with dogs have a similar routine. Lately, Chloe and I have been seeing the same West Highland White Terrier on our morning walks. I notice the dog all the time because it's always wearing a sweater.

Some background: Here in New York, it's weird that my dog goes "naked" for walks. Granted, I understand the need for putting a sweater on your 1.5-ounce dog when you take it for walks in the winter, but does it really need a matching stocking cap and booties? It's a dog, for Christ's sake: it enjoys smelling rotting poop on the sidewalk... or at least my dog enjoys that.

Anyway, I always smile whenever I see the terrier and his elderly owner walking along in the morning because he's usually wearing what looks to be a hand-made sweater. Weird, but kinda cute.

But tonight, as we walked past that same dog and his owner on our nighttime walk, I had to stifle a laugh until I was out of earshot because THE DOG WAS WEARING PAJAMAS. More accurately, he was wearing a child's white onesie with yellow ducks printed all over it. No doubt that it wasn't just because he was going outside. It was because it was nighttime and almost time to go to bed.

Only in New York.

And all it took was a simple complement

Today was a bad day.

Not a single thing was going right at the coffee shop (where I have to still work for a few weeks until I can get my health insurance situation straightened out). People called out, the store was a mess from the night before, our machines were breaking, the customers were being especially and unreasonably demanding, and it wasn't even 8 a.m.

That's when Bill walked in. Bill has been my favorite customer since I really noticed him last Christmas.

Since that day, I've really started to get to know, and like, Bill. He's one of the few customers - which includes Craig, Glenda, Luke, and Alex - who I love to see every time I'm at work because when they're there, it doesn't feel like work anymore.

So when Bill strolled in much earlier than usual on a Saturday, I was happy to see him through all my frustration, and told him I was in much need of a boost of happiness.

"BILL! I need you to tell me good things. Tell me something good - ANYTHING. What's good in your life?" I asked him.

No hesitation, and this is what he says:

"Well, I just woke up and you're pretty much the first person I've seen this morning. And you look beautiful," he says, while uncharacteristically looking me straight in the eye. This time, it was me who had to look away as all my female co-workers chimed in with "Awwwww!"

After a few seconds of shock - including time to think about how I was wearing a dirty apron over an all-black outfit with my hair thrown back in a ponytail and whatever makeup I managed to get on while still half asleep before work - I managed to get out, "Wow. That's pretty damn good Bill."

Somehow my day seemed much better after that.

And all it took was a simple complement.

Complement someone today. You never know how much it may mean to that person.

Halalujha! Halalujha!

Erika

Has

A

Job.

A

Real

Job.

After literally applying for hundreds of jobs in this crazy city, all I have to say is it's about freakin' time!

After some disappointing interviews and some even more disappointing news of getting passed over for a job I had a really good feeling about for an intern who threw her hat in the ring at the last minute (of course) I landed a job.

Erika Meller is now the editorial assistant at The Nibble, an online gourmet food magazine where it's my job to eat! And not only is it my job to eat, but it's my job to eat gourmet food!

I eat, I write, I do administrative tasks - which I don't mind at all, by the way - I go to press parties and amazing dinners at the best restaurants in New York City, etc. I could go on and on, but all I have to say is it's about freakin' time! I waited long enough!

And I'm so thankful for it.

Getting hit on by two guys in one night? Probable. Getting hit on by two different guys at the same time? Probably never again.

This is not a good idea, I thought as I decided to pass a slow-walking guy wearing a black T-shirt and ridiculously baggy tan pants on a narrow and relatively deserted section of sidewalk near a building under construction adjacent to Central Park at 9 p.m. tonight.

"Hey miss can you turn around please," he quickly asked me just as I passed him on his left.


Dammit. I knew this was a bad idea, I cursed to myself as I picked up the pace as much as I could in my black high heels.


"Please turn around, miss, I think I know you if you'd just please turn around. Come on!" he said, louder as I put at least a half of block sidewalk between us until I reached the corner, and thus a more open area.


"Excuse me, miss," I hear. Just behind me.


What the hell? was my reaction because I thought I had put plenty of space between me and Baggy Pants Guy, I jumped and twirled around to glance at the guy who had apparently ran to catch up with me.


Thankfully, I saw Baggy Pants Guy still ambling along well behind this second, actually really attractive guy who I later thought I passed on the sidewalk while picking up my walking pace, and whom I thought said "hi" to me, but I was too busy just focusing on getting home.


"Geez, you scared me," I said to Attractive Guy fully anticipating his asking me if I was OK or asking me for directions or some other touristy thing (which, by the way, happens to me more often than I would have thought. But I will always help people out because I relied on so many friendly New Yorkers - yes they exist! - when I was new to the city.)


"I'm sorry I scared you, but are you one of my customers at [some bar or something] down in the East Village? You look so familiar," he said.


"No," I said shortly while glancing at the sign that still blared "Do Not Walk."


"Oh, well you just have one of those faces," he said. Then without hesitating, the inevitable, "Can I buy you a drink?"


"Oh, no thanks. I have to get home to my husband," I said wondering why the sign still hadn't turned to the "walk guy."


"Maybe another time?" he asked.


OK, maybe you didn't hear me. "No, I'm married," I emphatically told Attractive Guy.


"But it's just that you're so beautiful," he said.


Oh, well now that you said that I'm beautiful, that changes everything! Forget the drink, let's just go back to your place, I thought. With heavy sarcasm.


"Thank you. Bye," I said as I took advantage of the light finally switching to start to cross the street... at the same time Baggy Pants Guy finally made it to the corner.


"Hey baby, what are you doing tonight?" I hear from Baggy Pants Guy as I again try to put distance between us.

Even though neither guy's advances would have probably been welcomed, still, where were all these guys when I was still single?

So this is what it's like to be old

Back home in Toledo, most of my friends who live there are married, have a toddler, and are either working on, or have, their second child.

Here in New York, I have exactly ZERO friends who have kids. NONE are married, and MOST don't even have a significant other.

New York City is a city for single people.

Don't get me wrong: I love being married and I love my husband. But because I'll be the second to admit that I'm a product of my environment (my husband will be the first), I sometimes get a twinge of jealousy at some of my friends' stories of just picking up and taking a weekend trip to Vegas or staying out until the bars close without a second thought.

If I wanted to go to Vegas, I'd have to make arrangements for my dog and husband to be fed and taken care of, and if I wanted to stay out until 4 a.m., I'd have to do so knowing that my husband isn't falling asleep until I'm home safe and sound.

But what makes it really intolerable is when my single friends whom I've introduced to each other go out without me. It's like I feel they're cheating on me or something because if it weren't for me, they wouldn't even know each other. And I also know that's not fair, but still. Just because I'm married doesn't mean I can't go out too!

I just have to be home at a decent hour.

Sigh. So this is what it's like to be old.

Yep: I have millions and my own TV show, yet I work at a coffee shop to stay humble

Everyone's heard something along the lines of, "Wow, you look just like (insert celebrity, other family member, the family dog, etc.)

Most often, I hear Sandra Bullock. People say we have the same smile or something. Sometimes I get Katie Holmes as well.

But this week at the coffee shop, I was working on something out on the floor, then went into the back room out of sight from the customers when I heard a lady asking my colleague, "Hey, is that her?"

He understandably was looking confused at the lady who was apparently pointing in my direction. So he called me out to the floor and she excitedly exclaimed, "Oh my God, is it really you?!?!"


Now since I'm not so conceited as to believe that she was actually excited to be seeing me, Erika Meller, I asked her who she thought I was.


"You're that girl who has her own show... Silverman," she said. "You're Sarah Silverman Sarah Silverman... aren't you?"


Now keep in mind that this lady looked relatively normal and not someone crazy who would see someone on the street and think he was Jesus or something. But I was at work. At a coffee shop. Wearing an apron. Why in God's name would she think a celebrity with her own show would moonlight as a barista?


So, without knowing what else to say, I simply said "No. Sorry."


"Oh, well you look just like her," she said before dejectedly turning away.

Small fish in a big pond... oh who am I kidding? I'm a guppie in the freakin' ocean

Working at The Blade newspaper in Toledo, Ohio, I felt like a big fish in a small pond. I had the cell phone numbers of mayors, senators, and city councilmen programmed into my phone... and I called them at all hours of the day whenever I needed to talk to them for whatever story I happened to be working on at the time.

Granted, Toledo is a big city... if you consider a big city to boast a population of less than 300,000 people. Now I live in a city of 8 million, where on my very first visit to the city, I was told that New York City is "a city of anonymous people," according to the woman we stayed with while searching for a place.

And up until I interviewed at places in New York, I was batting .500 with job interviews; meaning if I interviewed at a place, I got the job.

Not so in New York. Here it is August, 2009, and I am still kicking myself for not going on a second interview in August, 2007, because I just didn't think it was the right job for me.

And while I still don't think it would have been the perfect right job for me, IT WAS A JOB AND I HAD A DAMN GOOD SHOT AT LANDING IT!!!

But I digress. Job interviews in New York are similar to those back in Ohio, yet I can still feel the added pressure of needing to be the creme de la creme not only because I'm in a much bigger pond (oh Hell, it's a damn ocean) but we're in a much tougher economy where there are literally thousands of people more qualified than me interviewing for jobs. (I recently visited a publishing house where I had recently applied for an editorial assistant job and was told that I applied for that job... along with 1,400 other people... And yes, that's ONE THOUSAND FOUR HUNDRED OTHER PEOPLE... who applied for that job THE. FIRST. WEEK. it was advertised.)

Yikes.

I'd say wish me luck, but I'm pretty sure I'm going to need much more than that.

Coming home with more baggage than we left with

After a sometimes hectic, sometimes relaxing trip back to Ohio to visit and pick up our dog from her summer in Michigan, we came back to New York with a bit more baggage than we left with. It belonged to my sister, Brittany, and my cousin, Gillian, who hitched a ride in the van we rented to get back to New York. Free ride for them, and two built-in, always-hangout-ready family members for me!

But because I had just taken a vacation to go back home, I had to work extra shifts at the coffee shop to make up for all the time I'd missed there. So between working, preparing for and going on several job interviews at publishers that I lined up while on vacation, and getting a few winks each night, I tried my best to hang out with the girls without asking them for too many favors along the lines of "make all these copies for my writing portfolio" (thanks Gill!) or "get my husband his birthday present" (thanks Britters!).

It was a feat of epic proportions, but I still managed to go to dinner with the girls before taking them both to their first Broadway show (Avenue Q, natch), bringing them along to serve as my basketball team's personal cheering section (though I think they flirted with the guys on the other teams more than they cheered), experiencing the museum of sex together (fun!) and lining up a group of my friends to entertain them at trivia night at the bar before I could get there (gotta love the Joshua Tree on a Tuesday!).

Though I was sad to see them go - I love visitors - I have to admit that I was relieved to have a portion of the weekend to recouperate, and by that I mean sleep! Lots of job prospects to cross my fingers for...

Never would have thought to ask...

I was recently reading my new favorite magazine, Real Simple, when I came across this article by a woman who thinks that as adults, so many of us don't ask enough about our mothers, whether that be because we're scared or just don't get around to it. Yet she says there's no better way to become closer to a person, even if you've known her all your life.

So, she asked a bunch of her friends and acquaintances to come up with 10 questions they want to ask their mothers (and, sadly, some wish they would have asked these questions before their mothers passed away).

I read that part of the article on the plane ride back to Ohio on Friday and immediately thought, "There's nothing in here that I don't know the answer to about my mom."

I was wrong.

Out of the 10 questions listed, I knew the answer to NOT A SINGLE ONE. So I made a vow right then and there to find some time with both of my parents (it was a Mother's Day article, but I thought, "Why limit it to just my mother?") and ask them these questions.

Two hours later, my mom, dad, sister, husband, and I had gone through a range of emotions from anger and worry to joy and roll-on-the-floor laughter. I have never felt so close to my parents and feel blessed to have been able to ask them these questions, some of which my mom said later she wished she would have known what my grandmother - her mother - would have thought about a few of them.

Don't wait before asking your parents these questions:

1. What’s the one thing you would have done differently as a mom?
2. Why did you choose to be with my father?
3. In what ways do you think I’m like you? And not like you?
4. Which one of us kids did you like the best?
5. Is there anything you have always wanted to tell me but never have?
6. Do you think it’s easier or harder to be a mother now than when you were raising our family?
7. Is there anything you regret not having asked your parents?
8. What’s the best thing I can do for you right now?
9. Is there anything that you wish had been different between us―or that you would still like to change?
10. When did you realize you were no longer a child?

In asking these questions, I learned a whole lot more about my parents' relationship with each other, the qualities they admired about me, qualities I didn't know about them, the kinds of parties my mom believes kids are into these days, and how my perception of what our financial situation was like while I was growing up was quite different from reality. And my husband learned a whole lot about his wife and how she got to be the way she is.

The whole conversation was fascinating, and when it ended, I remember thinking that I never wanted it to end. But what made me sad is that I can't remember a time we'd ever sat down and really talked. I'm sure that's not just my family; but most families, which is a shame. Unless it's a life-changing event, like a funeral, or a once-every-X-number-of-years event, like a family reunion, people don't sit down and talk about things that really matter.

I'm glad I did.

Hey! There's grass in these two states!

Once school was out, I was LOOOOOOOOOONG overdue for a vacation - and not one of those fake vacations where you go somewhere new, race around from dawn until dusk trying to see and do everything (though that can be fun too), and then come back home 10 times more exhausted than when you started.

Well, that's kinda how I am every time I go back to Michigan/Ohio (what can I say - I have lots of family and friends who I miss back there!) at least it's racing around to ultimately sit and visit with people I love!

So last week was chock-full of chasing around after the nieces, lunch with friends, Cedar Point with Brent and Brittany, swimming with my little cousins, dinner with old pals and, of course, a head-to-toe body massage!

It's sad that it takes being more than 500 miles away to really appreciate time with my friends and family, but I'll never forget to make the most of it when I can. Miss you all!

"Best friends, never gonna let you down, best friends, always gonna be around, you know..."

Remember back in grade school when you became instant friends with another girl in your class just because your lunch boxes had the same cartoon character on the front? It was so easy.


And luckily, that's kind of how I feel about my New York friends. Being friends with them is, well, easy. People ask me how I met my closest New York friend and we look at each other awkwardly and say, "the gym" because it was the place we both happened to be when taking the most awkward class ever, yet continued to go only because we liked each other's company. (And I'm happy to say that while I still see her every week, it's no longer at the gym because we both quit in favor of meeting at the park for a walk with my dog or at a bar for cocktails.)


As for several of my other New York friends, we're friends because our T-shirts say the same thing: Zogsports. They're the ones on my basketball team who I'm hanging out with more and more off the courts, both after the games and on the weekends.


And then there are the friends who I had before I moved here, and have since moved here as well or visit often.


So last night was the ultimate hangout when I had friends from all three groups meet up with me at Gael Pub to see Rusty's European Tour, the band I sang with when their lead singer was on vacation.

Good friends, good beer, and good music. What more could you want?

Daaaa da da da daaaaaaaaa daaaaaaaaa (That's the beginning bars of the graduation song. Just so you know.)

It's FINALLY summertime!!

Well, it's been summertime for a few weeks, but now it feels like it's summertime because I graduated yesterday. Again, I guess.

After enrolling in the shortest graduate school in the country (forgot to read the fine print when I signed up that elaborated that while it truly is the shortest grad school in the country, it feels like the longest), I FINALLY made it to the end.

WHEW!

I never knew just how long six long weeks were until taking the New York University Summer Publishing Institute, and living through the more than 100 (no joke) PowerPoint presentations and dozens of hours of group work that went with it. And yet I would do it all over again. I learned a ton about the industry, shook the hands of numerous publishing executives who were kind enough to take the time to impart their wisdom, and met some really great people along the way who are in similar shoes. But with NYU SPI looking good on my resume, I'm ready to hit the ground running in the publishing industry.

Now to find a job.

And to help me, NYU kindly set up a job fair to at the culmination of the program with all the big names in both the book and magazine publishing industry. We're talking Hearst, Penguin, HarperCollins, Random House, Scholastic, Hachette, etc.

After spending days preparing for the job fair between polishing up my final project for school, I was so frazzled the night before the job fair looking at my resume that I had read over for the gazillionth time that evening alone, that I actually could not comprehend what the sentences were actually saying. Brent said "enough already" after I thrust a well-worn copy of my resume in his lap and pointed at one of the last sentences. "BRENT! Is it 'in' or 'on' that I mean here? Did I write stories focusing on topics ranging from X to Y or did I write stories focusing in topics? On or in? ON OR IN!?!?!? And did you read this again? Are you sure there aren't any typos on this? Or is it 'Are you sure there aren't any typos in this?' ON OR IN!?!?!?!"

After missing a perfectly good night's rest, I high-tailed it to the job fair in plenty of time to ensure that I was one of the first ones there so I could have more time for anticipation and hyperventilation.

Like any job fair, I spent most of it waiting in line. Yet even that was productive because my classmates and I used that time to exchange notes along the lines of, "When you go to that table, make sure you talk to the girl, and not the guy," or "The lady at that table will grill you until you break," etc. And while I feel like I did really well with some interviewers (and even scored an interview for a position I hadn't even formally applied for at a huge book publishing company - score!), there were of course the "interviews" I felt I bombed, like the one at Random House where I blanked out for a good five seconds (which seemed to last an ETERNITY) when the interviewer asked me which imprint I would ideally like to work for. Luckily, the "bad" interviews were few and far between.

And now my thank you notes and e-mails are written with yet another reiteration about how my skills will undoubtedly translate well at your small magazine publishing company/ginormous book publishing company/ANYWHERE IN THE PUBLISHING INDUSTRY and now all I have to do is wait for the phone to ring and obsessively check my e-mail.

Huh. And I thought school was hard.